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‘Just you today, m’selle,’ she confirmed cheerfully. ‘I know all about this place, so, if you got any questions, you ask.’
And know about Moraze she did, dispensing snippets of information all the more intriguing for having a strong personal bias. Lexie plied her with questions, and once they reached the high grasslands she looked eagerly for signs of the horses.
‘You like horses?’ the driver asked.
‘Very much. I’m a vet,’ Lexie told her.
‘OK, I tell you about the horses.’
Lexie soaked up her information, much of which concerned the legendary relationship between the horses and the ruler.
‘As long as the horses flourish,’ the guide finished on the approach to a sweeping corner, ‘Our Emir will also, and so will Moraze.’
She spoke as though it were written law. Lexie asked curiously, ‘Why do you call him the Emir?’
‘It’s kind of a joke, because the first de Couteveille was a duke in France. He got into trouble there, and after a couple of years of roaming in exile he found Moraze. He brought an Arabian princess with him.’ She gave a thousand-watt smile. ‘Their descendants have kept Moraze safe for hundreds of years, so you better believe we look after those horses! We don’t want anyone else taking over our island, thank you very much.’
Lexie gasped with alarm as the guide suddenly jerked the wheel. The van skidded, the world turned upside down, and amidst a harsh cacophony of sounds Lexie was flung forward against the seatbelt. It locked across her, the force driving the breath from her lungs, so that she dragged air into them with a painful grunt.
The laboured sound of the engine and a strong smell of petrol forced her to ignore her maltreated ribs. A cool little wind played with her hair, blowing it around her face. She forced her eyes open and saw grass, long and golden, rustling in the breeze.
The car had buried its nose in the low bank on one side of the road, and when she tried her door it refused to open. She turned her head, wincing at a sharp pain in her neck, to see the driver slumped behind the wheel. The woman’s harsh breathing filled the vehicle.
‘I have to turn off the engine,’ Lexie said aloud. If she didn’t it might catch fire.
Easing herself around, she freed the seatbelt and groped for the key. She could just reach it. With shaking fingers, she twisted rapidly, hugely relieved when the engine sputtered into silence.
Now she had to see if the driver was all right. If it was a heart attack she could at least give CPR. But first she had to get out, which meant crawling over the poor woman, possibly making any injuries worse…
She reached for the driver’s wrist, hugely relieved when the pulse beat strongly beneath her shaking fingers. And then she heard the distant throb of a powerful engine, a sound she identified as a helicopter.
The pilot must have seen the wrecked car because the chopper altered course. The clack-clack-clack of the engine filled the air, and seconds later the craft landed in a haze of dust and wind. Immediately a man leapt down, ducking to avoid the rotors as he ran towards her. Lexie put her hand up to her eyes and closed them, then looked again, blinking hard.
Even at this distance she knew him. Rafiq de Couteveille—the man who had kissed her only last night…
Stunned, her stomach hollow, Lexie watched him yank open the driver’s door and crouch beside her. After one quick glance at the unconscious woman, he transferred his gaze to Lexie’s face.
‘You are all right?’ he demanded, pitching his voice so she could hear him above the noise of the helicopter.
Lexie nodded, ignoring the sharp stab of maltreated muscles in her neck. ‘I think she might have had a heart attack.’
He bent his attention to the crumpled woman beside her. Was he a doctor? No, he didn’t look like a doctor.
The driver stirred and muttered something in the local Creole French, then opened her eyes.
‘Don’t worry,’ Rafiq de Couteveille said. ‘We’ll have you both out soon.’
No sooner said than done; within a few minutes the driver was free and being carried across to the chopper by two men, and Rafiq was saying, ‘Let me help you.’
‘I can manage, thank you.’
But he eased her past the wheel, his strong arms gentle and controlled. In spite of the shivers racking her when he set her carefully on her feet, her breath was shallow and her colour high.
And all she could think of was that she must look a real guy. ‘Thank you,’ she said as crisply as she could.
Something flickered in the dark eyes—green, she realised in the clear light of the Moraze day. Not just ordinary green, either—the pure, dense green of the very best pounamu, New Zealand’s prized native jade.
‘So we meet again,’ he said with an ironic twist to his beautifully chiselled mouth.
