The Viscount and The Virgin. Valerie Parv
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going to help me make the Tour de Merrisand a reality.”
“I’m an art curator, not a…” She had been about to say “sports groupie,” but the link with Natalie was too painful. “I don’t know anything about cycling,” she finished. Probably the reason why Prince Maxim wanted Rowe to work with her, she thought.
“But you do know the castle inside and out, better than anyone else barring Lea Landon, who won’t be back for some months.”
“All the more reason why I can’t be spared from covering for Lea.”
Rowe stood up, too, moving around Lea’s desk like a big cat newly turned loose from its cage. Even wearing the wretched high heels, Kirsten was considerably shorter than Rowe and had to tilt her head back to look up at him as he loomed closer. “I’m not calling for volunteers,” he said in a low voice.
“You mean if I don’t help you with the race, I’m out of a job?” She let her tone reflect her disbelief.
“You said it. I didn’t.”
He was every bit as self-centered as she’d read, she thought furiously. He had made up his mind that she was to assist him, and it didn’t appear she was to have any say in the matter. “Who will manage the galleries, plan the new exhibitions and supervise the daily tours?” she asked.
“According to Max, you have a capable team who can share some of the load. I’m sure there’s no need for you to lead tour groups personally.”
“I happen to like leading the tours. They keep me in touch with how people react to the exhibits, helping me with future planning.”
“Then don’t give them up. Delegate some of the other tasks that you find less enjoyable.”
His closeness undermined her determination to dislike him and everything he stood for. As well, she wanted to hate the very idea of a bunch of cyclists speeding through the beautiful grounds of the castle, and part of her did. But the logical side argued that he was right. If a new source of income wasn’t found, the Merrisand Trust might soon have to start turning away people in need, contradicting its very reason for existence.
It wasn’t because she wanted to work with Rowe, she reasoned. She couldn’t deny the chemistry flaring between them, but surely she had enough incentive to deal with it in a mature, sensible way that didn’t involve giving in to the attraction. She gave a stiff nod of her head. “It seems I have no choice but to go along with your plans.”
“No choice at all.”
He suddenly moved even closer, his gaze warm on her equally heated face. Less than a hand span of distance separated them, and for one wild, giddy moment, she wondered if he meant to kiss her. How would she respond if he did? She liked to think she would slap his handsome face, making it clear how little time she had for a man like him. Another part of her insisted on imagining the touch of his lips on hers, the teasing of tongue to tongue in a sinuous dance that set up answering shivers all the way to the core of her being.
Without warning he lifted her hand and brought it to his lips, his eyes never leaving her face. His dark gaze seemed to look deep inside her, until she wondered if he sensed her contrary thoughts.
A scorching sensation almost had her pulling her hand away until she realized it was entirely in her mind. Rowe had done no more than kiss the back of her hand in a courtly gesture such as she had seen the royal men do on many occasions. There was no call for her body to respond as if he had actually kissed her on the lips. He wasn’t likely to, and she wouldn’t permit it in any case. Would she?
“I’m glad we’ve reached an agreement,” he said, releasing her hand with what she swore was reluctance.
The move was probably as calculated as the kiss itself, she told herself, striving to still the fluttering of her heart. She might have no choice about working with him, but she could choose not to respond to such blatant gestures. Be cool and aloof. Let him know she wasn’t impressed by his practiced gallantry.
Something told her it was going to be a difficult resolution to keep, although keep it she must. By his treatment of her sister, Rowe had proved to be as self-centered and unreliable as her father, Kirsten reminded herself. Thinking of him in any other way was playing with fire.
Chapter Three
“I wish I could say you’re welcome,” she said stiffly, her senses returning.
His glittering gaze mocked her. “But you still think I’m a cultural vandal.”
She took satisfaction in throwing his own words back at him. “You said it. I didn’t.”
“Touché. While we’re working together, I will hold you responsible for civilizing me,” he said. “You can teach me about the collections, and the history of the castle.”
She’d been hoping they wouldn’t see enough of each other for that. “Didn’t you study those things when you were growing up here?” she asked.
His expression darkened. “I didn’t grow up here.”
In her head she conjured up an image of the de Marigny family tree. Rowe’s grandmother had been sister to the grandfather of Carramer’s present monarch. “As the son of Angelique and James, surely—”
“If you know my family’s history that well, then you know that I was eight when my father went scuba diving and never returned.”
She did know the tragic story. To this day, people speculated that the previous Viscount Aragon, James Sevrin, was still alive somewhere, perhaps living abroad after spying for another country. She didn’t believe any of the fanciful explanations. More likely, he had been carried out to sea by one of the notorious riptides off Carramer’s beaches. “It was a terrible tragedy,” she murmured.
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Not an international conspiracy?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Then you’re in the minority. After my father disappeared, my mother took me to live at one of the royal estates in Valmont province. She made sure I had a suitably royal education there, but she never wanted to return to the castle. She hoped to escape the rumors about my father, although they followed us even to Valmont.”
Having had her share of family tragedy, Kirsten knew only too well how hard it was to deal with the loss of loved ones, and she hadn’t had to cope with sensational headlines and sidelong looks from people who thought they knew the truth.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“You sound almost sincere.”
She bristled at the doubt she heard in his tone. “Believe it or not, I am. I’ve also lost people I care about, and it’s never easy, no matter who you are, or what the circumstances.”
“No.” He half turned away, exposing his impressive profile.
He may not have grown up in the castle, but his birthright was there in his every move, she thought. His bearing, his manner, his speech, all bespoke a self-assurance that few people possessed. “I would have thought Merrisand Castle was the last place you would want to return to,” she said.
“As Rowe Sevrin, I can live with it. Max and his family were incredibly supportive when my father disappeared. Helping them is the least I can do to repay him.”
She wanted to ask if he could shed his personal history as easily as his title, but decided it was none of her business. Nor had she any interest in his problems. He had done more to hurt her family than he knew, and she couldn’t forgive him for it. She didn’t want to feel compassion for him, and it bothered her to find her basic sense of decency at odds with her antipathy toward him.
He wasn’t going to be an easy man to hate.
“I’d like to go over my plans for the race with you over dinner,” he said, startling