The Prince's Chambermaid(15)

'I can never stay the night with you, Cathy,' he had stated, his voice suddenly hard and resolute.

Too full of emotion and pleasure to heed the unmistakable caution which  smouldered at the depths of his golden eyes, she had looked up into his  face with innocent bewilderment. 'Why not?'

'Because staying a whole night is a statement. It implies a commitment  which is not present-and to do so will compromise both of us.' He had  lifted her chin then. Stared hard into her eyes. 'And you know that this  is nothing but a very temporary affair, don't you-because I made that  clear from the beginning?'

'Yes. Yes, of course I do,' she'd said, trying to keep her voice from  trembling. Telling herself that at least he wasn't lying to her-or  keeping false hopes alive by pretending that there might be some kind of  future in it. Because she had known from the outset that there wasn't.  Far better to simply revel in every glorious and unbelievable moment  than try to hang onto a hopeless dream.

Beside her, Xaviero stirred from his brief sleep. 'Cathy?'

She rolled over to face him, their gazes meeting in the confined space  of her bed, and her heart turned over with longing. 'What?'

'This.' He slid her hand between his thighs until her fingers collided with his hotly aroused flesh and Cathy's lips parted.

'Again?' she whispered breathlessly.

'Sì, again,' he agreed unsteadily.

She swallowed as the familiar heat of desire began to unfurl in her stomach. 'So … soon?' she managed huskily.

'Always. Always! Because you drive me crazy!' he said fiercely. 'Crazier than any woman I have ever bedded!'

Feeling his hands encircle her waist, Cathy drifted her lips to his neck  and trailed her mouth lightly over his silken flesh. 'Do I?'

'Oddio, I think I have taught you a little too well,' he said unsteadily  as he lifted her up and then brought her slowly down on top of him and  she gasped as she felt him fill her.

She didn't have the time or the inclination to question him-not then,  when he was moving her up and down on his swollen shaft like that.  Taking her to that sweet place of release where the rest of the world  and all its nagging doubts could be forgotten. When she could cry out  his name with uninhibited joy and he would think it was simply the  orgasm speaking and not a shout of fervour from her heart.                       
       
           



       

Much later, they clambered back into their clothes and Cathy concocted a  meal, while Xaviero opened some of the wine he'd brought with him.  Tipping the ruby liquid into the chunky little tumblers she kept in her  kitchen, he smiled.

'One of the finest wines in the world,' he murmured. 'And here we are drinking it from tooth-mugs!'

Cathy put a little bowl of cherry tomatoes on the table and turned to  look at him. 'You want me to get some proper wine glasses?'

He looked at her, and at that moment Xaviero felt a sharp longing for a  world he would never really know-where every purchase had to be  calculated and assessed. Where things were bought for necessity and  governed by cost-without bringing elegance or beauty into the equation.  He would no more have drunk from glasses like this in his own home than  he would have lapped wine from a saucer-but for now they seemed to  symbolise a sense of simplicity he had never known.

'I don't want you to change anything,' he said.

Cathy bit her lip as she went back inside the cottage to get the butter  dish-afraid that her sudden fears would show on her face, and scare him.  The very real fear of how on earth she was going to cope with life once  Xaviero had left it.

But doubts could grow in your mind-even if you didn't want them to-and  Cathy barely touched her meal, though she drank deeply of the rich  Italian wine. Xaviero had shared her life these past weeks and yet she  realised that she knew very little about him. Or at least about his  other life. His royal life.

'Tell me about Zaffirinthos,' she said suddenly.

'Not now, Cathy.' He yawned.

'Yes, now,' she said stubbornly. 'Why not?'

His lips curved into a reluctant smile as he watched her push a stray  strand of thick blonde hair from her flushed cheek, recognising that she  was a beguiling mixture of innocence and outspokenness. She was a  complete natural, he realised-and it was still enough of a novelty not  to irritate him. And yet wasn't one of her most appealing qualities the  fact that she was so biddable-so willing to be taught? Why, if he'd told  her that it increased his sexual pleasure to have her dance naked  around him beforehand, she would have gone about it in an instant!

