by Kate Walker
Then it was as if the world had given way as Raoul’s long legs seemed to buckle beneath him. He sank to the floor, taking her with him. Still blinded by tears, by having her face pressed into his shirt, she found herself sitting curled onto his lap, held until the storm of misery gradually slowed, eased, came to a raw, hiccupping stop. Sniffing inelegantly, she managed to lift her head, staring in shock at the mess of black mascara and tear stains marking the white linen.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘No.’ His low, husky assurance sounded worse than she felt. ‘I’m sorry. More sorry than I can ever tell you. I should have known...never have believed...’
But he did believe her. That was the one thing that registered. He had never doubted or questioned her declaration that she had lost the baby because it had been an ectopic pregnancy. This couldn’t heal the bitter memories—ease the terrible pain, both physical and mental, that she had endured—but it smoothed a balm over the wounds and gave her a new strength. The sort she hadn’t known for years.
‘I should have trusted... But then I saw that photograph.’
That brought Imogen’s head up sharply. She had known the picture of herself and Ciara after their long-awaited reunion had been published in some of the gossip pages, but she had never thought that any of it would be read by Raoul in Corsica.
‘It was after... Ciara was helping me.’
‘I know.’
If his mouth had been any further from her ear then she would never have caught that low whisper, but it was enough to have her lifting her moisture-smeared face, finding the courage to look into his eyes.
The dampness from her own tears marked his cheeks, running into his rough stubble. Or was it? Blinking to bring him into focus, she could see the moisture that glistened on his thick, black eyelashes, spiking them against eyes that had a suspiciously bright sheen across them.
‘Raoul...’ At last she had found her voice as she lifted a shaking hand to touch his cheek, his eyes, her heart clenching as her fingers came away wet. ‘You believe me?’
‘Of course I believe you. You would never lie about something like this. I should have known. And yet when I came—’
He caught, snapping off the sentence as he shook his head. But Imogen needed no further explanation.
‘That was when you first came to Ireland?’
A slow, sombre nod of his dark head was his answer.
‘I saw you with Adnan.’
Admit it, Raoul told himself, the jealousy that had burned at the sight of her with the other man—laughing, smiling up into his face—had bitten hard. So hard it had stopped him thinking rationally.
‘I was wrong. So badly wrong. I let the past embitter me. You are no Alice. Or any of the others...’
For a moment, he closed his eyes against the memories. The time he had learned how Alice, tiring of his father’s more mature interests, had turned her back on both of them, later aborting the child she had conceived with her new lover in order to live the carefree life with the much younger man.
‘I understand.’
‘Then you are wrong to.’ His voice was rough-edged, dark. ‘I don’t deserve your understanding.’
With a gentleness that was so much at odds with the grimness of his words, he reached out and wiped the back of his fingers across her cheeks, taking the traces of her tears with them. For one long moment he looked deep into her eyes and a tiny suggestion of a smile played at the corners of his mouth.
‘I believed the stories I was told—not once but twice. I believed the worst when I should have believed the best. I came here to ruin your wedding.’
‘But that wasn’t actually your fault. If Adnan hadn’t come back with Ciara and my father, that scene in your bedroom would never have happened,’ Imogen hastened to assure him, but the words had exactly the opposite effect.
‘Not the way it happened,’ Raoul forced himself to admit. ‘But it would have happened. I would have made it happen. I was wrong.’
It was only when he felt Imogen’s hand reach up again, one finger outstretched to touch against the corner of his eye and come away with a drop of water resting on its tip, that he knew he had not been able to hide his reactions. But he didn’t care. It was what he owed Imogen for the way he’d betrayed her, what he owed the memory of their child that had never had a chance to live. And had almost taken Imogen’s life with it.
‘But if I can forgive you?’ Her voice was soft and so were her eyes, her hand still resting against his cheek, delicate and gentle.
If only she knew what it cost him not to turn his head, to press his lips against her hand. She was warm and soft in his arms, pure temptation, the scent of her skin coiling round him, making his head spin in desire. But that had led him astray before. He could not go down that path again. Not if he wanted to try to appease his conscience and give back to this woman everything he owed her.
‘Forgive? Oh, ma belle...’
Reluctantly he eased himself into a more comfortable position, pushing his arms underneath her, between their bodies, lifting her from his lap. He felt the cold rush of air like a loss as he moved away from her, taking her upwards, adjusting his stance until he was fully upright, holding her above the bed. He hesitated a long moment, fighting the urge to let his grip tighten round her and draw her close up against his yearning body.
Then at last, unwillingly, he lowered her to the surface of the bed, depositing her softly on the rumpled covers. For a moment, she lay down, her arms still holding him, coming dangerously close to drawing him down alongside her, but he could not let that happen. Putting all the determination he possessed into resisting the demand of his hungry senses, he pulled back and away from her. But he couldn’t fight the impulse to drop one last lingering kiss on her upturned face.
‘You might be able to forgive, but I cannot. I can never forgive myself for this. For the damage I have done.’
