Читать книгу The Balfour Legacy - Ким Лоренс, Кэрол Мортимер - Страница 28

AFTER Carlos had gone, Kat was left with the stinging realisation that she’d never had to clean up after anyone.

At all the different schools she’d attended—before being kicked out of most of them—there had always been someone else to make the beds and do the laundry for the privileged schoolgirls. Even at home, she’d managed to wriggle out of helping with domestic chores—maybe because her kindly and efficient mother had been a bit of a pushover.

When her mother had divorced Oscar and married Victor, it had been a fairly amicable arrangement for all concerned. But even so, Tilly Balfour had been so racked with guilt over the inevitable disruption it had caused that she’d tried to cushion her three daughters against any emotional fallout by spoiling them just a little. And Kat, being the youngest, had been very easy to spoil.

And then when Tilly’s new husband had been posted to Sri Lanka, there had been servants galore to run around after the whole family. Until…

Kat blinked back the tears which could still catch her by surprise, even all these years later. But for once the thought was stubbornly refusing to be blocked.

When Victor had been killed—murdered—nobody in their right mind was going to ask Kat to do anything she didn’t want to do. And if they did, then she usually turned her back on it and ran away.

But now suddenly that had all changed. Because for the first time in her life—quite literally—there was nowhere for her to run. And she was faced with a man she could not twist around her little finger. A man she still desired, no matter how much she tried to deny it.

She felt the acrid rise of panic in her throat—but with an effort she forced herself to crush it because what good would panicking do? It would paralyse her as much as stubborn defiance, and she could afford to do neither. Because even though she hated to admit it, she could see that if she wanted to get off this boat she was going to have to make some kind of an effort. To co-operate with Carlos Guerrero, even though every fibre of her being screamed out in protest.

Kat set off to explore the galley, where she found a cupboard containing an army of brushes, buckets and cloths as well as a confusing array of cleaning products, and she carried a selection of these down into the dining salon and set to work.

The first thing she did was to dispose of the gold bikini top, gingerly picking it up as if it was contaminated and chucking it into a black bin-liner. With a smile of satisfaction on her lips, she threw all the left-over food on top of it and watched the gleaming fabric sink beneath the weight of a banana skin. After that, she piled up all the crockery and china onto a tray and carried the whole lot down into the galley, and left it by the side of the sink before going back upstairs.

With the table now clear, she gave the place a quick wipe and sprayed some furniture polish in the air for added effect because she remembered reading somewhere that this would make the room smell clean. And then, her tasks completed and with no sign of Carlos returning from his boat trip, she slipped into a bikini of her own, found a magazine and went to lie by the swimming pool.

It should have been heaven basking there—with the warmth of the sun stealing over her skin and the sound of the waves swishing rhythmically against the boat. But in truth, Kat felt jittery and couldn’t concentrate on any of the iconic fashion images which usually held her attention—because a face with glittering black eyes and a mocking stare kept breaking into her thoughts and unsettling her.

She did her best to enjoy the hours which drifted by and eventually fell into a fitful sleep—only jumping into half wakefulness by the sound of a distant drone and then by the certainty that someone was watching her. Her eyes fluttered open to see that her thoughts had become reality and a shadow had fallen over her—its hard, dark outline making her heart leap into an annoyingly dizzy and familiar beat. Kat felt her throat dry. Carlos!

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ came a low and disbelieving voice.

She’d tidied up his salon, hadn’t she? Put on that stupid apron and buzzed around like Mrs Mop? Yanking the straps of her bikini back up, she sat up and pushed the hair away from her face. ‘What does it look like?’

‘It looks,’ he gritted out, trying very hard not to let his gaze linger on the miniscule bikini she was wearing, ‘as if you’re just indulging in a little more of the same of your idle, jet-set lifestyle.’

‘I’ve done what you asked me to do!’

‘Oh, really?’ he questioned dangerously.

‘Yes, really,’ she defended. ‘I’ve tidied up the mess left by you and your tame journalist—’

‘You think so? Then I must beg to differ, Princesa. You’ve left it only half done,’ he corrected coldly. ‘The salon is not properly clean and I understand you haven’t even bothered to wash up.’

‘So?’

‘So, you’d better get it into that little air-brain head of yours that I am used to perfection from my staff and you have fallen way short of that. And what about the crew’s lunch?’

‘What about it?’

‘It’s almost three o’clock. Didn’t it occur to you that they might be hungry?’

