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SecretBabiesBundle Kim Lawrence, Julia James and Robyn Donald
SECRET BABIES BUNDLE TORONTO • NEW YORK •
LONDONAMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY •
HAMBURGSTOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN •
MADRIDPRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
CONTENTS HER BABY SECRET BABY OF SHAME THE
ROYAL BABY BARGAIN ABOUT THE AUTHORS COMING
NEXT MONTH Kim Lawrence HER BABY SECRET TORONTO •
NEW YORK • LONDONAMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY •
HAMBURGSTOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN •
MADRIDPRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
CONTENTS CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER
THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT EPILOGUE CHAPTER
ONE QUINN, his lean body clad in supple motor-cycle leathers,
strode into the swish foyer of the world-famous magazine Chic. The
glass swing doors closed behind him and, green eyes narrowed, he
paused for a moment to get his bearings. Nothing in his attitude hinted
at the fact that he knew that had the person he sought known he
was there he would undoubtedly have found himself chucked out on
his ear! By nature Quinn was a confident individual—in his experience
assurance was far more likely to open doors than an apologetic
manner—but he considered this situation called for a extra degree of
audacity. The meek might well be going to inherit the earth but
Quinn couldn’t wait that long—he was a man with a mission! At any
time Quinn had the sort of face that made people look, and then look
again, their eyes admiringly drawn to the pleasing arrangement of
strong bones and intriguing manly hollows that made his irregular
features stand out from the crowd. At that moment his expression—a
fairly accurate reflection of his one overriding emotion, determination—
drew more second glances than usual. His steely purpose extended
beyond the tight-jawed, edgy expression on his saturnine features,
his entire lean, loose-limbed body was tense with resolve;
even his soft-footed tread had something uncompromising about it.
In fact Quinn oozed danger, and human nature—or at least female
nature—being what it was, this was the fatal ingredient that had
every woman in the place instantly riveted. In the normal run of
things Quinn wasn’t much bothered about the impression he made
on people, except when, as part of his professional role, he needed to
put them at their ease. His present enterprise was purely personal,
and he had other, more urgent, things on his mind than racing
pulses! He was going to see Rowena, and if that involved an unseemly
contretemps with a security guard, chaining himself to an
immovable object or just generally making a spectacle of himself, so
be it! Dignity had its place—hell, he was great at dignity, he oozed
the stuff morning till night—but now wasn’t the occasion to display
restraint. He’d been displaying it for the past couple of months and
where had it got him…? Fobbed off, ignored and generally given the
run around, that was where! His chiselled jaw tightened another
notch as he contemplated the abysmal way Rowena Parrish, his
long-time friend and recent lover, had been treating him since that
memorable night in New York. No, the time had arrived for a little
bit of positive action. Quinn wasn’t a man accustomed to dealing
with rejection or failure, and he was damned if he was going to accept
it now without some sort of explanation. It would have to be an
extremely good one too if it was going to satisfy him! ‘I’m here to
see Ms—’ he began firmly as he approached the nearest of the receptionists
arranged around a big half-moon-shaped desk. ‘Oh, and
she’ll definitely be glad to see you.’ There was a fervent nod of
agreement that slid like a Mexican wave down the line of pretty
faces. It wasn’t that the other applicants hadn’t been good-looking.
Like this one they’d all been sheathed in sexy black leather, and unlike
this clean-shaven specimen they’d had the air of dissipated ruggedness
that went with a sprinkling of designer stubble. Despite this
advantage none had even come close to matching the indefinable
something extra that this guy had by the bucketful! The receptionist
and her companions had all been watching his approach, mouths
slightly ajar. His every physical attribute—these included legs that
were longer than long, narrow hips, a washboard-flat belly and wide,
powerful shoulders—had been digested, drooled over and stored for
future dreamy reference. Quinn, ready to do battle, was a little taken
aback by this response. He cleared his throat and frowned suspiciously—
was this some new devious ploy of Rowena’s to get him
out of her hair? ‘Right, then, I’ll just go to…?’ ‘If you’ll give me
your name I’ll let them know you’re on your way up.’ ‘Quinn Tyler.’
There was no instant start of recognition—good, Rowena hadn’t left
any instructions to have him thrown out if he showed up as she had
done at her apartment building. After a lot of judicious eyelash fluttering
the young woman consulted the screen in front of her. ‘We
haven’t actually got you down…it must be some sort of mistake.’
There were fervent nods of agreement. ‘No problem, I’ll just add
your name here,’ she told him cheerfully. It was slowly dawning on
Quinn that there was some sort of mistaken identity thing going on
here, but as this seemed to be working in his favour he didn’t see
much point setting the record straight. If it got him closer to the inner
sanctum and Rowena he was quite happy to play along, though
that might be easier if he knew what role he was meant to be playing.
He dismissed any lingering qualms with a philosophical
shrug—it couldn’t be worse than a punch-up with Security, could
it…? Elbow leaning on the desk, he shamelessly utilised his most
winning smile. ‘That’s very good of you…’ he consulted the name
badge pinned to her ample bosom ‘…Stephanie.’ A couple of
minutes later, his fixed smile faded abruptly as he stepped into the
glass-fronted lift and it began its smooth ascent. He looked at the
piece of paper the nubile Stephanie had thrust into his hand, and his
brows rose cynically at the sight of a scribbled phone number before
he crushed it carelessly between his strong fingers. The directions
he’d received from Stephanie took him to a long, narrow room that
contained a row of chairs and little else furniture-wise. Quinn
blinked; he was looking at a leather fetishist’s dream. Males, mostly
a few years younger than himself—mid to late twenties, he estimated—
filled the available chairs. They were all clad in a similar
fashion to himself—black leather from head to toe. As he was surveying
the surreal biker reunion scene in front of him, a door just to
his left opened and he turned to see a short female figure dressed in
a garish combination of lime green and cerise emerge, carrying a
clipboard. ‘Who’s first?’ The black leather rose en masse in response
to her slightly bored query. Apparently oblivious to the sudden rise
in testosterone levels and anxiety, she ignored all the figures trying
desperately hard to be rampantly male and turned instead to the one
conveniently closest—ironically he was the only person present not
trying to catch her attention. ‘You! You’ll do…’ Her eyes travelled
up the six-foot-five frame, getting wider and wider the more she
saw. She paused, blinking in bemused fashion when she eventually
encountered the greenest pair of eyes she’d ever seen. Long, curly
ebony lashes any woman would have traded her soul for and equally
dark, well-defined brows were suitable accessories for these truly
spectacular orbs. Sophie had seen it all but even she couldn’t repress
a tiny sigh of feminine appreciation. He might not be trying, but this
guy was succeeding fairly dramatically on the rampant male front!
Her eyes eagerly slid over the strong, hawkish nose that bisected the
hunk’s lean features and dropped to the wide firm line of a sensationally
sexy mouth. A slow grin spread across her features. ‘You’ll
do very well indeed,’ she told him with a throaty chuckle. Quinn,
aware of a battery of resentful eyes on his back, found himself being
bundled by the tiny figure through the door and into the connecting
room. In contrast to his colourful escort the elegant female behind
the desk was clad totally in black. She looked at Quinn for a full
thirty seconds before smiling—he had the distinct impression her facial
muscles didn’t get a whole lot of practice with this procedure.
She rose to her feet. ‘Anna Semple.’ Instead of extending her hand
as Quinn had expected, she walked around him, head on one side in
a bird-like attitude—he found himself thinking ‘vulture’ at this
point. ‘And who might you be?’ Anna asked, somewhat taken aback
to discover that, instead of looking eager to please, this candidate
was glancing at his wrist-watch. ‘Quinn Tyler.’ He couldn’t decide
whether he was amused or irritated by the treatment. ‘I haven’t got a
Quinn Tyler down here,’ her colourful companion revealed, consulting
her list. ‘No matter.’ His interrogator frowned as though his
name was tugging at her memory. ‘These don’t look like props.’ She
ran a hand lightly over the sleeve of his well-worn leather jacket and
gave another vulpine smile. ‘They’re not.’ ‘And have you done
much of this sort of work, Quinn Tyler…?’ Time to ditch the subterfuge
and move on to his main objective. ‘Actually I think there’s
been some sort of…’ He edged surreptitiously towards the door.
‘Who sent you?’ ‘Nobody sent me.’ ‘Initiative! I like that, don’t I,
Sophie? But you have an agent?’ If he didn’t this opened all sorts of
interesting possibilities—such as an exclusive contract. Now
wouldn’t that be nice? Very nice, she decided, trying and failing to
discover any flaws in the hunk. Forget the leather spread—this guy
could front their ‘new season—new man’ feature that was to run for
three consecutive issues, she thought excitedly. Quinn was a patient
man, but even he had his limitations. He’d seen farmers giving prospective
purchases at a livestock market a more subtle survey than
this female was giving him! Any minute now he was convinced
she’d ask him to show her his teeth! He was almost right… ‘Take off
your shirt and jacket, will you?’ Anna requested, casually retaking
her seat. Quinn’s eyes widened as it dawned on him she was deadly
serious. And I thought my job called for personal sacrifices! he
thought. ‘Is that all?’ The younger woman looked startled by his response,
but the irony sailed right over the older female’s head. ‘Yes,
that’ll be sufficient.’ Anna flicked her female companion an amused
look as the big man remained immobile. ‘Not shy, are you?’ she
taunted indulgently. ‘Not shy, no,’ Quinn replied honestly. Just a bit
particular about who I take my clothes off for. The thought of removing
his clothes focused his mind forcefully on his original objective—
Rowena. Now, if she’d asked him his response would have
been quite different. With reluctance he dragged his mind clear of
the various stimulating scenarios it had immediately conjured up
along this theme. He was just about to break the news that, whatever
they had in mind, he wasn’t available when the door behind him
opened a crack, and the sound of voices drifted in—one at least he
identified instantly. ‘Have I got the go-ahead on the “Having It All”
feature, Rowena?’ Sylvia Morrow urgently hailed her editor who,
oblivious to the admiring male eyes lining the wall, was taking a
short cut through to her top floor office. She’d worked hard for that
office. Rowena was a tall, beautiful young woman with typical
English-rose colouring, classical features, natural ash-blonde hair
and a shapely but slender body. She was not unaware of the impact
her looks made on people, but she felt on balance that these attributes
had been more of a hindrance than a help in her single-minded
efforts to gain the right to call that office on the top floor her own.
The job of editor that went with the luxury office was still new
enough to seem unreal. It was the goal she’d been working towards
ever since she’d left university with a first-class honours degree, no
experience, no money and boundless ambition. Now she was
there—she had it all! Funny, she’d expected success to feel quite different.
The route to the top hadn’t been easy—people had said she
was too young and some still were saying it—but she was proving
them wrong. The vague feeling of anticlimax was, she supposed, to
be expected. Perhaps if her personal life wasn’t such a mess she
could have enjoyed her moment of glory, but ironically she’d never
felt more confused or unhappy in her life. And whose fault was that?
Quinn Tyler’s. She conveniently ignored the inescapable fact that
she herself was at least fifty per cent to blame for her present predicament.
‘Are you all right, Rowena?’ Sylvia’s concerned glance
slipped from the haunted expression on her boss’s pale face to the
slim hand pressed against her enviably flat belly. They had both
been at the glitzy party of yet another new perfume launch the previous
evening, the food and drink had flowed freely and Sylvia, who
was congenitally incapable of refusing freebies, had woken feeling a
trifle delicate that morning. It seemed unlikely Rowena had overindulged
too—self-control was Rowena’s middle name. Rowena
smiled stiffly and, trying not to draw attention to her action, removed
her hand from her stomach. If she wasn’t careful, she thought
worriedly, people were going to start putting two and two together.
‘I’m fine.’ She was in control now and didn’t show even by so much
as a flicker of an eyelash the conflict that was raging in her head. For
someone who’d mouthed off as often as she had about how impossible
it was for a woman to give her all to a job when she had a baby,
this was some position to find herself in. Actually, it was some position
for anyone to find themselves in! Not that she had a baby
yet…She sighed, aware that she could fool others but not herself. No
matter how hard she attempted to think of the new life inside her as
a cluster of cells, she couldn’t. It was a person—in the primitive
stages maybe, but still a little individual. ‘The “Having it All” feature…?’
Sylvia prompted. Rowena pushed aside her personal problems—
for the first time in her professional career the process wasn’t
easy. ‘You know my opinion on that one, Sylvia.’ Rowena didn’t believe
you could ‘have it all’. Sylvia nodded. She did know; it was no
secret that their dynamic new editor considered women who thought
they could combine a high-powered career with marriage and a family
were fooling themselves. Something, Rowena was on the record
as stating, had to suffer, and she for one was not prepared to accept
compromise in any area of her life. As for nannies, why have a kid if
you immediately farmed it out to someone else? You had to hand it
to Rowena, she wasn’t too bothered about being politically correct.
Privately Sylvia thought Rowena’s horror of maternity and marriage
might have something to do with the fact that her boss did
everything so perfectly. She doubted if Rowena had ever muddled
through or made do with second-best in her life—a life which appeared
to be planned down to the last second. At least she wasn’t
daft or unrealistic enough to imagine a woman could carry on being
so totally in control like that when she had a young family. ‘Well, I
have several high-flyers who don’t share your opinion and a feature
that’s just begging to be written. It can’t fail,’ Sophie predicted in
full sales-pitch mode. ‘A behind-the-scenes peek into the homes and
offices of the rich and famous with pictures of their dogs, kids and
whatever…you know, the usual humanising influences…’ The notion
of voluntarily exposing your own children to the media made
Rowena grimace. Her gut response was extra strong no doubt because
the whole motherhood issue had suddenly taken on a very personal
aspect. ‘It could work,’ Sylvia insisted, sensing with dismay
her boss’s negative response. ‘You’re probably right, Sylvia.’ With
an effort Rowena focused her thoughts on the matter in hand. ‘Who
have you got lined up?’ She was too professionally astute to allow
her personal prejudices to get in the way of good copy. ‘Maggie Allen.’
Rowena’s delicately arched eyebrows rose. ‘A topical choice.’
Maggie Allen, the controversial new appointment to head an international
pharmaceutical firm, was the sort of woman who genuinely
did seem to have it all: a loving, supportive husband, two well-adjusted
children and her career. How often, Rowena wondered cynically,
did Maggie get to spend time with those children? And how long before
the understanding husband started looking for a woman who
could spend more than the odd hour or two with him? ‘It gets better,’
Sylvia enthused confidently over her shoulder. ‘Hold on a tick, I just
need to give Anna this layout.’ Rowena followed the resourceful
writer through the door. ‘Anna, could you—? Oh, my god!’ Rowena
heard Sylvia exclaim as she came to an abrupt halt. Anna Semple
saw her colleague’s reaction and looked complacent. ‘I rather think
you can send the others home, Sophie. We’ve got our man.’ She
gave the tall figure who held centre stage a look of proprietorial approval.
It didn’t take long to see what—or rather who—had robbed
Sylvia of speech. Rowena got an impressive glimpse of broad,
firmly muscled shoulders and a strong, supple back before she averted
her eyes—beef cake wasn’t really her cup of tea. Besides, a
quick glance had already revealed a spooky and unsettling similarity
of build and colouring between Anna’s hunky model and Quinn, and
Rowena had problems enough without any more reminders. They’d
got the poor guy to show off his pecs. Rowena experienced a pang
of sympathy, which was probably misplaced. For all she knew, the
man was perfectly at ease with using his great body to promote his
career, or maybe he was an exhibitionist who revelled in being
drooled over? She nodded briskly to the other women. ‘I’ll leave
you to it. Three-thirty in my office…Sylvia…?’ At that precise moment
the tall figure turned his head. It didn’t occur to her for even
one second to believe the proof of her eyes. She was just so obsessed
she was hallucinating—it was the only possible explanation. Palefaced,
she stared transfixed at the hormonal hallucination before her.
The half-naked man, his green eyes narrowed slightly, smiled languidly,
displaying a set of even, pearly white teeth. The gasp that
emerged from her lips was faint, but audible enough to attract curious
glances from the other women present. This was worse than hallucination—
this was real! Only one man in the world could combine
that much sneery contempt and sexual challenge in a smile! If her
legs had actually responded to her urgent mental commands she’d
have obeyed her first cowardly instinct and fled the room. As it was
she had to think of something to say that wouldn’t excite unwanted
speculation from the women she had to work with. Women whose
respect she needed. Why here, why now, why me…? Especially why
me! She took a deep breath. It was no good moaning about it, it was
happening and she’d have to deal with it. Of course she’d known
she’d have to see Quinn some time—she still hadn’t worked out
when precisely that some time might be, but she’d known she’d be
psyched up for the experience. She’d have worked out in advance
what all his arguments might be when she broke it to him, and she’d
have a suitable reply for each one. But most importantly she’d have
her own messy feelings sorted out by that point! Her voice, hoarse
and accusing, broke the strained silence that had fallen. ‘What the
hell are you doing here?’ Way to go, Rowena! She could almost
smell the rampant curiosity in the quiet room. ‘This is Quinn Tyler,
Rowena, our model for the—’ Anna began. Model! Rowena threw
the older woman a look of withering disbelief. ‘He is not a model!’
she exclaimed, scurrying forward to gather up Quinn’s discarded
shirt and jacket from the floor where he had obviously dropped
them. How could he stand there with all those women ogling him?
He was nothing but a damned exhibitionist! ‘What is he, then?’
‘Yes, Rowena, what am I?’ Quinn drawled. Colour flooded
Rowena’s face as she met the malicious wide-eyed innocence in his
mocking emerald stare. ‘Don’t tempt me!’ she choked, wishing she
could wipe that smug grin off his face. ‘Actually, Anna,’ she explained,
trying a bit belatedly to re-establish some dignity, ‘Quinn is
a doctor.’ ‘He doesn’t look like any doctor I’ve ever seen,’ the older
woman responded sceptically. Hands on her bony hips, she allowed
her eyes to wander up and down Quinn’s lean frame. Rowena
couldn’t argue that point. ‘He scrubs up almost respectable,’ she
snarled, experiencing an abrupt dignity meltdown the instant she
looked at him again. ‘Why, thank you, Rowena,’ Quinn murmured
provokingly. ‘It wasn’t meant to be a compliment. Let’s face it, put
Jack the Ripper in Armani and he’d most likely look respectable,’
she announced dismissively—actually Quinn in Armani or anything
else was almost impossible to dismiss or ignore! With a forced smile
she turned to the other women. ‘We went to university together.’
‘Oh, an old boyfriend.’ ‘I object to the old,’ Quinn complained with
a hurt-little-boy look that had the other women grinning. Nostrils
flared, lips pinched tight, Rowena rounded angrily on a startled
Sophie. ‘Not an old boyfriend!’ she announced emphatically. She
looked to Quinn for support—not surprisingly, none was forthcoming.
‘We were part of a group,’ she began to explain laboriously. ‘A
group of like-minded—’ Quinn’s deep velvet drawl cut her off. ‘A
group of earnest, élitist snobs who liked to congratulate each other at
frequent intervals on how brilliant, how cultured, how much better
than everyone else we were. Many’s the time we’d sit there contemplating
our glittering futures.’ ‘Quinn!’ Rowena exclaimed, shocked.
Quinn met her outraged glare, an amused glint of humour in his
eyes—eyes which she knew could unexpectedly change from deep
emerald to subtle aquamarine. ‘You trying to tell me I’m wrong?’
Rowena’s face softened. Her lips were halfway to forming a rueful
smile before she realised she couldn’t afford to relax around Quinn.
‘No, you’re not wrong,’ she admitted with a sigh. ‘We were unbearably
pleased with ourselves.’ Quinn switched his attention to the
three other women. ‘In our defence I have to add that we were all
very young, and most of us aren’t quite so arrogant nowadays!’ ‘If
that’s a dig at me…’ Rowena bristled, growing angrily pink. A disturbing
lopsided smile tugged at one corner of Quinn’s mouth as he
contemplated her stormy face. ‘It wasn’t.’ Rowena wasn’t willing to
be convinced. ‘Talk about a classic case of the pot calling the kettle
black,’ she muttered truculently. Her colleagues, who had never
heard their leader sound truculent, exchanged glances—and as for
pouting…! ‘And I don’t know how you managed to weasel your
way up here, but I’ve a good mind to call Security and have you
thrown out!’ He had the audacity, not to mention ill judgement, to
grin. ‘You think I’m joking, Quinn—just try me.’ ‘No, I don’t think
you’re joking—that would require a sense of humour, not to mention
an ability to laugh at yourself.’ All those weeks of deprivation she’d
put him through—he could have strangled her! His darkened eyes
travelled from the smooth curve of her neck to the soft outline of her
wide, generous lips—or maybe kissing her would be more appropriate…?
The muscles in his throat worked hard as he visualised sliding
his tongue between her lush lips—she’d make that hoarse little
whimper low in her throat, the one that drove him a little crazy.
Rowena’s even white teeth came together with a jaw-aching crack.
‘Shall we leave my inadequacies out of this for the moment?’ Her
eyes slid of their own volition to the expanse of silky dark skin and
her sensitive stomach muscles tightened. ‘For heaven’s sake, Quinn,
cover yourself up!’ she pleaded hoarsely. She wasn’t sure which was
the worse, coping with her own weak, lustful reaction to the distracting
sight of Quinn’s powerful torso or coping with the knowledge
that the other women present were leching over his smooth olive
flesh and sculpted muscles too. She didn’t pause to consider the consequences
of her impulsive actions—around Quinn that happened to
her a lot—the urgent need to shield him from their lascivious eyes
was just too strong to resist. Actually the three other women were no
longer looking at Quinn at all; they were too fascinated by the sight
of their cool, composed editor desperately pressing a crumpled white
cotton shirt protectively against the dark, hair-roughened chest of the
tall, gorgeous man. ‘I suppose you think this is funny?’ she hissed.
The physical contact had been a big mistake! For starters, being this
close she couldn’t avoid breathing in the warm, male, distinctly
Quinn scent of his body—it had a dizzy, addictive quality. ‘I don’t
know how you got here, or why you’re here…’ she huffed, tears of
angry frustration springing into her blue eyes as Quinn stood there
totally impassive while she attempted to cover him up. She was
struggling with all manner of insane urges, most of which involved
plastering herself against him. ‘I take that back; you obviously came
here to humiliate me!’ she accused wildly. As if I need any help!
Quinn responded with a quirk of one dark brow and a cynical twist
of his sensual lips. ‘You know exactly why I’m here, Rowena.’
Threat, promise and warning, his deep voice held all three. She
stood by helplessly, her insides quivering as he took the shirt from
her shaky hands and in a fluid motion pulled it over his head. He slid
it into place, tucking it into the narrow waistband of his trousers.
What was he trying to do to her? Those leather trousers left nothing
whatever to the imagination; they showed off every inch of his long,
powerful thighs. Rowena tried to avert her eyes, but the glint of dull
silver caught her eye and held it. It was the same silver engraved
buckle he’d been wearing that night, the night that she had unclipped
it with trembling fingers. He’d taken her hand and pressed it
against…don’t go there, Rowena! she warned herself frantically. Too
late! Erotic images complete with taste and touch and smell rose up
in her head. His smoothly textured olive-toned skin covered in a fine
layer of sweat…the raw rasp in his voice that had reduced her to a
compliant, quivering heap of neediness…the unbelievable combination
of triumph and tenderness on his face as he’d responded to her
pleas and thrust powerfully up into her body, filling and stretching
every part of her… Hand pressed flat against her heaving bosom,
she fought for breath, and a semblance of composure. The stabbing
sexual desire that hit her was so tangible it was like walking into a
solid wall of heat. She could feel the cold trickle of sweat as it slid
damply down her back. Quinn’s slanted eyebrows quirked as he
smoothed down the white fabric over his flat, leanly muscled midriff.
‘Happy now?’ The action had mussed up his thick dark hair and
without thinking Rowena reached up to smooth down his tousled
locks. Her antagonism faded for a moment as her fingertips sank into
his hair and brushed against his scalp. She realised the implied intimacy
of her thoughtless action at the same moment Quinn’s head
jerked back, the violent rejection making her lift her hurt eyes to his.
For a split second their glances collided before Quinn’s heavy lids
came downwards, veiling his expression. Rowena had seen enough
in that moment’s scorching contact to turn her insides hotly molten.
Their long-standing relationship had always been the sort where
such innocent gestures were not misread. Well, news flash! Things
had changed—big time! But when had they started to change…?
CHAPTER TWO AS SHE’D gone over the events in her head that
had led to their becoming lovers Rowena had tried time after time to
work it out, but she hadn’t been able to pinpoint the exact moment
that friendship had become something else. It had begun before her
short stint at the New York office, which the powers that be had
deemed essential for someone about to take over the running of the
London end of the operation. Rowena had needed an escort for a big
charity bash and Quinn, who had just accepted a senior post at a major
teaching hospital in the city, had stepped in at the last minute. It
wasn’t as if she hadn’t noticed, but after knowing him for so long
Rowena took his spectacular looks for granted. The admiring
glances he’d received that night, not to mention the envious comments
she’d received from friends and acquaintances, had brought
home to her just what a gorgeous creature he was. It had been a good
night—no, better than good—Quinn had a way of making his companion
feel very special. He was also a great dancer, and an even
better conversation-alist—he had a dry wit and a clever tongue that
had had her laughing half the night. She’d laughed so much that several
acquaintances had commented on the fact, which had made
Rowena wonder—for about two seconds—if she didn’t take things a
little too seriously as a rule. ‘You were a big hit,’ she told him when
he dropped her off at her flat in the early hours. Head against the
backrest, she yawned and fished around for the shoes she’d slipped
off her aching feet when she’d got into Quinn’s Jaguar. Quinn inclined
his dark head. ‘We aim to please.’ ‘So now I know how you
manage to captivate all those women.’ Quinn worked hard, but he
played hard too. He had a taste for fast cars, motorbikes and beautiful
women, but no staying power with the latter as far as Rowena
could tell—not that she held this against him. Perhaps like her he
was married to his career, or maybe he hadn’t met the right girl
yet…The fleeting thought made her feel vaguely dissatisfied. ‘If I
didn’t know you so well,’ she teased him, adjusting the strap on her
kitten-heeled sling-back, ‘I might even make a pass at you myself.’
For what felt like a long time he looked at her, his expression enigmatic.
‘Is that all that’s stopping you?’ Rowena’s smile didn’t make
it past the starting-post—there was no shadow of humour in his face,
just a taut, dangerous expression that made the nerve endings deep
inside her stomach tortuously flutter with excitement. She couldn’t
remember what she’d said to fill the awkward lingering silence that
had followed, but she knew his contribution had been nil. He’d just
sat there and let her babble like an idiot. One thing she did recall,
very well indeed as it happened, was how it had felt when his arm
had brushed against her breasts as he’d stretched over to open the
car door for her. She had been mortified, not to mention confused,
when her nipples had responded instantaneously to the brief contact.
She had prayed he hadn’t noticed them thrusting brazenly through
the thin fabric of her bodice as she’d slid with a hastily mumbled
thank-you from the car. There had been no legitimate reason to refuse
the series of invites that had followed—after all they were
friends, and there was nothing wrong, she had told herself, with having
a meal with a friend, or going to the theatre. As for walking by
the river in the rain, what could be a more innocuous way to spend
an evening? Quinn’s behaviour had given her no cause for complaint;
there had been no repeat of that electric moment in the car.
No, he had acted like the perfect gentleman despite the fact that she,
for some perverse reason, had gone out of her way to recreate the
moment—maybe it had been just to convince herself it had actually
happened…? Letting her hand linger longer than strictly necessary
on his arm or knee, a lot more eye contact than was normal between
them, making sure he’d been able to see her very excellent legs
when she’d sat opposite him. Nothing too heavy or obvious; at least
that was what she’d thought until one night, sitting in her flat after
having been out for dinner, Quinn had bluntly demanded an explanation.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she blustered. ‘I’m not playing
at anything.’ He dragged an unsteady hand through his thick hair.
‘Well, whatever that nothing is you’re doing, it’s driving me crazy.’
His green eyes came to rest on her face. ‘You’re driving me crazy.’
‘I am?’ she exclaimed, unable to hide her pleasure. ‘You’d never
have known,’ she added with a condemnatory frown. After a startled
moment Quinn began to laugh. It was such a warm, uninhibited
sound she couldn’t bring herself to be cross with him. ‘Well, if you
must know, I’m quite attracted to you,’ she divulged bluntly. ‘The
idea takes some getting used to…’ With a hint of bravado she raised
her eyes and saw it was Quinn’s turn to look pleased—and relief
rushed through her. It would have been too embarrassing if she’d
been reading the wrong messages. ‘I think,’ he replied huskily, ‘that
it might be worth the effort.’ Mesmerised by the stark hunger in his
darkly lashed eyes, she felt her knees start to tremble. Her heart was
battering against her ribcage like a sledgehammer. He would be an
excellent kisser—with a mouth like that how could he not be? she
reasoned, allowing her gaze to rest dreamily on that stern, sensual
outline. The idea of putting her theory to the test had her literally
trembling with anticipation. ‘You don’t think it’s too silly an idea,
then,’ she gasped, feeling a bit light-headed with relief—well,
maybe relief wasn’t solely responsible for that strange but marvellous
floaty feeling. Quinn took the wilful curve of her jaw in his
hand, his fingers stroking the smooth skin of her throat. The touch
was so gentle and his strength was so formidable that Rowena found
the contrast deeply exciting. ‘Not silly at all,’ he replied. His deep,
husky voice sent tiny shivers up and down her spine. ‘I knew you’d
understand—you being not exactly big on the whole commitment
thing.’ Rowena was so relieved that she hardly registered the wary
expression that flickered into his eyes. ‘I mean, neither of us have
the time to lavish on a proper relationship, do we?’ she told him happily.
‘With that whole pet name, flowers, and plans for the future
stuff. Most of all the plans for the future,’ she added with a heartfelt
shudder. ‘But we all have…needs.’ It was probably ignoring hers
that was responsible for her present distracted condition. ‘I think I
should be honest with you.’ ‘By all means be honest,’ Quinn responded
drily. Rowena nodded, glad they were in accord. Quinn had let
go of her chin and she wished he hadn’t. She wondered if it would
be quite acceptable for her to take the initiative and touch him…?
God, but she wanted to, she thought, her eyes running covetously
over his lean frame. ‘Of course I’ve tried sex, but, I’ve got to admit,
it wasn’t an unqualified success. To be quite honest,’ she added, the
words coming in a rush, ‘I’m terrible at it, but I’m willing to learn.’
She heard the stark sound of his inhalation and wished she’d not
been quite so frank, but it was true: sexually she was what was popularly
termed frigid. The first time might have been put down to inexperience,
but the second time had been a full five years later, and
though her lover—an attractive, experienced man she’d liked a
lot—had been perfectly polite, she’d been able to tell he’d been in
no hurry to repeat the experience, and actually neither had she. Since
then she’d been able to channel her energies into her work—until
Quinn. ‘Let me get this straight—you want me for sex and nothing
else.’ His low, very quiet tone sent a quiver of apprehension up her
spine. Anxiously she searched his face but it was impossible to read
anything from his enigmatic expression. ‘Well, I wouldn’t put it like
that exactly.’ ‘Well, I would!’ he yelled suddenly. ‘I’d put it exactly
like that. I’ve heard you called callous, Rowena. I’ve heard you
called a cold, calculating bitch.’ Rowena flinched. It was a tired old
sexist line that she’d heard many times before and it never failed to
make her mad as hell—it hadn’t hurt as it did hearing Quinn say it,
though. It was nonsense, of course—a man who shared the qualities
that made her good at what she did would have been universally admired
for his skill, but not her. No, she was female so that automatically
made her as hard as nails. ‘And I’ve always stuck up for you,
but I’m beginning to see how much you’ve changed since the old
days!’ he blazed. ‘Sex isn’t something you schedule like a finance
meeting.’ Rowena listened to his diatribe in stunned silence. ‘I
didn’t mean…I had no intention of insulting you, I just wanted to be
upfront, Quinn.’ ‘I’m slow,’ he reflected with a bitter smile, ‘but not
that slow. I don’t need a diagram to tell me what you want.’ At some
level he was aware that he was overreacting—after all, he’d been
propositioned before. Quinn’s scornful sneer reawakened her temper.
‘I have to tell you, Quinn, I find all this righteous outrage at being
treated like a sex object just a tad hypocritical coming from you of
all people. I mean, a man with a track record like yours hardly
screams commitment, does he? Or don’t you like it when someone
turns the table on you? The way you’re going on anyone would
think you wanted a serious relationship or something…’ She saw his
face and her eyes widened. ‘Good god!’ she gasped, horrified. ‘You
didn’t, did you…?’ She laughed in what was pure nervous disbelief,
but he could hardly be expected to know that. ‘I’ve been accused of
being shallow in my time…’ His voice had dropped to a soft, menacing
whisper, but Rowena was in no mood to be intimidated. ‘I
can’t imagine why,’ she muttered belligerently. The glacial flicker of
his long-lashed eyes silenced her. ‘But it would seem I’m an amateur
compared to you.’ ‘The way I hear it you get by,’ she retorted childishly.
‘Then maybe you hear it wrong,’ he cut back in a chilly voice.
‘I may not be able to match your clinical objectivity, but I’m not
totally unrealistic. I accept that some relationships are never going to
go anywhere, but they’re fun anyway. I’ve been there and done that,
but not as often as you seem to think.’ Rowena hardly noticed this
dry postscript; she was too busy dwelling on the lurid images drifting
around in her head of Quinn having fun. She actually felt quite
unwell—she’d had doubts about that lobster. ‘Part of the excitement
of entering a relationship is not knowing where it’s going.’ Diverted
by this peculiar viewpoint, Rowena forgot momentarily about the
sick churning in her stomach. Personally Rowena always liked to
know exactly where she was going. ‘The exploration,’ Quinn expanded
forcibly. ‘The wondering whether it might lead somewhere,
whether she might be the one.’ Rowena’s jaw dropped—it was
something of a revelation to learn that Quinn believed there was
such a thing as the one. Let alone discover he was actively looking
for her. Boy, had she got Quinn wrong—the man was a romantic!
‘With you there would be no wondering, we’d both know exactly
where we were going—nowhere!’ he continued. Rowena’s chin
came up. She didn’t much care for that combination of pity and contempt
on his face. It was pretty obvious there was no point suggesting
they went nowhere together. ‘Let’s call it crossed wires,’ she
suggested with an easy-come, easy-go shrug. Rowena had her pride
and she didn’t want him to guess how disappointed, mortified and
frustrated she was by his rejection. His own shrug was just as untroubled
and dismissive. Dragging her thoughts kicking and screaming
back to the present, Rowena slid a wary, half-defiant look in the
direction of her staff. Their expressions were respectful enough now
but Rowena wasn’t fool enough to imagine that this situation would
last for two seconds once she was out of the door. She hadn’t gained
her hard-nosed, cool-headed reputation by accident and now in two
seconds flat she’d blown her cover wide open. ‘Happy? Hardly,’ she
snapped venomously, fixing Quinn with a look of loathing. ‘Well, if
you’ll excuse us, Quinn was just leaving.’ Clinging to the tattered
shreds of her dignity and trying to show she was still in charge,
Rowena shoved Quinn’s jacket at him and nodded imperiously in the
direction of the door. ‘So soon,’ Quinn bemoaned sarcastically,
throwing his jacket casually over his shoulder. ‘We hadn’t even started
talking money yet.’ He waved casually to the three watching women
as Rowena, seething with exasperation, grabbed him by the
arm. ‘That would be right!’ Rowena flared contemptuously—God,
why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut? ‘You always did have your
eye on the big bucks, Quinn. Why else go in for plastic surgery?’
‘Perhaps I thought I could make a difference,’ he suggested mildly.
Rowena sniffed, unwilling to admit even to herself that her accusation
of avarice had been out of line, not to mention totally inaccurate.
Quinn was considered a world expert in facial reconstructive
surgery and, though he did make big money from the high-profile
clients who sought him out, Rowena knew he didn’t restrict his expertise
to those who could pay for it. The vast bulk of his workload
was, and always had been, within the NHS, even though he could
have made much more by working exclusively in the private sector.
Not that money mattered to Quinn, coming as he did from a wealthy,
privileged background. ‘Three-thirty in my office, Sylvia!’ Rowena
called, putting a bold face on her unorthodox departure. The three
women exchanged glances as the door closed. ‘I knew I recognised
his name…’ Anna cried. ‘He did Lexie Lamont’s new nose, so they
say, and I saw him on that telly programme last month—the one
about that teenager who got hit in the face by a jet ski.’ Sylvia nodded.
‘I saw it; the girl got all choked up every time she talked about
him.’ ‘Small wonder!’ Anna exclaimed. ‘Did you see the before picture?
She mashed just about every bone in her face to pulp—all he
had to go on when he rebuilt it were pictures.’ ‘There’s no mistake,
then, he’s really a doctor. I suppose it’s lucky we didn’t send the others
home,’ her assistant reflected. A naughty grin appeared on
Sylvia’s pretty face. ‘Is it just me or do you get the impression boss
lady isn’t too keen on sharing…?’ The explosive sound of laughter
was clearly audible to Rowena as she stalked, head held high, from
the crowded ante-room crowded with leather-clad clones. ‘I hope
you’re satisfied now!’ she gritted to Quinn. ‘Don’t fret, Rowena, I’m
sure your ice-cold bitch image can survive worse than this.’ ‘I hate
you!’ If that were true, how it would simplify matters. ‘I can live
with that,’ he lied, increasing his pace to keep up with her. ‘It’s being
ignored I’m not so comfortable with,’ he concluded grimly. ‘I’ve
heard of men who turn to stalking when they get given the push, but
I never thought you’d be one of them, Quinn. If only I’d known then
what I know now…’ As if it would have made any difference, a selfderisive
voice-over in her head insisted on supplementing. ‘I haven’t
been given the push.’ Rowena came to an abrupt halt in front of her
PA’s desk. Hands planted on her hips, she swung around, causing her
silver-blonde hair to bell around her face before settling down into
the loosely tendrilled nape-length style she’d recently adopted.
‘Consider yourself pushed, Quinn.’ Quinn smiled. ‘Like hell I will!’
Ignoring her loudly voiced protests, he placed his hand against her
chest and thrust her through the open door of her office. ‘Hold all
Ms Parrish’s calls,’ he instructed the startled-looking young woman
behind the desk. ‘Call Security, Bernice!’ Rebecca yelled shrilly just
before Quinn kicked the door closed. ‘I suppose you think this ridiculous
caveman act is impressive!’ she jeered, retreating to the
other side of her large desk—the symbol of her authority. Unfortunately
it didn’t afford her that warm, in-charge feeling it normally
did. ‘If you think spending just one night with me entitles you to behave
like this you’re sadly mistaken, not to mention living in the
wrong century. As for taking off your clothes—I’m not even going
to ask!’ she choked, her nose wrinkling in disgust at the thought of
Quinn parading half naked in front of the other women. ‘If I hadn’t
come in when I did, heaven knows how far you’d have gone!’ ‘And
you don’t like that idea?’ Quinn didn’t sound as though her disgust
displeased him. It made her feel sick to the stomach. ‘I hate to spoil
your pathetic male fantasies of women fighting over you, but I
simply don’t like the idea of you wasting my staff’s time. We have
deadlines to meet, you know. How would you like it if I smuggled
myself into your hospital and tried to pass myself off as a nurse?’
‘Give me a minute here, I’m just picturing you…Does the uniform
have one of those cute frilly caps?’ Rowena didn’t have time to respond
to this outrageous piece of sexism before his languid air of
mockery vanished, revealing the sort of penetrative expression that
made her nostalgic for his irritating mockery of seconds before.
‘What the hell have you been doing to yourself, Rowena?’ He sat
down on the edge of her desk and stretched his long legs out in front
of him. ‘I had my hair cut.’ ‘That’s not what I mean. You’ve lost
weight.’ ‘Thank you.’ Her hips had always been the envy of her
more amply endowed friends, but losing almost a stone in weight
during the past few weeks meant that the short skirt she was wearing
today no longer clung to her hips, but hung loosely. ‘You look terrible.’
In case I hadn’t got the point, she thought caustically. ‘You
don’t lose that sort of weight so quickly unless you’re ill or under a
lot of pressure,’ he announced authoritatively. Her glance slid evasively
from his. Did morning sickness count as being ill? ‘Well,
thanks for the medical assessment, Doctor, but I’m neither. It’s just
too many late nights, and no time to eat.’ ‘In fact life’s just one long
party.’ He didn’t bother hiding his scepticism. ‘Absolutely,’ she
maintained defiantly. ‘Which no doubt accounts for you ignoring my
e-mails and phone calls—although that isn’t a problem now, is it?
Not since you had all your numbers changed and went ex-directory.’
Rowena watched with an irritated frown as he began to mess up the
row of pencils laid out symmetrically on her desk. Looking at his
long, clever fingers brought a sudden rush of memories, his fingers
dark against her pale breasts. His fingers sliding between… Rowena
caught her full lower lip between her teeth. She resented the fact he
was making her behave guiltily. ‘That was pure coincidence,’ she
announced with stilted defiance. He lifted his head, and from beneath
the sweep of inky dark lashes looked enquiringly across at her.
‘And is it coincidence that had me made persona non grata at your
apartment building?’ Rowena had a firm policy of ignoring things
she couldn’t deny and she did so now with a careless toss of her fair
head. ‘I’ve only just got back, Quinn. New York was hectic.’ She
wished straight off she hadn’t mentioned New York. She thought of
New York and, unlike normal people who had spent any time there,
she didn’t associate with the vibrant, alive, noisy, scary, exciting
place it was. No, Rowena immediately associated it with Quinn, incredible
sex and the frightening consequences of the latter… ‘What
about the weekend you came home?’ ‘You knew about that?’
Startled, she glanced up to see an expression she couldn’t quite place
on his face. ‘Wasn’t I meant to?’ ‘It was no secret.’ Recovering a
little composure, Rowena managed to continue in a persuasively
reasonable tone. ‘I’ve just started a new job. I’ve hardly had time to
make contact with every casual acquaintance I have.’ She gulped,
but the sound was drowned out by the sibilant hiss of his indrawn
breath. Oh, God, that had come out all wrong and then some…!
‘Casual acquaintance,’ he said very softly and deadly silkily. Then,
even softer, ‘Casual acquaintance. Tell me, Rowena, how do you say
hello to people you know quite well?’ She closed her eyes as an image
appeared in her mind’s eye of herself walking down the crowded
New York street three months ago, surrounded by a seething mass of
humanity. Maybe it had been the mild culture shock of moving to
another city where she knew nobody, or maybe it had been the stress
of proving herself, but she had never felt so alone in her life. Then
she’d seen him. She hadn’t even needed to get a proper look at that
unmistakable profile—his innately elegant, long-legged stride would
have been sufficient proof. Two men in the world couldn’t move that
way. Without thinking she had barged through the people separating
them, breaking every rule of pedestrian etiquette and probably bruising
a few shins to get to him. Waving her bag above her head, she’d
shrieked his name like a demented banshee until she’d been hoarse.
She’d almost been at his shoulder when he’d finally turned around
and Rowena, her face flushed, breathing hard, had come to an abrupt
halt. Shock of recognition in his eyes had morphed into hot desire.
An answering desire had shimmered hot and liquid through her.
‘You’re here,’ she said stupidly. ‘I can’t believe it.’ And then he
kissed her. ‘Convinced now?’ he asked, when he lifted his head.
Rowena stared dizzily up into his face unable to focus properly—
unable to do anything much except stare at him. The native
New Yorkers, a tolerant bunch and not easily surprised, had parted
around the embracing couple. ‘I always knew you’d be a good kisser,
you’ve got such a beautiful mouth.’ Her hands, pressed flat
against the hard surface of his chest, felt his responsive rumble of
laughter. He continued to display his proficiency at kissing in the
taxi, then in the lift going up to his hotel room. The kissing didn’t
stop once the door had closed behind them but other things started,
things she couldn’t even think about without blushing. Hurtling back
into the present, Rowena was still faced with Quinn’s anger at being
called a casual acquaintance. ‘You caught me at a weak moment,’
she defended herself. ‘There was no catching involved—the way I
recall it you did the running.’ He reached across and touched her
chin with his forefinger. ‘And you wonder why I’ve been avoiding
you,’ she said, jerking her chin away from his grip. ‘I thought that
was all in my mind.’ Quinn spun around on the smooth surface of
the desk until his legs were the wrong side of it—her side. ‘I knew it
would be like this,’ she muttered, grabbing two handfuls of silvery
fair hair and shaking her head from side to side. ‘I thought you understood
New York was a mistake, not the start of something.’ Nothing
that she had any intention of telling him about just now, anyhow.
‘The only mistake I made was allowing you to persuade me to
leave.’ Rowena’s heart dropped as far as her narrow, expensively
shod feet. His inflexible tone and grim expression suggested that he
was about to compensate for that mistake. She closed her eyes, incredibly
frustrated by his unyielding, downright mule-headed attitude.
‘Talking to you is like…like talking to that wall!’ Which, if
things went on like this, she’d be doing in next to no time. She could
see it now—crazy fashion editor carted away by the men in white
coats. How her enemies would love that…another fast-track hot shot
hits the dust! ‘You want me,’ he insisted. At least this was one subject
he didn’t have any doubts about—he couldn’t be in the same
room as her without knowing that Rowena craved his touch just as
much as he did hers. This knowledge only increased his frustration.
Hell, the sizzling, sexually fuelled static between them was nothing
short of a fire hazard! Rowena glared at him for about twenty
seconds before her defiance deserted her. ‘That’s as maybe,’ she
conceded, concentrating hard on controlling her wildly fluctuating
complexion—women in her position did not blush like schoolgirls;
neither did they ache inside the way she did. Quinn’s grin had a worryingly
predatory look to it. ‘No maybe about it.’ A small shrug of
her slender shoulders conceded his cocky claim. ‘You’ve only yourself
to blame—laying down rules and conditions,’ she brooded
darkly. ‘Whatever happened to spontaneity and free love?’ She
quivered, working herself into a resentful lather as she contemplated
her bad luck. She’d found the lover of her dreams—a man not noted
for his steadfast devotion—and he had to get all moralistic and possessive
on her. ‘Free love?’ Quinn mused. ‘I’m trying to see you as a
flower child, but it’s not easy,’ he admitted. ‘You’re nothing but a reformed
rake!’ The old-fashioned term seemed to suit him oddly
well—he definitely had the legs for tight-fitting Regency breeches as
well. Quinn’s lips quivered at this hot accusation. ‘Just for the record,
in my book spontaneity is good, but you get nothing for free.
You’ll have to learn to live with the fact I’m not available on a casual,
nocturnal basis only. There are people who provide such services,
I believe—for a price!’ Her hand flashed out but Quinn’s reflexes
were faster. Rowena found her wrist enclosed in a steely grip. Feet
braced on the floor, he drew her in between the confines of his ironhard
muscular thighs as he pulled her hand back down to her side,
clicking his tongue in mocking disapproval. ‘I want to be part of
your life, Rowena—an integral part.’ Rowena stopped struggling, at
least physically. Her inner conflict was less easily subdued! Their
eyes meshed and she instantly got herself lost in his sea green gaze.
‘I’ve no interest in the sort of hole-in-the-corner affair you were suggesting
in New York.’ ‘Private is not the same as sordid.’ Most men
would have been flattered by the sort of civilised arrangement she
had offered him—no complications, no emotional dramas. ‘I’m not
good at subterfuge.’ Rowena’s bosom swelled with incredulous indignation.
‘There speaks the man who’d just conned his way into
this building!’ ‘If you hadn’t been so unreasonable I wouldn’t have
needed to resort to less than open tactics.’ ‘Dirty tactics, you mean,’
she retorted, pulling her wrist free from his grip and waving an admonitory
finger in front of his nose. ‘We both know that when you
want something there’s just about nothing you won’t do!’ she
snapped furiously. Quinn gazed levelly back at her, not the least disturbed
by her heated indictment. He reached forward and ran a finger
slowly down the soft curve of her cheek, his piercing eyes darkening
as she flinched back as if burnt. ‘And at the moment I want
you…’ Her angry flush faded with dramatic abruptness leaving
Rowena marble pale. Her breath emerged as a shaky tremulous gasp.
Where was the scornful put-down when she needed one? ‘Is that
meant to be some sort of turn-on? Well, I’ve got news for you…’ It
worked extremely well. ‘Your problem is you like everyone to know
about your trophy girlfriends,’ she jeered hoarsely. ‘It makes you
feel the big man to see yourself plastered all over the gossip
columns.’ ‘I think that’s slight exaggeration, Rowena, I barely rate a
couple of lines in Country Life.’ ‘Your false modesty makes me
sick.’ ‘You’ll get used to the idea, you know,’ he promised. ‘What
idea?’ ‘The idea of being part of a couple.’ ‘And if I don’t?’ ‘You
don’t have any choice, angel.’ ‘How do you figure that one?’ ‘You
need me.’ Rowena gasped. His arrogance was simply unbelievable!
‘Have you always been delusional?’ His expression abruptly
softened as he assimilated the torment in her wide-spaced eyes. ‘You
need me, about as much as I need you. See, I can do it, and I’ve had
as little practice at it as you have. It hardly hurts at all to admit it.
I’m going to teach you to say it,’ he promised. Eyes wide with horror
and lips clamped defiantly shut, she shook her head vigorously
from side to side. ‘We’ll see, shall we?’ There was no challenge in
his statement, just total, complete conviction—whether this conviction
stemmed from a misplaced notion that she was female and
therefore weak and malleable, or a belief in his own ability to bend
anything or anyone to his will, Rowena didn’t know. She did know a
challenge would have been much easier to deal with. Rowena
wanted to put him right, but she felt strangely disinclined to do anything,
move, speak, breathe even—perhaps it had something to do
with the almost narcotic quality of the combination of his level, deep
voice and the sexily slumbrous gleam in his eyes. ‘I did knock,
Rowena…’ Her PA’s tentative voice made Rowena start. ‘Yes, Bernice?’
she responded, putting as much clear space rapidly between
herself and Quinn as was possible. Her mind wasn’t functioning
with its usual clarity, but at least she wasn’t staring up at him like a
hypnotised rabbit screaming ‘eat me’ any longer. This was one of
the reasons she hadn’t wanted to see him. He walked in a room and
her wits flew out the nearest window, which made no sense! Rowena
had experienced sexual attraction before and stayed firmly in charge
of her feelings at every level—the person involved only knew about
it if she wanted him to. With Quinn she didn’t have that luxury, she
was clumsy, inarticulate and painfully needy. ‘There’s a call from
your sister and she says it’s urgent…’ Rowena frowned. Holly had
taken her new fiancé up to Scotland to show him off to their elderly
grandparents who lived in a remote part of the country called Wester
Ross. ‘Fine, I’ll take it, Bernice,’ Rowena replied to her normally
discreet assistant who was shooting surreptitious looks in Quinn’s
direction. The young woman withdrew, blushing, when Quinn
smiled at her. ‘Holly, it’s me…do you mind? This is private!’ she
hissed, covering the mouthpiece and glaring across at Quinn. ‘Say
hello to Holly for me,’ he requested, unperturbed by her hostility as
he strolled to the far end of the room and began to read the titles on
the spines of the files that filled the shelves there. ‘What? Yes, it is
Quinn. No…yes, he is here. It doesn’t matter, I’ll explain later.
What’s wro—?’ Rowena grew silent as her sister broke into impetuous
speech the other end of the line. Rowena had her back turned to
him, but Quinn could almost feel her distress as the slim, supple line
of her back grew tense. Her next faltering exclamation confirmed his
suspicions—Holly didn’t have good news. ‘Oh, God, no!’ Rowena
raised her hand to her mouth, compressing the quivering line of her
lips—not Gran! The image of Elspeth Frazer floated before her eyes.
Five feet nothing with rosy cheeks, startling blue eyes and snowwhite
hair, she could have come straight from the glossy illustrations
in a book of fairy tales. The illusion of a cosy grandmother was
shattered the instant Elspeth opened her mouth. The octogenarian
had never suffered fools gladly and, not only did she have a bawdy
sense of humour, she possessed a will of iron. Elspeth had been a
consultant paediatrician in the early fifties, when women consultants
had been very few and far between. Rowena had left Holly to follow
in Gran’s footsteps and become a doctor, but nonetheless Elspeth
Frazer had been her own inspiration, the person she thought of when
the going got tough. Rowena could never understand how a woman
like her grandmother, who had fought so hard to get where she
wanted, had turned her back on everything and buried herself in general
practice in the back of beyond. She’d eventually asked. ‘Why, I
saw your grandfather, my dear, and I loved him.’ Perplexed, a much
younger Rowena had asked, ‘Well couldn’t he have come to live in
the City?’ ‘He could, but he’d have been unhappy.’ ‘Well, I’d never
do that for a man!’ ‘We’ll see…’ Rowena heard the familiar soft accent
in her head and her eyes filled with tears. She blinked back the
moisture and forced herself to ask the thing she didn’t want to. ‘Is
she…? Do they think…? Don’t cry, Holly, and don’t get too technical,’
she pleaded as her doctor sister began to go into details about the
suspected stroke that their grandmother had suffered that morning.
She wasn’t aware that Quinn was beside her until she felt the warm
imprint of his hand on her shoulder. No matter what the state of their
personal relationship, she wasn’t about to reject his support. Rowena
was proud, but not stupid—Quinn was the sort of man whom people
automatically turned to in a crisis. She made no objection as he slid
a chair under her shaky legs and urged her gently down into it. She
held the receiver a little way from her ear. ‘She’s crying again.’ She
gulped, raising tear-filled eyes to his face. ‘Holly never cries,’ she
added, her own lower lip quivering madly. ‘Let me have it.’ Rowena
relinquished the phone without a second thought. For once she
didn’t resent Quinn’s air of calm authority. ‘Hello, Holly, sweetheart,
it’s Quinn,’ she heard him say warmly to her sister. ‘Yes, I know,
but…is Niall there? Good, put him on. Hi, Niall, it’s Quinn.’
Rowena, her head in her hands, could hear the male rumble as
Holly’s fiancé responded at length. Quinn didn’t interrupt him. ‘Yes,
I get the picture. It’ll be quicker if we fly up. Can you organise some
transport from Inverness? Right, I’ll ring when I’ve got more details.’
CHAPTER THREE ROWENA woke up, and for several horrid
moments experienced total amnesia. It didn’t last long, but realising
where she was, with whom and, worst of all, why was no less
horrid than the original empty void. She stretched sleepily in the
confined space. There was a dull ache behind her eyes and her stiff
limbs felt as though she hadn’t moved in an age. A glance at her
watch revealed this wasn’t far off the truth; they couldn’t be far off
Inverness. ‘You’re awake.’ The soft drawl somewhere east of her
right ear was extremely welcome, not that she had any intention of
allowing her travelling companion to see just how welcome. ‘Very
obviously.’ Rowena raised a hand to cover her yawn as she adjusted
her seat from its reclining position. Someone, she noticed, had
placed a blanket over her while she’d slept. Had it been Quinn? The
thought made her throat feel achey and tight. God, this has to stop,
she rebuked herself sharply. Carry on broadcasting emotional and
vulnerable signals like these and they’ll pick them up in the Shetlands,
girl! ‘How are you feeling?’ With raised brows Quinn took in
her aggressive frown. ‘Other than grouchy.’ ‘I’m not grouchy.’ Was
she particularly shallow? Or was it normal to fret stupidly about
trivial matters like the fact your hair was sticking up and your eyeshadow
had probably run when you were on a mission that should,
and did, take precedence over everything else? How was there room
in her head, given her anxiety levels over Gran, to take on board the
fact that Quinn looked overpoweringly virile and as vital and energetic
as she felt jaded and weary? ‘And I feel perfectly fine.’ It occurred
to her that she ought to be displaying more gratitude than she
was, considering what he had done for her. ‘Thank you,’ she added
awkwardly. There was no polite way of putting it—she had fallen
apart! It was still kind of shocking to accept that this had
happened—maybe if Quinn hadn’t been there she would have pulled
herself together and done what needed to be done…. Perhaps it was
the security of having someone she trusted to take care of her and
the situation that had enabled her to temporarily relinquish her iron
control. Her blue eyes fluttered wide with amazement; she did trust
Quinn—utterly! When, she wondered, had that happened? Aware of
his questioning regard, she lowered her eyes abruptly and began to
fold the discarded blanket, her slim fingers trembling slightly as she
fussed, lining the corners up with meticulous precision. It was herself
she didn’t trust! If she allowed sexual attraction to dictate her
actions, Rowena knew she wouldn’t be doing either of them any favours.
Quinn deserved a woman who could give him the things he
probably didn’t even know he wanted yet. Things like a home—not
just four walls and a roof, but a real home. There would be babies, of
course—babies! Talk about catch-22, she thought, resisting the impulse
to place her hands protectively over her belly. Is this really me
feeling wistful over a dewy-eyed version of domestic bliss…? She
shook her head—this had to stop before she started listening to that
voice in her head that kept saying a child needed two parents. You
couldn’t make a decision on the basis of physical attraction. If she
did that she might even, in a moment of weakness and self-delusion,
convince herself she could provide what Quinn wanted. The result
would be disaster—she’d end up resenting him from stopping her
doing what she wanted to do in her career, and in turn he’d resent
her because she wouldn’t be able to put him first. Quinn was a man
who needed to be put first. ‘I didn’t mean to fall asleep.’ His eyes
skimmed her delicately flushed face. ‘No problem,’ he responded
easily. ‘I’m not used to drinking brandy in the middle of the day.’
Actually she wasn’t used to drinking it at any time, which was why
the tiny amount she’d had had gone straight to her head. The stuff
Quinn had discovered in her kitchen cupboard had been for culinary
purposes only up to that afternoon. ‘I’d say you’re not used to drinking
much any time,’ Quinn mused with his usual perception. ‘But
you make a fairly amiable drunk.’ Maybe she was being paranoid,
but it seemed to Rowena that his expression hinted at some private
joke. She just hoped she hadn’t said or done anything too awful or
disastrously revealing when she was being amiable. ‘I’m sorry about
the fuss with Security…’ Fuss was a pretty mild way of putting it. It
was ironic, really—normally she would have applauded their stubborn
attempts to detach her from Quinn. It had actually taken
Rowena some time to convince the suspicious employees anxious to
do their duty that a kidnap was not in progress. She closed her eyes,
mortified to even think about that terrible scene when they’d attempted
to leave the magazine offices. Give it twenty-four hours and the
already juicy tale would have been embellished beyond recognition.
‘Bernice is a bit overprotective.’ ‘So I gathered,’ Quinn responded
drily. ‘You did have…’ Rowena felt her colour rise but doggedly she
continued ‘…your arm around me.’ She saw no reason to remind
him or herself how hard she had been clinging to it! ‘Kidnapping
seems a pretty drastic leap to make.’ ‘Well, she did see us arguing,’
she reminded him in Bernice’s defence. ‘And I’m not normally the
sort of person who goes around leaning on…anyone.’ ‘I’m touched
you made an exception in my case.’ Rowena hardly noticed his wry
interjection. ‘I can’t believe I just walked out like that.’ ‘You were in
shock.’ Rowena’s expression made it clear that shock was a poor excuse
in her eyes for deserting her post. ‘What will people think?’
‘Do you care?’ ‘Of course I care, this is my professional reputation
we’re talking about.’ Somehow she doubted if Quinn would be quite
so laid back if it were his job they were discussing. ‘And in my business,’
she told him grimly, ‘there’s always someone willing to stab
you in the back.’ ‘Perhaps we should ask them to turn the plane
around.’ ‘Don’t patronise me, Quinn!’ she flared. ‘I want to go to
see Gran, of course I do. I just wish I’d been thinking straight. I
should at least have had the common courtesy to explain to Bernice,
she would have cancelled my appointments…’ She frowned, trying
to recall her busy schedule for the next few days. ‘Well, it’s not too
late, is it?’ he pointed out practically. ‘And if you’re fretting about
working I did pack your laptop.’ Rowena could have done without
this reminder that, not only had Quinn arranged a private flight,
treating the whole procedure as though it were no different from hiring
a car, when he’d discovered that there were no seats available on
the scheduled departures, but he had also packed her clothes too.
Anaesthetised by the small glass of brandy he had forced between
her bloodless lips, she had watched him from her cross-legged position
on her bed, occasionally shouting instructions in what she
seemed to recall had been a loud and stroppy tone. ‘Not those pants,
decorative but far too uncomfortable!’ she’d explained as he’d
pulled out a racy-looking thong from her knicker drawer to add to
the clothes crammed in her case. The memory made her groan and
clutch her head. ‘Could you do with a coffee?’ her attentive escort
asked. Escort…hell! Quinn on escort duty meant hours and hours of
contact, and far too much opportunity for her to let things slip…It
was nothing short of miraculous that she hadn’t so far! The last
shreds of muddled sleepiness left her as, galvanised into action, she
shot upright, and, discovering there was nowhere much to go, sat
down again with a bump. ‘You can’t come to Scotland!’ she exclaimed
in an anguished tone. She really must have been out of it
earlier to have let him get on the plane with her! ‘Short of parachuting
I’ve not much option at this point.’ ‘Obviously you’ll be flying
straight back.’ Quinn looked down into her worried face and
smiled—but it wasn’t a comforting sort of smile. ‘I promised Niall—’
Rowena’s expression hardened. What was this, some male
conspiracy. ‘Niall had no right to ask you anything. I don’t need a
minder!’ A lick of flame appeared in his eyes as they stilled on her
angry face. ‘No, you need a lover of the live-in variety!’ Then he
smiled benignly and patted her on the back as she began to choke. ‘I
promised Niall that I’d see you safely to the hospital,’ he intoned
virtuously. ‘Like you never break a promise,’ Rowena snarled, placing
the glass of water she’d taken several panicky gulps from down
again. His steady green gaze captured and held her furtive, darting
glance. ‘Actually, no, I don’t.’ A slow, steady pulse of heat throbbed
through Rowena, infiltrating every individual cell. She could hear
the rasp of his voice in her head. ‘You’ll like this, I promise.’ He’d
said it more than once before he’d introduced her to a new sensual
experience that had reduced her to incoherent, babbling worship.
He’d not broken his promise or exaggerated a claim once that night.
‘Some escort you’d be,’ she croaked, trying to fight her way through
the sexual thrall. She was pretty sure that it had her staring at him
like some sex-starved bimbo. ‘You don’t even know where Gran and
Grandpa live.’ ‘Actually I do, but I’m having a job getting my
tongue around the Gaelic pronunciation. A musical language, but not
exactly phonetic.’ The way she recalled it, his tongue could be pretty
amazingly dextrous! Rowena, her expression fixed and horrified,
barely stifled a groan at this fresh evidence of her moral disintegration.
‘And it wouldn’t really matter if my geographical knowledge of
the Highlands was nil, would it? Because we’re not heading for your
grandparents’ home.’ Rowena thought it wise to establish pretty
quickly, for her own benefit as much as Quinn’s, that there was no
we. ‘Precisely. Even I am capable of getting from the airport to the
hospital.’ ‘You might well be right, but unfortunately it’s not going
to be that easy…’ Rowena’s expression grew warily suspicious.
‘The plane’s been diverted to Glasgow. Inverness is closed due to
bad weather.’ ‘Weather!’ She squinted through the window into the
darkness. ‘What weather?’ ‘It’s snowing.’ ‘They can’t close a whole
airport just because of a bit of snow.’ Rowena’s scornful smile
wobbled as panic flared hotly through her. Not only did this mean it
would take even longer to reach Gran, but she would be lumbered
with Quinn all the way. Being in the confines of a plane cabin with
him was bad enough, but a car was way too intimate! ‘I suspect it
might be more than a bit, Rowena.’ She rubbed her clenched
knuckles across her chin and let her head fall back. ‘This is all I
need!’ she groaned. The lush sweep of Quinn’s long eyelashes concealed
his expression as his eyes moved over the exposed pale
length of her slender throat. ‘I’ll get you there, Rowena.’ Quinn,
who had always considered himself a reasonably law-abiding, honest
type of man was vaguely shocked to recognise just how far he’d
be prepared to go to fulfil this promise. For Rowena he wouldn’t just
bend the rules—he’d break them without a second thought.
Rowena’s head snapped up. ‘Why bother? This is all working out
just how you wanted, isn’t it?’ she flung recklessly at him. Annoyance
scored Quinn’s high cheekbones with dark colour as his deepset
eyes found hers. ‘Right now you need to reach your seriously ill
grandmother. Do you honestly think I’d welcome seeing that moment
delayed when I know how important it is to you?’ His lips
thinned in fastidious disgust. ‘What sort of opportunist loser do you
take me for, Rowena…?’ Rowena squirmed beneath his penetrating
icy glare. ‘Hell,’ she reflected with a shudder, ‘I wouldn’t like to be
a medical student you take a dislike to…not that you would take a
dislike to anyone, because I’m sure you’re totally objective and impartial
and you wouldn’t even dream of abusing your power in such
a petty way.’ Studying his face, she couldn’t decide if the faint
quiver she saw around his lips was wishful thinking. ‘In case you’re
wondering, this is my way of saying sorry…’ When he stared back
at her, stony-faced, Rowena gave a grunt of exasperation. ‘For heaven’s
sake, I think you can afford to be big about this! Cut me a bit of
slack, Quinn. I don’t know what I’m saying right now, I’m so emotionally
whacked!’ she admitted wearily. It would have taken a man
with a lot more objectivity than Quinn to remain unmoved by the appeal
in those deep blue eyes. ‘Consider the slack cut.’ Rowena
heaved a relieved sigh, grateful to see Quinn had finally come down
off his high horse. ‘Can’t you do something?’ she asked wistfully.
‘Your faith in my ability is moving, but I have to admit I think
you’re overestimating my influence in the weather department.’ He
regretted his levity as Rowena, her lips trembling, buried her face in
her hands. ‘This is terrible,’ she sobbed. ‘What if I’m too late? What
if she is…?’ She stopped, unable to say it, unable to think it! ‘Don’t
worry,’ he soothed, stroking her glossy hair. ‘I’ll get you up to Inverness
somehow.’ His offer had the opposite effect to that he’d
been striving for. Rowena, her body rigid, shot bolt upright. Her
brimming eyes were awash with agitated anguish. ‘You
can’t…you…you can’t come.’ ‘Why?’ ‘You don’t even have any
suitable clothes,’ she added in the manner of someone desperate to
produce a winning argument—the desperation wasn’t feigned. Her
glance automatically dropped. Quinn had removed his jacket during
the flight, and she could see the muscle definition of his chest and
even get a hint of the dark body hair through the thin cotton of his
white T-shirt. The prickle just beneath her skin reached the surface,
she felt the heat bloom in her cheeks and squirmed restlessly in her
seat. When she managed to wrench her gaze back up—there was
some time lapse here—Quinn was watching her with a pleased,
knowing expression on his dark, sexy features that only served to increase
the hot flow of blood to her cheeks. ‘I picked up some things
at the airport.’ ‘You can’t have, you didn’t leave me.’ ‘I didn’t need
to—I used the services of a very nice airport employee whose sole
aim in life is to spend people’s money. I gave the person my size and
my requirements and they did the rest.’ Rowena knew instinctively
that this person had been female and attractive. ‘I suppose she took
your inside leg measurements too,’ she heard herself bitch
waspishly. No wonder he looked complacent. Could I sound any
more jealous if I tried? she anguished. ‘Silk shirts, ties and socks
won’t be much good. This isn’t some soft, safe southern village
we’re heading for, this is the north of Scotland in the winter,’ she
told him scornfully. ‘And I can get to Inverness myself, thank you
very much.’ ‘You think you’re more suited to driving in the north of
Scotland than I am? As a matter of interest, when was the last time
you drove a car, Rowena?’ ‘I find public transport convenient. I do!’
she added defiantly as he gave a sceptical snort. Not getting your licence
until the fourth attempt was not that unusual. What was unusual
was Rowena not succeeding at something she set her mind to
with her usual effortless ease. ‘Besides, there’s enough pollution,’
she added loftily. ‘I’m doing my bit for the environment.’ ‘Very public
spirited of you.’ ‘All right,’ she conceded crossly. ‘I may not like
driving, but I’m a very good driver. I’m just careful, is all…’ ‘I’m
not contesting it,’ he soothed silkily. ‘It’s purely a personal foible of
mine, but I get jumpy when the driver of a car I’m a passenger in
closes her eyes when manoeuvring past a large lorry.’ ‘It was a very
narrow bridge.’ And a very big lorry. ‘I’ve seen you drive around a
car park for half an hour rather than reverse into a parking space.’
‘Are you eventually going to make a point?’ One dark brow lifted
sardonically. ‘I thought I already had.’ Rowena gritted her teeth; she
hated his maddening calm. ‘It’s preposterous. I mean, obviously you
can’t walk out on your life just because…’ ‘You need me?’ He slid a
hand behind his head, mussing up his rich dark hair as he settled
comfortably back in his seat. ‘Actually, nothing could be easier,’ he
announced carelessly. There was nothing careless or soothing about
the burning expression in the green eyes that welded with hers.
Rowena clutched nervously at her tight throat as her thundering
heart tried to fight its way out of her chest. She cleared her throat;
anyone would think she was the sort of woman that got all turned on
by all that predatory, possessive macho nonsense! ‘Well, I don’t
want you,’ she announced tautly. The last thing she needed was to be
even further in his debt. No, relying on Quinn would be a fatal mistake.
Quinn appeared to take her rejection in his stride. ‘Your problem
is you don’t know what’s good for you.’ Was he suggesting that
he’d be good for her…? This wasn’t a proposition Rowena felt up to
challenging. ‘Gran always said that to me too. Like you, she’s big on
clichés, but only when she says them…’ For a moment fear, dark
and cold, blanked out every other consideration. ‘Do you think…?’
she whispered, her eyes darkening with dread. Quinn, his expression
compassionate, took hold of her hands now tortuously twisted in her
lap and chafed the chilly extremities between his. ‘Cold hands,
warm heart?’ he suggested. ‘The exception that proves the rule,
that’s me,’ Rowena responded, unable to stop her teeth from chattering.
‘You asked me what I think. For what it’s worth, I think it’s useless
to speculate on your grandmother’s condition at this point. She’s
in the best possible place and she’s being cared for by the best possible
people.’ Rowena nodded; what he said made perfect sense.
‘You’re right,’ she conceded. ‘It’s just hard…’ she broke off as the
emotional lump in her throat became unmanageable. ‘You’re really
fond of your grandparents, aren’t you?’ The note of surprise in his
voice brought an angry sparkle to Rowena’s eyes. Aren’t pushy, upwardly
mobile bitches allowed to care for their families? she wanted
to yell. She snatched her hands from his and pushed her hair back
behind her ears. ‘Why should that surprise you?’ ‘It doesn’t surprise
me, Rowena, though I can think of several people it might surprise.
You play your glacial ice-maiden part extremely well.’ Rowena
opened her mouth to contest this description then, realising he had a
point, shrugged in tired resignation. ‘Tell me about them,’ he urged
unexpectedly. ‘Gran and Grandpa?’ Her neatly shaped brows drew
together in straight line. ‘Why?’ ‘Do you always suspect people’s
motives?’ he responded, a hint of exasperation in his tone. ‘I’ve no
sinister hidden agenda, Rowena. You need to talk, and I…I want to
listen.’ ‘Grandpa owned a trawler before he retired.’ ‘Fishing is a
high-risk profession.’ ‘And not a very lucrative one these days.
Grandpa’s old boat has been tarted up to take tourists on trips around
the Summer Isles these days. Grandpa doesn’t say so but I think he
finds that quite sad. Mind you, he doesn’t say much full stop, but
he’s always been there for me,’ she added swiftly, just in case Quinn
was mistakenly associating strong and silent with strong and unfeeling.
‘He’s unfailingly supportive…never judgemental. A quiet gentle
giant.’ Her eyes misted with affection. ‘And your grandmother…?’
Quinn prompted gently. ‘Oh, she’s not quiet, in fact she’s the total
opposite to Grandpa, but somehow they are right together, if you
know what I mean…?’ She was so involved in her own private reflections
that she didn’t see Quinn nod. ‘I just can’t imagine them
apart. Gran always encouraged Holly and I to…’ She wiped the tears
from her cheeks with the back of her hand. ‘Sorry.’ Quinn pressed a
tissue into her hand. ‘They sound great; I’d love to meet them.’ ‘Oh,
they’d like you,’ she said, enthusiastically, without thinking. Her jaw
dropped in almost comical dismay as their eyes met. ‘That is…’ she
laughed awkwardly as she lowered her gaze hastily from his
‘…what’s not to like? You’re an adorable sort of guy,’ she joked
shakily. ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.’ If she wasn’t careful
he might realise how successful he’d been! ‘I don’t usually cry
so much…’ ‘Your “don’t get mad, get even” policy doesn’t really
cover this situation, does it, angel?’ Choked up, Rowena shook her
head. ‘Not really. Oh, God!’ She groaned. ‘I should be there. When I
think of Gran all alone…’ ‘She’s hardly alone, is she?’ ‘No, that’s
true. Mum and Dad are there, that’s a good thing. Isn’t it?’ ‘Of
course it is, and Holly and Niall are there too—quite the family gathering.’
Rowena sensed his unspoken question. ‘I was invited. It’s
Grandpa’s birthday tomorrow and Holly wanted to show Niall off. I
couldn’t justify taking a break…’ If Quinn detected the guilt in her
voice he didn’t comment on it. ‘I was surprised to find out about
Holly and Niall…’ Quinn’s light comment invited a response, which
Rowena didn’t give. If he had been surprised, she’d been shocked rigid
by the news that Holly was to marry someone she had always
considered one of her own best friends. It wasn’t as if she grudged
her baby sister her happiness, or that she felt she had any particular
claims on Niall who, like Quinn, had been her friend since university
days—she had been there for him after his first marriage had broken
up. It just took some major readjusting, that was all. Quinn’s watchful
eyes remained on her downcast features. ‘It was all a bit quick,
wasn’t it?’ He thought he managed to hide his suspicions pretty well
under the circumstances—the circumstances being he was highly
suspicious of Rowena’s relationship with Niall. ‘They seem very
happy,’ Rowena eventually responded carefully. The lines bracketing
Quinn’s strong mouth deepened as his lips tightened. ‘And if you
had any doubts, you wouldn’t say so. Being that sour grapes sound
so…well, sour.’ Rowena was bewildered by the abrupt change of
mood she sensed in him. ‘Meaning what, exactly?’ she gritted dangerously.
‘I always had the impression that you considered you had
first refusal on Niall,’ he drawled. Rowena took a deep, wrathful
breath. The problem was, there was a grain of truth in his abominable
charge—not that she had ever had a romantic relationship with
Niall, nor for that matter had she ever wanted one, but they had been
close. Closer probably in their post-student days than she and Quinn
had been. Possibly, Rowena mused, considering the matter in a new
light, because there never had been any of the unacknowledged
physical attraction between her and Niall that there was between her
and Quinn. It was nice to go places with a very attractive man and
not have to worry that he’d expect anything at the end of the evening
other than stimulating conversation and good coffee. ‘Niall is
everything you are not,’ she announced scornfully. Though experienced
in relationships with the opposite sex, Quinn was not experienced
in jealousy. It was like an open wound, which he couldn’t help
poking even though it hurt. ‘And what am I, Rowena? Other than
not being fit to lick Niall’s boots, that is. Is it Niall’s title you begrudge
Holly?’ ‘Are you trying to insult me?’ ‘Did you fancy yourself
as part of the landed gentry? Well, marrying Niall would certainly
give you that,’ he admitted, reviewing their mutual friend’s
blue-blooded background. ‘I never wanted to marry Niall.’ ‘Did he
ask?’ Rowena flushed angrily. ‘I see he didn’t.’ ‘He didn’t ask me to
marry him, the same way he never took advantage of our friendship
and made a pass at me! Unlike some people I could mention!’ ‘Am I
being unduly sensitive or was that little jibe aimed at me? If so, I
feel obliged to say in my defence that the way I recall it, sweetheart,
you were pretty anxious to be taken advantage of,’ he reminded her
with unforgivable accuracy. ‘Just for the record, I do not begrudge
Holly anything!’ Rowena snapped, finding it hard not to lose her rag
totally in the face of extreme provocation. ‘Sure you don’t.’ ‘I
don’t!’ she bellowed back, unable to take his tolerant contempt any
longer. ‘And as for what you are, that’s simple, Quinn. You are the
most arrogant, infuriating, manipulative male I’ve ever met—and in
case you have any doubts, that wasn’t a compliment!’ she finished,
lifting a hand to her hot, sticky brow. ‘I’m stuck with you as far as
Glasgow,’ she stormed, ‘but after that I’m going on alone.’ Quinn,
unfazed by her animosity, just smiled in that laconic, laid-back,
wildly attractive way of his and announced his intention of snatching
a few minutes’ sleep. He seemed to drift into a deep, untroubled
slumber about two seconds after his eyes closed and, much to her
chagrin, stayed that way until the attractive flight attendant woke
him to fasten his seat belt. Their plane was about the last one to
land—quite bumpily, as it happened, as the nail marks gouged in
Quinn’s hand from where Rowena had gripped it could testify—
before the airport ground to a total standstill. The blizzards that
had cut off the far north had, it seemed, reached Glasgow. ‘I don’t
know why you’re following me,’ Rowena remarked icily to the tall
figure at her shoulder. ‘I’m only here as an interested bystander, but
should you require my services…’ ‘I won’t.’ ‘Sorry to keep you
waiting, miss,’ the harassed-looking individual behind the car-hire
counter apologised. ‘We don’t have a four-wheel drive left…’
Rowena tapped her beautifully manicured nails on the desk. ‘Then
what do you have?’ she enquired with barely disguised impatience.
The young man told her. ‘That’ll do.’ ‘It’s snowing…’ ‘I had noticed.’
The recipient of her abrasive sarcasm flushed and, feeling
guilty, Rowena smiled tightly to take the sting out of her words. The
smile only further flustered the young man who shot the intimidatingly
beautiful blonde’s companion a look of appeal, but the tall man
shrugged and remained silent. ‘Well, actually, the police are advising
people who don’t have to make a journey to stay at home…most
people are…’ ‘I’m not most people, and I do have to make a journey,’
Rowena responded, disguising her increasing sense of urgency
behind a cold façade. ‘Well, perhaps you could wait until morning?’
One look from those icy eyes silenced the young man. Clearly unhappy,
he dropped the keys into her outstretched palm. ‘How far are
you planning to go?’ ‘Inverness.’ His eyes widened. ‘You’re joking—
right!’ ‘If you knew the lady better, you wouldn’t bother asking
that.’ Rowena spun around. This wasn’t the first time today
Quinn had insinuated she had no sense of humour. She had a great
sense of humour! ‘Nobody asked you, Quinn Tyler!’ Quinn regarded
her angry face impassively. ‘I can take a hint.’ Rowena laughed bitterly.
‘Since when?’ ‘Just remember, keep in the highest gear possible
when driving on snow and don’t brake in a skid, steer into it,’
he advised her gravely. ‘I knew that!’ she called after him. Rowena
watched the tall retreating figure and experienced none of the deep
sense of relief she should have; she only felt a nasty sinking feeling
in the pit of her stomach. Her chin up, she took a deep sustaining
breath. She was alone and she would cope, she told herself sternly,
just as she always had. This sense of stubborn optimism lasted until
she passed the seventh abandoned vehicle slewed horribly across the
road. It was while her attention was distracted by the desolate image
that her own car hit a patch of black ice and began to move in the
wrong direction. Panic took over—she had no control whatsoever.
Quinn held his breath as the silver Saab ahead went into a dramatic
skid—the whole scene was picked up in stomach-churning detail by
the light of the taxi’s headlights. He began to breathe again as it
came to an abrupt halt on what had once been a grassy verge. ‘How
much do I owe you?’ he asked the taxi driver who had been following
Rowena’s car at a discreet distance. The driver named a hairraising
sum. Quinn, who had agreed to paying quadruple the going
rate to persuade the reluctant driver to venture out, didn’t blink as he
handed over the exorbitant sum. ‘I told you not to brake,’ he shouted
above the howl of the wind as he ducked his head inside the car.
Rowena’s first thought was for the baby. Fortunately the only part of
her that had suffered from the abrupt stop was her forehead, which
had glanced against the windscreen. With a relieved sigh, she pushed
back her hair from her face and lifted her head off the steering wheel
as a blast of cold air and a flurry of snow hit her. The dazed expression
in her eyes wasn’t entirely due to impact; the brush with danger
had released a flood of protective maternal instincts as powerful as
they were unanticipated. The baby’s all right, the baby’s all right.
Like a record stuck in the groove, the relieved litany kept going
around and around in her head. Blinking, she stared up in disbelief at
the tall dynamic figure who had wrenched open the car door. She
shivered; the nervous sweat that bathed her body was swiftly growing
clammily cold in the icy temperature. What she wanted to say
was, I’m glad to see you! Our baby’s all right. What she actually
said, in a crossly accusing tone, was, ‘How did you get here?’ Quinn
flung his bag in the back seat. ‘Never mind that, slide over,’ came
the terse instruction. Normally Rowena would have objected in the
strongest possible terms to being addressed so peremptorily, only
right now she was too stressed out by the nightmare few miles she’d
driven to think coherently. Conscious only of a deep sense of relief,
she meekly did as Quinn instructed. The noise level of the growling
wind was deadened to a dull roar as he closed the door behind him.
‘You’re bleeding,’ he remarked quietly. ‘Am I?’ Quinn’s dark skin
tones looked peculiarly pale in the subdued light inside the car. Still
dazed, Rowena winced slightly as his long, square-tipped fingers
gently probed the bruised area on her temple. She remained passive
during the examination, but her near-death experience didn’t stop
her stomach muscles clenching painfully as the enclosed space started
to fill up with a warm male, uniquely Quinn fragrance. She
lowered her eyes self-consciously and watched the snow melt on the
shoulders of his jacket—Quinn had the sort of shoulders that filled
out jackets extremely well. ‘It’s only superficial,’ he announced clinically.
‘I think I must have hit my head on the windscreen.’ A
muscle in his lean cheek did some unauthorised jumping. ‘You could
have killed yourself!’ No clinical objectivity this time! Rowena recoiled
from the white-hot blaze of outrage in his eyes. ‘Well, I
didn’t,’ she pointed out mildly. ‘So there’s no point stressing out
over what might have happened.’ Their eyes meshed and an explosive
sound of frustration escaped from between Quinn’s clenched
teeth. ‘You are totally unbelievable. You’re not going to admit you
were wrong, are you?’ ‘It’s not something I’m good at, but then
neither are you,’ she felt impelled to add. Quinn grunted. ‘I’m driving
you to the nearest hotel.’ He lifted his cell phone from his pocket
and began to punch in a number. ‘I’ll let Niall know what’s happening.
Hell!’ He glared at the inanimate object in his hand. ‘There’s no
reception.’ ‘Just as well, because I’m not stopping at a hotel. I’m going
to Inverness.’ Quinn regarded her set stubborn expression with
an expression of frustrated incredulity. ‘I can’t decide if you’re just
stubborn or plain stupid.’ ‘There’s no need to get offensive.’ He
shook his head. ‘You’re not going to do your grandmother or anyone
else any good if you manage to get yourself killed, woman. You do
realise that, I suppose?’ Rowena did, but the compulsion to reach her
grandmother was so strong that it pushed every other consideration
to the back of her mind. It was partly a guilt thing, of course, some
objective corner of her mind admitted freely. Her grandfather’s
birthday wasn’t the first family occasion she’d missed. If it was too
late to make up for all the times she hadn’t made this journey—the
times when she’d put her career ahead of family commitment—
Rowena knew she’d never be able to live with herself. Please
let me have a second chance, she begged silently. Rowena was all
too aware that second chances came along rarely. ‘If you’re too
scared to drive me I’ll drop you off at the next service station,’ she
declared. Quinn searched her pale face and saw not an inch of give
in her zealot-like determination. He shrugged. ‘If you’ve got a death
wish, far be it from me to frustrate you.’ CHAPTER FOUR
‘THAT’S it, then.’ Quinn loosened his seat belt and leant back in his
seat with a sigh. He pressed a finger to the permanent indentation
between his dark brows; his head ached dully after the lengthy period
of intense concentration. Rowena looked from Quinn’s remote
profile to the snow silently building up on the windscreen. ‘It can’t
be!’ she cried, adjusting the angle of the overhead light as she consulted
the map that lay open on her lap. ‘There must be another way.
It stands to reason.’ Even as she spoke Rowena recognised the futility
of her protest. Quinn reached across and closed the book. ‘This
car isn’t going any farther, Rowena,’ he said gently. ‘We’re stuck.’
So far closed roads and the police had made them re-route three
times, and gradually they’d got farther and farther off their original
route. ‘But…’ Quinn shook his head firmly. The snow had now
completely covered the windscreen, lending an eerie white glow to
the interior of the car. Even though the heater was pumping out heat,
Rowena shivered. ‘It’s not negotiable, sweetheart, we’re stuck. We’ll
just have to sit tight until someone rescues us. It’ll be light in an
hour or so.’ They wouldn’t be the only ones waiting for rescue;
they’d passed several vehicles along the way in a similar predicament.
‘And when will that be, do you think?’ Rowena quavered
hoarsely as her mind began to actively contemplate the hours ahead.
It wasn’t the physical discomforts of the situation that filled her with
horror. Actually, horror was inadequate to describe her feelings as
she thought about the hours ahead stranded in the car with Quinn.
Her stomach muscles, sensitive to the frisson of sexual heat that shot
through her tensed frame, tightened. Quinn shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea,’
he admitted, shifting his position to ease the tension that was tying
the muscles in his neck in knots. His mellow soothing tone irritated
the hell out of Rowena. ‘Don’t you care?’ ‘Naturally I care, I just
don’t see much point getting hysterical. Or would you prefer me to
panic?’ A nerve in his cheek thrummed as he recalled how close
he’d been to doing so when her car had gone into that skid. Quinn
panicking—no, I don’t think so! Another time the idea would have
made her laugh. Quinn was cool and competence personified. ‘I’m
sure this is nothing to a man who makes life and death decisions for
a living, but humour me, Quinn, I’m only the girl who writes about
the latest fashion craze!’ One dark brow quirked as he shifted in his
seat to face her properly. ‘Do I detect a shade of disillusionment…?’
he wondered, sounding surprised. ‘You do not!’ she denied forcefully.
She moderated her tone, aware she could be accused of sounding
like the lady who protesteth just a tad too much. ‘And, just for
the record, I am not getting hysterical. I’m merely showing a normal
degree of concern. What are you doing now?’ ‘I’m going to make
sure the exhaust is clear of snow,’ he explained, zipping his jacket
up to his chin. ‘The last thing we need is the car filling up with carbon
monoxide. You stay put,’ he added, fishing a torch from his
pocket. Rowena sketched an angry mock salute, which he acknowledged
with an undisturbed grin. Where, she felt like asking, did he
think she was about to go? She rubbed a small hole in the condensation
that had built up on her window, and, nose almost pressed to the
glass, watched him make his way to the rear of the vehicle through
the thigh-deep snow that surrounded their stranded vehicle. Waiting
impatiently for him to reappear, she exhaled against the glass and
began to idly doodle in the fogged window. It wasn’t until she saw
his tall figure re-materialise that she registered what she’d drawn on
the glass. A giant heart pierced with an arrow and the initials RP and
QT inside it stared accusingly back at her. With a horrified gasp
Rowena rubbed out the childish, incriminating evidence and settled
back in her seat before the door opened—either she was exhibiting
early symptoms of cabin fever or her subconscious was in a sorry
state! ‘Sorted,’ Quinn revealed a short time later as, shaking his head
to release the snow clinging to his dark hair and eyelashes, he slid
smoothly back into his seat. ‘Next we let the appropriate authorities
know where we are.’ Rowena only had the vaguest of ideas who the
appropriate authorities might be, but Quinn seemed confident he did.
She watched as he withdrew his phone from his breast pocket and
punched in a number. ‘The battery’s too low,’ he revealed after a few
fruitless attempts. Rowena folded her arms protectively across her
chest and discovered she was shaking. ‘Well, that’s just great, isn’t
it?’ ‘So this is my fault now, is it?’ Rowena flushed with guilt and
caught her lower lip between her teeth as she encountered his ironic,
irritated stare. Did he think she needed it spelling out that she was to
blame for their predicament? To her discomfort he pursued the topic
further. ‘I suppose you’d prefer to be stuck in the middle of nowhere
alone…?’ Rowena gulped. ‘Is that where we are?’ she whispered
fearfully. ‘In the middle of nowhere?’ This wouldn’t have come as a
shock to a brighter person, she concluded, averting her eyes from the
emptiness of the dark bleak landscape outside her window. ‘You tell
me, you were the navigator.’ She looked so stricken that Quinn
wished he’d resisted the temptation to wind her up. Actually it
wasn’t Rowena he was annoyed with, it was himself. He couldn’t
blame his own actions on ignorance; it had been obvious from the
outset that this insane journey had been doomed to failure. The only
thing that had persuaded him to play ball was the sneaking suspicion
that Rowena was quite capable of bribing some other idiot to help
her if he didn’t—or, worse still, trying the journey on her own the
minute his back was turned! The problem was Rowena was just too
used to getting her own way. ‘Well, actually, I sort of lost track…’
One dark brow rose satirically as she fumbled for words. ‘All right,’
she conceded with a sigh. ‘I’ve not the faintest idea where we are.’
‘I’ve got a confession to make too…’ I bet it’s not as spectacular as
the one I’ve got to make some time soon! How long, Rowena
wondered bleakly, was she going to be able to keep her secret? It
didn’t help when every time she looked at Quinn her conscience
gave her hell. She silently cursed the cruel fate that had conspired to
throw them together this way. How could she tell Quinn she was expecting
his baby when she still hadn’t had time to come to terms
with it herself? ‘I already kind of suspected that you had no idea
where we were.’ ‘Because I’m a female and therefore incapable of
reading a map, I suppose.’ ‘It was a joke, Rowena. The usual response
is a laugh—you ought to try it some time.’ His eyes drifted
towards her mouth. His body responded helplessly to the sight of the
soft pink contours. ‘I don’t know how you can joke about something
like this,’ she choked, lifting resentful eyes to his face and discovering
in the process that he didn’t look amused. His shifting expression
revealed a totally unexpected gleam of raw hunger and hurriedly
she looked away, her heart thudding scarily fast. ‘There is
nothing even vaguely amusing about this situation as far as I can
see,’ she said, forcing the words past the aching congested feeling in
her throat. She viewed a mental graph charting her day’s achievements—
it didn’t make happy reading. She’d set out to escape Quinn
and reach Gran—she’d failed spectacularly on both counts. One
minor consolation, she thought, was when you hit rock bottom
things couldn’t get worse… Quinn looked slightly taken aback by
her hissing animosity. ‘Never heard of laughing in the face of adversity,
Rowena?’ Rowena snorted and refused point-blank to respond
to his cajoling words or meet his eyes. ‘Well, I always say—’
‘Something deep and profound, no doubt,’ she muttered. One dark
brow quirked but he didn’t respond to her sarcasm. ‘Don’t waste
time worrying over things you have no control over.’ ‘Profound…I
was right.’ Annoyance stirred deep in Quinn’s emerald eyes. ‘This
situation will be a lot easier to endure if you keep the smart backchat
and cynicism to the bare minimum.’ Rowena heard the unspoken or
else in his voice and her jaw tightened belligerently. ‘It would be a
lot easier,’ she snapped back, ‘if you didn’t treat me like a child.’
‘Have you listened to yourself lately, sweetheart? I’ve heard more
mature comments from sulky seven-year-olds.’ Rowena flushed in
annoyance as she reluctantly acknowledged there was more than a
little justification in his accusation. ‘I know you’re anxious about
your grandmother, but sitting here feeling sorry for ourselves and
scoring points isn’t going to get us far.’ And pretending nothing was
wrong would? ‘No, that’ll take a snowplough, and I’m not feeling
sorry for myself.’ Quinn’s arm brushed against her leg as he leaned
between their seats into the rear of the car, and the brief contact
made her hopelessly responsive nerve endings surge into tingling
life. Rowena couldn’t control the survival instinct that made her
shrink protectively back in her seat—she hoped Quinn hadn’t noticed.
‘What are you doing now?’ she asked. He shot her a brief, unsmiling
glance. ‘Concentrating on some of those things we do have
some control over.’ He hefted his holdall onto his lap and unzipped
it. ‘The petrol’s low, so we can’t leave the engine running indefinitely.
It’s going to get cold so we should add a few layers.’ He pulled
out several items of clothing. Snapping a sales tag off a crew-necked
lightweight thermal fleece, he dropped it in Rowena’s lap. ‘Put that
one on. It may not be your first choice in this season’s leisure wear
but it’s better than hypothermia. Besides, if we don’t stay warm we
might be obliged to raise our body temperatures in the good oldfashioned,
time-tested manner…’ Rowena rubbed the fine smooth
fabric absently between her fingers. Her blue eyes remained innocently
uncomprehending; the faintest suggestion of a frown line
above her neat aquiline nose deepened fractionally as their glances
collided. ‘Skin to skin contact,’ he elaborated. The mocking smile
that revealed a set of even white teeth didn’t reach his eyes. ‘The last
resort…or the first, depending on your point of view…’ A rosy
bloom washed away the pearly, almost opalescent sheen of her fair
skin. ‘Oh!’ In her head she could see the contrast of pale fair skin
against dark olive-toned flesh…She blinked hard to dispel the disturbing
images. ‘And I got the impression just now you wouldn’t
welcome that.’ He couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. It was
not encouraging to have the woman he was running after cringe
away from his touch. He had noticed her shrinking back in her seat
and now he thought she didn’t like him touching her! How ironic
was that? ‘I could tell you how my skin craves your touch…’ She
cleared her throat and her voice unexpectedly fell from faltering falsetto
to husky rasp. ‘But I’m afraid, Quinn, I don’t have the time or
inclination to soothe fragile male egos!’ Her scornful glare grew
limp around the edges as she saw her contemptuous sarcasm had not
cut him to the quick. Actually, all of a sudden he was oozing very
male satisfaction and looking scarily confident! ‘Don’t worry,
Rowena, I haven’t made out in a car since I was a teenager, and I’ve
no intention of reacquainting myself with the joys now.’ Meaning
I’m no major temptation! Terrific! She was horrified to catch herself
contemplating just how long it would take her to make Mr Iron Control
Tyler eat his words…and maybe her too! ‘I never have,’ she revealed
absently as she slipped off her jacket prior to pulling on the
fleece. ‘Never have what?’ Quinn selected a few more items before
zipping up the bag and flinging it over his head. ‘Made out in a car,’
she elaborated, pulling the top over her head. She smoothed down
her ruffled hair and found that Quinn was looking at her with a
startled expression. ‘Never…?’ She shook her head. ‘Your education
really was neglected, love.’ The expression in his eyes was making
her nervous. It might be her imagination, but to Rowena it suggested
that Quinn wouldn’t mind filling in the gaps in her education personally.
‘It’s hardly an obligatory development milestone and I had
more important things than groping on my mind in my teens,’ she
told him with lofty scorn. ‘Aren’t you curious?’ ‘Not even slightly,’
she said, clumsily drawing her padded jacket on over the fleece.
‘Well, if you change your mind…’ Rowena flushed to the roots of
her hair. Laughing to himself, Quinn began adding his own layers.
The sound of his deep laughter made her grit her teeth. In her line of
work, Rowena had flirted with film stars and discussed the global
economy with statesmen; she could hold her own in the most sophisticated
of company and she didn’t enjoy the novel experience of
being made to feel like a gauche, inexperienced adolescent. ‘Shall
we pool our supplies?’ Quinn asked once he was satisfied Rowena
was insulated to his satisfaction, which involved the addition of several
layers of unattractive clothing. He laid out two chocolate bars
and a packet of mints on the dashboard. ‘I suppose you’re on a permanent
diet.’ He sounded resigned. ‘Nothing remotely resembling
carbohydrate or sugar in your pockets?’ ‘I don’t diet, but neither do I
fill my pockets with junk food on the off chance I get cut off by a
blizzard.’ ‘Have you not got anything useful on your person?’ ‘Perhaps
it would have been more sensible to ask me that before you
made me pile on the layers. I feel like a mummy,’ Rowena complained.
Head on one side, he considered her suggestion. ‘Nah,’ he
denied. ‘You look like one of those little nests of cute Russian dolls.
What are they called…?’ ‘I’m not sure, but the way I recall it they
don’t have waists.’ She glanced down at her own disguised by the
bulk of her clothes and went a little paler as she remembered that her
own would most likely be just a memory soon. ‘No slur on your
waistline intended,’ he soothed, amused by this unusual display of
feminine vanity. ‘You know, I had a set of them when I was a kid.
