“You can’t deny you wanted me to touch you,” Rowe said.

His look made desire claw at her, tempting her anew. “I did want it, but I shouldn’t have,” Kirsten replied.

“Why not? Neither of us is married.” His glare intensified. “You’re not committed to anyone, are you? Is it Jeffrey’s father?”

The truth must have been reflected in her gaze because Rowe’s expression softened. “I should have thought of that before. Did he hurt you badly?”

Choosing her words with care, she said, “Jeffrey’s father never loved me.”

“And you didn’t find out until you were pregnant?” His long fingers tightened their grip. “I would never do such a thing to you, Kirsten.”

The savage intensity in his assertion made it difficult to remember that it was exactly what he had done to her sister.

Dear Reader,

October is bringing big changes in the Silhouette and Mills & Boon worlds. To strengthen the terrific lineup of stories we offer, Silhouette Romance will be moving to four fabulous titles each month.

Don’t miss the newest story in this six-book series—MARRYING THE BOSS’S DAUGHTER. In this second title, Her Pregnant Agenda (#1690) by Linda Goodnight, Emily Winters is up to her old matchmaking tricks. This time she has a bachelor lawyer and his alluring secretary—a single mom-to-be—on her matrimonial short list.

Valerie Parv launches her newest three-book miniseries, THE CARRAMER TRUST, with The Viscount & the Virgin (#1691). In it, an arrogant royal learns a thing or two about love from his secret son’s sassy aunt. This is the third continuation of Parv’s beloved Carramer saga.

An ornery M.D. is in danger of losing his heart to a sweet young nurse, in The Most Eligible Doctor (#1692) by reader favorite Karen Rose Smith. And is it possible to love a two-in-one cowboy? Meet the feisty teacher who does, in Doris Rangel’s magical Marlie’s Mystery Man (#1693), our latest SOULMATES title.

I encourage you to sample all four of these heartwarming romantic titles from Silhouette Romance this month.

Enjoy!

Mavis C. Allen

Associate Senior Editor, Silhouette Romance

The Viscount & the Virgin
Valerie Parv

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To David and Judy,

Carramer citizens by right of friendship.

Books by Valerie Parv

Silhouette Romance

The Leopard Tree #507

The Billionaire’s Baby Chase #1270

Baby Wishes and Bachelor Kisses #1313

*The Monarch’s Son #1459

*The Prince’s Bride-To-Be #1465

*The Princess’s Proposal #1471

Booties and the Beast #1501

Code Name: Prince #1516

†Crowns and a Cradle #1621

†The Baron & the Bodyguard #1627

†The Marquis and the Mother-To-Be #1633

††The Viscount & the Virgin #1691

Silhouette Intimate Moments

Interrupted Lullaby #1095

Royal Spy #1154

VALERIE PARV

lives and breathes romance and has even written a guide to being romantic, crediting her cartoonist husband of nearly thirty years as her inspiration. As a former buffalo and crocodile hunter in Australia’s Northern Territory, he’s ready-made hero material, she says.

When not writing her novels and nonfiction books, or speaking about romance on Australian radio and television, Valerie enjoys dollhouses, being a Star Trek fan and playing with food (in cooking that is). Valerie agrees with actor Nichelle Nichols, who said, “The difference between fantasy and fact is that fantasy simply hasn’t happened yet.”

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

Kirsten Bond took a deep breath, tried to ignore the complaints her feet were making about the new shoes she had foolishly chosen to wear, and smiled broadly at the group clustered around her. This was the last tour of the day. As soon as it ended, she would close the door of her office, kick off the shoes and reward herself with a cool drink, she promised herself. She sneaked a glance at her watch. Only fifteen minutes to go.

She resisted the urge to groan aloud. Served her right for being seduced by five-inch heels and teensy black ankle straps that the sales person had assured her made her legs look fabulous. At five foot three, she wanted all the help the heels could provide, and had bought the shoes on impulse. She should have had the sense to break them in at home before wearing them to her job at the castle, where she was on her feet for a good part of the day.

Nevertheless, she was managing, managing, that is, until a tall, good-looking man attached himself to the back of the group. Of itself, there was nothing wrong with him choosing to participate. Tours of Merrisand Castle were free and people often joined in after the start if they’d arrived late. Normally Kirsten nodded a welcome and kept on describing the castle and its wonderful art treasures. The collection belonged to the Carramer royal family, but Kirsten, as enthusiastic as the most ardent collector, looked on the beautiful objects almost as her own.

With the arrival of this particular newcomer, her normally fluent spiel faltered and she felt her mouth go dry. What was Romain Sevrin doing here? He never came to the castle, or she wouldn’t have risked taking a job here. The last time she’d seen him on television, he was driving ridiculously fast cars around the racing circuits of Europe, collecting trophies at about the same rate as he collected supermodels.

The attraction wasn’t hard to see. Romain, or Rowe as he was usually called, was a little over six feet tall with the dark coloring, brooding good looks and thick glossy hair shared by many male members of the royal family. The gaze he directed at her was a brilliant sea-green under lush dark lashes. When he turned his head slightly, he displayed an aristocratic profile that wouldn’t have been out of place on a classical sculpture.

She, on the other hand, did not have the sort of supermodel beauty to deserve his steady scrutiny, a scrutiny that made her feel as if he was committing her features to memory. Apart from being only average height, she had shoulder-length red hair shot through with gold highlights so it looked like dancing flames. Left to itself, it curled in all directions, so she usually wore it caught by a clasp at her nape, although a few tendrils invariably escaped to make her features look even finer-boned than they were. Large, silver-gray eyes completed a picture she would willingly have exchanged for blond hair and blue eyes any day.

According to her friends, her temper was the equal of her fiery hair although she was sure this was an exaggeration. Well, maybe she was just a little quick-tempered, but she didn’t have the hair-trigger temper usually thought to go with being a redhead. If she had, she would have demanded to know what Romain Sevrin wanted.

He rarely used his title, but as Viscount Aragon, he surely had no need to tag along, listening to her describe works of art he must have grown up around. And he certainly had no need to look at her with such blatant interest. He made her feel as if she, and not her commentary, was the focus of his attention.

She shifted from one foot to the other, eliciting a fresh wave of complaint from her poor feet. This time she barely noticed. She was too busy dealing with the primitive emotions his inspection stirred within her.

