‘I suspect you’re every man’s dream mistress, Rosemary. No strings, no commitment, no future planned. Just the promise of sex whenever we want it, wherever we want it.’ His voice deepened. ‘However we want it.’

‘Oh, there’s going to be some sort of commitment,’ she told him, hoping she sounded as confident as her words. She needed to get something straight, although her heart constricted when she said, ‘Until we call a halt I’ll be faithful to you, and I’ll expect the same from you.’

The dark head bent in an autocratic nod. ‘Very well, then. It’s a deal.’

The words were blunt—as blunt as hers had been.

‘It’s a deal,’ she whispered, and held out her hand.

His mouth was a thin line, strangely ruthless, as they shook hands. But it gentled when he lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingertips.

The sensuous caress sent more wanton excitement tingling through Rosie. And then he bent his head and kissed her again, and his mouth took her into that realm where thought and logic no longer mattered, where the only reality was Gerd’s passion and her abandoned response.

But even as she yielded she wondered how he might react if he realised she’d never done this before.

Robyn Donald can’t remember not being able to read, and will be eternally grateful to the local farmers who carefully avoided her on a dusty country road as she read her way to and from school, transported to places and times far away from her small village in Northland, New Zealand. Growing up fed her habit; as well as training as a teacher, marrying and raising two children, she discovered the delights of romances and read them voraciously, especially enjoying the ones written by New Zealand writers. So much so that one day she decided to write one herself. Writing soon grew to be as much of a delight as reading—although infinitely more challenging—and when eventually her first book was accepted by Mills & Boon® she felt she’d arrived home. She still lives in a small town in Northland, with her family close by, and uses the landscape as a setting for much of her work. Her life is enriched by the friends she’s made among writers and readers, and complicated by a determined Corgi called Buster, who is convinced that blackbirds are evil entities. Her greatest hobby is still reading, with travelling a very close second.

Recent titles by the same author:

RICH, RUTHLESS AND SECRETLY ROYAL

THE RICH MAN’S BLACKMAILED MISTRESS

THE MEDITERRANEAN PRINCE’S CAPTIVE VIRGIN*

HIS MAJESTY’S MISTRESS*

*The Mediterranean Princes

The Virgin And His Majesty

By

Robyn Donald

MILLS & BOON®

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Chapter One

AS CORONATION balls went, Rosie Matthews thought, surveying the palace ballroom, this one in Carathia had to be about as good as it got.

Wherever she looked flowers glowed richly against the white and gold walls. Men in the austere black and white of formal evening clothes radiated power and privilege, and beautiful women dazzled in couture so haute the ballroom looked like a catwalk for society’s most favoured designers. Light from the gilded ballroom chandeliers scintillated opulently from famous and priceless tiaras, earrings and necklaces.

And every other woman in the ballroom seemed tall and impossibly elegant, including the one beside her. Hani Crysander-Gillan, Duchess of Vamili and sister-in-law of the newly crowned Grand Duke Gerd, was another racehorse, and the tiara glittering against her dark hair featured the rare and beautiful fire diamonds from her homeland of Moraze.

‘I envy you,’ Rosie told her cheerfully. ‘This will be the only coronation ball I’ll ever attend, but to get a good view I really need to stand on one of those gilded chairs. Still, I’ve never seen so many fabulous jewels. And the clothes—wow!’ She gave an elaborate sigh. ‘I feel like the proverbial poor relation. And I’m not even a relation!’

Hani laughed. ‘A likely story. You look stunning, and you know it. I don’t know how you managed to find something the exact honey-amber of your hair.’

Rosie glanced down at her balldress. ‘It was a stroke of luck; there’s a really good vintage shop just around the corner from my flat. And this doesn’t seem to have been worn much. It doesn’t look ten years old.’

‘Who cares how old it is? It’s a classic.’

Certainly its body-skimming flow gave Rosie some much-needed extra height, assisted by a pair of killer heels that had cost her almost the last of her savings. Hani raised her brows. ‘It’s not like you to be afflicted with self-doubt. What’s the matter?’

‘It’s not self-doubt, it’s the realisation that the jewellery alone must be worth more than most small countries,’ Rosie returned airily.

She lied. Prince Gerd Crysander-Gillan, Grand Duke and ruler of Carathia—crowned only that day—happened to be dancing right in front of her with the woman expected to become his bride. Princess Serina was yet another willowy, impossibly beautiful creature, her dark hair sleeked into an elegant chignon that showed off the diamonds of her family tiara to perfection.

‘And the fact that every other woman in this room is at least ten centimetres taller than I am and wearing a tiara,’ Rosie went on mournfully, before flashing Hani a gamine grin. ‘However, being short means no one can see me, and Gerd won’t expect glitz from a cousin by marriage.’

Especially a cousin by marriage who’d just finished her degree, only to discover that the job market had dried up.

Lifting her small, round chin, she let her eyes roam across the dancers. Inevitably they found the man who’d invited her—and hundreds of others—to his rich little country to celebrate his coronation. As Rosie’s gaze found his arrogantly handsome face Gerd smiled at the princess in his arms, then lifted his black head and looked across the ballroom, his boldly chiselled features radiating force and authority.

Flushing, Rosie lowered her eyes. Of course he wasn’t looking at—far less for—her. He was just making sure everything was going according to plan. Gerd always had a plan, as well as the ruthless determination to carry it through, no matter what the obstacles.