Removing the outer layers never lost its appeal for me…’ His indolent
drawl, laced with sexual innuendo, had Rowena shivering under
her layers and frantically breaking contact with those mesmeric eyes
of his—eyes that carried a message not nearly as innocent as his
words. ‘I thought dolls were for girls,’ she mocked, looking away,
her cheeks self-consciously pink. ‘My parents are the couple least
likely to be heard saying boys will be boys. They were dead against
sexual stereotyping of any type,’ he explained solemnly. ‘I was encouraged
to be in touch with my feminine side from an early age,
and I’d say,’ he admitted with a provocative leer, ‘that on the whole
it paid dividends.’ ‘I doubt very much if your parents had those sort
of dividends in mind,’ she observed with a disgusted sniff. ‘They
could give you some lessons in not being narrow-minded,’ he shot
back. ‘I’m not narrow-minded because I find your bed-hopping lifestyle
distasteful,’ she countered austerely. A look of sardonic amusement
gradually spread across his face as his green eyes searched her
flushed features. ‘You’re jealous!’ He laughed with throaty masculine
delight. Rowena’s mouth was actually open to hotly deny this ridiculous
claim when a thrill of shocked recognition shot through her
body—he was right! The thought of Quinn with other women
brought out the green-eyed monster in her. ‘Nothing,’ she lied
shakily, ‘could be farther from the truth. I don’t envy your conquests,
I just wish like hell I hadn’t been one of them. In fact,’ she
added, warming to her theme, ‘if I could go back and erase one moment
in my life it would be that one in New York!’ She heard the
hissing sound of Quinn’s furious inhalation, deeply regretful of what
she’d said and just as deeply determined not to retract it. ‘And that
would be because you hated every minute of it…?’ With eyes like
ice chips and a harsh, scathing frown on his face, Quinn still looked
sinfully attractive—in fact, if she was totally honest, the menace added
an element of not unattractive danger. ‘Yes…no…you know I
didn’t. You’re a perfect lover! Happy now?’ she asked, her voice
thick with resentment. ‘Not especially. If it was so damned perfect,
why do you want to erase it?’ Shaking her head, Rowena turned
away from the simmering fury in his frustrated glare. Chin cupped in
her hands, she rocked forward in her seat and sighed. When she lifted
her head Quinn was shocked to see the sparkle of tears on the
end of her long eyelashes. ‘If it hadn’t happened my life wouldn’t be
so complicated.’ Quinn gave a snort of disgust. ‘What is it with you?
Don’t you allow for any spontaneity at all in your life?’ His easy
contempt brought all her fear and resentment rushing to the surface.
How easy it was for him, how simple—he wasn’t the one carrying a
baby; he wasn’t the one whose life had jumped about a hundred
scary miles off track! ‘I have no intention of making excuses for the
way I am to you or anybody else, and I don’t share your fondness for
spontaneity, Quinn, which is hardly surprising. If I hadn’t been so
spontaneous I wouldn’t be pregnant!’ she yelled. There was a delay
of perhaps twenty seconds before Quinn’s head went back as though
she’d landed a blow on his jaw—or maybe somewhere even more
sensitive. Clamping a hand over her mouth, she watched the healthy
colour seep from his face until his bronzed skin looked almost greyish.
Rowena’s own colour wasn’t looking too healthy. Saying it out
loud had suddenly made the pregnancy scarily real; until this moment
she’d been able to file the facts away for future consideration.
That was no longer possible; the situation had suddenly been catapulted
into the here and now! ‘Oh, God! I didn’t mean to blurt it out
like that…’ Was there a gentle way of telling someone he was going
to be a father? ‘But you made me so angry…’ Looking curiously vacant,
Quinn’s glazed sea-green eyes fixed frowningly on her face.
‘Pregnant…?’ He caught his breath in a long sibilant hiss. ‘You did
say pregnant…? With my baby?’ Rowena flinched. The question
hurt her more than she had thought possible. ‘Sorry, but there are no
other candidates.’ She rubbed a shaky, distracted hand over her forehead
and felt the clammy dampness of her skin. She shook her head.
‘Forget I said anything,’ she instructed him with a bitter little laugh.
‘This is my problem.’ ‘Forget!’ Rowena could almost feel the waves
of incredulous fury emanating from his rigid frame. ‘So this is why
you’ve been avoiding me. This is why you wouldn’t speak to
me…When were you going to tell me?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Or weren’t
you going to tell me…?’ This was just the start! Rowena shook
her head and closed her eyes, envisaging the inevitable recriminations,
arguments and ultimatums, and the unstable concoction of
fear, hurt and unacknowledged yearning that she’d been keeping a
lid on over the past few weeks suddenly exploded. Tears began to
cascade silently down her alabaster-pale cheeks until with a husky
cry she tore open the car door and, oblivious to Quinn’s harsh warning
cries, she stepped out into the darkness. It didn’t matter that she
had nowhere to run to—the instinct to run away went beyond logic.
Actually it was more a matter of stumbling than running. The snow
was still falling in a blinding horizontal sheet and it was lying a good
two feet deep on the ground—considerably deeper where it had drifted.
The world was white on black, but not silent black or still white,
but a noisy, roaring, inhospitable place that filled her ears with a
constant howl and almost drowned out the thunderous thump of her
own heartbeat. She struggled onwards, her head bowed against the
biting intensity of the driving snow, which bit into her skin like
sharp ice pellets. Rowena concentrated on her feet, picking them up
one at a time, and taking the next step. If she thought at all it was
just about keeping going and picking herself up when she stumbled.
The picking herself up part rapidly became more and more difficult.
When it came to the point where every step was agony and each
breath made her feel as if her lungs were on fire, perhaps someone
with less guts and sheer pigheaded stubbornness would have lain
down quietly in the soft snow, but it didn’t occur to Rowena even for
one second to give up—she was not one of life’s quitters. The dry
stone wall she encountered suddenly offered a little respite from the
worst of the wind. She squatted down behind it trying to catch her
breath and pondering glumly on the reckless stupidity of her actions.
The logic that had told her escaping from the safety of the car was a
really good idea was growing fuzzier by the second. Now she had
the leisure to think, it finally dawned on her that she was in very real
danger. The chain of events that had led her, the accomplished editor
of a world-famous magazine, to this place was of secondary importance.
What she needed to focus her thoughts on was getting herself
back to the car. Where was the car? She gulped and pushed aside the
gibbering fear that was just a whisper away. She’d done the wrong
thing; now it was time to do the right thing. There was a right thing
to do in the circumstances, wasn’t there…? Her racing brain retrieved
the useful memory of a documentary she’d recently watched
about people who’d survived in far worse situations than this. The
tale of a chap who had survived for three nights in sub-zero temperatures
on Snowdonia had featured prominently. Of course, she was
neither well equipped nor an ex-SAS member, which made the link
tenuous—but how hard could it be to dig a hole in the snow and sit
tight…? She shivered and wished she’d paid more attention to the
survival details they’d described at the time. Noticing that the blackness
around was less dense, she stood up and, braving the worst of
the buffeting chilly wind, scanned the bleak landscape for some clue
as to which way she’d come, or some sign of life, a house…anything!
She was about to sink back down, her spirits rock-bottom,
when she caught a glimpse of movement. Heart racing hopefully,
she lifted a hand to shield her eyes and squinted through the blizzard.
She gave a sob of relief as she made out the definite outline of a
tall figure moving parallel to her. It was impossible to make out any
details but Rowena was sure it was Quinn; it had to be Quinn.
Rowena saw no conflict between her craving to find a safe haven in
Quinn’s arms and her recent, equally strong desire to flee from him.
He’s coming for me. Her blissful anticipation of rescue was shortlived.
It didn’t take her long to figure out that if he carried on in that
direction he’d not see her at all. The situation called for immediate
action. She leapt to her feet, waving her warms above her head. Her
cries were whipped away by the wind. The solitary figure, battling
through the elements on the course that would take him away from
her, remained oblivious to her wild gesticulations and cries. She had
to get to him. The burst of adrenaline that surged through her body
enabled her to keep going longer than would otherwise have been
possible, but eventually not even Rowena’s legendary determination
could keep her on her feet. Lying face down in the snow, so exhausted
she couldn’t lift a finger, Rowena felt the tears seep from
between her closed eyelids and for the first time in her life contemplated
defeat. The tears hadn’t been flowing very long when she felt
a large hand clamp over her shoulder. A moment later she was
hauled bodily to her feet. Big, capable gloved hands cupped her face
and brushed the snow from it. Rowena found herself looking into a
grim face that looked harsh enough to be carved from the savage
elements. Snow clung to Quinn’s long eyelashes and dark brows, his
skin looked especially dark in contrast, and his sea-green eyes
glittered like gems. ‘Quinn,’ she mouthed weakly, but nothing audible
emerged as her lips moved stiffly. Closing her eyes, she let her
body sag limply against him. She felt his chest lift as a powerful sigh
juddered through his body, then his arms closed tightly about her.
For a moment they stood that way, his breath warm against her
cheek as her heartbeat slowed to a frantic canter. For a short, blissful
time Rowena completely forgot the storm raging around them. Too
soon he was pushing her away and his keen gaze was skimming urgently
over her face as his hands moved in a similarly capable, clinical
manner over her body, checking for injuries. He couldn’t see
any signs of injury, but…‘Are you hurt?’ Rowena sensed his bellowed
question rather than heard it as his words were snatched away
by an extra-strong gust of wind. It was crazy, she reflected. Nothing
essentially had changed about her situation, it was still fraught with
danger—danger of her own making! Even a man like Quinn, who
only saw problems as things to be solved rather than insurmountable
obstacles, couldn’t subdue the elements, but somehow his mere presence
made a positive outcome to the situation seem inevitable.
Quinn saw her shake her head to indicate her unharmed condition,
and relief more intense than anything he had ever felt before flooded
through him. She was all right—he could afford to be angry now.
Rowena recoiled from the lick of fury in his eyes. ‘Have your lost
your mind, woman?’ he asked with hoarse incredulity. Better lose
my mind than my heart, she thought glumly. ‘How far is the car?’ As
her own stupidity was not something she could defend it seemed appropriate
to change the subject. Quinn frowned and brought his face
down to level with hers. His nose nudged hers and she felt his exhaled
breath warm on her icily numb face. She repeated her question.
‘Not far—and I’ve an excellent sense of direction,’ he replied.
There was little point panicking her. He’d been too busy concentrating
on following Rowena’s tracks in the snow, which were being
covered at a terrifyingly rapid rate, to look out for landmarks. ‘That
means you’ve no idea either,’ she translated. ‘Aren’t you supposed
to be desperately woodsy? What about those back-to-nature stints
you were always taking—communing with nature and all that rubbish?’
Quinn didn’t reply. He just turned up the fur-trimmed collar
of her jacket and, taking her face firmly between his hands, kissed
her hard on the lips. His lips have to be cold, so mine must be colder,
Rowena surmised vaguely as his warm mouth moved in a very expert
fashion against her own lips, which parted easily under his
probing assault. His thrusting tongue hungrily sought the deep recesses
of her open mouth and the warm, lethargic feeling that had
spread through her treacherously co-operative body morphed into
hot, liquid fire. With a throaty cry she pressed her supple body up
against him and moulded herself to the hard, inflexible contours of
his male body. A small moan of protest emerged from her lips when
he stopped kissing her and lifted his head. ‘My God, woman, but
you do choose your moments!’ Quinn breathed, a wry smile tugging
at one corner of his mouth. ‘You started it.’ And finished it! She
cleared her throat, embarrassed by the recognition that she’d displayed
considerably less will-power than him. After a brief glance
into her antagonistic face Quinn pulled the thermal-lined leather
gloves off his own hands and slid them onto her icy extremities. Her
mouth opened in protest. ‘But…’ ‘For once in your life, shut up!’ he
advised, giving her collar a final tweak. Rowena was still in a submissively
shocked, post-kiss condition when he heaved all five feet
ten of her casually across his shoulder, fireman fashion, and strode
off. ‘Comfy?’ he bellowed over his shoulder. ‘No!’ Rowena hit his
broad back with her fists a couple of times and yelled insults about
Neanderthals, but it was a purely token protest. It might be a very
ungainly form of transport, but she was too exhausted to raise any
serious objections to this treatment. Fortunately there was nobody
about to see her ignominious position, for if there had been her credibility
as a serious feminist would have been shot to hell! She settled
herself into as comfortable a position as was possible and comforted
herself with the fact she could blame any future kissing incidents on
the prolonged rush of blood to the head she was experiencing. Quinn
soon realised that the odds on them finding their way back to the car
were remote. His eyes methodically scanned the horizon, searching
for some form of shelter as he tramped carefully onward. His
thoughts were growing grim when he caught his first glimpse of the
chimney stack just visible behind the copse of trees. He judged it
couldn’t be more than a hundred metres or so away. Rowena felt him
pause and change direction. She lifted her head. ‘What is it?’ she
mouthed, craning her head around at an angle to get a glimpse of his
profile. Rowena followed the direction of his gaze when he jerked
his head in the direction of the dark patch of skeletal trees up ahead.
She couldn’t see anything, but Quinn obviously could and she was
prepared to take it on faith; Quinn wasn’t the type to hallucinate. She
mimed her desire to get down and after a moment he acquiesced.
With his arm around her waist hugging her to his side, they made
their way towards the small copse. It felt to Rowena as if it took for
ever, but eventually they reached a small rusty gate that led up what,
before the snow, might have been a garden path to the front door of
the stone cottage that the chimney stack was attached to. By this
time it was slightly more morning than night, and the pale grey dawn
light made it easier to assess their surroundings. Quinn pulled the
hood back from his head and scanned the unfriendly aspect of the
building. Rowena did the same, displaying far less objectivity about
the closed and deserted look of the house than he was. ‘It doesn’t
look as if anyone’s at home,’ she quavered as her heart sank. Her
spirits lifted a little as she recalled the uncivilised hour. ‘But they’d
be in bed, wouldn’t they?’ ‘Possibly,’ Quinn agreed, sparing her the
briefest of glances. ‘If so we’re about to wake them up.’ He manoeuvred
his way past a snow-covered garden trough filled with iceencrusted
Christmas roses and hammered on the front door. There
was no reply. ‘Stop there. I’ll go and check around the back.’ His
perceptive glance swivelled back to her face. ‘You got a problem
with that?’ Rowena closed her mouth and swallowed back the instinctive
protest on her tongue. She shook her head firmly as if the
idea of being left alone didn’t make her as jumpy as hell. Her chin
went up. ‘I’ll be fine.’ ‘Good girl,’ he approved, his eyes crinkling
deliciously as he smiled warmly at her. She watched worriedly as he
edged his way around the far corner of the building. His shoulder
caught the branch of a snow-laden tree and dumped its entire covering
onto the ground, almost blocking the path he’d just taken. She
stamped her feet on the ground. They’d be really painful when the
circulation began to return—if it ever began to return. No, cancel the
if. Be positive, Rowena! Quinn was probably not gone much more
than five minutes, but to Rowena it felt like a lot longer. When she
heard the unmistakable sounds of the bolts on the front door being
pushed back she smiled from pure, delirious relief and rubbed her
gloved hands together in eager anticipation. When the door swung
inwards the heavy snow lying against it fell inside the room with a
rush. Quinn appeared. ‘Someone was in,’ she cried, standing back
while he kicked some of the powdery snow back outside. ‘No.’
‘No?’ A frown creased the smoothness of her wide brow ‘Then
how…?’ A hand shot out and pulled her unceremonially inside.
Rubbing her arm, Rowena glared at Quinn as he closed the door
against the elements. ‘I broke in,’ he explained, turning back to her
once the process was completed. Rowena’s eyes widened. ‘B-but
you can’t just break in…’ she stuttered, her law-abiding instincts
deeply shocked by his casual disclosure. She blinked as he shone a
torch across her face. ‘There’s no electricity but I found this. Take
it,’ he added, pushing a second torch into her hands. ‘You stole it.’
‘If you’re going to be pedantic, I borrowed it,’ he responded in reply
to her disapproving retort. ‘What would you suggest we do,
Rowena?’ Quinn asked, sounding exasperated. ‘Stumble around in
the dark, or maybe freeze to death outside?’ ‘No, of course not,
but—’ ‘No buts about it,’ Quinn retorted, handing her the torch and
turning to pull open a heavy curtain from a window.’ ‘Heavens!’
Rowena exclaimed, taking note of the room she was standing in for
the first time. ‘Yeah, not what you expect, is it?’ It certainly wasn’t.
The modest exterior of the building gave little hint of the fact that
the inside of what must originally have been a pretty humble cottage
had been virtually ripped out to leave one large open-plan living area
on the ground floor. The flagstone floors were scattered with a selection
of good quality, bright ethnic rugs. The original artwork on the
stone walls was equally colourful and the eclectic mixture of furniture
shrieked expensive. ‘I wonder who lives here?’ ‘Well, whoever
does, they weren’t expecting visitors.’ Rowena responded with
automatic antagonism to his authoritative tone. ‘How do you know?’
‘Only one bed.’ He nodded towards the polished wood staircase that
led upstairs. ‘A big bed,’ he added, a definite note of amused approval
in his voice. ‘How can you think about beds at a time like
this?’ she asked, trying hard not to let her mind dwell on the joint
subject of Quinn and large beds. ‘I was thinking of the lack of spare
beds—not what goes on in them.’ I wasn’t, Rowena admitted to herself.
Shivering, she continued to examine their surroundings while
Quinn began to open up the rest of the curtains. The south-facing
wall of the room turned out to be almost totally glass, and it had the
effect of bringing the outdoors into the room. Rowena could see how
that might be rather nice on a sunlit evening, or even on a terrible
snowy evening if the heating was on full blast and there was a big
fire in the hearth, but right now it made her shiver uncontrollably
and look away. It was hard not to think about what might have been
if Quinn hadn’t found her. Quinn looked around, mentally prioritising.
For the moment personal interests had to be of secondary importance.
‘It could be worse,’ he conceded, rubbing his hands together.
‘Next…a bit of heat, I think,’ he decided after a moment’s
practical reflection. He opened the doors of the black cast-iron wood
burner that sat in the big stone inglenook and found it laid ready to
light. Another quick search revealed a convenient box of matches on
top of the log basket on the hearth. He waited until the tinder inside
caught and closed the door and turned to Rowena. ‘We can’t just
make ourselves at home, Quinn,’ Rowena fretted. ‘If it makes you
any happier you can make a full inventory of any items we use and
we can leave our phone numbers. You could start now—item one,
two matches…’ ‘I suppose…’ she began dubiously. Quinn’s dark
brows slated satirically. ‘I was joking.’ ‘Well, I’m not, and what if
the owners come home and find us…squatting?’ Unable to stop
shivering violently, Rowena moved closer to the giant room heater,
which was beginning to chuck out a little warmth—just enough to
stop her breath freezing quite so obviously in the air. ‘That’s hardly
likely, given the weather conditions, but if they do it’ll save me the
bother of finding the fuse box. Not that it’s likely to help. I suspect
we can put the lack of power down to a localised cut. Or maybe not
so local,’ he mused thoughtfully. ‘The snow’s probably brought half
the lines in the county down.’ Rowena searched his face and found
no signs of the guilty discomfort she was experiencing. She found it
incredible he could just walk into someone else’s home and not feel
like a thief, and she envied him. ‘Doesn’t it bother you at all that
we’re breaking and entering?’ ‘I’d prefer to see myself featured in
the tabloids as a daring housebreaker than a frozen corpse,’ he admitted
frankly. When it was put like that, her concerns did seem
trivial. ‘Which reminds me…’ Rowena watched as his dark glossy
head bent. He began systematically opening the doors of the handsome
maple kitchen cupboards until, with a grunt of triumph, he
emerged with a thick piece of card, which after a bit of judicious
trimming he proceeded to jam in the hole in the window he had
smashed to get inside. Rowena smiled reluctantly as she slowly
stretched her aching limbs. No number of hours dutifully—some
would say obsessively—spent in the gym had prepared her welltoned
thigh and calf muscles for tramping through snow. ‘Are you
sure you haven’t done this before?’ Quinn turned, his narrowed eyes
focusing on her face. ‘Today’s just full of firsts…’ he revealed unsmilingly.
It wasn’t hard to catch his drift. Rowena’s breath escaped
in one long silent hiss, her hands curled tightly inside the too-big
gloves as she tensed expectantly, but to her relief he didn’t pursue
the subject. ‘I don’t suppose that jacket is waterproof?’ ‘Maybe not,
but it’s in this season’s must have colour…’ she explained, tongue
firmly in cheek. ‘Do you like it? I got my usual thirty per cent discount…’
Quinn liked what was in it. ‘Nice to see you haven’t lost
your sense of humour.’ ‘I didn’t think you thought I had one.’ She
stopped, shaking too hard to continue. Quinn silently berated himself
for standing around chatting while she was freezing. ‘You must be
wet to the skin,’ he announced after subjecting her dejected figure to
a searching scrutiny. ‘We need to get you out of them and into dry
things,’ he said, concern in his eyes despite his brusque tone. ‘Pity
there’s no hot water. What you could do with is a really hot bath…’
His voice trailed off. Despite the fact Quinn was an exceptionally
disciplined man and he knew his main priority was doing everything
within his means to ensure their survival, he couldn’t evict a maverick
image from his mind of the long hot steamy bath they’d shared
that night in his hotel room in New York. It took all his will-power
to finally dispel the image of Rowena, her sultry smile just about
visible through the wet strands of hair plastered across her face the
moment before she’d thrown her head back and stretched her arms
languorously above her head. The action had drawn her firm breasts
upwards as he’d allowed the water cupped in his hands to slowly fall
over the rosy-tipped quivering peaks. ‘Quinn…Quinn…are you all
right?’ The odd glazed expression slid from his eyes as he gave his
head a tiny shake and focused on Rowena’s concerned face. ‘Did
you say something?’ he said, sounding unaccountably defensive to
Rowena. Her puzzled frown deepened. ‘Are you all right?’ ‘Barring
the odd touch of frostbite—’ he extended his hands palm up towards
her ‘—I’m fine.’ She stopped puzzling over the unusually harsh rasp
in his voice as she examined his tapering fingertips. It wasn’t just the
thought of those clever fingers being harmed that made her stomach
muscles quiver violently. ‘Don’t joke about it,’ she pleaded huskily,
touching the tip of her tongue to the beads of moisture along her upper
lip. ‘Sit by the fire and get some of those wet things off. I’ll go
upstairs and see what I can…borrow.’ One brow arched, he shot her
a challenging look. Rowena shrugged her shoulders and threw him
the torch she still carried. Once she was alone she did as Quinn requested,
though unfastening buttons was not easy with fingers that
were slow and clumsy with cold. She had stripped down to her bra,
pants, shirt and socks by the time he returned. Quinn returned
quietly. The hunched figure, her slender back turned to him, was violently
shivering before the fire. He was engulfed by a wave of tenderness
so intense it felt as if a hand had casually thrust through his
ribs and were squeezing his heart. It was the sound of Quinn’s soft,
sibilant curse that made Rowena conscious she was no longer alone.
Like a startled animal she turned her head and their eyes meshed, violet
blue with deep green. No glare of oncoming headlights could
have been as paralysing as his intense scrutiny, nor could they have
made her feel more helpless and vulnerable. ‘What’s wrong?’ she
asked. As questions went that one was particularly dumb, and his
tight-lipped grim response underlined the dumbness. ‘How long
have you got?’ Rowena bit her lip and turned her head away. She
dealt on a daily basis with important, powerful people and she had
never been short of a clever reply. Quinn was the only person she
knew who could make her feel stupid, clumsy and totally inadequate.
This alone was reason enough not to get involved with him.
Pity I didn’t figure that out a bit sooner, she reflected, pushing aside
the memories still fresh in her mind that completely contradicted this
bitter theory. The flip side of feeling stupid and clumsy was feeling
gloriously empowered and energised—embracing your sexuality
was a scary thing to do at her age! She watched as he dropped the
large pile of stuff he was carrying on the nearest armchair and advanced
towards her carrying a white fluffy bath sheet, which he
draped around her from head to toe. Rowena felt the blast of heat as
he opened the wood burner with the toe of his boot and threw on a
couple more dry logs, which immediately began to crackle satisfactorily.
Quinn then threw off his own waterproof, which, unlike her
own, seemed to have lived up to its description before he joined her.
‘Now let’s get your circulation moving,’ he said, dropping down
onto his knees in front of her. ‘You look blue,’ he added, swallowing
hard as his eyes scanned the slender rounded contours of her long
slim legs. ‘W…what are you doing?’ Wobbling, she leant heavily on
his shoulder as he lifted one foot to roll down her sodden sock. It hit
the floor with a wet thwack as he tossed it carelessly over his
shoulder. ‘You’re so untidy,’ she disapproved as he allowed her to
replace her bare foot on the ground. ‘Show a bit of respect—this is
someone else’s home.’ Quinn lifted his head and looked around the
big living space. ‘I don’t know,’ he mused. ‘I think I could feel at
home here.’ ‘I thought you already did. I’d feel a lot happier if you
didn’t.’ She couldn’t throw off the guilty conviction that any minute
now the real owners would walk through the door. ‘We’ll debate the
moral aspects later,’ he promised drily as the other sock joined its
mate. ‘I’d prefer to concentrate my efforts on avoiding hypothermia
right now, if you don’t mind. Take that shirt off,’ he instructed her
tersely. ‘And whatever’s underneath it.’ The last time Quinn had
ordered her to remove intimate items of her clothing there had been
a lot less objectivity in his manner. Rowena dismissed this memory,
ashamed of the rush of heat it brought to the surface of her cold skin
and the achy quivering effect low in her belly. Irrationally she even
found herself resenting his practicality. Perhaps now he knew she
was pregnant he didn’t think of her in that way…? This was a definite
possibility—after all, how many men found hugely pregnant women
seductive…? Rowena didn’t know, but she suspected most who
claimed they did were just paying lip-service. She could always ignore
his instruction on principle—the principle being what, exactly,
Rowena? she asked herself mockingly. What’s bothering me anyhow?
If she had an ounce of common sense she’d be thanking her
lucky stars that exposure to low temperatures and the thought of her
shortly being the size of an elephant made him immune to her
charms! ‘Don’t just stand there, woman, it’s not like I haven’t seen
everything there is to see,’ he reminded her crudely. ‘The last time
you were invited.’ She immediately regretted introducing this subject
as an image floated before her eyes of herself with her skirt
yanked up around the top of her thighs, her shirt open to the waist
revealing shamelessly swollen nipples still glistening and wet from
the ministrations of his tongue and lips as she lay beneath him, begging
him with hoarse urgency to do whatever he liked—and as
quickly as possible! Dry-throated, she swallowed. The shame and,
worse still, the fizz of hot squirmy excitement low in her belly made
her assiduously avoid his eyes. She still couldn’t believe it had been
her doing and saying those things. Through the concealing shield of
her lashes she saw his dark head lift once more. ‘So I was…’ The
smoky reflective gleam in his eyes made Rowena, whose heart was
already banging frantically against her ribcage, wonder if he was recalling
the same moment—mind you, there had been others equally
incriminating. One corner of his mobile mouth lifted in his trademark
lazy half-smile. ‘If it makes you happier I won’t peek.’
Rowena had no intention of giving him the opportunity! Careful not
to dislodge the concealing bath sheet, she slid her arms out of the
shirt and slipped it over her narrow shoulders, very conscious that all
she now wore were her bra and an insubstantial pair of pants. It occurred
to her as she modestly unclipped her light lacy bra in a similar
fashion that she was behaving in a totally untypical coy fashion—
it wasn’t her own body she wasn’t comfortable with, but the
way Quinn made her feel about that body. Unlike any other man of
her acquaintance he made her feel like a deeply sexual woman, a
woman with strong appetites and uncontrollable passions. She didn’t
think she knew that woman very well—she trusted her even less!
Quinn made no comment, but she could almost hear his sarcastic
thoughts when she folded both items of clothing into a neat parcel
before disposing of them. ‘Ouch, that hurts!’ she protested as he
began to rub her legs briskly with a second towel. Tingling life painfully
returned to her limbs as he ignored her protests. ‘Don’t be a
baby!’ His curt tone was as abrasive as his actions. She felt his
rhythmic actions falter at just about the same moment the ‘B’ word
made the inevitable link in her own head too. He looked awfully
pale—perhaps he was in denial as she had been at first…? Lower lip
caught between her teeth—it stopped it trembling—and still tented
in the bath sheet, she took the other towel from his hands. The atmosphere
of slightly uneasy intimacy had become one of cold suspicion
and hostility. ‘You don’t need a medical diploma on the wall to do
that, I think I can manage now,’ she mumbled, avoiding his eyes.
After a moment Quinn released the towel with a curt nod. ‘If that’s
what you want. Only it’s not going to go away, Rowena.’ She didn’t
make the mistake of thinking he was referring to her goose-bumps.
‘Unless of course you make it go away…?’ CHAPTER FIVE THE
full significance of Quinn’s tense postscript was lost on Rowena for
a full twenty seconds. When his meaning did finally hit her, her
violet-blue eyes shot open. ‘You think that I’d…?’ Drawing herself
up to her full height, she fixed her outraged gaze coldly on the man
still kneeling at her feet. Despite his stance there was nothing remotely
submissive about Quinn’s expression. Neither, much to her
amazement, did it contain any of the critical condemnation she’d expected
to see. Her righteous wrath fizzled away as she recognised
the tense apprehension in his unblinking emerald stare. Apprehension
wasn’t something she associated with Quinn. He always gave
the impression of being so completely in control of himself and
events, but he was undoubtedly stealing himself to hear her reply.
What did you expect? she derided herself scornfully. You told the
man you were carrying his baby just before you ran off into a blizzard
forcing him to risk life and limb to save you. You didn’t have to
be very imaginative to figure out these events might have shaken
even Quinn’s impregnable self-assurance. The hypocrisy of her own
outraged posture also struck her forcibly—why wouldn’t he think
she’d consider the easy option? It was only when she had considered
it that she herself had realised that abortion was not an easy option—
not for her at least… She heaved a tiny sigh and shook her
head—the gesture was infinitesimal, but it had a dramatic effect on
Quinn, who visibly slumped with relief as the tension eased from his
lean body. Quinn’s eyes closed. He pressed the heel of his hand to
his forehead and massaged the tightly stretched skin, then exhaled
heavily. His eyes opened. ‘I’m glad.’ This throaty revelation was unnecessary—
Rowena had never seen anything that approached the
concentrated elation she saw briefly reflected in his gleaming eyes.
Pressing his hands against his well-muscled thighs, he then rose in
one smooth, supple motion. Just watching him move made her
tummy muscles clench rhythmically. Without speaking, he caught
the edges of the towel draped over her shoulders, pulled it up over
her head and began to systematically blot the moisture from her hair.
Rowena stood there meekly accepting his ministrations, fighting the
ridiculous urge to turn her face into his capacious palm and press her
lips against his warm skin, and wondering with the tiny remaining
sane portion of her mind why he wasn’t saying anything else—he
had to want to. She broke the silence when she could no longer stand
wondering. ‘Don’t get the idea…I mean…this isn’t an unplanned
teenage pregnancy…’ His slanted satirical smile didn’t reach his
watchful eyes. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’ ‘I meant
the teenage part,’ she elaborated swiftly, horrified that he might
think even for one minute she’d got pregnant deliberately. ‘It’s not
like I didn’t know all the options open to me.’ Sure, the sarcastic
voice in her head agreed, you were so clued up you didn’t even protect
yourself properly. ‘And I did think about it…not having the
baby,’ she admitted, a shade of defensiveness creeping into her tone
as her heavy lashes lifted off her cheek. Quinn’s eyes flickered
briefly down to hers before he returned his attention to his task.
‘Considering the number of times you’ve lectured me on the rights a
woman should have over her own body, this doesn’t come as a
massive shock. But you’ve made your decision…’ Rowena’s eyes
widened—he was right, it was time to throw the pro and con lists
she’d religiously compiled out of the window. She’d have saved a
lot of time if she’d just followed her gut instincts from the beginning.
‘That’s the important thing.’ ‘It was my decision to make.’ It
seemed critical to establish this. ‘Yes.’ Perversely his ready compliance
annoyed her. Anyone would think she wanted him to give her
an argument, call her a shallow ice-maiden who put her career before
everything else. Maybe deep down she thought she deserved
condemnation. ‘And I suppose you expect me to believe you’d be
displaying this impressive tolerance and understanding if my decision
didn’t happen to be the one you wanted me to make?’ Or was
she making yet another assumption…? Maybe the thought of fatherhood
under these circumstances didn’t please him—maybe he totally
hated the idea…? Perhaps he’d like nothing better than to learn she
was planning an abortion…? There was a big difference between
wanting to share a bed with an independent woman and being
lumbered with the responsibilities of fatherhood. Rowena had heard
enough horror stories to know that even when the event was planned
a baby could put the most stable relationship under a lot of strain.
This didn’t surprise her, but what did was the fact that most of these
people reduced to walking zombies by their newborn offspring frequently
went on to have another baby and in some cases more than
that! Not that it was reasonable to compare herself and Quinn to
these people. By no stretch of the imagination could what they had
be termed stable—for that matter it could hardly be termed a relationship!
Quinn’s eyes skimmed her face, acknowledging her cynical,
slightly wary expression with a wry grimace. Heaving a sigh, he
let the towel slide back down to her shoulders and finally stopped
acting as if extracting every last drop of moisture from her hair was
all he was thinking about. ‘I could say I’m the very epitome of
liberal-minded political correctness…but I’m not an impartial observer
here, Rowena. There would have been some…conflict,’ he
admitted, choosing his words with obvious care. ‘Meaning you’d
have fought me every inch of the way,’ Rowena translated, feeling
foolishly relieved to know he wouldn’t prefer her to get rid of the
baby. ‘Meaning I’d have done what I had to. I respect the fact it’s
your body and therefore the ultimate decision has to be yours, but
it’s our baby and I’d have done my utmost—not just because of the
baby, but because…’ He stopped mid impassioned speech and surveyed
her face with darkened eyes. ‘I don’t think any of us know
how we’re going to act in a given situation until we find ourselves
there.’ Rowena relaxed a little and nodded. She didn’t resent his
truthfulness. Honesty always had been one of Quinn’s most attractive
characteristics—if you left out the incredible body, the air of attractive
danger and a voice that could soften the most cynical female,
deep inside where it mattered. ‘Sometimes,’ she admitted
huskily, matching his honesty with some of her own, ‘things seem
all right, in theory…’ Her expression grew sombre as she contemplated
with trepidation the inevitable long-reaching consequences
this decision was going to have on her life and future. ‘Admitting
you are wrong isn’t a sign of weakness.’ Her indignation flared—as
if he was the expert on admitting he was wrong! ‘What are you doing?’
she gasped as, totally without warning, Quinn swept her up into
his arms. Alarming as it was to find herself cradled in extremely
strong masculine arms, when you were five feet ten inches there was
some novelty value in being treated as if you weighed nothing. She
recalled how far he’d carried her earlier in the blizzard and realised
with a tinge of awe that his impressive physique was not just for
show. Rowena was just beginning to almost enjoy herself when
Quinn spoiled it. ‘You’re really not as light as you look.’ He grunted
as he hefted her a little higher into his arms. Rowena scowled at his
hawkish profile as she automatically threw an arm over his shoulder
to steady herself. Just because she had never felt the urge to seek
shelter in strong male arms, it didn’t mean she relished being reminded
she wasn’t one of those petite females who brought out the
protective, chivalrous instincts in men. On the other hand, men—the
ones she didn’t intimidate—saw her as a challenge, someone to be
subdued. ‘Nobody asked you to pick me up,’ she reminded him
sourly. ‘It’s quicker this way. We need to speed up the process—
you’re not warming up fast enough.’ Rowena had no argument
with that—she felt as if she’d never be warm again—it was
Quinn’s method of achieving this desirable goal that had her worried.
‘Will you put me down?’ Again with no warning he did as she
requested, right onto the centrally situated, oversized sofa, which
was laden with cushions and draped with a richly coloured kelim.
Quinn impatiently brushed half the cushions onto the floor with his
forearm and pushed the rest into a soft pile behind her back as he set
her down. He then proceeded to drag the heavy sofa with her on it
closer to the fire. Before she could comment, let alone protest, he
pulled a king-sized duvet from the stack of things he’d brought
downstairs and with a curt instruction to, ‘Lift your bottom, sweetheart!’
he slid it under her on the sofa, then folded it envelope-style
over her. Still shaking helplessly with cold that seemed to have bitten
deep into her bones, she pushed her chin on top of the soft cocoon.
‘Is it just with me you act like some sort of prehistoric caveman?
Or don’t you ever consult anybody…?’ She stopped and tried
not to stare too obviously as Quinn began to unzip the leather
trousers he was still wearing. She tried to be objective about what
was revealed by his impromptu striptease, but it wasn’t easy. He
really had the very best legs a man could have, she decided, trying to
drag her covetous gaze from the athletically bronzed strength of his
long lower limbs. ‘I’m sure consultation is a good thing and as a rule
I’m all for it,’ he asserted, acting as if he hadn’t heard her loud sceptical
snort. ‘But when a problem needs to be resolved without delay I
don’t think committee decisions are the most effective way of going
about it.’ ‘I always had you pegged as one of those despotic types in
a previous life,’ she revealed crankily. If he shed his clothes half as
fast as he made decisions she didn’t have long before she was in
deep trouble. Rowena despised her weakness as the heavy dragging
sensation low in her pelvis got increasingly difficult to ignore. ‘A
benevolent despot.’ ‘There’s no such thing,’ she claimed throatily.
‘Remember when I mentioned the skin-to-skin way of raising body
temperature?’ Rowena gulped—as if she could have forgotten. A
wave of faintness made her head spin as she contemplated what he
appeared to be suggesting. ‘Well, this is a modified version.’ Hand
extended, he passed her the fine woollen top he’d been wearing next
to his skin. Rowena tore her gaze from his lean, finely muscled torso
and looked at it blankly, her eyes huge in her pale face. ‘It’s warm;
put it on,’ he urged. Warm from his skin, which at the moment was
only covered by a pair of designer boxers! Her nipples, perhaps in
anticipation of the second-hand warmth on offer, began to tingle and
harden into tight, painful buds—heaven knew what they’d do if it
was firsthand warmth! ‘It won’t bite.’ Rowena wished she shared his
confidence, not to mention his clinical objectivity. If she could have
thought of one sensible reason why she shouldn’t lay material still
warm from his skin against her own, Rowena would have used it to
avoid a gesture of such unavoidable intimacy. Her fevered mind
couldn’t come up with an even semi-sensible reason so, nodding,
she took a deep breath and forced her clenched fingers to unlock.
Holding the quilt in her teeth, she eased her hand out from beneath
the cover and snatched the top from him. Ducking down under the
folds, she pulled the top over her head, the soft material chafing
against her oversensitised breasts as she eased her arms into the
sleeves. He was right—it was still warm with his body heat. When
she emerged her overbright eyes discovered Quinn was pushing his
own arms back into one of his outer layers—a black fleece slightly
thicker than the one he’d handed her. ‘I wouldn’t have looked.’ Two
red circles appeared on her pale cheeks. ‘I prefer not to take any
chances.’ He eyed the hostile tilt of her chin and his big shoulders
lifted in a surprisingly good-natured shrug. ‘You’re probably right,’
he conceded as he approached the sofa. ‘Now budge over.’
Rowena’s hands came up in a protective gesture across her chest that
caused the quilt to slither down to her waist. Hastily she snatched it
up again. ‘What? You can’t…you’re not…’ Rowena discovered almost
immediately that he could and was! She closed her eyes and
held her body rigid as his long, lean body slid under the cover and
lay down beside her. The duvet settled back around them. ‘Phase
two…’ ‘Oh, no!’ she whimpered under her breath. ‘This really isn’t
what I want,’ she added in a firmer tone. She was confident that
Quinn wasn’t the sort of man who would cross that particular line
even if he thought she was lying through her teeth. If he responds
with a corny, You don’t know what you want, I’ll kill him, Rowena
decided wrathfully—even if it is true. Quinn slid onto his back. ‘Lie
on top of me.’ ‘No way!’ After her extraordinarily submissive behaviour
in New York, perhaps it wasn’t so surprising that he had got
the idea she liked being told what to do in bed—not that this brusque
instruction bore any real resemblance to the huskily erotic requests
he had made of her that night. Just thinking about the velvet rasp in
his voice sent shiver after voluptuous shiver down her rigid, trembling
spine. Quinn looked into her eyes and was worried by the
glazed expression he saw there—hopefully nothing more sinister
than exhaustion had put it there. ‘God, you’re shaking like a leaf.
This is stupid, Rowena.’ ‘I’ll warm up in a minute,’ she said, not
really believing it by this point. ‘No, you won’t. I’d offer to go on
top, but I thought you’d prefer to be in control…’ Rowena couldn’t
smile at his joke; she was fast coming round to thinking that any
control she had around Quinn could only ever be illusionary, and if
he made the slightest move to touch her he’d know it too! ‘Hell, woman,
this isn’t some elaborate seduction technique—you’re suffering
from mild hypothermia.’ His expression grew grim as he thanked his
lucky stars once more they’d found shelter when they had. ‘I am?’
‘Trust me, I’m a doctor…’ ‘Not my doctor.’ Her doctor didn’t make
house calls wearing a skimpy pair of boxer shorts. And thank god
for that! The friendship barrier had been hard enough to get by
without that added complication. ‘And doctors are having their
socks sued off by dissatisfied customers every day of the week,’ she
reminded him grouchily through chattering teeth. ‘I’m not joking,
Rowena, this is the most efficient way of raising your body temperature
to a safe level.’ He was relieved to see that his words seemed
to have finally convinced her that he wasn’t joking about the urgency
of the situation. All—all!—he had to do now was retain the
sort of professional objectivity he had boasted he possessed. She
shot him a wary look. ‘How do we do this?’ ‘However you like.’
Whichever way it was going to hurt, of that he had no doubt. He’d
spent the last couple of months in an almost constant state of arousal,
fantasising like a teenager about her, and now she was about to
press that much-fantasised-about flesh against his own and the only
thing he was allowed to display was clinical objectivity. It didn’t get
much more painful than that! He willed his uncooperative body to
relax as Rowena cautiously slid a leg over his hips. Quinn smiled encouragingly
and hoped the intense strain he felt didn’t show as she
placed a hand beside his shoulder. Nostrils flared, he averted his
eyes from the pleasing movement of her breasts swinging free beneath
her borrowed top. Miraculously his own body stayed inert as
the rest of her celestial body—hell, he loved the long, lean elegant
lines of her supple body—followed. He shook his head and regretfully
dispelled the sensual image from his head. He couldn’t afford
that indulgence—it was taking all his concentration and will-power
to keep his natural bodily responses in check. Silently he began to
recite the nerve supply to the entire gastro-intestinal tract. It was a
technique he’d not employed for a long time, but it had worked
when he was an inexperienced—in every sense of the word—student
with a desire to please his first lover! Rowena tried telling herself
she was lying on top of a heat source, not a stunningly virile male in
peak condition, but somehow she couldn’t visualise Quinn as a hotwater
bottle! She bit down so hard on her lower lip to stop herself
moaning out loud as she lay her legs beside the hair-roughened
length of his that she drew blood. Every nerve ending in her body
was screaming out in awareness! She tried to blank out the scent and
texture of his skin and failed abysmally. Her damp hair tickled his
chin and Quinn’s recitation stumbled momentarily as his concentration
lapsed. Look on the bright side, mate, he told himself, at least
her face is turned away. Schooling his expression into a blank canvas
on top of everything else would have been one demand too
many. If he’d needed a reminder that this wasn’t about satisfying his
frustrated libido, the shocking chill of her slender body through the
thin fabric of the top she wore provided it. Several minutes
passed—it felt a lot longer to him—and she still didn’t relax. ‘Comfy?’
Was he joking? ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she responded, trying desperately
hard not to do anything that might be construed as provocative—
she envied Quinn his apparent ability to switch off. ‘Not hurting
you, am I?’ She tensed all over again as something half between
a guttural groan and a gasp escaped his lips. ‘What…?’ She would
have looked to see what was wrong but his open hand moved to the
back of her head, holding it where it was on his shoulder. ‘Just an elbow
in the wrong place,’ he explained, adjusting her arm, which was
sandwiched between them. ‘You feeling any warmer?’ Rowena had
been too busy stressing about the physical contact and her lustful
thoughts to register that she was feeling less teeth-jarringly icy. ‘You
know, I think I might be,’ she said, her relief showing in her surprised
tone. ‘I told you so. Now let’s speed up the process, shall
we?’ Rowena hardly had time to begin wondering in some trepidation
what he meant when he began to briskly massage her all over in
a detached, businesslike manner. It was obvious the last thing on his
mind was sex, which made her feel doubly ashamed of her own fixation.
Even though she had thought it impossible, Rowena did eventually
relax, and she even began to enjoy the situation as gradually
the hard, tight, circular movements of his hands that had made her
skin tingle became long, smooth, sweeping motions that moved from
shoulder to flank and back. The combination of the delicious warmth
and his clever hands had all the coiled tension in her body seeping
slowly away. She lay there a long time enjoying the physical contact—
any contact was better than none, as far as her touch-starved
body was concerned—before she finally turned her head to look at
him. His eyes were closed, the shadow of his lashes creating a dark
shadow across the jutting line of his cheekbones. Greedily she examined
the sharp planes and angular hollows of his face. It wasn’t
until that moment that she finally accepted just how often during
their short period of separation she’d literally ached to look at him.
As if he sensed her scrutiny, Quinn’s dark eyelashes began to lift.
Rowena froze and she found herself staring into sensational deep
aquamarine eyes. Quinn had frustrating eyes that could turn her
bones to water and at the same time shield his thoughts totally from
her. Her tentative smile faded as she received none in return. ‘I’m
much warmer.’ ‘The thaw seems to have gone further than skindeep.’
It was impossible to tell from his dry tone if he thought this
was a bad or good thing. ‘If you ever want a career change you
could make a fortune as a masseur…’ ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’ She
hitched herself a little higher so that his fingers, which had been
splayed in the small of her back, came to rest on the curve of her
firm bottom. She gave a determined little wriggle and sighed.
‘That’s so good, Quinn.’ Quinn’s lean fingers spasmed digging into
her firm resilient flesh. His hand lifted clear of her skin. ‘Sorry.’ His
hoarse tone gave her the first hint that he might not be as laid-back
about the situation as he’d seemed so far. The discovery made
Rowena feel slightly less depraved and more than slightly relieved!
She stretched lazily and gave another sexy, sinuous little wriggle that
Quinn had no doubt was not accidental, and a pulse beside his mouth
began to throb. Tongue caught between her teeth, she raised herself
on one arm and, arching her back, ran a finger casually down his
chest. ‘My feet are still cold,’ she complained, running her toes
down his calf to illustrate her claim. ‘See…’ The borrowed top,
which just about skimmed her hips, hiked up as she brought her knee
up. ‘Shall I warm them on you?’ The innocent enquiry was barely
out of her mouth when she found herself tipped sideways until they
lay shoulder to shoulder. ‘Just what the hell do you think you’re doing,
Rowena?’ Smouldering eyes locked with hers. Her back against
the sofa, her front against his front, there wasn’t any way Rowena
could avoid that accusing glare. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she
said, not pulling off the dumb act at all convincingly. She sighed as
her eyes slid from his. ‘I suppose I was being a little…provocative…’
She was suddenly annoyed with herself for feeling so guilty.
Wasn’t she a modern woman with needs of her own and as much
right as a man to make the first move? She’d read all the articles—
hell’s bells! She’d written a lot of them. ‘Is this Rowena being
brutally honest?’ No, this is Rowena saying the first stupid thing
that comes into her head! Her antagonism faded perceptibly as she
encountered the tender expression in his eyes. ‘Is this Quinn rubbing
salt in the wound?’ She sighed. ‘I don’t see what’s so bad about being
provocative…’ ‘Did I say there was anything wrong?’ ‘You want
an apology? Fine, I’m sorry I came on to you.’ ‘You’re sorry,’ he
parroted hoarsely. The veil of her lashes lifted once more as she
heard the rasp of his incredulous inhalation. ‘I don’t want your apologies,
woman, I want you!’ Her stomach flipped over. ‘You do?’
Her body sagged in relief. His hand cupped her chin. ‘This can’t
have come as a shock; I’ve hardly been trying to disguise the fact.’
‘Well, no,’ she admitted, blushing. ‘But that was before you
knew…I thought maybe me being pregnant had put you off
the…physical side of things, and I’d hate you to think that I was
coming on to you because I need a father for the baby,’ she rattled
on nervously. ‘Because nothing could be farther from the truth.’ The
fingers around her jaw tightened. ‘Need has nothing to do with it,
Rowena, you’ve got a father for the baby—me!’ ‘You know what I
mean,’ she responded, wary of the implacable expression in his eyes.
Oh, he knew what she meant, all right! Perhaps now wasn’t the right
moment to make it plain to her that he wasn’t about to be a part-time
father, Quinn thought drily. ‘I think I get the general drift…but I’m
confused. Why the…provocation, after you’ve been holding me at
arm’s length?’ Was he joking? There were many men in this world
she could safely snuggle with, but Quinn wasn’t one of them! She
found she had no control over the direction of her blue eyes as they
dropped with embarrassing obviousness from his eyes to his firm,
sensual mouth and back again. ‘Do we have to analyse this?’ she agonised
hoarsely, the whole of her restless body burning up with frustrated
desire. ‘I think maybe we do.’ What are you going to do? the
voice in his head asked mockingly. Hold out indefinitely? Sure,
that’s really likely! If this was his way of punishing her, it was working!
How could she satisfactorily explain the fact that something just
felt right. Rowena sighed, and struggled to get her frustration in
check. It had reached the point where there seemed little point in
prevaricating. ‘The thing is, I’ve been thinking about
you…us…well, actually,’ she corrected, her lips quivering into a
self-derisive curve, ‘I’ve been trying not to because—’ ‘Because
your concentration is shot to hell and things like eating are a chore.
You laugh at jokes when you haven’t heard them and, worst of
all…or is it best…?’ he recited, his gaze fixed and unblinking, his
tone unemotional and flat. His head went back and Rowena watched
completely riveted as the muscles in his strong throat worked. ‘The
worst thing is when you wake up in the middle of the night, your
body aching, and the only person that can take that ache away isn’t
there.’ Lifting a crooked arm to cover his eyes, he suddenly rolled
away from her onto his back, his broad, powerful chest heaving.
About mid-way through the final impassioned instalment in his narrative,
Rowena had begun to nod wonderingly and she continued to
do so even when he stopped speaking. Ambivalent emotions
churned in her stomach. The raw, barely restrained hunger she’d
seen in Quinn’s face, and discovering they’d been suffering almost
identical symptoms, had both frightened and deeply excited her. ‘I
didn’t know you felt like that,’ she whispered, raising a hand to the
side of his face. His arm fell away from his eyes. Lips twisted cynically,
he scanned her face. ‘You didn’t want to know.’ He caught her
wrist and held her fingers there against the day’s growth that cast a
dark shadow over his lower jaw. Rowena wasn’t prepared to take all
the blame. ‘I suppose if you hadn’t been so stubborn about us having
an affair we’d have already got this out of our systems.’ ‘If it makes
you feel better to believe that, Rowena, go right ahead and cling
onto that belief.’ ‘I think maybe the only thing that will make me
feel better is feeling you inside me,’ she declared boldly. Her eyes
glazed hotly as she thought of Quinn’s mouth on her skin, his fingers
stroking her, Quinn sliding hard into her—and her mouth opened to
drag air noisily into her oxygen-depleted lungs. A groan was ripped
from his throat before his mouth came crashing down on hers.
Fingers hooked into his hair, Rowena opened her mouth, welcoming
the hot, probing invasion of his tongue. Frantically she plastered herself
against him, revelling in the pain as the hard swell of his arousal
ground into her belly. ‘You have no idea,’ he rasped, ‘how often I’ve
thought about this…’ Rowena nodded, pressing frantic kisses to the
curve of his jaw, his throat, his eyelids. ‘Oh, but I do,’ she cried
brokenly. ‘I do!’ His big hands ran down the curve of her spine and,
cupping the rounded contours of her bottom, hauled her hard against
him. His mouth left hers for a second as he yanked the top over her
head. It was closely followed by his own. His naked flesh touched
hers and the fire in her veins exploded, scorching away any residual
sanity in its wake. She felt his teeth tug at her lower lip, felt his
breath hot and rapid on her cheek as his hands cupped, stroked and
squeezed her swollen breasts, catching each engorged pink nipple in
turn between his thumb and forefinger and teasing the aching nubs
of flesh. Each caress sizzled along her nerve endings, wave after
wave of pure sensation that reduced Rowena to a moaning, compliant
wreck. ‘You like this…?’ Rowena’s eyelids felt heavy; it was
hard to lift them—but the effort was worth it! God, but he was beautiful!
‘I like it.’ Her voice sounded as if it were coming from a long
way away. Then more firmly, but still trembling and strange, ‘A lot!’
Breathing heavily, she dragged the quilt down to look at all of
him—the breath snagged painfully in her throat. He was incredible,
she thought, marvelling hungrily at the perfection of his streamlined
body. There wasn’t an ounce of surplus flesh on his spare frame to
hide the stupendous muscular development and the boxers he wore
were equally inadequate to hide the extent of his arousal. ‘You’ll get
cold.’ Rowena laughed huskily. That hardly seemed likely; she was
burning up, her veins were filled with fire, her throat ached with
emotional need. She reached out and touched his flat belly and felt
the immediate satisfactory sharp contraction of his strong muscles as
he sucked in his breath in a harsh gasp. He let her hands explore
some more until they slid a little too low, then, ignoring her protests,
caught them in one of his own. ‘Too much, too soon,’ he explained
thickly, pinning both her hands above her head in his capable grasp.
‘I can’t touch you.’ ‘But I can touch you.’ An insolent, sexual smile
curved his lips as she shuddered hard against him. ‘You’ll like that,
won’t you…?’ His green eyes, smouldering as though they were lit
by an inner flame, melded with her own. ‘Yes.’ She licked her dry
lips as her dilated pupils stayed glued to his dark face—she was his
utterly, and the unconditional surrender felt strangely liberating. A
restless twist of her hips sent the quilt slithering to the floor. ‘Don’t
worry, I’ll keep you warm,’ he breathed into her mouth. ‘Please,’ she
replied simply. Quinn looked into her smoky eyes, and what he saw
took his breath away. Rowena shivered, but not from cold this time.
Quinn’s free hand was on her stomach, and soon his lips were there
too, tracing a slow, tingling path across her flesh. She moaned as her
insides violently contracted and then did so again and again until she
felt she couldn’t breathe. Even with her eyes closed the room was
spinning. He pushed her body down under him and loomed over her.
This display of masculine strength she would have scorned in her
right mind only heightened her escalating, scalding excitement.
Watching the play of emotion over her passion-pale features, he slid
his hand under the edge of her stretchy smooth pants and felt the betraying
heat and slickness between her legs. The feral sound of her
keening wail made him pull back. Rowena’s eyes, the dilated pupils
almost obliterating the blue, snapped open. ‘Don’t stop!’ she implored
in an agonised whisper. ‘Please…!’ Quinn released her hands
and pressed a burning kiss to her parted lips. ‘I think you’d be much
more comfortable without these…’ He fingered the lacy waistband.
‘I would—I definitely would.’ What Quinn’s actions lacked in finesse
as he roughly slid the pants down her long legs he more than
made up for in urgency. He parted her legs, need stamped indelibly
on his hard-edged features as he savoured the mind-blowingly erotic
sight of her sensuous body waiting for him—she was his! ‘Now,
Quinn, please!’ Her eyes glowed with a slumberous passion as she
parted her legs still wider—it was an invitation that Quinn couldn’t
and didn’t resist. During the first breathless moment of penetration
Rowena, overcome by the sheer blissful wonder of her softness being
stretched and filled, just clung, her fingers digging into his back,
her long legs wrapped around his waist. As they moved, hot, slick
skin on slick skin, her sense of self disappeared. There was no individual
Quinn and Rowena; there was just mindless pleasure and the
promise of more held tantalisingly out of reach. Each thrust of his
body took her deeper and deeper into the maelstrom of sensation; the
blood pounded darkly in her head as his erotic whispers became
frantic pants. She felt the climax coming, building strength inside
her before the shattering release actually arrived. Pleasure rolled
over her like a tidal wave, bathing each individual cell of her body,
stretching each individual sinew and fibre to their limitations. Above
her she was conscious of Quinn shuddering and he cried out her
name over and over until the final hot, pulsing surges of his body
stilled. Their breathing gradually stilled as they lay tangled together.
He would have slid from her then, but Rowena, already half asleep,
held him tight. CHAPTER SIX ROWENA woke to find herself staring
up at a canopy. She blinked as the gold fleur-de-lis embroidered
on the deep blue pleated silk slid into focus. She sat up, taking the
quilt she was wrapped in with her, and realised she was lying in
bed—a very large, carved, dark oak four-poster and one that to her
certain knowledge she’d never seen before. It took her several hazy
moments to recall the sequence of events that had taken her to the
cottage and this bed. She clutched her tousled blonde head and
groaned—talk about complicating things! Quinn, she reasoned, must
have carried her upstairs while she’d slept, slept after…! A tide of
heat washed over her body, and hastily she fast-forwarded over what
had immediately preceded her falling asleep. It wasn’t easy; her
thoughts showed a weak tendency to dwell dreamily on her temporary
madness. Gran! Her eyes flew open in alarm and guilt crowded
out everything else. While they’d been making love her gran had
been fighting for her life. How could I be so shallow…so selfish?
she berated herself. Self-disgust churned in her stomach. How long
had she slept? It could have been round the clock for all she knew.
Her sense of disorientation increased as she looked around wildly
for a clock and found none, and the heavy curtains were drawn so it
was impossible to gauge the time of day. Sliding from under the
warm covers, Rowena grabbed a light embroidered throw off a small
sofa at the foot of the bed to cover her nakedness. Lifting up the tail
of the improvised sarong, she then ran over to the window and
pushed aside the curtains. She was relieved to see it was still daylight;
that relief was tempered by the fact it was still snowing like
crazy. ‘I thought I heard you moving around.’ Rowena spun to face
the figure who had silently materialised in the room, the chinks of
light from the disturbed curtains catching her hair, turning it to a
bright silver halo around her fine-boned face. Quinn was no longer
in black leather. He now looked equally virile and desirable in a pair
of dark moleskin trousers and a chunky knitted cream sweater he’d
obviously appropriated. The owner of the cottage, it would seem,
was a big man also. It was hard not to notice that the outfit fitted
Quinn’s broad-shouldered, long-legged frame extremely well—if a
little too snugly in the hip area. Rowena swallowed and brought her
restless gaze back to his face. ‘You look better,’ he announced, after
subjecting her pink-cheeked face to a cool-eyed scrutiny. ‘Did you
sleep well?’ he added as his enigmatic eyes continued to scan her
wary face as though he expected to see something written on the
clear, creamy skin. Like someone afraid to incriminate herself in an
interrogation, Rowena kept her face blank. She nodded awkwardly—
after what she’d been imagining his opening comments
might be, this innocuous enquiry was actually a relief. She just
hoped he kept things simple and didn’t start some deeply embarrassing
post-mortem, because if he did she didn’t know how she was going
to explain away her wanton behaviour! ‘Too well. What time is
it?’ she asked, tightening the loop of fabric gathered loosely over her
bosom. Quinn laid down the tray he carried. ‘Tea time.’ He didn’t
appear perturbed or particularly surprised by his less than warm reception.
‘Will you be mother?’ He winced, and straightened up,
brushing a stray hank of hair from his eyes. ‘Sorry, no pun intended—’
he began apologetically. ‘For goodness’ sake, I’m pregnant—’
she responded snappily, ungrateful for his display of consideration.
Rowena didn’t want consideration, she wanted everything to
be the way it had been. Dream on, a cruel voice of realism in her
head mocked. ‘I’m not made of china—don’t for heaven’s sake start
censoring what you say on my account,’ she told him in exasperated
distaste. ‘Right, no special treatment…I’ll make a mental note of
that,’ he promised gravely. Her eyes narrowed as she tried to detect
mockery in his solemn face. ‘How long exactly have I been asleep?’
‘I don’t know exactly,’ he mocked, mimicking her crisp tone. ‘If I’d
known it was important I’d have made a note.’ Rowena made an impatient
sound in the back of her throat. ‘It’s about four-thirty, if that’s
any help.’ ‘Four-thirty—but that’s—’ ‘Halfway between four and
five.’ ‘Half the day’s gone!’ She gasped, tucking her hair behind her
ears in an agitated jerky gesture. ‘How could you let me…?’ she
wailed. She bit her lip and tried to tighten her grip on her self-control
and the throw wrapped carelessly around her—an accident waiting
to happen. ‘I shouldn’t be here.’ She looked wildly around the
room. ‘I should be doing…’ ‘What?’ One dark brow quirked and
Rowena shook her head, struck dumb by her growing sense of impotence.
Her slender shoulder slumped defeatedly. ‘Something,’ she
responded in an agonised whisper. It was hard for Quinn to reconcile
the lonely, fragile figure before him with the indelible mental image
in his head of that smart-mouthed, feisty lady editor who not only incited
respect, lust and insanity in him in about equal measures, but
also provided him with a constant, stimulating challenge in a way no
other woman had ever done. He’d always known Rowena had a
more vulnerable side; what he hadn’t known was how strong his
own protective instincts would be on the occasions she revealed it.
This wasn’t about the fact that she was carrying his child, this was
about the fact that he loved her—every time he admitted it to himself
it got easier. One arm extended, he took an impetuous step towards
her. It was too much, too soon for Rowena, who knew that his
touch suspended all rational mental processes. She took a stumbling
backward step that brought her legs in contact with the low, deep
window sill. There was a self-derisive glitter in Quinn’s eyes as his
arm fell back to his side. Rowena felt she ought to be pleased by the
neutral expression on his normally mobile features when he eventually
did speak, but now she found herself wondering about what he
was hiding. ‘I know you’re worried sick about your gran and, left to
you, you’d prefer to hike across the Grampians than wait the snow
out with me, but the fact is your presence at the hospital is in no way
essential to her recovery. She has expert medical care and if she does
wake up before you arrive she’s surrounded by people who love
her…’ ‘Wake up?’ Rowena curtly cut in with a frown. Quinn sighed,
mentally cursing his blunder. ‘Just a figure of speech. Do you—?’
She scanned his face. ‘She’s unconscious, isn’t she?’ His veiled eyes
dropped tellingly and she gasped. ‘Why didn’t anyone tell me?’ Her
voice quivered with emotion. ‘She had lapsed into coma when I
spoke to Niall before we got on the plane,’ Quinn admitted quietly.
‘He asked me to pass on the information, and I intended to, but you
were too upset at the time. I thought I’d wait until later on.’ ‘Just
how much later on did you have in mind?’ she asked bitterly as she
reviewed all the opportunities he’d had. ‘I didn’t think telling you
would serve any useful purpose. You were already stressed enough
and in my judgement you—’ His judgement! Rowena saw red; her
bosom swelled wrathfully—the arrogance of the man, the conceit!
All her life she’d been coming up against exactly this sort of patronising
sexual stereotyping, the convenient result of which was that
men ended up making all the important decisions in life. The way
she saw it, masculine concern was very often nothing but another
example of male powerplay. ‘And your judgement is the only one
that counts, I take it,’ she cut in icily. Though when he replied Quinn
sounded composed, he had no control over the two dark stripes of
angry colour that appeared high across his slashing cheekbones. ‘I
made a call—’ Rowena’s hands balled into fists as she impatiently
brushed a stray tear from her cheek. ‘It wasn’t your call to make,’
she cut him off furiously. His big shoulders lifted fractionally. ‘And
as I was about to say—I’d do the same again,’ he announced, condemning
himself even further in her eyes by still not displaying any
regret whatsoever for the high-handed way he’d acted in withholding
the vital piece of information. ‘How dare you!’ She gasped, her
blue eyes flashing. ‘Ignorance is not bliss, it’s just ignorance. The
next thing you’ll be expecting is my thanks!’ ‘I didn’t do it for your
gratitude, Rowena.’ ‘No, you did it because I’m some pathetic, weak
little girlie who needs to be protected from the nasty truth,’ she
sneered. ‘Did it make you feel like the big strong man, keeping me
in the dark?’ she asked bitterly. A flicker of something like anger
moved at the back of Quinn’s eyes. ‘I would have told you when I
thought the time was right,’ he gritted. That figured. ‘When you
thought…oh, that’s all right, then,’ she trilled nastily. ‘You want the
truth, Rowena, great, that’s absolutely fine by me.’ With her back
already literally against the wall, this time there was nowhere for her
to retreat when he advanced menacingly towards her. ‘For instance,
we could stop pretending we both don’t know the real reason you’re
prepared to behave with all the native nous of a lemming to get to
your grandmother is because you’re torn apart with guilt. Tell me,
how many invitations have you refused during the past twelve
months?’ he continued inexorably when she shook her head in mute,
horrified denial. The last remaining shreds of colour faded from
Rowena’s cheeks. ‘You’re eaten up with remorse every time you
think about all the time you didn’t spend with her because your
high-powered career was so much more important than visiting with
elderly relatives.’ He must think I’m a total bitch, she thought, steeling
herself to meet his angrily scornful eyes squarely just as the heat
appeared to be fading from them. Considering the fact that she had
always known Quinn had a capacity for displaying great ruthlessness
when he wanted to, she ought to have known better than to actually
request him not to treat her with kid gloves. Quinn also had a capacity
for tenderness and compassion, which in her self-righteous indignation
she’d condemned him for—it wasn’t really surprising he’d
hit back. ‘I think you’ve made your point, Quinn,’ she murmured
unhappily. Quinn had been feeling lousy even before her dignified
response. He deeply regretted allowing her to goad him into making
such brutal remarks. ‘That was unjustified. I’m—’ ‘No, it’s true, I’m
selfish and self-centred—’ Quinn shook his head. ‘Not to mention
very close to feeling sorry for myself,’ she added with a small,
forced laugh. ‘When you’re focused on one thing it’s easy to lose
sight of the big picture,’ he told her, laying a tentative hand on her
shoulder, his fingers tightening slightly when she didn’t immediately
reject his touch. ‘As for people around us, we all of us take them for
granted. Why, I’ve lost count of the number of girlfriends who have
accused me of always putting them second to my job.’ Rowena
wondered wryly whether this timely reminder of his diverse and extensive
selection of sexual partners was meant to cheer her up—if so
it was a major miscalculation! She had difficulty controlling the
nauseous feelings of jealousy his soothing words evoked. Quinn lifted
a strand of lint-fair hair in his fingers and let it fall again. He
tucked her chin into the angle of his jaw and hugged her. ‘Loss of
consciousness in your grandmother’s condition is not unusual and it
doesn’t mean she couldn’t eventually make a full recovery.’ Hands
on his forearms, Rowena pulled away from the light embrace.
‘You’re not just saying that?’ she pleaded, not daring to allow herself
to read too much into his words. He caught her chin in his hand
and smiled ruefully down into her upturned features. ‘What, and
treat you like someone who can’t take it on the chin? I wouldn’t
dare!’ His expression grew sober. ‘Seriously, Rowena, I don’t want
to raise any false hopes, but there’s no point assuming the worst. In
fact, instead of stressing, I think we should be thanking our lucky
stars. It could have been a lot worse.’ Rowena gaped incredulously
up at him. His tall, dynamic figure made a most unlikely Pollyanna.
‘How, exactly?’ The curtains rings rattled as he reached over her
shoulder and pulled them apart. Taking her by the shoulders, he
turned her bodily around one hundred and eighty degrees. ‘We could
be out there,’ he said, nodding pointedly at the frosty wilderness outside.
Rowena shuddered and leant back and retreated into the warm
solidity of his chest. ‘So I suggest we make the best of the situation.
It’s not perfect, but—’ ‘You don’t say!’ Despite everything, his painfully
upbeat attitude was amusing. ‘For one thing the décor up here
is a bit too…’ head on one side, she watched him consider the ornate
furnishings and bold colour scheme in the large room ‘…gothic for
my taste, but you’ll be pleased to hear that the monster stove below
has hotplates and can not only boil a kettle, it also heats the water—
you know what that means.’ ‘I do?’ ‘Baths,’ he declared with
lip-smacking relish. ‘And I have nothing but admiration for the
bathing facilities. You could fit an army in the tub—go take a look,’
he advised, steering her in the right direction. ‘On second thoughts,
try the tea first—brewed with my own fair hands. There was only
dried milk, but it’s drinkable.’ Now that he mentioned it, tea did
sound rather good. She touched the tip of her tongue to her dry lips
and approached the tea-tray perched a bit precariously on the side of
the bed. As she sat down she was careful not to dislodge it. ‘Are you
hungry?’ he asked, watching with amusement as she sipped the hot
drink, an expression of blissful concentration on her face. ‘Because
there’s not a bad selection of dried goods on offer and, as the deep
freeze is beginning to defrost without power, I think we’re almost
morally obliged to eat some of the stuff before it wastes.’ Rowena
had some problems with his logic, but she was hungry and she admitted
as much. ‘And then there’s the clothes problem…not that I
have any problem with your present outfit.’ His slow, sensual smile
made her heart race painfully. ‘I did notice that you’ve solved your
own clothes problem,’ she retorted, her own glance moving hurriedly
from his thigh area where her errant gaze showed a marked
tendency to linger. Quinn pushed the ribbed cuffs of the sweater he
wore up over the tanned skin of his forearms. ‘Not too bad, is it? he
mused complacently. Rowena tore her flustered gaze from the hairroughened
skin he’d revealed. ‘And they call women the vain ones!’
she retorted hoarsely. With a grin Quinn strutted towards her and
struck a dramatic pose in front of one of the large ornate mirrors that
filled the room. They were so numerous that it meant it was hard to
stand anywhere in the room and not see yourself. Personally Rowena
found it disturbing to repeatedly catch glimpses of someone who
looked like her, but was in some obscure way different—something
about the eyes…? ‘When I think that I blew my one big chance at a
modelling career…’ he bemoaned, throwing her a look of mock dejection.
“‘Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest…?”’ Her teasing
grin faded as it dawned on her that the answer to that question
for her at least would always be Quinn. ‘You didn’t say—did you
see anything I could wear?’ ‘No, this is definitely a male domain,
nothing in the cupboards screams female—well, that’s not strictly
true,’ he conceded. ‘I did find several odd items, all assorted sizes, if
you get my drift…’ Rowena looked puzzled. ‘I don’t.’ Quinn’s expression
of frank disbelief faded to amusement as it dawned on him
she was actually being serious—for a woman who had written some
very cynical articles in her time about male infidelity, Rowena had a
charmingly innocent streak. ‘Put it this way, I don’t think our absentee
host is heavily into monogamy.’ Perhaps this blushing thing was
physiological—something to do with her pregnancy. She hoped it
was only a temporary aberration because it definitely wasn’t in
keeping with her hard-nosed image at all. ‘In fact, a man after your
own heart,’ she commented lightly. The smile in Quinn’s eyes
sparkled some more in a frighteningly charismatic way. ‘Now that I
come to think about it, there was this very nice basque in a thirty-six
D…I don’t suppose you could find some use for it…?’ he wondered
innocently. Rowena’s teeth came together in a ferocious fake smile.
‘The only use I’d have for a D cup is to hold my laundry!’ she declared
with a wistful peek down at her chest. Quinn threw back his
head and his big booming laughter rang out. It was as warm and uninhibited
as the man himself, she found herself thinking as he wiped
tears of mirth from his face. ‘It’s extremely insensitive—not to mention
callous—to treat a woman’s physical shortcomings as a joke,’
she informed him tartly. The attractive laughter lines around his eyes
smoothed out as their glances collided. ‘You don’t have any physical
shortcomings,’ he announced abruptly. His eyes continued to devour
her hungrily for several paralysing seconds before he got to his feet.
‘You have a good rummage for something to wear and I’ll sort out
some food.’ Rowena, who found she had been holding her breath
during that prolonged eye contact, released a long, shuddering sigh
when she was left alone. Maybe, she pondered as she carefully sorted
through the drawers of neatly folded clothes, it was a mistake to
act as if the air didn’t crackle with electricity when they were in a
room together. It wasn’t unreasonable to suppose that he’d want to
do something about that sizzle once their more urgent needs like
shelter and food were dealt with. Quinn’s old hunter-gatherer instinct
had obviously kicked in strongly—especially after she’d all
but ravished him earlier! You couldn’t just blow hot and cold on the
man without offering some sort of explanation, no matter how lame.
Perhaps she should tackle the problem head on and tell
him—Sleeping together means nothing, Quinn, she could say. Sex is
no basis for a long-term relationship, and even if I were into longterm
relationships…which I’m not…I can’t risk falling in love. It’s a
genetic thing; all the women in my family go a little strange when
they fall in love. No, if she told him that he’d just think she was
crazy. After due consideration what she actually said when she
emerged downstairs was, ‘That smells nice.’ She noticed her favourite
Gucci boots, barely recognisable in the their scuffed, battered
condition, sitting forlornly beside the hot stove. She accepted their
demise more philosophically than she would have a few hours earlier,
when things like what she was wearing had still seemed important.
Perhaps near-death experiences did that to a person…? Not that
she could claim to be totally unconcerned about her appearance.
Quinn, with his unstudied elegance, was the sort of man who made
women conscious of their appearance. As she recalled the advice of
a lady who had once been a top model Rowena’s head went up and
her shoulders back as she crossed the room towards him. ‘It’s not
what you wear, darling,’ she’d told Rowena, ‘it’s the way you wear
it. If you carry yourself well you can look stylish in a sack.’ Well,
what she was wearing now had to be one up from a sack! ‘Mushroom
risotto, made with some dried shitake and chanterelles. Pass
that saffron, would you…?’ Quinn requested without removing his
gaze from the large open pan he was stirring. Rowena who had spent
a long time fussing stupidly over her appearance—which, when your
dress was a man’s baggy jumper and your footwear was wrinkled
woolly socks, was pretty sad—experienced a totally irrational feeling
of pique as she did as he requested. ‘This is definitely what I’d
term back to basics,’ she observed, getting a closer look on the large
pan perched on the cast-iron hotplate atop the room heater. Her forearm
accidentally nudged his as she handed him the spice. ‘Sorry.’
Quinn turned his hand over, but instead of closing his long fingers
around the spice pot he looked back and forth from the sleeve of his
jumper to the almost identical sleeves of the one she wore. A slow
grin spread across his ruggedly handsome face; the comparison
seemed to amuse him. He lightly touched the fine-boned delicacy of
her blue-veined wrist, feeling the echo of a strong pulse as his finger
skated along the bony projection beneath her thumb. Again the contrast
fascinated him, but not in a way this time that brought a smile
to his lips. His eyes lifted and skimmed her face, taking in the big,
dilated pupils and the half-scared, half-defiant expression on her delicately
flushed English-rose face. Rowena was perfectly still, her
eyes focused on his mouth, and each breath she took was an effort.
Abruptly he dropped her wrist and, taking the spice pot from her lax
grip, turned back to the cooking pot, leaving her to wonder whether
what had happened had been a figment of her imagination. ‘We
could buy matching anoraks too.’ Suffering from the effects of
severe anticlimax, Rowena lowered her eyes and tried to distance
herself from the ache deep inside. ‘If I was ever seen in an anorak
my career would be in tatters.’ ‘You used to say that about having a
baby,’ he reminded her, sprinkling some of the fragrant golden saffron
threads into the cooking mixture. Rowena watched the saffron
melt into the creamy dish, her whole body rigid with tension. ‘So I
did.’ Quinn tasted a spoonful of creamy rice mixture and gave a satisfied
grunt. ‘Don’t look so worried. Given your well-known views
on the subject of executives with babies, I expect there’ll be a few
sly nudges at first, but we can weather it,’ he announced confidently,
placing the cooking pot on the table. ‘Could you pass down a couple
of plates…?’ He nodded towards the shelf behind her. His benevolent
line in advice set Rowena’s teeth on edge. Mouth set in a hard
line, she reached up and did as he requested, blissfully unaware that
the sweater she wore as a dress rode indecently high over her
smooth hips as she did so. But Quinn noticed. She brought the plates
crashing down on the wooden surface beside the steaming pot. She
glared at him and he looked back, looking distinctly shifty. ‘What’s
wrong?’ he asked warily. Rowena folded her arms across her chest.
‘Where do I start?’ The streaks of heat across his cheekbones, no
doubt as a result of his time spent huddled over the hot stove,
seemed to be fading. ‘Firstly, there is no we.’ Quinn smiled thinly as
he surveyed her flushed, antagonistic face. ‘It’s good to see a bit of
colour back in your cheeks. And second? I take it there is a
second…?’ he speculated drily. ‘Second,’ she bit back obligingly, ‘I
haven’t changed my mind about anything at all. I still think that you
can’t be a good wife and mother and have enough left for your career.’
Quinn’s expression hardened, and eyes as merciless as the sea
swept her face. ‘Then you didn’t mean it when you said that you
were keeping…?’ ‘I did mean it,’ she retorted impatiently. ‘I am going
to keep the baby.’ She saw a wave of palpable relief pass over
his tense features and tried not to soften her resolve. There were big
changes ahead for her and she was scared. She couldn’t admit this to
Quinn, but she could make him appreciate that insulting her intelligence
by acting as if there would be no problem was not on! His
eyes narrowed cynically. ‘Do I hear a but coming on…?’ ‘But I’m
trying to be realistic. There aren’t enough hours in the day to do my
job as well as I’d like to now.’ ‘You could always move into the office,
or maybe not sleep at all.’ ‘I can do without the constant stream
of facetious interruptions!’ ‘Consider my lips sealed,’ he returned
with mock humility. Rowena thought it best not to consider his lips
at all but, despite her caution, her stomach muscles tightened. ‘If
there aren’t enough hours in the day now…when a demanding baby
comes along…’ She gave an eloquent shrug. ‘You want a pat on the
back for your noble sacrifice—fine, but while you’re being realistic,
Rowena, it might be a good idea to remember that babies don’t just
demand, they give too…’ Rowena stiffened at the reprimand in his
voice. Resentment swelled in her tight chest. Sure, Quinn could afford
to sneer at realism while she was doing the worrying for both of
them. All he’d have to do was buy a new wallet to accommodate a
few snapshots of his new baby and make the odd weekend free for a
walk in the park. The fact that she’d have treated any suggestion that
he might be anything more than a token presence in the baby’s life
with extreme hostility didn’t affect her seething resentment. ‘I’m
aware of that.’ She sniffed coldly. ‘Deciding to keep the baby wasn’t
a sentimental decision…’ Sentimentality implied something superficial,
and something far deeper and more profound, something she
still didn’t understand herself, had motivated Rowena when she’d
decided she wanted to keep this baby. ‘No, I can see that sentimentality
would not be in keeping with your image.’ Her fingernails inscribed
deep half-moons in the soft flesh of her palms as her hands
balled into tight fists. He seemed determined to misinterpret
everything she said. ‘I don’t have an image!’ Her teeth grated as one
dark, eloquent brow lifted in silent scepticism. ‘What, not even the
ice-maiden?’ he wondered, affecting surprise. His expression
hardened. ‘Come off it, Rowena! People think you recharge your
batteries at night, not sleep, and you play up to the role for all it’s
worth. I’m not saying there’s a problem with that if it works for you;
the problem arises when you carry on playing the role at home.
Home, the place where you chill out, have a few beers with
friends—cast your memory back, Rowena, you’re sure to remember
what it’s like.’ His lip curled as his scornful gaze travelled over her
body. ‘Or maybe not?’ He silently despaired at the fact that even in
the midst of the heated row the promise of slim curves beneath the
shapeless covering had an instant effect on his libido. He could almost
feel the soft peach down of her skin. He shifted his stance uncomfortably—
it was a strong effect, and not the sort that was easy to
hide. It was the sort of effect that told Rowena it didn’t matter if she
acted like a total bitch—Quinn Tyler was still a complete pushover
when it came to her! He needn’t have worried because Rowena’s
eyes didn’t leave his contemptuous face. For the sort of lifestyle
Quinn described, you needed friends, Rowena thought dully. Over
the years her circle had not expanded, but got smaller. At least she
now knew what Quinn really thought about her. Given his strongly
expressed views it seemed pretty obvious that it wasn’t pleasure in
her company that made him seek her out—that left her body and sex.
It wasn’t the first time a man had wanted her for her body—it was
the first time the knowledge had hurt and depressed her this much!
Well, it was good that was sorted, she told herself bracingly. At least
she wouldn’t embarrass them both by reading anything deep and
meaningful into his pursuit. ‘I suppose that makes me the person
you’d least like to be stuck in a blizzard with. Bad luck, Quinn, but I
suppose those are the breaks…’ She exhaled through her quivering
nostrils. It didn’t seem likely that Quinn would believe what she was
about to say, but she knew it was important for her to try—for some
reason, Quinn’s opinion mattered to her. ‘Don’t laugh.’ This didn’t
look likely. ‘But if you must know, I’m keeping the baby because
I’ve discovered I’m as genetically programmed to protect this new
life as the next woman…’ A knot of emotion ached in her throat as
she met his eyes—he was still displaying no inclination to laugh, but
she thought she did see something close to shock move at the back
of his eyes. ‘It came as just as much of a shock to me.’ Her quick,
self-derisive smile held no humour. It had been more than a simple
shock; for someone who had been fighting against genetic programming
most of her life, this was an incredibly hard admission to make
to herself, let alone a second party—especially a second party who
was personally involved. ‘I’m not shocked, Rowena,’ he replied, his
voice surprisingly gentle. ‘I’m sure you’ll make a great mother.’
‘I’m glad one of us is.’ His gentleness was nearly her undoing. She
felt the tears sting her eyelids as she blinked rapidly, her eyes focusing
on the steaming plate of food he slid in front of her. ‘I’ve never
had a broody moment in my life.’ A baby deserves a better mother
than me, she decided as a fresh batch of doubts assailed her. ‘You’ve
never been pregnant before either. At least I’m assuming…?’
Rowena was amazed to see her fingers curled against the darker skin
of his wrist. Her sensitive stomach flipped over before she self-consciously
released him and picked up a fork. ‘No, I’ve never been
pregnant before,’ she enunciated in a clear, icy voice. ‘Have you?’
She was already deeply regretting going public with her interlude of
self-doubt. Quinn was undoubtedly ruthless and sneaky enough to
turn any weakness she displayed to his own advantage. The problem
was, she didn’t yet know what he did want. Quinn grinned and
began to rub his wrists. ‘No, I’ve no experience to speak of, but I expect
we’ll muddle through somehow…’ That we word again! And
she didn’t know how anyone could look cheerful at the prospect of
muddling through! Muddling through filled her with deep horror.
Right now her head was filled with so much muddle, half the time
she didn’t know her own name. Why, she was so muddled that, until
he’d revealed exactly what he thought about her, she’d even questioned
if it were possible Quinn hadn’t fallen in love with her—you
couldn’t get more muddled than that! ‘Is there something wrong
with your short-term memory, Quinn? I’ve already told you there is
no we! There is not going to be any cosy scene of domestic bliss. I
may be pregnant but some things haven’t changed. I don’t require a
husband.’ ‘I don’t recall asking you to marry me.’ Rowena experienced
an unexpected and totally perverse pang of abandonment.
‘Good, that saves me the embarrassment of refusing you. This is
very good,’ she added brightly as she placed a forkful of risotto into
her mouth. ‘And as always your concern for my feelings is uppermost.’
This time there was no mistaking his sarcasm. Rowena
chewed nervously on her full lower lip. ‘I’m sorry if I hurt you,
Quinn.’ If he hadn’t been so stubborn they could have had a nice
time with no complications—at least, they could have if she hadn’t
got pregnant. ‘But I told you my terms in New York—’ ‘Terms!’ he
exploded, his face darkening with anger. ‘Good God, woman this
isn’t a business negotiation we’re discussing, it’s a love affair.’ ‘I
would never have a love affair with someone who yells at me!’ She
shied away as he put out a hand towards her. A frustrated sound escaped
from between Quinn’s bared teeth as his hand came down
with a bang on the table surface. ‘I think I’ve some excuse for
yelling. Why didn’t you tell me about the baby, Rowena?’ Rowena
looked into his dark, impossibly attractive face and accepted what
she’d been fighting against: she was in love with Quinn Tyler, and
no matter how many telephone numbers she changed or how many
miles she put between them, nothing was going to change that! The
world spun and Rowena thought she might faint. She had put her
faith in the theory that if a person took sensible precautions she
could avoid falling in love. Discovering that her theory was seriously
flawed left Rowena with no place to hide. Rowena hadn’t had
to look very far to see how love could dramatically change women.
Loving Grandpa had made Gran abandon a glittering career without
a second thought, and it hadn’t stopped there—oh, no! After she’d
married Dad her mother had rejected the exciting uncertainty of life
as a budding young actress in favour of the security of life as a
drama teacher, trying to teach a bunch of unappreciative kids who’d
have preferred to be watching cartoons to the delights of
Shakespeare. Now all she had was a scrapbook collection of yellowing
newspaper reviews which Rowena had once found her weeping
over. And now sensible Holly was jumping headlong into marriage
with Niall, despite his dismal track record and the fact they had
nothing whatever in common and at a point when distractions could
be fatal to her fantastic career prospects! At least they had all had the
comfort of knowing the men they loved were equally as soft in the
head when it came to them. I’ve gone one better, I’ve fallen in love
with a man who has never used the ‘L’ word, not even once!
Rowena thought frantically. ‘Slow down, Rowena, you’re hyperventilating…
Rowena!’ Quinn repeated sharply. He touched her
shoulder and she pulled back, her eyes wide and hostile. ‘I’m fine…’
Slowly her breathing slowed and the red dots dancing before her
eyes retreated. ‘I wasn’t ready to tell you. I didn’t even know at that
stage what my plans were.’ ‘And now you do?’ ‘I’ll hand in my notice,
of course.’ She was winging it and trying simultaneously to
give the impression she’d given the whole thing a lot of intelligent
thought—she could hardly say she was having trouble thinking a
minute ahead. ‘Freelance writing is an option, I do have excellent
contacts.’ ‘Hand in your notice! Are you insane?’ This scathing
judgement seemed bang on to Rowena, who was wondering what
she thought she was doing, blurting out the first rash thing that had
come into her head. Only stubborn pride stopped her admitting she’d
just been sounding off, that she actually didn’t know what she was
going to do. A look of tired comprehension spread across Quinn’s
strained face as their eyes met. ‘Oh, I get it, this is a matter of principle,
I suppose…’ He was finding it increasingly difficult to abide
by his earlier resolve not to get too confrontational or heavy while
Rowena was very obviously still pretty traumatised by their snowy
adventure. Rowena was perturbed to discover Quinn didn’t appear
too impressed by her sacrifice—actually he looked blazing mad.
‘Principle and practicality, but, yes, it would be hypocritical to do
anything else.’ Why didn’t she just say, You’ve ruined my life,
Quinn, and have done with it? He thought. ‘And you’re never hypocritical,
I suppose. My God!’ he exclaimed bitterly, raking a hand
roughly through his dark hair. There was a limit to how much rubbish
a man could listen to! ‘Do you know, at times you can be the
most stiff-necked and pompous woman I’ve ever met! You’re totally
obsessed with image. Do you ever consider anyone else but yourself
and what you want?’ Rowena flinched at the ferocity of this unexpected
tirade. Somewhere an image of Gran appeared, her robust
frame frail, the intelligent light in her eyes dimmed…‘That’s not
true!’ she gasped weakly. Quinn’s lips twisted in a sardonic smile
that left his marvellous eyes cold and hostile. Rowena found it hard
to recognise this Quinn in the laconic, laid-back individual she
knew. ‘Really? I must have missed you asking me how I feel about
becoming a father.’ He saw the flare of startled dismay in her eyes
and refused to let it soften his resolve. He’d respected her hormones,
repressed his baser instincts until she’d asked him not to, and given
the best interpretation he knew how of an enlightened, modern man
who respected a woman’s wishes, but there came a point when
enough was enough and he’d passed it! ‘Have you even thought
about it?’ Rowena felt her face colour guiltily. ‘I’ve already told
you…’ she faltered uncertainly ‘…I thought I ought to sort out how
I felt first.’ ‘I thought you had it all sorted, down to the big grand
gesture of quitting your job,’ he mocked. ‘And don’t try telling me
that’s got anything to do with not being able to combine motherhood
and a career.’ He shook his head. ‘Sure, you’d take a bit of stick, but
with a bit of humour you’d weather it. Oh, sorry,’ he drawled, ‘I was
forgetting you never learnt how to laugh at yourself. Hell, talk about
going from the sublime to the ridiculous! You’ll pack in the job
you’ve always wanted just because—’ His reaction struck her as the
height of perversity. Since when had Quinn rated what she did?
‘Who said I always wanted it?’ she snarled back. ‘You did, and even
if you hadn’t I think I’d have guessed, seeing as how you went for it
like a heat-seeking missile, and displayed just about as much consideration
for anything and anybody that got in your way.’ So not only
did he think she was a work-obsessed automaton, he thought she
was a ruthless operator who wouldn’t know an ethic if it poked her
in the nose! Rowena turned away and didn’t see the expression of
consternation that flickered across his face. When she turned back
her chin was up and her eyes were glistening defiantly. ‘I’m sorry if
my methods offend your fine sensibilities.’ Quinn grimaced and
wondered if he was going to stop saying the wrong thing any time
soon. ‘Rowena…’ Shaking her head, she stepped back before his
fingers could grip her shoulder. ‘I suppose,’ she mused with a small,
bitter smile, ‘that I should be grateful you didn’t accuse me of sleeping
my way to the top!’ With a sharp, angry twist of her head she
sent a heavy strand of hair that lay across her cheek whipping backwards.
‘Hardly—you’ve not allowed any precious time in your
schedule for anything as frivolous as a love life.’ Rowena didn’t
bother denying this disdainful observation—partly because there
was a lot of truth in it. ‘I suppose you’d think better of me if I’d slept
with anything with a pulse, like you! Oh, no,’ she sneered, not allowing
him an opportunity to respond. ‘Then I’d have been a tart.’
Her eyes blazed as she dwelt on the unfairness of it. ‘And don’t give
me any of your “this is the twenty-first century” enlightened stuff;
men like you, no matter what they say, always have double standards.’
Quinn stood there watching her bosom heave in agitation. ‘How
many lovers have you actually had?’ The outrageous question coming
totally out of the blue disconcerted Rowena almost as much as
the gleam in his half-closed eyes. ‘I…what…? None of your business!’
Outrage brought a rush of fresh colour to her pale cheeks and
stiffened her spine to ramrod rigidity. Quinn was unrepentant. ‘Five,
twenty…’ One dark brow lifted. ‘More…less?’ ‘Why do you want
to know? Other than nasty, prurient curiosity, that is,’ she said, her
lips quivering in distaste. ‘Well, you weren’t on the pill…and you
weren’t carrying any condoms…’ Not the normal behaviour of a
sexually active woman, in his experience. ‘Which hardly makes me
a virgin.’ Just a reckless fool with no self-control where Quinn Tyler
was concerned. ‘No, just not the person best qualified to write some
of the articles you have been responsible for.’ ‘Which you’ve read, I
suppose?’ she drawled sarcastically. ‘I’ve seen enough to recognise
a common theme.’ ‘Prove it,’ she challenged, calling his bluff. She
was pretty sure he had never read a word she’d written. ‘Let me
see…’ Rowena’s smug smile broadened as he appeared to flounder.
“‘Men have been doing it for years, now it’s our turn”…?’ She was
no longer smiling. “‘Cheat, but don’t get caught.” Would you say
that’s a fair selection of your more grabbable titles?’ ‘You’re taking
it totally out of context!’ she accused hotly. ‘I never advocated casual
sex. In fact, I’ve frequently pointed out that many woman feel
pressurised by the media to act like some sort of sex addicts when a
great many of us would actually prefer a good book and a box of
chocolates,’ she explained, with a pitying sniff of feminine disdain.
‘That surely would depend on what sort of lover they had.’ A dangerous
grin slashed his lean features as his lashes lifted to reveal an
equally menacing glitter in his eyes. The prickle under Rowena’s
skin—a constant companion when Quinn was around—became a
raw pain as she was hit by a wave of sexual longing so strong that
for several moments her vocal cords were literally paralysed. ‘And I
suppose if it was Quinn Tyler she’d not want to get out of bed all
weekend…?’ she finally managed to retort huskily. The second the
words were out of her mouth the images started playing in her head
of the varied methods Quinn could and in all probability had used to
keep his partners too exhausted to get out of bed. ‘I hate to sound
conceited, but that’s not a situation without precedent.’ He smiled
wolfishly. Before she’d been on the receiving end of that smile
Rowena had fondly imagined ‘weak-kneed’ was just a figure of
speech—now she knew differently. She took a deep gulp and
plunged on defiantly, trying to focus on anything but his eyes. ‘And
recently I’ve been researching an interesting article on celibate marriages…’
‘Celibate marriages?’ he repeated incredulously.
‘Whatever will they think of next?’ he hooted. Rowena listened to
his predictable male reaction with a pitying smile. ‘There’s nothing
new about celibate marriages. Actually there are a lot of people out
there who lead a perfectly fulfilling life without sex—out of
choice—and before you start I have to tell you I’ve heard every
crass joke about Viagra there is. Why assume a sexless marriage is a
loveless marriage? I expect reactions like yours are why people
aren’t inclined to go public about it. Not that I’d expect you to appreciate
the relief some people experience when you take all the—’
‘Passion and excitement?’ His flip interruption earned him a stern
frown—the sort that made cocky assistant editors feel insecure. Unfortunately
it didn’t have a similar dampening effect on Quinn. ‘Passion
and excitement rarely make it past the first year…’ ‘That’s
longer than your boyfriends, so I hear tell,’ he responded promptly.
Rowena kept a hold on her temper with difficulty. ‘Platonic love has
more staying power,’ she gritted. ‘And some people prefer the less
volatile emotions like companionship and affection. Mutual respect,’
she added, dogged determination creeping into her tone as she refused
to be influenced by his amused scepticism. She might even appreciate
the irony one day in singing the praises of celibacy when
her brain was filled to the brim with steamy sexy images—but not in
the foreseeable future, she decided as a ribbon of cold sweat slid
down her spine! ‘Is there some reason you can’t have mutual respect
and passion?’ ‘Men,’ she retorted, ‘are notoriously incapable of juggling
more than one task. I think the same goes for emotions. They
respect their mothers, they love their children and they lust after
their nubile secretaries,’ announced the woman who despised generalisations.
The same woman who had an article on her laptop detailing
the unfair press men received in the media these days. She
wondered what Quinn would make of, ‘Has the balance swung too
far in the other direction?’ She’d regretfully decided, ‘Are we castrating
our men?’ might be a bit too strong for the magazine’s target
audience. ‘My secretary is called Vincent and at a guess I’d say the
idea of me being consumed by lust would alarm him deeply…’ ‘You
know what I mean,’ she snapped crossly. He nodded. ‘Sure, men are
shallow, sex-crazed monsters about covers it, I think. Well, as fascinating
as the subject of other people’s sex lives—or, in this case, lack
of them—is, we’re rather slipping from the point here.’ Just as well
he’d remembered his point, because all she could concentrate on
now was the flickering images in her head and what upped the
agony factor was the fact that Quinn’s eager victim was no longer
anonymous. She saw that same face every time she looked in the
mirror. ‘You’re usually such a cautious person.’ His puzzled eyes
moved over her face, noting several signs of strain there, including
pinpricks of moisture beading her upper lip which he immediately
fantasised about blotting with his own tongue before he—Don’t go
there, Quinn, he instructed himself urgently. Too late! ‘I’m sure
you’ve never left your car door unlocked in your life, and I’d have
sworn that you’ve never left home without a tissue or other female
essentials…’ And obviously the women Quinn knew thought of condoms
as essentials. Come to think of it, a rival magazine that had
done a piece on the average contents of the handbag of a woman
between the ages of twenty-five and thirty had thought so too, so
possibly it was she who was wildly out of step with the times. ‘Is
that meant to be a crude analogy? Because if so—’ ‘Hold up,’ he
protested, holding up a hand to defend his innocence. ‘No analogy,
crude or otherwise, no double or single entendre, even. I was just
making an observation that you’re a very careful person—and before
you jump down my throat again I’m not saying that’s a bad thing,
I’m just pointing out it was a bit out of character.’ ‘It was a bit out of
character for me to sleep with you…’ ‘It was, but now I’m happy to
say it’s becoming a regular occurrence.’ Rowena closed her
eyes—she’d walked right into that one! She tried not to let her
thoughts get sidetracked. It was not easy, but she needed all her wits
about her if she wasn’t going to reveal something that would only
make it harder to say no when Quinn made his next move. It didn’t
seem overly conceited to think he would at some point—if he hadn’t
throttled her in the meantime. It was hard to remember, with all this
aggression floating around, that they’d once had such an easy rapport.
A nasty thought occurred to her. ‘I hope you’re not trying to
imply it’s my fault I’m pregnant?’ she began. ‘Is that where this is
leading? Because if you are—’ ‘It’s no more your fault than it is
mine.’ Which, Rowena recognised immediately, wasn’t the same
thing as saying either of them was innocent. ‘The only blameless
person here is the baby.’ His long-lashed eyes dropped to Rowena’s
flat belly. ‘I don’t think there’s much to be gained from apportioning
blame…God!’ He groaned, immediately contradicting himself. ‘It’s
no excuse, I know, but I’ve never had a condom tear on me before…’
The colour faded from her cheeks. ‘A condom tore? So
that’s how…I did wonder, because you were so careful…’ Well, that
was one mystery solved, but it opened up another. ‘And you knew?