His smile was one of rare indulgence. 'And what-specifically-do you want to know about Zaffirinthos?'

'Everything,' she answered, wondering if she had imagined that faintly patronising tone.

'But surely you must already know something? Some facts you picked up on  the Internet. Because I can't believe you didn't look me up when you  discovered who I was,' he drawled. 'People always do.'

Cathy found herself colouring, like a child who had been caught with her  fingers in the cookie jar. Or some stupid little royal groupie.  'Obviously I found out some things-'

'Of course you did.' His smile was faintly cynical. 'What things?'

'Not the kind of things I'd really like to know.'

'And what might they be?'

'Oh, I don't know.' She screwed the lid back on the mayonnaise. 'Like what kind of childhood you had?'

If anyone else had dared quiz him about something so personal, he would  have dismissed it as an outrageous imposition-but Cathy had a soft way  of asking which was hard to resist. 'It was a childhood in two halves,'  he said thoughtfully. 'The first bit was idyllic-and then my mother  died.'

Her heart went out to him-because didn't she know only too well the pain  of that? 'And everything changed?' she prompted quietly.

'Totally. My father was utterly bereft.' He stared at the ceiling. The  depth of his father's grief had taught him the dangers of emotional  dependence as well as the temporary nature of happiness. 'And then he  turned all his attention into grooming my older brother to succeed him,  as King. It meant a lot of freedom for me-so I was able to concentrate  on my riding. That's when I first started to learn about polo.'

Cathy experienced another wrench of sympathy-because too much freedom  for a child could sometimes mean loneliness. She tried to imagine  Xaviero as a little boy, doubly bereaved in a way-first by his mother's  death and then by his father's withdrawal. And while she knew all about  bereavement, at least she had enjoyed a close relationship with her  great-aunt. 'And your brother is now King,' she said.

'That's right. My father died last year and big brother is now in  charge,' said Xaviero, a sudden edge to his voice. 'Busy modernising  Zaffirinthos with his sweeping reforms.'                       
       
           



       

But Cathy wasn't interested in sweeping reforms-she wanted to see the  island through her lover's eyes. 'And is it very beautiful?' she asked.  'Zaffirinthos?'

'Very beautiful,' he murmured. But somehow her questions made him  realise how long he'd been away-and reinforced his sense of exile. He  had not returned since his brother's coronation, for reasons which were  essentially primitive and guilt-inducing. Boyhood rivalries ran deep as  blood itself, he thought grimly-and hadn't there been a part of him  which had always resented the accident of birth which had ensured that  Casimiro would inherit the crown? Power was easy to come by, and Xaviero  had built up his own power-base through his own hard work-but no one  could deny the lure of ruling a country …

He realised that Cathy was still looking at him, her aquamarine eyes  searching his face as she waited for him to paint the perfect,  holiday-brochure picture of his paradise home.

He shrugged his shoulders. Well, he would give her the brochure version.  Why not? He would be her fantasy prince in his fantasy land and that  could be the memory she would keep of him. 'It has forests so green  that, like Ireland, it is known as the emerald isle. And the best  beaches in the world, with sand as pale as sugar. And we have a bay with  the bluest water-even bluer than your eyes, cara-where the rare  caretta-caretta turtles come to lay their eggs on summer nights so still  that you can almost hear the stars shooting across the sky.'

Cathy looked at him and couldn't suppress a little sigh of longing. His  lyrical words painted pictures, yes-but also helped create an image of  the man she wanted him to be. One who was romantic, and caring. Would it  be too much to hope that he cared a little bit about her? Hadn't he  just compared her eyes to the bluest sea and then called her 'darling'  in Italian? How easy it would be to read too much into a simple remark  like that-perhaps imagining that he wanted more from her than just being  his willing bedpartner. 'It sounds … it sounds like paradise,' she said  wistfully.