Читать книгу By Request Collection Part 3 - Майя Бэнкс, Robyn Donald - Страница 14
ОглавлениеBUT once in the car Lexie sat still, hands clasped tightly in her lap, until Rafiq ordered, ‘Do up your seatbelt.’
‘Oh,’ she said, feeling stupid, and fumbled for it.
He said something harsh, leaned over her and found it, slamming the clip into the holder.
Lexie’s breath locked in her throat while she waited for him to straighten up. Instead he bent his head and kissed her, and fireworks roared into the sky, wiping everything from her mind but this delicious, intolerable need. Her hands came out to grasp his shirt as her mouth softened beneath the hungry demand of his lips.
Until faintly the sound of an engine percolated into her consciousness. Lights flashed across her closed lids. She realised they were real lights, not the fire in her blood, and reluctantly opened her eyes.
Rafiq lifted his head. After an incredulous second he said in a raw, goaded voice, ‘This is—not my usual style.’ When she didn’t answer he gave a ghost of a laugh and finished, ‘Not yours, either?’
‘No,’ she admitted.
He set the car in motion, saying grimly, ‘I think you must be sending me mad.’
‘I know the feeling.’
He flashed her another fierce glance, then smiled, reached for her hand, and tucked it beneath his on the wheel, only releasing it when they reached a small town on the way home. Lexie let it rest in her lap, oddly chilled by the subtle rejection. Of course, it might merely be that he needed to concentrate more—but what if he was ashamed of wanting her?
Was that why he’d taken her to the tiny, out-of-the-way restaurant? After all, she was the daughter of one of the century’s most despised dictators…
Oh, for heaven’s sake, she thought, angrily resentful of the hurdles her mind kept setting up for her heart, he almost certainly doesn’t know who your father is! And you’re not responsible for Paulo Considine’s actions.
Why should Rafiq be ashamed of her? She scrubbed up quite well, and the gown she was wearing made the most of her slim, athletic figure and her colouring. Jacoba would make her look very second-rate, but then Jacoba had that effect on every woman!
Rafiq had simply chosen somewhere discreet, and she was grateful to him for being so understanding.
And soon she’d be in his arms and her reservations would be banished.
The thought should have filled her with dismay, but although it was strange to realise that she’d lost her control so completely to a man she barely knew, she felt nothing but happiness, deep and sure and powerful.
Anyway, she was beginning to find out more about him. He was kind and thoughtful, as well as being incredibly sexy. He was also extremely intelligent, and he wanted the best for his country and his people.
She sat up straight and looked through the side window at the starlit night. Pride was a hard thing to deal with, she thought with a wry smile, but at the moment it was all she had—pride and this unwanted, out-of-character desire that had blossomed so swiftly.
And would, she knew, come to nothing; the best thing she could hope for was for it to burn out in the fierceness of passion. She didn’t expect Rafiq to reciprocate. He’d be embarrassed if he knew just how eager she was to discover what making love with him was like.
Better by far for him to believe she was enjoying a torrid affair with him, a holiday fling…
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked, stopping the car outside the huge doors of the castle.
‘Just—drifting.’ Her cheeks heated at the lie.
He switched off the engine and smiled ironically at her, moonlight outlining the autocratic angles and lines of his features. Her heart swelled, and she let herself be carried away by the wave of hunger that had been threatening to break over her all evening.
This, she thought with a desperate recklessness, was worth any pain that might lie in the future. Anything.
Inside the castle, Rafiq suggested a nightcap. ‘We have our own distillery here. I know you enjoy wine, but at least once you should try Moraze’s rum. It is mellow, and filled with the essence of flowers.’
After the first small sip, she agreed, ‘You’re right; it’s delicious.’ Tension bit into her, and she walked over to a window, clutching the glass as she gazed out onto the lagoon, that shimmered silver beneath the black sky. ‘I’ll always remember Moraze like this,’ she said on a half sigh. ‘It’s everyone’s secret ideal of a tropical island, filled with flowers and sunshine and laughter.’
And moonlight, and passion…
Rafiq’s voice came from close behind her. ‘It’s not all charmingly romantic. We have the occasional hurricane, and there have been tidal waves. And although the islanders’ smiles are warm, they also cry.’
She turned her head slightly, nostrils flaring at the subtle, evocative scent—pure alpha male—that teased them. ‘That’s life, isn’t it?’ she said lightly. ‘Always the bitter with the sweet. But for tonight I think I’ll let my inner romantic indulge herself.’
