Книга - Prince of Montéz, Pregnant Mistress

Prince of Montéz, Pregnant Mistress
Sabrina Philips


Pregnant – by royal decree! It’s the night of a most glamorous art auction in London, and Cally Greenway is due to win the restoration commission of her dreams… Until the paintings sell to an unknown bidder and, devastated and dashed, uncharacteristically Cally finds solace in the arms of a handsome yet ruthless stranger… The very same man who bought her precious paintings – the Prince of Montéz!Leon summons Cally by royal decree – His Majesty wants a mistress: biddable, pleasurable…and pregnant?







‘See something you recognise?’

A voice which made her eyes fly open, every hair on the back of her neck stand on end and every thought fly from her mind. Every thought except one.

Leon.

Stop it, she scolded herself. The Prince of Montez is French. Of course he’s going to sound a little like him. She really did need to get out more if that one meaningless episode had the power to make her lose all grip on reality. She turned sharply to face him.

And the sight before her almost made her keel over.

Her imagination hadn’t been playing a trick on her at all. It was him. Irritatingly perfect him, his impressive physique all the more striking in a formal navy suit. Her mind went into overdrive as she attempted to make sense of what was happening. But as she stared at his wry expression she suddenly understood that this was no coincidence.


Sabrina Philips first discovered Mills & Boon© one Saturday afternoon in her early teens at her first job in a charity shop. Sorting through a stack of pre-loved books, she came across a cover which featured a glamorous heroine and a tall, dark, handsome hero. She started reading under the counter that instant—and has never looked back!

A lover of both reading and writing since childhood, Sabrina went on to study English with Classics at Reading University. She adores all literature, but finds there’s nothing else quite like the indulgent thrill of a Modern ™ Romance—preferably whilst lying in a hot bath with no distractions!

She grew up in Guildford, Surrey, where she now lives with her husband—who swept her off her feet when they were both just sixteen. When Sabrina isn’t spending time with her family or writing, she works as a coordinator of civil marriages, which she describes as a fantastic source of romantic inspiration and a great deal of fun.

A decade after reading her very first Mills & Boon


, Sabrina is delighted to join as an author herself, and have the opportunity to create infuriatingly sexy heroes of her own, which she defies both her heroines—and her readers—to resist! Visit Sabrina’s website: www.sabrinaphilips.com




Recent titles by the same author:


VALENTI’S ONE-MONTH MISTRESS

THE DESERT KING’S BEJEWELLED BRIDE




PRINCE OF

NONTEZ,

PREGNANT

MISTRESS

BY

SABRINA PHILIPS











www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/)


With thanks to Penny,

for her art expertise and her much-valued friendship.

And to Phil,

whose enduring patience continues to astound me.




Chapter One


HER heart was beating so loudly in her chest that Cally Greenway was convinced the whole auction room could hear it. Drawing in a deep breath, she uncrossed then recrossed her legs for the umpteenth time and tried to dismiss it as a flurry of anticipation.

After all, tonight was the night she had been waiting for. She looked at her watch. In less than ten minutes, the dream she’d worked so hard for would finally be a reality.

So why did it feel like her whole body was going into meltdown?

Cally closed her eyes and trawled her mind for a legitimate explanation as the penultimate lot, a heavily sought-after Monet, reached astronomical heights. Yes, that was it. She might be a restorer of art, but the art world—epitomised by nights like this, where beauty and expression became about money and possession—left her feeling out of her depth. She didn’t belong at Crawford’s auction house at the most prestigious art auction in their calendar, she belonged in overalls in her studio.

That was why she couldn’t concentrate, she argued inwardly as she tried to encourage the hem of the silky black dress she’d borrowed from her sister back towardsher knee. It absolutely, categorically, had nothing to do with the fact that he was here.

Cally castigated herself for even having noticed him arrive, let alone entertaining the idea that he had anything to do with the physical symptoms that were assailing her. There was no way any man could have that kind of effect on her, least of all one she’d never met before.

Well, technically. She had seen him once before, when she’d attended the sale preview two days ago, but she hadn’t actually met him. ‘Met’ implied that there had been some interaction between them, which of course there hadn’t been. He was classically handsome, and the expensive cut of his clothes—along with his very presence at an event like this—suggested he was filthy rich. He probably had some meaningless title like ‘duke’, or ‘count’, which altogether added up to him being the kind of man who wouldn’t give a woman like her a second glance. Which was absolutely fine, because she had no desire to meet someone that arrogant and conceited anyway. One man like that had been enough to last her a lifetime; she had no desire to meet another.

So why was it she hadn’t been able to drive the intensity of his deep blue eyes from her thoughts, ever since she’d walked into that sale room and had seen him standing there like Michelangelo’s famous statue come to life? And why was it taking all her willpower not to steal another glance over her shoulder to the second row in the back right-hand corner of the room? Not that she had plotted the layout on an imaginary piece of graph paper and knew his exact coordinates, or anything. Why would she? Because every time you look round he slants you an irresistible, one-sided smile which sends the most extraordinary shiver down your spine? an unfamiliar and thoroughly unwelcome voice inside her replied, but immediately she silenced it.

‘And finally we come to lot fifty. A pair of paintings by the nineteenth-century master Jacques Rénard, entitled Mon Amour par la Mer from the estate of the late Hector Wolsey. Whilst the paintings are in need of some specialist restoration in order to return them to their original glory, they are undoubtedly the two most iconic pieces Rénard ever painted.’

Cally drew in a deep breath as the auctioneer’s words confirmed that the moment she had been waiting for was finally here. She closed her eyes again, trying to visualise the air travelling up her nostrils and blowing her errant thoughts aside. When she opened them, the wall panel to the right of the bespectacled auctioneer was rotating in a spectacular one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn to reveal the stunning paintings, and the breath caught in her throat in awe.

She remembered the first time she’d ever seen them, or rather a print of them. Not long after she’d started secondary school, her art teacher, Mrs McLellan, had held them up as an example of how Rénard dared to push the boundaries set by his contemporaries by having a real woman as his subject rather than a goddess. The rest of the class had been lost in a fit of giggles; between the two paintings, Rénard’s Love by the Sea went from fully clothed to completely naked. But for Cally it had been a defining moment in her life. To her the pictures spoke of beauty and truth, of the two sides of every story—of herself. From that moment on, she had known unequivocally that her future lay in art. A certainty matched only by her horror when she had discovered that the original paintings were shut away on the country estate of a pompous aristocrat getting damp and gathering cigar smoke, rather than being on public display for everyone to enjoy.

Until now. Because now they were owned by Hector Wolsey junior, whose horse-racing habit had caused him to demand that Crawford’s auction house sell his late father’s paintings immediately, before they’d even had the chance to say ‘in-house restoration team’. Which meant the London City Gallery had been frantically trying to raise enough money to buy them, and had been lining up a specialist conservator to undo the years of damage. To Cally’s delight, her enthusiasm, impressive CV and her expert knowledge on Rénard had eventually convinced the gallery team that she was the right person for the job. The job she had wanted for as long as she could remember, and the break in her career she desperately needed.

