‘What exactly is it that you’re proposing with this press conference and by taking me back to Isle Saint Croix? That’s assuming I’ll agree to go,’ she added quickly.

Alix looked at Leila. She was pale, and even more beautiful than he remembered. Had her eyes always been that big? The moment he’d seen her standing in the foyer his blood had leapt, as if injected by currents of pure electricity.

‘You’ll come because you’re carrying my heir, and the whole world knows it now.’

Leila looked hunted. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest again, pushing the swells of those luscious breasts up. The thought of Leila’s body ripening with his seed, his child, gave him another shockingly sudden jolt of lust.

Leila was pacing now. ‘What is the solution here? There has to be a solution…’ She stopped and faced him again. ‘I mean, it’s not as if you’re really intending to marry me. The engagement is just for show… until things die down again.’

She looked so hopeful Alix almost felt sorry for her. Almost. Her reluctance to marry him caught at him somewhere very primal and possessive.

‘No, Leila. We will be getting married. In two weeks.’

An Heir

Fit for a King

Abby Green

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Irish author ABBY GREEN threw in a very glamorous career in film & TV—which really consisted of a lot of standing in the rain outside actors’ trailers—to pursue her love of romance. After she’d bombarded Mills & Boon® with manuscripts they kindly accepted one, and an author was born. She lives in Dublin, Ireland, and loves any excuse for distraction. Visit abby-green.com or e-mail abbygreenauthor@gmail.com

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This is for Sheila Hodgson… thanks for your support and calming influence while life got seriously in the way of this book!

I’d also like to thank the beautiful stranger working in the perfume shop in the Westbury Mall in Dublin, who sparked the original idea for this story, and a very special thanks to Penny Ellis of Floris, London, who gave me my first experience in how to build a perfume. Any glaring errors are purely my own!

Contents

Cover

Excerpt

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

LEILA VERUGHESE WAS just wondering morosely to herself what would happen when her dwindling supplies of perfume ran out completely when out of the corner of her eye she spotted something and turned to look, glad of the distraction to her maudlin thoughts.

It was a sleek black car, pulled up outside her small House of Leila perfume shop. The shop she’d inherited from her mother, on the Place Vendôme in Paris. When she took a closer look she saw a veritable fleet of sleek black cars. The lead one had flags flying on the bonnet, but Leila couldn’t make out what country they were from—even though she’d spent most of her life identifying the glamorous comings and goings from the exclusive Ritz Hotel across the square.

A man hopped out of the front of the car, clearly a bodyguard of some sort, with an earpiece in his ear. He looked around before opening the back door and Leila’s eyes widened when she saw who emerged. As if they had to widen purely to be able to take him in better.

It was a man—unmistakably and unashamedly a man. Which was a ridiculous thing to think... One was either a man or a woman, after all. But it was as if his very masculinity reached out before him like a crackling energy. He uncoiled to a height well over six feet, towering over the smaller, blockier man beside him. Powerfully built, with broad shoulders in a long black overcoat.

He looked as if he was about to come towards Leila’s shop when he stopped suddenly, and Leila saw a moment of irritation cross his face before he turned back to talk to someone who had to be in the back of the car. A wife? A girlfriend? He went and put a big hand on the roof of the car as he consulted the person inside.

Leila caught a glimpse of a long length of bare toned thigh and a flash of blonde hair and then the man straightened again and began striding towards the shop, flanked by his minders.

It was only now that Leila even registered his face. She’d never seen anything so boldly beautiful in all her life. Dark olive skin—dark enough to be Arabic? High cheekbones and a sensual mouth. It might have been pretty if it hadn’t been for the deep-set eyes, strong brows and even stronger jaw, which had clenched now, along with that look of irritation.

He had short hair—dark, cut close to his skull. Which had that same beautiful masculine shape as his face.

Shock held Leila still for a long moment as he got closer and closer. For a second, just before the shop door opened, his eyes caught hers and she had the strangest notion of a huge sleek bird of prey, swooping down to pick her up in his talons and carry her away.

* * *

The dark-haired shop assistant behind the glass of the shop barely impinged on Alix Saint Croix’s consciousness as he strode to the door. Surprise me. His mouth tightened. If he’d been able to say that the previous night had been...pleasurable, he might have been more inclined to ‘surprise’ his lover. He was a man who was not used to obeying the demands of anyone else, and the only reason he was indulging Carmen’s sudden whim for perfume was because he was all too eager to get away from her.

She’d arrived in his suite the previous evening, and their subsequent lovemaking had been...adequate. Alix had found himself wondering when was the last time he’d been so consumed with lust or by a woman that he’d lost his mind in pleasure? Never, a little voice had whispered as his lover had sauntered from the bed to the bathroom, making sure all her assets were displayed to best advantage.

Alix had been bored. And, because women seemed to have a seventh sense designed purely to detect that, his lover had become very uncharacteristically compliant and sweet. So much so that it had set Alix’s teeth on edge. And after a day of watching waif-thin models prancing up and down a catwalk he was even more on edge.

But, as his advisor had pointed out when he’d grumbled to him on the phone earlier, ‘This is good, Alix. It’s helping us lull them into a false sense of security: they believe you have nothing on your agenda but the usual round of socialising and modelising.’

Alix did not like being considered a modeliser, and he pushed open the door to the shop with more force than was necessary, finally registering the shop assistant who was looking at him with a mixture of shock and awe on her face.

He also registered within the same nanosecond that she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life.

The door shut behind him, a small bell tinkling melodically, but he didn’t notice. She had pale olive skin, a straight nose and full soft lips. Sexy. A firm, yet delicate jaw. High cheekbones. Her hair was a sleek fall of black satin behind her shoulders and Alix had the bizarre compulsion to reach out and see if it would slip through his fingers like silk.

But it was her eyes that floored him... They were huge light emerald gems with the longest black lashes, framed by gracefully arched black brows. She looked like a Far Eastern princess.

‘Who are you?’

Was that his voice? It sounded like a croak. Stunned. There was an instant fire kindling in his belly and his blood. The fire he’d lamented the lack of last night. It was as if his body was ahead of his brain in terms of absorbing her beauty.

She blinked and those long lashes veiled her stunning eyes for a moment.

‘I’m the owner of the shop, Leila Verughese.’

The name suited her. Exotic. Alix somehow found the necessary motor skills to put out his hand. ‘Alix Saint Croix.’

Recognition flashed in her eyes, unmistakable. She flushed, her cheeks going a pretty shade of pink and Alix surmised cynically that of course she’d heard of him. Who hadn’t?

Her hand slipped into his then, small and delicate, cool, and the effect was like a rocket launching deep inside Alix. His blood boiled and his hand tightened reflexively around hers.

He struggled to make sense of this immediate and extreme physical and mental reaction. He was used to seeing a woman and assessing her from a distance, his desires firmly under control. This woman... Leila...was undeniably beautiful, yes. But she was dressed like a pharmacist, with a white coat over a very plain blue shirt and black trousers. Even in flat shoes, though, she was relatively tall, reaching his shoulder. He found himself imagining her in spindly high heels, how close her mouth would be if he wanted to just bend down slightly...

She took her hand back and Alix blinked.

‘You are looking for a perfume?’

Alix’s brain felt sluggish. Perfume? Why was he looking for perfume? Carmen. Waiting for him in the car. Immediately he scowled again, and the woman in front of him took a step back.

He put out a hand. ‘Sorry, no...’ He cursed silently—what was wrong with him? ‘That is, yes, I’m looking for a perfume. For someone.’

The woman looked at him. ‘Do you have any particular scent in mind?’

Alix dragged his gaze from her with an effort and looked around the small shop for the first time. Each wall was mirrored glass, with glass shelves and counters. Glass and gold perfume bottles covered the surfaces, giving the space a golden hue.

The decor was opulent without being stifling. And there wasn’t the stench of overpowering perfume that Alix would normally associate with a shop like this. The ambience was cool, calm. Serene. Like her. He realised that she exuded a sense of calm and that he was reacting to that as well.

Almost absently he said, ‘I’m looking for a scent for my mistress.’

When there was no immediate reaction such as Alix was used to—he said what he wanted and people jumped—he looked at the woman. Her mouth was pursed and an unmistakable air of disapproval was being directed at him. Intriguing. No one ever showed Alix their true reactions.

He arched a brow. ‘You have a problem with that?’

To his further fascination her cheeks coloured and she looked away. Then she said stiffly, ‘It’s not for me to say what’s an appropriate term for your...partner.’

Leila cursed herself for showing her reaction and moved away to one of the walls of shelves, as if to seek out some perfume samples.

