Читать книгу His to Command: the Housekeeper: The Prince's Chambermaid / The Billionaire's Housekeeper Mistress / The Tuscan Tycoon's Pregnant Housekeeper - Christina Hollis, Christina Hollis - Страница 13

WITHOUT Xaviero, life suddenly felt lonely and scary—but Cathy did what all the advice columns suggested as a way of trying to forget him. Instead of sitting around and moping, she changed her life completely—deciding to grab every opportunity which came her way instead of just sitting back and going with the flow. Her Prince had gone, yes—but she had known from the beginning that he would. He had gone and he wasn’t ever coming back and so she had better start learning to live with that and hope that this gnawing pain in her heart would some day lessen.

The first step in her recovery was leaving Colbridge—though really she didn’t have much choice. Hadn’t Xaviero himself spelt out in cruel and accurate detail just how difficult it would be if she were still there when he returned from South America?

Saying goodbye to friends and colleagues was harder than she’d thought, though it was no hardship leaving an openly curious Rupert, who had spent some of his profit on a red Lamborghini and was planning to open up another hotel in the south of France.

This time he did come right out and ask her if she’d been sleeping with the Prince, but although Cathy blushed she remained tight-lipped and told him it was really none of his business.

‘I think your response speaks for itself,’ he drawled.

‘You can think what you like, Rupert.’ Her cool reply clearly startled him—but, while Xaviero might have taught her about the pain of love, there was no doubt that sleeping with a prince had given her confidence.

It was harder to leave her little cottage where she’d lived for much of her life, and harder still to walk away from the garden on which she had fostered so much love and attention. But she rented it out to a plant-lover who promised to look after it, and moved to London, where she got a job in a famous bookshop situated right on Piccadilly, just along the road from Green Park. In a big, noisy capital city a bookshop seemed a warm and friendly place to be, and when they discovered her passion for plants and flowers she was quickly assigned to the Gardening, Cookery and Sport section of the store.

With the money she made from letting out her home she was able to rent a modest little studio flat just down the road from the bookshop. It was small, the heating was haphazard and it took a hundred and eight rickety steps just to reach it—but once you did, the view over the city was worth…

Worth what? mocked a voice in her head. A prince’s ransom?

Heart racing, Cathy tried to shift the taunting thoughts her mind seemed determined to hang onto—but it was far from easy. She missed Xaviero. Really missed him. This felt like a broken heart. Like the real thing—while her break-up with Peter had been forgotten in a couple of days. This felt uncomfortably like love—even though she tried to tell herself again and again that she couldn’t possibly have been in love with the golden-eyed Prince. It had just been a wonderful sexual awakening, she reasoned—and all she was doing was seeking to put a respectable label on the way she’d behaved.

And Cathy soon realised that being the spurned lover of a prince was a hopeless situation to be in. People always said there was no point in bottling things up—but she had little alternative. She couldn’t tell anyone what had happened; quite apart from anything else—who in their right minds would ever believe her? Maybe the healing hands of time would help the vivid memories fade. And even though she enthusiastically threw herself into her new life, each night she cried softly into her pillow for the man who had captured her heart and her body so profoundly.

Autumn was approaching and she took to walking round Green Park in her lunch-hour and watching as the leaves began to turn golden brown and scrunched beneath her feet. And she drank her morning coffee in the dark staffroom at the very top of the building, and tried to make friends with the rest of the staff. There were all kinds of people working there, because bookshops seemed to attract a strange mixture. Lots of them were would-be writers, but there was also an ex-soldier, a hand model and a man who had once trained in Paris as a clown. And a part-time girl called Sandy who painted portraits of cats, which then went on to grace the covers of greetings cards.

It was Sandy who was beside her on the day Cathy turned on the Internet, and—when she thought nobody was looking—typed ‘ZAFFIRINTHOS’ into the search engine the way she did every morning. And Sandy who gripped her by the elbow as the world swam horrifically before Cathy’s eyes and the large London bookshop became a blur.

‘Cathy? For heaven’s sake—what’s the matter?’ Sandy demanded. ‘Cathy, are you all right?’

But Cathy barely heard the voice, which seemed to come from a hundred miles away; she was too busy waiting for the dizziness to clear from her eyes and she uttered a small, disbelieving whimper as she took in the words which leapt out at her.

‘Young royal fights for life: Zaffirinthos waits.’

‘No!’ she whimpered, shoving her fist into her mouth and feeling her knees begin to sway.

