by Lynne Graham
‘I’d love to help.’ Kirsten was thrilled by the prospect of doing something other than cleaning.
Lady Pamela rewarded her with a smile. ‘I really love acting as the Prince’s social hostess, but there is a lot of work involved and you could be really useful to me.’
‘I’m not sure the housekeeper would be willing to spare me, though.’
Kirsten wanted to look at Shahir, who had said nothing throughout this exchange. But why should he be interested? He might be her employer, but she was at the bottom of a large staff pyramid and she was not so naive as to believe that he had any firsthand knowledge of the castle’s domestic arrangements. He paid others to take care of such practicalities, and no doubt Pamela Anstruther was quite free to pluck a junior member from the lower ranks if it suited her to do so.
The limousine came to a halt. Kirsten glanced out of the window and froze, her face draining of colour: her father was glowering on the doorstep, his ruddy face rigid with dour disapproval.
‘Oh, dear, who’s the nasty old codger?’ Lady Pamela asked with an appreciative giggle. ‘Ye olde farm labourer?’
Kirsten had already risen to leave the car. The quip mortified her, but she was not surprised that her father’s scowling stance had roused such amused comment.
Shahir’s attention rested on Angus Ross’s aggressively clenched fists. His measuring gaze was cool and his jawline squared. He vacated the limo only a step in Kirsten’s wake. As she hovered in obvious apprehension while her bike was being unloaded, Shahir introduced himself to her father. Prompted by Shahir’s careful courtesy, Pamela awarded the older man a gracious wave of acknowledgement from the limo. Kirsten was intensely relieved to see her parent’s anger banished by the attention he had received from his landlord.
‘So the Prince has got that harlot working for him,’ Angus Ross commented with an unpleasant laugh when he went back indoors. ‘The nerve of yon woman, waving at me like she’s the queen! She’s hoping to wed the Prince and get the castle back into her family, but she’s wasting her time. He must know she’s a greedy trollop!’
‘Aye, I’d think so. They say he’s no fool,’ Mabel, a thin-faced woman in her early fifties, agreed with sour enjoyment. ‘Before that husband of hers died Lady Pamela had one man after another staying up at that lodge with her! Naturally Sir Robert left her next to nothing on his death.’
‘It was God’s judgement on her,’ the older man pronounced with satisfaction.
Kirsten fondled Squeak’s greying ears and wished that her father and her stepmother would be a little more charitable about other people. There were few secrets in so small a community, and she knew the brunette’s history too. A good ten years had passed since Pamela had married Sir Robert Anstruther, a wealthy businessman more than twice her age. Pamela had returned to the glen that had once belonged to her family but spiteful tongues had been quick to suggest that she was an unscrupulous gold-digger.
For years Sir Robert had owned an old hunting lodge in the glen, which he had used as a holiday home. Keen to take up full-time residence there, Pamela had renovated and extended the lodge. And while her husband had continued to spend most of his time in London, she had often entertained friends at their highland home. When the older man had died, the gossip had become even more malicious after it became clear that Sir Robert had left the lion’s share of his worldly goods to the children of his first marriage.
Kirsten, however, believed that Pamela Anstruther deserved the benefit of the doubt. The other woman had seemed perfectly pleasant to her, and, after all, nobody that Kirsten had heard spreading scandal had ever seen any definitive proof that the lively brunette had been an unfaithful wife or was a gold-digger.
‘I’m really not interested in being photographed,’ Kirsten proclaimed impatiently, four days later, when she was waylaid in the quadrangle that lay behind the service wing.
Jeanie, her hands planted on her ample hips, released a belly laugh at the look of incomprehension on Bruno Judd’s thin mobile face. ‘Mr Judd, if you knew Kirsten’s dad you’d know better than to ask her to model for you in a miniskirt! I’m her friend, and even I haven’t seen her knees or her elbows—so what chance do you think you have?’
‘You don’t understand what an opportunity I would be giving her. There is nothing offensive about my request either. I hate to see potential talent going to waste,’ the older man argued in growing frustration. ‘Kirsten might have what it takes to become a famous model—’
’Might!’ Jeanie emphasised with rich cynicism as the two women walked on, and then she dropped her voice to a whisper, ‘Do you think he could be for real?’
