Rose’s head swam with the sensations coursing through her body—his hand, splayed against the small of her back, holding her tight against his hips; the breadth of his chest beneath her palm as she put a hand up for balance; and the hard, muscled wall her fingertips encountered through his thin cotton shirt. And oh, his taste—rich and dark and fruity, like the wine they’d just drunk. His lips moved over hers, beguiling, seducing, sweeping her away into a fantasy such as she’d never encountered in her life.

She was in a palace and she was kissing a prince. A real prince, and for the second time in two days. And while she prided herself on her common sense, another part of her wasn’t ready for it to be over yet. Because once it was, it couldn’t happen again. And if this was all she could have she was going to let it be a moment to remember.

She expected him to end the kiss, but he didn’t. Instead he seemed to settle into it, enjoying her mouth, adjusting his embrace until she melted into him. Briefly his lips left hers and he dropped kisses at the corner of her mouth, along her jaw, while his fingers traced a sensitive part of her neck. She gasped at the light touch, feeling rather unraveled as he kissed her again, deeper this time. As if he was enjoying himself immensely. As if he liked kissing her. Her, a mousy little middle child from Guildford.

She found herself pressed against the door to her suite, sandwiched between the hard wood and Diego’s body. He put his hands flat against the door, one on either side of her head, and kissed her in a way no man had ever kissed her before. Like she was the last bit of sweet icing on the cake.

She was in way over her head, outmatched both sexually and in rank. At this moment she could choose to be swept away and then wake up with a pile of trouble in the morning, or she could put on the brakes and halt the mistake before it got any worse.

She knew what she wanted, and she knew what the right course of action was. Reluctantly she put her hands on his chest and pushed lightly, and turned her head a little to the side, breaking away from the kiss.

Diego was breathing heavily, but he didn’t push. Instead he rested his forehead against hers, and her heart stuttered a bit at the tender gesture.

“Lo siento,” he murmured. “Rose, I’m sorry.”

“I know what it means,” she replied. “And don’t be. We’ve both been wondering. Wanting. But we can’t, Diego.” She closed her eyes tight and wished it could be different. “We have never been equals. We never will be. Your family has been through enough. I won’t be the cause of another scandal or source of speculation.”

He backed away, but looked at her with tortured eyes. “You’re a better woman than I deserve,” he said, his voice low. “I know you are right. I just . . .” He stopped, frowned. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I should leave you to your wine and quiet time.”

As if she could possibly be calm and relaxed after what had just happened.

She slid to the side, and he reached for the doorknob again. The door was half-open and he was taking a step into the hall when she stopped him.

“Diego?”

He turned to face her. He was so handsome, she realized. In photos, the adjectives most often used were “sexy” and “hot.” But there was more depth to him than that. Handsome required some sort of depth, a gravitas that the tabloids never seemed to capture. “Yes?” he asked.

“Thank you for speaking to your brother. And for caring for the children so much. You are a very good uncle. A good man.”

He smiled, just a little. “And you like to look for the best in people, don’t you? I’m not that good a man, Rose. But I’d like to be.”

Before she could ask what he meant, he leaned forward and placed a little kiss on her forehead, then disappeared down the hall.

Rose shut the door and went back to her chair, picked up her wineglass, and took a long, restorative sip.

Here she thought the hardest thing about her new assignment would be dealing with pomp and protocol. That was a cakewalk compared to having feelings for one of the royal family. Ugh, she thought, taking another drink. It was all so cliché, wasn’t it? And of course it would be Diego, the resident playboy. She could just see the tabloids now: The Playboy and the Plaything. Her mother would have a fit.

The problem was that they were more than labels; they were people with real thoughts and feelings. Yes, he was a prince. And she was definitely the nanny. But they were also a man and a woman.

A man and a woman who seemed to understand each other more than they should. Who liked each other more than they should. Their kisses were really just a physical manifestation of a much larger problem: she cared about him, respected him, admired him. A lot. And the wise move would be to resign her post now and find another assignment through the agency.

