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‘Fabulous. And my hotel is only two streets away,’ she said, as much to convince herself that after one drink she could return to the safety of her room as to remind him.
‘What could be better?’ he drawled, the look in his eyes explicit.
She swallowed down a lump in her throat as they passed the couple, who were yet to come up for air, and entered the bar.
It was dark inside, the sultry vocals of a female singer stirring the air whilst couples absorbed in one another moved slowly together on the dance floor. Oh yes, great idea, Cally. This is much safer ground than a quiet bar.
‘So what will it be, a Screaming Orgasm or a Pineapple Thrust?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Cally swung round and was only partially relieved to see that Leon was reading from a cocktail menu he’d picked up from the bar.
‘I’ll just have a mineral water, thanks.’ Leon raised his eyebrows in disapproval before the words were even out of her mouth. ‘OK, fine,’ she retracted, briefly running her eyes down the menu. ‘I’ll have a…Cactus Venom.’
When was the last time she’d had a drink? A glass of wine at her nephew’s christening in January. God, she really did need to get out more.
Leon slipped off his jacket and ordered two of the same, somehow managing, she noticed, to look exactly like he fitted in. She, on the other hand, crossed her arms awkwardly across her chest, feeling horribly overdressed and self-conscious.
‘So, don’t tell me—you come here all the time.’ Cally said, marvelling at how quickly he seemed to have got the waitress’s attention, although on second thoughts she could guess why.
‘Well, you know, I would, but I live in France. What’s your excuse?’
She laughed, relaxing a fraction as they found themselves a table and sat down. ‘I live in Cambridge.’
‘You mean you didn’t know that the Road to Nowhere was waiting just around the next corner?’
‘No, I didn’t.’ Cally shook her head, remembering the auction and thinking that the bar’s name was altogether too apt.
Leon seemed to sense her despondency and raised his glass. ‘So, what shall we drink to?’
Cally thought for a moment. ‘To discovering hard work doesn’t pay off in the end, so why bother?’
Something about his company, the atmosphere, made her realise that maybe she did need to talk about it after all. She hoped it was that, and not that she couldn’t go five minutes without mentioning work.
‘Sorry,’ she added, suddenly aware of how discourteous that sounded. ‘To…the Road to Nowhere.’
Leon chinked his cocktail glass against hers and they both took a sip of the yellow-green liquid, smarting at the sour taste.
‘So, tonight didn’t exactly go to plan for you?’ Leon ventured.
‘You could say that. The London City Gallery promised me the restoration job on the Rénards if they won them. They didn’t.’
‘Maybe you should offer your services to whoever did.’
‘According to the guy manning the phone, it was an anonymous private collector.’ Her voice rang with resentment.
‘Who’s to say a private collector won’t commission you to complete the restorations?’
‘Experience. Even if I could find out who he or she is, they’ll either choose someone they know or the team who can get it done fastest. The rich treat art like a new Ferrari or a penthouse in Dubai—an acquisition to boast about, instead of something everyone deserves to enjoy.’
Leon went very still. ‘So if you were approached, your morals would stop you from working on them?’
Cally turned away, emotion pricking at the backs of her eyes. ‘No, it wouldn’t stop me.’
She was aware how unprincipled that sounded—or more accurately how unprincipled that actually was—but it wasn’t just because of the opportunities that working on them was bound to lead to. It was because she could never turn down the opportunity to work on the paintings that had determined the direction of her entire life, even if that life now seemed to be one big road to nowhere. She shook her head, too mortified to admit as much.
‘I’d be a fool to turn it down if I ever got the opportunity. If I worked on the Rénards, I’d be known across the world.’
Leon gave a single nod. So, whatever impression she’d given at the pre-auction, what she wanted was renown. But of course, he thought cynically, what woman didn’t? And, going by her protestations that she didn’t want to talk about work, followed by her emotional outpouring on the subject, she didn’t seem any more capable of sticking to her word than the rest of her sex. Well, there was one way to be sure.
He leaned back in his chair. ‘So, was the pre-sale the first time you’d seen Mon Amour par la Mer?‘
Cally shivered. ‘I…I didn’t think you’d noticed me that day.’
He waited for her eyes to lift and meet his. ‘On the contrary, that was when I decided that I wanted to make love to you. In fact, that was why I came back to the auction.’