He was too close. Taking an automatic step backwards, she turned slightly away, her brows meeting for a second as another twinge of pain tightened the muscles in her neck.
Sharply he asked, ‘Where are you hurt?’
‘I’m not—the seatbelt was just a bit too efficient.’ Her smile faded as she asked anxiously, ‘Is the driver all right?’
‘I think so.’
Lexie swallowed to ease a suddenly dry throat. ‘I’m so glad you happened to be passing.’
He responded courteously, ‘And so, Alexa Considine, am I.’
‘Lexie. My name is Lexie,’ she told him. ‘From New Zealand,’ she added idiotically.
She shivered, then stiffened as he picked her up and strode towards the chopper.
‘I can walk,’ she muttered.
‘I doubt it. You’re in shock. Keep your head down.’
Her face turned into his shoulder; she inhaled his dark, male scent. He ducked, and it was with faces almost pressed together that they headed for the chopper door. Lexie shut her eyes.
She felt safe, she thought raggedly—safer than she had ever felt in her life.
Which was odd, because every instinct she possessed was shouting a warning. Somehow she’d managed to forget that he had his own particular scent—faint, yet hugely evocative. And although her ribs were still complaining, memories flooded back in sensory overload as the remembered impact of that kiss burned through every cell in her body.
The noise of the helicopter’s engines thundered through her, turning her shivers into shudders; by the time the chopper lifted off, she was white to the lips.
At least she’d managed not to throw up, she thought distantly after they landed in the grounds of a large building in the capital city.
The following hours passed in a blur of movement and noise, at last relieved by blessed peace when she was delivered to a solitary bed in a small, cool room overlooking the sea. She looked up from the pillows as Rafiq de Couteveille came in with a slender woman at his side—the doctor who’d supervised her tests.
‘How are you now?’ he asked.
‘Better, thank you.’ Except that her throat had turned to sand. Huskily she asked, ‘How is the driver?’
‘Like you, she doesn’t seem hurt apart from mild shock,’ Rafiq told her.
‘Does she know what happened?’
He scanned her face with hard green eyes. ‘An animal apparently ran out in front of the coach.’
‘I hope it wasn’t hurt,’ she said quietly.
The woman beside him smiled. ‘Probably not as much as you are. Our animals run fast. Although you have bruises, you do not have anything cracked or broken. However, you’re still suffering a mild case of shock, so it seems a good idea to keep you in here for tonight.’
Rafiq de Couteveille asked, ‘Is there anyone I should contact?’
If her sister Jacoba heard about this she’d be on a jet to Moraze immediately. Crisply, Lexie said, ‘No. I’ll be fine, and I presume there’s no reason why I shouldn’t see out the rest of my holiday?’
He looked at the doctor, who said, ‘None at all, with a few precautions. I’ll tell you about those tomorrow before you leave hospital.’
‘I do need to notify someone about where I am,’ she objected, feeling rather as though someone had run over her with a steamroller.
‘I will contact the count,’ Rafiq de Couteveille said calmly. ‘The doctor feels that you need to be left alone tonight, so don’t expect visitors.’ When Lexie frowned he told her, ‘The hotel is sending along toiletries and clothes. I will leave you now. Do everything you are told to do, and don’t worry about anything.’
Silenced by the authority in his tone and bearing, Lexie watched him stride out of the room beside the doctor, tall and utterly sure of himself, the superbly tailored light suit revealing a body that made her foolish heart increase speed dramatically. How could one man pack so much punch?
And how had he appeared up on those grassy plains—literally from out of the blue?
Like a genie from a bottle, she thought, and gave an involuntary smile, because the image was so incongruous. Rafiq de Couteveille bore all the hallmarks of an alpha male—it would be a very clever magician who managed to confine him.
And it would take a special sort of woman to match that impressive male charisma—someone elegant, sophisticated, worldly.
Someone completely unlike Lexie Sinclair, a vet from New Zealand who’d never even had a lover!
Which inevitably brought more memories of that kiss—explosive, exciting and still capable of causing a delicious agitation that temporarily made her forget her tender ribs and stiff neck.
It almost seemed like fate, she thought dreamily, that they should meet again…
Oh, how ridiculous! Coincidences happened all the time—everyone had stories of the most amazing ones that meant nothing at all.
Forget about him, she told herself sternly.
