‘You’re marrying the girl?’ The man looked closely at Penny-Rose and tried for the jackpot. ‘Will you tell me your name?’

‘As I said, we’re making an announcement on Friday.’ Alastair refused to be drawn further, and Penny-Rose took her cue from him.

What else could it be but an announcement of a marriage? The cameraman knew the conditions of the old prince’s will. All the paparazzi did. It was their business to know.

‘And you’re taking a last fling in Paris before the world catches up with you?’ The photographer was a romantic at heart, and he could see the headlines over his pictures. He took an uneasy glance along the street. The last thing he wanted now was someone else with a camera. He wanted a scoop!

And Alastair was as eager to get off the street as the cameraman now was to have them leave. He hauled out a business card and scribbled something on the back. ‘Here. Ring this number, ask to speak to Dominic and he’ll organise you a free return flight.’

‘You’re kidding!’

‘I’d never kid about something like this.’

The man stared down at the card and his face twisted. And he decided on a bit of honesty himself. ‘You know, this could be just what I need…’

‘I know. But we need another day by ourselves.’

The man hesitated. ‘I won’t be scooped?’

‘Not if you keep your mouth shut for twenty-four hours.’

‘I can do that.’ The photographer grinned, making up his mind. ‘One more day with your lady, your dog and your…’ His grin broadened. ‘Your lingerie.’

With a gasp, Penny-Rose realised what had happened. She’d thrown aside her bags as she’d dived for the dog. She was now sitting among a pile of…

Oh, good grief!

‘Can you edit those out?’ Alastair demanded, glancing around at the wisps of silk. He fished in his wallet. ‘I’ll make it worthwhile.’

‘Nothing would make editing this out worthwhile,’ the man said bluntly. Then, as Alastair signalled for a taxi, he threw in a last question. ‘The dog-I assume it’s a stray?’

‘I imagine he is,’ Penny-Rose said shortly.

‘Are you keeping it?’

A taxi drew to a halt. Alastair helped Penny-Rose to her feet and thankfully she tumbled into the car, still clutching her pup.

‘Just tell me,’ the photographer said, this time more urgently. ‘Are you keeping the dog?’

Alastair was gathering knickers and bras and shopping bags together. They needed to get out of there, fast!

‘Are you keeping it?’ the photographer demanded a third time, and Alastair turned to Rose.

Her face was white and strained. She’d had enough, he knew. These days in unfamiliar territory had taken their toll.

She was so far from home, he thought as he watched her hug the pup. She’d come close to being killed, she was badly shocked, and now… Suddenly he realised he’d never seen anyone look so alone.

She wasn’t alone. She was with him. He needed her-and if he wasn’t careful he’d lose himself a wife!

Were they keeping the dog? She was holding on as if she needed the pathetic little creature more than the pup needed her.

‘Yes,’ Alastair said strongly, and with the same flash of insight that had seen her homesickness, he knew this was the only sensible thing to do. ‘Of course we’re keeping the dog. Why not?’


The cab driver took them to the nearest veterinarian.

‘Not to the animal shelter?’ Penny-Rose asked, and Alastair shook his head. For some reason he was unsure what to say-they were both in unfamiliar territory.

So they stayed silent while the vet clucked over the little dog, cleaned and stitched the gash on his side, examined his leg and told them the pup was starving but the leg itself was just badly bruised.

‘Take him home and give him a light meal-not too much as his stomach won’t be accustomed to big feeds. Look after him well, Madame.’

The vet smiled, speaking in halting English. Normally this man didn’t deign to use English-it was his opinion that foreigners should speak French in France-but there was something about Penny-Rose that made a man want to help all he could. Her halting thanks in French had made him smile. ‘Though I have no need to tell you to take care of him,’ he said gently. ‘I believe you are doing so already.’

Unlike the photographer, he didn’t ask if she intended keeping him. That was assumed.

But she’d been thinking, and there were problems.

‘I don’t think I can take him,’ she faltered as they emerged again to the streets of Paris. She looked up and found Alastair’s eyes gravely watchful. ‘At the end of the year I need to go home. The quarantine between here and Australia takes months.’

‘What’s a few months between friends?’ Alastair smiled. OK, if he was getting committed, he might as well get really committed. To a dog, mind, he told himself hastily. Just to a dog! ‘If there are problems, I’ll look after him when you go.’ He looked down at the disreputable mutt, the pup looked mournfully back and Alastair’s grin broadened. OK. Commitment here didn’t seem too hard. ‘My castle could do with an aristocratic hound as watch dog.’

