Had she killed a man? Had she taken a knife and … Good God, when would she know?

Trying to force herself to remember brought nothing but frustration. Concentration on this would cause her head to pound until she couldn’t concentrate on anything at all. What snatches came, came in dreams. And like dreams, when she awoke, the images were vague and distorted. But the images, rather than easing the pressure, only increased it. Every morning she lay quietly, hoping the memories would come naturally. Every day there was only the dregs of dreams.

She could work, Brie reminded herself. Filling the hours each day was anything but a problem. The work was enjoyable, fulfilling—but for the fact that she now had this foolish engagement to contend with. The sooner she could brush that aside and go on, the better. She’d view it as one more goal to reach—or one more obstacle to overcome.

“Come in.” She answered the knock at the door, but she was frowning. The frown didn’t diminish when Reeve walked in.

“Surely I’m considered safe in my own bedroom.”

The room smelled subtly of flowers. They were there in a vase on a table by the window, on a stand beside the bed. Through the open window, the breeze traveled in and tossed the scent everywhere. “Dr. Franco says you’re recovering nicely.”

Brie deliberately took her time settling on the long, cushioned window seat. It gave her the opportunity to control her temper. “Does the doctor report to you, as well?”

“I was with your father.” He saw the newspaper on the bed, the photos, but said nothing. It wouldn’t do to admit that the front-page splash had given him quite a jolt that morning. It was one thing to agree to a mock engagement, and another to see evidence of it in black and white.

Instead he wandered over to her dresser and idly picked up a small glass jar. He’d concentrate on that for a moment until he could forget just the way she looked in that thin ivory robe. “So you’re feeling better?”

“I’m quite well, thank you.”

The icily formal reply had his lips twitching. She wouldn’t give an inch, Reeve mused. So much the better. “How’s your schedule for tomorrow?” he asked, though he’d already made it his business to know.

“I’m not free until after noon. Then there’s nothing until dinner with the Duke and Duchess of Marlborough and Monsieur Loubet and his wife.”

If Reeve read her tone correctly, she wasn’t looking forward to the dinner any more than he was. It would be their first as an officially engaged couple. “Then perhaps you’d like to go sailing for a few hours in the afternoon.”

“Sailing?” He watched her eyes light up just before she swept her lashes down and spoke coolly. “Is this an invitation or a way to keep me supervised?”

“Both.” He opened the jar, dipped a finger into the cream and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. It smelled like her skin—soft and sexy. At night, he imagined, and in the mornings, she’d smooth on the cream until its fragrance was part of her.