A Proposal to Secure His Vengeance

by Kate Walker

  Realisation had happened. She could read the thoughts that were going through his mind as clearly as if they were transmitted on to the bleak, withdrawn face.

  He had realised what they’d just done; how foolishly they’d behaved. And now, because he so obviously had second thoughts, the horrifying truth dawned on her too.

  ‘You don’t need to worry!’

  ‘No?’ One black eyebrow lifted sharply, cynically questioning. ‘And why not?’

  She felt the truth bubbling up like lava in her mouth, but she didn’t dare to let it out. Not now, not ever, possibly, as she was sure there was no way he’d ever have wanted to know the truth about the tiny legacy their past relationship had left with her. The heavy sensation of tears clogging the back of her throat told her there was no way she was going to be capable of revealing that truth to him.

  So she stuck to the one fact she was sure of, the simple, irrefutable declaration she could make.

  ‘Adnan and I...we haven’t, we never, slept together.’

  ‘You’ve not been intimate?’

  It was such a strange, old-fashioned way of expressing it—coming from the man who looked like a bandit, standing there before her with his bare feet splayed out on the shabby bedside rug, dark jeans pulled on roughly so that they were up around his waist but not fully fastened, the belt undone and hanging loose at his narrow hips. His bronzed, broad chest was still exposed, almost shockingly dark against the white and gold décor of her room.

  ‘No—never.’ It was vital that he believe her. ‘I—I haven’t been with anyone at all, not since you.’

  ‘No one?’

  His breath hissed in between his teeth and he seemed to come back to himself as if from a long way away.

  ‘But we should have used contraception. And we were damned stupid not to.’

  If there was any reason why she could never, ever risk telling him about the child they’d created, the baby she’d lost, then it was there, stamped on his face, dark, brutal and like a mask. The thought that they might have created a child appalled him, horrified him. He would do anything to avoid the possibility.

  She couldn’t tell him, and she had to reassure him now. She also had to protect herself. It would destroy her to let him express so openly how much he hated the idea of fathering a child with her.

  ‘That...that...will be fine.’

  ‘No repercussions?’ It was a lash of a demand, making her skin shiver where the words seemed to land.

  ‘None.’

  ‘Dieu, merci.’

  If Imogen had had any tiny trace of hope left then it evaporated at that fervent murmur. The whole atmosphere of passion and hunger that had filled the room only moments before dissolved and vanished, leaving her feeling as flat and limp as the remnant of the sheet that was hanging from her bed. Unable to speak another word, she dragged herself towards her clothing lying on the floor, stooping to pick it up, and then just stood there, tee-shirt and jeans in her hands, unable to do anything more. She couldn’t do as he had done and pull on clothes, as if declaring this time was finished. Over and done with.

  She knew that was how it should be. There was nothing left between them. The inferno of passion that had consumed them had burned itself out, and what was there to put in its place?

  Nothing, Imogen admitted as she watched Raoul’s hands go to his shirt to tuck it in at his waist, bringing the belt tight and buckling it with firm, decisive movements. What she might have thought of—dreamed of—as being a new beginning was in fact the end. One final, last sensual fling. A moment of self-indulgence on his part, a wish for oblivion on hers.

  But the bill always came in the end.

  She had hoped for that insensibility until the morning, one night at least with Raoul by her side, his arms around her, keeping everything that assailed her at bay for just these few hours. Instead, the brief, bittersweet moments of passion were all she’d had; and the reality she woke up to now was worse than ever before. She had loved Raoul, but he had tossed her aside and walked away from her. She had fought hard to win herself a sort of peace, an acceptance, even after the loss of her baby, and she had thought she’d reached it. She had even let herself think of marriage to Adnan, imagining the brutal wounds Raoul had inflicted had started to heal.

  But in just a few days—not even a week—his reappearance and all that followed from it had ripped away the flimsy sticking plaster that she had put over those wounds, opening up the barely closed scars. She was right back where she had started—but this time it was worse. This time she knew the rescue package she and Adnan had offered each other had been blasted to smithereens with no hope of repair. She’d ruined Adnan’s life and her own in one blow. Her father’s future held only bankruptcy, repossession of the stud, and he would probably now face the bottom of far too many bottles to count.

  It would mean she would lose the only home she’d ever known, her dream of having her family live here, with Ciara finding a base here too, in ashes. All the beautiful horses would be taken in payment of their debts and sent heaven alone knew where. But, worst of all, she would have to face that bleak and empty future knowing she had never truly managed to recover from the love she had felt for Raoul. She still loved him, would probably love him until the day she died, while he had only wanted her to sate the sexual passion he had felt, and she had been weak enough to give into it.

  Now it seemed he had had what he’d wanted and, thankful that there would be no possible consequences from this night of passion, he was dressing and on his way. Somehow, she had to find the strength to stand and watch him walk away from her once again.

  ‘Imogen.’ Raoul’s tone was rough and hard, no sign of any of the softening she might hope for in it. ‘This was a mistake.’

