A Proposal to Secure His Vengeance

by Kate Walker

  What could have put such a crazy idea into her head? And yet where could she go now that her future lay in ruins at her feet? The idea of going back to her room, to the emptiness and darkness, to face the loneliness and destruction of what she’d done, was more than she could bear.

  ‘I’m sorry. There’s nothing, of course. I’ll leave you.’

  ‘Non!’

  Somehow the command sounded much more emphatic in his native language. Imogen flinched inside as it reminded her of the time they had once spent together, the way she had tried to learn French to be able to talk to him and to understand the signs and the notices on the sun-warmed island where they’d met. She’d also hoped it would help her understand him. Fat chance of that!

  ‘N-non?’

  ‘Perhaps we do need to talk.’

  He needed to get out of this towel and into some more concealing clothing. The effect she was still having on his body was so primal that if she came close again she would feel the evidence of how aroused she made him just by breathing. Hell, no, that was a mistake. Thinking of her breathing inevitably brought his gaze to the top of that flame-coloured nightgown, still exposed by the way the silken robe hung half off her shoulders. The smooth curves of pale skin and the deep cleft of her cleavage were tormenting temptation in themselves, and the way those curves rose and fell with the uneven, heightened pace of her breathing threatened to destroy his ability to think at all.

  ‘And I will put some clothes on.’

  Now, what was that look? Relief? Or annoyance? He wasn’t arrogant enough to call it disappointment, no matter how tempting it had been to tease her over that a short time before.

  ‘You too.’

  As he moved past her he paused to lift the edges of the robe up and over her shoulders, tugging them together to remove the temptation of her breasts. The ragged way she was breathing brought those soft curves up to meet his hands, brushing against his fingers for a moment so that he had to complete the movement with an awkward jerk, letting the silk drop into place as he stepped back and away abruptly.

  ‘Help yourself to a drink.’

  He waved a hand in the direction of the rich red wine he’d left to breathe on the dressing table as, impatient to get out of the way of temptation, he snatched up the jeans and shirt that he’d left on the bed on his way into the bathroom.

  There wasn’t time to shower all over again, no matter how much he needed the pounding of icy water to suppress the hungry demand that was making his body ache with discomfort. For one thing, Imogen knew he’d just come out of the shower when she’d stumbled into the room.

  His pulse rate skyrocketed at the memory of the way she had looked then, appearing like a fantasy in his dream just when he’d been imagining her, remembering that last night in Corsica, before she had turned into another woman, one so like the greedy gold-diggers he’d come up against too often already.

  She’d even used the same words that Alice had spoken: ‘I need to tell you something. I can’t let you go...’

  No, damn it, no! He forced his eyes away from the shower and instead contented himself with filling the sink with cold water and dunking his head and face deep into it. It did little to quell the throbbing pulse in his groin, but it did force him to clear his mind and try to think as coldly and rationally about things as he could. The memory of the way Alice had used him, taken his love and cast it aside, did the rest.

  This was not how he had expected the evening to go. Though, if he were honest with himself, he hadn’t really expected anything.

  Certainly not the sudden appearance of Imogen in his room, bringing with her too many memories, too many hopes he had once cherished. Hopes he had once been young enough and fool enough to believe in.

  The thought of those naïve dreams threatened to distract him from the path he had determined on. The path that had unexpectedly opened up so clearly and easily in the space of the last hour. When he had planned his revenge on Imogen O’Sullivan he had never really anticipated it being handed to him on a plate like this. But he intended to take full advantage of it.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘HELP YOURSELF TO a drink.’

  Imogen gritted her teeth against the irritation those words caused her. The casual invitation drifted over his shoulder as he walked away from her into the en suite. As if he was the host here and she a mere visitor.

  Which she might well be soon, cold reality reminded her. The marriage of convenience to Adnan had been their last chance to save the stud, her father’s reputation and her own future. Now those plans lay in ashes, the hope she’d had disappearing out of the door with Adnan in that black rage.

