The Viscount and The Virgin. Valerie Parv

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      “Like the Winter Olympics,” she said, wanting him to know she wasn’t entirely unaware of his background, either. He would be surprised at just how much she knew about him, she thought, none of it commendable.

      He nodded. “Exactly. Max thinks the castle needs a big event to stimulate income for the Merrisand Trust.”

      She let her astonishment show on her face. “I thought the trust was doing well.”

      “It needs to do better. In today’s world the demand for help from organizations like Merrisand is growing all the time. The income from visitors to the castle and grounds, holding fund-raisers here and sending the collections on tour are not really adequate for the increasing demands being made on the funds. If a new source of income isn’t found soon, the trust may eventually have to cut back on distributions.”

      The thought that Merrisand might one day have to turn away people in need was alarming. She had always assumed that the castle generated more than enough income to meet its charitable aims. Finding out that one day it might not came as a shock.

      “I had no idea,” she said.

      He gave her a sharp look. “Nobody does, so keep this information to yourself. However ironic it may be, people are more inclined to support an organization they perceive as doing well.”

      “‘Nothing succeeds like success,”’ she quoted.

      He inclined his head in agreement. “Precisely. Besides, the castle is hardly on its last legs. Max is merely being shrewd, anticipating future demands.”

      “What does he have in mind for this event?” she asked. She couldn’t imagine what else they might do that they weren’t already doing to generate income.

      “Max left the decision up to me. What I’m planning is an international cycling race, the Tour de Merrisand, around the castle grounds. The television rights alone will generate millions for the trust.”

      The image of a horde of cyclists tearing around, and probably sometimes through, the beautiful, manicured gardens made her shudder. But not as much as another image that jumped into her mind, that of her vibrant young sister cheering on the sidelines of a Formula One race and being cut down by a runaway wheel. Kirsten wanted nothing to do with that part of his life. “You can’t be serious,” she said, her voice husky with emotion.

      His direct gaze bored into her. “Never more so. Why? Do you have a problem with linking the castle to a sporting event?”

      She had much more than a problem with it. The very thought made her feel ill. “I can’t believe Prince Maxim would sanction such desecration,” she said tautly.

      “It isn’t as if I intend to bulldoze century-old buildings in order to lay out a cycling track,” he said, not sounding in the least fazed by her reaction. “The race will run between the buildings and through the forest areas. Afterward, everything will be restored to exactly as it was before the event. They hold these races through the center of Rome, past the Colosseum, and nobody considers it heresy.”

      She got to her feet, the sudden pain shooting up her calves reminding her of the shoes she’d managed to forget momentarily. “Since your plans are evidently already established, I don’t see why you need me at all.”

      “You’re going to help me make the Tour de Merrisand a reality.”

      “I’m an art curator, not a…” She had been about to say “sports groupie,” but the link with Natalie was too painful. “I don’t know anything about cycling,” she finished. Probably the reason why Prince Maxim wanted Rowe to work with her, she thought.

      “But you do know the castle inside and out, better than anyone else barring Lea Landon, who won’t be back for some months.”

      “All the more reason why I can’t be spared from covering for Lea.”

      Rowe stood up, too, moving around Lea’s desk like a big cat newly turned loose from its cage. Even wearing the wretched high heels, Kirsten was considerably shorter than Rowe and had to tilt her head back to look up at him as he loomed closer. “I’m not calling for volunteers,” he said in a low voice.

      “You mean if I don’t help you with the race, I’m out of a job?” She let her tone reflect her disbelief.

      “You said it. I didn’t.”

      He was every bit as self-centered as she’d read, she thought furiously. He had made up his mind that she was to assist him, and it didn’t appear she was to have any say in the matter. “Who will manage the galleries, plan the new exhibitions and supervise the daily tours?” she asked.

      “According to Max, you have a capable team who can share some of the load. I’m sure there’s no need for you to lead tour groups personally.”

      “I happen to like leading the tours. They keep me in touch with how people react to the exhibits, helping me with future planning.”

      “Then don’t give them up. Delegate some of the other tasks that you find less enjoyable.”

      His closeness undermined her determination to dislike him and everything he stood for. As well, she wanted to hate the very idea of a bunch of cyclists speeding through the beautiful grounds of the castle, and part of her did. But the logical side argued that he was right. If a new source of income wasn’t found, the Merrisand Trust might soon have to start turning away people in need, contradicting its very reason for existence.

      It wasn’t because she wanted to work with Rowe, she reasoned. She couldn’t deny the chemistry flaring between them, but surely she had enough incentive to deal with it in a mature, sensible way that didn’t involve giving in to the attraction. She gave a stiff nod of her head. “It seems I have no choice but to go along with your plans.”

      “No choice at all.”

      He suddenly moved even closer, his gaze warm on her equally heated face. Less than a hand span of distance separated them, and for one wild, giddy moment, she wondered if he meant to kiss her. How would she respond if he did? She liked to think she would slap his handsome face, making it clear how little time she had for a man like him. Another part of her insisted on imagining the touch of his lips on hers, the teasing of tongue to tongue in a sinuous dance that set up answering shivers all the way to the core of her being.

      Without warning he lifted her hand and brought it to his lips, his eyes never leaving her face. His dark gaze seemed to look deep inside her, until she wondered if he sensed her contrary thoughts.

      A scorching sensation almost had her pulling her hand away until she realized it was entirely in her mind. Rowe had done no more than kiss the back of her hand in a courtly gesture such as she had seen the royal men do on many occasions. There was no call for her body to respond as if he had actually kissed her on the lips. He wasn’t likely to, and she wouldn’t permit it in any case. Would she?

      “I’m glad we’ve reached an agreement,” he said, releasing her hand with what she swore was reluctance.

      The move was probably as calculated as the kiss itself, she told herself, striving to still the fluttering of her heart. She might have no choice about working with him, but she could choose not to respond to such blatant gestures. Be cool and aloof. Let him know she wasn’t impressed by his practiced gallantry.

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