His Most Exquisite Conquest: A Delicious Deception / The Girl He'd Overlooked / Stepping out of the Shadows

CHAPTER TWO

THE shapes and tones and hues of Monte Carlo took her breath away, as they had been doing every time she’d looked down on them from her bedroom balcony over the past few days. But this morning, with the sun still low enough to have turned the sea to gold and wrapped the distant mountains in a haze of heat, this wakening resort seemed, like her, to be holding its breath, before offering up its vibrant heart to another day of wealth and glamour and total luxury.

Rayne grimaced at the comparison because she hadn’t come to Monaco to indulge herself. But while she was here, she thought, noticing how the trees on the steep ascent of the hillside above the house were touched with the same flame gold as the water in the harbour, then at least she could appreciate the scenery.

The only blot on her immediate horizon, she decided, was King.

She’d been careful before she’d embarked on this trip to do a little research into where he would be, and right now he should have been attending some week-long charity function in New York. After all, King didn’t live here. He had some luxurious pad in London, and she’d heard that he and his father didn’t always see eye to eye.

What he was doing here, she didn’t know, only that it was going to be difficult enough confronting Mitch with who she was and why she was there, but with that six-foot-something of potent manhood thrown into the mix, the prospect was no less than unnerving.

He was hard, ruthless and clever. He was also suspicious, which left her feeling as though every secret she harboured was under threat of being exposed to him, while every feminine cell in her body reacted to his raw sexuality with a strength that left her shocked and ashamed.

She’d thought such wild reactions were the predilection of teenage girls. Because he had affected her then—seven years ago—although he’d scarcely spared more than a passing glance her way. A wheat-blonde, spiky-haired teenager with purple-shadowed eyes and lipstick. An experimental and pathetic Lorri Hardwicke, whose nevertheless deeply buried secret had been an excruciating crush on the firm’s youngest and most dynamic recruit who, not long out of university, was already being primed for directorship.

She had wanted him from the first instant she had nearly collided with him as he was coming out of the office one day when she had been meeting her father for lunch, and from that moment she had woven all sorts of wild fantasies around him.

Young and guileless and between jobs, introduced to him only briefly, she’d jumped at the chance to help out in the office for a couple of weeks when one of the typists was on leave. It had offered her a chance to be near King, after all. But he’d scarcely spoken to her and, like Mitch, he had spent a lot of time out of the office. And when he was there she’d watched him from a painful distance behind her frosted glass partition, imagining a golden future when he would suddenly realise she was there, waiting in the wings for him to notice her, ask her out and initiate her into the sophisticated art of making love. Because with a man like him, she had decided, without any doubt in her fixated young mind, lovemaking would be no less than an art.

Even after she’d left, she still kept hoping. That was until the evening he had come round to the house and shattered all her dreams. Made her hate him with an emotion all the more intense because of what it had replaced.

Bitterly her thoughts drifted back to that night seven years ago. It was just a few weeks after her father had had a row with Mitchell Clayborne and walked away from their partnership—with devastating repercussions.

She had been to the gym and had cycled home in the rain, coming in to hear raised voices, her father’s thin and defensive, King’s deep and inexorable.

‘You’re the thief, Grant Hardwicke! Not my father! Stay away from him. Do I make myself clear? Leave him alone or you’ll have me to deal with!’ It still made her shudder to remember his cruel, icy threat. ‘Believe me, after this you won’t know what hit you if you ever dare show your face at our house or at the office again!’

Towering over Grant Hardwicke, King had been standing in the hallway of the modern detached home her mother had so prized, while her father had seemed to visibly diminish before Rayne’s eyes. His features blanched and strained, she had seen Grant grab the doorframe as though it was too much of an effort to support himself under the weight of the younger man’s hostile and verbal attack.

Soaked to the skin, hair flattened by the rain, she’d flown at King like a drenched sparrow as he’d come striding back across the hall.

