by Robyn Donald
Jacoba seized the chance with too obvious eagerness. ‘Yes, I’d better.’ She scrambled to her feet.
Ever courteous, he rose at the same time, so that for a moment they faced each other like adversaries across the table.
‘Not that you need it,’ he said satirically, scrutinising her face. ‘You’ve managed to eat without losing any lipstick from your perfect lips, and not a hair of that glorious red mane is out of place.’
Goaded, she said, ‘I’ll just check anyway. I assume you want me to wear the perfume?’
‘Of course.’
Jacoba escaped, wondering what had brought an end to the stimulating companionship she’d thought they’d forged over the dinner table.
Nothing, because it had never happened. Prince Marco Considine was a clever man with superb manners and the ability to please women, and he’d managed to fool her into thinking she’d established some kind of rapport with him.
No, she’d fooled herself into thinking that.
Perhaps he’d seen what was happening, and this was his way of warning her off—a warning she shouldn’t have needed.
Hot-cheeked, she added another layer of lipstick, checked her hair, ran cold water over her wrists to cool down the hectic flow of blood through her body, sprayed herself with another dose of perfume and spent three minutes doing breathing exercises.
Only then, with a smile pinned to her lips and her heart beating uncomfortably fast, did she return to the saloon.
As she came in she heard voices from the gangway. Marco took her arm. She froze, but although his hand remained, so light it was barely noticeable, a heady excitement surged through her bloodstream.
He smiled down at her, and her heart jumped while tiny febrile shivers scudded down her spine.
‘You look—outrageously lovely,’ he said with a raw intonation that pulled every tiny, invisible hair upright.
She hid her startled pleasure at the compliment. ‘How do I smell?’ And when his straight brows rose she added, ‘The perfume is the whole reason for all this effort, after all.’
Those mobile brows drew together. ‘Indeed it is,’ he said silkily. And as voices rapidly approached, clearly about to come aboard, he commanded, ‘Smile and look a little less sulky.’
Sulky! Sulky! She sent him a look of haughty resentment. His fingers tightened a moment on her elbow as he turned her to meet the first of the guests.
Of course, she knew many of them—the overseasVIPs were there in force, and the glitterati of New Zealand had been invited.
‘I’m surprised Zoltan isn’t here,’ she muttered after an actor had kissed her cheek, forgetting for a moment how furious she was with the prince.
‘He’ll have his hour of glory at the official launch in London,’ Marco said coolly.
Four models swooped gracefully in; they spared her the usual air-kisses before eyeing Marco with lowered lashes. Impartially pleasant, he ignored their inviting glances.
He had superb manners, introducing her to the few people she didn’t know, including her in the conversation—yet all the time she sensed a cool, confident possessiveness that warned off every male.
The guests made an interesting bunch, she thought ironically—some heavy-duty magnates with the current trophy wife or mistress attached like limpets, several politicians ditto, a swirl of actors and actresses, a posse of diplomats, a tenor who was setting hearts fluttering in the very best opera houses.
The last ones to arrive were a middle-aged Japanese couple, whose apology for being late was delivered with the excuse that they had been admiring bonsai trees.
‘Really?’ Jacoba said, returning their smiles. ‘My mother adored bonsai, and had some lovely specimens.’
And wished immediately that she hadn’t said anything about Ilona. Deliberately keeping her eyes on the smooth, unlined face of the woman she was talking to, she finished, ‘But she was just a beginner.’
The couple beamed, and made her promise to visit their collection when next she came to their country.
‘You’ll have to do it,’ the prince said once the Japanese couple moved on.
She sent him a cool glance. ‘I plan to. They’re charming.’
‘ Rich and influential too.’
A lift of her brows let him know she found his cynicism distasteful. ‘That applies to everyone in this room, except perhaps some trophy wives. And even they might be extremely influential.’
He gave her a swift, appreciative smile that warmed her foolish heart. ‘Touché.’
A security guard appeared at the door and waited. Marco gave a swift nod. ‘That’s it. We’re off.’
