His Temporary Cinderella: Ordinary Girl in a Tiara / Kiss the Bridesmaid / A Bravo Homecoming

‘Oh, yes.’ His eyes met hers, clearly knowing exactly the way her mind was going. ‘Of course, we’ll have to sleep together,’ he said.

‘That won’t be necessary, surely?’ Caro stiffened and tried to pull her hand away, but he held her tight. ‘No one need know where I’m sleeping as long as I’m staying with you.’

‘That’s what you think.’ Philippe’s voice was crisp. ‘There are servants in and out of the apartments all the time, and it would be a miracle if they didn’t talk to each other. They’ll wonder just what kind of relationship we have if we’re not sleeping together, and word will get back. My great-aunt knows everything that goes on in the palace. She’s got a spy network that would put the CIA to shame.’

‘Couldn’t we tell her you respect me too much to sleep with me before marriage?’

He offered her a sardonic smile in return. ‘Yes, she’ll believe that!’

Caro managed to tug her hand away at last. It was all very well for Philippe to sound coolly amused about the whole business, but he must have slept with millions of beautiful women. He was probably used to sleeping with strangers. The thought of sleeping with her clearly hadn’t left him with an unnerving fluttering underneath his skin and in the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t been misery-eating, so he didn’t have to worry about what she would think when he took his clothes off.

Philippe naked … Caro’s mind veered off track momentarily to imagine him pulling off his shirt with a grin. She could picture the lean, hard planes of his body with startling ease: the flex of his muscles under his skin, the broad chest, the flat stomach. The power and the grace and the sheer, sinful sexiness of him.

Her cheeks burned at the thought. She really didn’t want her imagination to start running wild like that, especially not when taking off her own shirt would reveal all those extra pounds she had put on since George dumped her … and it wasn’t as if she had been sylphlike to start with. No, there would be no undressing going on, under any circumstances.

‘We can put a pillow down the middle, if you like,’ said Philippe, apparently reading her mind without difficulty.

Without being aware of what she was doing, Caro cupped the wrist where he had stroked her with her free hand as if to calm the soft skin there, which was quivering still from his touch.

‘You don’t sound bothered one way or the other,’ she said, unable to keep the snippiness from her voice.

He shrugged. ‘I’m not. It’s entirely up to you, Caro. I’m more than capable of keeping my hands to myself, so there’s no need to panic.’

‘I’m not panicking,’ she said crossly. ‘I’m just trying to think how it would work.’

She took her hand from her wrist and sat straighter. It was time to be sensible. ‘If you say that we need to share a bed, then that’s what we’ll do. I’m not going to be silly about it. But I think sex would just confuse the issue,’ she said, rather proud of her coolness this time. ‘I think it would be easier if we agreed that we would be just friends while we’re together.’

‘Friends?’ he repeated, expressionless.

‘Yes, you know, when you have a good time but don’t want to sleep together.’

‘I’ve got friends,’ he said. ‘They’re just not usually women.’

‘There’s nothing usual about our relationship, though, is there, Philippe? You’re a prince, I’m an ordinary girl with no interest in anything other than an ordinary life. You’re wealthy by any standard, and I’m temping to pay my rent. You go out with beautiful, glamorous women, and I’m neither,’ Caro said. ‘We’ve got absolutely nothing in common apart from Lotty, but just for two months we’re going to be together. I’m not interested in you, and I think it’s pretty clear you’re not going to be interested in me, so it makes sense that we should agree to be friends at least, don’t you think?’

Why not? Philippe asked himself. Caro was right. It would be much easier this way. The last thing he wanted was to get involved with someone who would fall in love with him. That would complicate matters and it would all get very messy. There would be tears and scenes and demands for commitment and stormings off. Philippe had been there before, and he couldn’t afford anything similar this time if he didn’t want to be left at the mercy of the Dowager Blanche’s matchmaking plans again.

So it was just as well Caro had made it clear that she wasn’t interested in him. There was no need to feel nettled. It wasn’t as if she was his type either. Caro was right: she wasn’t beautiful, she wasn’t stylish. She was untidy and distracting, that was all.

It was just that he couldn’t shake the feel of her. When he’d put his arm around her to cross the restaurant, he’d rested his hand on the flare of her hip and felt the silky material of her dress shift over her skin with a shock of awareness. He’d held her wrist and felt the blood beating in her veins, and that, too, had been like a current thrilling through him. He looked away from her mouth.

‘Fine by me,’ he said, as carelessly as he could. ‘Friends it is, and we’ll get that pillow out as soon as we get there.’

