That was it. Iain thrust a hand out as fast as a striking snake, grabbed the neckline of Number One’s T-shirt, and had hauled him in by it before he had time to do so much as blink.

  It was full-on game face now. Most men couldn’t stand up to it, and this bloke wasn’t the rare exception. “You need to learn some manners,” Iain said. “Like what ‘no’ means. Get out before I decide that I’m the one to teach you.” He let go of the shirt with a shove that sent the other man stumbling, and then watched to make sure they were going. Which, of course, they were.

  They hadn’t recognized him, but it hadn’t mattered. They’d recognized the important part.

  He still didn’t turn to look at Nina. Not until he’d got the adrenaline sorted.

  Civilized Mind 1, Barbarian 1. And he knew how the tiebreaker would’ve turned out.

  When he finally decided it was safe to look at her, she had the big sunglasses on, and her hair seemed brighter yellow than ever and was sticking straight up, as if she’d slept on it funny. But she was wearing little black shorts that sat low on her hips, not to mention a deep crimson bikini top. Yeh. Not to mention that. It was all perfectly normal, not a bit extreme, but there was nothing “normal” about Nina. The contrast of the red top and her ivory skin, of the full curve of breast and the deep indentation of waistline . . . it was all fairly eye-catching. She was too thin, but she was so beautiful.

  “Thanks,” she said. “But sorry. Annoying, I know. Yoga on the lawn is clearly a better option. Which stinks. I like it out here. I think they saw me all the way from the road, though.”

  “Guess you get that a lot,” he said. She was surprising him again. He’d have expected her to be shaken by the encounter, or upset that he’d got physical, or both. She was such a confusing mixture of vulnerable and saucy, shy and straightforward. That must be why she kept him so off-balance.

  “Well,” she said, going straight into another of those standing poses, a deep lunge with one arm outstretched in front and the other in back, “it must happen to you just as much as it does to me, based on what I’ve seen.”

  “Difference is, all I have to do is look at them, and they go away.”

  She gave a little huff of laughter and shifted position, one of her hands going to the sand by her front foot, the other stretching overhead. Which gave him a view straight down her bikini top at all that creamy flesh, and he couldn’t pretend not to be looking.

  “Wish that worked for me,” she said. “When I look at them, it has the opposite effect.”

  “Because you have a prettier smile,” he managed to say.

  “True.” She tipped forward and raised a leg and arm high into the air, then lifted off a bit with her front fingertips so she was balanced on a single foot. She made it look easy, though he’d bet it wasn’t. “Also a prettier ass. At least that’s what my friend there says.”

  Iain’s head whipped around. The two blokes weren’t in sight anymore. Unfortunately. “He said that? You should’ve told me.”

  She came back up slowly and steadily, then dropped back into the stretched-out pose again. “Why do you think I didn’t? But I wish somebody would inform men that telling a total stranger who’s indicated zero interest in you and is just trying to do her workout, “Baby, you are rockin’ that. I’ll bet your body’s been banned by the government as a health hazard, because it’s just too sweet,” is right up there with dick pics, attractiveness-wise.”

  “You know,” Iain said, one part of him wanting to smile while the other part wanted to smash something, “I used to think you were naïve. When was that? Oh, yeh. Yesterday.”

  “Nope.” She jumped her legs and switched feet, then started over on the other side. “And if you’ve sent dick pics, by the way,” she told him over her shoulder, “please don’t tell me. I’d like to preserve my own illusions about you, at least.”

  “No worries,” he said to her back. Which was, yes, pretty sweet, though he wasn’t going to tell her so. “Nobody’s ever mistaken me for a classy fella, but my knuckles don’t drag quite that low.”

  “So did you come out here to tell me we were going kayaking today?” she asked, dropping down into the second pose.

  “Yeh,” he said, even though he hadn’t. He’d come out here because she’d been standing with other men, and he hadn’t wanted her to be. He wasn’t sharing that, either. “About three o’clock. That suit you? I’m guessing you’re feeling better, but we’ll take it easy all the same.”

  “Sure,” she said, back to the balancing.