‘Sit down!’ urged Sandy.

Her head was placed between her knees and water was fetched for her to drink—and when the colour returned to her cheeks the section manager insisted that she go home for the rest of the day. She wanted to read the rest of the article but she could hardly start browsing the Internet in the store if they thought she was sick. Better get outside and buy a paper, or go to an Internet café or something.

‘Are you pregnant?’ muttered Sandy.

Cathy flinched at the unwitting hurtfulness of the remark. Actually, no, she wasn’t—and hadn’t that discovery proved unbearably poignant? For hadn’t there been some crazy little part of her heart which had longed to hold onto some precious part of him, and to feel his child growing inside her belly? A hope banished when she’d stood in her tiny bathroom looking at a trembling stick which had stubbornly refused to turn blue.

‘No, I’m not pregnant,’ she said flatly.

Outside, the autumn wind was blustering in a cold funnel along the street, turning the newspaper she bought into a wild, flapping creature. She took it into a little café and ordered a cappuccino and then raked her way through the windblown pages. Zaffirinthos was a relatively small principality which was rarely newsworthy, but a young prince hovering between life and death would always make the international pages.

Her teeth chattering, she read:

King Casimiro of Zaffirinthos was today fighting for his life following a violent fall from his horse.

Cathy began to shake as the first thought which washed over her in a wave of intense relief was that…it wasn’t Xaviero. But this was quickly followed by a second—a lurch of terrible guilt and sorrow—to realise that his brother should be lying stricken.

Poor Casimiro. Poor, poor Casimiro, she thought painfully as she read on.

The dashing royal, 34, who recently acceded to the throne of the tiny island kingdom, has been airlifted to the capital’s hospital, where he remains in a coma. Doctors are refusing to comment on claims that the King is near death. His younger brother, Xaviero, 33 (pictured, right), is tonight on his way from South America to be at his stricken brother’s bedside. This is not the first time that tragedy has struck the fabulously wealthy di Cesere family. In a cruel twist of fate, Queen Sophia—the King’s mother and a noted beauty—died of a brain haemorrhage a quarter of a century ago.

Instinctively, Cathy began to examine the snatched photo, taken at Bogotá airport. Xaviero looked grim-faced and ravaged—his hand raised as if to strike the camera from the hands of the person taking the photograph. He looked haunted, she thought—and her heart went out to him.

Staring blandly at her now-cold coffee, she wondered if there was any way she could help. But Xaviero would be home by now, surrounded by advisors and guided by protocol, no doubt—what on earth could she possibly do?

Until she remembered that he had given her his cell-phone number—though possibly it was the only time a number had been handed out with the instruction not to use it.

‘Only if it is absolutely necessary,’ he had told her, his stern face leaving her in no doubt that he meant every word. ‘If, for example, you were to discover that you were pregnant.’ He had acknowledged her shocked little intake of breath, and had nodded, his face grim. ‘And yes, I know we have taken every precaution, but accidents can and do happen—though, obviously, we both sincerely hope that this is not the case.’

Cathy bit her lip. What would she do if it were anyone else? If it were a friend or a colleague, someone she cared about or even someone she had cared about? Why, even if it were Peter—her errant fiancé—she would send him a message straight away, telling him to hang on in there and that she was thinking of him. But this was different. Imagine the amount of people who would be trying to get in touch with a man as important as Xaviero. She was crazy to even think of trying.

As the days dragged by she couldn’t settle. She kept thinking about Xaviero and wondering how his brother was faring—but even though she scoured the newspapers and the Internet for news there was no new update on his condition.

But one evening her conscience got the better of her and she knew she had to contact him. Who cared if it was the wrong thing to do, or if it was some diplomatic no-no? Or even if he thought her a fool for doing so? This wasn’t about her—it was about him.

Sitting down on the rather scruffy sofa, she carefully composed words of comfort in her head before she dared translate them into a text message—terrified that he might think she was writing to him simply because she had an ulterior motive. In the end, she simply wrote: ‘DESPERATELY SORRY TO HEAR YOUR BROTHER SO SICK. MY THOUGHTS WITH YOU. CATHY.’ She hesitated before adding a single ‘X’, and then she pressed the ‘send’ button before she could change her mind.

She didn’t expect to hear anything and when the phone began to ring a bit later on she thought it was probably Sandy, who’d been trying to persuade her to go to a comedy stand-up evening in town. But a quick glance at the screen of her cell phone set her heart racing in disbelief. It said…it said…

Xaviero?