Suddenly she was aware of every throbbing beat of her pulse, and the air in the baronial hall, temperature-controlled to protect the valuable contents, felt stiflingly hot. She resisted the urge to mop her brow, sure that the perception was as much a fantasy as her interpretation of his gaze. What was he doing here?

One of the visitors claimed her attention. “Does the legend apply only to members of the royal family?”

With Rowe listening intently, Kirsten wished she had left out her usual mention of the Merrisand legend. Too late now. She cleared her throat. “The legend says that anyone who serves the Merrisand Trust will be rewarded by finding true love, so it doesn’t only apply to royalty.”

Rowe looked distinctly interested in the subject. She avoided his eyes, recognizing another man in the group. “How large is the Merrisand estate?” the man, an American, asked.

Hoping her relief at the change of subject wasn’t too obvious, she turned her attention to the questioner, although awareness of the viscount hovered at the fringe of her consciousness. She could even smell traces of his aftershave lotion, something foresty and fresh, and utterly masculine.

She really was imagining things, she told herself as she gathered her thoughts. The room they were in had thirty-foot ceilings and walls a dozen yards apart. Any lingering scent should quickly dissipate in this space.

All the same, she could smell a woodsy fragrance that hadn’t been present until Rowe arrived. When he’d opened the great double doors to let himself in, the aroma had probably drifted in on the breeze from the forest surrounding the castle. Or so she tried to convince herself. It didn’t explain why her every sense felt magnified in his presence.

She cleared her throat. “When the castle was built in 1879, the original estate granted to Honoré de Marigny, the first Marquis of Merrisand, consisted of about two thousand acres of hill, forest and small tenant farms. Over the years the land has been expanded to about eight thousand acres, including a sanctuary planted with trees to provide breeding grounds for the native sun deer, the faunal emblem of Carramer.” Honoré would have been Romain’s great-great-grandfather, her one-track mind insisted on supplying.

The questioner nodded thoughtfully, digesting the information. A teenage girl raised her hand. “How do you get a job working in the castle?”

It was a fairly common question. “Merrisand Castle is like a city on a small scale, with career opportunities in everything from land management and animal husbandry to historical research and media. It’s best to qualify in your area of interest first, then ask the controller of staff to advise you if an opening arises in your field.”

“Did you always want to be a tour guide?” a resonant voice asked.

Without looking, she knew that it belonged to Rowe Sevrin. She directed her answer to the group, although her voice came out annoyingly husky. “I’m not strictly a tour guide, although like many of the staff, I conduct tours when needed. My title is art curator to the Merrisand Trust. I studied fine arts at university, majoring in the conservation of cultural materials, and interned at the castle while I was studying. When a job became available looking after the royal collections, I applied and was accepted.”

“Just like that,” he drawled.

She met his gaze directly this time, well aware of some cat-and-mouse game taking place. But why? And how had she become cast in the role of mouse? She decided that the best defense was offense. “Is there a problem, Viscount Aragon?”

As she had intended, her use of his title caused a stir within the group. Murmuring, they turned to regard Rowe curiously. His frown deepened, his face taking on the look of the sky before a thunderstorm. Determinedly, she sailed on. “Ladies and gentlemen, since we have the rare privilege of having the viscount among us, perhaps you have questions you’d like to ask him. I’m sure you’ll be happy to answer them, won’t you, Your Lordship?

Too late and too bad if he didn’t, she thought as he shot her a glare that would have melted ice. If he didn’t want to be recognized, he shouldn’t have joined the group and thrown her off stride. Just how he could have done so with such ease, she wasn’t sure. For now she had turned the tables and he was the one on the defensive.

“I’ll be delighted,” he said smoothly, his honeyed tone belying his thunderous expression. The gaze he shot at her plainly said, Later, for you.

She swallowed hard, wondering what she had unleashed, and why she’d felt so moved to challenge him. Normally if members of the royal family appeared while she was giving a talk, she accorded them their privacy unless they made it obvious that they wished to contribute. Why had she felt the need to assert herself with him?

The members of the group had no such concerns. When the time came to end the tour, they were still besieging him with questions. One or two of the younger visitors had asked him to autograph their guide books. As Rowe Sevrin, former champion Formula One racing driver, or Viscount Aragon? she wondered. She debated whether to leave him to it, but her conscience wouldn’t permit it. She already felt badly for dragging him into the spotlight. No matter how she felt about him, she had no right to subject him to such an ordeal. She resolved to tell him so as soon as the group had gone.

“I’m sure we’re all grateful for the time Viscount Aragon has spent with us, but we mustn’t monopolize him any longer. Some of you have transportation waiting for you at the east gate, so please join me in showing your appreciation before you leave.”

Thanks to the splendid acoustics in the hall, the applause she initiated echoed for some minutes. With a smile and a salute, the viscount swung around and started to walk away. As he passed Kirsten, he said in lowered tones close to her ear, “Report to me in the curator’s office as soon as you’re finished here.”

The summons was hardly a surprise after what she’d done, but she found it hard to keep her composure as she saw the group off. Rowe was a member of the board of the Merrisand Trust. Although he didn’t attend board meetings, technically he was her superior.

He probably intended to reprimand her for drawing attention to his presence in the group, and she knew it was no more than she deserved. She had her own issues with the viscount, but they were personal, and in no way excused her unprofessional behavior.

As she returned her portable microphone and the notes she rarely needed to her office, her mind spun back to the first time she’d heard of Rowe Sevrin. She’d been an intern at the castle, struggling to master her chosen profession while trying to keep her wayward teenage sister on the straight and narrow.

Neither had been easy, but she had no notion of how badly she was failing until Natalie came home and announced that she was pregnant.

Kirsten knew Nat had been frequenting the car races at nearby Angel Falls, where a leg of the international Grand Prix was being held. Kirsten had decided her sister’s interest was harmless and would wear off more quickly if she ignored it than if she made a fuss. Nat had never suggested that she was involved with anyone connected with the race.

“You’d better tell me what happened,” she’d said weakly, struggling to hold back the condemnation that hovered on her lips. Since their parents’ deaths two years before when Kirsten was twenty, she had feared alienating Natalie by being too bossy. Maybe if she’d laid firmer ground rules, this wouldn’t have happened.

It was too late by then. Natalie had confessed that the father of her child was the racing driver Rowe Sevrin. Kirsten had been fairly sure this was nonsense. What would a sophisticated man like Sevrin, a member of the royal family, to boot, see in a teenager like Natalie?

