by Robyn Donald
His eyes narrowed and behind the superbly classical features she glimpsed the inherent strength of the man, a formidable authority based on rock-hard integrity. He set his own standards, she thought, and lived by them, no matter how difficult they might make his life.
‘I want to know,’ he repeated. ‘While you’re doing this campaign you’re my responsibility.’
She gave a slight shrug. ‘I’m my own responsibility. Border was just being a jerk.’
‘Will he hound you in his column?’
This time her shrug was a bit deeper. ‘Probably. It doesn’t mean anything; in New Zealand everyone recognises everyone else, is fully aware of their business. If they don’t know why he makes snide comments about me, they can guess. It’s no big deal, and he knows it. Even though he relishes his little bit of power, he must find it frustrating that no one outside New Zealand reads his column.’ She sent him a satirical glance. ‘And New Zealand is a tiny market compared to even Australia. His sniping won’t make much difference to the ultimate sales of the perfume.’
The prince demanded arrogantly, ‘Why doesn’t Kennedy stop him?’
Jacoba lifted her brows. ‘Hawke knows I can look after myself. I’m not afraid of Border—nothing he can do will hurt me, Mar—’ She stopped, her tongue tangling in her mouth.
His eyes gleamed. ‘You were about to say my name,’ he invited courteously.
‘I don’t know whether I should call you whatever it is princes get called in your country,’ she said, stupidly prim.
He told her his designation in Illyrian. ‘Your Highness, in other words,’ he said in English. ‘But friends use my given name.’
‘I don’t know the ins and outs of protocol,’ she evaded, wondering why pronouncing his name felt like a symbolic surrender.
‘So say it.’ He delivered the command in a tone soft enough to be heard only by them.
‘Your Highness. Marco.’ syllables rolled fluidly off her tongue, and she found herself absurdly wishing that she could simply relate to him as a man.
But she couldn’t. Although he didn’t know it, they were both linked and separated by a heritage that had always been a frightening mystery to her.
He said, ‘You could almost be Illyrian, the way you pronounce the vowel sounds.’
Panic gripped her in talons of iron. She had to drag breath into starving lungs before she could say, ‘It must be because I grew up with French as a second language.’
‘Possibly,’ he said, but his eyes were keen, and she wondered frantically if she’d turned pale.
Abruptly conscious that they were the objects of covert scrutiny by quite a few of the guests, she said unevenly, ‘We’d better start circulating again.’
He nodded and took her arm, turning her to face the crowd in a gesture that was as obvious as it was deliberate.
Jacoba caught the journalist’s eye, and lifted her chin at his malicious smile. Let him say what he liked in his column; she had more to worry about than his barbed comments.
By the time the yacht had tied up at the wharf again and the last guests had left, Jacoba felt as though she’d been pummelled with hammers all night. Yet weariness couldn’t dim the exhilarating anticipation that still burned brightly within her.
‘Tired?’ enquired as he showed her to the stateroom where her clothes waited. She’d already stripped off the jewellery and handed it to the security guard, who’d carried it away, no doubt into an armoured vehicle.
‘A little,’ she agreed.
‘I’m sorry this came after a day spent shooting, but the publicity people were very eager to use you when they discovered you were going to be in Auckland today.’ He looked down at her. ‘Do you want to walk back to the hotel once you’ve changed, or would you rather I order a taxi?’
‘Walk.’ The yacht was moored at the Viaduct Basin, only a few hundred metres from the hotel she was staying in.
Without preamble, Marco said, ‘I’m leaving the country tomorrow.’
Disappointment—keen as a blade—shattered the fragile bubble of her pleasure. She should be relieved. When this temporary madness had left her, she would be.
But at the moment she could only stifle a shattering sense of loss.
So she was rather proud of the cool interest in her tone when she asked, ‘Back to Illyria?’
‘Via America .’ He sent her a glance. ‘Come with me.’
‘No,’ she said instantly, but she wanted to—oh, how she wanted to! She just didn’t dare.
