“That’s the opinion I prefer.” She stepped forward toward the door.

“No need to see me out.” He brushed her back with the habitual pat on the hand. “I’ll give your father my assurances before I go.”

“Thank you, Dr. Franco.”

“Gabriella.” He paused with the door just opened. “We all have our pretenses to keep up.”

The inclination of her head was cool and regal. “So I understand.”

Discreetly she waited until the door closed behind him before she whirled away, fuming. Pretenses. Yes, she’d play them, she’d accept them. But she detested them. With her temper unsteady, she pulled out of the trash the paper she’d wadded up and discarded that morning.

PRINCESS GABRIELLA TO WED

Brie swore as princesses are only allowed to do in private. There was a picture of her and one of Reeve. With her head tilted and the sun streaming in on the newsprint, she studied him.

Attractive, yes, she decided. In that just-on-the-edge-of-rough, just-on-the-edge-of-sleek sort of way. Like a big predatory cat, she mused, who could swagger away or pounce as the mood struck. He’d make his own choices. A man like that caused mixed feelings. Not only in her, she noted with some satisfaction. The press was of two minds, as well.

There was obvious excitement and a proprietory sort of satisfaction that one of the royal children was to wed. It was pointed out, she noted, that she, of all the princesses in the history of Cordina, had waited the longest to take the plunge. About time, the paper seemed to say with a brisk nod.

The family tie between the Bissets and MacGees counted in Reeve’s favor, as did his father’s reputation. But he was, after all, an American, and not precisely the ideal choice according to the citizens of Cordina.

Whatever satisfaction Brie might have gained from that was offset by the mention of several more eligible options. It was disconcerting to find herself matched, if only in the press, with a half a dozen eligible bachelors. Princes, lords, marquesses, tycoons. Obviously from the brief stories attached to the pictures, she’d met and spent time with them all. One of them might have meant something to her, but she had no way of being sure. She could study their names and faces for five minutes, an hour, but there’d be no change. She turned back to Reeve. At least with him, she knew where she stood.

Apparently the press was prepared to reserve final judgment on the American ex-policeman—son of a well-known and respected diplomat. Instead it chose to speculate on the wedding date.

She tossed the paper on the bed so that it fell with the photos up. Her father had accomplished his purpose, she reflected. The focus was on the engagement rather than the kidnapping. No one would question Reeve’s presence in the palace, or his place at her side.

No one would question him—no one would question her. Slowly Brie turned her hands over and stared down at them. There was something she’d been unable to speak of to either of her doctors. Something she’d been unable to put into words to anyone other than Reeve.