Prince of Montéz, Pregnant Mistress. Sabrina Philips
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restorations that had ended up in smallish galleries and been inspired to visit her website—but a prince?
She read it a third time, and on this occasion the arrogance of it truly sunk in. If it was real, who on earth did the Prince of Montéz think he was to have his advisor summon her as if she was a takeaway meal he’d decide whether or not he wanted once she arrived?
Cally opened a new tab and typed ‘Prince of Montéz’ into Wikipedia. The information was irritatingly sparse. It didn’t even give his name, only stated that in Montéz the prince was the sovereign ruler, and that the current prince had come into power a year ago when his brother Girard had died in an accident aged just forty-three, leaving behind his young wife, Toria, but no children. Cally cast her mind back, roughly recalling the royal-wedding photos which had graced the cover of every magazine the summer she’d graduated, and hearing the news of his tragic death on the radio in her studio some time last year. But there was no further information about the late prince’s brother, the man who thought that she, a lowly artist, could drop everything because he commanded it.
Cally was tempted to reply that, attractive though the offer was, the prince was mistaken if he thought she could fit him into her busy schedule at such short notice. But the truth was he wasn’t mistaken. Hadn’t she only just been wishing she had more work lined up, and thinking she ought to start saying yes to something other than Sunday lunch at her parents’ house?
Which was why she decided she would let the tickets come. Not that she really believed they would, until the doorbell rang early the following morning, thankfully interrupting a fervid dream about a Frenchman with a disturbingly familiar face.
Nor did she really believe she’d dare to use them until the day after, when she heard the voice of the pilot asking them to please return their seats to the upright position because they were beginning their descent to the island.
The last and only time Cally had been to France was on a day trip to Le Touquet by ferry whilst she’d been at secondary school, most of which had been spent trawling round a rather uninspiring hypermarket. She’d always fancied Paris—the Eiffel Tower and the galleries, of course—but she’d somehow never got round to taking any kind of holiday at all since uni, nor felt she could justify the unnecessary expense. So when she stepped out of first class and was greeted by the most incredible vista of shimmering azure water and glorious tree-covered mountains sprinkled with terracotta roofs, it was no wonder it felt like this was all happening to someone else. For the first time in years she felt the urge to whip out a sketch pad and get to work on a composition of her own.
A desire that only increased when the private car pulled up to the incredible palace. It almost looked like a painting, she thought as the driver opened the door of the vehicle for her to depart.
‘Please follow me, mademoiselle. The prince will meet you in la salle de bal.‘
Cally frowned as he led her through the impressive main archway, trying to remember her GCSE French in order to decipher which room he was referring to. He must have caught her perplexed expression.
‘You would say “the ballroom”, I think?’
Cally nodded and rolled her eyes to herself as they passed through the courtyard and up a creamy white staircase with a deep red carpet running through the centre. There was a very good reason why she hadn’t needed to know the word for ballroom for her project on ‘ma maison’.
The thought reminded her just how hypocritical it was to feel impressed by the palace when the man who lived here was guilty of the excess she loathed. She was even more ashamed to look down at her perfectly functional black jacket and skirt, teamed with a white blouse, and wish she had brought something a little more, well, worthy. Why should she be worried what clothes she was wearing to meet the prince? Just because he had a palace and a title didn’t mean she ought to act any differently from the way she would with any potential client. Any more than he should judge her on anything but her ability as a restorer, she thought defiantly, hugging her portfolio to her chest.
‘Here we are, Mademoiselle Greenway.’
‘Thank you,’ Cally whispered as the man signalled for her to enter the ballroom, bowed his head and then swiftly departed.
She entered tentatively, preparing to be blown away by the full impact of the magnificent marble floor, the intricately decorated wall panels and the high, sculpted ceiling that she could see from the doorway. But, as Cally turned into the room, the gasp that broke from her throat was not one of artistic appreciation, it was one of complete astonishment.
The Rénards. Hanging, seemingly innocuously, right in the centre of the opposite wall.
Cally rushed to them to get a closer look, momentarily convinced that they must be reproductions, but a quick appraisal told her immediately that they were not. She felt her heart begin to thud insistently in her chest, though she couldn’t accurately name the emotion which caused it. Excitement? She had wanted more than anything to discover the identity of the mysterious telephone-bidder, to have the chance to convince them she was the best person to carry out the restoration. Now it seemed that somehow he had found her.
Or was it horror? For wasn’t this exactly the fate of the paintings she had feared—shut away in some gilded palace never to be looked upon again? She closed her eyes and pressed her hands to her temples, trying to make sense of it, but before she could even begin a voice behind her cut through everything.
‘See something you recognise?’
A voice which made her eyes fly open, every hair on the back of her neck stand on end and every thought fly from her mind. Every thought, except one.
Leon.
Stop it, she scolded herself. The Prince of Montéz is French, of course he’s going to sound a little like him. God, she really did need to get out more if that one meaningless episode had the power to make her lose all grip on reality every time she heard a man with a French accent. The voice belonged to the Prince of Montéz, who had brought her here as his potential employee, so why was she still staring rudely at the wall? She turned sharply to face him.
The sight before her almost made her keel over.
Her imagination hadn’t been playing a trick on her at all. It was him. Irritatingly perfect him, his impressive physique all the more striking in a formal navy suit.
Her mind went into overdrive as she attempted to make sense of what was happening. Leon was a university professor; perhaps he’d been invited here to examine the paintings in more detail; perhaps this was just one of life’s unfortunate coincidences?
But as she stared at his wry expression—impatient, as if waiting for her tiny mind to catch up—she suddenly understood that this was no coincidence. Her very first appraisal of him in that sale room in London—rich, heartless, titled—had not been wrong. It was everything else that had been a lie. Good God, was Leon even his real name?
‘You bastard.’
For a second his easy expression looked shot through with something darker, but just as quickly it was back.
‘So you said last time we met, Cally, but now that you know I am your potential employer I thought you’d be a little more courteous.’
Courteous? Cally felt the bile rise in her throat. ‘Well, since I can assure you I am not going to be capable of courtesy towards you any time this century, I think I should leave, don’t you?’
Leon gritted his teeth. Yes, he did think she should leave, the same way he’d thought he should in London. But after countless hot, frustrated nights, when all his body had cared about was why the hell he hadn’t taken her when he’d had the chance, Leon was through with thinking.
He blocked her exit with his arm.
‘At least stay for one drink.‘
‘And why the hell would I want to do that?’
‘Because, yet again, you look like you need one.’