‘Don’t you dare hurt my father!’ she’d sobbed, lashing out at him, her flailing fists ineffectual against the impenetrable wall of his body. ‘I’ll kill you first! I will! I’ll kill you!’

‘Calm down, Lorri …’ He had referred to her by name. It was the first time she could remember him using it, much less showing her any attention, but then it had been only to catch her flying wrists and thrust her aside as if she were an unwanted toy. ‘Don’t waste your hysterics and your childish little threats on me,’ he’d warned with particular brutality to her teenage pride. ‘Save them for someone who deserves them,’ he’d snarled savagely. ‘Like your father!’ He had slammed out of the door with his hurtful and puzzling words burning in her ears.

‘It’s about that software, love,’ Grant Hardwicke had breathed brokenly when she had rushed over to him. He’d looked drained and exhausted as she’d helped him onto an easy chair. ‘Mitchell’s saying it’s company property and King’s backing him up. I’m afraid they’re determined to keep it. I’ve lost everything, Lorri. Everything.’ She had never forgotten the desperation in her father’s voice.

‘But it’s yours, Dad. You wrote it!’ Rayne remembered stressing, as though that had counted for anything where the Clayborne men were concerned. It was software he had written especially for the medical profession. One he had said would benefit a lot of people—because her father was like that—caring and generous. It was something he had produced for the common good. It was his baby. His brainchild, which he’d conceived and worked on and slaved over in his own time before he had ever joined forces with Mitchell Clayborne. But Mitchell Clayborne had stolen the credit for it, launching it under his own company flag with the full knowledge and support of his equally unscrupulous and ambitious son and heir.

Her mother had been out at a line-dancing class that night and Rayne was glad she had because it was the first and only time in her life she had seen her father cry. Her strong and devoted father, who had always been her rock and the backbone of his family, reduced to tears in losing all he’d worked for. But he had no proof of his copyright for that software he had written, and the Claybornes had gone on to prosper unbelievably because of it, while Grant Hardwicke’s troubles had only increased.

Because of his age, he had found it impossible to get another position. He’d started drinking, which made him ill, and then he was made bankrupt, which in turn meant her mother having to lose her lovely home.

Rayne was certain that all her father’s problems had started that night she had walked in on King’s unmitigated venom. A venom that had had a poisoning effect on her family, virtually destroying everything that had been good about it, everything she’d loved.

What she had felt for him had been unreal, Rayne thought bitterly, mocking herself now. A teenage fancy, as insubstantial as mist, killed off by his pulsing anger and his verbal brutality towards her father, even before she’d realised how unscrupulous he was. As well as defending Grant, she knew now that in striking King that night she had been giving vent to the loss of all her young dreams. But long after the anguish of that night had receded, it was the physical power of him and those firm hands on her body as he’d put her from him that had lingered in her memory …

She came downstairs now with half a hope that, in spite of what Mitch had said, perhaps his son’s visit might have been a flying one and that he might have been called away on some vital company business during the night.

That was until she saw him striding in through the front door in a short-sleeved white shirt that exposed his tanned, muscular arms and dark suit trousers hugging his powerful hips and her heart seemed to stand still before vaulting into a double-quick rhythm.

‘Good morning, Rayne.’ He was tie-less, she realised, with her gaze instantly drawn to the bronze skin beneath his corded throat. The white T-shirt she had teamed with her jeans suddenly felt too snug for her breasts as that steely gaze burned over her. ‘I trust you slept well.’

She hadn’t, but she said in a tight little voice, ‘Very, thank you.’ In fact she had been waking up all night, going over that scenario with him on the terrace, aware that it was absolutely imperative that she confront his father about that software before King had a chance to work out who she was.

Consequently, the bruised-eyed-looking creature who had stared back at her from the mirror this morning as she’d swept her hair up into a loose knot left her feeling quite bedraggled in contrast to King, who looked as fresh and energized as the morning and ready to take the world on those wide, powerful shoulders.

