A Proposal to Secure His Vengeance Read online

  ‘I think not!’

  It was only now she realised, shockingly and disturbingly, that there was a question she had never asked. One that should have been right at the forefront of her mind from the moment he had first spoken to her but she’d been too stunned even to consider. She’d never thought fate could be so unkind. It was bad enough that he should be here, now, so close to her wedding day, but to think that this was not just an appalling error of chance...

  ‘You’re not coming back to the house!’

  ‘Oh, but I am.’

  That brought her spinning round, needing to see his face. The deadly smile was still there in his voice but there wasn’t a trace of it in his expression.

  ‘No way. I mean...why are you here at all?’

  There it was. The question she should have asked from the start. The one that, she now realised, she hadn’t dared to ask because she’d feared the answer.

  Now the smile was not just in his eyes but very definitely curling the edges of that obscenely sexy mouth. At least, it was obscene for Imogen to consider anything about this man sexy. That was what had caught her in the first place, trapping her in the coils of his dark sensuality, taking her life out of her hands and putting it into his, to torment and break as he wished.

  ‘Your father invited me, of course.’

  The deadly nonchalance with which he tossed the words at her made her stomach tighten.

  ‘Dad? You’re kidding!’

  That was just too much. She actually laughed in a blend of shock and relief, at the realisation that this simply could not be true. How could he ever be here for the wedding? How could he have been invited when no one but her knew him well enough to offer him an invitation? She sure as hell had never let anyone know that for a brief space of time he had once been such an important part of her life. Her short-lived summer love affair and its bitter consequences would neither have concerned nor interested her father.

  ‘Do I look as if I’m joking?’

  He looked supremely confident, totally at ease, and with not a trace of amusement on his carved features.

  ‘My father would never invite you here. And definitely not for this wedding.’

  ‘Why not?’

  There was the flash of challenge in those golden eyes now, clashing with the disbelief in her own stare.

  ‘Not good enough, is that it? You think, ma belle, your father would not want to invite a simple olive farmer to his daughter’s wedding of the year?’

  ‘Oh, come on!’

  She had to cover up her reaction to that casual ‘ma belle’, needing to hide the way it had the bite of acid. Once she had loved to hear him call her that, had gloried in a new-found sense of feeling beautiful in his eyes. But now the bitter memory of how quickly she had gone from being ma belle to a mere nothing, a plaything tossed aside and abandoned on the beach where they had first met, curdled in her stomach.

  ‘We both know you’re no simple olive farmer and you never were.’

  That had been the pretence he had hidden behind when they’d met. He’d let her believe he was a hard-working farmer who was delighted to meet this young Englishwoman on holiday and spend time with her. His friend Rosalie had been the one to warn her that there was more to Raoul Cardini than that. But even she had never revealed the full story. It was only when Imogen had got home and, still nursing the hurt in her heart, had been unable to resist looking up the beautiful island of Corsica on the Internet that she had found the truth that had rubbed salt deep into the wounds his rejection had inflicted on her.

  ‘I don’t think the Cardini olive oil empire could ever be described as just farming!’

  What had she said? It was only the truth, after all, but it was as if she had flung some vile insult into his face so that his head went back, bronze eyes narrowing, beautiful mouth clamping tight, turning his lips into a hard, thin line.

  ‘Not just the olive oil empire,’ he said. ‘At least get your facts right.’

  ‘Of course there’s more, isn’t there? More you didn’t trouble to tell me. Did you think it wasn’t worth me bothering my head about?’

  She flicked her eyes at him, there and away again fast, wanting him to see that she really couldn’t give a damn about anything else he hadn’t revealed to her. At one time, discovering the fact that, like her family, he was a dedicated breeder of fine horses might have brought them together. But the time to care about the lies he had told, the secrets he had kept from her, was long gone. The memory of the one secret she had kept from him burned in her soul, threatening to destroy her if she let it free.

  ‘Your father thinks it is. That’s why he agreed to a deal I proposed. And he wanted to mix business with pleasure.’

