Prince of Montéz, Pregnant Mistress. Sabrina Philips

offered him her hand and answered him in a voice she didn’t recognise as her own. ‘You’re on.’

      As she stood up the alcohol went to her head, and for a second she closed her eyes, breathing deeply. The air felt thick, the heady beat of music vibrating through every cell in her body. She’d loved this song as a teenager. David had hated it. Why had she never played it since?

      ‘Come on.’ Leon snaked his hand around her waist and pulled her to him before he had time to consider whether or not this was such a good idea. He wanted her with a hungriness that unnerved him. He watched her mouthing the words of the song and, unable to drag his eyes away from her full lips, wondered if for once in his life he was going to be incapable of sticking to his own rules.

      Always wanting more, he’d leave you longing for…

      The lyrics seemed to reach into her soul. He seemed to reach into her soul. She had never met anyone like him. She had only known him five minutes and yet—clichéd thought it sounded—it almost felt like he knew her better than she had known herself, about everything she’d been missing out on. Being pressed up against him was intoxicating, the smell of him, the touch of him. She ran her hands up his muscular back, locked them behind his neck and allowed the tension to leave her body as he moved easily, her body following every movement his made.

      ‘Did I tell you how sexy you are?’ he whispered in her ear, the warmth of his breath sending an inordinate level of heat flooding through her.

      He did this all the time; she was sure he did. Which was why it was crazy. She’d never done anything like this in her life, and she didn’t know what she was playing at now. But, though in her head she knew she was probably a fool to continue, right now her body was the only thing she could hear—and it was thrumming with a whole host of new sensations, all clamouring to be explored.

      ‘Did I tell you how sexy you are?’ she whispered nervously, grateful that she couldn’t see his face, hoping he couldn’t sense that she was trembling all over.

      ‘No,’ he whispered, drawing back to brush his lips just below her ear. ‘You most definitely didn’t mention that.’

      She couldn’t bear it. His mouth was playing havoc with the sensitive skin of her neck. She needed to kiss him. Properly. Shakily, she guided his head with her hand until their faces were level, not knowing where her confidence had come from. Had he known if he touched her like that she wouldn’t be able to resist him? Probably. But right now she didn’t care. She just wanted to kiss him.

      His lips brushed hers, painfully slowly, then opened hungrily. He tasted decadent, like dark chocolate and cinnamon. He ran his hand gently down her spine, slowing over the curve of her bottom. It was the kind of kiss that would have been utterly inappropriate in an exclusive little wine bar. To Cally’s shock it had a lot more in common with the display of primal need they had witnessed in the street outside, but to her astonishment she wanted more. She told herself it was down to the charge of the music, the distinctive scent of his hypnotic, balmy cologne. But she could blame it on exterior forces all she liked; the truth was that it was kissing him that was explosive. Suddenly she forgot everything else—the fact that he was a man she had only just met, the fact that she was bound to disappoint him, that this could only lead to heartache—because her need for him was overwhelming, and he seemed to feel it too.

      ‘You want to get out of here?’

      She took a deep breath. ‘Yes, I do.’

      So, Leon thought, fighting his own desire, there was the concrete proof that her word could not be trusted. That was the rule.

      Cally’s cheeks were hot and her heart was pounding as he threaded her through the other couples on the dance floor and out onto the pavement, hailing a cab.

      He opened the door for her as it rolled up. Then he coolly shut the door behind her and remained standing on the pavement.

      She wound down the window, her brows knitted together in bewilderment. ‘I thought we were getting out of here?’

      His face was grim. ‘No, you are. One drink was all you wanted, wasn’t it, Cally?’

      Cally felt a new fire burning in her cheeks as Leon sigalled for the driver to go and she suddenly realised what was happening.

      ‘Bastard!’ she shouted.

      But the driver had already pulled away, and all she could hear was the climax of the song as it poured down the street.

       In a flash he was gone. It happened so soon, what could you do?

      Chapter Three

      AS CALLY rested her head on the window of the train from King’s Cross back to Cambridge, the sky-rise landscape shrinking to a patchwork of green, she gave up sifting her memories for debris and concluded that, no, she had never felt more ashamed than she did right now.

      She, Cally Greenway, had almost had a one-night stand with a total stranger.

      And, what was worse, a tiny part of her almost wished she had.

      No, she argued inwardly, of course she didn’t. She just wished he hadn’t subjected her to that hideous rejection, or at the very least that she’d been able to understand why he had.

      Had the earth-shattering heat of their kiss, which she’d thought was mutual, actually been so one-sided that he’d realised she would be useless in bed? Or was it all part of a game he played to prove that he was so drop-dead gorgeous he could make any woman abandon her morals if he chose?

      Cally spent the next week wavering between the two theories, subsequently caught between reawakened insecurities and fresh anger. In the end, frustration with herself for even caring made anger prevail. She should be glad thatshe’d had a lucky escape, and the reason for his insulting behaviour shouldn’t even matter when he was no one to her, a no one whom she was never likely to see ever again.

      So why, whenever she thought back to that night, did that moment in the taxi hurt even more than losing the commission had done? Cally pressed her lips together in shame, but then released them. It was simply because up until that point she had thought that what she’d lost was her dream job. He had made her see that she’d spent so long with her eye on that goal alone that she’d sacrificed every other aspect of her life in the process. Yes, she thought, unwilling to dwell on the other broken dreams his rejection had resurrected, that was it. Finding herself devastated that she would never have Leon’s arms around her again just proved how long it had been since she’d actually got out there and spent any time in the company of anyone but herself, and occasionally her family.

      Well, he might have reinforced her belief about the futility of trusting the opposite sex, but she had to acknowledge that maybe it was about time she accepted the odd invitation to go out now and again, instead of always having a well-rehearsed list of things she had to do instead. Particularly since the short list of restorations she had lined up for the next three months was hardly going to claim all of her time, she thought despondently as she booted up her computer to see whether her inbox heralded any new enquiries on that front today. It was all very well, deciding to get a social life whilst she worked out what to do next, but it was hardly feasible if it meant not being able to eat.

      Three new mails. The first was a promotional email from the supplier she used for her art materials, which she deleted without opening, knowing she couldn’t afford anything above and beyond her regular order. The second was from her sister Jen, who was back from her family holiday in Florida, desperate to know if the little black dress she’d leant her had been as lucky for Cally as it had been for her when she’d worn it to the journalism awards last month and scooped first prize. Cally shook her head, wondering how her sister managed to pull off being a high-flying career woman as well as a wonderful wife and mother, and resolved to reply with the bad news when she felt a little less like a failure in comparison.

      The third email was from a sender with a foreign-sounding name she didn’t recognise. She clicked on it warily.

      Dear