to Myron, who she could tell was making a big effort to be nice to her. She kept expecting him to berate her for her impetuosity in running away, but instead he asked her about life at Poonbarra—and it was all she could do to keep the wistfulness from her voice. And she detected an undeniable sense of relief in his attitude towards her. Was the King glad that his troublesome little sister was soon to be off his hands at last—passed from the care of one powerful man to another?
Rafe was seated next to Mary-Belle—with the Isolaverdian Prime Minister on the other side. Sophie watched as he charmed both her little sister and the high-ranking politician who had recently approved an extension to the country’s world-famous oceanographic museum. Who knew Rafe was such an expert on marine science, or that he’d once scuba-dived in the Galapagos? She sat and listened as he made her sister giggle. Over the top of her golden goblet she saw him smile at something the premier had said and Sophie’s heart began to pound beneath the delicate material of her silk-satin dress. He looked so gorgeous sitting there, but she thought he also seemed...distant. There were no meaningful looks slanted at her from across the wide expanse of the table. No suggestive smile. And whose fault was that? Had he noticed her lack of response earlier, or had he been so caught up in his own passion that he hadn’t noticed? She wondered if she should have faked an orgasm, yet something deep inside her baulked at the thought of doing that—because wasn’t this relationship of theirs supposed to be based on honesty?
Except it didn’t feel so honest right then. It felt as if she was hiding stuff away from him. As if she knew it would appal him to realise the direction of some of her thoughts.
It was no better when the evening broke up and they were each assigned a servant to take them to their separate suites. Rafe gave her only the briefest of kisses before they parted—but what else could he do in front of all those silent, watching faces?
She slid between the cool sheets, wondering if he would steal through the vast palace to find her, so that they could try to make right that awkward one-sided coupling of earlier. She stared up at the ceiling, realising that this was the first night they’d spent apart since that moonlit seduction in the swimming pool. Were these cold and gilded walls responsible for deadening her physical response to her lover, or was it that a lifetime of conditioning was hard to throw off overnight?
Eventually she fell into a fitful sleep, thinking about the sparkling engagement ring which Rafe would slide on her finger on the first day of the new year.
And she couldn’t shake off the thought that it seemed all wrong.
UNDER THE CURVING arches of a galleried ballroom an orchestra played and Rafe looked around him. Beneath the low murmur of voices, he could hear the occasional aristocratic laugh and bell-like sound of champagne glasses being chinked. Even for a man who had attended more than his fair share of dazzling occasions, the Isolaverdian New Year’s ball was quite something.
He could sense people’s eyes on him—at least, everyone’s except Sophie’s. She seemed to be avoiding his gaze as much as possible. He wondered if she was remembering that unsatisfactory episode of lovemaking yesterday, when she’d been about as responsive as a block of ice in his arms. His mouth flattened because that had never happened to him before—a woman staying ice-cool even while he was deep inside her body. And Sophie wasn’t some random lover he could just forget about, or decide that maybe they weren’t so compatible after all. He shook his head as someone offered him a glass of champagne. She was the woman he had vowed to make his wife and he knew it was a lifelong commitment.
A middle-aged blonde—a fortune in emeralds dazzling around her neck—was making no attempt to hide her interest and even though he was used to being stared at, it had never felt like this before. He was aware that his every movement was being observed, his every comment noted and analysed. Was this what being royal was all about—along with all the damned rules and endless protocol which seemed to make this palace seem like a giant institution? Was that the reason Sophie had been so uptight the moment she’d stepped back on familiar territory? Why she was scarcely recognisable as the warm woman he’d grown to know?
He glanced across the ballroom as she strayed into his line of vision. She was easily the most beautiful woman in the room, her dark hair studded with sapphires and a matching midnight-blue gown hugging her slim figure. But she looked cool and aloof as she greeted the high-born guests and once again that feeling of unease settled over him.
He had asked her to be his bride but he couldn’t deny that doubts had started to creep into his mind since they’d arrived here in Isolaverde. Back in New York, it had all seemed ridiculously simple. He’d been on a high—amazed to find a woman whose company didn’t irritate him and dazed from the non-stop and amazing sex. They’d each dragged out their demons and shone daylight on them and confronting them had seemed to diminish them. She’d told him she wanted a family and marriage; well, so did he. And the cherry on the cake as far as he was concerned was that neither of them was chasing after that disappointing fairy tale known as love.
But in the high-octane buzz of the city it had been easy to forget that Sophie was a royal, while here it had been in his face from the moment they’d touched down. And nothing was ever going to change that. He wanted children of his own—but hadn’t he overlooked the fact that any child he sired with Sophie would be royal by birth? As soon as they were born, wouldn’t expectation be heaped all over their innocent heads? Could he willingly subject any child of his to a life beneath the glare of the spotlight?
Sophie was walking towards him and he could see people bobbing into curtseys as she moved past. ‘So. There you are,’ she said.
‘Here I am,’ he agreed, his eyes capturing hers. ‘And I’m all yours. Dance with me?’
She nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips as he took her into his arms and the orchestra swelled into a slow and sensuous waltz. He could smell a different scent on her skin, something warm and spicy, and he felt the punch of his heart as he drew her close.
‘Having fun?’ he questioned.
‘Of course!’ Her voice sounded bright. ‘How about you?’
‘This is certainly a very elaborate production,’ he said dryly.
Now what did he mean by that? Sophie glanced up into Rafe’s hard-boned face but his shuttered features gave her no clues. She thought how unapproachable he looked this evening, even though she kept trying to tell herself she was imagining it. But deep down she knew she wasn’t. Things had been awkward between them since that disorientating episode of sex when she hadn’t felt a thing. They hadn’t discussed it because neither of them had acknowledged it—and hadn’t she been secretly praying he might not have even noticed? That his own pleasure had been powerful enough for it to have passed him by? But the truth was that he hadn’t laid a finger on her since.
Yet while his lack of attention had removed her fear of a repeat episode of unresponsiveness, it did nothing to lessen her dread about what was happening to them. Her growing fear that this was how it was going to be from now on. Her stomach tied itself up in knots as they moved around the dance floor. Because what if she was one of those women who couldn’t sustain sexual enjoyment? She’d read about that kind of thing happening. Women whose senses shut down for whatever reason, leaving their highly sexed menfolk aching and frustrated.
And she wasn’t stupid. There were plenty of reasons why a rift should have appeared between them and it wasn’t just because they weren’t having sex. She’d seen the expression on Rafe’s face when he wasn’t aware she was watching him. He reminded her of a
