as she kept her head.
‘In that case …’ she flashed him what she considered would look like a grateful smile ‘… I’ll go and get some breakfast.’
‘I think you might be disappointed there.’
Stopping in her tracks, she glanced up at him with her brow furrowing. ‘Excuse me?’
‘I instructed Hélène not to bother. I’ve given her the morning off.’
A cloud of wariness darkened the green flecks in her eyes. Why had he done that? Had he realised who she was and was planning on giving her marching orders while his father was out of the way?
A smile illuminated his strong features like the sun burning through the haze of the mountains she’d been admiring earlier, making her pulse quicken in infuriating response. ‘As it was such a lovely morning I thought I’d have breakfast out. I also thought you might care to join me.’
Oh, did he?
‘No, really. That’s very nice of you,’ she blurted out, even though ‘nice’ was definitely not a word she would have applied to Kingsley Clayborne, ‘but …’
But what, exactly? She couldn’t claim she never ate breakfast after what she had just told him. Nor could she inform him that she didn’t like him, and that if she had to choose between sharing breakfast with him or with a pride of lions, she’d take the pride of lions.
‘I … I need to stay here for when your father needs to be picked up,’ she hedged, wishing she didn’t sound so defensive.
‘He won’t. Not until later. If you haven’t discovered it yet, you’ll soon learn that my father is a creature of unwavering habit. Always reliable, but sometimes tiresomely predictable.’ Which was how she had managed to meet him that day outside that café. ‘He’s doing some business and then playing chess with a friend and won’t be ready to come home until mid-afternoon. Any change in those plans and he’ll ring me. That’s settled then,’ he declared when she procrastinated too long, having run out of reasonable excuses. ‘And I can assure you …’ his tone had changed in a way that sent a cautioning little shiver through her ‘… I’m not trying to be nice.’
‘I’m glad you told me.’ She sent another forced smile over her shoulder as she obeyed his gesture for her to precede him through the front door.
‘No,’ he called out as she moved towards the Bentley, ‘we’ll take mine.’
A skein of unease uncoiled in Rayne’s stomach after she’d crossed the tarmac and pulled the door of the Lamborghini closed behind her.
This sleek and powerful machine with its cream leather-scented interior represented major success. Arrival. It was also Kingsley Clayborne’s territory. With its smooth engineering wrapped around her and the cushioning curves of the passenger seat seeming to suck her in, she felt uncomfortably under his influence, as though her own power and control had suddenly been considerably reduced.
‘Relax,’ he advised, sensing her tension, obviously thinking it stemmed from something else altogether, she realised, when he tagged on, ‘I might be renowned for my love of power, but I’m not altogether insensitive to those riding alongside me.’
Was that what he thought? That she was afraid of how fast he might drive this thing? Or was he talking about a different kind of power altogether? Because she didn’t doubt that he enjoyed being in command. Of himself. Of others. And of his multi-billion, multi-national company. Because, where the Clayborne empire was concerned, it was common knowledge that he had been the one taking all the major decisions for some years now.
‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ she said, her voice overly bright, and kept her eyes trained on the panoramic views from the window on her side so that they wouldn’t stray to the movement of muscle beneath the dark cloth spanning his thigh, or be pulled by the flash of gold from the slim watch on his wrist as he changed gear with that masculine hand.
‘It’s stunning, isn’t it?’ he remarked, aware, as her eyes drank in the scenery from the awe-inspiring sweep of the road. A road that ran all the way along the French Riviera to the Italian coast, she remembered reading from a travel brochure before she’d left England. Someone had called it the most romantic road in the world.
Feeling as though the Lamborghini were a bird and that they were travelling on its wings, they soared above terracotta-roofed houses dotted amongst tree-smothered cliffs, above church spires and tumbling hillsides that plunged down to the rugged coastline and the sea.
Above them the Alps presided, white-capped and as ageless as time. And just a little bit unnerving, Rayne decided, although not as unnerving as when King suddenly pulled into a surprisingly deserted lay-by. Her mind raced with the instinctive knowledge that Kingsley Clayborne would never do anything without a reason, and that that reason wasn’t just to enjoy the view.
‘What are you imagining?’ he enquired mockingly, wise to the half-wary, half-questioning look she shot him. ‘That I brought you up here to seduce you?’
She gave a tight little laugh. ‘No. Why? Did you?’
Dear heaven! Had she actually said that? Obviously her nerves were getting the better of her, she thought, in letting her tongue run away with her.
He laughed. ‘No.’ The engine died under the portentous turn of the ignition key. ‘Of course, if you were hoping I was …’
Every nerve in her body seemed to pull like overstretched rubber bands. There was a time, she thought, when she was young and blinded by his looks and his devastating persona, that her heart would have leapt in wild anticipation of what he might be planning, not thumping in screaming rejection as it was doing now. Or was it? she startled herself by wondering suddenly, deciding not to go there.
Turning to him with her cheeks scorched scarlet, she said pointedly, ‘Are you always so sure of yourself?’
He laughed again, under his breath this time. ‘Are you?’
Her own question, lobbed back at her, left her speechless for a moment.
With his bent elbow on the steering wheel, a thumb and forefinger supporting his chin, his thick lashes were drawn down as he studied her reflectively, giving her every ounce of his attention. Dear heaven! What she wouldn’t have given for this much attention from him seven years ago!
Berating herself for even thinking along those lines, unable to meet his eyes, she still couldn’t stop herself appreciating his classic and magnificent bone structure, the chiselled sweep of his forehead and cheekbones, that proud flaring nose, that tantalising dent in his chin …
‘I’m just finding it hard,’ he expressed, shocking her back to her senses, ‘determining why any woman would accept a strange man’s hospitality—even if he is driving a Bentley—unless she’s either very foolish or hoping to gain something out of it.’
Of course. Rayne bit the inside of her cheek.
‘I suppose in normal circumstances I wouldn’t even have considered it,’ she told him, finding her tongue. ‘But in view of his age and the fact that he said he had a house full of staff to look after me, I thought I’d be perfectly safe.’
‘And were you aware of who he was?’ he enquired. ‘Before he brought you home with
