by Kate Walker
When he had picked it up it had slithered in his hands, like a satiny snake, reminding him of how it had felt to have that silk underneath his fingertips, and the warmth of her skin beneath that. He’d resorted to the long, icy shower he’d needed earlier in the evening, but had found that it brought him no release from the intense pulse of unappeased desire that had tormented him. It had lingered all through the night, making him toss and turn until he’d woken in a tangle of sheets, his mind hazed with hunger, his body sheened in sweat. His last thought before falling into what had passed for sleep had been of Imogen, as had his first thought on waking.
‘I never was very good at taking orders. And I came to see how you were doing.’
It was the truth. Well, at least it was part of it.
He knew he couldn’t leave without seeing her again, without making a move to turn the hot dreams that had plagued his night into a reality. At least for as long as it took to get this burn of hunger out of his system. It was time to acknowledge that he hadn’t been able to forget Imogen in the time since he had walked away from her on the beach at Rondinarra. That had been part of why he’d come to Ireland the first time, filled with dark fury after seeing that revealing photo of her and her sister in the gossip columns. Then he’d learned that her father was looking for a partner in his stud, and that had stayed him when he’d been about to rush into turning on Imogen the bitter rage he had felt at her actions. It had become a much larger part of why he’d stayed, to watch and learn, and later he’d made the approach that should have brought him here as a potential business partner.
Whoever had said that revenge was a dish best served cold had no idea how it could feel when that cold revenge was mixed with the revival of a blazing, white-hot sexual need that it seemed only Imogen could create in him.
‘Well, now you can see I’m still standing.’
Imogen made her way out of the church, refusing to allow herself even one regretful glance back.
‘So you can go and pack your bags—’
She broke off in shock as he shook his head firmly, the raven-black strands of his hair falling forward over his forehead. How was it possible that, wearing almost exactly the same outfit as she was dressed in—except that he had on a crisp, short-sleeved linen shirt instead of the tee-shirt she wore—he managed to look cool and even elegant when she felt like something the cat had dragged in, her hair already beginning to frizz in the muggy heat of the day.
‘I’m not leaving until I know you’re all right.’
Whether he knew it or not, that was a stab at the weakest point in her mental armour. Never had she felt so alone as she had this morning, the time when she should have been facing, if not the happiest day of her life, then at least the moment when so many of her worries would start to be resolved. She should have been the centre of attention, surrounded by family and friends. Instead, she found herself isolated, with no one to support her. Her father had locked himself in his room—with a large bottle of some spirit, she assumed—and Ciara was heaven knew where, with Adnan.
So, it was a bitter irony that Raoul, of all people, was the only person here offering her a shoulder to lean on.
‘I take it you haven’t heard from Adnan?’
‘What do you expect?’
She turned to make herself walk down the path that led to Blacklands and was shocked to find that Raoul followed her, silently and closely.
‘I can make my own way home!’ she flashed at him, but was disconcerted to be met with the sort of disarming smile that sizzled all the way from her head to her toes inside the well-worn sandals she’d slipped on with as little care as she’d chosen the rest of her outfit that morning.
‘I know you can. But, as I have to go that way myself, we might as well walk together.’
Then, just as she was cursing him for taking away her defensive argument, he knocked the ground right from under her feet by adding, ‘Have you managed to get in touch with all your guests? I know you’ve been on the phone almost all morning.’
‘Not everyone,’ Imogen admitted, shuddering faintly inside at the thought of him observing her as she went through the painful process of phoning everyone on the guest list. ‘Some had already started out and couldn’t be contacted. I’ll have to explain when they arrive.’
‘Then wouldn’t it be easier to have someone with you when that happens?’
Easier to have someone, yes—but not the man who had caused all this!
She had to pull herself up with the realisation that she couldn’t dump all the blame on Raoul. If she had not gone to Raoul’s room to try to talk to him then this wouldn’t be happening... But had he really come to Blacklands solely to discuss the stud deal with her father—a deal that her father couldn’t possibly have gone along with? Or had he had other plans, as she’d feared? Was this whole situation just bad luck—or was she being manipulated all the way along by Raoul?
She was going to ignore him, she resolved. She would pretend he wasn’t there and maybe he would pack his bags and disappear. It took only seconds to realise that, without seeming to make any extra effort, he was keeping up with her perfectly easily, his long stride covering the ground at twice the pace of her own.
‘What are you going to tell them?’ he enquired now.
‘That the wedding’s been called off. Is there anything else I could say?’
‘And are you going to stick to that unexpected new habit of yours of telling the truth?’
‘What’s new about it?’
She caught his indifferent shrug as he came close again. In spite of the muggy heat of the day, she felt a sudden shiver, as if the sun had just gone behind a cloud as blue eyes clashed with bronze.
‘You obviously hadn’t told Adnan—or your father—about us before I turned up.’
‘There was no “us”, not when I got home, so it was totally irrelevant.’
‘Not if you were getting married.’
‘So have you told anyone about me?’
‘No—no one except Rosalie, but then she knew at the time.’