Heart pounding, Cathy snatched up the receiver. ‘H-hello?’

‘Cathy?’

‘Yes, it’s me. Oh, Xaviero, I’m so s—’

His words cut across hers. ‘Are you alone?’

‘Yes. Yes, I am. Xaviero—how’s your bro—?’

Again he interrupted. ‘I can’t talk for long and I can’t guarantee the security of the line. I need you to listen carefully, Cathy—and then to answer me. Can you come out to Zaffirinthos?’

‘Wh-when?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow? But, Xaviero—I don’t understand—’

‘I told you.’ His voice sounded strained. ‘I can’t talk now—all I need is your answer—a simple yes, or no?’

Her mind was spinning as she tried to take in his extraordinary request, but on another level she registered the harshness of his tone. Her acquaintanceship with Xaviero might not have been long but it had certainly been intense and she knew that a tone like that brooked no argument.

Which meant that if she went, she would be going into the unknown…

‘You hesitate, Cathy,’ came the cool interruption to her swirling thoughts.

His words brought Cathy snapping straight back into reality. Why on earth was she hesitating for more than a second? This was the man who had haunted her dreams and her waking hours. The man who had made her feel like a woman for the first time in her life. Who had made her realise what glorious highs there could be in life…and what crashing lows, too. But he had taught her how to feel alive.

Yes, he was a prince, but in a way that was irrelevant—for the man with golden eyes had a power which he had exerted over her from the very start. Did he need her and wouldn’t that be the most glorious thing in the world—to be needed by Xaviero? Cathy swallowed. He wasn’t telling her anything and if she went to Zaffirinthos it would be on blind faith alone—a faith which might easily be misplaced and leave her as empty as a waterless well.

But there was no choice. Not when you felt the way she felt about Xaviero—no matter how many times she’d tried to tell herself that it was a complete waste of time. Sometimes you just had to follow your heart—to take a risk and leap into the unknown.

‘Yes, I’ll come to Zaffirinthos,’ she said.

Standing in the ornate splendour of one of the palace’s private offices, Xaviero expelled a long, low breath.

‘Have your passport ready,’he instructed softly. ‘A car will be sent to pick you up at ten tomorrow morning—’

‘Xaviero, I have a new job.’

‘Yes, I know that,’ he said impatiently as he saw the red light of another phone begin to flash on his desk. ‘I’ve had my people check it out.’

My people? For some reason the words jarred. It sounded scary—and more than a bit controlling. ‘I can’t just walk out and leave them in the lurch.’

‘Don’t worry—all that will be taken care of. The store will be adequately compensated and a replacement found for you, if necessary.’

He barely even needed to think about it, she realised. Such was his power and his influence that he could simply shift people around like chess pieces. He had done it first with Rupert and now he was doing it again. Could that be good for a person? Was it good for her to be at his beck and call like this? ‘And I’ve moved. I’m not living where you think I’m living any more.’

‘I know that, too. Cathy, these are just minor details which can easily be resolved.’

Minor details? These minor details were her life! Cathy swallowed. It sounded so humdrum to ask—but she needed to know, or risk making a fool of herself. ‘And what…what shall I bring?’

‘Bring very little.’ There was a pause. ‘All that will be taken care of as well.’

Again, that sense of utter influence and dominance—that newly emphatic timbre to his voice. Surely he had not sounded quite that oppressive in the past? Did that mean her stay was to be short? ‘Xaviero, I—’

‘Look, I told you—I can’t talk now. It’s… I’ll see you tomorrow—there will be time enough then.’ There was a pause. ‘Goodbye, Cathy.’

She was left holding a buzzing receiver as he terminated the connection and when she’d replaced the receiver she didn’t move for a moment or two. As if expecting her phone to ring again and for someone to say that it had all been a mistake. That the Prince had temporarily taken leave of his senses.

But no such phone call came, and instead Cathy realised that what he’d said must be true. Pulling herself together, she went into her bedroom and packed a small suitcase—hideously aware of the shortcomings of her meagre wardrobe.

She spent the rest of the evening cleaning the apartment and the following morning she was up pacing the floor, her stomach a knot of anxiety, when the car arrived. It was the same dark, bullet-proofed limousine which she’d ridden in with Xaviero on their one proper ‘date’ to the polo club. It seemed like an age ago. Another life.

