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feet. “What is it with you and the shoes, anyway?” she asked.
Gingerly, she slipped out of her heels. She carefully rolled down
her thigh high stockings, highly aware of his intent stare and low
murmur of approval. “Ta-dah,” she said, pulling the stockings free
and whisking them through her hands to straighten them.
    “Here, let me,” he said, holding out his
hand.
    With a shrug, she handed them over and
watched as he tucked them into his shirt pocket, part of the nylon
poking out.
    She grinned. “Nice touch.”
    “Like it? It’s the latest fashion trend.”
    They both chuckled. He held out his hand. “My
lady…”
    She smiled widely, slipping her hand in his
large, warm grasp.
    As they made their way through the cabins
below, Charlie couldn’t help but ooh and aah over the rich,
mahogany wood, gold outfittings, and plush furnishings. Mr.
Alexander Royale was definitely living large.
    Finally, he led her up to the wide, long
deck. The warm wood beneath her feet and the afternoon sunlight
bathing her skin had Charlie relaxing instantly. His large hand
clasping hers made her feel safe and cared for.
    Stop that, she scolded herself; he’s
Francie’s. But he hadn’t said it yet, hadn’t burst any bubbles
yet.
    Just this once, this moment, she promised
herself, she’d enjoy his company.
    He halted near the bow of the yacht where a
laden table awaited with sparkling crystal and pristine white
china. A small bouquet of colorful flowers adorned the center.
    Holding out a chair for her, he said,
“Charlie.”
    She smiled, feeling pampered. “Alex,” she
murmured. His low, soft chuckle teased her ear.
    Seating himself across from her, he nodded to
his waiting chef. Soon trays of food were brought before them. As
the platters appeared, Charlie’s tummy rumbled at the
mouth-watering grilled salmon and mixed vegetables.
    Alex chatted. Charlie kept up her side of the
conversation throughout the meal. But in the back of her mind she
recalled why she was here. He wanted Francie for his wife. The
nagging thought dampened her spirits. She couldn’t hide that fact
any longer. The food melted in her mouth, but, when it sank to her
middle, it hit like a rock, hard and sharp. A sip of water stuck in
her suddenly dry throat.
    As her mind echoed, He’s Francie’s, he’s
Francie’s , her stomach knotted even more. Perspiration trickled
down her forehead. She swiped at it.
    “Are you all right?” His concern only made
her insides twist more.
    Taking a deep breath, she said, “I’ll be
fine. Maybe we just need to get down to business.”
    He raised his left eyebrow. “Business?”
    Dabbing a napkin on her upper lip, she said,
“Yes, remember, you needed my ideas. I take it it’s for your
bride.” The last word stuck and faltered. She cleared her throat,
her voice stronger now. “Is it the dress? Between my designs and
Dolly, who’s a whiz on a sewing machine, well, let’s just say if we
were in business together we’d be giving some people a run for
their money.”
    Of course, that’s why he invited her here
today. Her stepmother must have championed her and Dolly as the
dressmakers. But when did her stepmother ever praise her? And why
would a groom care about a wedding dress?
    Her head seemed light on her shoulders, her
thoughts harder to grasp and hold on to. Looking at him across the
table, she made a concerted effort to blink away the white spots
swimming between them and focus on those gorgeous dark eyes of
his.
    He nudged his nearly full glass of wine
toward her and waited while she took a long, deep sip. “A
dress?”
    Her head cleared slightly. “Yes, no offense,
but Francie does need some help in the fashion department. Well,
she’s a genius when it comes to ballet.” She stopped herself short,
frowning. “Did I tell you she’s an incredible ballerina? Such
talent. She would have went all the way, too, if—”
    “Her mother hadn’t nixed it, right?”
    “You know her so well. But don’t