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‘No, but I can’t wait to do so! Look at that stunning figure!’
Emma smiled politely, shook his hand, aware of Patrick’s blue eyes on her, and of the long hand so close to her back.
‘What a cracker you are!’ Toby giggled. ‘Why didn’t anyone tell me the new arrival was so gorgeous?’
Everyone laughed.
‘And have you met our cousin Charles?’ Liz was gesturing to the tall, elegant blond man who was with Toby. ‘He’s married to Natasha.’
‘The Wicked Witch of the West,’ Toby said, giggling.
‘Don’t be horrible about my poor darling Natasha,’ said Charles.
Emma barely noticed either Toby or Charles. She was too busy noticing Patrick Kinsella, standing beside her, stunningly gorgeous, unbearably handsome, frighteningly real…
‘How do you do, Miss Baccarat?’ Charles de Courcey said with infinite charm, shaking her hand, his dark eyes gentle and sweet.
‘Very well, thank you.’ Emma shook his hand and wished Patrick would disappear. ‘And you?’
‘Oh, marvellous. Had a lovely day; looks like it’s going to be a super night…’
Patrick finished his drink, moved with cool male grace to the table, put his glass down. Emma didn’t look at him but she saw every move he made, every ripple of muscle beneath that impeccable black dinner-jacket, every turn of his dark head and every flicker of his blue, blue eyes.
‘Uh-oh!’ Toby giggled suddenly. ‘Here comes The Evil One.’
Natasha appeared on deck looking drop-deadly in a shimmering silver sheath which she must have been poured into, for it clung to her every slender curve. Her dark hair was pushed back in a sultry swath, her heavy eyelids were outlined in black and her lips dripped bloodred gloss.
‘Vampirella, I presume!’ Toby joked.
‘Do be quiet, Toby,’ Natasha said, slinking towards them. ‘Don’t give Charles a drink, Patrick—he’s been knocking back the sherry all afternoon, and I don’t want him to lose consciousness too soon. Why, Miss Baccarat! Weren’t you told to dress for dinner?’
Emma barely registered the insult—she was too busy forcing herself not to feel what she was feeling.
‘I think Emma looks absolutely superb,’ Patrick murmured coolly, watching her from beneath those heavy eyelids and making her heart skip rapid beats.
‘Well, you would, Patrick!’ Natasha said waspishly. ‘No doubt you’ve decided to take up the challenge. After all, if anyone can get Miss Baccarat to fall wildly in love, it’s you.’
Emma stiffened like a board, her hand clutching her glass so tightly, she thought it might shatter into a thousand pieces. Over my dead body! she told herself furiously. Over my dead body!
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ asked Toby.
‘Oh, we were having this conversation when they first arrived…’ said Natasha, but Emma wasn’t listeningshe was furiously remembering Patrick’s reputation as a lady-killer, playboy, seducer par excellence. She felt a fool, humiliated, aware now that Patrick Kinsella had probably elicited these responses in her through experience or cynical manipulation or some other technique which she had no defence against.
I knew they weren’t real feelings, she thought angrily, sipping her drink too fast. I knew feelings like these didn’t exist outside storybooks.
‘…and she said she didn’t believe in love or romance.’
Emma’s face was burning angry crimson. She didn’t know where to look or what to say. She wanted to die.
‘So I told her she must want someone to kiss from time to time…’
Patrick moved coolly, suddenly, and as his powerful body blocked the others from her view Emma looked up into his clever, serious eyes and felt breathless all over again because he clearly understood what was going on inside her mind. She swallowed hard, dragging her gaze from his. He hesitated for a second, then his long fingers touched her cheek, making her quite literally catch her breath and stare up at him again, horrified.
‘…and then Patrick asked her if she’d ever wanted to kiss anyone…’
Emma looked down suddenly at his mouth, then went scarlet, felt more vulnerable than she had ever felt in her life, and had no option other than to bend her dark head because there was nowhere else to hide.
Turning from Emma, Patrick cut into Natasha’s diatribe. ‘I think it’s time we all left for dinner.’
They all turned to look up at him, as though he were a god.
‘I booked the table for eight o’clock, and it’s nearly that now.’ He studied the black and silver Rolex on his wrist, the crisp white cuff shooting back to reveal a tanned, black-haired forearm. ‘As we have to sail at midnight, I think an early start is advisable.’
They left the yacht, a glamorous set of people bathed in gold evening light, walking along the expensive shopping streets while open-topped sports cars zoomed past and little red Lambretta scooters whizzed along carrying young people in jeans, their hair blowing back in the hot breeze.
Naturally, they fell into pairs as they walked. Charles and Toby. Natasha and Liz…
Patrick fell into step beside Emma. She felt her heart beating too fast. The warm sun was on her skin, the breeze in her hair, and all the lights of St Tropez seemed bright, hot, blazing with glamour.
