by Jessica Hart
She was glad that Stella had emailed. It would be too easy to start thinking that this life with Philippe could last for ever, too easy to forget that it was all nothing but an elaborate pretence.
It was time to get a grip on reality again, Caro decided. Already a month had passed. Only another four weeks, and she would be back in Ellerby. Back to where she could find the life she had always wanted: settled, secure, in the heart of a community.
A life without Philippe
She was going to miss him. Caro made herself realise it every day, so that she never forgot that it was going to happen. Because what alternative was there? Philippe wasn’t in love with her and, even if he were, she didn’t have what it took to be a princess. Her face wasn’t right, her clothes weren’t right and, however friendly the welcome she’d had at Philippe’s side, she wasn’t right either.
Anyway, she didn’t want to be a royal, Caro reminded herself. She would go wild, hanging around with nothing to do but cook the occasional meal. No, she needed to go home and get on with her life. She had been thinking a lot about her deli, and how she could borrow enough money to set it up. She wanted to stock some of Montluce’s specialities. She had learned to make quenelles and the famous tarte aux abricots from Jean-Michel, the palace chef, who had given her his secret recipe when he recognised a kindred obsession with flavour. So she concentrated on that, and not on how much would miss laughing in bed with Philippe.
Philippe lay stretched out on one of the sofas and reached down to pull a sheaf of documents from the red box on the floor beside him. ‘You wouldn’t believe a country this small would generate quite so much paperwork, would you?’ he grumbled, flicking through them. ‘Report and accounts from the potato growers of Montluce… Waste management solutions for the city of Montvivennes… Forests have been felled to print these reports and who’s interested in them? Nobody!’
‘The potato farmers might be,’ Caro suggested.
‘Show me a farmer who wants to read a report!’ Philippe looked up at Caro, who was sitting at the table, laptop open in front of her. Her lips were pursed, the fierce brows drawn together. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Checking my account at right4u.com… Can you believe it? I’ve only had one message in a month, and that’s from Mr Sexy so it doesn’t count.’
Philippe sat up. ‘What are you checking dating sites for?’ he demanded, outraged. ‘You’re with me.’
‘Only temporarily,’ Caro pointed out, cucumber-cool. ‘I wouldn’t want to miss out on someone perfect. The good guys get snapped up straight away.’
‘You couldn’t do any snapping up, anyway,’ said Philippe crossly. ‘You may only be a temporary girlfriend, but you’ve still got a good month to go.’
To his annoyance, Caro clicked on a link, and he got up to see what interested her so much. ‘I wouldn’t arrange to meet him or anything,’ she said. ‘I could just make contact and see if we’ve got anything in common. A sort of cyber flirtation. You don’t want me to miss out on Mr Right, do you?’
Philippe was standing at her shoulder, glaring at the profiles on the screen. ‘Which one is Mr Right?’
‘I was wondering about this one.’ She pointed at a photograph of someone who had called himself Homebody. He was a serious-looking man who described himself as loyal, trustworthy and affectionate.
Her hair was tumbling down from its clip as usual. He wanted to tidy it up, clip it neatly so that it wasn’t so…distracting. Or did he want to pull the clip out completely to let the silky mass tumble to her shoulders? Did he want to push his fingers through it and tilt her face up to his?
Philippe scowled. That wouldn’t be allowed, or at least not according to Caro’s rules. He couldn’t believe he had agreed to them. She was supposed to be his girlfriend. He ought to be able to put his hands on her shoulders, or kiss the side of her throat. He ought to be able to cajole her away from that stupid site and over to the sofa so that he could kiss her properly.
But they were outside the bedroom and there was nobody else around, which meant that he wasn’t allowed to touch her at all. And he had given his word.
‘Affectionate?’ he jeered, taking out his bad temper on Homebody instead. ‘You might as well get yourself a dog!’
‘I think he sounds nice,’ said Caro defiantly. She scrolled through Homebody’s profile. ‘Look, he’s a teacher.’
‘Why’s that a good thing?’
