Читать книгу Castiglione's Pregnant Princess - Линн Грэхем, Lynne Graham - Страница 12

CHAPTER THREE

‘I’M ONLY WORRIED because you had such a thing for him when you were young.’ Peggy Starling rested anxious green eyes on her daughter’s pink cheeks. ‘Living in the same house with him now, working for him.’

‘He’s a prince, Mum,’ Jazz pointed out, wishing her colour didn’t change so revealingly, wishing she could honestly swear that she now found Vitale totally unattractive. ‘I’m not an idiot.’

‘But you were never really aware of him being a royal at Chimneys because Mr Russell wanted him treated like any other boy while he was staying there and his title was never used,’ her mother reasoned uncomfortably. ‘I just don’t want you getting hurt again.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Peggy, stop fussing!’ Clodagh interrupted impatiently, a small woman in her late thirties with the trademark family red hair cut short. ‘Jazz is a grown woman now and she’s been offered a decent job and a nice place to live for a couple of months. Don’t spoil it for her!’

Jazz gave her aunt a grateful glance. ‘The extra money will come in useful and I’ll visit regularly,’ she promised.

Her possessions in a bag, Jazz hugged her mother and her aunt and took her leave, walking downstairs, because the lift was always broken, and out to the shabby street where a completely out-of-place long black shiny limousine awaited her. Amusement filtered through her nerves when she saw that the muscular driver was out patrolling round the car, keen to protect his pride and joy from a hovering cluster of jeering kids.

Vitale strode out of his office when he heard the slam of the front door of the town house because somewhere in the back of his mind he couldn’t quite credit that he was doing what he was doing and that Jazz would actually turn up. More fool him, he thought sardonically, reckoning that the financial help he was offering would be more than sufficient as a bait on the hook of her commitment.

He scanned her slim silhouette in jeans and a sweater, wondering if he ought to be planning to take before and after photos for some silly scrapbook while acknowledging that her hair, her skin, her eyes, her truly perfect little face required no improvement whatsoever. His attention fell in surprise to the bulging carrier bag she carried.

‘I told you to pack for a long stay,’ he reminded her with a frown. ‘I meant bring everything you require to be comfortable.’

Jazz shrugged. ‘This is everything I own,’ she said tightly.

‘It can’t be,’ Vitale pronounced in disbelief, accustomed to women who travelled with suitcases that ran into double figures.

‘Being homeless strips you of your possessions pretty efficiently,’ Jazz told him drily. ‘I only kept one snow globe, my first one...’

And a faint shard of memory pierced Vitale’s brain. He recalled her dragging him and Angel into her bedroom to show off her snow globe collection when they must all have been very young. She had had three of those ugly plastic domes and the first one had had an evil little Santa Claus figure inside it. He and Angel had surveyed the girlie display, unimpressed. ‘They’re beautiful,’ Vitale had finally squeezed out, trying to be kind under the onslaught of her expectant green eyes, and knowing that a lie was necessary because she was tiny, and he still remembered the huge smile she had given him, which had assured him that he had said the right thing.

‘The Santa one?’ he queried.

Disconcerted, Jazz stared back at him in astonishment. ‘You remember that?’

‘It stayed with me. I’ve never seen a snow globe since,’ Vitale told her truthfully, relieved to be off the difficult subject of her having been homeless at one stage, while censuring himself for not having registered the practical consequences of such an upsetting experience.

‘So, when do the lessons start?’ Jazz prompted.

‘Come into my office. The housekeeper will show you to your room later.’

Jazz straightened her slender spine and tried hard not to stare at Vitale, which was an enormous challenge when he looked so striking in an exquisitely tailored dark grey suit that outlined his lean, powerful physique to perfection, a white shirt and dark silk tie crisp at his brown throat. So, he’s gorgeous, get over it, she railed inwardly at herself until the full onslaught of spectacular dark golden eyes heavily fringed by black lashes drove even that sensible thought from her mind.

‘First you get measured up for a new wardrobe. Next you get elocution.’

‘Elocution?’ Jazz gasped.

