Yet despite his hatred of vain socialites, he lingered on the memory of Princess Rosamund’s hair settling over the upper slopes of her peaked breasts. She’d worn a silky camisole the colour of mountain violets that clung enough to reveal as much as it concealed.
To his chagrin he’d imagined cupping those breasts and feeling her pebbled nipples against his palms.
Cursing under his breath, he dragged out his phone. He might have been corralled into looking after a spoilt madam but that didn’t mean he’d neglect his own business.
The car slowed and Rosamund looked up from her email as it swung off the quiet street and into a private garage. The street wasn’t familiar and she didn’t even know whicharrondissementof Paris they’d entered. She’d been too busy trying to ignore her dour companion to keep track of the city.
She turned to ask their location but he’d already exited the vehicle. So had the driver. She put her phone away and gathered her bag, by which time the driver was holding her open door.
‘Thank you.’ She smiled and received the tiniest nod in response. Had his boss ordered him not to get friendly? Or for some reason did he, like Fotis Mavridis, view her as the enemy?
She told herself her imagination was running away with her, something her father had often complained about. Yet she didn’t need to be clairvoyant to know Mavridis really didn’t want anything to do with her. Whatwashis problem?
She moved away from the car, noting the garage door had shut behind them with a soft thud. It was sensible, bringing her somewhere she wouldn’t be seen alighting from the vehicle in the street.
Mavridis knew what he was doing. With the limo’s tinted windows no one had seen her in the traffic. No one knew her location unless they’d followed from the airport.
For a shockingly claustrophobic moment, standing in the dimly lit garage at an unknown location, brought by men she didn’t know, fear spidered across her skin, drawing it tight. Her pulse thudded in her throat. Even Leon didn’t know where she was.
Tension roiled in her stomach and she felt a sickeningly abrupt rush of adrenaline. She made herself exhale slowly, short breath in and a longer one out. She loosened her jaw, dropped her shoulders and felt her heartbeat slow.
Then she noticed her unwilling bodyguard in an open doorway, light spilling from behind him. With his face in shadow it was impossible to read his expression. Had he noticed the way her hand had crept into her shoulder bag to clutch her phone?
She made herself walk towards him across the bare cement floor. She’d almost reached him when he turned and walked away.
His lack of manners was a slap in the face. That intrigued her for, though she was a princess, in daily life she didn’t live as one. She did her share of royal events but instead of living in the palace, had her own apartment. She didn’t get the red carpet treatment except at official events. Friends and work associates called her by her first name, never her title.
But he’d been employed to look after a princess. For all he knew, her royal position was her full-time job. Turning his back wasn’t polite for anyone, but with royalty it was a damning insult. Was that why he’d done it?
Rosamund mulled that over as she followed him down a hall. He wasn’t to know that far from revelling in her royal birthright, she’d always craved a normal life. Aristocratic privilege wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
It was tempting to tell him he’d have to try harder with his insults. But why bother? He was a necessary encumbrance for a short period. The less time she wasted thinking about him the better.
Yeah, right. After you spent the whole car ride reading the same page in the new contract. Just because Mr Macho Grumpy was beside you, taking up all the oxygen.
He hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t looked her way. But his presence had overwhelmed her.
Rosamund didn’t do overwhelmed. She didn’t give any man power over her. It had been a hard-won lesson but one she’d committed to heart.
‘Where are we?’ she said as she followed him into a big, sunny kitchen that looked onto a surprisingly large and inviting garden.
‘The house where we’ll stay while you’re in Paris.’
‘You rented a whole house?’
She’d only seen the massive garage, a marble-floored hallway and this state-of-the-art kitchen. But that was enough to know this was no ordinary house.
‘You think your brother can’t afford it?’
She plonked her bag on the island bench that looked bigger than the average kitchen, then planted her palms on the cool stone. ‘I pay my own way. I’m not here at the state’s expense. Usually I stay in a hotel.’
Did she imagine a flicker of surprise in his eyes? ‘This is more secure.’ After a moment he added, ‘Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to pay. It’s not a rental.’
Slowly she nodded. The man had connections. Sourcing a luxury home like this for a short period was near impossible.
She waited. He had something to say, presumably details of how this arrangement would work. She watched him watching her and refused to ask. Instead she paced the big room, hands brushing custom-made cabinetry and slick stainless steel.
But eventually his silence was too much. ‘About this arrangement, pretending to be partners—’