Why didn’t you say something?’ ‘I did, you said it didn’t matter. Actually,’
he recalled, a contemplative gleam in his eyes, ‘you said
nothing mattered except—’ ‘Yes, well, there’s no point in postmortem,’
Rowena cut in brightly—reminders of what she’d said she
could do without. Actually Quinn had turned out to be very responsive
to requests and even orders in her more urgent moments. It had
never occurred to Rowena before that you could actually lead a man
where you wanted him to go, and Quinn had displayed an amazing
talent for interpreting her most inarticulate pleas. ‘I suppose you
realise it’s the height of bad manners to quiz a woman on her sexual
history,’ she added darkly. ‘If you must know, I’ve had enough lovers.’
‘And were any of these numerous relationships long-lived?’ ‘I
didn’t say there were lots, just enough, and I’ve never had any interest
in long-term relationships…’ she countered evasively. ‘How
could I have forgotten?’ he drawled at his driest. ‘I hate to ruin all
your plans to be a struggling single parent who’s nobly sacrificed her
career for her baby…’ Rowena got the distinct impression he wasn’t
sold on nobility ‘…but,’ he continued, his voice grim, his expression
uncompromising, ‘this baby has two parents, and most people would
expect a man in my position to give financial support. In fact,’ he
added, ‘some people might expect me to do more…more as in marry
you,’ he added when her blank expression of wary incomprehension
didn’t lift. Very aware of his keen eyes on her face, Rowena kept her
expression very still. ‘Well, luckily for you I’m not one of them.’
She even managed a passable laugh. ‘I’ll take that as a no, shall
I…?’ Rowena frowned. He didn’t sound like a man who’d just had a
lucky escape. ‘Well, if you don’t want to marry me, perhaps it would
be better all round if I took responsibility for the baby after the birth.
Personally I don’t think it can be good for a kid’s emotional development
to have a mother who never stops reminding him or her of
how great a career she could have had if she hadn’t sacrificed her all
on the altar of maternal love. No,’ he mused, his eyes as hard as flint
as they surveyed her face. ‘The more I think about it, the more sensible
it seems. That way your meteoric rise need not be disrupted…If
you carry on the way you are, in another couple of years you’ll never
write another word—but, my, you’ll be powerful and that’s what
counts, isn’t it?’ Leaving her sitting there with her mouth open, her
face white with stunned disbelief, Quinn casually picked up his plate
and left the table. CHAPTER SEVEN FOR several seconds Rowena
sat there too shocked to respond. She had wondered what Quinn
wanted from her, now she knew—he wanted her baby! Not only did
he want the baby, it was equally obvious he didn’t really want
her—not even as an optional extra! You couldn’t class his brief reference
to marriage as a real proposal! No, all Quinn wanted was a
walking incubator, she thought as a blinding wave of rage washed
over her. With a wrathful cry she suddenly leapt to her feet, slithering
a little on the smooth stone floor in her stockinged feet. She
righted herself and, with her hands planted firmly on her sashaying
hips, advanced threateningly towards the tall figure who was stacking
dirty dishes as if he’d not just as good as tried to kidnap her unborn
child. Rowena waited for a few impatient toe-tapping seconds
for him to acknowledge her presence before she lost patience—she
was in no mood to be ignored—and prodded him in the back.
‘You’ll have this baby over my dead body!’ With an exclamation of
frustration she ripped away the tea towel he’d been drying his hands
on. ‘For heaven’s sake you’re not in Theatre and washing up isn’t a
sterile procedure!’ she hissed. ‘Force of habit.’ ‘Is that all you’ve got
to say?’ One corner of Quinn’s mouth lifted in a contemptuous curl
as he surveyed her animated and angry features with cold, unfriendly
eyes. ‘What do you want me to say?’ ‘A grovelling apology would
be a good start.’ ‘I’d have thought you’d have welcomed the idea,’
he riposted languidly. ‘I mean, you obviously think our child is nothing
more than an inconvenience.’ ‘How dare you look down your
superior nose at me?’ she exploded, her hands balling into tight fists
of frustration. ‘At least I’ve not bought into the glossy magazine image
of a glowing mother and shiny new baby.’ ‘So now you’re the
expert? Been moonlighting for one of those pregnancy magazines?
Or has your magazine done a spread on designer outfits for the welldressed
newborn?’ His scorn brought an angry flush to her cheeks.
‘You’re a patronising pig!’ she told him with complete conviction.
‘Maybe I am, but it still doesn’t alter the fact that I’ve encountered a
few more mothers and babies in my time than you,’ he retorted drily,
recalling his exhausting stint on Obs and Gynae when newly qualified.
‘I’ve actually delivered my share of healthy babies.’ He didn’t
add that he wouldn’t care to be put in a position where he had to do
so again. ‘It’s what happens when they leave the hospital I’m thinking
about.’ She didn’t dare think about what went before, after the
one glimpse she’d taken inside the medical textbook Holly had left
at her place. The peek had left her glassy-eyed and panic-stricken.
‘Let me tell you about motherhood. I’ve seen friends, who thought
nothing of clubbing it to dawn the night before an important breakfast
meeting, crawl into work after having a baby with bags under
their eyes beyond even your capability of fixing. They are barely
able to keep their eyes open past ten a.m. and ring the nanny with
anxiety attacks at least ten times a morning. As for the glossy pictures…’
she snorted derisively ‘…I’ve been around when they take
those. For every one that’s printed there are fifty where the baby is
throwing up or screaming inconsolably.’ Breathless, she prodded
him once more, this time in the chest. It was no more yielding than
his stony, uninterested expression. ‘And what makes you think you
could be a better parent than me?’ she demanded. ‘Just because you
can knock up a meal out of a store cupboard.’ She gestured to the
neglected risotto sitting sadly on her plate. ‘And incidentally it was
over-seasoned—that doesn’t make you good father material!’ ‘I never
said I’d make a good father—how can anybody know what sort of
parent they’ll make? But I’m willing to give it my best shot. It’s not
a crime to be excited about the prospect of parenthood, Rowena, but
I’m not stupid. Of course I know it’s going to take a lot of adjustment.
There’s a world of difference between being realistic and being
negative.’ This combination of reasoned argument and sarcasm
was mostly wasted on Rowena, whose short-circuited brain hadn’t
managed to make sense of anything beyond ‘excited’. She gave her
head a tiny puzzled shake as her bemused eyes met his. ‘You’re excited
about having a baby…?’ A wary frown appeared between his
brows as he nodded firmly. ‘What did you expect me to be?’
Angry…annoyed, at least…maybe even appalled. ‘I’d love to be excited,’
she admitted wistfully. The outline of his strong features suddenly
blurred as hot tears filled her eyes. She blinked rapidly to stop
them overflowing. ‘What’s stopping you?’ he prompted, his anger
fading away to nothing as she raised her luminous, tragic eyes to his.
For once Rowena couldn’t hide the conflict that was tearing her
apart from the inside out. ‘I can’t…’ She gulped. ‘I’m too
s…scared.’ A bitter little laugh escaped her aching throat. ‘No, that’s
not true. Actually,’ she admitted bluntly, ‘I’m terrified. What if I
can’t do it? What if I’m a lousy mother?’ Her voice shook as her
deepest fears were revealed. ‘Oh, I know everyone thinks I do
everything well. You know why that is, don’t you?’ Quinn shook his
head, afraid to say or do anything that might make her retreat behind
her defences once more. ‘I never attempt anything I know I won’t be
brilliant at…’ ‘Except driving,’ Quinn interceded lightly. She sniffed
ruefully. ‘Except driving,’ she agreed. ‘It’s a neat trick.’ Rowena
nodded, her jaw set rigid to stop her chin wobbling as she swallowed
the lump in her tight, aching throat. ‘I may be a coward, but don’t
run away with the idea I’ll let you have this baby, Quinn. I’d fight
you every step of the way if you made me.’ ‘Why?’ Rowena
blinked, confused as much by the peculiar expression in his eyes as
the abrupt question. ‘Well, obviously…because…because…’ Quinn
took her by the shoulders and gave her a tiny shake. ‘Because…?’
‘Because I want this baby.’ Her eyes widened to their fullest extent
when she realised what she had just said. ‘Because your body
clock’s ticking louder? Because your hormones are overriding your
common sense?’ ‘No!’ she denied, fiercely resentful of his suggestions.
‘I just want a baby.’ A sense of wonder drifted over her face.
‘My baby,’ he said softly. Without thinking Rowena nodded—that
was a big part of it. ‘I do…I really do.’ It was scary to hear herself
admit for the first time that her decision to have the baby had very
little to do with hormones or a sense of moral responsibility. She’d
hidden away from the simple truth behind terms like duty and responsibility,
and she’d blamed it on her biology, but all along she’d
wanted a baby—not just any baby, but one that was hers and
Quinn’s! Despite this revelation, there were still some corners of
conflict in her mind. Part of her still thought it was selfish for
someone like her to want a baby. Quinn’s head went back as he released
a deep sigh. ‘At last!’ he breathed. He straightened up and
eyed her with approval tinged by relief. ‘It took you long enough.’
Her bewilderment deepened. ‘I don’t understand,’ she faltered. ‘Sure
you do,’ he denied warmly. ‘It’s not difficult. You want this baby,
Rowena—our baby.’ His eyes flared with satisfaction. And that
makes him happy? she thought. This was making less and less sense.
‘A minute ago I wasn’t a fit mother, and you wanted to take the baby
away from me.’ Her expression darkened at the memory and without
his being aware of it her hands spread protectively over her belly. A
fresh unpleasant possibility occurred to her. ‘People will say my life
is empty,’ she wailed. ‘That I can’t get anyone to love me and that’s
why I’m having a baby.’ Maybe they had a point? Oh, God, what
was she doing, saying these things to Quinn? He was probably taking
notes for his lawyer. The problem was, now that she’d finally
started saying what she was feeling, she couldn’t seem to close the
floodgates. Like the copious tears she was continually brushing from
her cheeks, the words just kept flowing. ‘Do you think there’s a possibility
you’ve been reading your own copy too often…?’ ‘I’m perfectly
serious!’ she snapped. ‘I know, that’s what’s so scary,’ he
muttered. ‘Or, then again, perhaps they’ll think the baby’s the ultimate
fashion accessory…?’ he observed slyly. Eyes wide with
shocked indignation, her head reared back. She grunted and released
her breath in a rueful sigh the second she encountered the wry expression
in his heavy-lidded eyes. ‘You have a very warped sense of
humour,’ she said. It occurred to her that Quinn seemed to be less
shocked by her revelations than she was. ‘Perhaps, but in a long line
of extremely stupid things you’ve said recently that had to be one of
the most stupid. There are a lot of people out there who love you,
Rowena Parrish. You know that.’ ‘I know that,’ she admitted shamefaced,
thinking of her family who were even now probably worried
sick about her. There was a little ache in her heart because if Quinn
had wanted to add himself to the list he referred to he had surely just
had the ideal opportunity. His silence spoke volumes. ‘If you were as
lacking in maternal instincts as you make out you’d have jumped at
the opportunity to palm off the baby and not turned all feral on me.’
He rubbed the area mid-way up his chest where her aggressive finger
had left a red patch that would later become a bruise. ‘I didn’t
turn feral,’ Rowena denied, embarrassed at the description. A flicker
of shock crossed her face. ‘Did you say that thing—about taking the
baby—deliberately, to get a reaction?’ she asked, not sure she liked
the idea of him manipulating her in such a calculating manner. ‘I
wish I could claim to be that perceptive, but actually I just lost my
cool. It’s pretty hard when someone you care for is acting as if
you’ve ruined their life—especially when it’s a pretty justified viewpoint,’
he brooded darkly. For a brief moment Rowena flirted with
the idea of challenging him about the ‘someone you care for’ content
of his statement, but on sober reflection she decided to leave
well alone. Leaping on some casual comment smacked of sad desperation,
so instead she summoned up a strained smile. ‘I suppose
that’s something; it’s bad enough talking to you at the best of times.
If you suddenly developed the ability to see into my head too…Well,
it just doesn’t bear thinking about!’ she admitted frankly. Especially
when you considered the erotic fantasies swirling about in her head!
‘Sometimes,’ he replied, catching the angle of her jaw between his
thumb and forefinger, ‘I think I do know what you’re thinking and
on those occasions it seems spookily like you know what I’m thinking
too…Let’s try out the theory. What am I thinking now?’ he
asked throatily. Rowena caught her breath. His expression was still
and tense and inside all that stillness his wonderful eyes glowed.
They had that dark, raw, turned on look that made her melt inside
and turned her control switch all the way to frantic! She licked her
lips nervously and swayed towards him, completely mesmerised. He
had barely even touched her and in a matter of seconds she was
totally out of control. She wanted him to touch her, though; she
wanted it badly. Her heart rate would have set cardiac monitors
screaming warnings, her skin temperature shot up several degrees.
She was so aroused that every slight movement, the very touch of
the air on her skin made her shift restlessly. ‘Well…?’ This was the
point where she could easily have cooled things down with a few
well-chosen words. Instead of using those words she heard herself
respond in an embarrassingly weak, breathless whisper. ‘I really…I
really couldn’t say.’ ‘I’m thinking about your hair.’ His voice had
the texture of rough velvet as he reached out and let a few soft
strands of her pale hair slide through his long fingers. ‘So silky, so
fine.’ Rowena shivered and did so again and again as uncontrollable
tremors slid through her body. ‘And your skin, so smooth and firm
like satin.’ One finger trailed down her cheek before falling away.
His darkened eyes fell at the same moment to the agitated rise and
fall of her unconstrained breasts under the borrowed sweater. When
his eyes lifted they were burning. It was just a look but her insides
flooded with hot pleasure and even hotter desire—she was on fire
for him. She whimpered with relief when he took her face between
his hands and drew her pliant body towards him. ‘Are you going to
kiss me any time soon?’ she asked, looking from his eyes to his
mouth and back again. ‘All in good time,’ he purred, running his
tongue over the inside of her full, pouting lower lip. Anticipating the
actual moment he would eventually possess the honeyed sweetness
of her lips only heightened the desire coursing like fire through his
veins. However, this small display of will-power gave him the illusion
he still had some control, some choice, but deep down Quinn
knew that where Rowena was concerned his discipline was nil! The
bottom of her stomach dissolved. ‘Oh, my God!’ Weak with need to
the point of collapse, she clung to him. Her engorged nipples
burned, the clutching, congested ache low in her belly reached crisis
point as her firm, rounded thighs trembled. Given the urgency of her
need, this was not a moment for subtlety! Motivated now by nothing
but a driving need to assuage the demanding ache centred between
her legs, she pushed herself against him, rubbing her body erotically
against the aggressive bulge of his hard arousal. As she felt him suck
in his breath Rowena pressed her open mouth to his. Quinn’s response
was immediate; he was kissing her back with a frantic hunger
and wild intensity that made her senses spin. Like a famished man,
his tongue plunged and tasted, his teeth nipped—it was more than a
kiss but less than total possession, and Rowena wanted total possession!
Her neck extended to give his mouth access to the smooth,
graceful curve. ‘Take me to bed?’ she whispered as his breath
fanned over her ear. Eyes burning, she turned her face to his.
Quinn’s face was very close to hers. She had time to hazily note that
there was a dark flush along his cheekbones and the angular planes
of his face appeared harder and sharper in the moment before his
piercing eyes captured her own. After that she couldn’t see anything
but those glorious emerald depths. ‘See, I told you, you do know
what I’m thinking.’ He grinned, sweeping her up into his arms.
When Rowena woke some time later darkness had fallen; the
candles in the wall sconces flickered, sending dancing, elongated
shadows across the crumpled bedclothes and the two occupants.
Yawning, she stretched languidly, with an almost feline grace, and
her knee came into contact with something solid and warm. Shocked
into wakefulness, she jerked back, her blue eyes shot open—then
she relaxed. It was Quinn. Who else did you expect? she asked herself
mockingly. Rowena had never woken up beside a man, never
watched a man sleep, and the unexpected intimacy of this warm,
sleepy afterglow took her by surprise. Head supported on one hand,
she looked curiously at the man beside her. He lay asleep on his
stomach, his head turned to one side with the heavy, decadent, embroidered
velvet top cover pushed down to his waist. The soft
golden candlelight flickered over the powerful sculpted contours of
his back and brought out the subtle auburn highlights in his dark,
glossy hair. His even-coloured golden skin looked satiny and
smooth. He appeared to be sleeping deeply, the rhythm of his breathing
deep and regular, his head cradled in the crook of one arm. In
slumber his stern profile was softer, almost vulnerable. Looking at
the strong, clean-cut lines of his jaw, the droop of heavy lashes
across his slashing cheekbone, made her feel almost protective—or
was it almost possessive…? No almost about it, girl! The thought of
any other woman being where she was, seeing what she was seeing,
made her sick with jealousy. It was an emotion she’d never experienced
in relation to a male before, and the raw intensity of it scared
her. Would he wake if she touched him? Her fingertips flexed as she
silently contemplated tracing the line of his strong, supple spine all
the way down to that intriguing cleft just above his tight buttocks.
The texture, taste and scent of that smooth olive-toned skin was still
fresh in her head. A small, gloating smile tugged at full lips still
tender and swollen from his kisses as she thought about rediscovering
the tactile delights his body offered. Quinn shifted restlessly in
his sleep and Rowena drew guiltily back, and then she drew back
some more as he rolled even closer in the big bed. She bit back a
startled cry as, with an indistinct, throaty murmur, he threw his arm
over her body. She lay there hardly daring to move, hardly daring to
breathe. His arm heavy, inert and warm lay just below her ribcage,
effectively pinning her to the bed. Well, this wasn’t strictly
true—she could have moved, it was more a case of she didn’t want
to! She shot a darting glance to his long fingers curled possessively
over the crest of her hip and a flash-flood of heat engulfed her body.
Slowly, concentrating on a small portion of her body at a time she
forced herself to relax. It wasn’t as if it was a bad feeling having his
warm body close to her, so close in fact she could feel his breath on
her neck. Her own body still felt warm and satiated, the glow low in
her belly a reminder of Quinn’s ferociously tender possession. Quinn
had lit the candles before they’d made love. ‘That settles it. Definitely
a love-nest, no doubt whatsoever,’ he announced authoritatively.
‘Candles are a girl thing. The only reason a man uses candles
is to put a lady in the right mood.’ ‘Speaking from personal experience,
are we?’ she mocked as she covetously watched the long, lean
fluid lines of his body as he padded about with lithe, unselfconscious
grace, lighting them all before the burning taper in his hand almost
singed his fingertips. ‘Have you burnt yourself? You should put
them in water.’ ‘I’ve a much better idea,’ Quinn replied, leaping
onto the bed with athletic fervour. ‘You lick them cool for me. Medically
speaking, saliva has astonishing healing powers.’ This scandalous
suggestion made her colour rise. ‘That’s a very resourceful
suggestion,’ she admitted hoarsely. ‘I’m a very resourceful man.’
The resourceful man started stripping off his trousers. If she’d been
feeling a little more assured Rowena might have challenged him to
prove this claim. But she thought her response was pretty adequate—
Quinn’s reaction to it suggested it was, anyhow. The complacent
grin was certainly wiped off his face when, kneeling just in
front of him, she whipped the borrowed jumper over her head and
flung it carelessly aside. His eyes and jaw dropped simultaneously.
‘Oh, my God!’ she heard him mutter. Her eyes smouldered with sultry
triumph as the air was audibly expelled from his lungs in one
long, painful gasp. Surviving his scorching scrutiny without covering
herself or moving was a feat of remarkable endurance. Eventually
she could bear it no more. ‘Which hand was it?’ His glazed, unfocused
gaze returned jerkily to her face. ‘To hell with hands!’ he
growled, lunging for her. The memory of what came next she would
treasure for the rest of her life. His erotic explorations made her skin
burn. And when it came the climax surpassed the mere physical—it
touched her soul. In fact it did more than that: it provided proof positive
for a born cynic that she had one! Maybe some of what she felt
communicated itself to Quinn because he didn’t question the tears
that poured down her cheeks as he drew her into his arms afterwards.
‘Why are you crying?’ The sound of his voice in the present
made Rowena start violently. Awkwardly she edged farther down
beneath the covers and drew them up over her bare shoulders. ‘I
didn’t know you were awake.’ She hadn’t known she was crying
either. She touched the back of her hand to her cheek and felt the
moisture. ‘I’m about half and half.’ Quinn rolled onto his back and
stretched luxuriously, one arm flung over his head. ‘Are you going
to tell me why…?’ Rowena, conscious that she had been all but
drooling at the rippling display of muscular perfection, withdrew her
flustered glance and shook her head. ‘Hmm?’ ‘You might recall I
asked you why you’re crying a whole sixty seconds ago,’ came the
wry reminder. Considering he was responsible for her lack of concentration,
she didn’t think it very nice of him to be irritated by it.
‘Oh, that.’ She shrugged, dismissing the tears. ‘I wasn’t crying, I
was just thinking about…’ She dropped her eyes self-consciously.
She could hardly tell him his ardent love-making was so spectacularly
unforgettable—so uniquely fulfilling that the memory would
probably still be able to reduce her to an emotional basket case when
she was an old, old lady. ‘About something that made you cry?’ Suspicion
threaded his words. She rubbed her nose against the sheet.
‘What can I say? I’m a mess of seething hormones.’ The comment
invited laughter but Quinn didn’t seem to realise it; his expression
remained sombre and thoughtful. ‘I suppose you are.’ A man would
have to be very insensitive to ask a woman whose hormones were all
over the show to make a life-changing decision. Abruptly he rolled
onto his stomach and planted a hand either side of her face on the
pillow. There was nothing in any way lecherous about his lazy,
warm smile but her heart began to race. But then the scent of his
skin in her nostrils was enough to do that and you couldn’t discount
the degree to which the brazen pressure of his heavy thigh against
her own disconcerted her! Rowena swallowed convulsively—he was
so damned gorgeous she couldn’t take her eyes off him. He looked
down at the outline of her slim body lying beneath him. A frown appeared
above his aquiline nose as his roaming glance reached the
suggestion of soft hips under the covers and stayed put. ‘I take it
your gynaecologist has not picked up any problems?’ he probed cautiously.
‘I’m pregnant, not ill, Quinn.’ Quinn looked exasperated by
her impatient response. ‘In other words you’ve not seen a doctor
yet.’ He sighed, shaking his head. ‘That’s so typical of you, Parrish.’
‘I’ve seen you.’ Suppressing a bubble of naughty laughter, she
caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘Quite a lot of you actually,
Tyler,’ she elaborated with a lascivious little leer as her glance followed
the flow of dark body hair on his chest to the place where it
arrowed into a thin fine line over his lean belly. The image sent an
excited shiver down her spine. ‘And very nice too,’ she admitted, a
husky catch in her voice. ‘Very kind of you to say so.’ She reached
up and let her fingers slide across his collarbone. A slow, sultry
smile tugged at her wide, sexy mouth. ‘You know,’ she mused
throatily, ‘I think I might be passably good at it after all. It as in sex,
and passably as in pretty marvellous.’ Quinn raised himself above
her and supported himself on straight arms. After his initial sharp inhalation
his breathing seemed to have settled into a shallow, almost
laboured pattern. ‘You wouldn’t be trying to distract me, would
you?’ At this point Rowena, who was regretting her brazen behaviour,
would have liked to turn away, but breaking eye contact with
Quinn when he had other ideas was a nonstarter. ‘You haven’t told
me what you think.’ ‘I think,’ he finally responded in a low, sardonic
drawl, ‘that it isn’t outside the realms of possibility. In fact, given
the right encouragement, I think you could be brilliant.’ He shook
his head as a slow grin split his dark features. ‘Though I have to admit
you’re doing pretty well just doing what comes naturally.’ With
a laugh he suddenly rolled away from her. Rowena found herself
laughing too as they lay side by side staring at the rich canopy over
their heads. Almost in unison they turned their heads to face one another.
Continuing the symmetrical theme, the laughter died from
both their faces at the same moment—the moment that the electricity
flashed between them. As if drawn by an invisible cord, Rowena
leaned towards him, bringing her face close up to his. ‘Come on,’
fess up, Rowena, you haven’t seen a doctor, have you?’ A sound of
frustration whistled through her teeth as she angrily rolled herself in
the sheet and to the opposite side of the bed. Her femme fatale act
obviously needed some work. Talk about anticlimax! ‘I’ve hardly
had time yet to see doctors,’ she said crossly. ‘That’s no excuse—it’s
been over two months since the baby was conceived. It’s always
possible to make time for the important things in life,’ he evangelised
virtuously. Virtue, she reflected grumpily, was so much harder
to stomach when you knew the person dishing it out was right.
‘What sort of things would those be, Quinn?’ she asked, displaying
deep interest. ‘Being seen at film premières with bosomy starlets?’
Quinn grimaced. ‘Ah, you saw that one, did you?’ ‘Holly sent me
the video tape.’ At the time she had wondered why her sister had
imagined that seeing Quinn for thirty seconds parading through a
foyer of celebrities with a skimpily dressed actress on his arm would
offer any entertainment value. ‘Actually, Angie wasn’t really that
well endowed. It was just an unfortunate camera angle and a lot of,
erm, underwiring…’ He shifted his weight onto one elbow and used
his other hand to mime the uplift aspect of his description. Rowena
sniffed with lofty disdain. ‘Unfortunate from whose point of view?’
‘I was simply doing a mate a favour, you know.’ She smiled understandingly.
‘And hating every minute of it, I could tell,’ she guffawed
insincerely. ‘Mark, the poor sod, had mumps. He was totally
gutted; he’d been chasing Angie for months. He had enough to
worry about with the spectre of infertility hanging over him without
imagining some smoothie running off with his girlfriend.’ And this
from the smoothie of all smoothies! ‘And he thought you were a safe
pair of hands? My, doesn’t he need his head testing!’ Quinn’s fascinating
mouth twitched. ‘As illuminating as this display of claws is, I
think we’re drifting again…’ He didn’t allow Rowena, who had
opened her mouth to hotly contest this accusation of jealousy, to get
a word in before he seamlessly continued. ‘The first thing we do
when we get back to London is organise some antenatal care for
you. I know a really first-class woman, Alex Stone, you’d get on
with her…but of course if you have someone else in mind…’ ‘You
mean I can actually choose my own doctor?’ She gasped, giving her
best rendering of a helpless little girl voice. ‘Are you quite sure?’
‘Very funny. But, seriously, Rowena, we shouldn’t drag our feet on
this one—’ ‘We?’ ‘Of course we. I want to be with you every step of
the way with this, Rowena, before and after the birth. And while
we’re talking about it, this might be as good a time as any to think
about the benefits of us moving in together?’ He looked and sounded
so damned casual that Rowena’s first thought was that she must have
misunderstood him. ‘You’re suggesting that we move in together?’
‘It would make child care a lot easier—think about it…’ he suggested,
hardly sounding as if her decision was exactly life or death to
him. ‘There’s no desperate hurry, but I think you’ll find it makes
sense,’ he added, levering himself upright and throwing back the
covers, displaying a relaxed attitude to his naked state that Rowena
frankly envied. Sense! The argument no longer had the same pulling
power for her that it had done until recently. No, Rowena had discovered
she wasn’t so different from her contemporaries after all.
She didn’t want sense, she wanted passion! She wanted a man who
said his life would be nothing without her in it; she wanted promises
of eternal devotion—in short, she wanted the full works! And Quinn
very obviously wasn’t going to supply them. There was a certain
horrid irony to the situation. Rowena, who had spent her life avoiding
emotional complications, had fallen for a guy who had an approach
as pragmatic as her own had been. Still, you couldn’t throw
the baby out with the bath water…a flicker of affection closely followed
by worry crossed her face as she heard Gran’s brisk, no-nonsense
voice in her head serving up this favourite piece of advice. It
was one she had frequently employed when Rowena had been on the
point of ditching some scheme or other that hadn’t gone exactly to
plan. It wasn’t exactly hard to think of plus points beyond the mere
practicality of living with Quinn when he was strutting about the
bedroom in a state of beautiful undress. And who was to say his
feelings wouldn’t deepen later? Rowena, the covers modestly drawn
around her shoulders, sat upright. The defiant tilt of her chin was
aimed more at the small voice in her head that despaired at the unrealistic,
fingers-crossed decision she’d arrived at with such undue
haste than at him. ‘All right, then.’ ‘All right?’ Quinn paused in the
act of retrieving his trousers from the floor—not a situation that
would show off most men to their best advantage, but then Quinn
was not your average man! She watched him straighten up with that
smooth, fluid grace that typified his every movement; her stomach
responded quiveringly to the striking erotic image. ‘On one condition.’
‘We are talking about us moving in together, here, aren’t we?’
Rowena nodded. Unusually for Quinn, he was displaying
shock—perhaps at the speed with which she’d reached her decision.
‘I think we should have a probationary period during which we can
find out if we’re compatible,’ she said, trying with her aloof demeanour
to rebalance any appearance of undesirable eagerness she
might have previously displayed. ‘We know we’re perfectly compatible.’
His eyes moved extremely obviously in the direction of the
tumbled bed covers, inescapable evidence of their frantic coupling.
If sex was all it took to make a successful relationship, they’d have it
made, she thought, removing her own gaze from the proof of their
lovemaking. ‘I’m talking about outside the bedroom,’ she snapped
back. ‘Two seconds.’ Her frown deepened. ‘Two seconds what?’ ‘It
took seconds for your blush to peak.’ ‘You were timing it?’ He nodded.
‘That might be a record.’ ‘I’m awfully glad I amuse you.’ This
was only their future she was talking about and he was making
dumb jokes at her expense. Quinn sighed. ‘It’s only a joke. I like you
blushing. It’s charming and cute.’ ‘Cute!’ she echoed, her face
screwed up in disgust. ‘Is that meant to be a compliment? If so, I
have to tell you, you badly miscalculated.’ Quinn’s jaw tightened.
‘Perhaps you should compile a blacklist of unacceptable compliments.’
How did he always turn things around so that she came out
the unreasonable one? ‘You wouldn’t call a man cute, would you?’
Not the most staggeringly intelligent riposte you’ve ever come up
with, Rowena, she told herself. ‘You don’t want me to answer that,
do you?’ Rowena shook her head, feeling a complete moron. ‘But I
do want you to treat me like your intellectual equal, not someone to
pat on the head.’ ‘So I’m supposed to say your intellect turns me on?
Well, quite frankly I’d be lying. Your mind is a maze to me, your
motivations are mostly a complete mystery, I just think I’ve got you
worked out and you go and—’ ‘Do something daft and get pregnant.’
‘There you go again!’ he yelled as, pushing his fingers deep
into his dark hair, he shook his head wearily from side to side. ‘Putting
words into my mouth. For heaven’s sake, woman, why can’t
you just go with the flow?’ He sighed. With an inarticulate squeal of
frustration Rowena grabbed a pillow and pushed her head under it. It
was hard to maintain his animosity when confronted by the image of
her neat little behind stuck up in the air, swaying gently backwards
and forwards. When her repertoire of foul language was exhausted
Rowena emerged, her cheeks pink and her hair sticking up. ‘Have
you any idea how much you irritate me when you say things like
that?’ she demanded. ‘Things like what?’ ‘Chill out, go with the
flow…’ With a choked sob she pulled the pillow across her chest
and buried her face in it. She stayed like that for several moments,
rocking back and fro before straightening up. ‘Well, any trial run
seems obsolete now, doesn’t it?’ Quinn folded his arms across his
bare chest and looked belligerent. ‘Why’s that?’ ‘Are you mad?
We’ve got nothing whatever in common. The fact is I’m a picture
straightener, always have been, always will be, and you…’ She
forced herself to look at the tall, dynamic figure who made her ache
with a mixture of lust, love and frustration. ‘At heart you’re a slob,
Quinn. Oh, I know you look respectable when you’re working.’
Respectable hardly covered the elegant, commanding figure he cut
in his dark designer suits and handmade shoes. ‘But that’s not the
real you, is it?’ ‘You think you know who the real me is?’ He looked
fascinated. ‘The real you is the one crawling round underneath that
motorbike of yours wearing jeans and a tee shirt covered in oil.’
‘Well, I’d look damned stupid fixing the brake pads on the bike in a
suit and tie, wouldn’t I?’ ‘You’re missing the point.’ ‘No, I’m not,
you’re getting bogged down with a lot of stupid details that don’t
really matter. The bottom line is your life has improved beyond all
recognition with me in it.’ A laugh of pure disbelief was torn from
her throat. ‘You really are unbelievable!’ She gasped, half laughing
at his outrageous arrogance. ‘It’s true, you’ve always needed a challenge—’
‘I can’t dispute you’re that!’ ‘Your trouble is you inspire
admiration, awe and fear in men.’ ‘But not in you?’ ‘No, when I’m
not wanting to strangle you, I’m thinking about when, where and
how I’m going to make love to you,’ he announced with breathtaking
candour. All manner of steamy images passed rapidly before her
burning eyes as she drew in a shuddering breath. ‘Always supposing
we did move in together, and I’m only saying supposing…’ she
began shakily. ‘Of course.’ She was relieved to see he was happy to
play along with the pretence that her decision hadn’t always been a
foregone conclusion. She’d been making sensible decisions all her
life—perhaps it was time she started making the odd crazy one. She
was starting to think that steering clear of emotional attachments
hadn’t been sensible, just cowardly. Or maybe there was only so
long you could ignore your genes—perhaps it was her destiny to go
crazy like all the other women in her family. ‘There’s another condition,’
she explained, trying to give the impression this codicil was an
unimportant afterthought. Quinn looked suspicious. ‘You don’t want
me to sell my bike, do you?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t think we
should date anyone else.’ She half expected him to pick up on the inescapable
fact there wasn’t much possibility of her pulling with a
bump the size of a house preceding her into a room! ‘Monogamy?’
Quinn sucked in his breath and shook his head doubtfully. ‘That’s a
big ask!’ Rowena’s heart dropped somewhere south of her knees;
her stomach churned. If her eyes hadn’t also dropped she’d have recognised
the unmistakable flare of anger in Quinn’s lustrous eyes.
‘It’s non-negotiable,’ she gritted. Compromise was one thing, becoming
a doormat was something else again. ‘Good grief, woman!’
Quinn ejaculated, his expression morphing into one of extreme exasperation
as his green eyes skimmed her flushed face. ‘Do you actually
think I’m the sort of man who would have one woman at home
and keep a bit on the side?’ He looked at her expression of self-conscious
guilt and snorted with disgust. ‘Oh, that’s just damned great,’
he drawled with a jaundiced scowl. ‘You do, don’t you?’ Rowena’s
eyes slid uncomfortably away from the accusation in his cynical
glare. ‘I just wanted you to know what you were letting yourself in
for,’ she muttered, chewing her lip. ‘It would seem I’m letting myself
in for living with a woman who thinks I have no staying power
in the fidelity department.’ ‘It’s not too late to change your mind!’
she flared. Quinn’s narrowed gaze stilled on her flushed face. ‘Oh,
you’ll not get rid of me that easily, sweetheart.’ Rowena shivered.
‘You make it sound like a threat,’ she accused, secretly relieved he
hadn’t taken her up on her rash offer. It was quite horrifically politically
incorrect to be attracted by the air of danger he was effortlessly
projecting, but she couldn’t help herself. Perhaps, she pondered, it
was all right to be turned on by menace when you knew the person
oozing it would never hurt you. Quinn smiled and pulled the narrowcut
trousers up over his snaky hips. ‘A threat, a promise.’ He
shrugged carelessly. ‘It’s much the same thing.’ A promise, she
thought, didn’t have sinister overtones. ‘All this quarrelling doesn’t
seem a very auspicious start to this…this…’ What did you call what
they were embarking on? She glanced up at Quinn who had obviously
recognised her dilemma and had no intention of helping her
out. ‘Arrangement,’ she finished with a sigh of relief. ‘People in arrangements
frequently quarrel, Rowena, though I can hardly expect
you to know about such things.’ ‘Meaning…?’ ‘Meaning you’ve got
a nerve questioning my commitment. If you recall, it was me who
wanted to put our relationship on a more formal footing right from
the beginning—you were the one that wanted the freedom to shop
around.’ The crude assessment made her wince. ‘Just how many lovers
do you think I’ve had?’ she yelled. ‘I have never shopped
around, as you put it, and you can’t pretend that you would have
been talking about moving in together if I hadn’t got pregnant.’
‘We’ll never know, will we?’ Rowena knew evasion when she heard
it. ‘And the point is you are pregnant. Let’s deal with that.’ Rowena
took a deep breath. He was right. She had to deal with the knowledge
that she loved someone who didn’t love her. It’s not a total
tragedy, she told herself sternly. Stop griping about what you don’t
have and wake up to what you do have—Quinn is a fantastic lover,
he’ll make a great father to our child and he’ll never deliberately
hurt you. ‘Yes, and a baby needs security.’ Not to mention two parents.
An odd expression flickered into Quinn’s eyes. ‘And what do
you need, Rowena?’ Love! she wanted to shout. Fortunately the
emotional lump the size of a large boulder that was at that moment
lodged in her aching throat ruled out such an indiscreet and unwise
response. Mutely she shook her head. ‘I know right now it feels as if
you’re giving up your freedom, but you never know—one day you
might even come to believe you’d gained something even more precious.’
Leaving her to ponder his cryptic parting shot, he pushed
open the door of the en suite bathroom and strode inside, the door
clicking closed after him. Rowena had just started tidying away the
remains of the meal Quinn had cooked when he appeared wearing a
towel around his trim middle. ‘What are you doing?’ Despite the
fact it must be perfectly obvious what she was doing, in the interests
of harmony Rowena replied, ‘Clearing up.’ ‘Leave it until later,’
Quinn responded, dismissing the sink half full of dirty pots with a
lordly gesture. ‘But…but…’ Her eyes widened as Quinn snuffed out
the candles she’d lit between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Now you
can’t see them. Does that make it easier?’ His dark velvet voice
reached her through the blanket of darkness. ‘I’ll still know they’re
there.’ She started as his hand closed firmly over hers. ‘Listen, I
think I’m taking it pretty well considering you obviously find it hard
to choose between me and dirty dishes. So stop fussing, woman, and
come with me.’ ‘Come where? I can’t see,’ she protested, resisting
just enough to demonstrate she wasn’t a pushover, but not enough to
discourage him too much as he tugged her forward. ‘I’ll see for us
both.’ ‘Oh, and I suppose you can see in the dark?’ ‘Actually I do
happen to have exceptional night vision…’ ‘And an ego the size of
Ben Nevis,’ she grumbled as an iron arm fastened around her waist.
‘It doesn’t look as if I have much choice, does it?’ ‘And we all know
how much you love to sit back and let someone else take control.’
Frowningly, she absorbed his smooth comment as he led her across
the room and to the foot of the stairs without bumping into anything.
It was either luck or it hadn’t been an idle boast—he really could see
in the dark. ‘Are you saying I’m a control freak?’ she demanded as
they mounted the stairs together. Quinn laughed bitterly in reply but
didn’t pause. He led her swiftly through the bedroom and towards
the bathroom. Rowena tried to wrest her arm from his tenacious
grip. ‘Will you just let me—?’ ‘Stop it, you’ll hurt yourself.’ ‘No,
actually, you’ll hurt me…’ With a curse Quinn released her arm.
‘Thank you,’ she began sarcastically. Quinn leant over her head and
pushed the bathroom door behind her open. Her head automatically
turned in the direction of the soft light that suddenly spilled from the
room. ‘Oh, wow!’ she breathed, stepping like someone in a dream
over the threshold. The opulent room with its enormous claw-footed
bath was filled with the light of flickering candles; they covered just
about every available surface. The soft light picked out the fragrant
oil floating on the warm water filling the tub. If there had ever been
a seduction scene set, she was looking at it. She heard the door softly
close. ‘You did this for me?’ she whispered, not turning around. His
hands moved to her shoulders, drawing her back against his body. ‘I
did this for us, Rowena,’ he corrected throatily. ‘I’d like us to take
some good memories away with us.’ Tears standing out in her eyes,
she spun around. ‘Oh, Quinn,’ she cried, ‘I’ve already got more of
those than I ever thought possible!’ she declared passionately.
‘There’s room for more, though…?’ She reached boldly for the zip
on his trousers. ‘Definitely,’ she agreed, her eyes not leaving his.
CHAPTER EIGHT QUINN heard the sound of barking and
straightened up. He flexed his shoulders to ease the ache between his
shoulder blades and thrust the shovel he’d been wielding for the last
half-hour into the snow. Despite the beginnings of a thaw there was
no shortage of that. The dog he’d heard reached him before the
group of men who were just beyond hailing distance. Quinn waved a
hand at them before squatting down to stroke the animal frisking affectionately
around his feet. ‘Are you the rescue party, boy?’ he
asked, running his fingers through the collie’s glossy coat. ‘Clever
boy,’ he approved. ‘In fact, I’ve known hospital managers that look
less intelligent than you—a lot less,’ he added as he looked into the
bright, intelligent eyes of the dog. The animal, detecting a note of
praise in the man’s deep voice, barked some more and wagged his
tail enthusiastically. Hearing the tramp of human feet, Quinn pulled
himself upright and, brushing the snow from his knees, prepared to
meet his rescue party, who would no doubt think he was a total
bloody fool to abandon the relative safety of a car in the middle of a
blizzard. He steeled himself for their scorn. At an educated guess he
suspected the well-equipped group approaching were members of a
local mountain rescue team, or something similar. Oh, well, he reflected
philosophically, at least they were accustomed to dealing
with reckless fools as well as the genuinely unfortunate. ‘Saw the
smoke,’ the chap walking in the front of the party called, gesturing
towards the chimney stack. He peeled back the ear flaps from his
cap and brushed a few stray flakes of snow from his rusty-coloured
beard. ‘We were wondering if you know anything about the silver
Saab down on the road? The hire company’s got it registered to
a…Miss…’ ‘Rowena Parrish,’ Quinn supplied as the bearded chap
ransacked his pockets for the relevant piece of paper. ‘We’re together,’
he added. The leader, left with the immediate impression it
would take a person of unusual determination or spectacular foolishness
to separate this man from the woman in question, nodded. A
man of few words himself, he appreciated the tall guy’s ability to say
more with two words than most people managed with several dozen.
‘She’s all right?’ Quinn nodded. ‘Inside, straightening things up. We
were going to try and make it out a little later.’ ‘Let Headquarters
know, Jack,’ he instructed one of his companions. ‘We’re from the
local mountain rescue, we’re helping out the emergency services.
Ralf MacNeil…’ He extended his gloved hand. A manly handshake
was exchanged as Quinn too identified himself. ‘The snowplough
hasn’t got this far yet, but we can give you a lift in the off-roader as
far as the motel on the main road. That’s where most of the other
stranded folk ended up before.’ ‘Those that didn’t leave their cars,’
Quinn put in drily. ‘Not the best idea…’ Quinn appreciated the tact
of his politely restrained reply. ‘Incidentally, how far away is the
car? We lost all sense of direction,’ he admitted. ‘About five hundred
yards over that ridge,’ one of the younger men responded,
pointing in the direction they’d just come from. Quinn laughed and
shook his head. ‘We probably weren’t any farther than that from it
the whole time. We were walking round in circles.’ Irony didn’t get
much darker than dying of exposure yards away from your own car,
but as Quinn wasn’t the sort of man to waste his time worrying
about things that hadn’t happened he didn’t have a problem dismissing
it from his mind. ‘Snow can be very disorientating.’ ‘It’s not the
only thing,’ Quinn responded, thinking of the infuriating woman inside.
The other man looked puzzled but Quinn didn’t fill in the
blanks. ‘Come in and I’ll break the good news to Rowena.’ Rowena,
who had tried to return the cottage to its original pristine condition,
received the news of their rescue with mixed feelings, which she
tried hard not to show. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to leave—of
course she did, she was desperate to get the hospital—but she
couldn’t resist a few wistful backward glances at the cottage as the
team of mountaineers led them back to civilisation. Sealed away
from the world, for a short blissful time the pressures had ceased to
exist. She wondered uneasily if they’d ever be able to regain that
precious sense of harmony once they had to start juggling all the
other demands of their lives. Quinn caught her arm as she stumbled.
‘It might be a good idea to look where you’re going.’ He intercepted
the direction of her glance. ‘You know, I’m quite going to miss the
old place, too.’ ‘No electricity, no phone and no mod cons…I always
knew you were odd, Quinn,’ she scoffed pragmatically. He brought
his face down close to hers, close enough for her to appreciate the
clear, close-textured qualities of his olive skin, close enough to affect
her breathing, close enough to make her want to curl her fingers
in his dark hair and tug him the extra inch or so until their lips were
touching. ‘I was thinking more about the company,’ he purred. ‘It’s
true you’ve got a mean streak, but I can’t think of anyone else I’d
prefer to be stranded in a snowstorm with.’ Bathed by the warmth of
his gaze, Rowena was suddenly hit by a wave of incapacitating shyness.
‘You did leave our phone numbers on that note?’ she asked
him, abruptly changing the subject. Quinn didn’t try and prevent her
as she pulled away from him. ‘I’ve already told you, phone number,
address, e-mail and fax. Mind you, if you’d let me go through that
desk we’d know who to contact,’ he pointed out. ‘The desk was
locked,’ she retorted, increasing her pace in the hope the exertion
would help clear her befuddled senses. ‘Anyhow, you can’t rifle
willy-nilly through other people’s personal papers. Besides, all we
have to do is ask the police to let the owner know what happened
and he can contact us.’ Quinn shrugged. ‘Have it your own way.’
Rowena sent him an irritated glare and hurried ahead to catch up the
man who appeared to be in charge of the rescue. She tapped him on
the shoulder. ‘Excuse me,’ she panted. ‘But I was wondering, do you
think we’ll be able to get through to Inverness later today?’ ‘I
shouldn’t think so.’ A man more at ease with mountains than beautiful
woman, he responded with restraint and avoided too much eye
contact. However, his reserve cracked when he saw her face fall.
Awkwardly he patted her on the back. ‘Important, was it?’ Rowena
nodded. ‘My grandmother’s ill, she’s in hospital there.’ His craggy
features softened. ‘Ah, well, you might be able to get back to Glasgow.’
Rowena managed a polite smile. The man was only being
helpful, but she didn’t see there was much point in getting even
farther away from her desired destination. ‘And from there you
could catch a flight up to Inverness.’ Later that night Ralf MacNeil
told the barman at the Nag’s Head that the lassie’s smile had been
like the sun breaking out. ‘Why didn’t I think of that…the airport
has reopened?’ ‘I believe so.’ ‘Thank you, that’s what I’ll do.’ When
Quinn caught her up a few moments later she didn’t share the information
with him. It would be nice to show him after her feeble
display so far that she was actually capable of organising things
without his help. Rowena unfastened her seat belt as the last leg of
her journey finally came to an end. A person accustomed to her own
company, she had been startled to find herself on several occasions
during the tedious but uneventful journey automatically turning to
Quinn to share some snippet of information—not big, world-shattering
stuff, just little things that she knew would make him smile,
things like the big, butch-looking chap, obviously terrified of flying,
who had been clinging to his delicate-looking girlfriend’s hand for
dear life ever since they took off. Quinn hadn’t been there most of
her life so why did she experience that odd, empty feeling each time
she recognised her solitary state now…? She had no reason to feel
guilty, she reminded herself as she disembarked. It wasn’t as if she
had to ask Quinn’s permission before she made a decision. It was
questionable if Quinn would believe it, but she really hadn’t deliberately
set out to give him the slip. Though the breathing space to sort
her thoughts out had been a definite plus point, she told herself, ignoring
the fact that, though she’d done a lot of thinking during her
solo journey north, none of it had been particularly constructive. If
Quinn hadn’t pulled a vanishing act, if he’d actually been around
when the talkative chap at the motel bar had offered her the spare
seat in his minibus as far as Glasgow, he’d probably have told her to
go for it. After all, that was what this journey had been all about, her
getting to Gran—sure, a few unscheduled matters had come up
along the way. She veered her thoughts away from those other matters
and into safer channels, but it wasn’t long before she was thinking
about Quinn again. What had he thought when the barman had
given him the quick note of explanation she’d scribbled? The barman
had promised faithfully to pass it on and in this instance
Quinn’s eye-catching qualities had come in very handy when she’d
tried to describe him. ‘You mean the tall, dark guy that brunette was
all over.’ She wished that Quinn were there to hear this neutral assessment,
which happened to coincide with her own. When she had
casually mentioned something along these lines to Quinn he had had
the cheek to infer she was jealous. The brunette, he’d said, was just
being friendly. ‘So friendly she was one step away from slipping
you her room key!’ Rowena had been provoked into responding. It
wasn’t long after that he had vanished without a word of explanation.
If she was the pathologically jealous type he implied, she might
have thought he had gone to continue his conversation with the brunette.
‘He’s the one,’ she confirmed grimly to the barman. ‘I’d tell
my friend myself,’ she explained, ‘but I don’t know where he’s got
to, and they’re leaving straight away.’ The barman tucked the note in
his breast pocket. ‘Don’t you worry, I’ll give him the message.’ Still
she hovered. Nobody looking at her would have believed her decisiveness
was one quality that every employer she’d ever had had
raved about, she reflected with self-derision as she stood there torn,
not knowing what to do for the best. ‘We’re off now if you’re coming,
love.’ Rowena made one last desperate search for the tall, dark,
easily distinguishable head before she finally straightened her
shoulders and nodded. ‘Yes, please.’ And the journey had gone
without a hitch if you discounted the fact the members of the bowling
club, a group of respectable over-sixties, had got a bit raucous
after the stop at the pub, and to avoid seeming stand-offish she’d felt
obliged to join in their powerful rendering of ‘Speed Bonny Boat’.
Presumably Quinn now knew where she was. What had he done
when he’d discovered she’d gone on without him? she wondered.
Where was he now? Not up to his ankles in depressing slush, I bet,
she thought, looking down at her icy extremities mired in the slushy
mess—nor queuing for a taxi, either. Quinn was one of those irritating
people who never had a problem locating a taxi. Had he gone
straight back to London, maybe? Should she ring him, or wait for
him to contact her? If they were a real couple such details would not
occupy her thoughts this way—real couples were already part of
each other’s lives. God, even though they’d known each other since
university they were virtually strangers, she thought as her feelings
continued to see-saw violently from one extreme to the other. What
was I thinking of, agreeing to move in with him…? Talk about a recipe
for disaster. I’d give us a month, six weeks tops, she thought
gloomily as the rashness of her decision hit home once again. In five
minutes’ time she’d nearly convinced herself that there was nothing
stopping them building a future together except her disinclination to
accept compromise. ‘This has to stop!’ The man who had been going
to barge past her to the taxi that had just drawn up stepped hastily
to one side to give her a clear path. Rowena, who was blissfully
unaware she had spoken out loud, smiled at this sweetly chivalrous
display. Holly was waiting for her at the swing doors of the hospital
entrance. ‘She really is all right?’ Rowena asked, breaking free of
her sister’s tight hug. ‘You weren’t just trying to make me feel better
on the phone?’ Holly grinned. ‘Come and see for yourself. I should
warn you, though, she’s not what you’d call an easy patient.’
Rowena blinked as her sister’s face swam in and out of focus. ‘Can I
sit down for a minute…?’ she asked faintly. ‘I feel a bit wobbly.’
‘I’m not surprised after your nightmare journey. We were worried
sick when we couldn’t contact you, but we knew you wouldn’t come
to any harm with Quinn around.’ The strange little strangled laugh
that emerged from Rowena’s bloodless lips made Holly’s gaze
sharpen as she anxiously scanned her sister’s pale face. She led her
without further comment to one of the chairs in the foyer. ‘Can I get
you anything? A glass of water?’ Rowena lifted her head from
between her knees. ‘No, I’m fine,’ she replied, summoning a shaky
smile. ‘It’s just I’ve been so afraid I didn’t dare let myself believe
she would be all right.’ Holly took her hand and squeezed it. ‘I know
exactly what you mean—but it’s more than that, though, isn’t it?’
she added, with the startling perspicacity she had an unnerving habit
of displaying. Part of Rowena desperately ached to confide the
whole story to Holly right there and then—the pregnancy, Quinn,
everything—but common sense intervened, so she didn’t say, I’m
pregnant, or even, I’m in love—this wasn’t the time or place for
confessions. ‘I could do with a blood sugar boost. I haven’t had anything
to eat since breakfast.’ It was fairly obvious that Holly wasn’t
totally convinced by this explanation, but she didn’t push it. ‘Shall I
get you a bar of chocolate or something?’ ‘That might be a good
idea.’ Holly’s short absence gave Rowena the chance to get some
sort of grip on her emotions ‘What should I expect with Gran?’ she
asked tentatively as they walked along the hospital corridors. ‘Is her
speech affected or…?’ ‘You’ll find her just as sharp as ever,’ Holly
responded, anticipating the question her sister was too scared to
come right out and ask. ‘There’s no intellectual impairment at all.
She’s had a left-sided stroke, so that means one half of her
body—the opposite side—has been affected. Gran’s been lucky,
she’s already regaining some motor function. I suppose the most obvious
thing you’ll see is her face.’ She touched the side of her own
smooth cheek. ‘The corner of her mouth has dropped, which has given
her a slight slur, but there is no dysphasia.’ ‘Talk English,
Holly…? Me not doctor, me simple magazine editor…’ Holly
grinned. ‘Her speech has not been affected.’ Rowena soon discovered
this was true. ‘Well, you took your time getting here,’
Elspeth observed tartly as her tall, willowy granddaughter walked
through the door. ‘Gran!’ Rowena cried, rushing straight past her
mother who was seated at the bedside. She sat beside the frail figure
in the bed, tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘Your mascara will
run,’ the old lady predicted. ‘I’m not wearing any,’ Rowena choked.
‘No,’ her sister mused gloomily, ‘it’s all natural. Doesn’t it make you
sick?’ She sighed. ‘It seems to me, Holly, you’ve found someone
who likes you just the way you are.’ Having reduced her younger
granddaughter to blushing silence, she turned to the elder. ‘For
goodness’ sake, girl, give me a hug. I won’t break!’ Rowena glanced
uncertainly at her mother, who nodded in encouragement. ‘I’m so
sorry I couldn’t get here sooner, Gran.’ Rowena sighed when she
eventually drew back. ‘No, you’ve been having quite an adventure, I
understand, though I suspect I’ve been getting a strictly expurgated
version from your man.’ ‘I…I don’t understand…my man…?’
‘Don’t go all coy on me, Rowena.’ ‘I’m not being coy, Gran, I…’
Holly came to her rescue. ‘She doesn’t know Quinn is here, Gran,
she hasn’t seen him yet.’ No trace of colour in her face, Rowena
spun around. ‘Quinn is here? But that isn’t possible!’ she babbled. ‘I
caught the first plane up here and he was…’ ‘Cadging a lift off an
old mate of his who runs a helicopter service.’ Wasn’t that just typical
of Quinn—he always had to go one better, was Rowena’s first
thought. The second was pure panic. ‘That means that he’s here in
Inverness,’ she said blankly. She’d pictured him in his London flat,
in the motel bar getting drunk and calling her names, even, but never
in her wildest dreams had she pictured him here! ‘Actually he’s here
in the hospital,’ Holly said, regarding her shaken sister with sympathy
tinged with a liberal dollop of curiosity. ‘He and Niall have
taken Dad and Gramps to the canteen for something to eat. They
should be back any minute now.’ ‘Oh, God!’ What, she wondered,
furtively scrutinising the faces of her nearest and dearest, what had
he been saying behind her back? ‘I hope he hasn’t been boring
you…’ she probed hopefully. ‘Actually it was a relief to talk to
someone who doesn’t act like I’m about to keel over and die any
second.’ ‘Yes, Quinn’s a lovely man, Rowena,’ her mother agreed in
her soft voice. ‘Not to mention indecently good-looking,’ Holly added,
grinning at Rowena. Rowena found she couldn’t grin back. She
gulped. If she couldn’t take a teasing remark off her sister, how was
she going to cope with total strangers leering lustfully at him? Because
they would. Quinn inspired a very high lust factor in women.
‘You go along and meet them, girls, I want a nap—’ ‘I’ll stay—’
Rowena began. ‘Nonsense, your mother will keep me company,
won’t you, Eileen?’ The sisters exchanged glances. They both knew
that, ill or not, when Elspeth used that tone there was no point arguing.
‘Do you want to go up to the canteen to see if they’re still
there?’ Holly asked. ‘Definitely not!’ Rowena didn’t know much but
she knew that she wasn’t in any hurry to confront Quinn. ‘We got
such a shock when he turned up without you, but when he explained
how you’d gone and hitched a lift we all laughed—even Niall, thank
goodness.’ ‘Oh, yes, hilarious,’ Rowena gritted. Her smooth brow
puckered and she stopped in the middle of the corridor. ‘Why even
Niall?’ she queried sharply. ‘Well, they haven’t met since the last
time…’ ‘And what happened the last time Niall and Quinn met?’ An
expression of comical dismay tinged by embarrassment crossed her
sister’s face. ‘He didn’t tell you…I assumed…’ ‘Didn’t tell me
what?’ Holly sighed. ‘I don’t think he wanted me to tell you,
Rowena…’ ‘I don’t give a damn what he wants.’ Holly sighed.
‘Well, the last time they met was one morning at your place—it was
when you were in America, and Niall, well, Niall…’ ‘Niall what?’
Rowena prompted, running out of patience. ‘He hit Quinn—knocked
him down, actually. Fortunately Quinn was feeling a bit “the morning
after the night before”, if you get my meaning, so there wasn’t a
full scale brawl or anything,’ Holly confided ingenuously. ‘Well,
yes, that was lucky. How did Quinn and Niall both happen to be in
my flat on the same morning?’ ‘Well, Quinn arrived the night before—’
‘The night before?’ ‘Yeah, and he’d had a real skinful…I
mean he was really drunk.’ ‘Quinn doesn’t drink!’ Rowena protested
faintly. ‘I don’t know about that, but he had that night.’ ‘What did he
do?’ ‘Well, actually, he got into your bed…’ ‘Which you were using?’
Cold fear froze Rowena to the spot. No, he couldn’t
have…Holly wouldn’t have…not in my own bed? ‘Yes, I’d gone to
London to see Niall and was using your place like I always do,’
Holly, still blissfully unaware of the storm about to break over her
innocent head, confirmed. ‘And I didn’t have the heart to pitch him
out, poor love. The next morning Niall showed up just as Quinn was
coming out of the shower and he sort of—’ ‘I think I get the picture,’
Rowena responded, her lip curling in distaste, her stomach churning.
‘Yes, well, you know Niall and how irrational he can be sometimes.’
The thought of her fiancé and his numerous faults brought a soppy
smile to her lips. ‘Irrational…?’ Rowena looked at her sister as if
she’d never seen her before. Take away the glorious mane of untamable
red hair, the great body, the sinfully sexy mouth and what did
you have that had men like Niall and Quinn making fools of themselves?
she asked herself. If you discounted the fact she was feisty
and funny—nothing! ‘I think that under the circumstances you’re
lucky he’s been so tolerant.’ ‘What?’ Holly yelped, staring in
shocked consternation into her lovely sister’s eyes, which were at
that moment about as friendly as a sharpened scalpel. ‘If you actually
want to keep Niall, Holly,’ Rowena added with a frigid smile of
disdain, ‘you’ll mend your ways, because even if he is besotted Niall
isn’t the type of man to accept that sort of behaviour from his wife,
and, quite frankly…’ she wobbled, her superior sneer quivering into
a look of unmitigated misery ‘…I think he deserves better!’ She
turned sharply on her heel and left a flabbergasted Holly staring after
the tall figure stalking away down the corridor. Rowena had no idea
where she was going. She just knew if she’d not removed herself the
temptation to shake her sister until her teeth rattled would have been
too difficult to resist. Holly had been so casual about it, that was the
worst part, as though sleeping with the man her sister loved was no
big deal. And as for Quinn—the rat, being as drunk as a skunk was
no excuse in her mind for such an act of betrayal with her own sister!
Quinn, the great straight-talker; Quinn whose integrity she had
taken pretty much for granted, had turned out to be the sort of man
who would sleep with your best friend, or sister, if you weren’t
around. Well, just as well she’d found out before she’d done anything
really stupid. Only it already was too late—she had done
something really stupid. She’d fallen in love with the two-timing rat
and she was carrying his baby. At least she didn’t have to compound
these errors and move in with him. Better to find out this way than
come home one day to find him in bed with the au pair, she told herself,
feeling so lucky she could have cried. In fact, she was crying;
big, silent tears were rolling unheeded down her cheeks. Between
Quinn and her hormones she’d cried more in the last forty-eight
hours than she had in the previous four years—yet another reason to
dump him. She never had understood women who stayed with a man
who made them unhappy. By the time Quinn caught up with her she
had emerged from the broken, betrayed woman phase and progressed
on to the icily controlled avenging goddess level—or maybe
not…? ‘Get out of my sight, you piece of slime!’ she shrieked as he
approached her smilingly. Anger, she told herself as a passing porter
visibly recoiled, was an important part of the recovery process.
Quinn hastily rethought his plan—the one where he kissed her
senseless. ‘I think you scared that poor man.’ ‘He wasn’t the target.’
‘I sort of gathered that,’ he responded mildly. ‘Did you have a good
journey, Rowena?’ ‘You weren’t there,’ she said, managing to imply
this was a big plus point. He still made no direct reference to her
overt hostility, but his eyes had narrowed thoughtfully. ‘Nothing’s
happened to your grandmother, has it?’ ‘No, she’s fine.’ ‘I was worried
when I found you’d left the hotel.’ This was a masterly understatement;
actually he’d been frantic. When he’d cooled down a bit,
he’d apologised to the poor guy behind the bar for hurling a torrent
of abuse and then half throttling him when he’d handed over the
note Rowena had left for him. ‘I can take care of myself.’ ‘I know
that, but I enjoy taking care of you.’ If she hadn’t known about his
hypocrisy she’d have been putty in his hands after a line like that.
Acknowledging her own weakness made her even angrier. ‘I suppose
you enjoy taking care of Holly too!’ She laughed bitterly.
Quinn shook his head. ‘You just lost me.’ ‘You do innocent confusion
extremely well, but there’s no point. I know everything!’ she
explained with a triumphant sneer. ‘I had no idea you had a taste for
high drama,’ Quinn mused, starting to look slightly impatient. ‘I
know about you and Holly, how you slept with her in my bed, and
don’t try and deny it—she told me herself.’ ‘I doubt that very much.’
‘Well, Niall might be crazy enough to forgive you, but not me! I’m
glad he knocked you down—I hope it hurt.’ A reminiscent grin
touched Quinn’s lips as he ran his fingers along his angular jaw. ‘It
did.’ ‘I’m very very glad!’ This malicious declaration was spoilt
slightly by the great gulping sob that suddenly wracked her slender
frame. A decisive expression appeared on Quinn’s face. ‘This has
gone on long enough!’ ‘What are you doing?’ she asked as he suddenly
grabbed her wrist in a firm manner. ‘Let me go!’ she demanded
in a loud voice as he began to drag her forcibly down the corridor.
‘I’ll scream!’ Before she had time to put her threat into action
Quinn stopped abruptly, read the sign on a door and pushed it open.
A young man wearing a white coat sat dozing in one of the easy
chairs with a newspaper propped up on his knee; he jerked upright
as they walked in. Quinn glanced at his name badge and nodded.
‘We need some privacy,’ he said, jerking his head towards the door.
‘Right, yes, sir, of course.’ Rowena watched incredulously as he
picked up his stethoscope and hurriedly left. ‘Did he know you?’
There was nothing about Quinn in his present garb to identify him as
senior consultant. Quinn shrugged. ‘I don’t think so.’ ‘Then I must
be missing something—why did he go?’ Quinn shrugged. ‘Because
he knew we wanted to be alone?’ ‘Well, he was wrong. I don’t want
to be alone with you now or ever!’ ‘Well, that’s too bad because
you’ve no option.’ ‘What do you intend to do?’ Rowena jeered, tossing
her head. ‘Lock me up?’ ‘No, marry you.’ This matter-of-fact
statement robbed Rowena of her ability to think and articulate more
than a muffled croak. ‘But first I want to put you straight on a couple
of things about that night at your flat. I’d heard you were home just
for the weekend, I waited for you to call…but you didn’t,’ he recalled
bleakly. ‘I see, so it’s my fault you jumped into bed with
Holly.’ ‘I did not jump into bed with anyone. In fact,’ he ground bitterly,
‘I haven’t even noticed another woman since you came back
into my life! God, Rowena!’ he groaned, grabbing her and drawing
her roughly towards him. ‘I’m so in love with you I haven’t been
able to think straight for months.’ He looked down into her wide,
shocked eyes and gave a laugh of pure raw frustration. ‘Why do you
think I came to your flat that night?’ he demanded. ‘It wasn’t to discuss
the weather, woman! Like I said, I’d heard you were home. Of
course, I didn’t know you’d already scuttled back to New York by
then. I stopped on the way over to take on board a little Dutch courage,
but one thing led to another and I was blind drunk by the time I
got there.’ A spasm of weary distaste crossed his face. ‘Pathetic,
isn’t it?’ ‘Being drunk is no excuse for sleeping with Holly…’ she
declared with a lot less certainty than earlier. ‘For heaven’s sake,
woman,’ Quinn ground out in the manner of a man clinging to the
remnants of his control by the skin of his teeth. ‘I haven’t slept with
Holly. The poor girl didn’t have much choice but to let me take her
bed for the night as I passed out cold. Then the next morning Niall
turned up and thought much as you did…Actually, it was a relief to
discover he and Holly were an item. At least that meant Niall was
out of the picture…I’ve been wracked with jealousy about him.’ ‘Niall
was never in the picture,’ Rowena protested, shocked by the look
of suffering that flickered darkly into his eyes. ‘Why would he be?’
she reflected bitterly. ‘I don’t love Niall,’ she wailed, her voice
rising steadily as her agitation increased. ‘I never loved Niall, I’ve
never loved anyone—not until you!’ she finished breathlessly. ‘Say
that again!’ he demanded, a light of fierce exhilaration shining in his
deep-set eyes as they rested possessively on her upturned features.
Rowena shook her head. ‘No way,’ she declared huskily. ‘It was bad
enough the first time.’ She shot him a shy glance from under the
sweep of her lashes. How could she have been scared of something
that felt this gloriously good? she marvelled. Quinn loved her, he
really did; she still couldn’t believe it! ‘You think it’s a bad thing being
in love with me?’ he taunted tenderly. ‘No, that’s the problem.’
She grabbed the lapels of his jacket and jerked him closer, her
hungry eyes skimming over his dark, saturnine face. ‘I think it’s just
about the best thing that has ever happened to me!’ she declared passionately.
‘Which only goes to prove, I’ve finally lost my mind.’
And, boy, did it feel good! she thought as her heart beat out a wildly
joyous tempo. ‘Or maybe you’ve found it?’ ‘You could be right,’ she
admitted, emerging breathless from a long, lingering kiss. ‘Personally,
I prefer to think of love as a glorious sort of sanity in an otherwise
crazy world.’ Rowena was enchanted by this unique slant. He
bent his head and took her waiting lips in a kiss so tender it brought
tears to her eyes. ‘I’ve been afraid of losing my…my…identity,’ she
said, struggling to explain her fears. ‘I thought that was what being
in love did to you, but it isn’t like that, is it?’ she appealed to him
wonderingly. ‘I feel more…’ ‘Complete?’ She gave a sigh of pleasure.
‘I knew you’d understand.’ Which is more than Holly would,
she thought, belatedly recalling with horror the things she’d said to
her sister. ‘Oh, God!’ she cried. ‘If you didn’t sleep with Holly…’
Quinn’s face hardened. ‘I thought we’d already dealt with that.’
Rowena pressed several very satisfactory sensual kisses to his lips to
demonstrate her complete confidence in his innocence. Quinn kissed
and touched her back—it was several minutes later before she was
able to pick up the thread of her explanation. ‘You don’t understand,
I said some really awful things to her. Really awful.’ ‘Don’t worry.
Holly has a soft spot for me, I’ll talk her around.’ ‘Don’t let Niall
hear you saying that.’ Rowena grinned. ‘I wouldn’t want him knocking
you down again.’ ‘That only happened because I was in a fragile
condition,’ Quinn protested. Rowena patted his arm. ‘Of course it
did, darling. Don’t worry, I always did have a soft spot for a wimp,’
she teased. Her expression suddenly sobered. ‘When I came back
from New York that weekend it was to see you,’ she confessed huskily.
‘I missed you so much…I kept thinking about what had
happened. I wondered if there wasn’t some way we could work
things out. I even called your place once,’ she confessed. ‘And when
I heard your voice I couldn’t say anything. So I flew back to New
York. I wish I’d been there that night when you arrived, not Holly.’
‘I wasn’t a pretty sight.’ ‘I think you’re always a pretty sight.’
‘Pretty, with this face…?’ he mocked, pointing to his own dark
countenance. ‘All right, then, beautiful.’ To her intense amusement
Quinn looked embarrassed. ‘About this marriage thing, Quinn…’
‘You think it’s too soon, you want a trial run? I can live with that…’
It wouldn’t be easy, but he had no choice. He needed Rowena.
‘Maybe you can, but I don’t think I can.’ A look of incredulity
closely followed by fierce joy appeared on his face following her
blunt declaration. ‘But I need to know if you’re only talking about
marriage because of the baby?’ Anxiously she scanned his face.
‘The baby has nothing to do with it,’ he told her forcefully. ‘Don’t
get me wrong—I’m delighted about the idea of being a dad, but I
wanted you for my wife a long time before I even knew there was
going to be a baby.’ Rowena relaxed. ‘In that case, hurry up and ask
me,’ she urged, tugging at his sleeve. ‘I thought I already had.’ ‘No,
you didn’t ask me, you told me—a woman likes to be asked, but
don’t worry,’ she added with a deliciously flirtatious smile. ‘I’m going
to say yes.’ It was funny, Quinn reflected, gazing adoringly into
his future wife’s eyes as he dropped down onto one knee, how one
word could change a man’s life for ever—he couldn’t wait!
EPILOGUE ROWENA took a quick peek in on the cassoulet before
she returned to their guests. The good thing about rustic food, she reflected,
picking up the tray of pre-dinner nibbles Quinn had rustled
up while she got dressed, was that it didn’t spoil, and in a household
where the unexpected had a habit of cropping up at the last minute
this was very useful. The unexpected often involved their two-yearold
son, Adam, who was meant to be asleep upstairs. The noises
from the intercom as she returned to the drawing room made it quite
clear that Adam was not asleep; it was equally clear that his poor
father didn’t have the faintest idea the intercom was switched on.
Their guests had fallen silent as, with varying degrees of amusement,
they listened to the distinguished surgeon’s off-key rendering
of ‘One Man Went to Mow’. ‘It’s comforting to know Quinn isn’t
brilliant at everything,’ one of his closest colleagues commented
wryly as Rowena filled up his glass from one of the open bottles of
wine on the coffee-table. ‘I don’t know,’ his wife piped up. ‘I think
he sounds rather sweet.’ ‘If I ever needed any proof that you’re tone
deaf, darling…’ ‘That voice, I’ll have you know,’ Rowena told them
sternly, ‘is often the only thing that will send Adam to sleep. So
when Quinn comes back down I don’t want to hear any smart
cracks—Niall.’ She cast a pointed glance in her brother-in-law’s direction.
183 ‘Now would I do that?’ Niall replied, looking the picture
of injured innocence. Holly, curled up on the floor, lifted her head
off his knee and prodded his thigh. She correctly detected the distinctive
ring of insincerity in her husband’s voice. ‘Not if you know
what’s good for you,’ she retorted sweetly. With a tolerant smile
Rowena watched this tart interchange. Despite what she had considered
a mismatch of personalities, her sister’s marriage seemed to
still be in the honeymoon stage—she was happy for them. ‘Sorry,
folks.’ She sighed apologetically. ‘It looks like we’ll be eating late
again. Adam will not settle now until he’s heard the chorus at least a
dozen times.’ Not wanting to inflict unnecessary suffering on their
friends, she turned down the volume on the intercom to a low murmur
before she lowered herself into a comfy seat. She caught her sister’s
wondering glance and knew the way siblings sometimes do exactly
what Holly was thinking. There were times when she too
couldn’t believe how much she’d changed over the past couple of
years. Once upon a time not producing a meal dead on time would
have given her an anxiety attack, but these days she took such minor
inconveniences calmly in her stride, the same way she didn’t stress
about the pile of un-ironed clothes waiting for the lady that did for
them to come on Monday, and the broken catch on the kitchen
garden gate that Quinn insisted he was quite capable of sorting—
once he got the time. With a sigh she slipped off her shoes and
wriggled her toes. Her feet had been swelling during the last tiresome
weeks of this pregnancy. ‘Not long now,’ Holly soothed sympathetically,
pushing a footstool under Rowena’s feet. ‘Thank goodness!’
Rowena breathed with a sigh. She patted her big belly affectionately.
‘Hopefully this one will sleep through the night before he’s
eighteen months. At least there won’t be the need for any boardroom
breast-feeding this time,’ she mused with a reminiscent smile. This
bold innovation had unsettled the senior management at the
magazine almost as much as the crib in her office. After two boardroom
sessions they’d suddenly developed a deep enthusiasm for the
child-care facilities she’d been campaigning for—the very same plan
they’d previously dumped on the grounds of financial unfeasibility!
But now, of course, Rowena didn’t need the crèche. She was a successful
author with a book that had landed straight in the best-seller
lists both sides of the Atlantic and was still sitting there after six
months. ‘Who’s going to play you in the film, Rowena?’ Niall
asked, shoving several stuffed olives in his mouth at one go. ‘I hope
Quinn isn’t going to be too long, I haven’t eaten since lunch.’ ‘You
pig, Niall!’ his wife reprimanded, smacking the hand stroking her
neck with casual affection. ‘And don’t speak with your mouth full.’
‘I think Gwyneth Paltrow, or maybe Michelle Pfeiffer would be a
good choice,’ mused her unrepentant mate. ‘Though you’re not as
slim as you once were…’ With a grin Rowena patted her ample
middle. ‘Why, thank you, Niall, but actually I didn’t retain casting
rights. I just wrote the screenplay.’ It was Quinn who had persuaded
her she was more than up to the task. ‘Just think, if Quinn hadn’t
sent your notebook to that publisher…?’ Holly let the thought hang
in the air. Rowena nodded. She’d been furious at first with Quinn for
sending to a publisher what she had considered her ramblings on the
things that had happened to her during her pregnancy and the early
mad months as a new mother. Her annoyance had turned to stunned
amazement when they’d declared her ruminations one of the most
original and amusing things they’d received in years. As it turned
out their confidence had been justified. During a lull in the conversation
the sound of Quinn’s deep voice drifted around the room.
Rowena smiled to hear him say goodnight to their sleeping son.
‘’Night, champ, sleep tight.’ The love in his voice brought an emotional
lump to Rowena’s throat. She was just about to get up and
dish up the meal when he continued. ‘Hell, how did I get so lucky?
You, my Rowena, and soon the baby…I suppose you do know
you’ve got the best mother in the world? If this is a dream,’ they all
heard him reflect with husky sincerity, ‘I hope I never wake up.’
Nobody said a word as Rowena moved over to the intercom and
switched it off. She looked around at their guests. ‘It was never on.’
‘What was never on?’ Niall responded with a wink and a mock
puzzled frown. ‘Thanks,’ she gulped emotionally as she made a dash
for the kitchen. She sensed the moment Quinn entered the room. ‘Is
he asleep?’ ‘Finally,’ Quinn said, coming up behind her and linking
his arms around her middle. ‘Do you think I’ll ever be able to span
your waist with my hands again?’ he mused idly as he breathed in
the sweet, familiar smell of her hair. Love swelled like a bursting
spring bud in her chest. ‘Probably not.’ She turned around and took
his dear face between her hands and pressed her warm lips to his.
Several minutes later she drew back, her face flushed. ‘What was
that for?’ Quinn asked, looking a bit hot himself. ‘Just for being
you,’ she explained simply. ‘Just for loving me and making me the
happiest person alive. Is that a good enough reason?’ ‘Sounds good
enough to me,’ Quinn acknowledged, skilfully parting her lips with
his tongue. ‘Our guests are hungry!’ she protested weakly. ‘So am
I!’ Quinn growled. Rowena, who had become pretty expert at prioritising,
quickly decided which was more important—it helped when
you were married to the best kisser in the world! Julia James BABY
OF SHAME TORONTO • NEW YORK •
LONDONAMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY •
HAMBURGSTOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN •
MADRIDPRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
CONTENTS PROLOGUE CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER
NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER
TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN EPILOGUE PROLOGUE ‘MR
PETRAKIS.’ His UK PA’s voice was hesitant. ‘Please excuse me for
interrupting you, but—’ Dark, displeased eyes flashed up at her from
the man seated behind the imposing mahogany desk. Maureen
Carter quailed. ‘I said no interruptions, Mrs Carter—for any reason
whatsoever.’ The deep, accented voice was brusque. For a fraction
of a section the forbidding gaze admonished her, then simply cut her
out of existence, returning to the papers spread out on the leathertopped
surface of the desk. In the doorway, Maureen Carter hesitated,
then, visibly steeling herself, spoke again. ‘I understand, sir.
But…but she said the call was urgent—’ Alexis Petrakis sat slowly
back in his large chair and lifted his eyes to her. ‘Mrs Carter,’ he
said, and his voice, with its slight Greek accent, was soft—so soft it
raised the hairs on his PA’s neck. ‘You may inform Natalia Ferucia I
have no interest in her affairs. With me or with anyone else.’ He rested
his killing gaze on her, his mouth whipped to a tight, hard line,
and then once again he returned to the papers on his desk. His PA
swallowed and cleared her throat. ‘Mr Petrakis—’ she attempted a
third time ‘—it isn’t Ms Ferucia on the line. It’s a Mrs Walters, from
Sarmouth Social Services Department. She says it’s very important
to speak to you,’ she added quickly, as Alexis Petrakis stilled and lifted
his head again. His dark eyes levelled on her. ‘It’s in connection,
she says, with Rhianna Davies.’ For one long second the gaze levelled
on her went completely blank, as though the name she had just
given him was as unknown to him as it was to her. And then a mask
closed over his powerful, planed face. ‘Tell this Mrs Walters, whoever
she is,’ he enunciated, cutting each word out of the air as if he
were vivisecting it with a scalpel, ‘that I have no interest whatsoever
in Rhianna Davies.’ He picked up his gold pen and returned to his
papers. ‘But, Mr Petrakis,’ Maureen Carter said, with a final desperate
urgency, ‘Mrs Walters says it’s about your son!’ And this time,
finally, she got a reaction. Alexis Petrakis froze. CHAPTER ONE
RHIANNA was stepping out on to the zebra crossing. It was pouring
with rain, the wind battering the rain hood on Nicky’s buggy. She’d
checked both ways before starting to cross, but as she pushed forward,
eyes stinging with rain, her head bowed into the wind, weak
and exhausted but with desperate urgency, it came again, the way it
always did. A screech of tyres, an engine roaring, and then a blow so
violent it lifted her up and threw her sideways as the black and white
painted tarmac slammed up to meet her. And then the sickening thud
of her body impacting—and then the darkness. Total darkness. She
jerked as her brain relived, yet again, the moment when the speeding
car had run her down on a pedestrian crossing. The jerking caused
pain, shooting through her, but following the pain came
worse—much worse. A voice screaming—screaming inside her
head. Distraught. Demented. Nicky! Nicky! Nicky! Over and over
again. Drowning her with terror and fear and horror. Over and over
again— A hand was on her shoulder. Her eyes flew open. One of the
nurses was speaking. ‘Your little boy is safe—I’ve told you that.
He’s safe. He wasn’t injured.’ Rhianna stared up into the face looking
down at her, her eyes pools of anguish. ‘Nicky,’ she whispered
again, her voice husky, fearful. ‘Nicky—where are you? Where are
you?’ The nurse spoke again, her voice calm and reassuring. ‘He’s
being looked after until you get better. Now, you just relax and get
some sleep. That’s what you need now. Would you like something to
help you sleep?’ Rhianna pressed her lips together and tried to shake
her head. But any movement when she was awake was agony. Even
breathing was an agony, her infected lungs raw and painful. ‘I can’t
sleep—I mustn’t! I’ve got to find Nicky…they’ve got him. They
won’t give him back. I know they won’t—I know it, I know it!’ Her
voice was rising again, fear gulping in her throat, and she could
hardly get the air out of her. ‘Of course you’ll get him back,’ the
nurse said bracingly. ‘He’s only been taken into care while you’re
here. As soon as you come out they’ll hand him over—’ But terror
flared in Rhianna’s eyes. ‘No—she’s taken him. That social worker.
She said I couldn’t look after him, that he’d be better off in care.’
Her hand clawed at the nurse’s fingers, eyes distending. ‘I’ve got to
get him back. He’s my son!’ ‘I’ll get you a sedative,’ the nurse said,
and went off. Dread and anguish filled Rhianna. Nicky was gone.
Taken into care. Just like the social worker had said he would be.
‘You clearly can’t cope with looking after a child.’ Rhianna heard
the condemning tone ringing in her memory. ‘Your son is at risk.’
Oh, God—why? Why? thought Rhianna. Why had the woman had
to turn up just then? She’d felt so ill, and it had only been a few days
after her father’s funeral. She’d taken a double dose of flu powder
and it had knocked her out, so that when the social worker had arrived
it had been Nicky—still in his pyjamas, patiently watching
toddler TV in the living room, with a bowl of spilt cereal on the
floor—who’d opened the door to the woman while his mother lay
collapsed in bed, breathing sterterously and all but unconscious…
The woman had taken against her, Rhianna knew, the first time she’d
ever come to the rundown council flat to assess whether Rhianna’s
plea for home help for her father was valid or not. The woman had
told Rhianna bluntly that her father needed hospitalisation until the
end came, that a dying man should not be anywhere near a small
child, and that if Rhianna insisted on refusing to name her child’s
father she had no business expecting the state to pay for his upbringing
instead of his father. Nicky should be in nursery and she should
go back to work, because that was government policy. At the end of
her tether, Rhianna had lost her temper and yelled at the woman, not
registering that she was still holding the vegetable knife she’d been
chopping carrots with in the kitchen before the social worker had
come in to harangue her. Seeing the knife blade, the woman’s eyes
had flared, and she told told Rhianna she was dangerously violent
and brandishing a weapon threateningly. After that everything had
gone increasingly downhill. Her father’s life had drawn to its tormented
close, and she’d eventually had to call an ambulance to take
him to hospital, where a final stroke had brought the end at last. Her
exhaustion, her illness, her desperate need to shelter Nicky from
what was happening all around him, had laid her lower than she had
ever been in the five bleak years since her world had collapsed
around her. And when the social worker had arrived that fateful
morning, to find Nicky unsupervised and Rhianna passed out, it had
been the final straw. ‘I’m having a Care Order issued,’ the woman
had told her grimly. ‘Before any harm comes to him either from your
violent tendencies or your complete lack of responsibility.’ She’d
dipped her finger in the trace of flu powder on the bedside table and
sniffed it suspiciously, glaring down at the barely conscious Rhianna.
‘I’ll take this for analysis, so don’t even bother to try and hide
whatever other drugs you’ve been using.’ She’d left the room, and
Rhianna had somehow found the strength to get out of bed and stagger
after her—only to crash into the doorframe as if she were, indeed,
under the influence of drugs instead of being so ill with a chest
infection she could hardly breathe. When the woman had gone, informing
her she would be returning shortly with the necessary documentation
to remove Nicky, Rhianna, out of her mind with terror,
had dragged clothes on and set off for the doctor’s surgery, desperate
to get some antibiotics as well as her doctor’s avowal that she was
not a drug user and was not violent—anything she could use to fight
off the Care Order. But before she’d been able to get to the surgery
she’d been knocked down by a speeding car on a pedestrian crossing.
When she’d surfaced back to consciousness it had been to find
herself in a hospital ward, her body in agony, her limbs and torso
strapped up, a drip in her arm and her lungs on fire. And Nicky
gone. Nicky—her only reason for living, the only light in the black
pall that crushed her, the only joy in her life. Nicky—she had to get
him back! She would die without him. And he—oh, God—she could
not bear to think of his distress, his confusion. Taken into care with
no familiar face around him, no mother to keep him safe the way she
had kept him safe all his little life. Despite all the strain and pressure,
the hardship and the relentless, punishing difficulties of nursing
her difficult, cantankerous father, despite coping with no money,
coping with her father’s depression and his slow decline into both
physical and mental incapacity, with no one to help, no one to turn
to, and only the bare subsistence of the state to keep them going.
Nicky! The silent, anguished cry came again and again as she drifted
in an out of consciousness, reliving over and over the moment when
the car had crashed into her and she’d thought it was Nicky who’d
been killed… But he wasn’t dead! Dear God she’d been spared that.
He was alive, but gone, and she was terrified that she would never
get him back. Never. He’d be put up for adoption, spirited away,
locked away…taken from her… The nurses had tried to help. ‘Is
there no one who could look after him for you? Friends, neighbours,
relatives?’ Rhianna’s hands had clawed on the bedclothes. ‘No one.’
She had no relatives—not since burying her father. No friends left.
All gone. And neighbours—she’d never befriended anyone in the
council flats, too caught up in her own overwhelming problems to
have time, or any spare energy, to notice anyone else—too horrified,
if she faced up to it, that her life had sunk to these sorry straits. One
of the nurses had spoken again. Very carefully. ‘What about your
little boy’s father?’ Rhianna’s eyes had hardened automatically, irrevocably.
‘He has no father.’ Tactfully, the nurse had said nothing
more, but as she’d bustled off Rhianna’s own words seared in her
mind. He has no father…. An image leapt in her mind like a burning
brand. Burning through her skin, her flesh. Her memory…
CHAPTER TWO RHIANNA had been desperate. Filled with a sick,
agitated desperation that had made her do what she had done. But
she had had no choice. Now, somewhere close to the hospital, she
could hear the chilling wail of an ambulance siren. It echoed in her
memory—the wailing siren of the ambulance, five long years ago,
carrying her stricken father to hospital. A heart attack, and it had
been her fault—her fault for telling him what she had just heard
from Maunder Marine Limited. That they had themselves been acquired,
and so their own corporate investment programme would
have to go on hold until their new owners, Petrakis International,
had given it their approval. That could take months, she’d been
warned. Months during which Davies Yacht Design would have no
idea whether or not the life-saving takeover by MML would ever go
ahead. And without that assurance her father’s company would go
under—succumb to its debts as its creditors foreclosed. It would be
the end of the company—and the end for her father. He lived for his
company—lived for designing yachts. A vocation. An obsession.
Taking over his whole life, giving it the only meaning it had. And
she, his daughter, would be no comfort to him. Unless she could
save his company. She had left the intensive care ward, left her father
wired up to monitors, the nursing staff looking grave, and gone
back to her father’s office. And picked up the phone. There had to be
a way to get the go-ahead for the takeover by MML. She had been
the one to approach them in the first place, convincing the larger
company that Davies Yacht Design was a profitable acquisition prospect.
Forward order books were full, and the company’s technical
reputation was outstanding, but the chronic under-capitalisation and
growing debt-interest burden, combined with a major client cancelling
his already completed order and another one changing his mind
halfway through, had pushed Davies Yacht Design to the brink. Her
father’s complete lack of interest in the mundane details of keeping a
company financially healthy had meant the banks had lost confidence
in him and they wanted an exit. If it wasn’t going to come from a
white knight like MML, then they would foreclose. She had to get
MML to go through with the acquisition! But it had looked as if it
was not on their say-so any more. It was Petrakis International who
would have to agree to it. And there was no reason why they should
not, Rhianna had thought desperately. Investing in Davies Yacht
Design would pay off handsomely—if she could just convince them
as she had convinced MML. But she’d hit a stone wall. It was standard
corporate policy, Petrakis International had informed her, to stall
all its acquired companies’ major investments until they’d been
checked out. She’d gone as high up the company as she could reach,
and the answer had always been the same. So she’d aimed for the
top, as a last desperate throw. Alexis Petrakis—head of Petrakis International.
Fifteen minutes. That would be all she’d need. Fifteen
minutes to run through the figures, to show what a shrewd investment
it would be for MML to buy Davies Yacht Design. But his PA
had shot down her hopes. Yes, Mr Petrakis was currently in London,
but his diary was full, including the evenings, and he was flying
back to Greece in three days’ time. Perhaps next month… But next
month would be too late. There had been only one thin sliver of
hope left to Rhianna. The PA had mentioned that on his last evening
in the UK Alexis Petrakis would be attending a business dinner at
one of the top West End hotels. It had been her last, last chance…
She closed her eyes, lying in her hospital bed, feeling memory pour
over her like a sheet of acid, burning into her skin. Feeling again the
claws, like pincers in her stomach, as they had that fateful evening
as she’d sat worried sick, at the table in the thronged banqueting
hall. Because it had seemed Alexis Petrakis wasn’t going to show! It
had all been in vain. She’d come up to London, forked out a fortune
for a ticket to the dinner, splashed out on a new dress and a session
at the hairdresser and beauty parlour—all money she could ill afford,
given the parlous state of the finances at Davies Yacht Design—all
for nothing. She’d even altered the seating plan posted in the cocktail
reception area for the dinner, so that she would be sitting next to
Alexis Petrakis. But though she’d managed to take her seat without
anyone else challenging her—the seat next to her, with Alexis Petrakis’s
nameplate—remained empty. Her heart had sunk, heavy as
lead. If Alexis Petrakis were not there she might as well give up and
take the next train home, to return to the hospital waiting room and
wait for any sign that they would move her father out of intensive
care. Worry had closed over her. A waiter had approached their
table, deftly placing a starter course in front of each guest. As she’d
murmured her desultory thanks another, taller figure, in a black jacket,
not white, had suddenly also been standing there momentarily.
Then he’d been taking his seat—right beside her. ‘Do please excuse
me—I’ve been delayed,’ he apologised briefly to the table, his English
fluent but accented. He nodded at several of the guests, acknowledging
them by name, and then turned to his right. ‘Alexis Petrakis,’
he said, holding out his hand. But Rhianna wasn’t capable of
responding. She was simply staring. This couldn’t be Alexis Petrakis.
Alexis Petrakis—chairman of an international company—should
be middle-aged and corpulent, like three-quarters of the male guests
here tonight. But the man who’d just joined the table was…devastating.
The word thudded in her brain. He couldn’t be much more than
thirty, surely, with a whipcord leanness to him that was accentuated
by the superb cut of his tuxedo—just as the dark tan of his face, his
sable hair, were accentuated by the brilliant white of his dress shirt.
She gazed helplessly. The planed contours of his face, the high,
strong cheekbones, the straight nose, sharply defined jawline…And
his mouth… Sculpted, mobile, sensual. She dragged her eyes upwards.
Straight into his. Dark—obsidian-dark—but flecked very
deep within with gold. And looking at her—looking at her with total,
absolute focus. She felt weak, breathless. Something flickered in
those gold-flecked eyes. ‘And you are…?’ The questioning voice
was deep, with an accent that was making her toes curl in their narrow
high-heeled shoes. There was faint speculation in the voice. She
could hear it, and it quivered through her. ‘Rhianna Davies,’ she
breathed helplessly, her eyes still speared by his. She couldn’t drag
them away, just couldn’t. Numbly she placed her hand into his waiting
one. It was warm, with slight calluses on the pads below the finger
joints. He must work out, she thought, the words floating, dissociated
through her. The pressure of his grip was firm, but as he slid
his hand away there seemed to her to be the slightest, the very slightest,
reluctance to do so. Her insides were simply churning like a concrete
mixer. Then one of the other guests at the table addressed a remark
to him. For one last, brief moment his eyes held hers, and then
they moved. Rhianna’s heart seemed to be pounding in her chest,
thumping against her ribcage. Her blood seemed to be pulsing more
strongly—which was weird, because she felt as weak as a kitten.
Alexis Petrakis. That’s Alexis Petrakis…. She wanted to stare and
stare… Jerkily she forced herself to start eating. Fortunately the conversation
at the table was between the other guests, and Alexis
Petrakis was still addressing himself to the man who had spoken to
him. Rhianna hadn’t the faintest idea what they were talking about.
The results of some company she’d never heard of—she caught
snatches of words like ‘interims’ and ‘EBITDA’. She ignored them.
All she wanted to do—all she was capable of doing—was to go on
gazing at Alexis Petrakis. She had never, never set eyes on anyone
so breathtakingly gorgeous. She had seen her share of handsome
men. Gone out with quite a few of them. She was lucky, she
knew—very, very lucky—to have been blessed with a blonde beauty
that had always drawn male eyes ever since she was an adolescent.
But her mother had kept her close, frightened she might, as she herself
had done, fall disastrously for the first wrong man that came by.
So for the most part Rhianna had contented herself with casual dating,
keeping her admirers at bay. And since her mother’s death in a
car crash eighteen months ago she’d been in no frame of mind to
look for romance. Then there had been all the trauma of seeking out
her estranged father and discovering the disastrous situation at his
company to keep her from thinking about men. So it was totally immaterial
that Alexis Petrakis was the most stunning-looking male
she’d ever set eyes on. Her only task was to persuade him to give the
green light to MML’s takeover. But that wasn’t a subject she could
broach in the middle of a formal business dinner. She’d always anticipated
that she would have to use the dinner to give her an opportunity
to request a private word with him after it was all over, and
then go into her pitch. In which case—she reached for her champagne
flute—there couldn’t be any harm in going on gazing at him,
could there? While he talked to his business acquaintances… She
took a mouthful of champagne. It tasted warm. It had been poured
out too long ago. ‘Allow me—’ Alexis Petrakis had stopped his conversation.
He was helping himself to the bottle of white wine left in
its chiller by the wine waiter. As he took it out he glanced assessingly
at the label, as if to check it was up to standard, and then filled
Rhianna’s white wine glass. ‘Th-thank you,’ she managed. ‘My
pleasure,’ said Alexis Petrakis. His long-lashed, gold-flecked eyes
swept over her. And Rhianna felt her stomach plummet all over
again. ‘Rhianna Davies,’ the deep, accented voice murmured, as if
searching private files inside his head. His eyes were still on her, and
suddenly she felt a wash of liquid warmth go through her. With
every inch of her consciousness she became aware of herself. Her
silver gown, with the softly draped bodice and shoestring straps, her
long pale hair flowing down her bare back, the wings of her hair
caught with a silver clip at her nape, the silver necklace around her
throat and the matching earrings she was wearing. ‘You don’t know
me,’ she got out, ‘Not yet,’ he murmured in reply, his eyes doing
that weak-making wash over her again. For a moment time seemed
to stop. She just sat there, with this extraordinarily magnetic man
looking at her, and let herself be looked over. While she looked
back. Deep, deep into his eyes. Something flowed inside her. Something
so powerful and overwhelming that her breath was ripped
from her. The rest of the meal was a blur. She must have made polite,
general conversation, picked at her food, drunk her wine, but
she couldn’t remember a thing. The only thing she was aware of was
the man sitting next to her. He talked to her sometimes, as the conversation
meandered, but whenever he did she found herself almost
completely tongue-tied. The meal seemed to take for ever—and yet
no time at all. But as the after-dinner speaker finally stepped down,
signalling the end of the formal proceedings, and conversation
struck up again across the banqueting hall, Rhianna felt the pincers
go to work in her stomach again. And this time it was because she
knew that Alexis was the man—the only man—who could save her
father’s company. And it was up to her to get him to do it. Tonight.
Their table was breaking up. People were getting to their feet, taking
their leave, either to leave the dinner completely or to mingle with
guests at other tables. She mustn’t let Alexis Petrakis leave! She had
to keep him there. She had to do something. But how? She couldn’t
just blurt out Please let MML buy my father’s company! Then, just
as she felt sick apprehension pool in her stomach, he spoke. ‘May I
offer you some port?’ Her head turned. Alexis Petrakis was reaching
out to the port decanter. She watched him fill both their glasses. She
picked up her glass and sipped. The warm, rich liquid was like velvet
in her throat. Alexis Petrakis leant back in his chair. The gesture
made the fine material of his dress shirt tauten across his chest,
broadening his shoulders. He had beautiful hands, she found herself
thinking. Nails white against the olive tan of his skin. Long fingers.
She gave a hesitant smile. Her nerves were jittering. Any minute
now he might glance at his watch, and murmur politely that he must
go, or someone from another table might come up and start talking
to him, cutting her out…She had to ask him now. And for her father’s
sake she had to get this right. ‘Mr Petrakis—’ Her voice sounded
high pitched. Where it had come from, she did not know. She
forced herself to go on. She had to. ‘Mr Petrakis, I wonder—I wonder
if I might have a word with you?’ Her eyes were wide—very
wide. Something changed about him. She didn’t know what. But
there was a sudden, instant edge of tension. ‘In—in private,’ she added.
Her voice was breathy. For a moment his eyes were veiled, unreadable.
