Royal and Ruthless

Innocent Mistress, Royal Wife

Robyn Donald

Prince of Scandal

Annie West

Weight of the Crown

Christina Hollis

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Table of Contents

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.

Did he know what was happening to her? Could he feel it too—that keen awareness, the anticipation, hidden yet potent, the whispered instructions she didn’t dare obey?

Hastily, before she could react to a treacherous impulse to lift herself onto her toes and kiss his excitingly sensuous mouth, she said demurely, ‘Only a foolish woman tells a man her innermost desire.’

‘My innermost desire at this moment,’ he said, his deep voice investing the conventional words with an edge that sent Lexie’s pulse racing into overdrive, ‘is to discover if your mouth tastes as good as it looks.’

Lexie froze, her widening eyes taking in his honed features.

His smile twisted into something close to cynicism. ‘But not if it goes against your principles.’

‘No—well—no,’ she stammered, barely able to articulate.

‘Then shall we try it?’ He took her startled silence for assent, and bent his head to claim her lips in a kiss that was surprisingly gentle.

At first.

But when her bones melted his arms came around her and he pulled her against his lean, powerful body—and all hell broke loose.

That cool, exploring kiss hardened into fierce demand and Lexie burned up in his arms, meeting and matching his frankly sexual hunger. Stunned by an urgent, voluptuous craving, she almost surrendered to the adrenalin raging like a bushfire through her.

She felt the subtle flexion of his body, and knew that he too wanted this—this headstrong need, mindless and sensuous. Desperately, she fought to retain a tiny spark of sanity as a bulwark against the white-hot sensations his experienced kiss summoned inside her.

Yet when he lifted his head and drawled, ‘Shall we go further down into the garden?’ it took every ounce of her will power to refuse.

In a ragged voice she muttered, ‘No.’

He let her go and stepped back. Embarrassed, shocked and angry with herself, she whirled and set off for the bright rectangles of light that indicated the doors onto the terrace.

‘One moment.’

Startled into stillness by the decisive command, she stopped and half turned.

He was right behind her. A long-fingered hand lifted to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, and somehow he managed to turn the simple gesture into a caress that sent more forbidden excitement drumming through her.

‘You don’t look quite so storm tossed now,’ he said, that sardonic smile tilting his lips again as he surveyed her face. ‘But a trip to the powder room is advisable, I think.’

‘I—yes,’ she said, forcing her voice into its usual practical tone. ‘Are you coming inside too?’

‘Not for a few minutes,’ he said gravely. ‘My body, alas, is not so easily mastered as yours.’

‘Oh.’ Hot faced, she took off to the sound of his quiet laughter behind her.

Rafiq watched her go, frowning as his aide-de-camp passed her in the doorway, the man’s presence breaking in on thoughts that weren’t as ordered as he’d have liked.

Dragging his mind away from Lexie’s sleek back and the gentle sway of her hips, he said abruptly, ‘Yes?’

‘Your instructions have been followed.’

‘Thank you,’ Rafiq said crisply, and turned to go inside. Then he stopped. ‘You noticed the woman who passed you on the way in?’

‘Yes, sir.’ When Rafiq’s brows lifted, the younger man expanded, ‘She is also under s—’ He stopped as Rafiq’s brows met over his arrogant nose. Hastily he went on, ‘She is staying at the hotel with Count Felipe Gastano.’

He stepped back as another man approached them, saying to Rafiq, ‘You’re leaving already, sir?’

Rafiq returned the newcomer’s smile. He respected any man who’d hauled himself up from poverty and refugee status, and this man—the CEO of the construction firm that had built the new resort—was noted for his honesty and philanthropy. ‘I’m afraid I must,’ he said. ‘I have an early call tomorrow.’

They exchanged pleasantries, but as Rafiq turned to go the older man said, ‘And you will consider the matter we discussed previously?’

‘I will,’ Rafiq told him with remote courtesy. ‘But I am unable to make the decision; there must be consultations with the council first.’

The older man said shrewdly, ‘I wonder if you will ever regret giving up the power your forebears took for granted?’

Rafiq’s broad shoulders lifted in a negligent shrug. ‘In the eyes of the world Moraze might be only a smallish island in the Indian Ocean. But its few-million citizens are as entitled to the privileges and responsibilities of democracy as any other free people, and if they don’t want them now they will soon enough. I am a practical man. If I hadn’t introduced self-government, power would eventually have been taken away—either from me or from one of my descendants.’

‘I wish all rulers were as enlightened,’ the other man said. He paused before adding, ‘I know my daughter has already thanked you for your magnificent birthday gift, but I must thank you also. I know how rare fire-diamonds are, and that one is superb.’

‘It is nothing.’ Rafiq dismissed his gift with a smile. ‘Freda and I are old friends—and the diamond suits her.’

They shook hands and Rafiq frowned, his mind not on the woman who’d been his lover until six months previously but on Alexa Sinclair Considine, with the gold-burnished hair and the steady gaze, and a mouth that summoned erotic fantasies.

And her relationship with a man he loathed and despised.

She was no longer in the room, Rafiq realised after one comprehensive glance around the large salon. And neither was Felipe Gastano.

CHAPTER TWO

UP IN the palatial bedroom, Lexie could still hear the faint sound of music. Moraze was as glorious as its discreet publicity promised—a large island, dominated by a long-extinct chain of volcanoes ground down by aeons of wind and weather to become a jagged range of mountains bordering a vast plateau area.

Just before landing the previous day Lexie had leaned forward to peer at the green-gold grasslands. She’d hoped for a glimpse of the famed wild horses of Moraze, only to sink back disappointed when lush coastal lands came into view, vividly patched with green sugar cane and the bright colours of flower farms.

Now, standing at the glass doors onto the balcony, she remembered that the island’s heraldic animal was a rearing horse wearing a crown. Her mind skipped from the horse to the man it signified, and she lifted her hands to suddenly burning cheeks.

That kiss had been scandalously disturbing, so different from any other she’d ever experienced that it had overwhelmed her.

Why? Yes, Rafiq de Couteveille was enormously attractive, with that compelling air of dangerous assurance, but she was accustomed to attractive men. Her sister Jacoba was married to one, and Marco’s older brother was just as stunning in a slightly sterner way. Yet neither of them had summoned so much as an extra heartbeat from her.

It wasn’t just his leanly aquiline features, boldly sculpted into a tough impression of force and power, that had made such an impression. Although Felipe Gastano was actually better-looking, he didn’t have an ounce of Rafiq’s dangerous charisma. She couldn’t imagine Felipe on a warhorse, leading his warriors into battle, but it was very easy to picture Rafiq de Couteveille doing exactly that.

Or she could see him as a corsair, she thought, heart quickening when her too-active imagination visualised him with a cutlass between his teeth as he swung over the side of a vessel…

According to the hotel publicity, in the eighteenth century the Indian Ocean had been the haunt of buccaneers. Moraze had been threatened by them, and had also used them in the struggle to keep its independence. Eventually the corsairs had been brought to heel, and Moraze’s rulers were at last able to give up the dangerous double game they’d been forced to play.

But no doubt the corsairs had left their genes in the bloodlines of the people of Moraze. Certainly Rafiq looked like a warrior—stern, hard and ruthless if the occasion demanded it.

However, fantasising about him wasn’t any help in dealing with her most pressing problem. Frowning, she stepped back inside. What the hell was she to do?

She wished she could trust Felipe to sleep on the sofa, but she didn’t. If she chose the bed, she suspected he might see it as an invitation for him to join her, and she did not want an undignified struggle when he finally decided to come up for the night.

Making up her mind, she pulled the light coverlet from the foot of the bed, grabbed a pillow, changed into cotton trousers and a shirt and curled up on the sofa.

She woke to music—from outside, she realised as she disentangled herself from the coverlet. Vaguely apprehensive, she glanced towards the closed bedroom door and grimaced. Once she’d finally fallen asleep, Rafiq de Couteveille had taken over her dreams to such an extent that she was possessed by an odd, aching restlessness.

The light she’d left on glowed softly, barely bright enough to show her a note someone had slipped under the door. Heart thudding, she untangled herself and ran across to retrieve it.

My dear girl, she read, I am sorry to have inconvenienced you. As it upset you so much to think of sharing a room with me, I have thrown myself on the sympathy of good friends who have a suite here. Because I do not trust myself with you.

Felipe had signed it with an elaborate F.

Lexie let out a long breath. She could have slept in the bed without fear, it seemed. It was thoughtful of Felipe.

Or perhaps, she thought, remembering the way he’d more or less ignored her at the party last night, this too was a little punishment?

Surely he wouldn’t be so petty?

It didn’t matter; the clerk had promised her a room of her own tomorrow—today, she amended after a glance at the clock. Felipe’s consideration should have appeased her, but his assumption that he could manipulate her into bed had crossed a boundary, and she knew it was time to tell him that their friendship would never develop any further.

Surprised at the relief that flooded her, she realised she’d been resisting a creeping sense of wrongness ever since he’d offered to buy drugs for her.

So her decision had nothing to do with the fact that he seemed far less vital—almost faded—next to the vital, hard-edged charisma of the man who’d kissed her on the terrace.

Felipe’s kisses had been warm and pleasant, but conveyed nothing like the raw charge of Rafiq’s…

‘Oh, stop it!’ she commanded her inconvenient memory.

Irritated, she poured herself some water to drink, and carried it across to the glass door leading onto the balcony.

The music that had somehow tangled her dreams in its sensuous beat had fallen silent now, the only sounds the sibilant whisper of a breeze in the casuarinas, the sleepy hush of small waves on the beach, and the muted thunder of breakers against the reef. As far as she could see the lagoon spread before her like a shadowy masquerade cloak spangled with silver.

She drank deeply, willing herself to relax, to enjoy the breeze that flirted with her hair, its hint of salt and flower perfumes mingling with a faint, evocative scent of spices, of ancient mysteries and secrets hidden from the smiling beauty of daylight.

It was almost dawn, although as yet no light glowed in the eastern sky. Feeling like the only person in the world, she took a deep breath and moved farther out onto the balcony.

The hair on the nape of her neck lifted, and unthinkingly she stepped back into the darkness of the overhang, senses straining as her eyes darted back and forth to search out what had triggered that primitive instinct.

Don’t be an idiot, she told herself uneasily, there’s no one out there—and even if there were it would be some sort of night watchman.

Moving slowly and quietly, she eased into her room and pulled the glass door shut, locking it and making sure there was no gap in the curtains.

But even then it was difficult to dispel that eerie sense of being watched. She marched across to the bathroom and set the glass down, washed her face, and then wondered how she was going to get back to sleep.

Half an hour later she gave up the attempt and decided to email her sister Jacoba.

Only to discover that for some reason the internet link wouldn’t work. Thoroughly disgruntled, she closed down her laptop and drank another glass of water.

It seemed that Felipe had decided to continue his charade of rejection. After breakfast in her room the butler hand-delivered a note that told her Gastano had business to attend to in Moraze’s capital, and would see her that evening.

Suddenly light-hearted, Lexie arranged the transfer of her luggage to a new room, then organised a trip up to the mountains, eager to see the results of the world-famous bird-protection programme.

It was a surprise to find herself alone in the small tourist van with a woman who informed her she was both driver and guide.

‘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.

Eventually she’d decided there had to be something missing in her. Possibly growing up without a father had somehow stunted her response to men.

In a way, that was why she’d let herself be beguiled by Felipe. It had been such a relief to discover that she could enjoy flirting with a man!

But this—this was entirely different—a driving, uncontrollable reaction that was dangerous and altogether too tantalising.

If this was how lust started, she thought wryly, she could at last understand why it was so difficult to resist. She catalogued her symptoms: racing heartbeat, a kind of softening of the muscles, a fluttering in her stomach that hovered between apprehension and excitement, a keen attentiveness and heightened physical responses.

And an involuntary reaction to the memory of his mouth on hers that still embarrassed and shocked her.

Yes, it sounded like the first stages of attraction, all right. And of course it was doomed, because Rafiq de Couteveille was a kind of king, even though he didn’t have any title.

No, not a king—a sheikh, she decided, watching him through her lashes. His profile was strongly marked and arrogant, and when he walked she could almost hear the swish of robes about that lean, powerfully muscled body. In spite of the superb tailoring of his clothes and his luxurious car, there was something untamed about him, as though he lived by a more elemental code.

Beneath the sophisticated exterior he was a warrior, and she sensed a warrior’s uncompromising determination. Clearly he was of French descent, but Rafiq was an Arabic name, and she’d bet that Moraze’s ruler had familial links to both cultures.

‘Are you feeling all right?’

Lexie’s eyes flew open. ‘Yes, fine, thank you,’ she said a little disjointedly.

Rafiq snatched a sideways glance at his passenger, then fixed his gaze on the road ahead. Her exquisite skin was still pale, and her ribs would probably be painful beneath the seatbelt. ‘It’s not very far now.’

Smoky eyes hidden by his sunglasses, she leaned forward, a frown showing in her tone. ‘I don’t remember this part of the road.’

Rafiq shrugged. ‘Possibly because you have not seen it before. When the doctor and I discussed your condition, we agreed it would be better for you to spend the next few days in a place with more peace than the hotel could provide. So you will be staying with me.’

And he waited with interest and a certain amount of anticipation for her response.

Her head swung around. She snapped off the sunglasses to glare at him, eyes gleaming the blue of a Spanish sword blade, her lush mouth compressed in outrage. ‘Why wasn’t I included in this discussion?’ she demanded tautly.

‘It wasn’t necessary,’ Rafiq replied, intrigued in spite of himself.

She could be a consummate actress. And she could be truly in love with Gastano. In which case, she’d thank him one day for this abduction.

After scrutinising him as though she couldn’t believe what she’d heard, her delectable mouth opened, then closed again, to bite back what were clearly intemperate words.

Fully aware of her seething resentment, Rafiq kept his eyes on the road ahead and waited.

In the end she said through gritted teeth, ‘There is no need to treat me like a halfwit just because I’ve been in a minor—a very minor—accident.’