But Marco knew. His smile hardened. ‘Why not surrender now and save yourself a lot of angst?’ he suggested, his idle tone contrasting spectacularly with his narrow-eyed scrutiny.
Jacoba threw him a proud glance. ‘I don’t do surrender,’ she said sweetly.
One night-dark brow lifted in sardonic, deeply subversive appreciation. He opened the door into the stateroom, standing back to let her into the fragile safety of the room.
‘Mutual surrender is no loss of pride,’ he said, and before she could answer he closed the door and left her alone.
As she slipped the silk dress from her tense body and hung it up, as she pulled on her jeans and T-shirt and replaced the high-heeled sandals with her sensible flat shoes, Jacoba ached with the hungry passion that had been building all evening.
Why shouldn’t she have a wild affair with him? Most of her friends wouldn’t think twice.
But then, none of her friends had a past so shrouded in mystery that all she really knew about it was her father’s death and her mother’s terror of the secret police.
No. Even if she was prepared to risk it, there was Lexie to consider. Firming her lips, she left the stateroom, her shoulders and spine very straight, her determination screwed up to its highest pitch.
Marco had changed too, into a black shirt and narrow-cut black trousers. In them he looked lethal, like some forbidding denizen of the darkness.
This time, instead of taking her arm, he offered his. She hesitated, then put her hand through it, almost shuddering at the pleasure of his body heat.
‘Are you cold?’ He knew she wasn’t.
‘Not at all,’ she returned politely. ‘It seems that we’re in for an early summer.’
‘What are your plans for the season?’
‘Oh, work.’ She kept her words light, deliberately vague. ‘And there are all the parties for the launch.’
The area was humming with people in the bars and restaurants, many taking a lively interest in the tall couple walking along the street. Recognising her, one group of young men sitting outside a bar called out; they weren’t a threat, merely cheeky. She smiled, but kept walking, conscious of Marco shepherding her like some big, subtly menacing, totally competent guard dog.
‘I’d like to see you again before they start,’ said quietly.
Tension spiralled out of control between them. Jacoba almost flinched when he continued, ‘And not in a business sense.’
Perilous joy fountained up through her, warm and sweet as a summer night, filling her with delight. She swallowed and steeled herself. ‘I’m afraid that’s not a good idea.’
‘Why?’ Marco said relentlessly. ‘Because of Hawke Kennedy ?’
Jacoba hesitated again. Lie , common sense urged.
Because even if a relationship with Marco weren’t too dangerous to consider, it wouldn’t last. The woman in the cloakroom had been right; men like the prince didn’t marry women like her. When the time came he’d choose someone with the right bloodlines.
Marry? Where the hell had that thought come from? Some stupidly romantic part of her she’d kept hidden until now…
She stole another glance at Marco, an unregenerate part of her wishing fiercely that he’d sweep her off her feet and into a passionate encounter that would make saying yes much easier. Although she respected him for refusing to use sex to persuade her, she was faintly chilled by his matter-of-fact attitude.
Their eyes met. Heat kindled in the pale depths of his, transfixing
her. Any suspicions of a pragmatic approach vanished and her heart began its familiar thudding while sensation coursed through her in a tingling, tumbling flood, hot and sweet and sensuous.
Yes, she thought with a sudden, swift jolt of triumphant recognition, this is what I want. He is what I want.
And she could never have him.
Yet she couldn’t lie to him. ‘Hawke is my dearest friend,’ she said. ‘When I started modelling I was only sixteen—green as grass and without any conception of just how predatory some men could be. My agency was protective, but Hawke stood as a sort of sponsor.’ She shrugged. ‘He already had a name as someone to watch out for, and when I shamelessly used his name and influence, men backed off.’
‘And he was happy to be used like that?’
She moved her shoulders uneasily. Not that there was anything to gather from his tone—in fact, its studied neutrality jolted her already heightened senses into full alert.
‘I don’t think he saw it as being used,’ she said quietly.
