by Robyn Donald
It was an oath, a quiet imprecation calling for strength; she’d heard her mother use it occasionally when she and her sister were being particularly trying.
Mama, she thought desperately—Mama…
She closed her eyes and muttered hoarsely, ‘I can’t—don’t want this.’
After a moment of stark tension he said brutally, ‘You’re lying. You want me as much as I want you.’
Swift, hot colour burned along her high, sculpted cheekbones. After a tense moment she got her thoughts into sufficient order to mutter, ‘That isn’t the point.’
The intoxicating rush of adrenalin had ebbed, leaving her cold and shaky. Taking him by surprise, she scrambled off his knee.
Her legs shook; he’d be furious and she didn’t blame him, but at least she’d come to her senses while they still had on most of their clothes, she thought wildly.
Bolstering her courage, she turned and faced him, her head flung back and her chin angled in what she hoped would look like arrogance.
He was already on his feet. Her heart quailed; big and dark and dominating in the sleekly impersonal sitting room, he was watching her with a face entirely devoid of expression.
Yet she could feel the force of the emotions he’d leashed behind those hard, inscrutable features.
She swallowed and said, ‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice sounded thin and wooden, as though she were repeating something learned by rote. ‘That was unforgivable of me. I don’t—I don’t want this, Marco.’
One black brow climbed in sardonic comment. ‘You need to work on those mixed messages,’ he said courteously.
He was right, damn him, but it was like a slap in the face. While frustrated passion rioted through her, he could make a comment that showed he wasn’t badly upset. Although his crystalline gaze never left her face and she was uneasily aware of that brilliant, formidable brain working, he seemed unperturbed.
She bit her lip, releasing it when she saw his icy blue eyes note the small betraying gesture. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, more strongly this time. She clenched her hands into fists at her sides.
Do it, the stern voice of duty told her. Tell him to go.
Aloud, she said starkly, ‘I don’t want an affair with you.’
‘Why?’
Oh, God, why couldn’t he just accept it and go? She had no sensible answer that wouldn’t give too much away. He knew she went up in flames in his arms.
When she didn’t answer, he said with the steely civility she found so intimidating, ‘Your response seemed genuine enough. Or are you that good an actress?’
Desperate to make an end of it, she blurted, ‘I’d prefer it if we kept our relationship on a purely business footing.’
When he inclined his head, she saw the prince in action—formidably polite, authoritative and totally intimidating. ‘Or have I misread the situation?’ he asked coolly. ‘I prefer plain speaking, and although you seem to find it difficult to actually tell me, you must. How much will it cost me?’
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘WHAT?’ Jacoba blinked, then caught his meaning. Anger flooded her skin with heat that drained away into a bitter humiliation. ‘If you mean what I think you mean, I am not a prostitute,’ she said abruptly, fighting back the lump that threatened to block her throat.
‘Of course you’re not, but it’s only sensible of you to establish your conditions before you get too involved.’ Marco’s smile cut through her like tempered steel. ‘I very much enjoyed the sample of your skills that we’ve shared so far. I’m quite ready to buy.’
She faced him, two spots of colour burning in her cheeks. ‘I’ve been insulted by experts,’ she said unevenly, ‘but none quite as good as you. Please go.’
‘Certainly.’ He slung the shirt she’d taken off him over one shoulder and strolled out towards the door.
Unwillingly she watched him, welcoming the anger and hurt that soothed her desolation. He walked easily, completely at home, moving with the lithe freedom of a predator.
At the door he turned and examined her. ‘I’ll see you again shortly. I hope you haven’t forgotten when we’re launching the perfume.’
‘No,’ she said colourlessly. ‘It’s in my diary.’
His smile didn’t reach his cold, unsparing eyes. ‘See that you turn up,’ he advised, and swung around and left.
She locked the door after him, then sank down into a chair and shivered, rubbing her upper arms to try and bring some warmth into her body.
This couldn’t be heartbreak—but oh, it felt like it!