Three o’ clock? Kat stared at him blankly. ‘Is it really that time?’ she queried. ‘I had no idea—and as you know, my watch is broken—’

‘Get up when you’re talking to me!’ he roared, and then when, to his surprise, she shrugged and began effortlessly to rise like some graceful Venus emerging from a shell, he instantly regretted his suggestion.

Because if he’d thought that the little sundress she’d been sashaying around in earlier was sinful, then this bikini was positively X-rated. ¡Madre de Dios! Two tiny scraps of turquoise material which had been sewn with exquisite care to make a garment which was only this side of decent. Or maybe it was just the way she wore it. Her breasts seemed to be spilling over a woefully inadequate top and the bikini bottoms taunted him with two tantalising bows on either side of her hips. Bows which could be undone with a single tug of a silken piece of fabric…

Bad enough that her kiss had awoken in him an inconvenient hunger he had no intention of satisfying, but to add fuel to the fire which still smouldered within him, he was now forced to confront the stuff of fantasy.

‘And for pity’s sake, cover yourself up!’ he snapped. ‘Instead of draping yourself around the deck like some kind of latter-day Mata Hari!’

‘Who?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he retorted impatiently, tossing her a filmy sarong. ‘Put this on?’

With a scowl, Kat folded and weaved the piece of material around herself, pushing her feet into a pair of glittery flip-flops. ‘So what do you want me to do now?’ she questioned insolently.

To his fury Carlos felt the sudden hot rush of blood to his groin. Thinking that if she’d asked any other man such a question in such circumstances as these, she might find herself being pushed back on that sun lounger and having the turquoise bikini peeled away from her body. And this time he just might not have the self-control to stop…

Carlos swallowed down the dryness in his throat. ‘Just go and get dressed,’ he ordered tersely. ‘And then come back here.’

Infuriated by his peremptory tone, Kat was tempted to disobey him just for the hell of it, but the rebellion had left her by the time she reached her cabin. Because hadn’t she already decided that there was no point in fighting him—other than an enduring battle of wills which Carlos would surely win, simply because he was in the dominant position of power? No. Better to co-operate. To make an attempt to do the wretched man’s bidding and pray that time passed quickly.

Peeling off her bikini, she changed into a pair of linen trousers and T-shirt. She even twisted the thick fall of her dark hair into a practical knot and pulled on the dreaded apron, regarding her reflection in the mirror with a grimace. Why, she was scarcely recognisable as herself!

He was waiting where she’d left him, talking into a cellphone, his dark features shuttered as he finished his conversation.

‘Buy,’ he was saying softly. ‘But don’t go any higher than forty. No. No. De eso ni hablar. Sí.’

He glanced up as Kat approached, his black eyes narrowing as he terminated the connection, surprised to see that she had fallen in completely with his wishes and had covered up. The turquoise bikini had been consigned to fevered memory, but although almost every centimetre of her flesh was no longer visible, her outfit did little to deter the heated progression of his thoughts.

She should have looked demure, but somehow she failed on every level because now he knew only too well what lay beneath. He could picture her creamy-caramel flesh beautifully naked, with all its enticing shadows which beckoned a man to the places where nature had intended for him to linger. The firm curve of buttock and breast, and the delicious honey-sweet destination between her thighs.

‘Is that better?’ asked Kat.

‘Marginally better,’ he conceded thickly.

‘What were you buying on the phone just now?’

‘Property.’

‘Is that what you do, then?’

‘Some of what I do. And stop trying to change the subject. Just go back down to the galley and wash up all the dishes which I’m told you left dumped on the side. And after that, you can make a start on dinner. Do you think you can manage that?’

The fact that he obviously didn’t think she could rankled, and a long-forgotten streak of pride made Kat nod her head. How difficult could it be to knock up a meal? ‘Of course I can manage,’ she said haughtily.

But once she’d made her way downstairs, Kat found herself wondering just what she had agreed to. What the hell could she cook for seven hungry men, including one she knew would be exacting and waiting to take her to task if she made the slightest mistake? Especially as she’d never cooked a meal for anyone in her life.

She thought back to all the different restaurants she’d eaten in over the years. Surely one of those could give her a bit of inspiration? What about that amazing, award-winning place in the centre of Paris, where they’d served a whole duck smothered with a delicious, creamy sauce and everyone around the table had sighed in delight? Couldn’t she do the same sort of thing with the giant fish which was currently wrapped in newspaper at the back of the fridge and which, according to Mike, had been bought from a passing fishing boat that very morning? Perhaps with some sort of salad to start, leaving room for the elaborate kind of pudding which all men seemed to love?

