Now he stared upward, and it was as much as he could do not to gasp out loud.

Tamsin was slim and wiry and…tough, he decided. Or maybe ‘serviceable’ was the best way to describe her. She was dressed in workmanlike khaki overalls and ancient leather boots. The boots were the closest thing to him, swinging back and forth above his head. They were battered and torn, and the laces had been repaired with knot after knot.

What else? She was young and obviously superbly fit. Her riot of jet-black curls was caught back with a piece of twine. Curls spread out to tangle glossily around her shoulders. They looked as if they hadn’t seen a brush for a week. Though that might be unfair. If he was hanging where she was maybe his hair would look tousled as well.

He forced his gaze to move on, assessing the whole package. Her skin was tanned and clear…weathered, almost. Wide, clear eyes gazed calmly down at him and he found himself wondering what colour they were. Brown, like her sister’s? He couldn’t tell from here.

But what he could see was a perfect likeness of Lara. Hell, even the similarity made his gut clench in anger.

The detective had been right. This was the Tamsin Dexter he’d been looking for. He’d found her.

‘Can I help you?’ She was looking down at them as if they were the odd ones out-which, considering their clothes, wasn’t surprising. She was still swinging from her harness, reluctant to come down unless it was really necessary.

It was necessary.

‘I need you,’ he told her.

‘Why?’

‘You’re Tamsin Dexter?’

‘Yep.’ Still she made no sign of descent. Her attitude said she had work to do and they were interfering with it.

‘Miss Dexter, this is His Royal Highness, Marc, Prince Regent of Broitenburg,’ Charles interrupted, tugging his collar in anxiety. He wasn’t comfortable in this situation and it showed. ‘Could you please come down?’