time you were the one responsible for wrecking my career!’
Leon raised his eyebrows. ‘Are you quite finished? Good. Firstly, I told you my name. You didn’t ask what my surname was, nor did you give me yours. All I said was that I was in England in connection with my university. I was. The new University of Montéz has just been built at my say-so, and I was there to purchase some pieces for the art department. Since you chose where we should go, I can hardly be blamed if the bar you selected gave no indication of my wealth. Which brings me to your accusation that I offered to lend a sympathetic ear with regards to your career—on the contrary, it was you who insisted we should not discuss work. You simply chose to, I did not.’
‘You consider being a prince a career choice?’
‘Not a choice,’ he said gravely. ‘But my work, yes.’
‘How convenient, rather like arguing that omitting the truth does not constitute a lie. If you and I were married—’ Cally hesitated, belatedly aware that she couldn’t have thought of a more preposterous example if she’d tried ‘—and you happened to be sleeping with another woman but just didn’t mention it, would such an omission be tolerable?’
Leon’s mouth hardened. Hadn’t he just known that she was one of those women who had marriage on the brain?
‘Tolerable? Marrying anyone would never be a tolerable scenario for me, Cally, so I’m afraid your analogy is lost.’
‘What a surprise,’ Cally muttered. ‘When it proves that I’m absolutely right.’ How utterly typical that he wasn’t the marrying kind, she thought irritably, though she wasn’t sure why she should care when she’d lost her belief in happy-ever-afters a long time ago.
‘But surely a welcome surprise?’ Leon seized the moment. ‘For, rather than being the one responsible for wrecking your career, I think you’ll find yourself eternally indebted to me for beginning it. What an accolade for your CV to be employed to restore two of the most famous paintings the world has ever known?’
Indebted to him; the thought horrified her. Yet he was also offering exactly what she had always wanted—well, almost. ‘You said you were in London to purchase some pieces for the university’s art department. Do you mean that once the Rénards are restored they will go on public display there?’
Leon lifted his arm sharply, the motion drawing back the sleeve of his shirt to reveal a striking Cartier watch. ‘I would love to discuss the details now, but I’m afraid I have a meeting to attend with the principal of the university, as it happens. Much as I’m sure that, given your predilection for university staff, you’d find meeting Professor Lefevre stimulating, it is something I need to do alone. You and I can continue this discussion over breakfast.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Breakfast. Petit déjeuner. The first meal of the day, oui?’ He stared at her face, which was aghast. ‘It is also a painting by Renoir, I believe—but, of course, you’re the expert.’
Could he have any more of a cheek? ‘I am well aware of the concept of breakfast, thank you. Just as I am well aware that I will be eating mine back in Cambridge tomorrow morning. You invited me here to discuss this today.’
‘And I subsequently discovered that unfortunately today is the only day Professor Lefevre can have this meeting. But since you have nowhere else to be this can wait until tomorrow, oui?’
Cally seethed. ‘I have a plane to catch. Home.’
‘But how can you make the most important decision of your career without knowing all the facts?’
There was nothing to decide, was there? How could she even contemplate working for a man who had humiliated and lied to her? Because the job was everything she’d strived for, she thought ruefully. She recalled the hideous boss she’d once had at the gallery gift shop who’d paid her a pittance for running the place single-handedly, how she’d ignored him and had just knuckled down. She could do it again for her dream commission, couldn’t she? But some-how she wasn’t sure that ignoring Leon would be so easy. Unless she could do the restoration without his interference. Rent a studio by the seafront and work on the paintings there, only return here when she’d completed them. The idea seemed almost idyllic without the threat of his presence.
‘If I stay for—for breakfast,’ she repeated, the concept still ludicrous to her. ‘You’ll be open to discussion about how I would wish such a project to be completed?’
‘Discussion? Of course.’
Cally did a mental calculation of whether she could afford one night in a French guesthouse, having presumed that she’d be back on a plane out of here this afternoon. She supposed that she had left that hotel in London a night earlier than planned…
‘What time would you have me return?’
‘I would have you here ready and waiting,’ he said, beckoning for her to keep up with his brusque steps out of the ballroom and into the hallway, where the man who had driven her here was waiting compliantly, head bowed. ‘This is Boyet. He will show you to your room and bring you dinner.’
And before she could argue the prince was gone.
Chapter Four
CALLY picked up her mobile phone from the bedside cabinet and stared at its neon display through the darkness. 2:48 a.m., and still awake. She had tried everything: lying on her back, on her front, and rather awkwardly on her side; shutting the window to block out the sound of the ocean in order to pretend that she was in her bed at home; opening the window in the hope that the ebb and flow of the sea would act as a natural lullaby. Finally she had tried to fool herself into sleep by pretending she didn’t care whether she was awake or not. But still the minutes ticked by. And, the more the minutes ticked by, the more questions heaped up in her brain.
Why had she even come here? Life wasn’t some fairy tale where princes were valiant men who did noble deeds. She, more than anyone, should know that a man who had been born into privilege was bound to be selfish and dishonest, and, if she’d forgotten, his arrogant email should have acted as a reminder. Perhaps it was because she’d been confident that he was just selfish and dishonest, and had thought she could deal with that. What she hadn’t known was that the prince would also happen to be him. Yet how was that possible when she’d even tried to look him up? Especially as a couple of years ago, she hadn’t been able to avoid photos of his late brother and his wife.
Cally took a deep breath and to her chagrin found herself wondering how Girard’s death must have affected Leon, how terrible it must have been to lose a brother and to gain such responsibility in the same moment. But that presupposed he had a heart somewhere within his perfectly honed chest, she thought bitterly, and nothing about the way he had treated her suggested that he did. Had he chosen not to reveal who he was in London simply for his own amusement?
Probably. Just like he probably thought that a night in his opulent palace would make her feel like she owed him one. As if. The thought of being indebted to him in any way whatsoever made her feel sick. Which was why, despite feeling famished, she had rejected Boyet’s offer of dinner last night. Which was why she had got into bed without using a single thing in the pale apricot bedroom, with its beautiful white furniture, including the array of luxurious toiletries laid out for her. Instead she had used the mishmash of bits and pieces she’d thrown in her handbag for freshening up on the flight—even if she hadn’t been able