A hungry longing ached through her. She’d been so certain the tenuous thread of hope that had kept her dangling for years would be severed once she saw him with the glamorous, entirely suitable Princess Serina.

Instead, coming to Carathia, seeing him again, had reignited a fire that had never died.

So who’s being melodramatic? she mocked silently. How could a fire die when it had never really been lit? OK, so three years ago—on the other side of the world—she and Gerd had been thrown together for a whole magical summer.

Although they’d known each other all her life, things had changed during those long, hot weeks, but even at eighteen Rosie had been wary. Gerd was almost twelve years older, and probably a couple of centuries further advanced in sophistication. As well, her mother’s lamentable history with men had coloured Rosie’s outlook, so although she’d become giddy with excitement whenever he smiled at her, she’d masked it with the brash, cheerful façade she’d made her defence against the world.

Yet while they’d sailed, swum, ridden horses and talked at length about almost everything, her childhood affection for Gerd gradually developed into a deeper emotion, something that shimmered with a promise she didn’t dare recognise—until the night before he went away.

When he had kissed her…

And Rosie had gone up in flames, all fears forgotten in a shocking, mesmerising rush of passion. He’d muttered her name and tried to pull away, but she’d clung, and as if he too was caught in the grip of some elemental summons he’d kissed her again, and then again, his arms tightening around her while every kiss took her deeper and deeper into unknown, thrilling territory.

How long they’d kissed she never knew, but each sensuous exploration stoked the fire that burned away her virginal inhibitions, and she was crushed against his lean, strong body in an ecstasy of surrender when he suddenly jerked free.

And said in a thick, impeded voice, ‘I must be mad.’ Chilled, the intoxicating hunger rapidly vanishing, she’d dragged in a painful, jarring breath, unable to speak, unable to feel anything but an icy, bitter wash of humiliation at his rejection.

He’d straightened and stepped back further. In a controlled, coldly remote voice he said, ‘Rosemary, I should not have done that. Forgive me. You still have a lot of growing up to do. Enjoy university, and try not to break too many hearts.’

A small, cynically rueful smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. The only heart that had been affected was hers. For the first—and only—time in her life Rosie had known the wild, intoxicating charge of desire.

Why hadn’t it happened again? She’d met men almost as handsome as Gerd, men with reputations as superb lovers, and not one had stirred her emotions, not one had summoned that ravishment of her senses, as though she’d die if it wasn’t satisfied…

Only Gerd.

Her eyes narrowed slightly when Gerd said something to his partner. The princess lifted her face and smiled, and they looked so utterly right together that Rosie winced at a stark return of the aching emptiness that had followed Gerd’s departure that summer.

Whatever had happened during those enchanted weeks—the companionship, the closeness—had meant nothing to him. Not once had he contacted Rosie. News of him came through his brother, Kelt.

Don’t be an idiot, she told herself robustly. Of course he hadn’t contacted her. Once he’d left New Zealand his life had been packed with action and events.

Immediately after he’d arrived in Carathia his grandmother, the Grand Duchess, named him heir to her throne, and he’d had to deal with disaffection amongst the mountain people—disorder that became riots, and had then turned into a nasty little civil war.

No sooner had it been decisively won than Princess Ilona slipped into the lingering final illness that forced Gerd to become the de facto ruler of Carathia. A year of official mourning had followed her death.

Which had given her three years to break free of the spell of the hot, lazy days she’d spent falling in love.

It wasn’t through lack of trying. She’d kissed enough would-be lovers to gain herself a reputation as a tease, but nothing—and no one—had matched the sensuous magic of Gerd’s kisses. Flirting had become a defence; she used it as a glossy, sparkling shield against any sort of true intimacy.

How pathetic to be still a virgin!

Yet when she did make love she wanted it to mean something—and she wasn’t going to succumb until her feelings matched the hungry passion Gerd had summoned so effortlessly in her.

Rosie focused her attention on the rest of the dancing throng, but inevitably her gaze crept back to Gerd and his partner.

He was looking over Princess Serina’s head, straight at Rosie. For a heart-stopping second she thought she read anger in his topaz-gold survey before the woman in his arms said something, and he glanced back at her.

Rosie’s heart thumped violently and a swift flare of colour burned up through her skin. Turning to Hani, she gave a quick nod in the general direction of the dance floor and forced her voice into its normal insouciant tone. ‘They look good together, don’t they?’

Hani was silent a moment before saying slowly, ‘Yes. Yes, they do.’

Rosie would have liked very much to ask what was behind the equivocal note in her voice, but the music stopped then, and Kelt, Gerd’s younger brother and Hani’s husband, came up. Hani’s face broke into the smile she kept only for him.

Rosie sighed silently; even after several years of marriage and a gorgeous little son, Hani and Kelt still looked at each other like lovers. And, when the band struck up again after the interval, she watched them melt into each other’s arms on the dance floor and fought back a shaming surge of envy, of wonder that they’d found such joy and satisfaction, when she…

When she’d let a memory rule her life. One summer of laughing, stimulating companionship and a few passionate kisses had fuelled a futile desire without any chance of fulfilment.

