Книга - A Proposal To Secure His Vengeance

A Proposal To Secure His Vengeance
Kate Walker


Raoul Cardini will have his revenge!His preferred method? Ruthless, irresistible seduction!Imogen O’Sullivan is horrified when charismatic tycoon Raoul breaks up her engagement and makes her his own convenient bride! She once surrendered everything to Raoul—body, heart and soul. But as he stalks back into her life it’s clear he has punishment in mind—not just passion! Can Imgoen resist Raoul’s potent brand of delicious vengeance?







Raoul Cardini will have his revenge!

His preferred method? Ruthless, irresistible seduction!

Imogen O’Sullivan is horrified when charismatic tycoon Raoul breaks up her engagement and makes her his own convenient bride! She once surrendered everything to Raoul—body, heart and soul. But as he stalks back into her life, it’s clear he has punishment in mind, not just passion! Can Imogen resist Raoul’s potent brand of delicious vengeance?


KATE WALKER was born in Nottingham, in the UK, but grew up in West Yorkshire. She met her husband at university in Wales and originally worked as a children’s librarian. After the birth of her son she returned to her childhood love of writing. Her first book was published in 1984. She now lives in Lincolnshire with her husband—also a writer—and two cats who think they rule her life.


Also by Kate Walker

The Good Greek Wife?

The Proud Wife

The Return of the Stranger

The Devil and Miss Jones

A Throne for the Taking

Olivero’s Outrageous Proposal

Indebted to Moreno

Rhastaan Royals miniseries

A Question of Honour

Destined for the Desert King

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


A Proposal to Secure His Vengeance

Kate Walker






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-07174-1

A PROPOSAL TO SECURE HIS VENGEANCE

© 2018 Kate Walker

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For dear Kathy W, one of the special friends I’ve gained from Writers’ Holiday—even if you only come there in July!


Contents

Cover (#u3ad23cd6-fb66-5ce8-998d-d90252e71fa1)

Back Cover Text (#u46365043-aabd-510c-b2d4-e8a714275b0e)

About the Author (#u1ebf924a-07c6-5da2-a94c-7d84bac9b910)

Booklist (#ue4c0cc07-1108-5a02-a2ea-01133cd2df00)

Title Page (#u0cef8294-f052-5b7c-b33c-1cbdc0df5c56)

Copyright (#ub45bb2f5-e894-5f6f-a370-fa4e88aee296)

Dedication (#u0777b4e5-cae0-51ac-a89a-32c3cc21145c)

CHAPTER ONE (#u12a60604-adae-5ee6-8eec-803b923e253b)

CHAPTER TWO (#u105597fc-ca0b-5c62-9c0c-364446f7c156)

CHAPTER THREE (#uacb6a2c1-3a54-524c-8f34-95f7bc17ba59)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#u7b890bb2-a12f-55c4-b3e9-65094d87c0ff)

THE WALK DOWN the aisle on your wedding day was supposed to be the longest walk in the world, and today it certainly felt as if that would be the case.

Imogen shivered at the way the words whirled in her head as she contemplated the stone-flagged aisle of the small village church, making her admit to the state of mind she’d been trying so hard to hide—even from herself—for the past few weeks.

A feeling that had grown so much worse as the date of her wedding had come closer, so that now it was just a couple of days away and she still wasn’t ready at all.

She doubted if she would ever be ready.

It could all have been so much worse. She could have had no one to turn to, no one who could help her and her family out of the morass of disaster they had fallen into, and with it the loss of the stud that had been in the family for over a century. Even perhaps the prospect of a prison sentence for her father.

No one to push her into a marriage she didn’t want but saw as the only way she and her family could possibly go forward.

Imogen pushed her hands through the tumble of black hair that fell onto her shoulders, exerting extra pressure with her fingers as if she could erase the chaos of her thoughts.

It was the only way, she told herself silently. Adnan at least was a friend; they liked each other—always had—and they both had so much to lose if this didn’t go ahead.

Besides, there was another possible advantage, she hoped, that perhaps, after her marriage, the scandal press would let go of the hateful nickname they used whenever she or her sister Ciara were mentioned. If this redeemed Ciara’s reputation too, left her free to go forward in life and put her own shadows behind her, then that was another reason it would be worth it.

She’d always loved this little village church. The church where her parents had married, where she’d been christened, and her sister after her. She had so loved being an older sister, until their mother had run away with a new, much younger lover, taking Ciara with her. At least the preparations for this wedding had brought Ciara back to the family home where she belonged and now, hopefully, could actually stay.

After a lifetime apart, she had only discovered the whereabouts of her sister a couple of years ago, but the two of them hadn’t had any real time to get to know each other properly. Ciara since then had been living and working in Australia, and Imogen’s whole attention had had to be focused on fighting to save the reputation and financial position of the stud. But she’d adored Ciara from the moment they’d met again and if she could do anything to help make up for the loss of happiness and family life that Ciara had endured, then she’d do her damnedest to make sure that happened.

She owed Adnan so much. After all, it could have been someone else she was so deeply indebted to, someone else she was having to marry.

Someone like Raoul Cardini, a wicked, tormenting little voice whispered into her subconscious.

‘No!’

Involuntarily she started away from the pew beside which she had been standing, the surge of memories taking the strength from her legs. She was so distracted that she didn’t hear the heavy wooden door open behind her, the soft footsteps on the floor that marked the arrival of someone else into the church.

He hadn’t expected to see her here, Raoul reflected as he stood just inside the open porch, staring down the aisle at the tall, slender figure who stood with her back to him, one hand on the polished edge of the pew beside her. Just seeing her like this, so unexpectedly, brought all the bitterness, the cold fury that he’d been fighting to hold in check bubbling up inside him.

The original idea had been to wait until the pre-wedding dinner tonight to implement his plan for revenge. He had been looking forward to seeing the sudden rush of shock in her eyes, the way her expression would change. Yes, he was sure she would fight to keep control, do everything she could not to show how she was feeling. She was good at that, he recalled, remembering the cool control he had seen her exhibit at times during the two weeks they had spent almost every moment in each other’s company.

She certainly hadn’t shown any emotion when she had left him, two years before, her face tight and controlled. He hadn’t begun to suspect the secrets that lay behind that expression, the truth she had hidden from him without a qualm. She’d never even revealed a hint of that life-changing secret until it was gone, the tiny beginnings of what might have been his son or daughter thrown away with the help of the expensive clinic she’d taken herself to. He’d never seen her composure break.

Except for the night she and her sister had been caught by the paparazzi emerging from the casino arm in arm, he recalled, his hands clenching into fists at his side. Neither of them had seemed in the least bit steady on the towering heels they’d worn.