‘I’m sure your family would agree with me that you need a few days’ respite after a nasty experience,’ he said blandly. ‘Should I contact them to check?’

‘No!’

‘Why not?’

After a second’s hesitation, she said reluctantly, ‘My sister is six months’ pregnant. She’d insist on flying out here, and the trip would exhaust her. I’m sure you and the doctor are only thinking of my wellbeing, but I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself. You don’t have to feel any sort of responsibility for me.’

‘Possibly not, but the hotel management said they were not equipped to deal with someone convalescing, and it was agreed that this was the best solution.’ He allowed that to sink in, ignoring her mutinous expression to finish, ‘You will spend several days at my home—which is big enough to give you all the privacy you desire—and once the doctor has given you the all-clear you can go back to the hotel.’

After considering this she said briefly, ‘In that case, I should let Count Gastano know where I’ll be.’

Rafiq controlled the curl of his lip, despising himself for wanting to believe she was just a naive New Zealand girl entangled by the count’s deceptive charm. His brows drew together. This wildfire, highly inconvenient attraction couldn’t—wouldn’t—be allowed to distract him from his reason for keeping her tucked safely away where she couldn’t contact the self-titled count.

‘Gastano has already been told about your accident.’ Rafiq let that sink in, then said, ‘I believe he has business here that will keep him occupied for some days. Then you can join him again.’

Steadily she said, ‘It doesn’t sound as though I have any choice in the matter.’

‘I’m sorry if my decision conflicts with your independence.’

‘Well, it does.’ Her voice was crisp and cool. ‘However, I’ve never thought banging my head against a wall was a sensible way of working through a situation. Thank you for the hospitality. I’m sure you won’t mind if I avail myself of it for as short a time as possible.’

Lexie hoped the final snide comment might pierce his armour-plated inflexibility, but when he gave her a smile that almost banished her justifiable resentment she realised he was still fully in control.

And that smile was an epiphany—filled with charm and sexual magnetism, it was the sort of smile that led to broken hearts and despair.

Grimly, Lexie concentrated on the scenery until her body stopped singing.

Fortunately the scenery was worth looking at, with everything that was exotic about the tropics—brilliant sky, deep aquamarine lagoon, vivid flowers and the intense green of the countryside, coconut palms bending gracefully over white sand, and mountains purple with heat haze…

Determined not to be impressed, she decided it was just like a picture in a travel magazine.

Besides, if it came to a competition, New Zealand had some of the best beaches in the world. And pretty good mountains too, jutting into as blue a sky, and displaying every bit as much boldness and drama as these peaks did.

The man beside her said, ‘I have never been to New Zealand, but I believe it’s very beautiful.’

Was he a mind reader? ‘It is,’ she said woodenly, and let the conversation lie there, dead on the floor.

His smile was wry. ‘So what particular part of the country do you come from?’

‘I grew up in Northland.’

‘It’s a long way from there to Moraze.’

Dampening down her impulse to use the manners her mother had drilled into her, she confined her answer to a few noncommittal words. ‘Indeed it is.’

If he had the nerve to mention that kiss, she’d—she’d tell him straight it was a one-off, an indiscretion she had no intention of repeating.

He didn’t. Instead he asked, ‘Do you specialise in a certain sort of animal in your veterinary practice?’

‘Domestic animals,’ she said, adding reluctantly, ‘But it’s a country practice, so I also deal with a lot of farm animals.’

‘Horses?’

‘Sometimes,’ she admitted.

How did he know she was a vet?

She tried to remember where her profession was given in her passport, then recalled writing it in the arrival form she’d filled in as they came towards Moraze.

So he’d checked her travel documents—or more likely had ordered someone else to check them.

All right; security was a concern to those who were rich and famous enough to attract obsessive or downright dangerous people. Nevertheless, the thought of anyone poking around in her life gave Lexie an uneasy feeling.

Keeping her gaze defiantly on the view outside, she was about to observe tartly that as he knew all about her there was no need for further conversation, when she realised she couldn’t be rude to a man who’d gone out of his way to be kind to her after the accident. Also, he was going to be her host for a few days.

She searched for something innocuous to say and finally came up with a subject. ‘I went diving the day I arrived. The reef fishes are absolutely gorgeous—like living jewels.’

‘You are interested in jewels?’ he commented dispassionately.

Perhaps that was the way everyone referred to the fish here and he found it trite. Well, she didn’t care.

Of course, Moraze was famous for the rare and exquisite—and extremely valuable—fire-diamonds found in gravel beds washed down from the mountains. Perhaps he thought she was hinting; no, how could he?

‘Most people are. Off Northland’s east coast we have a very interesting mix of sea life. A warm current sweeps south from the tropics, and we get a mixture of tropical and temperate fauna.’

OK, so she sounded like something out of a textbook, and was probably boring him to bits. It served him right. If he’d taken her to the hotel, instead of conspiring with the doctor behind her back, he’d have been rid of her by now.

‘It sounds most intriguing,’ he said smoothly, returning the waves of a small group of children walking down the road.

A few metres further on he turned into a drive and the big car passed between gates that had slid back silently at the press of an unknown button. Lexie looked around for a sentry box, but clearly security nowadays was much more technical and far less conspicuous. Ahead, the drive began to climb steeply through a tangle of greenery.

‘We’re almost there,’ Rafiq told her.

He lived in a castle. Perched on the edge of a cliff overlooking the lagoon, it frowned down over a scene as beautiful as it was deserted.

Lexie drew a sharp breath. ‘I don’t know much about the architecture of castles, but that looks like something out of the Middle East.’

‘It’s a mixture of Oriental and European styles.’

The car eased to a halt outside a huge set of what appeared to be bronze doors, sculpted and ornate, with a grid of iron spikes poised above to grind down in case of an attack. Rafiq switched off the engine.

In the silence the sound of the waves on the reef echoed in Lexie’s ears. A manservant came swiftly out through a side door and went to the boot of the car, and one of the big bronze doors swung slowly open.

Rafiq looked at her, heavy-lidded eyes narrowing as he scanned her face. ‘Moraze was known to Arab sailors, but because it wasn’t on their trade routes and had nothing they wanted they rarely came this way. The first settlers were led by a distant ancestor of mine, a French nobleman who had the temerity to conduct an affair with his monarch’s much-prized mistress. Nowhere in Europe was safe, so he travelled farther afield, and eventually found refuge here with a somewhat motley crew of adventurers and sailors and their women.’

Fascinated, Lexie said, ‘I wouldn’t have thought the King of France’s mandate stretched this far.’

He smiled, and the skin at the back of her neck tightened, lifting the tiny hairs there. For a second she thought she saw his ancestor, proud and gallant and tough as he shepherded that motley crew to Moraze.

Rafiq told her, ‘By then it wasn’t the French king he was concerned about. On his travels my forebear stole an Arabian sheikh’s most precious jewel—his daughter—and as she was more than happy to be stolen they needed a refuge they could defend.’

‘When did all this happen?’

‘Several hundred years ago.’

Fascinated, she asked, ‘What happened to the French king’s mistress?’

He looked surprised. ‘I believe she was married off to some elderly duke. Why?’

‘I just wondered,’ she said. ‘I hope she liked that elderly duke.’

‘I don’t think anyone ever enquired,’ he told her dryly.

As though bored by the discussion, he got out and came around to open her door. With the same automatic courtesy he took her arm as they went up the steps and through the door into a vast, tiled hall. She’d expected grim stone inside, but the far end of the hall was high glass doors that opened out onto a terrace bordered by shrubs and trees.

‘Oh, how lovely!’ Lexie stopped without thinking.

Rafiq said smoothly, ‘I’m glad you like it. Let me show you up to your room.’

The staircase was wide and shallow, but by the time she reached the top her ribs were letting Lexie know they’d had a difficult time recently, and the tide of anticipation had receded, leaving her flat and exhausted. Exasperated by her weakness, she had to force her legs to take the final few steps.

He left her with a maid at the door. ‘Your clothes have been brought here from the hotel. Cari will show you where everything is,’ he said, and that hard green gaze rested for several charged seconds on her face. ‘You look a little pale; I suggest a rest, perhaps even a nap, then some refreshments when you are ready for them.’

Her room turned out to be more like a suite—something from an Arabian Nights tale of love lost and won, she thought, gazing at the huge bed covered in sleek silk, its sensuously curved headboard picked out in gilding. Translucent curtains softened the light from the sea, and the silk Chinese rug was in restful shades of blue, green and cream that echoed the colours of the ocean without competing with them.

And everywhere—in the window recesses, on the exquisitely carved desk, in a massive urn on the floor—were flowers, mainly white and cream, their scent sweet and seductive on the warm air.

Lexie felt totally out of place in her white jeans and simple tee-shirt. This room looked as though it had been built for a languorous concubine in flowing, transparent robes, a woman with only one aim in life—to please her lord.

That thought tightened something deep inside her. Hot cheeked, she thought with defiance that the room—and the maid—would just have to get used to her downmarket wardrobe. Apart from her flame-coloured silk and a couple of simple dinner dresses, she’d brought only holiday clothes to Moraze.

The maid spoke English reasonably well, and after showing Lexie the dressing room, took her into a splendid marble fantasy of a bathroom dominated by a huge, freestanding bath.

‘Heavens! It’s almost a swimming pool!’ Lexie exclaimed.

Cari laughed, and gestured at a pierced marble screen, almost hidden by pots of lush greenery. ‘Behind there is the shower—very modern,’ she said eagerly. ‘Perhaps you would like one now before your rest?’

‘I would very much, thank you.’

Sighing happily, Lexie stepped into the shower and washed herself, carefully skimming the sore spots. Since her sister had married into the Illyrian aristocracy Lexie had become accustomed to luxury. But Rafiq’s castle, she thought as the water swept away her aches, was something else again, its exotic beauty out of this world.

Just like Moraze.

Rafiq’s story about his ancestors had added to the island’s unusual charm. With herds of elegant wild horses and rare, exquisite fire-diamonds, transcendent beauty and isolation, Moraze was a fairy-tale place, a spellbound island that might disappear overnight into an enchanted mist…

Scoffing at her unusual flight of fancy, Lexie turned off the water and wrapped herself in one of the embroidered towels the maid had placed for her.

A rest would put paid to these feverish fantasies, she thought stoutly, wincing as she rubbed herself down. She inspected her bruises, then shrugged. Because of the seatbelt she’d got off lightly, and she was a fast healer, so the marks would soon be gone.

Yet it wasn’t just her ribs that had had a workout; her heart felt ominously fragile, as though it was under attack.

When she arrived back in the bedroom the maid had drawn back the covers on the bed; smiling, she pointed out a waiting jug of water and a glass. Lexie waited until she’d left the room before climbing gratefully into that enormous, decadent bed.

She slept deeply, without dreams, for almost an hour. Rubbing her eyes, she swung her feet onto the floor and realised she felt hugely better.

‘Almost normal,’ she said with satisfaction, examining her clothes. Carefully hung in the dressing room, they looked rather pathetic. As well as the orange silk dress, Jacoba had insisted on buying her several resort-style outfits, but what on earth did a reluctant guest in a castle wear?

And should she substitute a complete make-up for her usual lip-gloss?

No; she didn’t want to look as though she was trying to attract…well, anyone.

Defiantly ignoring a quickening of her pulse, she chose one of Jacoba’s purchases. The relaxed cotton trousers sat lightly on her hips to emphasise her long legs, and the silk shirt’s subdued pattern repeated the soft camel colour of the trousers. The cosmetics she left at a tinted moisturiser and some lip-gloss.

Before she rang the bell for the maid she walked across to a window and looked out. Sheer stone walls fell away from the windows that opened onto an infinity of sea and sky, framed by the panelled white shutters.

The maid escorted her downstairs again and out onto the long terrace, where Rafiq de Couteveille sat in the shade of a spreading tree that carpeted the flagstones with brilliant purple petals. The sultry scent of gardenias hung heavy and erotic in the lazy air. Lexie’s betraying heartbeat kicked up another gear when her host lifted his impressive height from a chair and inspected her with one of his intent, penetrating surveys. Prickles of awareness shot down her spine.

‘Yes, that’s better,’ he said, and indicated the chair beside him. ‘Are your ribs painful?’

‘Only when I twist,’ she told him, her voice as prosaic as she could make it. She avoided that piercing scrutiny by lowering herself into the chair. ‘How is the driver?’

The sooner she got better, the faster she’d get away from this man. He attracted her in ways that scared her.

Like Jacoba, her half-sister, Rafiq possessed more than superficial good looks. Jacoba’s character illuminated her stunning face, and Rafiq’s formidable authority endowed his aquiline features with strength as well as charisma. It was a potent combination that made Lexie feel very vulnerable.

Rafiq told her, ‘She is at home with her family, recovering fast. She sent her apologies, and her thanks for the flowers you ordered for her.’

‘I’d have liked to see her, but they wouldn’t let me.’

He frowned. ‘The doctor told me you had to rest as much as possible.’

‘I will.’ Carefully steering her thoughts away from the personal, she straightened her shoulders and laboured on with brittle composure. ‘This must be a very old building. Is it where your ancestors originally settled?’

‘No, they built the much grimmer fortress that now overlooks the capital city. This began as a watchtower, one of a chain along the coasts that were always kept manned.’

‘That Arabian princess’s father must have had a long arm,’ she said flippantly.

He shrugged. ‘Moraze has always needed good defences.’

‘I didn’t realise there had been pirates on the Indian Ocean,’ she admitted. ‘I really don’t know much about its history.’

‘Why should you? If you are interested I have books I can lend you, but like most histories it is long and bloody and dominated by force. Through good luck and considerable cunning, my ancestors kept the island safe until eventually the corsairs—and other threats—were either assimilated or crushed.’ He looked up as a maid appeared with a tray. ‘I noticed that you drank tea at the hospital, so I ordered that, but say so if you’d prefer coffee or a cold drink.’

He noticed too much.

And oddly, that last meeting with Felipe popped into Lexie’s brain. How much had Rafiq seen or heard?

