‘Aren’t you supposed to rinse off the suds?’

‘You’re criticising my washing? I’m more than happy to let you do both.’

‘I’m more than happy to do both.’

She paused. She set down her dishcloth and turned to face him, wiping her sudsy hands on the sides of her shorts.

She looked anxious again. And territorial.

And really, really cute.

‘Why the limp?’ he asked and she glanced at him as if he was intruding where he wasn’t wanted.

‘It’s hardly a limp. I’m fine. Next question?’

‘Where’s Mr Murdoch?’ he asked, and her face grew another emotion.

‘What?’ she said dangerously.

Uh-oh. But he couldn’t take the question back. It hung between them, waiting for an answer.

‘My researchers said Zoe’s nanny was a Mrs Elsa Murdoch.’

‘Ms,’ she said and glared.

‘So never a Mrs?’

‘What’s that to do with the price of eggs?’

‘It’s merely a polite question.’

‘Polite. Okay.’ She even managed a…polite…smile. ‘So where’s your Princess?’

‘Sorry?’

‘I’m Mrs so there has to be a Mr. I believe I’m simply reversing your question. Is there a matching Princess?’

‘Why would you want to know that?’

‘Exactly,’ she said, and smiled-a smile that confounded him as she turned back to her washing. Only there was nothing left to wash. She let the water out and wiped the sink with care. She waited for him to dry the last glass, then wiped his part of the sink as well, as if it was vital that not a speck of anything remained.

This woman confounded him-but he had to focus on their future. He must.

‘Zoe’s needed back on Khryseis,’ he said, and Elsa’s hand stilled mid-wipe. She couldn’t disguise the fear sweeping over her face.

‘She stays here.’

‘I believe I’m her nearest living relative,’ he said mildly. ‘As such I can challenge your guardianship.’