Читать книгу Royals: Wed To The Prince - Leanne Banks, Robyn Donald - Страница 17

BUT even though Lauren had prepared herself mentally and emotionally on the long flight, the pack of photographers and reporters that greeted her at Heathrow both shocked and scared her. Light exploded in her face as they bayed her name and took photographs.

‘Look this way, Lauren!’ ‘Hi, Lauren—can you tell us about this marriage to—?’ ‘Lauren, Lauren, over here!’ until command and shouted comment blended into a din that mercifully blocked out individual yells.

Shaking inwardly, she clamped her lips together, tuning them out while she searched for the quickest route through the milling mass. And then salvation arrived, in the form of two burly men stamped with the indefinable mark of security personnel.

‘This way, please, Ms Porter,’ the largest and most solid one said in her ear while the other commandeered her luggage trolley as a shield.

Locking every muscle against a cowardly impulse to run, she allowed herself to be escorted away from the hordes and along a corridor. They stopped outside a door and the one in front held it open.

Bewildered, Lauren went through.

And stopped as the door closed behind her and Guy Bagaton rose to his feet, big and vital and ablaze with raw power. Her heart jumping in incredulous joy, she managed to say in a brittle voice, ‘Oh—hello. I gather that the news has broken?’

‘This morning.’ He sounded as fed up as he looked, but his size and that indefinable air of competence and authority was hugely reassuring.

Shivering, she rubbed her arms; the impersonal room reminded her sharply of that other room a world away when she and this man had exchanged the vows that now bound them in a false relationship.

‘I see,’ she said unevenly. ‘I expected interest, but nothing like that pandemonium. How did they know I was coming in today?’

With cold contempt he said, ‘There’s always someone who’ll spill the beans.’ Eyes as bright and burnished as fool’s gold narrowed. ‘You look tired. Didn’t you get any sleep on the flight?’

‘Not a lot.’ And now her head was pounding, excitement and shock producing a wild mixture of sensations: intense relief, because she trusted him to deal with any situation, and a fierce sensual charge honed by absence. ‘The plane was seething with high school students embarking on a year’s exchange in Europe. They settled down for an hour here and there.’

‘I see. Come on, let’s go.’ Still frowning, he took her arm and steered her towards a boarding bridge.

Although a debilitating combination of exhaustion and astonishment tempted her to let him take over, she croaked, ‘What’s happening? Where are we going?’

‘Dacia.’

Blinking, she wondered where Dacia was, before remembering a small princedom in the Mediterranean Sea. She balked, trying to stop. ‘Why?’

With an expression as grim as his voice, Guy exerted just enough strength to urge her on. ‘Your parents are already there.’

What on earth was going on? Her mind spun stupidly so that all she could say was, ‘But my father can’t travel by air.’

‘He can if he has a nurse with him,’ Guy told her, escorting her along the bridge. ‘He’s fine; I’ve just been speaking to your mother. I’m sorry you had to run the gauntlet back there.’

Summoning the last remnants of common sense, Lauren dug her heels in. ‘Wait. I’m not sure this is a good idea. What’s going on? Why Dacia, for heaven’s sake?’

‘Because it’s quiet and peaceful and you wanted to be out of the limelight,’ Guy said evenly. ‘A few days there will see the media frenzy die—there’s nothing so stale as last week’s news.’

‘But I—’

‘Your parents agreed that this would be the best idea.’

‘But I don’t understand—’

He rasped, ‘It’s all I can do to protect you from the sort of gossip that could destroy your life.’

‘What? In this day and age? You’ve got a very naïve attitude to modern society if you think that a marriage of convenience is going to do more than mildly titillate readers.’

Flint-hard and formidable, Guy said brusquely, ‘You’re the one who’s completely naïve. To start off with, you might as well kiss your career goodbye.’

