LITMIR.BIZ

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area, the furniture old, dark, exquisitely carved and obviously valuable. That such good furniture would be left out in an unlocked cottage should have reassured him how safe the island was. But Ronan was a little too aware that the dangers here could come from within, not without.

      The screens as walls gave a magnificent illusion of there being no separation between the indoor living space and the outdoors.

      He spied a hurricane lamp and lit it, hoping the light would chase away the feeling of enchantment, but instead, in the flickering golden light, the great room became downright romantic, soft, sultry, sensual.

      The light was soft on her face, too, her expression rapt as she looked around, her eyes glowing with the happiness of memories.

      Ronan would have liked it a lot better if she was spoiled rotten, complaining about spiderwebs and the lack of electricity.

      To distance himself from the unwanted whoosh of attraction he felt, Ronan went hurriedly across the room to investigate a door at the back of it. It led to an outdoor kitchen, and he went out. The outdoor cooking space was complete with a huge wood-fired oven and a grill. Open shelves were lined with canned goods. A person could camp out here, on this island, comfortably, for a year.

      Beyond that, in a flower- and fern-encircled grove was an open-air shower, and the whoosh he’d been trying to outrun came back.

      He reentered the house reluctantly, thankful he didn’t see her right away. He finished his inventory of the main house: there were two rooms off the great room, and he entered the first. It was the main bedroom, almost entirely taken up by a huge bed framed with soaring rough timbers, dark with age, more sheer white curtains flowing around the bed, surrounding it. Again the screens acting as outer walls made the bed seem to be set right amongst the palms and mango trees. The perfume of a thousand different flowers tickled his nose. There was no barrier to sound, either. The sea whispered poetry. He backed hastily out of there.

      Princess Shoshauna was in the smaller of the bedrooms, looking around and hugging herself.

      “This is where I always stayed when I was a child! Look how it feels as if you are right outside! My grandfather designed this house. He was an architect. That’s how he came to be on B’Ranasha. I’ll have this room.”

      He would have much preferred she take the bigger room, act snotty and entitled so he could kill the whoosh in his stomach.

      “I think you should take the bigger room,” he suggested. “You are the princess.”

      “Not this week I’m not.” She smiled, delighted to have declared herself not a princess.

      If she wasn’t a princess, if she was just an ordinary girl…he cut off the train of his thought. It didn’t matter if she was a wandering gypsy. She was still the principal, and it was still his mission to protect her.

      He reached into his pocket, took out a pocketknife and cut the cord that kept the mattress rolled up. He found the bedding in a tightly closed trunk under the bed. A floral sachet had been packed with it, and the white linen sheets smelled exotic.

      He laid them quickly on the bed, then watched, bemused, when she eyed the pile of bedding as though it were an interesting but baffling jigsaw puzzle.

      “You don’t know how to make a bed,” he guessed, incredulous, then wondered why it would surprise him that a princess had no idea how to make a bed.

      The truth was, it would be way too easy to forget she was a princess, especially with her standing there with shorn hair, and in a badly rumpled and ill-fitting dress.

      But that was exactly what he had to remember, to keep his boundaries clear, his professionalism unsullied, his duty foremost in his mind. She was a princess, a real one. He was a soldier. Their stations in life were millions of miles apart. And they were going to stay that way.

      “My mother would never have allowed it,” she said, sadly. “She had this idea that to do things that could be done by servants was common. Of course, she was a commoner, and she never quite overcame her insecurity about it.”

      She didn’t know how to make a bed.

      Every soldier had been tormented, at one time or another, with making a bed that could satisfy a drill sergeant who had no intention of being satisfied. Ronan could make a bed—perfectly—anywhere, anytime.

      To focus on the differences between them would strengthen his will. To perceive her as pampered and useless would go a long way in erasing the memory of her slender curves pressed into his back as they rode that motorcycle together.

      “I’d be happy to make it for you, Princess,” he said.

      She glared at him. “I don’t want you to make it for me! I want you to show me how to make it.”

      He was tired. He had not had the benefit of a two hour nap in the bottom of the boat. She had slept for an hour or so before that, as well, while they had waited, hidden, for it to get dark enough to take her grandfather’s boat from the dock and cross the water without being seen.

      It would be easier for him to make the bed himself, but he had to get through a full week, and that wasn’t going to be easy if he argued with her over little things.

      His eyes went to the full puffiness of her lips, and he felt his own weariness, his resolve flickering.

      He had to get though a full week without kissing her, too.

      Making a bed together didn’t seem like a very good starting point for keeping things professional and distant. Neither did fighting with her.

      He had the uneasy feeling he’d better adjust to being put in no-win positions by the princess.

      He separated the sheets from the blankets, found the bottom sheet and tossed it over the mattress.

      “First you tuck this under the mattress,” he said.

      “I’ll do it!” she said, when he reached out to demonstrate.

      He held up his hands in surrender, stood back, tried not to wince at her sloppy corners, the slack fabric in the center of the bed. He didn’t offer to help as she grunted over lifting the corners of the mattress.

      He handed her the second sheet, tried to stay expressionless as she shoved it under the bottom of the mattress in such a bunched-up mess that the mattress lifted.

      She caught the tip of her tongue between her teeth as she focused with furious concentration on the task at hand. He folded his arms firmly over his chest.

      She inserted the pillows in the cases with the seams in the wrong places and fluffed them. Then he handed her the top blanket, which she tossed haphazardly on top of the rest of her mess.

      The bed was a buck private’s nightmare, but she smiled with pleasure at her final result. To his eye, it looked more like a nest than a well-made bed.

      “See?” she said. “I can do ordinary things.”

      “Yes,” he said, deadpan. “I can clearly see that.”

      Something in his tone must have betrayed him, because she searched his face with grave suspicion.

      A drill sergeant would have had the thrill of ripping it apart and making her do it again, but he wasn’t a drill sergeant. In fact, at the moment he was just an ordinary guy, trying to survive.

      “Okay,” he said, “if you have everything—”

      “Oh, I’ll make yours, too. For practice.”

      “What do you need practice making a bed for?” he asked crankily. He didn’t want her touching his bedding.

      He was suddenly acutely aware of how alone they were here, of how the dampness of the sea air was making the baggy dress cling to her, of how her short hair was curling slightly from humidity, and there seemed to be a dewy film forming on her skin. He was aware of how her tongue had looked, caught between her teeth.

      Ignoring him, she marched

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