She should have realised that the count’s practised charm hid your average, garden-variety wolf, she thought ironically. Then she wouldn’t be feeling quite so foolish.

Oh well. She’d learned something her friends at university could have told her years ago: some men weren’t to be trusted.

‘Tea will be lovely, thank you,’ she said sedately.

What followed was all on the surface, the conversation of two people who knew little of each other, yet Lexie sensed undercurrents. Partly it was a feeling of something held back, of being swept into events over which she had no control.

But most of her tension, she decided with rueful frankness, was rooted in the explosive memory of that kiss.

CHAPTER FOUR

WARINESS tightened Lexie’s skin. Unable to resist the temptation, she stole a look at Rafiq, colouring when she met greenstone eyes slightly narrowed against the sun and clinical in their detachment. A superstitious shiver ran through her—fierce, uncaged, almost desperate, forcing her to glance away hastily before those perceptive eyes homed in on her inner turmoil.

What would it take to break through his iron control?

More than she was prepared to risk, she thought bleakly. His air of authority wasn’t just a family heirloom handed down from hundreds of years of unquestioned rule. Sure, some of it might be due to the potent effect of strongly handsome features backed by wealth and power, but underpinning it was an indefinable aura of masculine competence.

This man could make a woman ache with desire and scream her satisfaction in his arms.

Lexie’s cup jangled musically in the saucer as she set both down, and her tone was a little too abrupt when she asked the first thing that came into her head. ‘How long have you ruled Moraze?’

‘For ten years,’ he said readily enough, adding, ‘Since I was twenty. My father died young.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly, turning her head to admire the crimson blossoms of a hibiscus close by.

Rafiq’s gaze sharpened. Those clear-cut features might appear to reveal every emotion, but her silences were enigmatic.

So her father was a sore point.

Well, he admitted silently, if his sire had been notorious for his perfidy and cruelty, he too would avoid mentioning him.

He waited before saying, ‘Life can be cruel. Tell me, what decided you to become a vet?’ And he watched her through half-closed lashes, noting the tiny, almost unnoticeable signs of her relaxation.

She answered his question without hesitation. ‘I love animals, and I wanted to be able to do something for them.’

‘Very altruistic of you,’ he drawled, irritated by her pat answer.

She flashed him a direct look, following it with a cool, ‘Of course, it pays well too.’

‘The training is long and very expensive, I believe.’

‘I managed,’ she returned, her level tone a contrast to the challenge in her eyes. ‘I was lucky—I had a regular holiday job, and my sister helped a lot.’

Jacoba had worked as a model from the time she turned sixteen, determined to earn enough to care for their ill mother. Her extremely successful career had also helped with Lexie’s tuition and boarding fees.

In spite of Jacoba’s insistence that it wasn’t necessary, Lexie was slowly reimbursing her. The past year’s leave of absence had meant a hiatus in her repayments, but she’d be able to start again when she got back home.

No doubt Rafiq de Couteveille had swanned around enjoying himself with some easy option at college. Not for him the worry of sordid, boring things like where the next meal was coming from, or whether a good daughter would be staying at home to care for her mother rather than putting her own ambitions first.

She enquired sweetly, ‘Where did you go to university?’

‘Oxford and Harvard,’ he said. ‘With some time at the Sorbonne.’ He added with a twist of his lips that revealed he’d guessed what she was thinking, ‘My father valued education highly.’

‘On Moraze as well as in his family?’ she asked even more sweetly, then wished she’d remained silent.

Her urge to dig at his impervious facade was becoming reckless. And recklessness was something she didn’t do.

In a level, unemphatic tone that managed to refute her snide insinuation, he said, ‘Of course. Moraze has an excellent school system, and my father set up a scholarship scheme that offers promising students access to the best overseas universities.’

‘Do you lose many to the lure of bigger, more sophisticated places?’

‘We might, if they weren’t bonded to come back here to work for five years; usually after that they’re incorporated back into the fabric of our society. If not, they are then free to leave to pursue those goals.’

Lexie nodded, eyes widening as he got to his feet. Tall as she was, he towered over her so that she felt crowded. No, dominated, she thought, settling back into her chair and trying to look confident and at ease.

‘I must go now,’ he told her. ‘If you need anything at all, tell Cari.’

An odd emptiness took her by surprise. ‘I’m very grateful for everybody’s kindness,’ she said, and tried to sound her usual practical self as she went on, ‘I assume I’ll get a bill from the hospital—’

‘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.’

‘It sounds perfect.’ She tried to hide a treacherous surge of dizziness at that killer smile.

Something had changed, she thought as he took her elbow in an automatic gesture. She didn’t exactly know what, but some instinct sensed a softening—well, no, an awareness—in him that hadn’t been there before in spite of his consideration for her.

Rafiq sat her down, silently appreciating her smooth, lithe grace as she sank into the comfortable chair he held.

‘This courtyard was built by one of my ancestors for his bride,’ he told her when Lexie looked around with a soft sigh of pleasure. She was very tactile, responding immediately to beauty. Would she be as open and ardent when she made love?

Ruthlessly he disciplined his unruly mind. ‘She was from the south of Spain, and he wanted to give her something that would remind her of home, so he built her a serenity garden, something like the one in the Alhambra. She loved it, as did later wives.’

‘So this place has been a home for a long time?’

He nodded. ‘After the corsairs were defeated, yes, it became the residence of the oldest son. Until a hundred years or so ago, the actual ruler still lived in the citadel above the capital.’

He handed her a glass of juice, cool and refreshing. ‘I hope you enjoy this. It’s mostly lime juice, but there is some papaya there, and a local herb that’s supposed to heal bruises.’

‘It’s delicious,’ she said after a tentative sip. ‘That citadel looks pretty grim. I doubt if the wives of the heirs ever wanted to leave this lovely place for it.’

Stepping back, Rafiq tore his gaze from her lips and fought back a surge of desire. He’d watched hundreds of women drink a variety of liquids, and none of them had ever affected him like this woman.

Masking his intense physical reaction with cool detachment, he answered, ‘It was largely rebuilt in the nineteenth century, and is now used as offices for my household.’

He looked down, noting her interested expression, and wondered angrily what it was about her that bypassed the strictures of his brain and homed straight onto his groin. Taken feature by feature, she wasn’t even beautiful. Superb skin enlivened by smoky-blue eyes and a mouth that more than lived up to its sensual promise did make her alluring. But he’d made love to some of the world’s most beautiful women without feeling anything like this primitive desire to possess that gripped him whenever he saw Lexie Sinclair.

CHAPTER FIVE

RAFIQ enquired, ‘You are interested in history?’

Lexie gave a rueful little smile, wondering what was going on behind the angular mask of his features. ‘Because we’re such a young country, most New Zealanders are impressed by anything that’s more than a couple of hundred years old.’

‘Moraze has a history stretching back a couple of thousand years, possibly even longer,’ he told her. ‘Certainly, the Arabs knew of its existence well before the end of the first millennium—its name is from the Arabic, meaning East Island, because it lies east of Zanzibar.’

East of Zanzibar—oh, the phrase had magic, she thought dreamily. Anything could happen east of Zanzibar. You could meet an excitingly dangerous man and discover things about yourself that shocked you.

You could even find your ultimate soul mate…

Hastily she dragged herself back to reality. ‘I’m surprised they didn’t exploit the fire-diamonds. Surely any trader worth his salt would have realised how incredibly valuable they were?’

Thick, black lashes covered Rafiq’s hard eyes for a second before he shrugged. ‘Before they are cut they look like mere pebbles, so they weren’t discovered until a hundred years or so after the first de Couteveille arrived. If you’re interested, there are ruins of unknown origin in the hills of the escarpment further to the north.’

‘Really?’

‘When you’re fully recovered I will take you there,’ he said casually.

A feverish thrill tightened Lexie’s skin. He was watching her, and as their eyes met he smiled, a slow movement of his mouth that sent even more chills of excitement through her. He sounded as though he was looking forward to the promised excursion as much as she was.

Help! Thoughts chased through her head in tumultuous distraction. She took a swift breath and said sedately, ‘How very intriguing. Does anyone have any theory on who built them?’

‘Theories abound,’ he informed her dryly. ‘Some say they are the original Atlantis, some that they were made by the Trojans when they fled Troy, some that the people who built them came from China.’

‘Are they being excavated?’

‘Yes.’

He told her about the ruins and the museum, and university teams that had combined to excavate them. He astonished her with tales of the furious war of words that had broken out between two extremely opinionated archaeologists, a battle fought through the media, until finally Rafiq had threatened to ban both of them from ever coming to Moraze again.

‘It seems incongruous for people whose profession is to find the truth to be so hidebound and one-eyed,’ Lexie said thoughtfully.

‘Egos often get in the way of the truth. Egos and greed.’

The words fell into the scented air, flat and cold and uncompromising, so much at variance with the soft hushing of the water in the fountain and the overarching infinity of the sable sky above that Lexie shivered. ‘Greed? Surely archaeologists don’t profit financially from their discoveries?’

‘Profit need not be financial. An interesting set of ruins well-excavated will build a reputation. Greed for the possible rewards of a big discovery can override common sense, and sometimes even lead to destructive actions.’

It sounded like a warning—one directed at her.

Did he know about her father? Greed and ego had led him to do monstrous things.

Shaken by the nausea that always affected her when she thought of the man who had sired her, Lexie sipped more of the delicious juice and said colourlessly, ‘I suppose you’re right.’

Dismissing the subject, Rafiq got to his feet. ‘Are you ready for dinner?’

‘Yes, thank you.’ But she stood too fast; the abrupt movement sent a jab of pain through her neck, making her clamp her lips together.

She didn’t think he’d noticed, but it took him only a second to reach her, his hands gripping her shoulders from behind as he asked, ‘What is it? What’s the matter? This is the second time you’ve almost fainted.’

‘I didn’t.’ Her voice sounded thin and far away, so she swallowed and tried again. ‘I must have twisted my neck in the accident. It’s fine, but every now and then the muscles remind me of it. It’s nothing.’

His grasp eased, but he didn’t let her go, still so close that she could discern his subtle, potent male scent.

‘Perhaps this will help,’ he said quietly, his thumbs moving in slow circles on the nape of her neck.

Sensuous little chills raced down her spine. Lexie closed her eyes, but that made her pulse rate soar even higher; an odd weakness in her bones threatened her with an undignified collapse. Resisting the temptation to lean back, she forced her eyes open and stared belligerently ahead, blinking to clear the dreamy haze from her sight.

Break it up right now, caution warned. She said curtly, ‘I’m perfectly all right, thank you.’

‘Are you?’ A raw note in the words caught her attention as he turned her to face him.

She looked up into an angular visage, all hard lines and intensity. What she saw there drove every thought into oblivion.

Green eyes blazing, he bent his head. ‘You don’t look all right. Shall I carry you to your room?’

‘No!’ Sheer panic raised her voice.

Panic—and a wild response that blazed up from nowhere, licking through her like the best brandy, burning away inhibitions and restraint in a conflagration of need.

‘Your eyes give your words the lie.’ He dropped his narrowed gaze to her mouth. ‘And that delicious mouth makes promises I want to collect on.’

Struggling for control, she shook her head.

‘Say it,’ he said in a harsh voice. ‘Tell me you don’t want me as much as I want you.’

Lexie’s breath stopped in her throat. Her muscles locked as she met his gleaming gaze with a challenge she couldn’t hide.

‘Say no—or take the consequences.’ This time he spoke more gently.

Wordlessly she lifted a hand to his cheek.

Half smiling, he teased her with kisses on the corners of her willing mouth. An inarticulate little sound from her made him smile, but in answer to her wordless plea he deepened the kiss, and his arms clamped her against the lean strength of his body.

The tension between them was now revealed for what it was—a fierce sexual charge that hungered for this, for more…

Rafiq lifted his head to tilt hers back, so that he could kiss the length of her throat, stopping only a fraction above the neckline of the prim silk shirt she’d bought half a world away in Illyria.

Lexie’s heart literally jumped; she was sure she felt it move in her breast, then settle back into place before he said against her skin, ‘You have the mouth of a siren.’

His faint accent intensified so that he sounded exotic—almost barbaric. ‘And you kiss like one. Where did you learn that?’

‘I don’t—I don’t think you learn to kiss,’ she parried breathlessly, aware only that she couldn’t let him see how much that final caress had shattered her once-safe world.

One black brow arched. ‘Perhaps not,’ he drawled.

And he kissed her again, mercilessly stoking the craving that ate into her, a wild, primal longing for union, a desire that burned hotter and even hotter until she was aching, her body poised and eager, her mind clouded as though with drugs.

Alarm bells rang. When he lifted his head and let his gaze slide downwards, she realised that her inner turbulence was physically revealed; her breasts had peaked, demanding a satisfaction only Rafiq could give her.

Shocked, she pulled back. For a second she thought he was going to keep her in his arms by force, but then he gave a twisted, rather sardonic smile and let her go.

‘No,’ he stated rather than asked.

‘Dinner must be ready.’ Although her voice was hoarse and uneven, she met his gaze steadily, without flinching.

His laughter held no amusement. ‘Indeed, and one should never keep the servants waiting. This way.’

He extended his arm. After a moment’s hesitation Lexie laid her fingertips on it, feeling the slow flex of his muscle beneath them with a voluptuous thrill—half forbidden desire, half fear.

This was dangerous, she warned herself silently as they walked across the great hall.

‘You are afraid of me?’ His tone was aloof, at odds with the penetrating look he sent her.

‘No,’ she said rapidly. ‘Of course not.’

The person she was terrified of was herself. She appeared to have no resistance to Rafiq’s particular brand of potent masculinity, and her abandon startled and dismayed her.

Stiffly, her voice as brittle as her tight-strung body, she said, ‘I don’t normally make a habit of kissing near strangers like—like that.’ The last few words rushed out. Aware that she’d probably revealed more than she wanted him to know, she straightened her shoulders and stared straight ahead.

‘I guessed as much.’

His worldliness shattered what remained of her composure. Was he insinuating that she was transparently inexperienced?

Well, she was, she thought stoutly, and what did it matter whether her untutored response to his kisses had told him so?

