by Nina Milne
‘Nowhere specific. Wherever the night took me.’
His shoulders lifted and her gaze snagged on their breadth. Once again awareness struck—an undercurrent that swirled between them across the square glass-topped table.
‘So what do you say?’
‘I...I shouldn’t.’
‘Why not?’ Ice-blue eyes met hers. ‘Is anyone else expecting you?’
‘No.’
‘So you’re here alone?’
Kaitlin hesitated...couldn’t face the complications involved in a full explanation. And, anyway, to all intents and purposes she was alone. ‘Yes.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then how about dinner? No strings. We’re two people alone in a vibrant city and I could do with some company.’
The words held a ring of truth, and for a moment she wondered what demons he wanted to hold at bay.
Temptation warred with the final grains of common sense, which pointed out that after all she had to eat.
His shoulders lifted in a shrug. ‘I had a reservation at one of Barcelona’s best restaurants—I could try and resurrect it.’
Kaitlin frowned. ‘So you did have plans?’
‘Let’s say my plans didn’t materialise.’
An underlying harshness coated the words and pain flashed across those blue eyes.
Kaitlin hesitated, sensing that the man opposite her was hurting. Clearly he’d been stood up. Doubt unfurled—somehow that didn’t seem a possibility. It wasn’t a scenario that played true.
Ridiculous. Yes, he was good-looking and magnetic and...and... But she hardly knew him or his relationship background.
Yet more reasons to make her exit now.
But she didn’t want to. Never again would she have a chance like this. To be free, to shed the ‘Lady Kaitlin’ persona. Because soon there would be the meeting with Prince Frederick of Lycander—a meeting at which she needed to demonstrate her suitability to be a Lycander bride and then...
Enough. She wouldn’t—couldn’t think of that now.
‘Dinner sounds wonderful. A night of freedom before I step into a gilded cage.’
Oh, hell. She’d said the words out loud. and now this stranger looked at her with a sharpness, an intensity she couldn’t fathom. Almost as if it were someone else he saw, not her.
‘Never voluntarily step into a cage you don’t have a key to unlock.’
The words had an edge—a meaning she needed to deflect. Tonight she didn’t want to think about the marriage that awaited her—a marriage that she had believed she wanted. An alliance...a safe future and a role she would excel in.
‘I’ll bear it in mind.’ She turned her lips up into her Lady Kaitlin smile—friendly yet deflecting. ‘Now, I’d prefer to think about dinner. But there’s no need for Barcelona’s best restaurant.’ That was Lady Kaitlin’s milieu. ‘Let’s just walk and see where the night takes us.’
Innate caution pointed out that this man was a stranger—instinct told her she could trust him, but she knew all too well the follies of trust and a tendril of panic unfurled.
Think.
‘In the meantime, before we go, I’m going to call a friend and tell her I’ll be checking in every hour.’
No need to tell Lynette that she was having dinner with a stranger; instead she’d say she was walking alone and would feel better if she could check in.
‘Works for me.’
‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
To Kaitlin’s relief Lynette didn’t make a big deal of the situation—she seemed to accept that Kaitlin never travelled alone and that the aristocracy were ultra-security-conscious.
And so ten minutes later she and Daniel stepped out of the hotel’s revolving doors into the hustle and bustle of the Barcelona street.
Instinctively Kaitlin halted, almost overwhelmed by the sheer buzz that emanated from the throngs of chattering people. Her gaze darted to the street performers who plied their expertise for the amusement of passers-by. The scents of garlic and chilli and spices wafted from the numerous tapas bars that dotted the early medieval streets and overflowed with evening revellers.
‘You OK?’
Kaitlin pushed her shoulders back and nodded. Panic would not ruin this evening. The old dormant fear that coloured her every move, that made her live her life bound by rules and regulations and routine, would be suspended tonight. No one knew her identity; no one had any interest in snatching her now.
‘I’m fine. It’s just so vibrant it stopped me in my tracks.’