Her father had once offered the role of mistress to Leila’s mother—after she’d given birth to their illegitimate daughter. He’d seduced Deepika Verughese when he’d been doing business in India with Leila’s grandfather, but had then turned his back on her when she’d arrived in Paris, disgraced and pregnant, all the way from Jaipur.

Her mother had declined his offer to become his kept woman, too proud and bitter after his initial rejection, and had told Leila the story while pointing out all the kept women of the various famous people and dignitaries who’d come into the shop over the years, as a salutary lesson in what women were prepared to do to feather their nests.

Leila’s mind cleared of the painful memory. She hated it that she’d reacted so unprofessionally just now, but before she could say anything else she heard the man move and looked up into the glass to see him coming closer. He looked even larger reflected in the mirror, with his dark image being sent back a hundred times.

She realised that his eyes were a very dark grey.

‘You know who I am?’

She nodded. She’d known who he was as soon as he’d said his name. He was the infamous exiled King of a small island kingdom off the coast of North Africa, near Southern Spain. He was a renowned financial genius, with fingers in almost every business one could think of—including most recently an astronomical investment in the new oil fields of Burquat in the Middle East.

There were rumours that he was going to make a claim on his throne, but if this visit was anything to go by he was concerned with nothing more than buying trinkets for his lover. And she had no idea why that made her feel so irritable.

Alix Saint Croix continued. ‘So you’ll know that a man like me doesn’t have girlfriends or partners. I take mistresses. Women who know what to expect and don’t expect anything more.’

Something hardened inside her. She knew all about men like him. Unfortunately. And the evidence of this man’s single-minded, cynical nature made her see red. It made her sick, because it reminded her of her own naivety in the face of overwhelming evidence that what she sought didn’t exist.

Nevertheless she was determined not to let this man draw her down another painful memory lane. She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Not all women are as cynical as you make out.’

Something hard crossed his face. ‘The women who move in my circles are.’

‘Well, maybe your circles are too small?’

She couldn’t believe the words tripping out of her mouth, but he’d pushed a button—a very sensitive button. She almost expected him to storm out of her shop, but to her surprise Alix Saint Croix’s mouth quirked on one side, making him look even sexier. Dangerous.

‘Perhaps they are, indeed.’

Leila suddenly felt hot and claustrophobic. He was looking at her too intensely, and then his gaze dropped to where the swells of her breasts were pushed up by her crossed arms. She took them down hurriedly and reached for the nearest bottle of perfume, only half registering the label.

She thrust it towards him. ‘This is one of our most popular scents. It’s floral-based with a hint of citrus. It’s light and zesty—perfect for casual wear.’

Alix Saint Croix shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think that’ll do. I want something much earthier. Sensuous.’

Leila put down the bottle with a clatter and reached for another bottle. ‘This might be more appropriate, then. It’s got fruity top notes, but a woody, musky base.’

He cocked his head and said consideringly, ‘It’s so hard to know unless you can smell it.’

Leila’s shirt felt too tight. She wanted to undo a top button. What was wrong with her?

She turned back to the counter and took a smelling strip out of a jar, ready to spray it so that he could smell it. And go. She wanted him gone. He was too disturbing to her usually very placid equilibrium.

But before she could spray, a large hand wrapped around her arm, stopping her.

Heat zinged straight to her belly. She looked up at him.

‘Not on a piece of paper. I think you’d agree that a scent has to be on the skin to be best presented?’

Feeling slightly drugged and stupid, Leila said, ‘It’s a woman’s scent.’

He cocked a brow again. ‘So spray some on your wrist and I’ll smell it.’

The shock that reverberated through Leila was as if he’d just said Take off all your clothes, please.

She had to struggle to compose herself, get a grip. She’d often sprayed perfume on her own skin so that someone could get a fuller sense of it. But this man had made the request sound almost indecent.

Praying that her hand wouldn’t shake, Leila took the top off the bottle and pulled up her sleeve to spray some of the scent. When the liquid hit the underside of her wrist she shivered slightly. It felt absurdly sensual all of a sudden.

Alix Saint Croix still had a hand wrapped around her arm and now he moved it down to take the back of her hand in his, wrapping long fingers around hers. He moved his head down to smell the perfume, his dark head coming close to her breast.

But he kept his eyes on her, and from this close she could see lighter flecks of grey, like silver mercury. Leila’s breath stopped when she felt his breath feather along her skin. Those lips were far too close to the centre of her palm, which was clammy.

He seemed to consider the scent until Leila’s nerves twanged painfully. Her belly was a contracted ball of nerves.

A movement over his head caught her eye and she saw a sleek, tall blonde emerge from the back of the car with a phone clamped to her ear. She was wearing an indecently tight, slinky dress and a ridiculously ineffectual jacket for the cool autumn weather.

He must have picked up on her distraction and straightened to look out of the window too. Leila noticed a tension come into his body as his girlfriend—mistress—saw him and gesticulated with clear irritation, all while still talking on the phone.

‘Your...er...mistress is waiting for you.’ Leila’s voice felt scratchy.

He still had his hand wrapped around hers and now let her go. Leila tucked it well out of reach.

He morphed before her eyes into someone much cooler, indecipherable. Perversely, it didn’t comfort her.

‘I’ll take it.’

Leila blinked at him.

‘The perfume,’ he expanded, and for a moment a glint of what they’d just shared made his eyes flash.

Leila jerked into action. ‘Of course. It’ll only take me a moment to package it up.’

She moved to get a bag and paper and quickly and inexpertly packaged up the perfume, losing all of her customary cool. When she had it ready she handed it over and avoided his eye. A wad of cash landed on the counter but Leila wasn’t about to check it.

And then, without another word, he turned around and strode out again, catching his...whatever she was...by the arm and hustling her back into the car.

His scent lingered on the air behind him, and in a very delayed reaction Leila assimilated the various components with an expertise that was like a sixth sense—along with the realisation that his scent had impacted on her as soon as he’d walked in, on a level that wasn’t rational. Someplace else. Somewhere she wasn’t used to scents impacting.

It was a visceral reaction. Primal. His scent was clean, with a hint of something very male that most certainly hadn’t come out of a bottle. The kind of evocative scent that would make someone a fortune if they could bottle it: the pure essence of a virile male in his prime. Earthy. Musky.

A pulse between Leila’s legs throbbed and she pressed her thighs together, horrified.

What was wrong with her? The man was a king, for God’s sake, and he had a mistress that he was unashamed about. She should be thinking good riddance, but what she was thinking was much more confused.

It made alarm bells ring. It reminded her of another man who had come into the shop and who had very skilfully set about wooing her—only to turn into a nasty stranger when he’d realised that Leila had no intention of giving him what he wanted...which had been very far removed from what Leila had wanted.

She looked stupidly at the money on the counter for a moment, before realising that he’d vastly overpaid her for the perfume, but all she could think about was that last enigmatic look he’d shot her, just before he’d ducked into the car—a look that had seemed to say he’d be back. And soon.

And in light of their conversation, and the way he’d made her feel, Leila knew she shouldn’t be remotely intrigued. But she was. And not even the ghost of memories past could stop it.

* * *

A little later, after Leila had locked up and gone upstairs to the small flat she’d shared with her mother all her life, she found herself gravitating to the window, which looked out over the Place Vendôme. The opera glasses that her mother had used for years to check out the comings and goings at the Ritz were sitting nearby, and for a second Leila felt an intense pang of grief for her mother.

Leila pushed aside the past and picked up the glasses and looked through them, seeing the usual flurry of activity when someone arrived at the hotel in a flash car. She tilted the glasses upwards to where the rooms were—and her whole body froze when she caught a glimpse of a familiar masculine figure against a brightly lit opulent room.

She trained the glasses on the sight, hating herself for it but unable to look away. It was him. Alix Saint Croix. The overcoat was gone. And the jacket. He had his back to her and was dressed in a waistcoat and shirt and trousers. Hands in his pockets were drawing the material of his trousers over his very taut and muscular backside.

Instantly Leila felt damp heat coil down below and squeezed her legs together.

He was looking at something in front of him, and Leila tensed even more when the woman he’d been with came into her line of vision. She’d taken off the jacket and the flimsy dress was now all she wore. Her body was as sleek and toned as a throughbred horse. Leila vaguely recognised her as a world-famous lingerie model.

She could see that she held something in her hand, and when it glinted she realised it was the bottle of perfume. The woman sprayed it on her wrist and lifted it to smell, a sexy smile curling her wide mouth upwards.