He finished with forbidding emphasis, ‘And you need not worry—I do not force women.’

‘I… Well, I’m sure you don’t,’ she said warily, then stopped when she saw where he was leading her. ‘Oh—oh! Oh, how lovely.’

They’d gone up one floor and through a small salon that opened out into air lit by lamps, their warm glow illuminating a wide, stone terrace, and a row of arches on the seaward side that were latticed with stone delicately carved into flowers and leaves. Shrubs and trees cooled the terrace and shielded it from prying eyes. At one end a lily-starred pool surrounded a roofed pavilion, connected to the terrace by a stone bridge. Behind floating, gauzy drapes, Lexie discerned the outlines of furniture.

‘Another whim of yet another besotted ancestor,’ Rafiq explained with a touch of irony. ‘He rescued his wife from a corsair ship; she loved to swim, and he loved to join her, so he built this pool and made sure it couldn’t be overlooked.’

The kisses they’d exchanged suddenly loomed very large in Lexie’s mind. Was he indicating…?

A sideways glance at his face banished that vagrant thought. He wasn’t even looking at her, and it was impossible to read anything from his expression.

Rafiq looked down and caught her watching him. His lashes drooped, and she asked too hastily, ‘Why was she on a corsair ship? Was she a pirate too?’

He stopped by the bridge. ‘She was the daughter of the British governor of a West Indian island, snatched for ransom, but the captain found her appealing enough to keep her. When the Caribbean got too hot for him, he fled to the Indian Ocean. She waited until they approached Moraze, intent as they were on plunder, then managed to wound her abductor severely enough to escape and swim ashore.’

Startled, Lexie looked up from her contemplation of the water lilies. They weren’t growing in the pool, as she’d first thought, but had been cut and floated on the water, a medley of white and palest yellow. Their scent teased her nostrils. ‘She must have been a very resourceful woman.’

Her companion showed his teeth in a smile that held more than a hint of ruthlessness. ‘I come from a long line of people who did what they had to do to survive,’ he said evenly. ‘Some weren’t particularly scrupulous, or even likeable; some embraced revenge without compunction if it served their plans. She hated her captor.’

A little shiver snaked down Lexie’s backbone, and memories of her father’s actions clouded her eyes. ‘Very few people can claim to have only saints in their lineage.’

He smiled cynically. ‘Agreed.’

‘So what happened to the governor’s daughter after she swam to Moraze?’

‘My ancestor found her hiding on shore. She told him of the corsair’s plans, and with his men he captured the ship, killing the man who’d abducted her. Apparently she and my ancestor quarrelled furiously for several months, then astonished everyone by marrying.’ This time Rafiq’s smile showed real amusement. ‘They had a long and happy life together, but they were not a peaceful couple.’

‘I’m glad she found happiness after such an ordeal,’ Lexie said. ‘As for peace, well, some people find peace boring.’

‘Are you one of them?’ he asked, indicating that they should cross the bridge.

Lexie frowned. It sounded like a throwaway question, yet somehow she sensed a thread of intention, of significance, in his words that made her feel uneasy and dangerously vulnerable. Was he exploring her personality, or just keeping the conversation alive?

Almost certainly the latter, common sense told her, and yet…

Because the silence threatened to last too long, she set out briskly across the bridge. ‘As a vet I don’t like too much excitement—it tends to involve going out in the middle of the night in filthy weather to deal with sick, very expensive animals and their frantic owners! But I certainly enjoy variety.’

There, that was innocuous enough, surely? She didn’t want to get into anything heavy here. Although they’d kissed—and he’d seemed to enjoy those kisses—she wasn’t going to let herself fall into the trap of believing they’d meant anything more to him than the superficial response of a virile man to a woman of the right age to mate.

A woman whose instant arousal, she thought with a burning shame, must make it obvious she found him irresistible.

But then, he’d be used to that response—it probably happened in every female who set eyes on him.

And to quench the flickering embers of desire she’d better stop this train of thought right now. So she asked, ‘What about you?’

‘I enjoy moments of peace,’ Rafiq said, his tone giving nothing away. ‘But I think a life of unalloyed tranquillity and harmony could become tedious after a while. I relish a challenge.’

‘Oh, so do I,’ she responded, and changed the subject abruptly. ‘The water lilies here must be different from the ones at home. Ours fold up at dusk.’

‘So do ours.’ He smiled. ‘I believe the petals of these ones are held in place by candle wax. It is a local tradition.’

A few steps brought them to the pavilion, where Rafiq held the drapes back with a lean hand. ‘Do you play chess?’

‘Badly,’ she replied, walking into the airy space and looking around. ‘I don’t think I’d be even the mildest challenge to anyone who can think more than two moves ahead.’

But several hours later, after they’d eaten, she was sitting on the edge of her chair and glowering at an elaborate chessboard, her mind working frantically.

Rafiq said evenly, ‘You lied.’

Her head came up, and she met his half-closed green eyes with a flash of fire. ‘I don’t lie.’

‘You said you were no challenge.’ His voice was amused.

‘You’re winning,’ she pointed out. ‘In fact, I can’t see how I’m going to get out of this situation.’

He lifted his brows. ‘If you want to know—’

‘No! Give me another few minutes to see if I can do it.’

His quick grin—so unlike his usual air of sophisticated forcefulness that it startled her—was quickly controlled. ‘Go ahead,’ he invited.

Frowning, Lexie puzzled over the board, saw what seemed to be the perfect move, and almost made it—until further intense thought revealed it would involve a check to her king a few moves further on.

Rafiq had a poker player’s face; not a single emotion escaped his control. She was acutely, violently aware of him at his ease in the cane chair, long limbs relaxed, the light from a dozen soft lamps highlighting the arrogant sweep of cheekbones, the tough jawline and the hooded green of his eyes.

Lexie’s breath caught in her throat. Behind him she could see several elegant loungers, and a day bed—a sinful thing, more than big enough to hold two people during the hours of a lazy tropical siesta. A puff of breeze smoothed over her skin, sensitising it…

Every coherent thought died a swift and unappreciated death, drowned by a sensuous recklessness. I want you, she thought, the need so violent she wondered for a panicky second if she’d actually said it.

Colour burned her cheeks. She had to get out of there, away from this man—away from this love nest with its scented flowers and gentle lamplight. Abruptly she said, ‘Do you mind if I call it a day? I’ll concede if you’ll tell me how to get out of this.’

One black brow climbed, but he showed her.

As they blocked out the moves, he said in a casual voice, ‘In two days’ time I will be attending a special function—the opening ceremony for another hotel, but this time the celebrations are for those who worked on the building, and those who will work in it. A people’s party, much less formal than the affair you attended the other night. If you feel up to it, would you like to come with me?’

Completely taken aback, she flushed again, searching for words. ‘I feel fine, but I don’t want to intrude…I’ll be quite happy here, you know.’

His all-too-potent smile sent erotic little shivers through her. ‘There will be music and dancing and excellent food, and very few speeches.’

Torn, Lexie hesitated. Being with Rafiq was starting to mean far too much. A sensible woman would find some good excuse to refuse.

Deciding that being sensible was vastly overrated, she strove for some of his confidence. ‘I’d love to come. It sounds like great fun.’

‘I hope so.’

Rafiq wondered what was going on behind that serene face. She didn’t realise that she was actually a prisoner in the castle; he hoped she never would.

Not for the first time he wondered how an intelligent, accomplished woman like her had been duped by Gastano. Was she bored with the man? She hadn’t tried to contact the count, and certainly she’d shown no signs of missing him.

Which could mean that to her the relationship was as superficial as Gastano’s charm.

It seemed likely. Rafiq’s mind ranged back to the first time they’d met; she’d been offhand with the count, and in spite of Gastano’s presence she’d been acutely aware of Rafiq.

As physically aware as he’d been of her.

Lust at first sight, he thought, controlling a cold, humourless smile. His jaw hardened as Lexie began to pack away the chessmen in their carved box.

Did she know Gastano intended marriage? It didn’t seem likely. Or was this her way of showing Gastano that she’d wanted no more than an affair with him?

If so, she had no understanding of her lover. Her family connections would be worth more than gold to the count. As her husband, he’d have entrée into a milieu he’d long coveted—the charmed world of royal power and influence.

The count would be furious if he thought the woman he’d targeted as a ticket to respectability and even greater power was slipping through his fingers.

And furious men made mistakes.

Gastano had already tried to establish contact with Lexie. Rafiq recalled Gastano’s email note, written in a tone he probably intended to be disarming, but with enough innuendo to summon a shockingly forthright and very territorial response from Rafiq. And although he couldn’t find a logical reason for it, he still felt strongly that hiding her away from Gastano was the only way to keep her safe.

Because of Hani? He dismissed that thought. His sister had been naïve; Lexie was not. Even if she had been when she met Gastano, two months as his mistress would have put paid to any innocence.

The question Rafiq couldn’t ask nagged at him. Had she responded to Gastano with the same wildfire passion she’d revealed in his own arms?

The thought made his fists clench. Watching the way the golden lamplight shifted and shimmered across her bent head as she carefully sorted the chessmen, Rafiq wondered again if his objectivity was being hijacked by his response to her. Those smoky blue eyes, half-hidden by her long, black lashes, might mask her thoughts, but nothing could disguise that softly sensuous mouth.

His gaze hardened as Lexie slid the queens into place, capable fingers moving swiftly, her lashes casting shadowy fans on her exquisite skin.

Lexie looked up to find her host’s dark eyes on her, intent and speculative, as though trying to see into her soul. Her nerves sparked and colour heated her cheeks.

‘You look tired,’ he said quietly. ‘How is your neck?’

Her colour deepened. ‘It’s fine, thank you. It just catches me now and then.’

She took her time about closing the case that held the chess set, fiddling with the catch until she regained some composure. But although her skin was cool once more, the fire inside her still burned with a fierce, hungry flame.

Getting to her feet, she said a little shortly, ‘It’s been a lovely evening. Thank you.’

He rose with her, looking down from his considerably superior height with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. They walked in silence across the bridge and back through the castle.

Lexie wished she could be as controlled. His nearness was delicious torture. She both longed for the door of her room and resented its imminence, torn between this dangerously addictive arousal and the knowledge that the chemistry between them meant nothing more than uncomplicated, old-fashioned animal magnetism.

Looked at from a biological point of view, she thought, trying hard to be dispassionate and scientific, the volatile attraction pounding through her bloodstream and alerting every cell in her body was a natural urge stimulated by hormones that somehow knew she and Rafiq would make splendid children together.

Something deep inside her melted.

Ruthlessly she told herself it didn’t mean she was in love with him. He certainly wasn’t in love with her. It was simply a matter of genes, the need to perpetuate the species—all the things she’d learned in her long and expensive university training.

And although her response to him was a fiery torment, it didn’t really mean much. Worldwide, there were probably millions of men she could feel this way about.

She’d just never met one before.

Anyway, when she married she wanted what Jacoba had—a man who adored her and accepted her as his equal in every way.

Not someone who saw her simply as a sexual partner.

Rafiq’s voice broke in on her ragged thoughts as they reached the door of her room. ‘That is an interesting expression.’

She stiffened, her brain searching for something innocuous to say. Lamely—and too quickly—she said, ‘I was thinking about a biological… Ah, about biology.’

His lips curved in a wry, humourless smile, and his eyes were darkly shaded. ‘So was I.’ The last word was spoken against her eager, expectant mouth.

His previous kisses had been explorations, she thought dimly; this one wasn’t. He knew what she wanted, and when she gave a muffled groan and surrendered, he gathered her even closer so that she could feel his physical reaction—the electric intensity of his desire, the erotic difference between her female softness and his male power.

A rush of adrenalin sharpened her senses as her body sprang into exhilarating life. Shivering with delight, she forgot everything but the sheer physical magic of his embrace and her mindless, primal response. His body heat, the strength of his hands on her, the faint, intrinsic scent of him, the tactile excitement of his skin beneath her seeking fingers—all combined to add sensual fuel to that inner fire burning away inhibitions and caution.

CHAPTER SIX

RAFIQ loosened his arms and rested his cheek on the top of Lexie’s head, gently rocking her in his arms while she came back to earth.

‘It is too soon,’ he said, his voice oddly harsh. ‘And although you are like wildfire in my arms, there are smudges under those beautiful eyes, and I think you are trying to stifle a yawn in my shoulder. Good night, Lexie. Sleep well. Tomorrow I will take you on the trip that was cut short by the accident.’

She might see something of the famed wild horses of Moraze. Lexie should have been delighted. To her shock and dismay, all she could summon was mild enthusiasm. Stifling a small sound of protest, she composed her expression into serenity and eased back, feeling foolishly bereft when he let her go with insulting ease.

‘I’ll look forward to that.’ Oh Lord; her voice was breathy and soft, as though she were mimicking Marilyn Monroe!

Without meeting his eyes, she directed a swift, shaken smile at him and turned into her room, nerves jumping when she closed the door. She leaned back against the carved wood, striving to force strength into her lax bones.

This whole situation was too dangerous. She shouldn’t have allowed those passionate moments in his arms, moments charged with a carnal magic that still ached through her.

Allowed them? She’d welcomed them, surrendered to them, wallowed in the erotic excitement of them, until in the end she’d had no defences left. The intensity of her emotions, the sensations Rafiq made her feel, scared her. When he touched her she lost herself, became someone different, an alien person with no shame and no control.

Lexie wrenched herself upright and walked across to a window, staring out across the lagoon to the white line of the reef.

Slowly she dragged air into her lungs. These bewildering days on Moraze were teaching her that she wasn’t capable of an easy relationship with lots of lust followed by a cheerful goodbye once it was sated.

‘Not my style,’ she said a little bitterly to the silent room. Certainly not with Rafiq…

But at least she’d learned one thing about him: he didn’t want just casual sex either. Because he could have had her right there and then, and he’d known it, yet he’d pulled back.