Cally gawped in shock at his nerve, whilst at the same time a treacherous thrill zipped up her spine, which surprised her even more than his words. Words which told her that, unbelievably, he had wanted her when she’d been dressed like Cally, not just tonight when she felt like she was playing dress-up to fit in with the art world. The world which, contrary to her initial impression, he wasn’t a part of either. He who had only been there tonight because of her. How was that possible? Wasn’t it obvious that she lacked that sexual gene, or whatever that thing was that most other women had? She didn’t know, but suddenly all the reasons she’d amassed for loathing him toppled over, taking her defences with them.
‘I ought to walk out of here right now.’
‘So walk.’
‘I…I haven’t finished my drink.’
‘And do you always do exactly what you say you are going to do, Cally?’
She was sure he turned up his accent when he said her name on purpose, sure he knew it made her stomach flip. Even surer that she didn’t have the strength to walk away.
‘I hate people who go back on their word.’
‘As do I.’ He looked at her sharply. ‘However, there were some parts of this agreement we didn’t specify—like whether this drink included a dance, for instance?’
Cally drew in a sharp breath as she looked to the grinding mass of bodies on the dance floor, now slowing to a more languorous pace as the soloist with the heavy eyeliner and the husky voice began a rendition of Black Velvet.
‘You’re not serious?’
‘Why not? Isn’t seizing the moment one of life’s beauties that art celebrates?’
Art, Cally thought. It was a celebration of life. But when was the last time she’d actually stopped to remember that and allowed herself to live it? She drank him in—his dark blond hair falling over his forehead, his eyes smouldering with a fire that both terrified and excited her—and for a split second she didn’t feel as though she’d lost anything at all tonight.
She offered him her hand and answered him in a voice she didn’t recognise as her own. ‘You’re on.’
As she stood up the alcohol went to her head, and for a second she closed her eyes, breathing deeply. The air felt thick, the heady beat of music vibrating through every cell in her body. She’d loved this song as a teenager. David had hated it. Why had she never played it since?
‘Come on.’ Leon snaked his hand around her waist and pulled her to him before he had time to consider whether or not this was such a good idea. He wanted her with a hungriness that unnerved him. He watched her mouthing the words of the song and, unable to drag his eyes away from her full lips, wondered if for once in his life he was going to be incapable of sticking to his own rules.
Always wanting more, he’d leave you longing for…
The lyrics seemed to reach into her soul. He seemed to reach into her soul. She had never met anyone like him. She had only known him five minutes and yet—clichéd thought it sounded—it almost felt like he knew her better than she had known herself, about everything she’d been missing out on. Being pressed up against him was intoxicating, the smell of him, the touch of him. She ran her hands up his muscular back, locked them behind his neck and allowed the tension to leave her body as he moved easily, her body following every movement his made.
‘Did I tell you how sexy you are?’ he whispered in her ear, the warmth of his breath sending an inordinate level of heat flooding through her.
He did this all the time; she was sure he did. Which was why it was crazy. She’d never done anything like this in her life, and she didn’t know what she was playing at now. But, though in her head she knew she was probably a fool to continue, right now her body was the only thing she could hear—and it was thrumming with a whole host of new sensations, all clamouring to be explored.
‘Did I tell you how sexy you are?’ she whispered nervously, grateful that she couldn’t see his face, hoping he couldn’t sense that she was trembling all over.
‘No,’ he whispered, drawing back to brush his lips just below her ear. ‘You most definitely didn’t mention that.’
She couldn’t bear it. His mouth was playing havoc with the sensitive skin of her neck. She needed to kiss him. Properly. Shakily, she guided his head with her hand until their faces were level, not knowing where her confidence had come from. Had he known if he touched her like that she wouldn’t be able to resist him? Probably. But right now she didn’t care. She just wanted to kiss him.
His lips brushed hers, painfully slowly, then opened hungrily. He tasted decadent, like dark chocolate and cinnamon. He ran his hand gently down her spine, slowing over the curve of her bottom. It was the kind of kiss that would have been utterly inappropriate in an exclusive little wine bar. To Cally’s shock it had a lot more in common with the display of primal need they had witnessed in the street outside, but to her astonishment she wanted more. She told herself it was down to the charge of the music, the distinctive scent of his hypnotic, balmy cologne. But she could blame it on exterior forces all she liked; the truth was that it was kissing him that was explosive. Suddenly she forgot everything else—the fact that he was a man she had only just met, the fact that she was bound to disappoint him, that this could only lead to heartache—because her need for him was overwhelming, and he seemed to feel it too.
‘You want to get out of here?’
She took a deep breath. ‘Yes, I do.’
So, Leon thought, fighting his own desire, there was the concrete proof that her word could not be trusted. That was the rule.