Closing her eyes, she tried to block out the prospect of the immediate future, when she’d be faced with meeting him at various functions and enduring the freezing contempt in his eyes, knowing what he thought of her.
Well, it couldn’t be anything worse than her opinion of him, she thought valiantly, trying to whip up that righteous anger again. He had the gall, the utter cheek, to despise her when he’d been quite ready to pay for her sexual services.
Disgusting.
But it wasn’t disgust that brought painful tears to her eyes and kept her awake for most of the night.
The next morning, showered and dressed, cosmetics applied to hide the ravages of the night, Jacoba walked into the sitting room of the suite to the sound of a discreet knock. Crazy anticipation set her heart drumming so heavily when she opened the door.
But it wasn’t Marco. Instead, she saw the butler standing there with a huge basket of flowers.
‘Madam,’ he said formally, proffering them.
She took them, noting the Peruvian lilies, a red so dark and deep it matched her hair. Her foolish heart contracted; surely the colour meant Marco had chosen them himself, not merely phoned an order through? Or were they just another, more subtle insult—payment for those ‘samples of her skills’ he’d been so scathing about?
The butler held out an envelope and the complimentary newspaper. ‘These also,’ he said with a smile. ‘Is there anything I can get for you?’
‘No, thank you.’ Once the door was closed she put the flowers onto a table, then stood looking foolishly down at the envelope. Although it had nothing but her name on it in strong black writing, she knew immediately who had written the salutation.
Biting her lip, she read the message. Brief and oddly formal, it was certainly noncommittal, she thought cynically. It could never be used as evidence!
I will contact you in London when you get back.
He’d signed it with a simple initial M.
Shakily she crumpled the sheet of paper and threw it into a rubbish bin, but almost immediately she retrieved it, smoothing out the creases with a twisted smile that mocked her desire for this one, tiny souvenir.
Although the thought of food nauseated her, she ordered fruit and muesli and some coffee, then sat down to calm her mind by reading the paper.
On the back page her eyes fell on the gossip column, noting her name amidst the print. Her heart dropped and she felt sick, but she forced herself to read it, disgust stiffening her features. How could anyone manage to make an evening reception on a yacht sound like a sordid commercial transaction?
Because Gregory Border had a sordid mind, she thought angrily.
And he wasn’t the only one.
But it was the last sentence that drove the colour from her skin.
It’s been whispered that the prince and our favourite model have more than a contract in common—and although I know what you’re thinking, I’m not referring to that, either! In spite of her impeccably Celtic name, the beautiful model is rumoured to have strong family links to Illyria.
‘Oh, God!’ she whispered, bolting to her feet.
She stared around, then drew in a gasping breath and forced her frantic mind to slow down, to think logically. Almost certainly she had no need to panic, because—surely?—whatever her mother feared had died with the dictator.
She needed to discuss this with someone who wasn’t emotionally caught up in the situation. Hawke…
> She sat down and rang a car-hire firm.
By the time she reached the Bay of Islands she was hot, and she’d managed to spill a glass of orange juice down the front of her T-shirt. Although Hawke wasn’t home, his car was in the garage, so she let herself in with her key and decided to change before she tracked him down.
She’d just showered the sticky juice off when she heard movement in the front of the house. A wry smile lifted the corners of her mouth. Damn, why couldn’t she fall in love with him instead of loving him with the steady affection of a sister? It would make life so much simpler.
She shrugged herself into her wrap and went to let him know she was there, pushing open the door to say, ‘Darling, thank heavens—’
Unfortunately he wasn’t alone. And from the momentary expression on his face, she realised she was most emphatically not welcome! In fact, he’d thrust the woman with him behind his big body, as though to protect her.
He’s in love! she thought, surprisingly dismayed.
‘Jacoba,’ he said levelly. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Oh, sorry.’ His tone hurt, and in spite of herself she felt a pang of anxiety. Keeping her voice light and pleasant she said, ‘Darling, I know I’m a day or so too early. I didn’t realise that you had visitors.’
