The Prince's Chambermaid
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Sharon Kendrick
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CHAPTER ONE
FOR a moment she thought she must have misheard him. Either that, or she was going crazy. And maybe she was. For hadn’t her foolish dreams of love just been dealt a death-blow in time-honoured fashion? From her position behind the reception desk where she was covering for the receptionist’s lunch-break, Cathy stared up at her boss in disbelief and tried not to think about the crumpled-up letter which was lying in the bottom of her handbag. Or the battering to her self-esteem which had left her feeling lonely, and wounded.
‘Sorry.’ She cleared her throat, wondering if he was having some kind of joke at her expense. ‘For a minute then, I thought you said—’
‘A prince? Yes, I did.’ Rupert’s smirk was supercilious, his upper-crust English accent even more pronounced than usual, as he paused to allow the significance of his statement to sink in. ‘A royal prince is going to be gracing our hotel with his presence—what do you think of that, Cathy?’
‘A prince?’ Cathy echoed in disbelief.
Rupert’s smirk became even more pronounced. ‘Prince Xaviero of Zaffirinthos. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of him?’
Cathy bit back the defensive response which sprang to her lips. Just because she was a chambermaid who’d never really qualified for anything didn’t mean that she was a complete write-off, did it? The implication being that such a woman would barely recognise the name of a member of the English royal family—let alone a rather more obscure foreign version. But Rupert was right, damn him. Despite doing her best to keep up with world events via newspapers and books, it seemed that Zaffirinthos had somehow slipped off her radar. ‘N-no,’ she answered uncertainly. ‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Then let me enlighten you. He’s next in line to an island kingdom, a world-class polo player—and a lover of beautiful women,’ said Rupert, puffing out his chest. ‘In fact, the most glittering VIP we’ve ever had.’
Cathy stared at him, screwing up her eyes in confusion because something didn’t make sense. They both knew that important guests were few and far between—despite the fact that there was a world-famous polo club nearby as well as some pretty impressive stud farms. But there were also other, more upmarket hotels and she couldn’t imagine why on earth a prince would choose to stay somewhere like this. Yes, the building was listed and yes, originally it had been a very elegant private home before it had been turned into a hotel. But Rupert’s general mismanagement and dwindling guest numbers had left house and grounds in a pretty run-down condition, which didn’t tend to attract VIPs.
‘But why?’ she questioned. ‘I mean, why’s he coming here?’
Rupert’s smile disappeared as quickly as a ray of April sunshine. ‘Why is none of your business,’ he snapped back, but then seemed to relent—glancing round to check that the coast was clear and paying lip-service to discretion, but clearly busting to tell someone. ‘Well, keep it to yourself—but he’s moving over here from his home in New York and he’s about to complete the purchase of the Greenhill Polo Club.’
Cathy’s eyes opened wider. She thought of the acres of valuable real estate which housed the prestigious club, which brought international celebrities flocking there every weekend during the polo season. ‘A place like that would cost an absolute fortune to buy,’ she said slowly.
‘For once, you’re right, Cathy—but that won’t be a problem, not in this case. You see, this man is not just any old prince—with genuine blue blood coursing around in his veins—he also happens to be outrageously wealthy.’ Rupert’s eyes narrowed calculatingly. ‘Which is why there are going to have to be some changes made before he and his entourage arrive.’
Cathy had been working for Rupert long enough to know just when to sense trouble. ‘Changes?’ she said, hoping that she was hiding the instinctive alarm which sprang up inside her. ‘What kind of changes?’
‘Well, for a start—we’re going to have to spruce up the public rooms to accommodate a man of his calibre. They’ll all need a lick of paint—especially the downstairs washrooms. I’ve organised for a firm of decorators to come in and start work first thing tomorrow morning.’
Cathy stared at him. ‘That quickly?’
