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There would be plenty of time to rub her retroussé little nose in it.
He couldn’t wait.
* * *
Getting a flight to Dharbiri was hard enough. Getting access to where Remy Caffarelli was staying was like trying to get through an airport security check-in with a fistful of grenades or an AK47 in her hand luggage.
Angelique ground her teeth for the tenth time. Did she look like a security threat?
‘I need to speak to Monsieur Caffarelli. It’s a matter of great urgency. A family...er, crisis.’
Her family crisis.
The attendant on the reception desk was cool and disbelieving. Angelique could only suppose he was used to fielding off droves of female wannabes who would give an arm or a leg—or both—to have a few minutes with the staggeringly rich, heart-stoppingly gorgeous Remy Caffarelli.
As if she would ever sink so low.
‘Monsieur Caffarelli is not available right now.’ The attendant gave her a look that immediately categorised her as just another hopeful, starry-eyed wannabe. ‘He is dining with the Crown Prince and his wife, and according to royal protocol he cannot be interrupted unless it is a matter of utmost political urgency.’
Angelique mentally rolled her eyes. It looked like she would have to try another tactic; find some other way of getting under the radar. But she was good at that sort of thing.
Outsmarting. Outmanoeuvring. Outwitting.
She smiled to herself.
That was her speciality.
It didn’t take long to bribe a junior housemaid who recognised Angelique from a magazine shoot she’d done a couple of months ago. All it took was an autograph to get access to Remy’s suite.
The young housemaid had mentioned how important it was Angelique wasn’t seen in Remy’s room other than by Remy himself. Apparently there were strict protocols on women and men socialising without appropriate supervision. As much as it annoyed her to have to hide until she knew for sure it was Remy entering the suite, Angelique decided to play things safe.
She scanned the room for a suitable hiding place.
Behind the curtains? No; she would be seen from outside.
The bathroom? No; a housemaid might come in to clean up the appalling mess Remy had left there.
Angelique looked at the wall-to-ceiling wardrobe running along one wall.
A little clichéd perhaps...
But perfect!
CHAPTER TWO
REMY FELT A strange sense of disquiet as soon as he entered his suite; unease; a sense that the place was not quite the way he had left it. He had cancelled the evening housekeeping visit because he hated people fussing around him all the time. Surely they hadn’t gone against his wishes?
He closed the door and stilled.
Waited.
Listened.
His gaze scanned the luxuriously appointed suite for any signs of a disturbance. His laptop was still open on the desk and the screensaver was the same as when he’d left to have dinner. The can of soda he had half-drunk was still sitting where he’d left it, and a ring of moisture from the condensation had pooled around the bottom.
His gaze went further, to the open door of the palatial bedroom. The bed cover was slightly crumpled from where he had sat while he’d taken a call from one of his office staff in Monte Carlo. One of the towels he’d used when he’d showered was still lying on the floor. The clothes he’d worn earlier were in a messy pile nearby.
It was jet lag, that was all. He gave himself a mental shake, shrugged off his dinner jacket and threw it over the arm of the nearest sofa. He reached up and loosened his tie. It had been feeling a little tight all evening, but rules were rules, and he was happy to go along with them because out here he could forget he was the youngest son of the Caffarelli dynasty.
Here there was no one measuring him up against his older brothers or his impossible-to-please grandfather.
Out here he was as free as a desert falcon. He had the next few days to kick back and chill out in one of the hottest places on earth. Life could be pretty good when he was in the driving seat.
* * *
Angelique held her breath for so long she thought she would faint. But she knew she had to wait until Remy was well and truly inside the suite and in a relaxed mood before she came out of the closet—so to speak.
Not that there were too many of his clothes in the closet.
Most of them seemed to be on the floor of the bedroom or spilling haphazardly out of his lightweight travel bag. The en suite bathroom she’d scoped out earlier was just as bad. He’d left a dark ring of stubble in the marble basin when he’d shaved and there had been yet another wet towel on the floor.