Enough’s enough, she thought on a sudden spurt of defiance. She was tired of being moonstruck. From now on—from this moment, in fact—it was officially over. She’d find some nice man and discover what sex was all about, get rid of this humiliating, futile hangover from the past—

‘Rosemary.’

The floor shifted under her feet and her stomach contracted as though bracing for a blow. She sucked in a sharp breath before slowly turning to look up into Gerd’s face, its angular features imprinted with the intimidating heritage of a thousand years of rule.

Here it was again, that seductive, treacherous ache of longing, almost more potent than the physical hunger that accompanied it. Pride persuaded her to ignore the shivers tingling down her spine.

‘Hello, Gerd,’ she said, hoping her voice was as steady and cool as his. ‘Why can I never get you or my mother to call me Rosie?’

His wide shoulders lifted fractionally. ‘I don’t know. That, surely, is up to you?’

Rosie’s snort was involuntary. ‘Try telling Eva to shorten my name and see how far you get,’ she told him briskly. ‘And I seem to remember asking you quite often to call me Rosie. You never did.’

‘You didn’t ask—you commanded,’ he said with a faint smile. ‘I didn’t take kindly to being ordered about by a tiny snip some twelve years younger.’

You are not in love with him, she reminded herself with desperate insistence. You never have been.

All she had to do was get him out of her bloodstream, out of her head, and see him as a man, not the compelling, powerful, unattainable lover of her fantasies.

‘Dance with me.’

Her brave determination melted under a sudden surge of heat. To be in his arms again…

Resisting the seductive impact of that thought, she summoned a smile glinting with challenge. ‘And you have the audacity to accuse me of ordering people about?’

‘Perhaps I should rephrase my request,’ he said on a note that held more than a hint of irony. ‘Rosemary, would you like to dance with me?’

‘That’s much more like it,’ she said sedately, hanging on to her composure by a thread. ‘Yes, of course I’ll dance with you.’

His mouth quirked at her formality, and something jabbed her heart. It took a determined effort of will to walk beside him onto the dance floor.

But when Gerd took her in his arms her natural sense of rhythm almost deserted her. Concentrating fiercely, she followed his lead. In that dazzling, dazed summer they’d danced together several times and she’d never forgotten the sensation of being held against his big frame, the way she’d felt so deliciously overpowered by his size and latent strength.

Now, close to him again, every cell in her body sang a wanton song of desire.

You’re not in love with him, she repeated fervently. Not a bit. Never have been…

This was merely physical, a matter of hormones and hero-worship. He’d imprinted her the way a mother goose imprinted her goslings.

The thought curved her mouth in an involuntary smile. How apt. She was behaving just like a goose!

Gerd broke a silence that threatened to drag on too long. ‘How long is it since we’ve danced together?’

‘I don’t know.’

That was a stupid response, an instinctive attempt at defence. And he’d noticed. Defiantly Rosie cocked her head and met his unusual eyes, tawny and arrogant as an eagle’s.

Hoping her tone projected amusement tinged with nostalgia, she continued, ‘Oh, yes, of course I do. How could I forget? It was my first grown-up party, do you remember? You were on holiday in New Zealand that summer.’

‘I remember.’ His voice was lazy, as amused as hers, the dark lashes almost hiding his eyes.

‘You gave me my very first grown-up kisses,’ she told him, and laughed before adding, ‘Ones that set an impossibly high standard.’

If she’d thought to startle him, she failed.

‘There have been plenty to judge them by since then, I understand,’ he said austerely.

Disconcerted, she demanded, ‘How do you know that?’

Again he shrugged, the muscles flexing beneath her fingertips. ‘Information travels fast in this family of ours,’ he told her laconically.

Rosie pointed out, ‘Except that I’m not proper family. The only connection is that my father’s first wife was your cousin. A fairly distant cousin at that. So I’m actually flying false colours. Everyone seems to think I’m a Crysander-Gillan, instead of a very ordinary Matthews!’

‘Nonsense,’ he said negligently, adding with an oblique smile, ‘There’s nothing ordinary about you. Anyway, your half-brother is my blood relation as well as a good friend, and Alex would very properly have told me where to go if you hadn’t been invited.’

Of course she’d been aware that only Gerd’s ironbound sense of duty had led to this invitation, but his laconic acknowledgement of it stung nevertheless.

Stifling her hurt, Rosie switched her gaze to the half brother she’d never really known. Her parents’ marriage had disintegrated before she was old enough to realise that the boy who appeared occasionally in her life was actually related to her.

Gerd’s arm around her tightened; Alex forgotten, she followed the almost imperceptible command and matched her steps to her partner’s. A sensuous thrill ran through her as they pivoted, their bodies meeting for an intimate moment.

Heat flamed through her at that subtle pressure; she dragged in a painful breath, only to find it imbued with the potent aphrodisiac of Gerd’s faint body scent—pure, charged masculinity. She was becoming aroused, readying herself for a passion that would never be returned, never be appeased.

And then Gerd drew back and she felt the distance between them like a chasm.

Determined to break the sense of connection, the feverish hunger, she said bleakly, ‘You know Alex better than I do. My mother banished him to boarding school before I was born, and we rarely saw him.’

‘He told me you’re having difficulty finding a job.’

Startled, she lifted her head, parrying his coolly questioning survey. ‘For someone on the opposite side of the world from New Zealand you certainly keep your finger on the pulse,’ she said forthrightly. ‘Yes, the downturn in business has meant that inexperienced commerce graduates are in over-supply, but I’ll find something.’

