‘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
