take the chance that he still had the same number as the one she’d been weak enough to keep on her own phone in a last attempt to reach him.
What would Adnan do if Raoul revealed all he knew about her own past, and her sister’s? Would he go through with the wedding? Or would he decide that even their friendship, and the prospect of keeping his promise to his grandfather to provide him with an heir, cost too much at the price of tying himself to her scandalous family? He was a friend, but was he that much of a friend?
* * *
Raoul’s phone beeped again, for perhaps the tenth time that afternoon, and a twitch of a smile curled the corners of his mouth as he saw Imogen’s name as the sender of the incoming text.
We need to talk.
‘Answer it,’ the man with him said easily.
Raoul shook his head, his shoulders lifting in a shrug of indifference.
‘It’s not important—it can wait.’
‘No, answer it. I’ll make us another drink.’
As his companion got out of his seat and strolled out of the room, Raoul reached lazily for the phone that was still buzzing annoyingly.
We have things we need to talk about.
His thumb flew over the keyboard, casually creating his reply.
I’m busy.
He waited a nicely calculated moment, then added:
I’m talking to Al Makthabi right now.
After that he deliberately switched off the phone and dropped it into his jacket pocket.
* * *
Just how long could Raoul be talking to Adnan—and about what? Imogen stared out of her bedroom window and down onto the winding drive that led to the main house, her fingers drumming against the window pane.
Her phone calls had gone straight to voicemail, her texts unanswered after that final declaration that he was with her fiancé, and she had heard nothing, seen nothing of him, for the rest of the day.
With a sigh, she rested her aching head on the hand that rested on the window pane—a hand that had been carefully manicured, the nails painted a delicate pink, ready for the moment when Adnan would place a gold ring on it and make her his wife. Behind her, the beautiful white silk dress hung outside the wardrobe, protected by a cotton covering. Imogen hadn’t been able to bring herself even to look at it since the dressmaker had delivered it. She had always had contradictory feelings about it, knowing it was part of a wedding of convenience, not a true, romantic marriage of love. But now she felt the nerves tightening in her throat and stomach as her eyes blurred after too long spent watching to see when Raoul would appear.
‘I think I need an early night, to be fresh for tomorrow,’ she’d told her father, knowing there was no chance at all she would sleep.
Even if Raoul returned soon, Ciara was still out somewhere in the dark, wet night, the sudden storm and driving rain taking all trace of summer from the atmosphere. She would never be able to settle until she knew her sister was safe.
The glare of headlights drew her attention, warning her that a car was arriving. Squinting through the rain, she saw the sleek, dark vehicle draw to a halt at the door and three male figures get out, heads bent as they dashed through the rain and up the steps.
‘At last!’
Now, surely, she would have a chance to try to get the truth out of Raoul, to find out just what fiendish scheme was in his mind. Would he let the wedding go ahead tomorrow or did he plan to spoil it somehow?
The shudder that ran through her was as if the window had suddenly blown wide open, letting the rain in. She had changed into her nightwear when she’d come up to the room, but now the strappy nightie felt too cold, too little protection against the chill of the night, so she turned from the window, reaching for her robe as an extra layer of warmth. Adnan had been one of the men who’d arrived; she recognised the distinctive leather jacket he wore. Her father had been another. How could she manage this without being seen by these two men? She couldn’t bear to wait until everyone was asleep. The burn of apprehension and fear was bad enough already.
Her question was answered by her father’s voice down in the hall declaring that he had a fine whisky to share.
‘We could have a nightcap...?’ he offered jovially.
‘Not for me, thanks. I’m going to turn in.’ That was Raoul; the sexy accent made it clear.
As heavy male footsteps came up the stairs, the sound of the library door swinging shut behind the other two men made Imogen sag against the wall in relief. At last she was free to make her way to Raoul’s room, and she wasn’t going to leave without some much-needed answers.
But she couldn’t head for Raoul’s bedroom openly—across the main landing, straight to his door. That would be just asking for trouble.
Luckily, Blacklands House was old enough to have many secrets, amongst which were the hidden passages that linked one room to another by a series of stone steps. Much of her childhood had been spent running along these passages, learning how to get into them from every room and where each one came out.
The fake wall beside the bookcase was easy to open if you pressed one of the plaster roses that decorated it. Slipping inside, she made her way along the passage in darkness, bare feet making no sound. It was as she pushed slightly open the secret entry door into Raoul’s room that she heard the main door open again down in the hall. At last, Ciara was home. Now she needed to make sure that her sister’s fears—and her own—could be put behind them. Somehow, she had to convince Raoul not to ruin the wedding, or to drag Ciara’s name any further through the mud than it had been already.
The roar of the elderly shower from the bathroom hid the sound of the door sliding closed behind her as she crept into the room.
* * *
Raoul reached up and switched off the shower with a violent snap of his wrist. It had taken an age for the damn thing to run even close to warm, never mind hot, and he was far from feeling the relaxation he had hoped for.
Grabbing a towel, he rubbed it roughly over his soaking hair, thankful that the short, cropped cut retained little of the water. It was so damn cold in this ramshackle place; no hint of warmth in the old-fashioned bathroom.
‘Nom de Dieu!’ he swore explosively, tossing the damp towel aside and reaching for another, slinging it around his hips and fastening it tight. It was supposed to be summer!
But it wasn’t just the weather that was turning his mood sour, he knew. It was being here at all that was the problem. Being here, surrounded by the beauty of the countryside, the magnificence of the spectacular animals that grazed in the field, and knowing that the whole enterprise was rotten to the core; that there was no money to support the business and everything was in hock to the bank. Even the magnificent stallion Blackjack... Knowing that he had been conned into paying stud fees for a horse that didn’t actually belong to Joe O’Sullivan burned like acid in his gut.
Rubbing the back of his hand across his face to wipe away the moisture, he padded across the tiled floor, wrenching the handle to yank the door
