A Delicious Deception

He laughed softly, unperturbed by the rising note in her voice.

‘And I could suggest that the reason you don’t like women taking an interest in your father,’ she went on heatedly, with a sudden surge of pity for Mitchell Clayborne that surprised her, ‘is because you might lose all you stand to gain if he reciprocates!’

‘Hardly,’ he said with a tug of that sensuous mouth.

Because he was involved in so many other enterprises besides the company his father had founded and in which her own father had played such a major part, a man of King’s calibre, determination and unwavering command, she accepted rather grudgingly, didn’t need to rely on anyone or anything, least of all the prospect of inherited wealth.

‘Let’s eat,’ he said, restarting the engine, the cutting edge of his gaze picking up on the way her lovely breasts rose and fell.

But with what? he wondered. Relief?

As his success depended on his keen ability to sense any subtle changes in mood or behaviour—both in his business rivals and in his own workforce—his experience had served him well, and it didn’t let him down now.

Rayne Carpenter portrayed all the characteristics of a woman who wasn’t being entirely honest, he decided, pulling away. And yet what could she be hiding if it wasn’t a very determined plan of action to ensnare Mitch? He had seen his father preyed upon before—several times—but once in particular, and with disastrous consequences, and he’d be hanged if he’d stand by and let Mitch bring such devastation down on himself again.

No, he decided, with sudden inexorable purpose. The thing he had to do was to keep her away from his father—at least until he could check her out. And the best way to do that was to claim all this dubious young woman’s time for himself.

He had some time on his hands as his second-in-command had taken over his commitments in the States, and he had already promised himself a short break when it was over. He had never had any difficulty seducing any woman he put his mind to seducing, and with this one, he decided grimly, conscience didn’t even come into it. If she was the sort of woman who was out just to prey on Mitch, then the prospect of even richer pickings with him should get her opportunistic juices flowing nicely.

It was an unfortunate choice of words, and one which was making his mind work overtime as he imagined her hot and compliant, moist with the honeyed heat of desire. He felt his body’s hard response as he imagined freeing those beautiful breasts from their restricting cups and moulding them to his hands, feeling each sensitive tip blossom as he took it into his mouth.

He shook away his errant fantasies, trying to pull himself together. It was probably because he hadn’t had a woman in his bed for some months, he decided, that his body was behaving like a rampant adolescent’s now. Still, he couldn’t deny that the prospect of stripping this unsuspecting little gold-digger bare—and in more ways than one—excited him immensely.

The café to which he took her was situated in a pedestrian thoroughfare, paved in the same peach and cream tones as the buildings which flanked it. Baskets of flowers—red and purple and pink—decorated ornamental street lamps, while luxuriant foliage grew in abundance outside the shops and cafés. There were orange trees, Rayne recognised, growing beneath the artistically wrought balconies of the buildings, whose pastel-coloured shutters and breath-catching architecture were a testament to human creativity, in contrast to the awesome cliffs that formed a mighty backdrop behind the buildings that stood at the head of the elegant avenue.

‘Here we are,’ King invited, pulling out a chair for her, the smile he gave her appreciative of her wonderment in spite of what he had been thinking about her earlier.

A little later, drinking coffee with home-baked rolls spread thickly with locally made jam, Rayne was relieved when King’s conversation touched only on things like the area and the recent airways strike. Safe, casual topics, she decided gratefully, until he suddenly enquired, ‘Do you usually take your holidays alone?’

Instantly she tensed up. That almost criticising note was back in his voice and now that he’d brought the conversation back to a personal level, she had to remind herself to be on her guard.

She thought of Matt Cotton, whom she’d been seeing on a purely platonic level for a year or so before they had parted six months ago. He’d been the only man she had ever considered getting serious with—serious enough to go on holiday with, at any rate. But after their relationship had moved up a notch, the first weekend she had slept with him when they had gone away together, she’d been so disillusioned by his suggestion that they move in together ‘to see how it goes’ that it had come as quite a shock to her to realise that she wanted more than Matt was offering. What she wanted was the sort of relationship that her parents had enjoyed. A lifelong commitment inspired by love and trust and respect for each other—and she intended to settle for nothing less.