She sprayed more over herself and Leila winced slightly. The trick with perfume was always less is more. And then she threw the bottle aside, presumably to a nearby chair or couch, and proceeded to pull down the skinny straps of her dress. Then she peeled the top half of her dress down, exposing small but perfect breasts.

Leila gasped at the woman’s confidence. She’d never have the nerve to strip in that way in front of a man.

And then Alix Saint Croix moved. He turned away from the woman and walked to the window. For a second he loomed large in Leila’s glasses, filling them with that hard-boned face. He looked intent. And then he pulled a drape across, obscuring the view, almost as if he’d known Leila was watching from across the square like a Peeping Tom.

Disgusted with herself, Leila threw the glasses down and got up to pace in her small apartment. She berated herself. How could a man like that even capture her attention? He was exactly what her mother had warned her about: rich and arrogant. Not even prepared to see women as anything other than mistresses, undoubtedly interchanged with alarming frequency once the novelty with each one had worn off.

Leila had already refused to take her mother’s warnings to heart once, and had suffered a painful blow to her confidence and pride because of it.

Full of pent-up energy, she dragged on a jacket and went outside for a brisk walk around the nearby Tuileries gardens, telling herself over and over again first of all that nothing had happened with Alix Saint Croix in her shop that day, secondly that she’d never see him again, and thirdly that she didn’t care.

* * *

The following evening dusk was falling as Leila went to lock the front door of her shop. It had been a long day, with only a trickle of customers and two measly sales. Thanks to the recession, niche businesses everywhere had taken a nosedive, and since the factory that manufactured the House of Leila scents had closed down she hadn’t had the funds to seek out a new factory.

She’d been reduced to selling off the stock she had left in the hope that enough sales would give her the funds to start making perfumes again.

She was just about to turn the lock when she looked up through the glass to see a familiar tall dark figure, flanked by a couple of other men, approaching her door. The almost violent effect on her body of seeing him in the flesh again mocked her for fooling herself that she’d managed not to think about him all day.

The exiled King with the tragic past.

Leila had looked him up on the Internet last night in a moment of weakness and had read about how his parents and younger brother had been slaughtered during a military coup. The fact that he’d escaped to live in exile had become something of a legend.

Her immediate instinct was to lock the door and pull the blind down—fast. But he was right outside now and looking at her. The faintest glimmer of a smile touched his mouth. She could see a day’s worth of stubble shadowing his jaw.

Obeying professional reflexes rather than her instincts, Leila opened the door and stepped back. He came in and once again it was as if her brain was slowing to a halt. It was consumed with taking note of his sheer masculine beauty.

Determined not to let him rattle her again, Leila assumed a polite, professional mask. ‘How did your mistress like the perfume?’

A lurid image of the woman putting on that striptease threatened to undo Leila’s composure but she pushed it out of her head with effort.

Alix Saint Croix made an almost dismissive gesture with his hand. ‘She liked it fine. That’s not why I’m here.’

Leila found it hard to draw in a breath. Suddenly terrified of why he was there, she gabbled, ‘By the way, you left far too much money for the perfume.’

She turned and went to the counter and took out an envelope containing the excess he’d paid. She’d been intending to drop it to the hotel for him, but hadn’t had the nerve all day. She held it out now.

Alix barely looked at it. He speared her with that grey gaze and said, ‘I want to take you out to dinner.’

Panic fluttered in Leila’s gut and her hand tightened on the envelope, crushing it. ‘What did you say?’

He pushed open his light overcoat to put his hands in his pockets, drawing attention to another pristine three-piece suit, lovingly moulded to muscles that did not belong to an urban civilised man, more to a warrior.

‘I said I would like you to join me for dinner.’

Leila frowned. ‘But you have a mistress.’

Something stern crossed Alix Saint Croix’s face and the grey in his eyes turned to steel. ‘She is no longer my mistress.’

Leila recalled what she’d seen the previous night and blurted out, ‘But I saw you—you were together—’ She stopped and couldn’t curb the heat rising. The last thing she wanted was for him to know she’d been spying, and she said quickly, ‘She certainly seemed to be under the impression that you were together.’

She hoped he’d assume she was referring to when she’d seen the woman waiting for him outside the shop.

Alix’s face was indecipherable. ‘As I said, we are no longer together.’

Leila felt desperate. And disgusted. And disappointed, which was even worse. Of course a man like him would interchange his women without breaking a sweat.

‘But I don’t even know you—you’re a total stranger.’

His mouth twitched slightly. ‘Which could be helped by sharing conversation over dinner, non?’

Leila had a very strong urge to back away, but forced herself to stand her ground. She was in her shop. Her space. And everything in her screamed at her to resist this man. He was too gorgeous, too big, too smooth, too famous...too much.

Something reckless gripped her and she blurted out, ‘I saw you. The two of you... I didn’t intend to, but when I looked out of my window last night I saw you in your room. With her. She was taking off her clothes...’

Leila willed down the embarrassed heat and tilted up her chin defiantly. She didn’t care if he thought she was some kind of stalker.

His gaze narrowed on her. ‘I saw you too...across the square, silhouetted in your window.’

Now she blanched. ‘You did?’

He nodded. ‘It merely confirmed that I wanted you. And not her.’

Leila was caught, trapped in his gaze and in his own confession. ‘You pulled the curtain across. For privacy.’

His mouth firmed. ‘Yes. For privacy while I asked her to put her dress back on and get out, because the relationship was over.’

Leila shivered at his coolness. ‘But that’s so cruel. You’d just bought her a gift.’

Something infinitely cynical lit those grey eyes and Leila hated it.

‘Believe me, a woman like Carmen is no soft-centred fool with notions of where the relationship was going. She knew it was finite. The relationship was ending whether I’d met you or not.’

Leila balked. She definitely veered more towards the soft-centred fool end of the scale.

She folded her arms and fought the pull from her gut to follow him blindly. She’d done that with a man once before, with her stupid, vulnerable heart on her sleeve. It made her hard now. ‘Thank you for the invitation, but I’m afraid I must say no.’

His brows snapped together in a frown. ‘Are you married?’

His gaze dropped to her left hand as if to look for a ring, and something flashed in his eyes when he took in her ringless fingers. Leila’s hands curled tight. Too late.

The personal question told her she was doing the right thing and she said frostily, ‘That is none of your business, sir. I’d like you to leave.’

For a tiny moment Alix Saint Croix’s eyes widened on her, and then he said coolly, ‘Very well, I’m sorry for disturbing you. Good evening, Miss Verughese.’

CHAPTER TWO

ALIX WAS HALFWAY across the quiet square, fuelled by a surge of angry disbelief, before the thought managed to break through: no woman, ever, had turned him down like that. So summarily. Coldly. As if he’d overstepped some invisible mark on the ground. As if he was...beneath her.

He dismissed his security detail with a flick of his hand as he walked into the hotel, with staff scurrying in his wake, the elevator attendant jumping to attention. Alix ignored them all, his mind filled with incredulity that she had said no.

He’d ended his liaison with Carmen specifically to pursue Leila Verughese.

When Carmen had undressed in front of him in his suite he’d felt nothing but impatience to see her gone. And then, when he’d gone to his window and seen the light shining from a small window above the perfume shop and that slim figure, all he’d seen was her alluring body in his mind’s eye. The hint of generous curves told of a very classic feminine shape—not exactly fashion-forward, like Carmen, with tiny breasts and an almost androgynous figure, but all the more alluring for that.

He wanted her with a hunger he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time. And that impatience to see Carmen gone had become a compelling need.

When Alix got to his suite of rooms he threw off his coat and prowled like a restless animal. He felt animalistic.

How dared she turn him down? He wanted her. The exotic princess who sold perfume.

Why did he want her so badly?

The question pricked at him like a tiny barb and he couldn’t ignore it. He’d only ever wanted one other woman in a similar way. A woman who had made him think she was different from all the others. When she’d been even worse.

Alix, young and far more naive than he’d ever wanted to admit at the age of eighteen, had been seduced by a beautiful body and an act of innocence honed to perfection.

Until he’d walked into her college rooms one day and seen one of his own bodyguards thrusting between her pale legs. The image was clear enough to mock him. Years later.

As if his own parents’ toxic marriage hadn’t already drummed it into him that men and women together brought pain and disharmony.

Ever since then Alix had excised all emotion where women were concerned. They were mistresses—who pleasured him and accompanied him to social events. Until the time came for him to choose a wife who would be his Queen. And then his marriage would be different. It wouldn’t be toxic. It would be harmonious and respectful.

