Affaire Royale (8 page)

She was soft, frail, sweet. He had to protect her. She was warm, tempting, arousing. He had to take her. Her eyes were open, just. He could see the glimmer of gold through the thick lashes as he slid his hand up to cup her neck. And he could feel, as the kiss deepened beyond intention, her unhesitating, unapologetic response.

Their tongues met, skimmed, then lingered, drawing out flavors. She wound her arms invitingly around him so that her body pressed without restriction to his. The scent she wore was darker than the sky, deeper than the mixed fragrance of night blossoms that rose from the gardens below. Moonlight splashed over him and onto her. He could almost believe in fairy tales again.

She thought she’d known what to expect. Somewhere inside her was the memory of what a kiss was, just as she knew what food, what drink was. And yet, with his mouth on hers, her mind, her emotions were a clean slate. He wrote on them what he chose.

If her blood had run hot before, she didn’t remember it. If her head had swam, she had no recollection. Everything was fresh, new, exciting. And yet … and yet there was a depth here, a primitive need that came
without surprise.

Yearning, dreaming, longing. She may have done so before. Aching, needing, wanting. She might not remember, but she understood. It was him, holding her close—him, rushing kisses over her face—him, breathing her name onto her lips, that brought these things all home again.

But had there been others? Who? How many? Had she stood in the moonlight wrapped in strong arms before? Had she given herself so unhesitatingly to passion before? Had it meant nothing to her, or everything? Shaken, she drew away. What kind of woman gave a man her soul before she knew him? Or even herself?

“Reeve.” She stepped back carefully. Doubts dragged at her. “I’m not sure I understand any better.”

He’d felt it from her. Complete, unrestricted passion. Even as he wanted to reach out for it again, the same reasoning came to him. How many others? Unreasonably he wanted that heat, that desire to be his alone. He offered his hand but kept his distance. It wasn’t a feeling he welcomed.

“We’d both better sleep on it.”

She felt like an imposter. Brie was in her tidy no-frills all-elegance office only because Reeve had taken her there. She’d been grateful when he’d knocked on her sitting room door at eight with a simple, “Are you ready?” and nothing else. The prospect of having to ask one of the palace staff to show her the way hadn’t appealed. On her first full day back, Brie didn’t want to have to start off dealing with expectations and curiosity. With him, she didn’t have to apologize, fumble or explain.

Reeve was here, Brie told herself, to do exactly what he was doing: guide her discreetly along. As long as she remembered that, and not the moments they’d spent on the terrace the night before, she’d be fine. She’d have felt better if she hadn’t woken up thinking of them.

After a short, nearly silent walk through the corridors, where Brie had felt all the strain on her side and none on Reeve’s, he’d shown her to the third-floor corner room in the east wing.

Once there, she toured it slowly. The room wasn’t large, but it was all business. Good light, a practical setup, privacy. The furniture might have been exquisite, but it wasn’t frivolous. That relieved her.

The capable mahogany desk that stood in the center was orderly. The colors were subdued, pastels again, she noted, brushing past the two chairs with their intricate Oriental upholstery and ebony wood. Again, flowers were fresh and plentiful—pink roses bursting up in a Sevres vase, white carnations delicate in Wedgwood. She pulled out a bud and twirled it by its stem as she turned back to Reeve.

“So I work here.” She saw the thick leather book on the desk, but only touched it. Would she open it to find her days filled with lunches, teas, fittings, shopping? And if she did, could she face it? “What work do I do?”

It was a challenge. It was a plea. Both were directed to him.

He’d done his homework. While Brie had slept the afternoon before, Reeve had gone through her files, her appointment book, even her diary. There was little of Her Serene Highness Gabriella de Cordina he didn’t know. But Brie Bisset was a bit more internal.

He’d spent an hour with her secretary and another with the palace manager. There had been a brief, cautious interview with her former nanny in which he’d had to gradually chip away at a protective instinct that spanned generations. The picture he gained made Princess Gabriella more complex, and Brie Bisset more intriguing than ever.

He’d decided to help her because she needed help, but nothing was ever that simple. The puzzle of her kidnapping nagged at him, prodded, taunted. On the surface, it seemed as though her father was leaving the investigation to the police and going about his business. Reeve rarely believed what was on the surface. If Armand was playing a chess game with him as queen’s knight, he’d play along, and make some moves of his own. It hadn’t taken Reeve long to discover that royalty was insular, private and closemouthed. So much better the challenge. He wanted to put the pieces of the kidnapping together, but to do so, he had to put the pieces of Gabriella together first.

From her description of her family the day before, Reeve had thought her perceptive. Her impression of herself, however, was far from accurate. Or perhaps it was the fear of herself, Reeve reflected. For a moment, he speculated on what it would be like to wake up one morning with no past, no ties, no sense of self. Paralyzing. Then he quickly dismissed the idea. The more sympathetic he was toward her, the more difficult his job.

“You’re involved in a number of projects,” he said simply, and stepped forward to the desk. “Some you’d term day-to-day duties, and others official.”

It came back to her then, hard, just what had passed between them the night before. Being moved, being driven. Had any other man made her feel like that before? She didn’t step back, but she braced herself. Emotions, whatever they might be, couldn’t be allowed to interfere with what she had to do.

“Projects?” she repeated smoothly. “Other than having my nails painted?”

“You’re a bit hard on Gabriella, aren’t you?” Reeve murmured. He dropped his hand on hers, on the leather
book. For five humming seconds they stood just so.

“Perhaps. But I have to know her to understand her. At this point, she’s more a stranger to me than you are.”

Sympathy rose up again. Whatever his wish, he couldn’t deny it completely. The hand under his was firm; her voice was strong, but in her eyes he saw the self-doubt, the confusion and the need. “Sit down, Brie.”

The gentleness of his voice had her hesitating. When a man could speak like that, what woman was safe? Slowly she withdrew her hand from his and chose one of the trim upholstered chairs. “Very well. This is to be lesson one?”

“If you like.” He sat on the edge of the desk so that there was a comfortable distance between them, and so that he could look fully into her face. “Tell me what you think of when you think of a princess.”

“Are you playing analyst?”

He crossed his ankles. “It’s a simple question. You can make the answer as simple as you like.”

She smiled and seemed to relax with it. “Prince Charming, fairy godmothers, glass slippers.” She brushed the rose petals idly against her cheek and looked beyond him to a sunbeam that shot onto the floor. “Footmen in dashing uniforms, carriages with white satin seats, pretty silver crowns, floaty dresses. Crowds of people…. Crowds of people,” she repeated, and her eyes focused on the stream of sunlight, “cheering below the window. The sun’s in your eyes so that it’s difficult to see, but you hear. You wave. There’s the smell of roses, strong. A sea of people with their voices rising up and up so that they wash over you. Lovely, sweet, demanding.” She fell silent, then dropped the rose in her lap.

Her hand had trembled; he’d seen it the instant before she’d dropped the flower. “Is that your imagination, or do you remember that?”

“I …” How could she explain? She could still smell the roses, hear the cheers, but she couldn’t remember. She could feel the way the sun made her eyes sting, but she couldn’t put herself at the window. “Impressions only,” she told him after a moment. “They come and go. They never stay.”

“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.