  “And dinner,” he reminded her. “Our family party. Another cookery adventure for you.”

  She came up and turned to face him, then raised her hands overhead, clutched one wrist with the opposite hand, and stretched to the side. Once she was vertical again, she said, “I’m getting direction for that one, though. From the master, I’m hoping.”

  Was she doing this on purpose? If she’d set out to light him on fire this morning, she could hardly have done a better job. “Uh . . . yeh,” he managed to say. “Seven o’clock for dinner, I thought. As it’s Friday night.”

  And then he forgot whatever else he’d been going to say, because she was unsnapping her black shorts, undoing the zip, and then, yes, she was wriggling her hips and sliding the shorts down her legs. She stepped out, dropped them onto the sand, pulled her sunglasses off to reveal her still-bruised eyes, tossed the glasses on top of the shorts, and said, “Good. I’m going swimming. So I guess you’ll want to do that thing you said. Bugger off.”

  She smiled sweetly at him, turned, and ran into the clear turquoise water. And no matter what else he saw that day, there wasn’t going to be anything prettier than that.

  * * *

  Nina didn’t go out to check on the progress of the shed-painting, even after Arthur had headed out there, still grumbling after the round of “stretching” she’d subjected him to after breakfast. She may have been a little extra-pathetic to get him to do it, have even made her lip tremble a tiny bit, and she wasn’t one bit sorry. Whatever it took to get him in the habit.

  Now, though, she headed outside herself, waved at the two of them, then went out front to the hammock carrying her book. It was much better suited to daytime reading, she’d decided.

  Truth be told, she’d probably been a little overenthusiastic with the yoga and the swimming this morning, considering her still-tender face, but it had been such a relief to wake up feeling better—not to mention feeling unmarried—and she hadn’t wanted to waste any of her precious time in this beautiful place. There hadn’t been an end date attached to this job, and she could probably stay a while, but . . . it wasn’t wise. Iain had said he’d be here a week, and it was already half over. However attached to anything here she was becoming, the last thing she wanted to do was hang around, hoping Iain would come back for a visit. It was all very . . . complicated.

  She was supposed to be reading, but her finger stayed in the book as she thought about the men turning on the beach this morning to reveal Iain looking like Moses parting the Red Sea. And when he’d reached out and grabbed that one, the same one who’d made the comment about her ass, with that look on his face . . . that had sent a message to some primitive part of her own brain. And all the primitive parts of her body, too. Which was probably why she’d stripped down and gone into the water. So he’d watch.

  She sighed and opened the book. She’d read. Much safer. It was her wedding day. You could hardly blame her for being a little irrational.

  The hammock swayed, the birds sang, the palm fronds rustled, the sea whispered and sighed, and the words blurred. When the book fell to her lap, she didn’t try to resist.

  She woke up in time to make toasties for lunch, which took her about half an hour to get right, but turned out not too bad. And when Iain came in at three, she was ready.

  She wasn’t going to flirt, and she certainly wasn’t going to do anything more. You wouldn’t have to be a psychologist to know that she was on the rebound. She was going to enjoy kayaking, and that was all.

  And then he wrecked it, just by walking through the door. He came in carrying a plastic bag and asked her, “Ready? Got your sunscreen on? I meant to remind you this morning of how strong the Southern Hemisphere sun can be, with your skin and all. I noticed you didn’t seem to be tanned anywhere.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, I didn’t see any tan lines.”

  She might be smiling, and she might be leaning a hip against the kitchen counter and looking up at him from beneath her lashes. And seeing him respond to it, bruising and all.

  “You’re right,” she said. “I protect my skin. I put sunscreen all over me. Always.”

  His voice came out a little strangled. “Good.”

  She picked up her sunglasses and shoved them onto her nose, then grabbed her hat. Enough was enough.

  “Yeh,” Iain said. “About that.” He hefted the plastic bag. “I’ve got something else, too. I saw this in a shop window today. Impulse buy, you could call it. But I’m not sure how you’ll take it.”

  “Oh, boy,” she said. “Something for me, you mean?”