Cally glanced around the room as the bids took off, starting reassuringly with Gina, the gallery’s agent, who was seated just along from her. There was a low hubbub of hushed, excited voices in every row of seats. Telephonists packed around the edges of the room were shaking their heads and relaying bids to eager collectors the world over. Within seconds, the bids exceeded the estimate in the sale catalogue, so much so that Cally was tempted to use her own catalogue as a makeshift fan to combat her soaring temperature—but she refrained, partly because she was rooted to her seat in anticipation, and partly in fear that it might inadvertently be taken for a bid. The moment was tense enough.

Unless you were Mr Drop-dead Gorgeous, Cally observed, her pulse reaching an unprecedented pace as she stole another look in his direction and caught him leaning back with a casual expression, his body utterly at ease beneath the blue-grey suit. She could do with a bit of that—composure, that was. Because, whilst she saw Gina raise her hand in between every figure the auctioneer repeated at speed, it did little to ease her nerves. Even if the gallery had promised her it was a dead cert.

But no doubt that was what Wolsley’s son said about the races, she thought, caught between recalling the dangers of trusting anything too blindly and willing herself to relax. No, however convinced the gallery team had been that they had secured enough funds, the only time you could truly relax in a situation like this was if you had nothing riding on it—as he clearly didn’t, she justified to herself. So what was he doing here when he hadn’t bid on any of the previous eleven paintings since he’d entered the room at lot thirty-eight? Just as Cally was about to make a list of possibilities in her mind, something happened.

‘That’s an increase of—wait—ten million on the phones,’ the auctioneer said uncharacteristically slowly, taking off his glasses in astonishment as he looked from the gallery of telephonists back to the floor. ‘That’s seventy million against you, madam. Do I have seventy-one?’

The rest of the auction room went ominously still. Cally felt her heart thump madly in her chest and her stomach begin to churn. Who the hell were they bidding against? According to the gallery team every serious collector with their eye on the Rénards should have been sitting in this room. Gina’s horrified expression said it all. Cally watched on tenterhooks as she looked discomposedly at the paperwork in her lap. Eventually, Gina inclined her head.

‘Seventy-one million,’ the auctioneer acknowledged, replacing his spectacles and looking back to the phones. ‘Do I have seventy-two? Yes.’ He moved his head back and forth like a tennis umpire. ‘There, do I have seventy-three?’

Gina gave a single, reluctant nod. ‘Any advance on seventy-three?’ He looked up to the gallery.

‘We have eighty on the phones.’

Eighty?

‘Any takers at eighty-one?’

Nothing. Cally squeezed her eyes tightly shut.

‘Last chance at eighty-one—no?’

Cally stared helplessly at Gina, who shook her head apologetically.

‘Closing then, at eighty million pounds.’

The sound of the hammer, and the auctioneer’s cry of ‘Sold,’ echoed through her body like a seismic tremor.

The London City Gallery had lost the Rénards.

Horror ripped through her gut. The paintings she loved were to be shipped off to God knew where. Her hopes of restoring them were dead, and the door to the career she’d been on the cusp of walking through slammed in her face. The wall panel revolved another one hundred and eighty degrees and the paintings disappeared.

There was no such thing as a dead cert. It was over.

As the people began to gather their things and make their way out into the anonymity of the London streets, Cally remained in her chair, staring blindly at the empty wall. She didn’t see the way that Mr Drop-dead Gorgeous lingered behind, and barely even noticed Gina’s whispered apology as she crept away. She understood; the gallery’s funds were not limitless. Even if they could have raised enough retrospectively, they had to weigh up their expenditure against the draw of the public. At a few million over the estimate, the paintings were such a prolific attraction they’d considered them still worthwhile. But almost double? She knew Gina had been taking a risk to go as high as she’d gone.

So, someone else had wanted the Rénards more. Who? The thought snapped her out of her paralysis. Surely whichever gallery it was planned to get someone to restore them? She knew it broke every unwritten rule of auction-room decorum there was, but suddenly finding out was her only hope. Launching herself from her seat, she rushed over to the back of the room where the row of telephonists was filing away.

‘Please,’ she cried out to the man who had taken the call. ‘Tell me who bought the Rénards.’

He stopped and turned to look at her along with several of his colleagues, their faces a mixture of curiosity and censure.

‘I do not know, madam. It is strictly confidential between the buyer and the cashier.’

Cally stared at him in desperation.

The telephonist shook his head. ‘He said only that he was bidding on behalf of a private collector.’

Cally stumbled backwards and sat down in one of the empty chairs, resting her head in her hands and fighting back her tears. A private collector. The thought made her blood boil. The chances were they would never be seen by anyone again until he died of over-excess.

She shook her head. For the first time since David she’d actually dared to believe her life was going somewhere. But her only ticket out had just been torn into a million pieces. Which left her with what? A night in the cheapest London hotel she’d been able to find, and then back to the cramped town house-cum-studio in Cambridge. Another year of sporadic restorations which would barely cover her mortgage, because on the rare occasions a career-altering piece like this came up it only ever seemed to matter who you knew and never what you knew.

‘You look like you could use a drink.’

The accented voice was French, and to her surprise it sent an even more disturbing tremor through her body than the sound of the auctioneer’s hammer. Perhaps because she knew immediately who the voice belonged to. Though she had told herself that if he came near the alarming effect he had on her would inevitably diminish, the reality was that it seemed to double in strength. She ran her hands through her hair as if she’d really just been fixing it all along and turned around to face him.

‘I’m fine, thank you.’

Fine? Cally laughed inwardly at her own words. Even if she’d been asked to restore every painting in the auction she doubted it would have been possible to describe her mental state as ‘fine’, with all six-foot-two-inches of him stood before her, filling her body with sensations she barely even recognised and which she certainly had no desire to confront.

‘I’m not convinced,’ he said, looking at her altogether too closely.

‘And who are you, Crawford’s post-auction psychologist?’ Cally replied, unnerved by his scrutiny. ‘Brought in during the final ten lots ready to mop up the disappointed punters after the show?’

A wry and thoroughly disarming smile crossed his lips. ‘So you did notice me as soon as I walked in.’

‘You didn’t answer my question,’ Cally retorted, colouring.

‘So I didn’t.’

Cally scowled. There was only one thing she hated more than people who oozed wealth, and that was people who were selective with the truth. She picked up her handbag and zipped it shut.

‘Thank you for your concern, but I have to get back to my hotel.’ She turned to walk towards the open doors at the back of the room.

‘I’m not,’ he countered. ‘A psychologist, that is.’

She turned, no doubt just as he’d known she would. It was arrogant, but at least it was honest. ‘Then who are you?’

‘I’m Leon,’ he replied, stepping forward and extending his hand.

‘And?’

‘I’m here in connection with my university.’