Yet instinct had her walking close to his reassuring warmth—logical or not, she sensed that Daniel would keep her safe. Perhaps it was the confident, swagger-free, don’t-mess-with-me aura he projected, or the sheer lithe muscular strength in each step. Whatever it was, it worked, and as they walked Kaitlin relaxed, absorbed the sights, the awe-inspiring grand patchwork of architectural styles that graced the skyline, where dark Gothic façades neighboured the harlequin buildings of the Modernistas.
But it wasn’t only the Barcelona experience that she absorbed—as they walked her whole body hummed with an awareness of Daniel... Something shimmered and sizzled in the air between them, exacerbated by the occasional brush of their hands or the press of their bodies against each other in the crowds. Each touch sent heat through her, caused her tummy to loop the loop.
Even more head-spinning was the knowledge that he felt the same way; she could sense it—see it in the hunger of his blue gaze when it rested on her.
Some space, time out, seemed a good idea, so she could make an attempt to process the enormity of her reactions. ‘Shall we eat?’ she suggested pointing to a tapas bar. ‘That one looks as good as any.’
‘Sure.’
She followed him into the dimly lit packed interior and watched as he managed to snag one of the few small square tables covered in plastic red and white checked tablecloths.
As they looked around she realised where they were. ‘It’s a pintxo bar. I’ve never been in one—but I think they originate from the Basque region of Spain.’
He nodded. ‘Basically pintxos are mouth-sized tapas—always skewered with toothpicks. We just go up to the bar, help ourselves and tuck in. We keep the toothpicks and at the end we pay by the number of toothpicks.’
Kaitlin eyed the throng of people at the bar, most of them standing and eating, chatting and drinking with abandon. She knew that even with the new-found freedom of being ‘Lynette’ she couldn’t risk it. Not the possibility of another panic attack brought on by the crowd or that of being recognised.
Daniel looked at her with a glint of amusement. ‘I can go and get a selection for us both.’
‘Thank you. That would be kind.’ Perhaps a touch too much aristocratic hauteur in her voice there, and she eased it with a smile. ‘I’ll order the drinks.’
Ten minutes later he returned to the table. ‘Here we go.’
‘Delicious. Ham empanadillas, sobrassada sausage with honey, apple and crispy Idiazabal cheese pintxos made of chicken, tempura with saffron mayonnaise, melted provolone with mango and ham, and a mini-brochette of pork.’
‘That’s an impressive Spanish accent. I take it you speak the language?’
‘A little.’ The Duchess had ensured Kaitlin was fluent in a number of languages.
‘You must be prepared, Kaitlin, should you marry into European aristocracy.’
‘As part of your job?’
‘No. I work in an art gallery.’ No harm in sharing that fact; lots of people worked in art galleries, after all.
He speared a pinxto and surveyed her thoughtfully. ‘So, are you here on business? Barcelona has plenty of art.’
Kaitlin shook her head. ‘This trip is personal.’
‘Are
you in trouble?’
The unexpectedness of the question caused her to tense, and a drop of sangria slopped over the edge of her glass and hit the wooden table. Placing her glass down carefully, Kaitlin mopped up the red liquid with a napkin, watching the cloth absorb the ruby stain.
‘We had this conversation earlier and I said no.’
‘I know you did. I’m not sure I believe you.’
‘I’m not in trouble. I came to Barcelona because I needed some space. Tonight I want to forget the past and the future and live in the present.’
An arrested expression flickered across his face in the candlelit alcove. ‘A night of freedom?’ he said, quoting her words from earlier.
‘Yes.’
Daniel raised his glass. ‘To your night of freedom.’
His blue eyes met hers and what she saw shot a funny little thrill through her and she stilled. The sheer unfamiliarity of the sensation made her light-headed, made her dizzy with its intensity, and her body felt energised as every nerve-end tingled in anticipation.
