Читать книгу The Balfour Legacy - Ким Лоренс, Кэрол Мортимер - Страница 29

THE alarm clock shrilled out like a fire alarm and Kat woke with a start. Fumblingly, she switched it off and made herself get straight out of bed before she fell asleep again, surprised at how deeply she’d slept. And surprised that the restless night she’d anticipated hadn’t materialised—despite the fact that Carlos had rejected her for a second time. Maybe because it had been past midnight when she’d finally crept to bed after clearing away the remains of the disastrous meal—and she’d been too tired to do anything but fall into a dreamless sleep.

Quickly, she showered, dressed and was on deck soon after six, determined to salvage something of her pride. She was not going to think of Carlos—or his teasing and provocative kisses and the fact that he seemed to like playing with her. As if it gave him some sort of kick to demonstrate his power over her. Kat stared out to sea, her lips set in a line of grim determination. What had happened couldn’t be reversed, and this morning she was damned well going to show Señor Guerrero that she was worth something.

And despite the bizarre circumstances in which she found herself and her trepidation of what the day might bring, Kat couldn’t deny the beauty of her surroundings as she stood quietly for a moment. The light was soft and milky, the sky tinged with rose and tangerine and the dark blue sea stretched towards the horizon as far as the eye could see.

Even the oven in the galley seemed like an old friend this morning so that she was able to warm the half-baked bread without mishap and assemble it on a tray with fruit and a pot of strong, dark coffee which she carried up just before seven, just as Carlos appeared, laptop under his arm.

Dressed in jeans and a soft silk shirt, his face was shuttered as he walked out onto the sun-washed deck—but the way he carried himself was so full of grace that just for a moment Kat was dazzled. How easily she could imagine him in the bullring—his head held proud and his narrow hips encased in those dark, tight breeches as he weaved a mystifying dance around a huge, quivering bull. Stop it, she told herself fiercely. Stop fantasising about him.

Hadn’t she told herself that from now on she was going to remain immune to his dark beauty? That he had little respect for her as a person and had rejected her as a woman. So why was it that she seemed to be powerless over the thunder of her heart as she carried the tray towards the table?

‘Good morning!’ she said.

Carlos watched her approach and his eyes narrowed. There was something different about her this morning and he couldn’t quite work out what it was. ‘No me lo creo,’ he observed, his voice silky. ‘I don’t believe it. The princesa is up and working—and what is more…she’s on time.’

Kat put the tray down. ‘You said breakfast at seven and here it is—I’m simply following your orders, Carlos.’

‘But I am impressed, Princesa. I was expecting sulky acquiescence.’ And hadn’t he thought that she might be a touch coquettish this morning, her body silently imploring him to carry on with what he’d so foolishly begun last night? Perhaps he had. But her attitude towards him was merely businesslike as she poured out a cup of coffee. He had been the one to suffer an agitated night spent trying to banish the memory of her soft kiss and eager body—and yet here she was, looking infuriatingly calm and rested. ‘Not such an air of docile servility,’ he finished softly.

‘Docile servility wasn’t what I was aiming for,’ Kat returned. ‘I’m just trying to do my job to the best of my ability since I seem to be stuck with it.’

‘So what’s the catch?’ he questioned softly.

‘Catch? No catch, Carlos. I’ve decided to accept my fate and do what’s required of me.’ She pushed the coffee across the table towards him. ‘But I wanted to ask you a favour.’

‘What kind of favour?’

Kat shrugged. ‘Well, I can’t possibly provide meals for the crew when I don’t really know how to cook.’

‘So what are you suggesting?’ he drawled. ‘That I fly out a trained chef to teach you how to boil an egg?’

‘I think that even I could manage an egg. Actually, I was thinking of something a little simpler.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, access to the Internet would help. I assume you have it on board?’

‘Oh, come on.’ His hard smile became edged with mockery. ‘And have you sending out SOS messages to all the admiring men in your life, asking them to come and rescue you?’

Kat shook her head. The only man she could imagine masterminding some sort of high-seas rescue mission was sitting right in front of her and he was far from admiring. ‘I’m not planning to escape. I already told you that. All I want is to find some simple recipes with simple instructions. Recipes that I might actually be able to use—and prevent some sort of mutiny from the crew.’

Carlos studied her thoughtfully. She had a point. There was no way he wanted a repeat of the fiasco they’d been forced to endure last evening. The question was—could he trust her? Should he even try? Staring down into her brilliant blue eyes, he dipped his voice. ‘But if I let you, I don’t want you wasting time.’

