Chapter Two
FOTIS FROWNED, REPLAYING her parting words at the plane.
Not that he wanted to be amused, or impressed. But Princess Rosamund of Cardona had surprised him.
That was unusual. He made it his business to be prepared. Yet from the moment he’d boarded the royal jet everything had been out of kilter.
It wasn’t a sensation he liked. He’d spent a lifetime ensuring he was in control of his world, not the other way around. His mouth flattened as he watched the Parisian streets go by.
In his peripheral vision he saw her, busy on her phone. She hadn’t looked at him since they’d climbed into the back of the limo. Such complete disregard was deliberate.
Like the way she’d sashayed down the plane’s steps. She hadn’t wriggled her hips or tossed her head. Oh no, she was too regal for that, but the proud set of her shoulders and her absolute composure proclaimed nothing he’d done or said fazed her. He was beneath her notice.
For a millisecond he considered doing something that would really ruffle her feathers.
On the plane she’d casually let down her hair then redone it, just to make the point that she set the timetable. What would she do if he reached out now and tugged it undone, threading his fingers through the shining tresses, dragging her head back so her throat and mouth were vulnerable to him?
The idea was tempting even for a man who didn’t allow himself to be provoked. Who did not manhandle women.
Admittedly she’d had a point. He’d ditched social niceties. How that must have shocked a woman used to smarm and charm and getting her own way.
It was a timely reminder of who and what she was.
This was the last place he’d be if he hadn’t been virtually blackmailed into it. He despised her, with good reason. He knew her sort intimately. Usually he ignored them, but when others suffered it was different.
Inevitably pain resonated as he thought of Nico.
His little brother had died because Fotis had failed to protect him. And because their mother had been too absorbed in seducing a rich new lover to care for her children. She was another shallow, self-absorbed woman, used to getting what she wanted.
Yet despite his hatred of vain socialites, he lingered on the memory of Princess Rosamund’s hair settling over the upper slopes of her peaked breasts. She’d worn a silky camisole the colour of mountain violets that clung enough to reveal as much as it concealed.
To his chagrin he’d imagined cupping those breasts and feeling her pebbled nipples against his palms.
Cursing under his breath, he dragged out his phone. He might have been corralled into looking after a spoilt madam but that didn’t mean he’d neglect his own business.
The car slowed and Rosamund looked up from her email as it swung off the quiet street and into a private garage. The street wasn’t familiar and she didn’t even know which arrondissement of Paris they’d entered. She’d been too busy trying to ignore her dour companion to keep track of the city.
She turned to ask their location but he’d already exited the vehicle. So had the driver. She put her phone away and gathered her bag, by which time the driver was holding her open door.
‘Thank you.’ She smiled and received the tiniest nod in response. Had his boss ordered him not to get friendly? Or for some reason did he, like Fotis Mavridis, view her as the enemy?
She told herself her imagination was running away with her, something her father had often complained about. Yet she didn’t need to be clairvoyant to know Mavridis really didn’t want anything to do with her. What was his problem?
She moved away from the car, noting the garage door had shut behind them with a soft thud. It was sensible, bringing her somewhere she wouldn’t be seen alighting from the vehicle in the street.
Mavridis knew what he was doing. With the limo’s tinted windows no one had seen her in the traffic. No one knew her location unless they’d followed from the airport.
For a shockingly claustrophobic moment, standing in the dimly lit garage at an unknown location, brought by men she didn’t know, fear spidered across her skin, drawing it tight. Her pulse thudded in her throat. Even Leon didn’t know where she was.
Tension roiled in her stomach and she felt a sickeningly abrupt rush of adrenaline. She made herself exhale slowly, short breath in and a longer one out. She loosened her jaw, dropped her shoulders and felt her heartbeat slow.
Then she noticed her unwilling bodyguard in an open doorway, light spilling from behind him. With his face in shadow it was impossible to read his expression. Had he noticed the way her hand had crept into her shoulder bag to clutch her phone?
She made herself walk towards him across the bare cement floor. She’d almost reached him when he turned and walked away.
His lack of manners was a slap in the face.
That intrigued her for, though she was a princess, in daily life she didn’t live as one.
