by Robyn Donald
Trying to hide the cynical note in her voice, she said, ‘No. I get bored too easily. And filming is long periods of boredom.’
‘So what were you planning to do with your life once you gave up modelling?’
A slow, subtle tension was building inside her, sweet and fierce and dangerous. She said quietly, ‘I was going back to New Zealand to write books.’
‘Books?’
‘Children’s books. And adult books, if I can.’ kept her gaze fixed on the whirl of colour as the dancers swayed and dipped, the women’s exquisite dresses and jewels emphasised by the black and white of their partners’ clothes. ‘I’ve already had two young-adult books published.’
That startled him, she was pleased to see.
‘A very talented woman,’ he said evenly. ‘Why have I not heard of them?’
‘Possibly because you’re not a young adult, but also because I publish under another name. And no,’ she added before he could ask, ‘it’s not that I’m ashamed of them. I didn’t want notoriety value; I wanted them to be accepted on their own merits.’
‘Very worthy. Are they?’
‘They’re selling well,’ said calmly. ‘And got mostly excellent reviews.’
Whenever she was with Marco she had to resist the urge to confide in him, even though she knew he had little interest in the real person behind the glamorous body. Oh, he wanted her; he enjoyed her company. But in Illyria she’d realised that his first loyalty would always be to his country.
Whereas she was fascinated and intrigued by him. The goad of sexuality was always there—forbidden, heated and reckless—but each day she was with him she felt her love deepen—a love that would never be reciprocated. And she had no way of protecting herself.
Marriage would mean surrendering everything that was hers.
It was an oddly moving moment; she was torn by conflicting emotions—glory in the knowledge of love, and pain because there could be no happy ending, not even in the physical surcease of passion.
Another couple veered too close to them, their loud laughter indicating an over-indulgence in champagne. Without missing a step, Marco gathered her against his strong body, shielding her from any chance contact with the out-of-control pair.
Her breath stopped in her lungs. Locked in his arms, their steps matching perfectly, she felt that bone-deep security again.
‘All right?’ he said, somehow managing to imbue the ordinary words with a profoundly sexy intonation.
‘Fine, thank you.’ Her voice sounded distant, almost impersonal, but nobody and nothing, she thought dreamily, would ever be able to take these precious moments from her.
He didn’t relax his hold, and they stayed silent until the music drew to a close and he took her back to their table, stopping on the way to receive congratulations.
An enormous tiredness drained her; she straightened her shoulders and forced herself to concentrate, to smile and smile and smile, to dance with every male at the VIP table, to look as though she was enjoying herself.
Eventually the evening wound down. Once they reached his townhouse her forbidden eagerness kicked into feverish anticipation, licking through her like honeyed fire while the jewellery was packed away and the guard took his leave.
She said formally, ‘It’s been a wonderful evening, and I’m sure the perfume will sell hugely. The name is inspired.’
‘Thank you,’ Marco said, but absently, his face hard and almost drawn, as though the late night had dimmed his splendid vitality.
No, she thought dazedly, looking up at him, he wasn’t tired; he was concentrating fully on her, and his intention was suddenly plain.
Excitement beat high through her, bringing swift heat to her skin. Her mouth felt tender and full, as though he’d already kissed her, and her body—oh, her body hungered, with such force that she found herself swaying towards him in surrender.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘MARCO, this is not a good idea,’ Jacoba heard herself say in a thin, stark voice.
‘I know, but right now it seems to be the only idea my brain can come up with.’ His voice was harsh and raw, each word a statement of need so intense that it shivered through her.
When she made the mistake of looking at him, she almost cried aloud at the hunger that hardened his features into an antique mask of passion. Something broke inside her, splintering every good resolution, every wary foreboding.
Yet he didn’t touch her. Eyes burnished and intent, he said softly, ‘You drive me crazy! I watched you dancing, and every time any man looked at you I wanted to hit him!’
