Читать книгу His Majesty's Temporary Bride - Annie West - Страница 12

CHAPTER TWO

LEAVING ST GALLA wasn’t as easy as Cat had hoped. How had she thought, after the lengths they’d gone to, and the money promised, they’d release her from her contract?

‘Impossible.’ The Prime Minister’s voice over the phone was severe. ‘I expect you to finish the job.’

‘I’ll return the first payment. Since arriving I’ve realised I can’t pull this off. I’m a security professional, not an actor.’

‘As a professional you’d know we wouldn’t resort to this charade unless absolutely necessary. There’s no other option.’

Silence hung between them.

‘Princess Amelie isn’t in danger, is she?’ She’d asked before but got no answer.

The nation was still mourning the death in an accident of Amelie’s younger brother, King Michel, and his wife. Cat had been stunned by the emptiness she’d felt after hearing the news, knowing she’d never have an opportunity to know her half-brother. Not that she’d anticipated ever meeting her half-siblings. Yet she’d followed the news with a fascinated dread, reading how, after the double funeral, Princess Amelie had cancelled her public appearances to spend time with her orphaned nephew, Sébastien.

Where were Amelie and the young Prince? Given the freedom Cat had to explore the beautiful Belle Époque palace and its grounds, they weren’t here.

Cat regretted never knowing her brother. That sense of loss only strengthened her longing to meet her last living relatives: Amelie and Prince Sébastien.

‘That need not concern you, Ms Dubois. Concentrate on the task for which you’ve been employed.’ He paused. ‘Remember the penalty clauses in your contract.’

Oh, she remembered. Massive financial penalties should she divulge the secret of what she was doing here. And for leaving before the requisite period was over.

But she hadn’t yet begun the masquerade. ‘Surely it’s better to pull the plug now than when people realise we’re trying to fool them? I’ve tried, but my tutor will tell you I’m a disaster in the role.’ The woman made that clear with each sniff of her thin patrician nose.

‘On the contrary, I’ve heard you’re a quick study and you’ve made good progress.’

‘Nevertheless—’

‘Let me be clear, Ms Dubois.’ Monsieur Barthe’s voice was glacial. ‘You will complete this assignment. If not, by the terms of the contract you have seven days to pay the penalty.’

Seven days to pay money she didn’t have. The penalty payment was even larger than the total she’d earn.

‘I trust you’ll see the wisdom of staying.’ He paused, but Cat couldn’t think of a thing to say. ‘Good. I’ll see you at the reception.’

The phone went dead. Cat put it down, her stomach cramping. There was no way out. She shouldn’t have agreed to take this on. Hadn’t she known it from the first?

Never had the massive chasm between herself and the siblings she’d never known seemed wider. And her little nephew. Her heart had gone out to the tiny mite she’d seen on the news. His big, troubled eyes had tugged at her, but she was crazy to think she could help either of them.

Cat shook her head. She’d let sentiment and curiosity overcome sense.

Now she had to face the consequences.

She stared out the huge arched window of her room. Beyond the manicured gardens, the pools and fountains and arbours, lay the wooded private royal reserve that encompassed the whole southernmost peninsula of the island nation. Beyond that was the sea.

Where Alex had his beautiful yacht.

For a second she let herself imagine she could simply walk out the door, swim to him and ask him to take her away. For she couldn’t shake the bone-deep fear that in coming here she’d opened a door that should have remained firmly bolted. Like Pandora opening her box and releasing forces she’d never imagined.

Cat shivered, as if someone walked over her grave.

Nonsense. She didn’t like it here because it reminded her of the father who’d rejected her before she was born. And the shame she’d been made to carry through no fault of her own.

But she was strong and capable. She’d do the job, then leave without a backward glance. Simple.

* * *

Twenty-four hours later Cat walked carefully down the long ground-floor corridor, heels tapping on the beautiful parquetry floor. At her tutor’s insistence she wore stockings, heels and a silk dress that swirled to her knees. Lady Enide had declared Cat would never convince anyone till she learned to walk in a dress.

