She seemed convinced that Doran and his friends were designing a video game, so why would she be concerned? She also guessed he’d warned Gerd about the possibility of trouble on his borders.
However, he had to assume that she might have been lying. An inner revulsion at the thought forced him to realise how much he wanted to trust her. The computer game story was a brilliant subterfuge, entirely believable. Pity it wasn’t true. Young Doran and his band of romantic, eager conspirators had no idea what they’d got into.
He looked down into her face and saw with savage satisfaction that she too was struggling for control. The ache in his groin intensified into a plea, a demand—almost a command. He fought it back because he didn’t dare give his innermost instinct free rein.
He’d be betraying Gerd and Rosie if he didn’t make every effort to find out whether Serina knew anything—any small scrap of information that could lead them to the people who were backing her brother and his friends. In spite of their efforts, he and Gerd still weren’t sure who was pulling the strings, or why, although they had their suspicions. If the Princess had any inkling, he was honour bound to find out.
And if that meant seducing her into pillow talk, then it would have to be done. It was, quite literally, a matter of life and death, not only for her brother and his friends, but for many other people.
Serina looked up, catching a glimpse of something harsh and grim in his eyes. Chilled, she masked a shiver by turning away so she could pretend to examine the rose again.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said evenly.
‘Why?’ She even managed a smile. ‘I know the tabloids call me the ice princess, but surely you don’t believe them? I have been kissed before.’
His brows rose and he surprised her by stooping to snap off the bloom and hold it out to her. In a wry voice he told her, ‘I’m sorry because I stupidly made the arrangement for our flights without thinking that we might want to prolong our stay here.’
Colour heated her skin. Now—or never, she thought, wondering if he could hear her heart thudding so heavily in her chest.
Now. Because she wanted to know what making love to Alex was like infinitely more than she wanted to obey the strictures drummed into her by her mother and her governess. For the first time in her life she realised how potent desire could be…
‘I—thank you,’ she said, and answered his unspoken proposition by lifting the flower to her lips, still tender from his kisses. The petals were warm and smooth and she inhaled their sweetly provocative perfume.
Hastily, she said, ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a rose exactly this shade of red before. And, as it seems perfectly happy growing in a pot, I’d like to buy one for myself when I get back home. It should enjoy living on my balcony, and it would be a charming reminder of my visit here.’
‘If you want a true reminder of New Zealand, a native plant might be more appropriate. You can buy sealed packets of seeds that are acceptable to most countries now.’
How could he switch so abruptly—from the passionately demanding kisses of a few minutes ago to this pleasant, conversational courtesy?
With ease, clearly. Emotion and sensation were still churning through her, but Alex was once more fully in control.
‘I’ll look out for them.’ She turned to go, but remembered something. ‘What time do you plan to leave this morning?’
He paused, as though remembering something. ‘There’s been a change of plan—if you’re happy with it. I met friends at the dinner last night who live not far north of here in a vineyard. Their garden is beautiful—a showpiece. Today they’re launching their latest red with lunch and a reception there. They invited me and, when I mentioned you were with me, they extended the invitation to you.’
‘That’s very kind of them,’ she said uncertainly.
His brows lifted. ‘How is it that in your conversation I so often hear a but coming?’
The ironic question brought a smile. ‘I’d love to meet them, and the launching of a new wine is a very special occasion…’
Her voice trailed away. How could she explain that she didn’t want to appear to his friends as his latest conquest, arm candy for a successful man?
Before she could go any further, he said, ‘New Zealanders are notoriously informal, and I can promise you the invitation is genuine. Aura suggested we come for lunch and look around their garden as that’s your interest.’ And, when she hesitated anew, he added, ‘She recognised your name and has read some of your columns.’
Somehow that appeased her uncertainty. ‘I’d love to go,’ she said quietly.
He glanced at his watch. ‘Then we’d better move. Breakfast will be in about twenty minutes.’
‘I’ll be there,’ she promised and headed back into her bedroom.
Once inside, she stood still in the middle of the room and took several deep breaths, trying to clear the fog of confusion and frustrated desire from her brain.
The perfume from the rose drifted up, softly seductive, and she said beneath her breath, ‘That’s enough of that, thank you! I need a clear head right now.’
She filled a glass with water and popped the flower into it, ruefully examining a tiny bead of bright blood where a thorn had broken the skin on her thumb.
For some reason she didn’t want to analyse what had happened out there on the terrace. Tiny tantalising prickles of sensation ran across her skin as she remembered…
Stop it, she commanded her wayward mind. So she enjoyed Alex’s kisses—too much—and, judging by his initial reaction, he’d enjoyed her response.
And then he’d shut down. Again.
Why? And where—if anywhere—did they go from here?
She stared at the mirror, absently taking in the luxurious cream and gold opulence of the bathroom. Very feminine. And she’d better not forget that other women would have used this room.
The thought tarnished the residual excitement of his kisses, her pleasure in the day, in the rose.
Once she’d been the unwilling witness to a scene between her mother and her father, when her father had said impatiently, ‘It means nothing, my dear. You are and will always be the only woman I love—any others are mere entertainment.’
Her mother had asked wearily, ‘Do all men feel that way?’
And her father, probably made uncomfortable by his wife’s unspoken grief, had blustered a little before replying, ‘Yes. All the ones I have met, anyway. It is simply the way men are.’
Serina’s experience had backed up her father’s words. Many men—and women—didn’t need to love, or even like someone to want them.
Serina knew she wasn’t that sort of person. She’d promised herself that she’d wait for someone special, someone who would make her feel things she’d never felt before, someone she could respect…
And a year ago that imaginary