  ‘I know,’ she managed, waving a hand dismissively in front of her face so she didn’t have to look into his. ‘But it’s fine. No consequences, no ties. We both had...’ her voice hiccupped on the word ‘...fun, and that was that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need a shower. And you...’

  She didn’t need to finish the sentence. She was sure the pointed way she glanced towards the door did that for her.

  On her way to the bathroom, still with the sheet trailing behind her, she passed the case with the clothes she had packed for her honeymoon. Unable to bear the thought of putting back on the clothes that Raoul had torn from her so ardently, she dropped them on to the floor and snatched up the first items from the top of the case to take them with her into the en suite. Turning on the shower with a force that had the water pouring down, she didn’t even wait for it to warm up before she stood underneath the torrent, letting it pound down on top of her head. The force of it deafened her ears and numbed her thoughts, bringing on a much-needed state of oblivion.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SHE WANTED A SHOWER.

  Raoul could only stand and stare at the door that Imogen had so forcefully shut behind her. The sound of the shower running seemed like a physical barrier she’d erected between them, cutting her off from him as effectively as the solid wood of the door. Whatever else he’d expected, it had not been that. She wanted to wash away every trace of his touch, his kiss, his possession. It made him feel terrible, vile and dirty. As if he had tainted her, when all the time he had...

  He had what? It slapped him hard in the face, shaking up his thought processes, leaving him blinking in confusion and shock.

  He had wanted to comfort her.

  Comfort? How could he feel that towards the woman who had destroyed his child? And how could he be fool enough to have made love to her without any form of protection—no matter how much she assured him that all would be well? How could he risk fathering another child with her when he had no confidence that it wouldn’t meet the same fate?

  No. That was never going to happen, and there was one way he could make sure of it. The memory of the way she had looked walking across the room, the sheet trailing behind her like the train of a wedding dress, was all the confirmat
ion he needed.

  He was standing beside the window, watching the first faint glimmers of the dawn touch the sky, when the sound of the shower ceased. A few minutes later the bathroom door opened and Imogen came back into the room. Her dark hair was wrapped up in a towel turban-style on the top of her head, her feet were bare and she wore a turquoise and white dress that reminded him of the one she had been wearing on that first day on Corsica where he had glimpsed her across the bar and had never been able to look away again.

  ‘You’re still here!’

  It was obvious that didn’t please her. Her voice was tart and her brows drew together in a frown.

  ‘I told you I was never very good at taking orders.’

  ‘I didn’t order...’

  ‘You think not? So what was that deliberate stare, the nod of the head towards the door?’

  She plonked herself down on the bed, tugging the towel loose and rubbing at her wet hair.

  ‘I thought you’d want to go—you got what you wanted. And, as you said, it was fun.’

  ‘You were the one who said that,’ he pointed out. ‘I didn’t even agree with you.’

  The hands that were rubbing at her hair stilled, and he could see she was looking up at him, peering through the black strands.

  ‘Don’t lie to me, Raoul!’

  ‘Why should it be a lie? I can assure you that, for me, it wasn’t fun.’

  So how did she take that? Imogen asked herself, thankful for the concealing curtain of hair that hid the confusion and pain she knew must show in her face. He sounded so serious, her heart twisted in apprehension.

  ‘Just a one-night stand...’ she tried and felt the constriction in her chest tighten as she saw that proud dark head move in adamant denial.

  Turning, he gestured to where the beautiful lace dress hung from the top of the wardrobe, shrouded in its cotton covering.

  ‘You would have looked beautiful in that.’

  ‘Oh, don’t!’

  She didn’t even want to think about it.

  ‘You still could,’ he went on, keeping up that casual, conversational tone. The one that contradicted so starkly the words he was actually saying.

  ‘We should give you another chance to wear it.’

  That hit home so hard it knocked her flat, falling back against the pillows, her eyes closing in shock. She had to be dreaming or hallucinating; this couldn’t be happening! But when she opened them he was still there, still looking down at her with that skin-scouring stare that seemed to have scraped away a much-needed protective layer, leaving herself raw and vulnerable.

  ‘Better not let it go to waste.’

  ‘Why?’ She could barely form the word and it came out in a raw croak. ‘How?’

  He couldn’t mean what it sounded like, and yet there was no hint of any amusement or anything that might indicate he was anything but deadly serious. With the emphasis on deadly.

  ‘You could always marry me.’

  He’d said that before, in the middle of the night, but she’d taken it as a joke. A black, sick sort of joke that she hadn’t even let register in her mind. But now he was saying it again and the dark emphasis left her in no doubt that he meant what he was saying.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Let me see...’

  He lifted a hand, ticking off the points he made one by one.

  ‘You need someone to get you out of the financial mess you’re in—I can manage that and more. I want the stud. I like what I’ve seen of it so far—though it needs huge investment and modernisation. I want that stallion, Blackjack.’

  Didn’t he hear what he was saying? Didn’t he realise that what he was offering was the reason why he had originally turned away from her so callously?

  ‘But this is what you accused me of before—of wanting you for your money. Like the others, no?’ she questioned as he shook his head almost savagely.

  ‘Alice—the others—played a role. They claimed they wanted me for myself.’

