“How long has she been with me?” Brie asked abruptly. “This Janet Smithers?”

“A little under a year. Your former secretary had her first child and retired.”

“Am I …” Groping for the word, she wiggled her fingers. “Do I have a satisfactory relationship with her?”

Reeve tilted his head. “No one told me of any complaint.”

Frustrated, Brie shook her head. How could she explain to a man that she wanted to know how she and her secretary were woman to woman? How could she explain that she wondered if she had any close female friends, any woman that would break the circle of men she seemed to be surrounded with? Perhaps this was one more thing she’d have to determine for herself. “Please, continue.”

“If there’s time, you take care of any personal correspondence, as well, during the morning session. Otherwise, you leave that for the evening.”

It seemed tedious, she mused, then thought that obligations often were. “What is ‘official correspondence’?”

“You’re the president for the Aid to Handicapped Children Organization. The AHC is Cordina’s largest charity. You’re also a spokesperson for the International Red Cross. In addition you’re deeply involved with the Fine Arts Center, which was built in your mother’s name. It falls to you to handle correspondence from the wives of heads of state, to head or serve on various committees, to accept or decline invitations and to entertain during state functions. Politics and government are your father’s province, and to some extent, Alexander’s.”

“So I confine myself to more—feminine duties?”

She saw the grin, fast, appealing, easy. “I wouldn’t put a label on it after looking at your schedule, Brie.”

“Which so far,” she pointed out, “consists of answering letters.”

“Three days a week you go to the headquarters of the AHC. Personally, I wouldn’t want to handle the influx of paperwork. You’ve been bucking the National Council for eighteen months on an increase in budget for the Fine Arts Center. Last year you toured fifteen countries for the Red Cross and spent ten days in Ethiopia. There was a ten-page spread in World magazine. I’ll see that you get a copy.”

She picked up the rose again, running her finger over the petals as she rose to pace. “But am I clever at it?” she demanded. “Do I know what I’m doing, or am I simply there as some kind of figurehead?”

Reeve drew out a cigarette. “Both. A beautiful young princess draws attention, press, funds and interest. A clever young woman uses that and her brain to get what she’s after. According to your diary—”

“You’ve read my diary?”

He lifted a brow, studying the combination of outrage and embarrassment on her face. She’d have no idea, he mused, if there was any need for the embarrassment. “You’ve asked me to help you,” he reminded her. “I can’t help you unless I know you. But relax—” Reeve lit the cigarette with a careless flick of his lighter. “You’re very discreet, Gabriella, even in what you write in your personal papers.”