His Temporary Cinderella: Ordinary Girl in a Tiara / Kiss the Bridesmaid / A Bravo Homecoming

Caro sucked in a breath as a current of warmth shot up her arm and washed through her. Her scalp was actually tingling with it. Bad sign. Willing the heat to fade, she struggled to keep her voice even.

‘Oh, that old chestnut,’ she said as lightly as she could. ‘I would have done the hand-kissing thing, but I thought it would be too boring.’

‘Kissing’s never boring,’ said Philippe. Now he was playing with her fingers, looking straight into her eyes, brushing his lips across her knuckles until she squirmed in her seat. ‘Not the way we do it, anyway. Or that’s what we want it to look like. We want everyone to think that we’ve just fallen out of bed, don’t we? They ought to be looking at us and seeing that we can’t keep our hands off each other. That we can’t wait until we get home and I can undress you, very, very slowly, until you beg me to make love to you again.’

The sound of his voice and the tantalising caress of his fingers were doing alarming things to Caro. Heat was uncoiling in the pit of her belly and her mouth was dry. She had to get herself back under control.

‘I never beg,’ she said, but not nearly as steadily as she would have liked.

Philippe looked into her eyes and smiled. ‘You do when you’re with me.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Caro, but his smile only deepened. She could see the candlelight flickering in the silver eyes, and her heart was thumping so loudly she was afraid the other diners would turn round and complain about the noise.

‘Yes, you do, because I’m the only one who knows that behind closed doors you’re a wild, passionate woman.’ His voice was a tangible thing, velvet smoothing seductively over her skin. It would be so easy to succumb to it, to the warm, sure hands and the wickedly attractive smile, and Caro had to physically brace herself against it.

‘Gosh, do women really fall for this stuff?’ she asked.

‘It’s working, isn’t it?’

For one horrible moment, Caro wondered if he could see her toes curling. ‘Working?’

‘You haven’t been looking at what’s-his-name at all.’ It was true. She had completely forgotten about George for a while there. ‘But he’s been looking at you,’ Philippe went on in the same disturbingly arousing voice, ‘and he’s very much afraid that you’ve found yourself a much, much better lover.’

Caro’s eyes flickered to George, who was looking as if he’d been stuffed. Maybe there was something in this technique of Philippe’s after all.

Philippe sat back smugly. ‘And that’s how it’s done,’ he said. ‘Now you have a go.’

Her hand was throbbing where his lips had grazed her skin. Flustered by Philippe’s abrupt transition from lover to teacher, Caro tucked the stray strands of hair behind her ears and assumed a nonchalance she wasn’t feeling.

‘Well, I would, but the food will be arriving any second and I don’t want to spoil your appetite.’

‘Coward,’ he said softly. ‘Besides, it’s good practice for you. You’re going to have to do better than screwing up your face if you’re going to convince the Dowager Blanche that we’re mad about each other.’

‘Oh, all right.’ Caro took a fortifying sip of her champagne and moistened her lips nervously while she thought, and saw Philippe’s gaze fix on her mouth. She hadn’t even started yet! Surely it couldn’t be as easy as that?

Leaning forward, she rested her arms on the table, hugged them together and tried a seductive smile. She felt a fool, but Philippe’s eyes dropped to her cleavage, and his eyes darkened unmistakably.

Encouraged, Caro felt around with her foot and managed to hook the toe of her shoe around his ankle. With a little manoeuvring, she could rub her foot tantalisingly up and down his calf. It felt awkward but it seemed to be working.

She waited for Philippe to burst out laughing, but he didn’t. There was just the suspicion of a smile around his mouth as the light gaze returned to her face.

‘How am I doing?’ she asked.

‘I think you may be a natural.’

Was he being sarcastic? Caro eyed him suspiciously but it was impossible to tell what he was really thinking.

It was a relief when their starters arrived and she could sit back. Funny, she had forgotten about how hungry she was while Philippe had been kissing her fingers. Now she picked up her fork to dig into her wild mushroom risotto and discovered that for possibly the only time in her life, her appetite had deserted her.

But Caro wasn’t going to waste her one and only opportunity to eat at the Star and Garter. She made herself savour the food and refused to let herself think about Philippe sitting opposite her with his warm hands and his warm mouth.

