A Proposal to Secure His Vengeance

by Kate Walker

  Imogen had never suspected that Raoul Cardini was the brother-in-law of Pierre Moreau, the man who had caused her sister so many problems, dragged her name through the mud and ultimately sacked her in disgrace. Now that she did know, it seemed obvious that Raoul would delight in making Ciara pay for what he saw as the insult to his family, his sister and her children. The tension that had been dragging at her insides just knowing Raoul was here, bringing with him those dark shadows of the past they had once shared, twisted into tight, painful knots. What did Raoul plan to tell Adnan? Because he did mean to expose someone and something, that much was certain.

  Imogen was determined to make sure Raoul did nothing to hurt Ciara. It was the way she could make up for not realising just how low her sister had been at that first meeting.

  She’d been trying to find Raoul ever since she’d made her way back to the stud but there hadn’t been a trace of the damn man. In the end, she’d had to take the chance that he still had the same number as the one she’d been weak enough to keep on her own phone in a last attempt to reach him.

  What would Adnan do if Raoul revealed all he knew about her own past, and her sister’s? Would he go through with the wedding? Or would he decide that even their friendship, and the prospect of keeping his promise to his grandfather to provide him with an heir, cost too much at the price of tying himself to her scandalous family? He was a friend, but was he that much of a friend?

  * * *

  Raoul’s phone beeped again, for perhaps the tenth time that afternoon, and a twitch of a smile curled the corners of his mouth as he saw Imogen’s name as the sender of the incoming text.

  We need to talk.

  ‘Answer it,’ the man with him said easily.

  Raoul shook his head, his shoulders lifting in a shrug of indifference.

  ‘It’s not important—it can wait.’

  ‘No, answer it. I’ll make us another drink.’

  As his companion got out of his seat and strolled out of the room, Raoul reached lazily for the phone that was still buzzing annoyingly.

  We have things we need to talk about.

  His thumb flew over the keyboard, casually creating his reply.

  I’m busy.

  He waited a nicely calculated moment, then added:

  I’m talking to Al Makthabi right now.

  After that he deliberately switched off the phone and dropped it into his jacket pocket.

  * * *

  Just how long could Raoul be talking to Adnan—and about what? Imogen stared out of her bedroom window and down onto the winding drive that led to the main house, her fingers drumming against the window pane.

  Her phone calls had gone straight to voicemail, her texts unanswered after that final declaration that he was with her fiancé, and she had heard nothing, seen nothing of him, for the rest of the day.

  With a sigh, she rested her aching head on the hand that rested on the window pane—a hand that had been carefully manicured, the nails painted a delicate pink, ready for the moment when Adnan would place a gold ring on it and make her his wife. Behind her, the beautiful white silk dress hung outside the wardrobe, protected by a cotton covering. Imogen hadn’t been able to bring herself even to look at it since the dressmaker had delivered it. She had always had contradictory feelings about it, knowing it was part of a wedding of convenience, not a true, romantic marriage of love. But now she felt the nerves tightening in her throat and stomach as her eyes blurred after too long spent watching to see when Raoul would appear.

  ‘I think I need an early night, to be fresh for tomorrow,’ she’d told her father, knowing there was no chance at all she would sleep.

  Even if Raoul returned soon, Ciara was still out somewhere in the dark, wet night, the sudden storm and driving rain taking all trace of summer from the atmosphere. She would never be able to settle until she knew her sister was safe.

  The glare of headlights drew her attention, warning her that a car was arriving. Squinting through the rain, she saw the sleek, dark vehicle draw to a halt at the door and three male figures get out, heads bent as they dashed through the rain and up the steps.

  ‘At last!’

  Now, surely, she would have a chance to try to get the truth out of Raoul, to find out just what fiendish scheme was in his mind. Would he let the wedding go ahead tomorrow or did he plan to spoil it somehow?

