LITMIR.BIZ

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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.’

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