Alix thought about that now. Because that time would be coming soon. He was already being presented with prospective wives to choose from. Princesses from different principalities who all looked dismayingly like horses. But Alix didn’t care. His wife would be his consort, adept at dealing with the social aspects of her role and providing him with heirs.

So why is this woman getting under your skin?

She’s not, he affirmed to himself.

She was just a stunningly beautiful woman who’d connected with him on some very base level and he wasn’t used to that.

Alix didn’t like to recall that first meeting, when just seeing her had been like a defibrillator shocking him back to life.

His was a life that needed no major distractions right now. He had enough going on with the very real prospect that in a couple of weeks he was going to regain control of his throne. Something he’d been working towards all his life.

And yet this woman was lingering in his mind, compelling him to make impetuous decisions. And despite that Alix found himself drawn once again to the massive window through which he’d seen Leila across the square last night. The shop was in darkness now, the blind pulled firmly down.

A sense of impotent frustration gripped him even more fiercely now. The upstairs was in darkness too. Was she out? With another man? Saying yes to him? Alix tensed all over at that thought and had to relax consciously. He did not do jealousy. Not since he’d kicked his naked bodyguard out of his traitorous lover’s bed. And had that even been jealousy? Or just young injured male pride?

He emitted a sound of irritation and plucked a phone out of his pocket. He was connected in seconds and said curtly, ‘I want you to find out everything you can about a woman called Leila Verughese. She owns a perfume shop on the Place Vendôme in Paris.’

Alix terminated the connection. He told himself that she was most likely playing a game. Hard to get. But he didn’t really care—because he was no woman’s fool any more and, game or no game, he would have her and sate this burning urge before his life changed irrevocably and became one of duty and responsibility.

She didn’t have the power to derail him. No woman did.

* * *

For two days Leila stood in her shop, acutely aware of Alix Saint Croix’s cavalcade sweeping in and out of the square. Every time his sleek car drove past she tensed inwardly—as if waiting for him to stop and get out and come in again. To ask her to dinner again.

She hated it that she knew when his cars were parked outside the hotel. It made her feel jittery, on edge.

Just then her phone rang, and she jumped and cursed softly before answering it. It was the hotel. They wanted Leila to bring over an assortment of perfumes for one of their guests.

She agreed and put the phone down, immediately feeling nervous. Which was ridiculous. This wasn’t an unusual request—hotel guests often spotted the shop and asked for a personal service. At one time Leila had gone over with perfumes for a foreign president’s wife.

Even though she would be venturing far too near to the lion in his lair, she welcomed the diversion and set about gathering as many diverse samples of perfumes as she could.

On arrival at the hotel, dressed smartly in a dark trouser suit and white shirt, hair up, and with her specially fortified and protective wheelie suitcase, Leila was shown to the top floor by a duty manager.

The same floor as Alix Saint Croix’s suite.

She felt a flutter of panic, but pushed it down as the lift doors opened and she stepped into the opulent luxury of one of the hotel’s most sumptuous floors.

To her vast relief they were heading in the opposite direction from the suite she’d watched so closely the other night.

The duty manager opened the door to the suite and ushered Leila in, saying, ‘Your clients will be here shortly—they said to go ahead and set up while you’re waiting.’

Leila smiled. ‘Okay, thank you.’

When she was alone she set about opening her case and taking out some bottles, glad to have the distraction of what she did best. No time to think about—

She heard the door open behind her and stood up and turned around with a smile on her face, expecting to see a woman.

The smile promptly slid off her face when she saw Alix Saint Croix and the door closing softly behind him. Client, not clients. For a long moment Leila was only aware of her heartbeat, fast and hard. He was dressed in a white shirt and dark trousers. Sleeves rolled up, top button open. Hands in his pockets. He was looking at her with a gleam in his eyes that told her the predator had tracked down his prey.

So why was she suddenly feeling a thrum of excitement?

He took a step further into the room and inclined his head towards her suitcase, which was open on an ottoman. ‘Do you supply men’s scents also?’

Leila was determined not to appear as ruffled as she felt. She said coolly, ‘First of all, I don’t appreciate being ambushed, Mr Saint Croix. But, as I’m here now—yes, I do men’s scents also.’

Alix Saint Croix looked at her with that enigmatic gaze, a small smile playing around his mouth. ‘The hotel told me that you regularly come to do personal consultations. Do you regard all clients as ambushing you?’

Leila’s face coloured. ‘Of course not.’ She felt flustered now. ‘Look, why don’t we get on with it? I’m sure you’re a busy man.’

He came closer, rolling his sleeves up further as he said, with a definite glint in his grey eyes, ‘On the contrary, I have all the time in the world.’

Leila’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. She boiled inside at the way he’d so neatly caught her and longed to be able to storm out...but to where? Back to an empty shop? To polish the endless glass shelves? He’d just suggested a lucrative personal consultation—even if his actions were nefarious. Not to mention the wad of cash he’d left her the other day...

Swallowing her ire, and not liking the way he was getting under her skin so easily, she forced a smile and said, ‘Of course. Then, please, sit down.’

Leila was careful to take a chair at a right angle to the couch. Briskly she took out some of her sample bottles containing pure oils and a separate mixer bottle.

As he passed her to sit down she unconsciously found herself searching for his scent again, and it hit her as powerfully as it had the first time. Leila had a sudden and fantastical image of herself having access to this man’s naked body and being allowed to spend as much time as she liked discovering the secret scents of his very essence, so that she could try to analyse them and distil them into a perfume.

She cursed her wayward imagination and said, without looking at him, ‘Had you any particular scent in mind? What do you usually like?’

She was aware of strong thighs in her peripheral vision, his trousers doing little to hide their length or muscularity.

‘I have no idea,’ he said dryly. ‘I get sent new perfumes all the time and usually just pick whatever appeals to me in the moment. But generally I don’t like anything too heavy.’

Leila glanced at him sharply. His face was expressionless, but there was an intensity in his eyes that made her nervous. For a moment she could almost believe he wasn’t talking about scents at all, and felt like telling him to save his breath if he was warning her obliquely that he wasn’t into commitment—because she had no intention of getting to know him any better.

She couldn’t deny, though, how her very body seemed to hum in his presence.

Instinctively she reached for a bottle and pulled it out, undoing the stopper. She sniffed for a moment and then dipped a smelling strip into the bottle and extracted it and held it out towards him. ‘What do you think of this, Monsieur Saint Croix?’

‘Please...’ he purred. ‘Call me Alix.’

Leila tensed, her hand held out, refusing to give in to his unashamed flirtation. Eventually, eyes sparkling as he registered her obvious struggle against him, he took the sliver of paper and Leila snatched her hand back.

He kept his eyes on her as he smelled it carefully, passing it over and back under his nose. She saw something flare in his eyes, briefly, and felt an answering rush of heat under her skin.

Consideringly, he said, ‘I like it—what is it?’

‘It’s fougère—a blend of notes based on lavender, oakmoss and coumarin: a derivative of the tonka bean. It’s a good base on which to build a scent if you like it.’

He handed her back the tester and lifted a brow. ‘The tonka bean?’

Leila nodded as she pulled out another bottle. ‘It’s a soft, woody note. We extract ingredients for a scent from anything and everything.’

She was beginning to feel more relaxed, concentrating on her work as if there wasn’t a whole subtext going on between her and this man. Maybe she could just ignore it.

‘It was developed in the late eighteen-hundreds by Houbigant and I find it evocative of a woody, ferny environment.’

Leila handed him another smelling strip.

‘Try this.’

He took it and looked at her again. She found it hard to take her eyes away as he breathed deep. Every move this man made was so boldly sensual. Sexy. It made Leila want to curl in on herself and try not to be noticed.

‘This is more...exotic?’

Leila answered, ‘It’s oudh—quite rare. From agarwood. A very distinctive scent—people either love it or hate it.’

He looked at her, his mouth quirking slightly. ‘I like it. What does that say about me?’

Leila shrugged minutely as she reached for another bottle, trying to affect nothing but professionalism. ‘Just that you respond to the more complex make-up of the scent. It’s perhaps no surprise that a king should favour such a rare specimen.’

Immediately tension sprang up between them, and Leila busied herself opening another bottle.

Alix Saint Croix’s voice was sharper this time. ‘A king in exile, to be more accurate. Does that make a difference?’

Leila looked at him as she handed him another sample and said, equally coolly, ‘I’m sure it doesn’t. You’re still a king, after all, are you not?’

He made a dissenting sound as he took the new tester. Leila wondered how much more patience he would have for this game they were playing. As if someone like him really had time for a personal perfume consultation...