For all the world as though he had suggested keelhauling her under Angel’s yacht, Vitale thought helplessly.

‘You can’t do this with a noticeable regional accent,’ Vitale sliced in. ‘Stop reacting to everything I say as though it’s personal.’

‘It is freaking personal when someone says you don’t talk properly!’ Jazz slashed back at him furiously, her colour heightened.

‘And the language,’ Vitale reminded her without skipping a beat, refusing to be sidetracked from his ultimate goal. ‘I’m not insulting you. Stop personalising this arrangement. You are being prepared for an acting role.’

The reminder was a timely one, but it still struck Jazz as very personal when a man looked at her and decided he had to change virtually everything about her. She compressed her lips and said instead, ‘Freaking is not a bad word.’

Vitale released a groan, gold-tipped lashes flying high while he noticed the fullness of her soft pink lips even when she was trying to fold them flat, and his body succumbed to an involuntary stirring he fiercely resented. ‘Are you going to argue about everything?’

Common sense assailed Jazz and she bent down to rummage industriously in her carrier bag. ‘Not if you settle these loans,’ she muttered in as apologetic a tone as she could manage while still hating him for picking out her every flaw.

Vitale watched her settle a small heap of crumpled papers on his desk while striving to halter her temper, a battle he could read on her eloquent face. He supposed he could live with ‘freaking’ if he had to. For that matter he knew several socialites who swore like troopers and he wondered if he was setting his expectations rather too high, well aware that if he had a flaw, and he wasn’t willing to acknowledge that he did, it was a desire for perfection.

‘After elocution comes lessons in etiquette,’ he informed her doggedly, suppressing that rare instant of self-doubt. ‘You have to know how to address the other guests, many of whom will have titles.’

‘It sounds like a really fun-packed morning,’ Jazz pronounced acidly.

Amusement flashed through Vitale but he crushed it at source, reluctant to encourage her irreverence. Of course, he wasn’t used to any woman behaving around him the way Jazz did. Jazz had smoothly shifted straight back into treating him the same way she had treated him when they were teenagers and it was a disorientating experience, but not actively unpleasant, he registered in surprise. There was no awe or flattery, no ego-boosting jokes or flirtatious smiles or carefully choreographed speeches. In the strangest way he found her attitude, her very refusal to be impressed by his status, refreshing.

Later that same day, Jazz got a break at lunchtime. She heaved a sigh over the morning she had endured; lessons had never before made her feel so bored and fed up because all the subject matter was dry as dust. For the first time, however, she was becoming fully aware that Vitale occupied a very different world from her own and the prospect of having to face weeks of such coaching sessions made her wince. But if that was what rescuing her mother demanded from her, she would knuckle down and learn what she had to learn, she conceded reluctantly. A sheaf of supporting notes in front of her, she stroked coloured felt-tipped pens through salient points to highlight them, a practice she had used at university to make reading less of a challenge for her dyslexia. It would be easier for her to ask for spoken notes that she could listen to but she absolutely hated asking for special treatment that drew attention to her learning disability, particularly when it would only remind Vitale of yet another one of her flaws.

Her room, however, was beautiful, she allowed with a rueful smile that took in her silk-clad bed, the polished furniture and the door into the en-suite bathroom. She might as well have been staying in a top-flight exclusive hotel because her surroundings were impossibly luxurious and decidedly in the category of a major treat. The lunch, served in a fancy dining room, had been excellent as well, she was thinking as she sped downstairs for the afternoon session of coaching, wondering what was next on the agenda.

‘Jazz?’ a voice said in disbelief.

Jazz stopped dead mid-flight and stared down at the tall dark man staring up at her from the foyer, swiftly recognising him from his high public profile in the media. ‘Angel?’ she queried in shock.

‘What the hell are you doing in my brother’s house?’ Angel demanded bluntly, scanning her casual jeans-clad appearance with frowning attention.

Trying to think fast, Jazz descended the stairs, wondering what she was supposed to say to Vitale’s half-brother. Were the two men still as close as they had been as kids?