The Scandalous O’Sullivan Sisters! the headline above the photo had shrieked, and it had been in that moment that Raoul had put Imogen and Ciara together, realising that the surname of the nanny who had threatened to ruin his sister’s marriage was shared by the woman who had destroyed his chances of being a father. He had recognised her in a moment, but had been stunned to see both of them out of control in a way he had never seen the older O’Sullivan girl before.

Except in bed.

Raoul felt a curse echo inside his thoughts as he fought the rush of heat through his body. He’d thought he’d wiped that particular memory from his mind but it seemed that all it needed was her presence, just metres away from where he stood, and every cell was inflamed. He couldn’t afford to let that distract him from his purpose.

She looked a little different, but he knew inside she would be the same. Still tall and elegant, but now with a glossy mane of black hair tumbling down her back. It was longer than before. He remembered the crisp, silky feel of the sharp pixie cut she’d sported back then, the smooth strands catching the gleam of the sun. She was dressed differently too, in a plain white tee-shirt and tight-fitting jeans, simpler and more subdued than the bright skirts and sundresses she’d worn on the beaches at Calvi or Bonifacio. She’d grown thinner too, the tight-fitting denim clinging to shapely hips and long, slender legs, the occasional stylish rip in the material exposing the pale cream of her beautiful skin. She didn’t look like a woman who had carried a child. But then, of course, she had never let her baby live long enough to change the shape of her body, had she? It had barely existed before it was gone.

It was shocking how even that dark knowledge didn’t stop his more basic male urges responding to the feminine appeal of her.

* * *

No! She would not remember Raoul!

Imogen shook her head sharply, desperate to drive away the last lingering threads of memories that bruised her soul; memories she had never wanted to recall. But it seemed that just dredging up that once-loved name from the silt in which she’d hoped to have buried it brought everything rushing back.

‘The longest walk in the world.’

The voice spoke suddenly from behind her, its rich, husky accent obvious on the words. An accent that sounded alien in this small Irish village. But not unknown. She knew that voice only too well...but how she wished she didn’t.

‘Is that not what they say?’

‘I—No...’

She whirled around to face the newcomer, spinning so hard that she went over on one ankle, needing to reach out and grab a nearby pew for support. But it wasn’t the worn, polished wood that her fingers closed over. Instead she felt the warmth of skin, the strength of muscle and bone under her grasp, and there was the scent of lemon and bergamot in her nostrils, blended with a sensual trace of clean, musky male skin.

It was a scent that jolted her sharply out of the present and right back to a holiday in Corsica two years before. A starlit night, still warm after the burning heat of the day. The slide of soft sand under her feet, the sound of waves breaking in her ear and the hard, warm palm of the man who had just become her very first lover tight against her own as they walked along the beach.

The man who, just six days later, had broken her heart.

‘No?’

That shockingly familiar voice was back, softly questioning in her ear, and she blinked hard against the red mist that had hazed her eyes.

This had to be a mistake; a crazy, mindless fantasy. Her unwanted memories had created a mirage in her mind, conjuring up an image of the man she had weakly let into her thoughts for a moment but now wanted so desperately to forget.

‘R-Raoul...’

The name stumbled from her lips as she forced herself to focus and found it only made matters worse. That tall, lean frame was a powerful, dark force in the silent atmosphere of the little church.

‘Ma chère Imogen.’

It was soft, almost gentle. But that gentleness was a lie, she knew. There was no tenderness in this man, as she should have realised from the start. If she had, she might have escaped with her body and her heart intact. Her baby might never have been conceived—or was that actually the worst thing that could have happened? To have known Raoul’s child growing inside her for even the shortest time had brought her such joy, such happiness, that she could never have wished it hadn’t happened. Even if it had ended so cruelly.

‘I’m not your chère anything!’ she retorted, pulling away from him with a force that rammed her hip into the wooden side of the pew. ‘Not now—not ever! And I never wanted to be.’

‘Of course not.’ His tone made a mockery of her declaration.

He moved slightly, stepping out of the direct light and into a spot where the multi-coloured gleam of the sun burning through the stained-glass windows turned his face into a mosaic of blues and reds, a tiny touch of gold gilding the hard slash of carved cheekbones. The skin was drawn rather more tightly across those bones than it had been before and there were a few more lines around his eyes than she recalled but, if anything, those tiny signs of the passing of years only added to the devastating appeal of his stunning features. The colours from the window played like a kaleidoscope over the white shirt he wore, sleeves rolled up over long, muscular forearms. The shadowy interior of the church hid the burnished glow of golden skin, softly hazed with crisp black hair, but Imogen didn’t need to see to remember.

She knew what those arms looked like when gilded by the Corsican sun; knew only too well the feel of them curled around her waist, pressed close up against her skin where it was exposed by the vivid blue bikini she’d felt brave enough to wear in the heat of the sun. And in the heat of his appreciative eyes. She knew what it felt like to lie with her cheek resting on the strength and solidity of his bones, the power of his muscles, the scent of his skin in her nostrils as the beat of her heart slowly ebbed and she slipped into sleep, exhausted after a night of love-making.

She knew too well—and she didn’t want to remember.

‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe that,’ he drawled now.

‘Believe it! It’s the truth.’

The burn in her veins chilled as she watched his beautiful mouth twist in a cynical response.

‘That wasn’t what you said at the time.’

It sounded almost gentle, but the ice in his golden-eyed stare warned her she’d be a fool to believe there was anything kind in him at all.

‘What I said at the time didn’t mean a thing.’

Imogen drew in her breath in a rush, fighting for control. She felt she was being dragged backwards into her past, swallowed up by a dangerous quicksand, suffocating slowly and painfully. Head over heels and crazy in love, all she’d done was to say that she didn’t want their sun-filled idyll to end, that she wanted to stay with him. She’d never expected he would turn on her, accuse her of being a greedy gold-digger and dismiss her—for good, he had declared.

‘Those were the foolish, thoughtless declarations of a naïve adolescent. I’d had too much sun, too much wine...or something.’

Too much of Raoul Cardini, certainly. But she’d never been drunk when she was with him—she’d never needed to be. He was intoxicating enough to make her mind swim in heated abandon. She’d never had a head for wine anyway, or the taste for it. Except for that one crazy evening she’d spent with Ciara just after they’d rediscovered each other. They’d both been struggling with the darkness that had fallen over their lives, and as a result the joy of the evening together had gone to their heads faster than the most potent alcohol.

‘None of it was true—none of it was real.’

‘And none of it is relevant now.’

Cold and cutting, it made her feel as if the ground beneath her had shifted disturbingly. She’d known two years ago that he could turn away from her without a second’s thought, dismissing all she’d believed they’d been to each other in between one breath and another. But she’d never heard him state it in words of pure ice that he tossed in her face without a blink. And once she knew just how impossible she had found it to forget him, that realisation slashed deep into her soul.