Only by making herself see her sister objectively had Kirsten realized how oblivious she’d been. Natalie might have been young in age, but she had grown up quickly since losing their parents. She’d dressed, spoken and acted much older than her years, and had had a coquettish way that was bound to attract men.

Even Rowe Sevrin? Kirsten had finally conceded that Natalie had no reason to lie to her and so had developed a powerful anger toward the viscount for his role in the affair. Even though he couldn’t have been more than twenty-two himself at the time, he should have taken more care. For although Natalie looked womanly and was legally an adult, she was still a vulnerable innocent, grieving for her parents.

Natalie had thrown a tantrum worthy of baby Jeffrey when Kirsten suggested she telephone the viscount. “Most women would be eager to be involved with a member of the royal family,” Kirsten had said by way of encouragement.

Natalie’s response had been totally unexpected. “Most women wouldn’t have given him a false name and told him they were on the pill.”

Under Kirsten’s gentle probing, Natalie had admitted that she had crashed a party to celebrate the viscount’s team winning the championship. When the viscount’s security people had demanded her name, she’d given them a false last name.

According to Natalie, Rowe himself had been watching the party from a shadowed terrace and had said she could stay. Intending to thank him for intervening on her behalf, she’d noticed how distressed he seemed, and they’d started talking, during which she shared with him some of her own deep unhappiness. He’d suggested she join him for dinner after the party and she had never gotten around to telling him her real name. One thing had led to another, and then she was expecting his child. He might well think, Natalie had protested, that she had pretended to be on the pill to trap him into fathering her baby.

He didn’t have to like it, he only had to take his share of the responsibility, Kirsten had insisted. She felt sorry for Natalie for getting herself into such a predicament, but Rowe was entitled to be told.

Natalie sister needn’t have worried. Rowe had already moved on to the next stage of the Formula One circuit and she was told he wasn’t available. He probably had no wish to be bothered by a girl he had used and abandoned on the previous leg, Kirsten assumed. Her sister’s calls were never returned.

Through her contacts at the castle, Kirsten had obtained a postal address for him and insisted Natalie write and tell Rowe she was expecting his child. Natalie hadn’t wanted to send the letter, but Kirsten vowed that she would if Natalie didn’t. So the letter was sent, but no reply came.

Then they’d heard that Rowe had given up racing and had established an event-management organization. With his connections, Kirsten wasn’t surprised that the business was now reputed to be worth a fortune, quite apart from his royal inheritance.

She had debated whether to try to contact him again, but Natalie had stood firm this time, declaring that she wanted nothing to do with a man who ignored the birth of his own child. This time, Kirsten didn’t argue.

As a parent, Natalie hadn’t done much better, Kirsten thought with a wry twist of her lips. When the baby, an adorable little boy, was born, Natalie had been eager to have Kirsten take over most of his care. Natalie returned to the racing scene, making Kirsten glad that Rowe was no longer part of it, and couldn’t hurt her sister with his indifference more than he already had.

Kirsten knew she should have tried to make Natalie more accountable, for Jeffrey’s sake if not her own, but she hadn’t had the heart. Nat had lost so much, with her parents and then being abandoned by her baby’s father. Her sister had had so little time to be young that Kirsten willingly juggled her commitments so she could look after Jeffrey, telling herself that Natalie would settle down and resume her responsibilities if given enough time.

As things turned out, time was something neither of them were granted. Watching a qualifying race before a major event, Natalie had been killed when a tire flew off a car, bounced over a protective barrier and slammed into her.

Jeffrey had been six months old at the time. He was six years old now. Without him, Kirsten didn’t know how she would have survived the grief of losing her sister after her parents. Having the baby to care for meant Kirsten couldn’t afford to indulge her own feelings.

For Jeffrey’s sake she had battled through the dark aftermath of Nat’s death and had doggedly completed her studies by correspondence in time for Jeffrey’s first birthday. Although he was too young to appreciate her efforts, she had baked him a cake with a huge single candle, and they had celebrated together, her pleasure shadowed by memories of loved ones who were no longer with them.

Jeffrey had become her only family, as she had become his. She was the only mother he knew. By his silence, Rowe had forfeited any right to be involved in the child’s life. If he had answered Nat’s letter or shown any interest in Jeffrey at all, Kirsten would have felt duty bound to share the child’s upbringing with him, but he hadn’t called or written. Did he even know that Natalie had a sister who was now a mother to his child in every way that mattered?

He had been retired from racing by then, but he must have read about Natalie’s death, although she probably meant nothing more to him than a one-night stand, Kirsten thought, feeling choked. Her sister had written to him telling him her real name. Would he even remember her, given the number of women he was reputed to have been involved with? He hadn’t shown any interest in whether the child had ever been born, much less whether he had a son or daughter.

Kirsten felt her body begin to heat with remorse. She had actually allowed herself to feel aroused by his blatant appraisal, when he was the last man she should want to have anything to do with. It couldn’t be helped that he was a member of the Merrisand board, and as such, was entitled to demand her deference. She didn’t have to respond as if he was a divine gift to women.

With a start, Kirsten realized that twenty minutes had passed since she’d returned to the office and become lost in her memories. She had eased the new shoes off, and her feet looked red and sore, as indeed they felt. But she had no other shoes in the office, and Rowe was probably pacing the curator’s office even now. He didn’t strike her as a man who appreciated being kept waiting.

Reluctantly, she put the shoes back on and got to her feet, feeling as if her toes were being jabbed with pins. She hoped Rowe would keep this meeting short so she could collect Jeffrey from the Castle School and go home. With the head curator, Lea Landon, in Europe looking after a touring exhibition of treasures from the royal collection, Kirsten was carrying most of the load. She wished that Rowe hadn’t chosen today to put in his appearance.

There would never be a good time, she thought as she made her way to the curator’s office. Rowe’s history with her sister meant she was never likely to welcome his arrival. The sooner she got this meeting over with, the better.

Chapter Two

Rowe Sevrin wasn’t pacing the office, but he was sorely tempted. His reaction to the woman Maxim had told him he would be working with had caught him completely by surprise. He was glad his royal cousin hadn’t been there to see Rowe’s response to Kirsten Bond, or he would never have heard the end of it.

While she was undeniably attractive, he’d dated more than his share of beautiful women in his days on the racing circuit. Rather, Kirsten had an arresting quality that was lacking in more conventionally pretty females. Maybe it was her passion for her subject, but as she talked, he’d been captivated by the way her fine-boned face lit up with a glow that couldn’t be faked.

