Wicked Surrender: Ruthless Awakening / The Multi-Millionaire's Virgin Mistress / The Timber Baron's Virgin Bride

Behind the seating area was a dining table, large enough to seat eight people, but tonight set only for two. And beyond that, judging by the delectable smells, was the galley.

‘A drink?’ Diaz suggested as Enrique disappeared, presumably to put the finishing touches to their meal. ‘I can offer you fresh orange juice, if you’re still swearing off alcohol.’

She noticed decanters and glasses waiting on a side table, and said lightly, ‘If you can promise that Juan will be there to save me if I fall overboard, then I’ll have sherry, please, as dry as possible.’

‘If memory serves, you’re probably a better swimmer than he is,’ Diaz observed drily. ‘But let’s say I guarantee that drowning won’t be an option.’ He handed her the sherry and raised his own glass. ‘Salud!’

She echoed the toast a little shyly, and sipped. She looked at him, her eyes widening. ‘That’s superb.’

‘I’m glad you approve. You’re permitted to sit down.’

She complied, and he took the seat opposite. ‘I’m still trying to take it all in,’ she said frankly. ‘It’s just amazing. And it—she—really is brand-new.’

‘Just out of her trials,’ he agreed. ‘She’s the new version of my previous boat and rather more powerful, giving me a greater range.’

‘I—I didn’t realise you were interested in boats.’

‘How could you?’ he said. ‘You went off to London when you were eighteen, shaking the Cornish dust off your shoes. I’m sure you haven’t forgotten.’

‘No.’ She didn’t look at him, aware that her throat was tightening.

‘And we haven’t seen a great deal of each other since that time,’ he went on slowly. ‘Or not until the last few months when we—met again. And once we had met there were always other things to talk about. We never really got around to my leisure interests, if you remember.’

She stared down at her glass. ‘I’m hardly likely to forget.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think that at least is true, if not the whole truth.’ He gave a harsh laugh. ‘The curse of a good memory.’ He paused. ‘So, tell me something, Rhianna. Why, in spite of everything, did you come to this bloody wedding?’

‘Because I couldn’t think of a convincing reason to stay away,’ she said. ‘I could hardly tell Carrie that I was being pressured by you. She might have asked you for an explanation, and imagine how embarrassing that would have been. What price the whole truth then?’ She paused. ‘Anyway, I needed to say goodbye.’

The firm mouth curled.

‘To Carrie.’ She gave him a defiant look. ‘And to all the rest of it. Everything. Cutting the last links for good. You should find that reassuring.’

He contemplated the pale liquid in his glass. ‘Very little about you reassures me, Rhianna.’ He leaned back against the cushions. ‘Tell me, have you seen any more of your reporter friend, or hasn’t he managed to track you down yet?’

‘You clearly have a very broad view of friendship,’ she said shortly. ‘But the gentleman concerned—another loose term—seems to have returned to the hole he crawled out of. I only hope he stays there.’

‘Amen to that.’ He was watching her, the silver eyes sombrely intent. ‘I did wonder, of course, if you were planning to hand him the scoop of his career. “Lady Ariadne claims another victim in best friend’s nightmare.” “Bridegroom flees with TV star.” Or something of the kind.’

Her fingers tightened round the stem of her glass. ‘What a vivid imagination you have,’ she remarked. ‘And you seem to have captured the gutter jargon perfectly. Maybe you missed your vocation.’

‘Then I’m glad at least one of us has fulfilled his or her potential,’ he said. ‘Tell me something. Did the television company realise at once it was typecasting, or did you actually have to sleep with someone in order to play Ariadne?’

Oh, God. Oh, God…

Pain and outrage, which she could not afford to let him see, clawed at her. She leaned back in her turn, smiling at him with a fair bid for insouciance.

‘Believe me, you really don’t want to know,’ she drawled. ‘But I can swear that the casting couch was never as comfortable as this one. Does that satisfy your curiosity?’

She saw a sudden flare of colour along the high cheekbones, a glint in his eyes that might have been anger, or something less easy to define, and felt a stab of bitter triumph.

But when he spoke his voice was even. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is something that you really don’t want to know. And I think Enrique is ready to serve dinner.’

She would have given a great deal to damn him and his dinner to hell and leave. But that, of course, was impossible. She was virtually trapped there.