Kirsten shrugged. ‘Who cares? When I leave Strathcraig it’ll be to go to college, so that I can get a better-paying job. I’m not going to waste my time chasing some stupid pipe dream. I bet only one in a thousand girls who want to be a model actually gets to be one.’
‘You’re too sensible,’ the redhead scolded. ‘How’s it going with Lady Posh?’
‘Don’t call her that…she’s been very nice to me,’ Kirsten protested uncomfortably.
‘Odd, that, don’t you think…when everyone else says she’s a total bitch?’
‘I think they’re being very unkind.’
Ignoring Jeanie’s unimpressed snort of disagreement, Kirsten mounted the stairs to the suite Pamela Anstruther used when she was staying at the castle. Kirsten had spent two of the past four days working for Pamela, and she was enjoying the chance to get a break of a few hours here and there from her usual duties. She had answered the phone, run messages and organised the mess on Pamela’s desk. She had also unpacked and ironed the other woman’s clothes and tidied her room. Pamela treated her more like a casual friend than an employee and Kirsten couldn’t help wanting to please her.
A dark frown of disapproval stamped on his lean, powerful face, Shahir watched Bruno Judd finally abandon his attempt to recapture Kirsten’s attention as she crossed the quadrangle. There could be no mystery as to the source of the photographer’s interest, and Shahir was concerned by what he had seen. The older man was not known for his scruples.
As Shahir turned away from the window, wondering whether or not he should intervene, Pamela Anstruther telephoned to request an immediate meeting with him.
A few minutes later Shahir rose from behind his desk to award the highly strung brunette his reluctant attention. ‘What is the problem that you prefer not to discuss on the phone?’
Pamela winced. ‘It’s rather delicate. I’m afraid a piece of jewellery has gone missing from my bedroom.’
Shahir looked grave. ‘The police must be called.’
‘I don’t want to upset the staff by involving the police. Really, the brooch isn’t worth very much!’
‘Monetary value has no bearing on the matter. I will not tolerate theft.’
‘But it is still possible that I have mislaid the stupid thing. Let’s not inform the police yet. I’ll ask Kirsten to search my suite for it.’
‘As you wish.’ For an instant Shahir wondered why she had chosen to approach him before an adequate search had been conducted. ‘Is the guest list complete yet?’
‘Almost. Why don’t you join us for coffee today?’ Pamela suggested brightly. ‘We could make it a working break.’
On the brink of refusal, Shahir hesitated. ‘In thirty minutes, then.’
Kirsten was troubled when Pamela told her about the brooch, because she knew that when anything of value went missing everyone who had entered the castle would come under suspicion. ‘Of course I don’t mind looking for it.’
‘Do this room now,’ the brunette instructed. ‘Then, when the Prince arrives, you can go next door and search my bedroom. Thank you so much. Let’s hope you can find it for me.’
Kirsten was down on her hands and knees on the carpet when she heard the deep dark sibilance of Shahir’s drawl carrying through from the adjoining reception room. Her throat thickened. She sucked in a jerky breath. No matter ho
w hard she tried not to, she thought about him a lot. Not thinking about him sometimes seemed an impossible challenge, for the instant she relaxed her mental vigilance her thoughts would immediately race back to him again.
Her fingers curled round something small and she looked down in bemusement to see the small brooch that had been lying on the carpet.
‘I found it… Oh, sorry!’ Kirsten came to a paralysed halt in the doorway when Shahir sprang upright at her entrance. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.’
‘My goodness—don’t mind that. You found my brooch?’ Pamela hurried over to examine it. ‘I don’t believe it! I went over every inch of that room before you arrived this morning. Where was it?’
‘On the floor by the dressing table.’
‘But that’s impossible!’ The brunette was frowning in apparent astonishment. ‘Of course I’m very grateful not to have to call the police, but I don’t understand how I could have missed seeing it there.’
