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‘No.’
‘But I have travel insurance—’
‘It isn’t relevant,’ he interrupted again, brows drawing together.
Head held so high it made her neck ache, Lexie got to her feet. Was he implying that he’d pay for it? Rich and powerful he might be, but she was an independent woman. ‘Surely Moraze’s health system bills travel insurance companies? In an island that depends on tourists—’
‘We do not depend on tourists,’ he said. ‘We have an extremely good and progressive offshore banking system, and we have invested heavily in high-tech industries. Along with sugar, coffee and our gems, these are the pillars of our prosperity. Tourists are welcome, of course, but my government and I have taken note of the problems that come from too heavy a reliance on tourism.’
She would not let that aristocratic authority intimidate her. Steadily, each word bitten out, she said, ‘Perhaps you would let me finish?’
A black eyebrow climbed, and his reply was delivered with a cool, autocratic politeness that reminded her he was almost a king. ‘Of course. My apologies.’
‘I pay my own way,’ she said with brittle emphasis. ‘And I pay my insurance company to cover me while I’m travelling.’
He measured her with one of those penetrating green surveys, then shrugged dismissively. ‘I will make sure someone deals with it. I suggest that for the rest of today you take things quietly. There is a pool here, if you wish to swim, although it would be sensible not to go into the water until tomorrow.’
Lexie fought back a pang of humiliating disappointment, because that didn’t sound as though he was coming back to the castle. She said with what she hoped was some dignity, ‘Thank you very much for everything you’ve done.’
‘It is my pleasure,’ he said formally with a half bow, before turning on his heel to stride away.
Very much the man in control, she thought, subsiding back into the chair.
Very much the ruler of his own kingdom.
But why had he been so kind? If it was kindness that had persuaded him to bring her here to convalesce.
What else could it be? She gazed around at vivid flowers soaking up the sun, her gaze following a bird bright as a mobile bloom that darted from one heavily laden bush to another.
Uneasily she wondered if the kiss had had anything to do with his consideration. No; he’d given no indication that he even remembered that wild embrace.
Perhaps he was so accustomed to kissing women he’d forgotten. It had almost certainly been a whim, put behind him once he’d realised she didn’t know much about kissing.
This holiday had seemed such a good idea; the chance to decide once and for all whether she and Felipe had a future together.
Now she wished she’d flown straight back home to New Zealand. Felipe’s attempt to pressure her into his bed had convinced her she definitely didn’t want any sort of future with him, and meeting Rafiq had stirred something dark and disturbing in her, making her yearn for some unknowable, unattainable goal.
Therese Fanchette said, ‘You asked for a check to be kept on Count Felipe Gastano.’
Not a muscle moved in her ruler’s face, but she felt the chill from across the big desk.
Eyes chips of green ice, Rafiq rapped out, ‘So?’
‘Information has come in about the Interpol operation.’
Rafiq’s voice gave away nothing of the cold anger biting into him. ‘Is he aware of what’s happening?’
‘Not so far, as far as we can tell. His emails have been intercepted, of course. There has been nothing to suggest that anyone in his organisation has yet discovered our plans.’
Rafiq dampened down his spurt of triumph. ‘We need a couple of days. Has he tried to contact M’selle Considine?’
‘So far he has made several telephone calls to the castle. Your people have said she is still resting.’
‘It is strange that he knew I was involved in her rescue, yet he has made no attempt to contact me.’
Therese Fanchette was one of the few people who knew the reason for Rafiq’s caution. She frowned, and said slowly, ‘Which leads one to suppose that he wants to keep out of your way. One of Gastano’s closest associates is convinced that he plans to marry M’selle Considine.’
Rafiq’s head came up and he stared at her. ‘Is this good information?’ he demanded. ‘Not just gossip?’
‘I don’t deal in gossip; this is as good as it gets. The source mentioned that the date had been set. Has M’selle Considine said anything about that? Or about Gastano?’
‘Nothing,’ he said briefly. ‘Continue keeping him under observation. I want to know exactly what he is doing, where he goes, who he sees, and I want to make sure that he is unable to contact M’selle Considine for at least another couple of days.’
Therese inclined her head. ‘Her phone calls and email are being monitored, as you requested. If he tries to contact her we will know immediately.’ After a slight pause she said, ‘With respect, sir, I still think it would be better to let them communicate with each other and see what we can learn.’
‘I don’t.’
She gave him what he called her grandmother’s look, and his mouth quirked, his expression lightening. ‘I know how you feel,’ he admitted. ‘I rarely have hunches, but something tells me to keep her under wraps for the present. If it achieves nothing else, the knowledge that his prospective bride is my guest and incommunicado should keep his mind off his overseas affairs.’
