Читать книгу Never Gamble with a Caffarelli - Melanie Milburne, Melanie Milburne - Страница 9

CHAPTER TWO

REMY FELT A strange sense of disquiet as soon as he entered his suite; unease; a sense that the place was not quite the way he had left it. He had cancelled the evening housekeeping visit because he hated people fussing around him all the time. Surely they hadn’t gone against his wishes?

He closed the door and stilled.

Waited.

Listened.

His gaze scanned the luxuriously appointed suite for any signs of a disturbance. His laptop was still open on the desk and the screensaver was the same as when he’d left to have dinner. The can of soda he had half-drunk was still sitting where he’d left it, and a ring of moisture from the condensation had pooled around the bottom.

His gaze went further, to the open door of the palatial bedroom. The bed cover was slightly crumpled from where he had sat while he’d taken a call from one of his office staff in Monte Carlo. One of the towels he’d used when he’d showered was still lying on the floor. The clothes he’d worn earlier were in a messy pile nearby.

It was jet lag, that was all. He gave himself a mental shake, shrugged off his dinner jacket and threw it over the arm of the nearest sofa. He reached up and loosened his tie. It had been feeling a little tight all evening, but rules were rules, and he was happy to go along with them because out here he could forget he was the youngest son of the Caffarelli dynasty.

Here there was no one measuring him up against his older brothers or his impossible-to-please grandfather.

Out here he was as free as a desert falcon. He had the next few days to kick back and chill out in one of the hottest places on earth. Life could be pretty good when he was in the driving seat.

* * *

Angelique held her breath for so long she thought she would faint. But she knew she had to wait until Remy was well and truly inside the suite and in a relaxed mood before she came out of the closet—so to speak.

Not that there were too many of his clothes in the closet.

Most of them seemed to be on the floor of the bedroom or spilling haphazardly out of his lightweight travel bag. The en suite bathroom she’d scoped out earlier was just as bad. He’d left a dark ring of stubble in the marble basin when he’d shaved and there had been yet another wet towel on the floor.

It confirmed what she already knew: Remy Caffarelli was a spoilt playboy with more money than sense who had grown up with servants dancing around to satisfy his every whim.

It was a tiny bit ironic of her to point the finger at such a shiny black kettle as Remy when she too had grown up surrounded by wealth. But at least she knew how to pick up after herself and she could cook a three-course gourmet meal with one arm and her appetite tied behind her back.

Remy had never even boiled an egg.

He had probably never even boiled a kettle!

Angelique clenched her fists and her jaw.

He just boiled her blood.

She heard him moving about the suite. She heard the ring pull of a can being opened. It couldn’t be alcohol, as this was a totally dry province. There were stiff penalties for bringing in or consuming contraband liquor.

She heard the click of his laptop being activated and then the sound of his fingers typing on the keyboard. She heard him a give a deep, throaty chuckle as if something he’d just read online or in an email had amused him.

Her belly gave a little flip-flop movement.

He had a very nice laugh. He had a very nice smile. He had a very nice mouth. She had spent most of her teenage years fantasising about that mouth.

Stop it right now, you silly little fool!

You are not going to think about his mouth, or any other part of his totally hot, totally amazing body.

Just as Angelique was about to step out of the wardrobe, she heard a sharp, businesslike knock at the door of the suite. Her heart gave a jerky kick against her breastbone.

Was he expecting someone?

One of his star-struck wannabes, perhaps? Oh God! If she had to listen to him having bed-wrecking sex with some bimbo who had been smuggled into his room...

‘Monsieur Caffarelli?’ an official-sounding voice called out. ‘We wish to have a word with you.’

She heard Remy’s footsteps as he moved across to open the door. ‘Yes?’ he said in that charming, ‘I’m happy to help you’ way he had down to a science.

The official cleared his throat as if he found what he was about to say quite difficult. ‘We have received some information that you have a young woman in your room.’

‘Pardon?’ Remy’s predominantly French accent made Angelique’s belly do another little tumble.

‘As you are well aware, Monsieur Caffarelli, the dictates of our province state that no single woman must be unchaperoned with a man unless she is his sister or his wife. We have reason to believe you have someone in your room who does not fit either of those categories.’

‘Are you out of your mind?’ Remy sounded incredulous. ‘I know the rules. I’ve been coming here long enough. I would never do anything to insult Sheikh Muhtadi. Surely his officials—including you—know that?’

‘A junior member of our housekeeping staff has tearfully confessed to allowing a young woman access to your room,’ the official said. ‘We wish to check on whether this is true or not.’

‘Go on. Check.’ Remy sounded supremely, arrogantly confident. ‘You won’t find anyone in here but me.’