‘Surely Alex could fit you into his organisation?’

‘Any position I get will be on my own merits,’ she told him abruptly.

‘I’m flattered you allowed him to pay your way here. He said he had to almost force you to accept the offer.’

Her brother had dropped in on her the day she got the invitation, and when she’d told him she couldn’t afford to go, he’d lifted one black brow and drawled, ‘Consider it your next Christmas present.’

She’d laughed and refused, but a few days later his secretary had rung to ask if she had a passport, and given her instructions to meet his private jet at Auckland’s airport. And her mother had applied pressure, no doubt hoping that a holiday among the rich and famous would make Rosie reconsider her next move—to find a job in a florist’s shop.

‘You might just as well be a hairdresser,’ Eva Matthews had wailed. ‘It was bad enough when you decided to take a commerce degree, but to turn yourself into a florist?’ She’d startled Rosie with her virulence. ‘Why, for heaven’s sake? Everyone says you’re clever as a cartload of monkeys, but you’ve done nothing—nothing at all!—with your brains. You were a constant disappointment to your father—what would he have thought of this latest hare-brained scheme?’

Rosie had shrugged. Starting with the fact that she’d been born the wrong sex, she’d never been able to please her parents.

‘This is something I want to do,’ she said firmly.

Her years at an expensive, exclusive boarding school had been for her mother. University had been for her father, although he’d made his disapproval clear when she’d chosen a commerce degree instead of something more academically challenging that would befit the daughter of a famed archaeologist.

Neither of her parents had known that she’d always planned to work with flowers. The degree had been her first step, and during her holidays she’d worked in a good florist’s shop, honing her skills and a natural talent for design. A few months before the end of the university year the shop had closed down, a casualty of the recession, and, with the financial world on the brink of panic, now was not the time to set up. Even if she’d had the capital, which she didn’t.

Rosie had discussed her situation with Kelt. He’d advised finding a job, saving like crazy and waiting for an upturn in the situation.

Good advice. Her expression unconsciously wistful, she turned her head and watched him dance with Hani. They looked so perfect together…

Just as Gerd and the Princess Serina had looked—a matching pair.

‘They are very happy together,’ Gerd said, an abrasive note in his words startling her.

‘Oh, yes, so happy. But who wouldn’t be, married to Kelt?’

Kelt didn’t write her off as a lightweight or treat her as though she had the common sense of a meringue. A growing girl couldn’t have had a better substitute brother, but his marriage to Hani had taken something from the special relationship he and Rosie shared; he had other loyalties, other responsibilities now.

Rosie had expected it to happen and she didn’t resent it, but she missed their closeness.

Gerd asked laconically, ‘So what is your plan?’

‘Oh, take a look around, see what I can find,’ she said airily. ‘And what are your plans, now that you and the country have emerged from the year of mourning? What changes are you going to make in Carathia?’

‘Only a few, and those slowly. I didn’t realise you were interested in my country.’

She met his eyes with a swift, dazzling smile. ‘Of course I am. Being related to the ruler of Carathia gave me immense prestige at school. I used to boast about it incessantly.’

He held her away from him, examining her face. Bracing herself as a flame of awareness sizzled through her, Rosie met that intent eagle-amber gaze with cool challenge.

The grimness faded from his expression, although his smile was narrow as a blade. ‘I don’t believe that for a moment. Why did you decide to become an accountant?’

She wasn’t going to tell him about her love affair with flowers. ‘It just seemed a sensible thing to do. As I’m sure you’re aware, my father was hopeless with money—he spent everything on his expeditions—and my mother isn’t much better. I wanted to know how things worked in the financial world.’

Cynicism tinged his deep voice. ‘Or did you just decide to shock your parents?’

She shook her head, stopping abruptly when her curls bobbed about in a childish fashion. ‘I wanted to come away from university with something concrete, skills I could use.’

Something that made people see past her outward physical attributes. Most people took one look at her and wrote her off as a flirtatious little piece of fluff.

On a cool note she finished, ‘And I don’t regret it at all.’

Gerd looked sceptical. The music swelled, and he caught her closer to steer her around a slight traffic jam of dancers ahead. Resisting the quick, fierce temptation to let herself relax against him, Rosie followed his steps.

Above her head he said, ‘You asked what changes I plan; in parts of Carathia change is treated with suspicion, so I’ll be treading carefully, but I intend to extend the scope and the range of education, especially in the mountain districts.’

‘Why education? What about health?’

Broad shoulders lifted in another swift shrug. ‘My grandmother concentrated on health services. They’re well-established, but not as fully used as they could be, especially in the mountains where superstition is still rampant and many people prefer to use the local wise women. When patients do finally present at hospitals, they often die there.’

Rosie nodded. ‘So I suppose they try even harder not to go near them.’

‘Exactly.’

‘And you think education will help? How?’

‘By giving children an understanding of science and some knowledge of the outerworld. Life in the mountains is still very insular, very remote. Children in the alpine villages have to travel to the bigger towns for secondary education, so most miss out. I want to take higher education—good higher education—to each market town.’

‘It seems logical,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘What’s the school leaving age?’

‘Thirteen. Far too young, but parents say they need them at home to help with farming, so any alteration will have to be managed with tact.’