As a man of strong passions himself, he found such unbridled verve a positive turn-on. He imagined taking Kirsten out and encouraging her to share her passions with him, and found the notion more arousing than he liked. Wasn’t he the one who had vowed to steer clear of romantic entanglements for the time being? Too many of the women he’d dated had coveted the title of viscountess to the point where he had begun to question whether the attraction was him or his royal status.

He gave vent to a sigh of irritation. Why didn’t he admit the truth to himself? He was tired of investing his energy in relationships that went nowhere. At twenty-nine years old, he’d almost given up the notion of finding one woman with whom he could have a home, children, the whole package.

Not that he intended to remain celibate. He wasn’t that far into self-denial. But for now, any relationship he embarked upon would be purely physical by mutual agreement. It was just as well that many women found such liaisons appealing for the same reasons he did. They were happy with the comfort of a physical relationship without the idea that anything more meaningful was involved, making him unlikely to want for bed partners. You never knew, he might even stumble across his soul mate that way. Sometimes the thing you most wanted came to you only when you stopped searching for it.

None of which had anything to do with Kirsten Bond. From the way she had thrown him to the wolves during the tour without even batting a long-eyelashed eye, she was hardly likely to qualify as soul-mate material, so why was he wasting time thinking about her in that way?

She intrigued him, that was why. Not only her energy, but her air of self-possession made her seem much more than a palace employee. She hadn’t been awed by his title. After fending off the candidates for viscountess, he was bound to find Kirsten’s indifference a challenge, but he knew that was only a minor part of her appeal. There was only one solution—get to know her better and satisfy himself that he was seeing more in her than she warranted.

On the curator’s desk was a state-of-the-art laptop computer. Rowe pulled it toward him and called up the castle’s personnel records. Keying in his password got him swiftly past the security screens and he was soon looking at Kirsten’s photo and employment record.

Sweet was how she looked, he thought, letting his gaze linger on the picture. When this was taken, her hair had been shorter, fluffing around her head like a fiery halo. She looked pure and innocent, untouched by the ways of the wicked world, the very opposite of the kind of women he was used to dating. Was that the source of the appeal he could feel coiling through him as he studied her image?

He scrolled through her record, his hand freezing over a line that indicated she had a six-year-old child. A spear of disappointment shafted through him at the discovery that she was probably married. Why hadn’t he thought of that? According to this, she was twenty-seven years old. He should have expected a woman as attractive as she was to be spoken for by now.

He steeled himself to find mention of a husband, not sure he liked the urge to do violence that had gripped him without warning. He should be glad if Kirsten was married. It would save him the trouble of deciding how she might fit into his life.

His spirits took an unwarranted jolt upward again as he read that her marital status was single. Not widowed. And not divorced. Like him, she was from Carramer, where divorce had never been legalized. So she was a single mother. He sat back and stroked his chin with thumb and index finger, trying to analyze his confused feelings. When he thought she might be married, he had itched to get his hands around her husband’s neck. Now that he knew she was single and not the innocent he’d seemed, how did he feel?

He let a slow grin spread across his features as he answered his own question. He felt foolishly pleased, that was how. She was single, therefore available. And she had a child, so he was unlikely to raise her hope of something permanent by pursuing her. All he needed was for her to feel the same way he did, and if he couldn’t convince her, he wasn’t the man he thought he was.

A knock at the office door interrupted his thoughts. He flicked off the computer barely in time to stop Kirsten seeing her own face on the screen as she entered without waiting for his response.

Her gaze flickered from the computer and back to him, making him wonder if she’d glimpsed the document, after all. Her composed expression gave him no clues. A challenge indeed, this Kirsten Bond.

Had Rowe Sevrin really been studying her file? Kirsten asked herself as she took the seat he indicated across the desk from him. He’d switched the computer off as she came in, but she could have sworn he’d been looking at her picture.

The interested look he turned on her now suggested she was right. But why? Unless…A cold fist of apprehension gripped her heart. Unless he had discovered who she was and decided at long last to claim his son.

It wouldn’t be so easy, she told herself firmly. Soon after Jeffrey was born, Natalie had drawn up a will—one of the few responsible things she had done for her child—naming Kirsten as his guardian in the event of anything happening to her. Rowe could only come between them by challenging her guardianship in a court of law.

The prospect sent a chill through Kirsten. She was careful with her money and had no real worries about everyday expenses, but a drawn-out legal battle could drain anyone’s resources. Any ordinary person, that is. With his royal connections and personal fortune, Rowe was far from ordinary.

Not in any respect, her inner voice insisted. The reaction she’d had to him during the tour threatened to overwhelm her anew until she quelled it determinedly. She couldn’t do much about her susceptibility to his physical attractions, but her own family history, quite apart from Rowe’s role in her sister’s life, should be enough to warn her away from a man like him.

Self-centered, footloose, fickle when it came to women. Mentally she ticked off Rowe’s well-publicized attributes and compared them with her father’s. Felix Bond, an artist, had also possessed good looks and abundant charm, qualities he had frequently employed in the pursuit of younger women. At first Kirsten thought her mother had tolerated his affairs because of her and Natalie, but that didn’t explain why she stayed with him once her daughters were well into their teens. Surely she hadn’t believed Felix when he swore that she was the only woman he really loved?

It was possible. Felix always could charm the birds from the trees. For years Kirsten herself had believed her father’s paintings were ahead of their time, agreeing that he couldn’t possibly waste his talents working at a menial job. The scales had fallen from her eyes when, at sixteen, she’d been expected to leave school and take a job. Her dream of becoming a writer had crumbled before the need to help support her family.

She had been lucky to be hired as a receptionist for an auction house specializing in fine arts, and the idea of a career as a curator had been born. Her boss had encouraged her to return to school in the evenings and had allowed her to study the works coming up for auction.

Her plan to move into her own place had been frustrated because her mother insisted she couldn’t manage without her, so Kirsten was still living at home the afternoon a violent thunderstorm was brewing. Her father had wanted her mother to drive him to a gallery some miles away to enter one of his paintings in a contest that was about to close. Her mother hadn’t wanted to go, Kirsten recalled. But as usual, her father got his way, and the two of them went. On the drive home, a tree uprooted by the storm fell on their car, leaving Kirsten and Natalie on their own with no relatives in the world.

