“Fussing and nagging,” Bennett added. “Standing over me until I ate that pap they forced on me, lecturing me. By the time I was on my feet again, we were friends. We’ve never been anything else.” He passed the flower under his nose. “Now if you’re satisfied, I have a lady with incredibly long legs waiting for me.” He started down the hall, then stopped and turned. “You’ve never been one for advice, but I’ll give it, anyway. If you want Eve, don’t circle around it. She’s a woman for the direct approach, no pretty lies, no staged seductions. She’s gold, Alex, solid gold, with a mind as strong and sharp as a scalpel. A man would have to recognize that unless he wants small pieces sliced out of him.”

If any man he knew understood women, it was Bennett. Alexander felt the first smile form. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He watched his brother disappear into the parlor. Seconds later, there was a delighted feminine laugh.

Alexander stayed where he was a moment, trying to absorb what he knew, what he felt. Not his brother’s woman. Never his brother’s woman. But his. From this moment. Alexander strode toward the east wing quickly, needing to expend the energy racing through him.

* * *

She’d had a hell of a day. Tired and annoyed with the world at large, Eve let herself in the east entrance of the palace. Only friends and family used the small, secluded garden entrance. Normally she would have come straight in the front, but at the moment, she wanted to see and speak to no one.

Her director was edgy, and it showed. Her actors were picking up on it and had been sniping at one another as often as they blew their lines.

As producer, she could dump a lot of the heartache on her stage manager. But, damn it, it was her company. She’d conceived it, nurtured it, and she just wasn’t ready to cut the apron strings.

As a result she’d spent the past two hours in a full meeting, cast and crew, letting the gripes and misconceptions be aired.

The members of her company were mollified. She was wired.

Face it, she told herself as she closed the pretty, carved door at her back. You’ve been wound tight for weeks and it hasn’t a thing to do with the company.

He was making her crazy—mind, body, soul. How was it he could go through the motions, day after day, night after night, as though nothing had happened between them? How was it he followed routine, apparently without a ripple, when she spent sleepless nights worrying about an anonymous phone call?

The time was up, she thought, and rubbed at her aching temples. Deboque was still in prison, would remain in prison. How long would it take before the threat she’d received became action?