Marco nodded. ‘And I suppose the accepted tale of you being lovers was a cover for any real relationships you had.’
Only two, and neither had been serious. Her background had made her too reserved, too careful to open herself to any lover.
Anyway, compared to Hawke most men seemed curiously lacking in vitality.
But not Marco, she thought with a skip of her heart. He could more than hold his own in the vitality stakes! She said colourlessly, ‘Yes.’
‘So are you in any relationship now?’ He spoke formally, but there was no mistaking his tone. He was determined to know.
‘No,’ she said automatically.
‘Neither am I.’
She knew that. Since he’d taken over his cousin’s software empire, combining it with his own far from insignificant enterprises, he’d been working too hard to be able to maintain a love affair. During the past couple of years even the tabloids had given up on him.
But Jacoba read the business pages; the immense task of consolidation had almost finished. Perhaps he felt he could take a breather now.
Perhaps she was a little light relief, a reward for all his hard work?
Dismayed at how strongly she resisted this thought, she set her jaw. ‘It doesn’t make any difference,’ she said, but her voice—tinged by yearning—gave her away.
Marco’s gaze lingered on her mouth. ‘So we have tonight,’ he said softly, his voice deep and dangerously compelling.
That burnished gaze fired Jacoba’s reckless need into the stratosphere. Summoning all her will to resist the adrenalin rush of temptation, she fought back words of surrender. ‘No, we don’t.’ But the strain showed in her ragged tone. ‘I’m not inviting you in.’
She was fighting a rearguard action, and he knew it. In their world people took lovers and discarded them without worrying about morality. He might start to wonder what reason she might have to refuse him. And if he did, he might search for reasons…
‘I’m staying there too.’
Unsteadily she muttered, ‘How convenient.’
He paused before saying with a dry intonation, ‘I own it.’
‘Ah, I see.’ took a shallow breath. ‘So do I, in a way—I have shares in the company. Tell me, is it true you’re planning to set up a luxury hotel in the Bay of Islands?’
‘My board is considering it,’ he said, his interest piqued.
She looked ethereal, a woman of fire and gossamer sensuality, far too beautiful to take seriously except as a lover, yet she was no fool. Her conversation over dinner had shown that she read widely, and she had a thorough knowledge of politics and world affairs, as well as the stock market.
Although she’d be beautiful until the day she died—her superb skin and that elegant bone structure would see to that—she was astute enough to realise that her career wasn’t going to last forever, and to take steps to ensure a solid future.
Hawke Kennedy ’s influence, possibly. That thought produced a now familiar stab of jealousy.
Made wary by his silence, Jacoba plodded on, ‘You’ll have a fight on your hands. The locals are very suspicious of any development that might compromise the beauty of the bay.’
‘I don’t mind fair fights. And I think we can convince them that instead of detracting from the area’s beauty, we’ll be enhancing it.’
He guided her past a group whose loud laughter and clumsy gestures indicated they’d had too much to drink. One or two catcalls revealed that she’d been recognised again, but they died immediately. Jacoba didn’t fool herself that her carefully blank face had shut them up. Marco’s readiness to intervene charged the air around them, and although they were outnumbered she felt utterly secure.
A few steps on he said, ‘Besides, I understand their concerns. I am not an insensitive developer.’
They turned into the entrance of the hotel, and she slid her hand from his arm. ‘If your board is planning anything like this hotel, not many people in the bay will object.’
It breasted onto the harbour, as sleekly elegant as a liner, its proportions fitting into the panorama of low volcanoes and headlands that made the Auckland waterfront.
As they went up in the private lift that serviced the suites, he said, ‘Thank you. You did very well tonight, but was I right in suspecting that you do not enjoy parties?’
‘Usually I enjoy them very much,’ she said, her brows drawing together.
‘So what was wrong with tonight?’
When she didn’t answer, he turned her face so that he could read it.
His long index finger smoothed away the frown. ‘I know what was wrong,’ he said, his voice deep and sure and sexy, a slight smile not softening the hard line of his mouth.
