She thought she’d known what to expect. Somewhere inside her was the memory of what a kiss was, just as she knew what food, what drink was. And yet, with his mouth on hers, her mind, her emotions were a clean slate. He wrote on them what he chose.

If her blood had run hot before, she didn’t remember it. If her head had swam, she had no recollection. Everything was fresh, new, exciting. And yet … and yet there was a depth here, a primitive need that came without surprise.

Yearning, dreaming, longing. She may have done so before. Aching, needing, wanting. She might not remember, but she understood. It was him, holding her close—him, rushing kisses over her face—him, breathing her name onto her lips, that brought these things all home again.

But had there been others? Who? How many? Had she stood in the moonlight wrapped in strong arms before? Had she given herself so unhesitatingly to passion before? Had it meant nothing to her, or everything? Shaken, she drew away. What kind of woman gave a man her soul before she knew him? Or even herself?

“Reeve.” She stepped back carefully. Doubts dragged at her. “I’m not sure I understand any better.”

He’d felt it from her. Complete, unrestricted passion. Even as he wanted to reach out for it again, the same reasoning came to him. How many others? Unreasonably he wanted that heat, that desire to be his alone. He offered his hand but kept his distance. It wasn’t a feeling he welcomed.

“We’d both better sleep on it.”

Chapter 4

She felt like an imposter. Brie was in her tidy no-frills all-elegance office only because Reeve had taken her there. She’d been grateful when he’d knocked on her sitting room door at eight with a simple, “Are you ready?” and nothing else. The prospect of having to ask one of the palace staff to show her the way hadn’t appealed. On her first full day back, Brie didn’t want to have to start off dealing with expectations and curiosity. With him, she didn’t have to apologize, fumble or explain.

Reeve was here, Brie told herself, to do exactly what he was doing: guide her discreetly along. As long as she remembered that, and not the moments they’d spent on the terrace the night before, she’d be fine. She’d have felt better if she hadn’t woken up thinking of them.

After a short, nearly silent walk through the corridors, where Brie had felt all the strain on her side and none on Reeve’s, he’d shown her to the third-floor corner room in the east wing.

Once there, she toured it slowly. The room wasn’t large, but it was all business. Good light, a practical setup, privacy. The furniture might have been exquisite, but it wasn’t frivolous. That relieved her.

The capable mahogany desk that stood in the center was orderly. The colors were subdued, pastels again, she noted, brushing past the two chairs with their intricate Oriental upholstery and ebony wood. Again, flowers were fresh and plentiful—pink roses bursting up in a Sevres vase, white carnations delicate in Wedgwood. She pulled out a bud and twirled it by its stem as she turned back to Reeve.