Apparently she walked like a boy. Even if she did keep her shoulders back and her chin up.

Cat set her jaw and concentrated on balance. Teetering on stiletto heels was harder than parcours. Harder than karate. No wonder Lady Enide had left her to it, informing her crisply that they’d meet in forty minutes, by which time she expected to see Ms Dubois moving like a lady.

Cat’s mouth curved in a mirthless smile. She’d always been a tomboy, rebelling against the inevitable comparisons between her and the graceful, ultra-feminine Princess who lived at the far end of their island nation.

It was easier for tomboys to pretend not to hurt when insults and innuendos rained down. And tomboys gave as good as they got when the insults became blows.

She didn’t fancy her chances of convincing anyone she was an elegant lady.

Butterflies the size of kites twisted in her stomach. The Prime Minister had lied. Cat had just learned next week’s event wasn’t the simple affair he’d said.

Restlessly she pushed open a door and entered a grand reception room. It was white and gold, with ornate couches that looked as if they’d break if you sat on them. The mirrors were huge antiques, the chandeliers, she’d learned, brought from Versailles centuries ago. The paintings...she tried to recall which monarchs were in the paintings and failed.

Another black mark against her. She had to memorise everything about these rooms for the reception to celebrate five hundred years of amity between St Galla and distant Bengaria. It would be a glittering event.

And she’d been told minutes ago that the King of Bengaria would attend!

Her stomach cramped in horror. How did the Prime Minister expect her to fool a royal? It was madness. If she’d known she’d never have come. Which was no doubt why Monsieur Barthe hadn’t broken the news earlier. He’d even tried to convince her their royal guest wouldn’t see through her disguise since he’d never met Amelie!

As soon as she got a chance she’d look up the Bengarian King. For the first time her avoidance of all things royal worked against her. She shunned celebrity gossip about aristocratic families. She could so easily be fodder for those stories!

Cat shuddered. If she’d needed proof that this masquerade was desperately important for Amelie, this was it. Clearly Cat was covering for a crisis of some sort.

Maybe she could stand at the top of the elegantly curling staircase and wave her hand at the King without getting close? If she could keep her distance, and not talk, there was the slimmest chance she could bring off this charade.

Cat grimaced. From a distance no one would notice she was a smidgeon shorter than Amelie, her nose not quite as straight and her mouth a fraction wider. Or that she was smaller in the bust.

But to convince a king? Cat shook her head and pushed open the door to the next room.

On the threshold she stilled. Someone stood, silhouetted in the vast arched window.

A sensation, as if she rode a runaway roller coaster, plunged her stomach to the floor. Her hand clung to the door as she took in the tall figure, straight-shouldered, slim-hipped, long-legged.

Over his shoulder through the window a familiar yacht, streamlined, vintage and luxurious, lay anchored in the palace’s private cove.

‘You!’ Cat’s eyes rounded as he turned and that dark blue gaze snagged hers.

She’d told herself memory had exaggerated yesterday’s sizzle of attraction. She’d been wrong. One look and sparks flashed under her skin, igniting heat deep within.

The instant of recognition stretched out and out.

Intriguingly, he now looked like an ad for some exclusive men’s fashion house instead of a laid-back, sinfully sexy beachcomber. His dark hair was brushed back in a severe style that made her gaze linger on the sculpted perfection of his even, chiselled features. From head to toe he was suavely elegant, assured and breathtakingly male. Only the light dancing in those indigo eyes betrayed a hint of something else.

Despite her shock and instinctive caution, delight quivered through her as she read that look. He’d watched her that way yesterday. As if she were a delicacy he wanted to bite into.

‘What are you doing here?’ Her voice was stretched and too high as she stalked across the room, for once ignoring the sensation she was walking on stilts. ‘How did you get in?’

‘Through the front entrance. The butler asked me to wait here.’ He smiled, a slow curl of the lips that fed a silly little shiver under her skin.

‘I mean, why are you here?’

He lifted a hand, holding out a paper bag.