  Who could blame him? When she thought of the scene that must have met her fiancé’s eyes—her former fiancé’s eyes—just minutes before, her skin burned, her eyes stinging with hot tears of shame. She had lost Adnan’s friendship as well as everything else, she knew. His powerful male pride would never stand for seeing her in another man’s bedroom, in his arms—and both of them half-dressed.

  Shaking fingers moved over the rumpled silk of her robe, feeling how, even now, her insubstantial clothing was still not fully restored to any degree of order. The memory of the cold, indifferent way that Raoul had hauled her robe around her—the speed with which he had pulled his hands away as if, once their audience had gone, it disgusted him to touch her—made her feel as if something cold and slimy had slithered over her skin. Once, he hadn’t been able to wait long enough to peel her clothes from her body, but had ripped them away in the heat of hunger. Several of her dresses had ended up as mere shreds of cotton, discarded on the floor.

  This time, he had shown the same need to have her cover herself, had done the job for her with a rough coldness that brutally contradicted the desire she’d thought she’d felt when he was pressed up against her back. Obviously, that had been the primitive, basic response of a red-blooded man to any half-tolerable female. But then, when he had realised precisely which woman he had been dealing with, his whole mood had changed in the space of a heartbeat.

  With an abrupt movement, Imogen yanked her robe up around her, belting it as tightly as she could, then made her way across to the table where the bottle of wine stood next to two glasses.

  Two? Who had he been expecting? The question froze her hand, leaving it suspended in mid-air as she forced herself to consider the question. Had Raoul had an assignation here? But he didn’t know anyone in Ireland. Or did he?

  He’d said that he’d visited Ireland once before. Was it possible he had met some other woman? In a bar, maybe, as he had once met her, inviting her back to the house, to his room...

  Having previously not dared to risk the effects of alcohol on her already jangled mood, Imogen now grabbed for the bottle and slopped an amount of the rich red liquid into a glass, not caring that some of it splashed over the side. The thought of arriving here in this room, having come along the secret passageway, to discover Raoul entertaining his female visitor, possibly even in bed with her... She needed the wine even more at the thought, gulping it down with foolish abandon.

  That would be worse...

  Shocked, she pulled herself up short, the closing of her throat making it impossible to swallow the last dregs of her wine. How could it have been worse if she’d come upon Raoul here, with another woman? How could that possibly be worse than this? Worse than the destruction of her hopes and dreams, her plans for the future?

  For both herself and Adnan.

  The sudden opening of the bathroom door behind her made her start, and she almost choked on the rich liquid.

  ‘Don’t kill yourself.’ Raoul’s tone was dry and darkly amused. ‘You’re supposed to sip the stuff, not swig it down.’

  ‘I do know how to drink wine,’ Imogen managed as she forced the liquid past the knot in her throat. ‘I’m not the same person you met all those years ago.’

  Then, she’d rarely drunk wine, or alcohol of any sort. She’d seen what it had done to her father in his dark
days and she’d never wanted to go down that road herself. But Raoul had introduced her to the sensual experience of a really good wine, the enjoyment of sipping it slowly.

  Not like she’d done just now.

  ‘I can see you’re not,’ was Raoul’s drawled response, the dark gleam of his eyes going to the drops of wine on the table, the level in the bottle that had dropped rather too far for comfort. ‘But clearly your father is.’

  It was a remark guaranteed to have her slamming the near-empty glass down on the nearest surface. She had forgotten that she’d confided in Raoul the reason why she was so hesitant to share the bottle of wine he’d brought over to her table on her first night in Corsica. He had taken it that she’d been accusing him of trying to get her tiddly, so she had flung the explanation at him in a nervous rush, anxious that this devastatingly handsome man should not think her naïve or, worse, that she was trying to repulse his approach.