‘I think that’s a secret so I’d rather not go into detail,’ she parried awkwardly. ‘How are you?’

‘That’s OK, Jenkins,’ Angel addressed the older man still standing at the front door as if in readiness for the Greek billionaire’s departure. ‘You can serve coffee in the drawing room for Jazz and I.’

‘Where’s Vitale?’ Jazz enquired nervously.

‘Out but we must catch up,’ Angel said with innate assurance while the older man spread wide the door of what she assumed to be the drawing room.

‘Who’s Jenkins?’ she asked to forestall further questions when the door was closed again.

‘Vitale’s butler. This is a pretty old-fashioned household,’ Angel told her cheerfully. ‘Now tell me about the secret because I know my brother better than anyone and Vitale does not have secrets.’

‘I can’t... Don’t push me,’ Jazz protested in desperation. ‘My mother and I are in a bit of a pickle and Vitale is helping us out.’

‘Charitable Vitale?’ Angel inclined his head thoughtfully. ‘Sorry, that doesn’t wash.’

‘I contacted your father first,’ Jazz admitted, hoping that fact would distract him, because Angel was displaying all the characteristics of a terrier on the scent of a juicy bone.

‘Tell me about your mother,’ Angel invited smoothly.

Jazz gave him a brief résumé of their plight and confided that she had told her family that she was working for Vitale even though she strictly wasn’t. ‘But if it hadn’t been for the b-bet—’ she stumbled helplessly at letting that word escape ‘—Vitale wouldn’t have needed me in the first place.’

‘Bet,’ Angel repeated with a sudden flashing smile of triumph. ‘Zac, our kid brother, I surmise. And what is the bet? Vitale tells me everything.’

And since she had already given away half the story she gave him the whole. Angel gave her a shattered appraisal before he dropped down beside her on the sofa and burst out laughing, so genuinely amused at the prospect of her being coached for a public appearance at a royal ball that she ended up laughing too. Angel had always been so much more down-to-earth than his brother.

That was the point when Vitale entered the room, seeing his brother and Jazz seated close and laughing in a scene of considerable intimacy. That unanticipated sight sent a current of deep-seated rage roaring through Vitale like a hurricane.

‘Jazz...you’re supposed to be with Jenkins right now, not entertaining my brother!’ he bit out rawly, dark golden eyes scorching hot with angry condemnation on her flushed face.

‘Jenkins?’ she queried, rising upright.

‘Table manners,’ he extended crushingly, sending a tide of red rushing across her stricken face and not feeling the slightest bit guilty about it.

Jazz fled, mortified that he would say that to her in front of Angel as if she were a half-bred savage, who didn’t know how to eat in polite company. Was she? Ridiculous tears prickled at the backs of her eyes and stung. Did Vitale remember her as having had dreadful table manners when she was younger? It was a deeply embarrassing suspicion.

‘Well, wasn’t that unroyal eruption educational?’ Angel quipped as he sprang upright and studied Vitale with a measuring scrutiny. ‘Yes, she’s turned out quite a looker, our childhood playmate.’

* * *

Jazz was only a little soothed to learn that Vitale’s butler had been co-opted into teaching her about the right cutlery to use, rather than her manners. Furthermore, for once, she was receiving a lesson she needed, she acknowledged grudgingly, when she was presented with a formal table setting in the dining room that contained a remarkably bewildering choice of knives, forks and spoons. When that was done, she returned to her room and was seated against the headboard, reading a book she had got in a charity shop, when the door opened with an abrupt lack of warning.

It was Vitale and he was furious, as she had never seen him before. A dark flush lay along his high cheekbones, only contriving to accentuate the flaming gold of his spectacular eyes. ‘You spilled it all like an oil gusher!’ he condemned wrathfully. ‘Don’t you have any discretion?’

Stiff with discomfiture, Jazz scrambled off the bed in haste. ‘I let one word slip and then there didn’t seem much point in holding back,’ she admitted ruefully. ‘I’m sorry if you didn’t want him to know.’

‘You were too busy flirting with my brother to worry about what you told him!’ Vitale accused fiercely.