So, he was a uni lecturer? Her first and utterly shameful thought was that she should have done her degree in France. The art professors she’d known had all been pushing sixty, and had looked like they hadn’t seen a razor, and smelled like they hadn’t used a can of deodorant, for just as long. Her second was pure astonishment; he seemed to exude too much wealth and sophistication. But then all Frenchmen were known for being stylish, weren’t they? And it did explain why he’d simply been observing, not buying. She castigated herself for being too quick to judge.

‘Cally,’ she said, extending her hand in return, then wondered what the hell she’d been thinking when the touch of his fingers made her inhale so sharply that speech deserted her.

‘And are you a disappointed punter?’ He raised one eyebrow doubtfully.

‘You think I’m not the type?’ she rebounded defensively, finding her voice again, though she didn’t know why she was arguing with him when as a lecturer he was no more likely to have the spare cash to buy a priceless painting than she was.

‘I think you didn’t make a single bid.’

‘So, you noticed me right back?’ Cally replied with more pleasure than she ought to have felt. He hadn’t given her a second glance two days ago, when she’d been wearing her usual work clothes instead of dolled up as tonight’s occasion demanded. Besides, why should it matter if he had noticed her? It would only be a matter of time before he noticed someone else.

He nodded. ‘Indeed. And, since you haven’t answered my question about whether or not you are a disappointed punter, it seems we’re even.’

She stared at the wall where the paintings had been only moments before and was hit by a renewed sense of failure. ‘It’s complicated. Let’s just say tonight should have changed my life for the better. It didn’t.’

‘The night is young,’ he drawled with a supremely confident grin.

Cally dragged her eyes away from his lips and made a show of looking at her watch, horrified to find that she was almost tempted to find out what he meant. Ten-fifteen. ‘Like I said, I have to get back to my hotel.’

She turned to walk towards the door.

‘Do you have a better offer waiting at your final destination, or are you just the kind of woman who is scared of saying yes?’

Cally froze, not turning round.

‘No. I’m the kind of woman who is well aware that asking someone you’ve only just met out for a drink is really asking for something else entirely, and I’m not interested.’

Leon whistled through his teeth. ‘So you prefer a man to cut to the chase? Detail exactly what he has in mind before you agree?’

She blushed. ‘I would prefer it if a drink only meant a drink.‘

‘So you are thirsty, chérie?‘

Cally swallowed, her mouth going inconveniently dry. Was she the kind of woman who was scared of saying yes? she wondered, suddenly both horrified and aggrieved that he might actually be right. No, she justified, she wasn’t afraid—she’d just learned from experience that that kind of yes inevitably led to disappointment. Which was why—unlike other girls she knew, who invariably spent their evenings making out with random guys in clubs—she’d spent the last seven years sitting at her desk into the early hours of every morning memorising the chemical make-up of conservation treatments, practising each and every technique for the sake of her precious career. But look where it had got her now! Precisely nowhere.

Cally took a deep breath. ‘Yes’ might very well lead to disappointment, but right now it didn’t get much more disappointing than the thought of returning to her hotel with nothing but her misery and the overpriced minibar for company. At least accepting the offer of one drink with a perfectly normal man for once in her life would take her mind off what had just happened.

‘On one condition, then…’ she began confidently, but the instant she raised her eyes she caught sight of his devastating smile, and remembered too late that there was absolutely nothing remotely normal about the way he made her feel. If anything, that was what she should be afraid of. ‘The topic of work is off the agenda.’

‘Done,’ he answered decisively.

‘Right.’ Cally’s head began to spin. ‘Then…where did you have in mind?’




Chapter Two


LEON didn’t have anywhere in mind. He hadn’t had anything on his mind for two full days—except her. He’d come to Crawford’s to view the pre-auction exhibition of the paintings the world wanted to get their hands on, and had found himself wanting to get his hands on something else entirely: the narrow waist and shapely hips of the woman with lustrous red-bronze hair, who’d been transfixed by the paintings he’d suddenly forgotten he’d come here to see. The wave of desire had come out of nowhere, for it was certainly unprovoked. Though the luscious curves of her figure were obvious, she couldn’t have been dressed any less provocatively, in a drab, crinkled blouse and olive-green skirt that reached her ankles. He’d wanted to dispose of them both there and then.

And he would have done, if he’d known who she was and that she could be trusted to be discreet. But he hadn’t. Standing there, all misty-eyed before the paintings, she’d looked—most inconveniently—like exactly the kind of woman who would cloud everything with emotion and make discretion an impossibility. But the knot of heat in his groin had demanded he find out for certain. How fortuitous, then, that when he’d asked a few discreet questions of hisown it turned out that she was the London City Gallery’s choice to restore the Rénards. For once in his life, a twist of fate had amused him. She would have to be fully vetted anyway. Suddenly it made perfect sense for him to stay on for the auction and undertake the investigation personally.

Leon watched her as she walked beside him, oblivious to the sound of taxicabs and buses that filled the tepid June evening. To his pleasure, she looked a world away from the olive-green drabness of just over forty-eight hours before; she was luminescent in black silk, the halter neck revealing an ample cleavage, and her striking hair, which had previously been tied back, now fell over her shoulders in waves. Tonight she looked exactly like the sort of woman capable of the kind of short and mutually satisfying affair he had in mind.

‘Lady’s choice,’ he said, realising they had reached the end of the street, and he still hadn’t answered her question as to where they were headed.

Cally, whose nerve was evaporating by the second, looked around the street and decided that the sooner this was over the better. ‘The next bar we come to will be fine, I’m sure. After all, its only requirement is that it serve drinks, is it not?’

Leon nodded. ‘D’accord.’

As they turned the corner of the street, Cally heard a low, insistent drumbeat and saw a neon sign illuminating darkness: the Road to Nowhere.

‘Perfect,’ Cally proclaimed defiantly. It might look a little insalubrious, but at least it was too brash and too noisy for there to be any danger of lingering conversation over an intimate table for two.

Leon looked up, to see a young couple tumble out of the door and begin devouring each other up against the window, and he stifled a grin.

‘It looks good to me.’

Cally did a double take, doubting he was serious. Then she wished she hadn’t, because the sight of his impossibly handsome face beneath the soft glow of the street lights made her whole body start with that ridiculous tingling again.

‘Fabulous. And my hotel is only two streets away,’ she said, as much to convince herself that after one drink she could return to the safety of her room as to remind him.

‘What could be better?’ he drawled, the look in his eyes explicit.

She swallowed down a lump in her throat as they passed the couple, who were yet to come up for air, and entered the bar.

It was dark inside, the sultry vocals of a female singer stirring the air whilst couples absorbed in one another moved slowly together on the dance floor. Oh yes, great idea, Cally. This is much safer ground than a quiet bar.

‘So what will it be, a Screaming Orgasm or a Pineapple Thrust?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Cally swung round and was only partially relieved to see that Leon was reading from a cocktail menu he’d picked up from the bar.