They sped with miraculous ease through the traffic—never seeming to be challenged until Cathy noticed the diplomatic flag fluttering on the vast and shiny bonnet and realised why. And then on to an airfield where a private plane was waiting, along with several hefty-looking officials who scanned her passport—was it her imagination, or were they looking at her askance?—before whisking her aboard the luxury jet.

She refused most of the fancy foods and drinks offered by two sleek female cabin crew, and the journey passed Cathy by in something of a blur. She felt a bit as she’d done after a general anaesthetic when she’d had her tonsils removed—all whoozy and disorientated—and it wasn’t until the plane began to descend towards a crescent-shaped island set in a sapphire sea that apprehension began to set in once more.

Her heart began to pound as the aircraft passed over deep green cypress forests towards a small airport. Would Xaviero be waiting there to meet her with some kind of explanation about why she had been rushed out here like this? She peered out of the porthole window at a small cluster of people who were assembled on the tarmac, presumably waiting for her to land. But she couldn’t see any sign of him—just a large car with dark-tinted windows at the front of several other similar, assorted vehicles.

Warm, scented air washed over her as she walked carefully down the steps and onto the tarmac where a smart woman of around forty, dressed in cream linen, detached herself from the group and came towards her, hand outstretched in greeting.

‘Catherine?’ She smiled. ‘We are delighted you are here. My name is Flavia Simoni and I am the wife of Prince Xaviero’s political secretary. Did you have a pleasant flight?’

Cathy wanted to say to the woman that she was never called ‘Catherine’—but maybe now wasn’t the right time.

‘It was fine. Thank you. How’s Casimiro?’ she asked, wondering if she’d imagined the momentary look of disapproval which crossed the woman’s face.

‘I am sure that the Prince Xaviero will wish to speak to you in person about his brother, the King,’ Flavia replied coolly.

Yes, definitely disapproval. Cathy felt slightly desperate now—aware of the beads of sweat which were prickling her forehead and the sudden dawning that she hadn’t realised how hot it would be. Surreptiously wiping the back of her hand over her brow, she looked around. Surely he was here to meet her? Perhaps sitting in the back of one of those dark-windowed cars. ‘And is he here? Xav—Prince Xaviero, I mean,’ she amended hastily.

‘Unfortunately, he is not. The Prince is tied up with affairs of state,’ said Flavia. ‘Which is why he asked me to accompany you to the palace. So if you would like to come with me, we’ll waste no more time.’

As she slid onto the back seat Cathy tried desperately to smooth down a floral dress which looked so cheap when compared to Flavia’s cool, creamy linen. A million questions warred in her head, but the one which screamed out with utter clarity was the most fundamental of all. Having flown her out here without any kind of explanation—why on earth wasn’t he here to meet her?

She stared out of the window, trying to take in the beauty of this foreign land. Thick palm trees lined a surprisingly wide road—their succulent fronds outlined against a sky of breathtaking blue and the air was light from the glitter of sun on the distant sapphire sea. After a while, she could see the cluster of buildings in the distance and she leaned forward to get a closer look.

‘We are approaching our capital city of Ghalazamba,’ said Flavia, with a note of unmistakable pride in her voice. ‘A city which has been ruled by the di Cesere family for centuries.’

Flavia’s statement only served to increase Cathy’s growing sense of unease.Yes, she knew that Xaviero was a prince, but, despite the fancy car and the discreet presence of his bodyguards, his royal status had not really intruded on the time they’d spent together in England. But here…why, it was as if the sheer magnitude of his royal inheritance had hit her for the very first time.

As they passed through the city walls Cathy thought the beautiful buildings looked like pictures she’d seen of Venice—while the dark, labyrinth lanes emphasised that she was essentially in an unknown and secretive place. But then everything became greener—she could discern a verdant sweep of unexpectedly lush grass through the tallest gates she had ever seen. Gates which gleamed a gold as bright as Xaviero’s eyes and which swung open to allow the car through.

‘And this, the royal palace of Zaffirinthos,’ announced Flavia quietly.

The palms of her hands growing clammy with nerves, Cathy stared up at a huge, stately white building with tall columns and elegant, arch-shaped windows. She was aware of unfamiliar trees and plants—flowers she’d never seen before—and the scent of their perfume was overpowering. There was a stately statue of a nymph standing in the centre of a fountain—a small globe held in her hands, over which cool water flowed, and Cathy wished she could go and splash some over her heated brow.

Gesturing to a sweep of marble stairs which lined the main entrance and was guarded by a row of solemnfaced men in uniform, Flavia indicated that Cathy should follow her. ‘The Prince has requested that I take you immediately to his private office,’ she said.