She wished she could find the strength to turn and walk right out of here. Brush straight past him and head for the door. The trouble was that she didn’t think ‘brush’ would be the word to describe the way she would encounter Raoul on the way. Even whispering past the tall, forceful body of the man before her would be like thudding straight into a brick wall.

‘Nothing between us is relevant at all. So, if you’d just let me past...’

An elegant wave of his hand indicated the fact that there was plenty of space for her to walk by him.

‘Be my guest.’

She was nearly past him when he stirred slightly and she could hear the hateful smile in his voice as it drifted after her.

‘I’ll see you back at the house.’

It stopped her dead, her head ringing as if his words had been a blow.

‘I think not!’

It was only now she realised, shockingly and disturbingly, that there was a question she had never asked. One that should have been right at the forefront of her mind from the moment he had first spoken to her but she’d been too stunned even to consider. She’d never thought fate could be so unkind. It was bad enough that he should be here, now, so close to her wedding day, but to think that this was not just an appalling error of chance...

‘You’re not coming back to the house!’

‘Oh, but I am.’

That brought her spinning round, needing to see his face. The deadly smile was still there in his voice but there wasn’t a trace of it in his expression.

‘No way. I mean...why are you here at all?’

There it was. The question she should have asked from the start. The one that, she now realised, she hadn’t dared to ask because she’d feared the answer.

Now the smile was not just in his eyes but very definitely curling the edges of that obscenely sexy mouth. At least, it was obscene for Imogen to consider anything about this man sexy. That was what had caught her in the first place, trapping her in the coils of his dark sensuality, taking her life out of her hands and putting it into his, to torment and break as he wished.

‘Your father invited me, of course.’

The deadly nonchalance with which he tossed the words at her made her stomach tighten.

‘Dad? You’re kidding!’

That was just too much. She actually laughed in a blend of shock and relief, at the realisation that this simply could not be true. How could he ever be here for the wedding? How could he have been invited when no one but her knew him well enough to offer him an invitation? She sure as hell had never let anyone know that for a brief space of time he had once been such an important part of her life. Her short-lived summer love affair and its bitter consequences would neither have concerned nor interested her father.

‘Do I look as if I’m joking?’

He looked supremely confident, totally at ease, and with not a trace of amusement on his carved features.

‘My father would never invite you here. And definitely not for this wedding.’

‘Why not?’

There was the flash of challenge in those golden eyes now, clashing with the disbelief in her own stare.

‘Not good enough, is that it? You think, ma belle, your father would not want to invite a simple olive farmer to his daughter’s wedding of the year?’

‘Oh, come on!’

She had to cover up her reaction to that casual ‘ma belle’, needing to hide the way it had the bite of acid. Once she had loved to hear him call her that, had gloried in a new-found sense of feeling beautiful in his eyes. But now the bitter memory of how quickly she had gone from being ma belle to a mere nothing, a plaything tossed aside and abandoned on the beach where they had first met, curdled in her stomach.

‘We both know you’re no simple olive farmer and you never were.’

That had been the pretence he had hidden behind when they’d met. He’d let her believe he was a hard-working farmer who was delighted to meet this young Englishwoman on holiday and spend time with her. His friend Rosalie had been the one to warn her that there was more to Raoul Cardini than that. But even she had never revealed the full story. It was only when Imogen had got home and, still nursing the hurt in her heart, had been unable to resist looking up the beautiful island of Corsica on the Internet that she had found the truth that had rubbed salt deep into the wounds his rejection had inflicted on her.

‘I don’t think the Cardini olive oil empire could ever be described as just farming!’

What had she said? It was only the truth, after all, but it was as if she had flung some vile insult into his face so that his head went back, bronze eyes narrowing, beautiful mouth clamping tight, turning his lips into a hard, thin line.

‘Not just the olive oil empire,’ he said. ‘At least get your facts right.’

‘Of course there’s more, isn’t there? More you didn’t trouble to tell me. Did you think it wasn’t worth me bothering my head about?’

She flicked her eyes at him, there and away again fast, wanting him to see that she really couldn’t give a damn about anything else he hadn’t revealed to her. At one time, discovering the fact that, like her family, he was a dedicated breeder of fine horses might have brought them together. But the time to care about the lies he had told, the secrets he had kept from her, was long gone. The memory of the one secret she had kept from him burned in her soul, threatening to destroy her if she let it free.

‘Your father thinks it is. That’s why he agreed to a deal I proposed. And he wanted to mix business with pleasure.’

Could he make that last word sound any more toxic? She knew something was very wrong—it had to be. How could her father have agreed to a business deal when there was nothing left of the family business? If there had been any other possibility then she wouldn’t be here, living through her last days of freedom before she walked down this aisle with Adnan Al Makthabi. The marriage was supposed to save the Blacklands Stud from complete ruin. It was supposed to ensure they didn’t have to sell off the few remaining horses, including the magnificent stallion Blackjack.

The cost of the stallion had crippled their already overly strained finances, the loan her father had insisted on taking out to pay for him depleting further an already empty bank account and adding thousands to the interest repayments. But at least Adnan and his family wanted Blackjack—perhaps more than they wanted Imogen herself.

‘He suggested I come now and share in the celebrations. And he offered me a room in Blackland House for the week so we could discuss the deal at the same time.’

He made it sound perfectly reasonable, natural even, but the nasty twisting sensation in Imogen’s stomach told her it couldn’t possibly be that way. Her father couldn’t discuss any sort of ‘deal’—he had nothing to offer! From the date of her wedding, he wouldn’t even own the stud—or Blackjack.

‘So tell me—what did you use to buy my father’s interest?’

She’d gone too far with that. Dangerously so. She could see it in the way a muscle ticked in his cheek, the glare that had turned the warm colour of his eyes to ice in the space of a heartbeat.

‘I don’t buy my business partners. Ask your father. You might not want me here but, believe me, your father does. He invited me to stay and be a guest at your wedding—so, naturally I said yes. I wanted be here to watch you plight your troth to your perfect bridegroom.’

Raoul spat the words at her before he spun on his heel and marched away, down the aisle and out of the church. The staccato sound of his angry footsteps echoed through the silent interior of the church until the heavy wooden door slammed loudly behind him.


CHAPTER TWO (#u7b890bb2-a12f-55c4-b3e9-65094d87c0ff)

THE SUN WAS burning away the fine dawn mist that had clouded the distant hillsides as Imogen turned the bay mare and reluctantly headed back to the stud. The long, solitary gallop on her favourite horse had been a welcome time of peace and quiet in the bustle of the weekend. Time to reflect and draw breath before considering what her next move might be where Raoul Cardini was concerned.

Because of course Raoul was the real problem she had. The preparations for the wedding were well in hand, everything would have been fine if it hadn’t been for Raoul’s unexpected arrival and the crazy scheme that her father had embarked on to bring him here.