‘Yes, that quickly. Someone will be in later to measure up—and you’ll need to show him around,’ said Rupert testily. ‘The Prince will be arriving next week and there’s a lot to be done between now and then if it’s to meet royal expectations. Apparently, he only sleeps on Egyptian cotton sheets—so I’m going to have to send to London for those. Oh, and one other thing.’
His eyes roved over her in a manner she had always found offensive, but Cathy had learnt to ignore the suggestive way her boss looked at her, just as she had learnt to ignore his other annoying traits. Because no job in the world was perfect. Nothing was. Everyone knew that. ‘What?’ she questioned apprehensively.
‘You’ll need to do something about your appearance. All of the staff need some sort of overhaul, but you need it more than most, Cathy.’
It was a criticism he had levelled at her more than once. But Cathy never really had the inclination to use anything other than a little honest-to-goodness soap and water and to drag a brush through her pale and disobedient hair. Her chambermaiding duties meant she had to be up much too early to make a fuss and, besides, the great-aunt who had brought her up had been a no-nonsense woman who had scoffed at make-up—and had taught her great-niece to do the same.
Cathy hated the way Rupert sometimes made her feel. As if she were only half a woman. Why did he do that? Because he gets a kick out of it, that’s why. And because he’s never got over the fact that you once rejected him. But insecurity could sometimes get the better of you and she found herself asking, ‘What’s wrong with my appearance?’
‘How long have you got?’ Rupert smoothed back the lock of hair which flopped over his forehead. ‘The point is that the Prince is a connoisseur of beautiful things and beautiful women in particular. And while I’m not hoping for a miracle, I’d like you to make a bit more effort while he’s here. Some make-up wouldn’t go amiss, for a start. And you’ll be getting a brand-new uniform.’
Most women might have liked the thought of a new uniform but something in Rupert’s eyes made Cathy feel instinctively wary. Infuriatingly, she could feel herself starting to blush—a slow heat travelling all the way down her neck and beyond, to the infuriatingly heavy weight of breasts which had always been too lush for her tiny frame. ‘But—’
‘No buts,’ said Rupert. ‘I’m the boss, Cathy. And what I say goes.’
Well, she certainly couldn’t argue with that. Cathy bit her lip as she watched Rupert sweep out of the reception area in that over-dramatic manner of his.
In a way, she had been in the job too long—and sometimes she wondered if she would ever have the courage to leave. Yet familiarity was a powerful tie, especially to the emotionally insecure, and she had never known anything else but this place.
She had been brought to this village as an orphan—delivered into the care of her great-aunt—a formidable spinster who had had little idea how to cope with a grieving child. Cathy had missed her parents badly—she’d fretted and cried at nights. And her great-aunt, though well-intentioned, had been unusually strict with her, extolling the virtues of clean living, early nights and plenty of book learning.
But Cathy had proved to be something of a disappointment. Not a particularly academic child, she had achieved little in the way of qualifications except for a commendation for cooking and a special mention of the contribution she’d made to the school garden.
When her great-aunt had become ill, Cathy had been happy to nurse the old lady—wanting in some small way to repay the woman’s kindness to her. And after her death Cathy had experienced that same terrible tearing sense of being alone as when her parents had died.
The job as chambermaid at Rupert’s hotel had never been meant to be anything other than a temporary post while she decided what she really wanted to do with her life. It had provided an undemanding refuge from the cruel knocks of life. But the days had drifted into months, then years—until she had met Peter, a trainee clergyman. Friendship had turned into dating and a slow-burning romance. Peter had provided sanctuary, and gentleness—and when he had asked her to marry him, Cathy had said yes, seeing a simple and happy future spread out before her, with a straightforward man who loved her.
Or so he’d said. He had taken a job up north and the plan had been that she would join him at the end of the year. And then yesterday, the letter had arrived. The one which had destroyed all her hopes and dreams and made a mockery of all she stood for. The one which said: I’m sorry, Cathy—but I’ve met somebody else and she’s going to have a baby…
She was so lost in her troubled thoughts that at first she didn’t notice that anybody had walked into Reception. Not until a faint movement alerted her to the presence of someone moving towards the desk. A man. Cathy sat up straight, automatically pinning a professional smile of welcome to her lips.
