A Proposal To Secure His Vengeance

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 stones 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 personality. 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.

‘Everyone’s interested in Blackjack,’ Imogen said and, although her eyes were on the bridle she was removing from Angel’s head, he could tell that the words were not the throwaway remark she wanted them to sound like.

She wore no make-up, and the pallor of her porcelain skin was emphasised by the brush of dark shadow under those sapphire eyes, making them look faintly bruised and disturbingly wounded. She was thinner than when he had known her before, he thought again. He knew that brides were traditionally said to lose their appetites before the wedding, but she looked more like someone who was going to face execution rather than marry the man of her dreams.

But, of course, he wasn’t the man of her dreams. Just the thought twisted harshly in his guts. If he’d even suspected that she really cared for Adnan Al Makthabi, then there was no way he would be here. But it was obvious this was a union arranged because of the financial benefits it brought—to the O’Sullivan family at least.

Once again, the cold-blooded gold-digger who had aimed to win herself part of his fortune was setting her sights on someone who had the money she sought. Someone who, it seemed, was more easily persuaded. Or so he’d believed. But, now that he’d met Adnan Al Makthabi, he wouldn’t have put the other man down as the sort to be so easily fooled. He’d also been startled to find that he actually liked him.

But then yesterday he had discovered more about this proposed marriage than either she or her lying father had been prepared to acknowledge.

‘Look, about...’ Imogen began, then hesitated, broke off and, when she began again, Raoul was sure that she had not taken up where she’d left off but had veered onto another topic altogether.

‘Where did you get to last night?’

She tossed the question at Raoul, trying so very hard to make it sound casual and relaxed, and failing miserably on both counts.

‘Nowhere.’

‘But I saw you leave...’

The words faded awkwardly and he raised a dark, cynical eyebrow as he saw the moment she realised she had given herself away. She should have been occupied with her guests, her family and friends, but she hadn’t missed the fact that he had left the dinner early, with no explanation.

‘I needed some air.’

He had been suffocating in the atmosphere in the room. Three O’Sullivans—because of course the father had been there, knocking back the vintage champagne as if it were water—was more than enough for anyone to take. Not caring if anyone noticed, he’d slid his plate away from him, pushed back his chair and stood up.

The huge patio doors had been open to the garden, voile curtains wafting in the gentle breeze. He’d slipped out into the cool of the evening air, the silence of the night. Over to the left were the stables and the exercise yard, the occasional sound of the thoroughbred horses shifting in their stalls and whickering softly to each other reaching him across the stillness.

He could fall in love with this place, he’d admitted to himself as he’d strolled to the edge of the huge patio. The soft green hills and lush fields of this country were so unlike the rougher, drier terrain of his homeland. Here, the climate was closer to the one in the mountains—and of course there was always so much rain. It had been drizzling just a little and he’d held his face up to the moisture while drawing in deep breaths of the clear night air, filling his lungs with it and wishing he could fill his mind in the same way, to wipe away the anger and disgust he felt at finding himself amongst the members of this corrupt, immoral family.

He had almost left then, headed straight for the airport, onto a plane and away. Only the thought that if he went then the O’Sullivan family—the weak, corrupt father and those scandalous O’Sullivan sisters—would all get away with what they’d done and go on their way so carelessly had stopped him. He’d come here to make sure that didn’t happen, and he was not going to back out now.

‘I had hoped that you might show me around,’ he said now, lifting the saddle and carrying it out of the stall to place it with all the other tack at the end of the stables. ‘I’d like to see more of the stud.’

‘I’m afraid I’m much too busy.’

Imogen flashed a cold, tight smile in Raoul’s direction. She certainly didn’t want to spend any time with him if she could possibly help it, and luckily the preparations for the wedding gave her the perfect excuse. He didn’t need to know that there was nothing she had to prepare; that Geraldine Al Makthabi had everything in hand and that her future mother-in-law was enjoying every minute of the time she spent making sure everything was perfect.

‘I have things to do. I am getting married...’

She flung the words at him like a dart. His presence might put her totally on edge, as if she was balancing on a very high, very tight rope with savage, bone-shattering rocks beneath, but she wanted him to understand that she was not alone and defenceless. She was in her family home, with her father and her sister—her fiancé just ten minutes away.