The pain in her breast solidified into a rock, so big she couldn’t breathe properly. ‘Don’t be ridiculous—’

‘Don’t be an idiot,’ he ground out, eyes cold as frozen fire. ‘Unless you’ve got enough incriminating evidence to blackmail him, Corbett’s not going to keep you once he knows that you and I were lovers. And with journalists combing through Sant’Rosa and Valanu, it won’t be long before he does know.’

‘It won’t matter,’ she said dully. It hurt that he should still believe that ancient piece of gossip.

And that was dangerous, because she shouldn’t care what he thought of her.

Guy said harshly, ‘He doesn’t strike me as a man who’s happy sharing his women, and I doubt if he’d surrender to blackmail.’ Contempt darkened his face and thinned his mouth.

‘No,’ she said, her voice muted. ‘He wouldn’t.’

They were facing each other like enemies, eyes duelling, tense with antagonism. He despised her. ‘So you’ll be notorious; no one will take you seriously. You might get offers for television or some sort of model-ling, but your career’s gone. Face that now. If you lie low on Dacia for a week or so, the fuss will die down and you can regroup.’

Taking her numb silence for consent, he urged her into the cabin. Later, she was convinced that jet lag had scrambled her brain and sapped her will-power; surely that had been why she’d surrendered so meekly to his authoritative handling!

Once inside, a harried glance revealed that the plane was a private one, and they were the only passengers.

‘You’ll get an excellent view from this window,’ Guy said, standing back to let her sink into a superbly comfortable leather seat.

When he leaned down, sensations rioted through her in a delirious mixture of fire and honey and aching need. She swallowed to ease an unbearably dry throat and closed her eyes against the arrogantly angular jaw and the bold male curves of his beautiful mouth.

But as he clicked her seat-belt into place, she couldn’t block out the subtle, spicy scent that was his alone. Memories rushed back, of heat and long tropical nights when the evocative, erotic perfume of frangipani blossoms and the drowsy sound of the sea on the reef provided the perfect setting for passion. And of Guy, taking her to heaven with his lean, skilled hands and experienced understanding of what a woman’s body needed to drive it to unbearable ecstasy…

He straightened, his hard-edged face shutting her out as effectively as a mask. ‘I’m going up to the cockpit. Try to get some sleep.’

With gritty eyes, Lauren watched him walk away, big body moving with a fluid, controlled confidence that came close to arrogance.

What she and Guy had shared was nothing more—nor less—than transcendental sex. Neither then nor in New Zealand had either of them thought about love.

When the door closed behind him she transferred her gaze to the window, not taking in the minor bustle of getting a plane into the air. Surely he couldn’t be the pilot?

But why not? He’d known the man who’d evacuated the resort guests from Sant’Rosa. When he wasn’t fighting wars did he fly charter planes?

A movement from behind called her attention to a steward, who smiled and offered her a drink.

‘Water, please,’ she said thickly.

Once he’d brought it and explained the safety features, the plane taxied out onto the runway. She sank back into the seat and let the cool liquid slide down her parched throat until she’d finished the glass.

At cruising height the steward reappeared, offering food and more drinks.

‘Just a pot of tea, thank you,’ she told him with real gratitude.

She’d occasionally flown in private jets chartered by Marc to get him and his family quickly and privately between New Zealand, where they spent many of their holidays, and Paris, where they lived.

This one, she thought dreamily, had a personal touch that meant someone had cared about its decoration. Elegantly serene, it invited relaxation. She decided she’d like whoever had decided on the colour scheme and the carpet.

Her roving gaze settled on the bulkhead between the cabin and the kitchen. Frowning, she discerned a crest that seemed familiar—a leopard fiercely clawing the air. Something about the outline nagged at her tired mind. She closed her eyes and set about capturing the elusive memory.

The ring! Her lashes flew up. Guy’s ring, the one he’d put on her finger at that mockery of a wedding ceremony. Narrowing her eyes, she stared at the crest, superimposing the remembered lines over the leopard.

It fitted exactly.