  The shudder that ran through her was as if the window had suddenly blown wide open, letting the rain in. She had changed into her nightwear when she’d come up to the room, but now the strappy nightie felt too cold, too little protection against the chill of the night, so she turned from the window, reaching for her robe as an extra layer of warmth. Adnan had been one of the men who’d arrived; she recognised the distinctive leather jacket he wore. Her father had been another. How could she manage this without being seen by these two men? She couldn’t bear to wait until everyone was asleep. The burn of apprehension and fear was bad enough already.

  Her question was answered by her father’s voice down in the hall declaring that he had a fine whisky to share.

  ‘We could have a nightcap...?’ he offered jovially.

  ‘Not for me, thanks. I’m going to turn in.’ That was Raoul; the sexy accent made it clear.

  As heavy male footsteps came up the stairs, the sound of the library door swinging shut behind the other two men made Imogen sag against the wall in relief. At last she was free to make her way to Raoul’s room, and she wasn’t going to leave without some much-needed answers.

  But she couldn’t head for Raoul’s bedroom openly—across the main landing, straight to his door. That would be just asking for trouble.

  Luckily, Blacklands House was old enough to have many secrets, amongst which were the hidden passages that linked one room to another by a series of stone steps. Much of her childhood had been spent running along these passages, learning how to get into them from every room and where each one came out.

  The fake wall beside the bookcase was easy to open if you pressed one of the plaster roses that decorated it. Slipping inside, she made her way along the passage in darkness, bare feet making no sound. It was as she pushed slightly open the secret entry door into Raoul’s room that she heard the main door open again down in the hall. At last, Ciara was home. Now she needed to make sure that her sister’s fears—and her own—could be put behind them. Somehow, she had to convince Raoul not to ruin the wedding, or to drag Ciara’s name any further through the mud than it had been already.

  The roar of the elderly shower from the bathroom hid the sound of the door sliding closed behind her as she crept into the room.

  * * *

  Raoul reached up and switched off the shower with a violent snap of his wrist. It had taken an age for the damn thing to run even close to warm, never mind hot, and he was far from feeling the relaxation he had hoped for.

  Grabbing a towel, he rubbed it roughly over his soaking hair, thankful that the short, cropped cut retained little of the water. It was so damn cold in this ramshackle place; no hint of warmth in the old-fashioned bathroom.

  ‘Nom de Dieu!’ he swore explosively, tossing the damp towel aside and reaching for another, slinging it around his hips and fastening it tight. It was supposed to be summer!

  But it wasn’t just the weather that was turning his mood sour, he knew. It was being here at all that was the problem. Being here, surrounded by the beauty of the countryside, the magnificence of the spectacular animals that grazed in the field, and knowing that the whole enterprise was rotten to the core; that there was no money to support the business and everything was in hock to the bank. Even the magnificent stallion Blackjack... Knowing that he had been conned into paying stud fees for a horse that didn’t actually belong to Joe O’Sullivan burned like acid in his gut.

  Rubbing the back of his hand across his face to wipe away the moisture, he padded across the tiled floor, wrenching the handle to yank the door open. The financial situation couldn’t be any worse, so Imogen ha
d clearly turned to the oldest trick in the book—marrying the nearest really wealthy man in order to help clear her family’s debts. The same trick that she’d tried to pull on him when she’d discovered that he was not the simple olive farmer he’d claimed to be. Obviously, the financial problems had already begun to bite back then.

  ‘Damn her to hell!’

  He had known this—most of this—before he’d arrived. It was the reason he was here, after all. But it had all seemed so much simpler before he’d left Corsica. The woman who had tried to get her hands on his fortune had now found someone else equally wealthy to marry. Someone else whose child, it seemed, she was prepared to have when the truth was that she had already got rid of her first baby—his child. Tossed it aside because its wealthy father wasn’t going to fall into the trap she’d laid for him.

  But now, she’d found someone who would do just as she wanted. Someone who would marry her, pour money into this downtrodden estate and pay off the bills.

  He had come here to stop that wedding.

