Prince of Montéz, Pregnant Mistress

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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