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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.”