by Nora Roberts
“Don’t push it.”
Her head whipped around. “I want—”
“I know what you want.” His voice was calm, even careless. Annoyance flashed in her eyes. It was something he knew how to deal with. He picked up the appointment book but didn’t open it. “I’ll give you an average day in the life of Her Serene Highness Gabriella de Cordina.”
“And how do you know?”
Reeve tested the weight of the book as he watched her. “It’s my job to know. You rise at seven-thirty and breakfast in your room. From eight-thirty to nine you meet with the palace manager.”
“Régisseur.” She blinked, then her brows knit. “That’s the French. He would be called régisseur, not manager.”
Reeve made no comment while she continued to frown, struggling to remember why the term was so familiar to her. “You decide on the day’s menus. If there’s no official dinner, you normally plan the main meal for midday. This was a duty you assumed when your mother died.”
“I see.” She waited for the grief. Longed for it. She felt nothing. “Go on.”
“From nine to ten-thirty you’re here in your office with your secretary, handling official correspondence. Generally, you’ll dictate to her how to answer, then sign the letters yourself once they’re in order.”
“How long has she been with me?” Brie asked abruptly. “This Janet Smithers?”
“A little under a year. Your former secretary had her first child and retired.”
“Am I …” Groping for the word, she wiggled her fingers. “Do I have a satisfactory relationship with her?”
Reeve tilted his head. “No one told me of any complaint.”
Frustrated, Brie shook her head. How could she explain to a man that she wanted to know how she and her secretary were woman to woman? How could she explain that she wondered if she had any close female friends, any woman that would break the circle of men she seemed to be surrounded with? Perhaps this was one more thing she’d have to determine for herself. “Please, continue.”
“If there’s time, you take care of any personal correspondence, as well, during the morning session. Otherwise, you leave that for the evening.”
It seemed tedious, she mused, then thought that obligations often were. “What is ‘official correspondence’?”
“You’re the president for the Aid to Handicapped Children Organization. The AHC is Cordina’s largest charity. You’re also a spokesperson for the International Red Cross. In addition you’re deeply involved with the Fine Arts Center, which was built in your mother’s name. It falls to you to handle correspondence from the wives of heads of state, to head or serve on various committees, to accept or decline invitations and to entertain during state functions. Politics and government are your father’s province, and to some extent, Alexander’s.”
“So I confine myself to more—feminine duties?”
She saw the grin, fast, appealing, easy. “I wouldn’t put a label on it after looking at your schedule, Brie.”
“Which so far,” she pointed out, “consists of answering letters.”
“Three days a week you go to the headquarters of the AHC. Personally, I wouldn’t want to handle the influx of paperwork. You’ve been bucking the National Council for eighteen months on an increase in budget for the Fine Arts Center. Last year you toured fifteen countries for the Red Cross and spent ten days in Ethiopia. There was a ten-page spread in World magazine. I’ll see that you get a copy.”
She picked up the rose again, running her finger over the petals as she rose to pace. “But am I clever at it?” she demanded. “Do I know what I’m doing, or am I simply there as some kind of figurehead?”
Reeve drew out a cigarette. “Both. A beautiful young princess draws attention, press, funds and interest. A clever young woman uses that and her brain to get what she’s after. According to your diary—”
“You’ve read my diary?”
He lifted a brow, studying the combination of outrage and embarrassment on her face. She’d have no idea, he mused, if there was any need for the embarrassment. “You’ve asked me to help you,” he reminded her. “I can’t help you unless I know you. But relax—” Reeve lit the cigarette with a careless flick of his lighter. “You’re very discreet, Gabriella, even in what you write in your personal papers.”
There was no use squirming, she told herself. He’d very probably enjoy it. “You were saying?”
