Royal and Ruthless: Innocent Mistress, Royal Wife / Prince of Scandal / Weight of the Crown

Royal and Ruthless

Innocent Mistress, Royal Wife

Robyn Donald

Prince of Scandal

Annie West

Weight of the Crown

Christina Hollis

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Cover

Title Page

Innocent Mistress, Royal Wife

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Prince of Scandal

About the Author

Dedication

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

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

Weight of the Crown

About the Author

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Copyright

Innocent Mistress, Royal Wife

Robyn Donald

ROBYN DONALD can’t remember not being able to read, and will be eternally grateful to the local farmers who carefully avoided her on a dusty country road as she read her way to and from school, transported to places and times far away from her small village in Northland, New Zealand. Growing up fed her habit; as well as training as a teacher, marrying and raising two children, she discovered the delights of romances and read them voraciously, especially enjoying the ones written by New Zealand writers. So much so that one day she decided to write one herself. Writing soon grew to be as much of a delight as reading—although infinitely more challenging—and when eventually her first book was accepted by Mills & Boon she felt she’d arrived home. She still lives in a small town in Northland, with her family close by, using the landscape as a setting for much of her work. Her life is enriched by the friends she’s made among writers and readers, and complicated by a determined corgi called Buster, who is convinced that blackbirds are evil entities. Her greatest hobby is still reading, with travelling a very close second.

CHAPTER ONE

RAFIQ DE COUTEVEILLE looked directly at Therese Fanchette, the motherly, middle-aged woman whose razor-sharp mind oversaw the security of his island country in the Indian Ocean. In a level voice he asked, ‘Exactly what sort of relationship does this Alexa Considine have with Felipe Gastano? Are they lovers?’

Therese said neutrally, ‘They are sharing a room at the hotel.’

So they were lovers. Rafiq glanced down at the photograph on his desk. Fine featured, medium height and slim, the woman was laughing up at the man he’d had in his sights for the past two years. She didn’t look like Felipe Gastano’s sort, but then, he thought with ice-cold anger, neither had Hani. His sister, now dead. ‘What have you discovered about her?’

‘Not much, but I’ve just been talking to a source in New Zealand. I taped the conversation, of course, and I’ll make a written report after I’ve had the information verified.’ She straightened her spectacles and checked her notes. ‘Alexa Considine is twenty-six years old, and in New Zealand she is known as Lexie Sinclair. Until a year ago she was a veterinarian in a rural practice in the north of the country. When her half-sister—Jacoba Sinclair, the model—and Prince Marco of Illyria became engaged, it emerged that Ms Considine is actually the daughter of the dead dictator of Illyria.’

‘Paulo Considine?’ At her nod, Rafiq’s brows lifted. ‘How did the daughter of one of the most hated and feared men of the twentieth century grow up in New Zealand?’

‘Her mother fled there when the children were very young. She must have had good reason to be terrified of her husband. According to the news media, neither girl had any idea of their real identity until they were adults.’

‘Anyone who knew Considine had reason to be afraid. Go on,’ Rafiq said, his eyes once more on the photograph.

‘She has spent the past year working with the peasants in Illyria, healing their animals and teaching classes at the veterinary college she’s helped set up under Prince Alex of Illyria’s patronage.’ Therese looked up. ‘It appears he used her obvious innocence of her father’s sins to break the ancient system of blood feuds in his country.’

Yes, Alex of Illyria was clever enough to stage-manage the situation to his advantage, Rafiq thought, his mind racing.

So Felipe Gastano had brought Alexa Considine to Moraze. What the hell was her family thinking to allow it? Her cousins were sophisticated men of the world; they must know that Gastano lived on the edge of society, using his wits, his handsome face and the faded glamour of an empty title to dazzle people. The tabloids called Count Felipe Gastano a great lover. Rafiq knew of a woman who’d killed herself after he’d stripped her of her self-respect by seducing her and then introducing her to drugs.

But perhaps Alexa Considine had something of her father in her. In spite of her work for the peasants, she could be an embarrassment to the Illyrian royal family.

Possibly she didn’t need protection because she knew very well how to look after herself…

He had to know more before he worked out how best to exploit the situation. ‘She and Gastano have been lovers for how long?’

‘About two months.’

Rafiq’s dark gaze travelled to the handsome face of his enemy. Although he doubted that Gastano felt anything much beyond a cynical, predatory lust for any woman, he had a reputation for pride. He had always demanded beauty in his amours.

But Alexa Considine—Lexie Sinclair—was not beautiful. Attractive, yes, even striking, but without the overt sexuality the man had always favoured. So why had he chosen her to warm his bed?

Brows drawing together, Rafiq studied the photograph of the woman on Gastano’s arm. It had been taken at a party in London, and she was laughing up at Gastano’s good-looking face.

