Prince of Montez, Pregnant Mistress Read online

  ‘The night is young,’ he drawled with a supremely confident grin.

  Cally dragged her eyes away from his lips and made a show of looking at her watch, horrified to find that she was almost tempted to find out what he meant. Ten-fifteen. ‘Like I said, I have to get back to my hotel.’

  She turned to walk towards the door.

  ‘Do you have a better offer waiting at your final destination, or are you just the kind of woman who is scared of saying yes?’

  Cally froze, not turning round.

  ‘No. I’m the kind of woman who is well aware that asking someone you’ve only just met out for a drink is really asking for something else entirely, and I’m not interested.’

  Leon whistled through his teeth. ‘So you prefer a man to cut to the chase? Detail exactly what he has in mind before you agree?’

  She blushed. ‘I would prefer it if a drink only meant a drink.‘

  ‘So you are thirsty, chérie?‘

  Cally swallowed, her mouth going inconveniently dry. Was she the kind of woman who was scared of saying yes? she wondered, suddenly both horrified and aggrieved that he might actually be right. No, she justified, she wasn’t afraid—she’d just learned from experience that that kind of yes inevitably led to disappointment. Which was why—unlike other girls she knew, who invariably spent their evenings making out with random guys in clubs—she’d spent the last seven years sitting at her desk into the early hours of every morning memorising the chemical make-up of conservation treatments, practising each and every technique for the sake of her precious career. But look where it had got her now! Precisely nowhere.

  Cally took a deep breath. ‘Yes’ might very well lead to disappointment, but right now it didn’t get much more disappointing than the thought of returning to her hotel with nothing but her misery and the overpriced minibar for company. At least accepting the offer of one drink with a perfectly normal man for once in her life would take her mind off what had just happened.

  ‘On one condition, then…’ she began confidently, but the instant she raised her eyes she caught sight of his devastating smile, and remembered too late that there was absolutely nothing remotely normal about the way he made her feel. If anything, that was what she should be afraid of. ‘The topic of work is off the agenda.’

  ‘Done,’ he answered decisively.

  ‘Right.’ Cally’s head began to spin. ‘Then…where did you have in mind?’

  Chapter Two

  LEON didn’t have anywhere in mind. He hadn’t had anything on his mind for two full days—except her. He’d come to Crawford’s to view the pre-auction exhibition of the paintings the world wanted to get their hands on, and had found himself wanting to get his hands on something else entirely: the narrow waist and shapely hips of the woman with lustrous red-bronze hair, who’d been transfixed by the paintings he’d suddenly forgotten he’d come here to see. The wave of desire had come out of nowhere, for it was certainly unprovoked. Though the luscious curves of her figure were obvious, she couldn’t have been dressed any less provocatively, in a drab, crinkled blouse and olive-green skirt that reached her ankles. He’d wanted to dispose of them both there and then.

  And he would have done, if he’d known who she was and that she could be trusted to be discreet. But he hadn’t. Standing there, all misty-eyed before the paintings, she’d looked—most inconveniently—like exactly the kind of woman who would cloud everything with emotion and make discretion an impossibility. But the knot of heat in his groin had demanded he find out for certain. How fortuitous, then, that when he’d asked a few discreet questions of hisown it turned out that she was the London City Gallery’s choice to restore the Rénards. For once in his life, a twist of fate had amused him. She would have to be fully vetted anyway. Suddenly it made perfect sense for him to stay on for the auction and undertake the investigation personally.

  Leon watched her as she walked beside him, oblivious to the sound of taxicabs and buses that filled the tepid June evening. To his pleasure, she looked a world away from the olive-green drabness of just over forty-eight hours before; she was luminescent in black silk, the halter neck revealing an ample cleavage, and her striking hair, which had previously been tied back, now fell over her shoulders in waves. Tonight she looked exactly like the sort of woman capable of the kind of short and mutually satisfying affair he had in mind.

  ‘Lady’s choice,’ he said, realising they had reached the end of the street, and he still hadn’t answered her question as to where they were headed.

  Cally, whose nerve was evaporating by the second, looked around the street and decided that the sooner this was over the better. ‘The next bar we come to will be fine, I’m sure. After all, its only requirement is that it serve drinks, is it not?’

  Leon nodded. ‘D’accord.’

  As they turned the corner of the street, Cally heard a low, insistent drumbeat and saw a neon sign illuminating darkness: the Road to Nowhere.

  ‘Perfect,’ Cally proclaimed defiantly. It might look a little insalubrious, but at least it was too brash and too noisy for there to be any danger of lingering conversation over an intimate table for two.

  Leon looked up, to see a young couple tumble out of the door and begin devouring each other up against the window, and he stifled a grin.

  ‘It looks good to me.’

  Cally did a double take, doubting he was serious. Then she wished she hadn’t, because the sight of his impossibly handsome face beneath the soft glow of the street lights made her whole body start with that ridiculous tingling again.

  ‘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 minut
es 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.