After her parents died, the experience at the gallery had enabled her to enter university as a mature student and establish herself in the art world as a curator. She didn’t need another man like her father complicating her life.

The reminder didn’t stop her pulse from beating ridiculously fast when Rowe turned the full brunt of his dazzling smile on her. That he was smiling struck her as odd, considering how she had singled him out during the tour. “I owe you an apology,” he said.

Surprise brought her head up. “You do?”

“I shouldn’t have joined your group without warning. My arrival obviously threw you off.”

In ways you can’t imagine, she thought. “No harm done,” she said more calmly than she felt. “The visitors enjoyed meeting a real live royal.”

“As much as you enjoyed seeing me get my comeuppance?”

“It wasn’t personal, Your Lordship,” she insisted.

He lowered long lashes over glittering eyes. “Wasn’t it? When I arrived, you gave me the distinct feeling that you’d have been happier to see Jack the Ripper.”

Since she couldn’t argue the truth of this, she linked her hands in her lap and looked down at them. “This is the first time we’ve met. I really know very little about you.” All of which was true. Unable to resist, she lifted her head and met his gaze full on. “You could be Jack the Ripper for all I know.”

To her amazement, he threw back his head and laughed, the warm sound of it rolling over her like a caress. “You’re a breath of fresh air, Kirsten,” he said at last. “I know very little about you, too, but I already know I want you.”

Kirsten felt herself blush. She’d never been so blatantly propositioned in her life. Other women might fall into his arms because of his royal status, but she didn’t intend to be one of them. “Whatever you think you know about me, I assure you you’re wrong,” she snapped.

If she had expected him to be cowed by her response, she was disappointed. He looked infuriatingly amused as he raised a dark eyebrow. “Really? Then those come-hither looks you were giving me during the tour are part of your normal repertoire?”

“I was not giving you come-hither looks.” She hadn’t, had she? Then she saw the upward tilt of his mouth and realized he was teasing her.

“What you gave me was the gift of your passion, your enthusiasm for the castle and its treasures,” he said on a soft outpouring of breath. “That’s what I want from you, Kirsten.”

Confusion made her brain freeze. “I’m not sure…I don’t…”

“Relax,” he said. “We both seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot. Me for thinking I should reacquaint myself with the castle through listening to your talk, and you for getting the wrong idea about my interest in you. Can we start over?”

She didn’t know why they needed to, but she nodded. “As you wish, Your Lordship.”

He frowned. “You can begin by dropping the title. My name is Rowe.”

Did he suspect her use of his title was a deliberate attempt to keep some distance between them? Since he wasn’t going to permit it, she said, “Very well, Rowe.”

He nodded in satisfaction. “From your reaction, I assume that Max hasn’t told you why I’m here?”

Rowe was referring to his cousin, Prince Maxim, who held the joint positions of keeper of the castle, and administrator of the Merrisand Trust, the castle’s charitable arm. “The prince probably intended to tell me at our weekly meeting, which isn’t until tomorrow,” she said. “I’m filling in for my boss, Lea Landon.”

“Who is in Europe touring with the collection,” Rowe said, evidently well informed. “No wonder you found my arrival so off-putting. You didn’t know I would be taking over her office until she returns.”

Kirsten felt the beginnings of a headache gather behind her eyes. “You’re to be the head curator in Lea’s absence?”

He gave a self-deprecating grin. “That will be the day. You could write what I know about the Merrisand collection on the head of a pin.”

She seriously doubted that was true, but she felt relieved that he wasn’t to be her boss even temporarily. Some aggravations she just didn’t need. “I’m still not sure where I fit in.”

He leaned forward and linked his hands on the leather blotter protecting the antique desk. “My company specializes in event management. Big events.”

“Like the Winter Olympics,” she said, wanting him to know she wasn’t entirely unaware of his background, either. He would be surprised at just how much she knew about him, she thought, none of it commendable.

He nodded. “Exactly. Max thinks the castle needs a big event to stimulate income for the Merrisand Trust.”

She let her astonishment show on her face. “I thought the trust was doing well.”

“It needs to do better. In today’s world the demand for help from organizations like Merrisand is growing all the time. The income from visitors to the castle and grounds, holding fund-raisers here and sending the collections on tour are not really adequate for the increasing demands being made on the funds. If a new source of income isn’t found soon, the trust may eventually have to cut back on distributions.”

The thought that Merrisand might one day have to turn away people in need was alarming. She had always assumed that the castle generated more than enough income to meet its charitable aims. Finding out that one day it might not came as a shock.

“I had no idea,” she said.

He gave her a sharp look. “Nobody does, so keep this information to yourself. However ironic it may be, people are more inclined to support an organization they perceive as doing well.”

“‘Nothing succeeds like success,”’ she quoted.

He inclined his head in agreement. “Precisely. Besides, the castle is hardly on its last legs. Max is merely being shrewd, anticipating future demands.”

“What does he have in mind for this event?” she asked. She couldn’t imagine what else they might do that they weren’t already doing to generate income.

“Max left the decision up to me. What I’m planning is an international cycling race, the Tour de Merrisand, around the castle grounds. The television rights alone will generate millions for the trust.”

The image of a horde of cyclists tearing around, and probably sometimes through, the beautiful, manicured gardens made her shudder. But not as much as another image that jumped into her mind, that of her vibrant young sister cheering on the sidelines of a Formula One race and being cut down by a runaway wheel. Kirsten wanted nothing to do with that part of his life. “You can’t be serious,” she said, her voice husky with emotion.

His direct gaze bored into her. “Never more so. Why? Do you have a problem with linking the castle to a sporting event?”

She had much more than a problem with it. The very thought made her feel ill. “I can’t believe Prince Maxim would sanction such desecration,” she said tautly.

“It isn’t as if I intend to bulldoze century-old buildings in order to lay out a cycling track,” he said, not sounding in the least fazed by her reaction. “The race will run between the buildings and through the forest areas. Afterward, everything will be restored to exactly as it was before the event. They hold these races through the center of Rome, past the Colosseum, and nobody considers it heresy.”

She got to her feet, the sudden pain shooting up her calves reminding her of the shoes she’d managed to forget momentarily. “Since your plans are evidently already established, I don’t see why you need me at all.”

“You’re going to help me make the Tour de Merrisand a reality.”

“I’m an art curator, not a…” She had been about to say “sports groupie,” but the link with Natalie was too painful. “I don’t know anything about cycling,” she finished. Probably the reason why Prince Maxim wanted Rowe to work with her, she thought.