The illegitimate son of an aristocrat, the man had assumed the title ‘Count’ after the real count, his half-brother, had died from a drug overdose. Gastano might well consider that the Sinclair woman’s connections to the rich and powerful Considine family—tainted though they were—would give him the social standing he’d spent his life seeking.

That certainly made sense. And now Gastano’s arrogance and his conviction that he was above suspicion had delivered him into Rafiq’s hands.

Transferring his gaze to the crest on the wall of his office, Rafiq reined in a cold anticipation as he surveyed the emblem of his family—a rampant horse wearing a crown that held a glitter of crimson, signifying the precious fire-diamonds found only on Moraze.

Rafiq would not be his father’s son—or Hani’s brother—if he failed to use the situation to his advantage.

Revenge was an ugly ambition, but Hani’s death should not be in vain.

As for Alexa Considine—she might have been innocent before she met Gastano, though it seemed unlikely. Her half-sister had worked in the notoriously amoral world of high fashion, so maybe Alexa Considine had a modern attitude to sex, taking partners as she wanted them.

But if not, he’d be doing her a favour. Felipe Gastano was no considerate lover, and once his world started crumbling around him he’d fight viciously to save himself. She’d be far safer out of the way.

Besides, he thought with cold satisfaction, it would give him great pleasure to take her from Gastano, to show the creep the limits of his power and influence before the trap closed around him.

Mind made up, he said evenly, ‘This is what I want you to do.’

Mme Fanchette leaned forward, frowning slightly as he outlined his instructions. When he’d finished she said quietly, ‘Very well, then. And the count?’

Rafiq’s voice hardened. ‘Watch him closely—put your best people onto it, because he’s as wary as a cat.’ He got up and walked across to the window, looking down at the city spread below. ‘Fortunately he is also a man with a huge sense of self-esteem, and a sophisticate’s disdain for people who live in small, isolated countries far from the fleshpots of the world he preys on.’

From beneath lowered lashes, Rafiq watched the woman in the flame-coloured dress. Cleverly cut to reveal long legs, narrow waist and high, small breasts, the silk dress angled for male attention. But Alexa Considine’s face didn’t quite fit its skilful, not entirely discreet sensuality.

The photographs hadn’t lied; she wasn’t a top-class beauty, Rafiq decided dispassionately—although, like every other woman attending the official opening of Moraze’s newest, most luxurious, highly exclusive hotel, she was superbly groomed. Her cosmetics had been applied expertly and her golden-brown hair cut by a master to make the most of her features. However, apart from that eye-catcher of a dress, she stood out, and not just because she was alone.

Gastano, Rafiq noted, was across the other side of the room flirting with a film star of somewhat notorious reputation.

Interesting…

Unlike every other woman in the place, Alexa Considine wore no jewellery. And she looked unawakened, as though no one had ever kissed that tempting, lushly opulent mouth—sensuous enough to make any red-blooded man fantasise about the touch of it on his skin.

Rafiq’s gut tightened. Swiftly controlling the hot surge of desire through his blood, he scanned her fine-boned face with an impassive expression. It seemed highly unlikely that her features told anything like the truth. Mme Fanchette’s source in New Zealand had come up with a blank about any possible affairs, but that didn’t mean Alexa was an innocent. At university no one would have taken much notice of her love life.

And she was certainly Felipe Gastano’s mistress, so that grave, unworldly air had to be spurious, a mere trick of genetics from somewhere in her bloodline.

Yet her cool self-possession challenged Rafiq in some primal, instinctive way. What would it be like to banish the composure from those regular features, set those large, slightly tilted eyes aflame with desire, feel those lips shape themselves to his…?

It took an effort of will to look away and pretend to scan the crowd, carefully chosen for their ability to create a buzz—a gathering wave of gossip and comment that would reach the ears of those who wanted privacy and opulence when they holidayed.

Rafiq had himself vetted the guest list, and apart from the woman in the sunset-coloured dress everybody in this Indian Ocean fantasy of a salon wore their sophistication like a badge of belonging.

Standing alone in the elegant, crowded room, she was attracting interested glances. Rafiq had to rein in a disturbing urge to forge his way through the chattering mob and cut her out, like a stallion with its favourite mare.

As he watched she turned and walked out through the wide doors into the warm, tropical night, the light from the chandeliers gleaming over satiny, golden-amber hair.

Across the room Gastano looked up, said something to the film star, and set off after his mistress. Rafiq fought back a raw anger that drove him to follow Gastano, and moved with the lithe gait of a man in complete control of his body.

He should leave it to the security men, of course, but he wanted to see them together, Gastano and Alexa Considine. That way he’d know for certain the truth about their relationship.

It was, he thought cynically as he stepped out onto the wide stone terrace, a perfect night for dalliance—the stars were as big as lamps, the sea gleamed like black silk shot with silver, and erotic perfumes from the flower farms of Moraze drifted lazily through the palms.