‘That was delicious,’ she said, putting her fork down at last.

‘Yes, it wasn’t bad,’ said Philippe indifferently. Michelin starred restaurants would be two a penny to him, of course. He held out his hand. ‘Come on, back to looking besotted.’

‘Must I?’ sighed Caro, but she took his hand and, at the feel of his strong fingers curling around hers, a shiver of pleasure snaked through her.

Clearing her throat, she said, ‘We ought to talk about practicalities.’

‘Practicalities?’

To her consternation, Philippe turned her hand over so that the soft skin of her forearm was exposed. Now he was rubbing his thumb softly over her wrist, where her vein pulsed with awareness.

Caro swallowed hard and soldiered on. ‘What’s going to happen next?’

He would go back to Montluce in the next couple of days, Philippe told her. He would break the news about their supposed relationship to the Dowager Blanche and give Lotty a chance to make her own plans to leave. Then he would escort his father to Paris for his treatment.

‘He won’t want me, but he ought to have someone other than servants there for the operation,’ he said. ‘Once he’s through that, I’ll come and pick you up, and we’ll go back to Montluce together. Will ten days or so be enough time for you to get ready?’

She nodded, desperately trying to ignore that stroking thumb, which was playing havoc with her breathing. ‘I’m only temping,’ she said unevenly. ‘I just need to give a week’s notice.’

‘Once we’re there, you won’t have to do much,’ Philippe said. ‘Hang around with me. Convince my great-aunt that you adore me. Hold my hand like this. The usual stuff.’

‘It doesn’t sound very interesting,’ said Caro austerely to cover the booming of her pulse.

‘No, but it shouldn’t be hard either.’

‘Where—’ She stopped, mortified by how high her voice sounded, and coughed. ‘Where will I stay?’ That was better, huskier, almost normal.

‘With me,’ said Philippe. ‘We’re not going to convince anyone that it’s a serious relationship if we’re not living together. I’ve got apartments in the palace in Montvivennes. Not where I’d choose to live, but it’s comfortable enough.’

Apartments, plural? That sounded big. Caro was reassured. ‘Plenty of space for both of us, then?’

‘Oh, yes.’ His eyes met hers, clearly knowing exactly the way her mind was going. ‘Of course, we’ll have to sleep together,’ he said.

‘That won’t be necessary, surely?’ Caro stiffened and tried to pull her hand away, but he held her tight. ‘No one need know where I’m sleeping as long as I’m staying with you.’

‘That’s what you think.’ Philippe’s voice was crisp. ‘There are servants in and out of the apartments all the time, and it would be a miracle if they didn’t talk to each other. They’ll wonder just what kind of relationship we have if we’re not sleeping together, and word will get back. My great-aunt knows everything that goes on in the palace. She’s got a spy network that would put the CIA to shame.’

‘Couldn’t we tell her you respect me too much to sleep with me before marriage?’

He offered her a sardonic smile in return. ‘Yes, she’ll believe that!’

Caro managed to tug her hand away at last. It was all very well for Philippe to sound coolly amused about the whole business, but he must have slept with millions of beautiful women. He was probably used to sleeping with strangers. The thought of sleeping with her clearly hadn’t left him with an unnerving fluttering underneath his skin and in the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t been misery-eating, so he didn’t have to worry about what she would think when he took his clothes off.

Philippe naked … Caro’s mind veered off track momentarily to imagine him pulling off his shirt with a grin. She could picture the lean, hard planes of his body with startling ease: the flex of his muscles under his skin, the broad chest, the flat stomach. The power and the grace and the sheer, sinful sexiness of him.

Her cheeks burned at the thought. She really didn’t want her imagination to start running wild like that, especially not when taking off her own shirt would reveal all those extra pounds she had put on since George dumped her … and it wasn’t as if she had been sylphlike to start with. No, there would be no undressing going on, under any circumstances.

‘We can put a pillow down the middle, if you like,’ said Philippe, apparently reading her mind without difficulty.

Without being aware of what she was doing, Caro cupped the wrist where he had stroked her with her free hand as if to calm the soft skin there, which was quivering still from his touch.

‘You don’t sound bothered one way or the other,’ she said, unable to keep the snippiness from her voice.