  Could he make that last word sound any more toxic? She knew something was very wrong—it had to be. How could her father have agreed to a business deal when there was nothing left of the family business? If there had been any other possibility then she wouldn’t be here, living through her last days of freedom before she walked down this aisle with Adnan Al Makthabi. The marriage was supposed to save the Blacklands Stud from complete ruin. It was supposed to ensure they didn’t have to sell off the few remaining horses, including the magnificent stallion Blackjack.

  The cost of the stallion had crippled their already overly strained finances, the loan her father had insisted on taking out to pay for him depleting further an already empty bank account and adding thousands to the interest repayments. But at least Adnan and his family wanted Blackjack—perhaps more than they wanted Imogen herself.

  ‘He suggested I come now and share in the celebrations. And he offered me a room in Blackland House for the week so we could discuss the deal at the same time.’

  He made it sound perfectly reasonable, natural even, but the nasty twisting sensation in Imogen’s stomach told her it couldn’t possibly be that way. Her father couldn’t discuss any sort of ‘deal’—he had nothing to offer! From the date of her wedding, he wouldn’t even own the stud—or Blackjack.

  ‘So tell me—what did you use to buy my father’s interest?’

  She’d gone too far with that. Dangerously so. She could see it in the way a muscle ticked in his cheek, the glare that had turned the warm colour of his eyes to ice in the space of a heartbeat.

  ‘I don’t buy my business partners. Ask your father. You might not want me here but, believe me, your father does. He invited me to stay and be a guest at your wedding—so, naturally I said yes. I wanted be here to watch you plight your troth to your perfect bridegroom.’

  Raoul spat the words at her before he spun on his heel and marched away, down the aisle and out of the church. The staccato sound of his angry footsteps echoed through the silent interior of the church until the heavy wooden door slammed loudly behind him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE SUN WAS burning away the fine dawn mist that had clouded the distant hillsides as Imogen turned the bay mare and reluctantly headed back to the stud. The long, solitary gallop on her favourite horse had been a welcome time of peace and quiet in the bustle of the weekend. Time to reflect and draw breath before considering what her next move might be where Raoul Cardini was concerned.

  Because of course Raoul was the real problem she had. The preparations for the wedding were well in hand, everything would have been fine if it hadn’t been for Raoul’s unexpected arrival and the crazy scheme that her father had embarked on to bring him here.

  ‘Oh, why now!’ she exclaimed aloud, making the mare’s ears prick in response to the sound as they trotted down the path that led to the stables.

  But she knew why. Adnan had revealed last night at the pre-wedding dinner that her father had mentioned Raoul’s approach, his interest in the stud services and the stallion Blackjack in particular. But they had agreed to wait until the wedding was over, he said. Or that had been the original plan.

  It was obviously not what Raoul believed, Imogen reflected now, slowing the mare to a walk as her hooves rang on the cobbled s
tones of the stable yard. Last night she’d finally managed to get the truth out of her father, discovering to her horror that things were as bad as she’d thought. Her father had planned to get the deal for stud services for Blackjack signed and sealed before the magnificent horse became the property of the Al Makthabi stud—which he would on the day of her marriage. Adnan had agreed to clear her father’s debts, save Blacklands from destruction and restore it to something of its former glory, but only on condition that Blackjack became his as part of the deal.

  If she couldn’t get her father to cancel the whole thing then the wedding would be off. And even if she could she would still have to worry that Raoul would reveal everything to Adnan.

  If that was everything. The mare danced sideways and whickered a protest at the way Imogen’s grip had suddenly tightened on the reins.

  ‘Sorry, Angel!’

  She gave the sleek bay neck a reassuring pat as she struggled with the bleakness of her thoughts. Just remembering how Raoul had appeared at the dinner last night, dark and sleek in immaculate evening dress, made her throat close up. This was the man she had once thought of as her future, only to have that hope thrown back in her face. She couldn’t believe he was here only to discuss a business deal with her father, so she was forced to wonder just what other wicked schemes were brewing behind that cold-blooded, heartless facade of his.

