Affaire Royale (24 page)

And that one night years before when he’d waltzed with her in the moonlight.

Idiot. He dragged a hand through his hair. He was an idiot to think that even without the amnesia she would have remembered a few dances with a man on her sixteenth birthday. Just because he’d never forgotten. Had never been able to forget. Had he been in love with her all this time? With the image of her?

Reeve picked up an earring she’d taken off and set carelessly on a table. It was an elegant design of gold and diamonds. Complex and simple, it changed as he turned it—like a woman. Like the woman. He twisted it in his fingers for a moment and wondered if it was still the image that captivated him.

He knew too much about her, he thought. Too many details that he had no business knowing. She liked her bathwater too hot, collected old pictures of people she didn’t know. She’d once had a secret dream to dance with the Ballet Royal. When she’d been fifteen, she’d wondered if she was in love with a young gardener.

He knew before she did those foolish little details of her life. He’d stolen them from her, out of diaries he’d read to do a job. When she remembered all, when she looked at him then, how much would she resent the intrusion?

He knew now the two people who’d kidnapped her, changed her life, stolen her past. He knew who they
were and why they’d done so. For her sake, he couldn’t tell her yet. He could only watch and protect. And when she knew all, when she looked at him then, how much would she resent the deception?

How could he tell her that two people close to her, two people she trusted, had plotted against her? Used her? It might ease his conscience, but what would it do to Brie?

He’d gone past the point where he’d take any chances.

He heard the door to the bedroom open and paused with the earring still in his hand.

“Yes, thank you, Bernadette. If you’ll just run the bath. I’ll see to my own hair. We’re dining
en famille
tonight.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

He heard the maid move quietly into the bath, then the water striking porcelain. He imagined Brie undressing. Slowly. Unbuttoning the tailored little blouse he’d seen her put on that morning. Odd, he realized. He’d seen her dress in the mornings they’d woken together. But he’d never seen her undress. When he came to her she was already in a robe or nightgown. Or waiting naked in the bed.

Suddenly driven, he set down the earring and crossed into the bedroom.

She was standing in front of the mirror, but she hadn’t removed her clothes. There was a small porcelain box on her dresser with the lid off. She took pins from it, one by one, and swept up her hair.

She was thinking, but not, he realized, about what she was doing. Her eyes weren’t focused on the reflection. But she was smiling, just a little, as if she were content. It wasn’t often she smiled like that.

The maid came out to take a robe out of the closet. If she noticed Reeve in the sitting-room doorway, she gave no sign. As she laid the robe on the bed, Brie fastened the last pin.

“Thank you, Bernadette. I won’t need you any more tonight. Tomorrow,” she went on with a quick grin, “I’ll exhaust you.”

The maid curtsied. Reeve waited. The maid shut the door quietly behind her. Still, he waited. Brie put the top back on the box, running her finger over the porcelain when it was in place. With a little sigh, she stepped out of her shoes and stretched, eyes closed. Turning away from the mirror, she went to a small cabinet and
switched on the CD player concealed inside. The music that came out was quiet, sultry. Something heard through open windows on summer nights. She unhooked her trim gray trousers, let them fall to the floor, then stepped out of them. While Reeve watched, she bent to pick them up, ran a hand down to smooth them and set them on the bed.

One by one, her mind on the music, she undid the buttons on her blouse. Beneath it she wore pearl-gray silk without frills. The teddy was as smooth as her skin, and very thin. She brushed the first slender strap from her shoulder before Reeve stepped forward.

“Gabriella.”

She would have jumped or gasped if she hadn’t recognized his voice. She turned slowly because she recognized the need in it, as well. He was standing just inside the room, but she could feel his heat and it immediately aroused her. He made no move, only watched, but she felt his touch slide over every inch of her. The sun was still strong enough to light the room, but her thoughts turned to night. And excitement.

Without a word she held out a hand.

Without a word he went to her.

They spoke with touches, the brush of a fingertip, the press of a palm.
You’re mine. I’ve waited for you. I’ve ached for you.
Mouth moved over mouth silently, but hundreds of things were said.
This is all I’ve wanted. You’re all I’ve needed. You.