Oh, God, she thought. He’s going to say no… Then,
slowly, he set down his port glass. ‘Of course,’ he replied. His eyes
seemed to flicker over her, brushing like a very fine breath. He got
to his feet. ‘I’m sure,’ he said, looking down at her, ‘we can find
somewhere sufficiently private.’ His voice was smooth, but it was
like the smoothness of a sea where deep currents lurked beneath.
Her breath tight in her throat, Rhianna stood up. He was tall, she
realised. Towering over her five foot six. She paused to stoop and
pick up her evening bag. Then, with her heart beating like a drum,
she let him usher her from the banqueting hall. As he steered her towards
the bank of lifts in the lobby outside Rhianna paused and
turned, looking up at the tall, overpowering man behind her. Her
stomach was churning again, and she fought to subdue her nerves.
Yet at the same time relief was surging through her. She’d done
it—she’d got him to agree to listen to her. She had a chance—a last,
last chance—to save her father’s company. Her father—lying in hospital,
wires all over him, fighting for life… ‘Mr Petrakis, thank you
so much for agreeing to—’ ‘This way.’ He cut across her careful
speech with a murmur and ushered her inside a lift. Presumably they
were going to the foyer, or one of the hotel’s quieter bars. But when
the lift doors opened again they were on the penthouse floor. And
the room whose door he opened with a single swipe of his electronic
key was a suite. For a second she hesitated. Then she crushed the
feeling down. She needed to speak to Alexis Petrakis, and if he
wanted to let her do so in his hotel suite then she was not about to
object. As she stepped inside and gazed around the suite’s opulent
reception room her eyes widened. What on earth must a suite like
this cost for a night? Thousands of pounds? It must! The thought
gave her courage—surely to a man worth as much as Alexis Petrakis
buying up a small yacht design business would be peanuts. She
opened her mouth to speak, fumbling with the clasp on her evening
bag so she could take out the sheet of paper that gave an at-a-glance
summary of the business case she was going to put forward to justify
the takeover. But before she could open her bag she heard a soft
‘pop’ behind her. She turned. Alexis Petrakis was pouring champagne,
filling up two flutes from the sideboard. He strolled towards
her. There was something very controlled about the way he was
walking towards her. It made her think, just for a second, of a wildlife
film, with a leopard approaching the camera. It got closer, and
closer—and then the shot cut out, as the cameraman retreated. But
she had no line of retreat. She shook her head minutely. What was
she thinking of? She didn’t need a line of retreat. She just needed fifteen
minutes of Alexis Petrakis’s time. She certainly didn’t want
champagne. But it seemed rude to reject it now that he’d opened a
bottle specially—she tried not to think how much the hotel charged
for champagne in the penthouse suite—so she took the proffered
glass. ‘Please—you shouldn’t have—’ She sounded silly and immature.
It was going to feel odd, she knew, putting forward a business
case with a glass of champagne in her hand and wearing an evening
dress, but she hadn’t any choice. Besides, either the figures would
convince Alexis Petrakis or they wouldn’t. What she was wearing or
drinking was irrelevant. He was lifting his own glass. ‘Stin iya sas!’
She looked blank. ‘It is the equivalent of your “Cheers”,’ he said.
She gave a hesitant smile. ‘I—I don’t speak any Greek. I’ve never
been to Greece.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘You have never been to
Greece?’ ‘No.’ Her mother had not liked foreign travel. She’d liked
to live in her little house in a small town in Oxfordshire, not going
far. Nor had she liked the sea. She should never, Rhianna knew, have
married a man whose obsession was designing ocean-going yachts.
No wonder their marriage had broken up soon after she was
born—even though her mother had always blamed her father for
walking out on them. ‘You should. It is one of the most beautiful
countries on earth.’ He strolled towards the sofa. ‘Won’t you sit
down?’ Hesitantly she took a seat at one end, her narrow dress susurrating
as she did so, depositing her handbag with its precious financial
summary in it on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Alexis
Petrakis set the champagne bottle on the coffee table and lowered his
tall frame down on to the far end of the sofa. He rested the hand
holding his champagne glass on the arm of the sofa; his other arm
stretched out along the back of the cushions. Disconcertingly close
to Rhianna. But then everything about Alexis Petrakis was disconcerting.
Disturbing to her peace of mind, making strange sensations
ripple through her, making her body hyperaware of itself—of him.
Distracting to her concentration—which she needed to focus on how
to put the business case for MML’s takeover as persuasively as possible.
She didn’t need to continually be stopping herself from just
wanting to gaze and gaze at him… Why couldn’t he be fat and fifty?
She let her eyes flicker to him and promptly she wished she hadn’t.
Oh, God, he was just so fantastic-looking—she felt her heart begin
to thump in her chest again. She took a draught from her champagne
glass, trying to steady herself. She took a deep breath. ‘Mr Petrakis—’
she began. Again, her voice had come out breathy. She hated
it. She needed to sound cool and composed and businesslike. ‘Alexis…’
His voice was smooth. She didn’t know what to answer. She
didn’t feel comfortable with addressing the head of a massive
European business empire by his first name. And the low, accented
pitch of his voice made a soft quiver go down her back… Stop it!
Just start telling him what you came here to tell him! But he had
started talking again. ‘You really should go to Greece. There are
many private places tourists hardly visit—if ever. This time of year,
early spring, is especially lovely. The countryside is vivid with wildflowers
before the heat of summer arrives. You would find it very
beautiful.’ His voice was bland, but his eyes—Rhianna felt her
throat tighten—were watching her with an expression that was anything
but. Nerves started to jitter inside her. She took another mouthful
of champagne to steady them. The bubbles beaded in her mouth
and she swallowed hastily. She could feel the alcohol giving her a
jolt. Uneasily, she wondered how much she’d drunk that evening.
She’d been careful, knowing how much was at stake, but even small
amounts could add up. And have an impact. Make her feel ultrasensitive
to things—ultra-aware. Make her misinterpret things. Things
like the way Alexis Petrakis was looking at her through dark,
veiled eyes, relaxing back against the sofa cushions, casually lifting
his champagne glass to his mouth…his mobile, sculpted mouth. His
sensual mouth… For a moment she felt her gaze hang, unable to pull
it away. He did have the most incredible, sensual mouth… With
sheer effort of will she pulled her gaze away. Her mouth felt dry,
despite the champagne she’d just drunk. She pressed her lips together,
as if to moisten them. His eyes narrowed. She saw it happen.
Hardly at all, but discernible. Hastily, she took yet another mouthful
of champagne. It fizzed as she swallowed, and again she felt the alcohol
kick through her. She took another breath, feeling her breasts
lift as she did so. ‘Mr Petrakis—’ Again that low-pitched, accented
voice interrupted her. ‘Alexis,’ he corrected. She pressed her lips
again. ‘Alexis.’ She forced herself to say his name. It came out like a
soft breath. ‘Rhianna,’ he replied. The way he said her name was
much more evocative than any way she’d ever heard it pronounced
before. He took a mouthful of his own champagne. ‘Rhianna,’ he
mused. ‘It’s not an English name I know.’ ‘It’s—it’s Welsh,’ she
said. ‘How do you spell it?’ ‘R-h-i-a-n-n-a,’ she spelt out. He
frowned. ‘There seems to be a Greek “rho” in there.’ ‘I don’t know,’
said Rhianna, knowing she sounded stupid, but not knowing what
else to say. She didn’t want to sit here discussing her name. Not
when Alexis Petrakis was leaning back, champagne glass trailing
from one hand, the other dangerously near her bare shoulder along
the back of the sofa, one long leg crossed over his knee, looking supremely
relaxed… Or was he? She studied him covertly a moment.
He looked relaxed, but there was something about the way he was
holding his body that made her think he was not. Not relaxed at all.
As though a fine thread of tension were running through him. Keeping
him on a leash. She felt her own body tense. Looking at him was
a mistake. Every time she’d looked at him over dinner she’d felt that
devastating weakness go through her, that tightness in her breath,
that quickening of her heart-rate. And she mustn’t feel that. She just
mustn’t. Suddenly she felt as if the walls of the room had moved in
closer, crushing out some of the oxygen in the air. It was very
quiet—the luxurious opulence had a deadening effect on sound, and
the double-glazed windows let in no sound from the busy street far,
far below. With a tight intake of breath she made a third attempt to
broach the subject she had to open. ‘Mr—um—Alexis—’ She
stumbled over his name, still finding it hard to address him by his
given name and not the more formal and honorific surname. ‘Rhianna…’
he echoed again. And again that was that slight quirk of his
mouth, as though he found amusement in what she had just said. He
rested his eyes on her. Night dark, flecked with gold. If she looked
long enough she could see the flecks quite clearly… ‘Um—I just
wanted to—to…’ Her voice was breathy again, and she hated it, but
she couldn’t make it sound crisp and businesslike. She was too
wound up, too tense. ‘Yes?’ There was polite enquiry in his voice,
and his expression was bland. But that thread of speculation was still
there. As if he’s playing with me. A prickle went down her spine.
She took another mouthful of champagne. It definitely helped, she
thought. ‘Tilt your glass.’ She blinked. He’d reached forward to pick
up the champagne bottle on the table. Docilely, she found herself
tilting her glass. You don’t need any more champagne! Abruptly, she
pulled her glass back. For the briefest second the golden effervescing
liquid splashed on to her lap, before he straightened the bottle
with a Greek expletive. The icy liquid soaked instantly through the
fine material of her dress and made her cry out, and jolt, and then the
frothing champagne was spilling out of her foaming glass, all down
the bodice of her dress, just as icy. She gave another cry. ‘Oh, no!’
she cried, appalled, jumping to her feet, gazing horrified at the
soaked material. Champagne stained, she was sure of it—and, worse
than that, the wet material was clinging tightly to her braless breasts,
outlining them completely. Added to that, the cold of the liquid had
had a predictable effect on her nipples, which were suddenly standing
out like pebbles. Mortified, she spread her free hand as concealingly
as she could over her bodice, wanting the earth to swallow her.
Abruptly, Alexis Petrakis—who was, she realised gratefully, taking
the incident very calmly—removed the all-but-empty glass from her
fingers. ‘Perhaps you would like to go and change?’ he suggested.
Rhianna’s eyes flew to him. Was he being sarcastic or something?
But she was in no position to care. And she realised he must just be
trying to be as tactful as possible in a mortifyingly embarrassing
situation. He set down the champagne bottle and both flutes, and got
to his feet. ‘Let me show you where the bathroom is.’ ‘Thank
you—I’m so—so sorry!’ she gasped, her voice sounding breathy
again, her eyes wide with embarrassment. ‘Not at all,’ was all he
said, in a smooth, accented voice, as he tugged the light cord to illuminate
the interior. She dived inside and shut the door as quickly as
she could. Her eyes flew to her reflection in the mirror over the huge
basin, and she dropped her arms. She had to get the champagne out
fast, or it would stain. The dress had cost a fortune—she’d known
she had to look as if she were an habitué of posh London business
dinners—and she was loath to ruin it the first time she wore it. Setting
her teeth, she reached behind her and slid the zip hdown. It was
soaked anyway—water wouldn’t make it any wetter. She stepped
out of the dress and caught her reflection in the mirror over the
basin. Her half-naked body looked…different. Her breasts, still
peaked by the effect of the cold champagne, were fuller, rounder.
Her waist, accentuated by her suspender belt and skimpy briefs,
seemed slimmer. Her legs, in their sheer stockings, more slender.
Her hair, cascading down her completely naked back, much longer.
As for her face… Smoky eyes looked back at her, deep set, with
long dark lashes, her mouth, lipstick stained into her slightly parted
lips, seemed lusher somehow. She stared at herself She
looked…erotic. The word stole into her mind, shocking her. She
tried to push it away, but it was no use. She went on staring.
Everything, she realised slowly, was very slightly blurred, very
slightly softened around the edges. She felt a creaming in her veins.
It made her feel…different. And very, very aware of her body—her
half-naked, erotic body—revealed in the mirror. And as she stared at
herself she started to feel a tremor, deep inside her, as if something
were stirring, had just awoken. She pulled back. No, this was not on.
Totally, totally not on. Hastily she returned her attention to her wet
dress. As she did so her eyes caught sight of the bathroom’s courtesy
hairdryer, tucked into its socket beside the basin. With relief, she
seized it, spread out her dress over her free hand as much as possible,
and turned the hairdryer on to it. The thin material dried
blessedly quickly, and without a stain. As she slipped the dress back
on again it felt warm to her skin. She did up the zip, she checked her
reflection again. The heat from the hairdryer had brought a soft flush
to her cheeks, a warmth to her exposed arms and shoulders. Her long
hair had been lightly winnowed, lifted in silken strands. Again she
felt that deep tremor stir within her, that creaming in her veins, that
languor stealing through her. What’s happening to me? She felt
strange…dissociated. As if she were moving through a dream.
Slowly, she walked out of the bathroom. And stopped dead. Alexis
Petrakis was in the bedroom. He had discarded his tuxedo jacket, his
dress tie was unfastened, as was the top button of his shirt, and he
was slipping the gold links from his cuffs. As she stepped out of the
bathroom he looked up and across at her. His eyes flicked over her
gown. An expression of slight, mocking surprise lit in his eyes. ‘Unnecessary.
But…’ he started to stroll towards her ‘…it has its compensations.’
It was the leopard again. Heading towards her. But its
leash had been slipped. She couldn’t move. Could only stand, totally
frozen, her heart starting to hammer in great, pounding thuds that
sent the blood rushing in her veins through all her body. It was his
eyes. She could see it in his eyes. See the gold flecks deep within.
See the intent in them. The very, very clear intent. Her lips parted,
taking in breath. Instantly she could see his eyes narrow, that edge of
tension tauten through him. She had to move—but she was frozen.
Completely frozen. Waiting. Helpless. He stopped in front of her.
She could feel his presence, invading hers. Catch the male musk
coming from him, overlaid by the spiced notes of expensive aftershave.
He was looking down at her, out of those obsidian night-dark
eyes, and she couldn’t move—couldn’t move. Could only gaze,
helpless, up at him. And drink him in. Drink in the sable hair, the
lean planes of his face, the strong, straight cut of his nose, the faint
masculine shadow along his jaw, roughening his smooth, tanned
skin. Oh, God, she thought. He is just so, so beautiful… Her hand
half lifted. She wanted to reach up, to cup her fingers along his jaw,
feel the roughness of his skin, smooth her finger along the high arch
of his cheekbones, reach with her mouth to his, feel the touch of it
on hers. To slide her fingers into that silky sable hair and draw him
to her, parting her lips… She tried to stop herself. But she couldn’t.
Had no power over herself any more. She felt her body sway—sway
towards him. She felt her hand lift, reach up… He caught it. A swift,
sudden movement that stilled her. His fingers closed around her
wrist, pulling her towards him with slow, inexorable strength. She
gazed up at him, drowning. His pupils were like pinpricks, flared
with gold. ‘Indulge me,’ he said softly. Her pupils dilated. She could
not help it. Did not know it. Could only stand there, lips parted, wrist
caught, her body swaying towards his. ‘Indulge me,’ he said again,
more softly. And then, with his other hand, he slowly, very slowly,
slid one long finger underneath the thin strap over her shoulder and
gradually, little by little, drew it down over her arm until he had
peeled bare her breast. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said, his voice soft and low. He
let go her wrist and lifted his hand to the other strap. Drawing it
down her shoulder, slowly peeling down the bodice of her dress. She
couldn’t move. Not a muscle. Could only stand while Alexis Petrakis
bared her breasts. For his delectation. For one long, endless moment
he just stood there, looking at her. ‘You really are,’ he said, in
that same soft, low voice, ‘exquisite.’ Beneath his gaze she felt her
breasts prickle, felt them engorge, her nipples harden, tighten. Felt
the tremor deep within her quicken. She felt her body sway again. A
small sound came from her throat. She did not know what it was. It
was inchoate, unconscious. But reality had stopped. Stopped the moment
she had stepped out of the bathroom and set eyes on Alexis
Petrakis, stood still while he advanced on her. With one purpose, one
purpose only, in his tread. He smiled now. His mouth curving. ‘Yes,’
he said, his lashes sweeping down over his dark, obsidian eyes. ‘I
know.’ He reached a hand to lightly, oh-so-lightly, stroke her hair.
She felt a soft, trembling shiver go through her at his touch. The unformed
sound came from her throat again. Her breasts—swollen,
taut—had begun to ache. A low, slow throbbing was resonating
through her body. Her pupils distended, her body swaying forward
yet again. She wanted…She wanted… His hand tightened in her
hair, cupping her head. She gazed at him, eyes huge, quite, quite
helpless. Something flared in his eyes—something that was instantly,
ruthlessly leashed. She went to his bed without a word,
without a murmur. Only soft, aching moans that he could stop with
his mouth. But when his mouth left hers to shape her breasts, to
close over her straining, aching nipples, they came again. They came
as he trailed his lips along the taut contours of her belly, as his palms
smoothed her loosening thighs. And when his teeth grazed at the
tender lobes of her ears, bit softly, so softly, at her swollen lip, the
low, aching moans deep in her throat came again. Reality fled. It was
somewhere else. Another universe. A universe where pain and problems
were, where worry and anxiety bit deep into the bones, where
dread and fear pressed from all directions. But here—here there was
only bliss. Bliss such as she had never known, had never known existed.
How could the human body feel so much? How could the
sense of touch be so exquisite? So all-consuming. And how could
she want more of it? And more, and more, and more? Until her body
was a single living flame, a flame that was burning, burning ever
fiercer. His body pressed her down. She felt its strength, its power.
Her hands revelled in the taut, sculpted muscles of his back, his
shoulders. Her thighs strained against the sinewed cords of his.
Against her belly she felt the long, hard shaft of his manhood. A
hunger started to grow in her. She writhed against him. His tongue
was laving the swollen, aching peak of her nipple, sending flames
shooting through her breast, making her fingers claw over his
shoulders. From her throat tore the soft, aching moans she could not
suppress. She writhed against him again, the hunger mounting and
mounting. He smiled against her breast, lifted his head. His dark
eyes, flared with gold, looked down at her. She felt the quickening
pressure of his probing manhood. Hunger bit through her again,
fierce, unsated. She twisted instinctively against him, feeling the
pressure surge. She wanted… She gazed up at him, helpless, wanting.
‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘I know.’ The moan came from her throat
again. Her eyes dilated, distended. Pleading for what she wanted…
His features tensed, as if he were suddenly exerting a huge, overpowering
control. Then, with slow, deliberate descent, he entered
her. Rhianna stirred. Her body felt heavy, languorous. She didn’t
want to wake. She wanted to stay within the dream she was having,
enfolded within the circle of strong arms, clasped tight against the
warm, hard body of the man cradling her in his sleeping embrace.
An embrace that had come only after an ecstasy so intense she had
cried out, lips parting, throat arching, while her body writhed like a
living, burning flame of bliss, on and on and on, until her whole being
was one molten sheet of unbearable, exquisite sensation. Only
then, as the burning brand that was her body cooled to nothing more
than a softly pulsing warmth, had he rolled back against the pillows
in a fluid, exhausted movement, pulling her against him, folding her
against his body. He had murmured something to her—she knew not
what. Soft, sibilant words that were a breath in her ear. His hand had
splayed possessively across her abdomen, his mouth warm against
her shoulder. She had felt weak with wonder, glowing with the last
embers of the fire that had consumed her, warm and safe and sated.
She had slept a deep, deep sleep in the circle of his arms, her dreams
capturing this moment of perfect happiness. But now brightness was
pressing on her lids, bringing her to reluctant wakefulness. She
blinked open her eyes. He was leaning over her. His eyes were
heavy with desire. Deep within, they stirred her, warming the blood
in her veins. Slowly he bent down to softly kiss her, his lips warm
and tender. ‘Good morning,’ he said, his voice low, husky. ‘I should
ask you whether you slept well, but I happen to know…’ long lashes
swept over dark eyes ‘…that you slept very little last night.’ His
gaze washed over her as she lay back against the pillows, her hair
tumbled, her lips beestung from the night’s long, long passion. ‘You
are even lovelier than you were last night.’ The husk was thicker,
and long lashes swept over his eyes again. ‘I only wish…’ His voice
trailed off. She gazed up at him, breathless, as he stood up. He
looked—breathtaking. He was freshly shaved, his hair very slightly
damp from showering—and he was fully dressed in a business suit.
She felt a coldness start around her heart, a pooling of dismay nascent
in her stomach. He was looking at his watch, shooting back his
cuff. He spoke again, but now his words were clipped, his voice
terse. ‘Unfortunately I have a business meeting this morning which I
cannot avoid. So, much as I regret, I will have to leave you now.’
She heard the words, but for one dissociated moment she did not understand
what they meant. Then their meaning hit her with a sickening
blow. Oh, God, he was going—walking out. She’d been taken
for a one-night stand. That was all it had been. A convenient, handy,
fast-food snack to stave off night starvation. He’d eyed her up, made
his move on her, had sex with her, taken his fill, slept it off—and
now he was going. She felt sick. Reeling. And then, out of nowhere,
another shockwave hit. MML. Horror galvanised her. Oh, God. This
wasn’t just any man she’d gone to bed with within hours of meeting
him for the first time, who was now walking out on her in the customary
brutal morning-after ritual. This was Alexis Petrakis—the
one man in all the world who could stop her father’s company going
under… And instead of getting him to approve the MML takeover,
she’d fallen into bed with him—like a ripe, wanton peach. Sickness
drenched through her. He was speaking again, drawing out a mobile
phone from his inside jacket pocket. ‘However, I will be—’ ‘No!
Please—wait—don’t go yet.’ He stopped speaking in mid-sentence.
‘Rhianna, I—’ ‘No! Wait—please wait. There’s something I
must—something I wanted—’ She broke off. Oh, God—she had to
do this. She would have given a million pounds not to, but she had
to! She pulled herself upright, clutching the sheet to her. Her heart
was pounding. But she had to do this. However horrible it was to do
it now… ‘Before you go—there was—there was something I wanted
to talk to you about!’ She took a hectic breath. ‘MML,’ she said. She
stared at him wide-eyed, still clutching her sheet to her, her hair
tumbled around her naked shoulders. Alexis Petrakis had gone still.
‘Go on.’ His voice was controlled. Very controlled. She swallowed.
Forcing herself to speak. He’d told her to go on—she had to do so.
‘You’ve frozen all its corporate investments. One of them is my father’s
company—Davies Yacht Design. I came to the dinner last night
to meet you. To persuade you—’ ‘Yes?’ The voice cut across her.
‘To persuade me—?’ She stared at him. Something was happening
to his face. The expression was draining out of it. Completely. Absolutely.
‘Yes.’ Her voice was breathy, her throat tight with nerves, her
eyes distended. ‘To persuade you to—’ Her voice broke off. A chill
was starting through her. She could feel her skin contracting, tightening.
‘To persuade you…’ Her voice had husked to a low, breathy
whisper. It was all she could manage. Her throat was stretched tight
with nerves, with desperation, as she gazed up at him, her eyes wide
with urgency. ‘To go ahead with the takeover. It would be good for
you—it really would. I promise. I can show you right now…’ Her
voice trailed off, leaving unsaid the fact that she had a financial
print-out in her handbag next door. There was something about his
face that was frightening. Chilling her like ice. Her heart started to
thud as she stared up at Alexis Petrakis’s expressionless face. Slowly
he slid the mobile phone back inside his jacket. ‘There is something
you should know. You have made a mistake,’ he said. And though
his voice was soft, it was a softness that was deathly. ‘A very bad
mistake. You see…’ He paused, and the eyes resting on her held, she
realised, the same chill that was hollowing through her, were as expressionless
as his face. ‘I do not do business in bed. Ever. So, although
you were very good—very good indeed—’ his voice was a
lacerating drawl, like a razor being drawn over her flesh ‘—you
have used me for no purpose. Except, of course—’ and now his eyes
washed over her suddenly, and the expression in them made her
gorge rise ‘—to demonstrate your…expertise. Exceptional expertise,
in fact.’ Long lashes swept down over his eyes, and when they swept
back up again the obsidian gaze cut like a scalpel into her. ‘You’re
very skilled, Rhianna, but you should have contented yourself with a
cash payment. I’d have been happy to pay for you. In fact…’ He
reached inside his jacket again, but this time he took out a slim
leather tooled wallet. He flicked it open. A cluster of fifty-pound
notes fluttered on the bed. ‘Keep the change,’ he said softly. Then he
turned and walked to the door. ‘You have ten minutes to vacate this
suite. Hotel security will escort you out.’ At the entrance to the reception
room he paused. He did not turn. ‘As of now, MML no
longer has any interest in Davies Yacht Design.’ His voice was hard.
As hard as stone. He walked out. He didn’t look back. In the bed,
Rhianna started to shake. CHAPTER THREE ‘HE’S in here.’ The
woman opened a door off the narrow hallway. She had an infant balanced
on her hip, tugging at her hair and whimpering, and an air of
distraction about her that did not impress Alexis Petrakis. Alexis
controlled his emotions. He’d been doing that ever since he’d taken
the call that his PA had patched through to him. The call that
threatened to change his life for ever. It was only by the most stringent
exercise of self-control that he had got to this point now. The
moment of truth. As he walked into the room, in front of the woman
he felt his hands clench at his side. Let this not be true! Thee mou,
let this not be true! Because it couldn’t, couldn’t be true. It couldn’t
be true what that social worker had told him over the phone That she
had opened an envelope in Rhianna Davies’s flat, as she was packing
things for the child who had just been taken into emergency
foster care, and read the handwritten note clipped to the boy’s birth
certificate—citing himself as father of her son. Rhianna Davies was
lying. Christos, there could be no other explanation! A woman like
that—who had used him, had gone to bed with him to get his
money—would not have hesitated a month, a week, to claim his paternity
of a child she had conceived in that sordid encounter! So she
could only be lying. Lying to cause trouble… Which meant that the
child he was about to set eyes on could not possibly be his. Dear
God, please no—not his! Alexis’s eyes swept around the room. The
carpet was strewn with children’s toys. Two school-age children
were sitting on a sofa, watching children’s TV. Alexis felt his guts
clench, and then release. But even as he felt the cold start to drain
out of his veins the woman began speaking in a deliberately low
voice he could hardly hear above the blaring TV. ‘He’s not settled at
all well. I’ve done my best, but he’s just not responding. Poor little
mite,’ she finished, her distracted manner softening suddenly. She
walked in past Alexis and went up to a large armchair half hidden in
this small room by the open door. Alexis felt his head turn to follow
her as if it were filled with lead. Crouching down, rebalancing the
infant on her hip slightly to do so, she said in a gentler voice, ‘Hello,
pet. How’s tricks?’ She ruffled the hair of the small child curled into
the confines of the armchair, a battered teddy clutched tightly to
him. The child did not respond to the woman, either to her voice or
her touch. He just went on sitting there, curled like a foetus, immobile,
unresponsive. Tension in every line of his little body, his face
averted so only his profile showed. With a sigh she got to her feet.
‘You see?’ she said to Alexis. He did not hear her. Did not see her.
Saw nothing but the child curled into the chair. His profile was familiar
from a dozen family photo albums. Himself. Himself when
young. He could not move. His lungs were frozen, his body rigid.
But emotion was knifing through him, blow after blow. Killing him.
How long he stood there he did not know. Time had stopped.
Stopped five long years ago when his seed had melded with the woman
who now, the social worker had told him, lay in a hospital bed.
Just in time, she had told him, to make it so much easier to take the
boy into care—away from such an irresponsible and unfit mother.
My son. The words repeated inside his head over, and over again.
My son. Out of nowhere, overwhelming him, emotion poured
through him. The fiercest, most overpowering urge to wrap that
small, hunched body to him, to enfold him and protect him—always.
It shook through him, and he knew it for what it was. It was unasked
for, but it had come all the same. And he would, he knew, be in its
power all his days. Slowly, very, very slowly, he started to walk forward,
towards the little boy. At his approach the child tensed even
more, his head turning fearfully. Dark, distended eyes stared up at
him anxiously, his mouth trembling. Alexis felt his heart
clench—with fury and with pain. He forced a smile to his face. He
must not, must not frighten the child. ‘Hello, Nicky,’ he said slowly,
speaking to his son for the first time ever. Rhianna stirred sluggishly,
sleep draining from her. Her eyes opened heavily. She stared,
confused. She was no longer in a hospital ward. She was in a room
on her own. The walls were a soft pink. A nurse was altering the
slats of the Venetian blinds over the window. ‘Hello,’ she said
brightly. ‘How are you feeling?’ ‘Where am I?’ Rhianna’s voice
sounded faint and dazed. ‘You’re in the Sellman Wing of the hospital.
It’s the private wing.’ ‘Private? But I can’t afford—’ The nurse
smiled reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry—everything has been taken care
of. Now, tell me how you’re feeling. You have a visitor, you know.’
Emotion leapt in Rhianna’s eyes, completely obliterating the question
of how she had come to be in a private ward. ‘Nicky!’ Her voice
was a hoarse croak, and she started to try and sit up. Immediately the
nurse hurried forward to help prop her against the pillows, easing
her skilfully back. ‘Nicky?’ she echoed. Rhianna’s eyes were
strained and wide as she steadied her breathing after the effort of
moving. ‘My little boy,’ she said, the pain in her voice audible. The
nurse stood back and shook her head regretfully. ‘I’m afraid not. But
if you’re ready I’ll send him in. He’s been most impatient for you to
wake.’ She bustled out. Rhianna closed her eyes, desolation washing
through her. Nicky—he was her only thought. She had to get to him,
find him, get him back. She didn’t care if she could still hardly get
out of bed, let alone walk, that her lungs still ached even through the
painkillers, that her body still felt as if a steamroller had gone over
it. She had to get home! Had to. Because how else could she get
Nicky back? Anxiety laced through her, fretting in every cell of her
aching body. The door started to open. Her eyes flew to it. Who was
it this time? Who could possibly be so impatient to see her? The
nurse had said ‘him’, so it couldn’t be that awful social worker coming
to triumph over her. So who, then? As her eyes focussed on the
man who walked in she felt for one sickening, hideous moment that
she must still be asleep. Because she couldn’t, couldn’t be awake!
Shock buckled through her. And horror. Deep, deep horror. As if
through a hole ripped out of time a man walked into the room—from
a past that came from her worst dreams, her sickest memories. Alexis
Petrakis had just walked in. Alexis closed the door behind him
and let his eyes rest on the woman lying in the bed. What the hell—?
This wasn’t Rhianna Davies. It was nothing like her! Rhianna
Davies had possessed a beauty so enticing that she had been able to
make a fool of him as no other woman had ever done! Had made
him feel—He couldn’t now admit how she’d made him feel. She had
been a woman who could have lured him to his doom if he hadn’t
found the strength of mind to throw her from him like a rotten fruit.
But her rottenness had been hidden beneath a surface so exquisite
that he had been putty in her hands… This woman looked like a
death’s head. Gaunt, her eyes sunken into their sockets, cheeks hollow,
the bones sharp like a knife, and lines etched around her mouth.
Her hair was lank, much shorter than it had been, straggling limply
around her haggard face. Involuntarily the image of the way he remembered
her pushed into his mind—her body pulsing beneath him,
her soft, lush curves, naked, wanton, sated. And before that, in that
silver evening dress, her hair like a silken fall, her eyes like
smoke—promising everything, everything he wanted from her…
Something had punched through him the moment he set eyes on her
at that dinner, five long years ago. Something he had never felt about
a woman before. Never thought existed. He had wanted her instantly.
Totally. More than any other woman he had ever wanted.
And for the chance to slake that overpowering, insistent wanting he
had broken every rule in his book—just to possess her that very
night as she’d offered herself to him on a plate. And in the morning
he’d discovered why she’d done so. It had been another punch to his
guts. But quite, quite different. He stared down at her now, hatred in
his eyes. This woman couldn’t be the same one. Thee mou, he’d
known that she’d been taken into hospital after having been knocked
down by a car, but that alone couldn’t account for the hideous transformation
of so exquisite a beauty into this…this…hag.. His mouth
tightened. He remembered what the social worker had told him.
Drugs. Was that what had turned Rhianna Davies from a sexual
temptress into this wasted, bone-thin hag? The cruel word stabbed at
him. The woman looked so terrible it would be inhuman not to feel
pity for her. Yet pity was the last thing she deserved. The very last
thing… He felt the rage well up in his throat again, as it had ever
since he’d looked down into the stricken face of his son. Any child,
any, deserved a mother better than this! On top of everything that he
already knew her to be—the kind of slut who traded her body for
financial gain—yet she was worse still. Irresponsible, feckless, leaving
a four-year-old on his own while she slept off her despicable addiction—
an addiction that made her violent, brandishing a knife at
the very woman appointed to protect her child… And that such a female
was mother to his son! A son she had deliberately, calculatingly
hidden from him, kept him ignorant of! Thee mou, no torment
was good enough for such a woman! And yet rigid self-control
sliced down over his seething emotions. He was going to have to
treat her with kid gloves. His lawyers had been blunt, even though
he had wanted to hurl them from his office. The fathers of illegitimate
children in the United Kingdom had no automatic right of custody.
To gain custody of his son would be a complicated, controversial
business. And while it was conducted his son would remain in
care, certainly until his mother was physically fit enough to look
after him, and possibly—if the social worker’s case for wanting a
Care Order were valid—indefinitely. His jaw tightened. No—that
was one thing that would not continue! His son was coming out of
that foster woman’s house—his unhappiness, his misery had been
palpable. Whatever it took—he would get his son out of there! Even
if it meant dealing sweetly with someone as contemptible as Rhianna
Davies. Alexis’s eyes swept over the gaunt, haggard face staring
horrified up at him. His stomach clenched. Rhianna Davies
might be mercenary, an irresponsible drug-addict, but his son had
cried for her… Piercing like a needle into his memory, he heard the
pinched little voice whispering, almost inaudibly, at his oh-so-carefully
phrased question this morning, ‘Mummy…I want Mummy.’
His nails dug into his palms. Dear God—a child crying for his mother…
A mother who never came back… Memory gutted through him,
drenching him with remembered pain, making him hear the heartbroken
crying of a child for its mother. With a wrench he silenced
the voice he could still hear inside his head, as if it were yesterday,
not thirty long years ago. No. Enough memories. They were no use
now. All that was needed now was his most honed negotiation skill.
Rhianna Davies held the key to his son—he had to find a way to turn
it. And his emotions—seething, swirling like a black inky pit inside
him—were only going to get in the way of doing so. Ruthlessly, he
schooled himself. Time for finesse now, not the indulgence of emotion.
Regaining control, he let his eyes rest on her appalled expression.
He brought to the forefront of his mind what he had concluded
her long-term plan was to be. Obviously Rhianna Davies had kept
his son from him quite deliberately, so she must have been biding
her time, planning on producing him at a time of her choosing, when
she would gain the greatest advantage from the disclosure. That she
had not done so as soon as she’d known she was pregnant could only
have been because she had not, at that stage, been sure of his paternity.
A woman as free with her favours as he knew her to be could
easily have had any number of contenders for the privilege of impregnating
her. Perhaps she had not been sure enough of his contribution
to risk challenging him with a DNA test. Better, she must
have reasoned, for her to have waited until the boy had grown sufficiently
for his Greek heritage to be visible in his features. Then she
would be on much safer ground to claim him as her child’s father.
Well, fate had taken a hand, and disclosure had come prematurely.
From his point of view that could only be a good thing. She had lost
the advantage of timing. Indeed—his eyes swept over her haggard
features once more—she had lost a lot more advantages as well. Her
beauty, for one. Grimly, he could only be glad of it. Rhianna
Davies’s beauty had made him lose his self-control, had caused an
indulgence he should never have allowed himself. But he was safe
from her wiles now, all right. The gaunt death’s head staring up at
him held no allure for him—or any male. Except—and the thought
stabbed at him—a heartbroken little boy, with nothing left to cling
on to but his battered teddy bear… He took a sharp, inward breath
and opened negotiations. The most critical of his life. He was playing
for his son—and he had to win. Rhianna stared. It was a vision,
a nightmare—it had to be. It had to be! Alexis Petrakis was
gone—gone for ever! Thrust into the oblivion of the past, nailed
down in a box with the key buried so deep she would never open it
again! For five long, gruelling years she had kept it buried—had had
so much else to worry about, agonise about, exhaust herself with,
that it had been all but obliterated from her mind. Self-preservation
had helped her keep the past buried, unremembered. Because to remember
Alexis Petrakis would have been to remember everything
he had done to her—everything she had allowed him to do.
Everything he had said to her on that hideous, hideous morning. She
had crawled away from his hotel suite shaking with shame, with revulsion
at herself—at him—wanting only to hide for ever. Instead
she’d had to go back, face her father, tell him…tell him she had
failed. Failed to save his company, the one thing in his life he loved
above all else, far more than his discarded wife and daughter—
because how could a mere family compare with his obsession
to design yachts? If I had managed to save his company… The old,
familiar taunting scraped at her. If she had been able to do the one
thing that her father had craved, needed above all else… Oh, then he
would have loved her! Surely then he would have loved her? But she
had failed. That vile, hideous night had seen to that, had destroyed
both her self-respect and her last hope of salvaging her father’s company
and so saving him from dwindling down through his remaining
years, stricken by stroke, bereft of the one thing that had given his
life meaning, increasingly ill, increasingly cantankerous, increasingly
difficult to look after. Blaming her for not being the son he had
wanted her to be, who would have been useful to him—not a useless
girl, unable even to save his company, and now, worst of all, saddled
with a fatherless bastard baby… And all the time, like some grinding,
relentless mill of God, their new poverty had crushed them exceeding
fine, until they’d been reduced to living in a council flat on
a sink estate that no one else wanted to live on and she had become
carer to both her infant son and her invalid father, eking out their existence
on state benefit. Until the bitter, painful end had come to her
father’s life, draining the very last of her worn, exhausted energies…
Tiredness sapped her. She lay there now, in her hospital bed, and
despair swept over her. After all she had gone through in the last five
years, now was the worst of all. Nicky—gone. There Alexis stood,
once more dominating her vision, obliterating the rest of the world
for her! Once more an overpoweringly tangible and oppressive presence.
Taller, it seemed than she remembered, and darker-hued. His
Mediterranean origins were obvious—not just in his colouring, but
in his stance. And, most vivid of all, the arrogance, that dominance
of the Mediterranean male. Exacerbated a thousand times by the
knowledge of his wealth, his power. Power. That was what Alexis
Petrakis radiated. Fear froze through her. Why was he here? How
was he here? And worst of all—most terrifying of all—what did he
want? Out of nowhere the answer iced through her. Nicky. Fear bit
like a wolf at her heart. No! He couldn’t know about Nicky! He
couldn’t! Sanity fought its way through her terror. Even if Alexis
Petrakis had found out about Nicky, the last thing he’d do would be
to care about him! Unless it were to ensure her silence about him. To
tell her not to even think of wanting financial support. But she had
never, ever thought to do that! Alexis Petrakis was the last man on
earth she wanted her or Nicky to have anything to do with. So what
was he doing here now? Dread filled her. For one long, last moment
Alexis stood looking down at the haggard woman lying there.
He’d had her moved to a private ward—not for her sake, but for his.
Not only did he not want to talk to her in a public ward, but in a
private ward he could ensure she had no access to a phone. She
wouldn’t be phoning the tabloid press with some scandalous story of
a Greek tycoon’s illegitimate son living in a council flat, with his
drug addict mother! He wondered, coldly, how she was going to play
it. She was, as he knew to his cost from five years ago, a superb actress.
But he’d taken her by surprise; that was obvious from her
stunned reaction. She looked terrified—and well she might. Rage
spurted through him again, and he crushed it back. She stared at him,
face stricken, features twisting. ‘Why are you here?’ Her voice was
thin, strained. He could hear the tension in it. Inside him, the emotions
he was holding back, leashed so tight it was taking him more
effort than he’d thought possible to keep them in check, were nipping
and snarling at him like a pack of caged wolves. ‘You don’t
know?’ Her face tightened, with a wary expression in her eyes he
did not miss. She was recovering her guard. ‘How should I?’ Her
evasiveness enraged him. She dared lie there and try and play games
with him while his son was abandoned to foster care? He subdued
his rage again. Instead, he simply said a single word. ‘Nicky.’ The
name fell into the silence. Into the yawning space between them. He
watched her face as he said his son’s name. It froze. Completely. His
veiled eyes went on looking down at her expressionlessly. Dismay
was etched visibly through her every haggard feature. Anger bit at
him again. So he’d been right—she hadn’t wanted him to know yet,
had wanted to go on biding her time, keeping his son from him until
she could get the best deal on him. The best price for him. Black
fury convulsed through him. He thrust it aside. It would not help
now. Instead, he watched her, like a fly trapped in treacle, as he
forced his knowledge upon her. Beneath his rigidly schooled expression
he could feel his anger, leashed on a hard, tight wire. Rhianna
could only stare sickly, frozen, the air solidifying in her lungs. She
couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Oh God, he knew about Nicky…
He knew. She could feel panic start to rise in her breast like a clawing
beast. How—how had he found out? She must have mouthed the
word, because his brows suddenly drew together. For an instant, no
more, there was a flash deep in his eyes. But when he spoke the tight
mesh of control was still in place, draining all emotion from his
voice. But the very lack of emotion filled Rhianna with dread.
‘How? Your social worker phoned me.’ He paused infinitesimally,
his eyes boring down into Rhianna’s. Hers were still glazed with
shock, her face frozen. He went on, biting out each word, his eyes
never leaving hers. ‘She made very free with her views on men who
fathered children and then declined to shoulder financial responsibility
for them.’ His voice chilled. ‘She was particularly incensed that a
man with my “extensive financial resources”, as she phrased it,
should have so evaded his obligations.’ As he finished, there was ice
in every word. ‘She gave me to understand that she was sure I would
find it both socially and reputationally embarrassing if
my…neglect…of my responsibilities were to reach the courts or the
press.’ Oh, God, thought Rhianna, realisation hollowing her out. So
that’s why he’s here. That social worker has ripped into him and
threatened him with the tabloids! Her nails clenched into her palms,
digging painfully. She was reeling, punch-drunk. Her mind had gone
numb, completely numb. All she could feel was the horror ballooning
inside her that Alexis Petrakis knew about Nicky’s existence. He
was speaking again, and she tried to make sense of the words, desperately
trying to pull her mind together, still reeling from shock and
dismay. His clipped, staccato words cut through her flailing emotions.
‘I want him out of care. Immediately.’ The hard, expressionless
eyes bored down on her, drilling into her. Yes, she
thought—fighting to make sense of this nightmare that had just
walked through the door and seized her by the throat until she
couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—that’s why he’s here. The tabloids
would have a field-day—a multimillionaire refusing to pay maintenance
for his son in state foster care! He would never risk that. And
that was why he was here—to neutralise the danger to himself.
‘They won’t release him until I’m discharged from hospital.’ Her
voice was thin. Flat. Not revealing her agony at being parted from
Nicky, her gut-churning fear that he would never be returned to her.
Every instinct told her to hide her emotions from this man, whose
sole concern was protecting himself from scandal. Alexis’s mouth
tightened. No sign of admitting that her drug addiction was keeping
her son in care as much as her injuries. Let alone any sign of emotion
at losing her own child! Yet again he banked down the anger
roiling inside him. Time enough to throw at her head her total moral
unfitness to take care of a child! Right now, all that was important
was getting Nicky out of care. ‘That is no longer a problem. I have
spoken to your physician and he has agreed to discharge you.’ For a
second he thought he saw her eyes blaze with emotion. Then, instantly,
they were blank again. ‘I—I don’t understand.’ His voice
was terse as he spoke. ‘I have informed him that I will provide appropriate
nursing care for you, which means that you no longer need
to be hospitalised. I have also informed the council authorities that I
will provide a qualified nanny to undertake childcare. This has satisfied
them to the extent that they have agreed to rescind the temporary
Care Order.’ Like a vast, welling wave Rhianna felt emotion
pour through her. Oh, God, did this really, really mean she could get
Nicky back? Hope soared within her. Though she would rather eat
dirt than let Alexis Petrakis anywhere near her and Nicky, if he was
the only way of getting Nicky back then she would do it. But she
must not, must not let him see how much it meant to her. God, did
she not know how ruthless he was? How vile? He was already
clearly furious that his hand had been forced like this—a bastard son
who threatened his reputation foisted on him. She looked up at the
hard, shuttered face of the man who had once turned her insides to
mush, who had been able to seduce her as effortlessly as taking
candy from a baby. It had been the most incredible night of her life,
but in the morning— Her mind sheered away. Nicky—her beloved
son. He was all that was important now. And she must not show her
desperation to get him back. She forced a cool, unnatural calmness
into her voice. ‘So what happens next?’ Alexis’s pupils narrowed. A
stab of cold rage bit at him. Christos, her cold-blooded reaction
damned her! Like a snake deep in a pit, memory writhed within him,
struggling to be let out, to be remembered…He thrust it back. Only
one thing now was important—his son. When he spoke, his voice
was as impassive as before. ‘You will be discharged tomorrow, into
the care of the nurse I have hired. Together with the nanny, your car
will call at the foster home en route to the airport—’ ‘What do you
mean, airport?’ Rhianna’s interjection was sharp, high-pitched.
Every aching muscle in her battered body tensed, alarm bells shrieking.
Alexis Petrakis looked down at her without expression. ‘You
will be flying to Greece—’ ‘Greece?’ Dark eyes flickered coldly.
‘You will stay in my villa, by the sea. It is on a private island that I
own. It is very luxurious, fully staffed. You will be waited on hand
and foot.’ With a slow, painful exhalation Rhianna understood. Her
battered mind had fastened on to the single phrase that made sense
to her. ‘Private island’ he had said. So that was what this was
about—he was going to hide her and Nicky away on his private island,
safe from prying eyes. For him, it made sense. But for her and
Nicky? How could she possibly let herself and Nicky be taken to
Greece by Alexis Petrakis? Locked away on a private island, surrounded
by Petrakis staff! But it was the only way she could get
Nicky out of care. And that was all, all that was important. It didn’t
matter how she got him back! Didn’t matter that the man she hated
more than anyone else in the world was doing it for his own selfish,
self-protecting reasons. It only mattered that Alexis Petrakis was using
his wealth and position to make state bureaucracy, the medical
system, work in his favour. Besides—another thought came into her
reeling, over-wrought mind—a villa by the sea. Alexis Petrakis had
thrown that at her. A beach… The seaside… It would be like a holiday
for Nicky. A holiday after the trauma of being taken from her.
He’d never been on holiday… Her thoughts flew on. It would be
warmer in Greece, too, and with a nurse for her and a nanny to help
with Nicky she could get well faster there—much faster than in the
bleak, damp flat she lived in. And once she was well she could get
Nicky back properly again, without having to rely on Alexis Petrakis’s
wealth. And then—her mouth tightened—then Alexis Petrakis
could go to hell. CHAPTER FOUR ALEXIS threw himself into the
back of his car, silent rage consuming him. He could feel it streaming
through him like a dark flowing river. Rage that for four silent,
invisible years his son had lived and breathed and he had known
nothing, nothing of his existence! That drugged-out woman had kept
him from him, hidden him away until the time was ripe for her to
cash in on him…cash in on her own son! He felt his hands clench,
and he had to force himself to unclench them. On the other side of
town his son was sitting huddled in a chair, ‘failing to thrive’ as the
social worker had acidly informed him. His hands clenched again
and rage surged once more. It would be spent, he knew, only when
he had his son in his possession. Safe. Carefully, the hospital porter
pushed Rhianna’s wheelchair up the ramp into the waiting limo. Two
women got into the car after her—one middle-aged in a nurse’s uniform,
the other younger than her, with a cheerful face. They smiled
at Rhianna, introducing themselves, but she hardly paid attention.
Her heart was hammering in her breast, adrenaline running, bringing
with it fear and desperate hope. Her mouth was dry, her throat tight
as a drum. Her nails bit into her palms, lying on her lap swathed in a
rug. Nicky, Nicky, Nicky… Like a litany, her son’s name went round
and round in her head. The limo moved off. Smooth though the ride
was, every stop and start in the traffic seemed to jar right through
her. Her breathing was slow and laboured, her punished lungs still
weak. Her bruised and battered body still fragile. But she didn’t
care. She could have ached a thousand times worse and she would
not have cared—so long as she was going to where Nicky was…
How long the journey took she had no idea. Her hands were clasped
tight into one another, twisting and clenching as she stared blindly
out ahead through the windscreen. The weather was bleak, with a
lowering sky. Spring seemed a million miles away. The limo glided
to a halt along the kerb of a busy arterial road lined with pre-war
semis. They stopped by one with a small ironwork gate and a concrete
path leading to the front door. The nurse and nanny climbed
out. Rhianna strained forward, trying to see out of the open car door
towards the house. She did not see the sleek silver chauffeured saloon
car draw up behind the limo, nor the tall, dark-suited figure
climb out, and stand, his face drawn, looking up at the nondescript
house. The front door opened and a woman came out. Alexis
watched the scene silently. He recognised the foster carer, still with a
toddler fastened to her hip. She was talking to a woman beside
her—neither the nurse nor the nanny, both of whom were still in the
porch of the house. The other woman nodded, her face tight, and
then reached out her hand peremptorily before starting to walk forward
along the path. Her gait was slower than an adult’s, and Alexis
felt his stomach clench as he realised she was leading forward a
small, diminutive figure whose hunched frame and bowed head
made his throat tighten. Her other hand carried a suitcase. The nurse
and nanny fell into step, the nurse starting to talk to the third woman,
who talked back to her, her face still set in lines of disapproval. Instinctively,
emotion impelling him, he started to move forwards, towards
the diminutive, hunched figure. And then suddenly, there was
a cry. A cry so high, so thin, Alexis’s head jerked round. ‘Nicky!’ It
was a cry that was half a sob. At the sound of it the bowed, dragging
figure looked up, eyes huge in his little face. And then, like an instant
tornado, he tore down the concrete path, across the pavement,
and threw himself into the car. ‘Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!
Mummy!’ The piping voice was shrill, hysterical. Rhianna bent and
scooped him onto her lap, clutching him to her, oblivious of the
physical pain in her chest, lost in the joy that overwhelmed her.
Tears poured down her face. ‘Oh, Nicky—Nicky!’ She crushed him
against her, tears choking in her throat, ecstasy in her heart. ‘Oh, my
darling, my darling! Mummy’s own best boy!’ Sobs were racking
through her, and she thought she must die of happiness as she held
the son she had never thought to see again safe in her arms. Outside
on the pavement Alexis Petrakis stood, immobile, watching. His
face was set like stone. The car was moving again. Rhianna was
oblivious to it—oblivious to everything except the little hand clutching
hers so tightly it wrung her heart. ‘Have you been a good boy,
my darling?’ she asked Nicky, her hand cupping his cheek. He was
as close as possible to the wheelchair, fastened safely into a child
seat that had materialised from nowhere. He nodded, his eyes huge.
‘You weren’t there,’ he said. ‘Your mummy’s been ill, poppet,’ the
nanny chipped in. She was sitting next to Nicky, while the nurse sat
on a fold-down seat opposite. ‘But I’m getting better,’ Rhianna added
hurriedly. ‘Are we going home now?’ Nicky asked. There was a
painful eagerness in his little voice that stabbed at her. She started to
speak, but the nurse got in first. ‘Your mother isn’t well enough to
look after you all on your own yet, young man,’ she said in a firm
voice. ‘So she’s going to have a little holiday—yes, with you. Don’t
worry! Mr Petrakis has it all arranged.’ Nicky’s eyes widened. ‘A
holiday? Mummy! Are we? Where?’ There was anxiety underlying
the astonishment, she could hear. He’d been through so much. She
couldn’t bear it if he was to be upset now when he discovered they
were not just going home after all. It might just be a run-down council
flat, but it was the only home he could remember. She swallowed
and made herself smile. Please let him be OK with what was going
to happen to them. She injected enthusiasm into her voice. ‘Far
away! It’s an adventure! We’re going in an aeroplane.’ Nicky’s
mouth opened in disbelief. ‘An airyplane?’ he echoed, in an awed
voice. ‘Yes,’ she answered, filled with relief that he was not upset
about not going back to his familiar home. ‘An airyplane.’ She
squeezed Nicky’s tightly clutching hand and felt tears of joy seep into
her eyes. She had got Nicky back. Her precious son. She would
never let him go ever again. No matter the cost to herself. Seven
hours later Rhianna felt as if she’d been hit by a speeding car all
over again. Every bone in her body ached, it seemed, and her lungs
were like a soggy swamp. Even with luxury travel—a private executive
jet from the local city airport, a helicopter from Athens to
Alexis Petrakis’s private island in the Aegean, a stretcher to convey
her to a bedroom in his villa—she was still exhausted. It made her
realise how impossible it would have been to look after Nicky at
home on her own. Conducted by a large black-clothed woman, who
spoke English with a strong Greek accent and who introduced herself
as Maria, Karen, the nanny, took Nicky off to his bedroom, in
between hers and his mother’s, while Nurse Thompson got her patient
into bed. Rhianna’s last waking sight, some little while later,
before she gave herself up to the cool, crisp sheets and the soft, soft
pillows, was Nicky, padding into her room in his worn pyjamas,
clutching his faithful teddy, and Karen lifting him carefully onto her
bed so that he could kiss her goodnight. ‘Sleep tight, Mummy,’ he
said, and wrapped his little arms around her neck to kiss her. ‘Don’t
ever go away again.’ Bliss washed through her. ‘My
darling—never,’ she murmured, and slid away to sleep the sleep of
angels in paradise. Alexis gave her a week. It was longer by seven
days than he’d wanted it to be. With every instinct he possessed he
wanted to be with his son. To start making up—now—for the four
years without him. But the relationship that he was going to start
now—four years late—was going to have to last a lifetime. He had
to get it right. Thee mou, he knew what happened when a father
failed to get it right… It was also seven days longer than he’d
wanted to leave it before he saw Rhianna Davies again. Not that his
desire to set eyes on her again was driven by anything like the same
instinct that was impelling him to his son. The opposite entirely.
How strange, he thought, with a hardening of his eyes as he sat staring
into the middle distance from behind his desk in his corporate
HQ in Athens, that he could love his son so much—and hate the
mother. Deliberately he made himself relax the tensed muscles in his
back and shoulders. Rhianna Davies was no longer an issue. She existed
now for one purpose only—to be there if his son wanted her.
For his son’s sake alone he would tolerate her existence. It might
gall him to know he had to finance her in a life of ease simply because
she was the mother of his son, but by the same token it was
the way he was going to be able to control her. She would remain
there, for his son, or he would let her drop back into the gutter. He
would make it very, very clear on what terms he would tolerate her
existence in his son’s life. A frown flickered across his brow. One
thing, however, he would not tolerate. The drugs had to go. However
long it took to get her off them, go they must. A look of disgust
fleeted in his eyes. God knew, he didn’t expect much from a woman
of her stamp—amoral and venal—but surely the mirror alone should
have told her what drugs were doing to her? They’d sucked the
beauty from her as surely as they’d sucked her health! The image of
her gaunt death’s head intruded in his mind, and then an image from
the night she’d come to him, five years ago. The contrast was grotesque,
repulsive. He thrust both images from him and reached for his
phone. His schedule this week had been more punishing than anything
he’d ever put himself through. In a single week he had cleared
out of the way everything that needed to be dealt with at Petrakis International.
Once he reached the villa he wanted nothing to make
him leave again for at least a month. His pilot could bring him any
documents he needed, and his study there was equipped with communications
to the rest of his empire. Not that he wanted work to
distract him. His entire focus was going to be on his son—the son
who did not yet even know that he was his father. Acid anger
seethed again in his guts like sour bile. Rhianna sat back in the padded
reclining chair and gazed out over the scene ahead of her. A profound
and heartfelt wash of happiness and gratitude swept through
her. All around her the gentle warmth of the Mediterranean spring
lapped like swansdown. A soft golden sun, radiant in the late-afternoon
sky, was blessing down upon the white-flecked blue of the sea
curved into the little bay. From the vine-shaded, stone-paved terrace
on which her chair was positioned she could easily see over the balustrade
on to the sandy beach, a mere eight feet below. Nicky, in Tshirt,
shorts and sun hat, was down there, contentedly digging in the
sand by the seashore, with Karen to look after him. With a child’s resilience,
safe and secure again with his mother there, and all the happiness
of a small child by the seaside, Nicky already seemed to be
over the trauma of having being separated from his mother. As for
herself, she was feeling so much better too. Now that her anxiety
was gone, her body was free to get on with the task of healing itself—
a task made so much easier in the balmy warmth of the Aegean
in this luxurious villa, with the ministrations of Nurse
Thompson and the complete absence of any housework and childcare.
It was certainly a blissful way to live. For a moment she felt a
stab of guilt go through her. Had she not kept Nicky’s existence from
Alexis Petrakis her son might have grown up in surroundings like
this. However grudgingly he’d have done it, the state authorities
would have required him to take financial responsibility for his offspring,
however unintended. Her expression hardened. No—not in
exchange for all the financial support in the world would she ever
have told Alexis Petrakis about Nicky! Some fathers were just not
worth having. Hadn’t her own sorry childhood taught her that? With
her mother constantly hoping that her errant husband would return,
and herself yearning for a father who had no interest in her.
No—better for Nicky to have no father than one who was worse
than nothing, a father he might spend his life trying to get to love
him in vain… The way she had. A growing noise cut off her
thoughts. Down on the beach she saw Nicky and Karen crane their
necks upwards. A moment later Rhianna realised what it was. A
helicopter, getting closer, the racket from its rotors deafening her as
it started to descend. Was it the doctor again? she wondered. He’d
been out twice to see her—firstly on the day after she’d arrived, and
then the day before yesterday. But he’d been pleased with her progress
and wasn’t due again till next week. So who could this be? Arriving
now, like this? She did not have long to wait to find out.
Alexis’s mouth tightened as he strode out on to the terrace. Surprise
was always a reliable element of attack. Had she really thought she
would be allowed to settle down here, in the lap of luxury, and not
be called to account? Then his eyes slid past her, out down on to the
beach, and he stilled. His son was paddling in the sea, laughing and
splashing, jumping up and down over the tiny waves with glee.
Alexis heart constricted. It was a totally different child from the one
he’d seen with the foster carer, withdrawn and traumatised. Again,
that overpowering emotion poured through him—a fierce, consuming
protectiveness. ‘What are you doing here?’ The thin, highpitched
voice cut through his emotion. He turned his head sharply,
eyes turning cold. They locked on to the woman who had given birth
to his son, then kept him from him for four long years. She had gone
stark white, her pallor emphasising the hollowness of her cheeks, the
deep circles around her sunken eyes. Shock was etched through
every line. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded again, in the
same constricted voice. He lowered himself into one of the rattan
chairs. For a moment he said nothing, just studied her. As if she
were some kind of cockroach. She was still looking shell-shocked.
There were other emotions in her face, but he didn’t have time to
waste identifying them. ‘We have matters to…discuss.’ She knew
then just why he had come. There could be on only one reason. ‘You
want me to sign papers, don’t you? Legally preventing me from ever
going to the press about Nicky.’ Despite the shock thudding through
her, she fought to keep her voice unshaky. Alexis’s dark, damning
eyes hardened. So that was to have been her plan, was it? Threatening
to expose his son in the gutter press for all the world to gawp at!
With deliberate slowness, to give himself time to still the stab of
fury that her words had catalysed, he sat back. ‘You will never,’ he
informed her, ‘speak to the press about my son. With or without any
legal binding. Why do you imagine I brought you here? For the sake
of your health?’ The irony in his tone was scathing. ‘And when I
take Nicky back to England?’ she retorted. He was bound to want
some kind of legally enforceable silencing of her—but she didn’t
care. She’d sign anything he wanted just to get rid of him as fast as
possible. Preferably right now. ‘You will not be returning to England—
and nor will my son.’ There was no emotion audible in his
voice. Not a trace of it. It was like cold steel going into her. ‘From
now on,’ he went on, in the same tone, ‘you will be living here.
Later, when he is school age and fluent in Greek, other arrangements
will be made.’ ‘School age? Fluent in Greek? What the hell are you
talking about?’ Dark, dead eyes rested on her. ‘I am talking about
the way my son will live now.’ Rhianna’s mouth flattened to a tight
line. ‘Hand me the papers to sign, Mr Petrakis! It’s a lot simpler than
the idiocy you’re proposing as an alternative!’ It seemed to her that
the dark eyes went even more dead. ‘You don’t get a choice. My son
stays in Greece. And while, as a child, he has any need of you, you
stay too. This is non-negotiable.’ She stared—just stared. ‘You’re insane.
Do you really imagine that I’m going to stay incarcerated here
just for your sake?’ In the depths of his unblinking eyes there was a
sudden dark flash. ‘What I “really imagine” is that from now on you
will do exactly as I tell you! Understand this and understand it well!
You have no negotiating power!’ She jerked forward in her seat. It
hurt her ribs but she didn’t care. Disbelief and anger were boiling
through her. ‘I wouldn’t negotiate with you if my life depended on
it!’ ‘That is as well.’ The retort was flat. ‘You are beginning—
finally—to understand your situation.’ Rhianna’s heart started
to pound, heavy and thudding. Alexis Petrakis was speaking again.
His voice was cold. Deadly. His eyes were as hard as obsidian. ‘Let
me spell out your situation to you—so that even you can understand
it. Whatever fond dreams you have been entertaining that I will set
you up in luxury in England, content merely to see my son as a visitor,
you may now set them aside. My son will be a permanent part of
my life from now on. You will live here, under supervision, while I
seek to rectify the damage you have done to my son by keeping him
from me. I have lost four years—four years—of his life, and I
should destroy you for that. But my hands are tied—while he is a
child my son’s happiness is dependent on you, and for that reason
alone I tolerate your presence in his life. Have absolutely no doubts
about that.’ She felt nothing—nothing at all. Only drowning, disbelieving
horror. She could not, could not have heard him say what he
had just said! ‘And now—’ his voice bit, dark, killing fire scorching
in his eyes ‘—I will start undoing four years of my son not knowing
of my existence!’ She wanted to scream, to shout, but she could not.
She was frozen—frozen with horror. He was walking down the stone
steps to the beach, moving lithely in his lightweight suit. It should
have looked incongruous, walking across a beach with a handtailored
business suit on, but it only reinforced his power. Where she
found the strength she did not know. But pressing down on the
chair’s arms, she levered herself up, feeling the world wheel round
her. She didn’t care. She staggered towards the steps, sick and faint.
She could see Nicky, still splashing in the shallow water, happy and
playful, while towards him walked a man who, if she could have,
right now she would have obliterated on the spot. She clutched at the
stone balustrade at the edge of the steps, forcing her legs to work
though her heart was pounding in terror. She opened her mouth to
scream, to yell a warning, a negation, an utter negation of what was
happening, but instead there was a black mist rolling in, like a diesel
train rushing up to her. Her legs collapsed and suddenly she was
pitched head forward into total darkness. Alexis heard the thud of
her body collapsing on the sand and wheeled round. Simultaneously
he heard a gasp of shock from the nanny sitting on the towel, who
had already started to get to her feet at his approach. Her eyes flew
past him to Rhianna’s huddled form. ‘Look after Nicky!’ bit out
Alexis, and strode back towards the villa. ‘Keep him away!’ She was
out cold. With a sharp voice he called out for the nurse, then
scooped the inert body up into his arms. She weighed hardly anything—
but she was a dead weight for all that. He hurried up the
steps with her and took her inside. The nurse was hurrying towards
him, exclaiming, but he silenced her. ‘Which bedroom does she
have?’ ‘In here,’ the woman replied, and opened the door to the
master bedroom, which opened up onto its own section of the terrace
around the corner from the beach terrace. Ungently, Alexis deposited
his burden on the bed. ‘She tried to get down the steps and collapsed
on the sand.’ He answered the nurse’s brisk enquiry tersely. At least
the woman seemed competent enough not to make a fuss. She was
checking pulse and heart, straightening her patient’s body. ‘Do you
need to call a doctor?’ Alexis demanded. The nurse looked up
briefly and shook her head. ‘She’ll come to in a moment,’ she predicted,
and returned her attention to her patient. Alexis nodded,
mouth tight. He left her to it and went outdoors again. On the beach
he could see the nanny, crouching down beside Nicky, talking to him
and clearly holding him back from rushing inside. Alexis felt another
spurt of anger. Had Rhianna no sense at all? Frightening the boy
like that? Or had she done it deliberately? His brow darkened. What
was she trying now? Another affecting little scene like the one she’d
put on for him when the boy had come out of care? Fawning all over
him to prove how maternal she was suddenly? Just like his own
mother— No. No memories. None. He would not allow it. He
slammed his mind shut. Calming himself deliberately, he walked
down to the beach and up to his son. Rhianna Davies was nothing to
him. His son was everything. As he approached he felt his emotions
start to churn again, but he suppressed them. To the child he was a
stranger. He must not forget that. And right now the boy’s main concern
was his mother, after seeing her collapse like that. Fear was naked
on his little face. Alexis took a breath, forcing his voice to sound
reassuring. ‘It is nothing to worry about,’ he said. He looked at the
boy, dragging on his nanny’s hand. ‘Your mother will be better in a
moment. Nurse Thompson is with her. She just felt dizzy.’ The
nanny took up the cue. ‘Giddy—that’s all! Your mummy has to take
it easy, remember? She’s been ill, but she’s getting better. Now,
look—you’ve got a visitor! Mr Petrakis?’ She straightened up and
looked at Alexis. She was very good, he registered. Professional.
Whether she had guessed his relationship to her charge or not he
neither knew nor cared. He gave her a brief, dismissing nod and she
took her cue again, saying brightly, ‘Goodness me, look at the mess!
Time for me to tidy everything up!’ She headed back to the mound
of beach toys, and started gathering them into a pile. Alexis watched
his son look uncertainly from his nanny to him. His nanny of one
week was more familiar to him than his own father. I’m a stranger. A
complete stranger to him. Thanks to his mother. Keeping him from
me. Bitterness seared through him. And much more—a rush of
fierce emotion. This would be the last time in his life when he would
be a stranger to his own son. Starting now. Carefully, very carefully,
he took the first step on that crucial journey. ‘Hello, Nicky. Have
you been having fun playing on the beach?’ For a moment Nicky’s
expression wavered. Then it brightened. ‘I’ve been in the sea!’ he
announced. With his heart still tight in his chest, Alexis made himself
smile. It seemed hard to make the muscles around his mouth do
that. He wondered, offhand, when he’d last smiled. Not since Maureen
Carter had put the call through from the social worker, that was
for sure. ‘Have you? What did you do in the sea?’ The big eyes
shone. ‘Splashing!’ ‘Show me.’ There was no hesitation. His son
filled up his bucket and then ejected the contents seawards. ‘See?’
He twisted his head round to Alexis. ‘Very good. Which do you
think goes further? A bucket of water or a stone?’ He watched as his
son put down the bucket and picked up a small pebble. ‘Stone!’
shouted Nicky, as it plonked into the water, further out to sea. He
picked up another one and threw it. ‘I know a trick with stones,’ said
Alexis. He walked forward, almost to the sea’s edge. A quick,
crouching search in the sand revealed a couple of round, flat
pebbles. He straightened, hoping he could still do what he’d promised.
He looked out to sea, narrowing his eyes with concentration as
he readied his aim and the angle of his throw. ‘It bounced!’ His son’s
voice was amazed. He looked up at Alexis, astonishment and respect
in his face. ‘Do it again!’ Alexis obliged. ‘Two bounces!’ shouted
Nicky. He jumped up and down. The water splashed Alexis’s trouser
leg. He couldn’t care less. ‘Make it three!’ ordered Nicky. ‘Next
time,’ said Alexis. He knew when to quit. He was amazed himself
that he could still do that with flat pebbles. Memory stabbed through
him. He’d taught himself how to do it as a boy, with painstaking,
dogged, untaught practice during the endless summers he’d spent by
the sea in the huge Petrakis summer villa on the coast of Attica.
There’d never been anyone to play with. His father had always
stayed in Athens, working. As for his mother— He sliced down the
steel door, shutting out the past. His son was picking up stones and
trying to make them bounce, without success. ‘I can’t do it!’ His
voice was frustrated. ‘It’s a trick. I told you. I’ll teach you, but when
you’re older.’ ‘When I’m five?’ said Nicky. ‘Older. I learnt the trick
when I was older than five.’ ‘How old?’ Alexis thought back. He
didn’t want to, but he found himself doing it anyway. ‘Eight,’ he announced.
Exactly eight, he remembered. It had been his birthday.
His father had been in New York, on business. Alexis had been in
the villa on his own, apart from the staff. He’d spent the day on the
beach, doggedly practising with stones until he could make them
bounce. ‘I will be eight in…’ His son carefully counted on his fingers,
bringing Alexis back to the present, shutting the past back into
its bleak grave. ‘One, two, three, four years.’ ‘Very good,’ said Alexis.
‘Kala. That means good in Greek.’ He paused. ‘We are in Greece.
This is one of the Greek islands. There are hundreds of islands in
Greece. If you can count in English,’ he went on, ‘you can count in
Greek. Ena, thio, tria. That’s one, two, three. Can you say that?’
Hesitantly, the little boy repeated the numbers. Something pierced
inside Alexis. My son. Speaking Greek to me. ‘Very good,’ he said,
and smiled down at his son. It seemed easier, that second smile.
CHAPTER FIVE RHIANNA stirred, sluggishly. Her head felt
heavy; her body was aching. She must have been given a sedative,
and the after-effects had made her feel groggy. She wondered how
long she’d been asleep, and reached for her watch. As she did so she
realised she was wearing her nightdress. Nurse Thompson must have
got her changed, though she did not remember it. The watch showed
ten-thirty a.m., and she realised she had slept through till morning.
Simultaneously she remembered just why Nurse Thompson must
have sedated her. Panic leapt in her breast. ‘Nicky!’ Her voice was
anguished. Had she called out loud? An instant later Nurse
Thompson was entering her bedroom. ‘Now, now,’ she said calmly.
‘I will not have you upsetting yourself again—’ ‘Where’s Nicky?’
Rhianna demanded desperately. Fear filled her. Cold, terrifying fear.
Nurse Thompson answered composedly. ‘He’s swimming in the pool
with Mr Petrakis.’ Immediately Rhianna tried to throw off her bedclothes.
Nurse Thompson pressed her back. ‘This won’t do,’ she said
sternly. ‘Nicky is perfectly all right, and perfectly happy. You can
see him in just a little while, when you’ve had breakfast. He isn’t going
anywhere.’ But Rhianna only stared up at her with anguished
eyes. ‘You don’t understand—’ Nurse Thompson plumped her pillows.
‘What I understand is this: if you want to get well, as fast as
possible, you simply must not upset yourself like this! You could
have fallen quite badly on those steps yesterday, you know. And
what help would that have been? Now, eat your breakfast, and then
I’ll help you get up.’ There was nothing Rhianna could do but give
in. But even as she forced down her breakfast under the unyielding
supervision of Nurse Thompson her head was going round and
round. Desperately she tried to force her brain to think, to function.
Alexis Petrakis could not take Nicky from her. The fathers of illegitimate
children had no automatic rights in law. She could deny him
access, keep Nicky safe from him, get a family court to keep Alexis
Petrakis away… But even as her thoughts writhed like snakes a
question kept stabbing through her that she could not, could not answer.
Why? Why did Alexis Petrakis want Nicky? Surely the only
reason he’d got him out of foster care and brought him here with her
was to stop any scandal breaking? But why was he so angry that she
had kept him from him? Emotion choked in her. Dear God, of course
she had kept Nicky from him! A man like that, capable of doing
what he had to her, saying what he had. If he could use women like
that he could do the same to his son. Her son. It seemed an age before
Nurse Thompson was finally contented by the amount she’d
forced herself to eat, and helped her get dressed. Then it seemed an
age to get her out on to the terrace. ‘I want to be near the pool,’ Rhianna
said tersely. She could hear splashing, and Nicky’s childish
cries answered by a deeper, accented voice, coming from the direction
of the lower terrace, around the other side of the villa, where the
pool was. Nurse Thompson helped her along with Stavros, Maria’s
husband, carrying her chair around the corner. He positioned it so
that it overlooked the lower pool terrace. As the pool came into view
Rhianna felt her heart crush. Nicky was there, wearing armbands,
batting his way across the width. Alexis Petrakis was standing in the
water, just in front of him, holding his hands out towards him, calling
out encouragement. As she watched, breath tight in her chest,
Rhianna’s eyes fixed on her son. But another image was burning itself
on her retina. That of the man backing slowly towards the edge
of the pool, his hair like wet sable, his strong, leanly muscled torso a
dark, tanned gold, diamond drops of water caught in the arrow of
dark hair from his pectorals to his navel. Memory sliced like a knife
through her brain. Her hands sliding over the hard, taut cusps of his
shoulders beneath the loosened lawn of his shirt, her hips straining
up to his, her breath short and frantic with need, sensation pouring
through her body, heat exploding through her… No! She must not
remember! All she must do was see Alexis Petrakis now, as the man
who wanted to take her son… Emotion shuddered through her. He
would never do so. Never. No one would ever take Nicky away from
her again. No one would ever part her from him. Into her head the
searing hiss of his words scalded. My son will be a permanent part
of my life from now on. Again, disbelief knifed through her. Why,
why did Alexis Petrakis want Nicky? Her eyes gazed down on the
scene in the pool. ‘Kick!’ Rhianna could hear Alexis call out. ‘Kick
hard!’ She watched Nicky respond by kicking even harder, propelling
himself forward. ‘Kala! Good!’ He was nodding encouragingly
to Nicky, beckoning him forwards all the time. He had eyes
only for the boy. Total focus. Total attention. It didn’t make sense. It
just didn’t make sense. And yet, as she went on watching, something
hollowed out inside her. Nicky was swimming towards his father.
His little face rapt with concentration, with effort. With a last flurry
of arms he reached him, and Alexis finally allowed his hands to be
taken. ‘Excellent!’ he announced. Nicky looked at him, beaming.
Then he caught sight of Rhianna, watching him from the upper terrace.
‘Did you see, Mummy? Did you see? I’m swimming! I’m
swimming!’ His little face was a picture of delight and pleasure and
pride. Another pair of eyes rested on her. Dark, like his son’s. But
the look he levelled at Rhianna was black with loathing. The morning
seemed to last for ever. The swimming lesson changed into a water
polo session, causing much glee for Nicky, followed by a
jumping-in session which caused even more. Rhianna stared,
hollow-eyed. Watching Alexis Petrakis with her son. When the
swimming finally ended, with Karen coming out to the pool area and
telling Nicky it was lunchtime, she felt that an aeon had passed. Reluctantly,
Nicky climbed out of the pool and let Karen peel his armbands
off and wrap a towel round him. Rhianna could see Alexis
Petrakis saying something to the nanny, and her nodding, then
something to Nicky, and him saying something eagerly back. Exchange
finished, Alexis Petrakis pushed off from the side of the pool
and started to plough powerfully down to the deep end in a strong,
rhythmic freestyle. Nicky came racing up the steps to her. ‘Did you
see, Mummy? Did you see?’ He clambered up on her lap, towel and
all, wet hair dripping on her. She didn’t care. She just hugged him
close. Her heart clenched. Oh, Nicky, my adored boy, I love you so
much… ‘Come along—lunchtime.’ Karen was holding out her hand.
‘We’ve got to get you changed first.’ She smiled at Rhianna and led
Nicky off. Below, in the pool, Alexis Petrakis was still lapping,
length after length. Sunlight rippled over the sleek shape of his body.
Rhianna’s stomach churned. Alexis lifted himself out of the pool,
lithely hauling himself out by the strength of his arms alone and
straightening up. He’d needed those lengths. Needed them to wash
the bile from his stomach, to take the edge off his anger. She was
still sitting there, on the upper terrace. The staff had had the good
sense to clear out, and that was as well. Seizing a beach towel from a
pool lounger, he started to dry himself vigorously. Then, throwing
the damp towel over one shoulder, he headed up the steps. Did she
stiffen as he came past her? He didn’t know. He refused to look at
her. Then, as he strode past, her voice hissed at him like a venomous
snake. ‘You’re not getting Nicky. You’re not getting him.’ Alexis
stopped dead. Slowly he turned to look at her. Her hands were
clenched around the arms of her chair. Her face was vehement. His
was like cold marble. Slowly he spoke. ‘Let me make something
very, very plain to you.’ His words were like stones. ‘Any fond idea
that you might now be entertaining, that you can threaten me with a
custody battle that will end in your victory and a hefty maintenance
payout from me, you can lose straight away. No court in Europe
would give a child back to a woman like you!’ Her face contorted.
‘No court in Europe would give a child to a man like you. They’d
only have to hear how Nicky was conceived to have you thrown out
of court!’ A vicious light lit his eyes. Anger lashed from him, as
sharp and as violent as a knife striking. ‘Thee mou, you have the audacity
to talk about how he was conceived?’ Fury bit in her throat.
Fury, and a burning shame at how easily she had fallen into Alexis
Petrakis’ bed. Crimson seared across her cheeks. ‘I’ve done only one
thing—one—that I ever regretted, and that was being so incredibly,
criminally stupid as to fall into bed with you that night!’ Venom spat
in her voice. Her heart was racing, hammering, but she had to fight
back. She had to! His mouth twisted. His eyes were killing, like a
basilisk. ‘Yes, stupid indeed. Stupid to take me for the fool you
thought me.’ ‘I was not—’ But her objection was cut short by what
he said next, sweeping through her hissing interjection. ‘And stupid
now if you think that I’d leave my son to the tender mercies of a
drug addict.’ Her mouth opened, then closed again. She sat back,
motionless. ‘What did you say?’ Her voice was hollow. His face was
cold now, cold as the grave. ‘Are you going to deny it?’ His voice
was vicious. ‘Don’t even try. The social worker who informed me I
had a four-year-old son told me all about your habit. She found the
evidence the morning she came to your flat and found you passed
out, with spilt drugs on the bedside table and my son unattended,
willing to open the door to anyone who called! And then to take a
four-year-old child out with you, when you were still high, and
nearly get him killed on the road!’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I could
throttle you for that with my bare hands, you irresponsible—’ She
could feel her teeth start to chatter. ‘It wasn’t drugs. It was flu
powder!’ she interrupted. He ignored her protestation. ‘And you
threatened her with violence.’ ‘It was a vegetable knife—I was peeling
carrots! She was going on and on and on at me, badgering me to
tell her who Nicky’s father was—as if I would ever have told her
that.’ ‘No,’ he cut back at her, his voice scathing with anger, ‘you
wanted to plan your disclosure, didn’t you? Time it for just when
you could get the most money off me. And to hell with the kind of
life you were subjecting my son to till you picked your moment to
move in for the kill!’ Her face worked. ‘You’re mad. Completely insane.
I was never going to let you come anywhere near Nicky for the
rest of his life.’ Something flashed in his eyes, and she almost reeled
from it. But the adrenaline was coursing through her body, making
her fight, and fight, and fight. ‘So that was why you ensured my
name and contact details were carefully attached to his birth certificate?’
His taunt was a scathing sneer. Rhianna closed her eyes, then
opened them again. Her hands were clenching in her lap. ‘It was for
emergencies! In case anything…anything ever happened to me.’
Cold sweat ran down her back. Something very nearly had happened
to her—if she hadn’t jerked herself and the buggy away just in time
as that speeding car bore down on her at the pedestrian crossing,
even if Nicky had survived, she might not have. ‘I put your name
down because I knew that at least you had money, that the state
could get you to pay out for him, pay for decent foster care…ensure
a future for him…’ Again something moved in his face. ‘Well, now
my son has a future. And not with some feckless, drugged-out—’
Rhianna clambered to her feet, ignoring the pain shooting through
her as she did so. ‘Don’t speak to me like that! How dare you call
me that? I am not a drug addict!’ His brows snapped together. ‘Call
it anything you want—recreational user—whatever obscene euphemism
you want. But I tell you this, you’ll never touch drugs
again for the rest of your life. My son will not have an addict for a
mother!’ ‘I don’t do drugs!’ Her voice was a high-pitched shriek. ‘I
have never done drugs!’ He looked at her coldly. ‘Control yourself. I
won’t tolerate your hysterics. Nor will I be influenced by them.’
Hard, condemning eyes bored into her. ‘I know you for what you
are, so don’t prate to me of virtues you do not possess. Now, sit
down before you fall down. And don’t even think of trying to play
the sympathy card. Your physical condition is entirely your own responsibility.
My only concern is my son! If it weren’t for him—’ his
eyes were a glittering mask of loathing ‘—you could drop dead right
now and I wouldn’t lift a finger to save you. But a four-year-old
child needs his mother—even one such as you. So for his sake I will
tolerate you and your presence in his life, but on my terms, do you
understand me? From now on you live at my discretion, at my direction,
under the supervision of my staff. You don’t move, speak or act
unless it is in the interest of my son.’ A harsh, disbelieving and derisive
laugh broke from her. ‘Go to hell! No court in the land will let
you do that!’ He smiled. It chilled her to the bone. ‘And how will
you apply to the courts, I wonder? This is my island. The staff work
for me, are answerable to me. Only to me.’ Emotion suddenly blazed
in his eyes, as if it could no longer be contained. ‘My God, you dare
to fight me? You keep my son from me for four years and you think
I am going to be in a forgiving mood when I discover his existence?
Four years of his life I’ve missed—all of his life he has never known
what it is to have a father. Well, that ends now!’ She stood swaying,
the world moving in and out around her. ‘Why?’ she whispered.
‘Why are you doing this? I don’t understand. What possible interest
do you have in Nicky?’ If she had thought his face carved from
stone before, now it was as if it were made of granite. ‘Thee mou,’
he said in a low voice, ‘if ever you condemned yourself out of your
own mouth, you have now. Now you have betrayed exactly what
you are. A woman so completely bereft of humanity that you can understand
nothing of what it means to have a child.’ There was a
bleakness in his voice that seemed to drain the light from the sun. He
was overwhelmed by his own scarring memories for a moment. His
eyes rested on her unseeingly, then they shifted back into focus.
Hard, condemning focus. ‘Keep out of my sight. I don’t want to
breathe the same air as you.’ He walked away. She felt faintness
drumming around her, closing in on her. She clasped the stone balustrade,
fighting for breath. Her heart was pounding in her chest. She
could hardly breathe. The blood pressure surged in her skull. She felt
sick and dizzy. But it was not the pain in her body that was crucifying
her. ‘Nicky,’ she whispered. It took all Alexis’s self-control to
get through lunch with his son. It had been a mistake to try and eat
with him. His fury was still seething through his veins, whipping
him into a cold, relentless rage. He could not put it aside. Her defiance
against him enraged him. Her lies, her despicable attempts at
self-exoneration, trying to whitewash her drugs habit. The kind of
woman who would try and persuade you black was white, that filthy
slush was driven snow! His memories slammed into him. His eyes
grew bleak. His mother’s lovers. So many of them. He’d even seen
one of them in bed with her. He could remember it clearly. Coming
into his mother’s bedroom early one morning, escaping his nurse.
Clambering up onto her bed. Seeing someone else there with her.
Not his father. His mother waking, seeing him, shouting angrily for
his nurse, yelling at her. His nurse rushing in, scooping him away.
Him starting to cry, to hang on to the blankets, which pulled back,
revealing the naked sleeping form of Demos, who cleaned the pool
with a strange sucking tube that used to fascinate him… Like a guillotine
he brought the blade down on the memory. Across the table,
Nicky was drinking gluggingly from a blue plastic mug adorned
with the image of a cartoon character. My son, thought Alexis, with
that surge of fierce protectiveness going through him. My son. Even
if his mother is as worthless as mine, he will have me. He will have
me. This I swear. Nurse Thompson had come out after a
while—presumably, thought Rhianna, when she’d realised Alexis
Petrakis was now with Nicky and Karen—and helped her back to
her room. Had she heard that hideous scene out there? Rhianna
wondered dully. It would be amazing if she had not—if the whole
household had not. But all Nurse Thompson said was, ‘Bed. And
you are not to move. You’ll end up back in hospital if you carry on
like this.’ Rhianna was docile, beyond protest. Beyond anything. But
her brain was going round and round and round, like a rat in a trap.
But how? Where? She felt so weak, so helpless, so ill. And so completely,
absolutely alone. There was no one. No one. Tiredness
dragged at her, reminding her how weak she still was. She went on
lying in her bed, staring at the ceiling. While she was weak like this
she was helpless. She had to get well again, strong again. When she
was strong—then she could fight Alexis Petrakis. Fight him and
win. For Nicky’s sake. Alexis was working in his study after dinner,
catching up with the essentials of Petrakis International via email,
fax and phone. He had spent the afternoon with Nicky, once
he’d surfaced from his after-lunch nap. They’d gone swimming
again, built a sandcastle and played football. Then he’d sat in on
Nicky’s supper, and read to him before bathtime. A knock on the
door interrupted him. ‘Mr Petrakis?’ It was the nurse, standing in the
doorway. She had a determined look on her face. Alexis sat back,
control in his movement. ‘Yes?’ She advanced into the room with
her stolid tread, closing the study door behind her. ‘I must speak to
you,’ she announced. He nodded. ‘Very well.’ His face was impassive.
She took a breath. There was a determined look on her face.
‘My responsibility, as you will appreciate, is to my patient,’ she
began. ‘And for that reason I must request that she is not subjected
to…’ The woman hesitated a moment, then continued, ‘To the kind
of emotional…upheavals…that have happened these last two days.
Such episodes are not helpful to her recovery. She had been making
excellent progress, but she is in significant danger of relapsing. I
have had to sedate her again, and that is not conducive to her convalescence.’
Alexis’s face was a mask. Choosing his words carefully,
he answered. ‘I appreciate your concern, Nurse Thompson.
However, the best way to ensure the…tranquillity…of your patient
is to keep her away from me.’ Alexis felt the grip on his pen tighten
as he spoke. Abruptly, he took the helm of this exchange. ‘While
you are here, Nurse, I want to understand precisely what your patient’s
medical condition is and how her treatment is being handled.’
His voice was expressionless. ‘You will understand, naturally, that
an essential aspect of her treatment is to expedite her removal from
drug dependency.’ The nurse raised her eyebrows. ‘The dosages are
declining, certainly, but she can’t be taken off them too quickly or
she could well relapse. Her body is still reliant on them.’ Alexis’s
face darkened. So much for Rhianna Davies’s self-righteous denial
that she was a drug-user. ‘She’s that severely addicted?’ he demanded
grimly. The nurse’s eyebrows rose even higher. ‘Addicted? I
don’t understand.’ There was something in the woman’s tone of
voice that infuriated Alexis. ‘If you’d taken the trouble to read her
medical records you might know what I’m talking about!’ he
snapped at her icily. The nurse bridled. ‘There is absolutely nothing
in her medical records to indicate she is a drug addict!’ ‘She was under
the influence of drugs when she walked out in front of a car!’
Nurse Thompson took a deep breath. ‘Mr Petrakis, a detailed medical
examination was made when Ms Davies was admitted to the Accident
and Emergency department of Sarmouth General Hospital. The
only substance in her blood was an over-the-counter flu remedy! Far
too much of it, but nothing, absolutely nothing, illicit. Nor did any of
her very many subsequent medical examinations during her hospitalisation
reveal the slightest sign that she is or was a substance-abuser.
And if you do not believe me consult with your own Dr Paniotis,’
she finished witheringly. ‘She must have been high on something to
walk out blindly in front of that car!’ Nurse Thompson looked at
him disbelievingly. ‘She was knocked down by a speeding car.
There were witnesses to the accident and the driver was later arrested
on a drink-driving charge. It is all documented, and I’m sure the
Sarmouth police will confirm it to you if you insist!’ Alexis stared at
the woman. ‘Are you telling me,’ he said slowly, ‘that she is not a
drug addict?’ ‘I most certainly am! I’ve never heard such nonsense
in my life!’ ‘Her social worker—’ A harrumphing sound came from
Nurse Thompson’s throat. ‘Her social worker,’ Alexis continued
tersely, ‘said she had evidence of drug usage and violence.’ Another
dismissive snort came from the nurse. She eyed Alexis beadily. ‘I
can assure you, Mr Petrakis, from all my considerable number of
years in nursing, that my patient is neither violent nor a drug addict!’
Alexis ignored her indignation. ‘Then why does she look like a
walking corpse?’ he demanded. Nurse Thompson’s chest swelled.
‘Probably because she very nearly became one,’ she riposted defensively.
‘When she was admitted to hospital after being knocked down
by that hit-and-run driver she was discovered to be suffering from a
severe, long-standing and untreated lung infection, exacerbated by
chronic exhaustion. It required urgent and continued medication—
medication that is still continuing, though in ever-decreasing
dosages, as I indicated. Given the state she was in when she was run
down, I wonder she was still on her feet at all—and, far from being
able to threaten anyone with a knife, I would be surprised to hear
that she had the strength even to lift such a weapon, let alone use it!’
For a long moment Alexis said nothing. Nurse Thompson went on
standing in front of him, breathing heavily. His eyes went to her. She
didn’t look like a fool. But if she was telling the truth…? He turned
away, staring out of the window over the darkening sea. Thoughts he
did not want to think were circling slowly in his head. He needed to
think them through alone. ‘Thank you, Nurse Thompson. That will
be all.’ His voice was remote as he dismissed her. Rhianna had been
telling the truth. It was a disturbing realisation. ‘Mummy!’ ‘Hello,
muffin. Did you have a good nap?’ Nicky climbed up into his mother’s
lap and snuggled for a moment. Rhianna smoothed his hair, ignoring
the pressure of his body on her still tender ribs. She had spent
the morning, just like the previous afternoon and evening, in bed—at
Nurse Thompson’s insistence. But after lunch she had been allowed
to get up, and was now installed on the terrace. ‘Yes, but I want to
play now. On the beach. You come too.’ ‘Oh, darling, perhaps tomorrow.’
A mutinous look crossed Nicky’s face. ‘No—now!’
‘Nicky, your mother needs to rest. You know that. Resting will make
her better sooner.’ The deep, accented voice was firm, but not admonishing.
Rhianna’s eyes flew to where Alexis Petrakis stood in
the doorway, watching them. There was a strange expression in his
face. Different from any she’d seen before. He looked—guarded.
Assessing. Instinctively her arms tightened around Nicky, as if protecting
him from Alexis Petrakis. She hadn’t laid eyes on him since
that hideous exchange yesterday morning. Now her pulse-rate had
risen automatically, and she could feel herself tense. ‘She’s always
resting. Like Grandpa. He was always tired and resting. And then
he…he…’ Nicky’s little mouth quivered. Rhianna’s heart wrenched.
She folded her arms more tightly around Nicky. ‘Oh, sweetheart, I’m
not ill like Grandpa was ill. I’m getting better all the time—I promise.
Look, I’ll come down after all—all right? You get down first.’
‘One moment.’ Before she realised what he was doing Alexis had
leant forward and lifted Nicky off her lap. Though she let go of
Nicky as quickly as she could it wasn’t in time to stop Alexis’s bare
arm brushing against her hand. Every muscle in her body froze. He
set Nicky down. ‘Go and tell Karen we’re going down on the
beach.’ He ruffled his son’s hair. He did not know where the gesture
had come from, it just had. ‘With Mummy?’ Alexis nodded. Nicky
ran off, cheerful again. Alexis turned back to Rhianna. ‘What’s this
about Nicky’s grandfather being ill and, I assume, not getting better?’
The question came out of nowhere. ‘No, he didn’t.’ Her voice
was tight. She didn’t want to think about her father, his difficult,
long-drawn-out dying. And she certainly didn’t want to talk about it
to Alexis Petrakis. ‘Nicky remembers him?’ ‘Yes.’ Her voice was
terse. ‘When did he die?’ She didn’t answer. Her throat was tight.
Far too tight. Like a thick elastic band constricting her. ‘Last month.’
‘What?’ There was shock in Alexis’s voice. She could hear it. But
she couldn’t do anything about it. He’d asked and she’d told him.
God knows why he’d asked. ‘You lost your father a handful of
weeks ago?’ There was still shock, and incredulity, and something
more in his demand. Rhianna swallowed. The lump in her throat was
worse. ‘He was very ill. It was expected.’ ‘How long had he been
ill?’ What the hell was this? she thought. The Spanish Inquisition?
‘Years.’ ‘Years? What was he suffering from?’ A broken heart. It
was true. Losing Davies Yacht Design had broken her father’s heart.
Living people were nothing compared to his yachts. ‘He’d had heart
problems for years. Heart attacks, strokes. That sort of stuff.’ She
could feel Alexis’s eyes boring down at her. She wanted him to drop
dead. Go away. Disappear. But he wouldn’t. He just kept on at her.
‘Increasingly common,’ he observed, as though to say
something—anything. He seemed to pause a moment. ‘I did not
know of your loss. Or that it was so recent.’ There was a certain
stiffness in the way he spoke. ‘It was more of a release than anything.
The end was…difficult.’ She stared down at her lap. ‘It always
is.’ There was a terseness in the way he spoke that made her
glance up suddenly. She saw a bleakness about him that made her
start. Then Nicky was trotting back out on the terrace. ‘Come on,
Mummy!’ He rushed off down to the beach. Before she realised
what was happening Rhianna felt an arm scoop around her back and
under her knees. She was lifted up effortlessly, as if she were swansdown.
Shock transfixed her. Then, frantically, she started to try and
free herself. ‘Put me down! Please!’ Alexis stared down at her, motionless
suddenly. There was hysteria in her voice. ‘Let me go.’
Slowly, he lowered her to the ground. ‘What—?’ She shrank away
from him, backing up against the balustrade. ‘Don’t touch me!’ she
whispered. She made her own way down on to the beach, across the
sand, resolutely refusing to take the arm Alexis silently proffered. It
was slow progress, but she did it, and she sank gratefully down on to
the sand, where Nicky had started to dig. Alexis hunkered down beside
the small figure and set to. Like Nicky, he was in shorts and Tshirt.
Rhianna watched them. Gradually her raised heart-rate was
slowing, her breathing easing. The sand was warm and soft under
her bare shins. She slid out of her sandals and let the fine sand drift
between her toes. The warm sun beat down from the blue sky—not
hot, but with gentle heat. Alexis Petrakis was digging as industriously
as her son. Two sable heads were bent to their task, delving
deep into the damp sand at the bottom of a large hole, chucking the
sand aside. As she watched something strange seemed to be happening
to her. The two sable heads were so alike. So was the air of concentration.
Her gaze slipped to Alexis Petrakis. Nicky’s father. But I
don’t want him to be. I don’t want him to be Nicky’s father! she
thought desperately. But she could want all she liked and it would
not make it less true. Alexis Petrakis was Nicky’s father. His genes
were in Nicky—their shared colouring was testimony to that. And as
she studied their industrious faces she felt her breath catch. It was
more than the dark hair that made them look similar. There was
something in the eyes, the shape of the mouth, the contours of the
cheeks, that echoed each other. Words drifted back to her—Alexis
Petrakis telling her that he had recognised Nicky instantly from his
resemblance to himself when young. Her mouth thinned. Alexis
Petrakis could never have been young. He could never have been as
Nicky was now, a loving, affectionate, vulnerable child… Yet he
looked different now from the way he usually looked. He looked
younger, she thought suddenly, even though he was nearly five years
older than when she’d first seen him. Maybe it was just because he
was wearing casual beach clothes, not the sophisticated tuxedo he’d
been wearing when— No. Don’t think about that. Don’t remember
it. But memories stole back. Not the hideous, ghastly morning after,
but to the evening before. He’d just been so incredibly attractive, she
hadn’t been able to drag her eyes from him for a moment. And she
still couldn’t. Her eyes flickered over his face. He was in threequarter
profile and she could see the cut of his cheekbones, the
strong slash of his nose, the arc of his brows, the set of his mouth.
She wanted to go on staring. Just staring. Something stirred deep
within her. Something that had been dormant for a long, long time.
For five long, bitter, grinding years. She didn’t want to feel it. Didn’t
want it stirring. Waking. But it did all the same. Like a flickering
heat somewhere deep, deep within her. She dragged her eyes away
from him, back to Nicky. His son. Our son. Oh, God, Nicky was
their son—they had created him between them. Created him on that
night that had melted her like wax in his arms. The night had been
magical, wonderful, incandescent. She had never known, never
dreamt it was possible to feel the way she had. And yet for him it
had never been intended as anything more than a one-night stand—a
casual appetite for a woman easily sated. But if it hadn’t…? What if
that night, five long years ago, had been something quite, quite different?
Her eyes saw them both. Alexis and Nicky. Her heart
clenched, stopping the blood. A mirage floated in her vision. Alexis,
her husband, and Nicky, the son they had created together on the
first, wonderful night of many, many nights together. They could
have been a family together, warm and loving and happy… The
mirage faded. Her heart started to beat again in dull, heavy slugs.
Alexis Petrakis had used her, then thrown her from him the next
morning with the harshest, most unjust condemnation. Refusing to
let her explain, justify herself. He wasn’t fit to be her son’s father.