‘Alastair…’ Penny-Rose caught her breath at the enormity of his offer. She felt like she’d been handed the crown jewels. ‘You’re kidding?’

‘Would I kid about something that means so much?’

She stared up at him, and something caught in her throat. Penny-Rose had never been handed a gift like this in her life. Gifts weren’t something that came in her direction-ever.

With a struggle she kept her voice light, though she felt tears of gratitude welling and it was all she could do to fight them back. ‘An…an aristocratic hound,’ she managed. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘He’ll do.’

She thought about this. ‘As I’ll do for a wife. Make-believe until the real thing comes along.’

‘That’s right.’ He was looking at her strangely, and her insides were kicking-hard.

Someone had to be practical.

Penny-Rose had to be practical! It was the only way if she wasn’t going to sink into the man’s chest and sob.

‘Well, let’s go, then.’ She set her chin with resolution. ‘Take us home. Your temporary wife and your aristocratic hound. You’re getting yourself quite a collection, Alastair de Castaliae.’

‘I believe I am,’ Alastair murmured.

And he didn’t look like a man fighting against the odds one bit.


To her surprise their cab didn’t take them back to Hotel Carlon.

‘I’ve arranged something different,’ Alastair told her as they drove in the opposite direction. ‘While you were trying on knickers, I made a few phone calls and had our bags moved.’ He grinned. ‘Maybe it’s just as well. Something tells me Scruffy will be more comfortable there.’

‘Scruffy…’ She was confused, but recovering. ‘Who are you calling Scruffy?’

‘Not you.’ Alastair’s eyes teased her. ‘Though come to think of it…’ At the look in her eyes he held up his hands in mock defence. ‘No. The pup. Of course I mean the pup. Scruffy.’

‘His name,’ she said with injured dignity, ‘is not Scruffy.’

‘Well, what else would you call him?’

Scruffy! Humph. ‘His name is Leo.’ With her equilibrium almost restored, with it came decisiveness. She raised her eyebrows with aristocratic hauteur, a princess in the making. ‘It means king.’

‘A king.’ He sounded stunned. ‘Like in Leo the lion?’ He looked down at the bandaged, bedraggled mutt in her arms, his lips twitched and he nodded. ‘Oh, right. I see it.’

‘You will.’ She smiled. ‘Just wait until he recovers.’

‘So I have a Leo and a Rose,’ he told her, but he was half talking to himself. ‘What next?’

What next indeed?


What next was introducing her to their hotel, which was pure pleasure. Penny-Rose walked through unassuming street doors and was stunned into silence, but this time it wasn’t grandeur that was taking her breath away. It was loveliness.

The hotel’s two floors were sedate and low. Built in pink-washed stone, the buildings circled a cobbled courtyard. French windows opened out to the garden, and her first impression was the fluttering of soft drapes in the evening air.

And that air was gorgeous! The courtyard was a mass of flowers. Wisteria clung to hundred-year-old vines, there were early roses, delicate pink tulips, soft blue forget-me-nots… And more.

The hotel itself looked almost inconspicuous in the garden setting. Chairs and tables were scattered under the trees, comfortable and inviting. There was a well-used birdbath, a sculpture of a woman drooping over a fishpond; there was the gurgle of running water behind…

This was just fabulous, Penny-Rose decided, and when Alastair showed her to her room-no porters here-it was even better. Her bedroom was simplicity itself, its major adornment being the window-framed courtyard. There was crisp white linen, fluffy white towels, a bath with no fancy gadgets at all, mounds and mounds of pillows and…

A dog basket!

She looked an astonished question at Alastair. How had he managed this?

‘I told Madame what our problem was,’ he told her. ‘She moves fast. Someone will be here any minute with minced steak for Leo.’

‘Oh, Alastair…’ She found herself suddenly close to tears again. Drat the man. She didn’t give way to emotion-she never gave way to emotion-and here he was unsettling her as no one else could.

As usual, when things got too much for her she resorted to practical matters. Or tried to. ‘Thank you,’ she said simply. ‘But…’ She glanced at her watch. It was well past eight and even her own stomach was rumbling. ‘How…how can we eat?’

‘We’re in the middle of the best eating district in Paris. We can eat any time we want.’

She bit her lip. He’d done so much already, and this was hard. ‘I mean… I can’t leave Leo.’

‘Now, how did I know you’d say that?’ He smiled down at her, that heart-stopping smile that made her insides do somersaults. ‘No problem. While you feed Leo I’ll make a foray out into the big, bad world and bring us back food. We can eat in the courtyard.’