An Heir Fit For A King. Эбби Грин

      Leila suddenly felt hot and claustrophobic. He was looking at her too intensely, and then his gaze dropped to where the swells of her breasts were pushed up by her crossed arms. She took them down hurriedly and reached for the nearest bottle of perfume, only half registering the label.

      She thrust it towards him. ‘This is one of our most popular scents. It’s floral-based with a hint of citrus. It’s light and zesty—perfect for casual wear.’

      Alix Saint Croix shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think that’ll do. I want something much earthier. Sensuous.’

      Leila put down the bottle with a clatter and reached for another bottle. ‘This might be more appropriate, then. It’s got fruity top notes, but a woody, musky base.’

      He cocked his head and said consideringly, ‘It’s so hard to know unless you can smell it.’

      Leila’s shirt felt too tight. She wanted to undo a top button. What was wrong with her?

      She turned back to the counter and took a smelling strip out of a jar, ready to spray it so that he could smell it. And go. She wanted him gone. He was too disturbing to her usually very placid equilibrium.

      But before she could spray, a large hand wrapped around her arm, stopping her.

      Heat zinged straight to her belly. She looked up at him.

      ‘Not on a piece of paper. I think you’d agree that a scent has to be on the skin to be best presented?’

      Feeling slightly drugged and stupid, Leila said, ‘It’s a woman’s scent.’

      He cocked a brow again. ‘So spray some on your wrist and I’ll smell it.’

      The shock that reverberated through Leila was as if he’d just said Take off all your clothes, please.

      She had to struggle to compose herself, get a grip. She’d often sprayed perfume on her own skin so that someone could get a fuller sense of it. But this man had made the request sound almost indecent.

      Praying that her hand wouldn’t shake, Leila took the top off the bottle and pulled up her sleeve to spray some of the scent. When the liquid hit the underside of her wrist she shivered slightly. It felt absurdly sensual all of a sudden.

      Alix Saint Croix still had a hand wrapped around her arm and now he moved it down to take the back of her hand in his, wrapping long fingers around hers. He moved his head down to smell the perfume, his dark head coming close to her breast.

      But he kept his eyes on her, and from this close she could see lighter flecks of grey, like silver mercury. Leila’s breath stopped when she felt his breath feather along her skin. Those lips were far too close to the centre of her palm, which was clammy.

      He seemed to consider the scent until Leila’s nerves twanged painfully. Her belly was a contracted ball of nerves.

      A movement over his head caught her eye and she saw a sleek, tall blonde emerge from the back of the car with a phone clamped to her ear. She was wearing an indecently tight, slinky dress and a ridiculously ineffectual jacket for the cool autumn weather.

      He must have picked up on her distraction and straightened to look out of the window too. Leila noticed a tension come into his body as his girlfriend—mistress—saw him and gesticulated with clear irritation, all while still talking on the phone.

      ‘Your...er...mistress is waiting for you.’ Leila’s voice felt scratchy.

      He still had his hand wrapped around hers and now let her go. Leila tucked it well out of reach.

      He morphed before her eyes into someone much cooler, indecipherable. Perversely, it didn’t comfort her.

      ‘I’ll take it.’

      Leila blinked at him.

      ‘The perfume,’ he expanded, and for a moment a glint of what they’d just shared made his eyes flash.

      Leila jerked into action. ‘Of course. It’ll only take me a moment to package it up.’

      She moved to get a bag and paper and quickly and inexpertly packaged up the perfume, losing all of her customary cool. When she had it ready she handed it over and avoided his eye. A wad of cash landed on the counter but Leila wasn’t about to check it.

      And then, without another word, he turned around and strode out again, catching his...whatever she was...by the arm and hustling her back into the car.

      His scent lingered on the air behind him, and in a very delayed reaction Leila assimilated the various components with an expertise that was like a sixth sense—along with the realisation that his scent had impacted on her as soon as he’d walked in, on a level that wasn’t rational. Someplace else. Somewhere she wasn’t used to scents impacting.

      It was a visceral reaction. Primal. His scent was clean, with a hint of something very male that most certainly hadn’t come out of a bottle. The kind of evocative scent that would make someone a fortune if they could bottle it: the pure essence of a virile male in his prime. Earthy. Musky.

      A pulse between Leila’s legs throbbed and she pressed her thighs together, horrified.

      What was wrong with her? The man was a king, for God’s sake, and he had a mistress that he was unashamed about. She should be thinking good riddance, but what she was thinking was much more confused.

      It made alarm bells ring. It reminded her of another man who had come into the shop and who had very skilfully set about wooing her—only to turn into a nasty stranger when he’d realised that Leila had no intention of giving him what he wanted...which had been very far removed from what Leila had wanted.

      She looked stupidly at the money on the counter for a moment, before realising that he’d vastly overpaid her for the perfume, but all she could think about was that last enigmatic look he’d shot her, just before he’d ducked into the car—a look that had seemed to say he’d be back. And soon.

      And in light of their conversation, and the way he’d made her feel, Leila knew she shouldn’t be remotely intrigued. But she was. And not even the ghost of memories past could stop it.

      * * *

      A little later, after Leila had locked up and gone upstairs to the small flat she’d shared with her mother all her life, she found herself gravitating to the window, which looked out over the Place Vendôme. The opera glasses that her mother had used for years to check out the comings and goings at the Ritz were sitting nearby, and for a second Leila felt an intense pang of grief for her mother.

      Leila pushed aside the past and picked up the glasses and looked through them, seeing the usual flurry of activity when someone arrived at the hotel in a flash car. She tilted the glasses upwards to where the rooms were—and her whole body froze when she caught a glimpse of a familiar masculine figure against a brightly lit opulent room.

      She trained the glasses on the sight, hating herself for it but unable to look away. It was him. Alix Saint Croix. The overcoat was gone. And the jacket. He had his back to her and was dressed in a waistcoat and shirt and trousers. Hands in his pockets were drawing the material of his trousers over his very taut and muscular backside.

      Instantly Leila felt damp heat coil down below and squeezed her legs together.

      He was looking at something in front of him, and Leila tensed even more when the woman he’d been with came into her line of vision. She’d taken off the jacket and the flimsy dress was now all she wore. Her body was as sleek and toned as a throughbred horse. Leila vaguely recognised her as a world-famous lingerie model.

      She could see that she held something in her hand, and when it glinted she realised it was the bottle of perfume. The woman sprayed it on her wrist and lifted it to smell, a sexy smile curling her wide mouth upwards.

      She sprayed more over herself and Leila winced slightly. The trick with perfume was always less is more. And then she threw the bottle aside, presumably to a nearby chair or