Affaire Royale (13 page)

“And my feelings?” Abruptly her calm vanished. She turned to where the doctor now stood beside her bed,
his hands locked comfortably behind his back. “Are they considered? This—this pretense that all is well, this farce that I’ve had a whirlwind romance with the son of my father’s friend. They infuriate me.”

She snatched up a mother-of-pearl comb from her dresser and began to tap it against her palm. “The announcement of my engagement was made only yesterday, and already the papers are full of it. Crammed with their speculation, their opinions, their chatty little stories. Everywhere I go there are questions and flutters and sighs.”

The impatience was obvious and, to the doctor, familiar. With his fingers still linked behind his back, he remained silent and waited for it to run its course.

“Just this morning while I’m trying to organize for the ball, I’m asked about my wedding dress. Will it be white or ivory? Will I use my dressmaker, or go to Paris as my mother did? My wedding dress,” she repeated tossing up her hands. “When I have to finalize a menu for fifteen hundred people. Will I have the ceremony in the palace chapel or the cathedral? Will my good friends from college be in the wedding party? Will I choose the English princess or the French countess as my maid of honor—neither of whom I remember in the slightest. The more we try to gloss over and hide what’s real, what’s true, the more absurd it becomes.”

“Your father is protecting your welfare, Gabriella, and his people’s.”

“Are they never two separate things?” she demanded, then tossed the comb back on the dresser. “I’m sorry.” Her voice calmed. “That was unfair. Deception is difficult. It seems I’m involved in it on so many levels. And Reeve—” Brie broke off, annoyed with herself for permitting her thoughts to travel in his direction.

“Is attractive,” Franco finished.

With a slow, cautious smile, she studied her doctor. “You’re an excellent physician. Dr. Franco.”

He gave her a quick, dapper bow. “I know my patients, Your Highness.”

“Attractive,” she agreed. “But not in all ways likable. I don’t find his consistent dominance particularly appealing, especially in the role of fiancé. However, I’ll play my part. When my memory returns, the American can go back to his farm, I can go back to my life. That’s how I feel, Dr. Franco.” She put both hands on the back of a chair. “That, simply stated, is how I feel. I want to remember. I want to understand. And I want to get back
to my life.”

“You’ll remember, Gabriella.”

“You can be sure?”

“As a doctor, nothing is ever sure.” Bending, wheezing a bit with the movement, he picked up his bag again. “As someone who’s known you from the cradle, I’m sure.”

“That’s the opinion I prefer.” She stepped forward toward the door.

“No need to see me out.” He brushed her back with the habitual pat on the hand. “I’ll give your father my assurances before I go.”

“Thank you, Dr. Franco.”

“Gabriella.” He paused with the door just opened. “We all have our pretenses to keep up.”

The inclination of her head was cool and regal. “So I understand.”

Discreetly she waited until the door closed behind him before she whirled away, fuming. Pretenses. Yes, she’d play them, she’d accept them. But she detested them. With her temper unsteady, she pulled out of the trash the paper she’d wadded up and discarded that morning.

PRINCESS GABRIELLA TO WED

Brie swore as princesses are only allowed to do in private. There was a picture of her and one of Reeve. With her head tilted and the sun streaming in on the newsprint, she studied him.

Attractive, yes, she decided. In that just-on-the-edge-of-rough, just-on-the-edge-of-sleek sort of way. Like a big predatory cat, she mused, who could swagger away or pounce as the mood struck. He’d make his own choices. A man like that caused mixed feelings. Not only in her, she noted with some satisfaction. The press was of two minds, as well.

There was obvious excitement and a proprietory sort of satisfaction that one of the royal children was to wed. It was pointed out, she noted, that she, of all the princesses in the history of Cordina, had waited the longest to take the plunge. About time, the paper seemed to say with a brisk nod.

The family tie between the Bissets and MacGees counted in Reeve’s favor, as did his father’s reputation. But he was, after all, an American, and not precisely the ideal choice according to the citizens of Cordina.

