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Her smile faltered and faded. Annoyed by his lack of reaction, she decided he would be the one to make the effort next time.

She took in her surroundings. The air-conditioned leather-lined space of the SUV was vast with a lot of legroom but a continent might have separated them rather than a few feet for all the attention Leandro paid her after he tuned her out.

It wasn’t that she wanted a conversation, and she could admire people who had focus, but this was plain rude, she decided. His dark head was bent, his eyes never left the screen of his laptop, while her eyes never strayed far from his profile. And although she made a pretence of looking out of the window at the passing scenery, such as it was, a few turbines at a standstill edging the motorway, her gaze was drawn, like iron filings to a magnet, to the man she was to marry.

Marry? she thought, repeating the word in her head as though it had no meaning. It didn’t, not in this context. Surreal didn’t really cover the twists in her life over the past days. She calmed her racing pulse by reminding herself that she could still walk away. Except, of course, short of a miracle, she couldn’t.

The best thing was not to think too far ahead, just live in the present on a moment-by-moment basis.

You mean bury your head in the sand, mocked the voice in her head.

Actually, that seemed like a good plan and a lot more constructive than allowing her fears to take hold. Leave the nightmares for the darkness. Her dreams during the small snatches of sleep she’d managed the previous two nights had involved her bolting at the altar, her dress falling off along the way and people pointing while her actions were digitally beamed around the world.

The alternative doom mode nightmare had involved some faceless person standing up at the appropriate part of the ceremony and revealing her as a fake, the bride who couldn’t produce any royal heirs.

After that nightmare she had woken with the ache of loss and reminded herself as she’d dabbed the salty moisture on her face that she was not even slightly maternal.

This would work out—she would make it work, she told herself sternly.

‘Why are you pouting?’

Elsie blinked and found her glance connecting with a pair of silver-flecked dark eyes. His extravagant sooty eyelashes cast shadows that highlighted the jutting prominence of his razor-edged cheekbones. His face was the stuff fantasies were made of.

Not mine, she reminded herself firmly. He could have had you on the damned dining table, mocked the voice in her head.

She eliminated the image in her head of nakedness and white linen. ‘I am not pouting.’

He sighed because it was true now but, even compressed in a disapproving line, her full lips looked cushiony soft and tempting, which was one of the reasons he had not looked up from the screen, pretending an interest he did not have in the lines of figures since she had slid in beside him.

He was aware that his reaction was perverse, granted the above-knee skirt riding up slightly as she’d negotiated the transfer would have distracted most males with a pulse, but there was nothing provocative about it, or the silk blouse and boxy jacket.

Even her rather magnificent hair was tied back, secured at her nape in a glossy loop that drew attention to the graceful length of her neck.

Yet Leandro found himself provoked by the tasteful and conservative ensemble, or at least the woman wearing it. She had pushed herself into a corner as far away from him as possible, but he could still smell her shampoo and feel the warmth coming off her body.

It was her stare that made him realise he was drumming his fingers on the laptop case. He stopped, but she carried on staring.

‘I do not enjoy childish sulks and—’ He broke off as a series of firework explosions overhead echoed the reflections of bright lights illuminating the interior.

Elsie flinched.

‘This thing is bulletproof.’

Was that meant to be comforting? she wondered.

‘I’m not keen on fireworks. I wasn’t worried about being shot at…’ She scanned his face. ‘Should I be?’

‘Not at all…’

His glib response brought a furrow to her brow and her mouth twisted as she pushed out a sarcastic, ‘Why aren’t I reassured?’

‘I don’t get why you need to be reassured. Aren’t you the same woman who drives animals across borders? I would have thought that requires nerves of steel.’

‘Right now, I’m channeling my inner scared-of-a-firework wimpy woman. And, for the record, it’s not dangerous,’ she scoffed, sensing an underlying disapproval which, coming from someone who seemed to relax by courting danger, be it by throwing himself out of planes or swimming in shark-infested waters, struck her as pretty hypocritical. ‘I don’t get paid to enter war zones. It’s not part of the job description.’

‘You don’t get paid, full stop.’

It looked like she was not the only one who’d been doing their research although, unlike her, she was pretty sure he delegated such tasks.