‘Of course not.’

‘No emails. No browsing unrelated websites.’

What a tyrant he was! ‘Maybe you’d like to stand over me and police it?’ she challenged.

He met the challenge in her eyes with one of his own. ‘Maybe I will.’ Or maybe it would be a little crazy to put temptation in his way when he was finding it harder and harder to remain immune to her aristocratic appeal.

Sipping his coffee, he studied her. This morning she’d tied the thick black hair back into a single plump plait which gave her a particularly youthful appearance—emphasised by the simple shorts, T-shirt and deck shoes she wore. But it was something else. Something other than a more casual look than she usually favoured. He frowned. ‘You’re not wearing any make-up,’ he observed slowly.

With something of a shock, Kat lifted her fingertips to her face as she realised that he was right—and that she hadn’t even noticed. She who had worn make-up every day since she’d been fifteen years old! ‘There wasn’t time this morning. To be honest I didn’t even think about it. I…I must look a fright.’

A fright? He felt the sudden beating of a pulse at his temple and the flickering throb of awareness as their eyes met. ‘On the contrary—I think it suits you,’ he said obliquely, pleased when his cellphone began to ring and he could turn his back on the crushed-petal perfection of her lips. ‘Speak to Mike about the Internet—tell him I’ve given you permission to have limited access. And I mean limited, Princesa.’

He really was a control freak, Kat thought, as she heard him begin to speak rapidly in Spanish, and she hurried down to the galley to make herself a cup of coffee.

But the tiny freedom Carlos had granted her by allowing her access to the Internet somehow shifted the balance of power, if only slightly. Very subtly it changed her attitude towards her enforced captivity. By giving her an element of responsibility, she now felt that she had something to prove to him—and she was determined to do it.

She was allocated use of the desktop computer in Carlos’s study which apparently he used mainly in winter or when the weather was inclement. His desk was bare and uncluttered—without a single family photo and barely a keepsake which might have given a clue about the identity of its owner. Only a single oil painting gave some sort of idea about what kind of life Carlos Guerrero might live when he wasn’t at sea—and it was not what Kat would have expected. Instead of some sophisticated modern canvas, the painting was of a lovely and rather old-fashioned house set in a beautiful landscape of lemon trees and distant mountains, bounded by a sky which was vast and magnificent.

Kat found herself staring at it more than once and wondering where it was—and if it had been anyone else she might have asked them. But not Carlos. Carlos didn’t really invite small talk—and hadn’t he made it crystal clear that any kind of personal interaction between the two of them was strictly off the menu?

She found a website for beginner cooks called ‘Can’t Boil An Egg?’ which was reader-friendly and took her through all the basics. And Kat soon realised that the number-one rule about successful cooking was to keep it simple. Fancy sauces and hundreds of clashing ingredients were passé—fresh and seasonal was the way to go.

She soon found that the stronger she made the coffee, the more everyone liked it—Carlos especially. And that the crew adored warm bread served with every meal, and were just as happy with cheese as a pudding afterwards.

That wasn’t to say that there were no more disasters, though none quite as bad as on that first night. She quickly learnt that it was a mistake to make ice cream unless you were a lot more experienced than she was. And Kat soon noticed a direct correlation between hard work and personal satisfaction. That if the crew—and Carlos—were happy with the meals she prepared, then she was too…

Happy? Well, that might not be the best word to choose to describe her feelings, not when she felt a sense of aching awareness every time she saw him. The memory of his kiss lingered just as potently in her mind as it ever had and reminded her how it felt to be held close to that powerful, hard body. And she’d have been a liar if she’d denied her desire to have him pull her into his arms again—only this time, not to stop. To carry on plundering her lips with that hard and hungry kiss…

She was just writing down a recipe for a green sauce to accompany some free-range chickens she’d defrosted when a shadow fell over the desk and she looked up to find Carlos standing there staring down at her, his expression inscrutable.

‘How diligently you work, Princesa,’ he said softly.

Hating herself for noticing that the top three buttons of his shirt were revealing a tantalising triangle of silken olive-gold flesh, Kat attempted an expression of cool efficiency. Not easy when her heart was pounding so loudly beneath her breast that she was surprised he hadn’t heard it.

‘Is that supposed to be a criticism?’

‘Actually, it was supposed to be a compliment.’

‘In that case…thank you.’

‘You’re welcome,’ he mocked.

