His to Command: the Housekeeper: The Prince's Chambermaid / The Billionaire's Housekeeper Mistress / The Tuscan Tycoon's Pregnant Housekeeper

‘No,’ he agreed heavily. ‘You may find it uncomfortable if you stay here, Cathy. One of these days I may get around to looking around for a suitable partner,’ he said, and then added, just so that there could be no possible misunderstanding, ‘A bride. Because sooner or later I’m going to have to think about settling down.’ He felt her stiffen. ‘And I’m not sure how easy you might find that, either. If you were still employed here in some kind of chambermaid capacity, and I was bringing a woman back here and—’

‘Asking me to change your dirty sheets?’ she questioned bluntly.

‘Cathy!’

‘Well, it’s true, isn’t it?’ Because he had sketched out the possible scenario and now wasn’t it up to her to colour in the blanks? To imagine the whole ghastly reality of what he was saying to her. And that way, surely, there would be no space left for illusion or any more hurt? ‘And, yes, you’re right, Xaviero. It really would be very awkward for both of you if I were still around.’

‘Well, there isn’t any both, is there? At least, not yet there isn’t.’ He traced the trembling line of her lips with a questing fingertip but she did not clamp her little white teeth around it and suck on it, as usually she would have done. ‘Though I don’t want you to feel you have to leave, just because of me.’

She stared at him, his royal status now forgotten—because in the circumstances it was irrelevant. This was her life, she realised—a life so very different from his. And it was where their two lives had merged and were now about to divide again, propelling her towards a scary and unknown future. ‘Oh, of course I have to leave, Xaviero. There’s no other alternative.’ Or did he imagine that she would hover in the background of his life—some pale-faced little ghost of a woman he’d once known, while he made a new life and a family with his suitable bride?

Desperately, she tried to scrabble back a little dignity. ‘But please don’t feel bad about it, when we both know it’s inevitable—we’ve known that all along. It’s probably just the kick-start I needed. I’ve been telling myself I’ve been in a rut for ages and kept meaning to change—I just never got around to it before.’

His eyes narrowed as they studied her. ‘If you want—I could perhaps help.’ He saw the confusion in her face. ‘You know—set you up in something, somewhere else.’

She recoiled. ‘You mean…like…pay me off? What’s that for—services rendered?’

‘That isn’t what I meant at all!’ he snapped.

‘Well, that’s what it sounded like!’

For a moment he was tempted to leave her right then, to storm out of her little cottage and its surprisingly beautiful garden. A place where he had been able to shrug off privilege and position with his biddable little virgin whom he’d transformed into a near-perfect lover. And another man would one day benefit from all his tuition, he thought—with a sudden and unexpected spear of jealousy.

‘Cathy, don’t let’s fight—not now,’ he said, in as placating a tone as he had ever used, pulling her face towards his.

And to Cathy’s everlasting shame, she let him begin to kiss her. Even after all the things he had said to her, she just let him. All those stark statements he’d made which had hammered home her rightful place in the Prince’s life. Which was nowhere. What woman with a shred of pride could sink back and revel in his expert caresses like this? But she wanted one more taste of him. One more erotic coupling with a man she recognised would never be equalled—not in anyone’s life, but certainly not in hers.

He lifted his head and looked down into her wide aquamarine eyes and saw in them the telltale glimmer of tears. But for once he accepted the unnecessary intrusion of emotion—knowing that his biddable little pupil was about to learn that saying goodbye was the hardest lesson of all.

CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_0da28c47-7397-5a78-8fc0-42127e1cfe00)

WITHOUT Xaviero, life suddenly felt lonely and scary—but Cathy did what all the advice columns suggested as a way of trying to forget him. Instead of sitting around and moping, she changed her life completely—deciding to grab every opportunity which came her way instead of just sitting back and going with the flow. Her Prince had gone, yes—but she had known from the beginning that he would. He had gone and he wasn’t ever coming back and so she had better start learning to live with that and hope that this gnawing pain in her heart would some day lessen.

The first step in her recovery was leaving Colbridge—though really she didn’t have much choice. Hadn’t Xaviero himself spelt out in cruel and accurate detail just how difficult it would be if she were still there when he returned from South America?

Saying goodbye to friends and colleagues was harder than she’d thought, though it was no hardship leaving an openly curious Rupert, who had spent some of his profit on a red Lamborghini and was planning to open up another hotel in the south of France.

This time he did come right out and ask her if she’d been sleeping with the Prince, but although Cathy blushed she remained tight-lipped and told him it was really none of his business.

‘I think your response speaks for itself,’ he drawled.

‘You can think what you like, Rupert.’ Her cool reply clearly startled him—but, while Xaviero might have taught her about the pain of love, there was no doubt that sleeping with a prince had given her confidence.

It was harder to leave her little cottage where she’d lived for much of her life, and harder still to walk away from the garden on which she had fostered so much love and attention. But she rented it out to a plant-lover who promised to look after it, and moved to London, where she got a job in a famous bookshop situated right on Piccadilly, just along the road from Green Park. In a big, noisy capital city a bookshop seemed a warm and friendly place to be, and when they discovered her passion for plants and flowers she was quickly assigned to the Gardening, Cookery and Sport section of the store.

With the money she made from letting out her home she was able to rent a modest little studio flat just down the road from the bookshop. It was small, the heating was haphazard and it took a hundred and eight rickety steps just to reach it—but once you did, the view over the city was worth…

Worth what? mocked a voice in her head. A prince’s ransom?