‘Oh, why now!’ she exclaimed aloud, making the mare’s ears prick in response to the sound as they trotted down the path that led to the stables.

But she knew why. Adnan had revealed last night at the pre-wedding dinner that her father had mentioned Raoul’s approach, his interest in the stud services and the stallion Blackjack in particular. But they had agreed to wait until the wedding was over, he said. Or that had been the original plan.

It was obviously not what Raoul believed, Imogen reflected now, slowing the mare to a walk as her hooves rang on the cobbled stones of the stable yard. Last night she’d finally managed to get the truth out of her father, discovering to her horror that things were as bad as she’d thought. Her father had planned to get the deal for stud services for Blackjack signed and sealed before the magnificent horse became the property of the Al Makthabi stud—which he would on the day of her marriage. Adnan had agreed to clear her father’s debts, save Blacklands from destruction and restore it to something of its former glory, but only on condition that Blackjack became his as part of the deal.

If she couldn’t get her father to cancel the whole thing then the wedding would be off. And even if she could she would still have to worry that Raoul would reveal everything to Adnan.

If that was everything. The mare danced sideways and whickered a protest at the way Imogen’s grip had suddenly tightened on the reins.

‘Sorry, Angel!’

She gave the sleek bay neck a reassuring pat as she struggled with the bleakness of her thoughts. Just remembering how Raoul had appeared at the dinner last night, dark and sleek in immaculate evening dress, made her throat close up. This was the man she had once thought of as her future, only to have that hope thrown back in her face. She couldn’t believe he was here only to discuss a business deal with her father, so she was forced to wonder just what other wicked schemes were brewing behind that cold-blooded, heartless facade of his.

Last night she had thought all she had to do was speak to her father, demand that he break off this ridiculous deal with Raoul. It was only later, when she had had time to think about things, she’d realised how that might not solve matters. Instead, it might be like knocking down the first domino in a carefully planned and balanced arrangement, sending them all tumbling in a wild cascade. One that had the potential to destroy everything she and Adnan had worked and planned for.

‘Almost there.’

The memory of the words Adnan had directed at her, the smile that had accompanied his statement, swirled in her mind as it had done all through the night.

She knew he had meant it as a reassuring smile. The trouble was that it had done nothing to soothe the jittery pins and needles that had been running through her veins ever since she had got back from the church.

Last night should have marked the moment when she and Adnan perhaps could have started to relax. They were, as Adnan had said, almost there. Last night’s dinner marked the final stage in the preparations for the wedding. The day after tomorrow would be the main event and then after that, as man and wife, they could start to put back together all the pieces of the two families, the two studs, that had broken apart.

Instead, she now felt as if she was deeper into the mire of trouble than ever before—and it was all because of this one man.

‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle O’Sullivan!’

The voice hailed Imogen as she dismounted from her horse and she bit back a groan of despair. This early in the day, she had hoped to have the fields and the stables all to herself, but of course she should have remembered that Raoul too was an early riser. So often when in Corsica he had stirred before dawn broke and was out before the heat of the day could start to build up. She had deluded herself at the time that as a farmer he had needed to tend to his land, never suspecting that he was up and out to deal with major business decisions so that he could return to the quiet hotel to share breakfast and then the rest of the day with her.

‘Good morning, Monsieur Cardini,’ she forced herself to respond, finding it hard to make it sound casual and relaxed, and failing miserably on both counts. ‘I trust you slept well.’

‘I was perfectly comfortable,’ Raoul told her, crossing the yard to smooth a hand down the mare’s soft nose. He watched the way Imogen’s crystal-blue gaze flicked up once towards his face, then away again as soon as her eyes collided with his. ‘But I should be no concern of yours. It was your father who invited me.’

‘You are one of my wedding guests.’

That cool control was back, at least on the surface, but there was a tremor in her voice that pleased him.

‘And I thought you would want to be at breakfast by now.’

‘You know me.’ Raoul watched her face as he spoke. He knew she was struggling to make polite conversation, but he had no intention of offering her any sort of lifeline. ‘A cup of coffee is all I need to set me up for the day.’

She had once been inclined to chide him about that, he remembered, taking him out to one of the bustling little cafés in Ajaccio where she would attempt to entice him to eat something more.

‘You work on the land,’ she’d reproved. ‘You need to eat.’

He recalled that she’d been almost addicted to the local bread made with chestnut flour and pine nuts, her appetite much better then than it seemed to be these days.

He’d watched her at dinner last night and if she had eaten any of the meal in front of her then he was a complete fool, Raoul told himself. She had stirred her food around, occasionally lifting her fork towards her mouth in a way that might convince anyone else, but not him. So totally aware of her as he was, there was no way he could have missed the fact that her fork had nothing on it.

Her sister was not much better, he acknowledged, having noted how Ciara O’Sullivan’s eyes had barely left her sister and her fiancé, her own plate totally abandoned after one or two mouthfuls.

‘I need to give Angel a brush down,’ Imogen said, turning to lead the horse into her stall. It was obvious she wished he’d leave her alone, but Raoul had no trouble ignoring the blatant hint, strolling along beside her, one hand on the mare’s flank.

He was seeing yet another side of Imogen O’Sullivan this morning. One which couldn’t be more different from the elegant creature at dinner last night. Today she was dressed for riding, the simple white shirt and skin-tight jodhpurs clinging to her slender frame, her feet pushed into muddy black boots. Last night she had looked stunning and sleek as he had never seen her before, her burgundy silk gown glowing richly against the creamy pallor of her skin. The dress had had a deep, plunging neckline but one where her modesty was carefully preserved by the panel of delicate lace that had covered the lush curves of her breasts.

He couldn’t see them, but he could remember. For a moment Raoul was totally distracted by the memory of the time he had undone Imogen’s bikini top to expose the pure whiteness of her flesh where she had been protected from the sun, in contrast to the lightly tanned colour of the rest of her skin. Her breasts had been smaller then, each one just fitting into the curve of his palm. He had loved to smooth and caress them, tease the soft pink of her nipples into thrusting life. But just the thought of what might have made her breasts become larger had him biting down hard on his tongue to hold back the curse of rage that almost escaped him.

‘So how are you liking your first time in Ireland?’

Imogen had obviously accepted that he wasn’t going to leave her and had turned again to making polite, if rather forced, conversation.

‘This is not my first visit here.’

There was an odd note in the reply, she recognised. One that warned of unexpected darkness at the bottom of what was just a simple statement.

‘It’s not? Was that recently?’

Her training at boarding school, the strict discipline of the nuns and their determination to turn out ‘young ladies’, stood her in good stead. She found that the disciplined part of her personality was working on auto-pilot while all the time, hidden inside, a far less controlled version of Imogen was stirring, uncurling, as if awakening from a long sleep and demanding a new sort of attention.