And if she insisted on being put ashore immediately he would know that she was not as unaffected by his jibes as she wished to appear.

Besides, Sod’s Law was kicking in, reminding her that she’d eaten very little for the past twenty-four hours, and her usual appetite was being forcibly awoken by the enticing aromas of Enrique’s cooking.

She rose in silence and followed him to the dining area, realising with chagrin that she would not be facing him from the opposite end of the long table, but had been seated instead at his right-hand side. Almost close enough to touch.

An altogether too cosy, too intimate placing, but presumably done according to his instructions.

But, whatever game Diaz Penvarnon was playing, she would be a match for him, she told herself with determination.

He held the chair for her courteously, and she sank on to it with a murmured word of thanks, sending him a glancing smile.

This was how to play it, she thought, however much it might hurt. So for the next hour or so Diaz would find himself dining with none other than Lady Ariadne—’the Tart without a Heart’, as one tabloid had christened her. Television’s favourite Bitch Queen, never more dangerous or desirable than when she was planning something.

She would eat and drink whatever she was offered. She would keep up her side of any conversation and be charming. She might even flirt a little, letting her eyes under the long fringe of lashes offer him all kinds of possibilities. Knowing she was unreachable. Untouchable.

And once the meal was over she would yawn prettily, excuse herself, then leave.

Because first thing in the morning, wedding or no wedding, she would be inventing some dire emergency that required her elsewhere immediately, and catching the next available train out.

Which, she told herself, would finally be the end of it. She could not afford to look back. Or to hope. Not again. Not ever.

Although London wouldn’t necessarily be her first destination of choice, she thought wearily. It was hardly a sanctuary for her these days. Even now there were going to be issues to be dealt with before she could attempt to get her life back on track.

And there was also Daisy to consider. Daisy, her friend, whose husband had left her, and who would be shocked and frightened, needing all the comfort and support Rhianna could give her.

But at least, she told herself, that would force her to put the sorrow of her own rejection, her own loneliness and fear, to the back of her mind until she was somehow strong enough to deal with them. Whenever that might be.

She stifled a sigh as she shook out her linen table napkin.

In this whole, reeling, unhappy mess, her only certainty was that it would not be soon. That it would take every scrap of courage she possessed even to survive.

And that the campaign was starting here and now, at this table, with this man.

If the circumstances had been different, she would have openly revelled in the food a beaming Enrique brought to them.

The first course was an array of tapas, individual little dishes of spicy sausage, olives, prawns, anchovies and marinated peppers. This was followed by a fillet of lamb, pink and tender, served with garlicky roasted vegetables, and the meal concluded with almond creams, all of it served with a flavoursome Rioja.

It was a delicious and leisurely performance, with Diaz suddenly transformed into the perfect host, and Rhianna found, to her own surprise, that she was perceptibly relaxing her guard as the evening went on. Which could be dangerous.

‘Goodness,’ she said, half-laughing at one point. ‘All this, plus Juan and Enrique too. Is this some reversion to your Spanish ancestry?’

He shrugged. ‘It’s pointless to deny it exists, and just occasionally over the generations it comes roaring back.’ He drank some wine. ‘We were all pirates at the time of the first Elizabeth, the Spanish and the English alike,’ he went on reflectively. ‘All raiders and looters, feathering our nests in the name of patriotism. Taking what we wanted when we saw it, and to hell with the consequences. And my many times great-grandfather was certainly no different. Before his ship went down Jorge might even have been the man lighting the torch that fired Penzance. Quien sabe? Who knows?’

‘And then he met Tamsin and married her,’ Rhianna said quietly.

‘Met her and seduced her,’ he corrected. ‘A fairly high-risk initiative in those days. Her father might as easily have slit his throat as said, “Bless you, my children. The wedding’s on Thursday.”‘

‘But it worked out well,’ she persisted. ‘He stayed on in an enemy country so he must have loved her.’

‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But don’t forget she was an heiress, and he was then a younger son with his way to make in the world. A few lies about his origins, and a crash course in English may not have seemed too high a price at the time. His own good fortune came later.’

‘What a cynical point of view,’ Rhianna said lightly. ‘I prefer the romantic version.’