She set her jaw. Because her resistance was so easily breached, there must be no more of this perilous intimacy. After tomorrow she’d leave the castle. And she’d make it clear she wasn’t in the market for, well, anything. He wouldn’t press her; Rafiq de Couteveille was a sophisticated man, and there were plenty of sophisticated, experienced women who’d be more than happy to satisfy his urges.

And that sharp stab of emotion was not jealousy, or—worse still—anguish at the thought!

‘There!’ Rafiq pointed over her shoulder, his voice urgent. ‘Can you see them?’

‘Yes.’ Thrilled, Lexie lifted the binoculars he’d lent her and examined the small herd.

Not at all spooked by the vehicle, the horses lifted their heads and serenely surveyed them. A couple of skittish youngsters danced sideways, their coats gleaming in the tropical sun, only to subside and snatch another mouthful of grass. The stallion, master of his harem, clearly realised that no harm would come to them from this particular vehicle. Although he kept a watchful eye on them, his stance showed his trust. Even the wise old mare that led the herd had already dropped her head to graze again.

Lexie stole another glance at the arrogant line of Rafiq’s profile as he watched the herd. The angular lines of his face intent yet relaxed, he looked as though the sight of the herd satisfied a hunger in his soul. Her heartbeat picked up speed. How would she feel if he ever gazed at her like that?

Angry with herself at such futile longing, she lifted the binoculars to her eyes again. ‘How long have they been on Moraze?’

‘The bride of the first de Couteveille brought some of her father’s horses with her. They were set free up here, and here they’ve flourished ever since.’

Like the de Couteveilles, she thought. She said on a sigh, ‘I’ll always remember this day. Thank you so much.’

‘It has been my pleasure,’ he said calmly, and set the four-wheel drive in motion. As they started on the winding descent to the fertile lowlands, he asked, ‘Which did you enjoy most—the jungle animals in the mountains, or the horses?’

She laughed. ‘That’s an unfair question, but I was fascinated by the jungle animals, and can’t help wondering how on earth their ancestors got here.’

‘Biologists are working on their provenance,’ he told her. Without any change in tone he went on, ‘So you liked the horses better?’

Surprised at his perception, she admitted, ‘Yes. They’re so wild and free, and so lovely. I suppose I envy them.’

‘Perhaps we all do.’ He sent her a glance that set her toes tingling. ‘But you have independence. Or are you planning to give it up?’

Startled, she said quickly, ‘No.’

His glance sharpened before he returned it to the road ahead. ‘What appeals to you so much about the thought of freedom?’

‘Surely it’s everyone’s desire?’ She looked ahead to the vehicle that accompanied them, driven by a bodyguard with another by his side. Living like that would stifle her. How did Rafiq stand it?

‘Most people seem content to settle into comfortable servitude,’ he observed.

‘Perhaps. And perhaps they’re happier than those who long for freedom.’ She looked up. ‘Are you content with your chains?’

‘Tell me what you think to be my chains.’

‘Well, you’re forced to live as the ruler of Moraze. Don’t you ever have the urge to break free?’

His gaze flicked across her face, then returned to the road ahead. ‘Sometimes,’ he said, shrugging. ‘And you? What chains hold you?’

Lexie bit her lip. Like him, servitude to her forebears, but she wasn’t going to tell him about her father. ‘Oh, nothing really,’ she said lamely, wishing she hadn’t embarked on this.

She stared around, then said, ‘Oh! I recognise this place—it’s where we crashed!’ Frowning, she leaned forward to examine the road and the grassy bank as they passed the spot. ‘I wonder why I didn’t see the animal that ran out in front of us.’

‘It’s possible you did see it, but because of the shock you don’t remember,’ Rafiq said coolly. ‘The driver has recovered completely, by the way.’

‘I still feel guilty because I didn’t go to see her,’ Lexie said without thinking.

He shrugged. ‘You have high standards of behaviour. She did not expect it.’

Something in his tone made her say crisply, ‘Simple courtesy isn’t exactly a high standard.’ And without finesse she steered the conversation in another direction. ‘Tell me, what should I wear to the hotel party? I don’t know the sort of thing that would be appropriate.’

He sent her another enigmatic glance, almost as though she’d surprised him. ‘The dress you wore the night we met would be perfect.’

The flame-shot silk Jacoba had bought for her? Lexie loved that dress, and not just because the colour brought out a richness in her hair, and gave her skin a glow it didn’t normally have. In it she felt like someone else—a different, bolder, more confident person.

Torn between a desire to look her best and a cowardly caution, she hesitated, fixing her gaze on the scenery as Rafiq steered the vehicle around a set of hairpin bends.

When they’d been safely and skilfully negotiated, she asked, ‘Are you sure?’

‘I am,’ he said, and smiled, a slow, amused curl of his beautiful mouth that sent excitement flickering through her. ‘Colour is important here,’ he went on. ‘It seems to be a tropical thing. In cooler climates, people wear more subdued hues.’

‘Possibly because we have paler colouring, and vivid shades tend to wash us out.’

‘But not you,’ he told her with the confidence of a man who saw nothing unusual in discussing clothes with a woman.

The crisp note of challenge in his tone brought up her chin. ‘Then I’ll wear the dress.’

Only to stop there, because she didn’t know what to say next.

Although he didn’t seem to be flirting with her, there was definitely an appreciative glint in the greenstone gaze when it skimmed her face before returning to the road.

‘Whatever you wear you will look good,’ he said almost dismissively as he guided the vehicle around another hairpin bend.

Lexie didn’t know whether it was a compliment or a sop to her rare lack of confidence.

‘Thank you,’ she said spiritedly, wishing she’d dated more often, even indulged in a couple of affairs. Surely experience would have given her some idea of how to deal with him?

Probably not, she thought with a touch of cynicism, watching the trees flash by—a coastal forest sparser than the jungle. Rafiq de Couteveille, ruler of Moraze, was no ordinary man.

‘The jungle reminded me of New Zealand,’ she said absently. ‘Those massive trees with their huge trunks reaching for the sky, each notch and fork filled with epiphytes—just like home!’

‘Rain forest looks similar the world over. I’ve seen photographs of New Zealand trees; I was most impressed with the size and the majesty—the authority—of those huge trees that grow in the north. Kauri, are they not?’

‘Yes. Northern New Zealand’s iconic tree, along with the coastal pohutukawa, and true lords of the bush.’

She looked away again, longing to be safely back home, away from all this perilous beauty, the constant sensation of being watched and somehow under siege.

Sheer imagination, of course. And although she was out of her depth with Rafiq she wasn’t green enough to take his embraces seriously, no matter how powerfully she was affected by them.

Yes, he’d been kind—well, taking her into his home after the accident was more than simple kindness—but that didn’t mean anything. He’d probably have been just as considerate—without the kisses!—if she’d been fifty and grey-haired.

The road straightened once they reached the fertile plains, rich with sugar cane plantations and farms where flowers grew in ribbons and rainbows of saturated colour—seductive, scented orchids, the polished brilliance of anthuriums, and the erect, surreal stems of ginger in all their bold, vibrant hues.

Lexie let out her breath on a soft sigh. ‘This is so beautiful.’

‘Indeed,’ he said calmly, and sent her another sideways glance. ‘Are you tired? There is a place you might like to see a little farther on.’

‘I feel fine.’ An understatement if ever there was one; her mind and senses were at full stretch, intensely stimulated by his potent, compelling presence.

He touched a button and spoke in the local language to the car in front. A few moments later he slowed the car, took a sharp intersection and headed up into the mountains again through jungle that got more and more dense as they climbed.

‘We are going to a lake that occupies an extinct volcanic crater,’ he told her. ‘The islanders believe it is the home of a particularly beautiful but extremely dangerous fairy, who has been known to amuse herself by seducing young men and then sending them away. They become afflicted with love for her, and drown as they try to swim back to her arms.’

Lexie repressed an odd little shiver to ask lightly, ‘And does this happen often?’

He sent her an amused glance. ‘Not within living memory, but that may be because most young men are careful not to go there until they are married. She isn’t interested in married men, apparently.’

‘You’re not afraid?’ she asked with a teasing smile, then wished she hadn’t.

His response was sardonic. ‘Not a bit,’ he said coolly. ‘I have yet to meet a woman I’d drown for.’

Her heart clamped tight. He was warning her off—why?

Last night when he’d stopped their lovemaking she’d been impressed because she’d thought it meant he didn’t want just sex from her. Had she misread his consideration?

Perhaps his blunt statement of a moment ago was intended to convey that he didn’t plan a serious relationship.

Was there a sophisticated way to tell him flatly that she wasn’t foolish enough—even in her dreams—to have hoped for that…?

No, she thought, mentally cringeing. But he knew that she wanted him. Last night her wild response to his kisses had shocked her into planning a retreat, but that had been cowardly. Rafiq was the first man she’d ever wanted—sexy as hell, considerate, intelligent, compelling and trustworthy.

Who better to be her first lover?

And Lexie made a decision—a reckless, possibly even dangerous decision—one she knew might well cause her heartbreak.

But she also knew that, no matter the grief, she’d never regret making it. Just once in her life she’d throw away caution and follow her desires.

It would be worth it, she thought, controlling the breath that came too rapidly. She turned her head, pretending to be contemplating the scenery, and knew that next time they kissed she’d— Well, she thought nervously, she’d let him realise that she didn’t need to be cosseted. She was a free and independent woman, and she wanted him.

The crater lake was almost round, surrounded by thick jungle, and on one side a semi-circle of cliffs. In spite of the sunlight a faint mist hovered over it, and the only sound was bird song, faint and eerily distant.

‘I can see why the legend grew up,’ Lexie said, glancing around. ‘It’s a very potent place. Is the water still hot?’

‘No, but that mist is nearly always there.’ He looked down at her, ignoring the security car that had preceded them, and the bodyguard standing with his back turned as he swept the jungle with binoculars. ‘I imagine crater lakes are not unusual in New Zealand.’

‘There’s a dormant volcanic field not far from where I live, and one of the extinct volcanoes has a crater lake, with eels as thick as your arm in it.’ She gave a lopsided smile. ‘It’s an evocative place too, but that might be because by the time people have climbed its very steep sides they’re exhausted!’

He laughed and took her elbow, steering her back to the car. ‘We must go now. I have a meeting I can’t miss tonight.’

They had nearly reached the castle when he said casually, ‘I won’t be in for dinner tonight, but tomorrow night I know of a charming little restaurant where we can eat, if you’d like to go. The chef is a genius.’

Hiding her disappointment, she told him, ‘That would be lovely, thank you.’

Safely up in her room, she sighed, hugged herself, and went into the opulent bathroom to run a shower. She should, she thought, make it a cold one; for a few seconds she’d wondered whether there was any chance that Rafiq was courting her—to use an old-fashioned term.

Fortunately common sense soon banished that hope. But he couldn’t fake the hunger he felt. That was genuine.

Excitement burned in the pit of her stomach, completely different from the way she’d felt when she’d realised Felipe was interested in her. She’d been flattered, and she’d enjoyed his company, had found him attractive, but it now seemed very pallid and ordinary compared to the way Rafiq affected her.

As she dried herself down she wondered what Felipe was doing. Since the accident she’d thought very little about him—when she was with Rafiq she didn’t have room in her mind for anyone else.

And she was still angry with Felipe for thinking he could railroad her into sleeping with him.

Still, perhaps she should try to contact him, to tell him finally that it was over. But then he’d made no attempt to get in touch with her, and since he’d only planned to stay a couple of days, he might even have left Moraze. She’d probably never see him again, a thought that brought an unexpected sense of relief and freedom.

And as she ate her solitary dinner she recalled the warning Rafiq had delivered while they were at the perilous pool.

‘I have yet to meet a woman I’d drown for…’

Odd how much that hurt.

Get used to it, she thought staunchly, because she wasn’t going to play the coward’s role again and change her mind.

Lexie spent the next morning in luxurious laziness with a couple of books Rafiq had sent up to her room via the maid, with a brief note apologising for his absence. One was a novel written by a famous author from Moraze, the other a beautifully produced guide to the island with fabulous photographs and a very entertaining history. She then tired herself by swimming lengths in the pool, and napped in the heat of the day, determined to be alert that night and prove that she was fully recovered from the very minor results of the accident.

For dinner she wore a sleek resort dress in a subdued gold that brought out the lights in her hair. She didn’t look too bad at all, she decided, adjusting the neckline. The skirt fell to her ankles, and the sash belt clung to her narrow waist.

Tiny hot shivers tightened every nerve in her body. Later she and Rafiq would be alone together. Perhaps they’d kiss, and she’d know once more that aching, bittersweet delight in his arms.

And this time, instead of following his lead, she’d let him know—subtly, she hoped—that she was ready for the next step.

Whatever that might be…

Rafiq drove them to the restaurant in an unmarked car. By mutual consent they kept the conversation light, speaking mostly of the island and its beauty. A few miles inland they came to a large building throbbing with lights, and almost jumping with music. Lexie was glad when they passed it by.

He said, ‘Since the sugar industry was rationalised years ago, some of the old mills have been transformed into places like this where the locals can get together to sing and dance and play music. They’re now being discovered by tourists, but I thought that you might prefer somewhere smaller and more intimate. You agree?’

It was a good sign that he’d read her so accurately, though right this minute she’d probably have agreed if he’d told her the moon was falling into the sea. Sedately she said, ‘It sounds perfect.’

The rest of the short journey was made in silence, although a vibrant awareness hummed between them as Rafiq turned the car down a narrow road that led back towards the coast again. Palms swayed languidly above, and the salty tang of the sea mingled with the flower perfumes that saturated these coastal lowlands. Lexie kept her eyes on the white line of the reef around a headland that jutted like a giant castle, gaunt against the star-dazzled sky.

She could wait; in fact, this slow build-up would make their kisses even sweeter, more fiery. Half eager, half apprehensive, she wondered if tonight…?

Rafiq’s car was clearly well known; they were met by a man who indicated a secluded parking spot away from the small courtyard.

How many other women had Rafiq brought here? Lexie squelched the jealous little query. Live for the moment, she advised herself fiercely as she went with him into the vine-hung restaurant.