The hours danced by, and the air was tinged with motes of awareness as they talked of everything and nothing. By mutual unspoken consent the conversation veered away from the personal, so they discussed music, films and philosophy. But every word was punctuated by a growing expectancy—a heady underlying responsiveness and a growing realisation of where the evening might end up.
Eventually they shared a dessert, a decadent dark chocolate concoction, and as she spooned up the last sumptuous bite she met his gaze, saw desire ignite in his eyes. Then gently he took the spoon from her suddenly nerveless fingers and placed it on the plate. The chink of metal on china rang loud in her ear.
Oh, so gently he reached out and ran his thumb across her lower lip. She gasped—a small, involuntary sound—at the potency of her own reaction. Sensation uncoiled in her tummy...a need she’d never felt before. Without thought she cupped his jaw, wondered at the feel of his six o’clock shadow. Then his lips descended to hers and the world seemed to stop.
There was the taste of coffee and chocolate, the whirling rush of need, and the intense, sweet pleasure that streamed through her veins and sent a tingling rush to every bit of her body. Never before had she felt like this.
He pulled back, his breathing ragged, and he looked at her with such intensity as he said her name. ‘Lynette...’
It was a reminder that she had this night and this night only. Ideas swirled round her head. A touch of fear as to whether she could do this, however much she wanted to—and, dammit, she wanted to.
For one grim instant the image of her dark, bearded kidnapper splayed through her vision, and then she looked at Daniel and the picture faded, dissipated by the white-hot burn of desire.
‘I think we should move this somewhere else.’
‘Are you sure?’
She was so sure—because she knew that these feelings could never happen to Lady Kaitlin. Perhaps because of the horror of what had happened during the kidnap... Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. The fact remained that the odds were she would never feel like this again, and right now, caught in the sheer, dizzying sensual mesh of desire, Kaitlin knew she wanted this man. Against all reason it felt right. It could only be for one night, but so be it.
‘Yes. I’m sure.’
CHAPTER TWO
Nine months later...
DANIEL HARRINGTON PAUSED on the threshold of the immense marquee, his ice-blue eyes scanning the wedding guests with ruthless disregard. One part of his brain registered the glorious elegance that graced the wedding reception of Gabriel Derwent, Earl of Wycliffe, heir to the Duke of Fairfax. The sumptuous drapes of organza, the glittering twinkle of the fairy lights and the splash of colour provided by the overhanging Chinese lanterns. The delicate scent of flowers pervaded the air—gloriosa and hyacinth, decked the canvas in lavish arrangements.
But in truth Daniel had no interest in the décor, and limited interest in the bride and groom. He was here for one reason and one reason only, and his eyes continued their systematic search, skipping over the rich, the famous and the ordinary on a quest to find Lady Kaitlin Derwent—sister to the groom, and the bride’s maid of honour.
Earlier in the proceedings he’d watched her walk down the aisle amidst a bevy of bridesmaids, all dressed in different jewel shades, a medley of beauty. But the only woman he’d been interested in was her, Lady Kaitlin, and as he’d studied her poised, graceful movements suspicion had begun the conversion process to confirmation.
Yet it was still nigh on impossible to believe that the poised Titian-haired beauty, clad in expensive designer teal-green, was the same woman he’d met nine months before in a Barcelona hotel. But as the hymns and the vows had resonated from the rafters of the picturesque medieval church his gaze had never once ceased its lingering on her beautiful features, and certainty had dawned.
Daniel had no doubt whatsoever that ‘Lynette’ and Katlin Derwent were one and the same.
Now, in the vast marquee that housed the reception party, he located her. Stood in a corner, deep in conversation with a tall blond man he knew to be Prince Frederick, ruler of the Principality of Lycander. Raw emotion slammed into his gut. Anger alongside the unwanted sting of desire and a primal instinct that yelled mine.
Instinctively he bunched his hands into fists.
Cool it, Dan. Violence no longer featured in his life as a solution, and initiating a brawl was not an option. After all, Prince Frederick was blameless in this whole sorry mess, and it shouldn’t matter to Daniel that Kaitlin’s hand rested on the Prince’s forearm as she looked up at him.
