A Royal Masquerade. Arlene James

next to the cart. He shifted as she strode past him and shot out a hand, clamping it around her wrist.

      “When will I see you again?” he asked softly.

      She stared at his hand, stunned by the weight and heat of it, only belatedly realizing that his grip was gentle, unthreatening. Carefully, she rotated her wrist, freeing it. “I really couldn’t say,” she murmured, and swept from the room. She didn’t slow down until she had cleared the tunneled archway through which she had entered the stables.

      What a disturbing man he was, disturbing but compelling. And real. Perhaps more real than anyone she’d ever known before. How odd that was, to feel as if life was somehow more vibrant, more intense in him. He made her feel as if she had been hibernating, living half-awake. What he had done with that horse! She shivered and remembered the unsettling warmth of his hand. If she was wise, she would steer clear of Rollie Thomas. But for the first time in a very, very long time, she wasn’t sure that the wisest course was the course she was going to take.