His mouth hardened. ‘With true love triumphant, no doubt? I can see why that would appeal. Unfortunately real life rarely supplies neat endings.’

‘So I’ve discovered.’ Her smile was brief and taut. She needed to change the subject, and quickly. She looked down at her empty plate. ‘But Enrique is a gem. Surely he can’t be content to hang around on your boat simply waiting for you to show up? He must get bored while you’re in South America, or doing your global thing. Isn’t he ever tempted to spread his wings—open his own restaurant, perhaps?’

‘He’s never said so.’ Diaz refilled their glasses. ‘Why not ask him?’

She flushed. ‘Don’t be absurd. After all, it’s none of my business.’

‘I think he’d be flattered,’ he said. ‘But probably not tempted. He likes his life, and so does Juan. Maybe they’ve found the recipe for happiness, and want to hang on to it.’

‘While for the rest of us the search goes on.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Heavens, it’s nearly midnight. I should be getting back.’

Diaz also consulted the time, brows lifting. ‘Why? The party at the hotel surely won’t be over yet.’

‘Indeed it will,’ she said briskly. ‘Carrie has to be home by twelve. You’ve forgotten the old superstition about the groom not seeing his bride on the wedding day until they meet in church.’

‘In all the other excitement it must have slipped my mind. Nor am I particularly superstitious, except when it comes to mines.’ He paused. ‘I can’t persuade you to have coffee, then?’

‘Thank you, but not this late,’ she said. ‘It would keep me awake.’

As if there’s any chance of sleeping, anyway…

‘And naturally you wish to be at your brightest and best tomorrow,’ Diaz commented silkily. He paused. ‘However, to use a coy euphemism, would you like to freshen up before you go? If so, I’ll get Enrique to show you to one of the staterooms.’

‘Yes,’ she said, reaching for her purse. ‘That would be—most kind.’

‘De nada,’ he said. ‘Even pirates can have their moments.’

At the door she hesitated, looking back at him for a moment, at ease in his chair, studying the rich colour of the wine in his glass. Knowing that this was probably the last time she would ever see him and that this was the image she would take away with her, imprinted on her mind—the dark, intelligent face, with its high cheekbones and those amazing long-lashed eyes, and the lean, long-legged muscular body.

Another companionway led down to the sleeping accommodation. The stateroom that Enrique showed her with obvious pride made her jaw drop. The fitted wardrobes and dressing table were made of some pale, expensive wood, while the bed, the widest she’d ever seen, was made up with cream linen, a bedspread in vibrant terracotta folded across its foot. The same colour was echoed among the piled-up pillows, and a small sofa, similarly upholstered, stood against one wall.

Or perhaps they were called bulkheads, she thought. She couldn’t remember, and it didn’t really matter anyway. It wasn’t something she’d ever need to know.

The adjoining bathroom was all gleaming white and azure, with a walk-in power shower, a vanitory unit with twin basins, and a bidet as well as a loo.

‘The señorita approves?’ Enrique asked, pointing out the towels stacked on a corner shelf, and satisfying himself that there was soap in the dish between the basins. ‘If there is anything else you require, tell me, por favor,’ he added, turning to leave. ‘There is a bell.’

Thoughtful, Rhianna decided with faint amusement, as she waited to hear the outer door close softly. But unnecessary.

Probably Enrique was more accustomed to women guests who spent longer than just one evening on board with his boss, and who shared far more than dinner.

Whereas I, she thought, swallowing, have to go and put the remains of my life back together.

She dried her hands, and dropped the used towel into the laundry basket, then ran a comb through her hair, wondering whether to renew her lipstick and deciding against it.

As she was doing so, she noticed the toiletries grouped together on the tiled top by the mirror, realising they were all her favourite brands—from the moisturiser to the perfumed body lotion, and even the shampoo.

Odd, she thought, and walked back into the other room, where she checked, her eyes narrowing. Because something else had suddenly appeared on the bed. A woman’s nightgown, exquisitely fanned out. Her nightgown…

Rhianna took a deep breath, telling herself that it was some weird trick of her imagination, or more likely that she’d had too much of that wonderful Rioja.

At the same time, her instinct told her that she was fooling herself. She spun round and went back into the bathroom to check out the toiletries, her stomach muscles clenching as she saw that they’d all been used before, and that the pretty striped bag which had contained them when she left London was now in a cupboard under the basin.