‘Do you think you’ll enjoy the cruise?’
It was small talk, and Emma was grateful for that, answering, ‘Yes. Particularly Morocco. I’ve never been there.’
‘Rabat is very beautiful.’ His voice was deep, cool, very male. ‘It’s the capital, but it’s quite a way inland from Casablanca, which is where we’ll be stopping. I’ll hire a car, drive you into the city for——’
‘No, that’s quite all right!’ Emma tried hard not to sound as though she was afraid of spending an entire day alone with him, although she had a sneaking suspicion that she was. ‘Casablanca will be fine for me. I don’t need to see Rabat.’
He just looked at her coolly, analytically, from under those heavy eyelids, and her heart skipped so many beats she was surprised she didn’t have a cardiac arrest.
‘How much longer till we get to this restaurant?’ she demanded with a brittle laugh, and then blushed hotly, aware of his serious blue eyes burning through her pretence. ‘I’m really quite hungry!’
He looked at her in cool enquiry, and his eyes wanted to know why she was resorting to such artifice.
Feeling sick, she looked away from him.
‘Here we are!’ Natasha said suddenly, stopping at a vast restaurant surrounded by black iron grilles, plants and flowers and trees in the garden beneath the long blue and white canopy. ‘Well done, Patrick! You unerringly pick the most exclusive restaurants.’
He gave a cool, wry smile. ‘Just for you, Natasha,’ he said, and pushed open the gate of the private enclosure, watching Emma as she walked past him, making her very aware of his every look, his every flicker of thought.
The maître d’ swept up to them, bowed low. ‘Monsieur Kinsella! How wonderful to see you again! May I show you to your table…?’
Emma walked with the others across the terracotta paving. Women stared at Patrick in open admiration, men with jealous awe.
‘He looks like one of your heroes, doesn’t he?’ Natasha said to Liz. ‘Tall, dark and dangerous.’
Emma pretended not to hear. Dry-mouthed, she wandered aimlessly around while the others took their places. Patrick sat at the head of the table, leaning back coolly, his powerful eyes watching her trying to sit as far away from him as possible.
‘Oh, are you sitting up here with me?’ Toby said in surprise as she sat down beside him, in the furthest chair from Patrick. ‘I thought you were getting on famously with Patrick?’
‘Well, I just ended up walking with him, that’s all.’ She smiled, aware of Patrick’s laser-blue eyes burning on her, and deliberately did not look in his direction, smiling instead at Toby. ‘And now I’ve ended up sitting with you.’
‘Good-oh!’ Toby giggled amiably. ‘What shall we talk about? Oh—I know! Let’s talk about sex! That’s always a good dinner party conversation!’
‘Trust Toby to lower the moral tone,’ Natasha said contemptuously. ‘I say—is that Brigitte Bardot over there?’
Everybody looked to see if it was.
The waiter came up to take their order. Emma decided on sole meunière with salad because she had a feeling she was losing her appetite, and didn’t want everyone to notice—especially not Patrick.
‘I must remember to use this restaurant in one of my books,’ Liz said when the waiter had gone. ‘It’s a great place for the hero to take the heroine. They could have that corner table over there and argue passionately over their main course.’
‘Why do they always have to argue?’ Natasha asked.
‘Because,’ said Liz, ‘when two people fall in love they invariably fight tooth and claw to stop it happening.’
Emma slowly leaned her head to one side to look at Patrick while he wasn’t looking at her. She knew he couldn’t be looking at her, because she could hear him talking to Charles, but she was mistaken—he was looking straight at her, and as their eyes collided she felt so violently exposed that it was like being staked stark naked to her chair.
‘Usually, though,’ said Liz, sipping her wine, ‘the man recognises it first and acts on it.’
Emma dragged her gaze from Patrick’s and stared at the crystal glass in front of her.
‘But it’s all tied up with sexual attraction, you see, especially for him,’ Liz went on. ‘So he just keeps trying to get the heroine into bed, and, of course, she reacts like a scalded cat, because she thinks that’s all he wants.’
‘It usually is,’ said Natasha.
Patrick’s blue eyes flicked briefly, hotly, to Emma’s breasts.
‘And that’s why they argue so much,’ Liz said. ‘It’s the age-old difference between the sexes.’
‘Men want sex and women want love?’ Natasha laughed. ‘Stale news!’
‘So the minute the man pounces on the woman,’ said Liz, ‘all hell breaks loose because he can’t admit his feelings and she can’t let him make love to her until he does. Stalemate. Somebody has to give.’
Patrick Kinsella looked directly at Emma, his face hard, handsome, very cool, and as she met his eyes she felt devoid of all defence, completely convinced that he could see the bare vulnerability in her face, her skin, her hands, her shoulders, the very set of her body.
Pull yourself together! she thought furiously, and looked down at her knife and fork. Her hands shook as she blindly rearranged them.