The barely noticeable hum of the engines increased, and almost immediately the yacht began to ease away from the wharf.
Jacoba hoped she might get some respite from him, but Marco had other ideas. A hand lightly touching the small of her back in an infuriatingly proprietary gesture, he steered her around with him as he moved from group to group. His tall form and handsome face would have made him impossible to overlook, but it was that intangible thing called presence that made him stand out in this collection of the powerful and the talented.
And for some reason he was determined to give the impression that they were more than business associates. Although he made her pulses soar and her blood run faster and her skin tighten in a kind of delirious anticipation, she didn’t trust him.
Her refusal had been a challenge. He wanted her in his bed, and he was conducting a campaign—a clever, merciless assault on her senses, reinforcing the familiarity that a night spent dancing in his arms had produced. Her body, she thought grimly, had already capitulated; all she had for defence now was common sense and her promise to her mother.
But as the evening wore on and the moon grew larger, her fears were lulled by his charismatic impact. While she talked and laughed and listened, she found herself swaying towards him quite naturally, her spirits building in the addictive, intoxicating charm of his attention.
When the yacht turned and began to make its way back to the harbour she was still by his side. She said, ‘I’ll be back shortly.’
He gave her a swift glance, shocked her by nodding, and turned back to the man he was talking to.
That swift inclination of his black head had been permission to leave him! Fuming, she made her way towards the cloakroom.
Who the hell did he think he was—arrogant, overbearing bastard? He’d monopolised her all evening and she’d let him! And, more humiliating than that, she’d been thoroughly enjoying herself.
The cloakroom was almost empty except for a woman she recognised as being attached to a property developer. She gave Jacoba a dismissive nod, but was still carefully delineating her plump, perfect lips when Jacoba emerged from the stall.
The woman slid her lipstick into her tiny, jewelled bag, and said, ‘Are those diamonds real?’
Startled, Jacoba prevaricated, ‘I didn’t ask. Why?’
The woman gave a mocking grin. ‘Can’t be, or we’d have the security guard in here with us. They look good, though. You’re doing quite well for yourself, aren’t you?’ when Jacoba gave her a blank look, she elaborated, ‘You’ve got the prince on a string, and he’s got the world at his fingertips. Just remember, though, the guy’s not noted for long relationships. So get what you can from him, and make sure it’s safe in the bank where he can’t lay hands on it.’
‘Thank you,’ Jacoba said politely, drying her hands. The heart-shaped diamond caught on the towel; she looked at it and for some stupid reason her eyes began to fill.
‘And whatever you do, don’t go thinking he’s in love with you,’ the woman said harshly. ‘Men like him don’t marry women like us.’
Jacoba stared at her. ‘I don’t—’ she began, only to be interrupted.
‘I’ve been watching you; you’re falling for him. Hell, I don’t blame you—he’s too good to be true! And I can see you don’t believe me, but it’s the truth. Men like him use us, pay for it, and then when th
ey’re sick of us they throw us on the scrapheap.’
She walked out of the room, leaving Jacoba feeling horribly sorry for her. No matter what she was now, once she’d been young and in love and it had rebounded on her, hurting her so much she’d given advice to a woman she didn’t even know.
Good advice, but quite unnecessary.
Because of course Jacoba didn’t believe that Marco was in love with her. And she wasn’t falling in love with him.
On the way back she was waylaid by a journalist who wrote a gossip column in the latest, sexiest, most hip magazine in New Zealand. Or so its publicity said; certainly many people feared Gregory Border.
Jacoba knew why. Although a couple of years previously she’d been perfectly polite when she refused his suggestion of an affair, her rebuff had clearly stung, because since then she’d been fodder for his particular brand of retaliation.
‘You look fantastic,’ he said, his smile showing his teeth. ‘And is that delicious fragrance the scent that all the fuss is about?’
Did Marco want this generally known? Jacoba produced a wide-eyed glance and a smile. ‘I don’t know,’ said serenely.