Cathy’s heart began to race as, suddenly, a wave of uncertainty swept over her. What was she doing here in this mighty and magnificent palace where, all around, inscrutable guards failed to meet her eyes? But there was no time to think or to wonder because long marble corridors were echoing to the sound of their footsteps and minutes later she was being ushered into a room so elaborate and glittering that it momentarily took her breath away.

But only momentarily—because her attention was immediately drawn to the tall figure who stood by one of the long windows. His face and powerful body were shadowed by the light behind him, but just seeing him again made Cathy realise how much she had missed him and how she had longed and craved to feel his embrace.

‘Xaviero!’ she cried, and impetuously started to move towards him until the brief elevation of an imperious palm stopped her in her tracks and the words dried on her lips.

He stepped out of the shadows then and, with a shock, she could see that he had lost weight. The flesh was stretched tightly over the autocratic bones of his face and his golden eyes were darkened by lack of sleep. But more than that—they were cold and distant. Gleaming out a warning so distinct that he might as well have held up a placard saying: Do not come near me. The only thing she could compare it to was that time when he had told her that their affair was over and he was going to South America. Back then, as now, it had been as if he’d flicked a switch to make himself icily inaccessible—and a sudden feeling of foreboding made her heart miss a beat.

‘It is good to see you again, Catherine,’ he said, in a voice she’d never heard him use before. Cool and diplomatic—it made her feel as if she were little more than a stranger to him.

And Catherine? What was it with all this ‘Catherine’? First Flavia and now him. Dazed by the sheer magnificence of her surroundings and more than a little intimidated by Xaviero’s daunting presence, she stood before him mutely and waited for some kind of explanation which might clear this confusing fog she seemed to be standing in. ‘It is good to see you too,Your Highness,’ she said, echoing his formal tone.

Xaviero looked at her. Wearing some crumpled and cheap little dress, she could not have looked more out of place in the splendour of the palace setting and for a moment he wondered if he had undergone some kind of temporary insanity by bringing her out here.

But what choice did he have in a situation which showed no sign of ceasing? What was it they said? he thought bitterly. Be careful what you wish for…

‘Flavia,’ he said steadily, with barely a glance at the middle-aged aide. ‘I wonder if you might give us a few moments?’

‘Of course, Your Highness.’ Flavia bobbed a smooth curtsey before exiting the room and quietly shutting the massive doors behind her.

And it was the curtsey which stirred a distant memory and shook Cathy out of her torpor. ‘I thought you didn’t like formality,’ she said slowly.

He gave a grim kind of smile. ‘Unfortunately, it has become a necessity I am fast learning to deal with. There are fairly rigid definitions of acceptable behaviour here—and you running across the room and hurling yourself into my arms in front of an aide isn’t really one of them.’

The criticism stung—but how had she been expected to know the rules of royal protocol when all she had been trying to do was console him? ‘How…how is your brother?’

The golden eyes seared through her. Could he trust her? Really trust her? And yet would he have brought her out here on this crazy mission if he did not? ‘What I tell you is in strictest confidence.’

‘Of course.’

‘His condition remains unchanged. The King lies in a coma, unresponsive to all stimuli.’ Xaviero’s mouth thinned into a bleak line. ‘He is alive and yet not alive—for he can engage none of the senses which really constitute living.’

She heard bitterness mixed with sadness in his voice and something else, too—something she couldn’t put her finger on. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Yes. We’re all sorry.’

She lifted her eyes to his, realising that he still hadn’t touched her—and that something in his body language was deeply forbidding, as if daring her to touch him. And she didn’t. How could she after everything he’d just said? She stood there feeling as if he were nothing more than a distant stranger. He seemed like a man she had known briefly in another life—and yet she couldn’t even imagine it now. It seemed impossible to think of him in her arms and in her little bed, making love to her and teaching her how to pleasure him. He looked cold, untouchable—like some gleaming golden statue.

‘Xaviero,’ she whispered. ‘Why have you brought me here?’

By the shafts of his powerful thighs, Xaviero’s fingers briefly flexed—a split second of unfamiliar indecision making him hesitate. Because the repercussions of what he was about to say were enormous. He regarded her steadily. Should he go through with it? Could he go through with it? And yet, did he really have any choice in the matter if he was to live any kind of tolerable life here on an island where his every move was watched and analysed? Drawing a deep breath, he stared down into the wide-spaced aquamarine eyes.

‘I want you to marry me,’ he said flatly.