  But things had got so much more complicated since he’d arrived. He’d seen Imogen and her sister. He’d met the man Imogen was going to marry, and—damn it to hell—he liked Adnan Al Makthabi. Respected him. Adnan was the type of man he’d like as a friend—if he had such a thing.

  ‘Raoul...’

  A voice, soft, uncertain and shockingly familiar, broke into his thoughts, bringing his head up. Dashing any last trace of water from his eyes, he swung round sharply to face her.

  It was as if his heated sexual memories of their time together, the ones that had made the inadequate temperature of the shower a positive bonus, had brought her out of the past, conjured her up as a real person here in his room.

  But how the devil had she got in here? He was between her and the exit and he knew he’d turned the key in the bedroom door when he’d gone into the bathroom. Yet there she was, tall and slender in a deep crimson robe wrapped tightly around her, tied at the waist. She was standing against the wall, half-hidden by the heavy, embroidered drape of the curtains around one of the carved posters of the bed.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  He saw the way her breasts rose and fell under the delicate silk of her robe with every sharp, uneven breath she took. The wide, wide eyes were clear and sapphire blue even in the dusky shadows, and her mouth was partly open, as if to speak—or to kiss, his rebellious thoughts whispered to him. She’d always been beautiful. Hell, she was still beautiful—more so than before, if that were possible.

  She had once worn a scarlet dress that had been little more than the nightgown she had on under the robe, but it had been short and sweet with a flippy sort of hem that had shown off her long legs. He had revelled in watching the pale, Celtic skin slowly tan to a subtle, sexy golden brown after days in the sun. The kick of lust at his groin was unwelcome and ill-timed—and appallingly distracting. The white towel suddenly felt like no covering at all and he shifted uncomfortably, pulling it tighter at the waist, tucking the edge in again.

  ‘I said, what the hell are you doing here?’ he demanded, his voice rougher than before as he fought with the temptation his memories were throwing at him.

  He saw her flinch, blink hard, but then she drew herself up to face him defiantly, blue eyes clashing with his.

  ‘I came to talk to you.’

  ‘About what, exactly?’

  She had spent all yesterday trying to ignore him. Today had been the reverse of that, bombarding him with text messages and demands that they meet. It was obvious she was on edge, even if she was trying to look down her pretty little nose at him.

  ‘About...?’

  The rap at the door was loud and staccato, and it came in the same moment as her response, so that he could barely hear the word. Imogen broke off abruptly, eyes going to the big wooden door behind her, a faint questioning frown creasing the space between her brows.

  ‘Monsieur Cardini? Are you in there?

  ‘Ciara!’

  Her sister’s name was a sound of pure shock and Imogen looked around frantically, clearly hunting for somewhere to hide.

  ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Another one,’ Raoul drawled, one black eyebrow drifting upwards cynically. ‘My, but I am popular tonight.’

  ‘Not popular!’ Imogen’s outburst was a hiss of fury, like that of an angry cat.

  ‘Open the door—please. Let me in. I need to talk to you.’

  ‘She mustn’t know I’m here!’

  ‘Monsieur Cardini...’ Ciara begged. ‘We can’t let things go on like this.’

  ‘Un moment...’

  He was about to suggest to Imogen that she hide, but she had taken action herself, stepping further back, closer to the wall, pressing herself flat up against it. She reached out and caught hold of the embroidered drapes, tugging at them and pulling them closer around her until she was totally concealed.

  ‘Please...’ Her sister was clearly getting anxious on the other side of the door.

  ‘All right.’ Not sparing another glance at the spot where Imogen stood hidden, he turned the key in the lock and pulled open the door.

  Ciara must have been right up against the wood because, as he opened it, she almost tumbled into the room. Her red-gold hair was wet from the rain and was flattened against her skull, and her face still had traces of damp along her brow and cheekbones, the waft of cool evening air coming into the room with her.

  ‘What the devil is this?’

