you?’ he queried Rose. ‘How long would you have to be away from your vet practice?’
‘A year,’ Erhard said, answering for her. ‘At least. Maybe longer. I’m sorry, Rose, but it’d be more your commitment than Nick’s. You’d rule jointly, but it’s you who’s first in line. Unless anything happened to Julianna…’
‘Which isn’t going to happen,’ Rose said, and shivered. And then braced herself. ‘No matter. I’d have to close my doors anyway, and there are…reasons why that’s not such a terrible idea.’
‘I guess the idea of playing princess for a year would be fun,’ Nick ventured, and she frowned.
‘Now you’re being insulting,’ she retorted, and he paused.
Maybe he was.
There’s not so many times in your life that you’re presented with an option that just might be for the greater good.
She met his look with calm indifference, almost scorn. His gaze fell to her hands. Here was another difference—a huge difference—from the women he dated. This woman’s hands wouldn’t have looked out of place on a woman twenty years older. Work-worn hands, not something he saw a lot of.
But she was looking down at his hands, and he suddenly realised she knew exactly what he was thinking. His hands were those of an international lawyer. There was not a lot of work wear there.
If she was to have fun for a year, maybe there were reasons she deserved it, he thought. She’d lost a husband…
On the far side of the restaurant, a band struck up. It was a simple quartet, playing softly enough to not disturb the diners on this side of the restaurant. There was a small dance-floor, and a couple of diners rose and started dancing.
To Nick’s surprise Erhard rose. But not to dance.
‘No,’ he said as Nick rose as well. ‘I’m sorry.’ He sighed. ‘I’m not…completely well. If you’ll excuse me for a moment…’He looked across at the dance floor, almost wistfully. ‘Maybe you could dance while I’m away.’
‘I don’t—’ Nick started, but Erhard shook his head.
‘You do. My informants say you do. And so does Rose.’ He gave an uncertain smile at them both, but there was discomfort behind his eyes. ‘Excuse me. You go on.’ And he pressed his napkin to his lips and headed towards the rear of the restaurant.
Rose watched him go in concern. ‘He seems a nice man,’ she said. ‘He’s ill. I wonder what—’
‘He’s probably doing this to manipulate us,’ Nick retorted, and she smiled, but absently, still looking concerned.
‘I don’t think so. Even if he is, he’s doing it for the right reasons, and there is something wrong. I think.’
The silence stretched on. Behind them the band launched into a lively Latin-swing number.
Nick was already standing. He went to sit down again but then thought it seemed surly.
The woman before him was beautiful.
‘You don’t look like a country vet,’ he said, and he must have sounded accusing because she smiled again.
‘I’m not manipulating,’ she said gently. ‘I promise.’
But any woman who looked like she did tonight was making a statement, he thought, whether it was manipulative or not. And maybe his thoughts were transparent, because her smile gave way to a flash of anger.
‘Stop looking like that. I have the right to wear what I like.’
‘Of course you do.’
‘My husband bought this for me on our honeymoon,’ she said, still angry, and he stilled.
‘So it is a sort of statement.’
‘I guess it is.’
‘A statement that you’re available?’
The flash of anger stilled and her eyes were suddenly ice. ‘I don’t think I want to be married to you,’ she snapped. ‘Of all the boorish comments…If you wear a nice suit, is that an advertisement of availability as well?’
‘No,’ he said, horrified. He was suddenly way out of his depth. How could he have asked her such a question? As well as being insulting, he’d also hurt her. He could see it in the way she’d withdrawn.
‘Rose, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I have no idea why I said that, but it was way out of line. Hell, marriage or not, we seem to have crossed some sort of barrier that’s launched me somewhere where I’m not sure of the rules any more. I know that’s no excuse. But please—I’m sorry.’
Her face softened—just a little. ‘It does seem crazy,’ she admitted. She glanced down at her dress ruefully. ‘But maybe this is some sort of a statement. Maybe that’s why you’ve made me angry. You know, this dress has sat in a camphor chest in my parents-in-law’s house for the last five years. It’s been like…well, I was locked up with it. Tonight I did wear it as a kind of declaration—not that I’m available, but that I’m free. If that makes sense.’ She shook her head. ‘No. It barely makes sense to me. But the last thing I want is more attachments. I’ve done family for life. I am free.’
‘Diving into the royal goldfish bowl of Alp de Montez is scarcely freeing yourself,’ he said cautiously.
‘It all depends on what your prison has been,’ she said. ‘Are you going to ask me to dance?’
‘I…’ What the hell? ‘Yes.’
‘Excellent,’ she said, and she smiled, rose and took his arm, altogether proprietary. It seemed as if he was forgiven. ‘If I’m going to get the camphor smell out of this dress then I need to swirl it round a bit.’
She didn’t smell of camphor.
Rose was an intuitive dancer, light and lovely on her feet. Nick had been taught the rudiments of dance by his determined little foster mother, and he’d always enjoyed it. With great music and a good partner one could almost lose oneself in dance.
But not tonight. He didn’t want to lose himself when he was dancing with Rose.
The Latin music gave way to a gentle waltz. Erhard had still not returned to their table so suddenly Nick was holding her close, steering her around the dance floor, feeling her body mould to his in perfect time with his steps, in perfect time with him.
And she didn’t smell of camphor. She smelled of Rose.
What was she doing? She’d brought this dress with her on a whim, walking out of the house feeling as if she’d betrayed everyone. She hadn’t been worried about what she was wearing. But as her mother-in-law’s weeping had increased, as her father-in-law had wrung his hands and said, ‘Rose, you can’t leave. We love you. You’re our daughter. What would Max think?’ she’d abandoned her distress as too hard and she’d let anger hold sway.
She’d lifted the lid of her camphor chest and had retrieved