“According to your diary, the traveling is wearing. You’ve never been particularly fond of it, but you do it, year in and year out, because it’s necessary. Funds must be raised, functions attended. You work, Gabriella. I promise you.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it.” She slipped the rose back into the vase. “And I want to begin. First, if I’m to keep the loss of memory discreet, I need the names of people I should know.” Skirting around the desk, she took her seat and picked up a pen. “You’ll give me what you know. Then I’ll call Janet Smithers. Do I have appointments today?”
“One o’clock at the AHC Center.”
“Very well. I’ve a lot to learn before one.”
* * *
By the time Reeve left her with her secretary, he’d given Brie more than fifty names, with descriptions and explanations. He’d consider it a minor miracle if she retained half of them.
If he’d had a choice, Reeve would have gotten in his car and driven. Toward the sea, toward the mountains—it didn’t matter. Palaces, no matter how spacious, how beautiful, how historically fascinating, were still walls and ceilings and floors. He wanted the sky around him.
Only briefly, Reeve paused at a window to look out before he climbed to the fourth floor and Prince Armand’s office. A cop’s work, he thought with some impatience. Legwork and paperwork. He was still a long way from escaping it.
He was admitted immediately, to find the prince pouring coffee. The room was twice the size of Brie’s, much more ornate and rigidly masculine. The molding on the lofted ceiling might have been intricately carved and gilded, but the chairs were wide, the desk oak and solid. Armand had the windows open, so that the light spilled across the huge red carpet.
“Loubet has just left,” Armand said without preliminary. “You’ve seen the paper?”
“Yes.” Reeve accepted the coffee but didn’t sit, as the prince remained standing. He knew when to reject protocol and when to bow to it. “It appears there’s relief that Her Highness is back safely and a lot of speculation on the kidnapping itself. It’s to be expected.”
“And a great deal of criticism of Cordina’s police department,” Armand added, then shrugged. “That, too, is to be expected. I feel so myself, but, then, they have next to nothing to go on.”
Reeve inclined his head, coolly. “Don’t they?”
Their look held, each measuring the other. “The police have their duty, I mine and you yours. You’ve been with Gabriella this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Sit.” With an impatient gesture he motioned toward a chair. Protocol be damned, he wasn’t ready to sit himself. “How is she?”
Reeve took a seat and watched the prince walk around the room with the same nervous grace his daughter had. “Physically, I’d say she’s bouncing back fast. Emotionally, she’s holding on because she’s determined to. Her secretary’s briefing her on names and faces at the moment. She intends to keep her schedule, starting today.”
Armand drank half his coffee, then set the cup down. He’d already had too much that morning. “And you’ll go with her?”
Reeve sipped his coffee. It was dark and rich and hot. “I’ll go with her.”
“It’s difficult—” Armand broke off, struggling with some emotion. Anger, sorrow, frustration? Reeve couldn’t be quite sure. “It’s difficult,” he repeated, but with perfect calm, “to stand back and do little, give little. You came at my request. You stayed at my request. And now I find myself jealous that you have my daughter’s trust.”
“‘Trust’ might be a bit
premature. She considers me useful at the moment.” He heard the annoyance in his voice and carefully smoothed it over. “I can give her information about herself without drawing on her emotions.”
“Like her mother, she has many of them. When she loves, she loves completely. That in itself is a treasure.”
Armand let his coffee cool as he walked around to sit at his desk. It was an official move, of that Reeve was certain. Imperceptibly he came to attention. “Last evening Bennett pointed out to me that I may have put you in an awkward position.”
Reeve sipped his coffee, outwardly relaxed, inwardly waiting. “In what way?”
“You’ll be at Gabriella’s side, privately and publicly. Being who she is, Brie is photographed often. Her life is a subject for discussion.” The prince picked up a smooth white rock that sat on his desk. It just fitted in the palm of his hand; it was a rock his wife had found years before on a rocky beach. “With my thoughts centered around Gabriella’s safety and her recovery, I hadn’t considered the implications of your presence.”
“As to my … place in Gabriella’s life?”