It confirmed what she already knew: Remy Caffarelli was a spoilt playboy with more money than sense who had grown up with servants dancing around to satisfy his every whim.
It was a tiny bit ironic of her to point the finger at such a shiny black kettle as Remy when she too had grown up surrounded by wealth. But at least she knew how to pick up after herself and she could cook a three-course gourmet meal with one arm and her appetite tied behind her back.
Remy had never even boiled an egg.
He had probably never even boiled a kettle!
Angelique clenched her fists and her jaw.
He just boiled her blood.
She heard him moving about the suite. She heard the ring pull of a can being opened. It couldn’t be alcohol, as this was a totally dry province. There were stiff penalties for bringing in or consuming contraband liquor.
She heard the click of his laptop being activated and then the sound of his fingers typing on the keyboard. She heard him a give a deep, throaty chuckle as if something he’d just read online or in an email had amused him.
Her belly gave a little flip-flop movement.
He had a very nice laugh. He had a very nice smile. He had a very nice mouth. She had spent most of her teenage years fantasising about that mouth.
Stop it right now, you silly little fool!
You are not going to think about his mouth, or any other part of his totally hot, totally amazing body.
Just as Angelique was about to step out of the wardrobe, she heard a sharp, businesslike knock at the door of the suite. Her heart gave a jerky kick against her breastbone.
Was he expecting someone?
One of his star-struck wannabes, perhaps? Oh God! If she had to listen to him having bed-wrecking sex with some bimbo who had been smuggled into his room...
‘Monsieur Caffarelli?’ an official-sounding voice called out. ‘We wish to have a word with you.’
She heard Remy’s footsteps as he moved across to open the door. ‘Yes?’ he said in that charming, ‘I’m happy to help you’ way he had down to a science.
The official cleared his throat as if he found what he was about to say quite difficult. ‘We have received some information that you have a young woman in your room.’
‘Pardon?’ Remy’s predominantly French accent made Angelique’s belly do another little tumble.
‘As you are well aware, Monsieur Caffarelli, the dictates of our province state that no single woman must be unchaperoned with a man unless she is his sister or his wife. We have reason to believe you have someone in your room who does not fit either of those categories.’
‘Are you out of your mind?’ Remy sounded incredulous. ‘I know the rules. I’ve been coming here long enough. I would never do anything to insult Sheikh Muhtadi. Surely his officials—including you—know that?’
‘A junior member of our housekeeping staff has tearfully confessed to allowing a young woman access to your room,’ the official said. ‘We wish to check on whether this is true or not.’
‘Go on. Check.’ Remy sounded supremely, arrogantly confident. ‘You won’t find anyone in here but me.’
Angelique heard the door of the suite being flung open and her breath screeched to a skidding halt in her throat. Her heart was pounding like a sledgehammer on a rocky surface. It actually felt like it was going to leap out of her chest. She shrank back inside the closet, hoping the shadows of the space would conceal her. She even closed her eyes, just like a little child playing hide and seek, thinking that if she couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see her.
She heard firm footsteps moving about the suite, doors being opened and closed. The curtains were swished back. Even the drawers of Remy’s desk were opened and then shut.
A drawer? They thought she could fit in a drawer?
‘See?’ Remy’s tone had a touch of irritability to it now. ‘There’s no one here but me.’
‘The closet.’ The more senior of the two officials spoke. Angelique could almost picture him giving a brisk nod towards her hidey-hole. ‘Check the bedroom closet.’
‘Are you joking?’ Remy coughed out a laugh. ‘Do you really think I would do something as clichéd as that?’
The mirrored door slid back on its tracks. Angelique raised her right hand and gave a little fingertip wave. ‘Surprise!’
* * *
Remy could not believe his eyes. He blinked to make sure he wasn’t imagining things. That could not be Angelique Marchand in his closet.
He opened his eyes and looked again.
It was.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ He glared at her so fiercely his eyes ached. ‘What are the hell are you doing in my room? In my closet?’