My things, she thought desperately. Here—on his boat.

A glance in the stateroom’s fitted cupboards confirmed her worst fears. All the clothing she’d brought to Penvarnon House was there, neatly hung away, or folded in the drawers, while her travel bag and dress carrier were tucked away at the back of a wardrobe. Her handbag was there too, but, she realised, biting her lip, minus her wallet and passport.

And at that moment she became aware of something else—the steady throb of a powerful engine. And she knew, with horror, that Windhover was moving. That they’d sailed.

She almost flung herself at the stateroom door, twisting the handle one way then another, tugging it, dragging at it breathlessly, while swearing softly but comprehensively. Refusing to believe that it wasn’t going to open, in spite of her best efforts, because it wasn’t just stuck in some embarrassing way—but actually locked.

Telling herself that this wasn’t—couldn’t be happening. Not to her.

He’d implied that he was descended from a Spanish pirate, but this was the twenty-first century, for God’s sake, not the sixteenth, and there were strict laws against hijacking on the high seas.

If Polkernick Harbour actually qualified as any kind of high sea, she thought, quelling the bubble of hysteria rising inside her.

She wanted to beat on the closed door with her fists, screaming to be let out, but a small, icy voice in her brain said this was exactly the reaction he’d expect and would allow for. Therefore it would get her nowhere.

She stepped back and considered as she strove for control. For an element of calm.

Enrique had clearly been busy while her back was turned. It wasn’t just her nightgown that had been left ready for her. Mineral water and a glass had appeared on one of the shelves fitted to the bedhead, together with a plate of cinnamon biscuits.

Everything for the discerning prisoner, she thought grimly.

Including the aforementioned bell. Which she rang.

And which was answered with admirable promptness by Diaz himself. He’d discarded his jacket and removed his tie, leaving his shirt open at his tanned throat.

Rhianna faced him from the sofa, legs elegantly crossed, hands folded in her lap to hide the fact they were shaking.

Her brows lifted. ‘Enrique’s busy, trying on his jailer’s costume, I suppose?’

‘I thought you might be throwing things.’ He closed the door behind him and leaned against it. ‘And decided I’d rather they hit me.’

‘You’re all heart,’ she said shortly. She paused. ‘Just what do you think you’re doing?’

‘Taking you for a short but romantic cruise,’ he said. ‘At least I hope it will be romantic. However, the Bay of Biscay may rule against that.’

‘I’m on the side of the Bay of Biscay.’ She lifted her chin. ‘Diaz, you’re being ridiculous. You can’t behave like this.’

‘And just who is going to stop me?’ His voice held faint amusement.

‘Your own common sense, I hope,’ she said coldly. ‘We’re both supposed to be attending a wedding tomorrow—your cousin, my oldest friend. You think our absence won’t be noted? That people won’t ask questions and start looking for us?’

‘They won’t have to,’ he said. ‘The letter I left for Carrie earlier when I was collecting your stuff from the house makes the situation perfectly clear.’

Her heartbeat seemed to be rattling against her ribcage. ‘Then maybe you could offer me equal clarification. If it’s not too much trouble.’

‘Not at all.’ He settled himself more comfortably against the door, hands in his pockets. ‘I told her that we’d got together in London earlier this year, but things had gone wrong between us.’ He paused. ‘I didn’t specify what, or how, but I said I felt I had a real chance to put things right if you and I could just be alone together for a while to work things out.

‘I mentioned that I knew that you planned to leave straight after the wedding, and once you’d gone any opportunity to get you to myself would probably be blown too, and I couldn’t risk it. So I was extending our dinner date into a trip on Windhover for a few days. A kind of advance honeymoon. I thought that was the kind of excuse that might appeal, as she’s about to embark on a honeymoon of her own.’

He added unsmilingly, ‘I also asked her to forgive us both, and wish us luck.’

She said huskily, ‘You actually believe that anyone will be deceived by such nonsense? By that—tissue of lies?’

He shrugged. ‘Why not? Admittedly my explanation may not go down well in some quarters, and Carrie will indeed be disappointed, but in this case I feel the end justifies the means.’

‘But I don’t agree,’ she said. ‘So I’d be glad if you’d turn this floating prison right around and take me back to Polkernick.’