He shrugged. ‘I’m not. It’s entirely up to you, Caro. I’m more than capable of keeping my hands to myself, so there’s no need to panic.’

‘I’m not panicking,’ she said crossly. ‘I’m just trying to think how it would work.’

She took her hand from her wrist and sat straighter. It was time to be sensible. ‘If you say that we need to share a bed, then that’s what we’ll do. I’m not going to be silly about it. But I think sex would just confuse the issue,’ she said, rather proud of her coolness this time. ‘I think it would be easier if we agreed that we would be just friends while we’re together.’

‘Friends?’ he repeated, expressionless.

‘Yes, you know, when you have a good time but don’t want to sleep together.’

‘I’ve got friends,’ he said. ‘They’re just not usually women.’

‘There’s nothing usual about our relationship, though, is there, Philippe? You’re a prince, I’m an ordinary girl with no interest in anything other than an ordinary life. You’re wealthy by any standard, and I’m temping to pay my rent. You go out with beautiful, glamorous women, and I’m neither,’ Caro said. ‘We’ve got absolutely nothing in common apart from Lotty, but just for two months we’re going to be together. I’m not interested in you, and I think it’s pretty clear you’re not going to be interested in me, so it makes sense that we should agree to be friends at least, don’t you think?’

Why not? Philippe asked himself. Caro was right. It would be much easier this way. The last thing he wanted was to get involved with someone who would fall in love with him. That would complicate matters and it would all get very messy. There would be tears and scenes and demands for commitment and stormings off. Philippe had been there before, and he couldn’t afford anything similar this time if he didn’t want to be left at the mercy of the Dowager Blanche’s matchmaking plans again.

So it was just as well Caro had made it clear that she wasn’t interested in him. There was no need to feel nettled. It wasn’t as if she was his type either. Caro was right: she wasn’t beautiful, she wasn’t stylish. She was untidy and distracting, that was all.

It was just that he couldn’t shake the feel of her. When he’d put his arm around her to cross the restaurant, he’d rested his hand on the flare of her hip and felt the silky material of her dress shift over her skin with a shock of awareness. He’d held her wrist and felt the blood beating in her veins, and that, too, had been like a current thrilling through him. He looked away from her mouth.

‘Fine by me,’ he said, as carelessly as he could. ‘Friends it is, and we’ll get that pillow out as soon as we get there.’

Philippe was used to eating with women who automatically chose the least fattening meal on the menu and it was a revelation to watch Caro oohing and aahing over her choice. Philippe himself was largely indifferent to food—he reserved his passion for the wine list—but it was impossible not to enjoy eating with someone who took so much pleasure in it. Caro would close her eyes blissfully while she savoured every taste and texture. She loaded up forkfuls from her dish and insisted he try it, and reached over to help herself to a taste of his, until he suggested that they simply swap plates.

He was being sarcastic, but Caro was delighted at the suggestion and promptly handed over her plate. ‘George always refused to share like this,’ she confided. ‘He said it was embarrassing to pass plates over the table and that everyone would look at us.’

‘And this was a guy who accused you of not being any fun?’

‘He probably swaps plates with Melanie,’ she said with a sigh.

‘You should have tried leaning over the table so that he could fall down your cleavage,’ Philippe said. ‘I’m sure he’d have swapped anything you wanted then.’

‘Do you really think so?’ The blue eyes rested wistfully on George and Philippe was conscious of a quite irrational stab of jealousy.

He was used to being the centre of attention. His dinner companions were invariably beautiful, just as Caro had said. They flirted and sparkled and charmed and laughed at all his jokes. It was a salutary experience to be with Caro, who was far more interested in her ex-fiancé than in him. She was more interested in the food than in him, come to that.

Philippe told himself that he was amused, but the truth was that he was just a little piqued by her indifference. Here was he, a prince famous for his charm and his wit and his sexual prowess, having to work to keep the attention of a woman who wasn’t even really pretty, and who didn’t feel the least need to keep him entertained. Not that he wanted to be entertained, of course, but still …

It was annoying to find that his leg was tingling where she had rubbed her shoe so tantalisingly, and that his eyes kept snagging on that mouth, or drifting to that luscious cleavage. Philippe suspected that Caro had no idea how she looked, with that provocative mouth and that wickedly lush body, so at odds with the combative glint in her blue eyes and the sharpness of her tongue.