Gerd felt her curls tickle his throat when she nodded.

Thoughtfully she said, ‘To change attitudes you need to corral them at school while they’re still open and receptive. How are you going to set up this system of a high school in every valley?’ She glanced up at him, wide blue eyes intent and serious for once. ‘I assume that’s what you’re planning?’

Gerd told her, sarfonically amused because he was discussing his plans for Carathia with the precocious, light-hearted girl-child who’d jolted him with the passion in her kisses—and his own violent and unconsidered response to them.

That summer three years ago had revealed that behind her sexy, laughing face lurked a keen, quick brain. He’d enjoyed their discussions, but her ardent kisses on the final night when he’d yielded to the forbidden temptation of her sultry mouth had reminded him she was far too young and innocent to do what he’d wanted to do—carry her off to the nearest bed and make reckless, sensuous love to her.

Thank God he’d rejected her open invitation. Etched into his brain was the sight of her kissing Kelt the very morning after she’d turned to flames in his arms. He’d realised then that she’d been using him as a substitute for the man she really wanted.

Did she still long for his brother? If her expression when she watched Kelt dancing with Hani was anything to go by, it seemed more than likely.

Kelt had always been there for her when her father was away searching for ancient civilisations, when her mother was off with the latest boyfriend. A beautiful woman with everything going for her, Eva Matthews wasted her life chasing some sort of rainbow fantasy of the perfect love. Judging by the stream of men through her university years, her daughter was doing the same.

Searching for a security she’d never known? Possibly. Trouble in a delicious little package?

Undoubtedly. But she was no longer naïve and inexperienced.

Above her froth of amber curls he sketched a humourless smile. He was acutely aware of her small, elegantly curved form in that sinuous dress, its colour reminding him of the beaches on his brother’s estate in New Zealand. Subtly glittering, the fabric made the most of her curves and narrow waist without clinging. In a room full of women clothed to impress, she stood out because she wore no jewellery at all, not even a ring on a slender finger.

A strand of hair snagged itself on his lapel, glittering in the light of the chandeliers. She jerked free and said, ‘Sorry about that. I did try for dignity, but my curls are uncontrollable.’

‘It would seem so.’ His voice sounded odd in his ears, and he frowned, fighting back a swift, elemental appetite, a headstrong physical goad that knotted his gut and dried his mouth.

Half smiling, she gazed up at him, dark lashes wide around the intense, gold-flecked blue of her eyes. ‘I straightened my hair once and it just hated it and went all lank and limp, so now I let the curls do their own thing.’

Gerd closed his mind against a swift, erotic image of her, sleek and golden and laughing against crisp white sheets, but the maddening questions refused to go away. Would she be as passionate as the promise of her soft, laughing mouth?

Hard on the heels of that came another question, even more insubordinate. Was she like this—provocative, tempting—with her lovers?

Of course she was. And now she was twenty-one and experienced, there was no need for restraint…

Chapter Two

GERD dampened down a compelling surge of desire to say remotely, ‘Although you affect to despise your hair, it’s very pretty. As I’m sure you know.’

Rosie should have been gratified; apart from that final crack about her hair—delivered with aloof kindness, as though she were ten—he had at least treated her like an adult.

Unfortunately, since they’d moved onto the floor she’d reacquired a taste for the danger and zest of crossing swords with Gerd. Like fencing with a tiger, she’d decided dreamily three years ago.

Her pulse rate skyrocketed when her glance skimmed the strong, boldly chiselled features, intimidating yet profoundly sexy. Now she understood why she’d always been attracted to men with a slight cleft in their chin and hawkish profiles.

Rapidly discarding her first impetuous response, she told him briskly, ‘I could say, just you try living with a head covered with red curls and see if anyone takes you seriously, but instead I’ll ignore your remark. I’ll bet you were born looking like a king.’

His smile was lazy, almost teasing. ‘I’m not a king, and it was meant to be a compliment.’

‘Then I’m afraid you’ll have to try harder.’

His eyes narrowed, and for a second—perhaps less?—something flashed between them, a brittle tension that robbed her of words and breath.

To her relief the music died away, and he released her and offered his arm. She rested her hand on it, feeling insignificant as he escorted her to where Kelt, Hani and Alex waited for her.

They were almost there when he said formally, ‘Thank you for coming, Rosemary.’

‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,’ she returned, smiling pleasantly at a dowager wearing a serious dress in satin and more pearls than was decent. Taking refuge in flippancy from the aching emptiness that threatened her, Rosie decided the only thing missing was a lorgnette.

She went on, ‘It’s been a truly amazing week. And the coronation ceremony was…’ She searched for the right words, finally settling on, ‘Truly awe-inspiring. Hugely impressive.’ And profoundly moving.

‘I’m glad you found it so,’ he said, his neutral tone revealing nothing. ‘You’re leaving the day after tomorrow, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’ She’d like to ask him what he’d planned for tomorrow night, but no doubt he had better things to do than entertain a nobody from New Zealand.

Kiss Princess Serina, perhaps?

When they reached the others they talked pleasantries for a few minutes until Gerd walked away, and at last Rosie could draw breath.

All she wanted to do was skulk up to her bedroom and hide there until she felt more…well, more herself.