Starkly honest, she admitted, ‘It works both ways, that craziness.’
And then, when the tension was spiralling out of control, he reached for her, holding her against him as though for those long moments just the feel of her was enough. His arms loosened a little, but as the first pang of frustrated disappointment struck, he bent his head and kissed the sensitive spot where her neck joined her shoulder, and then bit it gently, his strong teeth sending erotic chills shuddering through her.
Instantly he froze. ‘Did I hurt you?’ he demanded.
‘No.’
But he kissed her skin again, his mouth tender. Jacoba had to stop herself from tearing his tie free and wrenching his shirt open. This, she realized, was what she’d been waiting for all evening—ever since they’d first made love.
Her silent sigh converted to a gasp when he slid the fastener down the back of her ballgown, loosening the boned, strapless bodice so that it fell to her waist in a swathe of silk.
Jacoba watched his gaze darken when he took in her high, proud breasts, their rosy centres already peaking.
He closed his eyes, only opening them once he’d won a brutal internal battle against his instincts. ‘Come with me,’ he said in a voice she didn’t recognise.
‘Yes.’, she thought.
He didn’t touch her as they went into her bedroom. Once there, he stood a moment, looking down at her with eyes that glittered like crystals heated by a blue flame. ‘A very fragrant, silken armful,’ he said, the words flowing over her skin like a caress.
Then he kissed her, pushing the ball-dress down so that it collapsed around her feet in a crimson rustle, leaving her exposed in her satin briefs and whisper-sheer stockings.
Colour washed through her skin; he reached out a hand and helped her step out over the dress. ‘I wonder what is so erotic about suspender belts?’ he said, his voice rasping as he took in her sleek, elegant body, fixing finally on her high-heeled gold sandals.
‘You tell me.’ Her voice was slow and languid.
He smiled, heavy black lashes hiding his eyes. ‘God knows,’ he said. ‘Perhaps the same thing that is so erotic about hair as red as a tropical sunset, and creamy skin, and eyes like a drift of smoke against a blue sky…’
As he spoke he pulled her towards him, but when she resisted he stopped, eyes hardening. ‘What is it?’
She gestured at him. ‘You’re still dressed.’
Laughing deep in his throat, he let her go and whipped off the superbly tailored jacket and shirt, letting his tie drop to the ground, muscles rippling like oiled silk as he stooped to remove his shoes and socks. Then he pushed down his trousers, taking his briefs with them, and stood like some magnificent bronze statue from ancient times, tall and powerful and extremely aroused.
Almost, Jacoba thought, her throat tightening with ardent appreciation, as aroused as she was.
Marco thought he had never seen anything more breathtaking as she stalked towards him in her high heels. She stopped half a pace away and looked up from beneath her dark lashes, her sultry gaze clouded by reckless, open hunger.
His hands clenched involuntarily into fists at his sides when she leaned forward and placed her palm over his heart, her expression absorbed and intent. ‘When you touch me I lose my mind,’ she whispered, looking at her long, elegant fingers on his skin, feeling his heartbeat drive with staccato emphasis into her palm.
He
said quietly, ‘You do it to me too. Look.’ He held out a hand. It trembled with the force of his self-control. ‘I want to snatch you up and take you without finesse, lose myself in you and make you mine. I’ve always considered myself to be civilised. I know passion means nothing when it’s not ceded freely and with an open heart, but all my body knows is that it needs you, wants something that only you can give me.’
Although the words sounded trite to him, colour danced across her cheekbones. She smiled, and in that slow, enchanting smile he saw the eager, intoxicating knowledge of power shared by all the goddesses who’d once lived around the ancient Mediterranean, women who’d spun spells and given delight and caused wars—Helen of Troy, Calypso, Venus…
Then she took his hand and guided it to rest above her heart. ‘Yes,’ said simply, and went into his arms as though she belonged there.