Whatever satisfaction Brie might have gained from that was offset by the mention of several more eligible options. It was disconcerting to find herself matched, if only in the press, with a half a dozen eligible bachelors. Princes, lords, marquesses, tycoons. Obviously from the brief stories attached to the pictures, she’d met and spent time with them all. One of them might have meant something to her, but she had no way of being sure. She could study their names and faces for five minutes, an hour, but there’d be no change. She turned back to Reeve. At least with him, she knew where she stood.

Apparently the press was prepared to reserve final judgment on the American ex-policeman—son of a well-known and respected diplomat. Instead it chose to speculate on the wedding date.

She tossed the paper on the bed so that it fell with the photos up. Her father had accomplished his purpose, she reflected. The focus was on the engagement rather than the kidnapping. No one would question Reeve’s presence in the palace, or his place at her side.

No one would question him—no one would question her. Slowly Brie turned her hands over and stared down at them. There was something she’d been unable to speak of to either of her doctors. Something she’d been unable to put into words to anyone other than Reeve.

Had she killed a man? Had she taken a knife and … Good God, when would she know?

Trying to force herself to remember brought nothing but frustration. Concentration on this would cause her head to pound until she couldn’t concentrate on anything at all. What snatches came, came in dreams. And like dreams, when she awoke, the images were vague and distorted. But the images, rather than easing the pressure, only increased it. Every morning she lay quietly, hoping the memories would come naturally. Every day there was only the dregs of dreams.

She could work, Brie reminded herself. Filling the hours each day was anything but a problem. The work was enjoyable, fulfilling—but for the fact that she now had this foolish engagement to contend with. The sooner she could brush that aside and go on, the better. She’d view it as one more goal to reach—or one more obstacle to overcome.

“Come in.” She answered the knock at the door, but she was frowning. The frown didn’t diminish when Reeve walked in.

“Surely I’m considered safe in my own bedroom.”

The room smelled subtly of flowers. They were there in a vase on a table by the window, on a stand beside the bed. Through the open window, the breeze traveled in and tossed the scent everywhere. “Dr. Franco says you’re recovering nicely.”

Brie deliberately took her time settling on the long, cushioned window seat. It gave her the opportunity to control her temper. “Does the doctor report to you, as well?”

“I was with your father.” He saw the newspaper on the bed, the photos, but said nothing. It wouldn’t do to admit that the front-page splash had given him quite a jolt that morning. It was one thing to agree to a mock engagement, and another to see evidence of it in black and white.

Instead he wandered over to her dresser and idly picked up a small glass jar. He’d concentrate on that for a moment until he could forget just the way she looked in that thin ivory robe. “So you’re feeling better?”

“I’m quite well, thank you.”

The icily formal reply had his lips twitching. She wouldn’t give an inch, Reeve mused. So much the better. “How’s your schedule for tomorrow?” he asked, though he’d already made it his business to know.

“I’m not free until after noon. Then there’s nothing until dinner with the Duke and Duchess of Marlborough and Monsieur Loubet and his wife.”

If Reeve read her tone correctly, she wasn’t looking forward to the dinner any more than he was. It would be their first as an officially engaged couple. “Then perhaps you’d like to go sailing for a few hours in the afternoon.”

“Sailing?” He watched her eyes light up just before she swept her lashes down and spoke coolly. “Is this an invitation or a way to keep me supervised?”

“Both.” He opened the jar, dipped a finger into the cream and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. It
smelled like her skin—soft and sexy. At night, he imagined, and in the mornings, she’d smooth on the cream until its fragrance was part of her.

He was here to protect her, he thought ruefully as he closed the jar again, but who was going to protect him? As she sat in silence, he put down the jar and crossed to her.

“If you want to weigh the pros and cons, Brie, consider that you’ll be away from the palace and responsibility for a few hours.”

“With you.”

“Engaged couples are expected to spend some time together,” he said easily, then put a firm hand on her arm before she could jump up. “You agreed,” he said with the steel just below the calm tone. “Now you have to follow through.”

“Only in public.”

“A woman in your position has little private life. And,” he continued, moving his hand down to hers, “I’ve put mine under the microscope, as well.”

“You want gratitude? I find it difficult right at the moment.”

“Keep it.” Annoyed, he tightened his grip until her eyes met his. “Cooperation’s enough.”