‘I’ll just have a mineral water, thanks.’ Leon raised his eyebrows in disapproval before the words were even out of her mouth. ‘OK, fine,’ she retracted, briefly running her eyes down the menu. ‘I’ll have a…Cactus Venom.’

When was the last time she’d had a drink? A glass of wine at her nephew’s christening in January. God, she really did need to get out more.

Leon slipped off his jacket and ordered two of the same, somehow managing, she noticed, to look exactly like he fitted in. She, on the other hand, crossed her arms awkwardly across her chest, feeling horribly overdressed and self-conscious.

‘So, don’t tell me—you come here all the time.’ Cally said, marvelling at how quickly he seemed to have got the waitress’s attention, although on second thoughts she could guess why.

‘Well, you know, I would, but I live in France. What’s your excuse?’

She laughed, relaxing a fraction as they found themselves a table and sat down. ‘I live in Cambridge.’

‘You mean you didn’t know that the Road to Nowhere was waiting just around the next corner?’

‘No, I didn’t.’ Cally shook her head, remembering the auction and thinking that the bar’s name was altogether too apt.

Leon seemed to sense her despondency and raised his glass. ‘So, what shall we drink to?’

Cally thought for a moment. ‘To discovering hard work doesn’t pay off in the end, so why bother?’

Something about his company, the atmosphere, made her realise that maybe she did need to talk about it after all. She hoped it was that, and not that she couldn’t go five minutes without mentioning work.

‘Sorry,’ she added, suddenly aware of how discourteous that sounded. ‘To…the Road to Nowhere.’

Leon chinked his cocktail glass against hers and they both took a sip of the yellow-green liquid, smarting at the sour taste.

‘So, tonight didn’t exactly go to plan for you?’ Leon ventured.

‘You could say that. The London City Gallery promised me the restoration job on the Rénards if they won them. They didn’t.’

‘Maybe you should offer your services to whoever did.’

‘According to the guy manning the phone, it was an anonymous private collector.’ Her voice rang with resentment.

‘Who’s to say a private collector won’t commission you to complete the restorations?’

‘Experience. Even if I could find out who he or she is, they’ll either choose someone they know or the team who can get it done fastest. The rich treat art like a new Ferrari or a penthouse in Dubai—an acquisition to boast about, instead of something everyone deserves to enjoy.’

Leon went very still. ‘So if you were approached, your morals would stop you from working on them?’

Cally turned away, emotion pricking at the backs of her eyes. ‘No, it wouldn’t stop me.’

She was aware how unprincipled that sounded—or more accurately how unprincipled that actually was—but it wasn’t just because of the opportunities that working on them was bound to lead to. It was because she could never turn down the opportunity to work on the paintings that had determined the direction of her entire life, even if that life now seemed to be one big road to nowhere. She shook her head, too mortified to admit as much.

‘I’d be a fool to turn it down if I ever got the opportunity. If I worked on the Rénards, I’d be known across the world.’

Leon gave a single nod. So, whatever impression she’d given at the pre-auction, what she wanted was renown. But of course, he thought cynically, what woman didn’t? And, going by her protestations that she didn’t want to talk about work, followed by her emotional outpouring on the subject, she didn’t seem any more capable of sticking to her word than the rest of her sex. Well, there was one way to be sure.

He leaned back in his chair. ‘So, was the pre-sale the first time you’d seen Mon Amour par la Mer?‘

Cally shivered. ‘I…I didn’t think you’d noticed me that day.’

He waited for her eyes to lift and meet his. ‘On the contrary, that was when I decided that I wanted to make love to you. In fact, that was why I came back to the auction.’

Cally gawped in shock at his nerve, whilst at the same time a treacherous thrill zipped up her spine, which surprised her even more than his words. Words which told her that, unbelievably, he had wanted her when she’d been dressed like Cally, not just tonight when she felt like she was playing dress-up to fit in with the art world. The world which, contrary to her initial impression, he wasn’t a part of either. He who had only been there tonight because of her. How was that possible? Wasn’t it obvious that she lacked that sexual gene, or whatever that thing was that most other women had? She didn’t know, but suddenly all the reasons she’d amassed for loathing him toppled over, taking her defences with them.

‘I ought to walk out of here right now.’

‘So walk.’

‘I…I haven’t finished my drink.’

‘And do you always do exactly what you say you are going to do, Cally?’

She was sure he turned up his accent when he said her name on purpose, sure he knew it made her stomach flip. Even surer that she didn’t have the strength to walk away.

‘I hate people who go back on their word.’

‘As do I.’ He looked at her sharply. ‘However, there were some parts of this agreement we didn’t specify—like whether this drink included a dance, for instance?’

Cally drew in a sharp breath as she looked to the grinding mass of bodies on the dance floor, now slowing to a more languorous pace as the soloist with the heavy eyeliner and the husky voice began a rendition of Black Velvet.

‘You’re not serious?’

‘Why not? Isn’t seizing the moment one of life’s beauties that art celebrates?’

Art, Cally thought. It was a celebration of life. But when was the last time she’d actually stopped to remember that and allowed herself to live it? She drank him in—his dark blond hair falling over his forehead, his eyes smouldering with a fire that both terrified and excited her—and for a split second she didn’t feel as though she’d lost anything at all tonight.

She offered him her hand and answered him in a voice she didn’t recognise as her own. ‘You’re on.’

As she stood up the alcohol went to her head, and for a second she closed her eyes, breathing deeply. The air felt thick, the heady beat of music vibrating through every cell in her body. She’d loved this song as a teenager. David had hated it. Why had she never played it since?

‘Come on.’ Leon snaked his hand around her waist and pulled her to him before he had time to consider whether or not this was such a good idea. He wanted her with a hungriness that unnerved him. He watched her mouthing the words of the song and, unable to drag his eyes away from her full lips, wondered if for once in his life he was going to be incapable of sticking to his own rules.

Always wanting more, he’d leave you longing for…

The lyrics seemed to reach into her soul. He seemed to reach into her soul. She had never met anyone like him. She had only known him five minutes and yet—clichéd thought it sounded—it almost felt like he knew her better than she had known herself, about everything she’d been missing out on. Being pressed up against him was intoxicating, the smell of him, the touch of him. She ran her hands up his muscular back, locked them behind his neck and allowed the tension to leave her body as he moved easily, her body following every movement his made.

‘Did I tell you how sexy you are?’ he whispered in her ear, the warmth of his breath sending an inordinate level of heat flooding through her.

He did this all the time; she was sure he did. Which was why it was crazy. She’d never done anything like this in her life, and she didn’t know what she was playing at now. But, though in her head she knew she was probably a fool to continue, right now her body was the only thing she could hear—and it was thrumming with a whole host of new sensations, all clamouring to be explored.

‘Did I tell you how sexy you are?’ she whispered nervously, grateful that she couldn’t see his face, hoping he couldn’t sense that she was trembling all over.

‘No,’ he whispered, drawing back to brush his lips just below her ear. ‘You most definitely didn’t mention that.’

