The Prince's Chambermaid

Several things happened at once. Firstly, an alarm began to vibrate in the pocket of his jeans—a movement which corresponded with the blonde snatching her hand away with a little yelp. And somewhere in the distance, a telephone began to ring.

Through a haze of humiliation and a terrible unfamiliar aching sensation in her breasts, Cathy took a step back and stared up at the man in horror, her cheeks burning as the memory of his hot, hard ridge seemed to be imprinted on her fingers.

‘Wh-what the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded tremblingly, though deep down she knew she should have been asking herself the very same question. Why had she let this stranger take such liberties with her?

Xaviero gave a scornful laugh as his gaze raked over her swollen breasts—their tips now clearly outlined against her ill-fitting overall, just crying out for the feel of his fingers and his lips. Frustrated desire quickly became selfcontempt. Was he so hungry for a woman that he should resort to behaviour like this? Like some teenage boy who had never known sex before?

‘I should have thought that was obvious,’ he grated. ‘I was giving you what your body was clearly crying out for and still is, by the look of you. Sadly, I don’t have time to oblige you, at least not right now—although, frankly, I prefer my women to put up a little more fight.’ His mouth hardened with a mixture of derision and frustration as he fought the desire to start kissing her all over again. ‘Did no one ever teach you that when something is given so carelessly it loses much of its appeal?’

Cathy felt a wave of injustice wash over her. He probably wouldn’t believe her if she told him that she’d never behaved in such a way with a man before and yet why should she take all the blame for what had just happened? He had been the one who’d started it—who had begun to kiss her with such practised skill that she had melted in his arms like a piece of molten wax.

‘I suppose you consider yourself to be blameless?’ she demanded, wanting to slap him around his arrogant face. But he obviously saw the itching temptation in her trembling fingers, because he shook his dark head, the gold of his eyes almost completely obscured by twin circles of black fury.

‘Don’t even think about it, cara,’ he warned.

The thinly veiled threat brought her to her senses as a sudden and acute sense of shame washed over her. But it was too late for redress because, with one final look of frustrated contempt, the golden-eyed man turned and walked from the room without another word.

For several disbelieving moments she just stood there until, in the distance, Cathy heard the muffled sound of tyres squealing over gravel and she hurried over to the window to see two expensive black cars racing down the drive at high speed. Automatically, she registered the sound of their powerful engines, and frowned. Now where had they come from, and where were they disappearing to? she wondered dazedly.

Trying desperately to compose herself, she smoothed her hands down over her hair before walking back into the reception area—to find a plump middle-aged man standing by the desk, wearing paint-covered overalls and holding a large notebook in his hand. He looked up with a wide smile when she appeared.

‘Can I…can I help you?’ asked Cathy—though some chilling sixth sense began to clamour out a terrible warning in her head.

‘I certainly hope so,’ said the man, in a cheerful Irish accent. ‘I’m the painter. Well, the foreman—to be exact. And I’ve come to measure up. So where would you like me to start?’

Chapter Two

STANDING in the small bedroom of her cottage, Cathy stared into the mirror and shook her head in mute horror. How could she possibly go to work, looking like this? Like…one of those women you sometimes saw falling out of the pub late on a Friday and Saturday night. The kind of woman who poured herself into her clothes without stopping to consider whether they might be the right size. Yet surely the dressmaker couldn’t have got her measurements wrong when she’d been for, not one, but two fittings?

She did a little swivel to regard her back view, and shuddered—because from the back it looked even worse, if that were possible. The material clung to her bottom and seemed to draw cruel attention to its over-generous curves.

Her nerves were already shot to pieces and picking up her new uniform from the dressmaker’s had only made her precarious mental state seem a million times worse. She’d put it on with trembling fingers but it seemed unsuitable no matter what angle she came at it from. Too small and too tight—the man-made fabric strained over the lush lines of her breasts and made them look absolutely enormous.