Brain working furiously, she recalled a faint note of pride in his voice when he spoke of Dacia. Did this plane belong to a Dacian airline?

‘Would you like something to read?’ the steward murmured after he’d delivered a tray of tea.

‘Yes, thank you.’

He arrived back with a couple of extremely expensive-looking fashion magazines.

Just what she needed—something light and cheerful. With stubborn determination she eyed models in what appeared to be designer shrouds before turning the page to read her horoscope, which announced that she’d met the only man she’d ever love.

Lauren shut the magazine with a snap and stared unseeingly out of the window.

Was Guy Dacian? Part Dacian, anyway; he was built on too impressive a scale to be wholly of Mediterranean stock, but genes inherited from that area would explain his olive skin and beautiful mouth.

And a different first language would be the source of the faint, intriguing hint of an accent that intensified when he was making love…

More dangerously bittersweet memories burned through her. Hastily she picked up the magazine again. Nothing on the pages could banish flashbacks of days and nights on Valanu—the rich gleam of sunlight on Guy’s wet skin, the quick flash of white teeth when he’d laughed, and the note in his voice when he’d spoken her name…

She dreamed about him every night now.

Swift excitement pulsed through her when the door into the cockpit slid back to let him through. So he was part of the crew.

When he stopped to speak to the steward, Lauren watched him uneasily. He looked different—much less of the beachcomber, much more a sophisticated European. And it wasn’t just the removal of that stubble. She’d always been aware of his bred-in-the-bone authority, but in the hothouse situation on Sant’Rosa and Valanu she hadn’t noticed this cool, urbane detachment.

Now, filling her hungry eyes with the sight of him, she finally accepted something she’d been trying to repress since their first meeting. Some time during their idyll in Valanu she’d slipped over the invisible dividing line between attraction and love.

The knowledge hit with heady impact, sending a tidal wave of adrenaline rushing through her. For a precious few seconds she allowed herself to savour the exquisite thrill of loving Guy. Then she forced herself to lock that love in her heart and throw the key away.

Because Guy didn’t love her. Everything he’d done had been because he was chivalrous and protective. Twice he’d rescued her from unpleasant situations; he’d lent her money and bought her clothes, and he’d made sure she didn’t get pregnant. He’d made love to her with heart-shaking tenderness and raw desire, but all that meant was that for those days he’d wanted her—even though he’d believed her to be Marc’s mistress.

But lust chose without discrimination and died swiftly. The father she shared with Marc had wanted her mother too—for a week—although he’d been married.

She couldn’t let herself love Guy.

He said something that brought a white grin to the steward’s face, then turned. Just in time, Lauren fixed her gaze on the magazine in her lap, every sense strung as tight as piano wire. When he was a couple of paces away she forced herself to glance up enquiringly, because ignoring him would be as much a giveaway as gazing at him with her heart in her eyes.

He sat down beside her with a flash of the reckless grin she remembered from Sant’Rosa. ‘You English and your tea!’

‘Don’t Dacians drink tea?’

His smile disappeared. After a taut second he said, ‘Not a lot—we mostly drink coffee.’

‘You have excellent English.’ It was an inane remark, but it was all her scrambled brain could come up with.

‘I spent some years at school in England, and I’m fortunate enough to be a good linguist.’

She nodded, thinking of his mastery of the Sant’Rosan language, then donned her coollest composure and looked up into his face. ‘Thank you for getting my parents out of that feeding frenzy. I had no idea a media pack in full cry would be so—’ she abandoned frightening to substitute ‘—so intimidating.’

‘Your parents are sensible enough to see when retreat is the best decision,’ he said with a casual lack of emphasis. ‘And you still have holiday time, I believe.’

The aloof enquiry in his tone slammed up more barriers. ‘Another couple of weeks.’

‘You parents said you’d been ill.’

She shrugged. ‘A bout of pneumonia. It wasn’t very serious, and it’s over now.’