‘He’ll be sensible, and reliable, and good with kids.’
‘Not if he’s anything like any of the teachers I ever had!’
She ignored that, and read on. ‘He likes eating out and staying in—just like me.’
‘Everybody likes eating out sometimes and staying in sometimes,’ said Philippe, determined to dismiss Homebody. ‘That doesn’t tell you anything.’
‘You don’t,’ said Caro. ‘When do you ever have a cosy night in?’
‘We’ve stayed in a couple of evenings.’ Philippe had been surprised how much he’d enjoyed both of them, in fact. He’d never done the whole lying-on-a-sofa-watching-a-DVD thing before. With a glass of wine and Caro commenting all the way through it, he had been able to see the appeal, definitely.
‘Only because you’re here in Montluce. You wouldn’t do that normally, would you?’
Philippe couldn’t remember what normal was any more. There was only this life, with Caro. Coming home from some tedious meeting and finding her humming in the kitchen. Enduring his great aunt’s lectures, knowing that she would be able to make him laugh afterwards. Watching her engage with everyone she met, watching her smile, taking every opportunity to touch her.
Lying in bed with her, talking, laughing, making love.
Waking up with her in the morning.
That was normal now.
Sometimes he would sit on the stool at the counter and watch her moving around the kitchen while he told her about his meetings, and she listened to what he said, unlike the First Minister or the Dowager Blanche. She’d listen and ask questions and challenge him, and Philippe had a horrible feeling he was going to miss all that when she went.
Because she would go. She was always talking about her plans for the delicatessen she wanted to open when she got back to Ellerby. Philippe wanted to tell her to stop it, but how could he? It wasn’t as if he wanted her to stay for ever. There was no question of that. He was only here until his father came home, and then he would go back to South America. He could fly when he wanted, party when he wanted. He could date sophisticated women who wouldn’t know where the kitchen was. There would be risk and challenge and uncomplicated relationships. That would be much more fun than red boxes and watching Caro cook.
Wouldn’t it?
‘This Homebody guy sounds catastrophically dull,’ he decided. ‘You’d be bored witless at the end of one of those cosy nights in.’
‘You don’t know that,’ said Caro, obviously perversely determined to see Homebody as the perfect man for her. ‘Look, he says he’s got a good sense of humour.’
Philippe was unimpressed. ‘Everyone’s going to say that,’ he said. ‘He’s hardly going to admit that he’s dullness personified, is he?’
‘We’ve got lots in common,’ Caro insisted. ‘He ticks all my boxes: steady, decent, ordinary. A guy like that isn’t looking for a glamourpuss or a sex kitten. He wants someone steady and decent and ordinary—like me.’
‘I don’t know why you persist in thinking of yourself as ordinary,’ said Philippe, throwing himself back down onto the sofa.
He felt edgy and restless at the idea of Caro with another man. What if Homebody was the one for her? He would be the one coming home to find Caro pottering around in the kitchen. He would be able to reach for her in bed and have all that warmth and passion to himself.
Was everything he was showing Caro really going to benefit a man who could describe himself as Homebody?
‘Ordinary girls don’t dress out of a jumble sale catalogue, for a start,’ he said, forgetting th
at he’d come to appreciate her quirky style. No matter how eccentric the clothes, Caro wore them with flair. Not that he was going to tell her that. It would be no fun if he couldn’t give her a hard time about her wardrobe, would it? ‘They don’t spend their whole time in the kitchen or hobnobbing with the staff.’
As far as Philippe could tell, Caro was on first name terms with every footman and maid in the palace. She knew everyone in the kitchen, and had met all the gardeners on her walks with Apollo. She was always telling him about Yvette’s worry about her elderly mother, or the fact that Michel rode a motorbike on his days off, that Gaston grew wonderful tomatoes or that Marie-Madeleine had a crush on the head butler, which no one, including Philippe, could understand.
‘Ordinary girls don’t have servants to hobnob with,’ Caro pointed out dryly. ‘I’m just being myself.’