With a reluctant smile, Therese said, ‘So far your hunches have been one-hundred-per-cent accurate, so I’d be stupid not to accept this one.’
‘I realise it’s likely to make things more difficult for you.’ After another speaking look from her, his smile widened. ‘But I’m sure you’ll cope.’
When he was alone again he sat back at his desk and stared at the gold pen in front of him.
One part of him was icily furious that Gastano had dared set foot on Moraze, the other was bleakly satisfied—because now the count was in unfamiliar territory where the rules were different.
Greed bolstered by overconfidence often led to mistakes, Rafiq thought with ruthless pragmatism. And coming to Moraze was the first mistake Gastano had made in a long time.
Rafiq got to his feet and walked over to the window, glancing up for a moment at the rampant stallion on the wall of his office, the badge of his house and the symbol of his family’s rule. Everything he did was for Moraze’s welfare.
So, was Lexie what she seemed to be, the complaisant lover of a high-flying criminal, in line to be his wife?
Or was she an innocent dupe, rather charming in her lack of sophistication?
If she wasn’t a partner in Gastano’s schemes, discovering the true nature of her lover could hurt her. But Rafiq knew he couldn’t afford to be squeamish; he needed an edge over Gastano, and if the man planned to marry her this could be it.
Had Lexie been an innocent when she’d met the count?
A surge of lethal fury took Rafiq completely by surprise. Implacably, he fought it back, forcing himself to think analytically. It seemed unlikely. She’d spent years studying to be a vet, and, although universities were by no means hotbeds of vice, she was a very attractive woman with a swift, reckless sexual response that hinted at considerable experience.
Some of it gained in Gastano’s bed, he reminded himself ruthlessly.
The memory of the kiss they’d exchanged still had the power to arouse Rafiq. What had been a rather sardonic whim on his part had changed the instant his lips met hers. She’d been vividly, tantalisingly passionate, and he’d lost himself in her open sensuality.
That kiss had been surprisingly hard to break away from—and even harder to forget.
His household offices were in the old citadel, built on a spur of volcanic rock that overtopped the city by some hundred or so metres, so he had an excellent view of the business district. His gaze skimmed the glittering water of the port, and the bright trees that lined the business area, then beyond to the houses clinging to the surrounding hills.
Logically, dispassionately, he considered the situation, examining it from all angles until he finally came to a conclusion. It was a difficult one, but he had been trained to make difficult decisions, even ones that threatened to exact a personal cost.
As the sweet-scented tropical day drew to a close, Lexie felt so much better she thought quite seriously about heading back to the hotel. Common sense decided that tomorrow would probably be a better day. The maid had insisted she rest again before dinner, closing the shutters even while Lexie was trying to persuade her that she wasn’t tired.
‘The Emir says it is necessary,’ Cari said firmly.
Rafiq the Emir. It suited him, Lexie thought with an odd little shiver.
To her astonishment she did sleep again, lulled by the distant thunder of the waves on the reef, waking to a feeling of lazy wellbeing, a kind of hopeful anticipation, as though something wonderful was in store, something she’d waited for without even realising it…
‘Just watch yourself,’ she said aloud.
But that rash eagerness persisted even after she’d got up, even though she knew Rafiq wasn’t coming back. Irritated by the wistful tone of her thoughts, she made an impatient gesture.
So she was attracted to him. Why should that startle her? Plenty of other women at the party had watched him from the corners of their eyes, avidly appreciating his superb male assets. Like this castle, her suite, her bathroom, he was straight out of a fairy tale—a ruler, strong, and more than a little intimidating.
He’d asked her if she liked the thought of taming a man.
Flushing, she went to brush her hair. The answer was still no, but it would be…exciting to discover whether his imperious control was unbreakable.
Meeting—being kissed by—Rafiq de Couteveille had summoned a hidden, shameful yearning.
To be beautiful.
There, she’d said it, but only in her mind. To rub in how completely ridiculous she was being, she forced the words through her lips: ‘I’d like to be beautiful. I’d like him to look at me the way Marco looks at Jacoba. Even once would do.’
A swift, derisory glance at the mirror revealed why that would never happen. ‘There’s nothing wrong with you—you’re just ordinary,’ she said, pronouncing the word like a curse.
She stared more closely at her reflection, clinically cataloguing her assets.
Good skin, though it turned sallow if she didn’t choose the right colours to wear.
Fine features, but without anything of Jacoba’s witchery.
OK eyes, darkish blue, set off by black brows and long lashes.
