in a dark corner of a room and wished he hadn’t. And his rejection had hurt. Of course it had—especially coming so fast on the heels of the nice things he’d said about her painting.
What mattered now was how she reacted to it. Why take all the responsibility for something he had started? Why not show Conall Devlin just what she was capable of? Show him that she was not going to become some simpering fangirl, but do what she had been brought down here to do.
Quickly she unpacked her case and took a shower—and afterwards studied the couple of dresses she’d brought with her, realising that Conall had only ever seen her in a series of unflattering outfits. She brushed her fingertips over the soft fabrics, unsure which one to pick. The scarlet was more show-stopping and did wonders for her silhouette—but something stopped her from choosing it. Instead she pulled the ivory silk chiffon from one of the hangers and gave a small smile. She might have rejected most of the rules of her upbringing, but she could still remember what they were. That less was more and quality counted—especially if you were dealing with a royal prince.
By six-thirty, and feeling more confident, she was swishing her way down the sweeping staircase into the entrance hall, where the buckets of flowers had been transformed into lavish displays. She could see Conall deep in conversation on his cell phone, but he raised his bent head as Amber reached the bottom of the stairs. His eyes narrowed and she felt a beat of satisfaction as she registered his expression. He looked amazed. As if she’d grown a pair of wings in the time it had taken her to get ready and come downstairs. Suddenly she was glad that she’d opted for no jewellery other than a discreet pair of pearl studs at her ears and that her newly washed hair fell simply down over her shoulders.
‘Hi, Conall,’ she said. ‘I do hope I’m appropriately dressed to meet this royal guest of yours.’
Conall didn’t often find himself lost for words but right now it was a struggle to know what to say. A raw and visceral reaction began to pound its way through his body as Amber came downstairs. He stared at her with a mixture of anger and desire, feeling his groin begin to inevitably harden beneath the material of his suit trousers. How the hell did she manage to make him feel this way—every damned time? As if he would die if he didn’t touch her. Unwillingly his gaze drifted over her, lingering in a way he couldn’t seem to help. Her dress fell in creamy folds to the ground, beneath which you could just see the peep of a silver shoe. With her black hair a sleek curtain of ebony and her eyes as green as a cat’s, she looked...
He swallowed. She looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in that hot mouth of hers. Like those girls he used to see when he was growing up and his mother was working at the big house. The kind you were encouraged to look at because they always wanted you to look at them, but were forbidden to touch.
But he was no longer the servant’s son who had to accept what he was told, he reminded himself grimly. He was more than Amber Carter’s equal—he was her boss—and he was the one calling the shots.
‘Very presentable,’ he answered coolly. ‘And certainly an improvement on anything I’ve seen you wear before.’
She cocked her head to one side. ‘Do you always end a compliment with a criticism?’
He shrugged. ‘Depends who I’m talking to. I don’t think a little criticism would go amiss in your case. But if the point of you coming down here looking like some kind of goddess is to try to snare the Prince, let me save you the trouble by telling you that he has a bona fide princess in the wings who’s waiting for him to marry her.’
She shot him an unfriendly look. ‘I’m not interested in “snaring” anyone.’
‘Even though acquiring a wealthy husband would be a convenient way out of your current financial predicament?’
‘Oh, come on! Which century are you living in, Conall? Women don’t have to sell themselves through marriage any more. They take jobs like this— working for men whose default mechanism is to be moody and more than a little difficult.’
‘Or they get Daddy to support them,’ he mocked.
‘Not any more, it seems,’ she said sweetly. ‘So why don’t we get the show on the road? You’re supposed to be giving me a guided tour of the house and showing me this painting the Prince wants to buy.’
Conall nodded as he gestured her to follow him, but he could feel the growing tension in his body as she walked beside him, aware of the filmy material which drifted enticingly against her body and whispered against every luscious curve. Her arms and her neck were the only skin visible and it was difficult to reconcile this almost ethereal image with the earthy woman who had kissed him so fervently in the bedroom earlier.
Tonight his country house looked perfect, like something you might see in the pages of one of those glossy magazines—but hadn’t that always been his intention? Wasn’t this the pinnacle of a long-held dream—to acquire a stately home even bigger than the one his mother had worked in during his childhood? A way of redressing some sort of balance which had always felt fundamentally skewed.
He led Amber through the ground floor— furnished and recently decorated in the traditional style—showing her the drawing rooms, the library and the grand conservatory. In the ballroom where the party was being held, a string quartet was tuning up and bottles of pink champagne were being put on ice. Everywhere he looked he could see candlelight and the air was scented with the fragrance of cut flowers and the sweet smell of success.
But Conall felt as if he was just going through the motions of showing Amber his home. As though all this lavish wealth suddenly meant nothing. Was that because the beautiful antiques just looked like bog-standard pieces of furniture when compared to the black-haired beauty by his side? Or because all he wanted to do was to drag her off to some dark corner to finish off what he had begun earlier?
He took her to a galleried room at the far end of the house, outside which a burly guard stood. The velvet drapes were drawn against the night outside and on one bare wall—beautifully lit—hung a painting.
‘Here it is,’ he said.
Amber was glad to have something to concentrate on other than the man at her side, or the remark he’d made earlier about her looking like a goddess. Had he meant it? A wave of impatience swept over her. Stop reading into his words. Stop imagining he feels anything for you other than lust.
Stepping back, she began to study the canvas—a luminous portrait of a young woman executed in oils. The woman was wearing a silver headband in her pale bobbed hair and a silver nineteen-twenties flapper dress. It was painted so finely that the subject seemed to be sending out an unspoken message to the onlooker and there was a trace of sadness in her lustrous dark eyes.
‘It’s exquisite,’ Amber said softly.
‘I know it is. Utterly exquisite.’ He turned to her. ‘And you’re clear what you need to do? Stay by the Prince’s side all evening and speak only when spoken to. Try to refrain from being controversial and please let me know if he communicates any concerns to one of his aides. Think you can manage that?’
‘I can try.’
‘Good. Then let’s go and wait for the guest of honour.’
They walked towards the ballroom, where Amber could hear the string quartet playing a lively piece which floated out to greet them. ‘So who else is coming tonight?’ she asked.
‘Some old friends are coming down from London. A few colleagues from New York. Local people.’