Afterwards, looking back, Lexie would always remember it as an evening of enchantment. They ate superb seafood and drank champagne, and he honoured her with his plans for the future of his country, although he first warned her, ‘I’m likely to bore you.’

Lexie’s brows rose. Nothing about him would bore her—and she suspected he knew it. Furthermore, she’d had enough of protecting herself. She didn’t care any more. ‘As a citizen of another small island nation—with about a million fewer people than Moraze—I’m interested in how you see its future.’

‘I hope it will eventually be an independent and self-sustaining country under its own prime minister,’ he said promptly. ‘But there is some time to go before we reach that point. Democracy isn’t well-established here; my father and grandfather were benevolent autocrats of the old school, so it’s been left to me to introduce changes, and old habits die hard. It will probably take another generation before the reforms are so firmly bedded in that the citizens of Moraze will both choose and be their own rulers.’

‘And you don’t regret giving up power?’

He shrugged. ‘No.’ He scanned her face and said, ‘The band’s striking up. Would you like to dance?’

On Moraze, it seemed, ballroom dancing was the established mode. Fortunately Lexie had accompanied a friend to classes while they were at high school. If she’d known then that someday she’d be dancing a waltz with the ruler of an exotic island in the Indian Ocean, she’d have paid much more attention to the steps, she thought as she got up with him.

Heart thumping, she went into Rafiq’s arms, felt them close around her, and gave herself up to the sensation. He moved with the lithe, powerful grace of an athlete, keeping perfect time. In his strong arms, his body only an inch or so away from hers, Lexie found the sexual magnetism that crackled between them both compelling and dangerously disturbing.

Part of her wanted to get these preliminaries over and go back to the castle to lose herself in this voluptuous recklessness. Another part treasured this subtle communication of eyes and senses, this aching, unsatisfied physical longing that promised an eventual rapturous release in each other’s arms.

At first they talked, but eventually both fell silent; Rafiq’s arm tightened across her back, and her breath came faster and faster between her lips as their bodies brushed and swayed and were taken hostage by the music.

Lexie forgot there were others there, that although the lights were dim and subdued they could be seen. Eyes locked onto Rafiq’s darkly demanding ones, she danced in a thrall of desire.

He said, ‘Let’s get out of here.’

In a voice she didn’t recognize, she said, ‘Yes.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

BUT once in the car Lexie sat still, hands clasped tightly in her lap, until Rafiq ordered, ‘Do up your seatbelt.’

‘Oh,’ she said, feeling stupid, and fumbled for it.

He said something harsh, leaned over her and found it, slamming the clip into the holder.

Lexie’s breath locked in her throat while she waited for him to straighten up. Instead he bent his head and kissed her, and fireworks roared into the sky, wiping everything from her mind but this delicious, intolerable need. Her hands came out to grasp his shirt as her mouth softened beneath the hungry demand of his lips.

Until faintly the sound of an engine percolated into her consciousness. Lights flashed across her closed lids. She realised they were real lights, not the fire in her blood, and reluctantly opened her eyes.

Rafiq lifted his head. After an incredulous second he said in a raw, goaded voice, ‘This is—not my usual style.’ When she didn’t answer he gave a ghost of a laugh and finished, ‘Not yours, either?’

‘No,’ she admitted.

He set the car in motion, saying grimly, ‘I think you must be sending me mad.’

‘I know the feeling.’

He flashed her another fierce glance, then smiled, reached for her hand, and tucked it beneath his on the wheel, only releasing it when they reached a small town on the way home. Lexie let it rest in her lap, oddly chilled by the subtle rejection. Of course, it might merely be that he needed to concentrate more—but what if he was ashamed of wanting her?

Was that why he’d taken her to the tiny, out-of-the-way restaurant? After all, she was the daughter of one of the century’s most despised dictators…

Oh, for heaven’s sake, she thought, angrily resentful of the hurdles her mind kept setting up for her heart, he almost certainly doesn’t know who your father is! And you’re not responsible for Paulo Considine’s actions.

Why should Rafiq be ashamed of her? She scrubbed up quite well, and the gown she was wearing made the most of her slim, athletic figure and her colouring. Jacoba would make her look very second-rate, but then Jacoba had that effect on every woman!

Rafiq had simply chosen somewhere discreet, and she was grateful to him for being so understanding.

And soon she’d be in his arms and her reservations would be banished.

The thought should have filled her with dismay, but although it was strange to realise that she’d lost her control so completely to a man she barely knew, she felt nothing but happiness, deep and sure and powerful.

Anyway, she was beginning to find out more about him. He was kind and thoughtful, as well as being incredibly sexy. He was also extremely intelligent, and he wanted the best for his country and his people.

She sat up straight and looked through the side window at the starlit night. Pride was a hard thing to deal with, she thought with a wry smile, but at the moment it was all she had—pride and this unwanted, out-of-character desire that had blossomed so swiftly.

And would, she knew, come to nothing; the best thing she could hope for was for it to burn out in the fierceness of passion. She didn’t expect Rafiq to reciprocate. He’d be embarrassed if he knew just how eager she was to discover what making love with him was like.

Better by far for him to believe she was enjoying a torrid affair with him, a holiday fling…

‘What are you thinking?’ he asked, stopping the car outside the huge doors of the castle.

‘Just—drifting.’ Her cheeks heated at the lie.

He switched off the engine and smiled ironically at her, moonlight outlining the autocratic angles and lines of his features. Her heart swelled, and she let herself be carried away by the wave of hunger that had been threatening to break over her all evening.

This, she thought with a desperate recklessness, was worth any pain that might lie in the future. Anything.

Inside the castle, Rafiq suggested a nightcap. ‘We have our own distillery here. I know you enjoy wine, but at least once you should try Moraze’s rum. It is mellow, and filled with the essence of flowers.’

After the first small sip, she agreed, ‘You’re right; it’s delicious.’ Tension bit into her, and she walked over to a window, clutching the glass as she gazed out onto the lagoon, that shimmered silver beneath the black sky. ‘I’ll always remember Moraze like this,’ she said on a half sigh. ‘It’s everyone’s secret ideal of a tropical island, filled with flowers and sunshine and laughter.’

And moonlight, and passion…

Rafiq’s voice came from close behind her. ‘It’s not all charmingly romantic. We have the occasional hurricane, and there have been tidal waves. And although the islanders’ smiles are warm, they also cry.’

She turned her head slightly, nostrils flaring at the subtle, evocative scent—pure alpha male—that teased them. ‘That’s life, isn’t it?’ she said lightly. ‘Always the bitter with the sweet. But for tonight I think I’ll let my inner romantic indulge herself.’

He bent his head and kissed the back of her neck, sending tiny, sexy shivers through her. ‘It will be my pleasure to allow her full rein,’ he said, and let his teeth graze her skin.

The shivers transmuted into arrows of golden anticipation, darting from nerve end to nerve end to summon responses from every cell in her body. Whatever happened, she had this, she thought, turning to meet his intent eyes. And for tonight, this was enough.

‘Kiss me,’ he commanded between his teeth. ‘For hours I’ve been watching your mouth, imagining it under mine. Kiss me.’

Smiling, she took his face between her hands. Her fingertips tingled as they shaped out the forceful lines of his jaw, traced his beautiful, relentless mouth, travelled along the high, aristocratic sweep of his cheekbones. Excitement beat high in her, filling her bloodstream with stars, summoning a witchery of desire that ached through her in a slow, languorous tide, melting her bones.

Rafiq bent his head, and flames sparked between them as his lips came down on hers.

With an odd sigh of relief Lexie sank against him, surrendering herself to the magic of this moment, this place—this man.

It satisfied some more than physical hunger when she felt his body harden against hers, his arms tighten, and the muted thunder of his heart drown out hers. To know that she could do this to him was an aphrodisiac in itself.

‘You’re sunlight and moonlight in my arms,’ he said against her mouth, punctuating each word with a kiss. ‘Golden and warm. Yet behind those blue, sunlit eyes there are secrets, depths as deep and mysterious as a star-shadowed night.’

‘No secrets,’ she said, but she’d lied and he knew it. She saw the change in his eyes.

And because she couldn’t bear to spoil this, she qualified with a wry smile, ‘No important secrets, anyway. Just the usual things no one wants to admit to.’

He held that mercilessly penetrating look for a moment more, then his dark lashes came down and he smiled, an almost humourless quirk of his lips.

‘We all have secrets,’ he said, and kissed her again before putting her away from him, and saying in a cool tone that set a distance between them, ‘I think you need rest. You say you are completely recovered from the accident, but there are still traces of shadows beneath those lovely eyes.’

Although disappointment and frustration ached through her body, she smiled and nodded and went with him.

At her door he picked up her hand and kissed the palm, then closed her fingers over it. ‘Sleep well,’ he said quietly, and left her.

Hours later, she thought grimly that any darkness beneath her eyes was due to the time she spent awake each night, sleep driven away by highly coloured, erotic fantasies.

But when sleep finally came it somehow transmuted the keen frustration of the previous night into serene acceptance. The next day Rafiq took her for a picnic to a secluded bay on one of the royal estates. They ate in the soft, whispering shade of the casuarinas, and swam in milk-warm water, and even though they barely touched, Lexie had never been so happy. It was delicious to be given time, to feel no pressure from him at all, even though she knew he wanted her.

He made no secret of it. His glances, his smiles, the narrowed regard that set her heart pounding, all told her so. Their lovemaking, she thought dreamily as she got ready for the hotel party that night, would come when they were both ready. Until then she was content to float along in this passion-hazed dream.

Of course she wore the flame-coloured dress with its matching high-heeled sandals, and applied cosmetics with the skill and expertise she’d learned from her sister. When she was ready she stepped back from the enormous mirror and gave her reflection a swift, secret smile.

Be careful—be very careful—her mind warned, but she knew her heart wasn’t going to listen. Her emotions seemed to be riding a roller coaster, the gentle acceptance of the day banished by a cocktail of adrenalin and anticipation pulsing like drugs through her veins.

At the bottom of the staircase she spared a compassionate glance for the photograph of his sister Hani. Why didn’t he mention her?

Perhaps the grief of her untimely death was still too raw.

When she entered the salon, Rafiq was talking into a mobile phone, speaking with forceful authority in the local Creole French.

He looked up as she came in, and to Lexie’s astonishment, and a forbidden, heady delight, she got her look—a green glitter of stunned, intense desire.

Only for a moment—he gathered himself together almost immediately—but her foolish, wayward heart rejoiced while he terminated the conversation and snapped the phone shut.

For the rest of her life she’d hug to her heart the memory of that split second of passionate hunger.

‘That colour does amazing things to you.’ His voice was controlled and level. ‘Do you understand French?’

‘No. I do speak Maori.’ And Illyrian, but she wasn’t going to admit to that—it could lead to questions she didn’t want to answer.

They took the coast road to the new hotel. Lexie looked around her with interest when they drove in, making a small sound of pleasure at the flowers and festoons of coloured lights that decorated the place.

From beside her Rafiq said, ‘There are always two openings for any new hotel on Moraze. The first is for the people who actually do the building, and then there is a more formal one, like the one you attended the other night, where publicity is a factor. That was rather stuffy; this will not be.’

The year she’d spent in Illyria had accustomed Lexie to royal occasions, but the moment she walked in with Rafiq she realised how right he was—this was indeed something special.

Smiles and cheers and applause greeted their arrival. Without the burden of being the only child of the dictator who’d terrorised the onlookers, it wasn’t difficult to smile back, to relax in the warmth of their greetings.

Until she saw a face she recognised.

She must have flinched, because Rafiq demanded sharply, ‘What is it? You are not well?’

‘I’m perfectly all right.’ After all, why on earth should she be afraid of Felipe Gastano?

He came towards them with a smile on his too-handsome face, and the air of someone completely sure of his welcome. ‘Dearest Alexa,’ he said smoothly as he bent to kiss her cheek.

Rafiq pulled her a little closer to his side and the unwanted kiss went awry.

Something glittered a second in Felipe’s pale eyes, but the smile stayed fixed as he nodded to Rafiq. ‘I am sorry,’ he said in an apologetic tone that grated across Lexie’s nerves. ‘I was so pleased to see an old friend that I forgot protocol. Sir, it is a pleasure to be here on this auspicious occasion.’

Rafiq said, ‘We’re pleased to see you here.’

An apparently sincere greeting, yet somehow the calm words lifted the hairs on the back of Lexie’s neck. She sensed a very strong emotion beneath his glacial self-control, and wondered if she was the cause of it.

Felipe didn’t seem to notice. Still smiling, he transferred his gaze to Lexie, held her eyes a moment, then turned back to Rafiq. ‘I thought I’d like to see whether my friend Alexa was enjoying all that Moraze has to offer its guests.’

Lexie stiffened, wondering exactly what he meant by those enigmatic words.

The noise level soared suddenly, fuelled by a group of musicians who’d gathered around a bonfire blazing on the sand.

‘I hope you enjoy the evening,’ Rafiq said coolly. ‘After a few short, official speeches there will be dancing on the beach.’ His narrow smile gleamed. ‘Our local dances are a feature of the entertainment here.’

‘I’m sure I shall find them very interesting,’ Felipe said, fixing Lexie with a significant look.

She met it with hard-won composure, both relieved and glad when he stepped back to let another couple be introduced.

As Rafiq had promised, the official part of the evening was short, punctuated by champagne toasts and much good cheer, and then the party really got going. Down on the beach, the band struck up again in impressive rhythm, guitars and keyboards vying with older in struments—a triangle, gourds with seeds inside, and an insistent drum.

‘The hotel dancing troupe will do a demonstration first, but later everyone will join in,’ Rafiq told her as the crowd moved onto the sand, the better to watch the spectacle. ‘You will find it a little different from western dancing; in the sanga, people do not touch.’

Watching the dancers—women in brightly coloured cropped tops and full skirts that reached their ankles, and men in white pirate shirts knotted at the waist above tight breeches—Lexie decided they didn’t need to.

Because the sanga was erotic enough to melt icebergs.

