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didn’t appear to be convincing her with his stellar dance moves, her lips were becoming more a temptation by the minute.
    â€œHmm,” she said, “Not bad exactly . I mean obviously you know a simple three-step waltz. You just aren’t, how can I say this? Fluid! Mind you, that might just work at the beginning of the number. It would be great to start off with a certain stand-offishness, an armor that protects you from your discomfort with closeness.”
    Was she talking about the theatrics of the damned dance or could she seriously read his personality that well from a few steps? The urge to either kiss her or bolt strengthened.
    He couldn’t kiss her. It would be entirely inappropriate, even if it was to make a point.
    And he didn’t have to bolt. He was the prince. He could just say he’d changed his mind, bow out of his participation in the dance.
    â€œBut right here,” she said, cocking her head at the music, “listen for the transition, we could have you loosen up. Maybe we could try that now.”
    Instead of saying he’d changed his mind, he subtly rolled his shoulders and loosened his grip on her hand. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with the hand on her waist, so he flexed his fingers slightly.
    â€œPrince Kiernan, this isn’t a military march.”
    Oh, there were definitely shades of Dragon-heart in that tone!
    He tried again. He used the same method he would use before trying to take a difficult shot with the rifle. He took a deep breath, held it, let it out slowly.
    â€œNo, that’s tighter. I can feel the tension in your hand. Think of something you enjoy doing that makes you feel relaxed. What would that be?”
    â€œReading a book?”
    She sighed as if it was just beginning to occur to her he might, indeed, be her first hopeless case. “Maybe something a bit more physical that you feel relaxed doing.”
    He thought of nothing he could offer—everything he could think of that he did that was physical required control, a certain wide-awake awareness that was not exactly relaxing, though it was not unenjoyable.
    â€œRiding a bicycle!” she suggested enthusiastically. “Yes, picture that, riding your bike down a quiet treelined country lane with thatched roofed cottages and black-and-white cows munching grass in fields, your picnic lunch in your basket.”
    He changed his grip on her hand. If he wasn’t mistakenhis palm was beginning to sweat, he was trying so hard to relax.
    She glanced up at him, reading his silence. “Picnic lunch in the basket of a bicycle is not part of your world, is it?”
    â€œNot really. I’m relaxed on horseback. But then that’s not part of your world.”
    â€œAnd,” she reminded him, a touch crankily, “horses are the reason why you’re in this position in the first place.”
    Again, he felt that odd little shiver about being spoken to like that. It could have been seen as insolent.
    But it wasn’t. Adrian had warned him, after all. But what he couldn’t have warned him was that he would find it somewhat refreshing to have someone just state their opinion so honestly to him, to speak to him so directly.
    â€œIn the pictures of you in the paper,” she went on, “your horses seem absolutely terrifying—wild-eyed and frothy-mouthed.” She shuddered.
    â€œDon’t be fooled by the pictures you see in the papers,” he said. “The press delights in catching me at the worst possible moments. It helps with the villain-of-the-week theme they have going.”
    â€œI think it’s ‘villain-of-the-month’,” she said.
    â€œOr the year.”
    And unexpectedly they enjoyed a little chuckle together.
    â€œSo, you’ve seriously never ridden a bike?”
    â€œOh, sure, I have, but it’s not a favorite pastime. I was probably on my first pony about the same time most children are given their first