Walking over to a line of leather-bound books, he ran his forefinger over the ornate gold script of an atlas, trying to analyse why he found Kat Balfour’s presence here so unsettling. Maybe because a boat was such a confined space and he was not used to being in such close proximity to a woman—not 24/7. It was too close to something Carlos didn’t do—and that something was intimacy.

Because Carlos compartmentalised his women, in the same way that he compartmentalised the rest of his life. Work came first—which was why he now owned real estate in most of the major capital cities in Europe. He rarely took a holiday—even his luxury yacht doubled as a temporary office when he was on board. Enforced relaxation made him restless—it always had.

Women were for bedding and occasionally providing a little light relief in his high-powered competitive world. The occasional dinner or breakfast with them he could tolerate, mainly because he knew that was the price you paid for sex. But the moment they started yearning for the impossible—some kind of commitment—then that was the time to kiss them goodbye. With a costly bauble which would cushion some of the pain they felt on parting.

But having Kat here…

He wondered if she knew just how different she looked from the pouting beauty who’d arrived. The absence of make-up seemed to have become a daily habit, just as she’d taken to wearing her clothes looking like she wanted to leave them on, instead of stripping them off to the sound of sultry music. Even her hair was now worn in a functional plait which fell over one shoulder.

The look should have been the antithesis of sexy, and yet ironically it was the very opposite. She looked very sexy indeed. Cinderella in reverse, Carlos thought wryly. And as she peeled off all the different layers of artifice, he thought he could catch a glimpse of the woman beneath.

‘We were thinking of taking a couple of boats over to Capraia tonight,’ he said suddenly.

‘Capraia?’ She blinked up at him. ‘What’s that?’

‘A beautiful little island where you can eat fish which has been caught about an hour previously. Want to come? We’re all going.’

Kat nodded, not wanting to appear too eager. She told herself it was nothing but a careless query and yet she felt an unmistakable fizz of excitement. Dinner—with Carlos! Okay, the rest of the crew would be there too, but who cared? Automatically, she tugged at the thick plait which dangled over her shoulder. ‘What time?’

‘We’ll leave at seven.’ Black eyes flicked over her as he thought about all the unsuitable little outfits she might choose to send the other diners’ blood pressure soaring. And his own. ‘Oh, and don’t bother getting dressed up and making some sort of fashion statement,’ he said curtly. ‘It’s a casual little place.’

Kat heard the unmistakable censure in his voice as he walked out of the study, leaving her staring blankly at the computer screen, wondering what on earth would win such an exacting man’s approval. Then she tried telling herself that she was dressing for herself—and not for anybody else.

But more than anything she wanted to fit in. To just be part of the gang—the way she’d never been before. Later that afternoon, she washed her hair and knotted it into a French plait, then changed into a simple white linen shift dress and a pair of brown leather gladiator sandals. Her face was naturally tanned, glowing from hard work and plenty of sleep and, she realised, didn’t actually need any make-up.

She was aware of Carlos’s eyes on her as she walked out on deck—and of his piercing black scrutiny as she stepped into the first boat. This was crazy, she thought faintly—they were surrounded by Mike and the others and yet she felt as self-conscious as if she were alone on a deserted beach with him.

The tiny island was a stunning pearl of a place, studded into a sea of matchless blue. Lots of different little boats bobbed around in the small harbour and the air was scented with sweet local herbs which perfumed the air the moment they stepped ashore.

Kat found herself praying that she would be seated somewhere—anywhere—as long as it was away from Carlos and his watchful black eyes. Then felt the thrill of unalloyed pleasure when he slid his long-legged form onto the narrow bench opposite her.

‘Like it?’ he questioned idly.

Drinking in the beauty of his rugged face, Kat smiled. ‘What’s not to like?’ she said softly.

Hidden by the darkness of his sunglasses, Carlos ran his eyes over her, thinking that he had never seen her looking quite so relaxed or so carefree before. The simple dress suited her—it showed off the sleek lines of her limbs. His gaze drifted to her lips, wondering how, without any gloss or colour, they still managed to symbolise a kind of wanton wildness. Especially when they parted like that…

‘Let’s have some wine,’ he said unevenly.

The waitress brought jugs of cold, red local wine to accompany the fish which they ate with rice flavoured with lentisk—an aromatic herb which Carlos told her grew prolifically on the island.

Kat put her fork down. ‘My mother would probably have heard of it.’

Black eyes narrowed. ‘Because?’

‘Well, that’s her job. She’s a cook.’

He put his fork down. ‘Your mother is a professional cook?’

‘Yes, Carlos, my mother is a cook—she runs a small bakery business. You sound surprised.’