‘But, Raoul!’
Imogen couldn’t bear the way that the atmosphere had changed. The moments of empathy, the tears they had shared over the loss of their baby, were evaporating all around them. He was moving further and further away from her with every breath she took and the glaze of sorrow in his eyes was like a warning not to try to bridge the chasm that had opened up between them.
‘Non, chérie,’ he told her, holding up his hands like a barrier between them as each step backwards took him further away. But the real desperation was what she could read in his face, and that was what kept her frozen in her place, unable to move or to speak. ‘I betrayed you.’
‘You...’
She wanted to say it but no sound would come. And even if it had she knew he wouldn’t listen. So she tried a shake of her head, and saw his slow, dejected smile.
‘Oh, yes—not so much here, perhaps.’
One long-fingered hand touched his brow, pressing just for a moment as if he could wipe away a memory.
‘But here.’
That hand flattened hard against his chest, where his heart was. It was the way the pressure of the gesture turned his knuckles white that told her she had lost. She could fight so many things, but not the way Raoul’s own conscience was turned against her.
‘Let me do this, Imogen,’ he said, almost at the door. ‘Your future is secure—I promise you that. Whatever you would have gained from our marriage of convenience, it is yours. No strings, no conditions—my gift to you. But let me go. Let me set you free.’
‘I...’
Once more she tried to speak, closing her eyes as she forced the words from her numb and unresponsive lips.
‘I don’t want my freedom—not from you!’
But as she flung the words out, opening her eyes to see the effect they had had, she found she was speaking to the empty air. Raoul had already gone and she was alone.
In an urgent scramble, she pushed herself from the bed and dashed to the door, stumbling over a ragged edge of the carpet as she made her way out into the corridor. The trip and the time
needed to recover from it was enough to hold her back for a moment too long. She had barely recovered when she heard the slam of a car door, the roar of an engine.
By the time she got to the front door, all that was visible were the tail lights on Raoul’s car disappearing down the drive and out of sight.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SO THIS WAS where Raoul really lived!
Imogen got out of her car and leaned against the bonnet, staring in total amazement at the wonderful building before her. If she had needed any evidence of the fact that the real Raoul was light years away from the olive farmer she’d thought him, then this was it. Nothing could be further from the simple hotel where they’d shared those passionate nights; the plain inns and restaurants where they’d eaten; the clear blue bays in which they’d swum.
One of those bays, the Gulf of Liscia, stretched out now on the other side of the road, below the steep drop of the cliffs, while behind villa San Francescu the acres of olive trees stretched away into the distance. The villa itself was a fusion of ancient and modern, with the original stonework blended with contemporary touches, like big glass doors to let the sun flood in from all sides.
Over to one side of the sprawling building was a large paddock where several horses, the sturdy bay Corsicans that Raoul bred, contentedly cropped the grass. But Imogen spared the animals only the briefest of glimpses as she made her way across the stone path to rap at the main door.
She had thought she would have some warning of Raoul’s approach; that she would see him through the glass in the door or at least catch the sound of his footsteps approaching. But her attention was fixed on the interior of the villa so she missed the silent man who appeared around the corner of the house until he was only inches away from her.
‘Imogen.’
The sound of her name spoken in that special way brought her spinning round, her hair flying about her head and catching across her face so she had to tug it away to be able to see properly.
At first he was just a dark silhouette against the brilliant sky, a tall, powerful frame with narrow hips and long, long legs. In a worn black tee-shirt and ragged, cut-off jeans, he appeared much the farmer she had first taken him for, the man she had given her heart to all those years ago. Only the luxury and expanse of his surroundings gave any clue to the power and the wealth that were so much a part of the real Raoul Cardini she now knew. But it was the way her heart leapt and twisted, all in one moment, that left her in no doubt that, whoever he was, whatever his circumstances, Raoul was the man she loved. Totally, without reservation or hesitation.
‘Hello, Raoul.’
It was inane, but it was all she could manage. She had spent the length of the journey here thinking and planning, trying to work out just what she would say to him in the moment she saw him; how she would persuade him to listen to why she was here. And how she would convince him that the message she brought was the truth and nothing else.
But one look into his beloved face, one moment of recognition, and every thought fled her mind. All she could manage was, ‘Hello, Raoul...’ and the hastily swallowed declaration that she was here because she loved him. Because she couldn’t be anywhere else and be happy.
‘I’ve missed you.’
Understatement of the year. Was it really only five days since he had walked out of the house at Blacklands, driving away into the cool, pink dawn, heading for the airport and this beautiful villa that was his island home?
Only five days, but he looked as if he had aged in that time. Strain or tiredness...or would she be a fool to hope that the same sort of sorrow and sense of loss that had plagued her had also stolen his sleep at night? He had dark shadows under those spectacular eyes and his hard jaw was shadowed with a growth of stubble that indicated he hadn’t taken the time and trouble to shave for a day or more.
‘I would have been here earlier but there was an accident.’
