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His bags must have arrived earlier, for as well as a whole sheath of official-looking papers littering the desktop there were lots of precious-looking things lying around the place. A pair of gleaming golden cufflinks stamped with an intricate crest, a beautiful silver-backed hairbrush inlaid with jewels. They looked priceless and ancient—but even more dauntingly they were his personal artefacts, reminding her of the intimacy of their surroundings.
A robe hung over the back of a chair—its rich, satin folds cascading down like liquid silver. White shirts glimpsed through the half-open wardrobe door—and a riding crop, with a worn leather handle which was leaning against a door. Cathy swallowed down her apprehension and wondered how soon she could decently leave. And yet if she was being honest—wasn’t there a part of her which could have stayed close beside him all day?
‘Very different,’ he murmured as his eyes continued their unashamed scrutiny.
Her heart was beating out a frantic rhythm but at least he wasn’t aware of it and that knowledge helped keep her face completely expressionless. ‘Yes, Your Highness,’ she answered matter-of-factly. ‘I have a new uniform.’
He looked at the buttons which trailed so enticingly down the front—and which seemed to be losing the battle to keep those magnificent breasts contained. ‘So what happened?’ he questioned unevenly. ‘Did you gain some weight while it was being made?’
Cathy suspected that Rupert had deliberately told the dressmaker to make the uniform tighter—but she could hardly turn round and admit that. Disloyalty to your boss was not an admirable trait—no matter how much he might have deserved it. And neither was answering back this insolently rude prince—no matter how much he deserved it.
‘None that I’m aware of,’ she said woodenly.
Xaviero found his gaze travelling over her undulating curves. No, if she’d gained any weight at all, then it had been a complementary gain, because there wasn’t an ounce of flesh on her which shouldn’t have been there. Hers was not a fashionable shape, he decided—much too rounded for modern tastes—but it appealed to the primeval sexual hunger which underpinned the desire of every man. The biological imperative which subliminally announced to the onlooker that soft hips and full breasts equalled fruitful and fertile.
He felt his mouth drying along in time with the increasingly sweet torture of his tightening groin. Those magnificent breasts looked as if they should never be sullied by the wearing of clothes—and maybe he should do them both a favour by removing them as quickly as possible. She looked like one of the naked women adorning his favourite painting in the Throne Room back in Zaffirinthos—the one he used to gaze at with surreptitious longing during his teenage years.
Yet this woman was not responding to him as he had anticipated she would. Xaviero studied her with interest. Today she wasn’t sending out those delicious come-and-kiss-me messages which had made him pull her into his arms without thinking. Her eyes weren’t telling him that he was at liberty to do so again—in fact, on the contrary, she was regarding him with the caution that she might use if she had suddenly found herself alone in a room with a rather terrifying snake. And why was that? Especially when this time they were not in a public place. Rather, one which conveniently had a bed in it—and his guards would not disturb him unless he gave them permission to do so. What the hell was holding her back?
Xaviero’s eyes narrowed. Unless she really did desire the man she had thought him to be more than the man he really was! A woman more turned on by a painter and decorator than a member of one of the most prestigious royal houses in Europe. And, inexplicably, this thought excited him more than anything he could remember.
‘So which is the real you?’ he drawled softly. ‘Did I catch you unawares the other day, all soft and natural. Or is this…showgirl appearance your usual look?’ Irresistibly, his eyes now strayed to the generous curve of her bottom. ‘Maybe you thought that a prince would respond favourably to the rather obvious signals you’re sending out today. Am I right, Cathy?’
He said her name quite differently from the way anyone else had ever said it—his tongue seeming to caress the first syllable as if he were kissing it. And even though she was dimly aware that he was insulting her with that sexy drawl of his, that didn’t seem to stop her traitorous body from responding. It was as if she had no power at all over her reaction to him. As if she was helpless in her fight to resist him. She could feel the blood pounding at her pulse points and her throat seemed to have constricted so much that she could barely stumble out her answer. ‘I…I would not dream of being so presumptuous, Your Highness.’