She undressed him, not too quickly. Each could feel the ache build to pain. It was exquisite. She drew his shirt from his shoulders, and still the only word that had been spoken between them was her name. In wordless agreement, they lowered themselves onto the bed.

He hadn’t known any woman could make him want so badly. He had only to think of her to need. But to touch her … to feel her, soft and strong against him, was enough to make him forget he’d had a life before Gabriella.

He ran his hand over the silk, feeling it warm with the friction, feeling her move beneath. Her skin and the silk slid along his own flesh. Temptation. Her hands roamed over him freely, seeking pleasure, giving it. Desire.
A kiss went on endlessly until they both were surrounded by every soft, every sweet sensation. Surrender.

Brie went limp, weakened by a deluge of feeling too strong to measure. He could do no more than go where the kiss led him. Into her.

The silk was brushed away with a stroke of his hand. When he slid inside her, the passion was subtle, timeless. Her breath shuddered. His muscles bunched, then flowed, then bunched again. Together they moved. Neither led, neither followed, because both were lost.

Her hands were firm on his shoulders; his fingers were curled into her hair. Their gazes locked as the rhythm matched the sultry heated music that dripped into the room.

It wasn’t a matter of control, his or hers, but of mood. Savor. Prolong. He couldn’t have described the sensations that rippled through him, overtook him, enclosed him, but he could have spoken in minute detail of what the sun did to her hair, of how pleasure affected her eyes.

She’d remember this always. If everything else was stripped from her again, Brie knew that this moment would remain perfectly clear.

There was no flash, no sudden storm of speed and desperation. They rose together, sweetly, gently, exquisitely. She could have wept from the beauty of it, but only smiled as his mouth touched hers.

They lay together comfortably, stretching out the moment a bit longer. The early-evening sunlight was quiet. If it hadn’t been for obligations, they’d have stayed just so until the morning.

“I missed you.”

Surprised, Brie tilted her head on his shoulder so that she could see his profile. “Did you?”

“I’ve hardly seen you today.” He didn’t feel as foolish saying it as he had felt thinking it. Smiling a little, he stroked her hair.

“I thought you might come up to the ballroom.”

“I came by a couple of times. You were busy.” And safe, he added to himself. Three of the workmen had carried guns under their vests.

“Tomorrow will be worse.” Content, she snuggled against him. “It’ll take hours to set up the flowers alone.
Then there’s the wine and liquor, the musicians, the food. The people.”

She fell silent. Unconsciously he drew her closer. “Nervous.”

“A little. There will be so many faces, so many names. I wonder …”

“What?”

“I know just how important this ball is for the AHC and for Cordina. But I wonder if I can pull it off.”

“You’ve done more than anyone can expect already.” And he resented it. “Just relax and take it as it comes. Do what feels right for you, Brie.”

She didn’t speak for a moment, then plunged. “I have already.” She shifted so that she could look at him directly. “I told Christina Hamilton everything.”

He started to speak, then stopped himself. She was waiting, he could see, for criticism, impatience, even anger. He saw both the apology and the defiance in her eyes. “Why?” But it was a question, not an accusation. He could almost feel the relief from her.

“I couldn’t lie to her. Maybe I couldn’t remember, but I felt. I really felt something with her, something I needed.” She paused only to make a sound of exasperation. “You’ll think I’m foolish.”

She started to sit up, so he went with her. “No.” To emphasize support, he laid a hand over hers. “Tell me what you felt.”

“I needed to talk to a woman.” She let out a long breath, then looked back at him. Her hair was tumbled, a sensuous mass over creamy shoulders. Her face still held the glow of passion. Yet vulnerability was there. “There are so many men in my life. Kind, concerned, but …” How could she phrase it so he’d understand? She couldn’t. “I just needed to talk to a woman.”

Of course she did. Reeve brought her hand to his lips. Why hadn’t any of them seen it? Father, brother, doctor … lover. But she’d had no one to give her the kind of support, the kind of empathy only those of the same sex can give one another. “Did it help?”

She closed her eyes a moment. “Yes. Chris is special to me—that’s what I felt.”

