Fatal Threat. Marie Force

brigandage.’

      ‘They developed that later. Harried the Turks. Raided the Crusaders. Made a good thing out of kidnap and extortion for about ten centuries. Then got some great PR at the Conference of Vienna and turned themselves into professional freedom fighters.’

      There was stunned silence.

      Then, ‘You sound like an expert,’ he said slowly. ‘Did you major in Balkan history?’

      Francesca gave a snort of laughter. ‘In a way. My father came from Montassurro. I grew up on the stories.’

      Another, longer silence. She could almost feel him thinking. It was still unsettling. And, even now, when they were clearly at odds, it was still sexy. Blast!

      ‘Not very flattering stories by the sound of it.’

      ‘Well, my father is an anti-monarchist.’

      ‘And you’ve inherited his prejudices,’ he said as if that explained everything.

      Francesca stiffened. ‘Not at all. I don’t care about monarchy one way or the other. What I can’t bear is a lot of people living in the past. Ex-kings, huh! You can’t spend your life as an ex-anything. You have to draw a line and go on.’

      ‘You’re very—unforgiving.’

      She stared, confused. ‘Why? Because I don’t like a lot of phoney nostalgia?’

      He was looking at her in that way again. She couldn’t see him properly but the reservations were coming off him in waves. As if there were two conversations going on and she was only hearing one—and the less interesting one, at that.

      Oh, God, here I go again. Listening to the facts. Not hearing the meaning. What the hell is wrong with me?

      ‘Because you think you can draw a line under a bit of yourself and leave it behind.’ He was drawling again. ‘How old are you?’

      Francesca’s eyes snapped. ‘Twenty-three. How old are you?’

      He gave a soft laugh. ‘Thirty-two. Going on a hundred, just at this minute.’

      ‘Why this minute?’

      But there was no chance for him to answer. The glass door was pushed violently back. Music and revellers spilled out onto the balcony with equal disruptive force. He sidestepped them and took the opportunity to look at his watch.

      ‘I ought to be doing my duty in the Press room.’

      ‘Oh.’ She was horribly disappointed and furious about it. Rebound indeed! She curbed it and held out her hand. ‘Good luck.’

      He took it. ‘Will I see you later?’

      She shook her head vigorously. As much at her own unwanted fantasies as at him. ‘As soon as I’ve caught up with my prince I’m going home.’

      He smiled faintly. She could hear it in his voice. ‘Exprince.’

      And he held on to her hand. It was heady stuff.

      ‘Whatever,’ she said, distracted.

      ‘You like to be accurate.’

      ‘Yes.’ She was still oddly shaken. ‘Yes, I suppose I do.’

      ‘It’s obvious. Well, then, we’d better say goodbye.’

      He tugged her hand, bringing her a critical step closer to him. Bent—he had a long way to bend—and brushed her cheek with his lips.

      Francesca gulped. For a moment she was in a cloud of cold, pure air, surrounded by cedar and a sense of imminent danger, as if she were facing a climb that was beyond her. And then she was on a crowded balcony again on a wet London night. And the stars had gone in.

      ‘Er—goodbye,’ she said, more breathless than she would have liked.

      He straightened. ‘Good luck yourself. I hope you get your ex-prince.’

      Francesca, who never gave up on any of her self-appointed tasks, was for the first time in her life going to pass. She had no intention of doing anything more this evening than going home and trying to get her breath back. But she was not admitting that to anyone else. And, besides, there was always another day. One way or another, she would get the crown prince to one of The Buzz’s book-signings if it killed her.

      ‘Cast-iron certainty,’ she said, sticking her chin in the air. She was not going to lose focus because Barry de la Touche had dumped her and a tall stranger had not quite kissed her. She was not. She said as much to herself as to him, ‘I always get my man.’