But it was almost over. If she organised her life with care and some cunning she need never exchange words or glances with Gerd again. And when the wedding invitation arrived she’d produce a very good excuse for not attending—a broken leg should do.

Even if she had to break it herself.

From the corner of her eye she saw Gerd talking to the princess, and stiffened her spine. OK, so exorcising this unwanted hunger would take willpower and a rigorous refusal to indulge in daydreams, but she could manage that—she’d had a lot of practice.

The evening wore on. Resolutely keeping her gaze away from the person who held her attention, Rosie danced and laughed and talked and flirted with several interested men. By midnight her rigid self-control was beginning to take its toll and she allowed herself another longing thought of the bed waiting for her in the private apartments of the palace.

But when the ball ended, Alex told her casually, ‘Gerd’s asked us to his quarters for a nightcap. Just the family.’

No princess? Rosie banished a treacherous needle of excitement. ‘How kind of him.’

He lifted a brow and after an uncertain look at his handsome face she began to chatter. She loved her brother, but they had never known each other well enough to develop the sort of relationship that made for confidences.

It was definitely a family gathering—although Gerd seemed to be related to a lot of European royalty.

But no Princess Serina. Stifling an ignoble relief, Rosie refused a glass of champagne and accepted one of mineral water, then glanced around. The private drawing room was big, furnished with more than a salute to Victorian taste. It wasn’t all heavy furniture, however. Her gaze travelled to the large painting in a place of honour on one wall.

‘Kelt’s and my New Zealand grandfather,’ Gerd said from behind her. ‘Alex’s great-great-uncle.’

‘He’s very handsome,’ she said inanely. ‘More like Kelt than you.’

‘You’re intimating that I’m not handsome?’ he drawled lazily.

Colour burned along her cheekbones. Keeping her eyes on the portrait, she returned in her most limpid tone, ‘I’m forever being told that it’s only women who need constant reassurance about their attractiveness.’

His low laugh held a sardonic note. ‘Well avoided.’

‘All I meant was that your grandfather and Kelt have that northern-European look, whereas you show your Mediterranean heritage.’ And a drop-dead gorgeous set of genes he’d inherited—a strong-boned face emphasised by those raptor’s eyes and his powerful, longlegged physique.

‘Like most ruling families, the Crysander-Gillans have a very mixed heritage. The original founder of my house was a Norseman who arrived here with a group of Vikings via Russia some time in the tenth century. They stayed, and imported princesses from almost every country in Europe and the occasional one from considerably further away.’

Well, Princess Serina wouldn’t have far to come! Her family lived in exile on the French Riviera. Rosie’s heart contracted. ‘I like this portrait,’ she said swiftly. ‘He looks…utterly dependable, yet dangerous.’

Gerd smiled and said something in a language Rosie recognised as being Carathian. ‘That’s an old Carathian proverb—A man should be a tiger in bed, a lion in battle, and wise and cunning as a fox in counsel. The Carathians believe that my grandfather met that standard.’

Rosie kept her attention religiously fixed on the painted face. ‘He looks all that and more. How did the ancient Carathians know about tigers and lions?’

He drawled, ‘There used to be lions in southern Europe, and people from the Mediterranean got around—remember, Alexander the Great marched as far as India. I imagine those who made it back arrived home with stories about tigers.’

‘Was Carathia part of Greece originally?’

‘No, although as a state it began with a band of Greek soldiers who lost a battle a thousand years or so before the Christian era and fled this way. They found this valley, and helped the local tribespeople against an attacking force sent to control the pass. For their endeavours they were rewarded with Carathian brides.’

‘I hope the brides approved,’ Rosie observed tartly.

‘Who knows?’ He sounded amused.

Rosie’s heart did a ridiculous flip. If those ancient Greeks had been anything like Gerd their brides had probably been delirious with excitement.

Gerd went on, ‘Over the years various of my ancestors acquired the coastal region and its offshore islands.’

‘How?’ she asked, intrigued by the long history of the small country.

‘Usually by conquest, sometimes by marriage.’

She asked curiously, ‘How many languages do you speak?’

‘Kelt and I grew up speaking both English and Carathian as first languages. We’ve learned a couple more along the way.’

‘I’m very impressed by the way people here switch from language to language without any effort. It makes me feel very much like a country cousin.’

‘Languages can be learnt. Besides, you know the one everyone understands.’

Startled, she swivelled her head to survey his face.

His eyes were half-closed, his chiselled mouth curved in a smile that hit Rosie like a charge of electricity. ‘Your smile speaks the most fundamental language—that of the heart.’

‘Thank you for such a pretty compliment,’ Rosie said hastily, furious because her hot cheeks revealed her astonishment. ‘I don’t think it’s true, but I’d love it to be.’

Brows raised, Gerd said, ‘You’re embarrassed. Why? I can’t believe no other man has told you that your smile is a most potent weapon.’

More than a little wary, she said, ‘Actually, no.’

Men tended to concentrate on her more physical attributes.

Relief seeped through her when a manservant came up. Gerd looked down at him and the servant said something in a low voice. After Gerd’s nod the man went across to the windows and drew back the heavy drapes to reveal the starry burst of a swarm of skyrockets.

Charmed, Rosie joined in the soft murmur of appreciation around the room.

‘The Carathians enjoy firework displays and have organised this,’ Gerd said as the wide French windows were opened.