Heart racing, Cathy tried to shift the taunting thoughts her mind seemed determined to hang onto—but it was far from easy. She missed Xaviero. Really missed him. This felt like a broken heart. Like the real thing—while her break-up with Peter had been forgotten in a couple of days. This felt uncomfortably like love—even though she tried to tell herself again and again that she couldn’t possibly have been in love with the golden-eyed Prince. It had just been a wonderful sexual awakening, she reasoned—and all she was doing was seeking to put a respectable label on the way she’d behaved.

And Cathy soon realised that being the spurned lover of a prince was a hopeless situation to be in. People always said there was no point in bottling things up—but she had little alternative. She couldn’t tell anyone what had happened; quite apart from anything else—who in their right minds would ever believe her? Maybe the healing hands of time would help the vivid memories fade. And even though she enthusiastically threw herself into her new life, each night she cried softly into her pillow for the man who had captured her heart and her body so profoundly.

Autumn was approaching and she took to walking round Green Park in her lunch-hour and watching as the leaves began to turn golden brown and scrunched beneath her feet. And she drank her morning coffee in the dark staffroom at the very top of the building, and tried to make friends with the rest of the staff. There were all kinds of people working there, because bookshops seemed to attract a strange mixture. Lots of them were would-be writers, but there was also an ex-soldier, a hand model and a man who had once trained in Paris as a clown. And a part-time girl called Sandy who painted portraits of cats, which then went on to grace the covers of greetings cards.

It was Sandy who was beside her on the day Cathy turned on the Internet, and—when she thought nobody was looking—typed ‘ZAFFIRINTHOS’ into the search engine the way she did every morning. And Sandy who gripped her by the elbow as the world swam horrifically before Cathy’s eyes and the large London bookshop became a blur.

‘Cathy? For heaven’s sake—what’s the matter?’ Sandy demanded. ‘Cathy, are you all right?’

But Cathy barely heard the voice, which seemed to come from a hundred miles away; she was too busy waiting for the dizziness to clear from her eyes and she uttered a small, disbelieving whimper as she took in the words which leapt out at her.

‘Young royal fights for life: Zaffirinthos waits.’

‘No!’ she whimpered, shoving her fist into her mouth and feeling her knees begin to sway.

‘Sit down!’ urged Sandy.

Her head was placed between her knees and water was fetched for her to drink—and when the colour returned to her cheeks the section manager insisted that she go home for the rest of the day. She wanted to read the rest of the article but she could hardly start browsing the Internet in the store if they thought she was sick. Better get outside and buy a paper, or go to an Internet café or something.

‘Are you pregnant?’ muttered Sandy.

Cathy flinched at the unwitting hurtfulness of the remark. Actually, no, she wasn’t—and hadn’t that discovery proved unbearably poignant? For hadn’t there been some crazy little part of her heart which had longed to hold onto some precious part of him, and to feel his child growing inside her belly? A hope banished when she’d stood in her tiny bathroom looking at a trembling stick which had stubbornly refused to turn blue.

‘No, I’m not pregnant,’ she said flatly.

Outside, the autumn wind was blustering in a cold funnel along the street, turning the newspaper she bought into a wild, flapping creature. She took it into a little café and ordered a cappuccino and then raked her way through the windblown pages. Zaffirinthos was a relatively small principality which was rarely newsworthy, but a young prince hovering between life and death would always make the international pages.

Her teeth chattering, she read:

King Casimiro of Zaffirinthos was today fighting for his life following a violent fall from his horse.

Cathy began to shake as the first thought which washed over her in a wave of intense relief was that…it wasn’t Xaviero. But this was quickly followed by a second—a lurch of terrible guilt and sorrow—to realise that his brother should be lying stricken.

Poor Casimiro. Poor, poor Casimiro, she thought painfully as she read on.

The dashing royal, 34, who recently acceded to the throne of the tiny island kingdom, has been airlifted to the capital’s hospital, where he remains in a coma. Doctors are refusing to comment on claims that the King is near death. His younger brother, Xaviero, 33 (pictured, right), is tonight on his way from South America to be at his stricken brother’s bedside. This is not the first time that tragedy has struck the fabulously wealthy di Cesere family. In a cruel twist of fate, Queen Sophia—the King’s mother and a noted beauty—died of a brain haemorrhage a quarter of a century ago.

Instinctively, Cathy began to examine the snatched photo, taken at Bogotá airport. Xaviero looked grim-faced and ravaged—his hand raised as if to strike the camera from the hands of the person taking the photograph. He looked haunted, she thought—and her heart went out to him.

Staring blandly at her now-cold coffee, she wondered if there was any way she could help. But Xaviero would be home by now, surrounded by advisors and guided by protocol, no doubt—what on earth could she possibly do?

Until she remembered that he had given her his cell-phone number—though possibly it was the only time a number had been handed out with the instruction not to use it.

‘Only if it is absolutely necessary,’ he had told her, his stern face leaving her in no doubt that he meant every word. ‘If, for example, you were to discover that you were pregnant.’ He had acknowledged her shocked little intake of breath, and had nodded, his face grim. ‘And yes, I know we have taken every precaution, but accidents can and do happen—though, obviously, we both sincerely hope that this is not the case.’

Cathy bit her lip. What would she do if it were anyone else? If it were a friend or a colleague, someone she cared about or even someone she had cared about? Why, even if it were Peter—her errant fiancé—she would send him a message straight away, telling him to hang on in there and that she was thinking of him. But this was different. Imagine the amount of people who would be trying to get in touch with a man as important as Xaviero. She was crazy to even think of trying.

As the days dragged by she couldn’t settle. She kept thinking about Xaviero and wondering how his brother was faring—but even though she scoured the newspapers and the Internet for news there was no new update on his condition.