She looked to see him sniff the strip and saw how he immediately recoiled from the smell. He grimaced, and Leila had to bite back a smile.

‘What is that?’

She reached across and took the paper back. ‘It’s extracted from the narcissus flower.’

His mouth curled up slightly. ‘Should I take that as a compliment? That I don’t immediately resonate with the narcissus?’

Leila avoided looking at him and started packing up her bottles, eager to get away from this man. ‘If you like any of those scents we tested I can make something up for you.’

‘I’d like that. But I want you to add something I haven’t considered...something you think would uniquely suit me.’

Leila tightened inwardly at the prospect of choosing something unique to him. She closed the case and looked at him. ‘I’m afraid I will be bound to disappoint you. Perfume is such a personal—’

‘And I’d like you to deliver it personally this evening.’ He cut her off as if she hadn’t even been talking.

Leila stood up abruptly and looked down at him. ‘Monsieur Saint Croix, while I appreciate the custom you’ve given me today, I’m afraid I...’

He stood up then too, and the words dried in her throat as his tall body towered over hers. They were too close.

His voice was low, with a thread of steel. ‘Are you seriously telling me that you’re turning down the opportunity to custom make a scent for the royal house of Isle Saint Croix?’

When he said it like that Leila could hear her mother’s voice in her head, shrill and panicked, Are you completely crazy? What was she doing? In her bid to escape from this disturbing tension was she prepared to jeopardise the most potentially lucrative sale she’d had in years? The merest hint of a professional association with a king, no less, and her sales would go through the roof.

In a small voice she finally said, ‘No, of course I wouldn’t turn down such an opportunity. I can put a couple of sample fragrances together and deliver them to the hotel later. You can let me know which you prefer.’

His eyes were a mesmerising shade of pewter. ‘One scent, Leila, and I want you to bring it to me personally. Say seven p.m.?’

Her name on his lips felt absurdly intimate, as if he’d just touched her. She glared at him but had no room to manoeuvre. And then she told herself to get a grip. Alix Saint Croix might be disturbing her on all sorts of levels but he was hardly going to kidnap her. He wouldn’t need to. That was the problem. Leila was afraid that if she had much more contact with him, her defences would start to feel very flimsy.

Hiding her irritation at how easily he was sweeping aside her reservations, she bent down and closed her suitcase—but before she could lift it off the ottoman he brushed her hand aside and took it, wrapped a big hand firmly around the handle.

Leila straightened, face flushed. He extended a hand and lifted a brow. ‘After you.’

Much to her embarrassment, he insisted on escorting her all the way down to the lobby and seemed to be oblivious to the way everyone jumped to attention—not least his security guards. He called one of them over and handed the thickset man the case, instructing him to carry it back to the shop for Leila. Her protests fell on deaf ears.

And then, before she could leave, he said, ‘What time shall I send Ricardo to escort you to the hotel?’

Leila turned and looked up. She was about to assert that she’d had no problem crossing the square on her own for some two decades, but as soon as she saw the look in his eye she said with a resigned sigh, ‘Five to seven.’

He dipped his head. ‘Till then, Leila.’

* * *

Once back in his own suite, Alix stood looking across the square for a long time. Leila’s reluctance to acquiesce to him intrigued him. Anticipation tightened his gut. Even though he knew this was likely just a game on her part, he was prepared to indulge it because he wanted her. And he had time on his hands.

He felt a mild pang of guilt now when he thought of what his security team had reported to him about her.

The Verughese family were wealthy and respectable in India. A long line of perfumers, supplying scents to maharajas and the richest in society. There were a scant few lines about Deepika Verughese, who had been Leila’s mother. She’d come to France after breaking off relations with her family, where she’d proceeded to have one daughter: Leila. No mention of a father.

In all other respects she was squeaky clean. No headlines had ever appeared about her.

He felt something vibrate in his pocket and extracted a small, sleek mobile phone. Without checking to see who it was, and not taking his eyes off his quarry across the square, he answered, ‘Yes?’

It was his chief advisor, and Alix welcomed the distraction, reminded of the bigger picture.

He turned his back to the view. ‘How are the plans for the referendum coming along?’

Isle Saint Croix was due to vote within two weeks on whether or not they wanted Alix to return as King. It was still too volatile for Alix to be in the country himself, so he was depending on loyal politicians and his people, who had campaigned long and hard to restore the monarchy. Finally the end goal was in sight. But it was a very delicate balancing act that could all come tumbling down at any moment.

The ruling party in Isle Saint Croix were ruthless, and only the fact that they’d had to reluctantly agree to let international observers into the country had saved the process from falling apart already.

Andres was excited. ‘The polls are showing in your favour, but not so much that it’s unduly worrying the military government. They’re still arrogant enough to believe they’re in control.’

Alix listened to him reiterate what he already knew, but it was still reassuring. Something bittersweet pierced his heart. When he regained the throne he would finally have a chance to avenge his younger brother’s brutal death.

Alix tuned back into the conversation when the other man cleared his voice awkwardly and said, ‘Is it true that your affair with Carmen Desanto is over? It was in the papers today.’

Alix’s mouth tightened. Only because of the fact that Andres was one of his oldest and most trusted friends did he even contemplate answering the question. ‘What of it?’

‘Well, it’s unfortunate timing. The busier you can look with very unpolitical concerns the better—to lull the regime on Isle Saint Croix into a false sense of security. Even if they hear rumours of you gaining support from abroad, when they see pictures in the papers...’

He didn’t need to finish. Alix would appear to be the louche and unthreatening King in exile he’d always been. Still, he didn’t like to be dictated to like this.

‘Well,’ he said with a steely undertone, ‘I’m afraid that, as convenient a front as Carmen might have proved to be, I wasn’t prepared to put up with her inane chatter for any longer.’

An image popped into Alix’s head of another woman. Someone whose chatter he wouldn’t mind listening to. And he very much doubted that she ever chattered inanely. Those beautiful eyes were far too intelligent.

On the other end of the phone Andres sighed theatrically. ‘Look, all I’m saying is that now would be a really good time to be living up to your reputation as an eligible bachelor, cutting a swathe through the beauties of the world.’

Alix had only been interested in a very personal conquest before now, but suddenly the thought of pursuing Leila Verughese took on a whole new dimension. It was, in fact, completely justifiable.

A small smile curled his lips. ‘Don’t worry, Andres. I’m sure I can think of something to keep the media hounds happy.’

* * *

When the knock came on Alix’s door at about one minute past seven that evening he didn’t like to acknowledge the anticipation rushing through his blood. The reminder that Leila was getting to him on a level that was unprecedented was not welcome. He told himself it was just lust. Chemical. Controllable.

He strode forward and opened the door to see Leila with a vaguely mutinous look on her beautiful face and Ricardo behind her. Alix nodded to his bodyguard and the man melted away.

Alix stood back and held the door open. ‘Please, come in.’

He noted that Leila hadn’t changed outfits since earlier. She was still wearing the smart dark trouser suit and her hair was pulled back into a low, sleek ponytail. She wore not a scrap of make-up, yet her features stood out as if someone had lovingly painted her.

The pale olive skin, straight nose, lush mouth and startling green eyes combined together to such an effect that Alix could only mentally shake his head as he followed her into his suite... How did such a woman as this work quietly in a perfume shop, going largely unnoticed?

She turned to face him in the palatial living room and held up a glossy House of Leila bag. ‘Your fragrance, Monsieur Saint Croix.’

Alix bit back the urge to curse and said smoothly, ‘Leila, I’ve asked you to call me Alix.’

Her eyes glittered. ‘Well, I don’t think it’s appropriate. You’re a client—’

‘A client who,’ he inserted smoothly, ‘has just paid a significant sum of money for a customised fragrance.’

Her mouth shut and remorse lit her eyes. Alix was fascinated again by the play of unguarded emotions. God knew he certainly hadn’t revealed emotion himself for years. And the women he dealt with probably wouldn’t know a real emotion if it jumped up and bit them on the ass.

She looked at him and he felt short of breath, acutely aware of the thrust of her perfect breasts against the silk of her shirt.

‘Very well. Alix.’

Her mouth and tongue wrapping around his name had an effect similar to that if she’d put her mouth on his body intimately. Blood rushed south and he hardened.

Gritting his jaw against the onset of a fierce arousal that made a mockery of any illusion of control, Alix responded, ‘That wasn’t so hard, was it?’ He groaned inwardly at his unfortunate choice of words and reached for the bag she still held out in a bid to distract her from seeing her seismic effect in his body.