‘Not you? Your sister?’
The sharpness of his voice gave her room to hope.
‘No, not me. And not Ciara either. I still don’t know where she is—or Adnan. She rang me again, just once. Said she and Adnan were fine—but they wanted to be by themselves for a while. I had to promise not to try and find them—or let anyone else do it. No, my father had a fall from Blackjack, and we had to get him to hospital. He broke his leg—but he’s doing well now.’
‘So why aren’t you there with him?’
‘He told me to come, and I had to talk to you anyway. We can’t go on as things are.’
‘We can’t? I thought things were exactly as you wanted them.’
There was no warmth in his response, no light in those beautiful eyes. Had she got this all wrong? Had she misread him? The memory of that gesture of his hand from his head to his heart had been playing on a loop inside her thoughts over and over again, ever since the morning he’d declared he couldn’t forgive himself.
‘It’s not how I want things. Look—do we have to do this out here? Couldn’t we go inside and talk?’
‘Of course.’
Stiff-backed, stiff-faced, he strode past her towards the door, pushing it open and holding it so she could precede him. Was she imagining things or was he holding himself just that little bit too far away, making sure no part of her body touched him as she stepped into the cool, tiled hallway? After the sun outside, the interior seemed dark and she had to stand, blinking, as her eyes adjusted to the change in light. Behind her she heard Raoul come inside too and stand so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her neck.
‘I’ve missed you too,’ he said, low, rough and totally unexpected.
‘What?’
Imogen spun round, her hair swinging out again, catching on the rough stubble on his chin. It was the look in his eyes that caught and held her as his hand went up to free the shiny black strands. It was only when she had to take in a long, deep breath, and then another, that Imogen realised he was taking far too long about it, his fingers lingering, reluctant to let go.
‘Raoul...’
His head snapped up, the mouth that had softened, lips parting, clamping tightly shut again.
‘I’m forgetting my manners. Would you like a drink? Some coffee—or perhaps water?’
‘To hell with your manners!’
She couldn’t hold it back and knew from the stunned blink that the force of her response had shocked him.
‘That isn’t what I came here for!’
‘Then why are you here?’
He’d made a mistake with that admission of missing her, Raoul acknowledged to himself. It was stupid and totally inappropriate after the efforts he’d made to free her from the relationship that he’d made such a mess of. But he hadn’t been able to hold it back. In the moment that she’d walked past him and he’d caught the soft scent of her skin, mixed with a delicate floral perfume that the warmth of the sun had brought to the surface, he had felt every cell in his body awaken to the intoxication of her presence and the revival of the memories he’d been struggling to put aside. They were the images that had haunted his thoughts, tormented his body, every night as he’d tried to settle to sleep. In the end, he had given in and gone out to the stables, saddled one of the horses and ridden through the darkness of the night until both he and the stallion were slow with tiredness and his eyes were closing even as he headed home.
But, once back inside the house in his bed, even the exhaustion had failed to claim him. He’d lain, staring up at the darkness of the sky, fighting an ugly battle with the images of Imogen as he had last seen her playing across his mind, tormenting his body into further restlessness.
The Imogen who had turned up so unexpectedly at his door could have been the girl he had met two years before. The loose waves of her dark hair gleamed in the sunlight, and the soft cotton of her simple blue dress was so much like the sundresses she had worn before that just for a moment he’d actually let himself think that he was back in that time. Back in the days when their relationship had bee
n new and fresh, and he’d had hopes of a future.
‘Imogen, tell me what’s brought you here.’
‘I came here to bring you this.’
As their words clashed in the air, slowly Raoul realised that Imogen was holding up a briefcase, pushing it towards him as if she wanted him to take it.
‘What is it?’
‘There’s no need to look at it as if it’s a snake about to bite you!’
There was a shaken edge of laughter in Imogen’s voice.
‘It’s just paper.’
‘Paper?’
He didn’t understand or believe that, Imogen knew. It was stamped all over his face. And the way he eyed the briefcase tugged on something in her heart, so she couldn’t drag this out any further.
‘These came on Monday.’
Snapping open the briefcase, she pulled out the sheaf of papers it contained and waved it in front of him.
‘From you.’
Could his eyes look any more blank or his face show any less expression? That was what gave him away to her, telling her without words just how hard he was fighting not to reveal anything.
‘Yes. I wanted you to have them.’
Then when she caught her breath in an effort not to break down, to tell him what she really felt, his eyes flashed to her face and she saw the burn of intense emotion flaring in their golden depths.
‘I told you I would make everything all right. I promised,’ he said.
‘You promised.’ Slow and careful, it revealed the battle she was having for control of herself. ‘You promised—but you didn’t ask if it was what I wanted.’
‘Imogen, it was what I owed you. What you would have had if you’d married Adnan—what I took from you.’
‘No.’
She saw the swift dark frown, the burn of anxiety on his face, and it almost destroyed her. But she’d started on this now; there was no going back. And this was the only way to show him the truth. To show him how she felt.