“But you do know the castle inside and out, better than anyone else barring Lea Landon, who won’t be back for some months.”

“All the more reason why I can’t be spared from covering for Lea.”

Rowe stood up, too, moving around Lea’s desk like a big cat newly turned loose from its cage. Even wearing the wretched high heels, Kirsten was considerably shorter than Rowe and had to tilt her head back to look up at him as he loomed closer. “I’m not calling for volunteers,” he said in a low voice.

“You mean if I don’t help you with the race, I’m out of a job?” She let her tone reflect her disbelief.

“You said it. I didn’t.”

He was every bit as self-centered as she’d read, she thought furiously. He had made up his mind that she was to assist him, and it didn’t appear she was to have any say in the matter. “Who will manage the galleries, plan the new exhibitions and supervise the daily tours?” she asked.

“According to Max, you have a capable team who can share some of the load. I’m sure there’s no need for you to lead tour groups personally.”

“I happen to like leading the tours. They keep me in touch with how people react to the exhibits, helping me with future planning.”

“Then don’t give them up. Delegate some of the other tasks that you find less enjoyable.”

His closeness undermined her determination to dislike him and everything he stood for. As well, she wanted to hate the very idea of a bunch of cyclists speeding through the beautiful grounds of the castle, and part of her did. But the logical side argued that he was right. If a new source of income wasn’t found, the Merrisand Trust might soon have to start turning away people in need, contradicting its very reason for existence.

It wasn’t because she wanted to work with Rowe, she reasoned. She couldn’t deny the chemistry flaring between them, but surely she had enough incentive to deal with it in a mature, sensible way that didn’t involve giving in to the attraction. She gave a stiff nod of her head. “It seems I have no choice but to go along with your plans.”

“No choice at all.”

He suddenly moved even closer, his gaze warm on her equally heated face. Less than a hand span of distance separated them, and for one wild, giddy moment, she wondered if he meant to kiss her. How would she respond if he did? She liked to think she would slap his handsome face, making it clear how little time she had for a man like him. Another part of her insisted on imagining the touch of his lips on hers, the teasing of tongue to tongue in a sinuous dance that set up answering shivers all the way to the core of her being.

Without warning he lifted her hand and brought it to his lips, his eyes never leaving her face. His dark gaze seemed to look deep inside her, until she wondered if he sensed her contrary thoughts.

A scorching sensation almost had her pulling her hand away until she realized it was entirely in her mind. Rowe had done no more than kiss the back of her hand in a courtly gesture such as she had seen the royal men do on many occasions. There was no call for her body to respond as if he had actually kissed her on the lips. He wasn’t likely to, and she wouldn’t permit it in any case. Would she?

“I’m glad we’ve reached an agreement,” he said, releasing her hand with what she swore was reluctance.

The move was probably as calculated as the kiss itself, she told herself, striving to still the fluttering of her heart. She might have no choice about working with him, but she could choose not to respond to such blatant gestures. Be cool and aloof. Let him know she wasn’t impressed by his practiced gallantry.

Something told her it was going to be a difficult resolution to keep, although keep it she must. By his treatment of her sister, Rowe had proved to be as self-centered and unreliable as her father, Kirsten reminded herself. Thinking of him in any other way was playing with fire.

Chapter Three

“I wish I could say you’re welcome,” she said stiffly, her senses returning.

His glittering gaze mocked her. “But you still think I’m a cultural vandal.”

She took satisfaction in throwing his own words back at him. “You said it. I didn’t.”

“Touché. While we’re working together, I will hold you responsible for civilizing me,” he said. “You can teach me about the collections, and the history of the castle.”

She’d been hoping they wouldn’t see enough of each other for that. “Didn’t you study those things when you were growing up here?” she asked.

His expression darkened. “I didn’t grow up here.”

In her head she conjured up an image of the de Marigny family tree. Rowe’s grandmother had been sister to the grandfather of Carramer’s present monarch. “As the son of Angelique and James, surely—”

“If you know my family’s history that well, then you know that I was eight when my father went scuba diving and never returned.”

She did know the tragic story. To this day, people speculated that the previous Viscount Aragon, James Sevrin, was still alive somewhere, perhaps living abroad after spying for another country. She didn’t believe any of the fanciful explanations. More likely, he had been carried out to sea by one of the notorious riptides off Carramer’s beaches. “It was a terrible tragedy,” she murmured.

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Not an international conspiracy?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Then you’re in the minority. After my father disappeared, my mother took me to live at one of the royal estates in Valmont province. She made sure I had a suitably royal education there, but she never wanted to return to the castle. She hoped to escape the rumors about my father, although they followed us even to Valmont.”

Having had her share of family tragedy, Kirsten knew only too well how hard it was to deal with the loss of loved ones, and she hadn’t had to cope with sensational headlines and sidelong looks from people who thought they knew the truth.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“You sound almost sincere.”

She bristled at the doubt she heard in his tone. “Believe it or not, I am. I’ve also lost people I care about, and it’s never easy, no matter who you are, or what the circumstances.”

“No.” He half turned away, exposing his impressive profile.

He may not have grown up in the castle, but his birthright was there in his every move, she thought. His bearing, his manner, his speech, all bespoke a self-assurance that few people possessed. “I would have thought Merrisand Castle was the last place you would want to return to,” she said.

“As Rowe Sevrin, I can live with it. Max and his family were incredibly supportive when my father disappeared. Helping them is the least I can do to repay him.”

She wanted to ask if he could shed his personal history as easily as his title, but decided it was none of her business. Nor had she any interest in his problems. He had done more to hurt her family than he knew, and she couldn’t forgive him for it. She didn’t want to feel compassion for him, and it bothered her to find her basic sense of decency at odds with her antipathy toward him.

He wasn’t going to be an easy man to hate.

“I’d like to go over my plans for the race with you over dinner,” he said, startling her.

Picturing herself seated across a table from him, the subdued lighting playing on his aristocratic features, she felt heat suffuse her. She felt foolishly tempted to accept, in spite of all the reasons she shouldn’t. What would it like to be the focus of his attention, to feel the touch of his hand on hers across the table as he made some point, maybe to dance with him after dinner, his body aligned with hers as they moved to the music?