‘You’re still pale.’ His voice was deliberate, but an unsettling note in it made her acutely aware of his closeness.

‘I’m always pale, and at the moment I’m jet lagged,’ she admitted with a wry smile. ‘I’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep.’ And to convince him, she finished brightly, ‘I’ve never been to Dacia, but I believe it’s beautiful.’

‘Every bit as much as Sant’Rosa or New Zealand,’ he said ironically, ‘although in an entirely different way.’

She relaxed a little while he told her of its bloodstained history and eventual conquest four hundred years previously by a pirate. ‘He sailed into the harbour and imposed a rule that was ruthless and autocratic, but surprisingly enlightened for the time.’

‘He sounds familiar,’ she murmured dulcetly.

He directed an enigmatic glance her way. Her heartbeat shot into overdrive, a wild counterpoint to the drugging sweetness of desire that washed through her, merciless and compelling.

‘Are you calling me ruthless and autocratic?’ he drawled, eyes gleaming with tawny fire.

Laughter bubbled through her. ‘How intuitive of you to guess! Of course you are—you think nothing of ploughing roughshod over anyone who gets in your way.’

‘Admit that I always try to convince with sweet reason before I bring in the heavy artillery,’ he returned virtuously, the lazy note in his voice belying his words.

‘I’ll admit no such thing,’ she retorted. ‘Within a few hours of meeting you I found myself married to you, and I don’t recollect any sweetly reasonably discussion then.’

And a few days later she’d been in his bed, willing prisoner of a reckless, desperate passion that overthrew years of restraint and self-discipline.

Yet she couldn’t regret it, although the aftermath seemed likely to cause endless complications and heartache. Hastily she finished, ‘And now I’ve been hijacked to Dacia!’

‘Some situations call for action,’ he observed, straight-faced.

Lauren went very still. ‘Yes,’ she said, remembering the all-pervasive smell of fear on Sant’Rosa. ‘I don’t remember whether I actually thanked you for getting me off Sant’Rosa.’ She looked up as far as his chin. ‘I am very grateful. I know what could have happened if I’d been stuck there.’

‘I’d have taken care of you.’

Startled, she took in a face carved of granite, coldly determined, so implacable that a cold finger of foreboding ran down her spine. She’d known him as a beachcomber, as a man of action, as a lover, but her first impression had been of a pirate.

Now she suspected that the pirate persona revealed his true nature.

God, she thought, what have you got yourself into? You should have stuck it out in London…

She said sombrely, ‘I’d have been a nuisance, and as you pointed out then, I’d have put you in even more danger than you were already in.’

‘It’s over now; don’t worry about it.’ He stood up and smiled down at her, although his eyes were unreadable. ‘Drink up your tea, then try to catnap. I’ll see you once we land.’

Throat aching and tight with repressed emotion, Lauren watched him go, remembering moments when she’d lain on the bed in that house in Valanu and watched him walk towards the glass doors onto the terrace. Sunlight had gilded every powerful curve and line of his body, the smooth play of muscles, the lean strength of legs and arms. Unbearably stirred, she had closed her eyes against him, but that bronze image was burned into her retina and her heart.

She dragged her mind back to the present with relief. Both the china and the silverware had the same crest, the Dacian leopard, she’d noticed as she had poured tea.

If she’d had any sense she’d have asked Guy about the owner of the plane. Unfortunately her mind shut down when he came near.

She drank some tea and ate one of the small, delicious sandwiches, then leaned back in the seat and tried to sleep. It didn’t work. Thoughts of Guy tossed through her mind, so to give her restless brain something else to chew on, she reached for the discarded magazine and began leafing desultorily through its pages.

After several moments she realised she’d been staring at one page. Blinking, she focused. Beefcake, she thought as several handsome male faces gazed back at her with varying degrees of interest.

One of them was Guy.

Unable to believe what she was seeing, she shook her head, then gazed again at the photograph. Yes, it was Guy.