‘It happens. Congratulations, Kirsten.’ Shahir’s calm intercession stole both women’s attention.
Kirsten’s bewilderment at the other woman’s attitude evaporated from her mind when she let herself look at Shahir properly for the first time. Meeting his brilliant dark golden gaze, she felt her tummy muscles clench, and she could barely breathe for excitement. She studied him, feverishly absorbing every tiny facet of his appearance: the way the sun coming through the window behind him found light in his cropped black hair, the amazing bronze clarity of his eyes, the hint of a smile that stole the gravity and reserve from his darkly handsome features. He was so very tall that she wouldn’t be able to look down on him even if she were to acquire and get to finally wear high heels, she thought abstractedly
‘Yes, I’m very grateful.’ Pamela Anstruther treated Kirsten to a bright smile of approval. ‘Could I have a word with you outside, please? Please excuse us, Your Highness.’
Mystified by the request, Kirsten followed her out into the corridor.
‘I just had to get you out of there.’ The smaller woman dealt Kirsten a scornful appraisal that bore no resemblance to her usual sweetly sympathetic approach. ‘You haven’t got a clue, have you? You were seriously embarrassing Prince Shahir and making a fool of yourself. Don’t you know better than to gape at the man like a stupid schoolgirl?’
Aghast at the unexpected attack, Kirsten stared at the other woman, and then swiftly lowered her shaken gaze. Her stomach rolled with the nausea of extreme mortification. She was appalled that she had let herself down to such an extent that her behaviour had attracted attention. How could she have been so foolish?
But almost as quickly a spirit of defiance stirred within Kirsten. While she would humbly accept full responsibility for a mistake, she felt that there was some excuse for her lack of composure in Prince Shahir’s radius. It was very hard not to be madly aware of the one and only man who had ever kissed her. And, also in her defence, hadn’t he stared at her too? For just as long? Was anyone about to slap his wrist and rake him down for the same offence?
‘Of course I noticed that you had a giant crush on the Prince that day he gave you a lift home. That’s hardly surprising. He’s a staggeringly handsome man. But I’m quite sure that you don’t want people to start laughing at you.’
Kirsten lifted her chin. ‘I don’t think I made myself ridiculous.’
The cold china-blue eyes narrowed at that quiet comeback. ‘I suppose you think I’ve been brutal, but someone had to warn you for your own good. Look, why don’t you finish early today and go home?’
Kirsten did nothing of the sort. One or two of her coworkers had been less than impressed by her newly flexible employment conditions, and she deemed it wisest to head down to the staff locker room in the basement, don her overall and finish up her usual shift.
While she worked she began to revise her initial favourable impression of Pamela Anstruther. Perhaps she had been a touch naive about the imperious brunette, she acknowledged ruefully. Whatever—it was obvious that she had really angered Pamela. She could only suppose that there was truth in the rumour that Pamela was interested in Shahir, for she felt there had been no need for Pamela to humiliate her to that extent.
When she was pulling on her jacket to go home she was told that the housekeeper was looking for her.
‘You’re wanted back in the service wing,’ the older woman informed her ruefully. ‘I did say it was your finishing time, but you’re to wait in Reception there.’
Kirsten was dismayed by the news. Was she in trouble about something? Had she so annoyed Lady Pamela that the brunette wished to dispense with her assistance? She had barely sat down in the waiting area when one of Shahir’s office staff appeared and indicated that she was to follow him. She was mystified right up until the moment she was shown into a large, imposing office and saw Shahir poised by the window.
Her fine facial bones tensed beneath her smooth porcelain skin. She felt torn apart: she wanted to see him and she didn’t want to see him. Her heart hammered behind her breastbone and her green eyes feasted on him while her brain battled against any acknowledgement of the sheer charisma of his dark good looks. But every time she saw him she was afraid it would be the last time, and that honed her interest in him to a desperate edge.
