midriff, that small waist that most women would die for, that enviably flat stomach with its tantalising navel, the creamy camber of her hips. He wanted to coil his arm around her, draw her close as he had done when she had been struck back there on the Ramblas, only not to protect her this time, he realised shamefully, but to feel her warmth, the silky softness of her skin beneath his hands…
Blast her! He was thinking just like some smitten youth. He put a chastening clamp on his thoughts, picking up the small red document still lying on the table and handing it to her.
‘Do you always carry your passport around with you?’ That, too, was whisked from his hand to disappear with the rest of her things into the canvas holdall. ‘I was burgled twice when I was…’ She paused, looking at him as though weighing up what she was about to say. ‘Anyway, ever since, I’ve kept it with me. Anyone who wants it will have to get past me first,’ she told him determinedly, adding as a very pointed afterthought, ‘and that includes you!’
Kane studied her with a dubious lift of an eyebrow. ‘I’m sure you’re strong enough to fend off anyone,’ he commented wryly.
Her smile would have dazzled any man, but he wasn’t fooled. She wasn’t at all impressed by his remark.
‘I don’t think it would be a bad idea for you to lie down for a while,’ he advised, bringing her below into the luxuriously appointed berth of the forward cabin with its pale lacquered furniture and queen-size bed. ‘You look as though a bit of extra rest wouldn’t do you any harm. And the shower…’ He indicated the glass door leading off the bedroom. ‘When you’ve freshened up, I’ll bring you some tea.’
‘Thanks.’
She looked like a waif, he thought, standing there in her shabby combats and little red top with that ridiculous slogan printed across it. Not like the heiress to a multimillion-pound concern whose difficulties she could have no concept of, and in which she certainly had no interest beyond the lifestyle it provided her with, he reminded himself with his jaw tightening. She might have been just some ordinary girl he had plucked off the street, if he hadn’t known better—felt the deadly appeal in that dangerous vulnerability of hers that called to everything that was masculine in him…
‘You said you drew the line.’
‘What?’ She pivoted round, startled. Obviously she thought he had already left.
‘At other people’s husbands,’ he said softly.
She looked at him askance, some dark emotion crossing her lovely face, making him instantly regret having brought it up. Why had he? he wondered. To remind himself of just how dangerous she was? To protect himself? She was just a girl, for heaven’s sake! What protection did he need?
‘Yes.’ She gave a careless shrug. ‘Well, you know how the saying goes. Once bitten—twice shy.’
He couldn’t help the quip that slipped from his lips. ‘Is that why you asked if I was married, Shannon?’
As the cabin door clicked closed behind him, Shannon felt like throwing something at it. So she’d made a mistake. Been a poor judge of character. But why, oh, why, had Kane felt compelled to bring it up?
He was still treating her like the super-rich bitch the taw-drier papers had named her back home, she thought with an aching regret for the reputation she had unwittingly cultivated, and which she had left England to escape. And yet it was Kane’s harsh opinion of her that had hurt her most, and still did, she realised hopelessly, dropping her grubby bag down onto the pale coverlet of the bed, before sliding back the door to the en suite.
The oyster-coloured shower and basin and the blending marble of the counter tops brought a small, appreciative curve to her lips. It seemed a long time since she had enjoyed luxury like this. It was something she had relinquished when she had decided to make a bid for freedom, run from the gossip and the papers, from her father’s dictatorship and increasing disapproval, and stand on her own two feet.
There was no evidence of Kane’s occupation in here though, and, grateful for a few moments’ respite from her profoundly disturbing awareness of him, she ran the taps and splashed water onto her face, wishing, as she watched the water swirl out of the basin, that she could as easily erase her memories of the past.
She had been nine years old when her mother had died after a riding accident, and forever afterwards Ranulph Bouvier hadn’t known what to do with his fast-developing, much too adventurous daughter. Her life had become a series of expensive boarding schools and, during the holidays, trips abroad with whatever grudging member of his staff he could pay to accompany her. What she had wanted—needed—was her father’s love and affection, but he was always too busy, too preoccupied to give her any time. Instead he had indulged her to the nth degree. Fast cars. Jewellery. Clothes. And, of course, holidays. She had had it all, but unfortunately, Shannon thought sadly, it wasn’t enough. She would have forfeited all the trappings of her father’s wealth for a loving and harmonious relationship with him—to be able to talk to him about her dreams and aspirations, have her opinions taken seriously—but Ranulph Bouvier wasn’t the sort of man who would listen to anyone.
Perhaps it was his refusal to accept that she wanted to do something more worthwhile with her life than simply support a suitable husband, as her mother had, that had set her on that course of single-minded rebellion. The all-night parties. The publicity. The questionable company. At the time it had seemed to fulfil a need for the love and attention that was missing from her life; a need to be noticed. But the fulfilment was superficial and short-lived, like every relationship she tried to form with any of the men who pursued her. And as her disillusionment grew, so did her father’s disapproval. He didn’t like the way she was behaving: her inability to stick with one boyfriend, the adverse publicity she was courting. Didn’t she know she was making a fool of herself? Developing the worst possible kind of reputation? But she couldn’t help it if every man she took an interest in just seemed to be after her money, her body, or both.
All except Kane Falconer, that was.
Replacing the towel on its gleaming rail, she moved back into the bedroom. The large bed with its plump pillows beckoned invitingly, and the blind at its porthole was pulled down against the fierce heat of the Spanish sun.
Perhaps she would do as he’d suggested, she thought, and lie down for a while. The problem in town was going to take some time to sort out and it would be ludicrous even considering going home until it was safe.
Subsiding onto the sumptuous bed, she tried not to think about where Kane slept when he was on board. Nevertheless, she couldn’t prevent him from intruding unsettlingly on her thoughts, just as he had been doing since she was seventeen.
She had been dangerously affected by the man from the moment she had first set eyes on him, the day she had called into the modern Bouvier office building and seen him sitting there behind her father’s desk, as if he belonged there.
He hadn’t looked up for a moment, but a moment was all it had taken for the full impact of those compelling good looks and that hard virility to print themselves forever on her consciousness.
Staring down at his groomed dark head, at the breadth of his shoulders beneath the sophisticated cut of his dark jacket, she had started fidgeting, a little irritated that he hadn’t noticed her. Everyone noticed her. She had been wearing a black silk suit that day with her hair swept up, and she could still remember how sensuously the low-cut jacket and trousers moved against her body.
He had looked up then, as though it had only just dawned on him that she was