She couldn’t bear it. His mouth was playing havoc with the sensitive skin of her neck. She needed to kiss him. Properly. Shakily, she guided his head with her hand until their faces were level, not knowing where her confidence had come from. Had he known if he touched her like that she wouldn’t be able to resist him? Probably. But right now she didn’t care. She just wanted to kiss him.

His lips brushed hers, painfully slowly, then opened hungrily. He tasted decadent, like dark chocolate and cinnamon. He ran his hand gently down her spine, slowing over the curve of her bottom. It was the kind of kiss that would have been utterly inappropriate in an exclusive little wine bar. To Cally’s shock it had a lot more in common with the display of primal need they had witnessed in the street outside, but to her astonishment she wanted more. She told herself it was down to the charge of the music, the distinctive scent of his hypnotic, balmy cologne. But she could blame it on exterior forces all she liked; the truth was that it was kissing him that was explosive. Suddenly she forgot everything else—the fact that he was a man she had only just met, the fact that she was bound to disappoint him, that this could only lead to heartache—because her need for him was overwhelming, and he seemed to feel it too.

‘You want to get out of here?’

She took a deep breath. ‘Yes, I do.’

So, Leon thought, fighting his own desire, there was the concrete proof that her word could not be trusted. That was the rule.

Cally’s cheeks were hot and her heart was pounding as he threaded her through the other couples on the dance floor and out onto the pavement, hailing a cab.

He opened the door for her as it rolled up. Then he coolly shut the door behind her and remained standing on the pavement.

She wound down the window, her brows knitted together in bewilderment. ‘I thought we were getting out of here?’

His face was grim. ‘No, you are. One drink was all you wanted, wasn’t it, Cally?’

Cally felt a new fire burning in her cheeks as Leon sigalled for the driver to go and she suddenly realised what was happening.

‘Bastard!’ she shouted.

But the driver had already pulled away, and all she could hear was the climax of the song as it poured down the street.

In a flash he was gone. It happened so soon, what could you do?




Chapter Three


AS CALLY rested her head on the window of the train from King’s Cross back to Cambridge, the sky-rise landscape shrinking to a patchwork of green, she gave up sifting her memories for debris and concluded that, no, she had never felt more ashamed than she did right now.

She, Cally Greenway, had almost had a one-night stand with a total stranger.

And, what was worse, a tiny part of her almost wished she had.

No, she argued inwardly, of course she didn’t. She just wished he hadn’t subjected her to that hideous rejection, or at the very least that she’d been able to understand why he had.

Had the earth-shattering heat of their kiss, which she’d thought was mutual, actually been so one-sided that he’d realised she would be useless in bed? Or was it all part of a game he played to prove that he was so drop-dead gorgeous he could make any woman abandon her morals if he chose?

Cally spent the next week wavering between the two theories, subsequently caught between reawakened insecurities and fresh anger. In the end, frustration with herself for even caring made anger prevail. She should be glad thatshe’d had a lucky escape, and the reason for his insulting behaviour shouldn’t even matter when he was no one to her, a no one whom she was never likely to see ever again.

So why, whenever she thought back to that night, did that moment in the taxi hurt even more than losing the commission had done? Cally pressed her lips together in shame, but then released them. It was simply because up until that point she had thought that what she’d lost was her dream job. He had made her see that she’d spent so long with her eye on that goal alone that she’d sacrificed every other aspect of her life in the process. Yes, she thought, unwilling to dwell on the other broken dreams his rejection had resurrected, that was it. Finding herself devastated that she would never have Leon’s arms around her again just proved how long it had been since she’d actually got out there and spent any time in the company of anyone but herself, and occasionally her family.

Well, he might have reinforced her belief about the futility of trusting the opposite sex, but she had to acknowledge that maybe it was about time she accepted the odd invitation to go out now and again, instead of always having a well-rehearsed list of things she had to do instead. Particularly since the short list of restorations she had lined up for the next three months was hardly going to claim all of her time, she thought despondently as she booted up her computer to see whether her inbox heralded any new enquiries on that front today. It was all very well, deciding to get a social life whilst she worked out what to do next, but it was hardly feasible if it meant not being able to eat.

Three new mails. The first was a promotional email from the supplier she used for her art materials, which she deleted without opening, knowing she couldn’t afford anything above and beyond her regular order. The second was from her sister Jen, who was back from her family holiday in Florida, desperate to know if the little black dress she’d leant her had been as lucky for Cally as it had been for her when she’d worn it to the journalism awards last month and scooped first prize. Cally shook her head, wondering how her sister managed to pull off being a high-flying career woman as well as a wonderful wife and mother, and resolved to reply with the bad news when she felt a little less like a failure in comparison.

The third email was from a sender with a foreign-sounding name she didn’t recognise. She clicked on it warily.

Dear Miss Greenway

Your skills as an art conservator have recently been brought to the attention of the Prince of Montéz. As a result, His Royal Highness wishes to discuss a possible restoration. To be considered, you are required to attend the royal palace in person in three days’ time. Your tickets will be couriered to you tomorrow unless you wish to decline this generous offer by return.

Yours faithfully, Boyet Durand

On behalf of His Royal Highness, the Prince of Montéz

Cally blinked at the words before her. Her first reaction was disbelief. Here was an email offering a free trip to a luxurious French island, so why wasn’t she pinging it straight off to her junk-mail folder, knowing there was a catch? She read it again. Because it wasn’t the usual generic trash: You’ve won a holiday to Barbados, to claim just call this number… This sender knew her name and what she did for a living. It was feasible that someone could have seen one of her few restorations that had ended up in smallish galleries and been inspired to visit her website—but a prince?

She read it a third time, and on this occasion the arrogance of it truly sunk in. If it was real, who on earth did the Prince of Montéz think he was to have his advisor summon her as if she was a takeaway meal he’d decide whether or not he wanted once she arrived?

Cally opened a new tab and typed ‘Prince of Montéz’ into Wikipedia. The information was irritatingly sparse. It didn’t even give his name, only stated that in Montéz the prince was the sovereign ruler, and that the current prince had come into power a year ago when his brother Girard had died in an accident aged just forty-three, leaving behind his young wife, Toria, but no children. Cally cast her mind back, roughly recalling the royal-wedding photos which had graced the cover of every magazine the summer she’d graduated, and hearing the news of his tragic death on the radio in her studio some time last year. But there was no further information about the late prince’s brother, the man who thought that she, a lowly artist, could drop everything because he commanded it.

Cally was tempted to reply that, attractive though the offer was, the prince was mistaken if he thought she could fit him into her busy schedule at such short notice. But the truth was he wasn’t mistaken. Hadn’t she only just been wishing she had more work lined up, and thinking she ought to start saying yes to something other than Sunday lunch at her parents’ house?

Which was why she decided she would let the tickets come. Not that she really believed they would, until the doorbell rang early the following morning, thankfully interrupting a fervid dream about a Frenchman with a disturbingly familiar face.

