His Temporary Cinderella: Ordinary Girl in a Tiara / Kiss the Bridesmaid / A Bravo Homecoming
been prepared for awkwardness, not for sweetness. Not for softness a man could lose himself in if he wasn’t careful.
The memory made Philippe uncomfortable. He didn’t do losing himself. But he’d been taken unawares by the way the dress slipped over her skin. The heat shooting through him had sucked the air from his brain, and the message to step back and keep his cool hadn’t reached his hands.
Or his mouth.
Or the rest of him.
Philippe didn’t understand it. Caro Cartwright ought to be the last woman to have that kind of effect on him. She wasn’t even pretty, and as for her clothes …! Today she wore jeans and boots, with a plain white T-shirt, which wouldn’t have looked too bad if she hadn’t spoiled it by wearing an oversize man’s dinner jacket over the top, its sleeves rolled up to show a brilliant scarlet lining. At least she was tall enough to carry it off with a certain panache, he allowed grudgingly.
No, Caro wasn’t his type at all.
And yet there she stood, blue eyes wary and all that hair blowing around her face, and his heart unmistakably lifted.
Odd.
‘There you are,’ he said, pushing the discomfited feeling aside. It was too late to change his mind now. He went down the steps to greet her. ‘I was beginning to wonder if you’d changed your mind.’
‘I did think about it,’ Caro confessed. ‘But then I heard from mutual friends that George is worried I might be going off the rails. He’s obviously found out who you were, and he thinks you’ve got a bad reputation,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Now he’s afraid that I’m going to do something stupid and get hurt—and, as we all know, he’s the only one allowed to hurt me! So I thought I’d come after all, and send lots of messages home to make sure he knows what a glamorous time I’m having while Melanie is going to the supermarket and making George his tea the way he likes it. Then we’ll see who’s having the most fun, fun, fun!’
‘Excellent,’ said Philippe. ‘In that case, you’d better come aboard.’
Caro was deeply impressed by the inside of the plane, which was fitted out with six plush leather seats, wall-to-wall carpeting and a lot of polished wood. Yan was already there, sitting in the cockpit.
‘Take a seat,’ Philippe said. ‘Now you’re here, we’re ready to go.’
Caro looked around. ‘Where’s the pilot?’
‘You’re looking at him.’
‘You’re not a pilot!’
‘I’m not? Then we’re going to be in trouble because there’s no one else to fly the plane.’
‘I’m serious,’ said Caro uneasily as she sat down in the seat nearest the front. ‘Are you sure you know how to fly?’
Philippe settled himself in the cockpit and began flicking switches. ‘Sure. I did a five-minute course a few years ago.’
‘Really?’
‘No, of course not really!’ he said, exasperated. ‘You don’t think they let you in the air unless you’re properly qualified, do you?’
‘They might if you can stick Prince in front of your name,’ said Caro with a dark look, although she was reassured to see Yan beside him. Surely he wouldn’t let Philippe fly unless he knew what he was doing? ‘The rules don’t usually apply to people like you.’
‘Well, in this case they do,’ said Philippe. ‘I’ve got a licence, I assure you. What do you think I’ve been doing for the past few years?’
‘I don’t know. Playing polo?’
‘Pah! Who wants to get on a horse when you can fly a plane?’
‘What, you mean you just get in your plane and fly around in the sky?’ It seemed a bit pointless to Caro.
‘No, I fly to places,’ he said, his hands busy checking dials and switches. Caro just hoped he knew what he was doing.
‘What places?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘I go wherever a plane is needed. I’ve got a friend who organises logistics for a number of aid organisations. They might need a development worker transported in a remote village, or tents dropped after an earthquake … if you haven’t got the time or the money to get through the bureaucratic red tape, I’m your man.’
Philippe glanced over his shoulder at Caro. ‘It gives me something to do when I’m bored,’ he said, as if he feared he might have given too much of himself away. ‘And it’s more fun than polo! Now, fasten your seat belt while we finish the pre-flight check here.’
He turned back to the controls. ‘Er, what’s this red button again?’ he pretended to ask Yan. ‘Oh, right, the eject seat. Oops, better avoid that one! So the start button must be … oh, yes, I remember now. All right in the back there?’ he called over his shoulder to Caro.
‘Ha, ha, ha,’ she said in a monotone. ‘That’s a fake laugh, by the way!’
‘Relax,’ he said. ‘I hardly ever crash. Besides, I thought you’d decided to have fun, fun, fun, and what could be more fun than flying around in a private jet?’
‘It won’t be much fun when the plane crashes,’ she grumbled.
The plane didn’t crash, of course, but it felt as if something even more disastrous was happening inside her as she watched Philippe push the throttle remorselessly forwards. His long hands were absolutely steady as they shot along the runway, and Caro’s stomach dropped away as the plane lifted into the air.
She was more impressed than she wanted to admit. Why had she assumed that he had been living an idle trust fund existence? She should have realised that a man like Philippe would be bored with nothing to do but party all day. There was that reckless edge to him that she had noticed even as a boy. It was all too easy to imagine him flying planes into war zones, dodging bullets or volcanic ash or pot-holed runways. He would thrive on the danger.
Philippe had been very quick to dismiss what he did, Caro had noticed. Something to do when I’m bored, he had said. There must be plenty of other jaded rich people out there, but how many of them would risk their lives for others the way he did? Philippe could get his thrills racing cars or helicopter skiing or doing any of the other extreme sports that catered to the very rich and very bored, but instead he flew his plane where it was needed. No doubt he did enjoy it, but Caro thought it was more than possible that he would go anyway.
She liked that about him, and she liked the fact that he clearly didn’t publicise what he was doing. He wasn’t like so many other celebrities, using charity work to raise their own profiles. Caro wondered if even Lotty knew.
From where she sat, she could see the hard edge of Philippe’s jaw, the flash of his smile as he turned to speak to Yan beside him. Caro could see one powerfully muscled arm. Her eyes drifted from the dark, flat hairs on his forearm to the broad, strong wrist, and on to the firm fingers holding the joystick, and a disquieting ache stirred low in her belly.
She made herself look away, out of the window. The seat was pressing into the small of her back as they climbed up through great blowsy drifts of clouds, up into the blue. There was no going back to real life now. Instead, she would spend the next two months as Philippe’s girlfriend. Caro’s eyes slid back to his profile, etched now against the bright sky. She could see the creases at the edge of his eye, the corner of his mouth, and remembering how warm and sure it had felt against her own made her stomach tilt anew.
Two months beside him. Two months trying not to notice the cool set of his mouth or remember the feel of his hands.
The squirmy feeling in Caro’s belly intensified. Nerves, she decided at first, but when she looked out at the clouds and felt the plane soaring upwards and thought about the weeks ahead she finally recognised the feeling for what it was.
Excitement.