Stopping in the shadow of a vine heavy with flamboyant scarlet blossom, Rafiq watched the count walk up to Alexa Considine, and fought a primitive impulse to follow the man and best him in a territorial contest of overt masculine power.

The impulse startled him. Even in his amours he never allowed himself to be anything other than self-possessed, and this proprietary attitude towards a woman he didn’t even know—and planned to use—was an unwelcome development.

Of course, it couldn’t be personal—well, it was, he thought with a slow burn of anger, but it was between him and Gastano. Attractive though she was, the woman was merely a bystander.

Frowning, he noted her reaction to the count’s opening remark, scanning her face for emotions as she turned from her contemplation of the lagoon.

Although Rafiq had a hunter’s patience, he must have made some slight movement, because the woman looked over the count’s shoulder. Her eyes widened momentarily, only to be hastily covered by long lashes.

Not in fear or surprise, he thought, but in warning. A very cool customer, this one. No, he didn’t have to concern himself about her feelings; she was fully in command of them.

Narrowly he inspected the regular features highlighted by the silver witchery of starlight. Her sensuous mouth was compressed, her detached expression not altering as Gastano bent his head down to her.

The count’s voice was pitched too low for Rafiq to hear what he said, but the tone was unmistakeable—intimate and smoothly caressing.

The woman’s brows lifted. ‘No, I haven’t changed my mind.’

Again the count spoke, and this time Rafiq caught a few words. He stiffened.

Speaking in English, the count had said, ‘Come, don’t be so angry, my dearest girl,’ accompanied by a lingering, significant gaze.

She tossed back a crisp comment and walked past him, her spine straight as she headed for Rafiq.

‘Hello,’ she said in English, her voice clear and steady. ‘I’m Lexie Sinclair. Isn’t it a gorgeous evening?’ Not giving him time to answer, she turned to include the count and asked in a pleasant tone, ‘Do you two know each other?’

Full marks for social skills, Rafiq thought sardonically. Aloud he said, ‘Of course.’ Without offering a hand, he favoured the other man with a slight unsmiling inclination of his head. ‘Gastano.’

‘Ah, sir, how delightful to meet you again.’ The count’s voice was a mixture of impudence and false man-to-man heartiness. ‘I must congratulate you on yet another superb investment—I can tell you now that this hotel will be a huge success. I’ve already had two film stars singing its praises, and at least one minor European royal is planning to bring his latest mistress here for a week’s tryst.’

He switched his attention to the woman, letting his eyes linger on her face, and went on in a voice where the impertinence had transmuted into charming ruefulness. ‘Alexa, I must introduce you to Rafiq de Courteveille. He is the ruler of this lovely island, and all who live here, you know. But I must warn you to beware of him—he is well known to be a breaker of hearts. Sir, this is Alexa Considine, who prefers to be known as Lexie Sinclair. Perhaps she will tell you why.’

With an ironic smile, he bowed to them both then walked back into the hotel.

Aware of the anger that tightened her neat features, Rafiq took Alexa’s arm. Ignoring her startled resistance, he walked her towards the edge of the wide, stone-flagged terrace.

A volatile mixture of irritation laced with apprehension had prompted Lexie’s decision to make use of this stranger. If she’d known that he was the hereditary ruler of Moraze she’d never have dared; she’d probably shattered protocol. It had been kind of him to ignore her lack of manners.

So why did she feel that her impulsive approach to him had set something dangerous in motion? Resisting a faint, foolish urge to turn and run, she stole a rapid sideways glance at his face and dragged in a silent breath. A silver wash of starlight emphasised boldly angular features, strong and thrusting and uncompromising.

Dead gorgeous, she thought with involuntary appreciation, her heart picking up speed. In superbly tailored evening clothes he carried himself like an autocrat, his six-foot-several-inches of lean manhood almost intimidating.

Against such steel-hard authority, Felipe’s glamorous sophistication suddenly seemed flashy and superficial.

Sedately, she said, ‘It’s an honour to meet you, sir.’

‘My name is Rafiq.’ He smiled at her, his dark eyes intent.

Lexie’s pulse rate accelerated further, and an odd twist of sensation tightened her stomach. Trying to curb her runaway response, she struggled to remember what she’d read about the man who ruled this small, independent island state.

Not a lot. He didn’t make the headlines, or figure largely in the tabloids. Felipe had referred to him contemptuously as ‘the tinpot fake prince of a speck of land thousands of miles from civilisation.’

But Felipe’s jeering dismissal of the man beside her had been foolish as well as wrong. Rafiq de Couteveille walked in an aura of effortless power based on formidable male assurance.

Her mind jerked away from the memory of the moment that morning when, tired after the long flight from Europe, she’d discovered that Felipe had organised for her to spend the week in a room with him.