But events seemed to be conspiring against her, even though she attempted to use the remaining hours as constructively as possible. The oven took some getting used to—and in between all the juggling of ingredients and familiarizing herself with an astonishingly large store cupboard, there was still the table to lay.

‘Where does Carlos usually eat?’ she asked Mike distractedly.

‘It varies,’ answered Mike, snapping open a can of cold cola and then swallowing half of it. ‘Sometimes with us, sometimes up on deck. Depends if he’s working—usually he has some big deal on and rarely comes up for air, and it’s best to leave him be. He’s…well, he’s a bit of a loner.’ The engineer shrugged, and smiled. ‘But when he eats with the crew—well, he’s pretty laid-back.’

Kat didn’t respond to that. Personally, she found Carlos Guerrero about as laid-back as a piranha fish. but she was not going to let her own feelings ruin what she was determined was going to be a fantastic meal.

‘He seems to want breakfast at the crack of dawn—and my watch is broken,’ she said slowly.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Mike. ‘I can lend you an alarm clock if it helps. He’s dead hot on punctuality.’

Kat grimaced. ‘So I gather.’

The evening didn’t start very promisingly. All her timings were out so that the fish was cooked before the starter was even ready, the sauce she’d cobbled together had started to curdle and she forgot all about the accompanying vegetables until the last minute. With a grimace she lifted up the lid of the boiling potatoes—only for a cloud of steam to hit her in the face and make her feel as if she’d been thrown into a sauna.

There wasn’t even enough time for her to touch up her make-up and brush her hair before the hungry crew arrived. They crowded in a cluster around the table outside, onto which she’d just piled a haphazard collection of crockery and glasses.

And then Carlos appeared, looking infuriatingly cool and sexy. He had clearly found time to shower and change because the thick black hair was still damp and Kat thought she could detect the raw clean tang of sandalwood.

For a moment he just stood there, surveying the general air of disarray—and his mouth twisted.

‘Has someone trashed the boat while I’ve been showering, or are you trying to sabotage the meal in order to prove a point, Princesa?’

An image of Carlos in the shower was the last thing Kat needed to add to her already-shot nerves, and a renewed waft of sandalwood as he waved a disparaging arm around didn’t help. She gritted her teeth in a grim replica of a smile. ‘Would…would you like to sit down?’

‘Where?’ he questioned pointedly.

Kat leant over and cleared a space at the table. ‘Right there. Dinner is about to be served.’

‘I can hardly wait.’

Horrible, sarcastic tyrant! I’ll show him, vowed Kat silently, as she went back into the cramped galley to prod at a boiling potato which unfortunately still had the consistency of a rock. She tipped salad onto eight plates and drizzled on some of the dressing she’d made, trying desperately to remember what was supposed to go in it, but afraid to ask for fear of looking stupid.

But she knew the moment that everyone had started eating that something was wrong.

‘Is every thing…okay?’ she questioned.

There was a brief but loaded silence.

‘Salad dressing which tastes of washing-up liquid is an interesting innovation, querida, but perhaps it’s easy to see why it hasn’t yet come to dominate the market,’ came Carlos’s sarcastic assessment, and Kat felt like hurling a dish at his arrogant face as the rest of the crew burst into relieved laughter and pushed their barely touched plates away.

The main course was no better. The fish was stone-cold, the potatoes still rock-hard and the overambitious sauce had congealed into a horrible mess around the plate. As Carlos pointed out, it was a waste of a perfectly good fish, and once again Kat ended up scraping most of it into the garbage.

She felt hot from the heat of the kitchen when she appeared on deck again after crushing amaretto biscuits and cooking some mixed berries which now resembled roadkill. They looked up at her expectantly. Seven faces in all, but Kat could see only one. It swam before her line of vision with cold ebony eyes that mocked her which made her aware that her face must be flushed and her hair falling down.

‘Everyone ready for pudding?’

‘What kind of pudding?’ questioned Mike.

‘I’m calling it “Berry Surprise”,’ said Kat brightly.

Carlos took a mouthful of wine and put his glass down, a sardonic smile curving the edges of his lips. ‘Please, no more surprises—not tonight—I don’t think I could take it.’ There was an answering peal of laughter from the other men before he fixed her with a cool stare. ‘I don’t really think you’re up to it—at least, not tonight. Perhaps you could bring some cheese and fruit upstairs and I’ll eat there instead.’

She wanted to tell him to get it himself. That she wasn’t his slave. But in a way, that’s exactly what she was. And if she threw some sort of tantrum about her treatment, wouldn’t that only increase his glaring contempt for her?

