her earlier that morning.
If she was going to find out why the dinner couldn’t be canceled, she was going to have to speak to Harrison whether she liked the idea or not.
Looking at the phone on Mrs. Ferth’s desk as if it were about to turn into a snake, she tried to think of something—anything—else she needed to do at that particular moment that might possibly be more important. Since the prince’s welfare might well be directly affected by the ultimate decision, other than donating an organ, nothing came close.
She inched toward the desk, reminding herself as she did that she was accustomed to obtaining information for her queen. Because of the various connections she had made in the diplomatic circles she’d grown up in and friends she’d made at the Royal Intelligence Institute, she was actually very good at getting information, too.
She just really didn’t want to talk to Harrison Monteque. She couldn’t remember any man who disturbed her as much as he did. There was no man in recent memory, either, who had caused her nerves to knot when he touched her. Granted, that touch had been incredibly intimate, but that only troubled her more. Not because of the embarrassment she’d felt. Because of the disturbing jolt of desire.
She could only imagine one reason she would react like that to a man she didn’t really like.
Years of abstinence.
Telling herself she was going to get out more when this was all over, she took a determined breath and reached for the phone. With any luck she wouldn’t be able to reach him now, anyway.
“He’s expecting your call,” the incredibly efficient-sounding woman announced the moment Gwen identified herself. “Please hold while I put you through.”
So much for leaving a message, Gwen thought, and heard Harrison’s rich voice rumble through her within a second of the connecting click on the line.
From the hollow noise in the background it sounded as if she’d been connected to a cell phone.
“What happened?”
She met his demand with utter calm. “Nothing happened,” she replied, undoubtedly annoying him by stating the obvious. “Her Majesty needs more information.”
She could swear the beat of silence sounded impatient. But she understood that there wasn’t much they could say over the phone without risk of their call being intercepted.
“Meet me in the east rose garden in half an hour.”
She told him she would. What she really had wanted to say was that he could have at least said please.
Chapter Four
T he abundance of gardens within the palace walls were a testament to the skills of the architect who had designed them over four hundred years ago and Old Pierre. Old Pierre was the royal gardener. He had been for as long as anyone could remember, and was about as old as the dirt he lovingly fertilized, weeded and raked. Gwen wasn’t even sure what the old Frenchman’s last name was. He was simply Old Pierre, and the gardens he tended with the care of a lover bore every imaginable shade of flower.
It was a fair indication of her preoccupation that Gwen barely noticed the profusion of geraniums lining the wide travertine walk leading to a huge, five-tiered fountain. A sliver of sun peeked from the heavy gray clouds, teasing everyone with hints of its golden rays and a faint glimpse of blue sky. A morning shower had left leaves glistening.Dew-like droplets made the yew maze to her right glow like emeralds.
She was hardly aware of any of it. Wanting only to get her meeting with Harrison over with, she simply put one foot in front of the other, promising herself with each step that she wouldn’t let the man get to her, and followed the path to the myriad blooms of stark-white, shell-pink and blood-red roses.
This was where Harrison had said to meet him. Ordered, actually. But he wasn’t there. In the vast open space, she saw no one other than a guard near a wall of the queen’s residence and another beyond the circle of the bubbling fountain. The
If she was going to find out why the dinner couldn’t be canceled, she was going to have to speak to Harrison whether she liked the idea or not.
Looking at the phone on Mrs. Ferth’s desk as if it were about to turn into a snake, she tried to think of something—anything—else she needed to do at that particular moment that might possibly be more important. Since the prince’s welfare might well be directly affected by the ultimate decision, other than donating an organ, nothing came close.
She inched toward the desk, reminding herself as she did that she was accustomed to obtaining information for her queen. Because of the various connections she had made in the diplomatic circles she’d grown up in and friends she’d made at the Royal Intelligence Institute, she was actually very good at getting information, too.
She just really didn’t want to talk to Harrison Monteque. She couldn’t remember any man who disturbed her as much as he did. There was no man in recent memory, either, who had caused her nerves to knot when he touched her. Granted, that touch had been incredibly intimate, but that only troubled her more. Not because of the embarrassment she’d felt. Because of the disturbing jolt of desire.
She could only imagine one reason she would react like that to a man she didn’t really like.
Years of abstinence.
Telling herself she was going to get out more when this was all over, she took a determined breath and reached for the phone. With any luck she wouldn’t be able to reach him now, anyway.
“He’s expecting your call,” the incredibly efficient-sounding woman announced the moment Gwen identified herself. “Please hold while I put you through.”
So much for leaving a message, Gwen thought, and heard Harrison’s rich voice rumble through her within a second of the connecting click on the line.
From the hollow noise in the background it sounded as if she’d been connected to a cell phone.
“What happened?”
She met his demand with utter calm. “Nothing happened,” she replied, undoubtedly annoying him by stating the obvious. “Her Majesty needs more information.”
She could swear the beat of silence sounded impatient. But she understood that there wasn’t much they could say over the phone without risk of their call being intercepted.
“Meet me in the east rose garden in half an hour.”
She told him she would. What she really had wanted to say was that he could have at least said please.
Chapter Four
T he abundance of gardens within the palace walls were a testament to the skills of the architect who had designed them over four hundred years ago and Old Pierre. Old Pierre was the royal gardener. He had been for as long as anyone could remember, and was about as old as the dirt he lovingly fertilized, weeded and raked. Gwen wasn’t even sure what the old Frenchman’s last name was. He was simply Old Pierre, and the gardens he tended with the care of a lover bore every imaginable shade of flower.
It was a fair indication of her preoccupation that Gwen barely noticed the profusion of geraniums lining the wide travertine walk leading to a huge, five-tiered fountain. A sliver of sun peeked from the heavy gray clouds, teasing everyone with hints of its golden rays and a faint glimpse of blue sky. A morning shower had left leaves glistening.Dew-like droplets made the yew maze to her right glow like emeralds.
She was hardly aware of any of it. Wanting only to get her meeting with Harrison over with, she simply put one foot in front of the other, promising herself with each step that she wouldn’t let the man get to her, and followed the path to the myriad blooms of stark-white, shell-pink and blood-red roses.
This was where Harrison had said to meet him. Ordered, actually. But he wasn’t there. In the vast open space, she saw no one other than a guard near a wall of the queen’s residence and another beyond the circle of the bubbling fountain. The
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