you,’ she said with reserve.
‘I’m not particularly kind,’ he corrected her, ‘but I don’t like to make an offer and then have to retract it. This way he’ll get the holiday he wants, and he’ll also see a bit of the world. As for working for me—I assume he’s going to have to earn his living?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then the experience will give him an idea of how the corporate and business worlds are organised.’
Serina had barely digested this when she discovered that Gerd’s brother Kelt and his family weren’t travelling with them.
Surprised anew, she said, ‘I thought—somehow I assumed they were going home with us—with you.’
He shook his head. ‘They’re flying to Moraze to spend some time with his in-laws.’
She’d watched Alex with his cousin’s small children, surprised and rather touched by their patent pleasure in his company. And his obvious affection for them hinted at a softer side to the man.
She’d looked forward to seeing more of them. But she and Alex would be alone—or as alone as anyone could be on a plane that boasted more flight crew than passengers.
A rebellious excitement welled up, so keen she could feel it thrilling through every cell. She, Serina Montevel, who’d never done a reckless thing in her life, was heading for a holiday on the other side of the world with a man she found wildly attractive.
Although attractive was far too pallid and emotionless a word. A sensible woman would have refused his invitation—would have kept on saying no until Alex decided she was more bother than she was worth…
Serina realised she was exceedingly glad that she wasn’t that sensible woman.
Alex broke into her scattered thoughts with a question. ‘Are you a nervous flier?’
‘No,’ she told him decisively, adding, ‘This is all new to me. I’ve never been in a private jet before.’
A black brow climbed. ‘You surprise me.’
‘Why?’
He leaned back and regarded her with enigmatic eyes. ‘I had the impression you spent a lot of time jetting around the royal circuit.’
‘Usually I drive,’ she told him evenly. Sometimes she used trains. It irritated her—no, it hurt—that he should despise her without bothering to take the trouble of finding out anything about her.
She went on, ‘And I’ve never crossed the world before. Is jet lag as bad as they say?’
‘Some people find it very difficult to deal with. I don’t.’
‘Ah, an iron man,’ she said sweetly.
His smile was swift and unexpected, sending a reckless shiver of pleasure through Serina.
‘Did I sound smug?’ he asked. ‘I’m fortunate, but I do take precautions.’
‘Such as?’
‘I always change my watch to the time of my destination.’ He extended an arm to show her.
Automatically, Serina noted the watch—a superb brand, classic and without ostentation. She dragged her gaze from that sinewy wrist, rejecting the memory of how strong it was. When she’d faltered he’d held her upright without any visible effort. And yes, he’d marked her. The bruises were faint and would soon fade, but she felt oddly as though she’d been branded.
‘New Zealand is nine hours ahead of us, and from now on we’ll be eating at that time,’ Alex told her. ‘If you can relax enough to sleep later, you’ll have adjusted to the local time when we arrive in Auckland.’
Sleeping wouldn’t be difficult. She’d spent a lot of last night staring into the darkness and wondering what on earth she’d agreed to.
Nothing, she told herself again. After all, Alex’s attitude, as well as his remark to Gerd and Rosie the previous night, had made it obvious that he was fully in control of his physical urges. Which had to be a good thing…
It was a pity she couldn’t quite feel any gratitude for his unspoken promise of restraint.
She bent her head and altered her watch to match his, saying, ‘Rosie says she drinks gallons of water and tries to spend at least ten minutes every hour walking or doing exercises.’
She’d been grateful for that information; at least striding around the cabin would give her something to do, something to concentrate on.
Not that drinking a lake of water or walking the whole way to New Zealand would slow the pace of her heart, or stop her from being so acutely, intensely aware of Alex she felt as though she was inhaling his essence with every breath she took.
‘Keeping away from alcohol and caffeine seems to help too,’ Alex told her laconically.
‘That won’t be a problem.’
However, when the engines changed note and they began to pick up speed down the runway, Serina decided she could use something strong and sustaining. Drymouthed, she peered out at the mountains of Carathia rapidly speeding past as the jet broke free of the earth and started to climb.
A weird, baseless panic clenched her stomach muscles. Deliberately, carefully, she relaxed them and kept her eyes fixed on the view outside.
Never in all her life had she behaved so impetuously. Never. Thinking back, she couldn’t remember when she’d decided that the best way to meet life was with restraint and cool composure. Possibly she’d just been born sensible and prosaic.
Whatever the cause, having been her mother’s confidante in the continuing saga of unfaithfulness and despair that had been her parents’ marriage, she’d vowed that she wasn’t going to endure pain like that. So far, no man had ever been able to test that decision.
Yet Alex’s caustic comparison of her to a puppet had been the final impetus that stung her into jettisoning caution and common sense to take this wild step into the unknown.
Alex leaned back in his seat and smiled at her. Her heart jumped and she relished an intoxicating sense of freedom. Half scared, half excited, she admitted that Doran had been right.
Unless she wanted to wear the princess mask for the rest of her life, she needed to break out and find out who the real Serina was. Restraint and reserve could go hang. While she was in New Zealand she’d be the perfectly ordinary woman she’d told Alex she was.
A sudden lightness, almost a feeling of relief, sent her spirits soaring. All her life she’d been an appendage to something or someone else—the daughter of her parents, Doran’s sister, the last Princess of Montevel, cousin to every royal family in Europe.
Even her career…Although she’d proved she was a good writer with a gift for painting the essence of a landscape in words, it had been her title—and the entrée it gave her—that got her the chance to write her first column.
Keeping her eyes fixed on the view through the window, she watched as,