When she eased out of bed the following morning an inspection of her body revealed some mild bruising over her ribs. She was also stiff, although movement would ease that. However the shakiness that had startled her after the accident was gone.
And although the doctor was cautious she said there was no reason why she shouldn’t leave, cautioning her to take things easy until the bruises had faded and she felt completely well.
So she dressed in the outfit that had arrived from the hotel the previous evening with her toiletries, and sat down rather limply on the chair. Presumably Felipe would come and get her, and she just didn’t feel like dealing with him at the moment.
A knock at the door made her brace herself. ‘Come in,’ she called, getting to her feet and squaring her shoulders.
But it wasn’t Felipe. When Rafiq de Couteveille walked in, his lithe form immaculate in superbly tailored casual clothes, her heart performed an odd gyration in her chest, quivering as it finally came to rest.
‘Ready to leave?’ he asked, dark eyes cool and measuring.
Later she’d wonder why on earth she hadn’t asked him what he was doing there.
‘Yes, of course.’ Oddly breathless, she picked up the small bag with her clothes from yesterday.
‘You will be more comfortable once you get home,’ he said calmly. At her hesitation, his brows met for a second across his nose. ‘Come—they’ll be wanting this room soon.’
‘I can’t ask you to drive me back to the hotel,’ she said inanely. ‘Felipe—?’
‘But you aren’t asking me,’ he pointed out with a smile that pierced her fragile shell of independence.
When she still didn’t move he held out an imperative hand.
With a meekness entirely foreign to her, Lexie handed over her bag.
CHAPTER THREE
COOL, firm fingers gripped Lexie’s elbow. Rafiq said, ‘Shall I ring for a wheelchair?’
‘Of course not,’ she spluttered, and started walking.
But once out beneath Moraze’s brilliant sun she was glad to sink into the air-conditioned comfort of the waiting vehicle.
He took the wheel, which surprised her; she’d have presumed the ruler of a place with several million inhabitants would have a limousine with a chauffeur. Instead he drove a late-model car, sleek, and with all the accoutrements of luxury.
Hanging on to the remnants of her composure, she said steadily, ‘This is very kind of you.’
‘It is the least I can do,’ he said, adding with a smile that barely tucked in the corners of his sculpted mouth, ‘We value our tourists. It is a pity your trip to the jungle was cut short. When you are fully recovered I will take you there.’
Lexie stared straight ahead, refusing to allow herself to feel any excitement at the prospect. They were passing beneath an avenue of tall palms, and the shadows of their long, slender trunks flashing across her eyes set up such an unpleasant rhythm that she turned her head away.
Unfortunately this gave her an extremely good view of Rafiq de Couteveille’s profile in all its autocratic purity. Whatever interesting meld of races and cultures had given him that face, it was disturbingly beautiful in a very masculine way—a compelling amalgam of angles and curves and hard-honed lines that spoke of formidable power.
And perhaps just a hint of cruelty? She would not, she thought with an inner shiver, closing her eyes, want to make an enemy of him.
His voice broke into her thoughts. ‘Here, take these.’
Eyes flying open, she realised he was holding out his sunglasses. ‘I can’t—you’ll need them,’ she said, unwilling to wear something so intimately connected to him.
He shrugged. ‘You are not accustomed to this sun. I am.’
And very much accustomed to getting your own way, she thought dryly.
But then rulers were notorious for that. Reluctantly she accepted the spectacles and perched them on the end of her nose.
They made an immense difference. She said quietly, ‘Thank you. I’m not usually so wimpish.’
‘You are too harsh on yourself. There is a difference between being fragile and being a wimp, and an accident always leaves one shaken. Why don’t you put your head back and rest quietly?’
It was couched as a question, but clearly he expected her to obey. And because it was simpler she did, waiting for the hum of the engine to calm her.
Only to find the impact of the man next to her negated any soothing effect. Rafiq de Couteveille got to her in a way no other man ever had, his presence alerting unsuspected sensory receptors in her mind and body, so that everything seemed suddenly more vivid, more exhilarating, more more, she thought with a surge of apprehension.
She didn’t need this. Because she’d spent so much of her time studying, she’d missed out on the social aspect of university life. But she’d watched with considerable bewilderment when heartbroken friends suffered agonies over young men she’d considered shallow and inconsiderate.