  He reached into the bag and pulled it out. A baseball-style hat with a curved bill in a deep raspberry pink, printed with a curving fern design on the front. “I thought you could trade off, maybe. Since you’ve decided to wear the other one to bed and all. I thought it could be a—” He waved it through the air. “A peace offering, I suppose you’d call it, for the other night.”

  She didn’t take it. She wasn’t sure what he meant by the gift, and she needed to know. “Are you a—”

  “Am I what?”

  “Never mind.” It didn’t matter anyway. It wasn’t of any concern to her, surely.

  “Nah, I have to know now. A secretly great shopper? A pirate? What?”

  “Right.” She plowed ahead. “Are you one of those guys who tells his girlfriend what to wear?”

  “Me?” He gestured at his usual T-shirt and shorts with one big hand. “Do I look like that guy?”

  “I’m not talking about what you wear. I’m talking about what you want her to wear.”

  “Ah. How much I want to control what she wears. Hypothetically, because I haven’t got one. A girlfriend, that is. That the basic idea, though?”

  “Well, yes. I’ve been noticing that you’ve got a . . . an in-charge aspect to your personality, let’s call it. A little alpha male in you.” She was doing it again. She had to stop.

  “Aw,” he complained. “Just a little?” He was smiling, but his eyes were burning her up. “Yeh, nah. You can set your mind at rest. Clothes-wise? No. I’m generally just rapt that she’s turned up. Well, occasionally I may have a suggestion, if I’m honest. Not for going out, though.”

  “Uh-huh.” It was hard not to laugh, even as the tingles moved down her body and set in to do their wicked work. “We’ll let that go, shall we?”

  “If we have to. But you’re still blaming me for mentioning the hat.” They were moving on, then. Probably best. “I didn’t say anything about the orange jumper or the track pants, though, did I?”

  “No.” She fought the smile. “You didn’t. Attractive, huh?”

  “Well, not so much. But this—“ He waved the hat again. “I just . . .” He shrugged. “I saw it, and I thought you’d look cute in it, and that you might like it. If you don’t, though, no worries.”

  He was shoving it back into the bag. She could tell he was embarrassed by her refusal, and she put out an impulsive hand to stop him. Somehow, it landed on the extremely solid bulk of his forearm, her fingertips touching all those ridges of muscle, and his entire body stilled. He was staring at her, and she took her hand off his arm, tried to forget the feel of him, and said, “No. I want it. Please.”

  His body relaxed, but he didn’t say anything. He just pulled the hat out of the bag and handed it to her. And he smiled.

  She put it on and settled it into place. “What do you think?”

  His eyes, which had seemed so cold on the day she’d met him, hadn’t been cold since, she realized. Not when he’d looked at her. “Brilliant,” he said. “Better, if you ask me. But maybe you want to look in the mirror and say. As this is meant to be about what you like, and as it’s your body and all that.”

  “You got that?”

  “Yeh. I did. I know I seem like a clueless sort of fella, but I can usually grasp the plot once somebody spells it out in simple enough words.”

  “Well, I didn’t know. I mean, you don’t look—”

  He lifted one eyebrow at her, which she’d already noticed he could do. The one bisected by the white scar. “Careful. Sounds like you’re judging me based on my appearance.” He sighed. “And here I’ve not even mentioned your hair, and not got one bit of credit for it.”

  “You just did,” she pointed out.

  “Bugger,” he said with a grin.

  “Language,” she retorted, and he laughed, the sound filling the little room.

  “Go look at it in the mirror,” he urged. “As I seem to be falling further behind by the moment.”

  She went to the oval mirror hanging in the lounge, feeling ridiculously lighter and happier just from that little bit of teasing and fun.

  The hat was better, she saw. The curved brim framed her face, and the deep raspberry color was a warm contrast against her skin. He’d chosen surprisingly well.

  She turned to find him still standing behind her. “You were right,” she told him. “It’s pretty. Thank you. Plus, it hides my hair.”

  “You see?” he said, his smile all for her. “You set me up for that, and I’m not even taking it. I’d say this round goes to me.”

  So Disappointing

  Matthias had the announcement made on his wedding morning.