  He’d had enough of intruders in his room, enough of the O’Sullivan sisters invading his life, rocking the balance of his thoughts.

  ‘I need to talk to you—to try and sort things out so that you don’t spoil my sister’s wedding, and—Oh!’

  The small cry of shock was because she had only just registered his half-naked state, the towel hitched around his hips. The rush of pink into her cheeks was unlike the response of her sister, who had merely regarded him with the sort of cool control that had set his teeth on edge. But the knowledge that that sister was behind him, hidden behind the heavy curtains, only aggravated his already irritated mood. He brought his hand down in a slashing sort of movement, wanting to cut short the hesitation and get to the point.

  ‘Mademoiselle O’Sullivan—say what you have to say and then leave me in peace.’

  Did she hear the noise behind her, the footsteps on the stairs? If she didn’t, he certainly did, and the sounds destroyed any last grip on his patience.

  ‘Speak!’

  Behind the concealing curtain, Imogen winced instinctively as she heard that cold bite of anger in Raoul’s voice. She’d heard that once before, when she had tried to persuade him to continue their relationship beyond the weeks he had prescribed. It meant trouble—ice-cold, ruthless trouble.

  Silently she willed Ciara to say her piece and go.

  ‘I’m here to beg you not to do anything. Not to say anything.’

  The quaver in her sister’s voice told Imogen that Ciara had recognised the danger in Raoul’s tone, even if she didn’t know the full story behind it. But she had never seen the tall, dark Corsican’s eyes blaze with golden fire, the way his nostrils flared, his mouth clamping tight over the anger burning inside, turning it into savage ice with the force of his control.

  Imogen prayed her sister would never have to experience the way it felt to be on the receiving end of that sizzling glare and feel it burn her almost to ashes.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About me... Don’t tell anyone about my—my past. Because I need you not to spoil things for Imogen and Adnan. Don’t ruin her marriage...please.’

  ‘And you think that what her silly little sister got up to would ruin Imogen’s chance of marriage? Why would that be?’

  Imogen shivered to hear the coldness in Raoul’s voice. Ciara was too young, too sweet, too innocent to contend with a sophisticated monster like Raoul Cardini. Wasn’t that why she had got herself entangled with that hateful womaniser Pierre Morea
u? She had emerged from that encounter bruised and battered, and only now was just beginning to put her life back together again.

  ‘I couldn’t bear it if you said anything. Imogen’s been through enough already. My father doesn’t know, nor does Adnan, and...’

  ‘But Imogen does?’

  Now Imogen could see where his cold, dark, vengeful thoughts were going. He had always seen her as nothing but a gold-digger, worth no more than a brief holiday fling and some hot summer sex before tossing her aside. He’d been happy to walk away without a single backward glance, but then he’d obviously discovered that her family wasn’t out of his life after all, that her sister was the nanny who had been accused of almost breaking up his sister’s marriage—the source of the Nookie with the Nanny headlines that had called open season on Pierre Moreau and his wife Marina.

  And the proud Corsican was not going to stand for that.

  ‘Monsieur Cardini—please—I’ll do anything if you’ll just let Imogen and Adnan...’

  But that was more than Imogen could take. She couldn’t stay here in hiding and listen to the break in her sister’s voice, the savage ice in Raoul’s. She couldn’t let Ciara fight for her sister’s future, for what she thought was Imogen’s happiness, by taking the blame on her own slender shoulders.

  Particularly not when the marriage Ciara was fighting to save was not the love match she obviously believed it to be. Now she regretted letting her sister believe in the delusion that this was a true romance.

  ‘Ciara—no!’

  Imogen was rushing forward as she spoke, pushing her way out from behind the heavy curtains, struggling to get free.

  She stumbled out into the room, blinking at the light after being hidden in the darkness. In the haste of her movements, her robe came adrift and was tugged backwards, pulling the sides apart, the belt open. Her hair had been dragged loose as well, tumbling round her shoulders, falling across her face, but she couldn’t care.