It reminded her of how it had once felt to be young and carefree, lost on the dangerous seas of her first sexually passionate relationship, the recognition of just how it could be between a man and a woman.

She still felt that way; even last night, with Adnan beside her and his ring on her finger. Adnan was the only man who could stand next to Raoul and match him, inch for inch in height, in the lean strength of his body, the force of his personality. Both were black-haired and brilliant-eyed—but, where Raoul’s eyes were that gleaming, golden bronze, Adnan’s were a cool, clear blue.

Adnan was stunning—hadn’t the reaction of her own sister, when Ciara had first met her fiancé, left no room for doubts on that score? But it was Raoul who had knocked Imogen for six from the start, and now apparently had only to reappear in her life to make her feel as if the world had rocked dangerously and couldn’t be righted again.

Raoul was nodding in response to her question.

‘I was last here just over a year ago.’ There was a dark note in his voice that tugged on already raw nerves. ‘That was what first sparked my interest in your father’s stud.’

It was only when Angel pushed an impatient nose into the small of her back, urging her forward, that Imogen realised she had stood stock still in confusion at the thought. Raoul had been here a year ago—when she and Adnan had just been starting to discuss the possibility of their marriage, of uniting the two families...

‘And of course the magnificent Blackjack.’

Was that comment as loaded as he made it sound? The truth she knew about the stallion, and the way it made her father’s deal with Raoul null and void, sat like a lump of lead in Imogen’s stomach, forcing her to fight against a twisting rush of nausea.

Raoul reached forward and took Angel’s reins from her limp hands, leading the mare into the open stall. The movement meant that their fingers touched just for a moment, something like electricity fizzing between them, so that Imogen couldn’t stop herself from snatching her hand away as if she’d been burned. Angel didn’t like the unexpected movement and shifted restlessly with a whinny of protest.

‘Sorry, sweetheart...’ she soothed, and the softness of her tone caught on an image in Raoul’s mind, pouring acid onto an already bitter memory.

She had once spoken to him like that, in the darkness of the night, turning the sound of his name into a caress. The change that the spontaneous smile brought to her face was almost magical. Her eyes lit from within for a moment and her skin glowed. He cursed inwardly as the clutch of physical hunger grabbed at him right between his legs so that he shifted uncomfortably where he stood. Wanting to hide the betraying response, he bent to unfasten the girth and ease the saddle from the mare’s back. He had never expected still to have this primitive and instantaneous response to her. Not after all he now knew about her. But it seemed that he could hate and hunger in the same heartbeat.

‘Everyone’s interested in Blackjack,’ Imogen said and, although her eyes were on the bridle she was removing from Angel’s head, he could tell that the words were not the throwaway remark she wanted them to sound like.

She wore no make-up, and the pallor of her porcelain skin was emphasised by the brush of dark shadow under those sapphire eyes, making them look faintly bruised and disturbingly wounded. She was thinner than when he had known her before, he thought again. He knew that brides were traditionally said to lose their appetites before the wedding, but she looked more like someone who was going to face execution rather than marry the man of her dreams.

But, of course, he wasn’t the man of her dreams. Just the thought twisted harshly in his guts. If he’d even suspected that she really cared for Adnan Al Makthabi, then there was no way he would be here. But it was obvious this was a union arranged because of the financial benefits it brought—to the O’Sullivan family at least.

Once again, the cold-blooded gold-digger who had aimed to win herself part of his fortune was setting her sights on someone who had the money she sought. Someone who, it seemed, was more easily persuaded. Or so he’d believed. But, now that he’d met Adnan Al Makthabi, he wouldn’t have put the other man down as the sort to be so easily fooled. He’d also been startled to find that he actually liked him.

But then yesterday he had discovered more about this proposed marriage than either she or her lying father had been prepared to acknowledge.

‘Look, about...’ Imogen began, then hesitated, broke off and, when she began again, Raoul was sure that she had not taken up where she’d left off but had veered onto another topic altogether.

‘Where did you get to last night?’

She tossed the question at Raoul, trying so very hard to make it sound casual and relaxed, and failing miserably on both counts.

‘Nowhere.’

‘But I saw you leave...’

The words faded awkwardly and he raised a dark, cynical eyebrow as he saw the moment she realised she had given herself away. She should have been occupied with her guests, her family and friends, but she hadn’t missed the fact that he had left the dinner early, with no explanation.

‘I needed some air.’

He had been suffocating in the atmosphere in the room. Three O’Sullivans—because of course the father had been there, knocking back the vintage champagne as if it were water—was more than enough for anyone to take. Not caring if anyone noticed, he’d slid his plate away from him, pushed back his chair and stood up.

The huge patio doors had been open to the garden, voile curtains wafting in the gentle breeze. He’d slipped out into the cool of the evening air, the silence of the night. Over to the left were the stables and the exercise yard, the occasional sound of the thoroughbred horses shifting in their stalls and whickering softly to each other reaching him across the stillness.

He could fall in love with this place, he’d admitted to himself as he’d strolled to the edge of the huge patio. The soft green hills and lush fields of this country were so unlike the rougher, drier terrain of his homeland. Here, the climate was closer to the one in the mountains—and of course there was always so much rain. It had been drizzling just a little and he’d held his face up to the moisture while drawing in deep breaths of the clear night air, filling his lungs with it and wishing he could fill his mind in the same way, to wipe away the anger and disgust he felt at finding himself amongst the members of this corrupt, immoral family.

He had almost left then, headed straight for the airport, onto a plane and away. Only the thought that if he went then the O’Sullivan family—the weak, corrupt father and those scandalous O’Sullivan sisters—would all get away with what they’d done and go on their way so carelessly had stopped him. He’d come here to make sure that didn’t happen, and he was not going to back out now.

‘I had hoped that you might show me around,’ he said now, lifting the saddle and carrying it out of the stall to place it with all the other tack at the end of the stables. ‘I’d like to see more of the stud.’

‘I’m afraid I’m much too busy.’

Imogen flashed a cold, tight smile in Raoul’s direction. She certainly didn’t want to spend any time with him if she could possibly help it, and luckily the preparations for the wedding gave her the perfect excuse. He didn’t need to know that there was nothing she had to prepare; that Geraldine Al Makthabi had everything in hand and that her future mother-in-law was enjoying every minute of the time she spent making sure everything was perfect.

‘I have things to do. I am getting married...’

She flung the words at him like a dart. His presence might put her totally on edge, as if she was balancing on a very high, very tight rope with savage, bone-shattering rocks beneath, but she wanted him to understand that she was not alone and defenceless. She was in her family home, with her father and her sister—her fiancé just ten minutes away.

