by Kate Walker
He had to swallow down hard against the nausea before he could speak again.
‘I thought the time for truths of that sort would have been earlier—when he asked you to marry him.’
Perhaps, if he’d been looking at her, then Imogen might not have been able to reveal the full truth. She couldn’t help but feel that it put her in a position of danger to let this man know any more about the way her marriage had been arranged. The bargain she had made with Adnan.
‘He didn’t.’
It had been a sort of mutually accepted fact that this was how they were going to proceed—a business deal, really, but one in which they cared about each other enough to make certain aspects of it work. The memory of how it had felt to be held close to Raoul—the heat that had seared through her, then and in the past, the acknowledgement of how easy it would have been to go along with the heir-making part of that relationship—made her bring her teeth down sharply on her tongue to stop herself from adding anything even more stupid to her last remark.
But it was too late. Raoul had clearly already noted it, spinning round to subject her to a frighteningly intent scrutiny.
‘He didn’t ask?’
‘We didn’t need things like that. It was...accepted that we would marry. Almost from the day we were born.’
That was the story they’d decided on if anyone challenged their commitment. She’d never expected to have to justify it to this man who’d stolen her heart so that, like Adnan, she didn’t have one to give to anyone else.
‘We both grew up here, and were both likely to inherit the two studs. So joining them together through a family union seemed inevitable.’
What had she said to draw those dark, straight brows together in an ominous frown?
‘And this arrangement—was it in place when we were together?’ It was a harsh demand.
‘Er...no. We were...’ She couldn’t believe she was actually going to say this. ‘We were on a break.’
They’d rebelled against the way that both their families had kept suggesting that the dynastic union was the best way to go. Adnan had lost the real love of his life when the girl he had wanted to marry had been killed in a vile hit-and-run accident, and Imogen had come to feel that she could never go through with a marriage without love and passion. That was why she had been holidaying in Corsica. She’d needed the freedom and relaxation to find herself. To find what she really wanted in life.
She’d believed that in Raoul she’d found what she wanted, only to discover that he didn’t want her. And he wouldn’t have wanted the tiny baby she had barely realised she had conceived before she’d lost it. When she’d come back to Ireland after the nightmare of her visit to Ciara in London, she’d understood so much more about the way Adnan had felt. At the same time, it seemed that he had sensed the deep wound in her, so that his consideration, his gentleness, had made it so much easier to accept the marriage of convenience that was all he had to offer. He had never asked for details about her private sense of loss, and for that she had been grateful, knowing that to tell anyone would rip open the barely healed scar and leave it raw and bleeding.
Somehow, by opening her eyes wide and staring straight ahead, Imogen managed to force back the burn of salt behind her lids. She needed to rebuild her defences, put something up between herself and Raoul. He was getting far too close.
‘And, besides, we—you—were nothing but a holiday fling.’
He hadn’t liked that. She saw the blink of his heavy lids, the way his head came up.
‘A holiday fling—was that all?
‘Of course it was!’ Did her claim sound too emphatic, too shrill? It seemed so in her ears. ‘You don’t think I wanted you to marry me, did you?’
His expression said everything she had thought she’d imagined back then, and she had been dreading that he might remember to throw it in her face.
‘You did, didn’t you!’ she bluffed, grateful for the lingering effects of the wine that took the edge off the dark bruises of her memories. ‘Oh, really, Raoul—sorry to disappoint you. You were fun, but you were just not that irresistible.’
He shrugged away her comment with a nonchalance that said the idea had never really troubled him, even if it had crossed his mind. Seeing that gesture, Imogen was taken right back to the beach at Rondinarra on the penultimate day of her holiday, and the way he had already been running the relationship from one step removed, distancing himself from her even before her time on Corsica was up.
‘And now?’ he questioned, not really sounding at all interested.
That made her determined to give it to him with both barrels. Two years ago, his indifference had almost broken her. She was not going to let him hurt her that way ever again.
‘Now you’ve blundered in with both feet and ruined everything. There’s a wedding service and reception prepared for tomorrow—today. I’m supposed to be getting married and obviously now I’m not—and that’s all thanks to you. So what the hell am I supposed to do now?’
‘You could always marry me.’
‘Oh, now you’re being ridiculous!’
She stopped, stared, unable to believe the seriousness in his face. The black humour had been bad enough. This pretence that he meant it was too much.
‘You don’t—’ She stopped, confusion running across her features. ‘Why would you want to marry me?’
A lift of those powerful shoulders dismissed her question. He obviously believed she should know exactly what was behind the crazy suggestion.
‘For the same reason as Adnan would, I believe.’
‘To get the stud? Believe me, it’s not worth it.’
She’d blurted it out before she could think, and she realised it was a dangerous mistake as she watched his expression close up, golden eyes narrowing until they were just slits above his carved cheekbones.
‘Is that why Adnan was marrying you?’
It was like the pounce of a hunting tiger, launching himself at his prey. Her stomach knotted to think of what she’d revealed. He’d accused her of being a gold-digger once and now she had obviously just confirmed his dark thoughts.