‘Only one,’ Hawke said easily, once more fully in control.
In a level, ironic voice he introduced them—Jacoba as an old friend, and his lover by name.
Jacoba’s lashes drooped to hide her shock. The woman was Princess Melissa Considine . Marco’s younger sister.
Of all the horrible coincidences…
After a frozen moment she gave her head a tiny shake and let her expression relax into a smile, hoping fervently that neither Hawke nor his lover had noticed. He deserved to be happy, and there was nothing to stop him from achieving it.
With stilted politeness she and Melissa Considine went through the greeting routine. The princess’s tangled honey-dark hair and flushed, exquisite skin combined with the sensuous contours of her mouth to tell Jacoba what had been happening. They’d made love down there on the beach.
A few minutes later, when Hawke showed her into her bedroom, she said contritely, ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry! I should have let you know I’d be early. I’ll eat in my room tonight.’
‘Don’t be an idiot,’ he told her, but his tone revealed that Melissa Considine was important to him.
‘She believes we’re lovers,’ Jacoba stated.
‘Why did you come today?’
Torn, she looked at him sideways. He said, ‘Tell me, Jake. I can see you’re in trouble.’
‘Not exactly.’ because the habits of a lifetime were hard to resist, she told him what had happened. He knew about their mother’s fear of being hunted down by the secret police, but his green eyes narrowed when she revealed the gossip columnist’s bolt out of the blue.
Hawke surveyed her face with an intent gaze that saw too much. ‘You’re in love with that bloody prince,’ he said softly.
Jacoba shook her head vigorously. ‘I don’t believe in love at first sight.’
‘Neither did I.’
She gave him a dazzling smile and a swift, fervent hug. ‘It’s about time! So now go and make sure Melissa understands she has nothing to worry about.’
‘If she doesn’t accept my word that we’re not lovers, she isn’t worth worrying about,’ he said uncompromisingly.
Jacoba jeered, ‘Most people would believe you really mean that, but I know better.’
He tugged a lock of her wet hair. ‘You know me too well. Do you want me to force Border to print a retraction?’
‘Could you?’
He shrugged. ‘I could try.’
‘No,’ said, frowning. ‘You’d only make him dig deeper. I really wanted to ask you if you thought Lexie and I have any reason to worry about being outed as Illyrians. Now I’ve just made things bad for you.’
‘It hasn’t helped,’ he conceded, ‘but I know what I want and I’ll get it in the end. As for worrying about anyone knowing you’re Illyrian by birth—God knows what your mother went through before she got to New Zealand. Whatever happened, she didn’t dare accept you were safe here, so she did a good job of frightening you both into silence. You don’t just brush that sort of thing off, but I’m sure that if she’d still been alive when Paulo Considine died she’d have realised she no longer needed to be afraid.’
Eating her dinner in her room that night with a pretend headache, Jacoba wondered if the blood feuds their mother had talked of could have been a reason for her mother’s fear, but it didn’t make sense. Even if they still happened, Ilona had been the victim, not the aggressor.
Jacoba had hoped her absence would give Hawke a chance to make up with his lover, but the next morning it was obvious things weren’t going well. Although the princess had exquisite manners, she was cool and remote, and Hawke’s tension was apparent to Jacoba—although perhaps not to Melissa Considine , who was flying back to Illyria that morning.
Jacoba met Hawke at the door when he arrived back from the airport. He’d always been there for her, a steady rock in her life, but he had other loyalties now.
He took in her hire car, packed and ready to go. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I had no right to inflict myself on you,’ she said, and smiled mistily at him. ‘I’ve used you for years, and it’s time it stopped. Besides, you’re going after her, aren’t you?’
His grim, narrow smile told her she’d guessed right. ‘I’ll give her a few days,’ he said. ‘As for using me—don’t be an idiot. But it probably is time we moved on.’
Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Yes,’ she said simply. ‘Thanks, Hawke. I have no right to ask you, but—would you mind not telling the princess about us—about the Illyrian connection? It’s not just my secret. There’s Lexie; I rang her last night, and she’s still twitchy about being Illyrian.’
‘Of course I won’t tell Melissa,’ he said brusquely. ‘What are you going to do?’
She’d wanted to call in and see Lexie, but her sister had vetoed that idea; she was just heading off for a tour of the Outback. ‘I’ll go back to London and organise myself into retirement. And then I’ll come back.’
‘Are you still keen on writing that novel?’
‘Yes,’ she said, although her ambition seemed faded and distant, as though Marco had somehow managed to push everything in her life into the background.
Hawke surprised her with a kiss on her cheek. ‘Then consider what you’re going through to be raw material,’ he said. ‘But—a word about Marco Considine . He might be hard to shake off. He knows what he wants.’
Jacoba shrugged, tension pooling beneath her ribs. ‘It’s all right—once I’ve fulfilled my obligation in the launch of this perfume, I’ll come back home and never see him again.’
Jacoba closed the little telephone with a snap, hoping that this time her agent realised it was no use dangling ever more lucrative contracts in front of her.
She’d been in London for four days, seeing no one while she’d made plans and set about organising her future. Perhaps she should thank Marco—if he hadn’t chosen her for the campaign she might have gone on like this for years, wasting time until eventually no one wanted her in front of a camera…
No, she thought sturdily, the past years hadn’t been wasted. She’d met some wonderful people—creative, passionate, dedicated to fashion. But her passion, her creativity and dedication had never been used, and over the past few years she’d become aware of a growing dissatisfaction. So it was making Marco too important to believe he’d produced such a change in her.
Her telephone summoned her again. She picked it up. ‘Hello.’
‘Jacoba.’
Marco ’s voice. Her heart leapt in her chest—a real physical movement, she thought dazedly, pressing a hand over it.
With a struggle she managed to control her tone, to tune it so that her words sounded almost amused. ‘This is a s
urprise, Your Highness.’
‘Last time we met you called me by my name,’ he drawled, his voice low and intimate with an undertone of raw hunger that sent fiery little shafts right through her, tangling her thoughts and reducing her to a creature of sensation.
No, she thought bleakly, forcing herself to reimpose some sort of tenuous control. Once bitten, twice shy. ‘Where are you?’
‘On the street outside your door.’
Pulses thudding, she cast an incredulous glance through the window, but of course she couldn’t see the entrance to the apartment block from there.
Sheer panic hollowed out her stomach. How many times had she rehearsed this scene in the past few days? Yet she was still far from ready. ‘You could have used the intercom,’ she said inanely.
‘Let me in, Jacoba.’
She did, and waited tensely for the bell, wishing that she wore something more chic than jeans and a lambswool jersey. Even if she had her hair pinned up to give her some formality—but it flowed loosely down her back. Not that it mattered—nothing mattered, because she was going to send him away.
When the bell chimed she pinned a smile to her cold lips and forced herself across to open the door.
His splendid vitality seemed dimmed, as though he’d endured the same sleepless nights she had, and he looked at her with eyes that were burnished and opaque. But he couldn’t hide the hunger that darkened them, or the fierce smile that curled his beautiful mouth.
If she’d had time to prepare herself—but his unexpected arrival had taken her by storm, and she was fighting a rearguard action against memories…
Without preamble he said, ‘You didn’t deserve to be insulted. Forgive me, but I thought that perhaps I had misunderstood and that you were like so many women I meet, eager for payment of some kind.’
‘And now you don’t?’
‘I didn’t even then,’ he admitted harshly. ‘I was disgusted by the journalist who lost no chance to denigrate you when you rejected him, but when you did the same to me I behaved just as badly as he did.’ He paused, and when she didn’t say anything he went on with curt frankness, ‘It was wounded pride. I have a bad temper, though I don’t lose it often. I’m very sorry I did with you.’