No...the instant curdling in her stomach at that thought brought a wave of nausea up into her throat. Adnan might be her friend, and currently her family’s saviour, but he was also a proud and powerful man. His bloodline was saturated with the ferocious strength and arrogance of his Bedouin ancestors. She knew Adnan could be a hard man, a difficult man if his temper was roused. She’d heard stories of his reputation with women, and as a shrewd businessman, but she’d never had that side of him shown to her, and she never wanted to either.

He might have agreed to this marriage of convenience, but if it turned out to be anything else or, heaven help her, became inconvenient, then she had little doubt he would call the whole thing off without even blinking.

‘I’m aware of that.’

Raoul’s wickedly knowing smile left her only too aware of the fact that her attempt at attack had simply bounced off the cold steel of his armoured heart—if it really was a heart that beat inside that powerful chest.

‘That is why I’m here.’

That—and what else? The words were on the tip of her tongue, but at that moment the door opened and Ciara wandered into the stables. Her red-gold hair tumbled round her shoulders, her green-and-white floral sun dress with its thin straps and flirty short skirt looking cool and comfortable in the already growing heat of the day.

‘Hello, honey!’

Imogen’s smile of welcome was blended with a rush of relief at the thought that she was no longer alone with Raoul. The verbal fencing, neither of them coming right out and saying anything real, had stretched her nerves to breaking point. So much so that her heart was racing, her breathing shallow at the ordeal of just being in his company.

She was no longer the wide-eyed innocent who had first met Raoul Cardini on a warm summer evening on a beautiful Corsican beach. Met and fallen in love in the time between the sun burning directly overhead in the middle of the day, and the moment when that fiery ball had slipped below the horizon. She’d found herself in the warm darkness with her heart no longer inside her body but handed over to the care of the devastating man she had secretly nicknamed the Corsican Bandit.

If she had only known how appropriate that nickname would come to be, she would have turned and run, as far and as fast as she possibly could. But now she was two years older, she’d been tested by life, been down some long, dark tunnels and had reached the other side. Perhaps she was still bruised and bloody, with scars barely healing over deep wounds she’d endured, but she was standing, and she wasn’t going to let anyone knock her down again.

But there was a huge difference between feeling that and actually challenging someone like Raoul Cardini to come right out and say exactly what his plans were. Especially when she didn’t know how much danger her whole family was in.

She was aware of the way Ciara had reacted last night when she’d learned that Raoul was their guest, staying at Blacklands for the days leading up to the wedding. She had been subdued all through the evening and this morning; something was clearly upsetting her sister. She looked distracted and unusually unsure of herself, her eyes slightly puffy from lack of sleep in a way that concerned Imogen.

‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle O’Sullivan,’ Raoul inserted smoothly, strolling out of the tack room with lazy grace. Ciara shot a swift, strangely nervous glance in his direction.

‘Morning,’ she muttered almost inaudibly, her hazel eyes focused on Imogen’s face. ‘So, what do we have left to do today, Immi?’

‘Perhaps you can give me a guided tour of the stud that Imogen is apparently too busy to manage today,’ Raoul put in, something in his lazy drawl scraping uncomfortably over nerves that were far too close to the surface of Imogen’s skin. And Ciara’s too, it seemed.

It was definitely an appeal for help that Ciara turned on her now—a plea to be rescued from heaven knew what—but it obviously had something to do with Raoul Cardini. Just what had frightened her sister so badly? Could it be that Raoul had come here not just for the business deal he had described, but perhaps for something to do with Ciara’s past? Perhaps to do with the reason her job as a nanny had ended so rapidly, which her sister had refused to reveal to her? Imogen wished she’d had more time to get to know Ciara properly before the threat of total ruin had brought this wedding on them.

‘There’s plenty still to do,’ she managed over-breezily. ‘We have to sort out that hemline on your bridesmaid’s dress...’

Imogen had made the right move. Immediately some of the tension left her sister’s face and she almost smiled.

‘And you promised Geraldine you’d help her with the name cards for the table.’

Raoul would never know just what a fiction that one was. Adnan’s mother was totally in charge of every preparation for the reception and she would give anyone who tried to intervene very short shrift indeed. But the glance of gratitude from Ciara made the lie worthwhile. Her sister was already turning towards the door, looking like a rabbit that had just been released from a trap,

‘I hope you have a good day, Mr Cardini,’ Imogen tossed in his direction, not quite having the nerve to meet his stony glare, though she hoped her rather breathless tone could be taken for airy and unconcerned. ‘I’ll ask one of the grooms to give you the tour, if you like.’

The tour of the part of the business they’d be happy to show him, and not the one he’d obviously been angling for. The one that wouldn’t let him pry into secrets that were none of his business. So far they’d managed to hide just how bad things were; she didn’t want Raoul finding out more.

‘Oh, don’t bother.’

That lazy voice was back but she could catch the thread of steel that ran through it like a warning rumble of thunder before a storm broke.

‘I’m sure I can manage on my own. You can find out the things you most want to know that way.’

It was meant to sound casual, indifferent, but there was so much more in his voice. The growing storm was coming nearer, dangerously so. She would have to find out just what was happening with Ciara and figure out how she could proceed from there. And she’d have to make sure that, whatever Raoul had in mind, he didn’t get a chance to put it into action.

This sleek, elegant man with the closely cropped black hair, the burning golden eyes above lean, bronzed cheeks and the arrogant tilt to his proud head was so very different from the man she had met on that magical holiday. The young, carefree, raw and sexy Raoul with the suntanned skin, bare feet and over-long hair was the man she had fallen in love with. The man who had broken her heart. Then his friend Rosalie had warned her that Raoul was not all he seemed, but she’d been so deep in love she’d ignored it. Or at least hadn’t listened to it properly. So she’d been stunned to find that her own teasing nickname for him was the very one that was used in the international business world to describe his ruthless, cold-blooded determination to make a profit.

The Corsican Bandit was the man she was dealing with now. Because of that, she was going to have to tread carefully. And her sister’s arrival had reminded her that there was more than her own future at stake.

‘Enjoy your day!’ she said over-brightly, praying it didn’t sound as fake to him as it did to her own ears. ‘Come on, Ciara, we have lots to do!’

Moving to the open doorway, Raoul stood, eyes narrowed, feet firmly planted wide apart, as he watched the two women walk away across the lush green field towards Blacklands House. He wouldn’t have known the two women were sisters if he hadn’t been told, he reflected. Ciara was shorter, with more rounded curves, and her hair was a glorious red-gold. Just Pierre’s type, damn him.

‘She’s so young, Raoul, and so lovely.’ Marina’s words echoed in his head. ‘And twenty years younger than me—it’s no wonder he’s entranced. I wish I’d never given her the job as nanny!’

Deep in his pockets, his hands clenched into tight, aggressive fists. The image of Imogen and her sister walking so close together, arms linked without a care in the world, it seemed, brought back a bitter remembrance of that photograph in the papers.

