Sabrina Philips - Prince of Montéz, Pregnant Mistress

Stop it, she scolded herself. The Prince of Montéz is French, of course he’s going to sound a little like him. God, she really did need to get out more if that one meaningless episode had the power to make her lose all grip on reality every time she heard a man with a French accent. The voice belonged to the Prince of Montéz, who had brought her here as his potential employee, so why was she still staring rudely at the wall? She turned sharply to face him.

The sight before her almost made her keel over.

Her imagination hadn’t been playing a trick on her at all. It was him. Irritatingly perfect him, his impressive physique all the more striking in a formal navy suit.

Her mind went into overdrive as she attempted to make sense of what was happening. Leon was a university professor; perhaps he’d been invited here to examine the paintings in more detail; perhaps this was just one of life’s unfortunate coincidences?

But as she stared at his wry expression—impatient, as if waiting for her tiny mind to catch up—she suddenly understood that this was no coincidence. Her very first appraisal of him in that sale room in London—rich, heartless, titled—had not been wrong. It was everything else that had been a lie. Good God, was Leon even his real name?

‘You bastard.’

For a second his easy expression looked shot through with something darker, but just as quickly it was back.

‘So you said last time we met, Cally, but now that you know I am your potential employer I thought you’d be a little more courteous.’

Courteous? Cally felt the bile rise in her throat. ‘Well, since I can assure you I am not going to be capable of courtesy towards you any time this century, I think I should leave, don’t you?’

Leon gritted his teeth. Yes, he did think she should leave, the same way he’d thought he should in London. But after countless hot, frustrated nights, when all his body had cared about was why the hell he hadn’t taken her when he’d had the chance, Leon was through with thinking.

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?’