It had been a shock. She’d already decided she wasn’t in love with Felipe, and by going back to New Zealand she’d be ending their relationship.

The week in Moraze on her own was to have been a holiday, seven days to reorient herself to her real life as a country vet in Northland. Being met by Felipe at the airport had been unexpected. But when he’d swept her off to the hotel he was staying in, and they’d been shown into a suite with flowers everywhere and a bottle of champagne in a silver bucket prominently displayed, she’d realised with dismay and a certain unease that he’d set the scene for seduction.

Still, she’d been civilised about it, and so had Felipe, when she’d told him that no, she wasn’t going to join him in any sensual fantasy.

He hadn’t argued. Felipe never did. He’d taken her rejection with a smiling shrug, observing that it didn’t matter, that he’d sleep on one of the very comfortable sofas. That was when she’d found out that he’d cancelled her booking at her own, much more modest hotel some miles away. It had been impossible to get a room to herself—it was the holiday season and all the hotels were fully booked, an apologetic clerk told her.

It hadn’t been the first time Felipe had suggested they make love, but before it had always been with a light touch so she’d never felt pressured.

This time there had been something about his humorously regretful acceptance that didn’t ring true; he’d sounded satisfied, almost smug. Oh, she wasn’t afraid, but right now she felt a long way from home, and rather vulnerable and wary, whereas before she’d always been at ease with him.

Well, almost always.

He’d talked her into accompanying him to the party, only to abandon her after the first half-hour. It seemed very like punishment.

Yes, she thought—deliberate and rather vindictive. That sense of unease grew. Because she was out of place in this assembly of famous faces she’d seen in newspapers and gossip columns. Others were complete strangers, but they too wore fabulous clothes and even more fabulous jewels, and they all seemed to know each other.

‘You are all right?’ the man beside her asked in a deep, cool voice that ruffled across her skin like dark velvet.

‘Yes, of course.’ Goodness, was that her voice? Pitched slightly too high, the words had emerged almost breathlessly.

‘Should I apologise for disturbing you and your friend?’ Rafiq de Couteveille asked.

‘No, not at all,’ she said, again too quickly. She fixed her gaze on the lagoon, placid and shimmering beneath the tropical night.

She stole a glance at Rafiq de Couteveille, and a hot shiver worked its way down her spine, igniting her nerves so that she was acutely, almost painfully aware of him. Like her he was looking out across the lagoon, and in the darkness his arrogantly autocratic profile was an uncompromising slash across the star-gemmed sky.

Both he and Felipe were exceedingly good-looking, but the difference between them couldn’t have been greater.

Felipe had dazzled her; after the hard work of proving herself to the Illyrians, he’d accepted her without comment, made her laugh, introduced her to interesting people and generally entertained her with a light touch.

And, until she’d been presented with the fait accompli of that huge double bed, she’d taken him at face value.

Perhaps she should have seen the signs sooner—like the moment, after they’d been seeing each other for a month or so, when he’d noticed she was tired and told her he could get something that would take away her tiredness…if she wanted him to.

After one glance at her stunned expression he’d laughed softly and with affection, before apologising charmingly, saying that he’d only been testing her.

Then she’d believed him. Now she wondered whether he’d been lying. In spite of seeing so much of him, she really didn’t know Felipe at all. Her hands tightened on the balustrade.

‘There is something wrong. Can I help?’

Could Rafiq de Couteveille read minds? ‘I’m fine,’ she said briskly. After all, she didn’t know this man either.

‘Do you know Gastano well?’

‘I’ve known him for a couple of months,’ she said with restraint.

‘It appears you are close to becoming engaged to him.’

‘What?’ He was watching her keenly, those dark eyes uncomfortably piercing. ‘I don’t know where you got that idea from,’ she said more forcefully than she’d intended, startled by her instinctive rejection of the possibility.

His straight brows rose, but his voice was smooth when he said, ‘You don’t find the idea of taming a man like that intriguing?’

Turning her gaze to the pool and the gracefully curved trunks of the palms beyond, she said abruptly, ‘I don’t find the idea of taming any man intriguing.’

And she stopped, because this was an odd conversation to have with a man she didn’t know.

‘It’s supposed to be a universal female desire,’ he observed.

A note in his words told her he was amused—and strangely, she found that a relief. ‘Not mine,’ she told him brightly. ‘What made you think that we were about to become engaged?’

‘I heard it somewhere,’ he said. ‘Perhaps whoever was discussing it misunderstood—or possibly I did. So what is your desire?’

The flicker of excitement deep inside her leapt into a flame. He was flirting with her.

She should go back inside. Actually, she should leave this party. But that suite upstairs, with its one huge bed, loomed like a threat. Shrugging off that worry, she smiled up at her companion. Although his lips curved in response, she couldn’t see any humour there. He was watching her, his chiselled face enigmatic in the starlight, his expression speculative.