  Short of admitting she’d been watching him for some time across the bar, and begging him to stay because he’d just made all her dreams of the perfect holiday come true when he had strolled over to speak to her, she’d blurted out the truth. That her father had a drink problem and that watching him lose himself in a bottle had made her wary. That it was only because she had left him in the care of his determined sister that she had felt able to snatch a moment of freedom and enjoy this short holiday on the beautiful island.

  She’d expected that he’d laugh at her, or walk away from someone so naïve and vulnerable. Instead he’d hooked a chair out with one foot and lowered himself to sit opposite her.

  ‘Forget the wine, then,’ he’d said. ‘A fruit juice—or perhaps just water. It comes from the mountain springs.’

  She’d been delighted, so flattered that she’d even stumbled over asking for an orange juice, but he still hadn’t laughed. And he’d stayed. Stayed and talked to her all through the evening, and late into the night, sharing a meal with her and persuading her to try some of the local dishes. He’d even paid for everything—as a welcome to the island, he’d said.

  It was only later as they’d met more often and as she had got to know him—or so she’d believed—that she’d been relaxed enough to try the delicious white Vermentino and the esteemed Patrimonio red made on the island. By then she’d no longer feared he might ply her with alcohol in order to get her defences down. She’d already been deeply intoxicated just on his company alone, on the devastating sexual pull he exerted without trying.

  ‘How much had he drunk tonight?’

  So he’d noticed. It hadn’t been just the memory of her past admissions that had heightened his awareness of her father’s weakness.

  ‘I’m not sure—possibly just a nightcap with Adnan after you all returned home. He was planning on an early night before the big day tomorrow...’ Her voice faltered. ‘Today.’

  ‘Adnan doesn’t drink.’

  He shocked her with how much he knew about her fiancé. Did he also know of the tragedy that lay behind Adnan’s decision?

  Raoul had picked up the bottle of wine, twisting it round in his hands and almost pouring himself a glass before he obviously reconsidered and replaced it on the table beside his empty glass.

  Imogen wished she’d done the same. She was still so unused to the effects of alcohol that even the one glassful she’d swallowed was already starting to affect her.

  Or was that Raoul himself? It was illogical, quite the opposite of what she’d have expected, but now that Raoul had emerged from the bathroom, towel discarded and replaced by more concealing clothing—a white linen shirt and dark denim jeans—she should have felt much safer, more at ease. But the sensations that were stinging along her nerves were not calm, nor the remotest bit relaxed. Instead they were like the fizzing of an electrical current of awareness. He’d obviously splashed water on his face; the sheen of moisture still glossed his cheekbones and spiked the impossibly thick dark lashes around his eyes. Tiny crystal drops sparkled like diamonds in the jet-black strands of his hair, and the brilliant white of his shirt had been left hanging open against his tanned skin, highlighting the scattering of crisp black hair.

  Dressed, but not fully. Clothes just tossed on because of her demand, but the open defiance of what she had wanted was clear in the casual half-dressed style he had adopted. It had once delighted her and made her blood heat, her heart race so fast. But that had been when she was strolling on a sunlit beach, or sitting beside the pool at the hotel, bare feet dangling in the cool blue water. It was not here, not now, not in his bedroom.

  Nervously she twitched the sides of her robe close together again, then wished she hadn’t, as she saw his dark eyes flick sideways to follow the betraying movement. Besides, she had no need to fuss, did she? He had already made it plain that his thoughts were on covering her up rather than taking her clothes from her.

  She could feel the hot blood slide under her skin, flooding her cheeks with warmth at the thought. She could only pray that Raoul might take her response as being the effects of the rushed gulp of wine which was marking her skin as fast as the alcohol went to her head.

  ‘So what do we need to talk about?’

  She took refuge in attack and saw those straight black brows draw together in displeasure at the sharpness of her tone.

  ‘You told Adnan the truth.’

  It was obvious that was the last thing he had expected.

  ‘That we were...’

  The word ‘lovers’ wouldn’t come. It didn’t accurately describe what they had been. Sex buddies? Friends with benefits? No, not friends. Adnan was a friend—had been a friend, she adjusted painfully.