  ‘Which is why you pretended you were just a farmer?’

  ‘Until Rosalie told you the truth.’

  ‘That you actually owned the farm and the business. Yes, she pointed out the olive oil in the shops...’ Her words dried as she saw the quick frown, the disbelieving look, he had turned on her.

  ‘What else?’ he demanded.

  ‘Nothing else! Are you telling me your friend embroidered the truth a little—more than a little—when she reported to you? Did she claim she told me about the worldwide market for your oil?’

  Rosalie hadn’t needed to add any such thing, Imogen admitted to herself. Because the truth was that she hadn’t actually listened—or cared. If Raoul was just a farmer, or something more, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that she had fallen crazily in love with him and all she wanted was for the magical island interlude to carry on into a much longer future. So she hadn’t even thought of it, and instead had blundered in with her naïve and over-enthusiastic attempt to persuade him to let their relationship become something so much more than a holiday fling.

  ‘And perhaps she added in the details of the horse breeding programme you were working on? The beautiful stallions I might want to use in the Blacklands stud, just to make sure I bit?’

  The answer was written on his face and she almost laughed as she put a hand up to touch his cheek, trace the line of the wry twist to his mouth.

  ‘Believe me, that was more likely to make me want to turn and run, rather than fight my way through your obvious defences. Oh, Raoul, don’t you think that perhaps your “friend” was a little interested in you herself? I feel sorry for you,’ she added as she saw his eyes change, darkening as realisation set in. ‘No—really, truly, I do. If you can’t trust anyone.’

  ‘I did once.’

  It was a low, muttered growl and the fact that his eyes slid away from hers as he said it told her this was something important. Something he found it hard to speak of.

  ‘I was young, foolish, barely twenty. I met a girl and fell—hard. I thought she had too.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She believed I had money—but it was my father who held the purse strings then. When she found out, she made a play for him instead.’

  ‘She dumped you for your own father?’ Imogen couldn’t disguise the shock she felt—and her horror—at his story.

  ‘After that I developed a sort of sixth sense where women were concerned. If they wanted money, there were plenty of other places they could find it.’

  He made it sound as if it didn’t matter, as if he had just tossed those feelings aside. But there was so much control in his voice, in his expression, that Imogen knew he was concealing the full truth.

  ‘I only ever came close to making that mistake one other time.’

  ‘And then?’

  His smile was hard, cold, a flash on and off, and then it was gone again, leaving his eyes like polished stone.

  ‘I don’t put my head in the noose a second time.’

  Imogen flinched away from the cold darkness of the declaration. It echoed back through the years, taking her to a Corsican beach, the slow wash of the waves against the shore in her ears, the warmth of the sun on her back.

  ‘But—isn’t that what you’re doing now?’

  She cursed herself for actually saying it. But she had to. After the way he’d opened up to her, she couldn’t just leave things as they were.

  ‘It will be. You’re giving me money—paying my family’s debts—that’s the inducement you’re using to get me to marry you.’

  She was looking up into his eyes as she spoke and she saw the tiny movement as his head went back, the long, slow blink as he accepted what she had said.

  ‘But this time you’re not asking for it. I’m offering it to you. If it means I get you in my bed, then that’s a deal I’m prepared to agree to. And I want you, Imogen. More than I’ve ever wanted any other woman in my life.’

  ‘I don’t want...’

  A blazing fl
ash from those molten bronze eyes shrivelled the rest of the sentence on her tongue and made it die there unspoken.

  ‘Surely we’re past the time for lies? At least we know we’re compatible in bed, if nowhere else.’

  His words threatened to choke off her breathing. If only he knew how much she wanted to be with him anywhere and everywhere—in bed, out of it; at home or away; in her life!

  ‘There’s more to marriage than sex.’

  Raoul nodded slowly, though his eyes refuted her claim.

  ‘But it’s a good place to start—a very good place in our case.’

  Unable to stay on the bed any longer, Imogen pushed herself upwards onto her feet so she could face him, eye to eye.

  ‘You think that because you’re hot in bed... Yes, I’m acknowledging that!’ she admitted as she saw the quirk of his arched brow. ‘I’d be a fool to deny it. But if you think I’d do that—for you...’

  ‘No.’ Another shrug. ‘Not for me. For your family, your father, the stud, the horses. You could even make sure that Adnan can save face.’

  ‘Oh, come on!’

  How could she ever make it up to Adnan? How could he ever forgive her, or at the very least still tolerate her presence in his life? She might as well have renounced him to his face in public. Or turned and walked away from him at the altar.

  ‘How on earth could I do that?’

  Raoul looked totally unmoved by her vehemence. Reaching out, he took her hand, lifted it between them, and the smile that slowly curved his beautiful mouth made a trickle of ice slither down her spine.

  ‘We were lovers,’ he said smoothly. So smoothly that she couldn’t interrupt him, no matter how she might want to refute his words. He had never been her lover, except in the physical sense. ‘Long lost lovers who had never forgotten each other, still cared for each other. Still lov—’

  ‘No!’ That was too much. How could he even use the word ‘love’ after all that had gone on?