She did her share of royal events but instead of living in the palace, had her own apartment.
She didn’t get the red carpet treatment except at official events.
Friends and work associates called her by her first name, never her title.
But he’d been employed to look after a princess. For all he knew, her royal position was her full-time job. Turning his back wasn’t polite for anyone, but with royalty it was a damning insult. Was that why he’d done it?
Rosamund mulled that over as she followed him down a hall. He wasn’t to know that far from revelling in her royal birthright, she’d always craved a normal life. Aristocratic privilege wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
It was tempting to tell him he’d have to try harder with his insults. But why bother? He was a necessary encumbrance for a short period. The less time she wasted thinking about him the better.
Yeah, right. After you spent the whole car ride reading the same page in the new contract. Just because Mr Macho Grumpy was beside you, taking up all the oxygen.
He hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t looked her way. But his presence had overwhelmed her.
Rosamund didn’t do overwhelmed. She didn’t give any man power over her. It had been a hard-won lesson but one she’d committed to heart.
‘Where are we?’ she said as she followed him into a big, sunny kitchen that looked onto a surprisingly large and inviting garden.
‘The house where we’ll stay while you’re in Paris.’
‘You rented a whole house?’
She’d only seen the massive garage, a marble-floored hallway and this state-of-the-art kitchen. But that was enough to know this was no ordinary house.
‘You think your brother can’t afford it?’
She plonked her bag on the island bench that looked bigger than the average kitchen, then planted her palms on the cool stone. ‘I pay my own way. I’m not here at the state’s expense. Usually I stay in a hotel.’
Did she imagine a flicker of surprise in his eyes? ‘This is more secure.’ After a moment he added, ‘Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to pay. It’s not a rental.’
Slowly she nodded. The man had connections. Sourcing a luxury home like this for a short period was near impossible.
She waited. He had something to say, presumably details of how this arrangement would work. She watched him watching her and refused to ask. Instead she paced the big room, hands brushing custom-made cabinetry and slick stainless steel.
But eventually his silence was too much. ‘About this arrangement, pretending to be partners—’
‘Lovers.’
That baritone voice remained soft yet that single word made her pulse skitter. She paused, fingers clenching around the handle of the biggest fridge she’d ever seen.
She resumed walking towards the end of the room where sunlight streamed through French doors onto an impressive glass-and-wrought-iron table and cushion-covered chairs.
Rosamund turned to find his eyes on her. Even for a woman used to public scrutiny, his intense regard made her almost self-conscious. ‘As you say, a couple.’
When this man was involved she much preferred ‘couple’ to ‘lovers’.
‘So.’ She focused on essentials. ‘We’ll be seen in public together. Are you coming to every event? I can give you the schedule.’ Now she’d broken her silence she couldn’t seem to stop.
‘I have it and yes, wherever you go I’ll be there.’
That should have reassured, considering what she’d heard about Ricardo and his nasty ways. Yet it sounded more like a challenge, even a threat, than a promise.
She was about to ask if he had appropriate clothes for the formal events but stopped the urge to babble. A man who conjured a multi-million-dollar luxury home in Paris could manage formal clothes.
She folded her arms, waiting for him to speak. Had he brought her here to discuss how to go about convincing people they were a couple?
Heat detonated low inside as she recalled her body’s instantaneous, disturbing response to his.
To counter it she reminded herself they simply needed to be seen together. Public speculation and the voracious paparazzi would see to the rest.
They wouldn’t attend events where public displays of affection were required. The most she’d have to do would be stand close and smile at him.
That could be a problem. She doubted if he knew how to smile back.
But Rosamund didn’t really care if people believed the fiction. She refused even to note the stories the press ran about her and her apparent multitude of partners. Her lip curled and a tiny snort of disgust escaped.
His stare sharpened, his nostrils flaring as if in distaste. ‘You have something to say? Something you want to get off your chest?’
As if she needed to explain herself to him!
‘Nothing at all.’ Suddenly fatigue swamped her. It had been a long day after a series of long days and the emotional strain of anticipating the next few days took its toll. She was both eager for this event and dreading it. ‘Can you show me to my room?’