The women began it, holding out their full skirts while they approached the men with sensuous, shuffling steps. They swayed to the music, bare feet moving in an intricate rhythm, smiles bold and challenging as they danced from one partner to another, choosing and discarding until eventually they settled on one particular man.

When that had happened, the drum beats began to build to a crescendo and the dance took an even more provocative turn. Both women and men taunted and teased their partners, hip movements suggesting a much more intimate encounter, smiles becoming slow and languid as the dancers gazed into each other’s eyes.

The insidious spell of the dance—the rhythm set up by the drums and the primitive imperative of the fire, the heat and the gorgeous, primal colours of the women’s full, flounced skirts—set fire to something basic and untamed within Lexie. Her cheeks burned and her eyelids were heavy and slumbrous.

And then, with the drumbeats reaching a frenzied climax, only to abruptly halt, the world seemed suspended in dramatic silence. After several seconds people began to applaud, releasing the dancers from the erotic spell of their own contriving. Many relaxed, laughing, calling out jests to the crowd; others walked off together—still not touching, Lexie noticed.

Carefully avoiding Rafiq’s scrutiny, she looked across the leaping flames of the bonfire and met Felipe Gastano’s cynical smile.

She nodded, wishing she’d never been so silly as to go out with him, wishing—oh, wishing a lot of foolish things, she thought bracingly, trying to still the constant thrumming of her heart.

No wonder people talked of going troppo! This had to be the dangerous enchantment of the tropics.

As though sensing her restlessness, Rafiq said, ‘Would you like to see around the hotel? The gardens and pool area are magnificent.’

‘I’d love to,’ she said, grateful for the chance to get away from too many interested eyes.

They walked there through a grove of casuarinas, the long, drooping needles whispering together in the scented breeze. Lexie recovered some of her composure as she admired the glorious gardens and a pool out of some designer’s Arabian dream, only to lose it when they walked back to the beach and Rafiq said, ‘A moment.’

She stopped with him, looking up enquiringly. He was smiling, but the intent expression of his eyes warned her what was coming, and her blood sang inside her.

Quietly he said, ‘I neglected to tell you how very lovely you are.’

The kiss was merely an appetiser, one snatched before they rejoined the crowd, but she longed for more. The screen of trees was thick enough to hide them from anyone on the beach, but she hadn’t thought Rafiq was the sort of man to indulge in almost-public displays.

Emerging from the feathery shade of the grove, she felt slightly embarrassed, as though everyone knew about that kiss.

From beside her Rafiq said, ‘I’m afraid I must leave you for a few minutes.’ A swift lift of his brows summoned a younger, good-looking man to stand beside her. ‘You will enjoy discussing the dancing with Bertrand,’ he said after introducing them.

Which she did. Bertrand was respectful and knew a lot about the dances of Moraze, revealing that different areas had different versions, some more restrained…

‘And some—ah—less so,’ he finished with a cheerful smile. ‘But you won’t be seeing any of them tonight. Everyone is on their best behaviour because our ruler is with us.’

She encouraged him to talk about Rafiq. Not that he needed much encouragement, she thought with a wry, inner smile after five minutes. Clearly he thought his ruler only one step below the gods!

‘You are laughing at me,’ he said, and grinned before becoming quickly serious. ‘But I am truly beholden to him. Without his intervention, I would have been cutting either sugar cane or flowers in the fields. He sits on the board that chooses the ones deserving of further education, and although I was a bad boy at school, he persuaded them to give me a chance. Everyone else thought I was beyond help; he did not. I would die for him.’

His words were simply stated, without false bravado.

‘It’s a lucky ruler who can inspire such loyalty,’ Lexie said, meaning it. She too had experienced Rafiq’s consideration and his honesty.

Bertrand drew himself up. ‘It is a lucky subject who can follow such a leader,’ he said. He glanced over her head and frowned. ‘Oh, I will have to leave you only for a moment. I must find someone to keep you company.’

‘No,’ she said crisply. ‘Off you go; I’ll be perfectly all right.’

He dithered, then said, ‘I won’t be long.’ After an apologetic smile, he bowed and left her.

Smiling to herself, Lexie watched him being swallowed up by the crowd as he angled towards a middle-aged woman who stood alone.

‘He is one of Prince Rafiq’s security men,’ a voice said from behind her. ‘And that woman is his superior.’

Lexie suddenly felt alone and unprotected, her skin tightening in response to an imaginary threat.

‘Hello, Felipe,’ she said lightly. ‘I always thought security men were eight-feet tall with necks wider than their heads.’

‘The muscle men, perhaps—the grunts. The others come in all sizes and shapes, and I think this one will receive a chastisement from Prince Rafiq for leaving you.’

‘I’m in no danger,’ she said evenly, turning her head to look up at him.

His smile was as charming as ever, his eyes as appreciative, his tone low and flirtatious, yet he left her completely cold.

‘Of course you’re not,’ he agreed. ‘But you know how it is with these rich, powerful aristocrats—they see perils in every occasion.’ He gestured at the milling crowd, a little noisier than it had been before, its laughter ringing free. ‘Even in such a friendly group as this—all devoted subjects.’

He transferred his gaze to her face, surveying her with an intensity that was new and unsettling. ‘Did you know that the word in the bazaars is that Prince Rafiq is very interested in his house guest?’

‘Rumour is—as always—hugely exaggerated,’ she said evenly, and made up her mind. This wasn’t the perfect occasion, but he needed to know. ‘Felipe, I need to tell you—’

‘Not now,’ he interrupted curtly.

He wanted something; she could feel it—a fierce lust, though not for her personally, she realised with a sudden flash of insight.

It had never been her—he’d always seen her as means to some unspoken end.

Before she could finish he went on, ‘And not here. It can wait until later, when de Courteveille releases you.’

‘I’m not a prisoner,’ she said automatically, eager to get this odd, worrying exchange over and done with. ‘And I think this is as good a time and a place as any to say goodbye.’

Felipe Gastano smiled, but although the skin around his eyes crinkled they showed no emotion. ‘So that is it?’ He shrugged. ‘Well, it was fun while it lasted, was it not?’

Relieved yet still wary, she said, ‘I certainly enjoyed it.’

‘I thank you. Perhaps I did not—quite—get what I thought we both wanted, but I also enjoyed our time together. However, before I go, there is something I must tell you. After your little accident, I tried to get in touch with you, but it seems you are not able to be contacted by telephone or email.’

‘What do you mean?’ In spite of the flames of the fire, she felt cold, and the chattering around her seemed to die away.

‘Just that it seems someone is monitoring your communications with the outside world.’

‘I’m sure you’re wrong,’ she retorted.

His smile was condescending. ‘Why don’t you ask de Couteveille? He comes now, and if I read him right he is not happy to see us talking together.’

Indeed, Rafiq sent her a keen glance as he approached, but although his tone when he greeted Felipe again was cool, it certainly wasn’t brusque. Felipe chatted a little about the hotel development before Rafiq and Lexie moved on.

From then on they were never alone. They stayed another hour, saw another dance, this one even more sensual than the first, and then it was time to go.

On the way back to the castle Lexie was aware of a certain air of constraint in Rafiq. He was courteous, amusing, interesting—and unreachable.

Felipe’s observations gnawed at her mind. She wanted to confront her host with them, yet another part of her brain told her to be sensible. Why on earth would Rafiq monitor her phone calls?

Eventually, as they drove in through the gates, she said, ‘Felipe said he’s been trying to contact me, but the staff were uncooperative.’

‘I’m afraid they probably were,’ Rafiq said coolly. ‘I have people who are trained to handle the media, and they dealt with all the calls about you. I gave your sister’s name to them, which is why she was put straight through, but I gained the impression that you wouldn’t want Gastano to have free access to you. If I was wrong, I will of course add him to the list.’

Hastily Lexie said, ‘No, it doesn’t matter, thank you. He won’t be calling again.’ As for the emails—even if Felipe did have her correct address, they’d been known to disappear into cyberspace for days, sometimes weeks, at a time. Curiosity and a certain relief drove her to ask, ‘Were there many approaches from the media?’

‘Quite a few. Some of the big news agencies have stringers on the island, and of course news travels fast.’ His tone hardened. ‘I didn’t think you’d like to be discussed in the gossip columns.’

Distastefully, she replied, ‘You were right.’

Her brief encounter with gossip writers and paparazzi had sickened her of the whole industry. In Illyria she’d been shielded from the worst of their excesses, but she’d seen the havoc they could create, and she wanted no part of it. Besides, she had a feeling that if Jacoba found out she was staying with Moraze’s ruler she’d send Prince Marco down to check him out.

The last thing she wanted was for Rafiq to discover who her father had been.

Honesty warred with shame. Perhaps she should tell him—right now. Yet the words froze in her throat. The sins of the fathers were indeed visited on their sons—and their daughters, she thought wearily, remembering how suspicious the Illyrians had been of her. Mud stuck; occasionally she even found herself wondering if she’d inherited any of her father’s brutality.

No, much better to leave things as they were. Then Rafiq might remember her as an ordinary woman, not as the child of a monster.

Once inside the castle, Rafiq asked, ‘How did you enjoy the evening?’

‘Very much,’ she told him, her tone more brittle than bright. ‘It was interesting to meet the people who’d actually worked on the project. And their singing was fantastic.’

‘What did you think of the dancing?’

His voice was amused, and his eyes half-hidden by his lashes. They were walking towards the terrace with the pavilion and the pool, and she could feel that forbidden, intoxicating anticipation chipping away at her control.

‘It was very sexy,’ she said firmly. ‘And amazingly athletic! At times I thought they might dislocate their hips.’

He threw his black head backwards and laughed, the sound full and unforced. ‘Did it give you the desire to try it?’

‘I know my limitations,’ she said. Curiosity drove her to ask, ‘Can you do it?’

‘Every Moraze-reared person can dance their version of our national dance,’ he said gravely. ‘Our nurses teach us it in our cradles—or so they say.’

They walked across to the pavilion, its translucent draperies floating languidly in the sea-scented breeze. A moon smiled down, silvering everything in a soft, unearthly light—the pool, the white-and-pink water lilies, the shimmering expanse of gauze that surrounded them and shut out the world.

Lexie swallowed something that obstructed her throat and said chattily, ‘I think you’d probably need to learn it in the cradle to be able to do it without falling over or making a total idiot of yourself. And constant practice must be necessary to give your hips and legs that flexibility.’

‘Don’t be so wary—I am not like the dancers at the hotels who sometimes lure tourists onto the sand to show them how very lacking in flexibility their hips are. And to dance properly you need drums and music.’ He looked down at her, his eyes gleaming and intent. ‘But I would like to teach you,’ he said deeply.

‘Teach me what?’

CHAPTER EIGHT

LEXIE swallowed again, her throat closing. He was talking about dancing, not making love. He didn’t even know she was a virgin, and she had no intention of telling him.

In a voice she barely recognized, she said, ‘Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll be here long enough to learn—to dance, that is.’

‘You’re very graceful, so I’m sure you have a natural aptitude,’ he said, his smile cool and subtly mocking.

‘I don’t know about that.’ This banter with its tantalising undercurrents was new to her. Nervously she glanced away, eyes widening as she saw that the table had been set with trays of small delicacies and what was clearly a bottle of champagne.

‘I thought we should toast your stay on Moraze,’ Rafiq told her. ‘I noticed that you didn’t drink anything stronger than fruit punch at the party, but I’m hoping to tempt you with some champagne.’

Lexie knew she should refuse. In this magical glimmer of moonlit enchantment, any sensible woman would make sure her brain was in full control.

But then a sensible woman would have seen danger in the prospect of an evening with Rafiq, and would have pretended a fragility she didn’t feel. And once at the party, no sensible woman would have allowed herself to be carried away by the erotic rhythms and hypnotic drumbeats of the dancing, the whirl of colour and the open sensuousness.

And even a halfway-sensible woman would have avoided any sort of post-party drinks, and said a briskly cheerful goodnight at the door of her room before shutting said door firmly on him.

All right, so she wasn’t sensible. She certainly wasn’t going to walk back to the arid, lonely refuge of her bedroom.

To the crackle and heat of bridges burning behind her, she said, ‘I’m easily tempted,’ adding hastily when she realised what she’d implied, ‘To champagne.’

Colour burned across her cheekbones and she fought back embarrassment, holding her head high and her smile steady.

One black brow lifted to shattering effect. Without saying anything, Rafiq turned to ease the top off the bottle. Instead of a pop it emitted a soft sigh—of satisfaction?

Don’t even think about satisfaction! Small sips, Lexie promised herself as he poured the sparkling wine into long, elegant flutes. She’d take tiny little sips, at long, long intervals…

And when she got back to real life she’d remember this evening—this whole stay on Moraze—without regret. Instead she’d feel gratitude that the man who summoned those reckless, dangerous impulses from her was a man of honour and integrity.

‘So,’ Rafiq said calmly, handing her a glass, ‘We drink to your continued good health.’

After one tiny, wholesome sip, she said, ‘Oh, that’s superb wine.’

‘It is French, of course. Moraze produces some excellent table wines, but for champagne we rely on France.’ He set his glass down. ‘I’m glad you like it.’

Lexie made the first comment that came into her head. ‘New Zealand makes good wines too.’

‘Indeed it does. I have drunk a very supple, subtle Pinot Noir from the south of the South Island, and some extremely good reds from an island off the coast of Auckland.’

‘Waiheke. It has its own special microclimate.’

Her innocuous words were followed by silence, far too heavy with unspoken thoughts, unbidden desire.

Desperately Lexie broke it. ‘I’m no connoisseur, but I do like the wines made in Marlborough from Sauvignon Blanc grapes. In the north of the North Island, where I live, wine growers are also trying out unusual varieties of grapes to see which cope best with the humidity and the warmth.’

Oh, brilliant, she thought in despair. Talk about banal!

‘Shall we stop fencing?’ Rafiq suggested, his amused tone laced with another emotion, one that sent shivers of excited recognition through her.

‘I wasn’t aware we were,’ she lied, hoping she sounded crisp and fully in control.