  Last night she had thought all she had to do was speak to her father, demand that he break off this ridiculous deal with Raoul. It was only later, when she had had time to think about things, she’d realised how that might not solve matters. Instead, it might be like knocking down the first domino in a carefully planned and balanced arrangement, sending them all tumbling in a wild cascade. One that had the potential to destroy everything she and Adnan had worked and planned for.

  ‘Almost there.’

  The memory of the words Adnan had directed at her, the smile that had accompanied his statement, swirled in her mind as it had done all through the night.

  She knew he had meant it as a reassuring smile. The trouble was that it had done nothing to soothe the jittery pins and needles that had been running through her veins ever since she had got back from the church.

  Last night should have marked the moment when she and Adnan perhaps could have started to relax. They were, as Adnan had said, almost there. Last night’s dinner marked the final stage in the preparations for the wedding. The day after tomorrow would be the main event and then after that, as man and wife, they could start to put back together all the pieces of the two families, the two studs, that had broken apart.

  Instead, she now felt as if she was deeper into the mire of trouble than ever before—and it was all because of this one man.

  ‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle O’Sullivan!’

  The voice hailed Imogen as she dismounted from her horse and she bit back a groan of despair. This early in the day, she had hoped to have the fields and the stables all to herself, but of course she should have remembered that Raoul too was an early riser. So often when in Corsica he had stirred before dawn broke and was out before the heat of the day could start to build up. She had deluded herself at the time that as a farmer he had needed to tend to his land, never suspecting that he was up and out to deal with major business decisions so that he could return to the quiet hotel to share breakfast and then the rest of the day with her.

  ‘Good morning, Monsieur Cardini,’ she forced herself to respond, finding it hard to make it sound casual and relaxed, and failing miserably on both counts. ‘I trust you slept well.’

  ‘I was perfectly comfortable,’ Raoul told her, crossing the yard to smooth a hand down the mare’s soft nose. He watched the way Imogen’s crystal-blue gaze flicked up once towards his face, then away again as soon as her eyes collided with his. ‘But I should be no concern of yours. It was your father who invited me.’

  ‘You are one of my wedding guests.’

  That cool control was back, at least on the surface, but there was a tremor in her voice that pleased him.

  ‘And I thought you would want to be at breakfast by now.’

  ‘You know me.’ Raoul watched her face as he spoke. He knew she was struggling to make polite conversation, but he had no intention of offering her any sort of lifeline. ‘A cup of coffee is all I need to set me up for the day.’

  She had once been inclined to chide him about that, he remembered, taking him out to one of the bustling little cafés in Ajaccio where she would attempt to entice him to eat something more.

  ‘You work on the land,’ she’d reproved. ‘You need to eat.’

  He recalled that she’d been almost addicted to the local bread made with chestnut flour and pine nuts, her appetite much better then than it seemed to be these days.

  He’d watched her at dinner last night and if she had eaten any of the meal in front of her then he was a complete fool, Raoul told himself. She had stirred her food around, occasionally lifting her fork towards her mouth in a way that might convince anyone else, but not him. So totally aware of her as he was, there was no way he could have missed the fact that her fork had nothing on it.

  Her sister was not much better, he acknowledged, having noted how Ciara O’Sullivan’s eyes had barely left her sister and her fiancé, her own plate totally abandoned after one or two mouthfuls.

  ‘I need to give Angel a brush down,’ Imogen said, turning to lead the horse into her stall. It was obvious she wished he’d leave her alone, but Raoul had no trouble ignoring the blatant hint, strolling along beside her, one hand on the mare’s flank.

  He was seeing yet another side of Imogen O’Sullivan this morning. One which couldn’t be more different from the elegant creature at dinner last night. Today she was dressed for riding, the simple white shirt and skin-tight jodhpurs clinging to her slender frame, her feet pushed into muddy black boots. Last night she had looked stunning and sleek as he had never seen her before, her burgundy silk gown glowing richly against the creamy pallor of her skin. The dress had had a deep, plunging neckline but one where her modesty was carefully preserved by the panel of delicate lace that had covered the lush curves of her breasts.