Nor did she really believe she’d dare to use them until the day after, when she heard the voice of the pilot asking them to please return their seats to the upright position because they were beginning their descent to the island.

The last and only time Cally had been to France was on a day trip to Le Touquet by ferry whilst she’d been at secondary school, most of which had been spent trawling round a rather uninspiring hypermarket. She’d always fancied Paris—the Eiffel Tower and the galleries, of course—but she’d somehow never got round to taking any kind of holiday at all since uni, nor felt she could justify the unnecessary expense. So when she stepped out of first class and was greeted by the most incredible vista of shimmering azure water and glorious tree-covered mountains sprinkled with terracotta roofs, it was no wonder it felt like this was all happening to someone else. For the first time in years she felt the urge to whip out a sketch pad and get to work on a composition of her own.

A desire that only increased when the private car pulled up to the incredible palace. It almost looked like a painting, she thought as the driver opened the door of the vehicle for her to depart.

‘Please follow me, mademoiselle. The prince will meet you in la salle de bal.‘

Cally frowned as he led her through the impressive main archway, trying to remember her GCSE French in order to decipher which room he was referring to. He must have caught her perplexed expression.

‘You would say “the ballroom”, I think?’

Cally nodded and rolled her eyes to herself as they passed through the courtyard and up a creamy white staircase with a deep red carpet running through the centre. There was a very good reason why she hadn’t needed to know the word for ballroom for her project on ‘ma maison’.

The thought reminded her just how hypocritical it was to feel impressed by the palace when the man who lived here was guilty of the excess she loathed. She was even more ashamed to look down at her perfectly functional black jacket and skirt, teamed with a white blouse, and wish she had brought something a little more, well, worthy. Why should she be worried what clothes she was wearing to meet the prince? Just because he had a palace and a title didn’t mean she ought to act any differently from the way she would with any potential client. Any more than he should judge her on anything but her ability as a restorer, she thought defiantly, hugging her portfolio to her chest.

‘Here we are, Mademoiselle Greenway.’

‘Thank you,’ Cally whispered as the man signalled for her to enter the ballroom, bowed his head and then swiftly departed.

She entered tentatively, preparing to be blown away by the full impact of the magnificent marble floor, the intricately decorated wall panels and the high, sculpted ceiling that she could see from the doorway. But, as Cally turned into the room, the gasp that broke from her throat was not one of artistic appreciation, it was one of complete astonishment.

The Rénards. Hanging, seemingly innocuously, right in the centre of the opposite wall.

Cally rushed to them to get a closer look, momentarily convinced that they must be reproductions, but a quick appraisal told her immediately that they were not. She felt her heart begin to thud insistently in her chest, though she couldn’t accurately name the emotion which caused it. Excitement? She had wanted more than anything to discover the identity of the mysterious telephone-bidder, to have the chance to convince them she was the best person to carry out the restoration. Now it seemed that somehow he had found her.

Or was it horror? For wasn’t this exactly the fate of the paintings she had feared—shut away in some gilded palace never to be looked upon again? She closed her eyes and pressed her hands to her temples, trying to make sense of it, but before she could even begin a voice behind her cut through everything.

‘See something you recognise?’

A voice which made her eyes fly open, every hair on the back of her neck stand on end and every thought fly from her mind. Every thought, except one.

Leon.

Stop it, she scolded herself. The Prince of Montéz is French, of course he’s going to sound a little like him. God, she really did need to get out more if that one meaningless episode had the power to make her lose all grip on reality every time she heard a man with a French accent. The voice belonged to the Prince of Montéz, who had brought her here as his potential employee, so why was she still staring rudely at the wall? She turned sharply to face him.

The sight before her almost made her keel over.

Her imagination hadn’t been playing a trick on her at all. It was him. Irritatingly perfect him, his impressive physique all the more striking in a formal navy suit.

Her mind went into overdrive as she attempted to make sense of what was happening. Leon was a university professor; perhaps he’d been invited here to examine the paintings in more detail; perhaps this was just one of life’s unfortunate coincidences?

But as she stared at his wry expression—impatient, as if waiting for her tiny mind to catch up—she suddenly understood that this was no coincidence. Her very first appraisal of him in that sale room in London—rich, heartless, titled—had not been wrong. It was everything else that had been a lie. Good God, was Leon even his real name?

‘You bastard.’

For a second his easy expression looked shot through with something darker, but just as quickly it was back.

‘So you said last time we met, Cally, but now that you know I am your potential employer I thought you’d be a little more courteous.’

Courteous? Cally felt the bile rise in her throat. ‘Well, since I can assure you I am not going to be capable of courtesy towards you any time this century, I think I should leave, don’t you?’

Leon gritted his teeth. Yes, he did think she should leave, the same way he’d thought he should in London. But after countless hot, frustrated nights, when all his body had cared about was why the hell he hadn’t taken her when he’d had the chance, Leon was through with thinking.

He blocked her exit with his arm.

‘At least stay for one drink.‘

‘And why the hell would I want to do that?’

‘Because, yet again, you look like you need one.’

Had he brought her here purely to humiliate her further, to revel in how much he had got to her? She fixed a bland expression on her face, determined not to play ball. ‘I’ll have one on my way back to the airport.’

‘You have somewhere else to be?’ he replied, mock-earnestly.

She knew exactly what he implied—that she had nowhere else to be today any more than when she had protested the need to return to her hotel room that night. It was the same reason he’d known she would come at short notice. And exactly why staying here could only quadruple the humiliation she already felt.

‘No, you’re absolutely right, I don’t. But anywhere is pre-ferable to being on this dead end of an island with some lying product of French inbreeding who has nothing better to do than to toy with random English women he meets for sport.’

‘Woman,’ he corrected. ‘There is certainly only one of you, Cally Greenway.’

‘And yet there is one of you in every palace and stately home on the planet. It’s so predictable, it’s boring.’

‘I thought that you liked things to turn out exactly the way you expect them to—or perhaps that is simply what you pretend to want?’

‘Like I told you, all I want is to leave.’

‘It’s a shame your body language says otherwise.’

Cally looked down, pleased to discover that if anything she had stepped further away from him, whilst her arms clutched her portfolio protectively to her chest.

‘And do you always take a woman’s loathing as a come-on?’

‘Only when it’s born out of sheer sexual frustration,’ he drawled, nodding at the gap between them and her self-protective stance.

‘In your dreams.’

‘Yours too, I don’t doubt.’ He looked at her with an assessing gaze.

Cally felt her cheeks turn crimson.

‘I thought so,’ he drawled in amusement. ‘But think just how good it will be when we do make love, chérie.’

‘I might have been stupid enough to consider having sex with you before I knew who you were,’ she said, trying not to flinch at the memory of her own wantonness. ‘But I can assure you I am in no danger of doing so again.’