And stupidly, his assessment hurt. Really hurt. I don’t really think you’re up to it. With those few wounding words he had made her feel so…so inferior. And the trouble was that he had been right. Was he a man who enjoyed wounding, she wondered bitterly, and was that why he had been such a success as a bullfighter?

Determined to salvage something of the evening, Kat put a ridiculous amount of care into arranging a dish for him, washing and drying all the fruit and arranging it in an artful rainbow display. Placing two pieces of cheese at the dish’s centre, she added bread and crackers and took it upstairs, to a deck that was washed with moonlight and empty save for a tall figure which dominated the skyline.

Carlos was leaning over the rail, looking out to sea—and there was something so silent and imposing about his frozen stance that, for a moment, Kat just stood in the shadows silently watching him. Seemingly lost in thought, she’d never seen anyone looking quite so alone before—nor quite so comfortable with his own sense of solitude.

And despite his wounding words, she found herself realising that she knew little of the man who was now effectively her employer. Not even how old he was. Midthirties, perhaps—maybe more, for his handsome face was hard and lined with experience and he carried with him a habitual and faint air of cynicism. Why hadn’t he settled down with a wife and a family, she wondered, when women must have been beating a path to his door for most of his adult life? Was it because, as Mike had said, he was a true loner?

He must have heard her, or sensed her presence, because he turned round and Kat forced herself to stir into life, to step out of the shadows and into his private circle of silver moonlight.

‘I’ll…I’ll put this over here,’ she said, holding the platter up, her voice suddenly faltering and she wasn’t sure why. ‘Is that okay?’

‘Thanks.’

He watched as she bent over the table, the dark hair falling in untidy strands around her face and the linen she wore now looking crumpled. And yet she looked…delicious—more womanly than at any other time he’d seen her, and curiously accessible without her ridiculous high-fashion status symbols and dripping with jewels. Her face was flushed with heat and the effects of probably the only honest day’s work she’d ever done.

How ironic that this sexy creature was as unlike the real Kat Balfour as it was possible to imagine.

Kat straightened up to find the ebony eyes fixed on her and, as she stared into the shadowed and shuttered features, her heart began a strange, rhythmical pounding. Nervously, her tongue flicked over her lips as she looked up into the impenetrable black eyes. ‘Will…will there be anything else?’

Oh, what a question, he thought wryly. Innocent or deliberately provocative? Was she doing her best to slip into her role as domestic, or simply acknowledging the silent hunger which was sizzling between them? He felt the thud of his heart. As if sexy Kat Balfour would ever do innocence! ‘No. Nothing else.’ He shook his head as he read the silent yearning on her face—was she mirroring something of his own, he wondered frustratedly.

She went to walk past him but something made him stop her. Something in the gleam of moonlight which glanced off the thick abundance of her dark hair and arrested his attention as much as the pure lines of her perfect profile and the parted promise of her soft lips.

He stayed her with a touch of his hand to her bare forearm and she looked down at it and then up at him and he could feel her shiver beneath him. Could feel an answering tremor in his own body—the familiar tightening, like a bow being stretched by the sharp point of the arrow.

‘Kat,’ he murmured, barely aware that he had said her name.

All Kat was aware of was the wild black buccaneer curls which framed the shuttered face. The way that the moonlight cast indigo shadows on the golden-olive skin. The powerful physique and the long, long legs. She swallowed. It was as if he had cast some dark and silken net over her, rendering her incapable of sensible thought and feeling. Making her world telescope down and focus on the vibrant allure of the Spaniard. He had done it unconsciously on the night of the Balfour Ball but now she was certain that he was doing it deliberately. Why? Why? Was he simply playing with her—as a cat played with a foolish mouse before it moved in for the careless kill?

‘Stop it,’ she whispered, hardly realising what she was saying.

‘Stop what?’ he echoed.

‘Making me…’ Embarrassed now, her words tailed off—for how could she possibly admit to him what she didn’t even want to acknowledge to herself?

Yet it seemed that Carlos had no such similar qualms, for he gave her a mocking smile.

‘Stop making you want me?’ he taunted softly. ‘But I’m not. You’re doing that all by yourself. You just can’t help yourself, can you, Kat?’

She shook her head, rooted to the spot as if he had turned her into a statue. Where was the wisecracking Kat now? The woman who was left cold by members of the opposite sex? ‘Yes, I can,’ she whispered, but even to her own ears the denial sounded phony.