  ‘That we’d slept together. Did you think I wouldn’t?’

  ‘I thought you might want to deny what we had.’

  ‘What did we have? You were a holiday fling, that’s all.’

  The way that one black eyebrow drifted upwards, questioning her declaration, made her stumble over her words.

  ‘So—so I wanted it to go on a bit longer towards the end—what was wrong with that?’

  Crazy with love for him, she had ignored his declaration that it was only a holiday fling. She’d teased him and tried to seduce him into agreeing that she could stay. That they could stay together. Maybe even make a commitment. She hadn’t been prepared for the dark storm cloud that had settled over his face; the way he had shaken off her hands.

  ‘At the time, I thought I wanted it,’ she flung at him. ‘That didn’t last long.’

  Something dark slid across his face, throwing shadows into those golden eyes.

  She’d more than ‘wanted it to go on a bit longer’, Raoul recalled. She’d been pushing to keep the relationship going when she went back to Ireland. She’d even tried to get him to ask her to stay in Corsica, to move in together. This relationship could really be going somewhere, she’d said.

  For a brief time, he’d fallen for it. It was only when Rosalie, the daughter of family friends—and for a brief time a teenage fling—had seen that he was actually considering going along with what Imogen wanted that things had changed. She’d admitted that she’d let it drop that Raoul was not just the farmer he’d made himself out to be. Imogen’s sudden change of position had come about, Rosalie had said, because she had discovered the wealth that was the reality behind the ‘simple farmer’ pretence. Imogen had known exactly who he was and obviously that was why she was suddenly not going to be content with the two-week time limit on their holiday affair.

  That was when he’d realised he’d been taken for a fool once again. That, like other gold-diggers before her, Imogen wanted the man she’d found out he was, not the story he’d told her to act as a protective shield.

  That had burned so badly that he hadn’t even been able to see straight. Because he’d felt something different for her. He’d wanted—hoped—that she would be someone who wanted him and him alone. Not the fortune he’d hidden from her.

  ‘I didn’t know you were protecting yourself that way,’ Rosali
e had admitted. ‘I really thought she already knew...’

  Imogen knew now. Raoul could mark the change in her from the moment his friend had let slip the truth. The girl he had thought was quiet, shy, innocent, so unlike the women who threw themselves at him with an eagerness that did nothing to conceal the gleam of greed, the euro signs in their eyes, was nothing of the sort. It had burned like acid to realise that she had only been that way as a carefully calculated approach. Once she had learned the truth from Rosalie, she had set herself to entice him in a way that was such a change around from her original behaviour that it was like a harsh slap in the face.

  ‘And I certainly wasn’t prepared to lie to Adnan. Not now. When he’d promised me so much, surely he deserved to know the truth.’

  Only when he had appeared so unexpectedly, Raoul reminded himself. When he had discovered his fiancée in another man’s room, another man’s arms. Acid curdled in his belly at the thought she had only felt obliged to reveal the truth to her groom-to-be when circumstances had forced her into it. She had obviously not told him the full story, though. The acid ate into him more violently at the thought that, if Imogen had never admitted that they had been lovers until now, then there was no way that the other man could know about the baby.

  His baby. The one she had aborted without a second thought.

  Suddenly, he couldn’t bear to be so close to her. The scent of her skin that he had previously found so enticing now made bile rise into his throat. The bottle of wine sent out a tempting message, offering a promise of the obliteration he had enjoyed when he had first learned what Imogen had done, but he forced himself to turn away, pacing across the worn carpet to stare out of the window into the darkness of the night.

  Above the wide expanse of countryside, and the paddocks where beautiful thoroughbred horses grazed during the day, the stars glittered against the black velvet of the sky. His grandmother had once told him that the stars were the souls of tiny babies who had left the world too soon, waiting for their parents to join them. Was his son or daughter there, looking down at him and the mother who hadn’t wanted their child?