Prince of Montez, Pregnant Mistress

by Sabrina Philips

  Leon got to his feet and Cally stumbled to do the same, determined that this meeting would not end up with him walking away from her. ‘You may be used to women fainting in your presence, Leon, but I can assure you that you leave me completely cold.’

  ‘Well, if this is cold, chérie, I can’t wait to see you fired up,’ he mocked, and before she could even attempt to beat him away from the table he was halfway back to the palace, so that to her consternation it simply looked as though she had been standing ceremoniously for his exit.

  ‘Then I hope you’re a very patient man,’ she yelled back, and, seeing that he had already entered the glass doors, allowed herself to drop back into her chair and tear off the blasted jacket.

  ‘I’m not sure patience will be necessary,’ he drawled as he pulled back the inside blind and dropped his eyes to her blouse. ‘Are you?’

  Chapter Five

  ‘WOULD you have me carry these to your room now, Mademoiselle Greenway?’

  Cally gawped in disbelief as she descended the stairs the following morning to find Boyet surrounded by countless bags and boxes. It reminded her of the sea of gifts that had spilled out from beneath the ten-foot pine at David’s house that Christmas eight years ago, and his subsequent withering expression when she’d taken him back to meet her parents and he’d seen their sparse equivalent. It immediately soured her mood.

  ‘I suppose there must be something suitable for work hidden in one of them, Boyet, thank you. Here, let me give you a hand.’

  Despite his protests, Cally helped Boyet carry the fifty-four bags and boxes upstairs, but after peeling back enough tissue paper to completely bury the bedroom carpet she discovered that her supposition had been wrong. Yes, in amongst the high-heeled shoes, cocktail dresses and a disturbing amount of lingerie there was the odd pair of fine linen trousers and a single pair of diamanté designer jeans, but there was nothing she would have considered even remotely suitable for getting covered in paint. In fact it was the kind of wardrobe that would better befit a mistress than a woman he’d employed to do a job that could be both mentally and physically exhausting.

  Maybe that was because it was a mistress’s wardrobe, Cally thought cynically as she recalled Leon’s comment yesterday which had implied just how frequently women joined him for breakfast. He probably had the whole lot on standby and simply ordered a new batch whenever he chose someone new to warm his bed. Well, she thought bitterly, her purpose here was not to dress for his pleasure. Not that she supposed for one minute that she was in any danger of that; whatever attraction he’d feigned towards her in London had simply been an elaborate plan to test her suitability for this job, hadn’t it? She didn’t know why that got to her most of all, when the real reason why she was angry was that he obviously had no concept of a woman needing clothes to work in. Well, she thought, grabbing for the designer jeans and rooting around in her handbag, she would soon see to that.

  Cally doubted that her nail scissors would ever be fit for their intended purpose again, but twenty minutes later she felt rebelliously gleeful as she redescended the stairs and headed to the studio wearing the freshly cut-off, diamantéless jeans, which now ended mid-thigh, and a royal blue silk blouse knotted at her waist.

  The studio was triple the size of the room she used for restorations back home in Cambridge, but compared to everything she had encountered in the palace so far it was surprisingly understated. Aside from the tall glass doors which faced the sea and let in an ideal abundance of natural light, the room contained very little save for a row of cupboards, a sink, a comfy-looking sofa covered with a red throw and a CD player in the corner.

  And of course the Rénards, which now dominated the space. She had been sitting alone on the veranda after breakfast yesterday, her jacket still tossed aside in frustration, when Boyet had approached to inform her that the paintings were being set up on easels in here for her to begin her assessment. Relieved to be able to concentrate on practicalities, her mood had instantly turned to one of resolve. When she had taken Boyet the list of materials she anticipated she would need for the duration of the restoration later that afternoon, she had been even more relieved to hear that Leon had gone out on royal business and would not be back until after dark.

  However, though Leon seemed to be leaving her to it this morning as well, Cally was perplexed to find that she was not consumed by the single-mindedness she usually felt when confronted with a new commission, and which she had expected to have in spades when it came to the Rénards.

  She pulled up her stool before the masterpieces and drew in a deep breath, forcing herself to block out everything else, but her mind was still running riot. Perhaps it was too quiet. She was used to the buzz of traffic outside her window back home. She went over to the CD player and ran her fingers along the shelf of jewelled cases, surprised to find there was more than one rock album amongst his collection. She hesitated over one of them. Tempting though it was to put it on, she knew it would only serve to remind her of that night, and that was bound to skew her thoughts completely. So she put on some contemporary jazz, told herself a prince didn’t buy his own CDs anyway, and sat down again.

  Being able to focus was her speciality; it always had been. She cast her mind back to her conservation course in Cambridge. There had been plenty of students with more natural talent than she had, but, to quote the words of her tutor, no one who applied themselves in quite the same way that she did. Whilst other students had partied till dawn, and only started thinking about their assignments on the day of a deadline, Cally would be finished with weeks to spare, already working on the next. Maybe it was because she had fought so hard for a second chance. Or maybe it was because since that moment in Mrs McLellan’s class all those years before her passion for art had surpassed everything.