‘Liar.’ His voice dipped to become a verbal caress. ‘I can read your desire for me in your eyes—it’s so obvious that you might as well be carrying a banner saying so. And I can see it in your lips too—their beautiful pout forgotten. Everything forgotten, in fact—because there’s only one thing on your mind and we both know what that is.’

‘Please!’ Her protest came out like a squeak—and now she even sounded like a mouse. Was that because she couldn’t bring herself to inject the word with any real conviction? Because despite Carlos’s clear disdain for her on so many levels, she stupidly wanted him just as much as she’d always wanted him?

‘You’re longing for me to kiss you, aren’t you, Kat?’ he mused. ‘To kiss you—only this time, not to stop. To lie you down and part your silken thighs and to thrust into you long and hard and deep until you cry out your pleasure.’

Kat’s knees buckled and for a very real moment she was afraid that she might faint, because the graphic words were only increasing her desire. And how shameful was that? Tell him no. Tell him no and then push past him and go back down to the galley. He might be a practised seducer with a cruel tongue which could lash out at her, but she doubted that he would actually pull her into his arms and take her by force. Hating herself for the shiver of longing which accompanied this dark fantasy, Kat stayed mute.

‘Aren’t you?’ he prompted silkily.

Her desire became intolerable. Unbearable. She fought and fought it but in the end it was no good. ‘Yes!’ she burst out at last. ‘Yes, I am!’

Carlos nodded, recognising what it must have cost her to admit it. ‘Well, that makes two of us,’ he said unsteadily, and leaned forward to kiss her unprotesting lips.

She had expected urgency. A rapid escalation into full-blown desire. An unashamed seduction. But Kat was wrong. Instead, he slowly pushed the fallen strands of hair away from her face as if he had all the time in the world, studying it like a scientist looking through a microscope for some rogue cell. He let his gaze drift from her brow to her eyes, then slowly down until it focused entirely upon her lips, and she felt them automatically part beneath his scrutiny.

‘Flawless,’ he said slowly, shaking his head a little. ‘Absolutely flawless.’

The kiss, when it came, was nothing like she expected. More of a graze than a kiss—a quicksilver brush of his lips against hers. And then again. Back and forth his mouth teased her, light as a butterfly and as tantalising as the first warmth of the morning sun. His breath was warm and she could smell his own particular raw, clean scent. It was a kiss which managed to be both innocent and sensual all at the same time. Nothing more than that, but enough to make Kat sway and weaken.

‘Oh!’ she breathed, and hungrily she reached for him.

But, using an expertise which he’d employed more than most men—often to literally save his own skin in the bullring—Carlos neatly sidestepped the movement. Putting out his hand he caught and steadied her, though he kept his body at an untouchable distance from hers, his face tight with tension. Because this was, in a way, the ultimate demonstration of his formidable control over his body.

‘No. No.’ There was a moment while he steadied his breath, and when he spoke he seemed to be speaking to himself as much as to her. ‘I can’t do it,’ he said flatly.

Incredulity made her voice falter even while her body screamed out for the closeness of his. ‘C-can’t?’

Carlos narrowed his eyes. Did the little witch think he was incapable of giving her what she wanted? ‘Forgive me if I have not made myself clear, Princes a. Sometimes when I speak in English, the subtleties of your language escape me. What I should have said is that I won’t make love to you.’ Her bright blue eyes continued to stare at him in puzzled query. Maldición, but she was persistent. And shameless, he reminded himself. For a woman like this was used to getting exactly what she wanted—and she wanted him. Too bad. ‘It would be an abuse of my role as your employer,’ he finished softly.

The rejection hurt more than it should have done and the telltale pricking of her eyes warned her that she might be about to do something intolerable, like burst into tears. And that Mr Ego might think she was crying over him. As if she would ever shed a tear over a man as unfeeling as Carlos Guerrero!

But Kat knew she needed to get away from here—and quickly—before he inflicted any more emotional damage on her.

As she lifted her head with a proud gesture, she was grateful at that moment for all the poise which her years as a Balfour had taught her. All the showy affairs where she had learnt to put on a careless expression.

‘You’re probably right,’ she said, and the surprised narrowing of his eyes gave her the courage to continue, even though her voice was threatening to tremble. ‘Affairs in the work place are never a good idea, or so they tell me. So if you’ve got everything you want, I’ll go downstairs and start clearing up.’

Just let him try to stop me, she thought fiercely, as she brushed past him. Just let him try.

But he didn’t try. Although his shuttered black eyes were watchful, he let her go without a further word.

And frustration only increased her bitter sense of rejection, as Kat half ran from the deck and back downstairs to the galley with tears blinding her eyes.