She was a great watchdog, Pippa thought fondly, and then she thought: Max has done this.

But if he thinks he can seduce me…

Wrong word, she thought, suddenly confused. It was a dopey word. It should have been if he thinks he can influence me with money…

The seduce word stayed in her mind, though, refusing to be banished.

Marc had been setting the table-with their best crockery, she noted with astonishment. When he saw Pippa alone in the doorway his face drooped in disappointment.

‘He’s gone.’

‘He’s coming after me. He’s sluicing the dairy.’

The droop turned into a grin. He laid cutlery at the head of the table-a position they never used. ‘Have a shower and put something pretty on,’ he told her.

‘I don’t have something pretty.’

‘Yes, you do. The stuff you wear to church.’

‘The pink cardigan,’ Sophie volunteered.

‘It’s a bit old,’ Claire added. ‘But it’s still pretty.’

But he’s dangerous, she thought.

But she didn’t say it. She couldn’t. She was being ridiculous.

She was the children’s legal guardian. Max had no rights at all where they were concerned.

And he had no right to make her feel that he was…dangerous…where she was concerned.

She showered, and in deference to the kids’ decree she donned her church clothes-a neat black skirt and a pretty pink twin-set. It was a bit priggish, she thought, staring into the mirror, but it was the best she had, and she wasn’t out to impress Max.

But she did shampoo her hair and blow-dry her curls, brushing until they shone. She did apply just a little powder and lipstick. But that was all.

She turned from her reflection with a rueful grimace. Once upon a time she and Gina had spent hour upon giggly hour getting ready for special evenings. Now Gina was dead and the only cosmetics Pippa possessed were a compact for a shiny nose and a worn lipstick. And the only good outfit she had was her church gear.

Enough. She stuck her tongue out at her reflection. She headed back to the kitchen, but paused before she entered. There was the sound of kids giggling and Max’s deep voice talking to them.

On impulse she deviated to the office.

The office was a bit of a misnomer. It was a tiny space enclosed at the end of the veranda. Pippa stored the farm paperwork here, and she had an ancient computer with dial-up internet connection-as long as the phone lines weren’t down. They weren’t. She typed in Alp d’Estella and found out what it had to say.

Of the group of four alpine nations-Alp Quattro-in southern Europe, Alp d’Estella is the largest. The four countries depend heavily on tourists; and indeed each country has stunning scenery. Alp d’Estella is known throughout the world for its magnificent shoe trade. Alp d’Estella’s skilled tradesmen supply exquisitely made handmade shoes to the catwalks of London, Paris, New York and Rome.

Politically, however, there is trouble in paradise. Each of the Alp Quattro countries is a Principality and their constitutions leave absolute power in the hands of the Crown Prince. Alp d’ Azuri, a neighbouring country, has with the help of the current Crown Prince, moved to revoke these powers and is now seen as politically stable. Alp d’Estella, however, is a country in crisis.

The death of the Crown Prince a month ago with no clear successor has left the country more corrupt than when the Prince was alive. Prince Bernard led a puppet government which, if no one claims the throne, will become the de-facto government. Poverty is widespread, as is corruption. The nation’s only industries are being taxed to the hilt and are now threatened with bankruptcy. The succession must be sorted, and sorted quickly, in order to restore order.

This was why Max was here. To organise the succession.

To an eight-year-old.

What did Marc know about running a country?

Nothing. It was ridiculous. But there was no time to discover more.

She took a deep breath, disconnected and went to tell Max how ridiculous it was.

CHAPTER FOUR

PIPPA couldn’t tell Max anything for a while, for the children had decreed tonight a party.

Pippa could hardly believe the transformation. They’d all just recovered from world’s worst cold virus, with Marc sickest of all. The last few weeks had been dank and miserable. Cold seemed to have seeped into their bones, but now she couldn’t hear so much as a residual cough. With the warmth and with the wonderful food-and maybe with the excitement of Max’s visit?-they’d found a new lease of life. The twins had put on their best dresses. They’d tied a huge red bow around Dolores’ neck-she looked very festive fast asleep by the stove. And, from a sad, coughing little boy, Marc was transformed into master of ceremonies, bossing everyone.

‘Give Mr de Gautier red lemonade,’ he ordered Pippa when they sat down to eat, and when Pippa didn’t move fast enough he sighed and started pouring himself.

