‘A little.’ The Duchess had ensured Kaitlin was fluent in a number of languages.
‘You must be prepared, Kaitlin, should you marry into European aristocracy.’
‘As part of your job?’
‘No. I work in an art gallery.’ No harm in sharing that fact; lots of people worked in art galleries, after all.
He speared a pinxto and surveyed her thoughtfully. ‘So, are you here on business? Barcelona has plenty of art.’
Kaitlin shook her head. ‘This trip is personal.’
‘Are you in trouble?’
The unexpectedness of the question caused her to tense, and a drop of sangria slopped over the edge of her glass and hit the wooden table. Placing her glass down carefully, Kaitlin mopped up the red liquid with a napkin, watching the cloth absorb the ruby stain.
‘We had this conversation earlier and I said no.’
‘I know you did. I’m not sure I believe you.’
‘I’m not in trouble. I came to Barcelona because I needed some space. Tonight I want to forget the past and the future and live in the present.’
An arrested expression flickered across his face in the candlelit alcove. ‘A night of freedom?’ he said, quoting her words from earlier.
‘Yes.’
Daniel raised his glass. ‘To your night of freedom.’
His blue eyes met hers and what she saw shot a funny little thrill through her and she stilled. The sheer unfamiliarity of the sensation made her light-headed, made her dizzy with its intensity, and her body felt energised as every nerve-end tingled in anticipation.
The hours danced by, and the air was tinged with motes of awareness as they talked of everything and nothing. By mutual unspoken consent the conversation veered away from the personal, so they discussed music, films and philosophy. But every word was punctuated by a growing expectancy—a heady underlying responsiveness and a growing realisation of where the evening might end up.
Eventually they shared a dessert, a decadent dark chocolate concoction, and as she spooned up the last sumptuous bite she met his gaze, saw desire ignite in his eyes. Then gently he took the spoon from her suddenly nerveless fingers and placed it on the plate. The chink of metal on china rang loud in her ear.
Oh, so gently he reached out and ran his thumb across her lower lip. She gasped—a small, involuntary sound—at the potency of her own reaction. Sensation uncoiled in her tummy...a need she’d never felt before. Without thought she cupped his jaw, wondered at the feel of his six o’clock shadow. Then his lips descended to hers and the world seemed to stop.
There was the taste of coffee and chocolate, the whirling rush of need, and the intense, sweet pleasure that streamed through her veins and sent a tingling rush to every bit of her body. Never before had she felt like this.
He pulled back, his breathing ragged, and he looked at her with such intensity as he said her name. ‘Lynette...’
It was a reminder that she had this night and this night only. Ideas swirled round her head. A touch of fear as to whether she could do this, however much she wanted to—and, dammit, she wanted to.
For one grim instant the image of her dark, bearded kidnapper splayed through her vision, and then she looked at Daniel and the picture faded, dissipated by the white-hot burn of desire.
‘I think we should move this somewhere else.’
‘Are you sure?’
She was so sure—because she knew that these feelings could never happen to Lady Kaitlin. Perhaps because of the horror of what had happened during the kidnap... Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. The fact remained that the odds were she would never feel like this again, and right now, caught in the sheer, dizzying sensual mesh of desire, Kaitlin knew she wanted this man. Against all reason it felt right. It could only be for one night, but so be it.
‘Yes. I’m sure.’
Nine months later...
DANIEL HARRINGTON PAUSED on the threshold of the immense marquee, his ice-blue eyes scanning the wedding guests with ruthless disregard. One part of his brain registered the glorious elegance that graced the wedding reception of Gabriel Derwent, Earl of Wycliffe, heir to the Duke of Fairfax. The sumptuous drapes of organza, the glittering twinkle of the fairy lights and the splash of colour provided by the overhanging Chinese lanterns. The delicate scent of flowers pervaded the air—gloriosa and hyacinth, decked the canvas in lavish arrangements.
But in truth Daniel had no interest in the décor, and limited interest in the bride and groom. He was here for one reason and one reason only, and his eyes continued their systematic search, skipping over the rich, the famous and the ordinary on a quest to find Lady Kaitlin Derwent—sister to the groom, and the bride’s maid of honour.
Earlier in the proceedings he’d watched her walk down the aisle amidst a bevy of bridesmaids, all dressed in different jewel shades, a medley of beauty. But the only woman he’d been interested in was her, Lady Kaitlin, and as he’d studied her poised, graceful movements suspicion had begun the conversion process to confirmation.
Yet it was still nigh on impossible to believe that the poised Titian-haired beauty, clad in expensive designer teal-green, was the same woman he’d met nine months before in a Barcelona hotel. But as the hymns and the vows had resonated from the rafters of the picturesque medieval church his gaze had never once ceased its lingering on her beautiful features, and certainty had dawned.
Daniel had no doubt whatsoever that ‘Lynette’ and Katlin Derwent were one and the same.
Now, in the vast marquee that housed the reception party, he located her. Stood in a corner, deep in conversation with a tall blond man he knew to be Prince Frederick, ruler of the Principality of Lycander. Raw emotion slammed into his gut. Anger alongside the unwanted sting of desire and a primal instinct that yelled mine.
Instinctively he bunched his hands into fists.
Cool it, Dan. Violence no longer featured in his life as a solution, and initiating a brawl was not an option. After all, Prince Frederick was blameless in this whole sorry mess, and it shouldn’t matter to Daniel that Kaitlin’s hand rested on the Prince’s forearm as she looked up at him.
Yet anger at her deception still pulsed in his veins. Along with the memory of his sense of loss and chagrin when he’d woken up in the swish Barcelona hotel to find no sign of the woman he’d shared such an amazing night with. Not so much as a blonde hair curled on the pillow had spoken of her presence. No strand or fibre of clothing. Just an elusive trace of her rose scent, and the ache in his body that had awoken him in the expectation of her still being beside him.
Then had come worry—heightened by the fact that it had been her first time...a fact she had refused to elaborate on or discuss. Had he mistaken the wonder of the night? Did she have regrets that her first experience had been with a stranger?
Then