‘You have a thing for university employees?’ he queried, raising one long, lean finger to his lower lip thoughtfully, as if observing an anomalous result in a science experiment. ‘Mediterranean princes just not your thing?’

No, men that self-important couldn’t be any further from her thing, Cally thought, not that she had ‘a thing’. So why in God’s name was she unable to take her eyes off his mouth?

‘Liars aren’t my thing. Men who lie about who they are, who pretend not to be stinking rich and who profess to lend a sympathetic ear when—’ Immediately the auction, which had slipped her mind for a moment, came back to her. The auction room. Leon the only one with the nonchalant glance. Not because he had nothing riding on it, but because he was so rich that he’d just instructed one of his minions to make the highest bid by phone on his behalf. That was why he had been there that night, to stand back and watch smugly whilst he blew everyone else out of the water. It had had nothing to do with coming back because he wanted her, and suddenly that hurt most of all. ‘When all the time you were the one responsible for wrecking my career!’

Leon raised his eyebrows. ‘Are you quite finished? Good. Firstly, I told you my name. You didn’t ask what my surname was, nor did you give me yours. All I said was that I was in England in connection with my university. I was. The new University of Montéz has just been built at my say-so, and I was there to purchase some pieces for the art department. Since you chose where we should go, I can hardly be blamed if the bar you selected gave no indication of my wealth. Which brings me to your accusation that I offered to lend a sympathetic ear with regards to your career—on the contrary, it was you who insisted we should not discuss work. You simply chose to, I did not.’

‘You consider being a prince a career choice?’

‘Not a choice,’ he said gravely. ‘But my work, yes.’

‘How convenient, rather like arguing that omitting the truth does not constitute a lie. If you and I were married—’ Cally hesitated, belatedly aware that she couldn’t have thought of a more preposterous example if she’d tried ‘—and you happened to be sleeping with another woman but just didn’t mention it, would such an omission be tolerable?’

Leon’s mouth hardened. Hadn’t he just known that she was one of those women who had marriage on the brain?

‘Tolerable? Marrying anyone would never be a tolerable scenario for me, Cally, so I’m afraid your analogy is lost.’

‘What a surprise,’ Cally muttered. ‘When it proves that I’m absolutely right.’ How utterly typical that he wasn’t the marrying kind, she thought irritably, though she wasn’t sure why she should care when she’d lost her belief in happy-ever-afters a long time ago.

‘But surely a welcome surprise?’ Leon seized the moment. ‘For, rather than being the one responsible for wrecking your career, I think you’ll find yourself eternally indebted to me for beginning it. What an accolade for your CV to be employed to restore two of the most famous paintings the world has ever known?’

Indebted to him; the thought horrified her. Yet he was also offering exactly what she had always wanted—well, almost. ‘You said you were in London to purchase some pieces for the university’s art department. Do you mean that once the Rénards are restored they will go on public display there?’

Leon lifted his arm sharply, the motion drawing back the sleeve of his shirt to reveal a striking Cartier watch. ‘I would love to discuss the details now, but I’m afraid I have a meeting to attend with the principal of the university, as it happens. Much as I’m sure that, given your predilection for university staff, you’d find meeting Professor Lefevre stimulating, it is something I need to do alone. You and I can continue this discussion over breakfast.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Breakfast. Petit déjeuner. The first meal of the day, oui?’ He stared at her face, which was aghast. ‘It is also a painting by Renoir, I believe—but, of course, you’re the expert.’

Could he have any more of a cheek? ‘I am well aware of the concept of breakfast, thank you. Just as I am well aware that I will be eating mine back in Cambridge tomorrow morning. You invited me here to discuss this today.’

‘And I subsequently discovered that unfortunately today is the only day Professor Lefevre can have this meeting. But since you have nowhere else to be this can wait until tomorrow, oui?’

Cally seethed. ‘I have a plane to catch. Home.’

‘But how can you make the most important decision of your career without knowing all the facts?’

There was nothing to decide, was there? How could she even contemplate working for a man who had humiliated and lied to her? Because the job was everything she’d strived for, she thought ruefully. She recalled the hideous boss she’d once had at the gallery gift shop who’d paid her a pittance for running the place single-handedly, how she’d ignored him and had just knuckled down. She could do it again for her dream commission, couldn’t she? But some-how she wasn’t sure that ignoring Leon would be so easy. Unless she could do the restoration without his interference. Rent a studio by the seafront and work on the paintings there, only return here when she’d completed them. The idea seemed almost idyllic without the threat of his presence.

‘If I stay for—for breakfast,’ she repeated, the concept still ludicrous to her. ‘You’ll be open to discussion about how I would wish such a project to be completed?’

‘Discussion? Of course.’

Cally did a mental calculation of whether she could afford one night in a French guesthouse, having presumed that she’d be back on a plane out of here this afternoon. She supposed that she had left that hotel in London a night earlier than planned…

‘What time would you have me return?’

‘I would have you here ready and waiting,’ he said, beckoning for her to keep up with his brusque steps out of the ballroom and into the hallway, where the man who had driven her here was waiting compliantly, head bowed. ‘This is Boyet. He will show you to your room and bring you dinner.’

And before she could argue the prince was gone.




Chapter Four


CALLY picked up her mobile phone from the bedside cabinet and stared at its neon display through the darkness. 2:48 a.m., and still awake. She had tried everything: lying on her back, on her front, and rather awkwardly on her side; shutting the window to block out the sound of the ocean in order to pretend that she was in her bed at home; opening the window in the hope that the ebb and flow of the sea would act as a natural lullaby. Finally she had tried to fool herself into sleep by pretending she didn’t care whether she was awake or not. But still the minutes ticked by. And, the more the minutes ticked by, the more questions heaped up in her brain.

Why had she even come here? Life wasn’t some fairy tale where princes were valiant men who did noble deeds. She, more than anyone, should know that a man who had been born into privilege was bound to be selfish and dishonest, and, if she’d forgotten, his arrogant email should have acted as a reminder. Perhaps it was because she’d been confident that he was just selfish and dishonest, and had thought she could deal with that. What she hadn’t known was that the prince would also happen to be him. Yet how was that possible when she’d even tried to look him up? Especially as a couple of years ago, she hadn’t been able to avoid photos of his late brother and his wife.

Cally took a deep breath and to her chagrin found herself wondering how Girard’s death must have affected Leon, how terrible it must have been to lose a brother and to gain such responsibility in the same moment. But that presupposed he had a heart somewhere within his perfectly honed chest, she thought bitterly, and nothing about the way he had treated her suggested that he did. Had he chosen not to reveal who he was in London simply for his own amusement?

Probably. Just like he probably thought that a night in his opulent palace would make her feel like she owed him one. As if. The thought of being indebted to him in any way whatsoever made her feel sick. Which was why, despite feeling famished, she had rejected Boyet’s offer of dinner last night. Which was why she had got into bed without using a single thing in the pale apricot bedroom, with its beautiful white furniture, including the array of luxurious toiletries laid out for her. Instead she had used the mishmash of bits and pieces she’d thrown in her handbag for freshening up on the flight—even if she hadn’t been able to resist removing the lids of the eye-catching bottles and smelling each one in turn…

When Cally’s alarm went off four hours later, she felt like an animal who had been disturbed from hibernation three months early. Thankfully with the morning came rational thought: that there was only one question that mattered, and that was whether or not he planned to offer her the job of working on her dream commission.