He leaned forward and picked up her hand, dragging it up to his mouth in spite of her resistance so that he could pretend to kiss the vulnerable underside of her wrist. Her other hand formed into a fist, but she couldn’t hit him in the solar plexus, not here. And he knew it.
‘Mmm,’ he murmured. ‘Just a little too heavy on the boudoir for my liking, which is rather ironic when it’s generally known that apart from your usual partner you’re pretty much an ice queen. What does the forceful Hawke think of the thing you have going with the prince?’
‘No comment,’ said, each syllable coated with ice. ‘Let me go. If you touch me again I’ll have you arrested for assault.’
‘You wouldn’t dare—’
‘I would,’ a deep, iron-hard voice interrupted from behind her.
Gregory Border dropped her hand as though it burnt.
Intense relief surged through Jacoba, followed by a sense of dread. The prince must walk like a cat—and when she turned he was watching the other man with the menacing intentness of a predator.
‘You don’t have to worry,’ journalist said, an unbecoming tinge of colour across his cheeks. ‘We’re old friends, aren’t we, Jacoba?’
‘So why did she tell you to let her hand go?’
‘Perhaps she’s worried about the rock she’s wearing on her finger,’ Border said, his tone halfway between a sneer and bitter envy. ‘But I don’t steal.’
Only reputations, Jacoba thought scornfully. Marco’s silence was somehow more ominous than anything he could have said.
The journalist looked from Jacoba to the prince’s intimidating face, and shrugged. ‘Now that I’m here, is there any chance of an interview?’ He looked back at Jacoba. ‘Singly? Or together?’
‘No,’ Marco said with chilling dispassion. ‘Not now, not ever. And in future, keep your hands to yourself.’
Border shrugged. ‘Can’t blame a man for trying,’ he said on a would-be jaunty note, but his glance at Jacoba promised retribution.
‘I can.’
Jacoba shivered. Marco didn’t have to threaten; he spoke with the complete assurance of a man who knew he could accomplish whatever he set out to do.
CHAPTER SIX
AFTER a short, tense silence the journalist gave another shrug and stepped back. ‘Then I’ll just have to make do with what I’ve got,’ he said significantly, and let his gaze rest a moment on Jacoba’s calm face.
Shivering, she caught a flash of reckless triumph in his smile.
Although Marco recognised the threat, now wasn’t the time to call him on it. But then the bastard wouldn’t have made it if he hadn’t guessed that he’d be safe.
Ignoring him, the prince smiled down at Jacoba. ‘We should mingle,’ he said, and walked her away.
When they were out of Border’s hearing, she muttered in a worried voice, ‘He’s a gossip columnist—most people try to keep on his right side because he’s good at sniffing out dirt. And he’s hugely popular amongst the set that spends money. It’s not wise to cross him; he makes a dangerous enemy.’
‘So,’ Marco said with a cool lack of emphasis, ‘do I.’
He wasn’t going to tell her that, however powerful Border thought himself, his fate had been sealed the second Marco had looked up and seen him kissing Jacoba’s hand.
The rush of fierce, mindless jealousy had startled—no, hell, it had shocked him.
He didn’t get jealous. He’d never had to. And because pragmatism told him that his success with women almost certainly owed a lot to his name and his money and the title—plus the excellent genes that had bequeathed him his face and body—he didn’t consider himself spoilt. But he’d never wanted a woman he couldn’t have.
There was a first time for everything, he thought grimly, and no doubt it was long overdue for him. He glanced down at Jacoba’s serene, exquisite face.
Only it wasn’t so serene now; she was looking at him with furrowed brows. He had to stop himself from kissing the concern away.
The swift, unbidden desire to protect her both astonished and infuriated him. It was more dangerous and unexpected than the jealousy. She wasn’t a social butterfly, but he’d seen her occasionally across various crowded rooms, sometimes with Hawke Kennedy, more often without. He’d known he could want her, but because he’d liked Kennedy he’d never made any move on her.
But now everything had changed; he’d seen her swift unbidden response to his touch, felt her mouth soften under his, and he’d been appalled at the amount of effort it took him to pull away from her.