With the bag in his hand he gestured for her to sit down. ‘Please, make yourself comfortable. Would you like a drink?’

Leila’s hands twisted in front of her. ‘No, thank you. I really should be getting back—’

‘Don’t you want to know if I like the scent or not?’

Her mouth stayed open and eventually she said, ‘Of course I do... But you could send word if you don’t like it.’

Alix frowned minutely and moved closer to Leila, cocking his head to one side. ‘Why are you so nervous with me?’

She swallowed. He could see the long slim column of her throat, the pulse beating near the base. Hectic.

‘I’m not nervous.’

He came closer and a warm seeping of colour made her skin flush.

‘Liar. You’re ready to jump out of that window to get away from me right now.’

One graceful brow arched. ‘Not a reaction you’re used to?’

Alix’s mouth quirked. The tension was diffused a little. ‘No, not usually.’

He indicated again for Leila to sit down and after a moment, when he really wasn’t sure if she’d just walk out, she moved over to the couch and sat down. Something relaxed inside him.

He put down the bag containing the scent while he poured himself a drink and glanced at her over his shoulder. ‘Are you sure I can’t get you anything?’

She’d been taking in the room, eyes wide, and suddenly all its opulence felt garish to Alix.

Those eyes clashed with his. ‘Okay,’ she said huskily. ‘I’ll have a little of whatever you’re having.’

It was crazy. Alix wanted to howl in triumph at this concession. At the fact that she was still here, when usually he was batting women away.

‘Bourbon?’

She half nodded and shrugged. ‘I’ve never tried it before.’

There was something incredibly disarming about her easy admission. Like watching the play of emotion on her face and in her eyes. Alix brought the drinks over and was careful to take a seat at right angles to the couch, knowing for certain that she’d bolt if he sat near her.

He handed her the glass and she took it. He held his out. ‘Santé, Leila.’

She tipped her glass towards his and took a careful sip, as he took a sip of his own. He watched her reaction, saw her eyes watering slightly, her cheeks warming again. His own drink slipped down his throat, making his already warm body even hotter.

‘What do you think?’

She considered for a moment and then gave a tiny smile. ‘It’s like fire... I like it.’

‘Yes,’ Alix said faintly, transfixed by Leila’s mouth, ‘It’s like fire.’

A moment stretched between them, and then she dropped her gaze from his and put her glass down on the table to indicate the bag she’d brought. ‘You should see if you like the scent.’

Alix put down his own glass and took the bag, extracting a gold box embossed with a black line around the edges. It had a panel on the front with a label that said simply Alix Saint Croix.

Alix opened the box and took out the heavy and beautifully cut glass bottle, with its black lid and distinctive gold piping. It was masculine—solid.

‘It’s quite strong,’ Leila said, as he took off the lid and looked at her. ‘You only need a small amount. Try it on the back of your hand.’

Alix sprayed and then bent his head. He wasn’t ready for the immediate effect on his senses. It impacted deep down in his gut—so many layers of scent, filtering through his brain and throwing up images like a slideshow going too fast for him to analyse.

He was thrown back in time to his home on the island, with the sharp, tangy smell of the sea in the air, and yet he could smell the earth too, and the scent of the exotic flowers that bloomed on Isle Saint Croix. He could even smell something oriental, spicy, that made him think of his Moorish ancestors who had given the island its distinctive architecture.

He wasn’t prepared for the sharp pang of emotion that gripped him as a memory surged: him and his younger brother, playing, carefree, near the sea.

‘What’s in it?’ he managed to get out.

Leila was looking concerned. ‘You don’t like it?’

‘Like’ was too flimsy a word for what this scent was doing to him. Alix stood up abruptly, feeling acutely exposed. Dieu. Was she a witch? He strode over to the window and kept his back to her, brought his hand up to smell again.

The initial shock of the impact was lessening as the scent opened out and mellowed. It was him. The scent was everything that was deep inside him, where no one could see his true self. Yet this woman had got it—after only a couple of meetings and a few hours.

CHAPTER THREE

LEILA STOOD UP, not sure how to respond. She’d never seen someone react so forcefully to a scent before.

‘I researched a little about the island, to find out what its native flowers were, and I approximated them as closely as I could with what I have available in the shop. And I added citrus and calone, which has always reminded me of a sea breeze.’

Alix Saint Croix looked huge, formidable, against the window and the autumnal darkness outside. Her first reaction when she’d met this man had been fascination, a feeling of being dazzled, and since then her instinct had been to run away—fast. But now her feet were glued to the floor.

‘If you don’t like it—’

‘I like it.’

His response was short, sharp. He sounded almost...angry. Leila was completely confused.

Hesitantly she said, ‘Are you sure? You don’t sound very pleased.’

He turned around then and thrust both hands into his pockets. His chest was broad, the darkness of his skin visible under his shirt. He looked at her closely and shook his head, as if trying to clear it.

Finally he said, ‘I’m just a little surprised. The fragrance is not what I was expecting.’

Leila shrugged. ‘A customised scent has a bigger impact than a generic designer scent...’

His mouth quirked sexily and he came back over to the couch. Leila couldn’t take her eyes off him.

‘It certainly has an impact.’

‘If it’s too strong I can—’

‘No.’ Alix’s voice cut her off. ‘I don’t want you to change it.’

A knock came on the door then, and Leila flinched a little. She was so caught up in this man’s reaction and his charisma that she’d almost forgotten where she was. The seductive warmth of the bourbon in her belly didn’t help.

Alix said, ‘That’s dinner. I took the liberty of ordering for two, if you’d care to join me?’

Leila just looked at him and felt again that urge to run—but also a stronger urge to stay. Rebel. Even though she wasn’t exactly sure who she was rebelling against. Herself and every instinct screaming at her to run? Or the ghost of her mother’s disappointment?

She justified her weakness to herself: this man had thrown more business her way than she’d see in the next month. She should be polite. Ha! said a snide inner voice. There’s nothing polite about the way you feel around him.

She ignored that and said, as coolly as she could, ‘Only if it’s not too much of an imposition.’

He had a very definite mocking glint to his eye. ‘It’s no imposition...really.’

Alix went to the door and opened it to reveal obsequious staff who proceeded straight towards a room off the main reception area. Within minutes they were leaving again, and Alix was waiting for Leila to precede him into the dining room—which was as sumptuously decorated as the rest of the suite.

She caught a glimpse of a bedroom through an open door and almost tripped over her feet to avoid looking that way again. It brought to mind too easily the way that woman had stripped so nonchalantly for her lover. And how Alix had maintained that nothing had happened in spite of appearances.

Why should she even care, when he was probably lying?

Leila almost balked at that point, but as if sensing her trepidation, Alix pulled out a chair and looked at her pointedly. No escape. She moved forward and sat down, looking at the array of food laid out on the table. There was enough for a small army.

Alix must have seen something on her face, because he grimaced a little and said, ‘I wasn’t sure if you were vegetarian or not, so I ordered a selection.’

Leila couldn’t help a wry smile. ‘I am vegetarian, actually—mostly my mother’s influence. Though I do sometimes eat fish.’

Alix started to put some food on a plate for her: a mixture of tapas-type starters, including what looked like balls of rice infused with herbs and spices. The smells had her mouth watering, and she realised that she hadn’t eaten since earlier that day, her stomach having been too much in knots after seeing Alix Saint Croix again, and then thinking about him all afternoon as she’d worked on his fragrance.

She could smell it now, faintly—exotic and spicy, with that tantalising hint of citrus—and her insides quivered. It suited him: light, but with much darker undertones.

He handed her the plate and then plucked a chilled bottle of white wine out of an ice bucket. Leila wasn’t used to drinking, and could still feel the effects of the bourbon, so she held up a hand when Alix went to pour her some wine.

‘I’ll stick to water, thanks.’

As he poured himself some wine he asked casually, ‘Where are your parents from?’

Leila tensed inevitably as the tall, shadowy and indistinct shape of her father came into her mind’s eye. She’d only ever seen him in photos in the newspaper. Tightly she answered, ‘My mother was a single parent. She was from India.’

‘Was?’

Leila nodded and concentrated on spearing some food with her fork. ‘She died a few years ago.’

‘I’m sorry. That must have been hard if it was just the two of you.’

Leila was a little taken aback at the sincerity she heard in his voice and said quietly, ‘It was the hardest thing.’

She avoided his eyes and put a forkful of food in her mouth, not expecting the explosion of flavours from the spice-infused rice ball. She looked at him and he smiled at her reaction, chewing his own food.