  He couldn’t see them, but he could remember. For a moment Raoul was totally distracted by the memory of the time he had undone Imogen’s bikini top to expose the pure whiteness of her flesh where she had been protected from the sun, in contrast to the lightly tanned colour of the rest of her skin. Her breasts had been smaller then, each one just fitting into the curve of his palm. He had loved to smooth and caress them, tease the soft pink of her nipples into thrusting life. But just the thought of what might have made her breasts become larger had him biting down hard on his tongue to hold back the curse of rage that almost escaped him.

  ‘So how are you liking your first time in Ireland?’

  Imogen had obviously accepted that he wasn’t going to leave her and had turned again to making polite, if rather forced, conversation.

  ‘This is not my first visit here.’

  There was an odd note in the reply, she recognised. One that warned of unexpected darkness at the bottom of what was just a simple statement.

  ‘It’s not? Was that recently?’

  Her training at boarding school, the strict discipline of the nuns and their determination to turn out ‘young ladies’, stood her in good stead. She found that the disciplined part of her personality was working on auto-pilot while all the time, hidden inside, a far less controlled version of Imogen was stirring, uncurling, as if awakening from a long sleep and demanding a new sort of attention.

  It reminded her of how it had once felt to be young and carefree, lost on the dangerous seas of her first sexually passionate relationship, the recognition of just how it could be between a man and a woman.

  She still felt that way; even last night, with Adnan beside her and his ring on her finger. Adnan was the only man who could stand next to Raoul and match him, inch for inch in height, in the lean strength of his body, the force of his pe
rsonality. Both were black-haired and brilliant-eyed—but, where Raoul’s eyes were that gleaming, golden bronze, Adnan’s were a cool, clear blue.

  Adnan was stunning—hadn’t the reaction of her own sister, when Ciara had first met her fiancé, left no room for doubts on that score? But it was Raoul who had knocked Imogen for six from the start, and now apparently had only to reappear in her life to make her feel as if the world had rocked dangerously and couldn’t be righted again.

  Raoul was nodding in response to her question.

  ‘I was last here just over a year ago.’ There was a dark note in his voice that tugged on already raw nerves. ‘That was what first sparked my interest in your father’s stud.’

  It was only when Angel pushed an impatient nose into the small of her back, urging her forward, that Imogen realised she had stood stock still in confusion at the thought. Raoul had been here a year ago—when she and Adnan had just been starting to discuss the possibility of their marriage, of uniting the two families...

  ‘And of course the magnificent Blackjack.’

  Was that comment as loaded as he made it sound? The truth she knew about the stallion, and the way it made her father’s deal with Raoul null and void, sat like a lump of lead in Imogen’s stomach, forcing her to fight against a twisting rush of nausea.

  Raoul reached forward and took Angel’s reins from her limp hands, leading the mare into the open stall. The movement meant that their fingers touched just for a moment, something like electricity fizzing between them, so that Imogen couldn’t stop herself from snatching her hand away as if she’d been burned. Angel didn’t like the unexpected movement and shifted restlessly with a whinny of protest.

  ‘Sorry, sweetheart...’ she soothed, and the softness of her tone caught on an image in Raoul’s mind, pouring acid onto an already bitter memory.

  She had once spoken to him like that, in the darkness of the night, turning the sound of his name into a caress. The change that the spontaneous smile brought to her face was almost magical. Her eyes lit from within for a moment and her skin glowed. He cursed inwardly as the clutch of physical hunger grabbed at him right between his legs so that he shifted uncomfortably where he stood. Wanting to hide the betraying response, he bent to unfasten the girth and ease the saddle from the mare’s back. He had never expected still to have this primitive and instantaneous response to her. Not after all he now knew about her. But it seemed that he could hate and hunger in the same heartbeat.