Everyone trooped out into the warm night onto a stone terrace. ‘Come here, Rosemary,’ Gerd said, making a space for her so she could see easily.

Sheer pleasure seeped through Rosie as she took her place beside him. The private apartments in the palace looked over the walls that had sheltered the people of the old town for centuries. Across the vast valley outlines of mountains reared black against a sky glittering with stars she’d never seen before.

But the stars were put to shame when more fireworks flared into life high above them, a depiction of the Carathian crown she’d watched the archbishop place on Gerd’s black head earlier that day. At that moment of crowning, of Gerd’s commitment to his country, a roar had risen from the crowds outside the cathedral who were watching the ceremony on big screens.

Recalling the fierce, unexpected sound echoing around the ancient stone walls, she took a deep breath. Something fragile and strange expanded within her, filling her with an almost painful anticipation.

Other displays of fireworks burst across the night sky, drowning out the stars. The royal coat of arms formed a triumphant pattern, followed by the emblem of the country—a lion rampant and then a cupped flower, pure white and beautiful.

‘The national flower of Carathia,’ Gerd told her. ‘It blooms in the snow. To the people it symbolises the courage and strength of Carathians.’

To Rosie’s horror her throat closed. Torn by an emotion she didn’t understand, she abandoned her usual flippant response. ‘I suppose in the past they’ve often needed that symbolism.’

‘Indeed they have,’ Gerd said, his tone so noncom mittal that Rosie looked up.

As though he sensed her regard he glanced down, his brows rising in a silent question when their eyes met. She suppressed a shiver and transferred her gaze to the flower, fading swiftly against the depthless darkness of the sky.

‘You’re cold,’ he said quietly.

‘No, not a bit.’ She flashed him a swift smile. ‘Just impressed all over again. This is an amazing place.’ ‘I’m glad you’re enjoying it.’

Conventional words, meaning nothing. No fuel for dreams there, she told herself firmly, and pinned her attention to the display as once more the sky exploded into colour, this time a joyous, fiery free-for-all that eventually sank into darkness. A collective sigh seemed to whisper over the city, and in the silence someone not too far away started to play what sounded like a cornet or trumpet. The silvery, plaintive notes were unbearably moving in the quiet air.

‘A folk tune,’ Gerd said quietly, just for her. ‘A song of lost love.’

To Rosie’s utter horror, tears prickled at the backs of her eyes. She had to swallow to be able to say lightly, ‘Aren’t they all? The world’s literature and music is built on broken hearts.’

The notes died away into a momentary silence that was followed by an eruption of cheers and the sound of horns and whistles.

Half an hour later Rosie surveyed her bedroom, decorated to pay tactful tribute to the age of the palace without sacrificing comfort, and thought of the time she’d spent in Carathia.

Watching Gerd, sophisticated and formidable amongst the world’s elite, had emphasised as nothing else could the huge difference between them.

In New Zealand his heritage and position hadn’t seemed so important. He’d always been dominant, that formidable inbuilt air of confidence more intimidating than arrogance could ever be. No one, least of all his New Zealand relatives, had been surprised when the business enterprise he’d set up with Kelt had turned into an empire with ramifications all over the world.

But seeing him in Carathia had added another dimension to his depth and compelling authority, giving him a mystique based on his people’s affection and respect and trust.

Yes, she’d made the right—the only—decision. She wasn’t going to waste her life longing for a man who could never be hers.

Shivering a little, she eased out of her dress, climbed into pyjamas and got into bed. Normally she read for a while, but nothing about the book she’d brought with her appealed, so she turned off the lamp and courted sleep.

An hour later, still wide awake, she got out of bed and padded across to her window, pulling back the drape to gaze down across the city. Although the lights had dimmed, the Carathians were still celebrating their ruler’s coronation with gusto. She could hear singing, and recognised the sad beauty of the folk tune. Clearly it meant something important to the people of Carathia.

A sense of aloneness chilled her. Gerd belonged here in his palace above the city, and Kelt and Hani too, and Alex, although he possessed no royal blood, fitted easily into this gathering of the world’s elite and powerful.

Rosie Matthews, unemployed, from New Zealand didn’t.

Even the moon, she realised suddenly as she stared at it, was different—back to front from the one that beamed down on the other side of the world.

‘So what?’ she said into the night air, fragrant with scents she didn’t recognise. ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself and at least get some rest.’

She must have slept for a few hours, because she dreamed—tangled images that had faded by the time she woke—but confronting her reflection the next morning made her inhale sharply and then apply cosmetics to banish the only too obvious signs of a restless night. Breakfast was served in her room, interrupted by a visit from Hani, who eyed her with concern.

Rosie pre-empted any query by saying firmly, ‘I was too excited to sleep much last night—just like an overwrought kid after a birthday party.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Hani said in the resigned tone of a mother who’d had to deal with just that situation. ‘But it was a great day, wasn’t it?’

‘It’s been a fabulous week,’ Rosie said in her airiest voice. ‘Like living in the Middle Ages, only with bathrooms and electricity.’

Hani laughed, but the glance she gave Rosie was shrewd. ‘You say that as though you’ll be glad to get back home.’

‘I will, but I’ll never forget Carathia.’ Or the man who now ruled it.

