ot interested and that’s that. He won’t come back for a second helping.’
Kirsten went back to cleaning windows in the long gallery. Every so often she spared the baby grand piano at the foot of the vast room a reflective glance. Would she still be able to play? It had been years since she had had the opportunity. In any case, she wouldn’t dare touch any valuable antique at the castle without permission.
Her mother had been a music teacher before her marriage, and had ensured that her daughter had grown up an accomplished pianist. Occasionally Kirsten had stood in for the regular organist at church, but when people had complimented her on her skill her father’s face had begun to darken with disapproval. Inevitably Angus Ross had decided that the playing of music was frivolous, and an exercise in vanity, and soon after that the piano had been sold. Her invalid mother had been heartbroken. That was the day that Kirsten had determined that somehow, some way, she would own a piano again and play it every day—for hours at a time if she so chose.
A door opened off the gallery. A dark, stocky man in a business suit waved a hand at her to attract her attention and addressed her in accented English. ‘I have dropped a tray…may I please have your assistance?’
Kirsten almost laughed at the drama of that announcement, but she hurried into the room he had indicated, well aware that some of the carpets were extremely valuable. Mercifully only a few pieces of china had fallen on to the wooden floor. Nothing appeared broken, and just a small pool of liquid needed mopping up.
Wielding a cloth from her trolley of cleaning utensils, she proceeded to get on with the task. The man had already departed, and she rested back on her heels for a moment to appreciate her surroundings. She was in a gracious sitting room, with a beautiful plasterwork ceiling, picked out in pretty shades of lemon and green. Fresh flowers and comfortable sofas as well as an open fire offered a warm welcome. However, the presence of a cheerfully burning fire in the month of June made her smile. She could only be in a room that he retained for personal use.
Kirsten had begun to listen with interest to the occasional facts that other more informed staff let drop about Strathcraig’s wealthy owner. Apparently, even in summer, Prince Shahir liked fires to be lit in the main reception rooms. He did not like the cold.
A door in the corner of the room opened just as Kirsten was getting ready to wheel her trolley out again. Shahir appeared in the doorway. When she saw who it was, she lost every scrap of colour in her cheeks as her eyes travelled from the top of his handsome dark head and down the magnificent length of him to his polished loafers. He looked so gorgeous her mouth ran dry.
‘I hope you will forgive me for setting up this meeting,’ Shahir murmured levelly, his dark golden eyes absorbing her tension and her pallor.
Her brow pleated. ‘You set it up? I don’t understand. I was called in here because some china had been dropped…’
His strong jawline clenched. ‘I suspect that was merely an excuse to allow me this opportunity to talk to you again in private. I had to see you, to offer you my sincere apologies for my behaviour when we last met. What I did on that occasion was inappropriate and wrong.’
Kirsten was stunned by that forthright declaration. ‘But I—’
‘You must not attach blame to yourself in any way,’ Shahir asserted.
Kirsten knew that such an admission of fault could not come easily to him. In fact she could see the strain of the occasion marked in the tautness of his superb bone structure and the brooding darkness of his gaze. He was a very proud man. Yet he had still gone to the trouble of arranging this meeting so that he could express his regret. She was hugely impressed by the reality that he had not allowed his pride to hold him back. Neither his great wealth and status nor her far more modest position in life had deflected him from his purpose. Even though it would have been much easier for him to forget the incident, he had listened to his conscience and acted on it without hesitation.
‘But I was at fault too.’ Kirsten lifted her chin, her eyes green as emeralds above the delicate pink that overlaid her cheekbones as she made the admission.
‘No. You’re very young. Innocence is not a fault,’ he murmured in gentle disagreement.
As Kirsten gazed up at Shahir he remembered how she had looked on the hill, with her wonderful silvery pale hair cascading over her shoulders. It was a dangerous recollection, for it awakened the hunger he had rigorously repressed. He gritted his teeth, incredulous at the effect she had on him. He was not a randy teenage boy, living in a world of erotic fantasy. He was a man in full control of his own needs.
‘I—’
‘I know you would not wish your presence here with me to be noticed and remarked on,’ Shahir cut in smoothly. ‘It would be unwise for us to linger here chatting.’
Feeling unmercifully snubbed and put back into her place, Kirsten dropped her head and grabbed the trolley.
‘I don’t like to see you engaged in such heavy work,’ Shahir breathed in a driven undertone. ‘You do not look strong.’
A startled laugh fell from Kirsten’s lips and she glanced back at him, green eyes dancing with helpless amusement. ‘I’m as healthy as a carthorse—but I suppose I shouldn’t tell you that because it’s not very feminine to say so!’
Shahir studied her exquisite face for several taut moments before veiling his gaze. He removed a business card from his jacket and crossed the room to extend it to her. ‘If you should ever be in a situation where you need help of any kind, I can be reached at this number.’
Mastering her surprise, she accepted the gilded card from his lean brown fingers. He wasn’t flirting with her. His tone and expression were serious and above reproach. The sudden awareness that she was longing for him to flirt with her, touch her and kiss her, shook her rigid. Ashamed of a craving that now felt more wrong than ever after what he had just said, she crammed the card into the pocket of her overall. Hot tears were prickling at the back of her eyes because she suddenly felt unbearably sad.
‘Thanks…’ she managed tightly, and went back to cleaning windows without another word or look.
Early the following week she was cycling home when the rear tyre of her bike went flat. She had no pump with her, and groaned out loud when it started to rain heavily. Even though she wheeled the bike at as fast a pace as she could contrive she was still soaked through to the skin within minutes.
When a big car drew up beside her and the window went down, she peered at it in bewilderment.
‘I’ll give you a lift.’ It was Shahir, his lean strong face firm with determination.
It bothered her that she could not think of him as Prince Shahir, and discomfiture made her reluctant to get into his limousine. His chauffeur, however, had already received his instructions from his employer, and the bike was removed from her hold and wedged without further ado into the vehicle’s large boot.
‘Honestly—you shouldn’t have stopped. I could’ve walked home fine…I’m so wet I’ll make a mess of your car…’ Kirsten was gabbling nervously as she climbed into the rear of the sumptuous car. But she fell suddenly silent and flushed to the roots of her dripping hair when she realised that Shahir was not travelling alone.