Philippe was used to eating with women who automatically chose the least fattening meal on the menu and it was a revelation to watch Caro oohing and aahing over her choice. Philippe himself was largely indifferent to food—he reserved his passion for the wine list—but it was impossible not to enjoy eating with someone who took so much pleasure in it. Caro would close her eyes blissfully while she savoured every taste and texture. She loaded up forkfuls from her dish and insisted he try it, and reached over to help herself to a taste of his, until he suggested that they simply swap plates.

He was being sarcastic, but Caro was delighted at the suggestion and promptly handed over her plate. ‘George always refused to share like this,’ she confided. ‘He said it was embarrassing to pass plates over the table and that everyone would look at us.’

‘And this was a guy who accused you of not being any fun?’

‘He probably swaps plates with Melanie,’ she said with a sigh.

‘You should have tried leaning over the table so that he could fall down your cleavage,’ Philippe said. ‘I’m sure he’d have swapped anything you wanted then.’

‘Do you really think so?’ The blue eyes rested wistfully on George and Philippe was conscious of a quite irrational stab of jealousy.

He was used to being the centre of attention. His dinner companions were invariably beautiful, just as Caro had said. They flirted and sparkled and charmed and laughed at all his jokes. It was a salutary experience to be with Caro, who was far more interested in her ex-fiancé than in him. She was more interested in the food than in him, come to that.

Philippe told himself that he was amused, but the truth was that he was just a little piqued by her indifference. Here was he, a prince famous for his charm and his wit and his sexual prowess, having to work to keep the attention of a woman who wasn’t even really pretty, and who didn’t feel the least need to keep him entertained. Not that he wanted to be entertained, of course, but still …

It was annoying to find that his leg was tingling where she had rubbed her shoe so tantalisingly, and that his eyes kept snagging on that mouth, or drifting to that luscious cleavage. Philippe suspected that Caro had no idea how she looked, with that provocative mouth and that wickedly lush body, so at odds with the combative glint in her blue eyes and the sharpness of her tongue.

I’m not interested in you, she had said.

Just as well.

For the first time in her life, Caro refused pudding. Finally, she’d made it to the Star and Garter, and she wasn’t hungry! Life could be so unfair sometimes.

‘Ready to go?’ asked Philippe. ‘Let’s make sure we make an exit.’ Very casually, he rested a hand at the nape of her neck as they passed George’s table. It was a perfect proprietorial gesture, and it felt disturbingly intimate to Caro. The warmth from his fingers snaked down her spine, making her shiver.

‘They’ll be leaving any minute themselves,’ Philippe murmured as he opened the door for her. ‘Do you want to kiss me?’

‘What?’ Caro stopped dead and stared at him. ‘No, of course not!’

‘Sure? Because here’s an opportunity to convince George that you’re having a passionate affair, if you want to,’ he said, all reasonableness. ‘He might have been convinced by all the hand-holding, but it was all a bit tame, wasn’t it? Whereas if he sees you enjoying a steamy kiss, there’s not going to be much doubt in his mind that you’re a passionate, exciting woman having a better time without him, is there?’

Caro hesitated. The idea of making George believe that she was in the throes of a wild affair was deeply appealing, she had to admit. For too long, she’d felt dull and repressed next to bubbly Melanie, and hated that deadly feeling that they both felt sorry for her.

But this was His Serene Highness Prince Philippe of Montluce … Did she really have the nerve to kiss him? On the other hand, they had agreed to be friends, hadn’t they? ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?’ she asked doubtfully.

In reply, Philippe spread his arms. ‘What are friends for? Besides, it’ll be good practice for us. We’re going to have to kiss in Montluce, so we might as well get used to it.’

True. Good point. Caro took a deep breath. ‘Well … okay, then.’

‘Come over here.’ Philippe took her hand and led her over to the limousine, which waited in the glow of a single street light immediately opposite the door. ‘There’s no point if George can’t see us, is there? They won’t be able to miss us here.’ He turned and leant back against the limousine. ‘Off you go, then.’

‘Where’s Yan?’

‘Don’t worry about Yan. He’s used to looking the other way.’

‘Right.’ Above them, the sky was a dark, dark blue, and the cool night air brimmed with the scents of a northern summer. A little current of excitement ran under Caro’s skin. Moistening her lips, she stepped towards him, then hesitated.

‘I feel silly.’

‘That’s because you’re too far away. You’ll find it easier if you get a bit closer.’

Caro took another step. It brought her up against him. She could smell his cologne—subtle, expensive—and, when she rested her palms against his chest, she felt the hard solidity of him through the fine material of his shirt.

The street lamp cast a surreal orange glow over everything, but at the same time Caro could see exactly what she was doing. It was like being on stage, and now she had to perform. Gripped by shyness, she stared fixedly at Philippe’s collar while her hands pressed against his chest and the warmth of his skin seemed to pulse through her, slow and steady like his heartbeat.