‘You’ll be pleased to know you won’t have to drive my father into town as you were planning to do this morning,’ he said smoothly, those keen eyes seeming to assess her every reaction. ‘He decided to leave early and, as I was up, I drove him in myself.’

The front door was open and she could see the huge bulk of the Bentley parked there on the drive. A short distance away, the sleeker, more powerful beast of a black Lamborghini stood gleaming in the bright morning sun.

‘You didn’t need to do that. I mean …’ her eyes strayed towards the carved wooden door concealing the lift that would have borne Mitch down in his wheelchair. ‘… he should have called me.’

‘Oh, I think I did.’

Meaning what? Rayne’s throat contracted nervously from the way he was looking at her. That he was protecting his father from her supposedly mercenary clutches? Or was his sole intention to get her alone? And, if so, why? To interrogate her further?

Mentally, she pulled back her shoulders, telling herself that he was just trying to unsettle her. That he’d hardly be likely to discover the truth about her just so long as she kept her head.

‘In that case …’ she flashed him what she considered would look like a grateful smile ‘… I’ll go and get some breakfast.’

‘I think you might be disappointed there.’

Stopping in her tracks, she glanced up at him with her brow furrowing. ‘Excuse me?’

‘I instructed Hélène not to bother. I’ve given her the morning off.’

A cloud of wariness darkened the green flecks in her eyes. Why had he done that? Had he realised who she was and was planning on giving her marching orders while his father was out of the way?

A smile illuminated his strong features like the sun burning through the haze of the mountains she’d been admiring earlier, making her pulse quicken in infuriating response. ‘As it was such a lovely morning I thought I’d have breakfast out. I also thought you might care to join me.’

Oh, did he?

‘No, really. That’s very nice of you,’ she blurted out, even though ‘nice’ was definitely not a word she would have applied to Kingsley Clayborne, ‘but …’

But what, exactly? She couldn’t claim she never ate breakfast after what she had just told him. Nor could she inform him that she didn’t like him, and that if she had to choose between sharing breakfast with him or with a pride of lions, she’d take the pride of lions.

‘I … I need to stay here for when your father needs to be picked up,’ she hedged, wishing she didn’t sound so defensive.

‘He won’t. Not until later. If you haven’t discovered it yet, you’ll soon learn that my father is a creature of unwavering habit. Always reliable, but sometimes tiresomely predictable.’ Which was how she had managed to meet him that day outside that café. ‘He’s doing some business and then playing chess with a friend and won’t be ready to come home until mid-afternoon. Any change in those plans and he’ll ring me. That’s settled then,’ he declared when she procrastinated too long, having run out of reasonable excuses. ‘And I can assure you …’ his tone had changed in a way that sent a cautioning little shiver through her ‘… I’m not trying to be nice.’

‘I’m glad you told me.’ She sent another forced smile over her shoulder as she obeyed his gesture for her to precede him through the front door.

‘No,’ he called out as she moved towards the Bentley, ‘we’ll take mine.’

A skein of unease uncoiled in Rayne’s stomach after she’d crossed the tarmac and pulled the door of the Lamborghini closed behind her.

This sleek and powerful machine with its cream leather-scented interior represented major success. Arrival. It was also Kingsley Clayborne’s territory. With its smooth engineering wrapped around her and the cushioning curves of the passenger seat seeming to suck her in, she felt uncomfortably under his influence, as though her own power and control had suddenly been considerably reduced.

‘Relax,’ he advised, sensing her tension, obviously thinking it stemmed from something else altogether, she realised, when he tagged on, ‘I might be renowned for my love of power, but I’m not altogether insensitive to those riding alongside me.’

Was that what he thought? That she was afraid of how fast he might drive this thing? Or was he talking about a different kind of power altogether? Because she didn’t doubt that he enjoyed being in command. Of himself. Of others. And of his multi-billion, multi-national company. Because, where the Clayborne empire was concerned, it was common knowledge that he had been the one taking all the major decisions for some years now.

‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ she said, her voice overly bright, and kept her eyes trained on the panoramic views from the window on her side so that they wouldn’t stray to the movement of muscle beneath the dark cloth spanning his thigh, or be pulled by the flash of gold from the slim watch on his wrist as he changed gear with that masculine hand.

‘It’s stunning, isn’t it?’ he remarked, aware, as her eyes drank in the scenery from the awe-inspiring sweep of the road. A road that ran all the way along the French Riviera to the Italian coast, she remembered reading from a travel brochure before she’d left England. Someone had called it the most romantic road in the world.

Feeling as though the Lamborghini were a bird and that they were travelling on its wings, they soared above terracotta-roofed houses dotted amongst tree-smothered cliffs, above church spires and tumbling hillsides that plunged down to the rugged coastline and the sea.

Above them the Alps presided, white-capped and as ageless as time. And just a little bit unnerving, Rayne decided, although not as unnerving as when King suddenly pulled into a surprisingly deserted lay-by. Her mind raced with the instinctive knowledge that Kingsley Clayborne would never do anything without a reason, and that that reason wasn’t just to enjoy the view.

‘What are you imagining?’ he enquired mockingly, wise to the half-wary, half-questioning look she shot him. ‘That I brought you up here to seduce you?’

She gave a tight little laugh. ‘No. Why? Did you?’

Dear heaven! Had she actually said that? Obviously her nerves were getting the better of her, she thought, in letting her tongue run away with her.

He laughed. ‘No.’ The engine died under the portentous turn of the ignition key. ‘Of course, if you were hoping I was …’

Every nerve in her body seemed to pull like overstretched rubber bands. There was a time, she thought, when she was young and blinded by his looks and his devastating persona, that her heart would have leapt in wild anticipation of what he might be planning, not thumping in screaming rejection as it was doing now. Or was it? she startled herself by wondering suddenly, deciding not to go there.

Turning to him with her cheeks scorched scarlet, she said pointedly, ‘Are you always so sure of yourself?’

He laughed again, under his breath this time. ‘Are you?’

Her own question, lobbed back at her, left her speechless for a moment.

With his bent elbow on the steering wheel, a thumb and forefinger supporting his chin, his thick lashes were drawn down as he studied her reflectively, giving her every ounce of his attention. Dear heaven! What she wouldn’t have given for this much attention from him seven years ago!

Berating herself for even thinking along those lines, unable to meet his eyes, she still couldn’t stop herself appreciating his classic and magnificent bone structure, the chiselled sweep of his forehead and cheekbones, that proud flaring nose, that tantalising dent in his chin …

‘I’m just finding it hard,’ he expressed, shocking her back to her senses, ‘determining why any woman would accept a strange man’s hospitality—even if he is driving a Bentley—unless she’s either very foolish or hoping to gain something out of it.’

Of course. Rayne bit the inside of her cheek.

‘I suppose in normal circumstances I wouldn’t even have considered it,’ she told him, finding her tongue. ‘But in view of his age and the fact that he said he had a house full of staff to look after me, I thought I’d be perfectly safe.’

‘And were you aware of who he was?’ he enquired. ‘Before he brought you home with him?’

Rayne’s heartbeat increased. Be careful, she warned herself. He doesn’t know who you are. Just breathe normally. Keep your cool.

‘I knew the name, certainly … as soon as he said it.’ She gave a nonchalant little shrug. ‘Who wouldn’t? Who doesn’t know the name of the man who gave MiracleMed to a grateful medical profession?’ It was an effort to smile. To pretend to believe what everyone else believed about Mitchell Clayborne. ‘He’s a very clever man.’

That firm mouth twisted contemplatively. Such a cruel yet sensual mouth, she decided, in spite of her dislike of its owner. Crazily, she wondered how many women had felt the pressure of it, known the power of this man’s unrestrained passion.

‘Yes,’ he breathed, ‘but I meant before those delinquents sidetracked you into chasing after them.’