I’m not interested in you, she had said.

Just as well.

For the first time in her life, Caro refused pudding. Finally, she’d made it to the Star and Garter, and she wasn’t hungry! Life could be so unfair sometimes.

‘Ready to go?’ asked Philippe. ‘Let’s make sure we make an exit.’ Very casually, he rested a hand at the nape of her neck as they passed George’s table. It was a perfect proprietorial gesture, and it felt disturbingly intimate to Caro. The warmth from his fingers snaked down her spine, making her shiver.

‘They’ll be leaving any minute themselves,’ Philippe murmured as he opened the door for her. ‘Do you want to kiss me?’

‘What?’ Caro stopped dead and stared at him. ‘No, of course not!’

‘Sure? Because here’s an opportunity to convince George that you’re having a passionate affair, if you want to,’ he said, all reasonableness. ‘He might have been convinced by all the hand-holding, but it was all a bit tame, wasn’t it? Whereas if he sees you enjoying a steamy kiss, there’s not going to be much doubt in his mind that you’re a passionate, exciting woman having a better time without him, is there?’

Caro hesitated. The idea of making George believe that she was in the throes of a wild affair was deeply appealing, she had to admit. For too long, she’d felt dull and repressed next to bubbly Melanie, and hated that deadly feeling that they both felt sorry for her.

But this was His Serene Highness Prince Philippe of Montluce … Did she really have the nerve to kiss him? On the other hand, they had agreed to be friends, hadn’t they? ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?’ she asked doubtfully.

In reply, Philippe spread his arms. ‘What are friends for? Besides, it’ll be good practice for us. We’re going to have to kiss in Montluce, so we might as well get used to it.’

True. Good point. Caro took a deep breath. ‘Well … okay, then.’

‘Come over here.’ Philippe took her hand and led her over to the limousine, which waited in the glow of a single street light immediately opposite the door. ‘There’s no point if George can’t see us, is there? They won’t be able to miss us here.’ He turned and leant back against the limousine. ‘Off you go, then.’

‘Where’s Yan?’

‘Don’t worry about Yan. He’s used to looking the other way.’

‘Right.’ Above them, the sky was a dark, dark blue, and the cool night air brimmed with the scents of a northern summer. A little current of excitement ran under Caro’s skin. Moistening her lips, she stepped towards him, then hesitated.

‘I feel silly.’

‘That’s because you’re too far away. You’ll find it easier if you get a bit closer.’

Caro took another step. It brought her up against him. She could smell his cologne—subtle, expensive—and, when she rested her palms against his chest, she felt the hard solidity of him through the fine material of his shirt.

The street lamp cast a surreal orange glow over everything, but at the same time Caro could see exactly what she was doing. It was like being on stage, and now she had to perform. Gripped by shyness, she stared fixedly at Philippe’s collar while her hands pressed against his chest and the warmth of his skin seemed to pulse through her, slow and steady like his heartbeat.

‘I don’t want to hurry you, but they’ll be out soon,’ said Philippe and his voice reverberated through her hands.

‘Right,’ she said again, and swallowed. Passionate, exciting … she could do it.

Forcing her eyes up from his collar, she let them drift up the strong column of his throat. She could see the faint prickle of stubble and, without giving herself time to think, she touched her lips to the pulse beating there.

Philippe inhaled slowly. His hands hung loosely by his sides, but she felt the tension in his body, and she smiled. Maybe he wasn’t quite as cool as he made out.

Her heart was thudding painfully, bang, bang, bang against her ribs. She kissed the pulse again, then drifted soft kisses up to his jaw. It felt deliciously rough beneath her lips and she slid her hands to his shoulders.

‘I think you’d better get on with it,’ said Philippe, but a smile rippled through the words.

‘Stop talking,’ she mumbled, making her way along his chin. ‘You’re putting me off.’

‘I’m just saying. George will be out any second.’

Caro pulled away, exasperated. ‘I can’t do it if you’re going to do a running commentary!’

‘Then make me stop talking,’ he challenged her.

‘Fine.’ Defiantly, she stepped back up to him and put her hands on his shoulders once more. Then she leant into him, angling her face up and pressing her mouth against his. His lips were warm and firm and relaxed and curved into the faintest of smiles.