It had been Rosalie who had revealed to her just how much Raoul had been keeping back from her.
Use your eyes, she’d said. Look around you. Look in the shops—in the kitchens in almost every hotel on the island!
And Imogen had looked, seeing the distinctive labels for Cardini Olive Oil that she had been blind to before. She’d believed his story that he was a farmer, that he had olive trees on his land. That had been all. She had never dreamed that that was only a part of his fortune—that the rest came from the breeding of the small, sturdy Corsican horses that had brought him to Ireland to destroy the sense of peace she had thought she was reaching.
‘And I was not getting married.’
‘Still loving and leaving ’em?’ Imogen tossed at him, not wanting to acknowledge the flutter of something deep in her stomach at the thought that there had been no one special in his life in the years they had been apart. But then, she’d already known that Raoul was not the marrying kind.
‘Not loving,’ he returned, flat-voiced. ‘I’d be a fool to look for any such thing. And I was never the marrying kind. I told you that.’
He certainly had. Was she actually weak enough to let her memories make tears burn at her eyes? She blinked hard to keep them back, telling herself they were there for the baby who had had no hope of survival, not for its cold-hearted father who had never even known his child had existed.
Would he have cared? If she had done as she had planned, and managed to go back to Corsica to tell Raoul that she was pregnant before the agonising pain that had seemed to tear her in two had struck, would he have cared? Would he have insisted they marry for the sake of the child? The thought of that was somehow more unbearable than the way he had rejected her, turning his back on her at the end of their time in Corsica.
There was a heavy stone in front of her on the path and, eyes blurred, caught unawares, she almost stumbled on it. But she didn’t fall because
Raoul’s hand shot out, hard fingers clamping around her upper arm and hauling her back so she thumped against his chest, losing her breath in a totally different and much more disturbing way.
Weakly, foolishly, she welcomed the feeling of his strength against her. At a time when she felt so alone, so afraid of the future, she wouldn’t dare to admit to herself how she longed to throw herself into that strength, feel it close around her.
He’d done that once before, in the sea off Bonifacio, when the tide had been unexpectedly rough. An uncertain swimmer at the best of times, she had been caught in a strong current and knocked off her feet. Going under the waves, with salt water stinging her eyes and water swamping her face, she had known a moment’s panic. But only for a moment. Because then, strong, bronzed arms had closed around her, taking firm hold and hauling her up and out of the water. As she had soared out into the heat and brightness of the sun in the clear blue sky, she had known such a glorious sense of freedom and delight. It had been as if she was reborn, rediscovering the joy of living—and loving. It was in that moment that she had known she had fallen deeply, irrevocably in love with Raoul and that her heart would never truly be free ever again.
Not even when he had rejected her before the end of her holiday, tossing aside her weak, stumbling suggestions that maybe they could make this more than just a fling, that perhaps they could see each other again. That maybe she didn’t have to go home...
Could he hear the thudding of her heart, see her uneven breathing? She could only pray that he would take it as being the result of coming close to falling. Though, from the dark gleam in those tiger eyes, she doubted it. He had looked that way when he had held her against him last night and he had made it plain that desire was all he felt. So she’d better get rid of the crazy idea that this time he might come to her rescue again.
‘OK?’ His voice was surprisingly low and husky on the question but she didn’t dare to meet his eyes to try to read why that was so. Instead, she fixed her gaze on the spot where his white shirt was open at the neck, the pulse that beat at the base of his throat heavy and strong, and disturbingly in time with the hungry thunder of her own.
‘I’m fine.’
She prayed it sounded convincing. She would have to be fine. No one was coming to her rescue like a knight on a white charger. Not Adnan and very definitely not Raoul.
‘You can let me go now...’
It was even weaker to feel disappointment as he released her without hesitation, dropping her back down onto the path as if he was glad to be free of her.
But nothing could stop him following her all the way back to the stud. Because of course he had to go back there, didn’t he? If he needed to pack his clothes, collect his belongings and get out of here?
The thought of him leaving was just the worst possible straw of misery to add to the list of wretchedness that had to be endured to get through the rest of the day.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IMOGEN SAGGED BACK wearily against the door frame, watching as the last car disappeared down the drive, heading for the main road and home. She let the hand she had raised to wave drop down against her side and closed her eyes for a moment against the sense of exhaustion that had almost overwhelmed her.
She couldn’t give in yet; she still had more to do. Every guest had been spoken to personally, given an explanation—as close to the truth as possible—about the reasons why the wedding had been called off. Apologies—so many apologies—had been offered again and again, and now all the visitors to Blacklands had gone, the house empty except for the small army of catering staff who were packing away the food meant for the reception. The task was performed in a strange silence compared to the excited buzz of conversation that had first greeted her announcement.
After that there was only the floral arrangements, the decorations and—a bitter laugh nearly choked her—the dress to be taken from her wardrobe.
‘If you let me know what you want doing with all this food, then I’ll get on with it.’
The voice came from behind her, bringing her spinning round so fast she had to grab hold of the huge brass handle on the heavy oak door and keep herself upright with an effort.