  Even though her epiphany had initially taken the form of wanting to be an artist in the traditional sense, Cally admitted, unsure why that thought was accompanied by a deep pang of regret today when usually she could view her change of vocation objectively. It was probably because, if she had been able to bring herself to paint any of her paltry compositions after her split with David, even they would have had more chance of appearing in a public gallery than the two most impressive nineteenth-century paintings in existence. Cally balled her hands into fists. How was it possible that a man who was opening a university which encouraged learning about art could keep these incredible paintings for his eyes only? The university was just a princely duty, she supposed, a role which was separate from his own sentiments. Which was exactly how she needed to view this job.

  ‘Before shots, that’s where I should start,’ Cally said aloud, as if talking to herself might drown out her tumultuous thoughts and help with her focus. She reached into her bag and found her battered camera, then took a step backwards, lining up the lens.

  ‘Thinking of your precious portfolio, chérie?’

  At the sound of his voice she dropped her hand guiltily. As soon as she did, she realised how ridiculous that was, but by then her hand was too unsteady to continue.

  Only because he had made her jump, Cally reasoned. How had he snuck in without her hearing? She was annoyed that she had no way of knowing how long he’d been standing there watching her, and made a mental note to lower the volume on the CD player in future, though the music was far from loud.

  ‘Having a record of their initial appearance for reference is an essential part of the process,’ she said defensively, turning to face him. The sight caught her off guard. He was perched on the arm of the sofa in a pair of faded light blue jeans that moulded his thighs, and a white T-shirt that revealed the taut plane of his stomach, the casual attire doing nothing to belittle the power he seemed to exude naturally. She swallowed slowly, her mouth suddenly feeling parched. ‘Was there something you wanted?’

  ‘I just came to check you hadn’t been attacked by the palace lawnmower,’ he drawled, producing two pieces of hacked-off denim. ‘Stéphanie was a little concerned to fin
d these whilst cleaning your room.’

  Cally’s mouth twitched into a smile. ‘Well, as you can see, I’m absolutely fine.’

  ‘It’s a shame I can’t say the same for the jeans.’

  ‘What’s a shame is that you didn’t allow me to have my own clothes sent from home. How am I supposed to do my job wearing some skintight, dry-clean-only designer outfit?

  You’re lucky I didn’t decide to do a Julie Andrews and take to your curtains instead.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Her words shook Leon out of his state of semi-arousal. Ever since he’d entered the room he’d been transfixed by her pert little bottom and her long, shapely legs in her makeshift shorts. Until she’d just revealed that her outing with the scissors had all been a protest because he hadn’t let her have her own way.

  ‘You know—Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music—where she makes clothes for all the children out of the curtains. Didn’t you ever see it?’

  ‘I can’t say that I did.’

  Cally looked at him with new eyes, truly comprehending for the first time that he wasn’t just Mr Drop-dead Gorgeous with whom she’d shared one earth-shattering kiss before he’d humiliated and lied to her. He was royalty, the sole ruler of a Mediterranean island. Whilst she’d spent the school holidays watching old movies with her sister whilst her parents were out at work, what must he have been doing—opening the odd university here, making a state visit there?

  Yet, even though he owned this luxurious palace, had the title and the sense of self-importance to match, she still found it somehow difficult to imagine. Maybe it was because he’d described his role here as if it was just a job. But that was ridiculous, because being royal wasn’t an occupation, it was who he was. So how was it that he had seemed to fit right into that bar in London when he ought to have stuck out like a Van Gogh in a public toilet?

  Cally quickly returned her camera to her bag and moved back to her seat, appalled to realise that she had been inadvertently giving him the once-over. ‘Don’t you have royal duties this morning?’

  Leon had never been so glad that someone had elected to sit on a stool rather than a chair as he watched the waist-band of her shorts come tantalisingly close to revealing the top of the perfect globes of her bottom. ‘Not until my meeting later with the president of France.’

  ‘Oh.’ It took all Cally’s powers of concentration to transfer a bottle of distilled water into a small beaker without pouring it all over her lap. ‘Then I’m sure you must have a lot to prepare.’

  ‘If it’s not distracting, I thought I might watch you quietly.’

  It wasn’t really even a question, and if it was then he had asked it so airily it was impossible to answer that, actually, she felt seriously in danger of putting the cotton bud through the canvas if he stayed. She’d worked in front of people heaps of times before—students, enthusiastic clients—and, for goodness’ sake, the first step of the process was only removing the dirt and grime. All it required was a little focus.

  ‘As you wish.’

  Leon witnessed her hesitation and smiled to himself. ‘You can begin without the supplies from Paris?’

  Cally felt herself marginally relax, glad to talk about work. ‘The cleaning, yes. It’s more a case of time and patience than apparatus in the early stages.’

  ‘Like so many things,’ he said, deliberately slowly.

  She told herself she was imagining his suggestive tone. ‘I had a tutor who used to say that half the work is in the diagnosis. Each painting is like a patient. The symptoms might be similar, but working out the treatment is unique to every one.’

  An image of Cally wearing a nurse’s uniform and tending to him in bed popped into Leon’s head, and the erection which had begun at the sight of her legs in those shorts grew even harder.