Her chin was up, her eyes level. “Yours or mine?”

He inclined his head slightly. “The answer seems to be both again. Officially, we’re engaged. In love,” he added, testing the words.

The words worried her. “Officially,” she agreed. “It’s simply a trapping.”

“Trappings can be convenient. And since we’re on the subject …” Reaching into his pocket, Reeve brought out a small velvet box. With his thumb he flipped up the top. The sun shot down and seemed to explode within the white, square-cut diamond.

Brie felt her heart begin to thud in her breast, then her throat. “No.”

“Too traditional?” Reeve drew the ring out of the box and twisted it in the sunlight. The white stone was suddenly alive with color. “It suits you. Clean, cool, elegant. Ready to give off passion at the right touch.” He
was no longer looking at the diamond, but at her. “Give me your hand, Gabriella.”

She didn’t move. Perhaps foolishly, she felt she didn’t have to. “I won’t wear your ring.”

He took her left wrist and felt the pulse thud under his fingers. The sun poured through the window, showering on her hair, into her eyes. The fury was there—he could feel it. And the passion. Hardly romantic, he thought as he pushed the ring onto her finger. But, then, romance wasn’t the order of the day.

“Yes, you will.” He closed his hand over hers, sealing the bond. He didn’t allow himself to think just yet of how difficult it might be to break.

“I’ll just take it off again,” she told him furiously.

He spoke in a tone she didn’t trust. “That wouldn’t be wise.”

“Still following my father’s orders?” she said between her teeth.

“It seems we both are. But the ring was my idea.” He cupped the back of her neck with his free hand. It was long and slender and smooth. “So’s this.”

When he kissed her he gave her no choice. She stiffened; he stroked. She shuddered; he soothed. The moment he felt her respond, he took her deep and fast.

His fingers were in her hair, his hand on hers, yet her body throbbed as though he touched everywhere. She would have welcomed that. The mouth didn’t seem to be enough to give, to take, to demand. Whole worlds opened up and spun at the touch of mouth to mouth. She could taste what he offered—passion, wild, ripe, free. Fulfillment was there, churning within her if she chose to let go.

She came alive when he held her. Reeve hadn’t known a woman could be so electric while remaining so soft. He could feel pulse beats, tempting him to touch them, one by one. He started with her throat, just a skim of a fingertip. Her moan rippled into his mouth. The inside of her elbow—the blood pounded there. At her wrist it jumped frantically.

He drew her bottom lip into his mouth to suck, to nibble. Her body trembled, arousing him beyond belief as he took his hand slowly up from her waist to find her breast. The thin robe she wore could have been pulled away with one hand, leaving her naked, but Reeve kept the barrier knowing his sanity would be pulled away
with it.

When he made love with her, fully, completely, there wouldn’t be servants or staff or family. When he made love with her the first time, there’d be nothing, no one but the two of them. She’d never forget it. Or him.

He ran his hand down her once, one long, firm stroke. Possession, threat, promise. Neither of them could be sure which. When he let her go, neither of them was steady.

Brie saw something in his eyes that had her skin heating. Desire, but more. Knowledge. His eyes were blue, dark, not quite calm. In them she saw the knowledge that she wouldn’t walk away from him easily. Not today. Not tomorrow.

She drew back against the window seat, as far away from him as she could. “You have no right.”

He looked at her until she had to hold back the tremble. “I don’t need any.” When he reached up to cup her face she went still. It was a habit of his she hadn’t quite fathomed. It might be gentleness; it might be arrogance. “I don’t want any.”

Her strength was nothing to be underestimated. She was still, yes, but she wasn’t weak. “I’ll tell you when I want to be touched, Reeve.”

He didn’t remove his hand. “So you have.”

Try a different tactic, she decided. Something had to work. “I think you’re taking this charade too seriously. You overstep yourself.”

“If you want bows and protocol, you’ll have to look elsewhere. Remember, you told me not to be kind.”

“A request that isn’t difficult for you.”

“Not at all.” He smiled, then lifted her hand where the diamond flashed. “You and I know this is no more than a pretty rock, Brie. Another trapping.” On impulse, he turned her hand over, held it, then pressed his lips to her palm. “No one else will.”