And yet… She watched them digging, working as a team together,
discussing the depth and size of the hole. Quite easy in each other’s
company. The admission came unwillingly, but it came. She might
loathe Alexis Petrakis, might wish with all her heart that he was not
the father of her son, but for all that she could not deny—quite extraordinarily—
he was good with Nicky. Nicky was responding to
him, she could see. It was nothing overt, nothing emotional. But
Nicky had…accepted him. She felt her heart twist suddenly. Nicky
didn’t even know who this man was. Still didn’t know that the man
digging a hole in the sand with him was his father. A new thought
came to her. Maybe Alexis Petrakis wasn’t planning on telling him
after all. Maybe he was still thinking about whether to acknowledge
him as his son. Supposing he does and then changes his mind? Her
stomach clenched. Far, far worse than not knowing who your father
was would be knowing your father had rejected you. As if you weren’t
good enough for him. As if you’d failed him. Emotion knifed
through her. Emotion and memory. Nicky scrambled to his feet. ‘I
want to put water in!’ he announced. He seized his bucket and raced
to the sea’s edge. Before she could stop herself Rhianna heard herself
blurting out, as Nicky ran out of earshot. ‘You’re not going to
acknowledge him, are you? He’s not going to know you’re his father,
is he?’ Alexis’s head swivelled to her. ‘Nicky will know I am his
father. When I judge the time to be right I will tell him,’ he said
grimly. ‘You can’t change your mind once he knows. You know that,
don’t you? You can’t decide later that you don’t want to be his father
any more.’ There was sharpness in her voice. And fear too. He
looked at her, eyes narrowed. Assessing. The way he’d looked at her
when he’d come out on the terrace. ‘I have no intention of doing so.
Nicky is my son for ever.’ His voice became grim suddenly. ‘Every
boy needs a father. Something you callously chose to ignore. His
needs are paramount. Which is why you will stay with Nicky while
he needs you—’ ‘He’ll always need me. I’m his mother!’ His jaw
tightened. ‘While he needs you, he has you.’ His eyes flashed again,
dark fire. ‘I would never part a child from its mother—even if she
wanted to leave him!’ Rhianna stared at him incredulously. ‘No woman
leaves her child!’ There was a sudden night-black tension in his
face. ‘Some do. Some women have no maternal instinct. It is a quality
absent from their beings.’ Rhianna bit her lip. ‘Then they don’t
have children.’ ‘Don’t they?’ The dark of his eyes seemed to be
burning with a blackness that was impenetrable. That reached down
into the depths. Something shuddered deep inside her. Then, like the
breaking of a tautening wire, Nicky was stumbling towards them
with his bucket slopping water, and Alexis turned his attention away
from her. Back to his son. Nicky was pouring the water into the hole.
He watched it a moment, then announced. ‘It’s going away!’ ‘It
won’t stay, Nicky,’ Alexis told him. ‘It’s draining into the sand.’
‘But I want it to stay!’ Nicky exclaimed indignantly. ‘We can’t always
have what he want,’ he replied. His eyes flickered towards the
woman who sat, legs curled under her, on the sand. No, you couldn’t
always have what you wanted. He didn’t want Rhianna Davies to be
Nicky’s mother, but she was. He watched her a moment. Her face
was shuttered and tense, not looking anywhere near him. She was
still thin, but she was no longer the death’s head she’d been when
he’d first laid eyes on her in hospital. A frown darkened his eyes. It
hadn’t been drugs that had made her look so ill. When the nurse had
so soundly refuted this, he’d contacted Dr Paniotis and he had confirmed
this morning that there was no evidence of drug abuse by
Rhianna Davies. What the social worker had found in her flat had
simply been flu powder. And she had, indeed, been suffering from a
serious untreated lung infection before she’d been knocked down on
a pedestrian crossing by a drunk speeding driver. Which meant that
it had not been her fault she’d ended up in hospital looking like a
death’s head. Which meant— His mind veered off the path it was
leading him down. No, he would not feel compunction. Nor pity for
her. He could be glad, yes, for Nicky’s sake, that at least she wasn’t
a drug addict, but that in no way exonerated her from the rest of her
crimes. He glanced covertly at her again, seeing the lines around her
mouth, her eyes. Chronic exhaustion, her medical records stated, on
top of being ill and injured. He frowned again. Why had she made
no mention of the fact that her father had died so recently? Or that
he’d been ill for so long. He knew how much of a strain it could be
when a parent was ill for years. With his father, it had taken two
years from his first heart attack to his final fatal one, and the time
had stretched endlessly. His father had refused to acknowledge his
‘weakness’, as he’d called it, and insisted on keeping all the reins of
power of Petrakis International. Yet his obsessive determination to
stay at the helm had inevitably shortened his life. Nor had he let his
son take some of the pressure from him. His son? Alexis’s mouth
twisted suddenly. His father’s final bitter words to him, as he had
surfaced, so briefly, from his last massive attack, reverberated in his
mind. Instinctively, his eyes went back to Nicky. My son, he
thought. My son. Emotion, fierce and protective, surged through
him. CHAPTER SIX ‘GOODNIGHT, my darling.’ Rhianna
smoothed her sleeping son’s hair one last time, a huge, unending
wave of love and protection pouring from her. Nothing would take
him from her again. Not principalities nor powers. And not Alexis
Petrakis. He says he won’t part you, though. He says while Nicky
needs you he will have you… And you trust him? You actually trust
a man like that? Who did what he did to you? Pain stabbed at her,
twisting like a knife. How could he have been so callous to her?
How could he have treated her like that? The answer came cold and
clear, the way it always did. Hurting her more than anything else.
Because you were just a one-night stand. Casual sex. No one important…
She got to her feet. Well, now she was his son’s mother. And
Alexis Petrakis was no one important to her. Except as a man who
threatened her and her son. She straightened her shoulders and
walked into her bedroom. Nurse Thompson was in there. ‘Nicky
asleep? Good. Now, tonight, I understand, you are to eat in the dining
room?’ Her voice was bland. Rhianna stared. She usually ate her
evening meal with Nurse Thompson and Karen, in their sitting
room, chatting amicably about anything that had nothing to do with
why Rhianna was here on a privately owned Greek island with a
child who looked like the man who owned it. After eating they
watched English-language satellite channels. It was relaxing, easy
and familiar. But maybe, she thought viciously as she headed haltingly
for the dining room across the central hallway, Alexis Petrakis
didn’t like the idea of her getting cosy with those whom he had
hired—as he had so scathingly informed her—to supervise her contact
with her son. Maybe now she was supposed to eat in isolation,
on her own. Or maybe not. He was waiting for her, standing by the
sideboard and pouring himself a whisky. Abruptly she turned to go.
‘What are you doing?’ The voice was sharp. ‘Going to my room.’
An exasperated sigh escaped Alexis’s lips. ‘Stavros is about to serve
dinner.’ ‘I don’t want any.’ His voice darkened. ‘We have things to
talk about.’ Rhianna whirled round as fast as her legs would bear.
‘No, we don’t. The only talking I’ll do with you now, after what
you’ve said to me, is through a lawyer. Nicky is my son. I have custody
of him. And you—as you have already admitted—have no
rights in law over him. So don’t even think of using your wealth and
power to take him from me!’ Her voice had risen. Adrenaline surged
within her. It was the flight-or-fight hormone, but there was only one
way she was going to use it. Her son was at stake—she had to fight
for him. Had to. ‘Understand this, and understand it well: Nicky is
my life. I will keep him safe till my dying day. I will not let you take
him from me—part him from me—in any way separate him from
me. I will not let you be the cause of a single tear, a single moment
of grief or loss, a single moment of fear for him. Because if you are,
I will see you burn in hell, Alexis Petrakis! As God is my witness,
you will burn in hell!’ Ferocity contorted her face, her breathing
heavy and laboured with the effort of her vehemence. But Alexis
was just staring at her. As if someone completely new had just
stepped out to berate him. A mother—fighting for her child—tooth
and nail and claw—with all her might. It could just be an act. The
cold, cynical voice spoke inside him. She heard what you said about
some women not being maternal, so she’s standing there doing a
number to show how devoted she is. His eyes rested on her, assessing,
judgmental. The outburst had seemed ao genuine, so passionate.
So absolute. What was it about this woman that confused his judgement,
his instincts, so powerfully? But was it the truth? Was Rhianna
Davies a devoted mother? Or had she been hiding Nicky? Biding her
time before cashing in on him? But why—why wait so long, living
in poverty, before producing his son? The words she had hurled at
him—that she would never have told him he was Nicky’s father—
circled in his brain. Why had she said that? And why was she
living in such poverty? He’d assumed it was because of her drug addiction—
yet she wasn’t an addict, never had been. So why live in a
council flat on benefits? Her father had owned a company; she’d
been wearing a designer dress the evening she’d targeted him for her
scheme. None of it made sense. He wanted answers. That was why
he was prepared to have dinner with her like this. She was opening
the door, about to walk out on him. Rapidly he strode across the
room, shutting the door with the flat of his hand. He laid a restraining
hand on her arm. She flung him off jerkily. ‘Don’t touch me!’
she spat. His mouth tightened, but he let her go. She looked as if she
was about to fall over; if she wanted to do so on her own she was
welcome. ‘Sit down before you fall down. I have questions to ask
you and I want answers.’ Balefully, she sank down on a chair.
Yelling at him like that had exhausted her. He took his place opposite
her, moodily taking a mouthful of whisky, then looking grimly at
her. Now what? she thought bitterly. What vile accusation can he
throw at me this time? But when he spoke it was the very last thing
she had expected. He set down his whisky glass with a click. ‘It
would seem,’ he said, and his voice was very dry, ‘that I have been
misinformed about you. Your medical records show you are not,
after all, a drug addict.’ Rhianna stared across at him. ‘That was very
thorough of you,’ she said. Sarcasm was heavy in her voice, but relief
flickered through. Alexis frowned. ‘Nor,’ he went on, ‘does it
seem you behaved recklessly with my son’s life the day of your accident.
Moreover, you had apparently been suffering a severe and dangerous
chest infection for some time, to which doubtless the strain of
your father’s death—something else I was not informed
of—contributed.’ He made it sound as if the lack of information was
her fault, Rhianna thought balefully. He reached forward to take another
mouthful of whisky. Then, with a click, he set back the glass.
‘Tell me, why are you living in a council flat on state benefit?’ Her
eyes flashed. ‘Is that a serious question?’ she retorted derisively. A
flicker of annoyance showed in his face. ‘Just answer me.’ ‘Because
I have no other means of support.’ She didn’t owe him the truth, she
didn’t owe him a cent, but he could have the truth and choke on it
for all she cared. ‘Why not? Are you estranged from your family?’
‘There was only my father. He had no means of support either.’
Alexis sat back. ‘He owned a yacht design company. I remember
that quite clearly. It was, after all, the reason you came on to me. So
there must have been money around.’ It was his turn for sarcasm to
be heavy in his voice. She had gone white. Every bone in her face
was standing out as if she were a skeleton. ‘You bastard!’ It was a
hiss as venomous as a snake’s. ‘What?’ His brows had snapped together.
‘My father lost his company and every other possession! He
had nothing. We lived on my single parent income support in my
single parent council accommodation—’ ‘Is this the truth?’ Rhianna
erupted. ‘What the hell do you mean, is that the truth? Of course it’s
the truth! He went bankrupt when MML pulled the plug on the takoever—
at your orders! He had nothing left. Everything was secured
against the company’s borrowings, and it all went! Even his house.
He had to come and live with me. He had nowhere else to go!’ ‘Your
father lived with you?’ ‘No, he lived in Buckingham Palace!’ He ignored
her bitter rejoinder. ‘I didn’t know.’ She stopped. Emotions
were flowing with memory, and both were agonising. To her relief,
the door to the kitchen quarters opened and Stavros entered, bearing
a tray with soup tureens and a basket of bread. By the time he’d finished
serving them Rhianna’s composure had painfully returned. She
started to eat. She was hungry, she realised. The delicate lemonscented
chicken soup was delicious, and slipped down her tight, taut
throat. So did the fish, grilled with herbs and served with fragrant
rice. They did not talk. Rhianna could only be grateful. Across from
her, Alexis had a closed, shuttered look on his face. She went on eating.
The last time you shared a meal in Alexis’s company he took
you to bed afterwards… Of their own volition her eyes stole to him.
She felt a slow, powerful tremor go through her. He was having just
the same effect on her now as he had had five years ago. She tried to
stop herself looking, but she couldn’t. The sable hair, the strong
planes of his face, the straight nose, the sculpted mouth and, oh,
those dark gold-flecked eyes with their long, long lashes… How
could she have hoped to resist him? For five long years she had coruscated
herself for her shaming, shameful weakness that night. To
have fallen like a ripe peach into his arms, his bed, revelling in what
he did to her, burning like a flame in his embrace. But now, sitting
here, seeing him again, she knew exactly how it was she had been so
very, very easy for him to seduce. Yet she still could never, never
forgive herself for what she had done. What she had let him do. All
for the sake of a cheap, meaningless one-night stand. Guilt and
shame burned through her. Well, she thought with bitter satisfaction,
she was safe from him now. She didn’t need a mirror to tell her what
he saw when he looked at her. She could see it in his eyes. Revulsion.
Alexis consumed his fish in silence. His mind was preoccupied.
So Davies Yacht Design had been on the point of total collapse
when Rhianna Davies had used him. She hadn’t given the impression
they were that desperate for investment. But then his business
brain clicked in. For her to have done so would have been to weaken
her hand. No company wanting a life-saving bail-out would want a
potential investor to realise just how critical the situation was. But if
MML had been keen to buy Davies Yacht Design it must have had
potential, as she’d claimed, for returning on the investment. Had it
not been for his standard policy of freezing the investment plans of
any company newly acquired by Petrakis International, MML would
probably have gone through with the takeover. ‘After the buy-out
fell through why didn’t your father line up another white knight—or
was the mess worse than you’ve admitted?’ Rhianna’s head jerked
up. ‘Because he had another heart attack the day after I—after
you—’ She stopped, the words cutting off. ‘Another?’ Alexis’s voice
was strangely expressionless. He set down his knife and fork. Rhianna
swallowed. Why was he putting her through this? ‘He’d had a
heart attack three days before—’ Again she stopped. ‘Your father
had just had a heart attack when you approached me at that dinner?’
She gritted her teeth. ‘Yes. He was in Intensive Care. I had no choice
but to try and talk to you like that at the dinner. The banks were going
to foreclose the following week unless the takeover got the goahead
at MML. Your PA let slip that you would be going to that dinner
that night—I’d asked if I could have an evening appointment to
see you, but she said your schedule was already finalised. So—’ she
took a harsh breath ‘—I bought a ticket for the dinner, and altered
the seating plan on the board at the cocktail reception beforehand so
I could make sure I was on your table. It was my last chance. I had
nothing to lose.’ She fell silent. She had been wrong. She had had a
lot to lose—and she had lost it all. Slowly Alexis digested what she
had just said. Her father in Intensive Care with a heart attack. The
banks about to foreclose. She must have been desperate… Was that
why she had done what she had? Offered him the one thing she had
left? The traditional last coinage of every woman. Her body. Then
his eyes hardened. However desperate she’d been she should not
have tried to take him for a gullible fool she could manipulate with
her sexual favours! ‘And the idea of simply asking me to consider
the takeover on its own merit never occurred to you, did it?’ ‘I beg
your pardon?’ Rhianna’s voice was hollow. ‘Had you not assumed
that you could use your body to persuade me to look favourably on
the takeover—’ Rage exploded through her. ‘How dare you make
such an accusation? I never at any time thought such a thing, intended
such a thing, or did such a thing! My God, you are a vile, disgusting
man!’ A palm slammed down on the table-top. ‘I was there!
I witnessed every feminine trick and wile you played on me!’ ‘I
didn’t do anything!’ she protested. He laughed, coarsely and derisively,
leaning back in his chair, his meal totally abandoned now.
‘You left not one trick unplayed!’ His voice was excoriating. ‘The
wide eyes, the breathy voice, the low-cut gown, the long blonde hair,
the skin-tight dress. All that eye contact and come-hither gazing you
did over dinner. You asked to speak to me privately and came up to
my suite without blinking! What the hell did you think you were going
to do there? Present your business case? Quote me net present
values and projected earnings? No, the only thing you were going to
present me with was your body! Which you did—very lavishly—
having first ensured you’d whetted my appetite for it to the
maximum by spilling champagne over your breasts so that I could
see them in their full glory. Then you came on to me like a—’ Her
fist closed around her wine glass. She hurled the contents at him.
‘You lying bastard! It was you! You came on to me! You—’ She
never finished. He was on his feet, towering over her across the
table. The wine had splashed across his shirt-front, plastering it to
his chest. His expression was savage. So was his voice and his
words. ‘Don’t try and rewrite the truth!’ he snarled at her. ‘We both
know what the truth is. You used me. Calculatingly. Deliberately.
For your own ends.’ She pushed her chair back, struggling to her
feet. Her face was convulsed with fury. Five long years of fury. The
crack of her hand across his cheek was like a pistol-shot. His head
jerked back. His eyes were like twin satanic fires. Burning with hellfire.
‘You disgust me!’ she hissed. ‘You dare to try and put the blame
on me? The only, only reason I came to your suite was to try and get
you to listen to my business case. There was no other reason! How
dare you accuse me of anything else?’ His eyes flickered with that
dark satanic light. ‘How dare I? Tell me, if you are so right and I am
so wrong, how come you tumbled right down into my bed the way
you did?’ Her eyes spat at him. ‘Because I was stupid. Stupid and
naive and…and…’ Her head sank. ‘Because I was stupid,’ she said
again, her voice suddenly dull, and dead. She lifted her head again.
It seemed as heavy as lead. Her whole body seemed as heavy as
lead. What the hell was she doing, trying to justify herself to this
man? She owed him nothing. Nothing at all. Her eyes rested on him.
They were full of contempt and loathing. ‘It doesn’t matter whether
you believe me or not. I only care about Nicky. He’s all I care about
in the whole world.’ She stumbled away from the table, her legs
jerky, her breathing like knives in her chest. She didn’t care. She had
to get away—away. That was all. He watched her go. Adrenaline
surging in his body. He wanted to follow her and shake her until he
had shaken the truth out of her—until she’d admitted what she’d
done. But she was hardly able to make it to the door. Like a broken
puppet with the strings cut. When she had gone, leaving the door
open, and he could hear her stumbling across the corridor that led to
the bedrooms, he sat down heavily again. With a dark, vicious look
on his face he reached for the wine bottle. CHAPTER SEVEN
MOONLIGHT glimmered on the water. A chilly little wind played
about his face. Wavelets lapped in the dark by his feet. Alexis stared
out over the sea, hands gripping the edge of the balustrade on the
terrace. The boats of fishermen were dotted about, their lights luring
the fish. He was calm now. Back under control. But he had come
very close to losing control completely. It had been her defiance—
her refusal to admit the truth about that night five long years
ago. Insisting on her innocence—insisting she had never set out to
exploit her sexual allure the way he knew she had. Oh, she had been
skilful, all right—had he not had his illusions ripped from him in the
morning he would have gone on being fooled by her. Cold ran
through him. He had come within a hair’s breadth of making an irreversible
fool of himself over her. That morning, when he’d woken
her with a kiss, her warm, soft sensuality had nearly persuaded him
to abandon the business meeting in his diary and stay with her until
his flight left at lunchtime. He gave a harsh, self-mocking laugh.
Thee mou, he’d been going to take her back to Greece with him!
One night with her had been no way enough! He’d wanted far, far
more than that. How much more? He stared out to sea. That night
had been something extraordinary, unique. She had been like no woman
he had ever known. Ardent, enraptured, giving herself to him so
totally, so absolutely, that it had taken his breath away. He had stood,
he knew, on the shore of a sea, ready to plunge into its unknown
depths and discover— Discover something that had never existed for
him before. His palms clenched over the cold stone. Instead he had
discovered, in the morning, that he was simply a fool. Manipulated
by a woman for her own ends. Just as his father had been. Memory
flickered in his mind. He put it from him, but it intruded again. He
saw it fresh in his mind’s eye. Heard it. Heard that crack like a
pistol-shot, as clearly now as if the intervening decades had never
been, as the palm of his father’s hand slashed across his mother’s
face. Heard the word that went with the pistol-shot. At five he hadn’t
known what it was, but now he knew. ‘Bitch!’ All he’d known then
was the fear. The terror. And the rage—the rage that had made him
rush to his father, battering at his legs. ‘Don’t hit my mummy! Don’t
hit her!’ His father had put him aside. His mother hadn’t even
looked at him. Instead she’d simply lifted her chin, ignoring her reddening
cheek, and opened her leather handbag with a click of her
manicured scarlet nails. She’d dropped the piece of paper his father
had given her inside. Then she’d given a little smile. Not to him. To
his father. ‘Goodbye, Georgiou,’ she’d said. ‘Enjoy the boy. After
all, you’ve paid enough for him. Even though he isn’t yours.’ She’d
walked away, shutting the door behind her with a click. He’d
watched her go. He hadn’t understood. He’d turned to his father.
‘When is Mummy coming back?’ His father hadn’t answered. Alexis
had looked up at his face and it had been like stone. Suddenly his
father had looked down at him. The expression in his face had terrified
him. It had been filled with hate. ‘Never.’ His voice had been
hard. Like iron. Then he’d walked away as well. Into another room.
Another click of the door. His five-year-old self had stood still for
quite some time. After a while, a servant had come and led him
away. But his father had spoken the truth. He had never seen his
mother again. It was strange, he thought now, three decades later,
how pain could live like memory—quite blotted out, yet instantly
there once more, like memory recalled. His hands clenched, every
muscle in his body seizing as if in spasm. He kept staring out to sea.
The pain was his—but it would never, ever be his son’s. Again that
fierce protective surge went through him. He would protect his son
from all that could hurt him. Like an echo, he heard in his head the
vehement vow his son’s mother had given—Nicky is my life. I will
keep him safe till my dying day. I will not let you be the cause of a
single tear, a single moment of grief or loss, a single moment of fear
for him! She’d sounded so vehement, so convincing. But had it all
been calculated, fake? Can I trust her? Trust her to love Nicky the
way she claims she does? That was the question that went round and
round in his head. He went on staring out to sea, the cold lapping at
him. And as he stared he knew, finally, that he had to know. Had to
know whether Rhianna Davies loved his son. There was only one
way to find out. Only one way to know the truth. Rhianna was having
breakfast with Nicky out on the sunny terrace. She felt tired and
drained after the ugliness of the scene the night before. Yet another
scene. Yet another vicious exchange of venom and hatred. Yet
Nicky, blessedly, was unscarred. She watched him diligently throwing
breadcrumbs to the tiny sparrows that darted from the balustrade
to the paved floor to pick them up. He was chattering happily about
watching the helicopter land that morning with Karen. Rhianna
listened with half an ear, nodding and responding as necessary. But
there was a heaviness in her heart. He mustn’t be hurt. Whatever
happens—however foul Alexis Petrakis is to me, however hard I
have to fight back against him—Nicky mustn’t be hurt. There were
footsteps approaching, and she looked away from Nicky. Alexis
came out on the terrace. Nicky’s face lit up. ‘Can we play?’ he asked
immediately, starting to slide off his chair. ‘I’ve finished my breakfast,
Mummy.’ Alexis came up to him. He ignored Rhianna. He
smiled down at his son. ‘What would you like to play first?’ ‘Swimming!
Football! Sandcastles!’ responded Nicky at once, then added
as a dutiful afterthought, ‘Please.’ Rhianna saw Alexis laugh, his
face lightening. She felt something clench inside. It was that different
person again, she thought. The one Nicky saw—but never her.
Would you want to? Why should you? Alexis Petrakis is nothing to
you—nothing except your enemy. Don’t crave smiles from him. Not
that she would get them. Alexis Petrakis directed only one thing at
her. Condemnation. He was speaking again—to his son. ‘We can do
them all—but first you need to put your swimming trunks on and get
Karen to put your sunblock on.’ Nicky was off like a shot. ‘Don’t
forget to brush your teeth,’ Rhianna called out after him. ‘Bleah!’
cried Nicky, as he ran indoors to find his nanny. Rhianna brought her
gaze back, to find that Alexis was looking down at her. Her expression
stilled, became impassive. He was going to say something vile,
she could tell. But then, when did he ever say anything to her that
was not vile? ‘If you have finished your breakfast too, I should like
to speak to you.’ She eyed him stonily, saying nothing. ‘In my office,’
said Alexis. Now what? she thought bitterly. What else is he
going to throw at me? Threaten me with? She steeled herself. Her
only option was to fight—every inch of the way. She got to her feet
carefully. The pain in her lungs was easing day by day, but her
muscles had tensed at the coming ordeal. He led the way back inside,
across the hall to a room she had never been into. As she followed,
at her slower, halting pace, she realised why. It was his space.
A sleek PC dominated a large desk. Alexis Petrakis was already behind
it. A maroon leather folder lay on the surface of the desk in
front of him. A bad feeling started to pool inside her. ‘Sit down.’ His
manner was different this morning, she thought. She didn’t know
why, but it was. And there was something about it that made her feel
very, very uneasy. Impassively she lowered herself to the chair in
front of the desk. Was this deliberate intimidation? she wondered.
Making her sit meekly while he lorded it behind his desk? Well, she
would not be intimidated. Must not be. ‘I have a proposition to put
to you.’ His voice was inexpressive. So was his face. His eyes were
shuttered. He flicked open the folder. There was a document inside,
and a piece of smaller paper on the top. It was a cheque, Rhianna
could see. ‘I am prepared,’ said Alexis Petrakis, in a voice devoid of
emotion, ‘to hand over to you the sum of twenty million pounds. In
exchange you will sign all custody rights to my son to me—in perpetuity.
Doing so will make you a very rich woman.’ He paused. ‘As
part of this exchange you will be available to Nicky, on demand, for
as long as he wants you. However, there will be certain restrictions
on your freedom of action. You will not be permitted to contact the
press, you will not be permitted to lead a life that will cause embarrassment
or distress to my son, and all your contact with him will be
under supervision—either by myself or my nominee. ‘The sum of
twenty million pounds will be held for you, in a high-yield investment
portfolio, the interest from which will be yours to spend as you
will, and the capital sum, compounded over the years, will become
yours outright on Nicky’s majority. By this arrangement you will
gain a highly luxurious lifestyle, with the expectation of a very generous
fortune in fourteen years’ time, yet Nicky will be assured of
the continued presence of his mother in his life, while he wants that.’
He paused again, then went on, his voice still completely businesslike,
as though he were unveiling normal terms and conditions. ‘This
document, which I have had flown here this morning, details the financial
disposition I have just outlined. Feel free to peruse it carefully.’
His voice drained of expression even more. ‘In addition, I am
prepared to issue this cheque, cashable immediately, as a gesture of
good faith on my part, for your co-operation in this agreement. It is
in the sum of two million pounds and is yours outright. Right now.’
The obsidian eyes rested on her. Nothing showed in them whatsoever.
For one beat of a heart, Rhianna paused. Then, in a composed
voice, she spoke. ‘May I see?’ Silently, he pushed the folder across
to her. His face was like carved stone. Still nothing showed in his
eyes. Nothing at all. And yet something was there. She could see.
Something. But she did not know what. Nor did she care. She lifted
the cheque, drawn on his personal account at a historic London
private bank. She glanced at it, then set it aside. Then she picked up
the document underneath, leafing through it. Then she replaced it on
the table. Put the cheque on top of it. She picked them both up again
and, with jagged, violent movements, tore them into fragments, scattering
them on the gleaming polished surface of the desk. She got to
her feet. Slowly, succinctly, banking down every single sign of any
emotion in her whatsoever, she spoke. ‘I will say this to you very
clearly. So that even someone as vile as you can understand. My son
is not for sale. Not—for—sale. And if you ever make such an attempt
again, I will—’ She broke off. Emotion erupted within her.
Unstoppable. Overpowering. Hatred poured from her like a dark,
black tide. Forcibly she took a sharp, scything breath that cut her
lungs like glass. ‘You are a monster,’ she breathed. ‘A sick, degenerate,
disgusting monster. There are no depths that you would not
stoop to. It makes me ill to breathe the same air as you.’ She
fumbled her way to the door, reaching for the handle blindly. But as
she did there seemed to be a great, crushing heaviness bowing her
down. So great she could not bear it, could not breathe. Oh,
God—that such a man should have fathered Nicky. Prepared to buy
his own son from her. Thinking he was for sale. That she would sell
her son to him. How can I bear it? she thought, the heaviness crushing
her. How can I bear Nicky being near such a man? Being his
son? There was something thick in her lungs, in her throat. Something
that was choking her, filling up in her, trying to break out,
spill over, escape. But she mustn’t let it escape. Not here, not now,
not in front of such a man. Such a monster. Who had fathered her
son and now wanted to buy him. Her hand closed around the handle,
but she could not turn it. Could not move. Could only feel that choking,
cracking feeling in her lungs, her throat. She leant against the
door panel, weakness convulsing through her, making her shake and
tremble. The first sob tore from her even as Alexis thrust back his
chair, and hurried to her. CHAPTER EIGHT SHE wouldn’t let him
help her. Wouldn’t let him guide her back to the chair. Wouldn’t let
him hold her. She shrank away from him, clutching the door, in
physical and emotional collapse. ‘Don’t touch me!’ Her voice was a
yell, a screech, convulsed with a high, racking sobbing. She shook
his hands from her forcibly, trying to yank the door open. But her
eyes were blind, her hands shaking, her limbs trembling. Unable to
get the door open, she spun round, reeling, backing against the
closed door like an animal at bay. Because that was what she was. A
wretched, hunted antelope that the leopard in front of her wanted to
devour, tear apart, destroy completely. The sobs were choking in her
throat as she held her hands up to ward him off. ‘Keep away from
me! Keep away from me!’ She couldn’t take any more—she just
could not. She was hitting out at him, not impacting, but sweeping
her arms in front of her to keep him away. He stood stock still. Emotion
was knifing through him, and he could not tell what it was. He
had no time to think about it. She was going out of control, he could
see, and collapsing visibly in front of her eyes. He turned on his heel
and snatched up the house phone on his desk, barking something in
Greek down the line. Then he turned round again. ‘Nurse Thompson
is coming. She will look after you. If you stand aside from the door
she can come in. I—I will not touch you.’ Her breathing, through the
harsh, choking sobs, was gasping. He could see her chest rising and
falling jerkily. A knock sounded sharply on the door from the outside.
‘That is Nurse Thompson. If you just step to one side she can
come in.’ She did what he told her, rolling her body so that she was
half collapsed against the wall beside the door. Nurse Thompson
pushed it open carefully and, to his relief, took over immediately.
With brisk, controlled movements she guided the sobbing, choking
figure outside, paying no attention to the man standing there, rigidly
immobile, witnessing the scene. When she had gone, he shut the
door behind her. He walked back heavily to his chair behind the desk
and sank down on it. On the surface of the desk the torn document
and cheque curled, despised and rejected. He sat still, looking at the
sorry remains. Then slowly, methodically, he gathered up the shards
and swept them into a wastepaper basket. They would not be needed
again. ‘Where’s Nicky?’ Rhianna’s voice was faint, but fearful, urgent.
Nurse Thompson answered calmly. ‘Karen is reading to him.
He’s quite content. Just rest now.’ Rest. It was the only thing she
could do. It was as if a steamroller had just gone over her. But then
that was what Alexis Petrakis was. A savage-toothed, crushing
steamroller that would crush her and tear her if she let him. Fear
convulsed through her. More than fear. Revulsion. Revulsion at a
man who could stoop so low as to think a child was for sale… Her
mind writhed in powerless torment. She had to get away from here!
She had to! The door of the bedroom opened. Rhianna’s eyes shot
towards it, and Nurse Thompson’s bulky figure also turned in that
direction. Alexis Petrakis stood there. He looked taller, darker, yet
there was something about him that was different. Rhianna didn’t
know what. Didn’t care what. ‘Nurse, I would like a few minutes
alone with your patient, if you please.’ It might have been phrased as
a request, but Nurse Thompson heard it as an order. For a moment
she held her employer’s eyes. ‘Ms Davies is not to be further distressed,’
she informed one of the richest men in Greece. Gravely,
Alexis Petrakis inclined his head. ‘I shall not do so,’ he replied.
Then his gaze slipped past the nurse, on to the woman lying on the
bed. Again, through the tension that had instantly stiffened her body
as he had entered the room, Rhianna felt something different about
him. But fear and tension overlaid everything, blotting out any recognition
of what that difference was. Briefly, Nurse Thompson
nodded, and stalked out of the room. As the door shut behind her
Alexis Petrakis stepped forward. Automatically, Rhianna sought to
back against the pillows propping her up. Now what was he going to
do? Dear God, how much more of this could she stand? He was
standing at the foot of the bed, looking down at her. She felt a shiver
go through her. For what seemed like a long, timeless moment he
said nothing, just stood there, tall, dark, his face shuttered, unreadable.
Then, abruptly, he spoke. ‘It would appear,’ he said, and there
was a tightness in his voice that made it sound strange, forbidding,
‘that I have been wrong about you.’ She said nothing, only felt her
fingers clench into the coverlet laid over her. Something moved in
his eyes. Again she could not tell what. The tension lacing through
her did not allow for any analysis. ‘Not in everything,’ he went
on—and in those few words she heard unmistakably that note of
harsh condemnation she had become so familiar with in his accusing
exchanges with her. ‘But in one essential area.’ He paused a moment,
and Rhianna became aware that his fingers were clenched
tightly at his sides. His voice changed. Became strained, not harsh.
‘You do, after all, seem to care for Nicky.’ Rhianna’s eyes widened.
She could not help it. Stupefied, she stared at the man standing at the
end of the bed. ‘I thought it a show—a parade of false emotionality—
put on deliberately to up your value, present yourself in a good
light to me. Bid up your price.’ His voice was drained of emotion,
and Rhianna felt the breath stop in her lungs. ‘But you turned down
twenty-two million pounds for him. That—’ suddenly his breath
rasped sharply, slamming down his emotions ‘—is very convincing.’
He paused, taking in another sharp breath. ‘So convincing that I am
now prepared to…re-evaluate…my estimation of you.’ Again the
harshness entered his voice. ‘Although I can never forgive you for
keeping my son from me, nor for the manner of his conception, I do
now accept that you do, indeed, care for him more than the wealth
his paternity promises you. Accordingly, I now wish to make a…’ he
paused, then continued. ‘A rapprochement…with you. For Nicky’s
sake, he cannot have parents at war with one another. It is too distressing
for him—too destructive.’ There was an edge in his voice
like the blade of a knife over vulnerable flesh. ‘We must make an accommodation
with each other for his sake. Present a front to him
that, whilst not idyllic, nevertheless will not blight his childhood.’
Dark, expressionless eyes bored down on her. ‘Only one person is
important here—and that is Nicky. Whatever our feelings about each
other, they must not poison him. I will not allow it.’ He took a final,
sharp intake of breath. ‘So, on this basis, I am prepared to move forward.
‘For now,’ he continued, his voice changing minutely, ‘your
focus must be to recover your health. Mine will be to continue to get
to know my son. This will also—’ his mouth tightened ‘—give us
the opportunity to…accommodate…each other.’ His eyes flickered
over her assessingly, taking in her blank, hostile expression. ‘I would
appreciate it,’ he said, the edge coming back to his voice, ‘if there is
a concomitant effort made on your part. All that is required is common
civility—’ ‘Civility?’ Her voice was thin. She was finally finding
her words now, after the sheer stupefaction she had felt at hearing
what he was saying to her. ‘You expect civility from me—after
what you’ve said to me, what you’ve done to me? Threatening me,
verbally abusing me, haranguing me—’ His expression stiffened. ‘I
accept now that much of what I feared to be true about you is not
so—’ ‘Well, everything I feared to be true about you is so!’ she shot
back, venom in her voice as she struggled to sit up properly. ‘You
are every bit as foul as I thought. Throwing your filthy accusations
at me, time and again.’ Alexis’s eyes flashed with instant anger.
Then, visibly, he controlled it. ‘I have just said that I accept that I
was mistaken—’ ‘And I’ve just said that I wasn’t! You tried to buy
my son. What the hell kind of man does that?’ His expression
tensed. His eyes became opaque. He couldn’t tell her that he’d experienced
it himself, had been put through that torment. ‘I had to be
sure. Sure that it wasn’t just my money you were after. I had to make
you choose between Nicky and money—’ Her eyes widened in horror.
‘You deliberately offered me that stinking money to see if I
would sell my son to you? It was just some kind of disgusting test?’
Emotion choked in her. ‘I had to be sure, Rhianna—’ His breath
rasped again in his throat. ‘And now that I am, we can, as I have
come to make clear to you, move forward. Nicky needs us both.
Both. And, however much neither of us wants to accept that, we
must.’ He shifted his weight on his feet. ‘We must. ‘I will leave you
now, to think over what I have said. And please prepare yourself for
one other thing. It is time I told Nicky that I am his father. I propose
to do so this afternoon.’ The dark eyes rested on her. ‘It would be
best if you were present. He may become confused, even distressed.
But postponement will, I believe, only lead to greater confusion. His
life has changed hugely in these past weeks, and it would be best if
this final change—discovering he has a father after all—is absorbed
into the overall changes to his life.’ He gave a final, long glance at
her as she lay there, incapable of speech, reaction, and then without
another word he was gone. ‘Mummy, please may you cut a peach
for me?’ Nicky selected the biggest one in the large blue pottery
bowl on the table and handed it across to Rhianna with an expectant
expression on his face. She took it, and began to pare it with a knife.
A fly buzzed idly in the lunchtime heat and she flicked it away. At
the head of the table set on the wide terrace overlooking the beach
Alexis Petrakis sat, relaxed back in his chair, half a glass of chilled
Chablis in his hand. Lunch had been a strange affair. Outwardly it
had looked completely normal, with Nicky chattering away to both
her and Alexis. All conversation had been centred on Nicky; hardly
any direct exchanges between herself and Alexis had taken place.
And when there had been one, always initiated by Alexis, never herself,
he had been doggedly, scrupulously civil to her. It had been
totally unnerving. Totally unreal. A sense of complete weirdness enveloped
Rhianna. It was as if all feeling, all thought, had been suspended.
As if she had gone beyond emotion, beyond the will required
for either function. When Alexis had withdrawn from her
bedroom, bombshell deposited, she had simply gone on staring at
the space he had occupied, her mind groping flounderingly over
what he had just said and done. Emotions like waves had come over
her, each wave quite opposite from each other. One wave carried a
surge of stunned, disbelief; the next surged with a kind of blind, inchoate
fury that he should have dared to declare in so lordly a fashion
that he now deigned to believe that she put her son at a higher
value than his filthy money. But even after that wave had boiled
through her, a third and final wave had taken its place. A sense of
extreme and total exhaustion of the spirit. She just couldn’t take any
more. And that was still with her as she sat opposite Alexis, cutting
Nicky’s peach for him, trying not to look anywhere near the tall,
dark figure at the other end of the table, his saturnine face shaded by
the overhang of the terrace roof. ‘There you go, darling,’ she said,
pushing the prepared fruit towards Nicky. He started to eat it with
gusto, mumbling a ‘thank you’ as he did so, then, turning towards
the end of the table, he said, ‘Can we do more swimming after
lunch? Please,’ he added, then frowned, puzzled. ‘Please, Mr—Mr
Pe—Mr Petra—’ He stopped, not knowing how to continue. Alexis
set down his wine. ‘You don’t have to call me Mr Petrakis, Nicky,’
he said. And suddenly, quite suddenly, every nerve in Rhianna’s
body quivered. Desperately she tensed forward. But it was too late.
Alexis was speaking again. His voice was careful, almost inexpressive,
as if he were testing out each word for the weight it could bear.
‘Nicky, tell me something. Did your mummy ever tell you about
your daddy?’ The breath froze in Rhianna’s throat. Oh, God, he’s
going to tell him now—right now. And I haven’t had any time to
prepare myself. Prepare Nicky… ‘Nicky…’ Her voice was faint. Her
son didn’t hear her. Nicky was polishing off his peach. He looked
across at the man who’d asked him the question. ‘Mummy says I
haven’t got one. Not all children have daddies, she says.’ ‘Would
you like one?’ There was reserve in Alexis’s voice. It sounded quite
neutral. In agony, Rhianna tried to catch his eye, to stop him. But she
knew it was hopeless. He’d said he would tell Nicky and now it was
happening. Nicky frowned. ‘Only if he’s nice. Sometimes where we
lived the daddies were not nice. They yelled and said rude words.
Mummy used to go inside quickly and shut the door when they did
that.’ Rhianna could see Alexis’s face darken at Nicky’s innocent depiction
of the kind of environment he’d been brought up in. ‘But if
there was a nice daddy for you, who didn’t yell, would you like
that?’ ‘Would he be sick, like Grandpa?’ There was a note of fear in
Nicky’s voice, and Rhianna could see Alexis’s mouth tighten, then
deliberately relax again. ‘No. He would be quite well. He could play
football with you. And go swimming. Throw stones that bounce.’
Nicky’s eyes widened. ‘Like you can!’ Rhianna could see the set of
Alexis’s jaw tense. ‘Yes, like I can. In fact…’ The pause was minute,
and for a second Rhianna caught the unbearable tension in his voice,
his face. ‘Maybe I would make a good daddy.’ He sat still. Very,
very still. ‘Would I do, Nicky, for a daddy? If you wanted that?’ And
suddenly, quite suddenly, out of nowhere, Rhianna felt tears prick in
her eyes. She didn’t want them there. Tried to stop them welling. But
she couldn’t stop them. Before her eyes, Nicky blurred. ‘Just for on
holidays? Like now?’ There was caution in his voice. ‘For as long as
you’d want, Nicky. But we could start with now, couldn’t we?’ For a
long moment Nicky just stared. Then suddenly he had jumped to his
feet. He came rushing round to Rhianna. ‘Mummy! Can we? Can we
have a daddy?’ His little hands clutched her arms; his face was
alight. With eagerness, with questioning. With hope. Rhianna swallowed.
Her eyes squeezed. ‘If that’s what you want, muffin, of
course you can. Of course you…you can…’ Her voice choked. She
didn’t want to cry. Didn’t want to cry because Alexis Petrakis was
offering to be their son’s father. ‘Oh, Mummy!’ Nicky’s eyes were
huge. ‘We’ve got a daddy now! I’ve got a daddy!’ He turned to the
man who had made him so wonderful an offer. ‘Can we start now?
Please?’ Alexis nodded. ‘Yes, we can start now.’ For a moment Rhianna
saw through her blurred vision his mouth press tightly, his
throat constrict. Somehow it just made her vision blur even more.
CHAPTER NINE ‘DADDY—come and see!’ ‘Daddy—look—look
at me!’ ‘Daddy—watch! Daddy, watch!’ The refrains were constant,
endless. Rhianna heard them all afternoon—Nicky’s piping, excited
voice, calling for his father. She lay on her day bed on the terrace,
cool in the shade, propped up on pillows, completely inert. But, despite
her physical inertia, mentally and emotionally she was a complete
wreck. Tears kept filling her eyes, however much she tried to
stop them, blink and brush them away. Just watching Nicky down on
the beach, splashing in the sea, building a sandcastle, kicking a football
around, the whole time his face a picture of ecstasy. Once, during
his play, he had suddenly stopped and rushed up to her, clambering
up and hugging her so tightly that she could not breathe.
‘Mummy! We’ve got a daddy! We’ve got a daddy!’ Before rushing
away again. Back to his Daddy. Alexis Petrakis. The man she had
more cause to loathe in all the world than anyone else alive. And
yet… How could she hate him now? How could she hate him now
Nicky knew he was his father. Because if she did it would show.
Nicky would find out. He’d feel her hatred, and it would be a poison
for him… Her thoughts were going round and round and round in
her head as she sat and watched her son and his father playing, their
figures blurring in and out of her vision. But could she stop hating
Alexis Petrakis? She’d hated him for five long draining, exhausting,
gruelling years, when keeping going had been the only thing she
could do—trying to keep her father alive, trying to give her baby the
best she could, despite all the weight dragging her down, down,
down… Until she had finally collapsed. And now her life had
changed—changed completely. Because of Alexis Petrakis. What
am I going to do? she thought. Her emotions felt as battered as if
they had been shipwrecked, tossed in a tempestuous sea. But on
what shore would they be cast up? Tiredness seeped through her.
She was too tired to think, too tired to feel. It was all too difficult,
too confusing. She would just go on lying here, in the warm sun,
getting used to the fact that her son now knew he had a father—a
father who wanted to be a permanent part of his life. For whose sake
he was even prepared to be civil to his son’s mother. Her eyes rested
on the pair of them, kicking a football back and forth towards makeshift
goals marked by battered sand towers. Nicky was laughing and
calling out, and Alexis— There was a hollowing feeling inside her
stomach. Out of nowhere it came, making her breath catch. Alexis
Petrakis—in casual chinos and polo shirt, his sable hair breezeruffled,
his saturnine face animated with laughter. The hollowing
came again, making her feel suddenly weak and breathless. She shut
her eyes. Quite deliberately. Alexis Petrakis existed only as Nicky’s
father. Nothing else. Nothing else. She had to remember that. She
had to. ‘Today,’ announced Alexis, ‘we are going on a boat. To a
secret beach on the island.’ Nicky’s eyes shone like stars as he lifted
his head from his breakfast. ‘A boat?’ he echoed excitedly. Alexis
glanced at Rhianna. She had gone stark white, fear in her face. ‘It is
quite safe, and we will all wear lifejackets.’ ‘Mummy! Please!’
Every maternal instinct urged her to refuse. Boats went on the
sea—the sea could drown children. But Nicky was looking so
thrilled. She took an uncertain breath. ‘Well—I—I—’ ‘Yes, yes,
yes!’ Nicky bounced up and down in his seat. ‘I am surprised you
are so nervous about the sea,’ Alexis commented. ‘Considering your
father designed yachts. Did you never go sailing with him as a child
yourself?’ ‘I didn’t see much of my father when I was growing up,’
she answered shortly. ‘My mother divorced him for desertion when I
was not much older than Nicky. She lived in Oxfordshire, which is
pretty far from the sea.’ She didn’t want to talk about her childhood.
And certainly not to Alexis Petrakis. But then she didn’t want to talk
to him at all. About anything. Even though he kept on talking to her.
He’d done it the previous day, with Nicky present, talking to her in a
casual, conversational way—as if he had never thrown such vicious
accusations at her, had never made her the target of his fury, his
rage. At least Nicky had been there as well, thankfully oblivious to
the stiffness and undercurrents between the two people who had so
unintentionally but so irrevocably brought him into existence. He
had accepted his father’s arrival in his life with a childish mix of unquestioning
acceptance and thrilled excitement, as if Father Christmas
had arrived. She was less accepting. And in place of excitement
was tension. Fraught, pulling tension, webbing her round. She could
not cope with Alexis being, as he had said he would be, ‘civil’ to
her. Talking to her as if she were a normal human being, not excrement
beneath his feet. She could see it was an effort for him, though.
That he was quite deliberately involving her in his conversation with
Nicky, drawing her in. But I don’t want to be drawn in. I don’t want
to have anything to do with him. Even as the words formed in her
head she knew she could not indulge them. Loath as she was to acknowledge
it, she knew that he was right. For Nicky’s sake she must
try and put aside her hostility—as he was doing. But it was difficult
to do so. Difficult to let go of something that had been there for five
long years, like a caged beast—a beast that had been let terrifyingly
loose when Alexis had turned up at her hospital bedside, and here, in
his villa, when he had thrown his vileness at her. Yet here she was,
responding to his questions as if those vicious exchanges had never
taken place. A faint frown creased Alexis’s brow. ‘Your mother
didn’t like you spending time with your father?’ Was there
something in his voice that had an edge to it? ‘The other way round,’
she replied defensively, not liking to hear her mother criticised. ‘My
father didn’t have much time for me. Or for her. Or for anything,
really, except his boats. So, no, I didn’t sail as a child. I did a basic
course on a reservoir, when I was a student, because I thought it
would be something that would please my father, but—’ She fell silent.
Why on earth was she telling this to Alexis Petrakis? Her
pathetic attempts to get her father to take an interest in her. ‘But?’
His voice prompted her. She gave a dismissive shrug of her shoulder.
‘He didn’t reply to my letter telling him I’d got my Level One
dinghy certificate. So I never went any further with getting qualified.’
‘What did you study as a student?’ Her eyes flickered to him.
Why did he want to know? ‘Accountancy. Very boring. But I knew it
would make me employable. Mum never had much money—Dad
was always late with his maintenance payments—so—’ ‘You are an
accountant?’ There was surprise in his voice. She stared at him.
‘Yes. After my mother died I sought out my father and went to work
for him, to help keep his company going. I realised how bad the situation
was financially, and knew the only way to save it was to find
an investor or a buyer, or a part-owner. That’s why I approached
MML. I told you that.’ ‘You never told me you were an accountant.’
There was accusation in his voice. Her face hardened. ‘What difference
does it make what my professional qualifications were or are?’
she retorted. ‘Do you really need to ask?’ he replied. He was looking
at her strangely. With that same assessing look she caught on his
face sometimes. It disturbed her. She got to her feet and held her
hand out for Nicky. ‘Time for teeth-brushing.’ He slid down from
the table and went reluctantly with her. The boat trip proved a huge
thrill for Nicky. Wedged between his father’s splayed legs, he gleefully
steered the wheel, his hands shadowed by Alexis’s. Seated in
the stern, Rhianna hung on grimly, her body battered as the boat
slapped over the waves. But Nicky’s joy and excitement made it
worthwhile. So did their destination. It was indeed, a secret beach.
Out at sea it was scarcely visible between two miniature headlands.
But nestled between the cliffs was a tiny jewel-like beach, with
dazzling white sand and exquisite shallow turquoise water. ‘We’re
going to snorkel!’ Nicky told her excitedly. ‘Daddy and me!’ Alexis
dropped anchor and jumped lithely overboard into knee deep water.
He scooped Nicky up and deposited him on the beach a few yards
away. Then he returned to the boat. He held out his arms to her. ‘I
can manage,’ Rhianna said immediately. But as she got uncertainly
to her feet the boat swung on its mooring. Instinctively she grasped
the nearest solid object. It was Alexis. She clung, swaying, terrified.
Then in a fluid movement he had scooped her up, as lightly as he
had Nicky. For one fleeting moment she felt the protective strength
of his arms. Then she went completely rigid. She’d frozen. As if
she’d been turned into a block of wood. Grimly, Alexis waded
through the shallow water towards the tiny beach, the starkly rigid
body immobile in his arms. Thee mou, she hadn’t been like this the
night he had swept her up and carried her to his bed! Then she had
been like warm honey in his arms, soft and pliant, yielding to him
like sweetest velvet… No—no point thinking of that. Remembering
that. It was the last thing he wanted to recall to his mind. And Rhianna
Davies was the last woman on the planet he wanted to have the
slightest sexual feeling about whatsoever. But for all that there was
no reason for her freaking out whenever he touched her. As if he
were poison. Anathema to her. He set her down on the sand and she
jerked away from him immediately. He busied himself carrying what
they needed to shore and setting up a camp in the shade of the cliff.
Nicky bounced around excitedly. ‘Come on, Daddy!’ He started
rummaging through the grip containing snorkelling equipment.
‘Steady,’ said Alexis. ‘Right—flippers first.’ Rhianna watched them
from her position on a soft rug laid out on the sand. Her heart-rate
was slowing again now. She’d discarded her lifejacket, but Alexis
and Nicky still kept theirs on. Her eyes kept going to Alexis. Somehow
the extra bulk over his chest simply made his shoulders seem
broader in their short-sleeved T-shirt, his hips in their swimming
shorts narrower, his bare, sinewed legs longer. She felt that long-ago
tremor start within her again. Felt, for just a second, the echo of his
protective clasp around her as he carried her ashore. She shut her
eyes. A strange, vast and completely illogical sense of loss went
through her. As though something very precious had gone from her
life. But that was stupid. She had never had Alexis Petrakis. He had
only had her—enjoyed her, and discarded her. He’d never intended
anything more than a one-night stand. It had never meant more to
him than that. She must never forget that. ‘Is he too heavy?’ Alexis
nodded at Nicky, who—exhausted from the excitement of the boat
trip and the exertions of snorkelling, then made soporific by Maria’s
lavish picnic lunch—was asleep on Rhianna’s lap. She shook her
head. Alexis was lounging at the far end of the rug with panther-like
grace, his T-shirt moulding his physique, long bare legs extended,
lithe and muscular, his feet bare. She dragged her gaze away. ‘He’s
never heavy.’ She smiled, looking down at her sleeping son, lovelight
in her gaze. Her hand smoothed over the silky hair. Something
flickered in Alexis’s eyes. Her smile did something to her. It
lightened her face. Softened it. He found himself studying her as she
gazed down at Nicky. Not that it was haggard any more. That
hollowed-out gauntness she’d had was completely gone. Now she
simply looked fine-boned, not thin. Nor did her skin look like sickly
sour cheese any more. The warmth of the Mediterranean sun had
brought a honeyed tone to her face. The bright Aegean sky had made
her eyes bluer, too, not washed-out. In fact— He halted his mental
catalogue. Rhianna Davies’s physical appearance was completely irrelevant.
She was his son’s mother. Nothing more. And an accountant?
His brows drew together in a frown. Had she really been her
father’s accountant that night she’d said she’d wanted to talk to him
privately? I could check. There are records of those who have professional
qualifications. Because if she truly were, then maybe, just
maybe, her claim of innocence of the accusation he’d charged her
with was wrong. And if that was wrong— Again he halted himself.
No. Even if she hadn’t deliberately offered herself to him on a plate,
to soften him up to plead her case over her father’s company, it did
not exonerate her! She was still guilty of keeping Nicky from
him—deliberately and knowingly keeping a son from his father.
Cruel, vindictive, vengeful. His mouth thinned. Why did that sound
so familiar…? ‘Tell me what he was like as a baby. Do you have any
photos?’ Rhianna’s eyes lifted again. There was a curious expression
on Alexis’s face. Reserved, almost shuttered. Yet there was
something else there too. It was hunger, she realised. Something
pricked inside her, and she realised what it was. Guilt. Guilt that he
had never seen his child as a baby. That those lost years would never
come back for him. A hollowness opened inside her, filled with
stabbing pain. Loss. ‘Some,’ she answered, feeling awkward. It was
hard enough speaking to him when Nicky was present. Now, with
him asleep in her lap, and it was only her and Alexis, and it was
even harder. ‘I—I would like to see them some time.’ Had he sounded
hesitant? Alexis Petrakis? Rich, powerful, domineering, demanding
Alexis Petrakis? A man who simply clicked his fingers and
things happened the way he wanted them? A man who felt he could
throw the most foul insults in her face and they were justified? A
man who had no memories of his baby son… ‘They’re…they’re in
my flat. I haven’t got many, though. He…he was a very good baby.’
She paused. ‘That sounds terrible. It usually means placid—no
trouble. He wasn’t any trouble. I was—’ she caught her breath
‘—very grateful. My father…’ She swallowed. ‘Well, he wasn’t
well—I made allowances. I had to.’ She shrugged. ‘Did he resent
Nicky?’ She looked away, out over the azure water that was a million
miles away from the cramped, poky flat on the run-down housing
estate where she and Nicky and her father had lived. ‘Yes,’ she
answered briefly, and she did not hear the edge of bitterness in her
voice as she spoke. ‘My father resented anything and anyone that
came between him and his work.’ ‘Do you miss him?’ Her lips
pressed together. ‘No. It’s an awful thing to say, but I don’t. He
didn’t care about my mother, or about me, or about his grandchild.
So why should anyone care about him? I—I did my best for him. It
was all I could do. But it was never enough. I could never get back
for him the one thing he loved—his company. And so after a
while—eventually—I stopped caring that he didn’t care. I had Nicky
and that was enough. More than enough.’ Her voice lowered. ‘He
was everything—everything to me. And he still is. And he always
will be.’ Her jaw tightened, defiance in her eyes. ‘Nicky’s happiness
is the only, only reason I am here now. You’ve made Nicky
happy—’ Her voice broke off. There was a long, constrained moment,
then abruptly Alexis spoke. ‘Why did you cry when I told him
I was his father?’ She pressed her lips together again. ‘I was happy
for him. You’ve—you’ve—’ She took a deep breath, lifted her chin,
then said what she knew she had to say. ‘You’ve done well by him.
I—I was surprised. You really do seem to…to want him, to care for
him.’ Alexis spoke slowly, his eyes not quite meeting hers. ‘Why did
you think I would not? Did you think—’ his eyes suddenly went
back to hers ‘—that I would be like your father?’ There was a heaviness,
sudden, crushing, in the air. She swallowed, her throat felt dry.
‘I—I—’ She closed her eyes. ‘Yes.’ Alexis looked at her. For a long,
long moment he said nothing. Then quietly, very quietly, he spoke. ‘I
will love Nicky with all my heart, with all my soul, with all my being,
until the day I die. When I first set eyes on him and knew him
for my son I knew that I would never, never reject him. As—as my
own father had rejected me.’ She stared at him, her face stilling. His
eyes were holding hers steadily, unflinchingly. ‘You see, like you,’
he said, in that same quiet, steady voice, ‘I spent my childhood, my
adolescence, wanting my father to love me. But he never did.’ He
took a breath, his voice changing. ‘He never did.’ She heard the
tightening in his voice, and without conscious thought, only impelled
by an instinct it was impossible to suppress, she suddenly
reached forward and touched—oh, so lightly; oh, so briefly—his
hand, splayed on the rug, taking his lounging weight. She drew back
immediately, but it was done. Between them, for the briefest moment,
there flowed something that brought them together. Two
people whose childhoods had been blighted by the cruelty of adults.
And suddenly—quite, quite suddenly—Rhianna knew with a certainty
that filled her being that Nicky was safe—safe with the man
who had fathered him, who would never, never betray a child’s love.
She felt the tears prick in her eyes. ‘We can do this. We can do this,
Rhianna.’ Alexis’s voice was low, steady and compelling. ‘We can
be good parents for Nicky—the kind of parents every child needs.
Loving parents. We both love him, and for his sake we can do this.’
He didn’t say what ‘this’ was, but he did not have to. Rhianna knew.
‘This’ was what he had asked her to do—put aside their hatred and
mistrust of each other just enough for Nicky’s sake. Emotions sifted
through her like sediments shifting, finding new levels. Cautiously,
very cautiously, she answered him, feeling her chest tighten. ‘I—I
will try,’ she said. He nodded. His eyes still held hers. ‘Thank you,’
he said quietly. It was late afternoon before they returned to the
villa. Nicky had awoken, refreshed and eager for more snorkelling,
more swimming and a lot of exploring of the rocks and beach with
his father. Rhianna had watched them. Something had changed, she
knew. Something about the way she thought of Alexis. Knowing that
his childhood had been blighted, as hers had been, had done more
than explain to her why he was so determined to be a good father to
Nicky—it had made him somehow more human. Not just a rich,
powerful man, using his wealth to bully or buy others, but vulnerable.
Human. Not the way she had had cause to think of him for five
long years. But now? Her mood was strange as they arrived back.
Nicky went rushing off to find Karen and extol the wonders of his
day to her over nursery tea, Alexis went off to shower and then go
into his office, and Rhianna surrendered to Nurse Thompson’s ministrations.
She took her medicines and did her physio exercises docilely,
but her mood was abstracted. So abstracted that as she sat at
her dressing table after her bath, and Nurse Thompson set to drying
her newly washed hair, she was taken aback, when the hairdryer was
finally silenced, by the reflection that looked back at her from the
mirror. ‘Good heavens!’ she exclaimed faintly. Nurse Thompson had
blowdried her hair as skilfully as if she’d been a professional
hairdresser. Not that she’d been to a hairdresser for five years, Rhianna
thought. It was a luxury she hadn’t been able to afford, and,
given her utterly absent social life, not something she’d needed. Not
that she needed it now, either. But Nurse Thompson was standing
behind her, looking so pleased with her efforts that Rhianna hadn’t
the heart to say anything other than, ‘It looks wonderful!’ And it did.
Her hair, just skimming her shoulders, flicked inwards, lifting her
brow, setting off her face in a way that reminded her, with a strange,
yearning pang, of how she had once looked many long years ago.
Nurse Thompson smiled, satisfied. ‘Make-up next.’ On cue, Karen
walked in with a make-up bag. ‘What’s going on?’ Rhianna asked,
bemused. ‘Nurse Thompson says patients get better faster when they
know they look nice. Psycho-whatsit, but it works,’ said Karen
cheerfully. ‘Quite right,’ said Nurse Thompson. ‘Now, just sit still.
Consider it part of your convalescence.’ Rhianna gave in. She let
Karen make up her face, lend her a brightly patterned red and yellow
summer dress, put a string of beads around her neck and squeeze her
feet into a pair of her sandals. At the end of it all, Karen stood back.
‘Wow!’ she announced. ‘You look fantastic!’ Behind her, Nurse
Thompson nodded approvingly. ‘Yes, indeed,’ she agreed. ‘No one
would ever think you’d been ill!’ Rhianna stared. No, she thought
slowly. She did not look ill any more. What she looked was— Like I
used to look. She stared wonderingly. For five years her appearance
had been something of total irrelevance to her. It still is. The words
thudded in her head. They were joined by more, thudding just as
heavily. You don’t have anyone to look good for. No one. And especially
not Alexis Petrakis. He’s Nicky’s father—that’s all he is to
you. All. Remember that. She took the self-admonishment unflinchingly.
After all, it was only the truth. But her changed appearance
did not pass unnoticed by Nicky. As she went in to kiss him goodnight
his eyes widened. ‘Mummy! You look beautiful!’ She gave a
smile. ‘Thank you, my darling.’ He held out his arms to her. ‘Need a
kiss,’ he said. Rhianna obliged, wrapping him up tight in her arms. ‘I
can only blow a kiss,’ she said, holding him back a little. ‘Or I’ll get
lipstick on you.’ Nicky kissed her instead, smacking kisses on each
cheek. ‘Mummy,’ he said in a satisfied voice, and lay back again. He
snuggled into the pillow. ‘Mummy, Nicky, Daddy,’ he announced.
‘And Teddy.’ He hugged the battered bear close to him. ‘Daddy has
said goodnight already,’ he informed her. ‘He said we could go on
the boat again tomorrow. He said I could drive again. He said…’ His
voice started to fade. Rhianna sat beside him, holding his hand as he
drifted off to sleep. Then she reached and clicked off the bedside
light, leaving the nightlight glowing in the dimness. For a long moment
she just went on sitting there, her hand touching his, feeling
endless love for her son just pouring and pouring out of her, like a
bottomless blessing. Then, at length, she leant forward to bestow a
last, light air-kiss on Nicky’s brow, stood up, and turned to go. And
stopped dead. Alexis was standing in the open doorway to the hallway.
The light behind him made him look darker, but there was
something about his stillness that made her freeze. Then he stood to
one side, holding the door back for her. Feeling incredibly, ridiculously
self-conscious, she walked towards him, squeezing past him
to gain the hall. How long had he been there? Since before she’d
turned the bedside light out? As she reached the hall she paused, and
half turned. What she wanted to do was go off and find Nurse
Thompson and Karen and share whatever meal they were having. It
was what—blessedly—she’d done the evening before. She’d had tea
with Nicky and his father, but then Alexis had disappeared off into
his office—presumably to pay attention to his business empire via
his PC and telephone. Rhianna had helped Karen put Nicky to bed,
and afterwards had eaten with her and Nurse Thompson. Neither,
she’d noticed, had made the slightest reference to the fact that their
employer was now openly acknowledging that Nicky was his son.
Well, Rhianna had thought, they were good, discreet staff who
mutely accepted whatever happened in the rich households they
worked in. The household staff behaved with similar discretion, and
now, as Stavros emerged from the kitchen regions and came to hold
open the door at the dining room side of the hall, he simply murmured,
‘Kyria…’ in his usual polite tone. Inside the dining room
Rhianna could see that the table had been laid for only two. Instant
recollection of the last meal she’d eaten in here rushed back at
her—the ugly scene that had sent her running from the room. But
she had to put that behind her. Strive with all her effort for the rapprochement
that Alexis wanted. Not for her sake, but for their son’s.
And for Nicky’s sake she would have to comply. She took the chair
Stavros was holding out for her. Alexis took his place opposite her.
As she settled herself, her eyes flicked across the table. He was staring
at her, transfixed. It was the past come to life. Alexis’s eyes
worked over Rhianna as she sat there, a few feet away. Shock ricocheted
through him. Yes, she was five years older, in her late twenties,
not her early twenties, and her hair was shorter, her face thinner.
But still quite, quite stunning. And wearing at last, he registered,
something that did not look as if it had been thrown away on a rubbish
tip. The dress was only a chainstore garment, but it was a universe
away from the faded T-shirts and worn, baggy cotton trousers
that she’d worn till now. The dress even showed that she still possessed
breasts… His eyes flickered over the two delineated mounds.
The neckline might be modest, but the material of the bodice curved
lovingly. Enticingly. A long, slow pulse began to beat in his veins.
Rhianna had to steel herself to keep still. She wanted to leap to her
feet and run. Bolt. His intense look was excruciating. She didn’t
know where to look, what to do. Damn Nurse Thompson and Karen!
What on earth have they done? But she knew exactly what they’d
done. They’d turned her back into a woman. She hadn’t been that for
a long, long time. Not for five years. Not since Alexis Petrakis had
peeled the clothes from her body and laid her down upon his bed…
Memory leapt in her, like a flame from a dead fire that someone had
just thrown petrol on. She couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t douse it. Her
eyes met the dark obsidian eyes across the table. Met and leapt.
Memory drenched her. Memory of those eyes looking down at her,
drowning her in their depths, their desire… It was alive again—that
overpowering, devastating, shameful desire. The way it had leapt
between them that evening five long, long years ago. She tried to
force it back, thrust it away, hammer it back down deep, deep, where
it could not escape. But it came all the same, and she could not stop
it—was helpless, formless, shapeless. She was liquid, rich, slowpouring
honey that creamed like velvet through her veins. I don’t
want to feel this. I don’t want to! I don’t want to want him! Words
seared in her mind—poisonous, powerful. But you do want him.
You want him as much now as you wanted him then… The terrible
damning truth hollowed through her. You will never be able to resist
him… Never. Despair flooded through her. Despair and a churning
dismay. She had to fight what she was feeling—she had to! She must
not succumb to something that had damaged her so badly, so irretrievably.
Summoning all her strength, she banished by sheer force
of will the debilitating weakness that flooded through her. Her chin
lifted, her chest rising and falling as she fought to regain her composure,
fought to be the person she knew she must be. Nicky’s mother.
Nothing more. Just as she was nothing more to Alexis Petrakis.
Gratefully she seized the glass of white wine Stavros had poured for
her. She took a sip, feeling its reviving strength. Tonight she needed
it. She wanted to run, fly. But even to do that would be to acknowledge
what was happening, to give credence to the reason why Alexis
Petrakis was sitting opposite her, his eyes fixed on her. She
wouldn’t—she wouldn’t do it. So she had to say
something—anything that sounded normal. She said the first thing
that came into her head. ‘Thank you for taking Nicky for the boat
trip. He absolutely adored it.’ For a second Alexis made no response.
Then, with a visible effort, he replied. ‘But it was too rough
for you. Tomorrow I’ll take you out sailing. See how much you remember
from your dinghy course.’ ‘Almost nothing,’ she said hurriedly.
‘Well, we shall see. And with a light wind it will be much
gentler for you,’ Alexis returned. Stavros arrived with the first
course—an assiette of seafood. It was a welcome diversion. By the
time she had helped herself to what she wanted, and Alexis had done
similarly, her composure was recovering. So, it seemed, was Alexis’s.
Yet even as the pair of them determinedly made civil conversation
across the dinner table—first about sailing in general, and then,
with Alexis taking the lead, about the particular maritime conditions
of the Aegean: the prevailing northerly meltemi of the summer, the
sudden squalls, the complicated shifting local currents of this tideless
sea—she felt, beneath her skin, that he was only half concentrating
on what he was saying. There was a subtle but discernible air of
abstraction about him. It disturbed her, but she did not know why.
She had no spare energy to wonder about it. She needed all she had
simply to keep going, having what on the outside seemed a normal
conversation with Alexis Petrakis. Doggedly, she laboured
away—asking questions, responding when appropriate—as if he
were simply a social acquaintance. They didn’t even talk about
Nicky Yet if Nicky did not exist they would not be sitting here, opposite
each other, trying to talk politely to each other. And it was for
his sake that she had to make an effort, she knew. Force herself to be
‘normal’ with him—as if he really were just a social acquaintance.
The more she did it, the easier it would get, she told herself. And at
least, she registered gratefully, he had stopped staring at her. It was
just the shock. That’s all. Seeing me look so different. That’s why he
stared. And she must be glad that it was so—very glad. Very glad indeed.
Relieved. Grateful, in fact. She took a breath and asked another
question about sailing. When the meal finally reached the coffee
stage she was even more grateful. The strain had begun to tell. Emotions
were running in her, beneath the surface. She did not know
what they were, but they were swelling, growing. She’d kept the
promise that she had given Alexis that afternoon, that she would try
to make this rapprochement work. But though she knew now that
Nicky was safe with Alexis, that he was bound to his son by the
strongest of emotional ties, there was one thing she must remember—
one question she could not answer. This civility from him was
not for her sake, but for Nicky’s. And though she could trust him
with Nicky, after all the foulness that had passed between them,
could she ever be safe with Alexis? Could she trust him to trust her?
She did not have long to wait to find out. They took coffee on the
terrace. It was a lovely evening—the mildest yet, she thought. From
the bushes came the constant, invisible soft chirruping of the cicadas.
A soft zephyr winnowed the water, which shushed on the sand
in a gentle murmur. Stavros had placed a candle on the table, along
with the coffee tray, and beyond its little pool of light the darkness
draped itself across the terrace in a velvet fall, softened only by the
dim moonlight playing on the silvery sand and the night-lit sea. ‘Are
you cold?’ Alexis asked her. She shook her head. ‘No. Thank you.
I’m fine. This is lovely.’ She relapsed into silence, letting her eyes
become dark-adjusted. Across the table Alexis’s dark bulk took
shape, his long-sleeved, open-necked white shirt reflecting the pale
moonlight, though his face was in shadow. She took a slow sip of
coffee, inhaling the distinctive fragrance. From the corner of her eye,
as she looked out over the night-dark sand and sea, she could see
Alexis lean back, stretching out his long legs under the table and
cupping his glass of ouzo in his hands, his tiny cup of Greek coffee
as yet untouched. Like her, he seemed content to sit in silence. She
went on looking at how the moonlight caught the white caps of the
tiny waves as they crested in miniature surf on the beach. No sound
came from the rest of the villa. The staff quarters were on the side
away from the beach, she knew, and Nicky was fast asleep. It was a
peaceful scene. Yet beneath the tranquil surface deep currents ran.
Her thoughts ran on down twisting paths, uncertain ways. The future
stretched before her like the night over the sea. An impenetrable
veil. What was going to happen? Not now, here on this peaceful island,
but when she was well again. What was going to happen to her
and Nicky? Alexis had threatened so much—yet now he wanted a
kind of peace between them. So did he trust her now? Trust her to be
a fit mother for his son? She felt the currents shift and stir within her.
Uncertainty hemmed her in. She let her eyes go back to him. Her expression
was troubled. Guarded. His was—unreadable. But as she
studied his face he said quietly, ‘What is it?’ ‘What’s going to happen?’
she asked. Her voice was troubled. ‘You said you wanted rapprochement—
enough peace between us for Nicky not to be damaged
by the lack of it. But what happens next?’ She searched his face, as
if trying to see behind the veil of his eyes. For one long moment he
looked at her. She could not read his expression. Perhaps, she realised,
it was because there was no expression to read. And yet somewhere
deep she could sense tension running through him. Then he
spoke. ‘What happens next?’ he echoed, his deep voice low. ‘I think
there is only one answer to that.’ He let his eyes rest on her. ‘We get
married,’ he said. CHAPTER TEN FOR a moment Rhianna just
went on staring. It was as if her brain were moving in slow motion,
unable to catch up with what she had just heard. Had she heard it?
Had she really just heard Alexis Petrakis say that? Her mouth
opened. ‘Get married?’ she echoed dumbly. He inclined his head. ‘It
is,’ he said, ‘the obvious thing to do. Nicky needs two parents.
Normal parents. Stability. A family. So we get married.’ She stared
at him. ‘You’re mad,’ she said. Something moved in his eyes, but it
was not anger. ‘Think about it,’ he said, and took a mouthful of
ouzo. ‘Think about it? I don’t need to think about it!’ Her voice had
risen in pitch. She could feel adrenaline starting to pump round her
body. ‘This is some kind of joke, right? Some kind of tasteless,
ludicrous joke that…that…’ Words failed her. ‘I repeat—it’s the obvious
thing to do.’ He seemed supremely untroubled by her vehement
reaction. But deep in his eyes his expression was hidden. ‘We
both want Nicky and Nicky needs both of us—full-time parents,
who live in the same place, who make a family for him, a home.
Wherever we are in the world he is with both of us, and we both
have him.’ Rhianna placed her hands flat on the table. ‘Stop it,’ she
said. ‘Stop it! This is just stupid and tasteless and absurd
and…and…Good God, I’ve never heard anything so insane in my
life!’ That flicker, deep in his eyes, came again. ‘Would you care to
tell me why?’ There was an edge in his voice now, she heard. Not
much, for him, but it was there. She just stared at him still. ‘Why?
You ask why? After everything you’ve called me? Everything
you’ve done to me? You’ve tried to take Nicky from me. Again and
again. First you tried to bully me into it, threatening me and reviling
me, and then you tried to buy him from me with your filthy money!’
‘I told you—I had to check what kind of woman you were.’ His tone
was dismissive. ‘Whether you were after my money and were using
my son to get it. When you turned down twenty million pounds for
him then I knew—knew that Nicky was safe with you. Rhianna—’
His voice had changed abruptly. ‘This is not necessary. I have accepted
that you are not the kind of woman I thought you were when I
discovered Nicky’s existence. We have moved on from there. You
do not have to prove to me that you are not a gold-digger.’ Her eyes
flashed. ‘Just someone who thought she could sweeten you up for a
company takeover by going to bed with you?’ Venom bit in her
words. She saw his face tense for a moment, then, deliberately, he
said, ‘We have moved on from there as well.’ Rhianna leant forward
in her chair. ‘Have we? Have we really?’ ‘Yes. Confirmation from
the UK of both your qualifications as an accountant and your position
as your father’s company accountant five years ago were waiting
for me when we came back from our boat trip today.’ ‘You went
and checked that out?’ she asked slowly. ‘Yes. And understanding,
as I now do, the pressure you were under—your father being dangerously
ill, your difficult relationship with him, the urgent need to get
the go-ahead on the takeover—I can appreciate how you thought it
necessary to approach me in the way you did at that dinner. Striking
up a—rapport—with me, coming back up to my room so promptly.
Even though—’ his voice changed minutely ‘—such an approach
was open to misinterpretation by me.’ ‘Misinterpretation.’ Her voice
was hollow. She could feel hysteria beading in her. Misinterpretation.
That was all it was, was it? He was speaking again, cutting
through the emotion welling up in her inexorably. ‘So, yes, we can
now—both of us—move on. Think about the future. Nicky’s future.
We both accept that that is the only important thing. For him to be
happy. That is why it would be best for him if we married. To give
him security, stability, a home, a family—that is what he needs.’
Emotions churned in her. Swirled like a dark tide. His face was impassive,
unreadable, but there was something—something about it
she could almost read in his opaque night-dark eyes. And then suddenly
she knew what it was. Out of nowhere, like a sharp gust of
wind biting through her, she knew what this was all about. ‘My,
God,’ she breathed. ‘I know what you’re doing. You gave yourself
away when you said you had to check what sort of woman I was.
This is another one of your tests—isn’t it? Isn’t it? You’re dangling
the prospect of marriage to you in front of my nose. And if I snap it
up then you’ll know you were right all along—that I really am a
gold-digger! That I just love the idea of being a millionaire’s wife!
Absolutely adore it! Swanning around in designer clothes and diamonds
for the rest of my life! A real, live gold-digger who’s not fit
to look after her son!’ The breath hissed in her throat. ‘Well, you can
just go to hell!’ She started to push her chair back, stumbling to her
feet. ‘Rhianna—that is not why I said we should get married!’ ‘It’s
exactly why you said it! It’s another of your bloody tests. Well, I’m
not having it—do you hear me?’ She lifted up her arm and brought it
in a jerking, slashing, slanting movement downwards. ‘No more,’
she said. ‘No. More.’ Something rolled through her like a huge, unstoppable
wave. It should have been anger. But it was not. It was
hurt. She shut her eyes. Why should she be feeling hurt? Hadn’t she
faced up to the question of whether Alexis trusted her with Nicky?
Hadn’t she been filled with doubt? With caution? So why, now that
she had her answer—had it clear and loud—did it hurt? She had
made the worst mistake of all. She had lowered her guard. Believed
him. Trusted him. Trusted him when he’d talked of rapprochement,
trusted him when he’d talked of making peace between them for
their son’s sake. Trusted him when he’d told her why she could be
sure that he would always love his son as his father had never loved
him. That he was fit to be Nicky’s father. But he hadn’t trusted her.
He hadn’t trusted her to be fit to be Nicky’s mother. She turned
away, opening her eyes, stumbling along the terrace. Her eyes were
blurring, stinging, and she hated herself for it. ‘Rhianna—’ She
heard his chair scrape, and rapid footsteps. Her arm was taken. ‘Let
me go! I don’t want you touching me. I don’t want your hands on
me!’ She spoke with dull vehemence. ‘Never again. Never, ever
again.’ She shook him loose, still not looking at him, making her
way slowly around the corner of the terrace to where it passed by the
front of her bedroom. He didn’t come after her. The French windows
were unlocked, and she went inside. Shutting out Alexis Petrakis.
Hell and damnation. Alexis’s mouth tightened. How in God’s name
had he mishandled that so badly? Sending her bolting into hiding
from him again. Grimly he strode back to the table and threw himself
in his chair, reaching for the ouzo bottle and pouring himself a
generous second measure. The strong liquorice-scented liquor
burned down his throat as he swallowed it. How had he made such a
crass mistake? Blurting out an offer of marriage like that. The moment
the words had come out of his mouth he’d known he’d made a
major error. But then he’d hardly been thinking straight all through
the meal. When have I ever thought straight around Rhianna Davies?
He hadn’t the first night he’d met her, when her beauty had totally
knocked him him out, and he hadn’t tonight. He’d got through the
meal somehow, but it had been hard. All he’d wanted to do was sit
and look at her. Drink her in. Thee mou, but she was so beautiful!
He stared out into the darkness. The moon had scudded behind
clouds. The night was thick, impenetrable. All he could hear was the
soft sound of the waves and the cicadas. And the slow beat of his
pulse. I want her again. I wanted her from the first moment I laid
eyes on her. And I want her again. He felt his body stir. He reached
for his ouzo, taking a slow mouthful. The fiery spirit burned in his
throat. Just as his body was starting to burn. Burn for the woman he
desired. But who did not desire him. Who flinched away from him.
Who yelled at him never to touch her again. His eyes narrowed as he
set back his glass. Well, he would not be deterred by her revulsion to
his touch. He had made Rhianna Davies quicken with desire for him
before. Made her melt for him in his arms. He would do so again.
But it would be a delicate operation. A very delicate operation. He
would have to proceed very, very carefully. He could afford to make
no more errors such as he’d made tonight. But he would succeed.
Too much was at stake for him not to. CHAPTER ELEVEN ‘YOU
see? I told you Dr Paniotis would be pleased with your progress.’
Nurse Thompson’s voice was a mix of reassurance and satisfaction.
Rhianna smiled faintly. Overhead she could hear the thud-thud-thud
of the helicopter carrying the doctor back to the mainland. She knew
she should be as pleased as Nurse Thompson expected her to be. Her
strength was coming back, she felt better, fitter, her drug dosages
were declining all the time. But depression filled her. It had done so
all night, all morning—a dull, pressing heaviness that not even
Nicky’s cheerfulness could assuage. She knew what had caused it.
Alexis. Alexis Petrakis. Still distrusting of her, still thinking the
worst of her. Still wanting to prove that she was as bad as he so obviously
wanted her to be… Still unfit to be his son’s mother. She
tried to summon anger, the anger that had fuelled her resistance to
him all this time, but it would not come. Instead, she found she
simply wanted to cry. ‘Now, a nice cup of tea for you, and then we
can get you dressed.’ Nurse Thompson’s brisk cheer grated this
morning. Rhianna nodded dully. She had not got up yet, had waited
for the doctor to complete his examination. Karen had whisked
Nicky off, and Alexis was apparently immersed in his office, had
been since early morning. She had not set eyes on him. Murmuring a
listless thank you, she took the cup of tea that Nurse Thompson was
handing to her. As she sipped, she heard footsteps and muffled
voices outside her door. There was some scuffling and giggling, and
then a very loud, rapid knocking. Nurse Thompson walked across to
the bedroom door and opened it. A huge bouquet of flowers advanced
into the room. ‘Goodness me!’ exclaimed the nurse. ‘Walking
flowers? Whatever next!’ Gleeful childish laughter sounded
from behind the bouquet. ‘It’s me! It’s me!’ Nicky cried out, and
lowered the flowers sufficiently to show his face. ‘Mummy,
Mummy—these are for you! Daddy said!’ He marched up to the bed
and deposited a mass of flowers, swathed in cellophane and ribbons,
on Rhianna’s lap. Her eyes went from the flowers to her son’s grinning
face, and then to the tall shape standing in the doorway. ‘Do
you like them, Mummy? Do you? They came in the helicopter! All
the way from the city! Daddy said!’ ‘They’re beautiful,’ she told
him. Her emotions were a confused tangle, knotting themselves
around her. ‘Thank you.’ She reached to kiss him. ‘They’re from me
and Daddy,’ Nicky informed her. ‘The card is from me.’ Alexis’s
voice from the doorway was low-pitched, yet it seemed to do
something strange to Rhianna’s insides. Her eyes slipped to the card
tucked into the binding ribbon. She picked it up and opened it.
Please forgive me. Alexis. She stared, disbelievingly. Then her gaze
flew to him. He started to walk towards her. His eyes were holding
hers, and in them, she saw—even more disbelievingly—was an expression
that she had never thought to see in his eyes. Contrition. He
came and stood by the end of the bed. She stared at him, then her
gaze was diverted. Stavros was entering with an armful of flat boxes.
Nurse Thompson hurried to help him deposit them on a hastily
drawn up chair. ‘Mummy! Mummy! There are more presents! Lots
more! Can I help you open them? Please, please?’ Nicky was bouncing
with excitement. Her emotions were still churning like a concrete
mixer, but she could not refuse her son. She nodded, and immediately
he fell upon the topmost box, yanking off the lid. As he
did so, his little face fell. ‘It’s just clothes,’ he said disgustedly.
‘Your mother will like them,’ said Alexis. His eyes moved to Rhianna.
‘At least, I hope you will.’ Again there was that speaking look
in his eyes, and again Rhianna just gazed at him. Nicky was pulling
out carefully folded garments interlined with tissue paper. They had
clearly come from an expensive shop. ‘I’ll just pop these into water,’
announced Nurse Thompson, and relieved Rhianna of the bouquet,
disappearing with Stavros out into the hall. Rhianna was left with
Nicky and his father, and a lot of clothes-boxes. And a lot of clothes.
Beautiful clothes. Beach clothes in vibrant colours—casually styled
but, she could see immediately, beautifully and expensively made.
The kind of beach clothes the women in Alexis’s world wore. A universe
away from the charity shop cast-offs that her wardrobe consisted
of. She stared, bemused, as Nicky riffled through the boxes,
dumping clothes haphazardly on the bed. Alexis watched, with half
an amused eye on Nicky and with half a quite different eye on Rhianna.
‘Do you like them?’ he asked. ‘Karen told me your size, and I
had a stylist select them and flew them in. But if they are not to your
taste they can be changed for others.’ ‘I can’t accept them.’ Her
voice was blunt. He frowned. ‘Why do you say that?’ ‘Why do you
think?’ she retorted tightly. A little hand was tugging at her hand.
‘Mummy, don’t you like them?’ Nicky’s voice sounded anxious.
Alexis interceded smoothly. ‘Your mother thinks I should not give
her clothes. I think that’s silly, don’t you? I think daddies should
give mummies clothes and presents and things. Don’t you?’ Leave
Nicky out of this! Rhianna wanted to shout. But it was too late.
Nicky was nodding vigorously. ‘I like this one best,’ he said, and
picked up a royal blue top with a beautiful appliqué design on it. ‘I
like blue,’ he said wistfully. ‘Do you? Hmm…I wonder…’ Suddenly
Alexis was stooping down, lifting up another two boxes. These were
not tastefully decorated with stylish logos. They were boldly patterned
with animal shapes. ‘Have a look in here,’ said Alexis. Nicky
ripped off the lid. ‘These are for me!’ he announced breathlessly,
and he held up a shorts and T-shirt outfit in his size, the shorts bright
blue and the top blue and white striped, with a sailing boat on it.
Then he dived into the box to discover the rest folded beneath.
‘We’ve both got new clothes!’ he said, eyes shining, to Rhianna.
‘Holiday clothes,’ said Alexis. ‘For while you are here on holiday.’
Oh, cunning, thought Rhianna bitterly. Nicky was already pulling off
his faded charity-shop T-shirt and yanking the expensive new one
over his head. Alexis helped him, and then helped him change into
the matching shorts. ‘Very smart,’ he said approvingly. Nicky’s eyes
shone. ‘These are the best clothes I’ve ever had!’ he announced. ‘Do
I look smart, Mummy? Daddy says I do.’ ‘Very smart,’ she agreed,
fighting to hide her emotions from him. ‘Why not go and show Karen?’
She could be cunning too, she thought sourly. He hared off, and
when he was gone Rhianna turned on Alexis. ‘What is this?’ she demanded.
‘Another test?’ Her voice was scathing, vicious. ‘Well, you
can take these clothes and—’ Alexis’s hand flew up. ‘No!’ Then, in
a milder tone, he said, ‘I bought them for you because—because I
thought you would like them.’ ‘I don’t want clothes from you! I
don’t want anything from you!’ Her voice had risen in pitch, colour
flaring along her cheeks. Something shifted in his face. Fleetingly.
Swiftly masked. Then, without invitation, he sat himself down on
the bed. Instantly she shifted her legs sideways. It was a huge double
bed, but she could feel the weight of his mass depressing the mattress.
She could not understand why, but it felt, acutely, a very intimate
gesture. Alexis Petrakis. Sitting on her bed. She felt her breath
catch, her stomach jitter. ‘Please—do not flinch away from me.’
There was a tightness in his voice. He took a swift breath. ‘Rhianna,
listen to me—for just a few moments, that is all. I should never have
said what I did last night. But believe this of me: I was not, you have
my word, seeking to test you again. I was thinking of Nicky, that
was all. Nothing more. But there is no rush to make decisions of any
kind. Nicky is only just getting used to the changes in his life. Let
him do so at his own pace. And you do so at yours.’ He got to his
feet. ‘I will call Nurse Thompson for you. Please take the clothes,
Rhianna. They are a gesture—nothing more. Besides—’ his mouth
twisted ‘—I think Nicky will be upset if you do not wear them. It
will make him feel awkward about wearing the ones he has got. And
he needed new clothes, Rhianna—even you must admit that!’ He
picked up a sundress, half hidden under a pair of culottes. It was a
creamy blonde colour, with tiny shoestring straps. ‘This matches
your hair,’ he said softly. He looked down at her. Rhianna felt her
heart begin to quicken. The way he was looking at her…almost
smiling, not quite, but holding her eyes, just holding them… Then
he released her. He replaced the sundress. When he spoke again his
voice was very different. ‘Are you happy if I take Nicky swimming
now? The helicopter also delivered some pool toys for him, which I
am sure he will enjoy.’ She swallowed. ‘You don’t have to ask me,’
she said. She felt a swirling inside her, a confusion of emotion. ‘He
adores going swimming with you.’ ‘It is a pleasure for me too,’ he
answered. There was an emotion in his voice she would have been
deaf not to hear. ‘And I thank God that with him, at least, I do not
seem to have made mistakes. But with you…’ His eyes were dark
and depthless, and she felt a strange disturbing pull inside her. ‘With
you I have made too many mistakes. I don’t want to make a single
one more.’ There was an intensity about the way he was looking at
her. ‘Believe me.’ He took his leave and she went on sitting there,
confusion lacing and unlacing through her. She tried to make sense
of what had just happened. Alexis Petrakis being nice to her? Apologising
to her? Asking her to believe him… She lay back, bemused.
Confused. Can I trust him? This time can I really trust him? The
question tormented her. Because she could find no answer. And yet
it seemed, over the next days, that he was answering her question all
the time. He was being so nice to her—so incredibly nice. It was as
if he were a different person. The person he was with Nicky. Smiling,
open, spontaneous. At first it made her feel awkward, gauche,
tense. She found she kept looking out for the mask to slip, for the
real Alexis Petrakis to break out again. But it never did. It was as if
the foul, ugly words he had thrown at her had never been voiced. As
if he had never accused her of any of the crimes he had laid at her
feet. And slowly, day by day, she found the words growing dimmer,
fading away. Because how could she keep in her head the litany of
his harsh and unjust accusations when he was behaving to her as if
she were a different person from the one he had condemned as an
unfit mother? When day after day he did nothing but treat her with
kid gloves, drawing her in, making her part of the relationship he
was building, stronger and more secure with every passing hour,
with Nicky? And so little by little she found that she was doing
something she had never thought possible. She was coming to trust
him. To feel—safe—with him. It was easiest still, she acknowledged,
to do so in Nicky’s company. Whether they were eating together,
or out on the water in the dinghy or the motor boat, or in the
pool, or on the beach, or seated at the table on the terrace playing
board games and cards—Nicky ecstatic when he won, disgusted
when he lost—or reading to him in bed when he was drifting off to
sleep, another busy, happy day behind him. Easiest to find herself
catching Alexis’s eye in amusement at some remark that brought a
smile to grown-up lips, or at the intense pleasure Nicky took in his
games and play, or, most moving to Rhianna of all, when he would
spontaneously show affection to Alexis, the father who had only just
come into his life but who seemed surely to have been there for ever.
Yet even when Nicky wasn’t there she still felt increasingly at ease
with Alexis—this new, different Alexis. Sometimes disbelief caught
her, making her wonder whether this was really true—that all the
hostility had stopped, all the distrust had dissolved away. Sometimes
she thought she ought to think about it—think how extraordinary it
was that Alexis had moved so far from where he had started with
her, throwing a catalogue of crimes at her head with his vicious
words. But how could she think of that, remember that, when Alexis
was smiling at her, laughing with her, relaxed and easy under the
warm Aegean sun? Being so nice to her. But even as she succumbed
to this new, different Alexis, she knew that there was one thing she
must not succumb to. Alexis himself. She must, must remember that
he was being nice to her not for her sake but for Nicky’s. And for
Nicky it was working. His happiness and confidence grew daily, and
Rhianna rejoiced in it. Rejoiced that he so clearly adored his newfound
father. Rejoiced that Alexis had so clearly taken Nicky to his
heart. Rejoiced that he had accepted that she, too, loved Nicky so devotedly.
So why, why, was she filled with this strange, painful yearning?
As if all she had were not enough? I have so much! I have
Nicky, and he has Alexis, and Alexis is a good father, who trusts me
now. I have no reason, no reason at all, to feel like this. But she
could tell herself that all she liked; it did no good. The truth still
stared her in the face. With every smile Alexis bestowed on her, with
every laughing moment shared, with every little skip her heart gave,
with every covert glance she gave to him—drinking in the way his
long, bare legs braced against the hull as he tacked the dinghy, the
way his long fingers curved around the stem of his wine glass, the
way his polo shirt moulded to his muscled shoulders, the way the
water dazzled like diamonds on his sea-wet glistening torso, the way
the wind winnowed his hair as he sat at the wheel of the motor boat,
guiding Nicky’s steering—with every moment, every minute she
spent with him she knew, with a deep, helpless sense of powerlessness,
that something was happening to her that she should fight with
all her being, all her strength. But she could not. She was as helpless
now as she had been the very first night she had set eyes on Alexis
Petrakis. And there was nothing, nothing she could do about it.
Alexis batted the beach ball back towards where Nicky was perched
on his inflatable dolphin. From the corner of his eye he could see
Rhianna stretched out on a poolside lounger, sunning herself. He
wanted to look at her properly, but two things prevented him. One
was the fact that his son was paddling towards the ball with fell intent
and at any moment would bat it back to him. The other was that
gazing at Rhianna when she was wearing a new white and gold
bikini that cupped her breasts and exposed her slim, lovely body,
was not a good idea right now. Indeed, letting his gaze linger on her
at any time was not a good idea. Not now that her beauty was being
revealed to him again day after day, as the last shadows of her illness
left her, as her injured body healed beneath the warm, restoring sun,
as her body regained the beauty hidden by ill-health and exhaustion.
Every time he looked at her he wanted her more. But he had to bide
his time, exert his patience. Impose an iron self-control on his desire.
But self-control, Alexis was finding, was a very, very hard discipline.
Even though it was essential. After all—his face tightened—it
had been his complete lack of self-control the evening he’d met her
that had brought him to this pass. He had seen her, wanted her, taken
her—an indulgence he should never have allowed himself. He
would not do so again. No more mistakes, he had promised. He
could not afford any more. Because the stakes he was playing for
were far, far too high. This was his last chance, and he must play it
very, very carefully. Step by step, day by day, he was getting closer.
Winning her over. Getting her to trust him. Because only when she
did, only when he had finally, finally won her trust, could he achieve
his goal. Not just Rhianna back in his bed. Something much, much
more important. The sun was hot on Rhianna’s back. She ought to
move into the shade, she knew, for the noonday sun even this early
in the year in these Mediterranean latitudes could be punishing. But
it was so lovely just to lie here on the soft lounger, eyes closed, feeling
warm and languorous, the sun on her bare skin, almost drifting
off to sleep. She would move in a moment… ‘You’re going to burn.’
The deep voice was admonishing. She stirred slightly, realising she
must indeed have drifted off. But she felt so drowsy, so somnolent,
she could not wake properly. She would wake in a moment… A
squeeze of cooling gel pooled on her back, between her
shoulderblades. She made a little sound in her throat as the cold gel
impacted with her heated skin. ‘Hold still,’ the same deep voice told
her. And then the gel was being spread across her back, smoothed
across her shoulderblades, her shoulders, drawn down the length of
her spine, splayed around her flanks, across the swell of her hips.
Hands, strong but supple, stroked the cooling gel with long,
rhythmic sweeps into every inch of her skin. It felt—exquisite. She
made a little sound in her throat again, and for an instant so brief she
thought it had not happened the smoothing hands halted. Then they
continued—lighter now, but still quite, quite exquisite. She lay there,
letting him massage the gel into her skin. She ought to stop him, she
knew, but she could not. Could only lie there, her body purring, as
his hands moved over her back. When he stopped, she felt bereft.
‘There. I think that was in time.’ There was the slightest tension in
his voice. ‘But no more sun now.’ She turned her head sideways to
thank him, but her lips only parted soundlessly. He was hunkered
down beside the low, horizontal lounger, his bared body damp,
shoulders glistening, hair slicked back from the water. He was so
close. So close. Her heart started to beat with a slow, heavy pulse.
Warmth creamed through her, dissolving into her. She wanted to
reach out to him. Touch his mouth, trace along the bones of his
cheek, his jaw. The pulse of her heartbeat deepened, deafening her to
all the rest of the world, which did not exist…did not exist… Only
her, lying here, in a pool of sun, gazing at his face, his mouth, his
eyes… And his dark, gold-flecked eyes which she could drown
in…drown in… ‘Alexis…’ It was a whisper. A plea. His eyes
darkened suddenly. It was his pupils dilating, she could see. She lifted
her head from her arms, reaching towards him. Her mouth
aching for his. Time had stopped—stopped completely. The world
was not there. It was only him, there so close to her…so close…
And she wanted him so much… So much… He started to lower his
head to her, lashes sweeping down over those darkening, desiring
eyes. She closed her own eyes, waiting with aching yearning for the
moment when his mouth would touch hers. But it never came. Instead
she heard him stand up, his shadow over her. She felt cold. As
if the sun had just gone out. ‘Time for lunch,’ he said. His tone was
abrupt. ‘Here.’ He dropped her filmy sarong over her. ‘I’m going to
shower off.’ She heard him walk away. Slowly she sank her face
back down. Desolation filled her. Alexis made it a cold shower. A
very cold shower. Christos, but he had come so close! Within a
hair’s breadth. He should never have let himself put gel on her back.
But he hadn’t been able to resist. She’d looked so tempting there,
spread out beneath the sun. Nicky had been borne indoors by Karen
to get changed for lunch, and he had seen that Rhianna was falling
asleep in the midday sun. And he hadn’t wanted her burning… He
wanted nothing getting in the way of his purpose now. He sluiced
the chilling water over his shoulders. Only one more day to go now.
