His Majesty's Temporary Bride

Where were Amelie and the young Prince? Given the freedom Cat had to explore the beautiful Belle Époque palace and its grounds, they weren’t here.

Cat regretted never knowing her brother. That sense of loss only strengthened her longing to meet her last living relatives: Amelie and Prince Sébastien.

‘That need not concern you, Ms Dubois. Concentrate on the task for which you’ve been employed.’ He paused. ‘Remember the penalty clauses in your contract.’

Oh, she remembered. Massive financial penalties should she divulge the secret of what she was doing here. And for leaving before the requisite period was over.

But she hadn’t yet begun the masquerade. ‘Surely it’s better to pull the plug now than when people realise we’re trying to fool them? I’ve tried, but my tutor will tell you I’m a disaster in the role.’ The woman made that clear with each sniff of her thin patrician nose.

‘On the contrary, I’ve heard you’re a quick study and you’ve made good progress.’

‘Nevertheless—’

‘Let me be clear, Ms Dubois.’ Monsieur Barthe’s voice was glacial. ‘You will complete this assignment. If not, by the terms of the contract you have seven days to pay the penalty.’

Seven days to pay money she didn’t have. The penalty payment was even larger than the total she’d earn.

‘I trust you’ll see the wisdom of staying.’ He paused, but Cat couldn’t think of a thing to say. ‘Good. I’ll see you at the reception.’

The phone went dead. Cat put it down, her stomach cramping. There was no way out. She shouldn’t have agreed to take this on. Hadn’t she known it from the first?

Never had the massive chasm between herself and the siblings she’d never known seemed wider. And her little nephew. Her heart had gone out to the tiny mite she’d seen on the news. His big, troubled eyes had tugged at her, but she was crazy to think she could help either of them.

Cat shook her head. She’d let sentiment and curiosity overcome sense.

Now she had to face the consequences.

She stared out the huge arched window of her room. Beyond the manicured gardens, the pools and fountains and arbours, lay the wooded private royal reserve that encompassed the whole southernmost peninsula of the island nation. Beyond that was the sea.

Where Alex had his beautiful yacht.

For a second she let herself imagine she could simply walk out the door, swim to him and ask him to take her away. For she couldn’t shake the bone-deep fear that in coming here she’d opened a door that should have remained firmly bolted. Like Pandora opening her box and releasing forces she’d never imagined.

Cat shivered, as if someone walked over her grave.

Nonsense. She didn’t like it here because it reminded her of the father who’d rejected her before she was born. And the shame she’d been made to carry through no fault of her own.

But she was strong and capable. She’d do the job, then leave without a backward glance. Simple.

* * *

Twenty-four hours later Cat walked carefully down the long ground-floor corridor, heels tapping on the beautiful parquetry floor. At her tutor’s insistence she wore stockings, heels and a silk dress that swirled to her knees. Lady Enide had declared Cat would never convince anyone till she learned to walk in a dress.

Apparently she walked like a boy. Even if she did keep her shoulders back and her chin up.

Cat set her jaw and concentrated on balance. Teetering on stiletto heels was harder than parcours. Harder than karate. No wonder Lady Enide had left her to it, informing her crisply that they’d meet in forty minutes, by which time she expected to see Ms Dubois moving like a lady.

Cat’s mouth curved in a mirthless smile. She’d always been a tomboy, rebelling against the inevitable comparisons between her and the graceful, ultra-feminine Princess who lived at the far end of their island nation.

It was easier for tomboys to pretend not to hurt when insults and innuendos rained down. And tomboys gave as good as they got when the insults became blows.

She didn’t fancy her chances of convincing anyone she was an elegant lady.

Butterflies the size of kites twisted in her stomach. The Prime Minister had lied. Cat had just learned next week’s event wasn’t the simple affair he’d said.

Restlessly she pushed open a door and entered a grand reception room. It was white and gold, with ornate couches that looked as if they’d break if you sat on them. The mirrors were huge antiques, the chandeliers, she’d learned, brought from Versailles centuries ago. The paintings...she tried to recall which monarchs were in the paintings and failed.

Another black mark against her. She had to memorise everything about these rooms for the reception to celebrate five hundred years of amity between St Galla and distant Bengaria. It would be a glittering event.

And she’d been told minutes ago that the King of Bengaria would attend!

Her stomach cramped in horror. How did the Prime Minister expect her to fool a royal? It was madness. If she’d known she’d never have come. Which was no doubt why Monsieur Barthe hadn’t broken the news earlier. He’d even tried to convince her their royal guest wouldn’t see through her disguise since he’d never met Amelie!

As soon as she got a chance she’d look up the Bengarian King. For the first time her avoidance of all things royal worked against her. She shunned celebrity gossip about aristocratic families. She could so easily be fodder for those stories!

Cat shuddered. If she’d needed proof that this masquerade was desperately important for Amelie, this was it. Clearly Cat was covering for a crisis of some sort.

Maybe she could stand at the top of the elegantly curling staircase and wave her hand at the King without getting close? If she could keep her distance, and not talk, there was the slimmest chance she could bring off this charade.

Cat grimaced. From a distance no one would notice she was a smidgeon shorter than Amelie, her nose not quite as straight and her mouth a fraction wider. Or that she was smaller in the bust.

But to convince a king? Cat shook her head and pushed open the door to the next room.

On the threshold she stilled. Someone stood, silhouetted in the vast arched window.

A sensation, as if she rode a runaway roller coaster, plunged her stomach to the floor. Her hand clung to the door as she took in the tall figure, straight-shouldered, slim-hipped, long-legged.

Over his shoulder through the window a familiar yacht, streamlined, vintage and luxurious, lay anchored in the palace’s private cove.

‘You!’ Cat’s eyes rounded as he turned and that dark blue gaze snagged hers.

She’d told herself memory had exaggerated yesterday’s sizzle of attraction. She’d been wrong. One look and sparks flashed under her skin, igniting heat deep within.

The instant of recognition stretched out and out.

Intriguingly, he now looked like an ad for some exclusive men’s fashion house instead of a laid-back, sinfully sexy beachcomber. His dark hair was brushed back in a severe style that made her gaze linger on the sculpted perfection of his even, chiselled features. From head to toe he was suavely elegant, assured and breathtakingly male. Only the light dancing in those indigo eyes betrayed a hint of something else.

Despite her shock and instinctive caution, delight quivered through her as she read that look. He’d watched her that way yesterday. As if she were a delicacy he wanted to bite into.

‘What are you doing here?’ Her voice was stretched and too high as she stalked across the room, for once ignoring the sensation she was walking on stilts. ‘How did you get in?’

‘Through the front entrance. The butler asked me to wait here.’ He smiled, a slow curl of the lips that fed a silly little shiver under her skin.

‘I mean, why are you here?’

He lifted a hand, holding out a paper bag.

Hesitantly Cat took it and peered inside. Within lay her old running shorts. She recognised them from the frayed hem, and her ancient T-shirt, not only folded but ironed, if she wasn’t mistaken. George had washed and ironed her gear. She couldn’t imagine Alex doing anything so mundanely domestic.