Prince of Montéz, Pregnant Mistress. Sabrina Philips

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      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 Miss Greenway

      Your skills as an art conservator have recently been brought to the attention of the Prince of Montéz. As a result, His Royal Highness wishes to discuss a possible restoration. To be considered, you are required to attend the royal palace in person in three days’ time. Your tickets will be couriered to you tomorrow unless you wish to decline this generous offer by return.

      Yours faithfully, Boyet Durand

      On behalf of His Royal Highness, the Prince of Montéz

      Cally blinked at the words before her. Her first reaction was disbelief. Here was an email offering a free trip to a luxurious French island, so why wasn’t she pinging it straight off to her junk-mail folder, knowing there was a catch? She read it again. Because it wasn’t the usual generic trash: You’ve won a holiday to Barbados, to claim just call this number… This sender knew her name and what she did for a living. It was feasible that someone could have seen one of her few restorations that had ended up in smallish galleries and been inspired to visit her website—but a prince?

      She read it a third time, and on this occasion the arrogance of it truly sunk in. If it was real, who on earth did the Prince of Montéz think he was to have his advisor summon her as if she was a takeaway meal he’d decide whether or not he wanted once she arrived?

      Cally opened a new tab and typed ‘Prince of Montéz’ into Wikipedia. The information was irritatingly sparse. It didn’t even give his name, only stated that in Montéz the prince was the sovereign ruler, and that the current prince had come into power a year ago when his brother Girard had died in an accident aged just forty-three, leaving behind his young wife, Toria, but no children. Cally cast her mind back, roughly recalling the royal-wedding photos which had graced the cover of every magazine the summer she’d graduated, and hearing the news of his tragic death on the radio in her studio some time last year. But there was no further information about the late prince’s brother, the man who thought that she, a lowly artist, could drop everything because he commanded it.

      Cally was tempted to reply that, attractive though the offer was, the prince was mistaken if he thought she could fit him into her busy schedule at such short notice. But the truth was he wasn’t mistaken. Hadn’t she only just been wishing she had more work lined up, and thinking she ought to start saying yes to something other than Sunday lunch at her parents’ house?

      Which was why she decided she would let the tickets come. Not that she really believed they would, until the doorbell rang early the following morning, thankfully interrupting a fervid dream about a Frenchman with a disturbingly familiar face.

      Nor did she really believe she’d dare to use them until the day after, when she heard the voice of the pilot asking them to please return their seats to the upright position because they were beginning their descent to the island.

      The last and only time Cally had been to France was on a day trip to Le Touquet by ferry whilst she’d been at secondary school, most of which had been spent trawling round a rather uninspiring hypermarket. She’d always fancied Paris—the Eiffel Tower and the galleries, of course—but she’d somehow never got round to taking any kind of holiday at all since uni, nor felt she could justify the unnecessary expense. So when she stepped out of first class and was greeted by the most incredible vista of shimmering azure water and glorious tree-covered mountains sprinkled with terracotta roofs, it was no wonder it felt like this was all happening to someone else. For the first time in years she felt the urge to whip out a sketch pad and get to work on a composition of her own.

      A desire that only increased when the private car pulled up to the incredible palace. It almost looked like a painting, she thought as the driver opened the door of the vehicle for her to depart.

      ‘Please follow me, mademoiselle. The prince will meet you in la salle de bal.‘

      Cally frowned as he led her through the impressive main archway, trying to remember her GCSE French in order to decipher which room he was referring to. He must have caught her perplexed expression.

      ‘You would say “the ballroom”, I think?’

      Cally nodded and rolled her eyes to herself as they passed through the courtyard and up a creamy white staircase with a deep red carpet running through the centre. There was a very good reason why she hadn’t needed to know the word for ballroom for her project on ‘ma maison’.

      The thought reminded her just how hypocritical it was to feel impressed by the palace when the man who lived here was guilty of the excess she loathed. She was even more ashamed to look down at her perfectly functional black jacket and skirt, teamed with a white blouse, and wish she had brought something a little more, well, worthy. Why should she be worried what clothes she was wearing to meet the prince? Just because he had a palace and a title didn’t mean she ought to act any differently from the way she would with any potential client. Any more than he should judge her on anything but her ability as a restorer, she thought defiantly, hugging her portfolio to her chest.

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