Yet anger at her deception still pulsed in his veins. Along with the memory of his sense of loss and chagrin when he’d woken up in the swish Barcelona hotel to find no sign of the woman he’d shared such an amazing night with. Not so much as a blonde hair curled on the pillow had spoken of her presence. No strand or fibre of clothing. Just an elusive trace of her rose scent, and the ache in his body that had awoken him in the expectation of her still being beside him.
Then had come worry—heightened by the fact that it had been her first time...a fact she had refused to elaborate on or discuss. Had he mistaken the wonder of the night? Did she have regrets that her first experience had been with a stranger?
Then had come the conviction that she was in trouble. Hell, he’d even wondered if she’d been forced to leave. More fool him.
Anger burned cold under his control.
He allowed only the civilised approach—Daniel got what he wanted through law, order and fair negotiation. That had been his vow a decade ago, and he’d lived by those rules ever since.
Frustration tautened his sinews with the desire to lash out. He would not revert to type—would not embrace the ethos of his family. That was why he’d walked away ten years before, though the cost had been high.
A memory snaked into his brain: his mother’s beautiful face, twisted in entreaty as she’d stretched out a pleading hand. ‘Don’t go, Danny. Please don’t walk out through that door.’
‘Daniel.’
He swivelled in recognition of the well-modulated tones of Gabriel Derwent, groom and brother of the Lady Kaitlin.
‘Glad you could make it.’
Gabriel smiled and Daniel blinked—the Earl radiated palpable happiness.
‘Etta. This is Daniel Harrington—CEO of Harrington Legal, a new associate of my father’s, and also a new patron of the Caversham Foundation.’
Daniel recognised the slight edge to Gabriel’s voice and couldn’t blame him. He’d negotiated an invitation to this wedding with the Duke of Fairfax, Gabriel’s father, by dint of making a sizeable donation to the Derwent Manor restoration fund. When Gabriel had found out he’d called Daniel and explained that he wanted an additional price—a ‘donation with a difference’ to the C
aversham Foundation, a charitable trust that helped troubled teenagers.
‘Daniel, this is my wife—Etta.’
Pride and awe touched the syllables, and Etta positively beamed, her tawny eyes sparkling with joy.
Daniel searched his repertoire of happy wedding talk. ‘Congratulations,’ he mustered.
Though who knew for what? Marriage shackled you, created ties that would bind and link and imprison you. His own mother’s marriage was proof of that.
‘Thank you.’ Gabriel studied his expression and his smile widened. ‘Though I get the feeling you aren’t a fan of marriage.’
‘It’s just not for me.’
Etta shook her head. ‘Perhaps you haven’t met the right woman.’
His gaze must have flicked across to Kaitlin for a fraction of a second, because Gabriel followed his line of sight and his forehead creased in a small frown.
Daniel thought rapidly. ‘Though from what I’ve read it sounds as though your sister will follow in your footsteps shortly?’
Keep it casual.
‘Perhaps,’ Gabriel said, his frown deepening, almost as if he didn’t like the idea.
‘Why don’t we introduce you?’ Etta suggested.
Bingo. Not exactly the way he’d planned it—but Daniel was nothing if not versatile. ‘Great.’
Gabriel strode towards where Kaitlin and the Prince were engrossed in conversation. Satisfaction brought a small, cold smile to Daniel’s lips as he followed.
* * *
Kaitlin looked up at Prince Frederick and tried to suppress the all too familiar feelings of panic. Chill out. Or chillax. Or whatever the current phrase was. But she couldn’t—despite the size of the marquee she felt hemmed in, and fear knotted her tummy into a tangle of panic. Which was nuts. She was standing next to royalty—how much safer could she be? The Prince would have strategically placed bodyguards everywhere.
Though you could argue that those bodyguards were only interested in the protection of the Prince—she’d no doubt be seen as collateral damage.