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