Angelique heard the door of the suite being flung open and her breath screeched to a skidding halt in her throat. Her heart was pounding like a sledgehammer on a rocky surface. It actually felt like it was going to leap out of her chest. She shrank back inside the closet, hoping the shadows of the space would conceal her. She even closed her eyes, just like a little child playing hide and seek, thinking that if she couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see her.

She heard firm footsteps moving about the suite, doors being opened and closed. The curtains were swished back. Even the drawers of Remy’s desk were opened and then shut.

A drawer? They thought she could fit in a drawer?

‘See?’ Remy’s tone had a touch of irritability to it now. ‘There’s no one here but me.’

‘The closet.’ The more senior of the two officials spoke. Angelique could almost picture him giving a brisk nod towards her hidey-hole. ‘Check the bedroom closet.’

‘Are you joking?’ Remy coughed out a laugh. ‘Do you really think I would do something as clichéd as that?’

The mirrored door slid back on its tracks. Angelique raised her right hand and gave a little fingertip wave. ‘Surprise!’

* * *

Remy could not believe his eyes. He blinked to make sure he wasn’t imagining things. That could not be Angelique Marchand in his closet.

He opened his eyes and looked again.

It was.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ He glared at her so fiercely his eyes ached. ‘What are the hell are you doing in my room? In my closet?’

She stepped out of the closet as if she was stepping out on to one of the catwalks she frequented all over Europe. She moved like a sinuous cat, all legs, arms, high, pert breasts and pouting full-lipped mouth. Her distinctive grey-blue eyes gave him a reproving look. ‘That’s not a very nice welcome, Remy. I thought you had better manners than that.’

Remy had never thought he had a temper until he’d had to deal with Angelique. He could feel his rage building up inside him like a cauldron on the boil. No one made him angrier than she did. She was willful, spoilt and a little too determined to get her own way. Did she have no sense of protocol or politeness? What the hell was she doing here? And in his room?

Did she have any idea of the trouble she could get him into?

She had made him look like a liar. Trust was everything in a place like Dharbiri. He might be a friend of the Crown Prince but flouting the rules out here was a definite no-no, friend or foe.

He could be deported.

Charged.

The blood suddenly ran ice-cold in his veins.

Flogged.

‘You had better have a very good explanation for why you’re in my room,’ he said through gritted teeth.

She swept her thick, wavy, glossy black mane of hair over one slim shoulder. ‘I came to see you about my house. You have to give it back.’ She nailed him with a look that was diamond-hard. ‘I’m not leaving your side until you sign me over the deeds to Tarrantloch.’

‘Monsieur Caffarelli,’ the older official spoke in a stern ‘don’t mess with me’ tone. ‘Would you please verify if this young woman is personally known or related to you? If not we will have her immediately evicted and the authorities will deal with her accordingly.’

Deal with her? Remy didn’t like the sound of that. As much as he hated Angelique, he could not stand by and see her come to any harm. He took a deep breath and put on his best ‘let’s be cool about this’ smile. ‘I’m afraid there’s been a little mix-up. I had no idea my fiancée was going to surprise me by turn—’

‘Your fiancée?’ Angelique and the senior official spoke in unison.

Remy gave the official a conciliatory smile. ‘We’ve been trying to keep our engagement a secret. The press make such of fuss of this stuff at home.’ He gave a Gallic shrug. ‘You know how it is.’

The official straightened his shoulders, his expression as formal as a drill sergeant. ‘This young woman may well be your fiancée, but it is against the laws of our land for her to be alone with you without a chaperone.’

‘So, we’ll get a chaperone,’ Remy said. ‘She won’t be with me long in any case, will you, ma chérie?’

Angelique’s eyes narrowed to hairpin slits but her voice had a false sort of sing-song quality to it that grated on Remy’s already overstretched nerves. ‘Only for as long as it takes, mon trésor.’

The official puffed himself up to his not considerable height. ‘Due to the circumstances of your fiancée’s...ahem...surprise visit, neither of you will be permitted to leave the province until you are legally married.’

‘Married?’ Angelique had joined Remy in a choked gasp of horror.

‘You’re joking?’ Angelique gaped at the official with wide shocked eyes. ‘You have to be joking!’

‘He’s not joking,’ Remy muttered just low enough for her to hear it. ‘Go along with it. Try and keep cool.’

Keep cool? Who was he kidding? He didn’t feel cool. He’d never had to think so fast on his feet in his life. Pretending she was his fiancée had just popped into his head. And it still might not be enough to get them over the line.

