I don’t like being down here with you.’
His eyes teased hers. ‘If you didn’t like being down here with me you would’ve stepped back ten seconds ago.’
Lottie stepped back so quickly she stumbled on the uneven floor and would have fallen except for the steadying action of one of his hands on her wrist. Her stomach hollowed as his fingers found the betraying leap of her pulse. ‘Let g-go of me this instant.’ To her chagrin her voice came out husky instead of brusque.
His fingers left a fiery trail over her skin as they slowly relinquished their hold. ‘Don’t forget our date tomorrow.’
She frowned as she rubbed at her wrist. ‘Date? I’m not going on a—’
‘We have to get your sister’s wedding-night gear. I know just the place in Monte Carlo. A friend of mine owns an exclusive lingerie boutique.’
Lottie wondered what sort of friend. An ex-lover perhaps? He had ‘friends’ all over the globe. He was utterly shameless in how he conducted his life. He used people when it suited him and dropped them when it didn’t. ‘Why do you want to go Monte Carlo?’ she said. ‘We have perfectly fine shops here or we could shop online.’
‘I have some business to see to.’
‘What sort of business?’
His dark eyes twinkled. ‘Secret men’s business.’
Lottie glowered at him. ‘A hook-up?’
‘You could call it that.’
She clenched her hands into fists, struggling to keep her anger contained. Didn’t he realise his outrageous behaviour would impact on her? He was making a game out of the situation but it was her reputation and her pride that was at stake. ‘You’re supposed to be helping me with the wedding. What will your father and his CEO say if they find out you’re out partying on the continent instead?’
He leaned against the wall in that indolent manner he had perfected. ‘They won’t say a thing because you’re coming with me.’
She narrowed her eyes to hairpin-thin slits. ‘What? While you hook up with some balloon-breasted bimbo? I don’t think so.’
‘It’s already arranged. Your sister’s lady-in-waiting emailed me the details earlier. We’ll fly over tomorrow morning by helicopter and spend the night at the Chatsfield Monte Carlo. It’ll be a blast.’
Helicopter? Ack! The last time she had flown in one she had been wretchedly airsick and the press waiting near the helipad had got the most candid shot of her of all time.
But flying with Lucca Chatsfield was one thing, sharing accommodation was another. ‘I’m not staying with you!’
‘Separate rooms, of course.’ He smiled an I’m-rotten-to-the-core-and-you-love-me-for-it-anyway smile. ‘I’m to be your standin bodyguard. Reckon I can keep you out of danger?’
Why, oh, why was Madeleine encouraging this farce?
He was the danger.
Even if he didn’t come anywhere near her, Lottie could just imagine the torture of listening to him having animal sex with some empty-headed wannabe starlet next door.
Argh!
LOTTIE HAD GROWN up surrounded by wealth, and was certainly no stranger to private jets and helicopters and luxurious hotels and palaces, but the Chatsfield Monte Carlo was one of the most stunning hotels she had ever set foot in. It had an old-world grandeur about it that made her feel as if she was stepping back in time to an era when glamour and style were paramount. Crystal chandeliers dripped like diamonds from the ceiling; the plush dark blue velvet sofas and chairs in the reception area were set on ankle-deep Persian rugs to soften the polished marble floors. Scented flowers adorned the reception counter as well as on a centre table in the foyer where a massive display of summer blooms sat in a glorious fountain of colour. Attentive uniformed staff moved purposely about the area, seeing to the needs of the designer-dressed and jewellery-clad guests.
Which kind of made Lottie regret her choice of clothes …
The passive-aggressive streak in her nature had made her wear her oldest faded denim jeans and a boring white cotton shirt, and seen-better-days-and-pavements black ballet flats that made her look like a midget next to the driver of the limousine, let alone Lucca, who towered over her like a skyscraper. She had her tortoiseshell glasses on and her hair was in a tight knot at the back of her head. So tight it had given her a headache, which had been amply magnified by the stomach-churning dread that had accompanied her on every agonising second of that flight. Fortunately it had been a smooth crossing but even so her fingernails were chewed back to her elbows. Not that Lucca had noticed. He’d spent the whole time flirting on social media. Damn him.
Beautiful people were everywhere. Male and female, young and old, dressed in designer clothes, the air pungent with the scent of expensive perfume. It made Lottie feel like a small brown moth in an exotic butterfly house.
She didn’t belong.
Lucca glanced down at her once their luggage had been taken care of by a bellboy. ‘You okay?’
Lottie gave him a pained smile that didn’t reveal her teeth. ‘Headache.’
A flicker of concern passed over his features. ‘You should’ve said something on the way over.’ He gently touched her forehead with the back of his hand like a parent would do a small child checking for signs of a temperature. ‘I should’ve guessed you weren’t well. You weren’t snipping and snarling at me with your usual form. You barely uttered a word.’
‘I’m not keen on helicopters.’ Lottie wanted to kick herself for confessing it. She waited for him to laugh or make a joke of it but instead he looked at her with a tight frown.
‘Why didn’t you say? We could have come by ferry or hired a private catamaran.’
She gave a helpless shrug. ‘I don’t like confined spaces. They make me feel ill.’
‘Come on.’ He tucked her arm through one of his. ‘You can have a lie-down until you feel better.’
‘Lucca Chatsfield?’ A voice called out as footsteps click-clacked towards them as they waited for the penthouse suite lift. ‘Lucca or is it Orsino? No, it’s Lucca, isn’t it? Can I have a quick word?’
Lottie mentally rolled her eyes. Here we go. The first of no doubt dozens of bimbos who wanted to burrow under the covers with him. She turned to see a woman of about thirty-five carrying a camera with a telephoto lens and a mobile phone.
The woman’s eyes opened a little wider when she saw the way Lucca had Lottie’s arm looped through his. ‘Princess Charlotte? I mean, Your Royal Highness. Are you here with Lucca Chatsfield?’
The incredulity of the woman’s tone irritated Lottie. Was it so unthinkable that a man—even a man as unprincipled and promiscuous as Lucca