Cally’s cheeks were hot and her heart was pounding as he threaded her through the other couples on the dance floor and out onto the pavement, hailing a cab.
He opened the door for her as it rolled up. Then he coolly shut the door behind her and remained standing on the pavement.
She wound down the window, her brows knitted together in bewilderment. ‘I thought we were getting out of here?’
His face was grim. ‘No, you are. One drink was all you wanted, wasn’t it, Cally?’
Cally felt a new fire burning in her cheeks as Leon sigalled for the driver to go and she suddenly realised what was happening.
‘Bastard!’ she shouted.
But the driver had already pulled away, and all she could hear was the climax of the song as it poured down the street.
In a flash he was gone. It happened so soon, what could you do?
Chapter Three
AS CALLY rested her head on the window of the train from King’s Cross back to Cambridge, the sky-rise landscape shrinking to a patchwork of green, she gave up sifting her memories for debris and concluded that, no, she had never felt more ashamed than she did right now.
She, Cally Greenway, had almost had a one-night stand with a total stranger.
And, what was worse, a tiny part of her almost wished she had.
No, she argued inwardly, of course she didn’t. She just wished he hadn’t subjected her to that hideous rejection, or at the very least that she’d been able to understand why he had.
Had the earth-shattering heat of their kiss, which she’d thought was mutual, actually been so one-sided that he’d realised she would be useless in bed? Or was it all part of a game he played to prove that he was so drop-dead gorgeous he could make any woman abandon her morals if he chose?
Cally spent the next week wavering between the two theories, subsequently caught between reawakened insecurities and fresh anger. In the end, frustration with herself for even caring made anger prevail. She should be glad thatshe’d had a lucky escape, and the reason for his insulting behaviour shouldn’t even matter when he was no one to her, a no one whom she was never likely to see ever again.
So why, whenever she thought back to that night, did that moment in the taxi hurt even more than losing the commission had done? Cally pressed her lips together in shame, but then released them. It was simply because up until that point she had thought that what she’d lost was her dream job. He had made her see that she’d spent so long with her eye on that goal alone that she’d sacrificed every other aspect of her life in the process. Yes, she thought, unwilling to dwell on the other broken dreams his rejection had resurrected, that was it. Finding herself devastated that she would never have Leon’s arms around her again just proved how long it had been since she’d actually got out there and spent any time in the company of anyone but herself, and occasionally her family.
Well, he might have reinforced her belief about the futility of trusting the opposite sex, but she had to acknowledge that maybe it was about time she accepted the odd invitation to go out now and again, instead of always having a well-rehearsed list of things she had to do instead. Particularly since the short list of restorations she had lined up for the next three months was hardly going to claim all of her time, she thought despondently as she booted up her computer to see whether her inbox heralded any new enquiries on that front today. It was all very well, deciding to get a social life whilst she worked out what to do next, but it was hardly feasible if it meant not being able to eat.
Three new mails. The first was a promotional email from the supplier she used for her art materials, which she deleted without opening, knowing she couldn’t afford anything above and beyond her regular order. The second was from her sister Jen, who was back from her family holiday in Florida, desperate to know if the little black dress she’d leant her had been as lucky for Cally as it had been for her when she’d worn it to the journalism awards last month and scooped first prize. Cally shook her head, wondering how her sister managed to pull off being a high-flying career woman as well as a wonderful wife and mother, and resolved to reply with the bad news when she felt a little less like a failure in comparison.
The third email was from a sender with a foreign-sounding name she didn’t recognise. She clicked on it warily.
Dear Miss Greenway
Your skills as an art conservator have recently been brought to the attention of the Prince of Montéz. As a result, His Royal Highness wishes to discuss a possible restoration. To be considered, you are required to attend the royal palace in person in three days’ time. Your tickets will be couriered to you tomorrow unless you wish to decline this generous offer by return.
Yours faithfully, Boyet Durand
On behalf of His Royal Highness, the Prince of Montéz
Cally blinked at the words before her. Her first reaction was disbelief. Here was an email offering a free trip to a luxurious French island, so why wasn’t she pinging it straight off to her junk-mail folder, knowing there was a catch? She read it again. Because it wasn’t the usual generic trash: You’ve won a holiday to Barbados, to claim just call this number… This sender knew her name and what she did for a living. It was feasible that someone could have seen one of her few restorations that had ended up in smallish galleries and been inspired to visit her website—but a prince?
She read it a third time, and on this occasion the arrogance of it truly sunk in. If it was real, who on earth did the Prince of Montéz think he was to have his advisor summon her as if she was a takeaway meal he’d decide whether or not he wanted once she arrived?