‘I—Obviously, not! There was much more than that.’
Which was the truth, but only part of it.
At her side, Imogen’s fingers clamped against her thigh as she fought for the control she needed. The warmth of her own skin against her hand was a stinging reminder of the way she was dressed—or, rather, undressed. Just the thought had her reaching again for the edges of her robe, jerking them together unnecessarily.
‘There’s no need to worry.’ Raoul’s lazy drawl froze her jittery fingers as they closed over the belt, wanting to tighten it as much as she could. ‘Believe me, every inch of your body is hidden from prying eyes. Except perhaps your legs.’
That bronze gaze drifted down to where the red silk ended and her slender legs and feet were revealed. A carefully calculated moment of assessment and then his eyes came back up again fast, to clash with her own so fiercely she felt stars explode inside her thoughts.
‘But then, I have a very good imagination—and an exceptionally long memory.’
Imogen felt as if the room had tilted wildly, and she longed to lift her hands, to bury her burning face behind her palms, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing how accurately his pointed remark had hit home.
She had never felt this nervous, this vulnerable, with Raoul in the past, even when she had been totally naked with him. Then, she had found a new and glorious sense of self-esteem to know that this stunning, powerful man who could have had his pick of any of the female holiday makers staying in the hotel had wanted her. She had been his from the start, lost in the wild fires of her first adult sexual passion. She still felt that way, just to be in the same room as him. As he’d said, she was adequately clothed, far more modestly covered than on any of the days when she had worn a bikini at the swimming pool; and yet she felt totally naked, brutally exposed, and sizzling in response to the d
ark power of the man on the other side of the room.
Adnan had never made her feel like this, even for a moment, she realised with a terrible sense of shock. It didn’t matter that he was a gorgeous man with the honed body of a professional sportsman from his days in competitive riding. She had always only felt the warmth and closeness of their friendship. Other women had felt very differently. She’d seen it in the green-eyed jealousy that she’d caught directed at her when their engagement had been announced. She’d also seen how her own sister’s eyes had widened when she’d first introduced her to her fiancé.
But the shocking, heart-twisting truth was that, when Raoul was in a room, he was the only man she was aware of.
It had been one hell of a mistake letting himself remember what she looked like under that robe, Raoul told himself, knowing that now he had remembered there was no chance of him forgetting again. Hell, as if he had needed to remember. The image of her tall, sexy body had been imprinted on his brain ever since those long, hot days—and even hotter nights—of the Corsican summer they had shared. He had only to close his eyes to see her again, even when they had been miles apart.
Now that they were in the same room, with the scent of her skin coiling around him, the sound of her softly accented voice in his ears, the recollection of the way it had felt to hold her close and the thunderous pounding of his heart were scrambling his thoughts. He needed to think but his body was one raw pulse of hunger, the primitive need that he hadn’t felt in so long.
Not since she had walked away from him without once ever looking back. Taking the child he hadn’t known she carried with her.
How could he still want such a woman? And want her with a hunger that was threatening to destroy his mind? Because his mind was not involved or, grâce à dieu, anything that could be described as his heart. He had come here telling himself that he wanted revenge for what Imogen had done to his child but standing here like this, feeling the thunder of blood at his temples, knowing that his body ached with a hunger he could barely control, he was forced to admit that there had been more to it than that.
It was about a much more primal need than he had ever been able to acknowledge until now. He still wanted Imogen O’Sullivan and he wasn’t going to leave until he had her in his bed again.
He could even cope with the way his mind seemed to split in two. Hating her for what she was, what she had done, and yet knowing he had never been able to forget her. He could never go back to Corsica until he had sated himself on that glorious body that still held him in thrall, no matter how much he might wish he could resist.
CHAPTER SIX
‘I HAVE TO GO...’
Imogen was looking towards the door, slender bare feet moving restlessly on the floor. He couldn’t let her go, not yet. For one thing, he knew that if she turned and walked away from him he might not be able to resist the primitive urge to go after her, grab her arm and haul her back against him. If his control shattered so badly then heaven knew what would happen as a result. Or did he mean hell?
‘And that’s it? You just go back to your room and—what?—go to bed?’
Her shrug seemed controlled, almost resigned. He wanted more from her, wanted to see her hurt as he’d been when Pierre had told him about the child. Apparently he’d learned of it from Ciara and Pierre had enjoyed telling his brother-in-law the black truth. Even knowing that his philandering brother-in-law had flung the vile story at him in an attempt to distract him from the fact that he had still been chasing after the younger O’Sullivan sister despite her leaving his employ, Raoul had felt as if his heart had been ripped from his chest and he’d wanted her—the woman who had caused that pain—to feel the same. But now that he was face to face with her in the moment of success, the triumph he had wanted to experience wasn’t there.
He was on the verge of getting everything he’d wanted out of this and yet...he’d got nothing. This wouldn’t bring back the child he’d lost. The triumph he’d thought he’d feel tasted like dust in his mouth.