When he could speak he said, ‘My personal chef is here. He’s from Isle Saint Croix, so he sticks to the local cuisine. It’s a mixture of North African and Mediterranean.’

Relieved to be moving away from personal areas, Leila said, ‘I’ve never tasted anything like it.’ Then she admitted ruefully, ‘I haven’t travelled much, though.’

‘You were born here?’

Leila reached for her water, as much to cool herself down as anything else. ‘Yes, my mother travelled over when she was pregnant. My father was French.’

‘Was?’

Leila immediately regretted letting that slip out. But her mother was no longer alive. Surely the secret didn’t have to be such a secret any more? But then she thought of how easily her father had turned his back on them and repeated her mother’s words, used whenever anyone had asked a similar question. ‘He died a long time ago. I never knew him.’

To her relief, Alix didn’t say anything to that, just looked at her consideringly. They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, and Leila tried not to think too hard about where she was and who she was with.

When she’d cleared half her plate she sneaked a look at Alix. He was sitting back, cradling his glass of wine, looking at her. And just like that her skin prickled with heat.

‘I hope I didn’t lose you too much custom by taking up your attention today?’

He looked entirely unrepentant, and in spite of herself Leila had to allow herself a small wry smile. ‘No—the opposite. The business has been struggling to get back on track since the recession...niche industries like mine were the worst hit.’

Alix frowned. ‘Yet you kept hold of your shop?’

Leila nodded, tensing a little at the thought of the uphill battle to restore sales. ‘I’ve owned it outright since my mother died.’

‘That’s good—but you could sell. You don’t need me to tell you what that shop and flat must be worth in this part of Paris.’

Leila’s insides clenched hard. ‘I won’t ever sell,’ she said in a low voice. The shop and the flat were her mother’s legacy to her—a safe haven. Security. She barely knew this man...she wasn’t about to confide in him.

Feeling self-conscious again, she took her napkin from her lap and put it on the table. That silver gaze narrowed on her.

‘I should go. Thank you for dinner—you really didn’t have to.’

She saw a muscle twitch in Alix’s jaw and half expected—wanted?—him to stop her from going.

But he just stood up smoothly and said, ‘Thank you for joining me.’

Much to Leila’s sense of disorientation, Alix made no effort to detain her with offers of tea or coffee. He picked up the bag that she’d had with her when she’d arrived and handed it to her in the main reception room.

Feeling at a loss, and not liking the sense of disappointment that he was letting her go so easily, Leila said again, ‘Thank you.’

Alix bowed slightly towards her and once again she was struck by his sheer beauty and all that potent masculinity. He looked as if he was about to speak some platitude, then he stopped and said, ‘Actually... I have tickets to the opera for tomorrow evening. I wonder if you’d like to join me?’

Leila didn’t trust his all-too-innocent façade for a second—as if he’d just thought of it. But she couldn’t think straight because giddy relief was mocking her for the disappointment she’d felt just seconds ago because he was letting her go so easily.

She was dealing with a master here.

This was not the first time a man had asked her out but it still hit her in the solar plexus like a blow. Her last disastrous dating experience rose like a dark spectre in her memory—except this man in front of her eclipsed Pierre Gascon a hundred times over. Enough to give her a little frisson of satisfaction.

As if any man could compete with this tall, dark specimen before her. Sexy. Leila had never been overtly aware of sexual longing before. But now she was—she could feel the awareness throbbing in her blood, between her legs.

And it was that awareness of how out of her depth Alix Saint Croix made her feel that had Leila blurting out, ‘I really don’t think it would be a good idea.’ Coward, whispered a voice.

He lifted a brow in lazy enquiry. ‘And why would that be? You’re single...I’m single. We’re two consenting adults. I’m offering a pleasant way to spend the evening. That’s all.’

Now she felt gauche. She was thinking of sex when he certainly wasn’t. ‘I’m just...not exactly in your league, Monsieur Saint Croix—’

‘It’s Alix,’ he growled, coming closer. ‘Call me Alix.’

Leila swallowed, caught in the beam of those incredible eyes. ‘Alix...’

‘That’s better. Now, tell me again exactly why this is not a good idea?’

Feeling cornered and angry now—with herself as much as him—Leila flung out a hand. ‘I own a shop and you’re a king. We’re not exactly on a level footing.’

Alix cocked his head to one side. ‘You’re a perfumer, are you not? A very commendable career.’

Unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice, Leila said, ‘To be a perfumer one needs to be making perfumes.’

‘Something I’ve no doubt you’ll do when your business recovers its equilibrium.’

His quiet and yet firm encouragement made something glow in Leila’s chest. She ruthlessly pushed it down. This man could charm the devil over to the light side.

‘Don’t you have more important things to be doing?’

A curious expression she couldn’t decipher crossed his hard-boned face before his mouth twitched and he said,‘Not right now, no.’

Leila’s stubborn refusal to accede to his wishes was having a bizarre effect on Alix. He could quite happily stay here for hours and spar with her, watching those expressions cross her face and her gorgeous eyes spark and glow.

‘Don’t you know,’ he said carefully, watching her reaction with interest, ‘that feigning uninterest is one sure way to get a man interested in you?’

Immediately her cheeks were suffused with colour and her back went poker straight with indignation. Eyes glittering, she said, ‘I am not feigning uninterest, Mr Saint Croix, I am genuinely mystified as to why you are persisting like this—and to be perfectly frank I think I’d prefer it if you just left me alone.’

He took a step closer. ‘Really, Leila? I could let you walk out of this suite right now and you’ll never see me again.’ He waited a beat and then said softly, ‘If that’s really what you want. But I don’t think it is.’

Oh, God. He’d seen her disappointment. She’d never been any good at hiding her emotions. She’d also never felt so hot with the need to break out of some confinement holding her back.

She hadn’t felt this hungry urgency with Pierre. He’d been far more subtle—and ultimately manipulative. Alix was direct. And there was something absurdly comforting about that. There were no games. He wasn’t dressing his words up with illusions of more being involved. It made her breathless.

Her extended silence had made something go hard in Alix’s eyes and Leila felt a dart of panic go through her. She sensed that he would stop pursuing her if she asked him to. If he did indeed believe she was stringing him along. Which she wasn’t. Or was she? Unconsciously?

She hated to think that she might be capable of such a thing, but she couldn’t deny the thrilling rush of something illicit every time she saw him. The rush of sparring with him. The rush each time he came back even though she’d said no.

Leila felt as if she was skirting around the edges of a very large and angry fire that mesmerised her as much as it made her fear its heat. She’d shut down after her experience with Pierre, dismayed at coming to terms with the fact that she’d made such a huge misjudgement. But now she could feel a part of her expanding inside again, demanding to be heard. To be set free. Another chance.

She’d never been to the opera. Pierre’s most exciting invitation had been to a trip down the Seine, which Leila had done a million times with her mother. The sense of yearning got stronger.

She heard herself asking, ‘It’s just a trip to the opera?’

The hardness in Alix’s eyes softened, but he was careful enough not to show that he’d gained a point.

‘Yes, Leila, it’s just a simple trip to the opera. If you can close a little early tomorrow I’ll pick you up at five.’

Closing a little early would hardly damage her already dented business. She took a deep breath and tried not to let this moment feel bigger than it should. ‘Very well. I’ll accept your invitation.’

Alix took up her hand and raised it to his mouth before brushing a very light, almost imperceptible kiss across the back of it. Even so, his breath burned her skin.

‘I look forward to it, Leila. A bientôt.’

* * *

At about three o’clock the next day Leila found herself dealing with an unusual flurry of customers, and it took her a couple of seconds to notice the thickset man waiting just inside the door. When she finally registered that it was Ricardo, Alix’s bodyguard, she noticed that he had a big white box in his hands.

She went over and he handed it to her, saying gruffly, ‘A gift from Mr Saint Croix.’

Leila took the box warily and glanced at her customers, who were all engrossed in trying out the samples she’d been showing them. She looked back to Ricardo and felt a trickle of foreboding. ‘Can you wait for a second?’

He nodded, and if Leila had had the time to appreciate how out of place he looked against the backdrop of delicate perfume bottles she might have smiled.

She suspected that she knew what was in the box.

She ducked into a small anteroom behind the counter and opened it to reveal layers of expensive-looking silver tissue paper. Underneath the paper she saw a glimmer of silk, and gasped as she pulled out the most beautiful dress she’d ever seen.

It was a very light green, with one simple shoulder strap and a ruched bodice. The skirt fell to the floor from under the bust in layers of delicate chiffon. On further investigation Leila saw that there were matching shoes and even underwear. Her face burned at that. It burned even more when she realised that Alix had got her size spot-on.