For the merest instant Shahir pictured her slender loveliness spread across his bed, her beautiful hair loose in silver streamers he could bury his fingers in, that luscious soft pink mouth ripe and ready for his. Even as he angrily suppressed that unwelcome flight of erotic fancy his body punished him with a raw masculine response. He was the descendant of a long line of fierce warrior ancestors, and self-denial figured nowhere in his genes, he acknowledged grimly. His hunger for her might be in his blood, like a primitive fever, but he was proud of the fact that only regard for her wellbeing had persuaded him that this meeting was necessary.
Shahir rested steady dark bronze eyes on Kirsten. ‘You must be wondering why I wished to see you?’
‘Yes.’ But the familiar frisson of sweet tightness was already curling in Kirsten’s tummy and she was deliciously tense. He had sought her out again, and that pleased her so much she felt that she was floating ten feet off the ground. If she smiled she knew she might not be able to stop. For the first time ever a sense of her power as a woman was flaring through her, and it shook her to recognise that questionable feeling for what it was.
‘I saw Bruno Judd trying to speak to you.’ His husky dark drawl was incisive in tone. ‘I understand that it is not the first time he has approached you, and I was concerned.’
His explanation took Kirsten entirely by surprise. She came down from her fluffy mental cloud of irresistibility with a resounding crash and her face flamed. She could not credit that she had been so vain as to assume that he had had a more personal motive for wishing to see her.
In an effort to conceal her discomfiture, she burst straight into speech. ‘He wants to take some photographs of me. He thinks I might have what it takes to become a fashion model.’
‘Very well. It will be my pleasure to ensure that you aren’t troubled by Mr Judd again,’ Shahir informed her.
Kirsten was already feeling silly and hurt, and mortified to the depths of her soul, and his high-handed statement of intent sent her flying from miserable awkwardness to angry defensiveness. What right had he to assume that she would not be interested in Bruno Judd’s proposition? She might be forced to accept her father’s tyranny at home, but she saw no reason why anyone else should be allowed to take decisions on her behalf, or assume the right to tell her how she ought to behave.
‘But Mr Judd isn’t troubling me,’ Kirsten countered in flat rebuttal. ‘And if he was I could quite easily send him about his business if I wanted to.’
‘But of course you must want to.’ Shahir’s conviction of his own greater wisdom came as naturally to him as breathing. ‘You’re not streetwise enough to survive in the modelling world. The fashion industry is tough and corrupt, and it favour
s very young teenagers. Judd won’t stand by you if your face fails to make his fortune. He is a talented photographer, but he has few scruples.’
Kirsten flung up her head, green eyes sparkling like polished gemstones. ‘I can look after myself!’
Shahir studied her with dark eyes cool as ice. ‘Please don’t raise your voice to me. I do not tolerate impertinence.’
Kirsten lowered her lashes. She was as chagrined as a child who had been told off and sent to stand in the corner, and embarrassment struggled with resentment inside her. Her usually even temper sparked. She felt angry with the world in general. And the knowledge that she could not speak freely and could not even risk raising her voice had the same effect on her as a gag. The silence fairly sizzled with undertones.
‘My only wish is to protect you from exploitation,’ Shahir murmured with icy gravity.
That cold intonation of his wounded her even more. ‘Maybe I’m more streetwise than I look.’ Hurt and bitterness rose like a tide inside her, and she stole a burning emerald glance at him. ‘Maybe I want to take my chance at becoming a model!’
Her mouth ran dry as she met the smouldering gold of his appraisal. Anticipation coursed through her in a wicked helpless surge: she felt as though her heart was in her throat, choking her with its accelerated beat. A dam-burst of tension was pooled up inside her, like oil waiting for a flame to ignite it.
‘Naturally that must be your decision.’ And with that unemotional assurance Shahir opened the door for her departure.
As a victory it rang hollow for Kirsten. She bent her head, her hands clenching in on themselves with unbearable tension, her emotions erratic. She dimly understood that in teaching her to want him he had destroyed her peace of mind. By making her crave what she could not have he had made her vulnerable to pain and dissatisfied with what she had. Even being polite to him was a challenge for her. Indeed, something very like hatred powered the deep sense of rejection she was experiencing. Never in her life had she felt so bereft. But she walked away with her head held high.