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Authors: Christine Flynn
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path there split to lead to the government offices where the press conference had been held, or to the formal gardens.
It struck her as odd that Harrison would have chosen the gently curving pathways of the rose garden. The formal one with its tortured topiaries, sharp triangular beds and geometric precision would have suited his personality so much better.
The damp sea breeze pushed the clouds closer together. Through the light wool of her suit jacket, she rubbed her upper arms against the chill and stopped near a cement bench with gargoyles for feet to glance at her watch. He had said half an hour. That had been precisely thirty-one minutes ago.
She should have thrown on a coat, she thought. Would have had she thought she’d be outside for long. If it started to rain, she was leaving. He would just have to meet her somewhere inside.
Bolstered by that decision, she glanced back toward the distant royal offices, wondering from which direction he would come. When a minute passed, then five more, and he hadn’t come from any direction at all, she beganto wonder if she’d heard him correctly, if, perhaps, he’d said the west rose garden, instead.
She hated to admit how much the man rattled her. It wasn’t like her to get such a detail confused. Details were what she did for a living. But even as that small doubt surfaced, she heard the purposeful thud of heavy footsteps behind her.
She didn’t want to be impressed when she turned to see him approach. She didn’t want his shoulders to look so wide beneath the epaulets and gold stars on his jacket, or his stride to be so commanding. It would have helped, too, she thought watching his piercing eyes pin hers from beneath his navy beret, if he’d seemed a little less sure of himself as he stopped in front of her and took her arm.
“I’m sorry I kept you waiting,” he murmured, his manner edgy, his tone amazingly civil. “It will be better if we walk while we talk.” The pressure of his fingers increased ever so slightly as he turned her toward the rose garden paths. With a glance toward the guards in the distance, to the roof lines, the gardens surrounding them, he deliberately slowed his pace to a stroll. “I’m not sure that the bugs around here are friendly.”
Her first thought was that Old Pierre wouldn’t allow any bugs that weren’t. Her second was that Harrison wasn’t talking about insects.
“Now,” he continued, crushed shells crunching beneath their feet as he guided her between long islands of crimson Damask roses, “you said Her Majesty needs more information. What sort of information does she want?”
Harrison glanced toward the woman walking quietly beside him. Gwen looked infinitely different from when he’d first encountered her a few short hours ago, far more polished, far more restrained. He remembered thinkinghow composed she had looked at the conference, her cool blond beauty as exquisite as cameo, but cool nonetheless.
With her hair tumbling to her shoulders that morning and her eyes filled with confusion at his touch, he’d found her nearly irresistible.
Quite deliberately he released his hold and dropped his hand. He didn’t want to think of how soft her skin had felt to him—or to wonder why he’d felt so compelled to touch her again just now. He just wanted to get through this meeting without doing anything that would make her go cold on him again. The RET needed her right now.
Her soft voice matched his confidential tone. “It is her opinion that canceling the dinner will send a message to whoever has the prince that their demand is being met, and that will keep him safe until your men can find him. She needs to know why you believe the prince will be in more danger if the dinner is canceled.”
“I thought that was your opinion.”
It is, Gwen thought. “Her Majesty shares it.”
He expected a touch of defense. He heard none. With her focus on the ground as they walked, he could see none in her profile,
It struck her as odd that Harrison would have chosen the gently curving pathways of the rose garden. The formal one with its tortured topiaries, sharp triangular beds and geometric precision would have suited his personality so much better.
The damp sea breeze pushed the clouds closer together. Through the light wool of her suit jacket, she rubbed her upper arms against the chill and stopped near a cement bench with gargoyles for feet to glance at her watch. He had said half an hour. That had been precisely thirty-one minutes ago.
She should have thrown on a coat, she thought. Would have had she thought she’d be outside for long. If it started to rain, she was leaving. He would just have to meet her somewhere inside.
Bolstered by that decision, she glanced back toward the distant royal offices, wondering from which direction he would come. When a minute passed, then five more, and he hadn’t come from any direction at all, she beganto wonder if she’d heard him correctly, if, perhaps, he’d said the west rose garden, instead.
She hated to admit how much the man rattled her. It wasn’t like her to get such a detail confused. Details were what she did for a living. But even as that small doubt surfaced, she heard the purposeful thud of heavy footsteps behind her.
She didn’t want to be impressed when she turned to see him approach. She didn’t want his shoulders to look so wide beneath the epaulets and gold stars on his jacket, or his stride to be so commanding. It would have helped, too, she thought watching his piercing eyes pin hers from beneath his navy beret, if he’d seemed a little less sure of himself as he stopped in front of her and took her arm.
“I’m sorry I kept you waiting,” he murmured, his manner edgy, his tone amazingly civil. “It will be better if we walk while we talk.” The pressure of his fingers increased ever so slightly as he turned her toward the rose garden paths. With a glance toward the guards in the distance, to the roof lines, the gardens surrounding them, he deliberately slowed his pace to a stroll. “I’m not sure that the bugs around here are friendly.”
Her first thought was that Old Pierre wouldn’t allow any bugs that weren’t. Her second was that Harrison wasn’t talking about insects.
“Now,” he continued, crushed shells crunching beneath their feet as he guided her between long islands of crimson Damask roses, “you said Her Majesty needs more information. What sort of information does she want?”
Harrison glanced toward the woman walking quietly beside him. Gwen looked infinitely different from when he’d first encountered her a few short hours ago, far more polished, far more restrained. He remembered thinkinghow composed she had looked at the conference, her cool blond beauty as exquisite as cameo, but cool nonetheless.
With her hair tumbling to her shoulders that morning and her eyes filled with confusion at his touch, he’d found her nearly irresistible.
Quite deliberately he released his hold and dropped his hand. He didn’t want to think of how soft her skin had felt to him—or to wonder why he’d felt so compelled to touch her again just now. He just wanted to get through this meeting without doing anything that would make her go cold on him again. The RET needed her right now.
Her soft voice matched his confidential tone. “It is her opinion that canceling the dinner will send a message to whoever has the prince that their demand is being met, and that will keep him safe until your men can find him. She needs to know why you believe the prince will be in more danger if the dinner is canceled.”
“I thought that was your opinion.”
It is, Gwen thought. “Her Majesty shares it.”
He expected a touch of defense. He heard none. With her focus on the ground as they walked, he could see none in her profile,
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