And froze.
It was one of those rare moments which chanced along once in a lifetime if you were lucky. The sensation of being sucked in by a gaze so mesmerising that you felt as if you were being devoured by it.
Dazed, she stared up into the most startling pair of eyes she had ever seen. Eyes as golden as a late-afternoon sun—all richness and lustre—but underpinned by a cold and metallic gleam.
Unseen beneath the reception desk, Cathy’s fingers bunched themselves into two little fists. She was unable to stop herself from staring at the rest of his face—at arrogant, haughty features which looked as if they had been carved from some rare and gleaming piece of metal. At lips which were curved and full—the corners mocking and sensual. But they were hard, obdurate lips, too, she realised as an instinctive shiver iced her skin.
His hair was dark and ruffled, and his olive skin was faintly flushed, glowing with health and vitality as if he’d been engaged in some kind of violent exercise. Tall and broad-shouldered, his physique was powerful yet lean—a fact which was emphasised by the T-shirt he wore, which clung lovingly to every hard sinew. The muscular torso tapered down into narrow hips and the longest legs she had ever seen. Legs which were encased in mud-spattered denim so faded and old that it seemed to caress his flesh like a second skin. Cathy swallowed. Her heart was racing and her throat had constricted, as if someone were pressing their fingers against it.
‘I’m…I’m afraid you can’t come in here looking like that, sir,’ she said, forcing the words out.
Xaviero studied her—though without quite the same awestruck intensity with which she had been studying him. He had noticed the way her pupils had darkened and the way her lips had parted with unconscious longing. But he was used to having that effect on women—even when he’d just come from a long, hard session of riding, as now. Her stuttering response was not unusual either—though it usually happened when he was on official duty, when people were so caught up with the occasion and the protocol which surrounded him that they couldn’t think straight.
The most important thing was that she hadn’t recognised him—of that he was certain. After a lifetime of being subjected to idolatry and fawning he was an expert in anonymity and in people pretending not to recognise him.
His eyes flicked over her in brief assessment, registering that she was tiny and fair. And that she possessed the most magnificent pair of breasts he had seen in a long while—their thrusting pertness noticeable despite the unflattering white overall she wore. Too big, surely—for such a petite frame? His eyes narrowed in expert appraisal. And yet completely natural, by the look of them.
‘Looking like what?’ he questioned softly.
Cathy’s mouth dried. Even his voice was drop-dead gorgeous. Rich, like dark sweet molasses and with a strange and captivating lilt to it. An accent she’d never heard before and one she couldn’t place at all. But who cared when somehow he managed to turn each syllable into a poem?
Oh, for heaven’s sake, she thought. Pull yourself together. Just because you’ve been dumped by your fiancé, there’s no need to behave like some old spinster—eyeing up the kind of man who wouldn’t look twice at you.
And yet she could do nothing to prevent the powerful thundering of her heart. ‘Looking like…like…’ Like what? He looked like danger, that was what. With the faintly disreputable look of a womaniser who had probably left his motorbike outside—and she knew Rupert’s opinion about bikers staying in the hotel. So get rid of him. Direct him to the B&B down in the village. And do it quickly, before you make even more of a fool of yourself.
‘I’m afraid that all our guests must be properly attired in smart-casual clothing,’ she said quickly, echoing one of Rupert’s stuffy directives and embarrassingly aware of the mocking twist of the man’s lips. ‘It’s…it’s one of the rules.’
Xaviero almost laughed aloud at the pompous restriction—but why knock something which had the power to amuse him? ‘One of the rules?’ he repeated mockingly. ‘A very old-fashioned rule, I must say.’