  Made to the media and the lesser sorts who’d been invited only to the cathedral, that is. He told his houseguests himself. He, unlike Sabrina, didn’t run away.

  He went to the sideboard as usual and selected the same breakfast as always, the one instilled in him by his English nanny, and then by his English boarding school. The place where he’d learned that you could be in control, or you could be bullied. There were no other options. He’d been bullied at first, until he’d learned how to be in control. After that, he’d exacted his revenge and had settled the score.

  When he sat, conversation quieted, even more than usual. They were all wondering, he knew, so he told them, dropping the announcement into the silence like a stone falling into a pond.

  “I’m sorry to tell you all,” he said, unfolding his white linen napkin and placing it carefully in his lap as the footman poured coffee from a silver pot, “that the wedding has been canceled. You will feel free, of course, to stay another night, until you can make your travel arrangements. Tonight’s ball will not, alas, take place.”

  A moment of stunned silence greeted his words, and he took the opportunity for his first sip of coffee. His hand was perfectly steady; his face, he was sure, perfectly composed.

  All eyes, he saw with inward satisfaction, had gone to Trudi, who had never learned the value of self-control. A dusky flush had spread up her carefully made-up cheeks.

  “That’s a bit rich, I must say.” That was the Duke of Carlton, a cousin to the Queen and no genius. He let loose, right on cue, with the hearty, braying laugh Matthias despised. “Left at the altar, are you? Hard luck, old boy. That brother of yours is going to be pipping you at the post after all.”

  “Indeed,” Matthias said, turning a bland gaze on him. “But we can’t all have your good fortune, of course.”

  Everyone froze. The Duke’s wife had been famously photographed years earlier having her breasts fondled in a Paris garden by an American millionaire, leading to the highest-profile of royal divorces.

  “But what has happened?” demanded an elderly Marchioness, a relation of Matthias’s father whom the late Prince had cordially detested, and about whom Matthias had never seen a reason to change his opinion. She turned to Trudi and demanded, “Has that silly girl of yours run after all, then? I never believed the hunting lodge story for an instant. Or was it somebody else? Off with one of the guards, maybe? American girls and their democratic ideas. As if being poor were romantic. Pfah.”

  “Rubbish,” Trudi snapped, her vulgar Australian accent in strong showing. Matthias loosened his involuntarily tight grip on his coffee cup, forced his face to relax, and reminded himself that at least he’d been spared a most unsuitable mother-in-law. “She’s taking some time, that’s all,” Trudi went on. “She hasn’t been well, and this was all too much for her. I’m going back to Los Angeles today to speak to her, and we’ll get it sorted.”

  Blessing Number Two, Matthias thought. Trudi was no use to him, and if he hadn’t been sure that Sabrina would return, he’d have rid himself of her days ago.

  “Ah. Got cold feet, has she?” the Marchioness said. “You’re too much like your papa, Matti. I always said it. Cold feet for a cold fish. Your parents all over again.”

  Now, it wasn’t just an intake of breath. It was shock, rolling over the enormous table like a wave.

  “I’m afraid I wasn’t entirely clear,” Matthias said, his tone silky-smooth. “The wedding is not postponed. It is canceled. I trust all of you not to discuss this outside our inner circle, but Sabrina was not everything she . . . Well.” He touched his napkin to his lips. “We have discovered that we don’t suit, let us say.” He continued into the silence, “I do, of course, rely on your discretion in not revealing even this much of my reasons.”

  Breathless responses of, “Of course,” and “Naturally” greeted that, while Trudi’s mouth opened and closed like a fish’s. Matthias allowed himself the tiniest smile. It would be all over Europe by lunch, and the rest of the world by afternoon tea. The rumors would fly, and he wouldn’t be a jilted groom. He’d be a man who’d had a lucky escape.

  “Now,” he said, “please do continue eating, everyone. A cold breakfast is so disappointing, isn’t it?”

  No, it hadn’t gone over badly at all, and at three o’clock in the afternoon, he stood beside the royal family’s pew in the nave of the cathedral, his bodyguards hovering at a discreet distance, and contemplated his future.