Jazz was stunned by that interpretation, particularly when her response to Angel had always been more like a sister with a big brother than anything else. She had never felt the smallest spark in Angel’s radius, while Vitale could set her on fire with a careless glance. ‘I wasn’t flirting with him!’ she replied forcefully. ‘That’s nonsense.’

‘I know what I saw,’ Vitale sliced in with contempt. ‘You were all over him like a rash!’

Anger began to stir within Jazz as she stared up at Vitale, who was towering over her like a particularly menacing stone wall. ‘I didn’t even touch him, for goodness’ sake! What the hell are you trying to imply?’ she demanded.

Already struggling to master a fury unlike any he had ever experienced, Vitale stared down at her, his lean brown hands clenched into fists because he felt incredibly violent. Angel was an incorrigible flirt and women went mad for him. Vitale had never had that freedom, that ready repartee or level of experience, and suddenly that lowering awareness infuriated him. His attention zeroed in on Jazz’s luscious pink mouth and suddenly he wanted to taste that mouth so badly it hurt, his body surging in a volatile wave straight from rage to sexual hunger. His brain had nothing to do with that unnerving switch.

Vitale snatched her up off her feet and kissed her in a move that so disconcerted her she didn’t fight, she only gasped. A split second on, the punishing, passionate force of his hard mouth was smashing down on hers, driving her lips apart, his tongue penetrating that moist and sensitive internal space. She shuddered with reaction, her arms balancing on his shoulders, her hands splaying round the back of his neck, fingers delving into the luxuriant depths of his black hair. A tsunami of excitement quivered through Jazz with every deeply sensual plunge of his tongue. It was like nothing she had ever felt in a man’s arms before and the very intensity of it was mind-blowing because it was everything she had ever dreamt of and nothing she had ever thought she could feel. He could certainly kiss, she thought helplessly, awash with the stimulation spreading through her heated body.

Without warning, it was over and Vitale was setting her back down on the floor, swinging on his heel and walking out again without a word, even closing the door behind him. Jazz almost laughed, her fingers rising to touch her tingling mouth, wild butterflies unleashed in her tummy. Vitale hadn’t said a word, which was so typical of him. He would walk away and refuse to think about it or talk about it, as if talking about it would make it more damaging.

But Vitale was genuinely in shock, throbbing with such raw sexual arousal he was in pain, dark golden eyes burning with the self-discipline it had taken to tear himself away. She tasted like strawberries and coffee but she had engulfed him like too much alcohol in his veins. He felt strangely disconnected from himself because his reactions, his very behaviour, were unacceptable and abnormal. He could barely credit that he had been so angry that he had wanted to smash his brother through the wall, couldn’t begin to explain what had awakened that anger. He loathed every one of those weird feelings and fought to suppress them and bury them deep. He stripped where he stood in his bedroom before heading for the shower.

In comparison, Jazz lay on top of her very comfortable bed and thought about that kiss, the ultimate kiss, which had shot her full of adrenalin, excitement and longing. She felt as if she had been waiting half her life to discover that a kiss could make her feel like that, but it was a terrible disappointment that Vitale had achieved that feat because there would be no interesting future developments happening in that quarter, she reflected wryly. It was just sex, stupid, confusing sexual urges that had neither sense nor staying power, and she should write it off to a silly impulse and a moment of forgetfulness. He wasn’t even the sort of guy she wanted in her life and he never would be. He was too arrogant, too reserved, too quick to judge...but, my goodness, he knew how to kiss...

Fate had short-changed her, she thought resentfully. She was still a virgin because she had always been waiting to meet a man, who would make her crave more of his touch. She had wanted her first lover to be someone whom she desired and cared about. Unfortunately, desire had evaded her in the invasive groping sessions that had been her sad experience as a student. Even worse, she still remembered the emotional hurt inflicted by her father’s abuse. How could she trust any man when her own father had attacked her? Jazz had been wary of the opposite sex ever since, even though she was now wishing she had a little more sexual experience because then she would have had a better idea of how to read Vitale and deal with him.