Tonight he’d deliberately given the impression that they were a couple. He’d told himself it was to set off that precious buzz, the intangible air of expectancy that built into interest and publicity. Properly managed, some of the gloss and mystique of occasions such as this would rub off on the woman in the street, the mythical entity who’d decide whether the perfume became a lifelong commitment or ended up as a fly-by-night affair.
But that hadn’t been the reason he’d kept Jacoba beside him all evening; put brutally, he couldn’t help himself. Another ruthless surge of appetite sliced through Marco’s will-power like a sword through silk. She had the power to make him revert to type, like those hard-bitten ancestors whose portraits lined the walls in the castle they’d lived in and raided from.
Inclination warred with his upbringing. He was a civilised modern man, not some warrior prince from the Middle Ages; women had a perfect right to say no without being badgered.
But she wanted him; every male instinct in his body told him that.
Jacoba’s eyes widened and she glanced away, a faint flush showing along her magnificent cheekbones. ‘He doesn’t like me,’ she said, so quietly he could barely hear her, ‘so I’m afraid you won’t get good publicity from him.’
‘You know the old adage,’ told her on a cynical note. ‘Any publicity is better than none. And if he doesn’t like you, why was he kissing your hand?’
‘A power play.’ Her voice was restrained and remote.
Blood rushed to Marco’s head again. For an unguarded moment he found himself wishing he’d followed his first basic instinct and hit the hack on his jaw—a primitive response he despised.
Jacoba Sinclair , with her patrician beauty and that hair like a river of dark fire, was getting to him in a way no other woman had. He could try to convince himself that it was purely physical; that was certainly part of it, but he’d enjoyed her mind too, relishing her sharp observations as they’d eaten dinner.
She was an enigma. Behind that reserved façade he sensed something hidden, reserves she kept carefully secret.
Not caring about the abruptness of his tone, he said, ‘Why don’t you like him?’
An undernote to the words—colder than steel and every bit as hard—warned Jacoba to be diplomatic. Flippantly, she said, ‘For the best
reason in the world—because he doesn’t like me.’
‘The truth,’ commanded, still in that forbidding tone.
She looked up, met eyes of uncompromising blue.
‘I don’t like lies,’ he said.
‘And I don’t like being badgered when it’s nothing to do with you.’
‘Nothing to do with me personally, maybe,’ he said, his voice as inflexible as his expression, ‘but the success of this campaign largely depends on you. If he’s likely to try derailing it, I need to know. You said he’s good at sniffing out dirt; if he’s got any information that would show you in a bad light, tell me now.’
‘He has none.’
Marco believed her. ‘Then what is it?’
After a rapid glance at his arrogant face, Jacoba chose to give him a modified version of the truth. ‘He tried to get me into bed. When I said no, he decided to teach me a lesson.’
Marco’s black brows met in a ruthless line. ‘Don’t tell me he conducts a feud with every woman who turns him down!’
Hiding the slight shiver his choice of words caused, she said, ‘I don’t know. Possibly.’
He said something in Illyrian that startled her. ‘So he’s a blackmailer. At least you didn’t give in to him.’ And after a silent second he drawled, ‘I assume you didn’t.’
The lazy, cool comment was underpinned by an implacable note that sent another chilly shiver over Jacoba’s skin.
‘Of course I didn’t,’ she said briskly, not looking at him.
Even if she’d found Border attractive, she’d have rejected him; he’d sickened her by telling her he didn’t mind sharing her with Hawke.
Assuming a light note, she went on, ‘It’s an occupational hazard. Most men can take no for an answer, but some turn ugly.’
‘Does he harass you?’ asked, his voice a low growl.
She looked at him ironically. ‘Not now, and no more than some others.’
‘If he tries anything, let me know.’
The cold determination in his voice, in his expression, revealed that he meant what he said. Clearly his possessiveness was tempered by a protective instinct a mile wide.
‘I can cope,’ she said forthrightly. ‘As I said, it goes with the territory. Models are often considered fair game.’