was beginning to feel more relaxed, concentrating on her work as if there wasn’t a whole subtext going on between her and this man. Maybe she could just ignore it.
‘It was developed in the late eighteen-hundreds by Houbigant and I find it evocative of a woody, ferny environment.’
Leila handed him another smelling strip.
‘Try this.’
He took it and looked at her again. She found it hard to take her eyes away as he breathed deep. Every move this man made was so boldly sensual. Sexy. It made Leila want to curl in on herself and try not to be noticed.
‘This is more...exotic?’
Leila answered, ‘It’s oudh—quite rare. From agarwood. A very distinctive scent—people either love it or hate it.’
He looked at her, his mouth quirking slightly. ‘I like it. What does that say about me?’
Leila shrugged minutely as she reached for another bottle, trying to affect nothing but professionalism. ‘Just that you respond to the more complex make-up of the scent. It’s perhaps no surprise that a king should favour such a rare specimen.’
Immediately tension sprang up between them, and Leila busied herself opening another bottle.
Alix Saint Croix’s voice was sharper this time. ‘A king in exile, to be more accurate. Does that make a difference?’
Leila looked at him as she handed him another sample and said, equally coolly, ‘I’m sure it doesn’t. You’re still a king, after all, are you not?’
He made a dissenting sound as he took the new tester. Leila wondered how much more patience he would have for this game they were playing. As if someone like him really had time for a personal perfume consultation...
She looked to see him sniff the strip and saw how he immediately recoiled from the smell. He grimaced, and Leila had to bite back a smile.
‘What is that?’
She reached across and took the paper back. ‘It’s extracted from the narcissus flower.’
His mouth curled up slightly. ‘Should I take that as a compliment? That I don’t immediately resonate with the narcissus?’
Leila avoided looking at him and started packing up her bottles, eager to get away from this man. ‘If you like any of those scents we tested I can make something up for you.’
‘I’d like that. But I want you to add something I haven’t considered...something you think would uniquely suit me.’
Leila tightened inwardly at the prospect of choosing something unique to him. She closed the case and looked at him. ‘I’m afraid I will be bound to disappoint you. Perfume is such a personal—’
‘And I’d like you to deliver it personally this evening.’ He cut her off as if she hadn’t even been talking.
Leila stood up abruptly and looked down at him. ‘Monsieur Saint Croix, while I appreciate the custom you’ve given me today, I’m afraid I...’
He stood up then too, and the words dried in her throat as his tall body towered over hers. They were too close.
His voice was low, with a thread of steel. ‘Are you seriously telling me that you’re turning down the opportunity to custom make a scent for the royal house of Isle Saint Croix?’
When he said it like that Leila could hear her mother’s voice in her head, shrill and panicked, Are you completely crazy? What was she doing? In her bid to escape from this disturbing tension was she prepared to jeopardise the most potentially lucrative sale she’d had in years? The merest hint of a professional association with a king, no less, and her sales would go through the roof.
In a small voice she finally said, ‘No, of course I wouldn’t turn down such an opportunity. I can put a couple of sample fragrances together and deliver them to the hotel later. You can let me know which you prefer.’
His eyes were a mesmerising shade of pewter. ‘One scent, Leila, and I want you to bring it to me personally. Say seven p.m.?’
Her name on his lips felt absurdly intimate, as if he’d just touched her. She glared at him but had no room to manoeuvre. And then she told herself to get a grip. Alix Saint Croix might be disturbing her on all sorts of levels but he was hardly going to kidnap her. He wouldn’t need to. That was the problem. Leila was afraid that if she had much more contact with him, her defences would start to feel very flimsy.
Hiding her irritation at how easily he was sweeping aside her reservations, she bent down and closed her suitcase—but before she could lift it off the ottoman he brushed her hand aside and took it, wrapped a big hand firmly around the handle.
Leila straightened, face flushed. He extended a hand and lifted a brow. ‘After you.’
Much to her embarrassment, he insisted on escorting her all the way down to the lobby and seemed to be oblivious to the way everyone jumped to attention—not least his security guards. He called one of them over and handed the thickset man the case, instructing him to carry it back to the shop for Leila. Her protests fell on deaf ears.
And then, before she could leave, he said, ‘What time shall I send Ricardo to escort you to the hotel?’
Leila turned and looked up. She was about to assert that she’d had no problem crossing the square on her own for some two decades, but as soon as she saw the look in his eye she said with a resigned sigh, ‘Five to seven.’
He dipped his head. ‘Till then, Leila.’
* * *
Once back in his own suite, Alix stood looking across the square for a long time. Leila’s reluctance to acquiesce to him intrigued him. Anticipation tightened his gut. Even though he knew this was likely just a game on her part, he was prepared to indulge it because he wanted her. And he had time on his hands.
He felt a mild pang of guilt now when he thought of what his security team had reported to him about her.
The Verughese family were wealthy and respectable in India. A long line of perfumers, supplying scents to maharajas and the richest in society. There were a scant few lines about Deepika Verughese, who had been Leila’s mother. She’d come to France after breaking off relations with her family, where she’d proceeded to have one daughter: Leila. No mention of a father.
In all other respects she was squeaky clean. No headlines had ever appeared about her.
He felt something vibrate in his pocket and extracted a small, sleek mobile phone. Without checking to see who it was, and not taking his eyes off his quarry across the square, he answered, ‘Yes?’
It was his chief advisor, and Alix welcomed the distraction, reminded of the bigger picture.
He turned his back to the view. ‘How are the plans for the referendum coming along?’
Isle Saint Croix was due to vote within two weeks on whether or not they wanted Alix to return as King. It was still too volatile for Alix to be in the country himself, so he was depending on loyal politicians and his people,