She felt tempted to march right across the square and tell him to shove his date, but she held on to her temper. This was how he must operate with all his women. And he was arrogant enough to think that Leila was just like them?

* * *

‘What do you mean, she wouldn’t accept it?’

Ricardo looked exceedingly uncomfortable and shifted from foot to foot, before saying sotto voce, mindful of the other men in the room, ‘She left a note inside the box.’

‘Did she now?’ Alix curbed his irritation and said curtly, ‘Thank you, Ricardo, that will be all.’

Alix had been holding a meeting in his suite, and the other men around the table started to move a little, clearly anticipating a break from the customarily intense sessions Alix conducted. He dismissed them too, with a look that changed their expressions of relief to ones of meek servitude.

When they were all gone Alix flicked open the lid of the box and saw the plain piece of white paper lying on the silver paper with its succinct message:

Thank you, but I can dress myself.

Leila.

Alix couldn’t help his mouth quirking in a smile. Had any woman ever handed him back a gift? Not in his memory.

He let the lid drop down and stood up to walk over to the window of his suite, which looked out over the square below.

For a large portion of his life, ever since his dramatic escape from Isle Saint Croix all those years ago, he’d felt like a caged animal—forced into this role of pretending that he wasn’t engaged in an all-out battle to regain his throne. The prospect of being on his island again, with the salty tang of the sea in the hot air... Sometimes the yearning for home was almost unbearable.

Alix sighed and let his gaze narrow on the small shop that glinted across the square in the late-afternoon sunlight. He could see the familiar slim white-coated shape moving back and forth. The caged animal within him got even more restless. The yearning was replaced with sharp anticipation.

It would be no hardship to pursue Miss Verughese and let the world think nothing untoward was going on behind the scenes. No hardship at all.

* * *

Leila looked at herself in the mirror and had a sudden attack of nerves. Maybe she’d been really stupid to send Alix’s gift back to him? She’d never been to the opera—she wasn’t even sure what the dress code was, except posh.

The scent she’d put on so sparingly drifted up, and for a moment she wanted to run and wash it off. It wasn’t her usual scent, which was light and floral. This was a scent that had always fascinated her: one of her mother’s most sensual creations. It had called to Leila from the shelf just after she’d locked up before coming upstairs to get ready.

It was called Dark Desiring. Her mother had had a penchant for giving their perfumes enigmatic names. As soon as Leila had sprayed a little on her wrist she’d heard her mother’s voice in her head: ‘This scent is for a woman, Leila. The kind of woman who knows what she wants and gets it. You will be that woman someday, and you won’t be foolish like your mother.’

She felt the scent now, deep in the pit of her belly. Felt its dark sensuality, earthy musky notes and exotic floral arrangement. It was so unlike her...and yet it resonated with her. But she felt exposed wearing it—as if it would be obvious to everyone that she was trying to be something she wasn’t.

The doorbell sounded... Too late to remove it now, even if she wanted to.

She made her way downstairs, her heart palpitating in her chest. She thrust aside memories of another man she’d let too close. It had been as if as soon as her mother’s influence had been removed Leila had automatically sought out proof that not all men weren’t to be trusted. But that had spectacularly backfired and proved her very wrong.

Walking through the darkened shop, Leila forced the clamouring memories down. She’d learnt her lesson. She was no fool any more. She still wanted something different from her mother’s experience, but Alix Saint Croix was the last man to offer such a thing. So, if anything, she couldn’t be safer than with this man.

She sucked in a big breath and opened the door. The sky was dusky outside and Alix blocked most of it with his broad shoulders. He was dressed in a classic black tuxedo and white bow tie under his overcoat. Leila’s mouth went dry. That assurance of safety suddenly felt very flimsy.

She wasn’t even aware that Alix’s eyes had widened on her when she’d appeared.

‘You look beautiful.’

She stopped gawking at him long enough to meet his eyes. And those nerves gripped her again as she gestured shyly to her outfit. ‘I wasn’t sure... I hope it’s appropriate?’

Alix lifted his eyes to hers. ‘It’s stunning. You look like a princess.’

Leila blushed and busied herself pulling the door behind her and locking it to deflect his scrutiny.

The outfit was a traditional Indian salwar kameez with a bit of a modern twist. The tunic was made out of green and gold silk, with slim-fitting trousers in the same shade of green. She had on gold strappy sandals that she’d bought one day on a whim but never worn. A loose chiffon throw was draped over her shoulders and she’d put her hair up in a high bun. She wore ornate earrings that had belonged to her mother—like a talisman that might protect her from falling into the vortex that this man created whenever he was near.

The driver of the sleek car parked nearby was holding the door open, and Leila slid into the luxurious confines as Alix joined her from the other side. She plucked nervously at the material of her tunic as they pulled away.

Alix took her hand and she looked at him.

‘You look amazing. No other woman will be dressed the same.’

Leila quirked a wry smile, liking the feel of Alix’s hand around hers far too much. ‘That’s what I’m suddenly afraid of.’

He shook his head. ‘You’ll stand out like a bird of paradise—they’ll be insanely jealous.’

Leila gave a small dissenting sound and went to pull her hand back, but Alix gripped it tighter and lifted it up, turning her wrist. He frowned slightly and bent to smell. Leila’s heart thumped, hard.

He looked at her. ‘This isn’t your usual scent?’

Damn him for noticing. Leila cursed her impetuosity and felt as if that scarlet letter was on her forehead for all to see. She pulled her hand back. ‘No, it’s a different scent—one more suitable for evenings.’

‘I like it.’

Leila could smell his scent too. The one she’d made him. She knew that it lingered on his skin from when he’d put it on much earlier that day—it didn’t have the sharp tang of having been recently applied. She thought of their scents now, mingling and wrapping around one another. It made her feel unbearably aware of the fact that they were so close. Aware of the warm blood pumping just under their skin, making those scents mellow and change subtly.

It was an alchemy that happened to everyone in a totally different way, as the perfume responded uniquely to each individual.

She finally looked away from Alix to see that they were leaving the confines of the city and heading towards the grittier outskirts. Nowhere near the Paris opera house.

She frowned and looked back at him. ‘I thought we were going to the opera?’

‘We are.’

‘But we’re leaving Paris.’

Alix smiled. ‘I said we were going to the opera. I didn’t say where.’

Flutters of panic made her tense. ‘I don’t appreciate surprises. Tell me where we’re going, please.’

His eyes narrowed on her and Leila bit back the urge to lambast him for assuming she was just some wittering dolly bird, only too happy to let him whisk her off to some unknown location.

Alix’s voice had an edge of steel to it when he said, ‘We’re going to Venice.’

‘Venice?’ Leila squeaked. ‘But I don’t have my passport. I mean, how can we just—?’

Alix took her hand again and spoke as if he was soothing a nervous horse. ‘You don’t need your passport. I have diplomatic immunity and you’re with me. The flight will take an hour and forty minutes. I’ll have you back in Paris and home by midnight. I promise.’

Leila reeled. ‘You said flight?’

Alix nodded warily, as if expecting another explosion.

‘I’ve never been on a plane before,’ she admitted somewhat warily. As if Alix might be so disgusted with her lack of sophistication that he’d turn around and deliver her home right now.

He just frowned slightly. ‘But...how is that possible?’

Leila shrugged, finding to her consternation that once again she was loath to take her hand out of Alix’s much bigger one. ‘My mother and I...we didn’t travel much. Apart from to other parts of France. We went to England once, to visit a factory outside London, but we took the train. My mother was terrified of flying.’

‘Well, then,’ said Alix throatily, ‘do you want to go home? Or do you want to take your first flight? We can turn around right now if you want.’

That was like asking if she wanted to keep moving forward in life or backwards. Leila felt that fire reaching out to lick at her with a tantalising flash of heat. Alix’s thumb was rubbing the underside of her wrist, making the flash of heat more intense. Leila thought of the car turning around, of returning to that square and her shop. She felt nauseous.

She shook her head. ‘I’d like to fly with you.’

Alix brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it lightly before saying, ‘Then let’s fly.’

Leila might not be half as sophisticated as his usual women, but even she knew that they were talking about something else entirely—just as the flames of that fire reached out to consume her completely and Alix moved close enough to slant his hard sensual mouth over hers.

She’d been kissed before—by Pierre. But his kiss had been insistent and invasive. Too wet, with no finesse. This was...

Leila lost any sense of being able to string a rational thought together when her mouth opened of its own volition under Alix’s and she felt the first electrifying contact of his tongue to hers. She was lost.

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