Armand’s lips curved. “It’s a relief not to have to explain everything with delicacy. Bennett’s young, and his own affairs are lovingly described in the international press.” There seemed to be a mixture of pride and annoyance. A parent’s fate, Reeve thought with some amusement. He’d seen it in his father often enough. “Perhaps that’s why this occurred to him first.”
“I’m here for Her Highness’s security,” Reeve commented. “It seems simple enough.”
“For the ruler of Cordina to have asked a former policeman, an American policeman, to guard his daughter, is not simple. It would, perhaps rightly, be considered an insult. We’re a small country, Reeve, but pride is no small thing.”
Reeve sat silently a moment, weighing, considering. “Do you want me to leave?”
“No.”
Relief. It shouldn’t be what he was feeling, certainly not so intensely. But his hand on the cup relaxed. “I can’t change my nationality, Armand.”
“No.” His answer was just as brief. He passed the rock into his other hand. “It would be possible, however, to change your position in such a way that would allow you to remain close to Gabriella without causing the wrong kind of speculation.”
This time it was Reeve who smiled. “As a suitor?”
“Again you make it easy for me.” Armand sat back, studying the son of his friend. Under less complicated circumstances, he might have approved of a match between Reeve and his daughter. He couldn’t deny he had hoped Brie would marry before this, and that he’d purposely tossed her together with members of British royalty and gentry, eligible men of the French aristocracy. Still, the MacGees had an impressive lineage and a flawless reputation. He wouldn’t have been displeased if what he was now proposing hypothetically were fact.
“I would, however, take it one step closer than a suitor. If you have no objections, I’d like to announce your engagement to Gabriella.” He waited for some sign, some gesture or expression. Reeve gave him nothing more than what seemed to be polite interest. Armand rubbed a thumb over the rock. He could respect a man who could keep his thoughts to himself.
“As her fiancé,” he continued, “you can be by her side without raising any questions.”
“The question might arise as to how I became Her Highness’s fiancé after being in Cordina only a few days.”
Armand nodded, liking the clean, emotionless response. “My long association with your father makes this more than plausible. Brie was in your country only last year. It could be said that you developed your relationship then.”
Reeve drew out a cigarette. He found he needed one. “Engagements have a habit of leading to marriage.”
“Proper ones, yes.” Armand set the stone back on his desk and folded his hands. “This, of course, is only one for our convenience. When the need is over, we’ll announce that you and Gabriella have had a change of heart. The engagement will be broken and you’ll each go your own way. The press will enjoy the melodrama and no harm will be done.”
The princess and the farmer, Reeve thought, and grinned. It might be an interesting game at that. Before it was over, there might be a few moments to remember. “Even if I agree, there’s another player involved.”
“Gabriella will do what’s best for herself and her country.” He spoke simply, as a man who knows his own power. “The choice is yours, not hers.”
A lack of choice. Hadn’t she said that was what she resented most? There was more to being royal than the pretty silver crown and glass slipper. Reeve blew out a stream of smoke. He might sympathize, but it wouldn’t stop him from making this choice for her. “I can understand your reasons. We’ll play it your way, Armand.”
The prince rose. “I’ll speak to Gabriella.”
Reeve hadn’t thought she’d be pleased. When it came down to it, he didn’t want her to be. It was easier on him when she was a bit prickly, a little icy. It was the lost, vulnerable look that undid him.
When Brie swept out of the palace a few minutes before one, he wasn’t disappointed. She’d thrown on a jacket, the same dark, rich suede as her skirt. Her hair fell free down the back and caught every color of the sun. Her eyes, when she tossed her head back and aimed them at him, were gold, glorious and molten. A creature of the light, he thought as he lounged against the car. She didn’t belong behind castle walls, but under the sky.
Reeve gave her a small bow as he opened the door for her. Brie sent him one long smoldering look. “You stabbed me in the back.” She dropped into the front seat and stared straight ahead.