‘Not a chance, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘You’re coming with me. You might not be my companion of choice, you understand, but—hey—the time will soon pass. And when we eventually put in somewhere, you’ll find yourself on a flight back to London before you know it.’

‘Kidnap is a crime,’ she said. ‘People end up in jail for things like this.’

‘For “kidnap” substitute “brief idyllic interlude for two people who fancy each other like crazy”.’ His smile was cold. ‘Quite apart from the note, I think most of the evidence is on my side. Mrs Henderson was delighted to collaborate in my “surprise” and pack your things for Juan to collect after you’d left for the hotel. Everyone saw us leave the party in perfect amity, and knew we were having dinner together. There was no kicking and screaming at the harbour. There were people around who can verify that you came on board without coercion.’

‘But that’s not how I’ve stayed,’ she said tautly. ‘You had me locked in.’

‘Did I?’ he countered. ‘Or have we just experienced some teething troubles with an ill-fitting door, perhaps?’

‘No doubt that will be confirmed by Enrique,’ she said bitterly. ‘But it makes no difference. Because now I want to leave.’ She swallowed. ‘I don’t even have to go back to Polkernick, if that’s inconvenient. There are loads of harbours along the coast. You could simply drop me ashore at one of them, and be rid of me. I—I promise I’ll make no official complaint.’

‘A selfless thought,’ he returned. ‘And a real temptation. But no chance, my pet. We’re sailing off into tomorrow’s sunrise. Together.’

‘But why are you doing this?’ Her voice was a strained whisper. ‘Why? I don’t understand.’

Diaz straightened, coming away from the door and walking across to her. Standing over her so that in spite of herself she shrank back against the cushions.

His voice bit. ‘To make sure that Carrie’s wedding, however ill-advised I may think it, goes ahead, unhindered and unhampered by any dramatic revelations from you, darling.’

His eyes were hard. ‘You see, Rhianna, I just don’t think you can be trusted. I think you spell trouble in every line of that delectable body that you use to such effect. But what finally tipped the scales against you was when I caught you parading yourself in front of the mirror yesterday—taking advantage of Carrie’s momentary absence to see how her wedding dress and veil would look if you were wearing them instead of her.’

Rhianna felt the colour drain from her face. ‘So it was you,’ she said. ‘I thought I heard someone.’

His mouth curled. ‘Unfortunately for you—yes. I could hardly believe what I was seeing. Dear God, you’d only been in the house five minutes and already you were pretending to be the bride. Imagining yourself taking her place. And who could guarantee you might be not be tempted to turn your pathetic little fantasy into reality?’

She said hoarsely, ‘Diaz—you have to let me explain…’

‘Not necessary,’ he said. ‘You see, I came back a little later to tell you—warn you that I’d seen you—and tell you for the last time to go. Only I discovered that you were otherwise engaged, talking to bloody Simon.’

She said thickly, ‘And you listened?’

‘Wild horses wouldn’t have dragged me away,’ he returned harshly. ‘It was—most revealing. Everything finally made a kind of sick sense.’

He looked at her with contempt. ‘I don’t know if being pregnant by the bridegroom is the kind of “just impediment” the Church was thinking of when it wrote the marriage service, but I sure as hell wasn’t planning to find out. I couldn’t risk you staging some hysterical last-minute confession scene, Rhianna, some touching plea for your unborn child. So I decided it would be better if you were removed—out of harm’s way. And, ironically, Simon’s ghastly mother supplied me with the means.’

‘How fortunate for you,’ she said hoarsely. ‘And if she hadn’t?’

‘I’d have found some other way.’ He gave her a cynical look. ‘And you won’t be gone for too long,’ he added. ‘Not enough to jeopardise your abortion plans anyway. I presume there’s an appointment already booked?’

‘Yes,’ she said. It was difficult to speak evenly. ‘As it happens, there is.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Always best to keep things neat and tidy. Although even if Simon had been free to marry you I can’t imagine you wanting to have the child,’ he went on. ‘After all, nothing must impede your precious career, and a pregnant Lady Ariadne would never do.’

‘Totally out of character, I agree.’ She lifted her brows, fighting the pain that raked her. ‘I didn’t realise you were such a fan.’