He would always be a buccaneer, she thought wistfully, her mouth trembling as that knowing finger stroked the length of it. Even now, with passion glittering in the crystalline depths of his eyes, he looked more like a conqueror than a lover.
For a moment she was gripped by panic. What the hell was she doing? She hardly knew him! Yet dancing with him in the restaurant overlooking the mountains had forged a need that had grown uncontrollably.
His kisses and caresses had boosted that intense physical knowledge, sharpened it, honing it into recklessness. A shiver of anticipation worked its way through her.
His finger dropped from her mouth. He picked her up and said gutturally, ‘Open the door.’
Weak with longing, she obeyed, and he carried her into the suite, then stopped and looked around, making a rough sound of satisfaction when he saw the sofa.
‘Good, a decent-sized piece of furniture,’ he said, his voice edged with hunger.
But once he’d sat down he held her against him, his cheek against her forehead as if for the moment that simple contact satisfied a longing he hadn’t recognised until then. The last shreds of Jacoba’s resistance died. In his arms she felt totally, wonderfully safe…
In a voice harsh with hunger, he said, ‘Look at me.’
Jacoba’s eyes devoured the tough, autocratic contours of his face, the mellow combination of olive skin and night-dark hair, sparked by his arctic gaze.
‘How the hell do you do that?’
‘Do what?’ she asked, genuinely surprised.
His laugh was short and self-derisory. ‘Burn me with a glance,’ he told her. ‘Grey eyes are usually cool and clear and translucent, but yours are smoky and seductive and tantalising. They drive me mad.’
Ruthlessly stopping any reply with another kiss, he found the soft swell of her breast with his seeking hand. Sensations met and warred in her—the open conquest of the deep kiss, and the tide of glittering provocation as his fingers cupped and stroked her.
She pressed her hands on each side of his face, the slight friction of his beard adding yet another layer to her response. Fearlessly she met his narrow-eyed scrutiny, crystalline and compelling as diamonds, but the struggle to control her inner wildness threatened to overwhelm her.
In
credulously she realised that he too was fighting that battle. She saw the moment his control snapped and the dark fire of need overwhelmed him. Yet he kissed the line of her jaw with wonderful gentleness, and then down her throat, his mouth lingering with exquisite precision on certain spots as though he knew by instinct how to arouse her.
A little whimper broke from her throat; she ran one hand through the black silk of his hair, its virile, springy texture yet another aphrodisiac. Her heart was pounding so much it threatened to deafen her, and she couldn’t think. Although she knew in some recess in her mind that she shouldn’t be doing this, she couldn’t remember why or how something so foolish as restraint should be necessary.
‘Will I spoil this pretty thing if I rip it from you?’ he asked, the wry humour in his voice sending a thrill of craving through her.
‘Yes, so in return you’ll have to let me tear your shirt from you,’ she said, her voice so low and husky and teasing she didn’t recognise it. ‘Fair’s fair, after all.’
Eyes gleaming, he laughed deep in his throat and leaned back against the sofa, letting his hands lie along the back. ‘Feel free,’ he invited, his smile crooked.
She released the hem of his black shirt from his trousers, heard his sharply indrawn breath, and looked up with a question in her eyes.
‘Hell, but you’re beautiful,’ he said gutturally, and she noticed that the muscles in his arms were bulging with the effort to stay still.
Sheer mischievous joy surged through her. A smile curving lips already tender from his kisses, she flipped the shirt over his head. He released his death grip on the sofa and let her undo the buttons at his cuffs.
He wore a rollneck jersey beneath, its fine texture clinging lovingly to every line of his torso, revealing the powerful contours—and the sharp rise and fall of his chest as he fought to control his breathing.
‘You bought some merino-wool clothes while you were in the South Island,’ breathed, and stroked the dark material with a tentative finger.
His eyes smouldered and the muscles along his strong jaw tightened as he said something in the language she barely recognised as Illyrian.