‘Maybe that’s because I am, Princesa.’

‘You thought I’d been born with a silver spoon in my mouth?’

Thinking about her mouth again was a distraction he didn’t need. ‘Something like that.’ Carlos frowned—because, yes, he’d imagined her to have been descended from a long line of aristocrats on both sides of her family. ‘Your mother was Oscar’s third wife, right?’

‘Second,’ said Kat drily. ‘He’s a much-married man, my father.’

He drank a mouthful of wine. ‘And she was a cook when they met?’

‘Well, not exactly. My mother was the family nanny. She worked for my father and his first wife, Alexandra, and looked after their three daughters. Then, when Alexandra died, he…well, it was hard for a man in his position to cope with a young family, especially in those days. He decided that he needed to get married again—and quickly. And since my mother already got on so well with his three girls—and with him—it seemed convenient for them to get married.’

‘Convenient?’ echoed Carlos sardonically as he speared a piece of fish and ate it.

Kat nodded. It wasn’t a romantic way to describe a marriage, but her parents’ union had never been a love match—and they had never pretended it had been. Inevitably, the relationship had become a self-fulfilling prophesy which had resulted in divorce. But at least the marital breakdown had been amicable—more amicable than anyone else’s she knew. ‘And they went on to have three daughters of their own. I’m one of them,’ she added helpfully, because people always got thoroughly confused by Oscar’s complicated love life.

‘But no son?’

‘No, no son.’ She saw the look in his eyes. ‘I suppose you think it’s a tragedy not to have an heir?’

He shrugged. ‘Well, yes. I would want an heir,’ he said simply.

That didn’t surprise her. But then, none of his outrageously macho behaviour really surprised her. Kat ate some fish, but the evening was much too balmy to produce an appetite. Plus, she wasn’t finding it very easy to concentrate on food, not when Carlos was sitting there with the light breeze billowing at his silk shirt and hinting at the hard torso beneath. She pushed her plate away.

‘Not hungry?’ he questioned softly.

‘Not really, no. It’s too hot.’

‘Sí.’ Carlos leaned back in his chair. It was much too hot, and she was much too distracting. The sun was dipping now—its magnificent light gilding the deep sapphire of the sea, while the faint pinprick of stars were beginning to appear in the darkening sky. He could hear the slick lick of water as it slapped against the sides of the boats which were moored in the tiny port, and his eyes drank in the distant green hues of the island’s mountains. It looked like paradise—and in truth, at that moment, it felt like paradise. Good food. Good wine—and a beautiful woman who wanted him. And if it were any other beautiful woman than Kat, he would be sailing urgently back to his yacht to make love to her.

His thoughts were rewarded with the sharp stab of desire and he cursed himself for his stupidity in dwelling on such thoughts. Because this was the real world, he reminded himself—not some soft-focus ad man’s version of it.

Okay, so she’d embraced a little domesticity these past few days at sea, had shown that she wasn’t completely spoiled. But she was still trouble. Still the kind of idle, rich woman for whom he had no time. The fact that he wanted her was just nature’s idea of a joke—and nature could be cruel. Carlos’s mouth hardened. Didn’t he know that better than anyone?

He hadn’t had sex in almost a year, although offers spoken and unspoken came his way pretty much every day of the week. But he was discerning—and increasingly so as time went by. Although creamy, firm flesh still appealed to him on a very base level, his boredom tolerance was at an all-time low. And sometime last year he had decided he couldn’t face any more early morning pillow talk with beauties who turned out to be total airheads with nothing but marriage in mind.

Sooner or later he would carefully select for himself a bride with all the qualities he admired in a woman. Qualities such as humility and compassion. And she would possess a quiet, soft beauty—not the hard-edged glamour of this Balfour heiress.

So get away from her before the moon rises and the wine blurs your senses any more.

‘Has everyone finished?’ questioned Carlos, pulling a wallet from the back pocket of his jeans.

Deliberately, he sailed back in a different boat to Kat in an attempt to limit temptation to a manageable degree, though the two vessels were close enough for him to see her face as they cut through the indigo waters.

From the distant shore, he heard the crack-crack of some small explosion—was it fireworks?—and his attention was drawn to the small sound of alarm she made in response. Saw the sudden blanching of her face beneath her tan. Was she frightened of fireworks? he wondered.

But Kat Balfour’s neuroses were as meaningless to him as was fantasising about her body.

She was there to work, Carlos thought grimly, as he turned his back to the other boat. Not to tempt him into doing something he would bitterly regret.