‘I’m not marrying you!’ She flashed him a livid, blue-lightning look. ‘I’d rather die!’

‘Yes, well, you just might get that choice,’ he said. ‘We’re not in France, Italy or England right now. Didn’t you check out the Smart Traveller website before you came?’

Her throat rose and fell. ‘I didn’t think. I just...’

‘Not thinking is something you do remarkably well.’ Remy gave her a dressing-down look. ‘You’ve made a lifetime’s work of it.’

Her small hands clenched into tight fists and her eyes gave him another deadly glare. ‘I thought you were best friends with the Crown Prince. Can’t he do something?’

‘Afraid not.’ Remy had already had this debate with his friend during university. ‘The royal family have a lot of power but not enough to overrule laws of the elder tribesmen of the province.’

‘But that’s ridiculous!’

Remy gave her a cautionary look. ‘If you’re going to stand there spluttering insults like a Roman candle firecracker, I’m not going to lay down my life for you.’

She opened and closed her mouth, seemingly lost for words. Not that it would last. He knew how quick and sharp her tongue could be. She always tried to get the last word.

He was the only person in her life who wouldn’t let her have it.

‘Monsieur Caffarelli?’ The official stepped forward. ‘We must leave now to make the necessary arrangements to conduct the ceremony first thing in the morning. We will arrange alternative accommodation for your fiancée. You will understand that she is not permitted to spend the night in your room.’

‘But of course.’ Remy gave him another charming smile. I don’t want her here in any case. ‘I understand completely. I sincerely apologise for my fiancée’s impulsive behaviour. She is a little wilful and headstrong at times, but once we are married she will soon learn to toe the line. I’ll make absolutely sure of it.’

Remy smiled to himself when he saw the two red-hot spots of colour pooling in Angelique’s cheeks. She was standing rock-steady but he knew her well enough to know she was beyond livid with him. He could see it in her stormy eyes and in the clenched posture of her jaw. Too bad they had to have a chaperone. He would have quite liked to see what that anger looked like when it was finally unleashed.

Angelique turned to look at the senior official, her expression now meek and demure, those thick, impossibly long eyelashes batting up and down for good measure. ‘Please may I have a private word with my, er, fiancé? Perhaps you could chaperone us from the lounge. We’ll leave the door open here. Would that be acceptable?’

The official gave a formal nod and indicated with a jerk of his head for his sidekick to follow him out to the lounge area.

Remy got the full, fiery force of Angelique’s gaze as she swung around to face him once the officials had gone. ‘There’s no point glaring at me like that,’ he said before she could let fly. ‘You’re the one who brought this about.’

She visibly shook with rage. It reminded him of the shuddering of a small two-stroke engine on the back of a dingy.

‘Fiancée?’ She sounded like she was choking on the word. ‘Why couldn’t you have said I was your sister or...or even your cousin?’

‘Because the whole world knows I’m one of three brothers who were orphaned when we were young. And since both of my parents were only children, I don’t have any cousins.’

Her eyes fired another round of hatred at him. ‘Did you have to make that comment about controlling me as if I’m some sort of waspish virago? You did it deliberately, didn’t you? You just can’t help yourself. Any chance you get, you like to thrust home the chauvinist dagger.’

Right now that wasn’t the only thing Remy wanted to thrust home. He had always tried to ignore the sexual attraction he felt for her. In the past she had always been banned by his family or too involved with someone else. But it was hard to ignore the tingling that was stirring in his loins right now.

And if they had been in any other place he might well have done something about it.

‘Got under your skin, did it, ma petite?’

‘You set my father up, didn’t you?’ Her expression was tight with barely compressed rage. ‘I know how your mind works. You wanted to hit him where it hurt most because of that stupid deal in Ibiza. But I’m not letting you get away with it. I’ll fight you tooth and nail until you give me back my house.’

Remy gave her a cool and totally unaffected look because he knew how much it would annoy her. ‘Fight me all you like. There’s no way I’m giving it back. I won it fair and square. Your father knew what he was getting into—he knew the risks he was taking. But I must say, I think it’s pretty pathetic of him to send you out here to try and butter me up.’

Her head jerked back. ‘You think that’s why I’m here? As if I would ever sink so low as that. You’re the last man on earth I would ever consider seducing.’

‘Likewise, ma coeur; you don’t float my boat, either.’

A flicker of uncertainty came and went in her gaze and her perfectly aligned, beautiful white teeth sank into her bottom lip.

But just for a nanosecond.

She suddenly pulled herself upright, like an abandoned hand puppet that had just been reconnected with a firm hand. ‘And as for marriage... Well, that’s just totally ridiculous. It’s out of the question. I won’t do it.’