The Scandalous O’Sullivan Sisters. His breath hissed in between clenched teeth.

Yesterday had been just the start. A preliminary survey to get the lie of the land. Tomorrow he would put his plan into operation and he would set himself to bring down the O’Sullivan family, one by one.

Starting with Imogen.


CHAPTER THREE (#u7b890bb2-a12f-55c4-b3e9-65094d87c0ff)

IT WAS FAR worse than she had thought. Imogen had tried to imagine all sorts of things that Raoul might have against her sister, but never this. Her blood ran cold. It was bad enough to think that Raoul Cardini had appeared out of her past, to be the spectre at her wedding feast, but to realise that her younger sister too was caught up in the dark shadows he had brought with him made her nerves knot in her stomach.

‘Why didn’t you tell me before now?’

‘I couldn’t,’ Ciara admitted, and Imogen was shocked to see how white she looked. ‘I didn’t really know you when all this happened.’

That was her mother’s fault, Imogen reflected, feeling the raw scrape of bitterness on her soul. Lizzie O’Sullivan had abandoned her marriage when she’d run off with her much younger, much more glamorous lover. Arturo had never wanted children, but Lizzie had persuaded him to take her toddler daughter with them. She had always struggled to get close to Imogen whose bookish, studious nature was nothing like her mother’s. Besides, the elder girl had inherited her father’s love for horses and the stud that provided their livelihood, while her mother loathed and feared the great, enormous beasts. Determined to break off all ties with the family she had left behind in Ireland, Lizzie had never even told Ciara that she had a sister—and to hide it she had adopted Arturo’s name for the family.

The memory of the long years not knowing anything about her little sister still had the power to hurt Imogen. When Lizzie had finally resurfaced, abandoned by her lover and left without the financial support she had looked to him for, it was to demand her right to one half of the O’Sullivan ‘fortune’. A fortune that had dwindled dangerously while their father Joe had taken his hands off the reins and let the stud run down desperately. Her mother’s demands had threatened to bring bankruptcy crashing down on their heads, but Joe had been determined to pay her off to get her out of his life, even though it had taken every last penny and put the stud even further into debt. That was why Imogen had finally agreed to Adnan’s businesslike suggestion of a marriage of convenience between them.

The one good thing that had come out of her mother’s reappearance was that it had brought the sisters back in touch with each other. Only then had Imogen discovered that Ciara and her mother had been estranged for some time and that her sister had been working as a nanny in Australia, but the job had come to an end and she was now living in London.

At last, Imogen had finally made contact with her again and they had arranged to meet up. It had only been in the time she’d spent away from Blacklands and the stresses of her father’s gambling addiction that she’d noticed her period was late. A pregnancy test had confirmed her fears.

Imogen nodded sadly. ‘We might be sisters, but we were complete strangers at the start.’

‘And we didn’t have enough time to get to know each other when I was heading for that new job in Melbourne.’

A brief visit to the stud before she’d left was all they’d managed to fit in. That was why she’d had such high hopes when Ciara had come to the wedding. Perhaps now they could build real bridges and finally erase the separation of the past.

‘Then you were so ill...’

This time Imogen had to bite down hard on her lower lip to hold back the pain that almost escaped her.

‘I don’t think I’d have got through losing my baby without you.’

Ciara had held her tight when Imogen had endured the agony of an ectopic pregnancy, losing the baby she had conceived during those magical two weeks on the island of Corsica. It had meant so much to have another female to hold her and murmur soothing words. She had endured so many long years without a mother’s comfort, so a sister’s love had been a wonderful solace when she most needed it. She had never been able to share anything of her sadness with her father. He had been busy driving himself down the path to destruction, turning to the bottle for solace, and had never even picked up on her unhappiness.

She only wished she could have brought her sister home to see the stud as it had been, if not in its glory days, at least in some degree of stability and success. But Ciara had only been in London temporarily. She’d been looking forward to creating a new life in Australia.

Ciara had never shared just what was troubling her when she had returned home. Did that mean Imogen hadn’t really been there when her sister had needed her? Had her own misery blinded her to the way Ciara was feeling when she had lost her job—and the circumstances in which she’d lost it?

Imogen had never suspected that Raoul Cardini was the brother-in-law of Pierre Moreau, the man who had caused her sister so many problems, dragged her name through the mud and ultimately sacked her in disgrace. Now that she did know, it seemed obvious that Raoul would delight in making Ciara pay for what he saw as the insult to his family, his sister and her children. The tension that had been dragging at her insides just knowing Raoul was here, bringing with him those dark shadows of the past they had once shared, twisted into tight, painful knots. What did Raoul plan to tell Adnan? Because he did mean to expose someone and something, that much was certain.

Imogen was determined to make sure Raoul did nothing to hurt Ciara. It was the way she could make up for not realising just how low her sister had been at that first meeting.

She’d been trying to find Raoul ever since she’d made her way back to the stud but there hadn’t been a trace of the damn man. In the end, she’d had to take the chance that he still had the same number as the one she’d been weak enough to keep on her own phone in a last attempt to reach him.

What would Adnan do if Raoul revealed all he knew about her own past, and her sister’s? Would he go through with the wedding? Or would he decide that even their friendship, and the prospect of keeping his promise to his grandfather to provide him with an heir, cost too much at the price of tying himself to her scandalous family? He was a friend, but was he that much of a friend?

* * *

Raoul’s phone beeped again, for perhaps the tenth time that afternoon, and a twitch of a smile curled the corners of his mouth as he saw Imogen’s name as the sender of the incoming text.

We need to talk.

‘Answer it,’ the man with him said easily.

Raoul shook his head, his shoulders lifting in a shrug of indifference.

‘It’s not important—it can wait.’

‘No, answer it. I’ll make us another drink.’

As his companion got out of his seat and strolled out of the room, Raoul reached lazily for the phone that was still buzzing annoyingly.

We have things we need to talk about.

His thumb flew over the keyboard, casually creating his reply.

I’m busy.

He waited a nicely calculated moment, then added:

I’m talking to Al Makthabi right now.

After that he deliberately switched off the phone and dropped it into his jacket pocket.

* * *

Just how long could Raoul be talking to Adnan—and about what? Imogen stared out of her bedroom window and down onto the winding drive that led to the main house, her fingers drumming against the window pane.

Her phone calls had gone straight to voicemail, her texts unanswered after that final declaration that he was with her fiancé, and she had heard nothing, seen nothing of him, for the rest of the day.

