The Disgraced Princess by Robyn Donald

Do you think you and I could be friends?’
    Was he flirting with her? Tantalised by the thought, Rosie struggled to achieve the right throw away tone. ‘It doesn’t seem likely. Friendships need to be worked at, and how often have we seen each other in the past three years? I don’t think we can call our selves friends. Friendly acquaintances, possibly.’
    There, that should show him she didn’t want any sort of flirtatious relationship with him. Darn it, she was trying to get him out of her system! Encouraging this sort of half-bantering innuendo was not the way to do that.
    â€˜An innocuous description.’ But a raw edge in his voice sent surreptitious little shivers the length of her spine, warned her it might not be wise to take his words at face value.
    A waiter arrived with the first course, a cold soup, and while they drank it Gerd steered the conversation into much safer channels.
    Relieved, Rosie followed his lead, keeping her gaze away from those darkly golden eyes, that fascinating mouth. Only to discover she couldn’t stop looking at his hands—lean, long-fingered and smoothly assured.
    Little quivers tightened inside her as she found herself wondering what they’d feel like on her skin. She swallowed hastily and told herself to be sensible. She knew exactly what they felt like; when he’d kissed her he’d slid his hands across her back, causing a shuddery delight to riot through her.
    Stop thinking about it! She forced herself to be bright, to wait a second before she spoke, and to restrict herself to impersonal glances and manufactured smiles.
    By the time dinner ended she was as taut and tightly coiled as an over-wound spring. There wasn’t the usual business with credit cards, and she bit her lip to stop asking how such payments were managed. Did the restaurant send a bill to the palace?
    The same car met them again, with the same anonymous security man beside the chauffeur. Rosie sank back into the seat, clipping her seat belt across to form a fragile barrier between her and Gerd.
    Stupid, because of course he wouldn’t pounce!
    Gazing out of the window, she said the first thing that came into her head. ‘I like modern buildings, but I have to admit these old houses with their carvings and oriel windows and studded doors have something that makes me wish New Zealand had a longer history.’
    â€˜The novelty, probably.’ He sounded distant, glad thatthe evening had finished. ‘You’re used to houses built of timber. The fact that in Carathia stone has always been the cheapest and most common material might make the buildings here more romantic.’
    Rosie ignored a little jab of pain. ‘Could be,’ she agreed, and lapsed into silence as they drove through the still-busy streets and up the hill to the palace, huge and dramatically lit on the hill.
    â€˜It’s so big,’ she ventured, gazing at the classical splendour of it. ‘Did the ancestor who built this have a particularly large family?’
    â€˜A particularly large sense of his own importance,’ Gerd told her astringently. ‘One of his barons married a woman from southern Italy who found the family’s ancient castle intolerably cold. She must have been very beautiful and he must have been besotted, because he razed it and used the stone to build a mansion. Not to be outdone, the then Grand Duke had the original castle here demolished so he could build a much bigger, more grand palace than his vassal.’
    â€˜To the great relief of everyone who followed him onto the throne, I’m sure,’ she returned cheerfully. ‘I love castles—they’re grim and powerful and evocative of history and passion and treachery and chivalry, but I’ll bet the reason they’re mostly in ruins now is because they were so uncomfortable.’
    The car drew up inside the palace courtyard. ‘Comfort over romance,