‘I still don’t think you should waste your time on Homebody,’ said Philippe, disgruntled. ‘He looks shifty to me. What if he’s a serial killer?’ he asked, raising another objection. ‘He’s not going to put that in his profile, is he? It could all be a ruse to lure someone ridiculously trusting like you back to his lair.’
Caro rolled her eyes. ‘I’d meet him somewhere public at first and, anyway, I’ve got to do something if I want to find someone to have a serious relationship with.’
‘I don’t know why you’re bothering. I wouldn’t waste my time on online dating sites.’
‘You don’t have to. I’m sure the women will all be queuing up to console you the moment I’ve gone!’
She could at least sound upset at the prospect, thought Philippe darkly. Scowling, he went back to the red box. ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’
‘Is Francesca Allen coming to the Dowager’s ball?’
Philippe looked up, eyes narrowing at the apparent non sequitur. ‘She’s invited, yes. Why?’
‘I remember reading in Glitz that you and she had a bit of a thing going,’ said Caro casually.
‘Oh, well, if you read it in a magazine, it must be true!’
‘Is it?’
Philippe opened the first file. ‘More exploring the possibilities of a thing,’ he found himself admitting. ‘She’s a beautiful woman,’ he said, to punish Caro for talking about going home. ‘I hope she will come to the ball. It’s only a week or so before you leave, so it would be a good time to catch up with her again.’
He remembered being bowled over by Francesca’s beauty when he’d met her. Maybe he would be again. Someone like Francesca Allen would be just what he needed once Caro had gone. They could amuse each other until he could go back to South America. Francesca wouldn’t be interested for longer than that, anyway. Yes, she would suit him fine.
‘She’d make a good princess,’ Caro said in a neutral voice.
‘If I ever think about marrying, I’ll bear her in mind,’ he said with a sarcastic look that successfully disguised, he hoped, the way the thought of her going pressed on his chest like a small but leaden weight.
Silence fell. Philippe forced his attention back to the contents of the red box. He skimmed through the first two files, dropping them onto the carpet when he’d finished.
‘Now what?’ he sighed as he pulled out yet another sheaf of papers. ‘Good grief, a report on integrated weed management! Who writes this stuff?’
He took the first page and made it into a paper plane, which he sent sailing over to land on Caro’s keyboard.
She threw it back. ‘That could have a state secret on it. You should be careful.’
‘Yes, I’m sure that intelligence agencies around the world are in competition to see who can find out how Montluce manages its weeds!’ Philippe flicked through it. ‘I don’t know why they think I need to read this stuff, anyway. It’s not as if anyone is interested in my opinion. That weasel Lefebvre just sneaks round to see the Dowager Blanche and does what she tells him to do.’
The weed management report tossed aside, he picked up the next file and pulled out a piece of paper to make another paper plane.
‘Stop that,’ said Caro, as it came sailing her way. She batted it aside. ‘You won’t be able to throw paper planes at Francesca Allen.’
‘I’m bored. I hope you’re not sending a message to Dullbody—’ Philippe broke off in the middle of folding another plane. ‘Hang on…’
‘What is it?’
Frowning, he smoothed out the page once more. ‘This is about the pipeline,’ he said slowly.
‘The one all the protests are about?’
He nodded as he read on. ‘It’s an estimate of costs. It looks as if the construction company are lobbying to build the pipeline overground, which would obviously be much cheaper for them. That’s a little detail they haven’t mentioned to anyone yet!
‘What’s the betting Lefebvre slipped this in amongst all these boring documents in the hope that I wouldn’t notice?’ His jaw tightened. ‘They’ve spent a few weeks making sure I’m not expecting anything remotely interesting and now they’re banking on the fact that I’ll just scrawl my signature without reading this properly. Here, let me have that plane back, will you, Caro?’ he said. ‘I think I’d better see what that says too.’
Caro retrieved the page from the floor and sent it back to Philippe, who unfolded it carefully and put the report back together. Sitting up, his brows drawn together in concentration, he read it from beginning to end, so absorbed that he barely noticed when Caro got up to make some coffee.