She stepped out of the closet as if she was stepping out on to one of the catwalks she frequented all over Europe. She moved like a sinuous cat, all legs, arms, high, pert breasts and pouting full-lipped mouth. Her distinctive grey-blue eyes gave him a reproving look. ‘That’s not a very nice welcome, Remy. I thought you had better manners than that.’
Remy had never thought he had a temper until he’d had to deal with Angelique. He could feel his rage building up inside him like a cauldron on the boil. No one made him angrier than she did. She was willful, spoilt and a little too determined to get her own way. Did she have no sense of protocol or politeness? What the hell was she doing here? And in his room?
Did she have any idea of the trouble she could get him into?
She had made him look like a liar. Trust was everything in a place like Dharbiri. He might be a friend of the Crown Prince but flouting the rules out here was a definite no-no, friend or foe.
He could be deported.
Charged.
The blood suddenly ran ice-cold in his veins.
Flogged.
‘You had better have a very good explanation for why you’re in my room,’ he said through gritted teeth.
She swept her thick, wavy, glossy black mane of hair over one slim shoulder. ‘I came to see you about my house. You have to give it back.’ She nailed him with a look that was diamond-hard. ‘I’m not leaving your side until you sign me over the deeds to Tarrantloch.’
‘Monsieur Caffarelli,’ the older official spoke in a stern ‘don’t mess with me’ tone. ‘Would you please verify if this young woman is personally known or related to you? If not we will have her immediately evicted and the authorities will deal with her accordingly.’
Deal with her? Remy didn’t like the sound of that. As much as he hated Angelique, he could not stand by and see her come to any harm. He took a deep breath and put on his best ‘let’s be cool about this’ smile. ‘I’m afraid there’s been a little mix-up. I had no idea my fiancée was going to surprise me by turn—’
‘Your fiancée?’ Angelique and the senior official spoke in unison.
Remy gave the official a conciliatory smile. ‘We’ve been trying to keep our engagement a secret. The press make such of fuss of this stuff at home.’ He gave a Gallic shrug. ‘You know how it is.’
The official straightened his shoulders, his expression as formal as a drill sergeant. ‘This young woman may well be your fiancée, but it is against the laws of our land for her to be alone with you without a chaperone.’
‘So, we’ll get a chaperone,’ Remy said. ‘She won’t be with me long in any case, will you, ma chérie?’
Angelique’s eyes narrowed to hairpin slits but her voice had a false sort of sing-song quality to it that grated on Remy’s already overstretched nerves. ‘Only for as long as it takes, mon trésor.’
The official puffed himself up to his not considerable height. ‘Due to the circumstances of your fiancée’s...ahem...surprise visit, neither of you will be permitted to leave the province until you are legally married.’
‘Married?’ Angelique had joined Remy in a choked gasp of horror.
‘You’re joking?’ Angelique gaped at the official with wide shocked eyes. ‘You have to be joking!’
‘He’s not joking,’ Remy muttered just low enough for her to hear it. ‘Go along with it. Try and keep cool.’
Keep cool? Who was he kidding? He didn’t feel cool. He’d never had to think so fast on his feet in his life. Pretending she was his fiancée had just popped into his head. And it still might not be enough to get them over the line.
‘I’m not marrying you!’ She flashed him a livid, blue-lightning look. ‘I’d rather die!’
‘Yes, well, you just might get that choice,’ he said. ‘We’re not in France, Italy or England right now. Didn’t you check out the Smart Traveller website before you came?’
Her throat rose and fell. ‘I didn’t think. I just...’
‘Not thinking is something you do remarkably well.’ Remy gave her a dressing-down look. ‘You’ve made a lifetime’s work of it.’
Her small hands clenched into tight fists and her eyes gave him another deadly glare. ‘I thought you were best friends with the Crown Prince. Can’t he do something?’
‘Afraid not.’ Remy had already had this debate with his friend during university. ‘The royal family have a lot of power but not enough to overrule laws of the elder tribesmen of the province.’
‘But that’s ridiculous!’