“Miss Rose?”

A little voice came from the door connecting her suite with the nursery. Max stood in the doorway, his thumb in his mouth and his dark hair tousled.

She put her glass aside and patted her knee. “What is it, Max? Can’t you sleep, darling?”

He came over and crawled up in her lap. She saw traces of tears on his face and he was still shaking a little. “Bad dream?” she asked, her heart melting as he snuggled in close.

He nodded.

“Want to tell me about it?”

He shook his head, and she wouldn’t press. If he didn’t have dreams after the accident and all he’d been through, she would have been shocked. Instead she held him close and rubbed his back reassuringly. “You’re safe now, Max. It’s okay. I’m here.”

He took his thumb out of his mouth for a moment; she knew he sucked on it only when he was particularly upset. To her surprise he sat up a bit and placed a kiss on her cheek before settling down into her lap again, his head resting in the curve of her neck.

Each time she took an assignment, she developed an attachment to the child. But this was different. Maybe it was why she was needed here that made it so. They’d been through a lot, and under a microscope, too.

“Te amo, Miss Rose,” Max whispered.

She cuddled him close. “I love you too, Max.”

Moments later he was asleep, his warm head sticky against her neck. She waited a while before gingerly rising from the chair, trying to keep him still as she made her way back to his bedroom. Once there, she tucked him into bed and drew the soft sheets up around his shoulders.

Earlier she’d considered resigning. She couldn’t do that, though. The children needed her; needed stability and affection and consistency. Her resigning would be one more person leaving them behind. She’d stay until they no longer needed her, or until someone told her to leave.

And so she’d deal with her feelings with Diego.

* * *

For the better part of a week, Rose and Diego were polite when they crossed paths. There were no more picnics for four in the garden, though. Diego often took the children out after their morning lessons and activities so they could expend some energy and get some fresh air, and Rose made the inevitable excuse as to why she couldn’t go with them. Raoul, too, made more of an effort, setting aside time each day to have tea with the children in the nursery, hear about their day, and praise their reading skills or artwork. Their eyes lit up when their father came to see them, and Rose was gratified to see that they were the happiest they’d been since her arrival. Diego must have had another chat with Raoul, too, because one day he brought a framed family photo that the children could put in the nursery. When he placed it on a little table, he said, “This way you can look at it and remember that your mama loved you more than anything in the world.”

There were tears, of course, but then they started sharing a few little memories. Rose slipped out of the room, wanting to give them their privacy to remember. And to heal.

The day following that particular nursery visit was a rare day off. Ernestina stepped in to watch the children, promising them a trip to the kitchen to help Senora Ortiz make mantecados—cinnamon crumble cakes—for teatime. Rose dressed in plain jeans and a light sleeveless blouse, put her hair up in a ponytail, and put a pair of sunglasses and a hat in her bag. She was going to go down to the city and do some exploring—no Diego along for the ride this time. Marco drove her down to the square in an unmarked car, and she made her way through the little streets and alleys with her senses wide open.

Boxes and stone walls cascaded with vibrant bougainvillea, oleander, and stephanotis, and the perfumed scent of hibiscus and jasmine mingled with salty air, fresh from the nearby coast. In the narrow streets she was shaded from the harsh sun, but once she entered the town square, there was less protection from the rays and she donned both sunglasses and hat. A café provided strong coffee and delicate pastry, and she smiled and tipped her server generously as she sat back and people-watched. More than once a sense of the unreal washed over her. She was drinking coffee in the Med on her day off from her job at the royal palace. It made her feel rather like Cinderella at the ball, except there were no horrible stepsisters waiting for her. And no Prince Charming to sweep her away.

Well, there was a prince. And he was definitely charming. But he wasn’t for her. It didn’t matter that he’d kissed her. They both knew a relationship was impossible.

Still. It was rather romantic and dreamy. And it was a secret memory she’d carry with her forever. Maybe she’d tell her children and grandchildren about it someday.