Hesitantly Cat took it and peered inside. Within lay her old running shorts. She recognised them from the frayed hem, and her ancient T-shirt, not only folded but ironed, if she wasn’t mistaken. George had washed and ironed her gear. She couldn’t imagine Alex doing anything so mundanely domestic.

Her gaze shot to his as she put the package down on the grand piano a few steps away.

‘Thank you.’ She paused, wondering how to handle this. ‘That’s very thoughtful.’ Could she get rid of him quickly? She wasn’t ready to play the part of Princess Amelie and admitting her real identity was impossible.

But how had he known where to find her? She’d said nothing about staying at the royal palace. She’d been running through the private royal reserve but assumed he’d think she’d trespassed, like the boys in the canoe who’d ventured into the palace’s private zone.

Anxiety stirred. This scenario was wrong. There’d been no reason for Alex to look for her here.

‘You don’t look pleased to see me.’ His voice was easy, low enough to hum through her bones in a way that disturbed as much as it appealed.

Cat was no pushover when it came to men. It took more than a dark velvet voice and a hint of humour to win her over. Far more than a sexy, athletic body and stunning eyes. Yet there was something about Alex that broke through a lifetime’s reserve. She didn’t like it one bit.

‘I’m...surprised.’ She drew a quick breath. ‘I didn’t expect to see you again.’ If circumstances had been different she’d definitely have wanted to pursue their acquaintance. But not like this.

If anyone discovered who she was the fallout would be disastrous.

Something about the lazy speculation in his eyes told her Alex saw far too much.

‘I’m afraid the palace is closed to visitors at the moment.’

‘So I gathered. The butler seemed surprised when I arrived.’ Yet Alex made no move to leave. That speculative gaze was heavy as it took her in from head to toe.

Instinctively Cat drew herself up. She’d have to usher him out the door. ‘I think it best if—’

‘Why Cat?’ He spoke at the same time.

‘Sorry?’

‘Your name. Is it a nickname because of your eyes?’ When she didn’t immediately answer he went on. ‘I’ve never seen eyes quite that colour.’

‘Cat’s eyes?’ She blinked. She’d never thought of that. People told her she had beautiful eyes but she’d never been convinced. Probably because through her early years they’d been the bane of her life. Such a distinctive colour, always commented on. Royal St Gallan it was called here because every member of the royal family for generations had inherited eyes that colour. Yet it was extraordinarily rare in the rest of the population.

When her mother had given birth to a girl only seven months after her hasty marriage to a man she’d never shown a preference for, and when that baby had eyes of Royal St Gallan green, there had been talk. People commented on how suddenly she’d left her job at the palace, and how it was whispered that the King had a roving eye despite his gorgeous wife and obviously happy family life.

‘Cat?’ He’d moved closer. The fresh scent of citrus and warm flesh invaded her nostrils. It sent tendrils of feminine pleasure curling through her.

She stiffened. This was so not good.

‘It’s what my friends call me.’ That at least was true. She’d never been Catherine except to her stepfather, the man who’d treated her mother as a drudge and her as a disgusting burden despite the largesse he’d received for giving them his name.

‘An unusual choice, but it suits.’ His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. Even in heels she was no match for his rangy height. Cat found herself wondering why she even noticed. She worked with guys all the time, some even taller than Alex.

‘It was lovely of you to take so much trouble. Really.’ Her muscles stretched taut as she forced a smile. ‘But this isn’t really a good time.’ She stepped away, holding his gaze, inviting him to accompany her as she moved to the door.

‘I understand.’ Abruptly the hint of humour in his gaze disappeared. ‘I should have begun by saying how very sorry I am. It must have been a tough time for you.’

‘Sorry?’ Cat frowned. From the moment she’d crossed the threshold nothing had made sense. Not seeing Alex here, looking urbane and remarkably at home, nor his interest in her name, nor the trouble he’d taken to return her ratty old running gear. And now he was sorry...?