No...the instant curdling in her stomach at that thought brought a wave of nausea up into her throat. Adnan might be her friend, and currently her family’s saviour, but he was also a proud and powerful man. His bloodline was saturated with the ferocious strength and arrogance of his Bedouin ancestors. She knew Adnan could be a hard man, a difficult man if his temper was roused. She’d heard stories of his reputation with women, and as a shrewd businessman, but she’d never had that side of him shown to her, and she never wanted to either.

He might have agreed to this marriage of convenience, but if it turned out to be anything else or, heaven help her, became inconvenient, then she had little doubt he would call the whole thing off without even blinking.

‘I’m aware of that.’

Raoul’s wickedly knowing smile left her only too aware of the fact that her attempt at attack had simply bounced off the cold steel of his armoured heart—if it really was a heart that beat inside that powerful chest.

‘That is why I’m here.’

That—and what else? The words were on the tip of her tongue, but at that moment the door opened and Ciara wandered into the stables. Her red-gold hair tumbled round her shoulders, her green-and-white floral sun dress with its thin straps and flirty short skirt looking cool and comfortable in the already growing heat of the day.

‘Hello, honey!’

Imogen’s smile of welcome was blended with a rush of relief at the thought that she was no longer alone with Raoul. The verbal fencing, neither of them coming right out and saying anything real, had stretched her nerves to breaking point. So much so that her heart was racing, her breathing shallow at the ordeal of just being in his company.

She was no longer the wide-eyed innocent who had first met Raoul Cardini on a warm summer evening on a beautiful Corsican beach. Met and fallen in love in the time between the sun burning directly overhead in the middle of the day, and the moment when that fiery ball had slipped below the horizon. She’d found herself in the warm darkness with her heart no longer inside her body but handed over to the care of the devastating man she had secretly nicknamed the Corsican Bandit.

If she had only known how appropriate that nickname would come to be, she would have turned and run, as far and as fast as she possibly could. But now she was two years older, she’d been tested by life, been down some long, dark tunnels and had reached the other side. Perhaps she was still bruised and bloody, with scars barely healing over deep wounds she’d endured, but she was standing, and she wasn’t going to let anyone knock her down again.

But there was a huge difference between feeling that and actually challenging someone like Raoul Cardini to come right out and say exactly what his plans were. Especially when she didn’t know how much danger her whole family was in.

She was aware of the way Ciara had reacted last night when she’d learned that Raoul was their guest, staying at Blacklands for the days leading up to the wedding. She had been subdued all through the evening and this morning; something was clearly upsetting her sister. She looked distracted and unusually unsure of herself, her eyes slightly puffy from lack of sleep in a way that concerned Imogen.

‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle O’Sullivan,’ Raoul inserted smoothly, strolling out of the tack room with lazy grace. Ciara shot a swift, strangely nervous glance in his direction.

‘Morning,’ she muttered almost inaudibly, her hazel eyes focused on Imogen’s face. ‘So, what do we have left to do today, Immi?’

‘Perhaps you can give me a guided tour of the stud that Imogen is apparently too busy to manage today,’ Raoul put in, something in his lazy drawl scraping uncomfortably over nerves that were far too close to the surface of Imogen’s skin. And Ciara’s too, it seemed.

It was definitely an appeal for help that Ciara turned on her now—a plea to be rescued from heaven knew what—but it obviously had something to do with Raoul Cardini. Just what had frightened her sister so badly? Could it be that Raoul had come here not just for the business deal he had described, but perhaps for something to do with Ciara’s past? Perhaps to do with the reason her job as a nanny had ended so rapidly, which her sister had refused to reveal to her? Imogen wished she’d had more time to get to know Ciara properly before the threat of total ruin had brought this wedding on them.

‘There’s plenty still to do,’ she managed over-breezily. ‘We have to sort out that hemline on your bridesmaid’s dress...’

Imogen had made the right move. Immediately some of the tension left her sister’s face and she almost smiled.

‘And you promised Geraldine you’d help her with the name cards for the table.’