Considering King’s question now about taking her holidays alone, and feeling that she was still on the end of a subtle line of interrogation, she enquired pointedly, ‘Would you have asked me that if I were a man?’

The arching of an eyebrow as those compellingly blue eyes tugged over her assured her that she was anything but.

‘If you were my woman, I wouldn’t be happy with you roaming around a strange country on your own.’

‘But I’m not your woman, am I?’ Bright emeralds fastened on steel as she met his gaze, reminded by the raw sensuality with which he was looking at her of how much she had once longed to be just that. The woman he drove home, undressed and adored in long, exotic nights of pleasure, while she writhed on his bed, allowing his lips and hands licence to every hidden treasure of her body.

Shockingly her breasts burgeoned into life without any warning, their weight heavy and aching, their tips excruciatingly tender against the full cups of her bra.

Surely she didn’t still want him in that way? Not now. Not after the way he had supported Mitch in treating her father as he had, when all he had been trying to do was claim what was rightfully his.

‘That’s right—you’re not,’ he stated, causing her to flinch from the way he managed to make it sound as though she was the last person he’d ever consider taking to bed. Which was ludicrous! When she would have rejected any overtures from him with every fighting cell in her body! ‘And you haven’t answered my question—which wasn’t intended with any lack of political correctness or offence to your femininity. Do you usually take your holidays alone?’

Fighting off a barrage of conflicting emotions, she shrugged and answered, ‘No, not usually. But as I told you last night, my mother’s been ill.’ Very ill, she appended silently, thinking of the operation and the treatment that Cynthia Hardwicke had had to go through during the past year. ‘There hasn’t been much time for holidays. But when her old school-friend invited her over to her villa, I realised I was on my knees from all the months of worry and that I was desperate for a holiday too. I’m ashamed to say it, but I think it hit me even harder than it hit Mum,’ she found herself admitting to him. ‘You can’t possibly imagine the unbelievable strain it can put you under when something like that happens to someone you love.’

A dark shadow seemed to cross his features. ‘Oh, believe me, I can,’ he assured her grimly.

She frowned, and then almost immediately realised. Of course. He was talking about his father.

‘What happened to Mitch?’ she enquired unnecessarily, because she remembered her parents telling her in the past. But a stranger wouldn’t know, would she? Rayne reminded herself. And that was what she was as far as King Clayborne was concerned. A stranger.

‘A road accident,’ he said, and his words were hard and clipped. ‘It deprived him of his mobility—and of his wife.’ Your stepmother, she nearly said, but didn’t. She wasn’t supposed to know, was she?

‘That’s dreadful,’ she empathised, because hearing it again—and so many years on—didn’t make it any less tragic. She couldn’t understand though why he sounded quite so … what? Bitter, she decided.

‘What about you?’ Putting down his cup, the inscrutable mask was firmly back in place again. ‘Have you any brothers or sisters?’

Rayne shook her head.

‘And your father?’

‘What about him?’ she enquired, sounding unintentionally defensive.

‘You haven’t mentioned him.’ The glance he shot her was a little too keen.

Rayne felt tension creep into her jaw. ‘He died—just over a year ago.’

‘I’m sorry.’

No, you’re not, she thought acridly. But you will be! You and your father! I can promise you that!

Because she was certain that it was her parents’ financial difficulties following her father’s bankruptcy, and then the shock of his unexpected death from a heart attack that had made her mother ill. That was when she had vowed to right the wrong that the Claybornes had done to her family. After all Cynthia Hardwicke had been through, though, Rayne didn’t want to do anything to worry her. But with her mother having been persuaded to go off to Majorca, Rayne had been able to come away without too many awkward questions being asked.

‘So what do you do when you aren’t running around this country picking up strange men?’

She ignored the deliberate snipe. ‘I type a little.’

‘You type?’

‘Well, a lot, actually.’ Well, she did, didn’t she?

‘Are you saying you’re a PA?’

She chewed on the inside of her mouth, trying not to compound the lies. ‘No. I’m freelance.’