Cathy risked moving her hands from beneath the desk and she held her palms up in a silent gesture of helplessness. She totally agreed with him—but what could she do? Rupert was still mired in the past. He wanted formality and ostentatious symbols of wealth—he certainly didn’t want people walking into his hotel wearing mud-spattered clothing. Yet Cathy thought of the dwindling guest numbers and thought that her boss could do with all the help he could get.
‘I’m very sorry,’ she repeated softly. ‘But there’s nothing I can do. Our policy is very strict.’
‘Is it now?’ he murmured as he stared down into a pair of wide aquamarine eyes. ‘And you don’t make any…exceptions?’
How could he make such a simple query sound as if…as if…? Her mouth drying like sand, Cathy shook her head, trying to quell the haywire nature of her thoughts, thinking that most people would be happy to make an exception for him. ‘I’m afraid we don’t. Not…not even for guests.’
As she shrugged her shoulders apologetically the movement drew his attention to the sway of her magnificent breasts and, unexpectedly, Xaviero felt the sharp stirring of lust at his groin. For there was no sweeter temptation than a woman who responded to him as a man, rather than as a prince.
Placing one lazy denimed elbow on the counter which separated them, he leaned forward and gave a conspiratorial smile. ‘And what would you do,’ he queried softly, ‘if I told you that I was not here as a guest?’
Cathy’s heart gave a lurch. Up close, he seemed to exude an air of raw masculinity which had short-circuited her brain and was making her breath come in short, shallow bursts. What was the matter with her? Struggling out of the befuddled haze of her thoughts, she realised that his answer hadn’t really surprised her. After all, he didn’t really look like a guest, did he? ‘You’re…you’re not?’
‘No.’ He paused while he thought about who he would like to be. Whose skin he would like to step inside for a brief moment of complete freedom. It was a game he had always liked to play when he was younger—when he had gone away to mainland Europe to college—and it had always driven his security people mad.
For Xaviero—or, rather, Prince Xaviero Vincente Caius di Cesere of Zaffirinthos, to give him his full title—liked to remain incognito wherever and whenever possible. Anonymity was his rarest and most precious possession. He liked to play at a life that could never be his for more than a few minutes at a time. A world in which he was judged as other men were—by appearance and demeanour, and by what he said. Where chemistry counted more than privilege.
Didn’t matter that outside in a bullet-proofed car sat two bodyguards with guns bulging at their breast pockets—or that a further two were lurking somewhere in the grounds. For as long as this woman remained ignorant of his true identity, he could pretend he was just like any other man. ‘No, I’m not a guest,’ he added truthfully.
Suddenly it all made sense and Cathy wondered how she could have been so dense. ‘Of course! You’re the painter and decorator,’ she said slowly, her lips parting in a wide smile. ‘And you’ve come to measure up the washrooms.’
Xaviero’s eyes narrowed at her outrageous assumption—but he could hardly berate her for insubordination when she had no idea who he was! He had been about to deny her laughable assertion, but now she was rising to her feet and instead he found himself utterly captivated by her lush little body—and by the sheer sunny quality of her smile. When had anyone last smiled at him that sweetly? Or treated him as just a man, instead of a privileged member of one of Europe’s richest royal houses?
En route from the polo club to the airfield which housed his private plane, he had called in here on a whim. The sweat from a hot, hard ride still drying on his skin, he had been curious as to how the place looked before it was made ready for his official visit. But now he wondered whether the hand of fate might have stepped in. Had he been guided here by some unseen and benevolent hand, to have sexual hunger awoken in him once more by a lowly woman who was completely unaware of his true identity?
‘That’s right,’ he said slowly, doing his best to hide another sudden stir of lust. ‘I’ve come to measure up the washrooms.’
‘Right. Well, in that case—Rupert has instructed me to show you around.’
Xaviero smiled. So he wouldn’t even have to deal with the crashing snob of an Englishman who set his nerves on edge. This was getting better by the minute. ‘Perfect.’