Stop it, she ordered herself. If they were to work together, she had to remember who and what he was, and the threat he represented if he should discover his relationship to her son. Thinking of Jeffrey strengthened her resolve. “Thank you for the invitation, but I’m not free tonight.”

Interest gleamed in his flinty gaze. “Another date?”

Tempted to remind him that her private life was none of his concern, she said, instead, “A family commitment.”

“Ah, yes, your son.”

She’d been right—he had been reading her file. How else would he know she had a child? “I have to collect Jeffrey from school in ten minutes.”

He picked up a file from the desk and tucked it under his arm. “I’ll walk with you.”

Having him meet Jeffrey was the last thing she wanted. “My workday finished half an hour ago,” she reminded him.

He seemed unperturbed as he held the office door open for her. “Mine, too. I’m staying in the state apartments, so the school is on my way.”

To go through the door she had to brush past him. As she did so, a force like electricity crackled through her, sensitizing her nerves to an alarming degree. Despair quickly followed. How could she work with him and remain aloof when he had such a disturbing effect on her?

It seemed she had no option but to let him accompany her. She could hardly deny him the freedom of the castle grounds when he had more right to them than she did. Perhaps she could convince him not to wait when they reached the school.

She had no more luck with that than with denying his powerful impact on her, she found when they reached the building housing the school for the children of castle employees. Once a hunting lodge, the late-nineteenth-century building was as large as many mansions. Built of creamy Carramer sandstone, it was two stories high with mullioned windows, heavy timber doors and ornate wrought-iron gates. A garden of fragrant rambler roses edged a large swath of lush green lawn where children played. One fenced-off area was reserved for the smaller children, and it was here she often found Jeffrey playing with his toy cars in the sandpit. The playground was empty today, the children still inside.

“I mustn’t keep you,” she said by way of a hint to Rowe that it was time for him to leave.

He angled his shoulder against the stone wall of the building. “I’m in no hurry. I remember this place.”

“You went to school here?”

He nodded. “Until I was seven. I missed a lot of the next year because of the turmoil surrounding my father’s disappearance. After we moved, I was provided with tutors, then I attended school and university in Valmont. They were admirable places of learning, but never had the atmosphere I remember from the Castle School.”

She thought the same and considered herself fortunate to be able to enroll Jeffrey in such a wonderful place, one of the key reasons she was determined not to jeopardize her position at the castle. Did Rowe suspect that when he threatened her job in order to gain her cooperation?

A fresh wave of anger toward him swamped some of the attraction. Whatever his effect on her, she should remember that he wasn’t above using blackmail to get his way. “You must have more pressing things to do than wait for a group of schoolkids,” she said pointedly.

“Undoubtedly, but they can wait. I want to meet your son.”

Fear shrilled through her like a fire alarm. She didn’t want him to meet Jeffrey. Rowe had no idea of his relationship to the child. If he remembered Natalie’s letter at all, he wouldn’t necessarily connect Natalie with Kirsten. Bond wasn’t an uncommon surname. As far as he knew, Jeffrey was Kirsten’s son. As long as she kept it that way, she and her child were safe.

She didn’t feel safe at all.

Other parents drifted up to collect their children. Many greeted her warmly, although they left her alone in deference to the man beside her. She was aware of their speculative glances at Rowe and their murmurs of recognition. The automatic preening gestures from the women, touching their hair and smoothing their dresses, weren’t lost on her, either.

She resisted the urge to feel proud of having Rowe at her side, but it was hard when he was obviously making such an impression on the other mothers. Occasionally she had wished for a more conventional family structure, for Jeffrey’s sake if not her own, and Rowe’s presence gave her more of a taste of what it would be like than she wanted.

He could never be part of that structure, she told herself firmly. She would work with him because she must, but to think of him as anything but her temporary boss was courting disaster.

The doors of the school swung open and a group of six-year-olds surged through, marshaled by their teacher. Among them, Kirsten spotted Jeffrey with his best friend, Michael, a red-haired terror whose father was head groundsman at the castle.

Jeffrey looked up and saw her, his small face lighting with pleasure. She felt an answering rush inside her, filling her with such love for him that she could barely restrain herself from pushing through the crowd of children and grabbing him up in a hug. She knew he considered himself a big boy now and wouldn’t thank her for being what he called smoochy in front of his school friends.

Seeing the maternal pride and love on Kirsten’s face as the children appeared, Rowe felt a stirring of jealousy. When he had attended school here, he had been collected by a nanny; his mother hadn’t collected him until the day his father vanished, and her appearance at the school was indelibly connected with tragedy in his mind. These days the unexpected appearance of his mother still sparked a twinge of anxiety in him, until he assured himself that nothing was wrong.

Kirsten’s son apparently had no such problem. From the way the little red-haired boy and his darker-haired companion made a beeline for her, the child was eager to be with her.

Before they reached her, the redhead peeled off and threw himself into the arms of a man in castle uniform waiting on the sidelines, proudly thrusting a paper kite under the man’s nose. “Daddy, Daddy! Look what I made.”

The dark-haired child came to Kirsten, also trailing an object made of brightly colored paper. “I made a kite, too, Mommy. We flew them in the garden today. Mine flew the best.”

“I’m sure it did, sweetheart.” Crouching down, Kirsten enveloped the boy in a hug, her eyes gleaming.

Rowe watched them, feeling a frown furrow his brow. His glance went from the red-haired child chattering to the man he called Daddy and back to Kirsten. Her son had inherited none of her bright coloring, but there was no mistaking the bond between them.

He suppressed a smile as he saw Jeffrey squirm out of his mother’s arms. He was at the age when being cuddled in public was embarrassing. He had felt the same at that age, Rowe thought. Releasing Jeffrey with a wry expression, Kirsten stood up.

Only then did she seem to remember Rowe’s presence. Color flooded her face and she took the child’s hand in what looked to Rowe like a protective gesture. He didn’t like the way he felt left out. He and Kirsten might not have gotten off to the best start, but he had tried to smooth things over. What more did she want?

“Jeffrey, say hello to Viscount Aragon. Rowe, this is Jeffrey,” she said. He got the feeling she would have preferred not to make the introduction.

“Hello, Viscount Aragon,” Jeffrey repeated dutifully. Being the kind of school it was, the children were taught early how to behave around royalty.

“Hello, son,” he said. He dropped to the child’s level and met huge, dark eyes that struck him as familiar somehow. Probably because Jeffrey looked a lot like himself at the same age. Same lustrous dark hair falling over his eyes. As a boy, Rowe had been forever brushing his hair out his eyes. For a meeting with the monarch when he was five, his nanny had even used her hairspray on it in desperation, he recalled with an inward shudder.

