Never Gamble with a Caffarelli. Melanie Milburne

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.