If she ever had any children. Maybe her sister was right about that one thing. She spent her time looking after other people’s children rather than thinking about having her own.

Once she’d eaten her pastry and watched passersby long enough, she wandered farther into town to the market. Not the stalls in the square, where tourists gathered, but deeper into the area where the locals shopped for their produce and goods. One man with a magnificent mustache manned a cart featuring the bright colors and citrus scents of oranges, lemons, and limes. She bought three oranges and tucked them in her bag, intending to keep them for a snack with the children later. There were rows and rows of flowers and bunches of herbs, the heavy scent of basil and oregano blending with the slightly sharper aroma of rosemary and cilantro. Oils, vinegars, wine, cured meats, and cheeses with their overwhelming must drew her in, and she tried several before selecting some dry-cured sausage, smoked cheese, and bread for an impromptu lunch later.

There was the daily catch available, and her eyes widened at the mounds of oysters, slabs of tuna, and—she shuddered—whole eels. One ambitious vendor tried to sell her a cone of fresh baby shrimp, but she smiled and waved a hand before moving on. She’d always preferred her seafood to be properly battered, deep fried, and served with chips.

There were no children to worry about today, no Diego to distract her. It gave her time to think about her own family, and to miss them a little bit. In her other jobs, she could take a few days and catch a train and be home for a quick visit. Or pop up to London and see Hayley and Alice. Hayley usually gave Rose a hard time, and got in little digs about her job. Visiting Alice was the real bright light to those trips. The last time she’d splurged on tickets to take her niece to the ballet. Hayley had taken the opportunity to head to the clubs since she was usually “tied down.”

Even Devon . . . he was a good sort, if a little staid. He still enjoyed a good game of cards and a cold beer now and again. Now she wasn’t sure when she’d be home again.

But she could send presents home, couldn’t she?

At a silversmith’s, she employed Emilia’s haggling strategy and purchased a silver and rose-quartz bracelet for Hayley and an intricate hair clip for Alice in the shape of one of the many hibiscus blossoms she’d seen this morning. Vivid fabric was draped over stands at another shop where she bought a fine silk scarf for her mother and then paused at the sight of delicate white lace. It was absolutely exquisite, and she pressed her hand over her heart, gaining the attention of the merchant. So much for being coy.

“Cuánto cuestas?” she asked, touching the material with a finger. That was all, though. She was afraid of marring its perfection.

The woman looked at her shrewdly, then named a price that even Rose knew was exorbitant.

She stepped back and dropped her hand, then shook her head. Even with her fine wages, she couldn’t justify spending so much on something she might never use. What would she ever do with a length of fine lace, anyway? It would more than likely sit packed away somewhere. Utterly impractical . . . and yet something about it called to her. Begged for her to buy it. She was not an impulse shopper, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to walk away, either.

The woman shrugged, and turned back to her table, where she was tidying stacks of printed fabrics.

Rose turned away, then turned back again and named her price—half of what the woman had asked.

The light returned to the woman’s eyes, and she tilted her head a bit and studied Rose. Rose left her sunglasses on. She had a horrible poker face, and this might give her the tiniest edge in bargaining.

The woman named a new price. Not much better than the first. Rose adjusted her bag on her shoulder and turned to walk away.

“Senorita! Wait.” She said the word in English. Rose turned back around as the woman quoted a new price. A much better price.

Rose countered, and so it went on for a good five minutes. She started to enjoy herself as the woman pointed out the fine craftsmanship, the quality of the thread, the perfection of the design. Rose made a point of taking out her phone and doing the currency conversion into Euros, then turning the screen around so the woman could see. “That is the absolute most I can spend,” Rose replied, her heart beating fast. Bargaining had been exhilarating!

The number was just over two-thirds of the original price. With a beaming smile the woman agreed, wrapped the carefully folded lace in tissue, and then placed it into another bag for safekeeping. Rose took it, paid her money, and carefully tucked the lace into her tote, away from the aromatic cheese and meat.