Cathy could feel the skitter of her heart as his eyes drifted over her. She remembered the discarded letter which lay in her handbag and yet hot on that memory came the realisation that no man had ever made her feel like this before. Not even Peter—the man she had thought she’d loved enough to want to marry!
Was this what love really felt like? The thought flew into her mind unbidden, before she firmly sent it packing. Oh, for heaven’s sake, Cathy—have you finally lost sight of your senses? You’ve only just met him. You don’t know him. He’s a stranger who’s clearly aware of just how devastatingly attractive he is. And if he’s going to be working on-site there’s no way you can keep dissolving in a puddle at his feet every time he flicks you that curiously arrogant glance of his.
She gave him an efficient smile. ‘So if you’d like to follow me.’
Xaviero tried to imagine how a painter and decorator might respond in such a situation. Especially one who was mesmerised by a woman’s petite beauty. Wouldn’t he flirt a little? Especially in view of the way she had been staring at him—like a starving cat who had just been confronted with a plate of food. Was she as hungry for sex as he was? ‘I can’t think of anything I’d rather do,’ he murmured.
His provocative words were tantalising—but they were daunting, too. Cathy came out from behind the reception desk and then half-wished she had remained behind its protective barrier. Because standing so close to him, she felt so…exposed…so intensely aware of his towering height and his hard-packed muscular body. Her knowledge of men was laughably small—but even she realised that this man exuded a sensual kind of aura which spelt danger. So what did you do when you encountered danger? she asked herself. You put some physical distance between you, that was what.
‘Let’s go,’ she said quickly.
‘Mmm. Let’s.’ Like a snake lured by a charmer, he watched the seductive sway of her body as she led the way. She really was a tiny little thing—like a pocket Venus—with those curiously old-fashioned curves which made her bottom look so eminently cuppable. He knew from ex-girlfriends who haunted the international fashion shows that clothes looked best on lanky beanpoles without any bust or hips—but he realised instantly that this was the kind of woman who would look best with no clothes at all…
Cathy was trying to walk normally—though how could she do that when she could feel his gaze on her back, burning into her like golden flames shot from a blowtorch? She made the decision to leave the washrooms until last—because how embarrassing would it be to have to stand pointing out the peeling paintwork behind one of the cisterns? Instead, she stopped in front of a set of double doors and, pushing them open, stepped into a large, high-ceilinged room.
‘Here we are,’ she said brightly. ‘This is our formal drawing room—where guests sometimes bring their coffee after dinner. It…well, it hasn’t been used very much lately.’
Xaviero looked around at the general air of neglect. ‘So I see,’ he said wryly.
The furniture was much too faded to be described as ‘shabby chic’ and a chandelier looked as if it hadn’t been dusted for an age. Cathy saw him glancing at it with a slightly disbelieving expression and, to her horror, she noticed a froth of cobweb lacing its base.
‘It’s, well…it’s a bit difficult to get to—even with a feather duster,’ she said apologetically. ‘I’d have had a go myself, only I’m slightly on the small side.’
Golden eyes assessed her from head to toe, lingering luxuriously on her petite frame. ‘You certainly are. And presumably you’re not actually the cleaner?’ he questioned drily.
‘Er, no—I’m not,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m…’ She stared up into the man’s gleaming eyes wondering if her next statement would make his interest fade. ‘I’m…I’m the chambermaid actually.’
The chambermaid? Sweet heaven! Xaviero almost groaned aloud—because the image which sprang into his mind was of a bed. A large, soft bed. And her in it, rather than making it. That soft, voluptuous form sinking onto crisp sheets and him sinking right on top of her. It was the most powerfully erotic image he had experienced in years and he shifted his weight very slightly in a doomed attempt to relieve the aching at his groin.
‘Really?’ he murmured. ‘That must be a very…interesting job?’
