all in common with the sturdy knickers she was wearing-except maybe two holes for legs.
‘I can’t buy these!’
Alastair’s grin faded. ‘You can.’ He took her hand, imbuing her with the gravity of the occasion. Only his still- lurking glimmer belied his serious tone. ‘And you must. The servants will be doing your washing, and they’ll expect quality.’ His grin returned in full and she stared at him in confusion. The rat-he was enjoying this! ‘Remember,’ he told her, ‘this marriage has to appear real.’
Somehow she found her voice. ‘Your wife would wear things like these?’
He nodded, with no hesitation at all. ‘Of course she would.’ He motioned to a flagrantly indecent set of bra and panties on a flagrantly indecent model, and his laughter became more pronounced. ‘My wife would especially wear those.’
‘Oh, yeah, I can see Belle in those!’
His smile faded again, but this time the fading was for real. He hadn’t been thinking of Belle, she realised as she watched his face. The rat had actually been thinking of her!
This was crazy. The whole situation was absurd!
‘So I’m buying these to keep up appearances with the laundress?’ she asked carefully.
‘That’s right.’
‘Does the laundress have any colour preference?’
He pointed to the bra and pantie set-bright crimson. ‘I bet bright crimson would work a treat.’
‘On the laundress.’ She glowered.
He assumed an air of injured innocence. ‘Who else could I be thinking of?’
‘Right.’ Her glower intensified. ‘Well, if this is just between me and the laundress, you can take yourself off while I make my purchases.’
‘Hey…’
‘This is between me and the laundress and the shop assistant,’ she said firmly. ‘Back in your box, mister.’
‘That’s no way to talk to a prince.’
‘A princess can talk any way she wants. And you want a virtuous bride. Virtuous brides wouldn’t be seen dead in a shop like this, especially with their prince-and especially before they’re married.’
He thought that one through and didn’t like it. ‘That’s not playing fair.’
‘Who’s playing?’
Their eyes locked.
And suddenly the question was very, very real.
Who was playing? Who could tell?
The scary part was that somewhere in that over-the-top place Penny-Rose finally started to enjoy herself. With Alastair firmly left outside, she let the sales assistant have her head and she tried on set after set of the most gorgeous lingerie she’d ever seen in her life.
And standing in front of the three-way mirror she started to get an inkling of how Cinderella must have felt.
‘It’s an out-of-body experience,’ she told herself, looking at her trim body clothed only in a wisp of lace that could well have been cut-with cloth left over-from a very small handkerchief. She grinned. ‘Or an only-just-in-body experience. I guess when this is all done I can donate these to charity.’
Charity would have a fit, she decided, and it was with a chuckle and arms full of packages that she emerged to the street to find her waiting prince.
But her prince wasn’t where she’d left him. She searched the street, and found…
A dog. A pup…
The pup was some sort of terrier, knee high, wire-haired and fawn and white. Or he might once have been fawn and white. Now his fur was matted and filthy, and a deep, jagged wound stretched along most of his side. One leg was carried high, his shaggy ears drooped and his eyes were dull with misery.
It was the end of a Paris business day. The boulevard was crowded, with legs going everywhere. Even though Paris was a city of dog lovers, in this crowd one small dog didn’t stand a chance of being noticed. Except by Penny-Rose, who was feeling bereft herself and was searching for Alastair.
She saw the dog first. As she emerged from the shop and saw him, the small creature was pushed too close to the road, and she realised how he’d got that wound. He was headed that way again.
‘No!’ With a cry of dismay she dropped her parcels and darted forward. She was too late to stop the dog being pushed onto the road, but that didn’t stop her from diving after him. There was a screech of brakes, and the next moment she was crouched in the gutter, her arms were full of dog and her eyes were reflecting his pain.
‘Oh, no…’
Alastair had been waiting with the patience of a saint-sort of. He’d been across the road, window-shopping and desperately trying not to think of what his intended wife was doing. He hadn’t succeeded. For some reason, all he could think of was his bride wearing that lingerie…
So he hadn’t noticed the dog through the mass of legs across the street, and the first thing he saw was Rose diving head first into the crazy Parisian traffic.
Hell! What on earth…? His heart hit his mouth. He lunged across the road, ignoring braking cars. Reaching the gutter where she knelt, he looked down in consternation.
What was wrong? Had she been hit?
‘Are you…’ His voice was a cracked whisper as he stooped urgently toward her. ‘Rose, are you OK?’
‘Yes.’ She didn’t even look up.
His breath came out in a long rush. Dear God…
‘What…what on earth are you doing?’
‘It’s a dog,’ she said, as if he were stupid. But he wasn’t. After that heart-stopping moment when he thought she’d been hit, his brain was starting to function again. A taxi veered toward them, and before she knew what he was about, she was bodily lifted and carried back toward the shops.
‘You’ll get yourself killed!’ Alastair had been badly shaken and it showed. ‘Are you crazy?’
But Penny-Rose wasn’t noticing, not even when he carried her across the pavement to the safety of the shop doorway. She had eyes only for the dog she carried. Alastair set her down, and her fingers kept probing, parting matted fur so she could see the damage.
What was wrong with him?
The dog lay limp and unresisting in her arms, past caring. Alastair knelt beside her, and watched woman and dog together. He felt as if all the breath had been knocked out of him.
‘Let me see.’
‘He’s…he’s injured.’ She opened her arms so Alastair could see the state of her small burden, and it was all Alastair could do not to wince at the sight.
‘Hell!’
Penny-Rose wasn’t listening. Pedestrians were having to detour around her, but she didn’t notice. She sat with her back against the door of the lingerie shop, and her whole attention was on one small dog.
‘It’s OK,’ she comforted him. ‘It’s OK, little one. You’re fine now.’
Only he wasn’t fine. He needed a vet.
‘Alastair…’
He was way in front. ‘Paris is a dog-loving city,’ he said, kneeling beside her. He knew without being asked that she’d never abandon this mutt-and in truth he felt the same himself. The dog was gazing at him now, and there was something about those huge brown, pain-filled eyes… ‘There are organisations who take in strays, and there are veterinary surgeons everywhere. I’ll call a taxi and we’ll take him to the closest.’
She breathed a long sigh. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected-she knew this man so little-but all she knew now was that he hadn’t reacted like her father.
Her father would have taken one look at the dog-and one look at his daughter’s concerned face-and fetched his gun.
But Alastair was different! His first thought hadn’t been how best to be rid of the problem and how to hurt her in the process, but how best they could help the dog.