That left only her father and brother. She purchased a bottle of fine Marazurian brandy for her father, and found an old, worn copy of Don Quixote, in the original Spanish, at a book stall for Devon.

Her bag was getting quite heavy now, so Rose left the market behind and simply made her way out of the city by heading downhill toward the harbor. It was by no means a short walk, and by the time she could see the vast blue of the ocean she was tired and her feet hurt. She flagged down a taxi, and gave halting instructions to be delivered to the closest beach. She wanted to dig her toes into the sand, feel the water lapping around her ankles, soothing her aching soles. She’d eat her lunch, wander for a bit more, and then call Marco to retrieve her.

The taxi driver spoke in rapid Spanish, and Rose struggled to keep up. She pieced together enough to know that the harbor was in town but any sort of beach was outside the city. She frowned a bit, wondering if it had been such a good idea to wander alone all day without so much as a map. The last time she had Diego with her, and a small but dedicated security detail. She didn’t need that now, but she wasn’t quite as confident as she’d been first thing this morning.

The beach was, indeed, outside the city and Rose paid the driver and shouldered her bag. The sand was dotted with umbrellas and people, and the waves looked deliciously refreshing. The breeze was brisk, and as she bent to slip off her shoes, a gust caught the brim of her hat and flipped it off her head, sending it reeling over the sand.

“Oh!” she cried, spinning around, but it tumbled like a wheel, turning over and over.

She sighed, and her eyes watered. She told herself it was from the wind and the sand blowing into her eyes, but it wasn’t. As she retrieved her sunglasses from her bag, she admitted that she was tired. The walk had been long, the heat sapping, and the earlier peace she’d felt sitting at the café, calmly drinking coffee, was gone. She could call Marco right now and just go home. The beach wasn’t going anywhere.

Maybe she was just hungry.

The plan for a picnic had been a good one, except there were no umbrellas free and no tables or places to sit unless she sat right on the sand, in full sunlight.

“Forget it,” she muttered as she hooked her fingers into her shoes and headed for the water. “I’ll dip my toes in the damn ocean and call for Marco.” At this point, all she wanted wassome shade, a cool drink, and some peace and quiet. The water would ease her hot and sore feet and then she’d head back to the palace to enjoy the rest of her day off.

“Pardon, senorita?”

She’d just stepped to the edge of the breakers when a deep voice sounded behind her shoulder. She turned and saw a man, about thirty-five or so, holding out her hat.

“My hat!” She stepped back, her feet sinking a bit into the wet sand, and held out her hand. “Oh, gracias. Thank you.”

“You are welcome.” He looked around. “The sun is bright today. You should perhaps”—he frowned, as if searching for the right words—“sit in the shade.”

“I’d love to. But I don’t have an umbrella.”

He rattled something off in Spanish and her lips dropped open. All she could make out was something like “casa” and “five minutes” and “walking” . . . until she followed the path of his finger as he pointed east. “Your house? Tu casa?”

“Si!” He smiled, showing her a perfect row of white teeth. He was somewhat attractive, though not quite her type. And she certainly didn’t feel comfortable going to his house, shade or not.

“Thank you, but I’m fine. I’m just about to return to the . . . to home,” she finished weakly. “I do appreciate you bringing me my hat.”

“I insist,” he continued, his smile widening as he moved closer. “You can sit on my patio, have a cold drink. Then I can take you where you need to go.”

Hah. She could just imagine telling him to drop her off at the palace gates. Or sitting alone with him in a car, for that matter. The strange vibe strengthened, and once again she was aware of the mistake she’d made staying at the beach when she really was ready to be home. “No, thank you,” she said, in her most priggish English tone. “Good day.”

She turned to walk away, back up from the beach, hoping against hope that she could somehow flag a taxi, knowing full well that she might not be able to since she was now outside city limits. She didn’t want to wait twenty minutes for Marco to arrive.

She’d gone three steps when his hand clamped around her arm.