Was he laughing at her? Caro kissed him again, nibbling little kisses at the edge of his mouth where his smile dented, teasing his lips open so that their tongues could twine together, and it felt so warm, so right, that she forgot everything else. She forgot George and Melanie. She forgot the plan. She forgot about just being friends. There was only the taste of him and the feel of him and the astonishing sweetness spilling through her.

Then Philippe’s arms closed round her at last and he pulled her hard against him, and the sweetness was swept away by a surge of heat. It was wild and dark and fierce, a current that swirled around them, sucking them down, pulling them off their feet. Caro was lost, tumbling in the frantic wash of desire. She linked her arms around his neck to anchor herself, murmuring low in her throat, something inarticulate that might have been protest, or might have been longing.

Somehow Philippe had found the clip in her hair and pulled it free. It fell, unnoticed, to the ground while he slid his fingers through the silky mass, twisting, twining, holding her head still so that he could kiss her back, and he was good, oh, he was good … Caro thrilled at the sureness of his lips, the hard insistence of his hands that slid down her spine to cup her bottom and lift her against him.

She could feel his arousal, and she pulled her mouth from his so that she could gasp for breath.

‘Philippe …’

She wasn’t even sure what she meant to say, but Philippe, who was kissing her throat and making her shiver with delight at the heat and the hunger of it, stilled as if she had whacked him across the head.

Caro felt him draw a ragged breath, then another. ‘Good God,’ he said, sounding shaken, and let her go. ‘Maybe that’s enough practice for now.’

Practice? Desperately, Caro tried to bring her scattered senses back under control. She needed a decompression chamber, somewhere to learn to breathe again, a staging post between heady pleasure and the slap of reality where there was no touch, no taste, no feel, no giddy swing of the senses but only the chill of standing alone on a summer’s night remembering that none of it had been real.

CHAPTER FOUR

MONTLUCE was such a tiny country that it didn’t even have its own airport, so they were to fly to France and drive the rest of the way. In Caro’s experience, flying meant a lot of queuing, a lot of delays, a lot of shuffling onto a crowded plane and shifting impatiently for the inevitable passenger who blocked the aisle for long minutes while he fussed about stashing away his duty-free in the overhead lockers.

Flying with Philippe was very different. The limousine he’d sent to pick her up in Ellerby that morning bypassed the terminal and deposited her right by the plane on the tarmac. Her bags were whisked away while Caro climbed out and stood looking dubiously up at the private jet. It looked very small. The wind was whipping tendrils of hair around her face and plastering them against her lips as fast as she could pull them free.

She was very nervous.

And cross with herself for feeling that way. Everything was going ahead exactly as they’d planned. Lotty was ecstatically grateful and would be gone before Caro and Philippe arrived. Once in Montluce, there would just be the two of them.

Which would be fine, Caro told herself. They had agreed to be friends, hadn’t they? If it hadn’t been for that stupid kiss.

But she wasn’t supposed to be thinking about that. It had been a mistake, they’d agreed afterwards. Both of them had been carried away by the pretence, but pretence was all it had been. It wasn’t as if it had been a real kiss.

The trouble was that it had felt real. The firm curve of his mouth, his breath against her skin, the insistence of the sure hands cupping her buttocks and pulling her into him … oh, yes, it had felt real, all right. She could still feel the glittery rush, the heat. Philippe had been so hard, so surprisingly solid, so male. Every time Caro thought about him, her muscles would clench and a disturbing sensation, half shiver, half shudder, would snake its way down her spine.

Not that she would make the mistake of believing it had meant anything to Philippe. Just because she could admit he was attractive didn’t mean that she was going to lose her mind. Caro might be many things, but she wasn’t a fool.

After announcing their relationship to a relieved Lotty and a furious Dowager Blanche, Philippe had escorted his equally disappointed father to Paris to start his treatment, but for the last three or four days he’d been in London. Caro knew this because she’d seen his picture in Glitz. He’d been snapped coming out of a nightclub with Francesca Allen. Usually referred to as ‘Britain’s favourite actress', Francesca was famously beautiful, famously intelligent, famously nice—and famously married. The tabloids were having a field day speculating about what they were doing together.