He held out his hand for her glass, and when after a moment’s hesitation she handed it over, he set it beside his own on the low table. The moonlight glimmered on his white shirt, lovingly enhancing the breadth of his shoulders, the narrow waist and hips, the arrogant angles and planes of his features. Whenever she’d ridden a roller coaster she’d felt like this: both exhilarated and terrified.

‘Of course we were,’ he said, straightening up to smile at her. ‘We are like swordsmen, you and I, continually duelling for advantage. But it is time to bring an end to it.’

Once again her stomach did that flip thing. A hot rush of sensation drove away memories and common sense. When he looked at her like that she was aware of nothing but the drumming of her heart in her ears, and the relentless heat of desire building like a storm through her. Honey-sweet, potent as the strongest rum, powerful and frightening, it shook her to the core.

Eyes dilating endlessly, she watched his smile harden, and her breath locked in her throat at the slow slide of his hands up her arms.

‘Your skin is finer by far than the silk you’re wearing. For this whole interminable evening I have been wanting to touch it,’ he said in a low, harsh voice, and bent his head to kiss the place his fingers had caressed.

Sharp as joy, acute as pain, pleasure shot through her at the touch of his mouth. When he slid his hands across her back and pulled her against him, she sighed his name and met his seeking, demanding kiss with open passion.

It ended too soon. He lifted his head and looked at her, green eyes glittering, and in a tone that was almost angry said, ‘That is the first time you’ve allowed yourself to say that.’

Somehow the simple act of pronouncing the two syllables that made up his name was almost more intimate than the kisses they’d exchanged. ‘You’ve never told me I could,’ she said huskily.

A smile curved his sculpted mouth. ‘I didn’t know New Zealanders held to such strict rules of etiquette. In fact, I believed the publicity—that you are a laid back, ultra-casual lot.’

But her mother had not been a New Zealander, she’d been Illyrian, and she’d brought up her daughters to be more formal than their friends.

Rafiq went on, ‘We’ve kissed—that gives you the right to call me whatever you want.’ And he kissed her again, this time lightly. ‘And me the right to call you sweet Lexie—no?’

Sweet? Was he indicating that he knew she was a virgin, and that it was all right? Forcing a smile, she said, ‘I don’t think I’m sweet. Practical, perhaps…’

But a practical woman wouldn’t be like this, locked in his arms, her body rejoicing at the hardness of his, her heart pounding so heavily he must feel it.

‘Do you feel practical right now?’ His voice was low and tender.

She closed her eyes against him, afraid that he’d see just what she was feeling—total surrender, a desperate, wanton abandonment of all the rules she’d lived by until she’d met him.

‘No,’ she admitted, gaining confidence from the thudding of his heart against her. Whatever he thought, he couldn’t hide the fact that he wanted her.

‘So—how do you feel?’ And when she didn’t answer, he laughed softly. ‘A little wild?’

He punctuated each word with teasing kisses, but she sensed the inner demands driving him, and something unregenerate and fierce flared up to meet and match his hunger.

‘Reckless?’ he murmured, his mouth poised so close to hers that their breaths mingled.

‘Yes,’ she said simply, knowing what she’d just agreed to, knowing that after this there would be no going back—knowing, and not caring, because there was nothing in the world she wanted as much as learning about Rafiq in the most intimate way of all.

Later? Oh, she’d deal with later when it came.

She gave a squeak of astonishment as the world swooped, and he lifted her high in his arms and carried her across to that sinful double day bed.

Beside it he lowered her to her feet, sliding her down his lean, powerful length so that his need for her became blatantly, erotically obvious. Shivering, afire with sensation, she couldn’t drag her eyes away from his narrowed gaze, which darkened with an elemental need that banished all her shyness with its heat.

‘This pretty dress is a seduction in itself,’ he said deeply. ‘I’ve been wanting to slide these tiny, taunting buttons free, push them back so that the silk frames you…’

As he spoke his hands followed his words. Prey to an intensity of feeling she’d never experienced, she ignored the colour burning her skin and shrugged free of the bodice. And then stopped, acutely conscious that the only thing between her breasts and his deft, insistent hands was her bra.

Should she undo it?

Almost before the thought had formulated she felt his hands at the catch—knowledgeable and far too skilful at this, she thought on a spurt of sharp jealousy that kept her head high when he eased her bra away.

He stood looking at her, the dark, fierce hunger in his eyes satisfying something primitive and untamed in her.

On a raw note, he said, ‘You are—perfect,’ and took her eager mouth, bending her back over his arm so that his lips slid easily from hers to the demanding, importunate tips of her breasts.

The hot caress of his mouth splintered every inhibition. Moaning, lost in a carnal haze, Lexie’s hands clenched helplessly in the fine fabric of his shirt as his mouth worked erotic magic on her.

‘No,’ she muttered when he lifted his head.

‘What?’

He bit it out with such harshness she forced her eyes open, and saw the sudden rigidity in his features. ‘Don’t stop,’ she said on a gasp.

But he held her eyes in a measuring stare. ‘You are sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure.’ Frustrated, she stumbled over her next words. ‘If you stop, I just might kill you.’

Strong arms closed around her again, and he set her on the bed. Shivering with anticipation so keen it came close to pain, she watched him shuck off his shirt. Lamplight gilded his skin, picking out the smooth swell and flex of muscles as he dropped the garment to the ground. But when his hands moved to the belt of his trousers she looked away, suddenly and shyly aware of her total lack of experience.

Should she tell him? Would he think she was some sort of frigid freak? Worse still, would he be overcome by an outdated chivalry and refuse to make love to her?

Clamping her mouth to hold back the confession that threatened to tumble out, she kicked off her shoes, not caring whether they landed on the stone terrace beside the bed or in the pool a few feet away.

Lithely, Rafiq came down beside her, muscles shifting and coiling, a study in gleaming bronze power. Lexie swallowed to ease a dry throat as the sheer size of him struck home. Without the civilising influence of his superbly tailored clothes, the difference between her female slenderness and his forceful masculinity overwhelmed her.

But that initial qualm was immediately eased by his gentleness as he began to slide the dress down her body.

Only to stop when he saw the faint shadows on her ribcage. She said quickly, ‘They’ve just about gone now.’

‘I don’t want to hurt you.’ He bent his sleek black head and kissed them, his lips sending darts of sensation to her very soul.

‘You couldn’t hurt me.’ When he hesitated, she held her breath in an agony of supplication.

He said, ‘I will be very careful, and you must tell me if there is any pain.’

‘I will.’

Her eyes flew open in dismay as another thought presented itself. What if he thought she was using contraceptive medication?

As though he’d read her mind, he asked, ‘Are you protected, my sweet one?’

‘No,’ she mumbled, rigid with embarrassment.

‘It is no problem.’ He got off the bed.

Lexie knew she should be relieved, and was shocked to discover that the thought of carrying Rafiq’s child sent a subversive pang of longing through her.

Keeping her eyes away from what he was doing, she looked downwards. Her gaze stopped on the thong her sister had insisted she wear under the silk dress.

Should she take it off?

Colour mantled her skin, and desire ebbed under the weight of her embarrassment. How on earth did people ever make love with all these things to think about?

‘What is worrying you?’

It was scary just how easily he could read her. ‘Nothing.’

But once she was in his arms again, and his mouth on hers wreaked the familiar havoc to her busy mind, the need came back, swift and sure and compelling. Her virgin fears and worries vanished in an intense, voluptuous craving for something only Rafiq could give her.

‘You taste like desire,’ he said. ‘Warm and silken and mind-blowing.’

His hand touched her breast, and she was unable to prevent a convulsive jerk of response.

‘What is it?’ he demanded.

‘I just… I can’t… I want you so much,’ she finished in a rush, scarlet with an odd sort of defiance, but determined to be honest.

His laughter was deep and intimate. Her hips thrust upwards in an involuntary plea and demand for something she craved so much she could feel the wanting in her bones.

Against her skin, he murmured, ‘So fierce you are, so responsive, so passionate, my dove. But shy—I won’t break if you touch me.’

Almost dazed by the ferocity of her need, she smoothed a hand over his chest, her fingertips tingling at the resilience of his skin, the subtle shift and move of the muscles and tendons, their power and promise.

‘Yes,’ he whispered, his warm breath tantalising the sensitive tip of her breast. ‘Touch me, Lexie, as you want to—and as you want to be touched.’

Cautiously she ran a coaxing, tentative hand across his shoulder, her fingertips thrilling at the heat of his fine-grained skin, the coiled strength that called to something deep inside her. Her breath came quickly; she bent her head so that her hair fell across him in a golden-amber flood, and then she kissed the path her fingers had made, rejoicing at the sudden thunder of his heart.

Emboldened, she opened her mouth and licked him, savouring his taste—a hint of salt, faint musk, all vital male.

Passion was a painful flame, an exciting demand, a surge of sensation through her so intense it was all she had room for. She said in an aching voice, ‘You are beautiful.’

‘Ah, no.’ Rafiq sounded oddly shaken. ‘That is for me to say to you. But beautiful does not convey enough—you are lithe and graceful, a woman of flame and satin and desire. The moment my eyes found you, I knew that this was inevitable.’

And he kissed her again, banishing her final fears and worries so completely that she willingly followed wherever he led, her body arching in uncontrollable urgency as he showed her what pleasure points lay in her breasts, her waist, the tiny hollow of her navel, the sleek curves of her hips…

And the removal of the thong became an erotic experience that almost banished all of her shyness.

But when his black head moved lower, she stiffened. He dropped a final kiss on the plane of her stomach and looked up, his eyes unexpectedly keen.

Colour flooded her skin. Rafiq smiled slowly, almost cruelly, and stroked one lean, long-fingered hand from the hollow of her throat. A thread of fire followed that deliberate claiming, radiating between the high peaks of her breasts, across her stomach, finally erupting when he cupped the wildly sensitive mound at the junction of her legs.

It was a gesture of pure possession—a statement of ownership—and oddly it gave Lexie a confidence she’d never have achieved otherwise.

Eyes holding his, she mimicked the sweep of his hand, letting her fingers linger on the antique pattern of hair across his chest, discovering the small, masculine nipples. The dark flush across his high, patrician cheekbones made her even bolder; she slid her palm across his flat, taut abdomen, relishing the hardening of muscles beneath her touch.

Narrow hips beckoned. Carefully, lovingly, she outlined them, bending to kiss the lean contours of his body.

And then her confidence faltered, faded. He was acutely aroused, and she literally didn’t know what to do next.

He laughed quietly, darkly glittering eyes registering her embarrassment without censure. Silently he moved his hand and, as she bucked beneath his probing fingers, he found the passage that waited for him so eagerly, and explored it with a gentleness she found unbearably stimulating.

A soft, almost guttural sound broke past her lips. Gripping his shoulders, she felt the slickness of sweat beneath her hands, but this time she was too lost in the shatteringly sweet sensations he was conjuring to understand what was happening to him.

She needed—her whole body yearned for—something. Connection, completion, she thought inadequately, a unity she could only imagine, yet it was what she’d been waiting on for these long years past.

‘Rafiq,’ she breathed, her fingers clenching on him as he moved over her.

‘Yes, my sweet one. Wait just a little time.’ His voice was laboured, hoarse, as he turned away.

Lost in the turmoil of her senses, she closed her eyes, but when he poised himself over her again she opened them, and slid her hands down his back to his hips, then smiled and pulled him down.

He dragged in a harsh breath. His half-closed eyes locked with hers, so that she thought she was falling into the centre of a green firestorm, as he slowly, carefully, eased himself into her.

For a split second pain threatened, and she tensed, but then he broke through that tiny invisible barrier. Shivering, she felt sensation flood through her in a wave of heat, of joy, of seeking that something wonderful that still lay ahead of her, and again she arched into him in speechless supplication.

Rafiq’s jaw clenched and, as though her movement had snapped the last shred of his self-control, he pressed home with a single, powerful thrust. Almost sobbing with pleasure, she soared at each welcome intrusion, up and up, and over a barrier into an ecstasy that shook the foundations of her world.

Almost immediately he followed her into that rarefied region, and when his climax was over he asked in a raw voice, ‘Why the tears, my lovely girl?’

‘I didn’t know,’ Lexie said unevenly, surprised to find that she was crying.

He rolled over onto his side, raising himself on one arm to look down into her face. Shaken to her centre, she closed her eyes, because she couldn’t see anything in his expression to match the tumult of emotions rioting through her—a kind of relief, fierce exultation, wariness, and a sweet exhaustion.

Obviously he felt nothing like that; once more he was fully in control, the arrogant framework of his face even more pronounced, the green eyes hard and accusing.

‘Was that the first time you’ve had an orgasm?’ he asked.

Flushing, she turned her face away, and resisted when an inexorable finger turned it back. He didn’t hurt her, but she knew he was scanning her face for every nuance, every fleeting emotion.

‘Look at me,’ he commanded.

‘No.’

Her heart thudded in the silence, until he said, still in that cool, controlled tone, ‘Or was that the first time you’ve made love?’

He couldn’t know. There was no way he could know. There had been only one swiftly vanishing second of pain…

But why did it matter so much to her that he shouldn’t know?

‘Is it important?’ she parried, wishing her voice wasn’t so thin.

No muscle moved in his face, but her heart quailed. However, his tone was grave when he replied, ‘I think it is, if it was the first time for you. I could have been gentler—?’

‘I didn’t want gentle,’ she flashed, determined to put an end to this hugely embarrassing conversation. Weren’t men supposed to roll over and go to sleep after sex?

But then, Rafiq de Courteveille wasn’t like other men. In that moment she realised that she was in even greater danger than she’d imagined.

The danger of falling in love, if she hadn’t already done so.

In words brittle with desperation, she said, ‘I’m sorry if it wasn’t—’

‘Hush.’ He stopped the tumbling words with his mouth, in a kiss that brought every emotion and thought to a crashing halt, vanquished by the turbulence of sensation and remembered rapture.

Rafiq lifted his dark head so that his words were spoken against her lips in the lightest of kisses. ‘It was—’ He paused, as though choosing what to say next, then went on, ‘Much more than I expected. I hope that for you it was good too.’

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