He could last that long. He would have to. But it was good, he realised
as he turned off the shower and snaked a towel around his hips,
taking another to dry his hair with. Good that it had happened—that
incident by the pool. It proved to him that she was ready—very, very
ready. Oh, he had no worry that he could not do what he intended
with her—that night five years ago had proved that. But having her
make that soft, sensuous moan in her throat, gaze at him like that
just now, mouth parted, waiting for him to kiss her, had been too
close a call. If he had lost his self-control and kissed her— Could I
have stopped? He didn’t need to answer. By the time Rhianna
joined the lunch table she was composed again. She had forced herself
to be. She had received a message. Loud and clear. She was
Nicky’s mother. Nothing more. She had to accept it. Just as she’d
had to accept that five years ago she had been a one-night stand. It
didn’t matter was what happening to her now. It didn’t matter that
with every day that passed her emotions were getting more and more
tangled. It didn’t matter that when Alexis smiled at her her heart lifted.
Because there was one reason and one reason only why he was
being nice to her like this. For Nicky’s sake. He had spelt it out to
her, made it clear right from the start. Even when he’d been throwing
his vileness at her it had been for Nicky’s sake. For Nicky’s sake
he had been prepared to tolerate her in his son’s life though he’d
thought her a drug-addict and a gold-digger. And for Nicky’s sake he
had been prepared to be civil to her, make his wretched rapprochement
with her, even though he’d thought she had used her body to
persuade him to approve the takeover of her father’s company. And
even though he now accepted that he had ‘misinterpreted’ her behaviour
that night—even though he had told her he had no more tests
for her to pass—even though he was now being so extraordinarily
nice to her—nothing else had changed. It was all still for Nicky’s
sake. And how can I complain? How can I complain that Nicky is
the most important person in his father’s life when he is the most important
one in mine? The only one. The only one I care about. But
even as she thought it she knew it for a lie. CHAPTER TWELVE ‘I
HOPE you will not object, but I have told Nurse Thompson and Karen
to take some time off. They’ve been on duty continuously, and
Karen is missing her boyfriend in England and Nurse Thompson
tells me she would like to see something of Athens while she is
here.’ Alexis set down his coffee cup and looked across at Rhianna.
She had changed into the creamy sundress that he had told her
matched her hair. Its colour flattered her, as he had known it would,
setting off the honeyed tan of her skin exposed by the tiny shoestring
straps. She was slightly tense, he could see. But then, so was he.
That incident by the pool was not easily banished from his mind. But
it was essential that he put it from him—and that she do likewise.
The clock was ticking. Getting the nurse and nanny off the island
meant that tomorrow evening he could make his move. He needed
Rhianna completely off her guard. No time to mount any resistance
to him. No time to do anything but provide him with the proof he
needed. Rhianna nodded, giving an uncertain, flickering smile.
Lunch had been awkward, even with Nicky present as well as Nurse
Thompson and Karen. And now that Karen had whisked a protesting
Nicky off for his nap, and Nurse Thompson had disappeared into her
quarters, she felt yet more awkward. She knew she mustn’t. Knew
that the awkwardness was entirely of her own making. Alexis was
behaving with her as he had been doing for days now. There was
nothing different about it. And she must take her cue from that. Forget
about that moment by the pool. Put it out of her mind. Not think
about it again. She must not ask for more—she had so much. She
must appreciate what she had. Appreciate Alexis being nice to her…
It was, after all, so much more than she had ever thought possible. It
must be enough. Even if it wasn’t. But what was the point of crying
for the moon? None. Resolutely she answered him, trying to make
her voice sound relaxed. ‘Um—yes, of course. You’re right—they
haven’t had any time off at all yet. When—when will they be going?’
‘I thought tomorrow. They can go back to Athens with the
helicopter—in time for Karen to get a morning flight to London and
Nurse Thompson to start her sightseeing. My office is sorting tickets
and hotel accommodation, respectively—which I will provide. I
think they both deserve that, don’t you?’ ‘Yes, indeed,’ Rhianna
replied warmly. ‘They’ve been wonderful—both of them.’ She
looked across at him. ‘It’s very generous of you,’ she said. It was
difficult to meet his eyes, but she did it all the same. ‘Will you be
able to cope without them?’ he asked. He gave her a questioning
look. ‘I don’t want their absence to set you back.’ She felt the colour
run slightly into her cheeks. ‘You know, I really don’t need nursing
any more. I know what pills to take, and I do my physio exercises
every morning. And I feel bad at having Karen here still, too. Now
that I’m better I can take on looking after Nicky again.’ ‘So you
want me to sack them both?’ Alexis enquired, his eyebrows rising
quizzically. ‘No!’ Rhianna riposted. ‘It’s just that I don’t want you
spending money you don’t have to.’ Something flickered in his eyes.
Then it was gone. She wondered if she’d imagined it. Then he was
speaking again. ‘Well, let us see how we manage without them while
they are away,’ he said temperately. For a second that expression
was in his eyes again. Then it was gone. The villa seemed very
empty without Nurse Thompson and Karen. Even though Maria and
Stavros were still there, they were busy with their duties as usual,
and it was almost, Rhianna thought, as if there were only she, Nicky
and Alexis on the island. It felt strange. It made her, she knew, even
more aware than ever of Alexis—being all on her own with him
with Nicky. Or was it just because the scene by the pool kept haunting
her, playing itself over in her mind, making her feel so aware of
him? She wished she didn’t. Wished she could just accept him for
what he was—the father of her child. A child who needed both parents
to love him, cherish him, to make his world safe and happy.
And we’re doing that, she thought. Nicky is happy—safe and secure.
She still could not see the future, but surely now that Alexis no
longer had reason to think so ill of her they could, in time, work
something out? Surely that was possible now? But what it could be
she did not know. She and Alexis were separated by so, so
much—nationality, wealth, background. Into her head stole a
memory. The evening when she had voiced questions about Nicky’s
future. We get married he had said… It had been a test, nothing
more. A last demonstration of his mistrust of her. She knew that. He
had said so himself. But supposing it hadn’t been. Supposing he
really, really had meant it. That they get married… No. Stupid. Impossible.
Insane. Marriage was more than making a home for a
child. Much more. The scene by the pool played again. Alexis
pulling back. Walking away. Rejecting her. She felt heat flush
through her, then cold. No. Whatever they worked out about Nicky’s
future, it would not include marriage. Alexis sat out on the terrace
nursing a cold beer. Inside, Rhianna was settling Nicky to sleep. He
felt his tension rise. This was it. Tonight he would get the proof he
needed. The proof he had to have. There was a footfall behind him.
He got to his feet. She was there. His breath caught. Christos, but
she looked stunning— She was wearing another of the outfits he had
had delivered for her. It was a deep jewel-like turquoise colour, a
loose, long-sleeved top in a chiffon material threaded with silver, a
flowing, floating scarf wound about her neck, and matching long,
loose trousers. Her unfettered hair framed her delicate jawline. She
wore no make-up and did not need a scrap of it, Alexis thought. Her
rare natural beauty needed no adornment. His desire was instant.
Overwhelming. But he would have to staunch it. Hold it in check.
For just a little longer. She took her place. She seemed—tense, he registered.
Was finding it difficult to meet his eyes. But then she’d
been like that all day. Well, that was all to the good now. He wanted
her aware of him. Vulnerable to him. It was exactly the way he
wanted her. He sat down again, and right on cue Stavros arrived,
bringing the champagne. ‘Kyria, kyrios—’ He flourished the tray
and deposited it on the table. Rhianna’s eyes widened. ‘Champagne?
Why?’ ‘To celebrate,’ returned Alexis. ‘Celebrate what?’ But he did
not answer. Only let a smile play briefly on his lips before turning
his attention to Stavros and exchanging something with him in
Greek. The man nodded and replied, then set about opening the
champagne. The cork flew off over the beach with a loud pop, and
then Stavros was filling up the glasses. When he had done, he said
something again in Greek and took his leave. Alexis picked up his
glass. He paused expectantly. Still feeling bemused, Rhianna lifted
her glass to her lips. The cold liquid effervesced on her tongue. Her
eyes met Alexis’s across the table. Their obsidian depths were
flecked with gold—pure gold… And suddenly, out of nowhere,
memory speared through her. Alexis looking at her, those magnetic
night-dark eyes holding hers as she drank his champagne. Five long
years ago on the night that had changed her life for ever. And now
she was drinking his champagne again. An ache overcame her, a
low, agonising ache that made her fingers clench around the long
stem of her champagne flute. Abruptly, she raised it to her lips. The
pale, cold, effervescent liquid beaded in her throat as it slid down. It
should have dulled the ache. But it did not. It seemed only to make it
pierce her more. Of their own volition her eyes went to the man sitting
opposite her. She could not help it. He was so devastatingly
compelling. She wanted to gaze and gaze, stare and stare. The crisp
sable hair, the strong nose, the carved planes of his face, and the
eyes—oh, the eyes! Veiled, unreadable, obsidian flecked with gold.
For one long, aching moment she let herself gaze into them. Something
flickered. Deep, deep within. And then with another flourish
Stavros was coming out again, this time bearing a tray filled with
tiny bowls. Mezes, Rhianna recognised. Traditional Greek delicacies—
olives, stuffed vine leaves, tiny deep-fried cheese pastries…
By the time he had set them all out she had recovered. And as she
sipped her champagne and nibbled at the myriad of dishes she made
herself talk. The kind of things they had talked about in these last
days—ordinary, everyday things: Nicky, Greece, world affairs,
films, music, books, food. Easy, unexceptional conversation. The
kind she had got used to now with Alexis. He had always taken the
lead, and she had been too bemused by the new, different Alexis he
had become towards her to do anything other than follow where he
led. Yet tonight, she fancied, it was her taking the lead, not him. She
who prompted his answers with another question, and another…
Mezes consumed, Stavros went on to serve their main course: tenderly
baked lamb that melted in her mouth, washed down with rich
red wine. Somehow she got through the meal. Somehow she managed
to sound normal. And all the while the ache inside her grew
and grew. Stavros emerged one last time, placing tiny cups of iced
sorbet in front of them and setting down a tray of coffee—the customary
combination of filter for her and Greek for Alexis. Then he
set out cognac for Alexis. Rhianna declined a liqueur, as she always
did. She had drunk both champagne and wine. They should have
numbed her, she thought. Yet they seemed only to have made her yet
more vividly aware of Alexis. She knew she shouldn’t be. Knew it
was stupid, pointless, insane to let herself react to him like this. But
she could not stop. She drank him in. The way his long, supple fingers
held his cup, lifted his glass, gestured to make a point as he
spoke. The way the strong column of his throat was framed by the
collar of his open-necked shirt. The way the planes of his jaw, his
cheekbones, seemed to incise the night. The way his dark hair shadowed
his head. The way his mouth tugged slightly at one corner. The
way his long black lashes swept down over those deep, glinting
eyes. It was as if she were more vividly aware of him than she had
ever been. Except for that one fatal night, so long ago… The ache
pierced at her, stabbing with pain. She drank her coffee, dutifully
taking sip after sip. Conversation ebbed, died away. She had no heart
to try and start a new topic. Across the table, she watched Alexis
slowly swirl the brandy in his glass. Then, as if aware of her watching
him, he set it down. ‘Come down to the sea’s edge,’ he said.
‘The stars are particularly clear tonight.’ He got to his feet, crossing
to turn off the light on the terrace. Rhianna blinked, letting her eyes
adjust. Slowly she got to her feet, following him to the top of the
flight of steps that led down to the beach. ‘Can you manage?’ he
asked. She nodded, then murmured, ‘Yes, thank you.’ She walked
down the steps beside him. His sleeve brushed against hers. The
ache came again, more piercing. At the foot of the steps she slipped
off her shoes. It was easier to walk in bare feet. The sand was cool
beneath her soles, and beyond the shelter of the terrace she felt the
whisper of a breeze on her, but it was not cold. Even so, she redraped
her scarf around her and looked upwards as she walked down
to the sea at Alexis’s side. The stars were, indeed, exceptionally
clear tonight. The moon had not risen yet, and the sky was a fretwork
of gold and black. As they drew further from the villa the
stars’ brightness increased. At the sea’s edge Alexis halted. He
stood, head lifted, gazing upwards. For a moment there was silence
as they both gazed at heaven’s floor. ‘I’m not very good with stars,’
Rhianna murmured. Alexis lifted an arm. ‘The Plough,’ he said,
pointing to the northern sky above the villa’s roof. ‘The two pointer
stars, showing where the North Star is. Can you see?’ ‘I think so,’
she answered. ‘And Cassiopeia—can you see the constellation
shaped like the letter W?’ ‘I’m not sure. Who was she? She sounds
Greek.’ She was making conversation. She knew she was. But she
had to. She was standing here, on a night-dark beach, beneath a sky
full of stars. With Alexis. And all she must do was talk about constellations,
Greek myths, heroes and heroines. Because that was all
he wanted to do. To show her the stars. Nothing more. The ache
came again. Deeper than ever. In the very core of her being. ‘The
mother of Andromeda,’ answered Alexis. ‘The princess whom
Perseus rescued from the sea monster.’ ‘I thought he slew the Gorgon—
Medusa?’ ‘That too.’ ‘I can’t see it. The W shape.’ ‘There.’
He moved behind her, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders for
a moment as he positioned her. Electricity ran through her. Then it
was gone. She tried to focus on where he was pointing, but the stars
just seemed a confused mess. She lowered her head from staring
heavenward, feeling her neck unstiffen. Alexis was not looking at
the stars. He was looking at her. And suddenly, out of nowhere, the
electricity was back—prickling through her nerves, her flesh. She
couldn’t move. Was held like a statue, like a nymph caught by a god.
He reached out a hand to her. Curved it around the nape of her neck,
beneath the fall of her hair. Her breath stopped. Her lips parted. He
drew her to him, lowering his mouth to hers. His kiss was slow, and
soft, and she could taste the cognac on his lips. Slowly, very slowly,
she felt her body melt. His free hand slid around her waist, drawing
her closer to him. He went on kissing her. Over her head the stars
wheeled in a slow, dizzying arc. She felt her body sway, weak and
boneless. He pressed her closer to him. She clung to him, her arms
going around the strong column of his body, feeling its hard,
muscled strength beneath her palms. The kiss went on and on, endless
and sweet and melting. His mouth was like velvet against hers,
and she felt her lips part to his. Wonder drenched through her. Wonder
and disbelief. Alexis was kissing her. Softly, sweetly, languorously.
Moulding her body to his, taking her softness to him, holding
her against the warmth of his broad chest, his narrow hips. It seemed
an eternity of time, and yet when he released her mouth, but not her
body, folding her still against him, the stars had not moved at all.
She felt his fingers still cupping her nape, stroking in her hair as he
gazed down at her. She gazed back, lips parted, eyes distended, weak
and bemused. ‘Alexis…’ She breathed his name. It was a question, a
confusion, a wonder. Softly he brushed her lips with his. ‘Shh—no
words, no words…’ He murmured something in Greek to her, soft
and mellifluous. Her eyes were melting into his. She felt herself fall
into their depths in a slow, arcing curve, and drown…drown deep
within. He kissed her again and she was lost. Giving herself to the
sweetness, the wonder of it. Alexis…kissing her. He would not let
her speak, hushing her mouth with his. Not even when he had swept
her up into his arms and taken her back inside, laid her down on her
bed in the deep, concealing darkness of her room. ‘No words,’ he
said, and his mouth found hers again. It was wonder and bliss. Soft,
slow sensuousness. He eased the tiny straps of her sundress, his
mouth gliding over the swell of her breasts, making her lips part
with the sweetness of sensation, felt the tips of her breasts bud like
ripening flowers under his lips, his slow, circling tongue. Time
ceased. Ceased to exist. Nothing existed. Only the touch of his
mouth on her. Only the soft, slow caresses of his lips. His gliding,
stroking hands as they eased clothes from her, from him. Only the
sweet drowning of her body, the honeyed, sensuous bliss as his body
moved on hers. She felt the strength of his bared shoulders, the leanness
of his smooth, muscled flanks, the long, powerful sculpture of
his spine, his back, spanned by her hands, caressed so wonderingly
by her fingertips in the velvet darkness of the night that cradled
them. She felt her body arch and move to his, her face lift to his, her
mouth yearn to his. She heard him murmuring to her in soft sibilance,
the words unknown but the voice a caress, a kiss. She felt his
strong hands smooth her thighs, felt him moving them with his, and
all the while the murmuring voice, the velvet mouth. Her arms
wound around him, holding him to her. She was cleaving to him, his
body to hers, her body to his, becoming one, easing together, fusing
with slow, infinite sweetness, a honeyed melting into one flesh, taking
him into her, into her very core, her very being. And then, as he
moved within her, she felt the sweetness ripen, swell within her,
grow and intensify, distilling into something so wondrous, so miraculous,
that her lips parted with a faint, high sound, her eyes closing
upon themselves. Her hips were straining against his, her thighs taut
against the fusion of their bodies, her hands splayed around his back
as she gave herself to her body’s consummation. And to his. She felt
his body tauten, every muscle fast against her tighten and hold for
one long, endless moment. And then release—release with a slow,
inexorable power, filling her, completing her, so that the same blood
flowed through their veins, the same heart beat in their breasts. On
and on while she clung to him, neck arched, her body still fused to
his, fusing his to hers. On and on until she felt her body slacken, and
his. The fusion ebbed, and the honeyed sweetness, and she lay quiescent,
spent, within the cage of his arms, blindly gazing up at him in
the darkness. Beyond everything but wonder. She felt him shift, felt
his arm reach and click on the light, then dim its glare to a soft glow.
But his eyes, as they gazed down at her, were dark, dark pinpricks.
‘Proof,’ he said softly. ‘Absolute, incontrovertible proof. You’ve
played right into my hands at last.’ Triumph blazed in his face. And
suddenly Rhianna knew exactly what had happened. A cold, icy
hand clutched at her heart, squeezing it tight. Oh, yes, she knew exactly
what had just happened. She had just had sex with Alexis
Petrakis. And fallen right into the trap he had set for her. The test he
had set for her. The test she had just totally, spectacularly failed.
The cold iced through her, freezing her blood, her flesh. Her mind
seemed to have parted from her body. It had cut free, and now she
heard it speak to her. Each word a blow. Mortal. Lethal. Deadly. It
had been another test. All of it. Everything. Just another test. The
flowers, the clothes, the smiles. All the ‘niceness’ to her, day after
day. Just bait, that was all. Bait to set a trap—a trap he’d sprung tonight.
A test. The last one left to him. She had left him, she knew, no
other option. So what else had he had to fight her with? He had gone
for her one helpless weakness. Himself. And she knew exactly why.
He had just said so. He’d needed proof. And she knew exactly what
for. The pain of it crippled her. Lacerated her like talons in her flesh.
She stared up at him. ‘My God,’ she breathed. ‘You bastard!’ She
pushed him with her hands—violently, roughly. But he had jackknifed
up, his face contorting as he pulled out from her in a short,
sharp movement. ‘What?’ She rolled sideways instantly, away from
him, taking the sheet with her to cover her nakedness. Her treacherous,
betraying nakedness. He tried to draw her back. ‘Don’t touch
me!’ His face changed. ‘Don’t touch you? After what just happened?
Thee mou, but I have all the proof I need. Don’t try and deny it.’ Her
eyes spat at him. Her throat was being garrotted. ‘I don’t care.
You’re not getting him. You’re not taking him from me! You can go
to your tame judge and tell him about your bloody proof, but I don’t
care. I’ll fight you. I’ll fight you—you’ll never take Nicky from me.
Never, never!’ She could hear the hysteria in her voice but didn’t
care. Didn’t care about anything except Nicky—her son, her
son—and this vile, hideous man who was still, still trying to take
him from her. Still trying to test her, trap her, so that he had the proof
he needed. Proof she was an unfit mother— ‘Are you insane?’ His
words cut right across her. Stunned, disbelieving. For a moment he
just stared at her, shock etched in his every feature. ‘Thee mou, is
that what this is about?’ Her face contorted. ‘Don’t give me
that—you know it is. You planned it. I know you did. You couldn’t
get any other dirt to stick on me so you resorted to this!’ His eyes
flashed black fire. ‘To what? In God’s name, Rhianna—’ ‘To this.
Sex. Sex! It’s all the dirt you had left to pin on me. You set this
whole thing up because it’s all you had left! You couldn’t nail me
any other way! I wasn’t a drug addict, I tore up your filthy cheque,
and I shot down your attempt to get me to say I wanted to marry
you. That left you with one thing and one thing only! To try and
prove I was unfit to be a mother because I was a woman who’d roll
into bed with any man at the drop of her knickers. You threw that at
me the first time you hurled your foul accusations at me, telling me
you were going to keep Nicky, and now you’ve gone and proved it. I
fell—wham, bam—into bed with you tonight exactly the same way I
did five years ago, and you’re boasting to me that you’ve got the
proof you wanted! And now…’ She took a choking, shuddering
breath. ‘Now you’ll use it to try and take Nicky from me. But I
won’t let you—I won’t—’ He seized her shoulders. Hands like steel
gripped her. ‘Enough! I will not hear this. I will not even listen. But
you—you will listen. Rhianna—listen. Listen to me. This was not a
trap—a test. Yes, I wanted proof—but of something quite, quite different.’
Her face contorted. ‘I trusted you, Alexis, I trusted you.
You’d convinced me—you know that? Convinced me you really
were genuinely trying to be nice. But all that niceness, all those
smiles that you poured over my head like syrup these past days, you
didn’t mean any of it, did you? Did you? It was all just hogwash!
Worse than hogwash. You were stringing me along, setting me
up—setting me up for this! Weren’t you? Weren’t you? You had the
whole thing planned, didn’t you?’ She saw the truth of her accusation
in his face, and she felt sick—sick to her core. ‘No—it wasn’t
like that. Believe me, Rhianna. That’s all I ask of you—believe me.
You must believe me!’ His eyes flashed. ‘You have my word—it is
not as you think.’ She reared back, clutching the sheet to her. Her
face whitened. ‘Oh, God, you have a nerve. You want me to believe
you? Well that’s more than you ever did me.’ Emotions were churning
away inside her, a tangled, tumbled mess. But one—one was surfacing.
Powerful and bitter. ‘When did you ever believe me?’ she demanded.
‘Never!’ He had thrown so much at her—one vile accusation
after another—and when had he ever believed her when she had
denied them? ‘You condemned me from the moment you knew I had
borne your son—and you never believed a word of anything I said in
my own defence. Not once. You assumed I was after your money the
whole time, one despicable way after another. Though I told you I
didn’t want a penny of it. That all I wanted was Nicky. But you went
right on anyway, didn’t you? Testing me for greed time after time.
You dangled marriage in front of me to see whether I’d snap it up
like a grasping little gold-digger. You—’ ‘No!’ He seized her hands
fiercely. She tried to yank them away, but his strength was too great
for her. ‘You thought it was that—but it wasn’t. I swear to God it
wasn’t! It was because—’ ‘And that obscene offer of twenty million
pounds in exchange for Nicky—you admitted it—you admitted that
you were testing me out.’ He let go her hands. Dropped them into
her lap. ‘That I cannot deny.’ He drew breath, sharp and hollow. ‘I
had to find out—find out if my son had a mother who would sell
him for hard cash.’ She looked at him. Her eyes were very clear
when she spoke. Her words were very clear. ‘You thought me a drug
addict—but addicts can love their children. You thought me no better
than a whore—but whores can love their children. You thought
me vindictive enough to keep your son from you—but mothers who
do that can love their children. My God, murderers can love their
children!’ Her voice rose. ‘But what cause had you to think I was
lower than any, any of those? That I would sell my child for cash?
What mother would do that?’ For one long, endless moment there
was silence. Then, into the silence, he said, ‘My mother.’ CHAPTER
THIRTEEN THE air in the room froze. She could feel it happening.
It was as if something evil had entered. Then she heard his voice
again. There was no emotion in it. None. None in his eyes. His face.
‘My mother sold me. She sold me to my father when I was five
years old. It was for ten million pounds. A large amount in those
days. That was the price of her divorce settlement from him. Had he
refused, she would have fought his attempt to get custody of me
through every court in Europe. She’d have won, too. Every judge
she’d have come up against would have found in her favour. You
see, she was a doting mother. Absolutely devoted. I was her darling,
adored baby. She lavished hugs and kisses on me. I was the apple of
her eye. At least when anyone was looking. Anyone who needed to
be impressed, that is. ‘In front of the staff she did not need to be so
devoted. Nor in front of her lovers. The trouble was it was not just
those whom she needed to impress who were fooled by her devotion.
I was fooled as well. So when she sold me to my father I did
not understand why he would not let me see her again. He told me
then that I would never see her again and I didn’t. It made me hate
him. So he told me what she had done. Then I hated her, instead, and
loved my father. But he didn’t want my love. And he never gave me
his. Because the day she took his cheque for ten million pounds my
mother also informed him that I wasn’t his son, but the child of one
of her legion of lovers. He only kept me to save his face, so that he
would not be laughed at for having not just a wife who’d walked out
on him but one who’d cuckolded him and sold him the resulting bastard
for a fortune. He told me so on his deathbed. They were his last
words to me.’ He fell silent. The air was too thick to breathe. And
yet she could see—see with crystal clarity. See everything.
Everything that she had not seen before. Understand what she had
not understood before. That everything Alexis had done had not
been to protect Nicky from her—but from his own mother. The demon
who still haunted him. She looked at him. He had drawn away
from her. Lain back down again, his eyes staring up at the ceiling.
Seeing nothing. Remembering everything. Every last drop of pain.
Related with such dispassion. A dispassion that reached inside her
and crushed her heart with horror. Her hands were pressed to her
mouth. Her throat was so tight she could have snapped it like frozen
wire. And her breath was hollow in her lungs. ‘Oh, God,’ she said.
‘Oh, God.’ Then slowly, very slowly, she lowered her hands from
her mouth and reached for his hand, lying inert by his side. She held
it very tight, pressed between her hands. A great wave of compassion
and pity and understanding went through her. And more than
that—forgiveness. Because to understand all was to forgive all.
Understanding just what demons drove him, why he had subjected
her to all that he had, allowed her to wash it all away. ‘I understand
now.’ She spoke quietly. ‘I understand why you did what you did to
me. I understand why you thought the worst of me, why you dared
not believe me innocent of what you accused me of, why you had to
go on and on trying to show me up, catch me out—test me.’ She
paused. ‘But you don’t have to test me any more, Alexis. Truly, truly
you don’t. I am not your mother any more than you are my father—
or your own. Their cruelty, their callousness, their unspeakable
selfishness is not in us. Nicky will never suffer as you suffered. You
see—’ Her throat caught. ‘He has us to love him, keep him safe.’
She took a breath and said what she knew she must say to end, finally,
this unbearable war between them. ‘I want to share custody
with you. Nicky is your son and mine. Now that I know what drove
you to distrust me so much, so that you had to do everything you
could to protect him from the woman you feared I was, I can trust
you. Trust you not to try and take him from me.’ She looked down at
him. Tears were pooling in her eyes. His eyes, seeing now, were resting
on her. There was an expression in them that she had never seen
before, but it made the tears pool more. ‘Why?’ he said softly, his
voice as strange as his eyes. ‘Why would I want to take my son from
the woman who above all else I would choose to be his mother? Yes,
I was haunted by what had happened to me—and it made me fearful
that you would prove the same as my mother, as cruel and heartless.
But you are as different from her as night from day. Your love for
Nicky shines like a star in heaven. And you have endured so much
for him—at my hands. I cannot bear to think of it. Do you not know
how much I regret having done what I did to you?’ His eyes
searched her face. ‘And this last most of all.’ The expression in his
eyes changed again. ‘I never, never meant to hurt you tonight as I
have hurt you. I beg you to believe me. Yes, it was a test,
but—No—do not flinch away from me! Please listen to me, Rhianna.’
He raised himself to his elbow, closing his other hand around
hers, not letting her draw away. ‘I said I wanted proof, but it was
nothing to do with what you thought it was. I wanted to prove
something quite, quite different. I wanted to prove that what had
happened between us five years ago was still there.’ Cold pooled in
her. ‘You mean sex.’ She jerked her hand away, reared backwards. It
was as if he had just struck her. ‘I don’t see why. I fail to understand
why you felt you had to see whether you could still have me, Alexis.
It certainly wasn’t much of a challenge for you the first time around!
From bathroom to bed in minutes. But then, of course—’ her voice
was unsparing ‘—when you’re only intending a one-night stand you
don’t want to hang about. The sooner you’re in bed, the sooner you
can get out in the morning. Just like you did five years ago!’ He was
staring at her. ‘A one-night stand? That is what you think I intended?’
She pressed her lips together. ‘It’s what I know you intended. I
was there, remember? Even before I’d opened my mouth in the
morning, to try and talk about the takeover, you were saying goodbye
and thanks for all the sex. The classic exit line after a one-night
stand.’ He was looking at her. Just looking at her. There was
something very strange about his face. Then he gave a harsh exhalation
of breath and sat up. His bare torso glistened like gold in the
soft lamplight, but she paid no attention. Something hard was lashing
around her heart. Why was he taunting her like this? It seemed
so cruel. Hadn’t they just finally made their peace over Nicky? What
was the point of rehashing the night he’d been conceived? It was the
future they needed to sort out, not the past. Then Alexis was speaking,
his voice vehement. ‘A one-night stand? A quick, casual fling
with a convenient passing female? You’ve thought that all these
years? Dear God, Rhianna, don’t you know what was happening the
night we met? Yes, I behaved recklessly, sweeping you off to bed
like that—but I could not resist you. I had never in all my life seen a
woman I wanted so much, who had such an effect on me. I did not
know what it was—I only knew that I could not, could not resist
you! And you seemed as eager, as ardent as I was—coming with me
to my suite. I felt that you must feel the same as I did. And, even
though I know now that your reasons for coming with me so eagerly
were quite different, once I had you in my arms you gave yourself to
me completely, absolutely. You cannot deny it—you cannot! That
was real and true—as true for you as it was for me. And I knew, absolutely,
completely, that something quite, quite amazing was happening.
And it was not, Thee mou, a one-night stand! Not for me
and not for you either!’ He took another ragged breath. ‘Can you
really think that was all I wanted? You say I was taking my leave of
you, but all I was doing was telling you when I woke you with a kiss
that I had to go to a meeting I could not get out of because it was important
to other people. Even though to me it was the most pernicious
and accursed thing in the world because it was going to keep
me from you for two agonisingly long hours. After which time—’
his eyes burned into hers ‘—I was coming back for you.’ He looked
at her, lips pressing together. ‘I was going to ask you to come back
to Greece with me. What had happened that night was so magical, so
extraordinary, so precious that I could not bear to be parted from
you! I wanted to take you away with me, make you mine. Discover
what this magical, extraordinary thing was that had turned me upside
down and inside out in a single night! Discover, with all the hope my
heart could hold, whether the night we had shared had been as magical,
extraordinary and precious to you as well.’ His eyes shuttered,
that impenetrable veil she knew so well closing over them. Then
they cleared, looked at her again. Pain was in them. ‘And that, that is
what I sought to prove tonight. That we had not lost what we had
that night—before I drove you away with my cruel words, with my
arrogant distrust, my wounded anger, thinking you had made a fool
of me, thinking you were someone you never were, thinking that all
you had given me was hatred of you for being someone I would
have given everything for you not to have been. To prove that it had
survived—somewhere, somehow—through all these years, while
you raised my son, alone and unprotected, in the grinding poverty
my unjust accusations had condemned you to. That it had survived
even while I let my tormented childhood make me a brute to you.’
He took a breath, ragged and uneven. ‘I was looking for a miracle.
Trying to win you back to me after everything I’d done to you. I
threw you away, Rhianna—but I’ve been trying to win you back.
Day by day by day. I knew I’d made you flinch away from me, made
you repulsed by my touch, and I knew how much cause I’d given
you to hate me. But I truly, truly thought you had accepted that I no
longer thought such ill of you—had realised how very, very wrong I
had been about you. I thought I was showing you that, day after day.
But what I did not dare show you was how, with every day, I wanted
you more and more.’ He looked at her. ‘I have made so many, many
mistakes with you, Rhianna. I could not afford to make one more.
Not a single one. I’d already realised I’d made a crass mistake in
proposing to you like that. But I acted on impulse—overwhelming
impulse—as I realised, all over again, just how incredibly beautiful
you are. It was a stupid, insensitive thing to do, and it made me realise
that I had to tread on eggshells with you. I couldn’t risk you rejecting
me, flinching away from me if I showed the slightest sign of
finding you desirable. And yesterday, Thee mou, I did not dare kiss
you because I was terrified I would not be able to stop. But knowing
that you were finally responding to me gave me such hope, such determination,
that I knew I had to risk all tonight. I had to take you
completely, utterly by surprise—sweep you away, overwhelm you,
give you no chance to resist, no chance to flinch away, no chance to
feel repulsed by me. I had to storm your defences and prove, prove
to you that what we had between us we have still. And more—so
much, much more.’ His eyes held hers, lambent, flecked deep with
gold. ‘And I did prove it. You cannot deny it. You gave yourself to
me tonight as sweetly, as beautifully, as ardently and as passionately
as you did that very first night. Proof, Rhianna. Proof that what was
started that night five years ago is still there. Will always be there.
All our lives.’ He paused. Then softly, very softly, he spoke to her.
‘It’s love, Rhianna. Do you not know it? Can you not feel it? It started
five years ago, on our first, miraculous night together, but I
blighted its flowering. Let it grow now, bringing us together after so
long, so much.’ He was reaching out to her. She should pull away.
She should not let him touch her. She should not let him cup her
shoulders with his strong, warm hands. She should not let him draw
her to him. Should not let him fold her against her body, wrap his
arms around her, rest her head against his heart. But she did. And
she should not let the hard lashing around her heart loosen to the
softest, silken thread. Nor let the tears that had pooled in pity for him
now pool in an emotion quite, quite different. But she did. She
should not let the memory of that night so long ago come to her
again. Nor let the shame she had felt at her own weakness in succumbing
to her irresistible desire for him turn to wonder and gratitude—
the wonder and gratitude that was pouring through her now.
And more—more than wonder and gratitude. An emotion far, far
more powerful, more miraculous than those poured through her,
overwhelming her with its intensity. An emotion she could not any
longer deny. An emotion that she could only let swell through her,
fill her completely, absolutely. She could feel his heart beating, his
arms around her, holding her so close, so close. Feel the tears damp
on her cheeks. He felt them too. His hands cupped around her head
and lifted it away, and he gazed down at her as the tears poured silently
down her face. ‘Ah, Rhianna, don’t—don’t cry—please,
please don’t cry!’ But she could not stop. The tears burned from her
eyes, her throat convulsing, and she pressed her face against his
shoulder as he wrapped his arms so tightly around her. ‘Rhianna—’
She could not hear him. The sobs were racking through her as her
hands clutched at his bare, muscled shoulders. He was holding her
against him, close and warm and protectively. He smoothed her hair,
her back, and then, when after a long, long time the tears finally died
away, he went on holding her, looser now, but still within the circle
of his arms. ‘I love you,’ he said to her, his voice quiet. ‘All my life.
The mother of my son, the treasure of my heart.’ She kissed him.
Softly and silently. Then, softly and silently, she began to make love
to the man she loved. The gold Aegean dawn was breaking through
the slats of the wooden shutters in her room. Their room, she
thought with wonder. Always now their room. Wherever in the
world they were. For all their lives together. Wonder filled her, and
happiness, and peace and joy, and above all love. Love that wound
them both together, bound them both, each to the other. She
smoothed the curve of his head, tracing the taut line of his cheek.
She was cradling him against her, his head pillowed on her breasts.
She felt her love for him pour through her. So long and bitter a journey
they had made. A journey she had not even known she was on.
A line of poetry came to her out of some unknown, unremembered
recess. Surprised by joy… She felt wonder distil through her again. I
didn’t know. I didn’t know that I was falling in love with him. There
was too much hatred, too much anger, too much distrust, too much
fear. But it was happening all along, secretly, in my heart, and I
didn’t know. But her heart had known. Known better than she had.
Beneath her fingers his dark hair was like silk. In her arms his
strong, powerful body lay like a child’s, asleep. He gave me his child
and now he has given himself to me. And I will keep him safe in
love for ever. He did not stir. Not after so long a night of love. A
night that had washed away, for ever, all that had come between
them. A night that had brought them together again for ever.
Someone was shaking her shoulder. ‘Mummy! Wake up! Daddy is in
the way. He’s in your bed and there isn’t any room for me.’ The piping
voice was rich with indignation. Rhianna stirred sluggishly as
Alexis reached for their son. ‘There’s always room for you, Nicky.’
He made more space in the middle of the bed. His son eyed him disapprovingly.
‘You haven’t got any jim-jams on.’ His father frowned.
‘Jim-jams?’ ‘Pyjamas,’ mumbled Rhianna drowsily. She fumbled
under her pillow for her nightdress and sleepily pulled it on. ‘What
about Daddy?’ Nicky persisted. ‘And why is he here?’ ‘Why are you
here?’ countered his father. He glanced at his wristwatch and
groaned at the early hour. ‘Need a cuddle,’ said Nicky. He
clambered up into the bed and with great wriggling and squirming
snuggled down between them. Alexis reached his arm across them
both—his son and the woman he loved. His son gave one more
wriggle and then went still. ‘Mummy, Nicky, Daddy,’ he said, and
went back to sleep. Rhianna felt for Alexis’s hand. ‘Happy families,’
she said. He squeezed her fingers. ‘Happy families,’ he murmured.
Then they both went back to sleep. To dream of each other and of
their son, and the long, long years of happiness that were to come.
EPILOGUE RHIANNA stood out on the balcony, gazing out over
the lake. Overhead, a high Floridian moon sailed serenely. At her
side stood Alexis. Inside their room, fast asleep, was their son,
dreaming of the joys of the day… ‘I wanted to take you to the South
Pacific,’ Alexis said ruefully. ‘Or at least the Caribbean.’ His eyes
flickered around the lake, where the lights from other resort hotels
glowed in the night. Rhianna turned to him, a smile on her face,
love-light in her eyes. ‘I can’t think,’ she said softly, ‘of a better
place to spend our honeymoon than in Orlando’s theme parks.’ She
got a wry smile in return. ‘Well, I guess that’s a clear majority vote,’
her new husband said wryly. ‘I’ve never seen Nicky so ecstatic. Or
so speechless.’ He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled
her close. ‘Dear God,’ he said into her hair, ‘how can we be so
happy?’ She felt tears prick in her eyes. They came freely all the
time—tears of joy, of wonder, of gratitude. ‘I love you so much,’ she
said. ‘So much, Alexis. So much that I can’t believe it—not after all
we went through.’ He smoothed her hair with gentle fingers. ‘But we
came through,’ he said. ‘We came through. Nicky brought us back
together.’ A cold shiver went down her spine. ‘I hated that social
worker for what she did, and yet it’s thanks to her that we are here
now.’ She gave a heavy breath. ‘I know with my brain that she was
only doing what she had to do to protect a child she thought was in
danger, but—’ He cradled her head, and gazed down into his eyes.
‘No more looking back, my darling—no more looking back. The
past is gone. For both of us. Only the future remains.’ For one long,
endless moment he went on gazing down at her, lovingly, cherishingly.
Then, softly, very softly, he lowered his mouth to hers. ‘Tell
me, my dear, beloved wife, do you think you are still jet-lagged?’ he
asked, as he lifted his mouth away. Rhianna reached up and raised
her mouth to his. ‘Hardly at all,’ she told him, and brushed her lips
to his. ‘I’m so very glad to hear that,’ said Alexis, and kissed her
again. ‘And do you think,’ he went on a moment later, winding his
arms more closely around her, ‘that Nicky is very, very fast asleep?’
Moonlight gleamed in her eyes. ‘Oh, very fast asleep,’ she assured
him. ‘Good,’ said Alexis. ‘In which case…’ He scooped her up in
one supple, fluid movement. She gave half a smothered cry. Then he
was sliding open the glass door to the room and taking her inside.
Outside, the Floridian moon shone on. Inside, two people, whose
journey to this point had been long and painful, found in each other’s
arms the bliss, the peace, that only love could bring. Robyn
Donald THE ROYAL BABY BARGAIN TORONTO • NEW
YORK • LONDONAMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY •
HAMBURGSTOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN •
MADRIDPRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
CONTENTS CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER
THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER ONE ABBY
stared at the list of things to do before leaving, and let out a long,
slow breath, her brows drawing together as another feather of unease
ghosted down her spine. Every item had a slash through it, so her
unconscious wasn’t trying to warn her she’d forgotten something. It
had started—oh, a couple of months ago, at first just a light tug of
tension, a sensation as though she’d lost the top layer of skin, that
had slowly intensified into a genuinely worrying conviction that she
was being watched. Was this how Gemma’s premonitions had felt?
Or had she herself finally succumbed to paranoia? Whatever, she
couldn’t take any risks. Driven into action by the nameless fear,
she’d resigned from her part-time job at the doctor’s surgery and
made plans to disappear from the small town hard against New Zealand’s
Southern Alps—the town that had been her and Michael’s
refuge for the past three years. The same creepy sensation tightened
her already-taut nerves another notch. She put the list down on the
scrubbed wooden table in the kitchen and prowled once more
through the cottage, switching lights on and off as she examined
each room. Back in the inconvenient little living room, chilly now
that the fire had collapsed into sullen embers, she stopped beside the
bag on the sofa that held necessities for tomorrow’s journey.
Everything else she and Michael owned—clothes, toys, books—was
already stuffed into the boot of her elderly car. Not even a scrap of
paper hinted at their three years’ residence. Yet that persistent foreboding
still nagged at her. All her life she’d loved to lie in bed and
listen to the more-pork call, but tonight she shivered at the little
owl’s haunting, plaintive cry from the patch of bush on the farm next
door. And when she caught herself flinching at the soft wail of the
wind under the eaves, she dragged in a deep breath and glanced at
her watch. ‘Stop it right now!’ she said sturdily. ‘Nothing’s going to
happen.’ But the crawling, baseless unease had kept her wired and
wide-eyed three hours past her normal bedtime. At this rate she
wouldn’t sleep a wink. So why not leave now? Although she’d
planned to start early in the morning, Michael would sleep as well in
his child seat as he did in bed. He probably wouldn’t even wake
when she picked him up. No one would see them go, and at this time
of night the roads were empty. The decision made, she moved
quickly to collect and pack her night attire and sponge bag and the
clothes she’d put out for Michael in the morning. She picked up her
handbag, opened it and groped for the car keys. Only to freeze at a
faint sound—the merest scrabble, the sort of sound a small animal
might make as it scuttled across the gravel outside. A typical night
noise, nothing to worry about. Yet she strained to hear, the keys cutting
into her palm as her hand clenched around them. Unfortunately
her heart thudded so heavily in her ears it blocked out everything but
the bleating of a sheep from the next paddock. The maternal, familiar
sound should have been reassuring; instead, it held a note of
warning. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop being so melodramatic,’ she
muttered, willing her pulse to settle back into a more even rhythm.
‘No one cares a bit that you’re leaving Nukuroa.’ Very few people
would miss her, and if they knew that she’d been driven away from
their remote village by a persistent, irrational foreboding they’d
think she was going mad. After all, she’d scoffed at Gemma. But if
she was heading for a breakdown, who would look after Michael—?
‘No!’ she said firmly. If she were losing her mind, she’d deal with it
once she and Michael were safely away. She yanked the car keys
from her handbag, swearing under her breath when she accidentally
dislodged an envelope onto the sofa. It gaped open, light from the
centre bulb transforming the fine wavy strands of hair inside to a
tawny-gold glory. Abby’s lips tightened. She glanced at the dying
fire, but before the thought had time to surface she’d pushed the envelope
back into her bag and closed the catch on it. Shivering, she
took in three or four deep, grounding breaths. As soon as she got
settled again she’d burn that lock of hair. It was a sentimental fetter
to a past long dead; her future was devoted to Michael, which was
why the miracle of modern hair colouring now dimmed her bright
crown to a dull mouse-brown. A further disguise was the way she
wore it, scraped back from her face in a pony-tail that straightened
the naturally loose, casual waves. She endured the change, just as
she endured the cheap clothes in unflattering shades that concealed
her slender body. She’d even bought spectacles of plain glass, tinted
to mute her tilted, almond-shaped eyes and green-gold irises. Nothing
could hide her mouth, wide and full and far too obvious, even
when she’d toned it down with lipstick just the wrong colour. In
spite of that, and the cleft in her chin, the camouflage worked. She’d
turned being inconspicuous into an art form. Anyone who took a
second glance saw a single mother with no clothes sense and no
money, working hard to bring up her child, refusing dates, content to
lurk on the edge of life. In a year’s time no one in Nukuroa would
remember her. If that thought stung, she had only to recall Michael’s
laughing, open face when he came running towards her each evening
in the child-care centre, the warmth of his hug and kiss when she
tucked him into bed, his confidence and exuberant enjoyment of life.
Nothing and nobody was more important than Michael. And if she
was going to take him away tonight, she’d better get going! Keys
dangling from her fingers, she lifted the pack and set off for the front
door, only to stop, heart hammering again, when her ears picked up
the faint murmur of a car on the road. After a second’s hesitation,
she dropped the pack and paced noiselessly across to the window.
Slowly she drew back the curtain a fraction and peered into the darkness.
Headlights flashed on and off like alarm beacons in the heavy
darkness as the car moved past the line of trees separating the farm
paddock from the road. When the vehicle continued out of sight she
let out a long, relieved breath. Her wide mouth sketched a curve at
the familiar fusillade of barks from the dogs at the homestead next
door, but the smile soon faded. Odd that a car should be on the road
this late; in this farming district most people went to bed early. Taut
and wary, she stayed at the window for several more minutes, listening
to the encompassing silence, her mind racing over her plans.
First the long trip to Christchurch, where she’d sell the car for what
little she could get. Tomorrow evening she and Michael would take
flight to New Plymouth in the North Island—with tickets bought under
a false name, of course. And then a new safe haven, a different
refuge—but the same life, she thought wearily, always checking
over her shoulder, waiting for Caelan Bagaton—referred to by the
media as Prince Caelan Bagaton, although he didn’t use the title—to
track her down. Yet it was a life she’d willingly accepted. Straightening
her shoulders, she drew the scanty curtain across and went into
the narrow, old-fashioned kitchen, where her gaze fell on the list
of things to do. Oh, hell! She’d have to get rid of that before she left.
Still listening alertly, she screwed up the sheet of paper and dropped
it into the waste-paper bin. Only to give a short, silent laugh at her
stupidity, snatch it out and hurry back to the living room to toss it
onto the dying embers. It didn’t catch immediately; some of the
words stood out boldly as the paper curled and blackened, so she
bent down and blew hard, and a brief spurt of flame reduced the list
to dark flakes that settled anonymously onto the grate. ‘Nobody,’ she
said on a note of steely satisfaction, ‘is going to learn anything from
those ashes.’ She stood up and had taken one step across the room
when she heard another unknown sound. Where? Twanging nerves
drove her to move swiftly, noiselessly, into the narrow hall and head
for the door. Two steps away from it, she heard the snick of a key in
the lock. Fear kicked her in the stomach, locking every muscle. For a
few, irretrievable seconds she couldn’t obey the mindless, adrenalincharged
instinct to snatch up Michael and race wildly out of the back
door. I must be dreaming, she thought desperately. Oh God, please
let me be dreaming! But the door flew back at the noiseless thrust of
an impatient hand, and every nightmare that had haunted her sleep,
every fear she’d repressed, coalesced into stark panic. Every magnificent
inch an avenging prince, Caelan Bagaton came into the house
in a silent, powerful rush, closing the door behind him with a deliberation
that dried her mouth and sent her blood racing through her
veins. He looked like some dark phantom out of her worst nightmare—
tall, broad-shouldered, his hard, handsome features clamped
in a mask of arrogant authority. The weak light emphasised the ruthless
angle of his jaw and the hard male beauty of his mouth, picked
out an autocratic sweep of cheekbones and black lashes that contrasted
shockingly with cold blue eyes. Beneath the panic, a treacherous
wildfire memory stirred. Horrified, Abby swallowed. Oh, she remembered
that mouth—remembered the feel of it possessing hers…
‘You know you should always have a chain on the door,’ he said,
voice cool with mockery, gaze narrowed and glinting as he scanned
her white face. Shaking but defiantly stubborn, she said, ‘Get out,’
only to realise that no sound came from her closed throat. She swallowed
and repeated the words in a croaking monotone. ‘Get out of
here.’ Even though she mightn’t be able to master her body’s primitive
response to his vital potency, she’d stand her ground. ‘Did you
really think you’d get away with stealing my nephew?’ Contempt
blazed through every word. He advanced on her, the dominant
framework of his face as implacable as the anger that beat against
her. The metallic taste of fear nauseated her; determined not to be intimidated,
she fought it with every scrap of will-power. Although
she knew it was futile, desperation forced her to try and sidetrack
him. ‘How did you get the door key?’ she demanded, heart banging
so noisily she was certain he could hear it. ‘I’m the new tenant.’ He
surveyed her pinched face in a survey as cold as the lethal sheen on
a knife-blade. ‘And you are Abigail Moore, whose real name is Abigail
Metcalfe, shortened by her friends and lovers—and my sister—
to Abby.’ His tone converted the sentence to an insult. ‘Drab
clothes and dyed hair are a pathetic attempt at disguise. You must
have been desperate to be found.’ ‘If so, I’d have kept both my hair
colour and my name,’ she said through her teeth, temper flaring
enough to hold the fear at bay. His wide shoulders lifted in a dismissive
shrug. ‘Why didn’t you move to Australia?’ ‘Because I
couldn’t afford the fare.’ The words snapped out before she realised
she’d been goaded into losing control. Just after she’d returned to
New Zealand she’d read an article about him; he’d said that anger
and fear made fools of people, and now she was proving it. Dragging
in a shallow breath, she tried again to divert him away from the
child sleeping in the back bedroom. ‘If you’re the new tenant, you’re
not legally allowed in here until tomorrow. Get out before I call the
police.’ He glanced ostentatiously at the sleek silver—no, probably
platinum—watch on his lean wrist. ‘It is tomorrow, and we both
know you won’t call the police. The local constable would laugh at
you as he tossed you into the cells; kidnappers are despised, especially
those who steal babies.’ Panic paralysed her mind until a willpower
she hadn’t known she possessed forced it into action again;
for Michael’s sake she had to keep a clear head. She said raggedly, ‘I
don’t know what you’re talking about.’ In a drawl as insulting as it
was menacing, he said, ‘You barely waited to bury Gemma after the
cyclone before you stole her child and ran away.’ ‘We were air-lifted
out to New Zealand.’ She hid the panicky flutter in her stomach with
a snap. He ignored her feeble riposte with a contemptuous lift of one
sable brow. ‘I imagine the poor devils on Palaweyo were so busy
cleaning up that no one had time or inclination to check any information
you gave.’ He paused, as though expecting an answer; when
she remained stoically silent he finished, ‘It was clever—although
dangerous—to say he was your child.’ Abby clamped her teeth over
more tumbling, desperate words, only will-power keeping her gaze
away from the door to Michael’s bedroom. Fear coalesced into a
cold pool beneath her ribs. What else did Gemma’s brother know?
Claiming Michael as her own might have been illegal, but it had secured
his future. Once the prince discovered that his sister had died
in one of the Pacific Ocean’s violent cyclones, he’d have flown to
Palaweyo. And when he found that Gemma had given birth to a
child, everything she’d feared—and made Abby promise to prevent—
would have unfolded. He’d have taken Michael back to the
life that Gemma dreaded—a life of privilege, bereft of love. Abby’s
lie had worked a minor miracle; nobody had queried it. Instead, the
overworked and pressured island authorities had immediately found
her a flight to New Zealand, and once back home the authorities had
fast-tracked documentation for her and Michael as mother and child.
She said stonily, ‘He is mine.’ ‘Prove it.’ The words slashed her
composure into ribbons. ‘Check his birth certificate.’ Trying to conceal
her fear with a show of defiance, she stared at him with hostile
eyes, but her glare backfired into sabotage. She’d met the prince a
few times, usually when she’d called at his opulent mansion in one
of Auckland’s exclusive marine suburbs to pick up Gemma for an
evening out. And once, when she and Gemma were spending a
weekend at the beach house on the island he owned in the exquisite
Hauraki Gulf, he arrived unexpectedly. It had been an odd, extremely
tense two days; she’d been certain he disliked her, until the
final night when he’d kissed her on the beach under the light of a
full, voluptuous moon. She’d gone up in flames, and it had been
Caelan who’d pulled away, apologising in a cold, distant voice that
had chilled her through to her bones. Snob, she thought now, compulsively
noting the subtle changes the years had made to his arrogant
face—a few lines around his cold eyes, a stronger air of authority.
His potent charisma still blazed forth, and beneath bronzed skin
the splendid bone structure remained rock-hard and ruthless, as it
would for the rest of his life. That ruthlessness was stamped in his
family tree. He looked every inch what he was—the descendant of
Mediterranean princes who’d established their rule with tough, uncompromising
pragmatism and enough hard tenacity to fight off pirates
and corsairs and a horde of other invaders, all eager to occupy
the rich little island nation of Dacia. He could have used his social
position and his astonishing good looks to lead the life of a playboy.
Instead, he’d taken over his father’s business in his mid-twenties and
used his formidable intellect and intimidating personality to build it
into a huge, world-wide organisation. Add to that power the fact that
he kissed like a fallen angel and Abby knew she had every reason to
be afraid of the impact he made on her. Praying he couldn’t see the
mindless, bitter attraction stirring inside her, she wrenched her gaze
away. ‘I haven’t changed as much as you,’ he observed silkily. ‘But
then, I haven’t tried to.’ A potent dose of adrenalin pounded through
her veins, and, shockingly, for the first time in years she felt alive
again. He noted the heat in her cheeks with a coldly cynical smile.
‘The child’s birth certificate is a pack of lies,’ he said with deadly
precision, his hard, beautiful mouth curling. Her heart contracted.
She had to take a deep breath before she could ask, ‘Can you prove
that?’ ‘I’ve seen him.’ She stared at him, eyes huge and dark in her
pale face. ‘So?’ ‘He looks like Gemma,’ he said flatly. ‘I have a photograph
of her at the same age, and, apart from the colouring, it
looks like the same child.’ ‘You call that proof?’ she asked, letting
manufactured scorn ring through her voice. ‘You’ll need to do better
than that to convince anyone.’ Caelan let the silence drag on,
ratcheting up her tension until she had to stifle a small gasp when he
finally drawled, ‘Are you prepared to have a DNA test done?’ It was
a trap, of course, and her only chance was to carry it off with a high
hand. ‘Of course not.’ She hoped her contempt matched his. ‘I could
force you to.’ He meant it. Panic kicked ferociously in her stomach.
‘How?’ His mouth thinned into a hard line. ‘I have signed depositions
from the villagers on Palaweyo—the one where you lived with
Gemma—that the boy child was born to the girl with long black
hair, not to the nurse who had hair like the sunrise in summer.’ He
studied her drab hair for a moment of exquisite torture before drawling,
‘Any court would take that information as an indication that
blood tests would be a good thing.’ The walls in the narrow hall
pressed around Abby, robbing her of breath, clamping her heart in
intolerable fear. Speared by anguish, she had to concentrate on keeping
herself upright. Gemma, she thought numbly, oh Gemma, I’m so
sorry… She could still hear Gemma say, ‘And I won’t go and live
with Caelan after the baby’s born, so it’s no use trying to make me.’
Abby had twisted in the hammock and stared at her very pregnant
guest, sprawled out on the coarse white coral sand. ‘Don’t go all
drama queen on me again! I’m not trying to make you do anything!
All I said was that your brother seems the sort of man who’d be
there for you!’ Gemma said with false heartiness, ‘Oh, he is! Believe
me, they don’t come any more protective or autocratic or masterful
than Caelan. It’s in the genes—all the Bagaton men are tough and
dominant. I’m not telling him about this baby because—’ She
stopped and sifted sand through her fingers, her expression an odd
mixture of defiance and shyness. After a swift upwards glance at
Abby, she began again. ‘Because Caelan would step in and take us
over, and for once I want to show him that I can manage.’ Doubtfully,
Abby said, ‘Gemma, being a single mother isn’t easy.’ Even
when you’re cushioned by money and an assured position in world
society! ‘I can learn. Other women do it,’ Gemma said stubbornly.
‘Not princesses!’ Gemma grinned. ‘We don’t use the title—well, not
anywhere else but Dacia, where they do it automatically.’ The smile
faded. ‘And don’t try to persuade me to let my mother know either.
She couldn’t care less what I do. As for a grandchild—she’d kill me
sooner than own to one! She never loved me, not even as a child. In
fact, just before I came to stay with you she told me that she blamed
me entirely for the break-up of her marriage to my father!’ ‘Oh, no,
I’m sure she didn’t…’ But at Gemma’s hard little laugh, her voice
trailed away. ‘Abby, you don’t know how much I envy you those
parents who loved you, and your normal happy life. I grew up in a
huge house that always seemed empty and cold, with parents who
fought all the time. In a way it got better after my mother left my
father and I was packed off to boarding school and ignored.’ ‘Even
by Caelan?’ Gemma shrugged, one hand stroking her thickening
waistline. ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘When he came home it was wonderful,
but he was away most of the time, first at university and then
overseas.’ ‘I still can’t see why you don’t tell him you’re pregnant. I
know he’s tough, and he’s obviously been a fairly difficult guardian,
but even you admit he did his best for you.’ Gemma pouted. ‘Well,
that’s part of the problem. Caelan has hugely high standards, standards
I entirely failed to live up to.’ Talking to Gemma sometimes felt
like trying to catch butterflies with your hands behind your back.
Abby said gently, ‘What’s the other part of the problem?’ Gemma
gave her a swift, upwards glance, then shrugged elaborately. ‘You’ll
laugh.’ ‘Try me.’ For once Gemma looked self-conscious. ‘Caelan
says it’s all hokum, but I get—premonitions. I knew when—’ in a
betraying gesture her hand spread out over her stomach ‘—when the
baby’s father went up to rescue those wretched climbers on Mount
Everest I knew I’d never see him again. I pleaded with him to stay
away, but his damned sense of responsibility drove him there. He
saved them, but he died on the mountain himself.’ Abby made a soft,
sympathetic noise. Gemma looked up with tear-drenched eyes and
said with sudden, passionate energy, ‘OK, it sounds utterly stupid,
but I think—I feel—I’m going to die soon after this baby is born.’
Ignoring Abby’s shocked exclamation, she hurried on, ‘If I do, he’ll
go to live with Caelan and I couldn’t bear for him to grow up like
me in some huge, formal, echoing house with no parents to love
him, no one to hold him when he cries except a nanny who’s paid to
look after him.’ ‘Gemma—’ ‘I know you don’t believe me—that’s
all right. Only—if it happens, Abby, will you take Michael and love
him and give him the sort of childhood you had?’ She gave a teasing
smile, and added, ‘If you don’t, damn it, I’ll haunt you!’ Of course
Abby hadn’t believed that her guest’s premonitions meant anything.
She’d set herself to easing what she thought was maternal fear, and
felt she’d managed it quite well, but Gemma had been right. Michael
had only been two weeks old when one of the Pacific Ocean’s vicious
cyclones had changed course and smashed into Palaweyo so
swiftly there had been no time to evacuate the weather coast. They’d
taken refuge in the hospital, but a beam had fallen on Gemma,
breaking her spine. And before she’d died, she’d extracted a promise
from Abby—one she was determined to keep. Whatever it took.
Abby dragged in a deep breath and stared at Caelan’s dark, impervious
face. Attack, she thought bleakly; don’t go all defensive.
‘Whatever bribes you paid the villagers—and I hope they were good
big ones because they need the money—he’s mine.’ ‘I gave them a
new hospital—cyclone-proof this time—and staff to run it.’ Caelan’s
tone was dismissive, but there was nothing casual in his eyes. Icy,
merciless, scathing, they raked her face. ‘I know the child is
Gemma’s son.’ Watching her with the still intentness of a hunter the
moment before he launched a weapon, he finished with charged
menace, ‘Which makes me his uncle and you no relation at all.’
Abby’s head felt woolly and disconnected. Regulating her breath into
a slow, steady rhythm, she fought for composure. If the prince
knew for certain she was no relation to the child he’d get rid of her
so fast that Michael would wake up tomorrow without the only
mother he’d ever known. She loved Michael more than she had ever
loved anything else. Ignoring the cold hollowness inside her, she
swallowed to ease her dry throat and said tonelessly, ‘Michael is my
son.’ Caelan hadn’t expected to feel anything beyond justified anger
and contempt for her, but her dogged stubbornness elicited an unwilling
admiration. Not that she looked anything like the radiant, fey
creature who’d met his eyes with a barely hidden challenge four
years previously. In spite of that, in spite of everything she’d done,
he still wanted her. He had to clench his hands to stop them from
reaching out to her—to shake her? Or kiss the lie from her lips?
Both, probably. The lust should have died the moment he’d discovered
she’d stolen Gemma’s son. Deriding himself, he examined
her mercilessly, enjoying the colour that flared into her exquisite
skin and the wariness shadowing her eyes. Even with bad hair colouring
and depressing clothes, her riotous hair confined in brutal
subjugation and her eyes hidden behind tinted spectacles, her sensuous
allure reached out to him. Golden as a faerie woman, as dangerous
as she was treacherous, behind the almond-shaped eyes and voluptuous
mouth hid a lying, scheming kidnapper. The dossier said
that the child seemed happy, but who knew what had happened to
Gemma’s son? And why had she done it? Was she one of those sick
creatures who yearned so strongly for a child she stole one? One
glance at her glittering eyes despatched that idea. She was as sane as
he was. So had she thought that possession of Gemma’s child would
lead to a direct line to Gemma’s money? He changed tactics. ‘How
much is it going to cost me?’ The last tinge of soft apricot along her
astonishing cheekbones vanished, leaving her the colour of parchment.
Arms swinging out to catch her, Caelan took an involuntary
step forward, then let his hands fall to his sides when she didn’t stagger.
Sardonically, he watched her eyes close, their long lashes casting
fragile shadows on her tender skin. Oh, she knew all the tricks!
He took a deliberate step backwards, removing himself, he thought
with cold disgust at his body’s betrayal, from danger. Her lashes lifted
and she transfixed him with eyes that usually blended green and
gold; not now, though. Stripped of all emotion, enamelled and
opaque, they blazed a clear, hard green, vivid in the dim light of the
small, bare hall. ‘How much for what?’ she asked in a staccato sentence.
He didn’t bother with subtlety. ‘For you to give up the child.’
CHAPTER TWO NOT a muscle moved in the delicate ivory skin,
but a shadow darkened Abby’s eyes. ‘You disgust me,’ she said
woodenly. ‘Get out.’ Time, Caelan decided, to use the blunt instrument;
if appealing to greed wouldn’t do the trick, threats usually
worked. ‘You’re in trouble, Abby. If I decide to play it heavy, you
face a conviction for kidnapping the child and giving false information
to the passport authorities.’ That shocked her. She winced as
though against a blow, but her soft mouth hardened. ‘His name is
Michael,’ she stated fiercely, shaken by a gust of emotion he
couldn’t define. ‘He’s not some entity you can define by the term
child; he has a personality, a place in the world.’ ‘A place in the
world?’ Caelan looked around the shabby hall, his derision plain.
‘He deserves better than this.’ ‘You might have grown up in the lap
of luxury, secure in the fact that you’re a prince, but most children
are perfectly happy with a more down-market set of relatives and
much less money. He is loved and he loves. He has little friends—’
‘You’re taking him away from them,’ he interrupted in his turn, not
trying to hide the contempt in his tone. She looked away. Whatever
she’d been going to say died on her tongue; she shivered, and once
more delicate colour flared along her high cheekbones. On a burst of
fierce, angry triumph, Caelan knew that he wasn’t the only one feeling
the violent pull of an old craving. ‘Let’s deal,’ he said, forcing
himself to speak judicially. Clearly, she wasn’t going to be bought
off, so he had no choice; she was the only mother Gemma’s son had
known, and, until the child could manage without her, they were
both stuck with her. Not that he was going to tell her that. No, he’d
frighten her thoroughly first, and then drive as hard a bargain as he
could. With cool deliberation, he went on, ‘I’m offering you a future.
I want the—I want my sister’s child. However, because he thinks
you’re his mother, I propose we bury the hatchet.’ Torn by a tumult
of conflicting thoughts, she stared at him. ‘How?’ she said at last,
her voice stiff and defensive, waiting for his next words with painful
apprehension. He said ironically, ‘It’s quite simple.’ ‘Simple?’ Abby
was so incensed she almost gobbled the word. ‘Nothing about this is
simple.’ ‘You should have thought of that before you decided to play
with Michael’s life,’ the prince said grimly. ‘You removed him from
his family, took him away from the only people who’d know how to
protect him. Have you thought of the danger you could be exposing
him to?’ ‘Danger?’ Eyes widening, she stared at him. ‘What
danger?’ He said coldly, ‘He’s a Bagaton, which makes him prime
kidnap material.’ So shocked she almost fell for the trick, she had to
bite back the words that trembled on her lips. Hoping he didn’t notice
the momentary hesitation, she said haughtily, ‘He is not a
Bagaton. His name is Michael Metcalfe. And we Metcalfes are
noted for our long and happy marriages, not for being kidnapped.’ A
slashing jet brow rose in irony. ‘A writer is sniffing around
Palaweyo, researching a book on Pacific tragedies.’ His hard, sensuous
mouth curled. ‘Any woman you can label a princess is always
useful when it comes to selling books, especially if she’s young and
beautiful and dies in a monster cyclone after giving birth. Once the
writer finds out that Michael is Gemma’s child—’ Abby struggled to
remain calm, but the panic beneath her ribs intensified so that she
couldn’t control her racing thoughts. ‘I doubt whether any
writer—however well his books sell!—can afford to dangle the bribe
of a hospital in front of the villagers in return for the right lies,’ she
flashed. ‘I knew that the child was Gemma’s before I decided to give
the villagers their hospital,’ he told her casually. ‘They spoke quite
freely about you and her—they have no reason not to tell anyone
who asks. And no writer worth his salt is going to keep it quiet.’ His
face hardened. ‘Inevitably you will be tracked down—’ ‘How? It
took you, with all your resources, three years to find us,’ she
snapped, but he could see the fear in her eyes. ‘Writers have resources
too.’ He waited while she absorbed the impact of that before
adding forcefully, ‘Once he finds you, the resultant publicity will expose
Michael’s existence—and his lack of protection—to anyone
who wants a quick fortune. Didn’t you read about the de Courcy
heiress?’ Colour drained from Abby’s face. The fourteen-year-old
daughter of a billionaire had been snatched from her exclusive
school, yet although her parents had paid the huge ransom, it had
been too late. She’d been killed the day after she’d disappeared. The
cold, inflexible voice of the prince battered at her composure. ‘Whoever
did that got away with five million euros, worth in New Zealand
dollars about—’ ‘I know how much it’s worth! You’re trying to
frighten me,’ she said thinly, turning her head away from his intimidating
gaze as though she could shut out the effect of his words.
‘Damn right I am! There are people out there who’d see Michael as
a passport to easy money, a soft target. Are you willing to risk that?’
She went even paler and closed her eyes. He was manipulating her,
but the thought of Michael in the clutches of some cold-hearted psychopath
robbed her of speech and the ability to think. A soft noise
brought her head around sharply; Michael was stirring. And the
prince was walking with long, noiseless strides towards the open
door of the bedroom. Panic hit her in a howling, destructive storm,
propelling her after him into the tiny room. Caelan loomed over the
bed. He didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge her presence at all, his
whole attention bent on the child as though claiming him in some
primal way. Abby pushed desperately at his hard, lean body. She
might as well have tried to move a granite pillar, except that his
body heat reached out and blasted through the brittle shell of her
self-control. Her hands dropped, but she didn’t move. In a fierce
voice pitched too low to disturb the restless child, she ordered, ‘Get
out of here.’ Silently Caelan turned, but he waited at the doorway, a
silent, threatening figure. After straightening the bedclothes over
Michael, Abby dragged in a juddering breath and left him. ‘We’ll go
into the living room.’ She pushed open the door. Once inside Caelan
Bagaton said with cold distaste, ‘I don’t hurt children, Abby.’ ‘All
right, I overreacted,’ she returned shakily. ‘I don’t think you’d be
cruel to him. I know you weren’t cruel to Gemma—she told me herself
that she barely knew you because you were away so much. But
can’t you see that the last thing she wanted was for her son to be
banished to a nursery like an abandoned doll stuffed in a cupboard,
cared for by nannies who come and go regularly?’ Caelan’s expression
didn’t change at her inadvertent admission that the child was
Gemma’s. His desire to see the boy had shattered Abby’s composure;
she didn’t even realise she’d given herself away. Instinct warned
him to proceed with caution. He said neutrally, ‘Her mother wasn’t
maternal, but she made sure Gemma had the best care available. And
my father had duties he couldn’t avoid, as well as a corporation to
run. He did his best for her.’ Hands clenching into fists at her side,
Abby skewered him with an outraged glance and carried on in full,
indignant fervour. ‘By sending her off to boarding school the minute
she turned eight, where she was wretchedly, miserably unhappy?
That was his best?’ With an elaborate dismissive shrug she finished
scathingly, ‘In that case, I’m really, really glad to hear that he didn’t
dislike her!’ ‘That’s enough!’ Caelan’s harsh, deep voice drowned
her in cold menace. Damn, she thought, mortified; don’t let emotion
get the better of you! She could see contempt in his eyes, in the hard
line of his mouth, the still tautness of his powerful body. No matter
how angry he was, the prince remained in full control. ‘Admit that
he’s Gemma’s child.’ At her obstinate silence, he said coolly, ‘You
asked for proof that he’s not yours. Here it is.’ He drew a sheet of
paper from the pocket of his casual, superbly cut jacket. When he
offered it to her she took it and tried to read, but the words danced
and blurred in front of her eyes. Blinking, she forced her brain to focus.
Couched in scientist’s prose, it was quite definite; there were
enough points of similarity between tissue samples one and two for
there to be a familial connection. ‘I don’t understand,’ she
whispered, fighting off dark dread. The paper dropped from her
nerveless fingers. Watching her with unsparing eyes, the prince
made no attempt to pick it up. When she regained enough composure
to be able to speak again, she said stiffly, ‘This could be anyone’s
samples. There’s no way you could take a blood sample from
Michael without my knowing, and I know you didn’t get one from
me.’ His beautiful mouth relaxed into a sardonic smile. ‘Blood isn’t
necessary for DNA testing—any tissue will serve.’ His inflexible
tone warned her. Heart hammering, she listened as he went on. ‘And
I didn’t need one from you. It was easy enough to send in a worker
at the child-care centre; she stayed three weeks before deciding she
didn’t like living in the backblocks, and she came away with saliva
samples and blood from a grazed knee. The results prove that you’re
not Michael’s mother—that you’re no relation to him.’ Blood roared
through her head as outrage manhandled fear aside. She grabbed the
back of the sofa and fought for control, finally grinding out, ‘How
dare you? You had no right to—’ ‘You had no right to steal my sister’s
child,’ he cut in, his lethal tone quelling her anger as effectively
as a douche of ice water. ‘Why did you do it? What satisfaction did
it give you?’ ‘Gemma asked me to take care of him.’ The strong
bone structure of his face was very much in evidence. Dispassionately
he said, ‘If she did, it was typically dramatic and thoughtless of
her to demand that you put your life on hold for Michael, but that’s
irrelevant now.’ He paused, his hooded eyes keen and watchful. ‘The
next step is a court case, where the first thing any judge will do is order
another DNA test. And we both know how that will turn out.’
An acceptance of defeat rose like bitter anguish inside Abby. She
was going to lose Michael. But not, she thought grimly, until she’d
made this arrogant prince fight to the last for his nephew. Pride and
disillusion gave her voice an acid edge when she said, ‘If all you’re
planning for Michael is a lonely, loveless childhood like Gemma’s,
why on earth do you want him?’ ‘Because he is a Bagaton,’ he said
coldly. ‘Gemma was a Bagaton too, but it didn’t make her happy.
She wanted me to look after him.’ When he raised his brows she
cried, ‘I’ve got a letter to prove it.’ She stooped to her bag, holding
her shoulders stiffly and her spine so rigid she thought it might
splinter. With trembling fingers she unzipped an inner pocket in one
suitcase and took out an envelope. Thrusting it at the man who
watched her with eyes as translucent and cold as polar ice, she said,
‘Here.’ He took it, but didn’t look at it. His startlingly good-looking
face was set in lines of such formidable determination that she
flinched, yet a melting heat in the pit of her stomach astonished and
frightened her. It was one thing to acknowledge that he had a primitive
physical power over her; it would be shameful to let her body’s
treachery weaken her. ‘Read it,’ she said desperately. ‘It will make
any judge think about his decision.’ Frowning, the prince examined
the single sheet of notepaper. Abby waited tensely, mentally going
over the words she knew by heart. Dearest Abby, If you’re reading
this I’m dead. See, I told you I could foretell things! Take Michael to
New Zealand, but make sure neither Caelan nor my mother find
you—or him. I know you love my baby, and I know you’ll take care
of him. And thanks for being my wise, sensible friend. Don’t grieve
too much. Just keep on loving Michael, and look after him. In a
voice without the slightest trace of emotion, Caelan said, ‘It certainly
looks as though Gemma wrote it—I recognise the aura of
drama and doom.’ His long fingers tightened on the sheet of paper
and he looked at her from half-closed eyes, his mouth twisting.
‘You’re too trusting, Abby. What’s to stop me tearing it to shreds
and lying about seeing it?’ Oddly enough, it hadn’t occurred to her.
His reputation for fair dealing matched the one for ruthlessness. Her
mouth tightened. ‘It’s a copy; the real one is in a solicitor’s office,’
she said steadily. The hard, uncompromising determination stamped
on Caelan’s lean, bronze face was replaced by a gleam of humour.
Her susceptible heart missed a beat. Although Gemma had told her
that he despised people who used their charm to dazzle others, he
possessed an inordinate amount of it himself. His smile was a
weapon, a dangerously disturbing challenge that had penetrated
stronger defences than hers. Lazily he said, ‘I’d have been disappointed
if you hadn’t made sure of that. But this means nothing; I
can produce evidence to show that Gemma was a fragile, emotionally
unstable woman, incapable of knowing what was best for her
child.’ Abby opened her mouth, but honesty stopped the fierce
words that threatened to spill out. Yes, Gemma had been fragile, as
well as funny and delightful, but she’d been absolutely determined
Michael wouldn’t grow up without love and attention. Caelan
looked around the small room furnished with cheap, shabby castoffs.
The harsh central light turned Abby’s skin sallow and robbed
her hair of highlights or any depth of colour. It was, he thought with
cool cynicism, a sin to hide that glorious mane of red-gold hair. And
an even greater one to cover her slender body with a loose black Tshirt
and pair of dust-coloured corduroy trousers. He banished tantalising
memories of the figure beneath the shapeless clothes, sleek
and lithe and strong, her exquisite skin an instant temptation… And
her mouth, soft and hot and delicious beneath his, opening to him
with an eagerness that still affected him. Abby had strayed into his
life, a glowing, sensuous girl who seemed unaware of her sexual
power. Not that he believed in her innocence; Gemma chose friends
who tended to be sophisticated and spoilt. Already in a very satisfying
relationship with another woman, he’d put Abby resolutely from
his mind. Yet he hadn’t been able to prevent himself from kissing
her—a kiss that had led directly to the termination of his affair. And
when Gemma told him the fey, strangely tempting health worker had
gone to some backwater Pacific island for a year on a volunteer
basis, he’d been taken aback by an odd sense of loss. Then all hell
had broken loose in a far-flung part of the business; he’d spent
months unravelling the mess while Gemma had stayed with her
mother in Australia. Caelan didn’t like his stepmother, but he kept in
touch with his sister, and when she’d written to say she was on
Palaweyo spending time with Abby, he’d decided to call in and reacquaint
himself with the alabaster-skinned girl, discover if the provocation
in her inviting mouth and tilted eyes was genuine or a cynical
come-on. But the cyclone had intervened, and by the time he’d
got to Palaweyo, Gemma was dead and buried and Abby had vanished
with her child. Abby swung to face him, her movements graceful
in spite of her tension. ‘Do you honestly believe Michael might
be in danger?’ ‘It’s always a possibility,’ he said, but she broke in,
colour returning in a soft flood to her skin with the heat of her response.
‘I want the truth.’ She paused, searching for words, then
forced herself to say unevenly, ‘I know that someone in your position
might be seen as a target, but Michael has nothing.’ He said
ironically, ‘He has a very rich uncle and a large trust fund.’ Stunned,
she stared at him, realising the implications of this. No wonder he
was suspicious—did he believe she had her eye on that rich trust
fund? ‘I didn’t know,’ she said, knowing he wouldn’t believe her. He
gave her a look that should have frozen the words on her lips. ‘Come
on, Abby! I’m sure Gemma spent a lot of time complaining about
the cruel brother who kept such a tight grip on the purse strings, but
you knew she didn’t have to work.’ ‘I thought—I thought you made
her an allowance.’ Looking down the arrogant blade of his nose, he
said with forbidding restraint, ‘My father made sure she was
provided for.’ If anything had been needed to point up the difference
between them, his casual words did it. In the prince’s world children
were set up with trust funds, whereas Abby had grown up on an
orchard. Although her parents had worked hard, when they’d died
they’d left little for her—just enough for her to pay her way for a
year on Palaweyo to help the community with their health needs. He
said forcefully, ‘I didn’t approve of the way Gemma was relegated to
the outer perimeter of her mother’s life. It won’t happen with her
son.’ His tone edged each word with satire. ‘I don’t intend sending
Michael to boarding school until he reaches secondary school. Not
even then, if he doesn’t want it.’ He directed an ice-laden glance
around the bleak room. ‘He’ll be much better off with me than with
a woman who’s both a kidnapper and a liar, and who lives from hand
to mouth in a rural slum.’ Abby forced back the bubble of hysteria
that threatened to block her throat and her thought processes. ‘At
least I love him!’ Dark brows lifted in taunting disbelief. ‘It’s an odd
love that confines a child to a life in places like this. And this isn’t
about you or me—this is about Michael, whose rights should be
paramount. After all, it’s his future that’s on the line.’ ‘He has all the
security he needs,’ she retorted, trying hard to sound sensible and
confident—and failing. The thought of Michael’s life at the hands of
this flinty, uncompromising tyrant edged her tone with desperation.
‘What can you offer him? I’m sure that chasing yet another million
to add to the pile you’ve already accumulated will take precedence
over spending time with a little boy.’ His white teeth snapped together.
After a taut few seconds he returned caustically, ‘At least he
won’t have to worry where his next meal is coming from.’ ‘He’s
never gone hungry.’ Occasionally she had, but not Michael. ‘What
do you know about children? He’s noisy and grubby and demanding,
and he needs attention and love and the knowledge that he’s hugely
important to at least one person in this world. Even more, he needs
to know that that person will be there whenever he wants her, not
just for an hour after work. All your money and royal links and social
position mean nothing compared to that.’ ‘So why did you send
him to a child-care centre with constantly changing workers, most of
them almost untrained?’ Goaded, she retorted, ‘I needed the money,
and it was only for half of each day.’ He shrugged dismissively, the
swift movement reminding her of his Latin heritage. ‘A nanny
would provide more stability, and I can certainly make sure he never
has to worry about feeling cold in winter.’ Abby stared at him, defiance
crumbling under guilt and fear. She took refuge in sarcasm. ‘Of
course, you know so much about small boys.’ ‘I was one once.’ She
snorted. ‘I don’t believe that. You were born six feet four tall and
breathing fire.’ Amazingly, his hard mouth quirked. ‘If so, my mother
never told me.’ The momentary amusement disappeared instantly,
replaced by chilling hauteur. ‘Stop fencing. I asked you before—
how much do you want to get out of his life?’ ‘And I told you
that I won’t sell him,’ she retorted furiously. A faint stain of colour
along his high, magnificent cheekbones told her she’d hit a nerve.
The raw note in his voice hardened into intimidating confidence.
‘I’m not buying the child—I’m buying you off.’ His narrowed gaze
sent shivers of sensation along every nerve in her body. Her breath
stopped in her throat, and something stark and merciless and fierce
linked them for a charged moment, until she saw the glint of satisfaction
in his cold eyes. He knew, she thought in wretched embarrassment.
Of course he did—he’d been chased by women since his
teens; what he knew about them would probably fill an encyclopaedia.
He certainly realised her treacherous body had its own agenda,
and it amused him to see her struggle against it. Abby took an involuntary
step backwards—a mistake, she realised instantly, and tried to
cover it with a swift, proud retort. ‘You don’t have enough
money—no one in the whole wide world has enough money—to
buy Michael from me, so forget about it right now.’ His broad
shoulders moved in a slight shrug that told her just how much this
meant to him: nothing. ‘Judging by all accounts you have done a
good job with the boy. I’m offering some recompense.’ She stated,
‘I’m not going to abandon him to a loveless life.’ And wished she’d
put it some other way because it sounded so prissy. ‘I intend to love
him.’ His tone was glacial, as though she’d forced some shameful
secret from him. She said urgently, ‘You can’t fake emotion. It
doesn’t work like that. You, of all people, should know. Gemma said
that you and she had been taught in a hard school that love is a
weakness.’ ‘Trust Gemma to pile on the melodrama. Yes, my father
was notoriously besotted with his second wife, and losing her to another
man shattered him. That doesn’t mean that I don’t know how
to love a child.’ Abby made a swift, rapidly controlled gesture, then
froze as the quiet hum of an expensive engine broke into the tense
silence. The prince said crisply, ‘It’s a hire car. I’m going to the airport
in Queenstown and my nephew is coming with me. Try to stop
me, and I’ll call the police.’ His tone—level, impervious, relentless—
echoed in the silent room. The car drew up outside the house
and the driver switched off the engine, although Abby could see the
round circles of the headlights through the curtains. Bitter pain
stopped any words from escaping her lips. Wringing her hands together
in futile agony, she could only look pleadingly at Caelan’s inflexible
face. He glanced down at the sheet of paper in his hands and
appeared to come to some decision. ‘All right. I believe that it would
be exceedingly bad to put him through the trauma of waking up and
finding you gone.’ He lifted his head to pin her with cool detachment.
‘You can come with us, but on my terms.’ Elusive, defiant
hope flickered like a candle in a draught. Tautly she demanded,
‘Which are?’ ‘That you accept I’ve got a right to know my nephew.’
Too afraid to be cautious, she accepted bitter defeat. ‘I—yes.’
Indeed, it had always worried her that Michael was being deprived
of what was left of his family. Caelan nodded. ‘We can negotiate
everything else when you’re a little less emotional,’ he said, his
mouth compressing into a straight line. When she didn’t answer or
move he said, ‘Make up your mind, Abby. Are you coming with me,
or staying here?’ CHAPTER THREE NUMBLY Abby stared at
Caelan, reading his ruthless will in his face, in the uncompromising
authority of his tone. Anger was defeated by desolation; she didn’t
dare trust him, but what other choice did she have? Impatiently the
prince broke into her racing thoughts. ‘I’m offering you a chance to
stay in Michael’s life. Turn it down and I won’t give you another.’
‘You can’t do that,’ she croaked. ‘I’ve looked after him since he was
a baby. Any court in New Zealand would grant me custody—’ ‘It is
a remote possibility,’ he conceded crisply. ‘But would the justice
system also protect him from any criminal who might see him as
money in the bank?’ He paused to let that sink in. Her powerlessness
burned like fire inside her, eating away at her will-power and courage.
‘I can’t believe that that sort of thing would happen here.’ ‘He
won’t always be in New Zealand. I have to travel; he’ll come with
me.’ ‘But—’ ‘I thought you despised my father for allowing Gemma
to be banished to her nursery?’ Pain sliced through her. ‘I—yes.’
With cool dispassion, Caelan inclined his black head. ‘The simplest
way to deal with this is for you both to come to live with me.’
Stunned, unable to believe that she’d heard him correctly, she stared
at him. ‘I don’t want to live with you and I’m certain you don’t want
me anywhere around you.’ ‘True, but I’m a pragmatic man.’ His
voice was textured by unfaltering confidence. ‘It’s not negotiable,
Abby. That is, if you want to be with Michael.’ Pride brought up her
chin, veiled her eyes with thick lashes to hide the bleak shock of his
blunt statement. Fighting to salvage what she could from her surrender,
she said, ‘We don’t need to share a house. We—Michael and
I—could live in Auckland, and I wouldn’t deny you access to him.
Michael needs a man in his life.’ The prince surveyed her with a narrow
smile. ‘How do I know you won’t pack your bags and sneak
off?’ ‘If I gave you my word—’ ‘Why should I trust you?’ The
words rang in her ears like iron on stone, cold and hard and relentless.
Thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets he sauntered over
to the window and looked out at the night. Against the pale luminosity
of starshine he was a lean, dominant silhouette. Abby dragged in
a slow, difficult breath, aching with a sense of loss, of defeat and
pain, with the knowledge of wasted years that were gone for ever
and a future that would never happen. She had no other choice; losing
Michael would tear her heart to shreds, and for his sake she had
to endure whatever this cold, judgmental aristocrat decided to dish
out. Over his shoulder, he said, ‘You’ve got ten seconds to make up
your mind.’ Anger revived her, giving her a spurious energy that
helped her say woodenly, ‘It won’t work.’ ‘Don’t look at me with
those huge, horrified eyes,’ he said, his negligent tone as much an
insult as his careless survey of her. ‘You’ll be quite safe.’ Colour
burned up through her skin. He thought she was afraid for her virtue,
and his tone made it clear that she didn’t attract him in the least. Humiliated,
she snapped, ‘I suppose if we move into your house you’ll
insist on a nanny, and after Michael’s got accustomed to her you’ll
force me to leave.’ ‘You sound like an actor in a Victorian melodrama.
There won’t be a nanny unless you want one.’ Mockery
laced his voice as he turned and examined her, his smile as lethal as
a sword-blade. When she remained silent he added, ‘I assume you
do want the best for Michael?’ ‘You know I do,’ she whispered,
frightened by the forbidden excitement that gripped her. ‘But not if it
means living in the same house as you.’ He shrugged negligently,
obviously not in the least affected by her swift, harsh rejection. ‘But
you’ll do it—for his sake.’ He watched her white face with cruel detachment.
‘We’ll make it legal with a cast-iron contract, and if you
behave yourself and concentrate on Michael’s welfare, there’ll even
be a cut-off date—say, when he finishes secondary education. In return
I’ll pay an allowance that will keep you in clothes that suit you
and let you grow out your hair. Dying it must have been the ultimate
sacrifice.’ ‘It didn’t worry me in the least,’ she said flatly. Clearly he
didn’t believe her, because her words produced another cold, enigmatic
smile. ‘Hard to believe, Abby. And you might as well take off
those spectacles too. I know they’re not necessary.’ Slowly Abby removed
the rimless frames, blinking as the light burned into her eyes.
She felt stripped of everything she’d tried to hide, nakedly exposed
to Caelan Bagaton’s hard, penetrating gaze. He said tersely, ‘Gemma
might have been right when she told you that I don’t do love well,
but I do understand how to protect my own. Although I failed to
save Gemma, I can make sure that her son doesn’t die before his
time.’ Abby hesitated, but something about his tone in the final sentence
made her say with quiet intensity, ‘No one could have saved
Gemma, not even you. The cyclone wasn’t supposed to come anywhere
near Palaweyo, but at the last moment it turned and roared
down on us out of a cloudless sky. We didn’t have time to get
out—in fact, we only just had time to gather everyone in the hospital.
Gemma wouldn’t want you to feel that you’d failed her.’ ‘She
died before her time; that sounds like failure to me. So what’s your
decision?’ His voice was icily detached. ‘I don’t intend to spend all
night in this cold, musty room while you dither. Either accept my
terms and live in my house with Michael, or forget about him and
get on with your life.’ In an agony of indecision, Abby bit her lip.
Chilly air seeped across her skin, and the soft noises of the old cottage
settling down for the night, usually familiar and comforting,
had become tinged with menace. With the prince’s harsh words
echoing in her ears, she accepted she had no choice. While surrender
was bitter, accepting his ultimatum would afford Michael more security
than she could ever offer him. From behind her Caelan said in
a voice edged with cynicism, ‘After all, it’s a win/win situation. I get
my nephew. Michael will be with the only mother he knows. And
you can emerge from the melodramatic shadows you’ve been skulking
in, wash the dye out of your hair and buy a whole new wardrobe
in the right colours. The Abby I remember dressed to play up her
hair and eyes and skin, but the outfit you’re wearing now makes you
look as though you’ve got acute jaundice.’ That stung, even though
her clothes had been carefully selected to strip the colour from her
skin. Bought from the cheapest racks, they couldn’t have been more
different from the tailored trousers that showed off Caelan’s long,
heavily muscled legs, or the jersey he wore, its lustrous shine revealing
that it was made from merino wool. ‘And what’s in it for you?’
she asked bluntly. He gave her an ironic glance. ‘The knowledge that
my nephew isn’t hungry and has the position and all the advantages
he deserves. Most of all, the knowledge that he’s safe.’ Nothing
about love there! According to Gemma and the newspapers, Caelan
was the consummate sophisticate; he’d soon get bored with the
antics of a three-year-old. Her heart clenched painfully. Even if he
couldn’t be the sort of father a child needed, she’d be there to
provide love and understanding for Michael, and to fight for him
whenever it became necessary. Yet self-protection forced her to
search for a less dangerous compromise. ‘I still think it would be
easier for us all if Michael and I had our own place. You could see
him whenever you want to.’ But even as she said the words she
knew they weren’t going to change Caelan’s mind. ‘You’ll live with
me, so I can keep a close watch on you. From now on, wherever Michael
goes, either I—or someone I employ—will be half a step behind.’
He spoke with the cold, raw impact of a punch in the face, his
tone implacable. ‘All right,’ she said at last, the acrid taste of defeat
in her mouth. She had no room to manoeuvre, and he knew it. Apprehension
shivered through her, setting her nerves jumping. ‘Then
let’s go,’ he said without expression. ‘Do you want me to carry the
child out to the car?’ ‘No,’ she said too quickly. Ignoring her, he
strode out of the room and opened the front door, giving crisp, lowvoiced
orders to whoever had driven the car up to the cottage. Abby
walked back into Michael’s room, but once there she fixed her gaze
painfully on his beloved face. Even when Caelan came back in she
didn’t move. He interrupted her darting thoughts with an impatient
command. ‘Forget the past—it’s not relevant—and think of Michael’s
well-being; at the moment he needs both of us—me for the
security which, believe it or not, Gemma would have considered to
be just as important as the love you dispense.’ After a tense pause he
drawled, ‘Or is it too big a sacrifice for you to make for him?’
‘Damn you,’ she whispered, torn on the rack of her ambivalence,
disillusion and pain warring with the ignominy of her own helplessness.
A sobbing sigh from the bed broke the thick web of tension
between them. Nerves taut and brittle as spun toffee, she sat down
on the edge when Michael rubbed his eyes and began to hiccup.
‘Hush, darling, it’s all right,’ she crooned, lifting his solid, warm
body against her. ‘Did you have a bad dream?’ He murmured
something and clung, cuddling into her, so utterly dear that her heart
clenched in a tight, hard ball. Abby kissed his tousled hair and
pressed her cheek against it, looking across to where Caelan stood.
Michael must have sensed that someone else was in the room too; he
turned his head, his eyes growing larger as he examined Caelan.
Sobs dying, he said, ‘Abby?’ ‘Hello, Michael, I’m your Uncle
Caelan, and you’re coming to live with me.’ Caelan’s voice was
deep and cool and utterly confident. His nephew stared at him,
clutching Abby tighter. ‘And Abby too?’ he said uncertainly. Caelan
looked at Abby. ‘Tell him,’ he commanded. She dragged in a deep
breath, praying fiercely that this was the right thing for Michael. ‘Of
course, darling,’ she said simply. ‘You know I’ll always be with
you.’ Michael looked up at her, brows drawing together in a frown
that reminded her eerily of the man with them. ‘Give him to me,’
Caelan ordered. When she hesitated, he said curtly, ‘I’m not a monster,
Abby.’ But she handed Michael over with huge reluctance. Carrying
the small boy easily, his uncle strode out of the room; swiftly
Abby scooped up blankets and Michael’s stuffed elephant and the
fire engine she’d made of wooden blocks and followed, panting
slightly by the time she reached the big, waiting car. Caelan was
stooping, his voice level and reassuring as he lowered Michael into a
child seat in the back. Another man stood some distance
away—possibly the one who’d kept her under surveillance. A sudden
shiver of foreboding tightened her skin. She didn’t understand
power at all, whereas Caelan Bagaton reeked of it. Very little of that
inherent authority came from the title he rarely used and his heritage;
if he’d been born plain Caelan Smith he’d have made his way in
the world. He was a winner. As soon as the restraints on the car seat
were clipped home Michael peered anxiously at Abby, who hovered
in the crisp air. ‘Sit beside him,’ Caelan ordered, straightening up so
that she could drape the blankets around the child. ‘Give me your car
keys first—’ ‘Why?’ ‘I assume the bag on the sofa isn’t the sum
total of your belongings?’ ‘No, but—’ He frowned, explaining with
surprising patience, ‘We’ll transfer the rest of your luggage from
your car to this one. Then someone will drive yours to Auckland.’
Feeling foolish, she muttered, ‘I was going to sell it in Christchurch,’
and rooted for the keys in her bag. She dropped them into his
outstretched hand, noting that he wasn’t looking at her; his gaze was
fixed on Michael. She took Michael’s warm little hand and coaxed,
‘Go back to sleep, darling.’ Caelan stepped back and turned away.
As she got in beside Michael and tucked the blankets around him
more securely she was aware of the prince’s deep voice giving concise
orders. The boot was opened, the bags put in and it slammed
shut again, before the silence was punctuated by the sound of her car
door closing. Its engine coughed into life and headlights probed the
darkness as it turned down the drive in front of them. Caelan slid in
behind the wheel of the hire car. Turning so that he could see her, he
said negligently, ‘Try to stay awake until we get to Queenstown. You
can sleep on the plane; there’s a bed in it as well as a cot for Michael.’
In the dark cocoon that was the interior of the car she thought
his eyes lingered on her face for a second before he turned back and
the engine purred into life. Hot blood stung her skin. What had she
done, letting herself be ambushed and captured like this? The prince
took no prisoners; what did he have in mind for her? A tiredness
more than physical, a weariness of the spirit, chilled her from the
bones out. While Michael slid back into the sleep of the very young
and secure, she stayed wide-eyed and tense until the luxurious car
drove into the airport at Queenstown. But he didn’t drive towards
the darkened terminal building. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
‘There’s a private plane waiting on the runway.’ Well, of course, she
thought wearily. As well as being cousin to the ruler of a principality,
Caelan Bagaton was a tycoon, a billionaire, rich enough to afford
his own country as well as a private jet. Oh, you fool, she thought
painfully, you’re so far out of your depth here you might as well
drown now and get it over and done with. They’d met when Gemma
had almost run her over in one of Auckland’s summer storms, and,
although her car was a miracle of design that Abby knew she’d never
be able to aspire to, Gemma had insisted on taking her home.
Their friendship had ripened rapidly; they’d gone clubbing together
and spent other nights talking and listening to music; Gemma had invited
her up to the beach house, although she had said, ‘But Caelan
won’t be there.’ Abby’s brows shot up. ‘So?’ ‘Oh, just that quite a
few of the girls I know try to use me to get to him. And even my
friends fall in love with him and then get their hearts broken. He’s a
big, bad wolf, my brother.’ Well, he’d turned up at the beach, and
Abby had found out for herself the truth of that assessment! Fortunately
her year abroad working for a volunteer organisation was
due to start the week after, so she hadn’t had time to brood about
Gemma’s fabulous, arrogant, incredibly sexy brother. When she’d
left for the Pacific Gemma had wept a little and promised to visit.
Abby hadn’t expected her to; Palaweyo was a poor atoll, only the
bounty of its huge lagoon saving it from third-world status, and few
tourists came within a thousand miles. But months later Gemma had
arrived, tense and oddly desperate, and during the long hot nights
she’d confided a few details of her passionate affair with a gangly,
laconic Australian mountain-climber, and his heroic death. Before
she’d had time to grieve, she’d discovered that she was pregnant.
Eerily, as though he could read her thoughts, Caelan said, ‘I believe
Michael’s father was another Michael—Moncrieff, the mountaineer
who died rescuing stranded climbers on Mount Everest.’ Stunned,
Abby swallowed. ‘Yes,’ she said thinly. ‘A decent man, but not her
usual sort. Didn’t it occur to you that his relatives might have
wanted to have contact with their grandchild?’ ‘Gemma said he had
none; he’d grown up in care.’ Something about Caelan’s nod made
her realise that he knew this. Of course he’d have had Gemma’s lover
investigated. Suddenly loathing him and everything he stood for,
she finished curtly, ‘Gemma said he was genuine gold all through.’
Surprisingly Caelan didn’t dig further. ‘Why does Michael call you
Abby? It would have been less obvious if he’d called you his mother.’
‘But I’m not his mother,’ she said quietly. ‘He knows his parents
are dead. He doesn’t know what that means, of course, but he’s entitled
to know who he is.’ ‘But not about his mother’s family.’ The
lash of his sarcasm flicked across her skin like a whip; she was glad
when he eased the car to a stop beside the sleek executive plane.
