and she looked up again to catch a frown before he asked in the same impersonal tone, ‘Can you think of any reason for having it now?’
With an attempt at her usual crispness she said, ‘No. But then, as you’ve just pointed out, dreams don’t necessarily have a reason.’
His brows smoothed out, leaving his bold face unreadable. ‘A meal will be ready soon. If you’d like a shower, feel free to use the bathroom.’
‘I’d like that very much.’ As he turned to go, she added, ‘Thank you. You’ve been very kind.’
‘No problem,’ he said over his shoulder as he left.
For a few seconds Serina sat very still, deliberately allowing her shoulders to sag while she breathed slowly and steadily in an attempt to relax.
What a fool she’d been! Dear heaven, the moment Alex lifted her she should have pulled away and found the self-control to reject his well-meant comfort politely but definitely.
Instead, she’d snuggled—yes, snuggled—into him as though he were her last refuge in a dangerous world.
And it had been wonderful—strong arms around her, that faint disturbing scent that was his alone, his body quickening into life against hers…
Until she’d realised what she was doing—what she’d been begging for.
Humiliation roiled through her in a sick flood. Biting her lip, she opened the door into the small, luxurious bathroom and turned the shower onto cold.
Alex looked up when she emerged, every hair in place, cosmetics subtly renewed. The mask was back, he thought sardonically, and this time set in concrete. A piercing twist of hunger took him by surprise. Irritated, he tried to banish it.
Why did she exasperate him so much? Because she’d turned a defunct royal connection into a lifestyle? A clearly profitable lifestyle, if her wardrobe was anything to go by.
No, that was unfair; her clothes were almost certainly advertisements for the designer she’d been a muse for.
What the hell did a muse do? Nothing, he suspected, beyond attracting attention and showing off the couture clothes made for her. If so, the designer had chosen well; Serina of Montevel had connections to royalty all over Europe, and she looked superb in the subtly sensuous clothes that draped her elegant body.
Which didn’t alter the fact that Alex despised people who played on their heritage, their title or their position.
Yet he didn’t seem to be able to despise Serina—Princess Serina, he reminded himself. He’d not only invited her to stay with him, he’d organised a holiday for her brother to keep him out of mischief, and promised him holiday work for a year.
So why was he pushing his way into her life? Because she was a challenge?
He dismissed that thought; he’d never regarded women as trophies, the harder to win the more prestigious. As for her kid brother—well, he quite liked the boy, and keeping him away from the pack of wolves he’d inadvertently fallen in with would be to Gerd and Rosie’s advantage because Montevel and Carathia shared a border.
And the Princess? She intrigued him.
Reduced to the most basic level, he wanted her. And it cut both ways—he was too experienced to misread the quick fluctuations of colour in her exquisite skin, the subtle alterations in her breathing, the tiny physical signals she couldn’t control.
Fight it with everything she had—and she was certainly doing that—the elegant Princess Serina couldn’t hide her response to him. Yet she’d made it plain she resented the mindless tug of desire and had no intention of acting on it. Which probably meant that just as the attraction was mutual, so was the exasperation.
It seemed a waste, but it was her decision to make.
He glanced at her serene face as she lowered herself gracefully into the chair and picked up a magazine.
Last night the woman who’d finally wrecked her parents’ marriage and possibly caused their deaths had insinuated that Serina was on the lookout for a rich husband. He despised the woman—and himself for not being able to banish her words from his mind.
Perhaps Serina was saving herself for marriage, although he’d heard rumours of a couple of serious relationships. Since when had he allowed himself to worry about rumours? The elegant, intelligent, exquisitely mannered Princess with social kudos to spare would be the perfect wife for any man who could afford her.
With Gerd’s marriage a sure thing, had Serina seen Rosie’s half-brother—certainly not royal, but rich and well-connected—as a possible second-best?
And if Serina knew more about her brother’s conspiracy than Gerd’s security men had been able to uncover, then a wealthy, besotted husband would be a definite asset in their plans.
Mentally he shrugged. It wouldn’t be the first time a woman had pursued him for reasons of her own, and he doubted if it would be the last. And if Princess Serina thought she could manipulate him into anything with coyness she was hugely mistaken.
He might find her very attractive, but he was fully in control of his sexual urges.
If she had wondered whether he was good husband material, she was clearly now having second thoughts. On that bed she’d catapulted out of his arms as though he’d been the unknown, terrifying pursuer of her dream.
Or perhaps, he thought cynically, she’d decided that giving in too soon would lower her value in his eyes…
He was surprised at his relief when the arrival of the steward offering drinks before the meal interrupted his thoughts.
After she’d eaten Serina opened her elderly laptop to map out several future columns. The previous night she’d spent some of her sleepless hours on the Internet researching New Zealand and its plant life.
‘Anything I can help you with?’Alex asked casually.
‘I don’t know.’ But he seemed interested, so she went on, ‘I emailed my editor, and she’s quite excited about my visit to New Zealand. Europeans know all about formal and English country gardens, but she and I are sure the readers will enjoy something different and new.’
Alex said, ‘Most of the gardens will be very informal, and you won’t be able to give your readers a titillating glimpse into the private lives of the aristocracy. We don’t have one.’
‘Really?’ Serina didn’t try to repress her sarcasm. Was he being deliberately insulting? OK, so he had a point; on occasion she’d inserted innocuous information about the owners in her column, but she hoped that wasn’t the main reason for her readers’ loyalty.
‘Actually,’ she purred sweetly, ‘if you’d ever read my column you’d know that the gardens are the stars, not the people who own them. And to make sure I haven’t inadvertently invaded the owners’ privacy I show them the copy before it goes to the editor.’
‘So it’s a collaborative enterprise?’
Repressing an unusual impulse to snap back, she returned, ‘Besides, if I relied on gossip to sell my work I’d soon find my choice of