He offered his hand and the little boy shook it solemnly, the comparative size of their hands giving Rowe a strange sensation. This was how a son of his would look if he had one. In fact…He dismissed the thought out of hand. Kirsten’s record didn’t name her child’s father, but Rowe knew without a shadow of doubt that if they had ever gone to bed together, the occasion would be burned into his memory.

Kirsten wasn’t the kind of woman you made love to, then forgot about. He wondered if some man had done just that, or if Kirsten had made the choice of single parenthood herself. Either way, Rowe knew if Jeffrey had been his son, he would never have walked away, no matter what.

“Mind if I take a look at your kite?”

Jeffrey glanced at his mother for reassurance. She nodded and Jeffrey held out the mangled paper object. “Miss Sims put the string on, because we’re not s’posed to use the stapler yet, but I did the rest,” he explained.

Rowe restrained the smile he felt tugging at his mouth. “You can’t be too careful with staplers,” he agreed. “I got a staple in my thumb once.”

Jeffrey looked fascinated. “Did it hurt?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe, and there was lots of blood. I didn’t make a fuss, though.”

No, he wouldn’t, Kirsten thought, hovering nearby. One quality she suspected Jeffrey had inherited from Rowe was the desire to keep his feelings concealed.

Now where had that idea come from? She barely knew the man, except through her sister’s experience. She didn’t want to concern herself with his feelings or, worse, see signs of him in Jeffrey. Jeffrey was her child, hers alone. Watching them together as Rowe admired the kite, she couldn’t help wondering for how much longer.

“I have to get Jeffrey home,” she said, unable to watch them together a moment longer. She hadn’t expected to feel guilty for keeping them apart, especially since the decision had been Rowe’s to begin with, but they looked so much alike that guilt assailed her now.

Jeffrey seemed fascinated with the viscount. She was horrified to hear Rowe say, “This is too good a kite to live in a cupboard. How would you like to fly it in the park sometime?”

The little boy’s face shone. “Can we, Mommy?”

Furious with Rowe for putting her into such an awkward position, she said, “Viscount Aragon is a busy man, sweetheart. I’m sure he has more important things to do than fly kites. You and I will do it on our own.”

Jeffrey’s face crumpled. “You don’t know how to fly a kite. ’Member the time you smashed my airplane?”

She remembered only too well. Last Christmas Santa Claus had visited the Castle School and had given a model plane to Jeffrey. She had painstakingly glued the model together, frustrated to find she had several bits left over afterward. Jeffrey hadn’t cared. His eagerness to see the plane fly had lasted only as long as it took Kirsten to crash it into a bush a dozen feet from the launching site. One of the missing pieces had turned out to be the ballast that kept the plane on an even keel.

“This time I’ll let you fly the kite,” she promised.

“Why can’t Viscount Aragon fly it with me?” He turned to Rowe. “You’re not too busy, are you?”

Rowe gave her a searching look. “If I was, I’d have said so. But Mommy is the boss in these matters. She can tell me her decision later at the office. We’re going to be working together a lot,” he said for the little boy’s benefit. “If she says yes, we’ll go kite flying next Saturday.”

Jeffrey nodded eagerly. “I’ll be really good till Saturday, promise.”

“Till Saturday then.”

Kirsten kept her anguish from showing as she tucked her son’s hand in hers, ignoring the tug that told her he’d prefer to walk by himself. She needed to feel his hand in hers to reassure herself that he was fascinated only because Rowe was a man. The Castle School had some male teachers and Jeffrey had contact with the other children’s fathers, but he had no male role model at home.

And whose fault is that? she asked herself angrily, the pain in every step reminding her of the too-tight shoes. Rowe could have been involved in Jeffrey’s life from the beginning. He had been the one to ignore Natalie’s letter, not caring, it seemed, how the child turned out. He couldn’t come along now and simply take over. She wouldn’t let him.

Unaware of her fury, Rowe was continuing to walk with them. “Don’t you have a home to go to?” she demanded, not caring how rude she sounded.

“My home is in Solano, the capital city of Carramer,” he explained for Jeffrey’s sake, adding, “Not that I’ve spent much time there up to now.”

“You prefer to be free, I suppose.” Just like her father. As a free spirit, Felix hadn’t wanted to be tied down, either. Her family had lived in a series of rented houses as their father moved from one short-lived job to another. When their parents died, there had been no family home they could retreat to while they dealt with their grief. No inheritance for Jeffrey, either, making Kirsten determined to give him the most secure childhood she could, with none of the anxiety that had plagued her and Natalie while they were growing up.

Even if it meant putting up with Rowe’s presence in her life until his cycling race was over, she would do it for Jeffrey’s sake. Moving him from home to home was not going to happen if she could prevent it. One day she intended to buy them a place of their own. For now, they were happy here, and she would not allow Rowe’s arrival to interfere.

Chapter Four

Key members of the castle staff were housed in pretty stone retainers’ cottages arranged around a village green where the children often played while their parents socialized over coffee. Although the houses looked to be hundreds of years old, in reality, they had been built by the previous Marquis of Merrisand so that he could have his staff on call in case he needed them. Direct lines still connected each of the cottages with the castle switchboard.

Built on an area once known as The Tennis Courts, each cottage had its own vegetable and flower gardens, and backed onto a stand of woodland. Ring-necked partridges, quails, doves and wild turkeys frequented the woodland, attracted by Angel Creek, which crossed a corner of the castle grounds. It was an idylic place for children, and at night Kirsten liked to pretend that the cottage and the lovely surroundings were hers alone.

“Which cottage is yours?” Rowe asked, signaling his intention to accompany her all the way home.

She gestured vaguely. “The one with the blue curtains on the other side of the green. Really, there’s no need.”

“It hasn’t escaped my notice that you’re limping,” he said quietly. “I want to see that you get home in one piece.”

She didn’t need or welcome his concern. “I’m fine, really.”

“So I can see. How did you hurt your foot?”

She was forced to be honest. “New shoes.”

He frowned. “Why do women do that to themselves?”

So we have a fighting chance of meeting men like you eye to eye, she thought savagely. But it would take more than five-inch heels to achieve that miracle. And without them, Kirsten suspected she would strain her neck trying to look him in the eye.

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