She kicked off her shoes when he lifted her again, but she didn’t get a chance to shed the last scrap of satin. Once on her bed, Marco bent his black head to her breasts, his mouth closing warmly around one urgent peak, and sucked until the nipple was tight and red.
Sensation as pure and as keen as pain transfixed Jacoba; she arched against him, one huge ache of desperate longing when he transferred his attention to the other pleading breast.
It was heaven—and she shouldn’t be allowing any of it to happen, but she couldn’t stop. Pleasure flooded through her, robbing her of the energy to do anything more than cling to him.
She banished thought, letting herself float in the powerful surge of mutual passion. But that iron-bound discipline of his hadn’t been breached. An ember of rebellion flamed into life; this time he’d learn what it was like to lose control as completely as she did.
Jacoba let her instincts take over, running her hands across his skin, fingertips lingering on each smooth, bulge and curve, each clean, taut line of his powerful body, until she heard his breathing alter, become as harsh and erratic as hers.
He said something under his breath. Even as she looked up into his face, drawn and savage with restraint, she saw him leash his passion, use the considerable force of his will to restrain the untamed beast that looked out for a moment from his eyes.
‘Wolf,’ she said aloud, her voice dreamy. ‘Now I see why it’s the animal of your house.’
‘Gabe is the wolf.’ His voice was thick and a muscle beat rapidly against his arrogant jaw-line.
‘You can’t escape destiny…’, she cupped him with her hands, stroking so lightly that he could barely feel it. His skin was hot and smooth, the strong shaft strange to her and yet utterly familiar.
He froze, dragging in a jagged breath before saying between clenched teeth, ‘Jacoba, no…’
‘Lie there,’ she said in a sultry little whisper. ‘Let me take you this time.’
His eyes narrowed into slits, then opened, glittering and frustrated. ‘If you’re prepared to take the consequences as well,’ he said harshly.
‘I’ll enjoy them.’
She bent and began to kiss him again, listening to the primal instincts that told her when he was aroused, when he relaxed, when something she did drove him almost to the edge—and while she stoked his fires, she was doing the same to her own.
In the end he lay rigid on the bed, his hands knotted in the sheets with the effort it took him not to respond to her, his teeth so tight she thought his arrogant jaw might snap. Only then did she shimmy out of her briefs and lower herself over him. With a strange little sound of yearning, she stretched out along his length and surrendered the power he’d given her.
The guttural sound at the back of his throat and the quick, explosive thrust of his body into hers whetted her pent-up hunger and sent her sky-rocketing into ecstasy.
Marco followed, his arms clamping around her, big body shuddering. Locked together, they rode the storm into a blazing release,
Long minutes later she said in a drained voice, ‘I didn’t believe humans could fly.’
His chest lifted, and she realised he was smiling. ‘Neither did I,’ he said. ‘Sleep now, my heart.’
It claimed her like a black void, devouring her, but some time towards morning she woke. Marco was still beside her, his breathing slow and regular, the heat from his body reaching across the few inches that separated them.
Jacoba longed to touch him, but she didn’t dare; she had no right. Although they were engaged—and she’d agreed to marry him—he had given her nothing beyond the powerful pleasure of his body; they had made no emotional commitment.
Of all the men in all the world, she thought sombrely, she had to fall in love with Prince Marco Considine . How was she going to keep her spirit intact when she longed so ardently for his love in return?
She lay for long minutes listening to the night noises of the city, a low hum that never stopped. Here, in one of the biggest cities in the world, beside the man she loved, her career at its peak and her financial future assured, she had never felt so lonely, so lost and afraid.
In the end, staring into the darkness with dry, aching eyes, she realised that she simply had to endure. Her mouth contracted into a painful grimace. After all, she wasn’t the first woman to have to face this. There would be plenty in Marco’s illustrious bloodline who’d married for convenient reasons.
And he too had reason to wish things were different. He was sacrificing himself for his people, hoping that it would change their attitude. For her it was more personal; she wanted Lexie safe.