“What was her reaction?”

“She said that it stinks.” A giggle bubbled in her throat. A sound he’d heard too rarely. “She’s of the opinion that you, my father and Loubet should be horsewhipped.”

Reeve made a sound that might have been amusement or regret. Basically, it was agreement. “Sounds like a sensible woman.”

“She is. I can’t tell you what it meant just to talk to her. Reeve, she didn’t look at me as though I were ill or odd or … I don’t know.”

“Is that what we do?”

“Sometimes, yes.” She brushed her hair back, looking at him with an eagerness that asked for understanding. “Chris took it all in, stated her opinion, then asked me to help her pick out a dress. It was all so natural, so easy, as if there weren’t all these blanks between us. We were simply friends again, or still. I don’t know how to explain it.”

“You don’t have to. But I’ll have to talk to her.”

Brie’s lips curved. “Oh, I think she’s planning on it.” She kissed him then in the light, friendly manner she could assume so unexpectedly. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not telling me all the reasons I shouldn’t have done it.”

“The decision was always yours, Brie.”

“Was it?” She laughed, shaking her head. “I wonder. My bath is cooling,” she said, deliberately changing the mood. “You’ve detained me.”

“So I have.” Smiling, he ran a fingertip lightly down her breast and felt it tremble.

“The least you can do is wash my back.”

“Sounds fair. Trouble is, I’ve missed my bath, as well.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.” She drew away from him to rise. “I once wondered if I’d shared the tub with anyone. It’s very large.” Naked, with the sun filtering in behind her, she began to refasten her pins. “And we have more than an hour before dinner.”

Glitter. Glamour. Fantasy. That was a royal ball in a centuries-old palace. Elegance, sumptuousness, sophistication were what was expected when you brought together the rich, the famous and the royal.

Five Baccarat chandeliers trembled with light. Some of the colors couldn’t even be named. A half-acre of floor gleamed, the color of aged honey. There was silver, crystal, white linen and masses and masses of flowers. But even these paled when compared to the glow of silks, the fire of jewels: the beautiful people.

Brie greeted the guests and tried to forget she was tired. For twelve hours she’d worked nonstop to make certain everything was perfect. It was. She had the satisfaction of that to offset her nerves. Cinderella had had her ball, she mused. But Cinderella hadn’t had to deal with the florist.

There were gorgeous clothes and luxurious scents, but for her, there was a sea of faces and a mental list of names too long for comfort.

Her father was by her side, dressed in his most formal uniform. It reminded people that he’d been a soldier, a good one. But Brie thought he looked like a god—handsome, powerful. Remote.

She was curtsied to. Her hand was kissed. The conversations, thankfully, were brief and general before each person passed on to Reeve and her brothers.

She’d seen to the details, Brie reminded herself. Successfully. She’d succeed here, as well. She smiled at the man in the black silk jacket with the mane of white hair, recognizing him as one of the great actors of the century, one the British Queen had seen fit to knight. He took her hand, but kissed her cheek. Brie had been told he’d bounced her on his knee when she was a baby.

She was terrified, Reeve thought. And so beautiful. There was nothing he could do but be there. Protect,
support—no matter how much she’d resent both. Had anyone told her she’d already pulled off a minor miracle? he wondered. She’d regained her strength, held on to her hope and given herself to her obligations. Princess or not, she was a hell of a woman. For now, she was his.

She looked like a fairy tale tonight. Like the fairy tale he remembered from years before. There were diamonds in her hair, winking fire against fire. She wore them at her ears, subtle and effective, and at her throat in three dripping tiers. And on her hand, he reminded himself, as a symbol.

But while the fire danced around her, she’d chosen ice for her dress. A contrast in fashion? he wondered, or a statement that she had both?

White—stunning, cool, untouchable white—draped her. Slashing low at her throat to frame the fire there, rippling down her arms to meet the light and power on her fingers. Yards and yards of rich, smooth silk flowed down her until it nearly brushed the floor. Aloof, regal? So she was and so she looked. But the fire breathed around her passionately.

Once a man had had such a woman, would he ever, could he ever, turn to another?