‘You work for an agency?’

She shook her head. ‘For myself.’

‘Typing.’

She didn’t know why he sounded so disparaging. ‘That takes up a fair proportion of my work.’ Which was true, she thought. It did. ‘What’s so strange about that?’

‘Only that you strike me as a woman who would have carved out a more determined career path for herself.’

Rayne was glad he couldn’t detect how her deception made her heart skip a beat. ‘I have.’ She saw the question in the heart-stopping clarity of his steel-blue eyes and letting her own slide away, told him trenchantly, ‘Seducing rich elderly men!’

His mouth twitched at the corners as though he were trying to assess the authenticity of her remark.

‘I think it’s time we left,’ he stated blandly.

The journey back was an uncomfortable one, not because of King’s driving, because he handled the Lamborghini like a dream. But since leaving the café he had barely said two words to her and now, motivated by the view from the ribbon of road that displayed the whole sweep of Monaco below them, Rayne tried to lighten the mood a little by remarking, ‘This scenery’s unbelievable. So is this weather! Was it as lovely as this in New York?’

‘Who said I was in New York?’

Mistake! Rayne admonished herself, feeling those perspicacious eyes roving over her like a hawk’s, waiting for her to show any weakness; waiting to pounce.

She shrugged and said as nonchalantly as she could, ‘Mitch.’ She could hardly tell King that she’d run a check on him before she’d been stupid enough to come here. Because that was how she was beginning to feel, she realised, despairing at herself. Utterly, utterly stupid!

Consoling herself with the thought that she was worrying unnecessarily and that it was only her jumpiness and her overreacting that was creating suspicion in his mind, she ventured to say carelessly, even though it was a lie, ‘He led me to believe you were over there on some business or other.’

‘Did he now?’

She saw his hands tighten on the wheel, the knuckles whitening above those long dark fingers. But surely Mitch would have known where he was, wouldn’t he? She swallowed, her throat suddenly feeling dry.

‘Do you come and see him often?’

‘Not as often as I should. And I wouldn’t be here now if Hélène hadn’t contacted me to tell me Mitch wasn’t feeling his best, and also happened to mention the attractive young chauffeuse who had very surprisingly stepped in and taken Talbot’s place. I got here as soon as I could, and I’m glad I did.’

‘Why? Because you don’t trust me?’

‘Men in our position can’t afford to trust anyone.’

‘That’s pretty cynical. Is that what money does for you?’

‘Unfortunately, yes.’

‘So why flaunt it? I mean this car. The Bentley. All those houses you probably own. If you don’t want to attract the wrong sort of people you could always drive a Mini.’

‘But then I wouldn’t be enjoying the benefits of all I worked for.’

All my father worked for! she wanted to scream, and had to bite her tongue to stop the words from tumbling out.

‘And is that all you work for?’ She couldn’t keep the disdain out of her voice as she added pointedly, ‘Lamborghinis? Homes in England, Switzerland and who knows where else? Relaxation aboard exclusive yachts?’

‘You’ve really done your homework, haven’t you?’ He was frowning as he directed a sidelong glance her way, making her realise she had said too much.

‘I only know what I read. What everyone reads,’ she tagged on quickly, not wanting him to guess how avidly she soaked up any information about him—and always had.

‘It isn’t just my money that’s bothering you, is it, Rayne—if Rayne’s even your real name,’ he speculated, causing a little shiver to run through her as he operated the remote control switch and opened the gates because they had reached the house. ‘It’s something much more fundamental than that.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous! I don’t even know you,’ she prevaricated with colour suffusing her cheeks as the car growled through the gates towards the exclusive villa standing in its prominent position, high in the hills.

‘Maybe not,’ he agreed, pulling up outside and cutting the engine, then making every nerve in her body zing as he threw his door open and added with nerve-racking purpose, ‘But I think the time has come to change all that.’

CHAPTER THREE

‘YOU’VE got it all wrong!’ Rayne threw over her shoulder, flying ahead of him into the villa. Her blood was pounding in her ears, her racing heart making her sound as though she’d just run five miles.

