Giroud.’
Straightening his tie, he left the room.
Alone, Catalina closed her eyes and took a long, deep breath.
The screams in her head rang out.
Placing a protective hand to her stomach, she forced herself to look in her dressing-table mirror. Bright red finger marks marred both her cheeks.
There was no way to fix the damage before Marion came to her rooms. All the same, she applied foundation with shaking hands, hoping to tone down the worst of it.
Breathe, Catalina, breathe.
When Nathaniel had left her room that morning three weeks ago, she had felt an inexplicable wrench to see the door close behind him.
She hadn’t heard from him since and she hadn’t expected to. They had both known it could only ever be for one night.
But she’d been aware of him for years.
Friends with the Kalliakis Princes, if not Catalina’s own brother, Nathaniel had often attended the same functions she’d been at; a tall magnetic figure her eyes had always been drawn to. She’d experienced a little pull in the pit of her stomach whenever she’d met his eye and experienced an even greater tug whenever they’d greeted each other with the kiss on both cheeks that everyone used. But she had never allowed herself to think anything about it. They were part of the same social network but they were not friends. Male friends were not permitted for a princess from the House of Fernandez.
Until Helios’s wedding, when Nathaniel had taken it upon himself to act as her guardian angel on the day that should have been her wedding, she had never exchanged more than pleasantries with him.
He was intensely private, so she knew little about him other than that his parents had died in an accident when he was very young—she didn’t know the details—and that he’d been raised by an uncle and had attended the same boarding school as Dominic and the Kalliakis Princes. He owned a string of hotels and business developments, along with the Club Giroud, a private members club for the most affluent, which had made him one of France’s richest men and a self-made billionaire before he’d turned thirty. Gregarious and charming, he was a notorious womaniser and hell-raiser, someone who enjoyed the lifestyle his wealth brought to its fullest extent.
But he’d shown a different side to her that day. He’d seen that she was vulnerable and had made it his mission to get her through the wedding with a smile on her face. Whether his motive from the outset had been to bed her, she didn’t care. She’d wanted him too. For the one and only time in her life she’d thrown caution to the wind and embraced a side she’d spent a lifetime suppressing.
Even if she hadn’t been a princess and he a commoner whom her brother detested, she would never have expected more than one night. Commitment was an alien concept to him.
But she hadn’t been able to get him from her mind. Every time she closed her eyes she could see him. She could taste him. She could feel his skin under her fingers. In the privacy of her bed she would relive their night together, playing it over like a movie in her head. Every touch. Every caress.
She had assumed the next time she would see him would be at some function or other. She had assumed he would greet her with the usual kiss and that maybe his hand would press into her side a little longer than normal, a subtle acknowledgement of their time together. She had assumed she would hug their secret to herself for the rest of her life.
Since she could remember, it had been made plain her virginity was sacred, something to be saved for her wedding day. For twenty-five years she had accepted this.
She was a princess. She had a life of wealth and privilege. She was a representative of the House of Fernandez, expected to marry into a family that would strengthen her own family’s cultural links and power. She was expected to behave with decorum and propriety at all times and not once had she failed in this. She had never whispered a word of complaint that her brother was allowed to do whatever he wanted with whomever he wanted and neither had she complained that free spirit Isabella’s bratty behaviour was indulged by their brother and father alike.
Dominic had never raised a finger to Isabella.
Not once in her life had Catalina ever done anything that wasn’t for the good of the House of Fernandez. Not once.
And then she had.
She had cast aside duty for one forbidden night.
And now she would be punished for that moment of blissful madness for the rest of her life.
What she didn’t know and couldn’t begin to predict was what that punishment would entail.
* * *
Christmas was the one time of year Nathaniel detested. All that fake bonhomie, the commercialisation, the forced proximity with so-called loved ones. All of it.
It brought home as nothing else did that the three people Nathaniel had loved with all his heart were gone, had been dead now for twenty-eight years. On Christmas morning, the time traditionally spent opening presents and leaving a trail of discarded wrapping paper everywhere, the loss felt as fresh as it had the first morning he’d woken without them.
This year he’d made the decision to spend the period in Monte Cleure rather than in any of his other homes. Other than the fact it was the site of his most current development, Monte Cleure had a relatively temperate winter climate, situated as it was on France’s southern border with Spain, meaning there was little to no chance of snow.
He’d avoided snow for twenty-eight years.
The only sign of festivity in his apartment was the empty bottle of Scotch on the floor by the sofa, which was where he found himself when he was rudely awakened early on Boxing Day morning by the shrill tone of the intercom.
He sat bolt upright, clutching his pounding head and cursing himself for not making it to his bed. If he hadn’t given his household staff four days off each to spend the holidays with their families, he would let one of them deal with the caller.
Stumbling to his feet, he punched the intercom.
‘Yes?’ he growled. He’d left instructions with the concierge that he was not to be disturbed until tomorrow when the madness of Christmas was over.
‘Monsieur Giroud, His Highness Prince Dominic from the House of Fernandez is here to see you.’
‘What does he want?’
The concierge’s voice dropped to a scared murmur. ‘It is not my place to ask.’ Nathaniel might be the boss and owner of the entire building, but Dominic was heir to the throne of the entire country.
Nathaniel left unsaid his thought that the Prince might not be such a self-satisfied moron if people asked questions of him.
‘Send him up.’
While he waited for the elevator to bring Dominic to him, he staggered to the kitchen and downed a pint of water.
Whatever the Prince wanted could not be good.
A loud rap on the door announced his arrival.
Nathaniel pulled the door open. The burly figure of the heir to the Monte Cleure throne strode in, followed closely by a bodyguard.
‘What can I do for you, Dominic?’ he asked, deliberately not using his title. Then, also deliberately, he turned his back and walked through to the living area. ‘Here to celebrate some festive cheer with me?’
When there was no answer, he said, ‘Can I offer you a drink?’
‘From the look and smell of you, you’ve already had enough to drink,’ Dominic sneered. He had the air of a junior silverback making a show of asserting its dominance. If his head didn’t hurt so much, Nathaniel would find it amusing.
‘If I’d known you were coming I would have showered. So, drink?’
‘I’m not here for a social visit.’