  ‘So, did you always want to restore art?’

  As Cally returned to her seat she felt the muscles in her shoulders go taut. ‘I started out wanting to be an artist in the traditional sense, but things changed. I don’t do my own work anymore.’

  She waited for the snide comment, the probing questions, but was surprised to find they didn’t come.

  ‘Our lives don’t always follow the course we expect, non?’

  ‘No,’ she said, somehow finding the courage to begin in the top corner of the first painting. ‘They don’t.’

  He must be referring to his brother’s death, Cally thought, for it occurred to her that, if Girard had lived, then Leon might never have become prince. She wanted to ask him about it, but at the same time felt bound to show him the same quiet respect.

  He broke the momentary silence. ‘But providence works in mysterious ways, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I’d say that view of the world is a little romantic for me.’

  She heard him move and saw on the periphery of her vision that he was leaning up against the cupboards to her left, contemplating her profile.

  ‘You mean you do not believe in romance, ma belle?’

  She dipped the cotton bud back in the distilled water and deflected the question. ‘Why, do you?’

  ‘I am a Frenchman, Cally.’ He laughed a low, throaty laugh. ‘It’s in my blood.’

  ‘How curious, when only yesterday you were telling me that you find the idea of marriage intolerable.’

  He eyed her sceptically. ‘What amazing powers of recollection you have for someone who professed to have no interest in the subject.’

  ‘A good memory is essential for my job,’ she replied a little too quickly. ‘In order to recall the mixes of different chemicals.’

  ‘Of course.’ He stroked a hand across his chin with mock sincerity. ‘Your job. That is what we were discussing, after all. So, tell me, is it coincidence that you chose to start with the fully clothed portrait before moving on to the nude, or is the significance intentional?’

  Cally’s hand was poised in mid-air an inch away from the canvas. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Is it deliberate that you have begun on the work which has the least damage first?’

  She pursed her lips, knowing that he hadn’t been implying anything so innocuous.

  ‘Yes. It allows me to get accustomed to the necessary techniques before moving on to the larger areas of damage.’

  ‘The patient requiring the most intensive treatment.’ He nodded seriously, startling her with the evidence that he had been listening thoroughly to her earlier explanation.

  He saw her falter a second time and stifled a grin. ‘I am sorry. I promised to watch quietly. I will leave you to carry on in peace, if you’ll just excuse me whilst I just pick up a couple of things?’

  Cally inclined her head, thinking how impeccable his manners could be when he wanted. She did not really take in what he was saying until she saw him move to the cupboard at the front of the room and remove a towel.

  ‘I thought they were all empty, ready for the paint supplies,’ she commented.

  ‘They are, except for these few. I’ve got rid of the majority of my equipment now I have so few chances to use it.’

  ‘Equipment?’

  ‘Diving equipment,’he explained, before catching sight of the intense curiosity on her face which told him that it had not been clarification enough. He supposed no harm could come from telling her. ‘Before it became necessary for me to rule the island, I worked as a diver for the Marine Nationale.’

  Cally tried to hide the astonishment she felt. ‘The French Navy?’ As an admiral or a captain she could well imagine, but a diver? She swallowed as he hooked his thumbs under the corner of his T-shirt. It certainly explained his incredible physique—in which she had absolutely no interest, of course. It was just that she’d been trained to admire things that were aesthetically pleasing.

  ‘This room is closest to the sea. I used to train out of here before I signed up full-time.’

  Cally watched, her whole body besieged by a frightening and unfamiliar paralysis as he revealed his taut, muscular chest and exceptionally broad shoulders. He
had a scar, she noticed, running from just below his belly button to somewhere below the waistband of his jeans. The mark of his fallibility fascinated her. How had he got it? How would it feel to trace its pale crease with her fingertips and find out where it led—and, more to the point, why was she even wondering? Her pulse skittered madly. Good God, now he was unbuttoning his flies! She moved her face closer to the painting, pretending to look at it closely, willing herself to concentrate on Rénard’s artistic genius. But the live work of nature before her was suddenly a whole lot more impressive.

  When she raised her head to look again he was wearing pale blue swimming trunks, and she found herself inexplicably frustrated that she had no way of knowing whether he had been wearing them underneath his jeans all along or not.

  ‘We haven’t had a day this hot for weeks.’ His mouth twitched in amusement as he walked over to the small fridge by the sink and took a long swig from a bottle of water. Try years, Cally thought, her mouth growing dry at the sight. They ought to use him to advertise mineral water. Or on second thoughts perhaps not; it would probably cause a drought.

  ‘It’s definitely even warmer than yesterday,’ she replied weakly.

  ‘So join me.’ He nodded at the inviting blue glitter of sea outside the window.

  Join him? She followed his gaze and imagined plunging into its cooling depths. Then she turned her attention back to the tanned, muscular profile. Far, far too dangerous.

  ‘Thanks, but it could be detrimental not to complete this part of the process now I’ve started.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said slowly. ‘Just don’t get too hot in here all by yourself.’

  And with that he opened the glass doors, strolled the short distance to the cliff and dived in.