Cathy’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. Was he making fun of her—flippantly discounting a very necessary job which carried with it zero status? And yet he looked interested. She gave him the benefit of the doubt. ‘Well, it can have its moments,’ she said truthfully and then smiled again. ‘Honestly, you wouldn’t believe some of the things the guests leave behind!’
‘Such as?’
Primly, she locked her lips together. ‘I couldn’t possibly say.’
He laughed. ‘A loyal chambermaid,’ he murmured.
‘Professional discretion,’ she agreed. ‘And at least it’s a job which gives me plenty of free time.’
‘I suppose there is much to be said for that,’ he answered reflectively, thinking that she would not have dared speak to him in such a natural and unaffected way if she had been aware of his identity.
‘Yes.’ She opened her mouth to start telling him about the magnificent grounds which surrounded the hotel and all the secret places you could find to daydream in. About the scented haven she had created in her own little garden, but then she changed her mind and shut it again. Just go, she told herself. Go before you make a fool of yourself. Because haven’t you done overtime in the fool stakes recently? You’ve just been left by one man—so best not frighten away another.
‘Look, I’ve wasted enough time talking. I’d…I’d better leave you to get on with your work,’ she said reluctantly, though she noticed that he hadn’t produced a tape measure. Why, he didn’t even appear to have anything to write with!
Xaviero studied her. The most sensible thing in the world would be to come clean—to disclose his real identity and tell her that he wasn’t some painter and decorator at all. But he wasn’t feeling in the least bit sensible. In truth, he was feeling reckless and more than a little wild—a feeling which had only been intensified by recent events on his island.
His mouth hardened. Except that it was not his island any more, was it? It lay firmly under the rule of his elder brother now—it was his domain. The moment the crown had been placed on Casimiro’s head Xaviero had felt as if he no longer had any real role there.
The year of official mourning for his father had left him feeling strangely hollow and empty—and wasn’t that one of the reasons he was here? To swap his bustling NewYork existence and make a new life for himself—by purchasing one of the most famous polo grounds in the world, and realising a long-cherished dream to build up a training school?
He stared down into the face of the blonde, mesmerised by her pale beauty. She was so tiny, so delicate and light that he thought he might be able to pick her up with one hand, and hold her—like a small trophy. He imagined his big, dark body contrasted against her pale fragility. Could a woman this small accommodate a man as large as him?
He felt the recklessness transmute into desire—and the sheer and potent power of desire after so long an absence took him off guard. His gaze drifted over her lips and their rose-pink softness only increased his sudden yearning. Lips as luscious as rain-swollen petals and slightly parted as she gazed up at him. Lips that were born to be kissed; begging to be kissed. Would she let him? No woman had ever resisted him—because there wasn’t a woman alive who would refuse the advances of a prince. But he had never kissed a woman under the guise of anonymity before…
How would he fare as an artisan? Did small-town country girls let painter and decorators take immediate liberties whenever lust coursed through their veins? He saw her eyes darken. Saw the sweet, almost wary way she stared up at him. It seemed that they did.
‘No,’ he said suddenly. ‘Don’t leave.’
Cathy’s eyes widened. For a moment she thought that she had misheard him. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘I don’t want you to go anywhere,’ he said unevenly, and his smile was complicit. ‘Any more than you do.’
There was a split second before the fantasy she’d been nurturing ever since he’d walked in began to come true. As he began to move towards her Cathy felt she should protest, but no words came—despite the certainty that he was about to kiss her and that it was both inappropriate and unprofessional to kiss a man she had only just met.
But Cathy’s ego was bruised—she had been left feeling bitterly hurt by Peter’s rejection. The future she had imagined for herself was no longer an option and she felt empty and undesirable. When her fingers had tightened around her fiancé’s letter, hadn’t she imagined that no man would ever desire her again? And yet, now—out of the blue—came this.
‘You don’t want to go anywhere, do you?’ he persisted, on a murmur.
‘I’m…I’m not sure.’
‘Oh, I think you are, cara. Just as sure as I am.’