Reeve jingled the keys in his pocket as he crossed over to the driver’s side. He could handle it delicately … or he could handle it as he chose. “Something wrong, darling?” he asked her when he settled beside her.
“You’re joking?” She looked at him again, hard and full. “You dare?”
He took her hand, holding it though she gave it a good, hard jerk. “Gabriella, some things are best taken lightly.”
“This farce. This deceit!” Abruptly, and with finesse, she went off in a stream of rapid, indignant French he could only partially follow. The tone, however, was crystal clear. “First I have to accept you as a bodyguard,” she continued, reverting to English without a pause. “So that whenever I turn you’ll be there, hovering. Now this pretense that we’re to be married. And for what?” she demanded. “So that it won’t be known that my father has engaged a bodyguard who isn’t Cordinian or French. So that I may be seen constantly with a man without damaging my reputation. Hah!” In a bad-tempered and undeniably regal gesture, she flung out a hand. “It’s my reputation.”
“There’s always mine,” he said coolly.
With that she turned to him, giving him a haughty stare, first down, then up. “I believe it’s safe to say you have one already. And it doesn’t concern me,” she added before he could speak.
“As my fiancée, it certainly should.” Reeve started the engine and began the leisurely drive down.
“It’s a ridiculous charade.”
“Agreed.”
That stopped her. She had opened her mouth to continue to rage, then closed it again with a nearly audible snap. “You find it ridiculous to be engaged to me?”
“Absolutely.”
She discovered something else about herself. She had a healthy supply of vanity. “Why?”
“I generally don’t get engaged to women I barely know. Then, too, I’d think twice about hooking up with someone who was willful, selfish and bad tempered.”
Her chin came up. From out of her bag she grabbed a pair of tinted glasses and stuck them on her nose. “Then you’re fortunate it’s only a pretense, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
She snapped her bag closed. “And of short duration.”
He didn’t grin. A man only takes a certain number of risks in one day. “The shorter the better.”
“I’ll do my
best to accommodate you.” She took the rest of the journey in simmering silence.
It was a short one, but she wasn’t grateful for it. Having something, someone, specific to direct her anger at helped ease the fear of facing people who were only names to her. She would have liked more time to prepare.
The building that housed the headquarters for the Aid to Handicapped Children Organization was old and distinguished. It had once been the home of her great-grandmother, the thin, efficient Janet Smithers had told her.
Brie stepped from the car with practiced ease. Her stomach muscles were jumping. As she walked to the entrance, she went over the floor plan in her mind. She wouldn’t have reached for Reeve’s hand, but when his closed over hers, she didn’t pull away. Sometimes it was necessary, even preferable, to hold hands with the devil.
She stepped inside, into a cool white hall. Immediately a woman who sat at a desk just beyond the entrance rose and curtsied. “Your Highness. It’s so good to see you safe.”
“Thank you, Claudia.” The hesitation on the name was so brief Reeve hardly noticed it himself.
“We didn’t expect you, Your Highness. After what—what happened.” Her voice faltered. Her eyes filled.
Compassion moved Brie, before instinct, before politics. She held out both hands. “I’m fine, Claudia. Anxious to get to work.” There was a warmth here, a bond she hadn’t felt with her personal secretary. Still, there could be no pursuing it until she understood it. “This is Mr. MacGee. He’s … staying with us. Claudia’s been with AHC for nearly ten years, Reeve.” Brie gave him the information he’d given her only that morning. “I believe she could run the organization single-handed. Tell me, Claudia, have you left anything for me to do?”
“There’s the ball, Your Highness. As usual, there are complications.”
The Annual Charity Ball, Brie recited to herself. A tradition in Cordina and the biggest fund-raiser for the AHC. She, as president, would organize. As princess she would hostess. It drew the rich, the famous and the important to Cordina every spring. “It wouldn’t be the ball without complications. I’ll get to work, then. Come on, Reeve, we’ll see how useful you can be.”