Prince of Montez, Pregnant Mistress

by Sabrina Philips

  ‘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 th
e 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.’

  Cally was so taken aback by the damning insult and high praise all delivered in one succinct sentence that she didn’t know what to say—but before she had the chance to utter anything Leon continued. ‘As a result, I wish to employ you. On one condition. There will be no renown. You may detail the commission in your portfolio, but that is it. On this island it is already forbidden for the press to print anything about me and my employees except in reference to the public work I carry out. It is a policy I do my best to ensure is reflected throughout the world, and which I expect all current and former staff to ensure is upheld. Indefinitely.’

  Well, that explained the lack of information on the Web, Cally thought, perplexed that he seemed to think that that one condition might be her only bone of contention with his offer of employment, and at the same time wanting to ask if he’d ever heard of three little words known as ‘freedom of press’.

  She frowned. ‘Yesterday you suggested that the Rénards were purchased for the university. Aren’t they therefore part of your public work anyway?’

  Leon raked a hand through his hair in irritation. Didn’t he just know that she would try and twist it any way she could? ‘No. The Rénards are for my private collection. I purchased a small Goya at the same auction for the university. Thankfully, it needs no restoration.’

  Cally exploded. ‘So the Rénards are to be treated like some trophy enjoyed by no one but you?’

  He took a sip of coffee. ‘If that is the way you choose to view my decision, oui. How fitting, then, that the two paintings themselves are a celebration of difference.’

  Cally felt her temper flare, as much because his crude analysis matched her own studied interpretation of the paintings as at the discovery that he would be keeping them to himself.

  ‘So you lied to me yet again.’

  ‘I didn’t lie, I just postponed the truth.’ He shrugged non-chalantly. ‘Are you going to pretend it makes a difference?’

  ‘Of course it does!’

  ‘Really? As I recall it, you told me that despite your oh-so-ethical principles nothing would stop you working on the paintings. Unless…’

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘Unless you are going to go back on your word. Again.’

  His eyes met hers in smouldering challenge. He was baiting her, she knew he was, and every instinct within her screamed walk away. He had bought the paintings for no other reason than as an acquisition to boast about. He was a damned liar. And she had never felt so humiliated by any other man in her life. Or so alive.

  But just what would she be walking away to—a blank diary and a pile of bills? Only now it would be worse, because she would know that she had walked away from her dream restoration for the sake of what boiled down to her pride. And, worse, though she hated to admit she gave a damn about what he thought, he would believe that she was incapable of sticking to her word, of seeing things through. The very trait that, after that one mistake, she’d spent years proving was not part of her character.

  If she turned him down, the only person who would lose out was her. Leon would simply employ someone else to do the work, and a man with more money than morals would have thwarted her dreams for the second time in her life. The thought set free a deep-rooted ball of fury inside her. So what if he and his plans for the paintings were the antithesis of everything she believed in? For once in her life, why the hell shouldn’t she turn that to her advantage?

  ‘Do you wish me to begin work straight away?’

  ‘That depends. Will you sign a contract which states that your employment will terminate if you break the condition?’

  ‘I see no reason why not.’

  ‘Then this afternoon suits me.’

  Cally smiled a sickly smile, determined to make this difficult. ‘In which case, I will require some payment up front in order to rent somewhere to stay, and—’

  ‘Somewhere to rent?’ he said with unconcealed disgust.

  She nodded.

  ‘And why on earth would that be necessary when, as you have already pointed out, the palace has an excess of rooms?’

  ‘Because…because I hardly think living as well as working here is appropriate, under the circumstances.’

  His raised his eyebrow. ‘Circumstances?’

  She felt a whole new level of heat wash over her and wished she had never opened her mouth. ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘If we had slept together I would see your point, ma belle, but since you were so vehement that we should not there is no problem, d’accord?’

  Yes, there is a bloody great problem, Cally thought, and its despicably handsome face is staring right
at me.

  ‘Fine. So I shall stay here and work here. But I’ll need my conservation equipment.’ She looked down at her suit and back up at him. ‘And, as I thought I was only going to be here for a matter of hours, I’ll need my clothes sent from home as well. Surely you can’t deny that I shall be needing those for the duration of my stay?’ she spat out, before she had time to realise that such a statement was just asking to be twisted.

  ‘Only time will tell, Cally,’ he purred. The way the two syllables of her name dropped from his tongue reminded her of hot, liquid chocolate, and she felt a bead of sweat trickle down between her breasts. ‘But there will be no need to send for anything,’ he drawled, as if her suggestion was utterly ridiculous. ‘I will have everything you could possibly need brought over from Paris, a new wardrobe included.’

  ‘I don’t need a new wardrobe!’

  He ran his eyes over her suit critically. ‘Oh, but I think you do.’

  Cally’s cheeks burned at his insult, her body temperature continuing to rocket. ‘Well, then, it’s lucky I don’t care what you think, isn’t it?’

  ‘Lucky? I’d say irrelevant is more accurate,’ he said, draining his cup of coffee.

  ‘But…!’ Cally glared at him, her whole body teeming with frustration, but he simply ignored her and carried on.

  ‘In the meantime, I presume you will wish to examine the paintings.’ He emphasised it insultingly, as if she was the one getting sidetracked. ‘Make a list of all the materials you will require and pass it on to Boyet by the end of the day. He will see that they are ordered immediately.’ He ran his eyes over her figure as he stood up. ‘And although it will be tomorrow before the clothes arrive from Paris I’m sure it wouldn’t kill you to remove that jacket sometime before then. You look like you’re about to pass out.’