‘Have I?’ King demanded grimly, the strength of his own hormones putting a flush across his high cheekbones. ‘I’m not a callow youth, Rayne, and if your story holds any water—as I’d like to believe it does—I can’t think of any other reason why you constantly feel the need to antagonise me.’

Oh, dear heaven …! She stopped dead, breathing hard, her lashes coming down over her eyes, because he could see it, even though she was refusing to. But how could it be this strong, she wondered hopelessly, when she despised him as much as she despised Mitchell Clayborne? It was as if all of her pent-up teenage frustrations about him had rushed back and were screaming to be dealt with. But how could he be so astute? How could he tell?

Dry-mouthed, she touched her tongue to her top lip as he turned her round to face him.

‘You terrify me,’ she said, startling herself, because surely that was Lorri speaking. The hapless kid who had adored him from a distance, and who would have died for him, given half the chance. Not the mature twenty-five-year-old who knew him for what he was and hated him with every trembling bone in her body.

‘I know,’ he acknowledged sagaciously. ‘But it’s yourself you’re afraid of, Rayne. The fear of an involvement that wasn’t in your plans. Well, believe me, my beautiful girl, the thought of what you’ve been doing to me since I got here—and what you can still do to me—terrifies me, too.’

She laughed, but her throat felt clogged. ‘You? Terrified?’

‘Does that seem so strange?’

‘No, just inconceivable,’ she responded, wishing her credit cards were sorted so she could tell him where to go and just get the hell out of there. As it was, she felt like a butterfly caught in a fly-trap whose promise of the sweetest pleasure only hid danger beneath. Her head was spinning and her legs felt weak, while every organ in between was throbbing with the almost uncontrollable need to reach for him, pull him down to her and drown beneath the pleasure of his ravaging mouth, breathe in his heady, far too tantalizing cologne.

‘Why? Because I’m a man? And obviously a very experienced one at that?’

‘Something like that.’ She didn’t know what she was saying any more. Couldn’t seem to tell him where to go, or drag herself away from him—even if she’d wanted to. Because that was just it, she realised suddenly. She didn’t.

‘I might be a man of the world, but I’m willing to bet you could give me a run for my money.’

Was that what he thought? Rayne swallowed, guessing that he would probably laugh if she told him how few sexual encounters she had had in her lifetime.

‘And that’s your experience speaking, of course.’

‘Of course.’

Well, that’s where you’re wrong! she wanted to fling at him, wishing she had the nerve to play along with him and do what some other women in her position might do. Flatter his ego and enjoy a brief spell of the pleasure he could give her, then watch his anger explode when he found out who she really was and realised she’d made a fool of him. Oh, to hurt him as he’d hurt her! Hurt her father when he’d joined Mitch in taking what had never been theirs to take! But common sense warned her that men of King Clayborne’s character couldn’t be hurt, and that even to entertain such a tempting idea was no less than crazy.

Instead she said, ‘Well, dream on, King. I didn’t come here to have a fling with you or anybody else, and you’re very much mistaken if you think I did!’

‘Not intentionally, no.’

Pulling herself out of his disturbing sphere, she viewed him warily from under her lashes. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ she challenged shakily.

‘I’m sure you didn’t intend to charm your way in here only to find yourself fighting an attraction that is bigger than you are. Bigger than both of us, if I’m honest. But you’re giving off pheromones, Rayne, that no man this side of ninety could possibly ignore. And quite simply, darling, I wouldn’t dream of insulting you by pretending to ignore them. And if you refuse to accept the effect you’re having on me, I’m sure you’re way too experienced not to acknowledge this.’

It was inevitable what was going to happen. But even that acknowledgement couldn’t have prepared her for the onslaught on her senses when his head dipped and his hard masculine mouth finally covered hers.

It was like two universes colliding. A barrage of riotous emotions and sensations that rocked her to the very core of her femininity, driving everything from her mind but the need to be kissed and stroked and caressed by this man and this man alone—because she still wanted him, much, much more than she had ever wanted him before, and with a hunger that excited and thrilled her even as it appalled.