Once in the aircraft, with Michael asleep in the luxurious bedroom,
and the prince going through papers in a leather-upholstered armchair
that somehow didn’t look incongruous with a seat belt, Abby
stared through a window until the sky began to turn grey towards the
east. Thoughts churned in her mind, going over and over old ground
while she tried to work out how she could have avoided this. In the
end she gave up; against the prince’s iron-clad determination she had
no defence. The stark volcanic landscape of the central North Island
unrolled beneath the plane as the sun tinted the distant clouds a radiant
pink that swiftly turned to gold. Foolish to let an everyday miracle
lift her heart, yet she wondered if the sunrise was some sort of
omen, a pointer of hope. Perhaps she and the prince could work together
for Michael’s sake; perhaps Caelan could find it in his cold
heart to learn to love a small child. And perhaps not, she thought
grimly, but staying with Michael was all she asked at the moment.
As though her thoughts had woken him, she saw Michael peep cautiously
through the door of the bedroom. He beamed at her before
turning to examine his uncle. Caelan had noticed, of course; he put
his papers down and said, ‘Good morning, Michael.’ For a moment
Michael looked apprehensive, but he was a friendly child and he essayed
a tentative grin. Abby’s breath locked in her throat; she
watched the formidable assurance of Caelan’s expression relax into a
rare, compelling smile. Deep inside her something twisted, and a
pang of excitement—hot and feverish and piercing—seized her so
fiercely she almost gasped under its impact. ‘Do you want to go to
the bathroom?’ his uncle asked. Michael thought for a moment, then
nodded. ‘Yes. With Abby.’ ‘Of course.’ An ice-blue, enigmatic gaze
roamed Abby’s face. ‘When you’ve finished, breakfast will be
ready.’ Eyes wide and incredulous, Michael stared around the plane
and demanded, ‘Where are we, Abby?’ ‘We’re in an aeroplane,
darling, up in the sky.’ Warily conscious of Caelan’s presence, Abby
tried to resurrect her brisk common sense. ‘When you’ve been to the
bathroom you can look out of the window and you’ll see the sea a
long way underneath us.’ Bubbling with excitement, Michael shot
questions at her on the way to the bathroom and all the way back,
falling silent only when he at last saw the sea, a gleaming bow
against the craggy bulk of the land. Caelan said, ‘Everything you
packed into your car is on the plane; I thought it best for him to have
as many familiar things around him as possible.’ ‘Thank you,’ she
said in a stilted voice. ‘It was nothing.’ And indeed, for him, it
wasn’t. All he had to do was command, and people hurried to do his
bidding. Travelling with the prince was nothing like the normal
hassle; leg-room wasn’t a problem and luggage didn’t need to be
monitored. Money made things easy in so many ways, and of course
his heritage meant that he took such things for granted. But he had
considered Michael’s feelings; it seemed a good omen. Fortified by
that hopeful thought, Abby leaned back in the seat, remembering
how startled she’d been when she’d discovered that he and Gemma
were distant cousins of the ruler of Dacia. Gemma had said, ‘One of
these days I’ll take you to see the crown jewels there. They’re a
magnificent collection of the world’s most perfect emeralds.’ She’d
peered into Abby’s face and then sat back, pronouncing, ‘In fact,
some are exactly the same colour as your eyes. And you’d like the
Bagaton cousins. The men are totally, over-the-top gorgeous, and
there’s a Kiwi connection too. Several—including Prince Luka, the
reigning monarch—have married New Zealanders.’ Don’t go there!
Abby commanded, relieved when Caelan interrupted her memories.
‘If you agree, your car can be sold today.’ Her lips tightened. Resentment
at being taken over, forced into a situation she couldn’t escape,
scraped across her nerves. ‘I suppose so,’ she said colourlessly.
‘Yes or no?’ ‘Yes,’ she said between her teeth, and leaned away to
point out another, smaller plane beneath them to Michael. Who
crowed with delight before turning a radiant face to the prince to
shout, ‘Uncle Caelan, look!’ Caelan got to his feet and bent over
them to look through the window; Abby caught a faint, masculine
scent, and a merciless sexual awareness dazzled her. Her body
tightened and her head swam. Fortunately he straightened up almost
immediately, looking down at her with burnished silver-blue eyes,
unreadable and hard. ‘Breakfast should be ready. I’ll go and see.’
Her breath hissed out as he walked to the back of the plane, his lithe
gait a challenge in itself. No wonder he turned up frequently in the
gossip columns; he packed a powerful physical charge that overrode
all the cautious warnings of her mind. But at least Gemma had told
her what he was—utterly intolerant, quick to judge and incapable of
trust. And she’d found out for herself that he was able to effortlessly
control his sexual appetite. It took all of her powers of persuasion to
coax Michael back into his seat and buckle him in; his vigorous objections
were only halted by the appearance of a middle-aged stewardess
carrying a tray. Entranced by this, and the promise of fruit to
follow, he settled down to demolish a boiled egg with his usual
gusto. Too strung-up to eat, Abby refused anything apart from a cup
of coffee. But it arrived accompanied by thin, crisp toast and several
little pots containing a variety of spreads. ‘Mr Bagaton said you
should have something,’ the stewardess explained with a smile.
Abby quelled a frisson of foolish pleasure. His thoughtfulness
warmed some small part of her she’d thought permanently frozen.
She looked up as he came back down the aisle, an inchoate smile
freezing on her lips when she met a long, watchful inspection that
made her acutely aware of the signs of her sleepless night in her
face—shadowed eyes, pale skin, and hair like string. Even after
combing, it looked the way she’d wanted it to—dull, mousy, boring.
And she didn’t—couldn’t—allow herself to care what Caelan
Bagaton thought of her. Her lips straightened and defiance glittered
beneath her lashes as she lifted the coffee-cup to her lips. No matter
what it took, she had to kill this painful awareness, so intense it had
only taken one glance at him to roar into life. In spite of its power
and primal force it was meaningless. Yet, oh, so dangerous. Caelan
transferred his attention to Michael, his mouth curving. ‘Are you enjoying
your breakfast?’ Trying to ignore the painful twist to her
heart, Abby thought cynically that that smile had to be one of the
world’s great weapons. Michael was no more able to resist it than
she was. A wide grin split Michael’s face. ‘I had a negg.’ ‘Was it
good?’ Caelan lowered his big frame to his seat. ‘Yes. And some
peaches,’ Michael informed him gleefully, and went back to emptying
his plate. But once the tray had been cleared, he began to find
the confinement of the seat belt irritating. Abby changed places with
him so he could again see out of the window. Obediently he gazed at
the lush green countryside that had replaced the stark central plateau
beneath, but his interest didn’t last long. Caelan got to his feet,
opened the overhead locker and took down the bag she’d packed for
just such a moment, but Michael resisted all his favourites with
every appearance of loathing. Not now, she thought wearily. It was
too much to expect him to accept the huge change of circumstances
without any response, but it would be so much easier if he’d kept the
inevitable reaction for later. Preferably after she’d had a good night’s
sleep, and with the prince well out of the way! CHAPTER FOUR
ABBY glanced across the aisle, straight into Caelan’s cool, guarded
eyes. Hiding her trepidation, she met them with all the composure
she could summon, and asked, ‘How much longer?’ ‘About half an
hour. Why?’ She inclined her head slightly sideways. ‘Energy needs
to be expended.’ ‘He’ll have to wait.’ Even as she bristled he
reached into his narrow leather briefcase and drew out a book she recognised.
‘Does he know this?’ ‘Yes,’ she said, truly grateful. ‘But
we’ve always had to get it from the library so he’ll be more than
happy to hear it now.’ How did Caelan know that Michael adored
the iconic adventures of a small New Zealand dog? Surely, she
thought, going cold, he couldn’t have had them investigated that intensively?
Of course he had; a man who thought nothing of infiltrating
a child-care centre with an operative to get DNA samples would
have insisted on a complete dossier. How else would the stewardess
have known that Michael loved peaches? The thought of such close
surveillance sent chills down her spine. Hastily, she opened the book
and began to read to an enthralled Michael. Although the witty, clever
exploits of Hairy Maclary and his canine friends did the trick,
Abby gave a silent sigh of relief when they finally touched down at
the airport in Auckland. As they made their way to the car park the
crowds and the noise and the unfamiliar bustle silenced Michael;
wide-eyed, he trailed along between her and the prince, clinging to
her hand while he gazed around. Abby saw a middle-aged woman
watching them. Heat stung her skin; she knew what the woman was
thinking, just as she recognised the barely concealed interest in other
women’s eyes when they’d noticed the man beside her. His powerful
physical presence demanded instant respect. Then their eyes swung
to her, and envy was replaced by astonishment. They were wondering
what on earth a woman like her was doing with a man like
Caelan Bagaton. She wanted to say out loud, ‘We’re not a family!
This is just a sham.’ A tormenting sham, one she’d been forced into
by the man who’d ruthlessly shattered her life. Instead, she gave the
woman a half-smile and walked on by, her heart contracting into a
solid ball in her chest. ‘The car’s over here,’ the prince said
brusquely. The big vehicle had a child’s car seat already installed in
the rear seat. Naturally, she thought, bristling. Caelan didn’t accept
defeat. Stop going over and over and over this, she commanded herself.
It’s finished—dead as a doornail, or a dodo, or the Dead Sea.
All of them, actually. At first Michael was too interested in the
traffic—especially, Abby noted with wry amusement, extremely
large trucks—to get bored. However, by the time the car left the motorway
for inner-city streets he demanded in a voice that came too
close to a whine, ‘Where we going, Abby? Are we nearly there?’
‘Five minutes,’ Caelan said calmly. So he wasn’t taking them to the
beach house, where he’d kissed her. She fought a humiliating letdown;
he probably didn’t even remember that kiss. After all, he’d
had at least one long-term relationship since he’d broken up with the
then-current lover. And Gemma had told her of the constant stream
of hopefuls he fended off. The kiss they’d shared probably no longer
registered on his radar—if it ever had. Pinning a steady smile to her
lips, she said to Michael, ‘There you go—we’re almost at Uncle
Caelan’s house.’ ‘It’s an apartment,’ Caelan informed her. ‘An apartment?’
Abby shot a swift glance at his unyielding profile. In a neutral
voice she said, ‘Children need easy access to grass and trees, and
a place where they can run and jump and roll.’ ‘All highly desirable,
but not as necessary as decent food and clothes and security,’ Caelan
returned, his urbane tone not hiding the whiplash of scorn in his
words. ‘The apartment is central and convenient, but if it doesn’t
work out we’ll move to somewhere more suitable for a family.’ Skilfully
he eased the car past a courier van. She frowned to hide a suddenly
thudding heartbeat. A family… In spite of her effort to be
reasonable, anticipation warmed her from the inside, curling through
her like warm honey shot with fire. To quell it she asked more aggressively
than she intended, ‘But you told Michael on the flight that
you have a pool.’ And then she remembered an article she’d seen
about a very up-market apartment complex in Auckland. ‘Oh, is
there a gym there?’ ‘There’s a lap pool on the terrace.’ She flushed.
His casual words underlined again the huge difference between
growing up on a Northland citrus orchard, and amongst the ranks of
the hugely rich. Expertly Caelan avoided three laughing teenagers
who chose to dash across the road as the lights turned green. ‘And of
course there’s the one at the beach.’ So he did still own it. A wild,
foolish second of elation was rapidly smothered by another cold
splash of common sense. How pathetic was that—thinking that one
kiss might have meant anything to him? Turning to Michael, she infused
enthusiasm into her voice. ‘Just about there, darling.’ Very
much there, in fact; the car stopped outside a gate that led to a basement
car park. Absently Abby read a notice on the wall, then
stiffened. ‘This is a hotel,’ she accused. The gate rattled back and
Caelan put the car into gear, easing it down into the well-lit basement.
‘An apartment hotel. I live in the penthouse.’ Michael asked
with eager anticipation, ‘Can I go for a swim, Abby? Now?’ He adored
the water; the day-care centre had a small paddling pool, but
Abby had never been able to afford lessons for him in the school
pool. ‘Sweetheart, I think it would be better if you left it until it’s
warmer,’ she told him. Although nowhere near as cold as Nukuroa,
Auckland’s spring wasn’t exactly balmy, and at the airport she’d noticed
a brisk, cool wind. His lower lip jutted, but Caelan cut short his
objections. ‘The pool is heated, and sheltered from the wind. I’ll go
in with him if you don’t want to.’ Well, yes, she thought cynically, of
course it would be heated. Standard tycoon equipment! The car
came to a halt in a reserved slot. Abby tamped down a flare of anger;
she’d been making decisions for Michael for three years, and Caelan
had no right to query them. In a toneless voice she answered, ‘If it’s
heated, that’s fine. Unfortunately he’s absolutely fearless in the water,
although he hasn’t got beyond the fundamentals yet. He needs
careful supervision.’ ‘Point taken. He’d better learn to swim as soon
as possible.’ Caelan switched off the engine. Abby examined the
autocratic lines and curves of his profile as he said, ‘The pool is
fenced off from the apartment, so he’ll be safe enough.’ Physically,
yes. Emotionally? Ignoring a cold little worm of fear, she told herself
sturdily that all she could hope to extract from this tensely disturbing
situation was Michael’s happiness. Inside the hotel lift, a
warm little hand clutching hers, Abby stared blindly at the carpet,
alienated by the atmosphere of sleek, elegant luxury. A faint scent
permeated the air—a very exclusive, very expensive perfume; disliking
its cloying sensuousness, Abby wrinkled her nose and tried to ignore
an alarming needle of jealousy. The atmosphere was compounded
inside the penthouse apartment. Of course it was elegant and
large, filled with reflected light from the harbour and the sky, and superbly
decorated by a professional who hadn’t surrendered comfort
for style. The prince took them into a large, informal sitting room
with a dining table and chairs at one end. It opened out onto a wide,
partly covered terrace where potted plants flourished around a narrow
swimming pool. ‘There’s another, more formal sitting room
through that door, but I use it mainly for entertaining,’ he told her.
‘This one is more suitable for a child.’ ‘It’s lovely,’ she murmured,
walking across to a row of windows at the end. Startled, she looked
straight into the harbour, as though they were on the bow of an
ocean liner. From behind Caelan said, ‘The hotel is built on one of
the wharves.’ A fat ferry bumbled purposefully towards the North
Shore; it reminded Abby of a beetle and she smiled involuntarily.
‘The kitchen is through that door,’ he said crisply. ‘Do you want a
drink? No? Then I’ll show you your rooms.’ Michael’s was the first.
Abby had expected an exercise in sleek minimalism, but this was a
young boy’s dream, a circus fantasy with a tasselled tent top and a
frieze of prancing animals. Oh, Caelan had been utterly and completely
confident that he’d be bringing Michael back with him! And
why not? He held all the cards. ‘Your room is next door, you share a
bathroom,’ he told Abby, indicating a door. He glanced at his watch
and frowned. ‘I have to check out a few things, so I’ll leave you to
explore by yourselves for ten minutes or so. Your luggage has arrived,
so you’ll be able to change into your togs, Michael.’ Left
alone with a silent, fascinated Michael, Abby admired a magnificently
prancing rocking-horse. At the back of her mind she
wondered how many women had come to this penthouse and been
swept off their feet by their host’s potent sexuality. Droves, she
thought savagely. A small voice insisting on being taken to the bathroom
put a welcome end to her thoughts. She gave Michael a swift
hug and showed him where it was. Then they explored the room
next door, furnished in restful, sophisticated shades of sand with a
throw rug of deep rust lending richness to the neutral scheme. A
chair and a desk against one wall were set out for writing; a daybed
in the window suggested long afternoons of reading. Abby’s gaze
lingered on a vase of orchids, exquisite fly-away things in shades of
caramel, rust and golden-green. Had Caelan chosen them? Highly
unlikely, she decided. No doubt a florist kept each of the rooms in
this luxurious place filled with blooms that matched the décor as
perfectly as those orchids did. Well, she’d far rather have a handful
of dandelions picked from the paddock and given to her in a chubby
little hand. ‘Where does Uncle Caelan sleep?’ Michael asked, looking
around. ‘I don’t know,’ Abby said crisply. Not at this end of the
penthouse, anyway. Possibly he had a suite well away from his guest
rooms. ‘Come on, we’d better find your swimming togs.’ Ten
minutes later, Caelan knocked on the door. Made exuberant by excitement,
Michael rushed across to open it. Abby’s stomach lurched
and that treacherous flow of anticipation turned into sharp, painful
awareness. In swimming shorts, a large towel draped over one
copper-bronze, sleekly muscled shoulder, Caelan’s compelling physicality
cut through centuries of civilised conditioning. In spite of
every barrier she’d constructed, the primitive instinct to mate with
the most alpha male flamed into life within her. ‘Do you have a towel?’
he asked, smiling as his nephew jumped around him like a
puppy. Michael grabbed it up from the bed and went off without a
backwards glance, chattering and animated. Feeling resentfully like
an unwanted extra, Abby followed them out onto a wide terrace
overlooking the harbour and the North Shore. She sat down in a
lounger beneath a sail that kept the hot northern sun from her head,
and watched intently as the two men now in her life stopped by the
gate into the pool enclosure. The light in this sub-tropical part of
New Zealand was softer, more humid than in the south, smoothing
over Caelan’s torso to delineate every coiled muscle as he stooped to
speak to his nephew. Broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped and with the
innate grace of a leopard, he looked dangerous and dynamic and fascinating.
Furious at the slow burn of desire in the pit of her stomach,
she thought acidly that Mediterranean heritage had a lot to answer
for. No doubt the splash of Celtic blood that had given him his name
and his ice-blue eyes had provided the long, powerful legs, but his
formidable confidence and authority were his own. She must never
allow herself to forget that Caelan used his tough tenacity and ruthless
intelligence—and his charisma—like weapons. He was a warrior,
gathering the fruits of war. In which quest it probably helped that
he didn’t have a heart. In fact, it surprised her that he had enough
glimmerings of conscience to feel responsible for Gemma’s son. No,
that was unfair; even Gemma had admitted that her half-brother was
meticulous in fulfilling his obligations. In fact, it had been one of the
reasons she’d demanded Abby’s promise. ‘I don’t want Michael to
be a duty like I was,’ she’d said flatly. ‘He’d be just another project
to see through to completion. Oh, Caelan would do his best for him,
but it’s not enough to know you’re no more than a responsibility.’
The early death of his father had pitched Caelan into the cut-throat
arena of international business in his mid-twenties, and, to most
people’s astonishment, he’d succeeded wildly. At the same time he’d
taken charge of his impulsive, wilful sister. His best hadn’t been
good enough for Gemma; she’d make sure he dealt better with Michael,
Abby decided, her gaze following them into the pool enclosure.
Excitement raised Michael’s voice higher than usual against his
uncle’s deeper tones. The elusive resemblance between them tugged
at her heartstrings. Oh, Gemma, she thought forlornly, I’ll look after
him whatever happens, but I feel very outgunned right now! And
then she stiffened her spine in a determination that masked a deep,
abiding dread. There was much more than her happiness at stake;
weigh her wary, reluctant attraction against a child’s future, and that
feverish tug at her senses meant very little. And as she clearly wasn’t
necessary here, she should really go and unpack Michael’s clothes.
Instead, she leaned back into the sleek, luxuriously comfortable
lounger to watch. Against the shimmer of the water in the bright
spring sun, Caelan crouched by his nephew and began to talk. Abby
watched Michael’s face, solemn and intent as he nodded. Straining
her ears, she heard Caelan say, ‘And no jumping in.’ ‘No jumping,’
Michael repeated, a little disappointed but resigned. ‘Only if I’m
there to catch you. Wait until I’m in the water, and I’ll tell you when
to jump.’ After another serious nod Michael gave a great beaming
smile, twisting Abby’s heart. Both were feeling their way; Michael
was prepared to like the man who’d appeared out of the darkness,
and so far Caelan had settled for treating his nephew like a small
adult. An attitude that made Michael blossom, she noted with another
despicable stab of jealousy. Glass panels sheltered both pool and
terrace from the cool breeze that trailed in off the harbour. When the
two swimmers got into the water her heart—foolish organ!—
contracted even more tightly as Michael imitated everything
the prince did. She kept a close eye on them, only relaxing when she
saw that Caelan was always near enough to rescue his nephew from
any risky exploits. Their laughter blended, and a great weariness
weighed down her eyelids. She’d cope, but first she had to accept
that her life had changed irrevocably. From now on it wouldn’t be
just her and Michael against the world; Caelan had altered the balance,
and nothing would ever be the same. Michael had someone
else to rely on, and she’d just have to accept it. Too soon, so swiftly
she wasn’t aware of what was happening, Abby’s wakeful night
caught up with her and she slid into darkness. Michael’s voice
woke her, soft and urgent in her ear. ‘Abby, Abby, wake up now.’
After a prodigious yawn, she said, ‘What’s the time, darling—?’
And remembered where she was. Her eyelids jerked up, but she was
no longer lying in the lounger by the pool; instead, she was curled
up on the bed in the room Caelan had given her, the rust-red wrap
covering her. Fully dressed in T-shirt and shorts, his hair dry, Michael
stood beside it, and behind him loomed Caelan—who must
have carried her in and put her there. She could see the knowledge in
his expression, a subtle tension and awareness that stoked her own
mindless response to him. Head whirling, she got up on her elbow
and swung her legs onto the floor. ‘What time is it?’ she asked
thinly. She sounded slack, almost drugged. Caelan scrutinised her
face, but the colour flooded back into her skin as she straightened.
He tried to ignore the sensuous memory of her sleek body in his
arms, her breathing when she’d snuggled her cheek against his chest.
Yet other images prowled his brain, images snatched from barely remembered
dreams in which she’d lain beneath him, soft and warm
and silken, of little gasping cries as she climaxed around him, the
scent of her skin and the perfumed cloud of her hair, the way her
voice changed from crisp confidence to an enchanting husky shyness
when he’d made love to her, the way she laughed— How the hell
could one kiss four years ago light the need and hunger that still
burned like a fire underground? He’d never stopped wanting her, he
admitted, and never stopped resenting the power she wielded over
him. So he should do something about sating this damned inconvenient
desire. She was watching him, her face guarded and stubborn,
but in spite of her prickly demeanour he was too experienced not to
recognise the unwanted tug of attraction. Everything pointed to
it—her careful avoidance of his touch, the soft flutter of her pulse at
the base of her throat whenever he came near her, and the colour that
came and went in her silky, seductive skin. A plan that had occurred
to him as they’d flown up solidified in his mind. In spite of his best
attempt at control, his voice was rough when he told her, ‘Almost
one o’clock. I wouldn’t have woken you, but I have an appointment
shortly.’ ‘One o’clock?’ She pushed back a tumbling lock of hair
and asked swiftly, ‘Has Michael had his lunch?’ ‘Yes. Peanut butter
sandwiches,’ Caelan returned with a faint smile. She hid another
yawn behind her hand. ‘His staple food,’ she said in a wry voice.
‘He also had half an orange and a glass of milk.’ Abby nodded.
‘Give me five minutes. I need to wash my face.’ It took a little
longer than that, because she had a rapid shower in the sybaritic
bathroom, all glass and tiled walls with equipment that looked as
though it fitted out a spaceship. Spirits marginally boosted by a
change of clothes, she closed the bedroom door behind her and followed
the sound of voices to the living room off the kitchen. She’d
almost got there when Caelan laughed, for once without the undernote
of cynicism she’d always heard. But when she came into the
room all humour vanished from his strong face. He said aloofly, ‘I’ll
be back around six this evening. Don’t worry about dinner; we can
order from the hotel menu.’ ‘What about Michael?’ she said steadily.
‘I don’t imagine the hotel kitchen caters to children his age.’ ‘It can,
but check out the fridge.’ He ruffled Michael’s hair, smiled down into
his face and looked up to assess Abby with hard blue eyes. Very
casually, he finished, ‘Don’t try leaving the apartment.’ ‘Why?’
‘You both need time to get your bearings.’ He paused before saying
deliberately, ‘It would be inconvenient if I had to go out looking for
you.’ The warning was no less intimidating for being implied rather
than stated forcefully. Her stomach a tight, apprehensive knot, she
watched him leave, grateful when a question from Michael broke into
her thoughts. ‘Abby, can we swim again now?’ ‘After you’ve had
your nap,’ she said automatically, and concealed her furious resentment
by opening the refrigerator. Of course it was filled with eminently
suitable food for a hungry three-year-old. After a molten survey
of the interior, Abby almost slammed the enormous door shut.
Whatever else he was—or wasn’t—Caelan was a superb organiser.
No doubt if she tried to leave the apartment someone would stop her,
or accompany her. She didn’t need the humiliation. Still fuming, she
spent the hour of Michael’s nap unpacking, grimacing at the pathetic
show her few dreary clothes made in a wardrobe almost as big as
Michael’s bedroom in the cottage. They were so out of context they
looked ludicrous. Growing up she’d known comfort and security, but
the luxury Caelan took for granted was completely alien to her.
‘That’s what you get for getting in the way of a dominant alpha
male,’ she told herself. Money and power had helped forge his intimidating
inner confidence, but mix with a brilliant mind and loads
of disturbing male magnetism, spice the whole mix with a soupçon
of princely blood, season with a hint of Latin—and you had Caelan
Bagaton, one on his own. Once Michael woke, they explored his
room, discovering a box of toys to go with the rocking-horse, and a
whole new library of books. Abby thought of the tattered, much-read
volumes she’d packed, and wondered whether Michael would want
to read them again. They spent the rest of the lazy afternoon out on
the terrace with books, blocks and crayons until, when the sun began
its slow slide down towards the west, she braved the unknown terrors
of the impressive stove in the kitchen. She was bathing Michael
when Caelan arrived. To her astonishment he came into the bathroom
as though he were accustomed to such familiar rituals, not
even grimacing when Michael slipped as he was getting out and sent
a tidal wave of water onto his uncle’s superbly cut shirt and trousers.
‘Careful,’ Abby said, more sharply than she’d intended. Horrified,
Michael flushed and screwed up his face. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean
to.’ Caelan said mildly, ‘I know that.’ And was rewarded with a shy
smile. A pang of dislocation and guilt hit Abby. She dried Michael
down, stuffed him into his pyjamas and tried hard not to feel left out
when Michael asked that Caelan read his bedtime story. At least
he’d chosen one of his old favourites, not the glossy new ones
Caelan had provided. As she heard Caelan provide a spirited rendition
of an old fairy tale she decided that he must have been practising…
Then he bent his head for Michael’s goodnight kiss as
though he’d been doing it all his life. At last, leaving Michael safely
tucked up in bed and supervised by a brand new state-of-the-art
monitor, Caelan escorted her into the living room. ‘I’ll get you a
drink,’ he said. ‘Is it still white wine?’ She nodded, although it had
been four years since she’d tasted any. As he poured he said levelly,
‘You look triste. What is it?’ She shut down her emotions, hoping
her face was a composed mask. ‘Just thinking.’ Apart from the child
sleeping in his bed, they were alone in the apartment. That dangerous,
mindless excitement was stirring in her body, basic and inescapable
as the breath in her lungs and the blood that raced through her
veins. Handing her the glass, Caelan said, ‘I’ve already ordered dinner;
it arrives in half an hour. Until then, try to relax.’ Relax? He had
to be mad! She looked up, but his expression was coolly noncommittal,
his eyes transparent and slightly amused. Baffled and angry,
she evaded the hidden tension by walking through the long glass
doors onto the terrace. The swift northern dusk had turned into
night; beyond the safety-glass balustrade the harbour gleamed like
black satin, and the North Shore suburbs sparkled against the bulk of
Rangitoto, Auckland’s iconic island volcano. A small breeze carried
the scent of the sea to her, ghosting over her sensitised skin. Feeling
utterly forlorn, she shivered. She didn’t belong to Caelan’s world of
privilege and sophistication and wealth, of ancient aristocratic
bloodlines and power. Responding to him in any way was not only
stupid, it was humiliating and pathetic and embarrassing. Her lips
widened in a bleak, mirthless smile and she swung around to look at
the Harbour Bridge, a shallow arc of lights reflected in the water.
She sipped some of the exquisitely fragrant wine. Just when she
sensed that Caelan had followed her out she had no idea; the knowledge
of his presence came as a feather of response down her spine,
a slow conviction that escalated the turmoil inside her. Heart jumping,
tense as a stretched wire, she hurried into speech, choosing the
most innocuous subject that came to mind. ‘What made you decide
to live here?’ ‘I travel a lot, so the chopper pad at Mechanic’s Bay is
handy for quick trips to the airport.’ Moving slowly, she turned her
head a few degrees to see him. Unwanted, unbidden, a memory surfaced.
Once—in another lifetime—she’d ruffled his black hair, fascinated
by its silken warmth. Her fingers tingled as though they’d
been deprived, and her heart jolted in her breast. Breath came fast
through her lips, and she shuddered at the seductive impact of the
forgotten sensation. And then she met his eyes, and every languorous
memory disappeared; nothing could survive in the frigid wasteland
of his gaze. Angry with herself for her chagrin, she said, ‘Michael
loved the toys and the books. Thank you.’ Even though she
suspected that Caelan had consulted an expert, it had to be said.
‘And the horse?’ She said, ‘He’s most impressed, and is taking his
time to get to know it.’ His broad shoulders lifted negligently. ‘It’s
the one I had as a child. I had a craftsman in Northland repair and refurbish
it. I’m glad another child will ride it.’ He was pointing out
the difference between what she had given Michael, and what he
could give. Meeting the subtle implication head-on, she said clearly,
‘Too many toys aren’t good for children. Michael hasn’t missed anything
in his life except parents.’ He said coolly, ‘And his uncle. Why
did you decide to leave Nukuroa?’ The eerie wail of a siren somewhere
close by cut into the tense pause that followed Caelan’s
words. Abby covered an uneasy movement with another sip of her
drink. In the end she admitted, ‘I felt—stalked. And I’ve learned to
trust my instincts. How did you find us?’ ‘I’ve had an investigator
looking for you ever since you arrived in New Zealand with Michael,’
he said, adding abruptly, ‘He seems a happy, secure child,
and for that I thank you.’ Made more uncomfortable by his rare
softening than by his open contempt, she muttered, ‘You don’t need
to thank me.’ And because she wanted to get things settled, she went
on abruptly, ‘You said yesterday—was it yesterday?—that we’d
work out some sort of arrangement for this situation when I was less
emotional. Exactly what do you have in mind for this—for our
lives?’ He set his glass down on a nearby table and examined her
face, remote in the darkness, with eyes she couldn’t see. ‘Have you
decided to stop resisting the inevitable?’ ‘I—yes, I have.’ Although
she was quaking inside, pride steadied her voice and gave an edge to
her words. ‘As you pointed out so cogently, I don’t have any choice.
You have power and money and I have none. And you could send
me to prison if you press charges against me for claiming Michael as
my son.’ He accepted that as the simple statement of fact it was.
‘You have power too. You’re the only mother Michael’s ever known.
For his sake, I suggest we try to make this as normal a relationship
as possible.’ What did he mean by that? A kind of panicky anticipation
set her nerves sizzling. Avoiding his eyes, she said, ‘Explain
normal.’ And relationship! His mouth twisted mockingly. ‘It’s quite
simple. We marry.’ CHAPTER FIVE ABBY’S jaw dropped.
‘We—what?’ she said faintly, her brain empty of anything but shock.
Blinking fiercely to stop Caelan’s dark, sardonic face wavering in
front of her dazed eyes, she croaked, ‘What did you say?’ ‘You
heard.’ The cynical amusement in his tone rubbed her nerves raw.
‘It’s the most sensible thing to do.’ Stunned, Abby stared at him, her
emotions spinning in endless free fall. ‘The most sensible thing to
do?’ she parroted, sounding both feeble and incredulous, heart thudding
sickly as though she stood on the brink of a precipice. ‘For Michael,’
Caelan agreed courteously, although the amusement in his
voice rubbed her pride raw. ‘For everyone, in fact.’ Her teeth
snapped shut on an unwise retort. Disgusted with the treacherous
heat that surged through her, she dragged in a jagged breath. ‘I’d
sacrifice a lot for Michael,’ she said, her voice a brittle thread in the
silence, ‘but I won’t marry you for him. The idea is outrageous.’
‘Only if you view it emotionally.’ His deep voice was so completely
empty of feeling that she shivered. ‘Any way you view it.’ He
shrugged, every angle and plane of his hard face radiating tough
self-assurance. ‘Michael is a Bagaton. I want his status regularised.
Gemma was proud of her heritage—she’d want it too.’ Abby bit her
lip. Oh, he knew where to aim his arrows! Before she could formulate
the objections buzzing around her brain Caelan said, ‘I’ve taken
legal opinion on this. The simplest way to achieve his correct surname
is for us to marry.’ Suspiciously she asked, ‘That’s all?’ ‘Not
quite. We then apply to adopt him.’ ‘Surely you do the applying,’
she returned swiftly, her suspicion growing. ‘He’s already registered
as my son.’ ‘That doesn’t count. As the law in New Zealand stands,
both of us need to adopt him.’ When she was silent he said indifferently,
‘I’ll find a decent lawyer for you to consult if you don’t believe
me.’ Almost she said that it didn’t matter, but perhaps that was
the reaction he was hoping for. ‘That’s an excellent idea,’ she said
tonelessly. ‘We’ll need to convince the welfare authorities that we’ll
be good parents, but I doubt there’ll be any difficulty about that.
Naturally the main criterion will be a solid, loving home life for
him.’ He paused, before adding deliberately, ‘Once the adoptions are
formalised, you won’t have to face the prospect of losing him, and I
won’t worry about him ending up in the clutches of the social welfare
system.’ Abby flashed a swift, startled glance at him. ‘Why
would he do that?’ ‘There’s the small matter of you claiming him as
your child. As you acknowledged, forging documents can earn you a
prison offence.’ She went white. ‘Are you threatening me?’ ‘No.’ He
went on in a pragmatic tone that iced her blood. ‘But any writer ferreting
around in Palaweyo is almost certain to discover that Michael
is Gemma’s child, so your actions could come to the notice of the
authorities in New Zealand. The sooner we get married and set the
wheels in motion for adoption, the better, because an adoption can’t
be negated.’ Trying to think clearly, Abby said numbly, ‘I—yes, I
see.’ Shattered, she dragged breath into her compressed lungs.
‘You’re sure of all this?’ His eyes met hers, cold, completely level,
utterly convincing. ‘Yes.’ Oddly enough she believed him. She
pushed a shaky hand through her hair and wondered how he could
sound so casual when he was suggesting such a complete disruption
to his life. And hers. The thought of being married to him made her
quake inside. She’d tried so hard to do what Gemma had asked, and
it seemed it was all for nothing—but at least this way she’d be there
to look after Michael. If she didn’t end up in prison. Even if that
happened, she thought painfully, there were worse things than being
looked after by a nanny—being lost in the welfare system, for one,
as Caelan had pointed out. The silence grew, backgrounded by the
slow hum of traffic and music drifting up from somewhere in the
hotel. Slow, moody, erotically charged, it brushed across her skin,
tightening it and alerting her senses to the overpoweringly male
presence of the man watching her. In the end she said wearily, ‘If it
safeguards Michael then I’ll—I’ll marry you.’ The prince didn’t
gloat. Instead he said, ‘I’ll ring my cousin tonight.’ She stared
blankly at him. ‘What?’ One black brow rose. ‘My cousin Luka
rules Dacia. We’ll be married there.’ ‘In Dacia?’ she said foolishly,
panic surging up to kick her in the stomach. ‘Surely a quiet private
wedding here…’ Her voice trailed away. ‘We’ll do that before we
leave for Dacia so that we can set the adoption in motion immediately.’
She pushed a shaking hand across her forehead. ‘Two marriages?’
she said thinly. ‘It seems overkill.’ ‘For Michael’s sake we
need to make a statement to the world.’ His face hardened when her
lips formed a silent negative. Ruthlessly overriding her objections he
stated, ‘It’s a family tradition to marry in Dacia, and, looked at from
a purely practical point of view, my cousin can control the media
there. My family will want to meet you, and there will be a series of
celebrations. The Dacians are a warm-hearted people, and they enjoy
weddings.’ Desperately she broke in. ‘I can cope with this—with
anything—in New Zealand, but I’m not the sort of person you
should marry, and you know it. I’d be out of my element with your
relatives, and they’d have every right to wonder what on earth
you’re doing bringing me into the family.’ ‘They wouldn’t dare,’ he
said forcefully. ‘Anyway, that’s not their style. You’re not out of
your element with me, are you?’ Oh, if only he knew! She flung the
truth at him. ‘Of course I am!’ His eyes gleamed with amusement.
‘Rubbish. And you dealt with Gemma. If you can cope with us, you
can cope with anyone else you might meet.’ Abby picked up her
glass and took a large sip of wine. ‘This is just a nightmare, right?’
she said hopefully when she could speak again. ‘We’re really going
to get married quietly at the beach house with two witnesses, and I’ll
never have to meet any of your family.’ He gave a swift mirthless
smile. ‘The beach house part, yes—three days from now, in fact. The
family—you don’t know the Bagatons if you think they’ll be content
to ignore my marriage.’ Turmoil churned inside her, a mixture of
scared apprehension salted with a hot excitement she despised. She
swivelled away and stared out across the harbour. High above them
a thin moon curled against the depthless sky; Rangitoto loomed to
the east, still and dark and silent, as though it had never filled the
sky with fire. If she turned her head she could see a number of other
small dark hills, their conical shapes all proclaiming their violent
origins. She said on a long, harsh sigh, ‘That’s the point, surely? I
don’t know the Bagatons—in fact, apart from you and Gemma, I’ve
never met anyone with a drop of royal blood.’ ‘You’re almost certainly
wrong there,’ he said, more cool amusement grating across
her nerves like emery paper. ‘It’s far more common than you think.
You probably have more than a drop yourself.’ ‘If so, it’s from the
wrong side of the blanket.’ She muttered hopelessly, ‘I don’t believe
this.’ His voice hardened. ‘Believe it. And just to make sure that no
rumours reach the welfare agencies here, we need to convince everyone
we meet that this is a love match.’ By now too numb to react,
she asked, ‘Why?’ He shrugged, broad shoulders cutting out the
lights of Harbour Bridge. ‘We’re sacrificing our freedom to provide
Michael with the stability and love he needs. I don’t see us being
able to reassure a social worker that we’ve got a good marriage
while you and I are circling each other like wolves on the prowl.’
Heart jolting, Abby took a step backwards, but Caelan’s lean fingers
snaked around her wrist, pulling her towards him with a smile that
blended desire and calculation. Abby’s senses rioted, savouring his
unique aroma, an erotic mixture of heat and masculinity. She
searched his face, eyes widening at the glitter of desire firing iceblue
eyes, the predatory curve of his bold mouth. Oh, God, he was
going to kiss her, and if he did—what hope did she have of standing
against him? A wild mixture of searing anticipation and terror almost
silenced her, but she managed to protest, ‘No!’ ‘Then we might
as well call a halt to this right now.’ His aloof, studied tone set her
stomach roiling, almost banishing the excitement of his nearness. He
had to feel the betraying turmoil in her pulse, because one lean,
tanned finger was stroking across the fine blue veins in her wrist.
Her will-power wavered and dissolved under a wave of desire so intense
she could feel it scorching away every sensible thought. But
she had to corral the thoughts blundering around her brain. He had
money and influence, and she had none. He was offering a settled
life for Michael, his rightful place in the world and security. And
parents, a family… Nevertheless, she pushed a lock of hair back
from her forehead and said hoarsely, ‘Caelan, it won’t work.’ He
looked at her with a cool irony that hurt far more than his contempt.
‘Frustration makes people unreasonable and stupid. You want me, as
I want you. Whatever else has changed, that hasn’t. Four years ago
the kiss we exchanged told me we’d be good together.’ His voice
deepened, a raw note appearing beneath the words. ‘And you knew
it too. It’s still there, so why should we deny ourselves?’ And then
he pulled her into his arms and his mouth came down on hers in a
kiss that was more than erotic; it registered a primal claim, fundamental
and exhilarating and utterly compelling. Abby melted, wild
hunger shutting down everything but the delight of Caelan’s mouth
on hers, effortlessly working a dark enchantment that fogged her
brain and loosened the reins of her will-power. When her mouth
opened to his demand he took instant possession of its depths, exploring
with a carnal, leisurely expertise that sent a current of delicious
hunger through every cell. He tasted so good, she thought exultantly,
a slow, dangerous pulse flowering deep in her pelvis. After
the long, empty years she was where she belonged, with Caelan.
Without volition, her free hand lifted, coming to rest over his heart;
it beat heavily, unsteadily, driving into her palm with a clamorous
force. Sensation stormed through her, sweet as honey, potent as
wine, fierce as a bushfire. But apart from his lips and the loop of fingers
around her wrist he wasn’t touching her. Desperately she jerked
her head free and stared up into his eyes, and the heat in her body
congealed into chilly emptiness. Silence stretched between them,
jagged with unspoken thoughts and emotions. ‘No,’ she grated,
scarcely aware of what she was refusing. He’d set out to prove that
he wielded a sorcerer’s power over her, and she’d just delivered the
proof, signed, sealed and gift-wrapped. Despising herself, she twisted
away, humiliated afresh when he let her go as though it had
meant nothing to him. His next words astonished her. ‘Still the same
flash-fire of passion,’ he said in a voice that couldn’t hide the intensity
of the words. ‘Sex has a lot to answer for. Did I hurt your wrist?’
‘What?’ She looked down, flushing when she realised she was massaging
the fragile skin there. Dropping both hands to her sides, she
said through lips that were tender and full, branded by his kiss, ‘No,
it’s all right.’ Pride drove her to articulate the next words with cold
clarity in spite of the bitter turmoil inside her. ‘I’m not in the market
for an exorcism, Caelan.’ The heat in his eyes was swallowed by
darkness. ‘Is that what it would be?’ he said. ‘Somehow I don’t believe
it’s going to be that easy. Or even necessary.’ With the flimsy
safety of a few feet between them, Abby closed her eyes and took a
deep breath, calling on anger to replace the sensual chains of desire.
‘I refuse to be your legal mistress.’ Everything that made marriage
special—love, trust, determination to make it work, emotional commitment—
would be absent, and all they’d have in common was that
flash-fire of passion, as he’d called it. But really it was lust. ‘That’s a
different way of looking at marriage.’ His voice deepened into a
sexy rumble. ‘I can promise you that any pleasure will be mutual.’
Oh, God, she was so tempted to give into desire, to forget everything
but this need pulsing through her, a wanton hunger that sliced
through the fabric of her fragile composure, highlighting promised
sexual delights with the emphasis of memory… You’re forgetting
Michael, her mind prompted her. She had to clamp her mouth shut to
keep the words of surrender unsaid. When her lashes lifted she saw
Caelan smile—all hard derision, but the blue heat she remembered
so well still gleamed in the depths of his eyes. ‘Mutual pleasure?’
She managed to produce some sort of scorn in her tone. ‘However
much you despise yourself for wanting that pleasure, it means that
with our common concern for Michael we can build some sort of life
together.’ Bitterly, she answered, ‘There’s a lot more to marriage
than sex. What about trust?’ His lashes hooded his eyes. ‘Trust is an
entirely different thing,’ he said indifferently. ‘It has to be earned.’
Temper, hot and reviving, flared into action, temporarily masking
the dangerous flare of passion. ‘So I’m on probation? For the rest of
my life, I suppose.’ He shrugged negligently. ‘Once Michael’s
grown up you can do what you like.’ But there was nothing negligent
about his next words. They echoed with cold menace. ‘Keep in
mind that I don’t share. If you stray, I’ll make your life so unpleasant
that you’ll beg to be free of me—even if it means leaving Michael.’
White-lipped, she flung back, ‘You just don’t understand, do you?
Nothing would make me abandon him—nothing.’ Sheer temper
spurred her on. ‘When I make promises I keep them. And while
we’re living together, I’ll expect you to be faithful too. When you
kissed me at the beach you were another woman’s lover.’ Colour
burned along his magnificent cheekbones. ‘I broke it off the next
day,’ he grated. ‘I intend to remain faithful.’ ‘Why should I believe
you?’ She whirled around and stalked across to the balustrade, staring
down at the lights shimmering across the water for taut seconds
before turning to say defiantly, ‘I don’t want to make love with you.
Not now, not at some later date—not ever.’ ‘You do, but you’re not
ready to admit it yet,’ he said with an unruffled detachment that
made her feel overemotional and foolish. At her disbelieving snort
he said flatly, ‘I feel that way too—like a lesser person because I
seem to be unable to control this hunger.’ His voice turned flinty.
‘I’m no monster, Abby. I can wait until you’re ready.’ Until you surrender,
he meant. Aching as though she’d been defeated in a physical
fight, she said numbly, ‘I don’t want any dinner. I’ll go to bed.’
Caelan glanced at his watch. ‘Run away by all means—but your
meal will be here in ten minutes. I’ll bring it to your room. And
you’d better eat it—starving yourself won’t win you any sympathy
from me.’ He waited until she got to the door before saying, ‘Before
you go—’ Abby paused, but fixed her gaze on the door handle. ‘Two
things—wash that damned dye out of your hair.’ Rebellion churned
through her, but she asked distantly, ‘And the second order?’ ‘Don’t
try to leave,’ he advised. ‘You won’t get far. And if you do, all bargains
are off.’ ‘As you’ve pointed out, I don’t have any choice, do
I?’ she said starkly, burning with resentment. He waited long enough
to tighten her every nerve with unbearable tension before saying
with an indifference that cut her as much as his contempt, ‘No.
Everyone has to live with the results of the choices they’ve made.’
Silently she walked out and closed the door behind her. But once inside
her alien, luxurious room her shoulders slumped. Tears aching
behind her eyes, she wondered why she felt so desolated. Why had
she flung down that ridiculous gauntlet about not wanting to make
love with him? He must know she had no defences against her overwhelming
need for him. Four years ago, dazzled and unwary, she’d
been intrigued by him. Only too aware of his reputation, she’d
fought her craving. At least his kiss had jolted her out of that! Terrified
by her capacity for feeling, she’d panicked, but for months on
Palaweyo she’d dreamed that he’d followed her. Fortunately—and
inevitably—he hadn’t. Instead, he’d found a new love—an enormously
talented writer notorious for her fascinating, sensual poetry
and unrestrained enjoyment of life. Mouth turned down at the
corners, Abby strode into the bathroom. How stupidly innocent
she’d been. And how ridiculous she was being now! OK, so she’d
been sure she was over him. Naturally, when she discovered that in
less than twenty-four hours that violent, mindless attraction had rekindled,
she was concerned. Stopping in front of the mirror she
stared at her reflection with smoky, dazed eyes. Unwittingly she
touched her lips, soft and red and still trembling from Caelan’s kiss.
Concerned, she taunted silently—what sort of word was that? She
wasn’t concerned—she was terrified. How could he shatter her defences
with just one kiss? If she married him, inevitably she’d give
in to that wildfire hunger. What then? Did he want children from her,
or would Michael be enough? The thought of bearing Caelan’s child
produced an odd pang somewhere in the region of her heart. Then
there was the social thing—their marriage would stun his rarefied
world of aristocrats and magnates, causing a firestorm of gossip.
She’d be the maverick in his select retinue of sophisticated, experienced,
beautiful women, all of whom had been sensible enough not
to expect love from him. Not that he was a playboy; in spite of her
accusation, he’d been faithful to each of his mistresses—a serial
monogamist, she thought, trying to soothe her jangling nerves with
common sense. ‘What am I going to do?’ she whispered, seeking
counsel from her reflection. The woman in the mirror stared wildly,
helplessly back until a firm tap on the bathroom door stopped the
breath in her throat. ‘Your meal’s waiting,’ Caelan said. ‘Eat it.’
Battered by emotion, as though his kiss had stripped a protective
skin away to leave her defenceless and naked, she swung around and
waited until she was sure he’d left the room. Even then, she eased
the door open. Of course he’d gone. After eating as much as she
could of food that tasted like ashes, she had to force herself to take
the tray into the kitchen. There was no sign of Caelan, although she
could hear him speaking, his deep voice articulating with swift firmness.
He was on the telephone, she realised, and thrust the remainders
of the food into the fridge so she could flee back to her room
before he finished the call. Once in its sanctuary, she washed her
hair, watching colour stream down the plug until the golden-amber
of her own colouring shone through. Even wet, her hair still looked
dull, its vibrant gloss banished by the dye. She picked up the conditioner
in the shower, nodding when she saw the name. Only the best
for Prince Caelan Bagaton, she thought sardonically, and slathered
the liquid on, letting hot, slow tears run down her cheeks. Then she
tried to shower the effects of his kiss from her sensitised body, staying
in so long her fingers wrinkled. Once out and in the oversized Tshirt
she wore to bed, she checked Michael, blissfully asleep. She
lingered a few moments, watching him before bending to kiss his
cheek and heading back into her own room. Exhausted, she wanted
nothing more than to crawl beneath the covers and fall headlong into
sleep, but she sat down on the side of the bed and stared sightlessly
around the stylish, expensive room while memories replayed in her
head and her body ached for a banished ecstasy. So now Caelan
knew—they both knew—that the sexual link between them was as
compelling and intense as it had been four years before. Abby
straightened her shoulders. Obsessively going over and over what
had happened years ago solved nothing; she had something much
more contemporary to deal with. Caelan had re-ignited a fire deep
inside her, a fire she’d thought long dead, but the real danger wasn’t
the untamed, elemental hunger in his eyes, the raw urgency of his
kiss. No, the true peril lay in her fierce response. She had so pathetically
few defences against his passion. ‘So,’ she said aloud, trying
to convince herself, ‘it must never happen again.’ The practical part
of her mind scoffed. Whatever price she had to pay, she thought defiantly,
was worth it to keep Michael safe. Shivering, she crawled into
bed, trying to empty her mind. Eventually, after hours of listening
to the night sounds of the city, devouring sleep replaced her darting,
frightened thoughts with dreams. Night should have brought some
ease of mind. It didn’t; when she woke she felt as though her life had
been dumped into a blender. Until an eager little voice from the door
asked interestedly, ‘You ’wake, Abby?’ And she was right side up
again, because the only important thing in this huge mess was Michael.
‘Yes, darling, I’m awake! What time is it?’ ‘Ha’-pas’ four,’ he
said promptly and inaccurately, and ran across the room to give her a
hug and good-morning kiss. Newly minted as the dawn, he was
dressed in his favourite jeans and the sweatshirt with the dog on the
front. ‘Uncle Caelan says you can have breakfast in bed if you like.’
She most emphatically did not like. ‘Tell him to give me ten minutes
to wash my face and I’ll join you both.’ Giggling, and clearly on the
best of terms with the world, he left on a shout of, ‘Uncle Caelan,
Uncle Caelan, she’s getting up!’ Exactly ten minutes later Abby
walked into the room off the kitchen, to find Michael perched on a
cushion on one of the dining chairs, his shiny face eager as he
watched his uncle approach with a packet of cereal. Caelan glanced
at her astonished face. ‘I found this in your emergency pack,’ he said
drily. ‘Do you eat it too?’ Abby shook her head. Emotions tumbled
around her mind in chaotic disarray, but of course Caelan was in full
control. ‘Toast, thank you,’ she said. He nodded at a bowl on the
table, saying laconically, ‘Stewed tamarillos. Help yourself,’ as he
poured cereal into the bowl in front of Michael. Who warmed her
heart by politely thanking his uncle as he picked up his spoon. Abby
sat down, wondering if Caelan had made sure there were tamarillos
because his investigator had found out they were her favourite fruit.
Stop that right now, she commanded. Possibly she had told someone
in Nukuroa that she loved tamarillos, but it meant nothing; part of
the reason for Caelan’s formidable success was a brain like a calculator.
He sat down and shot her an assessing look, his brows drawing
together. ‘I hope you slept well.’ Once she got to sleep she had, although
she recalled waking several times in turmoil, her mind filled
with images that brought sudden, shameful heat to her skin. ‘Very
well, thank you,’ she told him, hoping that her tone was steady
enough to hide her jumping pulse. At least her hand didn’t tremble
when she helped herself to the ruby-coloured fruit. ‘Coffee?’ His
voice was courteous. A touch of hysteria tightened her nerves. He
was being the perfect host, she thought feverishly, but at least he
wasn’t freezing the air around him with his special brand of killer
contempt. She responded in kind, and with Michael as buffer breakfast
proceeded in a state of apparent civility, neither adult acknowledging
the fierce undercurrents that ran through the calm, civilised,
idiotic conversation. Caelan said, ‘This morning I’ll lodge a notice
of intended marriage with the registrar. I’ll need some information
from you.’ Panic clutched her throat, but some time during the long
night she’d accepted that this was going to happen. Stiffly she gave
him the data he needed, watching as he wrote it down with swift,
slashing strokes of his pen. ‘I’ll organise the wedding,’ he said, ‘but
you’ll need to do some shopping. I’ll pick you up at two this afternoon.’
He made another note. ‘I’ll also organise an appointment
with a solicitor so that you can go over a pre-nuptial agreement and
the necessity for the adoption process.’ Astonished, she met his
keen, impervious gaze. He waited, and when she said nothing he added
quietly, ‘Be here.’ Abby’s head came up. She met his eyes with
unflinching dignity. ‘We both know,’ she said, choosing her words
with extreme care, ‘that sooner or later there will be an opportunity
for your—new housemates—to leave. Imprisonment isn’t possible.’
His brows snapped together in a forbidding frown. ‘Your point is?’
Abby quelled a nervous flutter. ‘I’ve agreed to marry you. I won’t go
back on my word.’ Caelan’s silence was a tangible force in the
room, predatory, intimidating. He glanced at Michael, who was applying
himself with gusto to the bowl of cereal. His hard smile sent
shivers of foreboding down her spine. ‘Very well,’ he said, and held
out his hand. ‘Shall we shake on it?’ Reluctantly she extended hers.
‘Why would you trust a handshake?’ ‘I trust it about as much as I
trust you, but it’s the recognised thing,’ he said. His grip was firm
and impersonal, but she shivered when she looked into his narrowed
analytical eyes. She knew what he was doing—proving to her again
that the raw physical magic was as strong as ever, that her body sang
when she saw him because every cell in it recognised him. Whitelipped,
she jerked her hand free. And then Michael slipped down
from his chair and stuck out his hand. Abby said nothing, watching
as Caelan stooped and took the small paw and shook it gently. Michael
grinned. When Caelan smiled back something tight and hard
and fiercely defended shattered inside Abby’s heart. ‘Very well,’
Caelan said. ‘It’s a deal.’ With a final keen look, he turned and the
door closed behind him. Abby drew a deep breath, feeling as though
she’d just come battered and bloody through a battle. ‘Come on, Michael,’
she said cheerfully. ‘Finish your breakfast. We’ve got things
to do.’ In spite of the changes in their lives, she was going to make
some sort of routine for him. And if she clung to the idea because
she needed the reassurance of normality, then that was all right too.
CHAPTER SIX ABBY had washed the dishes and made their beds
when two women from the hotel housekeeping staff arrived to circumvent
any further attempts at housekeeping. She and Michael unpacked
his books and arranged them on the shelves in his bedroom.
Later, she coaxed him into the saddle of the rocking-horse. It didn’t
take him long to decide that this was a wonderful experience. Half
an hour of vigorous riding followed by a running game on the terrace
before lunch used up some of his boundless energy, but he
needed more space. Tropically exuberant though the penthouse terrace
was with its lush plants in huge pots and the view of the harbour—
today a shimmering silver-blue expanse beneath a benign
spring sky—he was accustomed to an expanse of lawn with trees to
climb. Shortly after midday the housekeeping staff departed, leaving
the apartment immaculate. Abby made lunch, Michael demolished it
with gusto, then yawned widely. ‘I’m not tired,’ he maintained
stoutly. ‘Of course you are,’ Abby said, scooping him up and hugging
him. ‘And the sooner you have your nap, the sooner Uncle
Caelan will be here!’ Much struck by this, he went to bed with an
eagerness that roused a simmer of jealousy in her. She bent to kiss
him softly on his cheek, but outside his room she hesitated, wondering
how to fill in the next hour. Since she’d brought Michael to New
Zealand, she’d been so busy she’d had little time for introspection;
work and caring for him had taken every ounce of energy she possessed.
She’d longed for time to read, to garden, to go to a movie.
Now she had no work and too much time to think—thoughts she
didn’t want to face, intensified by long-repressed emotions. Tensely
she walked out into the warm, fresh air. The penthouse unnerved her,
so superbly decorated she didn’t dare let Michael go anywhere but
the casual dining and living area off the kitchen. How on earth were
they going to deal with a palace, if that was what they were going to
stay in on Dacia? Bumble-bees colliding in her stomach, she recalled
the rented house in Nukuroa, sparse and bare, its bedrooms faintly
smelling of mould in spite of everything she could do, the elderly
stove with chipped enamel and electric elements that wobbled
whenever she put a saucepan on them… She’d worried about Michael’s
health in that house, longed for the money to rent somewhere
better. Yet now, lapped in luxury, she thought with a wry, painful
grimace that if she could click her heels together and find herself
back there she’d never ask for anything again. And if the apartment
intimidated her, how was she going to cope with Dacia and its royal
family? Or—the big one—with life as Caelan’s wife? Heat flared
suddenly inside her, sweet and fierce and heady. He meant to have
her, and she, pitifully weak where he was concerned, would fight
him as best she could, but in the end she’d give in. How could she
bear that—to give everything she had and always be aware that it
meant nothing to him beyond the transient satisfaction of an animal
appetite? Caelan strode silently out through the glass doors. His
hooded gaze sought Abby, and found her, slender—too slender, he
thought on a spurt of irrational anger—examining one of the large
potted palms. She had her back to him, a T-shirt in just the wrong
shade of green skimming trousers cut for a more matronly figure
than hers. Only her feet, slimly elegant in a pair of cheap sandals, reminded
him of the woman he’d once kissed because he couldn’t help
himself. But nothing could take away from her natural grace. Or his
reaction to it; at the sight of her his body sprang to life, desire
summoned by a primal hunger he’d never experienced with any other
woman. What was it about her that snapped the leash on his control?
He’d always enjoyed sophisticated, intelligent lovers, women
who were self-sufficient and confident. Although Abby was intelligent,
her actions spoke of a life ruled by impulse and emotions—the
sort of woman he’d consciously avoided because they’d have demanded
too much from him. No wonder she and Gemma had become
friends. Grief caught him unawares, mingled as always with
anger and a gnawing conviction of failure. If he’d been available to
his sister when she’d discovered her pregnancy he’d have been able
to keep her safe. But she’d gone to Abby, and to a death that need
never have happened. Abby stirred, the sun lighting up her hair in a
tongue of fire. Ignoring a fierce jab of satisfaction because she’d
washed most of that damned colouring out of it, he started towards
her. He hadn’t taken more than a couple of steps when her spine
stiffened. She didn’t move, didn’t turn her head, but he knew she’d
sensed his presence. Damn her, he thought with unusual anger, for
once she could acknowledge him! He stopped behind her, waiting
until she turned her head. ‘Oh, hello,’ she said warily, her features so
composed he knew she’d been practising. ‘Did you have a good
morning?’ ‘You sound very wifely,’ he said, not hiding the irony in
his tone. ‘Yes, the morning went well. How was yours?’ ‘So far, so
good.’ But a little frown furrowed her delicate brows and she returned
her gaze to the feathery fronds of the palm tree as though
finding enlightenment there. ‘Michael’s still asleep. I hope you’re
not planning to wake him up.’ ‘Why would I do that?’ She gave a
short shrug. ‘To fit him into your busy schedule.’ He said coolly, ‘I
plan to be around for Michael whenever he needs me.’ And before
she had a chance to say anything he added, ‘We’ll buy clothes for
him this afternoon.’ He scrutinised her with a cool smile before
adding, ‘One of Auckland’s best salons is holding a showing for you
tomorrow morning. The wedding’s organised for three days’ time,
and we fly out to Dacia immediately afterwards.’ She opened her
mouth to reply somewhat heatedly to his high-handed authority, only
to be cut off by the imperative summons of a telephone. ‘I’m sorry,’
he said abruptly, taking a small mobile phone from his pocket. ‘This
must be important.’ He walked away, not speaking until he was out
of hearing range. Jealousy, bitter and dark, sliced through her. Although
she couldn’t hear what he said a subliminal instinct told her
he was talking to a woman. Outrage clawed across her heart; she
swung abruptly around and started for her bedroom. ‘Abby,’ Michael
announced accusingly from his doorway, ‘I’m awake. You said
Uncle Caelan would be here soon!’ She forced a tender smile; his
sunny nature took a few minutes to reassert itself after sleep. ‘He’s
talking on his phone out on the terrace. Let’s go and wash your
face.’ How could she expect Caelan to trust her if she didn’t extend
him the same courtesy? He’d told her he intended being faithful; for
her own peace of mind, she had to believe him. So she plucked the
poisoned dart of jealousy from her mind and tried not to wonder if
this promised faithfulness started on the wedding day or before…
Michael looked past her, his face lighting up. ‘I want Uncle Caelan
to wash my face,’ he announced. ‘Then you’d better ask him politely,’
Abby suggested. He thrust out his lower lip and looked sideways
at her. ‘You ask him, Abby.’ ‘Ask him what?’ Caelan said from
behind her. Michael, stumbling a little, lifted his face and asked him.
Struck again by that fleeting resemblance between them, Abby drew
in a sharp breath. Except for his brilliant eyes Caelan was a study in
darkness—Mediterranean black hair, midnight brows and lashes,
warm olive-bronze skin—while Michael’s colouring bathed him in
sunlight, yet they shared the same strong bone structure and arrogant
nose. Caelan’s deep voice broke into her thoughts. ‘Anything you
need to tell me about this face-washing?’ She forced a smile and a
light tone. ‘Michael knows what to do.’ They came back five
minutes later, Michael damp around the hairline and excited. ‘Abby,
Uncle Caelan says when I can swim properly he’ll take me out in his
boat!’ ‘Then you’ll have to try really hard, won’t you?’ Abby said
cheerfully. Was Caelan making sure she realised the difference his
presence in Michael’s life would make? Caelan said, ‘He already has
the basics, and there’s an excellent swimming school for pre-schoolers
in Auckland.’ She nodded. Swimming, rocking horses, new
clothes and new books were important, she decided sombrely as they
went down in the lift, but more was needed to make a happy child.
Although Gemma had grown up in a home where wealth was taken
for granted, it hadn’t brought her serenity or confidence. The only
way Caelan could become important to Gemma’s son was to give
him time and affection. It did seem that he was prepared to do that
for Michael, but time would tell. Parenting success depended on the
long haul, not short sprints. Michael chattered non-stop about swimming
all the way to one of the northern suburbs. Inside the shop
however, he fell silent, gazing around with awed delight. After a
startled survey, Abby said wryly, ‘This looks more like a coral reef
than a children’s clothes shop—sheer tots’ heaven. How did you find
out about this place?’ Caelan looked down at her with sardonic eyes.
‘The owner contacted me for help; she had a vision, but couldn’t get
anyone to back her in it.’ One of his lovers? ‘I’ll bet it’s doing well,’
Abby observed tightly. ‘She’s worked hard; she deserves her success.’
He changed the subject without finesse. ‘I suggest you choose
clothes suitable for travelling. It will still be warm in Dacia when we
arrive, so he’ll need gear for playing outdoors and going to the
beach, as well as some more formal outfits for meeting the relatives.’
For once, Michael didn’t wriggle when it came to trying on
clothes, and, with the help of a young assistant who knew exactly
how to head off imminent boredom, they managed to acquire a
wardrobe for him with the minimum amount of fuss. What surprised
Abby most was Caelan’s attitude. It should have warmed her heart
that, sophisticated and cynical though he was, he seemed to enjoy
Michael’s company. Instead, she felt as though she were on a slippery
slope to some menace she couldn’t discern. And even relief at
not being forced to squeeze every cent until it shrieked didn’t overcome
that unease. Outside the shop Caelan said calmly, ‘I’ll take Michael
home while you see the solicitor.’ His unreadable gaze
lingered a moment on her bright hair. A shock of excitement sizzled
through her like electricity. But beneath that purely physical reaction
lurked the formless fear that he might whisk Michael away so she’d
never see him again. She looked up, flushing when she saw his
mocking smile. He knew what she was thinking. It was ridiculous to
let the same old fears surface over and over again. Caelan had made
it clear that he saw her and Michael as a package, and she suspected
that he was learning to like his nephew. He must realise that Michael
needed her. ‘All right,’ she said distantly, irritated because he was
taking over again. Middle-aged and efficient, the solicitor talked
over the pre-nuptial agreement that set out what Caelan expected of
her as Michael’s mother and his wife. She pointed out several areas
that Abby should consider before she signed it, while saying that it
seemed to protect both her and Michael’s rights as well as the legal
system could. ‘Of course, the simplest way to safeguard the child’s
future,’ she said, ‘is for you both to adopt him. Has the prince—Mr
Bagaton—discussed this with you?’ ‘Yes. It seems a good idea.’ ‘It
will certainly give him legal standing as your child.’ Abby asked
tightly, ‘I assume that a stable marriage is important in the adoption
process.’ After a keen glance, the solicitor said simply, ‘Very.’ Back
in the penthouse Michael was bursting with excitement; while they’d
been away a splendid children’s gym had been delivered and assembled
on the terrace. ‘Look at me, look at me, Abby,’ he shouted,
hanging by his knees from a bar. ‘There’s a slide here too!’ Acutely
aware of Caelan’s scrutiny, she exclaimed over its beauty and multitude
of features. Finally she said, ‘Did you thank Uncle Caelan for
buying it for you?’ Michael scrambled off and stared at him. ‘He
didn’t say,’ he muttered. He gave his uncle a charming, lopsided
grin. ‘Thank you, Uncle Caelan!’ ‘I’m glad you like it,’ Caelan told
him. But when Michael had run back to his new toy, he said, ‘I don’t
want his thanks.’ Abby turned baffled eyes onto his hard face.
‘Why?’ He gave her a long, measuring look, then shrugged.
‘Gemma once said that I tried to buy her affection. It wasn’t true, but
I don’t think it would be good for Michael to feel that all good
things come from me.’ Surprised, she said, ‘That’s—very thoughtful
of you. But saying thank you is a necessary part of bringing up a
child.’ Something happened between them, some sort of communication
deeper than words. She felt her skin tighten and swallowed to
ease a dry throat. ‘I’d better unpack his new clothes.’ Caelan stopped
her with a hand on her arm. She froze, and humiliating excitement
leapt into full life. Dropping his hand, he said, ‘What did you think
of the pre-nuptial agreement?’ ‘It seemed very fair.’ He was watching
her too closely. Something swift and impetuous scudded the
length of her spine, and her breath came too fast. ‘In that case we
can sign it tomorrow morning before we go shopping. I’ve opened a
bank account for you.’ When she opened her mouth to protest he put
a lean forefinger over her lips. Her mouth dried and she stared into
eyes as cool and enigmatic as the sea, the blue irises edged by a
silver-grey band that gave them their distinctive translucence. Coolly
unyielding, he said, ‘I don’t want to hear any futile objections. You
read the agreement—the allowance is specified there. If it’s not
enough, we can adjust it later.’ He removed his finger and Abby
could breathe again. Feeling in some obscure way as though she was
compromising her integrity, she said colourlessly, ‘All right.’ And
vowed to spend as little of his money as she could. Amusement
gleamed in the depths of his eyes. ‘I suggest that instead of looking
for an excuse to fight—or kiss—we consider Michael’s welfare and
keep our more volatile reactions under strict discipline.’ Skin heating,
Abby ignored the beginning of that sentence. ‘Yes,’ she returned
with spurious sweetness, ‘let’s just do that.’ That night after dinner
Caelan said abruptly, ‘Tell me about Gemma.’ Abby put her cup of
coffee onto the table beside her chair. Feeling her way cautiously,
she asked, ‘What about her?’ ‘Why did she leave her mother’s house
to go to Palaweyo? She must have known it was no place for her to
have a child.’ Abby chose her words carefully. ‘She didn’t know she
was pregnant when she arrived; she’d come to think things over, she
said.’ ‘What things?’ ‘Whether or not to marry Mike.’ He looked
surprised. ‘I didn’t realise it had gone so far.’ Abby said quietly,
‘She’d only been there a week when Mike called, telling her about
the rescue. She pleaded with him not to do it, but he told her he had
to and that he loved her. Then we heard of his death. I was so worried—
she went all silent and distant, as though to get the courage to
keep going she had to call on all her reserves.’ He said harshly, ‘You
should have got in touch with me.’ ‘I wanted her to call you.’ Abby
couldn’t look at him; guilt still cast its dark pall over her. If she’d
given in to the temptation to go behind Gemma’s back and call
Caelan, his sister would still be alive. ‘She said she’d run to you for
every little thing in her life, and that now she had to deal with this by
herself.’ He said something under his breath and she flinched.
‘Caelan, I’m so sorry.’ ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ he said evenly. ‘Yes,
I’d have liked you to contact me, but she was an adult and your
friend. It would have been a betrayal.’ Incredibly relieved, Abby
swallowed to ease a dry throat. ‘When she found out she was pregnant
it seemed to give her the courage to keep going. I insisted she
get the doctor at the hospital to check her out. He said she was fine,
so I thought it was safe to let her stay.’ Caelan said harshly, ‘I wish
I’d known.’ ‘Gemma said you were under tremendous pressure with
a really bad problem in some part of the corporation.’ Abby thought
she’d strained every bit of condemnation from her voice, but he
glanced at her as though she’d directly accused him. ‘A rogue manager
in South America was siphoning off funds to acquire his own
cocaine enterprise; he had links to a terrorist cell. Several of my
people were kidnapped by them, a couple killed. It took time and effort
to lure them out of the jungle and into custody, but if I’d known
Gemma needed me I’d have been there for her.’ Abby believed him.
‘She knew that. And she achieved some sort of peace in Palaweyo,
even while she grieved for Mike. I wouldn’t say she was happy, but
she managed a sort of quiet contentment. And when his son was
born she was—awed, and stunned at how much she loved him, how
hugely important he was to her, how he changed everything. She’d
started talking about taking him back to New Zealand when the cyclone
struck.’ ‘I’m glad of that,’ he said, his voice cold and detached.
But something glittered in his pale eyes, and Abby’s heart was
wrung. Without thinking she got up and went over, putting her hand
on his arm and looking up into a face as cold as flint. Urgently,
wanting only to offer comfort, she said, ‘She didn’t die in pain,
Caelan. She said that Mike was waiting for her, and she kissed Michael
goodbye and she was smiling when she died—so peacefully.’
With an odd raw sound deep in his throat, Caelan pulled her into his
arms. They contracted around her and his mouth came down on hers,
famished and avid. Although Abby fought the surge of passionate
abandon, trying to force her body into passive stillness, it was no
use. A tide of white-hot sensation swamped caution, washing it
away into regions beyond recovery, along with her will-power and
her common sense. She swayed and linked her hands around
Caelan’s neck, fingertips thrilling to the texture of his dark hair,
warm from his powerful body. Their hungry kisses—deep as those
of lovers reunited after an eternity of loneliness—broke down every
barrier. And when he said her name against her lips, the primal note
of possession in his voice released the shackles around her heart.
She wanted Caelan; she had to accept that she always would. And he
wanted her. That elemental sorcery still linked them with chains of
desire and need. Elation and despair melded in bittersweet response;
in his arms, with his kisses on her lips, she felt reborn, even though
nothing had changed. But when he cupped the soft curve of her
breast, she froze, jerked back into reality by the keen, exquisite pang
of delight that arrowed from his hand to the place that longed to welcome
him in the most intimate of all embraces. If she let this happen,
she’d not only experience the glory of sexual awakening but the pain
and the eventual despair. This man, she thought desperately, is forcing
you into a marriage you don’t want. The only barrier left was
her self-respect. ‘No!’ The word was torn from her, guttural with intense
emotion. She couldn’t let this go further; it would kill her to
become his toy, his mistress-wife. Cold satisfaction glittered in
Caelan’s hooded eyes. ‘Why not?’ His voice came deep and raw and
demanding through lips that barely moved. Warm and sure and confident,
his thumb moved back and forth across the pleading tip of her
breast. Despising herself for the rills of unbearable pleasure coursing
through her, she said aggressively, ‘Because I don’t want it.’ The
perfect opening, she realised the moment the words left her mouth,
and cursed herself for handing it to him. His mouth hardened into a
mirthless smile. ‘When your actions speak as loudly as your words, I
might believe you.’ ‘Believe me now,’ she said bleakly, adding with
stark, sharp honesty, ‘My body appears to be beyond my control, but
my head and my heart don’t want it.’ He looked into her eyes with
piercing intentness; she held her breath and met that probing stare
with defiance. Finally, he let her go. Shivering, her mind so tumultuous
she didn’t know what she was thinking, she watched him walk
across to the balustrade. That long, silent stride, his lethal male
grace, the sheer masculine presence of the man summoned a vivid,
blinding image from out of nowhere. Caelan with his knees clamped
around the barrel of a rearing horse, long hair flying in some longdead
wind, a sword in his hand, eyes gleaming with cold determination
and a ferocious battle cry on his lips as he reached down for
her… Blinking, she swallowed and the swift vision snapped out,
banished by the taunt in his voice when he swung around and said,
‘Want it or not, Abby—and you can’t despise this embarrassing hunger
more than I do—it’s not going to go away.’ ‘We don’t have to act
on it,’ she returned with curt emphasis. ‘It’s only lust—and lust dies
if it’s not satisfied.’ He lifted a satirical eyebrow. ‘Four years
without satisfaction doesn’t seem to have quenched it.’ Did he mean
that he’d—? No! One glance at his lean, arrogant face scotched that
thought. Of course he hadn’t been celibate since that first kiss! She
knew of at least two lovers in the intervening years. Those kisses
had been a test. If she’d given in he’d have taken her, without emotion,
without compassion. Her emotions churned in wild disarray,
while her body simmered with resentful disappointment at being deprived
of his love-making. Abruptly, unable to bear being in the
same room as him, she said, ‘I meant what I said.’ Handsome face
cast from bronze, he said mockingly, ‘Ah, yes, but how long do you
think you can fight it?’ Willing her composure to hold for a few
minutes longer, she retorted with passion, ‘I won’t be a convenient
outlet to be used whenever it suits you. This isn’t going to work unless
you understand that.’ His cynical smile goaded her over the
edge. Rashly she finished, ‘If you can’t keep your hands to yourself,
then I’ll leave and take Michael with me.’ He leaned back against
the balustrade, narrow hips emphasising his long legs and wide
shoulders. ‘Do that,’ he said, his gaze burning like ice and a white
line around his mouth, ‘and I’ll hunt you down—right across the
world if I have to.’ He paused a taut, terrifying second before adding
with silky precision, ‘And when I find you, you’ll wish I hadn’t.’
She hoped her involuntary shudder didn’t register with him. ‘I don’t
mean that I’d run away again.’ ‘Then what did you mean?’ He didn’t
wait for an answer. ‘Forget this idea of living somewhere in Auckland
and granting me visitation rights. I won’t be a part-time presence
in Michael’s life. He’s had too many of those already. And I don’t
trust you. You kidnapped him once.’ Heatedly she returned, ‘Only
because I knew you’d take him away from me. You would have,
wouldn’t you?’ He didn’t answer straight away. The silence loomed,
almost threatening, until he said, ‘Surely Gemma must have known
that I’d do my best for him.’ Was there a note of pain beneath the
level words? Abby said quietly, ‘Of course she did.’ Caelan swung
on his heel to stare out across the lights and the harbour. Something
about the stiffness of his shoulders persuaded her to continue tentatively.
‘She loved you, Caelan, and respected you, but she knew how
busy you were. And you’ve already admitted that her childhood was
lonely.’ He shrugged, dismissing the subject. ‘This isn’t getting us
anywhere, and we’ve got no time to hash over things we can’t
change. My cousin Luka has suggested that you might like to choose
an emerald from the Dacian collection for an engagement ring, but if
you’d rather have anything else we can organise that.’ Engagement
ring? Her stomach contracted as though warding off a blow. ‘I
haven’t thought of it.’ ‘You’ll need one. A notice announcing our engagement
will be issued once we’re in Dacia, and official photographs
will be released. I’d prefer it if you don’t mention the first ceremony,
as it’s just to set the wheels of the social welfare system on
track here. Any indication could attract media attention.’ ‘I see,’ she
said colourlessly, inwardly appalled at the prospect of reporters and
photographers lurking in ambush. ‘I don’t know about the
ring—what do you think would be best?’ He shrugged. ‘We’ll take
Luka up on his offer. There’s bound to be an emerald in the treasury
that matches your eyes. I have an early appointment tomorrow, but
I’ll pick you up around ten.’ ‘What for?’ ‘You’re buying clothes.’
Abby had forgotten completely about the private showing at the
salon. She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it. Although she
was intensely reluctant to admit it, she craved the armour of clothes
that at least fitted her, in colours that suited her. ‘All right,’ she said
reluctantly. He smiled and came across the room to stand in front of
her. He startled her by touching the soft crease where her lips
curved. ‘I like your smile,’ he said softly, and before she could stop
him he kissed the corner of her mouth. Traitor that it was, her body
responded with blatant delight. She had to clench her fists to stop
herself from inhaling his scent, faint and entirely male, so erotic it
melted her bones and sent her blood racing through her body.
‘Dream of that,’ he said, his voice rough and urgent. ‘For whatever
satisfaction dreams give you.’ CHAPTER SEVEN THREE days
later at the beach house, Abby sucked in her breath and stared at herself
in a mirror. A woman she didn’t recognise gazed back at her
from wide, glittery green eyes. She looked feverish—the glow in her
skin so hectic that her brand-new, expensive cosmetics barely toned
it down, and lips riper and fuller and more obvious than ever. The
tawny gold of the slender silk suit only added to that betraying air of
lush anticipation. In the frighteningly exclusive salon in Auckland it
had looked restrained and sophisticated, the short sleeves and wide,
scooped neckline vaguely bridal without implying that sort of hopeful,
happy delight that should be symbolic of marriage. Not this marriage;
it was a mockery, and she didn’t want Caelan to think she was
going into it with expectations he couldn’t fulfil. She adjusted the
top, moving slightly so that sunlight tangled golden in the crystal
embroidery of the jacket, beneath which she wore a bra made of satin
and lace and a whisper-soft camisole the same colour as the suit.
Caelan—or his PA—had organised a trip to an incredibly chic salon
where her hair had been washed, conditioned and styled into a sleek
cut that restored the sheen. Despairing, because the loose waves added
to that eagerly expectant look, she picked up a comb and ruthlessly
pulled it into a knot behind her head. ‘I should have bought a
veil to hide behind,’ she muttered when it was done. Of course she
wore no engagement ring, and had no idea what wedding rings
Caelan had chosen. In fact, she thought bleakly, she didn’t even
know who the witnesses were! The helicopter pilot and the housekeeper,
probably, or the hotel nanny who’d agreed to spend the
weekend looking after Michael at one end of the beach house, while
Abby and her new husband supposedly enjoyed a one-night honeymoon
in the owner’s suite at the other end. Except that after the deed
was done Abby would be spending the night in this guest bedroom,
close enough to Caelan’s to quieten any gossip. An aching sorrow
welled up inside her and to her horror she had to blink back stinging
tears. It was no use crying for the moon; not in a million years would
he have fallen in love with her. This was for Michael, she reminded
herself stringently. She swung around at a knock on the door. ‘Come
in,’ she called, her heart hammering madly against her ribs. Neither
the nanny nor the housekeeper came in. Tall, slim and darkly elegant,
with a serene, aristocratic beauty, the woman who entered was a
complete stranger, although her face seemed familiar. Her superb
clothes indicated that she was also a wedding guest. Feeling an utter
fool, Abby stared blankly at her. ‘I’ve just found out from Caelan
that he didn’t tell you we were coming,’ the newcomer said severely.
‘I love him very much, so I hate to think that he’s too ashamed of us
to even mention us! I am Lucia Radcliffe, his cousin, and my husband
Hunt is busy pouring him a pre-wedding drink.’ Abby found
her voice and said with banal formality, ‘I—how do you do? I’m so
glad you’ve come.’ And if Caelan was ashamed, it certainly wasn’t
of his lovely cousin! Princess Lucia—whose name and face she recognised
because they’d been scattered through magazines since her
marriage a couple of years previously—smiled and closed the door
behind her. ‘And I am very glad to be here. You look absolutely exquisite,
Abby.’ She gave a mischievous smile. ‘I always knew there
was someone like you in Caelan’s past.’ Abby swallowed. ‘I’m not
sure what you mean.’ The gleam of mischief deepened. ‘I’ve never
seen my darling cousin stressed enough to rely on whisky to restore
his famous composure! He’s the most maddening man—he knows
exactly what he wants, and he’s always so sure he’ll get it. I used to
long for the day when he’d meet someone who turned him inside
out. And now I can see that he has. Ah, here comes the champagne!’
The housekeeper, looking flustered, entered carrying a tray with two
crystal flutes and a bottle of what, Abby realised, was vintage wine.
‘It’ll steady your nerves,’ the amazingly obtuse Princess Lucia said.
‘Just take a couple of mouthfuls. Now, where are the flowers? Ah,
yes, there they are.’ She picked up the three magnificent tawny
roses, and sniffed pleasurably. ‘Gorgeous, aren’t they? Little Michael
is almost beside himself with anticipation, so take a second sip
of wine and then let’s go.’ Filling the silence with a stream of comforting
chatter that somehow calmed Abby’s fears, she got them out
of the sanctuary of the bedroom and onto a wide terrace overlooking
the white beach and the blue-green sea. Heavily wooded headlands
sheltered the house and the bay from the ocean. Closer at hand a
temporary altar had been erected at one end of the terrace, shaded
from the bright sun by a white awning. More stupid, swift tears
stung Abby’s eyes; she’d had no idea that Caelan had planned to go
to such lengths—even to choosing roses that matched the ones she
held. Her eyes flew to him, tall and superbly confident by the altar.
He dwarfed the glorious scenery and the superb house, dominating it
more with his powerful personal magnetism than his impressive
height. The exquisite tailoring of his business suit couldn’t conceal
the raw, primal power of the man; he looked exactly what he was,
she thought with a swift skip of her heart—the leading male in the
pride, the alpha lion. Whenever she was with Caelan the world
seemed a richer, more vibrant place. Beside him stood another man,
every bit as tall, the sun picking up highlights in his dark hair, his
face lean and tough. Hunt Radcliffe, no doubt. Michael was standing
on Caelan’s other side, one small hand clasped in his, his face serious.
The celebrant looked up as she and the princess came out, and
everyone turned. Abby’s heart jumped; Caelan smiled, and for a
second she thought she saw something more than swift lust in his
eyes. Desire is a drug, she told herself sturdily. She’d always hoped
that one day she’d find a man to love, yet, although she’d met some
nice men over the past years, not one had stirred her blood. In a sudden,
unwilling leap of insight, she acknowledged that Caelan was
the man who gave her life savour and meaning, the only man she’d
ever really wanted—the only she’d ever want. Enter heartbreak,
stage left, she thought with bleak desperation. She met his eyes with
a hint of defiance, stunned when he smiled at her, a lazy movement
of his mouth that reminded her too vividly of his kisses. ‘Abby,’ he
said deeply, and strode to meet her as though she was the most precious
thing in his life. He didn’t touch her, but he didn’t need to;
he’d stamped his possession of her as clearly as if he’d swept her off
her feet and kissed her. And some primitive part of her rejoiced,
even though it was a bitter farce played for the benefit of anyone
who happened to be watching. Michael said in an awestruck voice,
‘Abby, you look jus’ like the princess in my book!’ And everyone
smiled. Swallowing, Abby went with Caelan up to the table that
served as an altar. Lucia Radcliffe moved to stand by her husband,
and Caelan slid his free hand around Abby’s, holding it in a warm,
strong grip while he reached for Michael’s little paw with his other.
Linked as the family they would be from now on, he and Michael
and Abby went through the brief, unbearably moving ceremony. Although
her hand trembled when they exchanged wedding
rings—identical bands of gold—she at last felt a kind of acceptance.
It might not be the marriage she had longed for, but it would make
Michael safe, and she’d find what comfort she could in that. ‘You
may kiss the bride,’ the celebrant said. Abby tensed. She didn’t expect
Caelan to kiss her with any sort of passion, but she was surprised
when he stooped and picked up Michael before dropping a
brief kiss on her lips. Michael hugged her and kissed her, burrowing
his head into her shoulder, and then lifted his face and kissed Caelan
on his cheek. Caelan’s face softened miraculously. It would be worth
it, Abby repeated. It had to be… Princess Lucia kissed her on the
cheek. ‘Welcome, dear Abby, to our family,’ she said with every appearance
of pleasure. Hunt Radcliffe lifted her hand and dropped a
kiss on the back of it. ‘You’ll get used to it,’ he said cheerfully,
watching her with cool, shrewd midnight-blue eyes. ‘And once the
official hullabaloo in Dacia is over, you can flee back to New Zealand
where you won’t have to deal with all that dull official protocol.’
His wife snorted in a most unladylike way. ‘Don’t listen to
him, Abby—there’s nothing to worry about.’ Tawny eyes smiling at
her husband, she added, ‘Any time protocol reared its ugly head,
Hunt dealt with it, and you will too.’ Although her husband’s lean
face gave little away, Abby sensed the strong, fierce love that linked
them. A wave of bitter envy shocked her. She wanted desperately to
ask about the ceremony in Dacia, but it wasn’t the time—her question
would give too much away about their relationship. Clearly
Caelan hadn’t told his cousin and her husband why they were marrying;
she didn’t dare compromise the secret. At all costs they had to
behave like people in love, determined to make a good marriage that
would last—at least until Michael grew up. So when Caelan curved
his arm around her, she leaned into his shoulder and tried to summon
a radiant smile while the two men shook hands. ‘Protocol isn’t the
sort of thing you have to worry about when you’re growing up in a
citrus orchard,’ she said, while her body thrummed with delight at
the strength that held her so lightly. He smelt so good, she thought,
and flushed when she saw the princess’s eyes twinkle. But the other
woman said calmly, ‘It’s not some deep, dark mystery; it’s easy
enough to learn—look at Alexa. She comes from a typical New Zealand
background, and the Dacians adore her because she’s
everything a ruling princess should be, warm and gracious and
deeply interested in them.’ She flashed a reassuring smile at Abby.
‘If you can seat a dinner party you’ll do fine. And Caelan will
help—he’s an expert.’ Grateful to her for her attempt to give her
confidence, Abby said, ‘I know he will.’ Deep and completely confident,
Caelan’s voice reverberated through his chest, sending little
shivers of pleasure through her. ‘Abby won’t have any difficulty,’ he
said. ‘Now, how about some champagne?’ Looking back, Abby realised
that he stage-managed the hour after the ceremony with consummate
skill. They drank a glass of wine with the celebrant and the
housekeeper and nanny, then the nanny whisked Michael off to their
end of the house, and the helicopter removed the celebrant to the
mainland. A delicious dinner was served on the terrace as the sun
sank slowly, its fading brilliance casting a beguiling cloak of witchery
and glamour over the bay. Abby decided she liked cool, tough
Hunt Radcliffe and his princess, especially when his wife produced
photographs of her gorgeous little daughter. ‘As her godfather,’ she
informed Caelan, ‘you’ll be interested to know that she now has four
very sharp little teeth, but no sign of any others. And she adores
blueberries.’ To Abby’s surprise Caelan admired the photographs,
and from the subsequent conversation it was clear that he saw a lot
of little Natalia Radcliffe. Although Gemma had talked about her
brother, she’d barely scratched the surface of his complex and intriguing
character. Hunt and Lucia—whom Caelan called Cia—left
after dinner as the sun was setting. Watching the helicopter head
straight into the glory of gold and apricot to the west, she said, ‘Does
everyone in your family fly their own private helicopter?’ ‘Quite a
few,’ he said calmly. ‘You’ll get used to it.’ It didn’t seem likely.
Trying to hide her stretched nerves with a calm, brisk tone, she said,
‘I’ll go and check on Michael.’ Caelan turned his head and surveyed
her. What was she thinking? It was impossible to tell; her face was
half turned away from him, but for all this interminable day her expression
had been controlled and self-contained, the long, thick
lashes over her almond-shaped eyes successfully hiding her emotions.
Quelling an undisciplined urge to smash through that self-contained
barrier, he said, ‘We’ll both go.’ She stiffened, before saying
colourlessly, ‘Yes, of course.’ At first she’d resisted the idea of hiring
the nanny to accompany them, but he’d insisted. While she’d
chosen her wardrobe at the exclusive showing in the salon, Michael
had been enjoying his stint in the hotel nursery with the friendly
middle-aged woman, and had greeted her this morning with every
appearance of pleasure. It irritated Caelan that he still wasn’t sure
why he’d been so determined that the nanny should come. As they
walked through the house, fragrant with the scent of the sea and the
balsam of feathery kanuka trees, he accepted grimly that each day
they spent together made him more aware of his wife. His wife. A
surge of elemental possessiveness startled him. So damned elusive,
with the face of a sexy faerie woman and her slender, sensuous body,
but he thought he was beginning to discern the lights and shadows of
her personality. She kept her promises, at no matter what cost to herself.
She loved Michael with the fierce, self-sacrificing adoration of
a mother. She’d coped with Lucia and Hunt, and he’d been pleased
by the way she took over the reins of the evening, sliding unconsciously
into the role of hostess. Although he suspected she didn’t
realise it, she had a deep inner confidence that probably came from
that life as the loved only child of two happy parents. And she
couldn’t hide the fact that, although she resented the way he’d dragooned
her into this marriage, she wanted him, he thought with a
fierce, shockingly primitive satisfaction. Michael was sound asleep.
Abby kissed the boy’s satiny cheek and watched as Caelan did the
same. On the way back, she asked something that had been bothering
her. ‘Do Lucia and Hunt know about Michael’s parentage?’ ‘Yes,
of course, but they don’t know about the arrangement we have come
to. They think we are marrying for real,’ he said coolly. Abby stared
at his hard face, the afterglow emphasising lines and planes sculpted
by authority and a formidable will. That primal anticipation stirred
within her, flexing claws. Abby thought of Hunt Radcliffe, whose
shrewd eyes had been backed by his intelligent conversation, and his
wife, carefully not asking any questions. ‘Do you really think they
believe that?’ she asked baldly. ‘I don’t care whether they do or not.’
His voice took on an inflexible edge. ‘I’m sure you’ll agree that the
fewer people who know that you lied to get Michael out of
Palaweyo, the better.’ ‘Yes,’ she admitted bleakly. ‘Does anyone in
your family know the real situation?’ ‘No. And if they have any inkling
that all is not quite as straightforward as it seems, they’ll keep
quiet. We do secrets rather well in our family.’ He dismissed the subject
with a shrug. ‘Don’t worry, Abby.’ It said a lot for the effect he
had on her, she thought warily, that she’d only just realised
something he seemed to have missed. ‘What if the writer you told
me about—the one who’s researching a book about
Palaweyo—finds out?’ ‘I’ll buy him off,’ he said coolly. ‘Yes, you
can curl your lip, but most people have an asking price.’ Some note
in his voice made her look up sharply. Was he implying that she’d
married him for his money? His handsome face gave nothing away,
and the ice-blue eyes were cool and translucent and completely unreadable.
By then they’d arrived back on the terrace. From somewhere
inside came the low sound of music, and a glow in the east
promised a moon. Caelan said abruptly, ‘Would you like to dance?’
‘What?’ But her blood was picking up speed and her limbs felt
weighted with sweet languor. ‘It seems a pity to waste the music and
the night, and the moon.’ He held out his arm, and, although she
knew she was dicing with danger, she placed the tips of her fingers
on it, every sense taut with a feverish, forbidden anticipation. His
eyes gleamed in the gathering darkness, and when she moved into
his embrace he steered her out of the light and into the shadows on
the edge of the terrace, where a massive pohutukawa tree leaned
over the railing. When summer came it would be blood-red with its
strange, tasselled flowers… The sultry, seductive singer’s plaint
wove a smoky veil of love lost and regretted. It hit too close to the
bone. Too wary to relax, alarmed by the way her skin seemed to
have thinned, Abby held herself stiffly. Of course he was a terrific
dancer. Their steps matched perfectly, so she willed herself to relax
and enjoy this rare moment of peace in his arms. Not that the peace
lasted long. Too soon it was replaced by an insidious passion, a slow
fever in the blood that blotted out everything but his presence, his
touch on her hand, the faint, erotic fragrance that was his
alone—male magnetism incarnate. She bent her head so that he
couldn’t see her face, but that brought her forehead too close to his
broad chest, and she had to fight the need to lean against him and let
him take her wherever he wanted to. The music slowed. Turning, he
drew her closer with a strong arm across her back, and the simmering
heat leaped into full blaze when she felt the strength of his thighs
against hers and realised that he was aroused. So was she, she
thought with odd elation. These past few days had honed the forbidden
attraction into mindless need, and if he wanted to take her to bed
tonight she’d go with him, because hunger had eaten away her defences.
The only concession she’d make to pride was not to suggest
it herself, and that was getting harder by the minute. He said quietly
above her head, ‘Relax. The worst is over; tomorrow we’ll sign the
papers and have the first interview with the social worker assigned
to our case. And once we get to Dacia you’ll be fine; Michael will
have little relatives to play with, and Cia and Hunt are familiar faces
to you now.’ Another wedding, more princes and princesses, a life
totally alien to anything she’d ever known. After a shallow breath
Abby said tonelessly, ‘Is that why you asked them here?’ His mouth
curved in an enigmatic smile. ‘To an extent—but I’m also dynastic
enough to want some family at both our weddings.’ She straightened
her shoulders. ‘I’ll make mistakes—I just hope they won’t be glaring
ones.’ ‘If you make mistakes,’ he said coolly, the faint foreign intonation
she’d noticed in his voice intensifying, ‘it will be my fault for
not taking care of you. Don’t worry; my entire family are looking
forward to meeting you, and, after your brilliant impersonation of a
woman in love, Cia will tell them you hold my heart in your hand.
As they’ve mostly succumbed to love, they’ll be delighted to see
someone else caught in its snare.’ His light, mocking tone hurt. And
he was right—love was a snare, a dangerous, intoxicating blend of
need and desire and the urge to give, all wrapped up in seductive
hope and tied with the glorious promise of happiness. If only we’d
had time, she thought, and promptly chided herself for being so stupid.
After all, Caelan had made a sacrifice too; instead of marrying a
woman from his own world, a sophisticated, elegant woman who
knew how to behave and what to say and the right sort of clothes to
wear, he’d tied himself in marriage to a woman he despised. For Michael.