Hair that was wavy and thick, boring brown with gold highlights in the sun.
And although she had quite a reasonable figure, she lacked any lush curves; slim and athletic was probably as good as it got.
Lexie curled her lip. All in all—forgettable.
And the kiss they’d shared had clearly meant so little to Rafiq he’d relegated it to some dark cupboard in his memory, never to be opened again.
Which was what she should do, she decided, ashamed by her neediness. It embarrassed her that the independence she’d taken so much for granted had crumbled at one touch from a man’s practised mouth.
She was Lexie Sinclair, and she was a vet—a good vet—and she’d be a better one before she finished. Always she’d gratefully left the limelight to Jacoba and followed her own less-spectacular dreams. Being thrust into the Illyrian spotlight had shocked her, and awakened a difficult conscience within herself, one that forced her to do what she could to alleviate her father’s bitter, brutal legacy. She was proud of what she’d achieved in her year in Illyria. But now it was over she craved privacy, and the chance to get on with the life she’d planned.
So how the heck had she ended up in a royal palace on an exotic island in the Indian Ocean, with the most handsome prince in the world as her reluctant host?
‘Sheer chance. And you’ll soon be out of here,’ she told herself. ‘Then you can forget about this interlude.’
But even as she turned away and dressed she knew she’d never forget Rafiq de Couteveille.
The tropical twilight was draping the hills in a hazy robe when she made her way down the stairs. At the bottom of the flight, a table stood with a huge vase of flowers, some completely alien to Lexie. Entranced by their colours and shapes, she stopped to admire them, but her attention was caught by a photograph beside the urn.
A girl—in her mid-teens perhaps, and clearly a close relative of Rafiq. Her bright, beautiful face was a softened version of his features.
From behind, Cari said, ‘The Emir’s sister.’
‘I didn’t know he had a sister,’ Lexie said rapidly, warned by a note in the older woman’s voice that something was amiss.
The maid looked sadly at the photograph. ‘Her name was Hani. She is dead since two years,’ she said. ‘I will show you to the courtyard.’
‘I know the way to it.’
‘I think not. You sat with the Emir in the garden. This is different.’
Lexie followed her into an arcaded square, where a fountain played musically in a grassy lawn sectioned into quarters by gravel paths. Flowering shrubs were set out in patterns, the formal style tempered by luxuriant growth and the penetrating, languorous perfumes of the tropics. Along the wall that looked out over the sea was another arcade, deeply shadowed.
After telling the maid that she needed nothing, Lexie was left alone to watch the darkness come, surprised that it brought no coolness. Within minutes the sea was cloaked and the stars sprang out, forming their ancient patterns in the velvet sky.
An ache chilled her heart. How had that vital, laughing girl died? Straightening up, she turned to go back inside. Her skin tightened when she saw Rafiq walk out, and wildfire anticipation flared to life in her guarded heart.
This was what she’d been waiting for.
A faint tremor tempered her first undisciplined emotion when Rafiq came towards her—tall, powerfully built and compelling as a panther. He looked austere, as harshly forbidding as that long-ago desert sheikh who’d lost his favourite daughter to a French exile.
No words formed in her brain; silent, except for the thudding of her heartbeat in her ears, she watched him approach and wished she’d worn something more sophisticated than trousers and a shirt.
Because she felt stupid just standing there and staring, she tried for a smile, holding it pinned to her lips for a few seconds too long to be natural.
He stopped a few feet away and treated her to another trademark survey, swift and unwavering, his gaze ranging across her face.
One foolish hand started to move in an instinctive attempt to shield herself. Hastily she controlled the betraying gesture, straightening her arm.
‘Have you a headache?’ he demanded sharply, crossing the intervening space in three long strides.
‘No.’
But he’d already taken her chin in his hand and was examining her face carefully, running his fingers through the hair at her temple where her own hand had strayed. Something sparked in the dark green eyes, and Lexie felt herself melting, her bones turning heavy and lax, a tide of honeyed sensation stirring inside her.
In a quick, panicked voice, she said, ‘I’m perfectly all right. My head didn’t get hurt.’ Her neck still spasmed when she turned it incautiously, but apart from that she felt remarkably fit.
He let her go and stepped back, his mouth held in an uncompromising line. ‘So I see. Cari tells me you have slept again. You look better.’
‘I do, thank you.’ Self-consciously she cleared her throat because something had caught in it, turning her normally clear tones husky.
‘Good. Come and sit down. Would you like something to drink?’ When she hesitated, he smiled and added, ‘Without alcohol, if you prefer that.’