And they had this—this overwhelming sexual joy. Some day there would be children. She respected him. She thought he was learning to respect her. In time they’d build a solid foundation, and she’d stop longing for the sun and the moon and the stars…
Tears clogged her throat.
‘What’s the matter?’ he said, startling her with his raspy, early-morning voice.
‘Nothing.’ Desperate for him not to see her wet eyes, she turned towards him and buried her face in his throat. ‘Nothing,’ she repeated, because nothing could ever hurt her when she was in his arms.
They closed around her and he began to kiss her—slowly, tenderly, with a passionate craving that matched her own.
This time it was slow and piercingly sweet, and when at last it was over and they were lying in rapturous fulfilment, she thought fiercely that this had to be enough.
They slept some more, waking as the autumn sun poked weak, unenthusiastic rays through her window.
Jacoba sat up, every muscle deliciously aching. Heat colouring her skin, she hauled the sheet up with her. ‘I need a shower.’
He was clearly far more accustomed to waking in a strange bed than she was to having a strange man in hers. Totally relaxed, he examined her through lowered lashes, through which she was certain she could see amusement.
‘It’s through the door,’ he said, nodding to one on the other side of the room. ‘Your wrap is in the wardrobe. I’ll shower in my bathroom and collect you for breakfast. We’re due to pick up the plane at ten.’
Back in his own room Marco found himself smiling at her endearing shyness. Had she been a virgin when they first made love? It didn’t seem likely, and it wasn’t important anyway, but he resented the ferocious stab of jealousy the thought produced. He had never been jealous before; it was another indication of the contrast between his feelings for the other women who’d shared his bed and his life for a while, and Jacoba.
She was simply—different. If they’d met with none of this baggage from the past…Ruthlessly, he cleared the thought from his brain. Fate had dealt them their hands and they had to play them out.
Showered and dressed, he decided he needed a few days away from her to clear his head. Something had shifted in their relationship, and he couldn’t work out what.
Love? His mouth twisted. He’d always been determined to love sensibly; his parents’ marriage had been unhappy, so he’d been cautious, looking for more than a beautiful face and seductive body in any prospective bride.
But hell, n
othing about his relationship with Jacoba was sensible. She’d collided with his life like a kind of divine madness, astonishing and unnerving him with his total loss of control whenever he looked at her or touched her.
Leaving his room, he thought grimly that he didn’t have to touch or see her—even thinking about her wrecked the logic and intelligence he’d lived his life by, and therefore his perception of himself. She’d turned his world upside down—and, although he wanted her beyond bearing, he still understood little of the real Jacoba Sinclair beyond the fact that she was gracious and generous both in bed and in her life, and had lied by implication, if not in actual fact, about her true identity.
Because she’d been acutely fearful for her sister.
She had every reason to be, he thought grimly. Lexie—real name Alexia Considine—was in real danger, yet another complication in the huge task of helping to reshape the land of his forefathers into a twenty-first century democracy.
Frowning, Jacoba said, ‘I think I should go with you. She’s my sister.’
‘That’s why you can’t come,’ Marco returned impatiently. ‘You’re a celebrity, and the less fuss the better.’ His expression relaxed and he viewed her mutinous face with an indulgent smile. ‘Besides, I want you safely tucked up here in the Wolf’s Lair while I collect Lexie.’
Forced to agree, she bit her lip. Pushing his advantage, he went on, ‘Don’t worry. We’ll travel by private jet, and with any luck we’ll be back before anyone realises I’ve gone. I’ve appointed a bodyguard to go with you whenever you leave the castle, but I’d be grateful if you stayed inside.’
She sent him a glinting, angry glance, but nodded. ‘I hope we aren’t going to spend the rest of our lives shut up here.’
‘You know you won’t,’ he said, smiling now that he’d got his way. He held out his hand, and reluctantly she took it and let herself be pulled into his arms. He didn’t try to kiss her; instead he rested his cheek on her head.