‘He’s bought wine,’ Pippa said mildly, but the children stared at her as if she had to be joking-wine when there was red lemonade?-and Max accepted his red lemonade with every semblance of pleasure and raised a glass in crimson toast.

‘You see what it’s like?’ Pippa demanded, smiling and raising her glass in turn. ‘I try to be in charge…’

‘Pippa’s no good at being bossy,’ Marc told Max, and Max grinned.

‘She was pretty non-bossy in the dairy. I’m thinking she’s more an opera singer than a dairy maid.’

The operatic singer blushed crimson. ‘There’s no need…’

‘Now, don’t defend yourself,’ he said, ladling pie onto the twins’ plates. ‘There’s no need. It was truly marvellous singing. It’s a wonder the milk didn’t turn to curds and whey all by itself.’

‘You…’

‘What?’

She stared at him. He kept right on smiling and she kept right on staring. The table stilled around them.

‘Would you like some pie?’ he asked gently and she gasped and reached for the pie dish with her bare hands. Which was dumb. There was a dish cloth lying ready but she hadn’t used it. The pie dish was very hot. She yelped.

He was up in a flash, tugging her chair back. Propelling her to the sink.

‘I’m fine,’ she managed, but he had her hands under the tap and it was already running cold.

‘I hardly touched it.’

‘You yelped.’ His hands were holding hers under the water, brooking no opposition.

‘I did not yelp.’

‘You did so,’ Marc volunteered from behind them. ‘Are you burned?’

‘Do you need a bandage?’ Claire demanded, then slipped off her chair and headed for the bathroom without waiting for a response. ‘You always need a bandage,’ she said wisely.

‘I hardly touched it,’ she said again, and Max lifted her fingers from the water and inspected them one by one. There was a faint red line on one hand, following the curve of her fingers.

‘Ouch?’ he said gently and he smiled.

There was that smile. Only it changed every time he used it, she thought. He was like a chameleon, fitting to her moods. Using his smile to make her insides do strange things. She looked up at him, helpless, and Sophie sighed dramatically in the face of adult stupidity and handed her the dishcloth.

‘Dry your hands,’ she said and edged Max away. ‘We don’t need bandages,’ she called to her twin. ‘There’s no blood. You’ll be all right, won’t you?’ she told Pippa. ‘There’s chocolate ice cream for dessert.’

‘You guys are amazing,’ Max said. ‘You take it in turns to play boss.’

‘It works for us.’ Pippa tugged her hands away-which took some doing-and returned to her place at the table with what she hoped was a semblance of dignity. ‘Everything’s fine.’

But everything wasn’t fine. Everything was…odd. Max was still smiling as he ladled her pie without being asked.

Her insides felt funny.

It was hunger, she told herself.

She knew it was no such thing.

The rest of dinner passed uneventfully, which was just as well for Pippa’s state of mind. She ate in silence. The children chattered to Max, excited by the food, the festive occasion and the fact that this big stranger seemed interested in everything they said. He seemed really nice, she thought, but she tried to keep her attention solidly on food.

‘I need to put the kids to bed,’ she said when the last of the chocolate ice cream had been demolished. ‘Don’t wash up until I get back.’

‘I’m helping Max wash up,’ Marc said and Pippa practically gaped.

‘You’re offering?’

‘If Max can do dishes then I can.’

She gazed at him, doubtfully-this little boy who was growing to be a man.

She knew nothing of raising boys, she thought. She knew nothing of…men. She had nothing to do with them. There was not a single inch of room in her life for anything approaching romance.

Romance? Where had that thought come from?

From right here, she told herself as she ordered the twins to bed. For some dumb reason she was really attracted to Max.

Well, any woman would be, she told herself. It’s not such a stupid idea. He’s connected to royalty, he has a yummy accent and he’s drop-dead gorgeous.

So you’re not dumb thinking he’s attractive. You’re just dumb thinking anything could come of it.

Dumb or not, she read the twins a really long book and tucked them in with extra cuddles. She called Marc and did the same for him. When she finally finished, Max was in the living room, ensconced in an armchair by the fire, with Dolores draped over his feet.

Pippa had hardly been in this room since summer. It was cold and unwelcoming and slightly damp. Now however the fire had been roaring in the firestove for hours. Max was cooking crumpets on a toasting fork. He’d loaded a side-table with plates and butter and three types of jam. The whole scene was so domestic it made Pippa blink.