He was a model?

Stunned, she began to read the text beneath the photograph.

‘And the most gorgeous,’ it burbled, ‘if you like your royalty moody, magnificent and hard to catch, is Prince Guy of Dacia, billionaire…’

Lauren blinked again, her heart contracting into a cold, hard ball in her chest. Royalty? Prince Guy?

…and at thirty-two still unmarried and breaking hearts all over the world. We wonder if he’ll follow the footsteps of his cousins, Prince Luka, the ruler of Dacia, and Princess Lucia, Mrs Hunt Radcliffe, who both fell in love with New Zealanders.

Prince Guy of Dacia, Lauren thought woodenly, jettisoning hopes she’d barely recognised.

Oh, she knew that name; prince, hugely successful businessman, lover of beautiful women, and reclusive object of intense media interest. She closed her eyes, but when she opened them he was still frowning out from the page.

She’d heard of him, seen photographs—why hadn’t she recognised him when she’d met him in Sant’Rosa?

Because stubble had blurred the aristocratic features, and because—well, because you simply didn’t expect to find a European prince on an island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

And because she’d been so aware of him that she’d temporarily lost her mind!

Why hadn’t he told her? She bit her lip. Presumably he expected her to know that Bagaton was the family name of the Dacian royal family. Well, she hadn’t.

A turbulent mix of emotions—a stark, wholly irrational sense of betrayal, fury and dark desolation—razed every thought but one from her brain. She had been a complete and utter fool, wilfully ignoring anything that didn’t fit her first impression of him.

No wonder the Press had met her with such avid determination at the airport! This jet, with its luxurious seats and its atmosphere of privilege and power, its crested china and silver, was either his or his cousin’s—the reigning prince.

The distance between Lauren Porter and their world of birth and privilege loomed like a cliff face, dangerous and insurmountable.

How long would it be before someone started digging into her background? Her stomach tightened as fear kicked in. If they hadn’t already begun. She was already linked to Marc; would someone pursue that link and find out that she and her boss were half-siblings?

If anyone made the connections, she’d be revealed as the bastard daughter of Marc Corbett’s father, the cuckoo in her father’s nest. She could cope with that, but her parents would be exposed to sly, sniggering insinuations that would hurt them unbearably and strain her father’s precarious health.

All to sell a few more newspapers…

Trying to swallow the lump in her throat, Lauren stared down at the photograph of Guy. By the forbidding expression of his angular face he’d been furious at being snapped. Setting her jaw, she forced herself to read the rest of the blurb.

Prince Guy is probably the richest of the playboy princes; he inherited millions from his mother, a Russian heiress and great beauty, and he set up his own software firm after leaving university. It now earns him millions each year. Fiercely protective of his privacy, he’s also a humanitarian who is interested in ecology.

Lauren closed the magazine and fought back despair. If she’d known who he was, she’d have taken her chances on Sant’Rosa.

As for making love with him—never!

Somewhere deep inside her, a mocking voice laughed. Oh, yes, you would, it mocked. You wanted him desperately. You still do. And you’re angry with him because not telling you means he didn’t trust you.

Which was ridiculous, because she hadn’t trusted him with the entire truth about herself.

Her ears popped as the plane banked and turned. Lauren stared stonily ahead, trying to convince herself that no one would be able to find out that Marc was her half-brother.

It was extremely unlikely that they’d discover that he had donated his bone marrow to her. And why should they search twenty-nine years in the past to discover that her mother and Marc’s father had been on the same cruise through the Caribbean?

No, her parents were safe from media prying—and even if they weren’t, Guy had pulled them out of the vortex and into temporary safety.

When the seat-belt sign flashed on with a melodious chime, she relaxed her hands from their death grip on each other in her lap and began to breathe deeply, and out, in and out, until the wild turbulence of her emotions abated. If it killed her she’d be calm, because she didn’t dare be anything else.