‘It’ll just be a formality,’ Remy said. ‘We don’t have to take this seriously. It probably won’t even be recognised as legal back home. We’ll just do what they require and then we’ll leave. Simple.’

‘Simple?’ Her eyes shot their fury at him again. ‘Tell me what about this is simple. We’ll be married—’ she gave a little shudder as if the word was anathema to her ‘—or at least, we will be on paper. I don’t care if it’s legal or not. I don’t want to be married to you. I can’t think of anything worse.’

He gave her a smile. ‘We’ll get it annulled as soon as we get back to Europe.’

‘This is outrageous! This is a...a disaster!’

‘Of your own making.’ He used his ‘too cool for school’ tone again. He loved the way it triggered something feral in her. She went off like a bomb every time.

She flattened her mouth into a thin white line, her eyes looking murderous. ‘This is not my fault. This is your fault for being so determined to score points. You don’t need Tarrantloch; your family have properties bigger and better than that all over the world. Why did you have to take the one thing I love more than anything else?’

Remy felt a little niggle of guilt. Just a niggle; nothing major. Nothing he couldn’t ignore.

He’d set himself a goal and he’d achieved it.

That was the Caffarelli credo—goal; focus; win.

Remy could have taken any one of the businesses in the Marchand Holdings portfolio if he’d been so inclined, but Tarrantloch was the one thing he knew Henri Marchand would regret losing the most. He had a score to settle with Henri that had nothing to do with his grandfather’s dealings with him.

It was far more personal.

Remy had just about got the Ibiza development in the bag when an anonymous email had spooked the vendor. It hadn’t been too hard to find out who had sent it. Henri Marchand was devious but not particularly smart at covering his tracks. Remy had sworn he would get revenge, no matter how long it took.

Tarrantloch was Henri Marchand’s most valued, prized possession. It was his ultimate status symbol. Henri liked to play Laird of the Highlands with a coterie of his overfed, overindulged, overweight corporate cronies by his side.

The fact that his daughter—his only child and heir—fancied herself in love with the place didn’t come into it at all.

Not even a niggly bit.

Remy was running a business, not a charity, and the one person in the world he felt the least charitable towards was Angelique Marchand.

‘It’s mine now. Get over it.’ He refused to allow sentimentality to mess with his head. ‘It’s not like you’ll be homeless. You live in Paris most of the year, don’t you?’

Her expression was so rigid with anger he could see a muscle moving in and out in her cheek. ‘I planned to live at Tarrantloch after my retirement.’

He whistled through his teeth. ‘That’s some seriously long-term planning. You’re what, twenty-five?’

Her teeth made a grinding noise. ‘Twenty-four. I’ll be twenty-five next year in May.’

‘So, what age do swimsuit models retire?’ He couldn’t stop his gaze sweeping over her body. To say she had a knockout figure was a bit of an understatement.

More than a bit, actually.

He could not think of a body he found more delightful to look at. Distracting. He had been distracted by it for the last few years, and so too had just about everyone throughout Europe. He still remembered the first time he had driven past a billboard with the then-nineteen-year-old Angelique on it. She had been draped along the edge of an infinity pool in some exotic tropical location, wearing a couple of miniscule triangles of fabric that left just enough to the imagination to cause serious discomfort in his nether regions.

To say she had a traffic-stopping figure was putting it rather mildly.

‘I want to branch out into other areas of the business,’ she said.

‘Such as?’

She glowered at him. ‘I’m not going to discuss my career plans with you. You’ll just rubbish them. You’ll tell me I’m wasting my time or to go and get a real job or something.’

Remy felt that little niggle of guilt again. He hadn’t been exactly encouraging of her plans to pursue a modelling career. When he’d first heard she was going to quit school to sign up with a modelling agency, he’d put aside his grandfather’s ban on contact with her and had called and told her to reconsider.

But listening to advice was not something Angelique was particularly good at doing.

‘Monsieur Caffarelli?’ The official spoke from the open doorway. ‘The room is now ready for your fiancée.’ He turned to Angelique. ‘If you will come this way, mademoiselle? We have two chaperones to accompany you.’

Angelique glared at Remy as she stalked past him. He caught a whiff of her signature fragrance as she went by. It hovered about his nostrils, enticing him to breathe in deep. He had always associated the smell of sweetpeas with her—strong, heady and colourful.

His brain snapped back to attention like an elastic band being flicked by a finger.

Within hours they would be man and wife.

Usually whenever the ‘M’ word was mentioned to him he had a standard, stock phrase: over my dead body.

But somehow—right here and now—it didn’t have quite the same ring to it.