Cally opened a new tab and typed ‘Prince of Montéz’ into Wikipedia. The information was irritatingly sparse. It didn’t even give his name, only stated that in Montéz the prince was the sovereign ruler, and that the current prince had come into power a year ago when his brother Girard had died in an accident aged just forty-three, leaving behind his young wife, Toria, but no children. Cally cast her mind back, roughly recalling the royal-wedding photos which had graced the cover of every magazine the summer she’d graduated, and hearing the news of his tragic death on the radio in her studio some time last year. But there was no further information about the late prince’s brother, the man who thought that she, a lowly artist, could drop everything because he commanded it.
Cally was tempted to reply that, attractive though the offer was, the prince was mistaken if he thought she could fit him into her busy schedule at such short notice. But the truth was he wasn’t mistaken. Hadn’t she only just been wishing she had more work lined up, and thinking she ought to start saying yes to something other than Sunday lunch at her parents’ house?
Which was why she decided she would let the tickets come. Not that she really believed they would, until the doorbell rang early the following morning, thankfully interrupting a fervid dream about a Frenchman with a disturbingly familiar face.
Nor did she really believe she’d dare to use them until the day after, when she heard the voice of the pilot asking them to please return their seats to the upright position because they were beginning their descent to the island.
The last and only time Cally had been to France was on a day trip to Le Touquet by ferry whilst she’d been at secondary school, most of which had been spent trawling round a rather uninspiring hypermarket. She’d always fancied Paris—the Eiffel Tower and the galleries, of course—but she’d somehow never got round to taking any kind of holiday at all since uni, nor felt she could justify the unnecessary expense. So when she stepped out of first class and was greeted by the most incredible vista of shimmering azure water and glorious tree-covered mountains sprinkled with terracotta roofs, it was no wonder it felt like this was all happening to someone else. For the first time in years she felt the urge to whip out a sketch pad and get to work on a composition of her own.
A desire that only increased when the private car pulled up to the incredible palace. It almost looked like a painting, she thought as the driver opened the door of the vehicle for her to depart.
‘Please follow me, mademoiselle. The prince will meet you in la salle de bal.‘
Cally frowned as he led her through the impressive main archway, trying to remember her GCSE French in order to decipher which room he was referring to. He must have caught her perplexed expression.
‘You would say “the ballroom”, I think?’
Cally nodded and rolled her eyes to herself as they passed through the courtyard and up a creamy white staircase with a deep red carpet running through the centre. There was a very good reason why she hadn’t needed to know the word for ballroom for her project on ‘ma maison’.
The thought reminded her just how hypocritical it was to feel impressed by the palace when the man who lived here was guilty of the excess she loathed. She was even more ashamed to look down at her perfectly functional black jacket and skirt, teamed with a white blouse, and wish she had brought something a little more, well, worthy. Why should she be worried what clothes she was wearing to meet the prince? Just because he had a palace and a title didn’t mean she ought to act any differently from the way she would with any potential client. Any more than he should judge her on anything but her ability as a restorer, she thought defiantly, hugging her portfolio to her chest.
‘Here we are, Mademoiselle Greenway.’
‘Thank you,’ Cally whispered as the man signalled for her to enter the ballroom, bowed his head and then swiftly departed.
She entered tentatively, preparing to be blown away by the full impact of the magnificent marble floor, the intricately decorated wall panels and the high, sculpted ceiling that she could see from the doorway. But, as Cally turned into the room, the gasp that broke from her throat was not one of artistic appreciation, it was one of complete astonishment.
The Rénards. Hanging, seemingly innocuously, right in the centre of the opposite wall.
Cally rushed to them to get a closer look, momentarily convinced that they must be reproductions, but a quick appraisal told her immediately that they were not. She felt her heart begin to thud insistently in her chest, though she couldn’t accurately name the emotion which caused it. Excitement? She had wanted more than anything to discover the identity of the mysterious telephone-bidder, to have the chance to convince them she was the best person to carry out the restoration. Now it seemed that somehow he had found her.
Or was it horror? For wasn’t this exactly the fate of the paintings she had feared—shut away in some gilded palace never to be looked upon again? She closed her eyes and pressed her hands to her temples, trying to make sense of it, but before she could even begin a voice behind her cut through everything.
‘See something you recognise?’
A voice which made her eyes fly open, every hair on the back of her neck stand on end and every thought fly from her mind. Every thought, except one.
Leon.
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.