And he wanted her too …

She didn’t have to be experienced to recognise the rock-hard evidence of just how much as his arm tightened around her, locking her to him, and shamelessly she realised that that was what he had been referring to a moment ago, rather than just the inevitable joining of their hungry, ravenous mouths.

With a small murmur, which was half-need, half-despair, she wound her arms around his neck, glorying in the sensations that his six-feet-plus of power-packed masculinity sent coursing through her as she moved convulsively against his hard warmth.

‘Can you deny it now, Rayne?’ His voice was hoarse, a ragged whisper against the softness of her cheek. ‘What is there to lose in admitting that you want me every bit as much as you’ve made me want you?’

And just how much he hadn’t even realised until now. He’d had women in his time who’d given him pleasure and to whom he’d given pleasure in return. But that was all it had been. Pleasure. This girl, however, had a way about her that excited him and made his anatomy harden to such an extent that it hurt.

But why? Why, when to seduce her had been a cold, calculated plan? When he’d intended to remain detached and—if he was honest with himself—to have her begging, virtually down on her knees, for him to take her?

Well, that just showed him, he thought, mocking himself for his lack of immunity, his inability to stay unaffected, when all he wanted to do right now was rip off her clothes and carry her up to the nearest bed and feel her warm softness closing in around him, her body bucking beneath his as he drove into her.

Steady on, King …

He was breathing raggedly as he lifted his head.

‘So what’s it to be, Rayne? Your bed or mine?’ He was amazed at how cool—how indifferent—he managed to sound.

There was nothing cool, though, or indifferent, about the hand that was suddenly making contact with his left cheek, taking him so unawares he nearly overbalanced.

‘How dare you!’ Rayne found she was trembling so much she could hardly get her words out, realising that it wasn’t just his effrontery that was responsible for her impulsive action. It was also aggravated by the knowledge that she had invited what had happened between them every inch of the way, so that her anger was directed more at herself and her abandoned response to his kiss rather than at him.

‘I’m sorry. I could hardly help jumping to what I believed was a very natural conclusion,’ King expressed, holding his smarting cheek, deciding that he had rather overstepped the mark. Nevertheless that still didn’t stop him from enquiring mockingly, ‘Are you usually prone to bursts of violence?’

‘You drove me to it!’ It was a small wild cry, born of her despair over responding to him in the way she had, and for striking him, which she was thoroughly ashamed of now.

‘You drove yourself to it,’ he said quietly. ‘Firstly by refusing to acknowledge that there’s definitely something between us, and then in not doing so, suddenly finding yourself way out of your depth.’ His mouth moved in a kind of contemplative half-smile. ‘I’ll just put it down to frustration, shall I?’ he remarked, his eyes skimming over her in a shaming reminder of what had just transpired.

‘Put it down to whatever you like!’ she breathed, shocked by the passions he could arouse in her and, pivoting away from him, she fled up the stairs, wanting only to crawl into a hole and pretend that none of her shameless behaviour had ever happened.

In the privacy of her room she sank down on the sumptuous bed, dropped her head into her hands and groaned.

Whatever had come over her? Not only to throw herself at him as she had when he had had the audacity to kiss her, but then to slap him like that afterwards as though it had all been his fault. Being quite honest with herself, she was forced to admit that he was right. She had wanted him to kiss her. Wanted it like she had never wanted anything. A man who had hurt her father and, with Mitch, had as good as destroyed her family. Was that why she had hit him? Was it all part of the need for retribution? Or was King Clayborne simply always destined to bring out the worst in her?

Angry tears burned her eyes, but they were tears of remorse and scorching shame too. How could she have responded to him so easily, and without so much as a conscience? Without any thought for what the Claybornes had cost her parents. Was she really that weak? She padded over to the en suite bathroom to try and scrub the taste of King Clayborne off her mouth, promising herself, as well as both of her parents, that she would never let it happen again.

And if he did find out that she had been lying to him?

She shuddered, closing her mind against that intimidating scenario. That was something she definitely refused to think about on top of everything else.

The florist at the other end of the line seemed to be taking forever to deal with the order Rayne was trying to telephone through.