‘Oh, look!’ said Natasha. ‘Miss Baccarat’s gone all shaky!’
Emma flicked angry green eyes up to her spiteful face. ‘I’m tired. I should have slept instead of going shopping.’
‘Not all this talk about passionate lovers, then?’ Natasha laughed. ‘You must be getting quite desperate now that you’re twenty-six, mustn’t you? Speaking of desperate—where the hell is my lobster? I’m starving.’
‘Desperate?’ said Toby with a laugh. ‘Who, this little beauty? She’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve seen in years. In fact I’m surprised Patrick hasn’t commented on her stunning looks. He’s usually the fastest gun in the West when it comes to seducing a pretty lady.’
Emma’s mouth tightened and she steeled herself not to look at Patrick.
‘But then he’s so discreet,’ said Toby, ‘that he’s probably planning to come to your cabin later tonight and relieve you of your négligé.’
Patrick’s dark lashes flickered and a faint smile touched his hard, sensual mouth. He shot a quick, lazy, burning look at Emma that told her Toby had hit the nail right on the head.
That was exactly what he had been planning to do.
Over my dead body, thought Emma furiously, glaring at him. Over my dead body!
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_dfc6c934-4331-521b-8194-2e7f5aa2f075)
THE ship sailed at midnight.
Emma stood on deck, leaning on the railings, her hair flickering gently in the breeze as the yacht motored out of harbour. The sky was black, pin-pricked by stars, and St Tropez looked beautiful as it got further away in the distance, that little cluster of bleached buildings still lit up in gold, villas dotted on the dark hills around, and lights winking up and down the night-time coast of the Gulf of St Tropez.
Patrick was standing coolly on the other side of the deck, talking to Liz in a deep, murmuring voice. Emma was aware of his every move although she did not look at him once.
‘We’ll be in Málaga tomorrow lunchtime,’ Toby said, drinking a glass of champagne. ‘It’s the perfect place for lazy tourists.’
‘To be honest,’ Emma replied, ‘Málaga doesn’t really interest me. I’d much rather go to Granada. I thought I could hire a car…’
‘Oh, don’t be boring!’ Toby laughed. ‘Spend the day in Málaga with me. Go on. We are both young, single and gorgeous!’
Emma laughed wryly, caught the turn of Patrick’s head, saw the narrowing of his tough blue eyes, and knew not only that he had overheard Toby’s gentle pass at her, but had not liked it.
‘Besides,’ said Toby, putting an arm around her slim shoulders, ‘we’re stuck together on this yacht for the next fortnight. We may as well make the most of it…’
Emma instinctively slithered out of Toby’s embrace. Years of practice made her appear to brush him away affectionately, a smile in her eyes and warmth in her body. The perfect rejection of an unwanted advance. And Patrick Kinsella noted it with cynical amusement from the other side of the deck.
‘Speaking of getting used to this cruise,’ Emma said lightly as she moved completely away from Toby, ‘I’m exhausted. All that travelling! Would anyone mind if I went straight down to bed?’
‘No, of course not, Emma!’ Toby tried to kiss her goodnight.
‘Night night!’ she said lightly, slithering artfully away from him and his kiss.
Patrick’s eyes glinted as he watched her across the deck, but he said nothing, and as everyone else chorused their goodnights to her she went downstairs to her cabin.
The motion of the ship was strange at first, making her clutch the banister on the stairs as they swayed faintly this way and that. The wood was creaking slightly, the throb of the engines was oddly comforting, and she certainly felt a lot better moving into the privacy of her cabin after an entire nerve-racking evening with Patrick Kinsella around.
Once inside her cabin, she undressed, pulled on her black silk pyjamas, took off her make-up and brushed out her long curly black hair.
It was warm, private, something of a sanctuary with such low lighting, and as she slid in between the soft, clean sheets she was already feeling sleepy. Plunging out the lights, she buried her head on the fat pillows and closed her eyes. What exactly was going on—if anything—with Patrick? This deep physical attraction, this overwhelming awareness—how on earth had it sprung up so unexpectedly between them?
The answer was fairly obvious, in truth—Patrick had manufactured it by working some peculiar kind of magic on her. He was very practised at seduction. She might be cynical and aware of the dangers, but that didn’t mean she was immune, especially to the charms of a clever womaniser.
Still vulnerable after all these years, she thought with a sigh, and closed her eyes, vowing just to ignore her inexplicable feelings for Patrick, regardless of how much magic he managed to work on her during this cruise.
The ship swayed this way and that. They were out of the gulf now, steaming across the Med towards the Spanish coast, and as they negotiated bigger waves the walls creaked more heavily, until the sound of the engines, the creaking of the walls and the gentle motion of the yacht became something of a lullaby, and she fell asleep.
Sleep, sleep, sleep…
She dreamed deeply.