With a sigh, she rested her aching head on the hand that rested on the window pane—a hand that had been carefully manicured, the nails painted a delicate pink, ready for the moment when Adnan would place a gold ring on it and make her his wife. Behind her, the beautiful white silk dress hung outside the wardrobe, protected by a cotton covering. Imogen hadn’t been able to bring herself even to look at it since the dressmaker had delivered it. She had always had contradictory feelings about it, knowing it was part of a wedding of convenience, not a true, romantic marriage of love. But now she felt the nerves tightening in her throat and stomach as her eyes blurred after too long spent watching to see when Raoul would appear.

‘I think I need an early night, to be fresh for tomorrow,’ she’d told her father, knowing there was no chance at all she would sleep.

Even if Raoul returned soon, Ciara was still out somewhere in the dark, wet night, the sudden storm and driving rain taking all trace of summer from the atmosphere. She would never be able to settle until she knew her sister was safe.

The glare of headlights drew her attention, warning her that a car was arriving. Squinting through the rain, she saw the sleek, dark vehicle draw to a halt at the door and three male figures get out, heads bent as they dashed through the rain and up the steps.

‘At last!’

Now, surely, she would have a chance to try to get the truth out of Raoul, to find out just what fiendish scheme was in his mind. Would he let the wedding go ahead tomorrow or did he plan to spoil it somehow?

The shudder that ran through her was as if the window had suddenly blown wide open, letting the rain in. She had changed into her nightwear when she’d come up to the room, but now the strappy nightie felt too cold, too little protection against the chill of the night, so she turned from the window, reaching for her robe as an extra layer of warmth. Adnan had been one of the men who’d arrived; she recognised the distinctive leather jacket he wore. Her father had been another. How could she manage this without being seen by these two men? She couldn’t bear to wait until everyone was asleep. The burn of apprehension and fear was bad enough already.

Her question was answered by her father’s voice down in the hall declaring that he had a fine whisky to share.

‘We could have a nightcap...?’ he offered jovially.

‘Not for me, thanks. I’m going to turn in.’ That was Raoul; the sexy accent made it clear.

As heavy male footsteps came up the stairs, the sound of the library door swinging shut behind the other two men made Imogen sag against the wall in relief. At last she was free to make her way to Raoul’s room, and she wasn’t going to leave without some much-needed answers.

But she couldn’t head for Raoul’s bedroom openly—across the main landing, straight to his door. That would be just asking for trouble.

Luckily, Blacklands House was old enough to have many secrets, amongst which were the hidden passages that linked one room to another by a series of stone steps. Much of her childhood had been spent running along these passages, learning how to get into them from every room and where each one came out.

The fake wall beside the bookcase was easy to open if you pressed one of the plaster roses that decorated it. Slipping inside, she made her way along the passage in darkness, bare feet making no sound. It was as she pushed slightly open the secret entry door into Raoul’s room that she heard the main door open again down in the hall. At last, Ciara was home. Now she needed to make sure that her sister’s fears—and her own—could be put behind them. Somehow, she had to convince Raoul not to ruin the wedding, or to drag Ciara’s name any further through the mud than it had been already.

The roar of the elderly shower from the bathroom hid the sound of the door sliding closed behind her as she crept into the room.

* * *

Raoul reached up and switched off the shower with a violent snap of his wrist. It had taken an age for the damn thing to run even close to warm, never mind hot, and he was far from feeling the relaxation he had hoped for.

Grabbing a towel, he rubbed it roughly over his soaking hair, thankful that the short, cropped cut retained little of the water. It was so damn cold in this ramshackle place; no hint of warmth in the old-fashioned bathroom.

‘Nom de Dieu!’ he swore explosively, tossing the damp towel aside and reaching for another, slinging it around his hips and fastening it tight. It was supposed to be summer!

But it wasn’t just the weather that was turning his mood sour, he knew. It was being here at all that was the problem. Being here, surrounded by the beauty of the countryside, the magnificence of the spectacular animals that grazed in the field, and knowing that the whole enterprise was rotten to the core; that there was no money to support the business and everything was in hock to the bank. Even the magnificent stallion Blackjack... Knowing that he had been conned into paying stud fees for a horse that didn’t actually belong to Joe O’Sullivan burned like acid in his gut.

Rubbing the back of his hand across his face to wipe away the moisture, he padded across the tiled floor, wrenching the handle to yank the door open. The financial situation couldn’t be any worse, so Imogen had clearly turned to the oldest trick in the book—marrying the nearest really wealthy man in order to help clear her family’s debts. The same trick that she’d tried to pull on him when she’d discovered that he was not the simple olive farmer he’d claimed to be. Obviously, the financial problems had already begun to bite back then.

‘Damn her to hell!’

He had known this—most of this—before he’d arrived. It was the reason he was here, after all. But it had all seemed so much simpler before he’d left Corsica. The woman who had tried to get her hands on his fortune had now found someone else equally wealthy to marry. Someone else whose child, it seemed, she was prepared to have when the truth was that she had already got rid of her first baby—his child. Tossed it aside because its wealthy father wasn’t going to fall into the trap she’d laid for him.

But now, she’d found someone who would do just as she wanted. Someone who would marry her, pour money into this downtrodden estate and pay off the bills.

He had come here to stop that wedding.

But things had got so much more complicated since he’d arrived. He’d seen Imogen and her sister. He’d met the man Imogen was going to marry, and—damn it to hell—he liked Adnan Al Makthabi. Respected him. Adnan was the type of man he’d like as a friend—if he had such a thing.

‘Raoul...’

A voice, soft, uncertain and shockingly familiar, broke into his thoughts, bringing his head up. Dashing any last trace of water from his eyes, he swung round sharply to face her.

It was as if his heated sexual memories of their time together, the ones that had made the inadequate temperature of the shower a positive bonus, had brought her out of the past, conjured her up as a real person here in his room.

But how the devil had she got in here? He was between her and the exit and he knew he’d turned the key in the bedroom door when he’d gone into the bathroom. Yet there she was, tall and slender in a deep crimson robe wrapped tightly around her, tied at the waist. She was standing against the wall, half-hidden by the heavy, embroidered drape of the curtains around one of the carved posters of the bed.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’

He saw the way her breasts rose and fell under the delicate silk of her robe with every sharp, uneven breath she took. The wide, wide eyes were clear and sapphire blue even in the dusky shadows, and her mouth was partly open, as if to speak—or to kiss, his rebellious thoughts whispered to him. She’d always been beautiful. Hell, she was still beautiful—more so than before, if that were possible.

She had once worn a scarlet dress that had been little more than the nightgown she had on under the robe, but it had been short and sweet with a flippy sort of hem that had shown off her long legs. He had revelled in watching the pale, Celtic skin slowly tan to a subtle, sexy golden brown after days in the sun. The kick of lust at his groin was unwelcome and ill-timed—and appallingly distracting. The white towel suddenly felt like no covering at all and he shifted uncomfortably, pulling it tighter at the waist, tucking the edge in again.





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