Fighting back a swift, sharp ache of pain, she said brightly, ‘I
like your cousin. She’s very kind.’ ‘She’s a good woman,’ he returned,
easing her a little closer to his lean, strong body. ‘She doesn’t
suffer fools gladly, but she’s met her match in Hunt. Of course he’s
as besotted with her as she is with him, so they’re happy.’ He sounded
amused, as though he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to
love a woman as much as Hunt loved his wife. Abby said, ‘Their
daughter sounds adorable.’ He laughed. ‘She’s a small package of
charm hiding an implacable will. God help the world when she
grows up!’ His arm tightened across her back. The music had sunk
to a smoky, intensely personal whisper, backed by the ageless hush
of the small waves on the beach. Every sense screwed to a pitch of
intensity, Abby thought that she’d never forget these minutes spent
in his arms. The singer’s sultry voice lamenting a lost love, the
subtle scent of salt mingling with the faint male essence that was
Caelan’s alone, the warmth of his hard body blasting through the silk
that caressed her skin—all combined to release the lock she’d kept
on her inhibitions. Tonight, she thought dreamily, closing her eyes
and resting her cheek lightly against the smooth material of his coat,
she’d do what she wanted without thinking of anything but her own
pleasure… And Caelan’s. Strange that after deciding as an adolescent
that she’d wait for the sort of love her parents had before she
committed herself to any man, she should fall for a man with a pirate’s
attitude towards life. Except that they did have things in common;
Michael, for example. She lifted her head and watched a white
star wink into life just above the northern headland, and hang trembling
in the darkening sky. Star white, star bright… The childish
wishing game she’d played with her mother echoed through her
mind. Of course she could be fooling herself, indulging in wishful
thinking, hoping of the impossible. And not even to herself did she
put into words what that impossible hope might be. He said in a
voice pitched so low she felt it reverberate through his strong chest
rather than heard it, ‘Are you tired?’ The anticipation that had been
building caught fire, persuading her into recklessness. ‘A little,’ she
murmured. Barely moving, he swung her around in a slow, tight
circle. The lean hand on her back slid lower, holding her hips against
him. Feverish exaltation soared like sparks through her blood. She
tilted her head, looking up into a dark, lean face. Starshine revealed
narrowed eyes, a keen predatory look that should have terrified her
instead of sending fiery little thrills along every nerve. Then he
smiled, and the heat inside her flared into a divine rashness. ‘Perhaps
we should go to bed,’ he said. She couldn’t speak, but she managed
to nod. Yet he didn’t carry her off; instead, they danced on like lovers
in a dream as his arms came around her, and his head lowered
until their lips touched and their feet stilled. His kiss was a seduction
in itself, his mouth sure and gentle, so skilful that a flash of anger lit
up her mind. She didn’t want this practised, adept love-making; she
wanted the half-angry kisses he’d given her before, because he’d
barely been able to control them… Yet she couldn’t deny him. Heart
to heart, bodies responding to the most elemental communication of
all, they kissed until the perfume and sound of the sea permeated her
emotions. His kisses lulled her with a honeyed enticement that
masked her anger and wooed her into passionate response, so that
when he picked her up and carried her into his bedroom she was
ready for him, her whole body singing with arousal. She didn’t even
look around the room, although she noticed that someone had lit
candles there. Their warm, erratic light flickered across Caelan’s
face, dark, almost stern, its arrogant framework intensely pronounced
as he set her on her feet beside a huge bed. He looked down
into her face and said, ‘You make me drunk with desire.’ The words
seemed torn from him, and were followed by kisses that closed each
eye, more to the corners of her trembling mouth, one to the softly
throbbing hollow in her throat. Her body became a stranger to her,
drugged into heady passion, aching with a craving she’d never experienced
before. She felt his teeth close on an earlobe and shivered
at the dart of desire that pierced her. ‘You do the same to me,’ she
said in a voice she didn’t recognise. Delicious shudders of sensation
arrowed through her, and she could only stare at him as he shrugged
himself out of his coat and shirt. Her mouth dried. He was magnificent,
sleek and olive-tawny in the welcoming light of the candles,
his powerful muscles hinting at his great strength as he said, ‘Hold
up your arms.’ Obediently she did so, and the camisole flowed over
her in a susurration of amber silk, leaving her standing in the lace
bra and briefs, bought, she realised on a sudden flash of insight, for
just this moment. Caelan’s ice-cool eyes flamed the blue of the
strongest heat, and she had to quell an impulse to take an involuntary
step back. ‘You’ve always reminded me of some mythical, dangerous
creature from a perilous land of faerie,’ he said huskily. ‘So
beautiful, lovely enough to steal a man’s courage and wit and sense
from him until all he can think of is losing himself in you.’ She was
shaking her head, her mouth soft and intensely vulnerable, her
green-gold eyes filled with caution. ‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci?’
she said, trying so hard to be sophisticated she sounded hard. ‘I keep
telling you, I’m just an ordinary woman, Caelan.’ His flash of white
teeth revealed a smile that was humourless. ‘Then why do my hands
tremble when I touch you? Look!’ Fascinated, she watched as he
stroked up one arm and the long line of her throat, closing her eyes
when the delicate torture became unbearable. Her breath came
sharply through her lips, and she couldn’t bear this intense, tantalising
temptation any more. Yet she had to. Without thinking she
mimicked him, smoothing over his sleek hide, her skin tingling at
the slight roughness of the pattern of hair as her fingertips explored
him. His heat blasted into her, and when he undid the scrap of material
around her breasts she felt the rapid thud of his heart against her
palms. It gave her courage enough to let her hands slide down to the
top of his trousers, courage enough to lay her cheek against his bare
chest, the sound of his heart in her ear, and say, ‘You’ve got too
many clothes on.’ He laughed deeply. ‘So what do you suggest we
do about it?’ Turning her head slightly, she let her lips touch him.
She smiled, a small, secret smile that lingered when he lifted her
face to his. He said harshly, ‘So much for any chance of a gentle
wooing.’ His mouth closed on hers, and Abby gave herself exultantly,
aware that there would be no turning back. CHAPTER
EIGHT AFTER Abby had wrestled for several seconds with the
fastenings of his trousers, Caelan laughed and covered her hands
with his. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said. Was that a note of satisfaction in his
voice? But he didn’t immediately strip. Instead he lifted his other
hand into her hair, pulling out the clips that held it in place. ‘Amber
silk,’ he murmured, sifting the brilliant sweep of it through his long
fingers. ‘Like a handful of flames, hot and glowing.’ Laughter was a
rough purr in the back of his throat and his eyes had glittered like
ice-blue diamonds beneath thick black lashes. ‘My own personal
heat source…’ She thrilled to the raw note in his deep voice, the
possessive caress of his hand as he cupped her breasts before bending
to kiss each pleading centre, heating her eager body with the
blatant aphrodisiac of his touch. Although she struggled against it,
she couldn’t suppress a delicious shiver at the erotic contrast of his
sleek, tanned body against her paler, more delicate skin. As for the
hot, sensory pull of his ardent, skilful mouth and the light of passion
that had burned in his eyes… Then he lifted his head and started to
undress. Skin flushed and eyes dazed, Abby turned a little away, noting
the wide, low bed, half covered in mosquito netting. The light
coverings had been pushed back. A moment of sanity made her
wonder what on earth she was doing here. Making love with
Caelan—with her husband, she thought with a primal frisson—
would put her in such danger that she should call a halt right
now. Only she didn’t want to. She gasped when he nipped gently at
the exquisitely tender place where her neck met her shoulder. ‘Like
that?’ he murmured, and did it on the other side, sending tormenting
rills of pleasure through her as her skin tightened. ‘Too much,’ she
whispered, but he heard her. ‘Good.’ Again that raw, possessive note
edged his tone. He picked her up and came down onto the bed with
her, his big body fully aroused, gleaming and bronze and overwhelming.
Abby had little experience to base any expectations on,
but she knew what she wanted—to pleasure him as much as he was
pleasuring her, and she could only hope that desire would somehow
compensate for the expertise he so clearly had in this most intimate
of activities. So, cocooned in his warmth, she touched his chest in
shy exploration, her heart rejoicing when that familiar thunder of his
heart deepened. Willingly, eagerly, she followed his lead, and lost
her own way, falling deeper and deeper into a dark wonderland of
the senses until all that mattered was his mouth on her breast, the
fire that burned deep in the pit of her belly, and the sensuous glide of
skin on skin, the heat of his touch and the glitter in his eyes, and her
body’s erotic awakening to his expert tuition. She had no idea she
could feel like this—every nerve alert and expectant, so highly
strung that pleasure was poised precariously on the cusp between
rapture and pain. In the end she clenched her hands onto his sweatdamp
shoulders and gasped incoherently, ‘I can’t—I don’t—Caelan,
please.’ He looked at her with smouldering eyes in a drawn, fiercely
determined face. ‘Yes,’ he said thickly. ‘It’s time.’ Automatically she
closed her eyes as he moved over her, then forced them open. This
was the first time, and she’d make sure she remembered every
second of it. Candlelight gleamed in a warm patina across shoulders
that shut out the rest of the room. Caelan slid his arms beneath her,
lifting her slightly, and his mouth drifted down her breast. Fire
scorched through her as she felt the full power and weight of his
body. She had never, she thought wildly, not even in the hurricane
that killed Gemma, felt so out of control, so helpless as she did now.
The erotic tug of his lips on the rosy centre of her breast banished
the sad memories. Unable to stop herself, she arched up against him,
and he laughed and lifted his head and slowly, steadily, eased his
way into her, his eyes holding hers in a stare that held so many
levels of meaning she couldn’t separate them. He filled her, and still
he pressed on, and miraculously there was room, and with that overwhelming
invasion came extreme pleasure, hot and heady and desperate.
Deep inside her a set of muscles she hadn’t known she had
clamped, holding tight to his long length. He said abruptly, ‘Relax.’
‘I can’t,’ she breathed, shocked and startled by her body’s takeover
of her will and mind. He smiled, a swift feral movement of his beautiful
mouth, and thrust home. Abby cried out, then soared, rocketed,
raced into ecstasy, her whole body convulsing around him as sensations
joined to send her to another universe where nothing but feeling
existed, a transport of ecstasy so intense she thought she might
die of it. Slowly, so slowly she didn’t know when it happened, the
delicious rapture faded into an equally delicious languor. But she
fought it, finally opening her eyes. Caelan was lying beside her, his
expression so controlled he looked like a bronze mask against the
creamy pillows. To her humiliation she couldn’t remember him
moving, but she knew one thing. ‘You didn’t,’ she began, then
closed her eyes in shame. What could she say? What happened?
What are we going to do now? ‘No, I didn’t,’ he said evenly, a slight
note of humour in his voice. ‘It’s not important.’ ‘I thought—’ She
clamped her lips over the incautious words. Embarrassment made
her cringe; she was, she thought miserably, the equivalent of those
men who took their own satisfaction, then rolled over and went to
sleep. ‘Don’t think,’ he said coolly, echoing her thoughts. ‘Go to
sleep now.’ But she couldn’t. Slowly, afraid of a rebuff, she turned
into his arms, and kissed his shoulder, letting her lips linger on his
skin. He tasted of salt and smoke and a faint musk that fanned her
internal fires from a smoulder to an inferno, replacing physical satiation
with eager anticipation. His arms tightened around her and she
felt every muscle in his strong body harden. Emboldened, she followed
her own inclinations and licked the satiny skin against her
lips, savouring the tastes and texture of his skin with unfeigned
pleasure. Shuddering, he said in a rough voice, ‘You must be sore.’
She gave an experimental wriggle. ‘I’ve never felt better,’ she told
him honestly. He laughed and tilted her face, examining it with merciless,
gleaming eyes that set her spine tingling. ‘Sure?’ She
stretched languorously, sliding against him in a shameless, openly
seductive overture. ‘Positive,’ she said in a tone so demure it sounded
smug. ‘Then let’s try again.’ This time it was slow and tantalising;
he took her into realms of physical pleasure she’d never
dreamed of until she sobbed for release, her body a taut, desperate
bow against his hard, demanding one. This time, when at last she
reached the heights they travelled together, tossed by the widening
waves of sensation onto some unknown shore of satiation. Locked in
his arms, she fell headlong into sleep. Michael’s voice woke Abby
with a start. She sat bolt upright in bed, only to slide hurriedly back
under the covers when she realised she was naked. Caelan was gone;
she heard his voice too, and realised that, far from standing in the
doorway, Michael was some distance away, and that Caelan was
with him. On the beach, probably. Colour burned up through her
skin as she slid out of bed. At least she’d have clothes on when she
met Caelan’s ironic gaze. She picked up her pretty silk suit and the
bra and briefs and scurried down the short hallway to the room she’d
dressed in before that short, poignant wedding. A long shower later,
she walked into the wardrobe and examined the clothes there, still
unable to believe that they were all hers. Shopping with Caelan had
been an odd experience. They’d stopped outside an empty salon, and
she’d said, ‘It looks as though they’ve closed.’ ‘For us,’ he said with
a shrug of his magnificent shoulders. Sure enough, the door opened
as soon as he’d rung the bell, and the owner, a very chic woman in
her mid-forties, smiled at Caelan. She closed the door and with a
murmured ‘This way, Mr Bagaton,’ escorted them into a private
room with a fitting room at the other end. Completely at home in
such exotic surroundings, Caelan said, ‘My fiancée wants
clothes—casual ones for the summer.’ The owner nodded, surveying
Abby with a measuring gaze that made her feel as though she were
stripped of clothes. ‘We have a new designer who should suit very
well.’ Striving not to sound rude and abrupt, Abby produced a stiff
smile for him. ‘You might as well go—I’m sure you’ll find this horribly
boring.’ His smile was intimate and incredibly heady; only she
could see the glint of mockery in his crystalline eyes. ‘At the moment
I can think of nothing more interesting than watching you
parade for me.’ Abby heard a stifled sigh from the woman behind,
but pride kept her head high and her face rigid. He was determined
to make sure she bought what he considered a suitable wardrobe.
‘I’ve never paraded before, but I’ll do my best,’ she said. Driven by
recklessness and that disturbing sense of being herded into a trap,
she came out of the fitting room like a model on show, breasts jutting,
hips swaying, flicking her hair carelessly when she turned after
letting her eyes drift over Caelan in a parody of catwalk aloofness.
He lifted an ironic eyebrow, but the blue gleam in his gaze scared
her into a return to common sense. The raw attraction between them
was dangerous enough without her stoking it. Surprisingly he and
she had the same taste in clothes. And he had a good eye for the perfect
accessory. But then, she thought trenchantly, no doubt he’d had
a lot of experience in buying clothes for his various lovers. Had he
really been celibate since they’d met all those years ago? It didn’t
seem possible—and it wasn’t sensible to think about it. Together,
with minimal input from her, he and the forbiddingly discreet salon
owner chose a wardrobe to see her through her sojourn in Dacia.
Common sense muted any protest; Caelan knew what would be acceptable,
and the salon owner certainly knew how to achieve results
that transformed her client from an ordinary New Zealand woman to
the faintly mysterious, exotic wife of a princely tycoon. ‘Cosmetics,’
Caelan said, getting to his feet. A faint smile crossed his face as he
glanced at his watch before surveying Abby’s face. ‘Do you know
what you want?’ ‘Yes, of course.’ He inclined his dark head. ‘Then
I’ll pick you up in an hour.’ He looked at the salon owner. ‘You’ll
deliver?’ ‘Of course,’ she said instantly, dropping a pen in her haste
to take down the address of the apartment. Of course, Abby thought
cynically. With the lure of future sales, all things were possible.
Caelan smiled and thanked her, and both women watched his tall,
lean body move with a prowling, lethal grace out of the room. The
older woman was the first to pull herself together, but a certain glow
in her eyes revealed that the full impact of Caelan’s potent masculinity
wasn’t lost on her. Flushing slightly, she said, ‘I believe there is a
wedding suit to choose. I have found what I think is the perfect one
for you, but of course the decision must be yours.’ But there had
been no decision to make; Abby had fallen in love with it at first
sight. And then the salon owner had said, ‘Forgive me for saying
this, but you need underclothes to wear those clothes as they should
be worn. I’ll get a fitter to bring in a selection for you.’ By now
Abby had no pride left. ‘Thank you.’ ‘And what brand of cosmetics
do you prefer?’ The cheapest brand of generic moisturiser in the supermarket,
Abby thought cynically, but she picked a name at random.
‘An excellent line.’ Determined not to splash out, Abby stuck
to basic underwear, although she allowed herself the sybaritic luxury
of several silk camisoles and matching briefs. And when it came to
cosmetics, the consultant persuaded her to indulge not only in a basic
skin-care regime, but also a slick, gold-tinged lipstick and a seductive,
subtle eyeshadow that turned her eyes to smoky green jewels.
Now, with the flight to Dacia only eight hours away, she was
glad she’d let herself be talked into spending so much of Caelan’s
money. She needed, she thought mordantly, all the help she could
get. So she chose a sundress in smoky shades of green and gold,
only to stare at her shoulders in shock. Theirs had been a long, sinfully
gentle loving, but, even with Caelan tempering his great
strength to her slender body, he had left faint marks on her. Hastily
scrambling into a pair of trousers and a short-sleeved cotton shirt,
she remembered biting his shoulder in a moment of ecstasy and
thought with an odd twist of sensation that she’d branded him too.
For better or for worse, they were married. This, she thought as she
closed the door behind herself, is going to be as good as it gets. The
sex was a bonus; for her it had been frighteningly wonderful, but
perhaps for Caelan it was simply more of the same. It wasn’t true
happiness, but it had to be enough. Deliberately relaxing her facial
muscles, she went out into the first day of her marriage. It turned out
to be so busy that after the first few moments she didn’t have time to
dwell on the future. Shortly before lunch they left in the helicopter
for Auckland, and that afternoon all three Bagatons met the caseworker
assigned to the adoption process. Later in the day, when the
private jet had reached cruising height, Abby said, ‘What did you
think of her?’ ‘Damned difficult to fool,’ Caelan returned. ‘And determined
to make sure that Michael’s rights are safeguarded.’ But for
all her professionalism, the woman hadn’t been immune to Caelan’s
cool masculinity. Was anyone? Abby wondered, smiling down at
Michael’s excited face. No woman, anyway. The caseworker noted
that Michael seemed perfectly happy with both parents, but presumably
she’d been looking for signs that would warn her all wasn’t as it
seemed in their picture-perfect family. She yawned, a brief memory
of making love to Caelan lighting treacherous embers in the pit of
her stomach. Her body ached with a feverish languor that sapped her
energy and summoned more vivid images of them together. She
quelled it firmly. Ahead of them lay a long flight. Although she’d
made sure that the plane had everything necessary to keep Michael
happy, she didn’t fool herself that it would be easy. In the end
though, the journey went with remarkable ease. Keeping a lid on Michael’s
high spirits hadn’t been nearly so difficult with Caelan as
back-up. Abby looked down at Dacia, an emerald in an enamelled
blue sea, and wondered whether she was dreaming. Only a week ago
she’d been tense and edgy, bent on escaping from Nukuroa to a safer
haven, yet aware that her life would be spent looking over her
shoulder. And worrying whether by fulfilling Gemma’s wishes she
was depriving Michael of much that was important to him. Now,
half a world away, ears popping as the jet eased itself towards the
runway, she was astonished at how much had changed in those short
days. A movement beside her brought her out of her reverie. ‘Abby,
my ears hurt,’ Michael wailed. ‘Swallow hard,’ she told him. ‘Have
you finished your toffee? You could give a big yawn and see if that
makes your ear feel better.’ After a prodigious gape, he screwed up
his face and said earnestly, ‘I think another toffee would make it better.’
From the corner of her eye Abby caught a flash of white as
Caelan smiled. Her heart jumped in her chest. No, she wasn’t going
to think of how her attitude had changed since he’d walked into her
hall at Nukuroa. Instead, she’d remember how unfailingly helpful
he’d been during the long, often tedious flight. It warmed her heart
to see the slow blossoming of his relationship with Michael. He
might not know much about children, but his tactics were working;
Michael loved being treated as an equal. Once she’d looked up from
her book to see them playing chess, both absorbed and intent as
Caelan showed his nephew the moves. She watched carefully, relaxing
when she realised that Michael was thoroughly enjoying himself.
Later, when he was asleep, she said, ‘Thank you for entertaining
him. I’d never have thought of playing chess with him.’ ‘It’s a war
game,’ he said laconically, ‘and most young boys enjoy it. My father
taught me. Do you play?’ ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘My mother adored it, and
she was a killer. I used to call her Attila the Hun.’ He looked a little
startled at that. On a gleam of amusement she said, ‘Enjoyment of
tactical games isn’t confined to the male sex, you know.’ ‘I’d like to
have met your mother.’ But he didn’t look convinced and Abby
wondered whether he thought such pursuits were unfeminine. She
said, ‘Tell me something about your family in Dacia. I mean, I know
of your cousin the prince, because his wife is a New Zealander and
their wedding got huge publicity at home. And of course I know
Princess Lucia a little. But there’s another cousin, Prince Guy—the
computer man, who turns up in newspapers now and then.’ ‘He’s
married to Lauren, a charming Englishwoman.’ She said wistfully, ‘I
envy you these cousins. As far as I know, I don’t have any relatives.’
‘The word in Dacian has a much wider meaning than in English. We
are all descended from a ruling prince—not the same one.’ Curiously
she asked, ‘So how did a Dacian prince end up a New Zealand
citizen?’ ‘I have dual citizenship. My father came out to New Zealand
and I grew up there.’ He’d emigrated because his second muchyounger
wife had developed a crush on another man; instead of seeing
her emotional unfaithfulness as an indication of her character,
Caelan thought cynically, his father had blamed her lover. And the
move hadn’t worked. His stepmother had hated New Zealand, calling
it a provincial little country on the edge of nowhere. But he’d
learned to love it, and his dual nationality was a natural expression
of his feelings. He leaned back in the seat and surveyed her with narrowed
eyes. ‘You’re scared.’ ‘Nervous,’ she corrected smartly. And
still not convinced she’d done the right thing. There was a distance
about her that piqued his hunter’s instincts. ‘Stop worrying. You
liked Cia and Hunt, didn’t you?’ ‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘Then you’ll
like the rest of my family; they’re just like any other.’ Three weeks
later she understood what he meant. And how utterly wrong he’d
been. Although the welcome from the prince and princess had
warmed and comforted her, no other family she knew called a huge
pile of honey-coloured stone the Little Palace, because the other one
on the island, the Old Palace, was twice its size and built on the
foundations of a Roman fortress. No New Zealand family wore
priceless jewels with such insouciance, or partied in immense salons
lined with panelling and mirrors, fragrant with exquisite flowers and
lit by candelabra in a timeless, romantic atmosphere of tradition and
privilege. No other New Zealand family drove to the accompaniment
of smiles and toots and waves from every other road user. And
none was related to every European royal family, those still in their
thrones and those adjusting to lives as exiles. She had been eased
skilfully into Dacian social life, shocked when she realised that her
name was appearing more and more in the Court Circular sent to the
media by the royal household. Caelan had kept his word. At every
public function he was beside her, guiding her safely through parties
and sailing trips, family picnics and the annual garden party, a glittering
opera première for charity, the opening of an art exhibition in
the Old Palace down by the harbour, dinners and receptions that
ranged from formal to pleasantly casual. Yet not the Caelan she’d
known in New Zealand. Like her, he was playing a part, and perhaps
only she could tell that whatever closeness had been forged by their
wedding night had gone. He wasn’t even staying in the palace; apparently
he owned a house on the southern coast, and that was where
he was living. Tonight was their engagement ball; the official photographs
taken the day after their arrival had been released with the
announcement of their engagement that afternoon. Bells had rung
across Dacia the moment the news was out, and fireworks were
already flowering in the soft Mediterranean dusk. Tomorrow there
would be an interview with the only two journalists that Caelan had
decided would be allowed near them. And now, clad in a sensuous
dress the exact green of her eyes, she watched the maid pin back her
hair with five emerald stars while her stomach clamped tight in apprehension,
because the extended family had arrived, and tonight she
was officially on show. Her engagement ring, a glorious emerald
flanked by two diamonds, glittered like another star on her hand.
Someone knocked on the door and the maid made an excuse and left
the room. Frozen with nervousness, Abby took several deep,
grounding breaths, but when she recognised Alexa’s voice she relaxed
a little. Her hostess, Prince Luka’s wife, was a lovely person;
she’d been a staunch support, helping Abby tactfully through the intricacies
of protocol and family dynamics. The maid appeared in the
door. ‘Ma’am, the princess would like to see you.’ Abby got to her
feet and dragged in another breath. ‘Of course,’ she said, and walked
out into the bedroom. The princess was radiant in satin, its tawny
hue a contrast to the magnificent Dacian emeralds in her necklace
and tiara. ‘Oh, Abby,’ she said, and came towards her with a smile.
‘You look glorious! Maria’s done a brilliant job with your hair.’ The
maid bobbed a little curtsey and withdrew. ‘And your emeralds pick
up the green in your eyes. How are you feeling?’ ‘Terrified.’ Abby
didn’t mind telling her; although Alexa’s grandfather had been the
ruling prince of Illyria, another Mediterranean princedom, his love
affair with her grandmother had finished before he’d known of her
pregnancy, so Alexa had grown up in New Zealand with no idea of
her heritage. Abby clung to the knowledge that if the princess could
adjust to this whole splendid, glamorous ambience, so could she. Except
that the princess knew she was loved; although she and her husband
didn’t flaunt their feelings they ran deep and true, a powerful
current between them that glorified their lives. For the first time in
her life Abby understood envy. The princess laughed. ‘I know, believe
me, the family en masse can look intimidating, but they’re
lovely people. Well, most of them.’ ‘How on earth can you fill a
ballroom with relatives? Somehow I got the idea from Caelan that
there weren’t all that many.’ ‘Ah, he conveniently forgot to mention
that even if the link is five hundred years back the family connection
is kept.’ ‘He did indeed,’ Abby said colourlessly. Apart from a few
rare moments, she hadn’t been alone with Caelan since they’d arrived.
When they weren’t socialising he and Prince Luka had been
secluded in various meetings while she and the rest of the royal family
took the first tentative footsteps towards friendship. Michael had
been a great help there. The palace nursery was noisy with children—
the two hearty boys who lived there and Princess Lucia’s
charming, strong-minded little daughter had welcomed Michael with
enthusiasm and interest. All asleep now, tucked up after a glorious
afternoon spent at a secluded bay surrounded by pine and olive trees.
Abby confessed, ‘I’m scared of making Caelan look an idiot by forgetting
who’s who, or mispronouncing their names.’ ‘You couldn’t
make Caelan look an idiot however hard you tried,’ Alexa said affectionately.
‘He’s idiot-proof. All the Bagaton men are. And remember,
the family is quite accustomed to the Bagatons choosing
the people they love and marry! Luka’s poor parents were the last to
be forced into a dynastic marriage, and he vowed that neither he nor
anyone else in his family would have to do that.’ But that was exactly
what Caelan was facing—a marriage of convenience established
to safeguard his sister’s son. Perhaps the princess had caught
a flash of Abby’s misery. She said comfortingly, ‘Caelan will look
after you. If you don’t already know it, he’s an intensely protective
man.’ She gave a quick, far from regal, grin. ‘And a possessive
one—it’s rather fun for all of us to see how carefully he watches
over you! Now, come. And enjoy yourself tonight!’ CHAPTER
NINE THE last thing Abby expected from her own engagement ball
was enjoyment, but it happened, mostly, she realised with an odd
pang of fear, because Caelan was always there, supportive and reassuring
and intensely compelling. So during the first waltz, with
everyone crowded around and clapping, she let herself relax against
his lean, hard strength and gave herself over to the music, a Viennese
tune she’d never thought to dance to with the man she resented
and wanted in equal measure. He murmured, ‘I hear our son swam a
whole ten metres by himself this afternoon.’ Startled, she looked up,
and he smiled. Heart thumping, she said, ‘He did, and you should
have seen his face when he realised he’d done it! You’ve never referred
to him as your son before.’ ‘From now on he’s our son. I
agree that he should know who his birth parents are, but he’s lucky
enough to have two sets.’ And before she could reply to that, he
went on, ‘You look radiant. Every inch a princess.’ Somehow the
raw edge to his voice gave life to his practised compliment; when he
spoke like that, she foolishly wanted to believe that none of it was
deliberate, that he really meant each word. ‘I—thank you. So do
you,’ she returned automatically, then flushed. ‘Look like a prince, I
mean. Champagne must have addled my brain.’ ‘One glass—and
barely touched at that—shouldn’t do that,’ he responded on a dry,
amused note. Somehow she had to come to some accommodation
with her unruly emotions, she thought desperately. They could do
this, make a happy family for the child she loved; she mustn’t let her
feelings stand in the way of Michael’s security. That was the whole
reason for this glittering, elaborate farce. Caelan was declaring to his
family and the world that he valued her enough to make her his wife.
The fact that it was based on a lie—that if it hadn’t been for Michael
there would have been no wedding, no future, no happy family—
was their secret. But she’d noticed a difference in him the moment
they’d set foot on Dacia. Outwardly he’d been everything a
woman would want in a lover—but instead of the forthright, formidable
man she’d dealt with honestly in New Zealand, he’d retreated
behind an impenetrable façade. In a week’s time they’d be married
according to Dacia’s laws. They’d spend four days alone in a villa
on the south coast of Dacia, then fly back to New Zealand. And then
what? A life where superb sex and money replaced any communion
of spirit and mind? A fierce pang of longing, of despair, ached
through her. Defiantly she banished it. All right, so she’d always
hoped for a marriage like her parents’, but she was the one who’d
made it impossible; her actions had brought Caelan to hunt her down
like some dark nemesis. And even knowing what she did now, she
still couldn’t work out whether she’d change a thing. ‘Smile,’
Caelan commanded, the word flicking her like a whip. She looked
up into a dark, absorbed face, into eyes that gleamed with hard
mockery. ‘Smile,’ he said again, and lifted her hand to his mouth.
An anguished pleasure shot through her, setting her blood coursing,
her thoughts tumbling endlessly. She was saved from melting by the
glint of satisfaction in his gaze; he knew that he had only to touch
her to let loose that bewildering passion. Caelan wondered exactly
what was going on in the brain behind those great, tilted eyes, shielded
from his scrutiny by the heavy curtain of her lashes. Then, as he
kissed her hand, defiance smouldered in their depths and she curved
her hand against his mouth before moving it to his cheek, letting her
fingertips linger as though she couldn’t bear to break the contact.
Her smile, mysterious and a little taunting, made promises. Every
muscle in his body tightened. Without exception his mistresses had
been experienced women, skilled in the arts of love, but none of
them had been able to stir his blood like Abby. ‘Why?’ she breathed,
and smiled, a slow, heady movement of her lush mouth. Not only did
she look like some mysterious woman out of myth, but she possessed
a subtle sexuality that drew him as inexorably as though
she’d put a spell on him. He despised himself for that lack of selfcontrol,
so his voice was harsh when he said, ‘We’re meant to be in
love.’ Abby barely heard the words, but her body sprang to life at
the rough note of hunger in it. The rest of the evening passed like a
dream, a whirl of good wishes and laughter and music, of colour and
glitter and the perfume of flowers. And of Caelan, always there,
coolly protective, letting that controlled sexual response stand in for
the love everyone took for granted. In the small hours of the morning
they drove back through the scented night to the palace, where
he kissed her hand in a formal salute and left. Exhausted, she went
up to her bedroom. The maid stood up as she came in. Summoning a
smile, Abby said, ‘I thought I told you not to wait up.’ The middleaged
woman said serenely, ‘We Dacians are independent. We do
what we want to, and I want to help you. Prince Caelan is much
loved here, and it is a privilege to tend to his bride.’ They were all so
kind, while she and Caelan were lying to them. Did the end ever justify
the means? It had to—Michael’s welfare was more important
than any private emotions she and Caelan had to endure. Abby
crawled into bed, only to lie awake for hours. Her resolution never
to let herself soften towards him was being sorely tested. Oh, she
could cope with the fierce, wildfire passion that flared between
them, but this reluctant appreciation was dangerous. It mined away
at her independence. She’d been safer, her integrity less in jeopardy,
when they’d been at daggers drawn. ‘It’s a matter of policy for him,’
she said out loud, listening to the quiet sounds of a Mediterranean
night. As well as convincing the world—and the New Zealand social
welfare system—that they were in love, Caelan would appreciate
that a complaisant wife was much easier to live with than one who
held aloof. And her defiant attitude had been a mistake; his whole
career proclaimed that he enjoyed a challenge. It would give him
cynical satisfaction to turn her lovesick like his other mistresses. So
she wouldn’t let it happen. Eventually sleep claimed her, but only to
inflict dreams on her, in which she ran endlessly from some hideous,
terrifying being, only to force herself to turn and see that it was
Caelan. And she didn’t have to search far to find a meaning to that!
Once again she was being forced in a direction she didn’t want to
go, and the resentment she’d used to defend herself seemed a weak,
futile emotion. Telling herself that his charm and wit and thoughtfulness
were all false didn’t help; each day that passed she felt the
ground beneath her feet become more and more shaky. Over the next
week the tempo picked up. The wedding was to be held in a chapel
at the Old Palace—‘To give the people a chance to see you both,’
Alexa said cheerfully. ‘Dacians adore weddings.’ She gave Abby a
glance. ‘All well?’ ‘Fine, thank you,’ Abby said automatically, and
summoned a smile. On an impulse she asked, ‘How do you cope?
You were brought up like me—ordinary. And so was Lauren, and
Princess Ianthe of Illyria—another New Zealander. How on earth do
you all deal with living in the public eye?’ They had retired to Alexa’s
private sitting room after a reception for local dignitaries. Alexa
put her teacup and saucer down and said thoughtfully, ‘Ianthe
and I fell in love with men who made it perfectly clear that they
came with a country attached. We had to choose whether or not to
accept that.’ Ah, there was the source of her anguish in a nutshell.
They had had a choice; Abby had none. But in spite of the questioning
note in the princess’s final sentence she couldn’t admit that to
this charming, warm woman. Infusing her voice with a confidence
she was far from feeling, she said, ‘I’ll get used to it. And at home
it’s not so—so different. We lead a much less structured life there.’
‘From what Caelan said, you’ll be travelling with him, at least until
Michael goes to school. And there will always be formal occasions—
which you seem to enjoy. You certainly don’t show any sign
of nerves.’ ‘Because Caelan’s always there,’ Abby said on a wry
note. ‘Of course he is. He wants you to be happy.’ Alexa leaned forward.
‘I think you’re worrying unnecessarily. You have lovely manners,
and it’s only a matter of time before you become completely
confident.’ ‘Actually,’ Abby confided, ‘everyone’s been so nice that
I’m not paranoid about that now. What really worries me is the
thought of the media.’ The princess nodded, her face bleak. ‘The
wretched paparazzi! Only a couple of weeks ago Luka had one
thrown off the island—he’d taken photos of our children.’ With a
shiver, Abby muttered, ‘I wish Caelan were just an ordinary man.’
‘No, you don’t,’ Alexa said firmly. ‘If you’d wanted an ordinary
man you’d have fallen in love with one! As for the hounds of the
press—yes, they’re a nuisance and so is the constant attention, but
love makes it all worthwhile.’ Uncomfortably Abby nodded. ‘Yes,’
she said simply, knowing that this was true, ‘love makes anything
worthwhile.’ But she wouldn’t let herself love Caelan. She didn’t
dare. The princess held her eyes for a few tense seconds, then gave a
smile. ‘Cling to that,’ she advised. ‘It does help. And remember that
you’re a New Zealander—infinitely adaptable!’ Abby kept those last
words in her mind during the tumultuous week before the wedding,
holding them close like a mantra as she walked up the aisle towards
Caelan, magnificent in formal, superbly cut clothes, Prince Luka beside
him. For this wedding she wore a classically cut dress in cream
silk that had been made by a Dacian couturier with magic in her fingers.
The emerald stars held her veil in place above hair plaited in a
formal French pleat at the nape of her neck. Behind her walked Michael
and the royal children, the boys solemn in page-boys’ satins,
the two little Illyrian princesses in soft, summery clothes with
flowers in their hair. Hunt Radcliffe gave her away. Halfway up the
aisle he murmured, ‘How many nannies have you got posted around
this chapel?’ ‘One for each child,’ she whispered as the triumphal
chorus swelled about her. He said, ‘With whips, I hope.’ So she was
smiling when she reached the man who waited for her in front of the
altar, his blue eyes hooded and gleaming beneath black lashes, his
handsome face a bronze mask in the light of the candles. Afterwards
Abby couldn’t remember much about the service beyond Caelan’s
deep tone as he made his vows, and the whisper and sigh of silk and
satin as the congregation rose to greet them when they came back
down the aisle. Then the bells rang out across the city, mingling with
the cheers of the Dacian crowds, and in the open carriage behind
flower-decked white horses Caelan’s hand closed around hers, warm
and strong and firm as they drove back to the reception. That and the
wedding feast passed in a blur too, but at last it was over and she
was kissing Michael goodbye, saying, ‘We’ll be back in four more
sleeps, darling. Be good while we’re gone, won’t you, and have fun
in the pool.’ He beamed at her. ‘Uncle Caelan says I can go out on
the boat with him when we get home.’ ‘That will be lovely.’ She
gave him a quick, hard hug and straightened. This was the first time
they’d been separated, and she hated leaving him. ‘But only if you
keep practising that swimming,’ Caelan said. He stooped and picked
Michael up. ‘Be good,’ he said, and kissed his cheek. Michael
hugged him fiercely, clinging when Caelan went to put him down.
He said in an unhappy little voice, ‘I want to come with you.’ Abby
hesitated, but before she had time to answer, Caelan said, ‘You told
your cousins you’d stay with them. A promise is a promise, Michael.’
His face crumpled, but he swallowed manfully, eyes wide
and gathering tears. ‘We won’t be away long,’ Abby said, heart contracting.
Caelan relinquished him into the care of his special nursemaid
and said, ‘We’ll bring you a present when we come back.’ He
nodded and Caelan took Abby’s arm and steered her away, saying
pleasantly, ‘Don’t look so tragic. People will wonder if we’ve had
our first quarrel.’ ‘Little do they know,’ she said, but her voice
wobbled. ‘He’ll be fine. Would you like to bring his nursemaid back
to New Zealand with us?’ She stared at him. ‘Why a Dacian?’ He
shrugged. ‘Because he likes her. And so that she could teach him
Dacian and Italian. I’ve checked Ilana’s credentials—she’s been
trained in an excellent school, and, yes, she’d like to travel.’ Official
goodbyes all said, they were on the way to the helicopter pad. Abby
felt a chill at the thought of another woman in Michael’s life, then
chided herself. It was stupid to be jealous; soon he’d be going to
school, and the words ‘my teacher says’ would ring in her ears with
all the authority of holy writ! As for the deeper, more shameful
fear—Caelan had married her; he wouldn’t be scheming to replace
her with a nanny so that he could divorce her! A glance at his face
wasn’t exactly reassuring. Hard and forceful, it was the face of a
man who, as Lucia had said, knew what he wanted and was utterly
sure that he’d get it. What have I done? she thought, on a swift kick
of panic. This complex, tough, clever man is my husband! She said,
‘It’s important for him to speak Dacian, isn’t it?’ Caelan glanced at
her. ‘It’s a common bond in the family,’ he said after a moment. ‘I’d
like my children to be fluent in it.’ ‘Your children?’ It emerged in an
astounded squeak, but inside her some renegade emotion melted a
hard knot of resentment. Caelan’s brows lifted. ‘Our children,’ he
amended smoothly. And then they were ambushed by a laughing
crowd of wedding guests, and escorted to the chopper pad amid a
hail of sugar almonds and flowers. Once in the helicopter Abby
picked rose petals off her skirt and thought of Caelan’s smooth assumption
that they’d be having other children. Over the past weeks
on Dacia she’d managed to push the memory of her wedding night
in New Zealand to the back of her mind. Except late at night, she
conceded. And in her dreams… But clearly he meant it to be a full
marriage in every way. Well, why not? the cynical part of her mind
asked unanswerably. He was a virile man with a great appetite for
sex, and he’d promised faithfulness. Naturally he’d want to make
love to the woman he’d forced into marriage. And she, she knew
with a painful twist of the heart, would enjoy it with rapture tinctured
with bitterness. She recalled various women at the wedding—
titled, elegant, exquisite, who navigated their way through society
with a skill that came from being born to it. She’d noticed an
occasional glance at her, slightly bewildered, even pitying; they still
made her cringe. Caelan could have married any one of the flock of
princezas, marquesas, countesses and gräfins who’d decorated the
occasion so suitably. Yes, Alexa and Ianthe had made lives for themselves
in this exclusive social milieu. But they had talents—Princess
Ianthe of Illyria was a brilliant scientist, her work on the fresh-water
dolphins of Illyria world-famous. Alexa was a superbly creative
photographer. Of the other wives in the Dacian royal family, Princess
Lucia was a Bagaton by birth, and Lauren, the exquisite Englishwoman
married to Prince Guy, had carved her way through the
financial world and now ran a charity she’d set up to help children in
the third world achieve education. And, that coolly logical part of
her prompted, they love their husbands and they know their husbands
love them. It was simple as that. She’d always be the interloper
with no glittering talent to offer, unloved and unloving; the
best she could hope for was to settle into some sort of affection as
the years went by and she became the mother of Caelan’s children.
A wave of intense dejection shocked her. Summoning pride to her
aid, she fought it grimly. At least this way she kept her self-respect.
How humiliating it would be to have been like his previous mistresses
and let herself fall in love with him, yearning pitiably for his
love in return! She wouldn’t let it happen. But neither self-respect
nor pride banished the lingering aftermath of pain. Shocking her
with its unexpectedness, strong tanned fingers closed over hers.
Caelan leaned towards her and said, ‘He’ll be all right. He’s having
the time of his life with the other children, and Alexa has promised
to tuck him up each night.’ She nodded, not daring to look at him in
case he realised that she hadn’t been worrying about Michael. The
helicopter swooped low over a pine forest, and Caelan touched her
shoulder and pointed. ‘The villa. It’s close enough so that if he gets
too upset, we can be back in less than an hour.’ Don’t be so thoughtful!
she commanded silently, turning her head to stare through the
window. His consideration undermined the defences she was struggling
to keep intact. Perched on a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean,
the honeymoon villa gleamed white in the rapidly fading
daylight. Abby made out a tennis court, a swimming pool still brilliantly
blue, colonnades that would shade the walls against the midday
heat, and enclosed courtyards where the silver gleam of water hinted
at the music of fountains and rills. The sombre darkness of a pine
forest crowded against an ancient wall on the landward side, and
between them and the sea gardens stretched out, shadowy and inviting,
with splashes of bold colour. A path led from the landing pad
through the pines. As they walked through the scented shade towards
the mansion, Abby drew in a long breath. ‘It’s beautiful.’ ‘It
began life as a fortress built by one of my more piratical ancestors to
control the seaway,’ Caelan told her drily. ‘Whenever a sail was
sighted ships would set off from the harbour and demand a toll,
backed up by guns from the fortress. Everyone made a nice living
for a couple of centuries.’ Fascinating facts that only served to underline
the huge difference in their worlds. ‘What happened?’ ‘Oh,
things changed,’ he said, not hiding the irony in his voice. ‘Robber
princes stopped being fashionable, so the then prince, a very practical
man, set his mind to more respectable ways of earning a living.’
‘What about the villagers?’ What did he plan for tonight? Did he expect
to take her to bed? Heated anticipation roiled endlessly inside
her, inextricably mingling with fear and tension. He grinned. ‘Trust
you to worry about the villagers. They turned to fishing and tourism.
Less exciting, but just as profitable in the long term.’ Abby tried to
squelch a feverish thrill by reminding herself that he’d made no attempt
to be alone with her during the past month; every kiss had
been formal, every glance in public had been measured, calculated
to convince anyone who watched them that they were truly in love.
Instead of wondering if they’d spend the night together, she should
be refusing to consider making love—sex, she corrected herself
bleakly. Passionate it might be—would be—but it would also be a
soulless coupling, one of convenience; each cynically making use of
the other’s body for loveless pleasure. The scent of the pines floated
around them, clean and crisp, underlain with that particular fragrance
she’d always remember when she thought of Dacia—a soft,
fresh commingling of salt and lavender and flowers, sweet, earthy
and intensely evocative. ‘Welcome to our Dacian home,’ Caelan said
outside the huge panelled door that looked as though it had survived
from the original fortress. He picked her up, ignoring her shocked
exclamation, and strode into the cool, candle-lit interior. Heart jolting
in forbidden expectation, she said unevenly, ‘I didn’t realise that
carrying a bride over the threshold was a tradition in Dacia.’ He
stopped and looked down at her, pale eyes glinting in his dark face.
‘I make my own traditions,’ he drawled, and bent his head and took
her startled mouth in a frankly sensual kiss that told her exactly what
he planned to do for the rest of the night. And she, poor fool that she
was, craved it just as much as he did. ‘I’ve been wanting to do that
for weeks,’ he said, letting her slide down his body as he set her on
her feet again. He touched her lips with a lean forefinger, the possessive
light in his eyes still very pronounced, then said calmly,
‘Come out and look at the view. By now there should be enough of a
moon to set it off.’ With his scent in her nostrils and her heart jumping
nervously, she was ushered through the villa, a magnificent
building furnished in what she’d come to label the Dacian style—a
skilful, serene combination of antiques and modern pieces, set off
with flowers and stunning art. It reminded her of the apartment in
Auckland. He took her out onto a terrace, wide and shaded in part by
a pergola covered in vines. Somewhere she could hear a Spanish
guitar; it had been her mother’s favourite instrument, and difficult
tears stung her eyes as the mellow, oddly oriental timbre fell seductively
on the night air. Silently Abby walked across to the edge, and
stopped, gasping; the villa seemed to be floating, with nothing but
shimmering sea below and a moon as ripe and golden as an orange
queening it over the sky. ‘I think we should have a glass of champagne.’
Caelan walked lithely over to a table where a bottle in a silver
ice bucket waited. He poured two glasses, and brought them
across to her, handing her one. ‘To the future,’ he said. Thinly, her
words falling into the quiet air, she repeated the words, and drank
with him, taking the opportunity to move a few steps away on the
pretext of looking out at the view. He glanced down at her, his hard
face challenging. ‘What are you thinking?’ Her face clamped,
thoughts and emotions locked behind a proud, sinfully sexy mask as
she set the champagne flute onto a side table with a flick of her long,
elegant fingers. His skin tightened when he remembered the erotic
play of her hands over his body, the way she’d stroked him as
though she adored the feel of him and the taste of him in her
mouth… Desire blasted through him like a neutron bomb, so powerful
he had to turn slightly to hide the betrayal of his body. Abby said
remotely, ‘That this is an outrageously beautiful place with a fantastic
view. How much time do you spend here?’ He swung around to
meet her flat, empty gaze. She was as stubborn as he’d often been
accused of being; tough-minded and determined not to give an inch.
Somewhere, a rather too-literal fate must be killing itself with mocking
laughter, he thought cynically. Several times his conscience had
made him break off a relationship because his current lover had fancied
herself in love with him. He’d refused to use them like that.
Now the woman he’d married flatly refused to do so. Gemma would
have said that it served him right. His brows rose, but his voice was
level, a lazy note of amusement more obvious when he returned, ‘I
come here as often as I can—usually three to four times a year.’ His
voice changed. ‘Do you know what’s really outrageous about this
whole situation? It’s outrageous that every time I look at you I want
you.’ Her breath locked in her throat and her heart contracted into a
hard ball in her chest. Torn by longing, she knew that love was the
only sensible reason for taking that final step into surrender—and
Caelan didn’t love her. He would never love her. But you don’t love
him, some treacherous part of her murmured beguilingly, so that
makes it fair enough to both of you. No lies, no false hopes. She
winced. ‘It’s not enough,’ she said stonily. His mouth hardening into
a line she recognised, he came towards her. ‘It’s all we’ve got,
Abby.’ ‘No,’ she blurted, panicked into retreating behind an elegant
wrought-iron chair—a dead give-away to the emotions that were
tearing at her. All her pragmatism about their marriage, their future,
was revealed as shoddy rationalisation, based on a cowardly desire
for sex without commitment. She had promised herself to this man,
to a future together, and that involved sex, so why the virginal flutterings
and fears? Caelan said impatiently, ‘No? So you admit it’s
not all we’ve got.’ She chose words carefully, infusing each one with
sombre conviction. ‘I meant no, I refuse to let you bulldoze me into
something I’m not ready for.’ But one look at his face, cold and brutally
determined, warned her she wasn’t getting through to him.
‘You were ready for it a month ago.’ Her instinct for self-defence,
backed by a primitive fear, prompted her next defiant statement. ‘I
know. But sex is not enough to base a relationship on.’ ‘Do you want
more than sex?’ he asked, eyes glinting and keen. Warning bells
clanged. She’d known when she married him that she was taking a
huge risk. After all, what did an ordinary woman have in common
with a man descended from a line of autocratic princes? A man
who’d been born rich, and built himself an even greater empire in
the cut-throat world of international finance? Nothing, she thought
bleakly. But for Michael’s sake she’d been forced to accept the challenge.
Amazingly the resentment that had burned so brightly now
flickered. After a deep breath she said quietly, ‘I—I don’t know
what I want. To be honest, I think.’ ‘I’ve been honest,’ he said impatiently.
‘You’ve known right from the start that I want you. Are you
going to cower behind that chair all night? Grant me a little control;
I don’t intend to leap on you.’ ‘I’m tired.’ Stung and shaken, she
turned away. She’d taken two steps when his hand on her shoulder
froze her. ‘Running away isn’t going to help. We need to come to a
decision.’ His voice was cold and authoritative, for all the world as
though she were a junior executive who’d admitted a mistake. Abby
swung around to confront him, eyes blazing green. ‘When you say
we, you mean that you’ll make any decision,’ she said, using contempt
to cut the moment short. She was too vulnerable, every sense
heightened, every nerve quivering. ‘You can do that on your own.
Let me go.’ The pupils in his pale eyes expanded until they were
night-dark, surrounded by a thin circle of ice-blue. Her breath
faltered, and she had to swallow to moisten her suddenly dry mouth.
Get out of here, the last remnant of common sense warned. Run!
Caelan caught her flailing hand and lifted it to his mouth. Holding
her startled gaze with his, he kissed the back. The heat of his mouth
against her skin sent signals to every pleasure point in her body,
curling her fingers in tormented need as she fought the swift expansion
of hunger, the tightness in her breasts and their sensitive tips.
‘Caelan, this isn’t the way—’ Pulses jerking, she tried to wrench
free, but he turned her hand over, and this time, instead of a brief
brush of his lips against the skin, he bit the mount of Venus under
her thumb, his teeth lightly closing on the fine, too-receptive skin.
Lightning stabs of sensation rioted through her, setting her afire.
And then he let her go. ‘There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?’ His beautiful
mouth curved in cold irony as he stepped back so she could
pass him. Seared by angry chagrin, she stiffened her shoulders and
spine and stepped away. ‘This is not going to work,’ she snapped, ‘if
you keep mauling me all the time.’ He gave a sudden crack of mirthless
laughter. ‘You’ve led a very sheltered life if you thought that
that was mauling,’ he said cruelly. ‘Perhaps I should show you the
difference.’ ‘No!’ But it was too late. Caelan spun her round, deftly
and ruthlessly blocking her blows before they reached his solar plexus.
His fingers closed around each hand, pushing them behind her
back while his head came down and he kissed her with a hard, driving
urgency that sliced through her pathetic defences like a sword
through satin. Abby’s wild response shocked her into a momentary
stillness, just long enough for primeval emotions to shut down her
resistance. Her mouth softened and opened under his, the magic of
his kiss summoning an untamed heat that melted her into passionate
surrender. Desperate, she tried to bring up her knee, only to be foiled
by Caelan’s strength. He was aroused—as aroused as she was. And
although she was sure he’d planned to teach her a lesson, she felt the
abrupt change in him when the kiss transmuted to a potent assault on
every sense she owned. A shameless, risky delight purred through
her; she angled herself into his body and lifted onto her toes the better
to reach his mouth. Caelan smiled against her lips and let her
hands go, pulling her even closer against his powerful body, his arms
tightening across her back. Sensuous anticipation sizzled like wildfire
across her nerve ends, pierced every cell, throbbed deliciously
through her breasts as she instinctively pressed against him, silently
demanding satisfaction for the craving that possessed her. Eyes
gleaming fire and ice, he lifted his head. Abby’s heart blocked her
throat when she saw the stain of colour across his stark cheekbones
and the way his face had clamped into a drawn, predatory focus. On
her, she thought, thrilled even as she realised the danger. For once,
the control that was so integral a part of him had been stripped away;
he wanted her as violently as she desired him—and, although he was
fighting it, he wasn’t able to defeat the longing. This wild clamour
of the senses was entirely mutual, and she was shamelessly, fiercely
excited. CHAPTER TEN EYES gleaming, Caelan lifted his head.
‘What the hell do you do to me?’ The abrasive note in his voice
broke into Abby’s trance, but only to increase her delicious, reckless
response. She slid her hands up his back, relishing the way the
muscles flexed beneath her questing palms, the sheer power and
strength of his big body, both protective and intensely dangerous.
‘It’s entirely mutual.’ Her husky voice startled her. ‘I know.’ He
cupped her face, his lean fingers exquisitely gentle around the fine
bones, his thumbs stroking across her lips to silence her. ‘That it affects
you so profoundly is the only thing that makes my weakness
endurable,’ he said roughly, and kissed her again, this time on the
brow and then on each eyelid as it swept down. Weakness? Oh,
yes—divine weakness… All coherent thought fled when he slid his
hands the silken length of her throat. Abby shivered violently at the
contrast between the heat of his hands and a rush of cool, salt-scented
air across her skin when he undid the buttons of her jacket and
pushed it down her arms. The fine material whispered in the silence
as it slipped onto the floor. Somewhere in the dimmest, furthest
reaches of Abby’s brain a small voice insisted she stop this before it
went too far, but she was already lost to the sensuous magic of his
nearness. Everything about him—the subtle scent that was his alone,
the way his breathing deepened when he was aroused, his taste in
her mouth—alerted long-repressed responses. The bitter ache of loss
was rapidly banished by the incandescent pleasure of being held
close to his hardening body, of knowing that soon there would be
greater pleasure, pleasure piling on pleasure until the final addictive
ecstasy of union. Everything—her heart, her head—disengaged; she
forced up her weighted lashes and stared at him with huge, dazed
eyes, darkly dilating as his fingers moved across the wisp of silken
camisole beneath. Her pulse stopped until a potent, dangerous excitement
drove it into action again. Colour burned along the striking
sweep of his arrogant cheekbones, and his eyes were flame-blue, so
hot she thought they should burn the pale skin he was examining
with all a conqueror’s unwavering intentness. Only who was the
conqueror here, who the vanquished? Abby recognised the willpower
it took for him to transfer that molten gaze to her face. ‘If you
really don’t want this, tell me to stop. Another heartbeat will be too
late,’ he warned, for once without his usual crisp delivery. A deep,
insistent craving drove her answer. ‘It’s too late for me now,’ she
muttered hoarsely, and took his hand and put it on her breast. Immediately
obvious, the pleading, demanding nipple thrust against his
palm. Eyes still locked with hers in a challenge, his hand closed
around the soft mound, a thumb rubbing gently across the tip in erotic
loveplay. Arrows of delight pierced her, homing straight and true
to the aching emptiness in the pit of her stomach, heating her into
slick surrender. She had been lost and was found, safe again after
long, lonely weeks. A soft sound, almost a moan, escaped her lips,
and she slid her arms beneath his shirt and stood on tiptoe to kiss the
tanned skin of his throat, her lips and tongue lingering so she could
inhale his scent and taste him. He froze, his face clamping into a
mask of ferocious tension, and then his broad shoulders lifted as he
dragged in a deep breath. ‘Not here,’ he muttered. But when he lifted
her he didn’t carry her into the house. The heavily erotic perfume of
unknown flowers filled her nostrils as he strode along the terrace,
cradling her as though she was the most precious of burdens. When
a fold of fabric brushed across her arm she opened her eyes and
caught a glimpse of some sort of pavilion, open to the sea, closed by
drifting curtains of white on the other three sides. From the corner of
her eye she saw a wide couch. And then Caelan eased her with erotic
slowness down his aroused body. After that nothing else mattered.
He slid the filmy camisole over her head and unclipped the bra beneath.
Her skin tightened; she should have felt vulnerable standing
in front of him naked from the waist up, but enchantment lent her
courage. ‘You are so beautiful you unman me,’ he said with such
harsh emphasis her heart rejoiced. With bold intentness she scrutinised
him, and laughed deep in her throat. ‘It doesn’t look like it,’ she
said, and stroked lightly, delicately, over the evidence of the effect
she had on him. But when he caught her hand and held it away, her
confidence fled, only to return with his words, delivered with tight
restraint. ‘Do that again and it will all be over,’ he said, through
clenched teeth. ‘I might just be able to control myself if you undress
me, but I’m not going to make it if you do any more.’ Excitement
burgeoned into fever, summoning a heat that flashed through her
like lightning, yet she was shivering and her hands trembled as she
unbuttoned his shirt. She hadn’t forgotten how magnificent he was,
how the sight of his wide chest and wider shoulders aroused her. She
let herself stroke once across his sleek tanned skin, delighting in its
warm exotic blend of bronze and gold, but stopped when his ragged
intake of breath warned her she was too close to the sensitive nipple.
In a shaken, thick voice he said, ‘I’ll do the rest.’ Abby didn’t trust
herself to watch him undress. Instead, she fumbled with the fastener
of her skirt, eventually getting herself out of it to stand in nothing
but a sexy little suspender belt and the exquisite silk stockings the
couturier had insisted on. Her body shook with such keen hunger
that she thought she might not be able to stop herself from coming
there and then at the sight of him. So she kept her lashes lowered,
only for them to fly up in startled shock when he dropped to his
knees in front of her and slid his arms around her hips, kissing the
soft indentation of her waist. Her pulse pounded through her body.
Unable to resist, she threaded her hands through the cool silk of his
hair, holding him close until he said against her skin, ‘If we’re going
to take these off I need to see what I’m doing.’ She held her breath
as he unclipped the suspenders, but when he kissed the fine, satiny
skin at the top of her thighs her knees buckled. Lips drawn back in a
feral smile, he freed her from the wisp of satin suspender belt and
stood up, magnificently naked and openly desirous. Inside Abby, excitement
transformed every nerve impulse into deep-seated craving;
her hands clenched and she felt it beat up through her like a bushfire,
beautiful beyond compare and ferociously dangerous. For a few
seconds he stood looking down at her, eyes smouldering crystals in
his lean, tanned face. ‘You’re mine,’ he said on a guttural note. ‘Admit
it.’ ‘Yes,’ she conceded, unable to deny him this triumph. His
arms closed around her, clamping her against him so that they came
down onto the couch in one smooth, powerful movement. He bent
his head to rest his cheek against her breasts. Abby’s heart dissolved.
‘And you are mine,’ she claimed, her hand against his cheek, thrilling
to the soft abrasion against her palm and the sensitive skin he
was kissing. He turned his face and his lips closed on the centre of
her breast, and she cried out again, a ragged, wordless utterance of
sexual hunger so powerful she couldn’t think beyond her acute need
for the heady satisfaction only Caelan could give her. Primitively,
she wanted to lie beneath him in complete surrender, to feel the hard
thrust of his body as he entered her, to be driven up that slow, passionate
rise towards the heights of rapture. And then, when the
pleasure became unbearable she’d give him everything, and take
from him too as the whole power of his big body clenched in release.
But not yet. Not for long minutes yet… Slowly, as though
every revisited caress, every newly minted sensation, every memory
of how it had been for them a month before needed to be coaxed
back into life, they explored each other’s bodies. Abby could see
how difficult it was for him; she knew how tense she was with frustrated
desire, yet because this was special she let herself become as
absorbed as he was in their journey of rediscovery. And then, when
at last neither could bear it any longer, he eased himself over and into
her, watching her face so that he could see every nuance of emotion.
Her breath rasping her throat, Abby lifted her hips and locked
her legs around his, pulling him into her as she tightened her arms
around him. He gave a muffled groan and every bit of finesse went
west. He thrust deeply into her, setting off an explosive release that
rocketed her into orgasm. Panting, she felt waves of agonised pleasure
catch her up and fling her into ecstasy. He joined her there, and
in that exhilarating final frenzy of physical passion she accepted that
she would stay with him, not for all the reasons it made sense—not
because he threatened her, not for Michael, but because she needed
Caelan on some level that transcended everything else. Love? She
didn’t know, and at that moment she didn’t much care. It was
enough. And afterwards, it was poignantly sweet to lie in his arms,
sweet to listen to the slow recovery of their mingled breaths and
pulses, sweet to lie beneath him and feel his beloved weight on her
once more. Yet a profound sadness overwhelmed her. With all this,
was she being greedy craving his love? Because that was what had
happened. Somehow, in spite of everything, she’d done the unbearable—
given him her heart. Caelan rolled over onto his back and
looped a long arm around her, pulling her to lie against him, her
body lax and depleted, her face buried against his neck. After a long
time he said, ‘Are you using any sort of birth control?’ ‘No,’ she admitted
in a voice that seemed to come from a huge distance away.
He said something blood-curdling beneath his breath in a language
that had to be Dacian. ‘And, idiot that I am, I didn’t even think of it.’
He tipped up her chin and examined her face, his own speculative.
‘Why not?’ She searched for an answer, knowing that there was no
good one. ‘Like you, I didn’t think of it,’ she finally confessed. Only
she’d had a month to consider it… ‘So you might be pregnant right
now.’ Oh, to carry Caelan’s child under her heart… Any child would
be another chain binding them together to provide security for Michael,
she reminded herself, a hostage to make sure she didn’t leave
this marriage. A child would simply give Caelan more leverage. ‘I
doubt it,’ she said slowly, trying to pull away. His arms tightened
around her, and into his neck she muttered, ‘I believe it takes even
the most virile sperm some time to actually get to the egg.’ But she
couldn’t suppress a tiny thrill at the thought of that most elemental
of journeys happening inside her. A note in his soft laughter told her
that it excited him too. He stroked the curve of her breast, and that
primal heat re-ignited in every cell. Holding her gaze with his own,
he said evenly, ‘A child would convince everyone that we plan to
stay together.’ Even though she’d thought exactly the same thing, to
hear it put into words hurt in some obscure fashion. She snapped,
‘I’ll do a lot for Michael, but I’m damned if I’ll have a child for
him.’ Caelan said grimly, ‘I hope that doesn’t mean what it sounds
like.’ ‘What?’ He was watching her, his face hard and purposeful.
‘That you’ll make sure no child eventuates.’ Abby felt sick. ‘No, I
won’t do that,’ she said quietly. His gaze pierced her, searching into
her very soul. ‘I believe you.’ He smiled when a sudden yawn took
her completely by surprise. ‘Bedtime, I think.’ He got up, perfectly
unconcerned at his nudity, and scooped her up. When she realised he
was going to leave the pavilion she blurted, ‘What about servants?’
‘Don’t worry,’ he drawled, ‘there’s nobody here but us.’ He carried
her to a room filled with the slow music of the sea. Another bottle of
champagne—or perhaps the same one—stood on a table in the window.
A huge bed dominated the room. What now? Abby thought
frantically. ‘Our clothes have been unpacked,’ Caelan told her. He
nodded towards a couple of doors. ‘The one on the left is your bathroom;
the other is mine.’ Two bathrooms? But clearly he intended
them to sleep together, and some privacy might help her regain some
self-possession. Relieved, she said thinly, ‘I’ll have a shower,’ and
escaped into a fantasy bathroom of marble and mirrors and exotic
plants, the air heavily scented by the jasmine flowers that had been
scattered in the huge, square bath. Abby caught back a sob.
Someone had gone to an enormous amount of trouble to set the
scene for their honeymoon! She welcomed the soothing hiss of cool
water over her sensitised skin, then wrapped herself in the sensuous
slither of satin she found hanging behind the door, a nightgown in
palest green. Where had it come from? It had to be Caelan; another
example of his thoughtfulness—or his experience in romantic encounters.
Frowning, she finished her preparations for the night, but
before she’d removed the cosmetics from her face her speculation
was replaced by pain. Of course she’d fallen in love with him! Who
was she to think she could succeed in keeping her heart inviolate
when so many other women, sophisticated and worldly, had failed?
He must never know. All she had to cling to was her pride, and that
would be shattered in humiliation if he knew she’d surrendered far
more than her body to him. The room was empty when she returned,
but he came in shortly after her, devastating in a black wrap that emphasised
the smooth, powerful flow of his body beneath the thin silk.
‘Champagne?’ he asked after a swift, keen glance that seemed to
strip through the fragile protective skin she’d erected. She shook her
head. ‘No, thank you. Caelan, who has gone to such trouble for us?’
‘Trouble?’ Awkwardly she gestured at the exquisite garment she
wore. ‘This nightgown isn’t mine,’ she said, ‘and my bath was
scattered with flowers—some kind of jasmine, I think.’ ‘The gown
is yours,’ he said coolly. ‘And the jasmine flowers would be the idea
of the housekeeper. You can thank her tomorrow morning.’ ‘I’ll do
that,’ she said, adding with stiff formality, ‘And thank you for the
gown.’ ‘You look like something wild from the woods,’ he remarked,
coming towards her. Abby’s heart started hammering in her
chest. She couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but let herself be
captured by his dark sexuality. When he held out his hand she took it
and let him draw her to the bed. Later—much later—she listened to
his breathing in the darkness and wondered wearily what was going
to happen now. Exhaustion, physical and mental, dragged her down,
yet she couldn’t get to sleep. Right from the start she’d known that
his objective was—and a very fine one, too—to make Michael
happy. She wasn’t anything more than a necessary evil, albeit one he
wanted. Why couldn’t she accept what he offered without longing
for more? She lay looking into an unbearable future until dawn; only
then, to the sound of birds carolling, did she slide into exhausted
sleep. She woke to the scent of jasmine, and the sound of a telephone
ringing at some distance. ‘What the—?’ she groaned, jackknifing
upwards. She stared blankly at the curtains and pushed a
tangle of hair back from her face. By the position of the sun it had to
be mid-morning. God, she was making a habit of this! Caelan’s
voice—deep and deliberate, textured in intimidating shades of authority—
brought back the previous night. Erotic memories swamped
her, so potent she had to fight back the instinct to cower under the
bedclothes. If only it were that easy to hide! Last night she’d surrendered
everything to the compulsion of passion, and been ruthlessly
shown the limits of her will-power; now she had to face the
consequences. She pushed back the sheet and swung her feet onto
the floor at the moment that Caelan walked in through a wall of
shuttered glass doors. Fully dressed, he was carrying a tray. Perched
on the edge of the bed with the sleek satin nightgown rumpled
around her thighs, she felt intensely vulnerable. She caught his
raised brows as he took in her immodest covering, and, hot with embarrassment,
swung her legs up onto the bed and hauled the sheet
over them. His smile told her she needn’t have bothered, that he remembered
everything of their fevered love-making the previous
night. ‘You didn’t stir when I looked in earlier,’ Caelan said, his
voice amused and silkily reminiscent, ‘so I decided to let you sleep
as long as you could.’ Abby fought back another wave of humiliation.
No doubt he thought he had her exactly where he wanted
her—besotted! ‘Thank you,’ she said tonelessly. ‘But I can be ready
for breakfast in ten minutes.’ ‘It’s all right,’ he said with cool irony
that made her feel stupid, and put the tray on the bedside table.
When she tensed, he smiled and bent to kiss her, his lips warm and
seducing. In spite of everything, her mouth softened under his. But
when Caelan straightened, he looked down at her with burnished
eyes as cold as a polar star. ‘It’s too late for second thoughts,’ he
said implacably. ‘We’ve been married twice, and Michael is safe. I
made vows; like you, I keep my promises.’ ‘I’m not having second
thoughts.’ Her voice was every bit as determined as his. He held her
gaze for several long moments, then nodded. ‘Eat up. And then see
if you can sleep some more. I’m afraid that I have work to do, but
I’ll see you in a couple of hours.’ Watching him go, Abby bit her lip.
So much for last night’s wild passion; today he was all business. Although
the change hurt some newly sensitive part of herself, she
forced down as much of the breakfast as she could, then hastily
showered, skin scorching when she discovered the marks of their
loving on it. No bruising—he had been exquisitely tender with
her—but soft abrasions from his beard. And her slow, deep tiredness
wasn’t all because of her lack of sleep—it went right down to her
bones, and came from exhilarating sexual satiation. She explored a
little of the garden, but didn’t like to go too far; it seemed an intrusion.
When Caelan found her she was reading out on the terrace. He
gave her a narrow glance, then said, ‘You forgot these,’ and tossed
her a handful of fire. ‘What—oh!’ She caught the rings automatically.
Last night she’d taken them off and left them on the bedside
cabinet. ‘Put them on,’ he said shortly. Her heart heavy, she slid
them onto her finger. They meant so much to her—and so little to
Caelan. This, after all, was a sensible marriage, entered into for entirely
practical reasons. She looked up and caught Caelan’s kindling
glance; well, perhaps not entirely practical, she conceded. But what
would happen when he was sated with her? CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘HOME again!’ Michael announced, beaming with pleasure when
the car drew up in the reserved parking slot beneath the hotel. He
turned to the woman beside him and said, ‘Here we are, Nanny!
Home again!’ Relief warred with unease in Abby. She’d been ambivalent
when Caelan suggested that Ilana accompany them back to
New Zealand, but she had to admit that the nursemaid’s help had
made the plane trip back from Dacia less tiring. Between them all,
Michael was kept busy and happy. Perhaps it was a good thing the
four days of their honeymoon, a jumble of vivid images that still
brought the colour to her cheeks, a blur of sun and sea and passionate
love-making, had been superseded by the long flight back to
New Zealand. Not love—sex, she reminded herself astringently.
There’d been no love in Caelan’s expertise, just a huge natural understanding
of the pleasure points in a woman’s body and a compelling
masculinity that transformed her desire into a pulsing beat of
reckless hunger. And experience—lots and lots of experience. Put
crudely, Caelan was a stud. He knew how to pleasure a woman, how
to make her sob with longing and scream with ecstasy and eventually
sate her of everything but the need to sleep in his arms. The silence
in the car recalled her to her surroundings. Caelan was looking
down at her, his eyes gleaming and his mouth curved in a smile that
sent a sensual shiver down her backbone. He couldn’t know what
she was thinking, but she’d better thrust those memories into the
darkest recesses of her mind before she gave herself away. It seemed
incredible that she’d wondered when Caelan would get tired of her.
Early days yet, she thought cynically. Not that she had much time to
worry. Over breakfast the day after they arrived back in New Zealand
he said, ‘When is a good time for you to see a land agent?’ ‘Me?
What for?’ ‘I’m feeling dynastic,’ he said with a sardonic smile. ‘We
need a house, and you should choose it. I deal with one agent—my
PA will make an appointment for her to call on you.’ ‘Any time.’
She hid an odd pang of pleasure with her cool tone. With a swift, unreadable
glance he said, ‘You’ll manage.’ His assurance of her ability
boosted her confidence, but she had to ask, ‘What sort of house
do you want?’ He leaned back and surveyed her. ‘That’s for you to
decide. Do you want to live in Auckland, or would you rather be out
in the country?’ They discussed it for some minutes, eventually deciding
on a place with room for the pony Michael wanted, and then
Caelan said, ‘We have invitations to deal with. I’ve already accepted
one—it’s a dinner for a charity I’m interested in. White tie, so you’ll
need a suitable outfit.’ He frowned. ‘Your credit card should have
arrived; I’ll check the mail.’ She bit her lip. Common sense told her
that she had to have some income, but she felt sullied, like a kept
woman. Of course he noticed. ‘I’ve already paid your allowance into
your account. We can discuss the rest of the invitations over tonight.
Are you all right to stay with Cia and Hunt next weekend?’ ‘Yes.’
He gave her another keen, too-perceptive scrutiny. ‘I thought you
liked them.’ ‘I do, very much.’ ‘But?’ Of course he wouldn’t let it
go. She said diffidently, ‘I’m not a huge party person, Caelan.’ ‘Nor
I,’ he returned promptly. ‘Don’t fret about our social life. You’ll find
your feet. Oh, by the way, I’ve been contacted by at least four
magazines for interviews. Do you want to do them?’ Abby
shuddered. ‘No, thanks.’ He grinned, but said, ‘I’d already refused,
so even if you’d longed to adorn their pages your hard, dictatorial
husband would have forbidden it. And the social welfare caseworker
has been in touch. She’ll call in to see us tomorrow afternoon.’ His
voice altered. ‘Just be careful when you’re out and about. There’s
been a lot of publicity, unfortunately, and it wouldn’t surprise me if
you’re the target of photographers.’ She said gloomily, ‘Three
months ago I’d never have believed that I’d have to dodge
paparazzi.’ Or kidnappers. That still didn’t seem possible in New
Zealand, but whenever she or Michael went out a man who doubled
as chauffeur was close behind. ‘The fuss will die down,’ Caelan said
coolly. And indeed, after a couple of weeks of embarrassing attention,
an All Black player was discovered to be having an affair with
his brother’s wife, and the media’s interest switched abruptly. The
appointment with the caseworker—and the several subsequent
ones—went well. Michael showed off on his jungle gym with every
appearance of delight, introduced his nanny with pride, and
chattered brightly about his new friends at the pre-school. On the
surface, she and Caelan settled easily into a life together, sharing
Michael without too many significant silences. Occasionally their
good humour stretched thin, but both made valiant efforts not to let
underlying tension impinge on the third member of the family. But
although the sex remained wonderful and Caelan’s support gave her
the confidence to deal well with the various glittering social occasions
they attended, a bleak sense of isolation robbed her days of delight
and joy. Nevertheless, she enjoyed the weekend with Lucia and
Hunt on his huge cattle station. They weren’t the only guests; she
soon realised she’d been introduced to a tight-knit social circle that
rarely appeared in the gossip columns. She and another woman, also
from Auckland, discovered they had much in common. After that
she lunched with Peta McIntosh several times. Forthright and sensible
and completely in love with her gorgeous husband, Peta had run
her own farm. Abby hoped they were working their way towards
friendship. It had been a long time since she’d had a good woman
friend. Soon the halcyon days in Dacia faded into a memory of pageantry
and old-world fairy tale as Abby flung herself into the
search for the perfect house. Michael blossomed, exercising every
muscle in his sturdy, compact body on the gym bars, swimming, and
teaching his nursemaid all the English nursery rhymes and stories he
knew, while unconsciously absorbing Dacian from her. Most afternoons
his uncle came home early from work to play with him, and
their relationship prospered. But after dinner each night Caelan
worked from the office in the apartment, and several times he flew
to various places around the Pacific for meetings. He didn’t ask
Abby to go with him, but he did ring every evening. Always he
brought home gifts—amusing novelties for Michael, a New Zealand
dictionary for Ilana. For Abby there were golden pearls from Tahiti,
an exquisite silk kimono from Japan, and after a trip to Australia he
slipped a dress ring onto her finger, a glittering square-cut golden
diamond surrounded by smaller ones. ‘Yes, I thought it was the same
colour as your eyes,’ he said, and kissed her with controlled passion.
His thoughtfulness, his casual generosity, hurt her. Oddly, it seemed
to emphasise that their relationship was a fake. Forget about any
meeting of minds, any emotional commitment. It wasn’t love Caelan
felt, merely its mindless brother, lust. She’d tried to trick it out in the
panoply of love, but it was time to face the truth. She’d stay safe if
she didn’t expect too much from this marriage or this man, she cautioned
that romantic, hungry part of herself. But in spite of her attempts
to grow a skin over her emotions, she couldn’t stop herself
from falling more and more in love with her husband each day. Although
he didn’t want her love, his need for her body didn’t fade;
each night she surrendered to an ever-increasing hunger, flaming in
his arms, but when it was over she wondered despairingly how she
was going to keep her soul intact. Previously she’d envied his iron
control, preserved even when they’d made love. But that had been
when she thought there must be something warmer behind it. Now
she was discovering in the most painful way possible that control
was all he had. Once, lying in his arms, she’d blurted, ‘Have you
ever been drunk?’ His brows rose. ‘I admit to my fair share of the
usual adolescent excesses,’ he said blandly. ‘Yes, I’ve been drunk. I
didn’t like it, and I don’t plan to do it again.’ It figured, she thought
savagely. About a month after they arrived back he said casually just
before he left for work, ‘Are you busy today?’ Carefully composing
her expression, Abby looked up from watching Michael do acrobatics
on his gym bars. ‘This morning I’m going out to Clevedon to
look at a property the agent thinks might be suitable, but after that
I’m free.’ ‘Meet me at the office and we’ll have lunch together.’ Her
foolish heart sped up. They’d never been on a date. ‘I—well, yes, I’d
love that.’ And because the amused glint in his eyes made her selfconscious,
she added primly, ‘Thank you.’ He bent and dropped a
swift, disturbing kiss on her mouth. ‘I’ll see you at one, then.’ At
one she was in a private waiting room in his office reading a
magazine when the skin between her shoulder blades tingled and her
heartbeat sped up. Slowly she turned her head. Caelan stood in the
doorway, tall and dark and dangerous in his superbly cut suit, examining
her with narrowed eyes. He wasn’t smiling. ‘You look fantastic,’
he said calmly. ‘Hungry?’ ‘More than ready,’ she admitted,
pleased in spite of herself at the easy compliment. ‘I’ve spent the
morning tramping around a farm.’ ‘Any good?’ ‘I didn’t like the
house much—too heavily formal.’ She frowned. ‘Sometimes I think
I’m too fussy.’ ‘Perhaps we should discuss building a house for
ourselves. Forget about it for now, though.’ She’d expected to eat at
a restaurant, but in the lift reserved for him he pressed a button and
they shot upwards. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked. ‘To a private
dining room,’ he told her calmly. The lift slowed and stopped—only
one floor up, she noted. She gave him a startled glance. ‘Why do we
need privacy?’ His broad shoulders moved in the superbly tailored
jacket and his eyes were bland and noncommittal. ‘I have something
to tell you. I don’t want to risk being overheard.’ He opened the door
and ushered her into a small foyer. Stomach clenching, she said,
‘What?’ He looked down through his lashes, eyes gleaming like blue
crystals, but silently opened a door and stepped back. ‘Come in.’
‘Said the spider to the fly.’ Tension tightened her skin, but she made
a show of looking around the large space he escorted her into, half
sitting room, the other half occupied by an already-set table. ‘A very
beautiful fly,’ Caelan returned smoothly. It was another superficial,
meaningless compliment; Abby knew very well that she wasn’t
beautiful. ‘Thank you,’ she said tonelessly. Being Caelan, he didn’t
leave it at that. ‘You don’t believe me?’ he drawled. She shrugged.
‘Striking is probably the most apt word for me—and then only because
of my hair.’ She didn’t give him time to answer. Concentrating
on shoring up her fragile façade, she asked, ‘What is this place?’
‘It’s an apartment used by executives from overseas.’ And by him
when he needed privacy. He indicated the table, already set with silver
and wineglasses and flowers. ‘Come and sit down.’ ‘Where does
the food come from?’ ‘The restaurant on the ground floor.’ He held
out a chair for her, and, once she sat down, pushed it in. He was
treating her like a guest. Yet in spite of her apprehension her body
tingled and the low, subliminal throb of desire warmed her cheeks
beneath the soft haze of blusher. His hands lingered on her
shoulders, just long enough for the heat burning through her to turn
feral. ‘You forgot your skin,’ he said calmly. ‘What?’ It suddenly
seemed very stupid for her to be here alone with him. Over the past
weeks Michael and Ilana had acted as emotional chaperones, reminding
them why they’d embarked on this masquerade marriage.
Here, on neutral ground, his fingers resting lightly on the silken skin
of her neck, every sense quivering with the pleasure of his closeness,
bold, consuming desire clamoured up through her like a summons,
utterly elemental and reckless. Was this planned? Oh, almost certainly.
Did she care? Not at this minute, she thought, and thrilled to
the knowledge. Only to deflate when Caelan stepped back. Shielding
her dilating pupils with her lashes, she surveyed him as he sat down
opposite her. The carnal need smouldering in her noted the stripped,
fierce prominence of his facial structure, telling her he was as aware
of her as she was of him. And his eyes were lit with blue fire,
diamond-bright and intense. ‘What did you mean—I forgot my
skin?’ Shocked and startled by the languid drift of the words, she
folded her lips into a firm, straight line. He let his gaze roam her
face. ‘You said it was your hair that makes you stand out. It helps,
but you have skin like luminous gold silk. And your eyes are tilted
enough to give you an air of mystery. Then you smile, and it’s Circe
all over again, an enchantress turning men into swine with that
mocking smile.’ He spoke with cool detachment, and her heart froze
in horror. Was that how he saw her—or himself? Did he despise
himself for wanting her? ‘Until I say something and reveal a perfectly
ordinary woman,’ she said, blundering along as best she could
when her insides were churning. Yet she was glad he’d said it.
They’d never explored their deepest emotions and values. Oh, they’d
discussed politics and music and art; they’d made love like tigers,
fiercely and with such passion that it temporarily eased the ache in
her heart, but love was founded on knowledge and understanding,
not the primeval recklessness of sexual hunger. He frowned. ‘Ordinary?
Far from it,’ he said drily. ‘Ordinary women don’t commit
themselves to felony and poverty to keep a promise made to a woman
who had no right to extract it.’ A subdued hum of activity
through a door into the next room stopped her swift rebuttal, but
when the waiter had left Abby said, ‘Whether she had reason or not,
Gemma was desperate. And I don’t regret anything I did for Michael.’
She looked down and added painfully, ‘What I do regret is
that you missed his first years. It’s no excuse, but I truly didn’t think
you’d be interested in him. Gemma’s fears influenced me, and I’d
like to believe that the horror of what happened to her unhinged me
temporarily. I should have done things differently.’ The silence that
followed was almost too much to bear. In the end she glanced up,
and met hooded eyes in a lean, arrested face. She said hurriedly,
‘You’re so good with him, and he already loves you and trusts you.
He’s missed out on knowing you, and you’ve missed out too. I wish
I’d contacted you—although I’d have fought you to a standstill
when you tried to gain custody.’ Caelan said slowly, ‘Actually, that’s
what I brought you here to talk about.’ She froze. ‘What do you
mean?’ ‘I’ve been contacted by the writer who was doing a book on
tragedies of the South Pacific.’ Tender, delicious asparagus turned to
ashes in her mouth. Eyes dilating, she stared at him as the colour
drained from her face. ‘And?’ she managed. ‘I’ve met him. He’s
done his research.’ He spoke dispassionately. ‘He knows that you
claimed Michael for your own child.’ Her fork clattered onto the
tablecloth. ‘Oh, God!’ But before he could speak, she said urgently,
‘Caelan, it doesn’t matter. In a way, I’ll be glad to have it out in the
open. And if I do get prosecuted and—and convicted, then I know
you’ll look after Michael.’ ‘Don’t worry—he won’t mention anything
beyond the fact that Michael is now our son.’ ‘What?’ She
dragged in a jagged breath. ‘You’re my wife,’ he said, as though that
explained it. Shaken and sickened, she bit her lip. Of course he
wouldn’t want his wife—Michael’s mother—to be sent to prison.
‘I’m sorry.’ ‘You did what you felt was best for Michael.’ His voice
was cool, almost indifferent. ‘And you were right; nursemaids don’t
have the same emotional investments in their charges as mothers.
Michael is open and loving and happy, and he’s secure in your love.
He likes Ilana very much, but he runs to you when he hurts himself.’
Warmed though she was by his acceptance, she said miserably, ‘But
what’s to stop this writer from blackmailing you again? Because I
assume that’s what he did.’ He said austerely, ‘I don’t blackmail easily.
But he didn’t even try; he simply wanted to make sure that he
didn’t make an enemy by revealing something I didn’t want generally
known. So, you see, that power and money and influence you so
rightly despise have some advantages.’ His smile was a masterpiece
of sardonic acceptance. ‘It appears I have a reputation for being a
bad enemy.’ She could believe that. Choosing her words carefully,
she said, ‘I only despise power and influence and money that’s used
to harm people.’ Caelan said crisply, ‘I’m glad to hear it. Forget
about the writer; he’s not going to spill the beans. When he contacted
me I got in touch with my solicitor, who said it was highly unlikely
you’d be prosecuted. And once Michael is legally our child
you’ll be safe, especially as you’ve shown yourself to be an excellent
mother. So you’ve no reason to worry.’ ‘I’m not,’ she said, and
realised it was true. She picked up the glass of wine she hadn’t
touched, and sipped a small amount, then asked something that had
been concerning her. ‘Is it possible that Gemma’s mother might want
access to Michael?’ ‘She didn’t want access to her own child,’ he returned
caustically, ‘so why would she be interested in her grandson?’
He gave her a shrewd glance. ‘But if it eases that tender heart of
yours, once the adoption is signed, sealed and delivered, we’ll contact
her and let her know.’ Abby looked at her plate, then back at
him. ‘I was never happy with the promise I made Gemma,’ she said
quietly, ‘but I had to keep it.’ His brows lifted. ‘I know that now.
The woman I thought you were would have sold him to me. And as
this is confession time, I’ll admit that you were right to be scathing
about my supposed plans for Michael when I arrived in Nukuroa.’
‘Supposed?’ she asked sharply. ‘In reality I’d planned to set you and
Michael up in a house in the suburbs in Auckland.’ His mouth
slanted in self-derision. ‘I’d already bought a pleasant place with a
garden in Titirangi. You’d have liked it—lots of trees for Michael to
climb and lawns to run across. I intended to see him several times a
week, have him sleep over with me when he got to know me—’
‘And take him from me when he did know you!’ she interrupted
fiercely. He shrugged, his mouth compressed. ‘Yes. I didn’t intend to
let either him or you impinge on my life much.’ Something broke inside
Abby. Panting, her voice low and furious, she snarled, ‘You accused
me of playing with Michael’s life. Didn’t it occur to you that
you were doing exactly the same thing?’ ‘Yes.’ Scornfully she demanded,
‘So what made you change your mind?’ His brows lifted. ‘I
told myself it was revenge.’ Silence followed the ugly word, dark as
a storm with unspoken thoughts and emotions. Every inchoate suspicion,
every dark wondering moment, came back to haunt her. In a
dead voice she said, ‘So you used the one thing I wanted, to stay
with Michael, to force me into marriage.’ Her chin came up and she
stared at him accusingly, eyes wide and unblinking as a cat’s. ‘Is this
where you tell me that you’re going to divorce me?’ Blue eyes glittering,
he demanded, ‘Is that what you think?’ ‘What else can I
think?’ So angry and despairing she could barely articulate, she
flung the words at him like bullets, knowing even as she spoke that
it was useless. ‘It would be the perfect revenge!’ His mirthless bark
of laughter shocked her. He said between his teeth, ‘Only if you
loved me.’ She stared at him, and then closed her eyes, because of
course he knew. Oh, the perfect revenge, she realised in bitter despair.
Show a glimpse of paradise, and then snatch it away. ‘Well?’ he
demanded. She said thinly, ‘What?’ ‘Damn it, Abby, I love you!’ He
spoke in a goaded voice that was unlike Caelan’s confident tones.
Sometimes she’d dreamed of him saying that, and always she’d been
ecstatic, filled with reciprocal delight and love. Now she felt empty,
as though disillusion had ripped the heart from her body and left her
with nothing but hollowness in its place. A hollowness that wasn’t
filled when he said roughly, ‘Of course I don’t want a divorce.’ He
couldn’t have chosen a way to hurt her more. She longed with every
atom in her body to give in, take what he could give and pretend to
believe that they could somehow forge a life together. Forcing herself
to look him in the eyes, she said brokenly, ‘If you think I’m going
to be like your father, so desperately in love that I’ll put up with
anything you want to dish out, you can think again. I’d rather die!’
His eyes glittered. ‘Abby, listen to me! I love you.’ And when she
stared at him he said furiously, ‘I can’t live without you. I would die
for you.’ Her throat locked. She could only stare at him with enormous
eyes, her lips trembling. ‘I don’t believe it.’ ‘Believe it, if you
believe nothing else.’ ‘Why?’ He paused, as though her question
startled him. She saw self-control shutter his eyes against her, clamp
his features into a ruthless mask. Panic kicked her in the stomach;
she’d been an utter idiot! Far better to have said nothing, to shore up
her defences and retain some tatters of pride. Unable to stand it any
longer, she scrambled to her feet. ‘Everything you’ve just told me
indicates that you’ll never trust me. What sort of love is that? Useless.’
A muscle flicked above his angular jawbone and the white line
around his lips made her realise that she’d gone too far. He covered
the distance between them in a silent, predatory lunge that drove adrenalin
through her in a desperate flood. She swung around, but he
caught her by the wrist before she could take more than one step and
pulled her to face him. For the first time ever she looked at him and
saw the man without the mask, his eyes narrowed slits of blue, glittering
cold as diamonds between black lashes, his mouth compressed
into a thin line, real emotion blazing through. ‘And you love
me,’ he said, his lips barely moving, and when she stared at him,
colour firing up through her skin, he laughed deep in his throat and
drew her into his arms in a movement that reminded her of the times
she’d danced with him. ‘No,’ she whispered, shaking so much she
thought she’d fall if it weren’t for his strong arms around her. ‘No
what? No, you don’t love me? Don’t lie, Abby, you just admitted it
when you said you’d rather die than live in an unequal relationship
like my father.’ He brushed her lips with his, tantalising her with the
light pressure, so erotic she had to close her eyes against him. But
that only made things worse; she couldn’t see, but she could smell
the faint scent of their arousal and feel the hard strength of his body
against hers. Her body clamoured for release and she had no idea
what he’d just said, what she’d said, anything at all but the fact that
she loved this man with everything she was, had loved him since the
first time she’d set eyes on him. And then she was free and above
the chattering of her teeth she heard him say in a raw voice, ‘Abby,
don’t cry. It’s all right—you can do whatever you want to do. Just
don’t cry. I’m not worth it.’ She opened eyes magnified by brimming
tears, and said on a sob, ‘You’re worth so much more, you idiot!’
A wry smile curved his mouth. He reached out a hand and
slowly, knowing she was ceding much more than a simple handclasp,
she put hers in it. He kissed her fingers, and then in a gesture
that twisted her heart he held the palm to his face, and said, ‘Is it too
late to start again? Properly, this time?’ And this time she believed
him. She’d glimpsed the vulnerability behind his intimidating authority,
and it had shaken her to her heart. ‘It’s not too late,’ she said
softly, with trembling lips. He held her eyes, his own gaze dark and
intense, but not as intense as his voice when he said, ‘Do you know
when I realised that I loved you?’ Stunned delight shafted through
her, rendering her mute. She shook her head. ‘On Dacia, the night of
our wedding, when you told me indignantly that, although you loved
Michael, you wouldn’t have a baby for him.’ His voice deepened.
‘That’s when I wondered if it was possible you loved me, because
you didn’t say you wouldn’t have a baby for me. I didn’t think I
could ever love anyone, but at that moment I felt as though someone
had hit me in the heart.’ His voice deepened. ‘Talk about Cupid’s arrows—
it was as quick and unexpected as that. One second I didn’t
know that what I felt for you was love. The next I did. I realised that
I wanted to wake up next to you all the mornings of my life.’ It
sounded like a vow. She stared at him, then opened her mouth to
speak. A long forefinger closed her lips, signalling that he hadn’t
finished. Voice very low and sure, he said, ‘I’ve loved you for all my
life, it seems. Certainly since well before we were married. I
wouldn’t face it because I thought being in control of my life was
more important than love.’ His voice roughened. ‘I was wrong.’
Abby gazed into his face, her eyes enormous and questing. What she
saw there made sky-rockets go off inside her in mute, overwhelming
joy. He gave her a wicked smile, and her last resistance melted,
evaporated like rain on a hot summer’s day, drifting away into nothingness.
She kissed the finger across her mouth. His eyes flared electric
blue, but he shook his head. ‘Let me say this now. Although I
loved Gemma, and I grieved for her, you have no idea how I felt
when I found out that you were still alive. But you’d stolen her
child, and I hated you. It was simpler.’ Abby put her hand on his
arm, feeling the muscles clench beneath her fingertips. ‘She loved
you too. Truly. Would you have tried to find me if I hadn’t had Michael?’
‘Yes,’ he said simply. ‘Even when I saw the first photograph
of you imitating a mouse, your glorious hair straightened and dull,
those appalling spectacles hiding your cat-shaped eyes, I must have
suspected that it was only a matter of time before I’d love you.’ ‘You
were an utter beast,’ she said, believing at last. ‘I was fighting a
battle with myself,’ he said quietly. ‘You made a promise to Gemma,
and you’d carried it out as best you could. Everything you’ve done
you’ve done for Michael, and you had every reason to believe that
he’d be far better off with you than with me.’ ‘I was wrong,’ she
said quietly, ‘and so was Gemma. You love him already.’ He
shrugged. ‘He’s a great little kid.’ ‘You told me he needed a man in
his life and I was very scornful, but you were right. He’s opened
out—become much more of a little boy since we’ve been here.’ She
paused, then added, ‘And he loves you too.’ A stain of colour emphasised
his splendid cheekbones. ‘He’s a sunny-natured child.’ He
looked down at her and the passion that had been simmering beneath
the surface while they talked flamed up into his eyes, heating them
to crystalline fire. ‘I’m sorry for hurting you; I’m sorry I was such
an idiot that I couldn’t recognise what I felt for you. I thought I’d
made you resent me so much that the only way to bind you to me
was with sex.’ She smiled at him, her almond eyes lazy and languorous,
her mouth subtly beckoning. ‘I enjoyed that immensely, but I
loved you before we made love. I refused to admit it too, so let’s not
blame each other.’ Potent desire rushed through Caelan, a paradoxical
mixture of fierce tenderness. Laughing, his eyes gleaming, he
picked her up and held her high in his arms. ‘Do you want to finish
your lunch?’ he asked. ‘Somehow I’m not hungry for food any
more,’ she said demurely, adding with a fascinating upwards glance
from beneath her lashes, ‘Is there a bed close by?’ ‘A large,
executive-size bed just through that door,’ he told her. With the urgent
hunger of a lover, he carried her into the adjoining room, and
into the rest of their lives together, with complete confidence in their
mutual love. ISBN: 1-55254-712-4 SECRET BABIES BUNDLE
First North American Publication 2006. Copyright © 2002 by Kim
Lawrence, Julia James and Robyn Kingston. All rights reserved. Except
for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this
work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical
or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography,
photocopying and recording, or in any information storage
or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of
the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill
Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9. All characters in this
book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and
have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or
names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known
or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention. This
edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A. ® and
TM are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ®
are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the
Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.
www.eHarlequin.com ABOUT THE AUTHORS Kim Lawrence
Though lacking much authentic Welsh blood, Kim Lawrence comes
from English/Irish stock. She was born and brought up in North
Wales. She returned there when she married, and her sons were both
born on Anglesey, an island off the coast. Though not isolated,
Anglesey is a little off the beaten track, but lively Dublin, which
Kim loves, is only a short ferry ride away. Today they live on the
farm her husband was brought up on. Welsh is the first language of
many people in this area and Kim’s husband and sons are all bilingual—
she is having a lot of fun, not to mention a few headaches,
trying to learn the language! With small children, the unsocial hours
of nursing didn’t look attractive so encouraged by a husband who
thinks she can do anything she sets her mind to, Kim tried her hand
at writing. Always a keen Harlequin Mills & Boon reader, it seemed
natural for her to write a romance novel—now she can’t imagine doing
anything else. She is a keen gardener and cook and enjoys running—
often on the beach, as living on an island the sea is never very
far away. She is usually accompanied by her Jack Russell,
Sprout—don’t ask, it’s long story! Julia James Julia lives in England
with her family. Mills and Boon novels were Julia's first “grown up”
books she read as a teenager (“Alongside Georgette Heyer and
Daphne du Maurier.”), and she's been reading them ever since. Julia
adores the English countryside (“And the Celtic countryside!”), in
all its seasons, and is fascinated by all things historical, from castles
to cottages. She also has a special love for the Mediterranean (“The
most perfect landscape after England!”)—she considers both are
ideal settings for romance stories! In between writing she enjoys
walking, gardening, needlework and baking “extremely gooey
chocolate cakes”—and trying to stay fit! Robyn Donald Born in
Northland, New Zealand, and now living the Bay of Islands, Robyn
Donald sometimes thinks that writing is much like gardening. It's a
similar process—creating landscapes for the mind and emotions
from the seeds of ideas and dreams and images. Both activities can
also lead to moments of extreme delight, moments of total despair,
and backache. The oldest in her family, as a child Robyn thrilled her
four sisters and one brother with bloodcurdling adventure tales, usually
very like the latest book she'd borrowed from the library. That
urge to tell stories, combined with 10 years of enthusiastic but unpublished
writing, saw her leave teaching to become a full-time
writer after her first three books had been accepted. With over 55
books published to date, Robyn sees her readers as intelligent women
who insist on accurate backgrounds, so she spends time researching
as well as writing. She also finds time for two adult children
and their partners, a granddaughter, her mother, and a very supportive
husband—not to mention the member of the family that
keeps her fit, a loud, cheerful, and ruthlessly determined “almost”
Labrador dog. If you'd like to contact her, Robyn can be reached at:
P.O. Box 18240, Glen Innes, Auckland, New Zealand. COMING
NEXT MONTH If you enjoyed the eBook you just read, then you’ll
love what we have for you next month! ON SALE IN DECEMBER
2006 THE MIGHTY QUINNS: DECLAN by Kate Hoffman, Blaze
SECRET SANTA ANTHOLOGY by Janelle Denison, Isabel
Sharpe, and Jennifer LaBrecque, Blaze WITH HIS TOUCH by
Dawn Atkins, Blaze BAD INFLUENCE by Kate Hardy, Blaze IT’S
A WONDERFULLY SEXY LIFE by Hope Tarr, Blaze A TASTE
OF TEMPTATION by Carrie Alexander, Blaze THE CHRISTMAS
BRIDE by Penny Jordan, Presents PLEASURED IN THE
BILLIONAIRE’S BED by Miranda Lee, Presents THE SICILIAN’S
BOUGHT BRIDE by Carol Marinelli, Presents PREGNANCY OF
PASSION by Lucy Monroe, Presents BEDDED FOR REVENGE by
Sharon Kendrick, Presents AT THE GREEK TYCOON’S
PLEASURE by Cathy Williams, Presents SANTIAGO’S LOVECHILD
by Kim Lawrence, Presents THE FRENCHMAN’S
CAPTIVE WIFE by Chatntelle Shaw, Presents ITALIAN
HUSBANDS BUNDLE by Diana Hamilton, Sara Craven, and Sarah
Morgan, Harlequin Presents BLACKHAWK’S BOND by Barbara
McCauley, Desire THE UNEXPECTED MILLIONAIRE by Susan
Mallery, Desire EXECUTIVE SEDUCTION by Kristi Gold, Desire
AT THE TEXAN’S PLEASURE by Mary Lynn Baxter, Desire
MELTING THE ICY TYCOON by Jan Colley, Desire
DYNASTIES: THE ELLIOTTS PART 2 BUNDLE by Kara Lennox,
Barbara Dunlop, Roxanne St. Claire, Emilie Rose, Kathie
DeNosky and Maureen Child, Desire THE ILLEGITIMATE HEIRS
TRILOGY by Kathie DeNosky, Desires