‘For your loss.’ His mouth flattened and he raked a hand back through his hair, which immediately fell back into place. ‘I’m not doing a very good job, am I? I should have offered my condolences when we met but you left so abruptly.’

The hair at Cat’s nape rose as she read the sympathy in his eyes, the sincerity in the grim expression bracketing that generous mouth.

Anxiety stirred and doom-laden foreboding.

A large hand captured hers, long fingers enfolding it, warm and reassuring. ‘You must be going through a hellish time, losing your brother and sister-in-law. You have my sympathy and my mother’s. If there’s anything I can do—’

He broke off when Cat stepped back, heart thundering, tugging her hand from his.

He thought she was Amelie.

The knowledge pressed down on her, stopping her breath, making her ears buzz and her head whirl as she stared up into that handsome, now sombre face.

Finally, hand to her sternum, she managed to gasp in air, sucking it deep and filling starved lungs.

Did he know Amelie? How well? How long before he realised Cat was an imposter?

And somewhere deep in her psyche, buried so deep she almost didn’t register it, was a part of her that wanted to reach out and grab his hand again, feel that rush of heat and fortifying strength, because, absurdly, she did feel grief for the half-brother she’d never known and would now never know. Even though she had no right to feel anything.

She’d always been an outsider. These people weren’t really her family, no matter the blood they shared.

‘I...’ She paused and forced a brittle smile. ‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’ Her lips felt stiff and the words sounded stilted.

She wished she’d never got herself into this tangle of deceit. It went against everything she’d made of herself. Forced to hide her true identity since childhood, there’d been freedom and a welcome dignity and strength in building a life for herself that had no taint of subterfuge. Where she was simply Cat Dubois, capable, professional and open.

‘I—’ Cat broke off as the door opened behind her. Swinging round, she saw Lady Enide, immaculate as ever in a navy suit and pearls, her silver hair a testament to good taste and a personal stylist. The other woman paused on the threshold, her features morphing into a mask that even for her looked pinched and full of concern.

She stepped into the room and, to Cat’s amazement, bent deep into a curtsey. The sort of curtsey she’d tried and failed to teach Cat.

‘Your Highness. Welcome to St Galla.’ Her eyes weren’t on Cat but on Alex. Cat felt once more that enervating sensation as if her stomach had disconnected and plummeted at speed towards her toes.

‘My apologies that you weren’t greeted appropriately. The palace has only a skeleton staff during this period of mourning and we weren’t expecting you yet.’

Colder and colder, Cat’s spine froze vertebra by vertebra till it felt as if her backbone and neck were clamped in an icy vice.

Slowly she turned back to see Alex smiling. ‘No need for apologies. As you can see, Princess Amelie has made me welcome.’

Eyes of rich blue met and held hers. She read curiosity and something that might have been satisfaction there. But she was too busy revisiting their conversation, wondering if she’d betrayed herself, to interpret his thoughts.

For the issue now wasn’t merely her identity, and whether she could maintain a royal masquerade.

Worse was the fact Enide had called him ‘Highness’. That the haughtiest, most proper woman she’d ever met had practically scraped the floor with her curtsey.

Which meant Alex wasn’t merely a layabout yachtie.

Cat’s brain galloped ahead to the guests expected for the St Gallan-Bengarian celebrations. Celebrations to commemorate an old alliance between the two nations, forged when St Galla fought annexation by both its mainland neighbours, France and Italy. Celebrations which the King of Bengaria would attend.

King Alexander.

Her breath stalled and for a horrifying moment she thought she’d crumple as her knees gave way.

Cat dropped her eyes from his bright, enquiring gaze and found herself staring at a pair of glossy hand-made shoes. She kept her eyes fixed on them, forcing down the surging rush of panic.

He was King Alexander of Bengaria.

And he believed her to be Amelie.

Could it get any worse?

Cat found herself sinking into a deep, perfectly executed curtsey. The sort of curtsey that had eluded her for days.

It was amazing what adrenaline and sheer panic could achieve.

‘Welcome, Your Majesty. It’s a pleasure to have you here.’