There were footmen waiting outside, but she couldn’t get used to the idea of asking someone to go along to the servants’ galley and boil water for her when she had access to a perfectly adequate kitchen to use herself. The Dowager Blanche, she had heard, insisted on a tray of coffee at exactly the same time every day. Everything had to be set out precisely, and woe betide the maid or footman who put the sugar in the wrong place, or piled the biscuits haphazardly on the plate instead of setting them out in a neat circle. Caro had heard that there was a plan of the tray pinned up in the servants’ galley but she thought this was probably a myth.
Philippe was looking very grim by the time he had finished reading He gathered the papers together neatly and put them back in the file. ‘I think it’s time I had a little chat with the Dowager Blanche,’ he said.
Philippe was preoccupied as he made his way back to his apartments. The footman—Guillaume?—leapt to open the door, and he nodded absently in thanks.
As the door closed behind him, he looked around, struck by how homely the apartments felt now. It was hard to put a finger on just why they were more welcoming. It could have been something to do with the recipe book face down on the coffee table, the cardigan tossed over the arm of the sofa.
Or maybe it was the smells drifting out from the kitchen. He usually found Caro there, her face intent as she chopped and stirred. For someone so messy, she was extraordinarily calm and organised when she was cooking and she produced mouth-watering delicacies, pâtés and little tarts and savoury pastries which she brought out for him to taste. He would need to start taking some exercise or he’d put on weight, Philippe thought.
She appeared now, wooden spoon in one hand. ‘How did you get on with the Dowager?’
‘Pretty much as you’d expect.’ Philippe yanked at his tie to loosen it and unbuttoned his collar. There was no question of popping in on his great-aunt. He’d had to wait until the next day, and put on a suit before he could see her. ‘I’m not to interfere. Montluce has a delicate relationship with its powerful neighbours, and we can’t jeopardise the little influence we have. My father made his wishes known, and I’m to sign the agreement on his behalf and stop asking questions. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.’
‘What are you going to do now?’ asked Caro.
‘I don’t know.’ Philippe paced restlessly, rolling his shoulders in frustration. ‘Let’s get out of here, for a start,’ he decided abruptly.
They drove up into the mountains, Yan shadowing as always in the black SUV. Philippe drove in silen
ce and Caro let him think without interruption. The sun flickered through the trees and the air was heady with the scent of the pines that lined the winding road.
Away from Montvivennes, the roads were quiet and when they dropped at last into a valley and stopped beside a broad, shallow river it was hard to believe that they were only an hour from the bustling city.
‘Let’s walk for a bit,’ said Philippe.
Yan waited with the cars and they followed the riverbank until the water split around a cluster of boulders deposited by a long-vanished glacier, forming deep green pools. It was very quiet, just the sound of the river and an insect droning somewhere. Caro sat on the smooth rock and took off her sandals so that she could dangle her feet in the water.
‘It’s so peaceful here.’ Leaning back on her hands, she drew a deep breath of pine-scented air. Beside her in the dappled sunlight, Philippe had rolled up his trousers and his feet hung next to hers in the clear, clear water. ‘I’m glad we came out.’
She glanced at Philippe. ‘You’ve been here before?’
‘This was Etienne’s favourite place,’ he said slowly, looking around as if comparing it to his memories. ‘Our father would bring us up here sometimes, until Etienne grew out of splashing around in rock pools.’
He didn’t need to add that his father hadn’t thought to bring his younger son on his own.
Deep in thought, Philippe looked down at their feet dangling together in the water, and Caro let her gaze rest hungrily on the uncompromising planes and angles of his face. She knew him so well now. She knew exactly how his hair grew at his temples, how the laughter lines fanned his eyes. She knew the texture of his skin and the precise line of his jaw and his mouth…that mouth that made her heart turn over every time she looked at it.
‘This is where the pipeline will go.’ Philippe lifted his head and looked around at the peaceful scene. ‘It’s going to rip through this valley, with no effort made to disguise it, and then they’ll blast through those hills there, and push it through into the valley beyond. This river will never be the same.’