‘What does one do with enough food for three hundred people?’ she sighed, despairing at the thought, and Raoul—because of course it was Raoul—shrugged his broad shoulders under the white shirt that was no longer quite so immaculate as it had been this morning.
He had been there with her all day. Every time she turned around, it had been to see his tall, lean figure moving silently and efficiently through the tasks that were needed to help sort out the confusion the cancelled wedding had created. She had never actually had to tell him anything; he had just seen what needed doing and got on with it, leaving her free to deal with the demands for explanations, the apologies, finding the parcels containing the wedding presents that would have to be returned.
‘I should have thought to get a message to the caterers to stop them bringing it in the first place,’ she sighed. But food had been the last thing on her mind. She’d been far more concerned with trying to get in touch with as many guests as possible to stop them arriving for the wedding that wasn’t to be. It was only when she’d got back from the church and seen everything had been unloaded that she’d realised what a mistake she’d made.
And, once delivered, they’d adamantly refused to take it back.
‘Freezer?’
‘Only if you happen to have industrial-size freezers that actually work,’ Imogen managed wryly. ‘The ones in the kitchen have been there for the past fifteen years and they weren’t the most modern or the best even then. We never got round to renewing them because...’
Because even then there hadn’t been enough money to buy new ones, and the family finances had been leaking desperately ever since.
‘Because no one cooked that much after my mother walked out and there was just Papa and me.’
‘She took Ciara with her?’
Imogen could only nod silently. No point in denying it. Her mother’s departure and her choice of daughter to take with her had been common knowledge at the time. She’d lived with the pitying looks, the swiftly hushed conversations whenever she appeared, her whole life. She was the daughter her mother hadn’t wanted, and the whole village knew it.
‘That knocked the stuffing out of my father and he hasn’t been the same since. He’d always liked a drink before, but now...’
She thought she’d kept her voice even enough to avoid any further questioning, but as soon as she saw Raoul’s black brows snap together in a dark frown she knew he was far too perceptive for that.
‘Why not you?’
Only by digging her teeth down hard into the softness of her lower lip could Imogen hold back the bitterness that almost escaped her. The morning she’d woken to find that both her mother and her sister had gone, and no one could tell her where, was etched into her memory with the burn of acid. She knew why, of course, or at least she could explain it now. But how could anyone explain to a seven-year-old that her mother had wanted her younger sister—but not her?
Unable to get a word out without risking her precarious self-control, she waved a hand in a rather wild gesture that indicated the view from the door, the expanse of green fields, the stable buildings away to the side.
‘The stud was not your mother’s sort of thing?’
It was written all over her face so she didn’t really need to answer, Raoul acknowledged inwardly. But still she nodded silently, those blue eyes cloudy and unfocused. She looked exhausted, worn out by the long day of explanations and rearrangements. Her delicate face was paler than ever, drawn tight over the fine bones, a touch of blue showing underneath where her pulse beat at her temples and the base of her neck.
It made him want to reach out and pull her towards him, to press his lips to the spot where the throb of her blood revealed the depth of her feelings. But, at the same moment, it disturbed him, and the fact that he’d even noticed it bot
hered him most of all.
Wasn’t this why he had come here in the first place? To make sure this wedding didn’t go ahead? To stop her from proving herself to be the gold-digger he had always believed her to be by marrying a wealthy man without love? The man she had chosen so soon after their relationship had fallen apart because he hadn’t been prepared to be taken for a ride by any other woman.
And, into that toxic mix, he had to add the little sister who had seduced his brother-in-law and almost ruined his sister Marina’s marriage, as well as the father who had tried to pull a fast one in the business deal they were supposed to have by claiming he had the stud rights to the magnificent stallion Blackjack, when in fact they would belong to Adnan and his family.
But nothing had worked quite as he’d planned since he’d arrived. So much had changed and complicated the revenge he’d determined on.
He’d never expected to find that Imogen was still as beautiful—if not more so—than he remembered. He hadn’t thought the fiery pull of the sexual hunger he had felt for her would still be there, scrambling his thoughts and turning them into a molten pool of need. He hadn’t expected to like Adnan Al Makthabi, or to find the sister to be so charming. And he certainly hadn’t expected to feel the painful twist of an uncomfortable conscience to see Imogen now, when his plan was more than halfway to completion, with the grey marks of tiredness and strain around those shadowed eyes, etched along that gorgeous mouth.
He had certainly never anticipated that he would want to help the woman who had only come after him for his money, and who had cold-bloodedly got rid of his child before he had ever even known the baby existed.
‘My mother was terrified of horses,’ Imogen was saying now, her mouth twisting slightly on the low words. ‘She never understood my father’s fascination with them—or mine. So she didn’t feel the connection with me that she obviously had with Ciara. Or that we thought she had. She wanted a girly girl—one who would enjoy clothes and make-up and perfumes as much as she did. And I’m sure she wanted to take her younger daughter because then she could pretend that she wasn’t the age she was—knock a few years off the total. And of course she always thought Ciara was the prettier of her daughters.’