Which meant she had to treat this breakfast—however unwelcome the concept was to her—like a job interview.

A job interview she wished she could attend in something other than yesterday’s crumpled suit, she thought uneasily as she walked towards the veranda where Boyet had told her she would find Leon at eight-twenty. At least she’d had the foresight to pack a change of underwear and a clean top.

Now that it was daylight, she noticed for the first time that this side of the palace had the most fantastic view of the bay below, the ocean so blue it reminded her of a glittering jewel. As she stepped onto the cream tiles of the patio, she was forced to admit that Leon gave the landscape a run for its money. He was sitting on a wrought-iron chair, one leg crossed over the other whilst he leafed through the day’s La Tribune, looking more like a male model than a prince in his cool white linen shirt which had far less buttons done up than most other men could have got away with. On him, she thought shamefully, it seemed criminal not to be unbuttoned any more.

‘You like the view?’ he drawled, closing the paper.

Cally turned back to the horizon, all too aware that he had caught her out. ‘I suppose it’s on a par with the British coastline.’ She shrugged, determined to remain indifferent to everything even remotely connected to him.

‘Oh yes, this is England—just without rain,’ he replied dryly as he motioned to the chair.

Cally sat, resting her portfolio on her knee, her back rigid and eyes lowered. The exact opposite of his languorous pose.

He ran his eyes openly over her face. ‘You look terrible. Didn’t you sleep?’

The insult cut her to the quick. She ought to be glad that he was through with faking desire where she was concerned, but it only made her feel worse. She could just imagine the kind of woman he was used to having breakfast with—perfectly made-up, top-to-toe designer. Just like Portia had been the morning she’d answered David’s door sporting that enormous pink diamond.

‘I’m afraid this is the way a woman who isn’t plastered in make-up tends to look in the morning, Leon.’

He shook his head irritably. ‘You are not the kind of woman who requires any make-up. I simply meant that you look a little—drained.’

The compliment caught her off guard, and she didn’t know what to do with it. ‘Actually, I could count the number of hours’ sleep I’ve had on one hand. Without the use of my thumb.’

Leon stifled a smile and made a show of furrowing his brow as he poured her a strong black coffee without asking whether she wanted any. ‘That suite has just been refurnished. I was assured that particular mattress was the best on the market. I will have to see that it is changed.’

How typical that he thought every problem in life could be solved by material goods, she thought irritably, trying to ignore the delicious scent of the coffee wafting invitingly up her nostrils. ‘There was nothing wrong with the bed, save for the fact that it was under your roof.’

‘Large houses have a few too many dark corners for you?’ he suggested with feigned concern as Boyet appeared with a tray overflowing with food: spiced bread, honey, fruit with natural yogurt, freshly squeezed orange in two different jugs—one with pulp and one without. Cally’s mouth watered, and she could feel her ravenous stomach start to rumble, but she cleared her throat to disguise it.

‘Whilst you are right that it does have an unnecessarily large number of rooms, it had nothing to do with that. Believe it or not, I simply have no desire to be anywhere near you.’

‘Yet you are still here.’

‘Like you said, whatever my personal feelings, I would be foolish not to make this important decision in my career without discussing the facts.’

‘Over breakfast.’ He nodded as if her career was immaterial. ‘But you are yet to have a sip of coffee or a morsel of any food. So, eat.’

It was tempting to say she wasn’t hungry, but the tantalising aroma of nutmeg and sultanas was too enticing, and she succumbed to a piece of bread.

Leon watched her, thinking it was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen as she bit into it hungrily before twisting her rosebud of a mouth back into a look of disapproval.

‘No woman I’ve ever invited to breakfast has ever tried so hard to look unhappy about it as you.’

Thinking about the different women who might have sat in this self-same seat before her for a second time made Cally fidget uncomfortably, and do up another button on her suit jacket despite the rising heat of the early-morning sunshine.

‘Emotions are irrelevant, aren’t they?’ She slid her portfolio from her side of the table to his, telling herself to ignore his casual attire and the holiday setting and treat this in exactly the same way as she had treated her interview at the London City Gallery. ‘This contains photographs of all my major restorations, as well as details of my qualifications. I specialised in Rénard for the theory side of my post-grad.’

He opened it casually, flicking to the first page and briefly reading through her CV as he sipped his coffee.

‘You began studying for a fine-art degree in London,’ he said thoughtfully, raising his head. ‘But you didn’t finish?’

Trust him to notice that first. She remembered the owner of the London City Gallery getting to the same question at her second interview—remembered how, after all the years of hard work, she had finally felt able to answer it with confidence and integrity. So why did she feel so ashamed when he asked?

‘No, I didn’t complete it.’ She drew in a deep breath. ‘And it was a mistake not to. But for two years afterwards I worked a full-time job, and painted and studied in every spare moment I had. The Cambridge Institute then accepted me on their diploma in conservation based on my aptitude and commitment.’

‘So why didn’t you finish it?’ Leon flicked her portfolio shut without looking at another page. ‘Did you fall in love with a university professor and drop out in a fit of unrequited love?’

‘I don’t think that’s relevant, do you?’

Leon saw a flash of something in her eyes which told him he had hit a raw nerve. He was tempted to probe deeper, but at the same time the thought of her having past lovers, let alone hearing about them, irritated him. Which was preposterous, because the women he slept with always matched him in experience.

He looked her straight in the eye. ‘Actually, I happen to think the way someone behaves in personal relationships is indicative of the way they are likely to behave as an employee.’

Suddenly, the penny dropped in Cally’s mind. So that was what London had been about. She felt herself grow even hotter beneath the fabric of her dark jacket as she realised what that meant. It had all been an underhand investigation into whether he considered her fit for the job, and she could only imagine what his conclusion had been!

Wasn’t it just typical that the one night she had acted completely out of character was the one night that, unbeknown to her, she’d needed to be herself most of all? But what gave him the right to make such a judgement based on her behaviour, anyway? Just because he was a prince didn’t give him permission to play at being some moral magistrate!

She challenged him right back with her gaze. ‘Then you don’t want to know what your behaviour indicates about you, Your Highness.’

‘Since you are the one who wants to work on my paintings, my behaviour is irrelevant.Yours, on the other hand…’

‘So why bother bringing me here if I’ve already failed your pathetic little personality test?’

His voice was slow and deliberate, ‘Because, chérie, although you showed that your word cannot be trusted and that you are only interested in these paintings because you think they will bring you renown…’ He paused, as if to revel in her horror. ‘After extensive research into your abilities over the past week I happen to believe you are the best person for the job.’





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