Hani said, ‘I’d like to go straight to New Zealand, but Kelt has a meeting with the head honchos from Alex’s firm in London, so we’re going there first.’ She gave a swift, lovely smile. ‘I’ll be interested to see how our little Rafi enjoys big cities.’

Hani was right—the sooner she got away from here the better, Rosie thought mordantly as she waved the family party off later that morning. Then she could stop being such an idiot.

Once back home she wouldn’t spend wakeful nights wondering when Gerd was going to announce his engagement to Princess Serina.

By telling herself bracingly that it was completely stupid to feel as though her life was coming to an end, she managed to give Gerd a glittering smile when they met later that morning. In her most accusing voice, she said, ‘Alex tells me you killed him while you were fencing before breakfast.’

Amused, he surveyed her. ‘For a dead man he looked remarkably energetic afterwards.’

‘He’s disgustingly fit.’ Rosie smiled, hoping it didn’t look as painful as it felt. Damn it, she’d get rid of this crush no matter what it took. ‘I didn’t know he was a fencer.’ In fact, she didn’t know much about her half brother at all.

Gerd understood, perhaps more than she liked. ‘He learned at university, I believe. He’s good. I believe you’re using today to visit the museum.’

Rosie nodded. ‘I’m looking forward to that, and afterwards I’m checking out the shopping area.’

‘Just make sure you don’t lose your guide—the central part of the city is like a rabbit warren and not many of the people speak English. If you got lost I’d probably have to mount a search party.’

His smile made Rosie’s foolish heart flip in her chest. He isn’t being personal, she told herself sternly.

He went on, ‘I’d like to show you around myself, but my day is taken up. I’m meeting my First Minister and then farewelling guests.’

Including Princess Serina? Rosie concealed the humiliating question with her friendliest smile, the one that usually caused Kelt to view her with intense suspicion. ‘Rather you than me,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I’m going to have a lovely day.’

She did, discovering that Carathia’s national flower was actually a buttercup. New Zealand too had a mountain buttercup, and, strangely enough, it too was pristinely white.

How foolish to feel that the coincidence formed some sort of link between the two countries!

The shopping area displayed interesting boutiques and the usual big names; her guide, a pleasant woman in her thirties with an encyclopaedic knowledge of Carathia, did her best to encourage her to buy, but Rosie resisted, even the silk scarf exquisitely embroidered ‘by hand’, the shopkeeper told her, pointing out the fineness of the stitches. She held it up. ‘And it suits you; you have the same delicate colouring, the soft clarity of spring.’

‘It’s lovely,’ Rosie said on a sigh, ‘and worth every penny, but I don’t have those pennies, I’m afraid. Thank you for showing it to me, though.’

Her regret must have shown in her tone because the woman smiled and nodded and packed the beautiful, fragile thing away without demur.

Back at the palace she found a note waiting for her. Apart from his signature on birthday and Christmas cards it was the first time she’d seen Gerd’s writing; bold and full of character, it made her heart thump unnecessarily fast as she scanned the paper.

He hoped she’d had a good day, and suggested that they have dinner together at a restaurant he knew, one where they wouldn’t be hounded by photographers.

And where they wouldn’t be alone, she thought with a wry quirk of her lips. Perhaps the princess objected to him dining with another woman in the privacy of his palace apartment, even when the other woman was related by marriage.

It was probably only his excellent manners that stopped him pleading a previous appointment and avoiding her altogether.

Temptation warred viciously with common sense. Should she go or do the sensible thing and say she was too tired? In the end her weaker part won. What harm could a dinner with him do, chaperoned as they’d be by the other diners, not to mention the waiters?

She rang the bell and gave the servant her answer.

Now, what to wear?

Anticipation built rapidly inside her; just for tonight—just this once—she’d let herself enjoy Gerd’s company.

After all, there weren’t going to be any repercussions. She was adult enough to deal with the situation. She’d forget her foolish crush and treat him like…oh, like the other men she’d gone out with. She’d be friendly, interested, sparkle for him, even flirt a little. It would be perfectly safe because Gerd was going to marry either Princess Serina, or someone very like her.

Someone suitable.

And when tonight was over Rosie would never see him again. Well, not in the flesh, she thought mordantly. He had a habit of turning up in the media—arrogantly handsome royalty was always good for a headline, especially when it came to love and marriage.

Eventually she chose a slender dress in a clear, warm colour the blue of her eyes, one of Hani’s rare couture mistakes. It had been shortened, of course, but the proportions were good. And so what if she’d worn it twice since arriving in Carathia? Princess Serina might have been dressed in a completely different outfit each time she’d appeared, but Rosie couldn’t compete.

Ready to go, she critically eyed herself in the huge mirror and gave a bleak nod; the soft material skimmed her body so her curves weren’t too obvious and the neckline was discreetly flattering.

She’d aimed for discretion in make-up too, but her glowing reflection made her wonder uneasily if she shouldn’t apply a little more foundation just to tone things down. Not that foundation would mask the sparkle in her eyes.

She hesitated, then shrugged. Who was she fooling? She was going out with Gerd because she craved a tiny interlude of privacy, of something special.

To build more dreams on?

‘No,’ she said aloud, startling herself. ‘To convince myself once and forever not to dream any more, because dreaming is a total, useless waste of my life and I’m over it. I’m free and twenty-one and unemployed, and I will put fairy tales behind me.’

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