‘What else is there to do?’
‘I thought you said we needed to talk.’
‘We’ve talked!’
At last she was showing a spark of feeling, but not in the way he’d wanted. It did nothing to ease the cold, hard lump inside where his heart should be.
‘Not enough.’
An autocratic wave of his hand dismissed her protest.
‘What else is there?’ Imogen demanded.
‘Well, for one thing, you don’t seem exactly broken-hearted about Adnan’s defection.’
Did he really want to think she might have loved the other man? Or that he had loved her? Hell, no. He wouldn’t put another man through what he’d endured when she’d left him. He was damned sure that Imogen was not in love with Adnan.
‘Of course I never wanted to hurt him. I wouldn’t have done that willingly but for you. What you did tonight, you’re the one who hurt him.’
‘Hurt his pride, more likely. I saw his face when he came into the room—and I watched him last night with you. I’ve never seen anyone less in love.’
‘You think so?’ Defiance rang in her tone, and he saw the way her neat chin lifted high.
‘I know so.’ It was arrogant and hard. Totally assured.
She had to acknowledge that Raoul was right, Imogen admitted unwillingly. Though she was shocked at how easily he had seen through the act that she and Adnan had put on so that everyone would believe their marriage was real. Even Ciara had been convinced. She had to have been, because Imogen knew that her sister would have tried to dissuade her from going through with the marriage if she’d thought it was fake. And she’d promised Adnan that this arrangement would look like a marriage that meant something, so she had had to keep to that promise, even if it meant pretending to her new-found sister.
It was bad enough knowing that Raoul had seen through Adnan’s behaviour, but the thought that he might also have seen the truth of her own emotions made her feel as if the robe she had tightened round her so desperately only moments before was now as constricting as a corset, making it almost impossible to breathe.
‘You won’t exactly come out of this smelling of roses!’ she flung at him, needing to attack him to hide the tsunami of feeling that was raging inside her. ‘That stupid deal you came here for will all be for nothing. You don’t think Adnan will want to go through with it after this!’
‘Do you really think that was what I came here for?’
The challenge made her head go back, her face tensing.
‘Well, it sure as hell wasn’t for me.’
Again, there was that flicker of an expression across his face, changing the set of his muscles, the burn of his eyes. It made her shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other on the shabbily carpeted floor, her eyes going unwillingly to the bottle of wine and the two glasses. Surely another drink would ease this dragging, draining tension between them? But she didn’t want to go that way, the way her father went when anything went wrong, the path that had contributed so much to the perilous state they were in. Would her mother have left if Joe hadn’t already been too keen to turn to alcohol when times got rough? Could she and Ciara actually have shared a childhood, grown up together, if alcohol hadn’t been Joe’s answer to everything?
‘Two...’ she said unexpectedly, and saw that dark frown appear again in puzzlement at her words.
‘Two?’
‘Two glasses. You have that bottle of wine and two glasses.’
A sharp, silent nod was his only answer, acknowledging her awareness, but waiting for her to take the puzzle further.
So how much of this had he planned? Had he been expecting someone else here tonight? She knew he was a devastatingly good-looking man, but would he have been able to pick up another woman, met in the village only this afternoon? He’d done that with her in Corsica, so she guessed he was capable of doing exactly the same here.
‘Who were you expecting?’
The devilish smile that cu
rled up the corners of that wide, sensual mouth was warning enough. But it was a warning she knew it was too late to heed.
‘I was waiting for you,’ Raoul drawled, letting that smile grow, widen fiendishly.
‘You...’
Just the thought knocked the air from her lungs, leaving it hard to breathe.
‘You thought I would come to you!’
‘Not thought.’ It was a flat, dark statement. ‘I knew.’
‘No way.’
That she might be so easy to read was something from her nightmares. If he had guessed—known—that she would come to find him, then what else might he know simply from looking into her face; reading the truth there?
Oh, dear heaven, how much of the truth could he see?
‘You couldn’t know!’
‘Well, you’re here, aren’t you?’ Raoul tossed at her, soft and dangerously low. ‘You’re here, drinking my wine.’
Imogen felt as if a noose had been thrown around her throat, inexorably tightening with every word that Raoul let fall. He had known. He had prepared for just this, ready for her to fall into his trap.
But how could he have known? How had she given herself away? A dark thread of fear ran through her veins, making her shiver. When she thought of the devastation the evening had brought, her legs weakened, threatening to give way beneath her. How much of this had he planned?
How much of this had been just bad luck and how much had Raoul acted as the master manipulator, pulling the strings of the puppets he had under his control, making them dance to his tune when they didn’t even know the name of the song?
‘How could you know?’
‘I know you.’
‘Oh, come on, how can you claim that?’ she scoffed, wincing inwardly at the high pitch that turned her defiance into a squeak of fear. He was watching so intently that she couldn’t hide a thing from him. ‘You knew me once, for what—two weeks, if that? We were just ships that passed in the night, a holiday fling—a lot of fun but...but...’