Leaning forward, he brushed his mouth over hers and felt the corresponding tremble of her lips.
‘You like that?’ he questioned unsteadily.
‘Yes,’ she whispered back as the lips came back and this time lingered—and Cathy knew she was lost as he pulled her into his arms and began to kiss her in earnest. Because it felt as if her life had been on hold until that moment. Peter’s letter had left her feeling empty and aching and worthless. Yet all her fears and insecurities—all that hurt and rejection—were wiped away by the sheer, simple power of this man’s amazing kiss.
Xaviero felt her instant capitulation—she gasped when he deepened the kiss still further. He felt the instant and glorious response of his own body, and his mind began doing rapid calculations. How long before his security bleeped him? Time to lock these doors and push her to her knees and have her pleasure him with those incredible lips of hers? She was too easy, he thought despairingly as desire now became mixed with disgust—for Xaviero freely admitted to having the double standards of many men where women were concerned. But that did not stop him guiding her hand to the hardness at his groin.
Several things happened at once. Firstly, an alarm began to vibrate in the pocket of his jeans—a movement which corresponded with the blonde snatching her hand away with a little yelp. And somewhere in the distance, a telephone began to ring.
Through a haze of humiliation and a terrible unfamiliar aching sensation in her breasts, Cathy took a step back and stared up at the man in horror, her cheeks burning as the memory of his hot, hard ridge seemed to be imprinted on her fingers.
‘Wh-what the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded tremblingly, though deep down she knew she should have been asking herself the very same question. Why had she let this stranger take such liberties with her?
Xaviero gave a scornful laugh as his gaze raked over her swollen breasts—their tips now clearly outlined against her ill-fitting overall, just crying out for the feel of his fingers and his lips. Frustrated desire quickly became self-contempt. Was he so hungry for a woman that he should resort to behaviour like this? Like some teenage boy who had never known sex before?
‘I should have thought that was obvious,’ he grated. ‘I was giving you what your body was clearly crying out for and still is, by the look of you. Sadly, I don’t have time to oblige you, at least not right now—although, frankly, I prefer my women to put up a little more fight.’ His mouth hardened with a mixture of derision and frustration as he fought the desire to start kissing her all over again. ‘Did no one ever teach you that when something is given so carelessly it loses much of its appeal?’
Cathy felt a wave of injustice wash over her. He probably wouldn’t believe her if she told him that she’d never behaved in such a way with a man before and yet why should she take all the blame for what had just happened? He had been the one who’d started it—who had begun to kiss her with such practised skill that she had melted in his arms like a piece of molten wax.
‘I suppose you consider yourself to be blameless?’ she demanded, wanting to slap him around his arrogant face. But he obviously saw the itching temptation in her trembling fingers, because he shook his dark head, the gold of his eyes almost completely obscured by twin circles of black fury.
‘Don’t even think about it, cara,’ he warned.
The thinly veiled threat brought her to her senses as a sudden and acute sense of shame washed over her. But it was too late for redress because, with one final look of frustrated contempt, the golden-eyed man turned and walked from the room without another word.
For several disbelieving moments she just stood there until, in the distance, Cathy heard the muffled sound of tyres squealing over gravel and she hurried over to the window to see two expensive black cars racing down the drive at high speed. Automatically, she registered the sound of their powerful engines, and frowned. Now where had they come from, and where were they disappearing to? she wondered dazedly.
Trying desperately to compose herself, she smoothed her hands down over her hair before walking back into the reception area—to find a plump middle-aged man standing by the desk, wearing paint-covered overalls and holding a large notebook in his hand. He looked up with a wide smile when she appeared.
‘Can I…can I help you?’ asked Cathy—though some chilling sixth sense began to clamour out a terrible warning in her head.
‘I certainly hope so,’ said the man, in a cheerful Irish accent. ‘I’m the painter. Well, the foreman—to be exact. And I’ve come to measure up. So where would you like me to start?’