Had her crush on Vitale at fourteen made her more vulnerable? Jazz cringed at the suspicion and dismissed it because she hadn’t actively thought about Vitale in years and years. He had only come to mind when she’d seen him in some glossy magazine, squiring some equally superior beauty at some sparkling celebrity event and, like Cinderella in real life, she thought sadly, she had known how impossible her dream had been at fourteen. He was what he was: a prince, born and bred to a life so different from hers that he might as well have been an alien from another planet. He wasn’t a happy prince either, she thought with unwilling compassion. Even as an adolescent she had recognised that Vitale didn’t really know what being happy was.

When she was informed that she had another coaching session late that afternoon, she was incensed to learn that it was in deportment. She put in the time with the instructor and then knocked on Vitale’s office door.

‘Yes?’ Vitale looked up from his laptop and then sprang upright with the perfect courtesy that was engrained in him. Woman enters room: stand, she reflected ruefully, and it took just a little bit of the edge off her temper and the faint unease she had felt at seeing him again so soon after that kiss. It definitely didn’t help, though, that he still looked gorgeous to her from the head of his slightly ruffled black hair down to his wonderful dark deep-set eyes that even now were clearly registering wariness. She knew exactly what he was thinking and almost grinned. He was still waiting to be attacked over the kiss.

‘Deportment?’ she queried drily instead. ‘Don’t you think that’s overkill? I don’t slouch and I can walk in a straight line in heels. What more do you want?’

His dark eyes flared gold and he tensed, reining back all that leaping energy of his. ‘I thought it might be necessary but if it’s not—’

‘It’s not,’ Jazz cut in combatively.

‘Then we can wave goodbye to that session,’ Vitale conceded mildly, watching her walk across his office to look out of the window. She was wearing that damnably ugly skirt and heels again, but had he been of a literary bent he could have written a poem along the lines of what that cheap fabric did to the curve of her little rounded bottom where he had had both hands clasped only hours earlier. It had felt every bit as good and femininely lush as it looked, he acknowledged, thoroughly unsettled by that thought and the pulse at his groin. The effect she had on his body was like a kind of madness, he decided then in consternation.

‘I have some questions about this bet and you may not think I’m entitled to answers,’ Jazz remarked stiffly. ‘Who are you planning to say I am at the ball?’

His winged ebony brows drew together in bewilderment. ‘What do you mean?’

Jazz threw her shoulders back. ‘Well, I assumed you’d be giving me a fake name.’

Vitale frowned, currently engaged in noticing how red and full her lips seemed, wondering if he had been rough because he had felt rough, drunk on lust and need, out of control. ‘Why would I give you a fake name?’

‘Because if I’m pictured with you anywhere the press might go digging and wouldn’t they just love pointing out that the Prince has a housekeeper’s daughter on his arm?’ Jazz extended stiffly, gooseflesh rising in the claustrophobic atmosphere and the intensity of his gaze.

‘So?’ Vitale prompted thickly, acknowledging that kissing her had been one of the most exhilarating encounters he had ever had and cringing at the awareness. He was an adult man with a great sex life, he reminded himself doggedly. As Angel would say, he really needed to get out more.

‘Doesn’t that bother you?’ Jazz asked in surprise.

‘No. Why would it? I’m not foisting a fake personality or some sort of scam on the public. This bet is for private consumption only,’ Vitale explained. ‘There’s nothing wrong with being a housekeeper’s daughter.’

‘No, there’s not,’ Jazz agreed with the glimmerings of her first real smile in his presence and the startling realisation that Vitale was not quite the snob she had believed he was. It was as if a giant defensive barrier inside her dropped and, disturbed by the discovery, she quickly turned to leave him alone again.

‘Jazz...once you get clothes delivered tomorrow we’ll be going out to dinner in the evening,’ Vitale informed her, startling her even more. ‘Your first public appearance.’

Dining out with Vitale, Jazz ruminated in wonder as she returned to her room, planning an evening composed of a long luxurious bath, washing her hair and watching something on TV.