He bent his head and kissed the back of her neck, sending tiny, sexy shivers through her. ‘It will be my pleasure to allow her full rein,’ he said, and let his teeth graze her skin.
The shivers transmuted into arrows of golden anticipation, darting from nerve end to nerve end to summon responses from every cell in her body. Whatever happened, she had this, she thought, turning to meet his intent eyes. And for tonight, this was enough.
‘Kiss me,’ he commanded between his teeth. ‘For hours I’ve been watching your mouth, imagining it under mine. Kiss me.’
Smiling, she took his face between her hands. Her fingertips tingled as they shaped out the forceful lines of his jaw, traced his beautiful, relentless mouth, travelled along the high, aristocratic sweep of his cheekbones. Excitement beat high in her, filling her bloodstream with stars, summoning a witchery of desire that ached through her in a slow, languorous tide, melting her bones.
Rafiq bent his head, and flames sparked between them as his lips came down on hers.
With an odd sigh of relief Lexie sank against him, surrendering herself to the magic of this moment, this place—this man.
It satisfied some more than physical hunger when she felt his body harden against hers, his arms tighten, and the muted thunder of his heart drown out hers. To know that she could do this to him was an aphrodisiac in itself.
‘You’re sunlight and moonlight in my arms,’ he said against her mouth, punctuating each word with a kiss. ‘Golden and warm. Yet behind those blue, sunlit eyes there are secrets, depths as deep and mysterious as a star-shadowed night.’
‘No secrets,’ she said, but she’d lied and he knew it. She saw the change in his eyes.
And because she couldn’t bear to spoil this, she qualified with a wry smile, ‘No important secrets, anyway. Just the usual things no one wants to admit to.’
He held that mercilessly penetrating look for a moment more, then his dark lashes came down and he smiled, an almost humourless quirk of his lips.
‘We all have secrets,’ he said, and kissed her again before putting her away from him, and saying in a cool tone that set a distance between them, ‘I think you need rest. You say you are completely recovered from the accident, but there are still traces of shadows beneath those lovely eyes.’
Although disappointment and frustration ached through her body, she smiled and nodded and went with him.
At her door he picked up her hand and kissed the palm, then closed her fingers over it. ‘Sleep well,’ he said quietly, and left her.
Hours later, she thought grimly that any darkness beneath her eyes was due to the time she spent awake each night, sleep driven away by highly coloured, erotic fantasies.
But when sleep finally came it somehow transmuted the keen frustration of the previous night into serene acceptance. The next day Rafiq took her for a picnic to a secluded bay on one of the royal estates. They ate in the soft, whispering shade of the casuarinas, and swam in milk-warm water, and even though they barely touched, Lexie had never been so happy. It was delicious to be given time, to feel no pressure from him at all, even though she knew he wanted her.
He made no secret of it. His glances, his smiles, the narrowed regard that set her heart pounding, all told her so. Their lovemaking, she thought dreamily as she got ready for the hotel party that night, would come when they were both ready. Until then she was content to float along in this passion-hazed dream.
Of course she wore the flame-coloured dress with its matching high-heeled sandals, and applied cosmetics with the skill and expertise she’d learned from her sister. When she was ready she stepped back from the enormous mirror and gave her reflection a swift, secret smile.
Be careful—be very careful—her mind warned, but she knew her heart wasn’t going to listen. Her emotions seemed to be riding a roller coaster, the gentle acceptance of the day banished by a cocktail of adrenalin and anticipation pulsing like drugs through her veins.
At the bottom of the staircase she spared a compassionate glance for the photograph of his sister Hani. Why didn’t he mention her?
Perhaps the grief of her untimely death was still too raw.
When she entered the salon, Rafiq was talking into a mobile phone, speaking with forceful authority in the local Creole French.
He looked up as she came in, and to Lexie’s astonishment, and a forbidden, heady delight, she got her look—a green glitter of stunned, intense desire.
Only for a moment—he gathered himself together almost immediately—but her foolish, wayward heart rejoiced while he terminated the conversation and snapped the phone shut.
For the rest of her life she’d hug to her heart the memory of that split second of passionate hunger.
‘That colour does amazing things to you.’ His voice was controlled and level. ‘Do you understand French?’
‘No. I do speak Maori.’ And Illyrian, but she wasn’t going to admit to that—it could lead to questions she didn’t want to answer.
They took the coast road to the new hotel. Lexie looked around her with interest when they drove in, making a small sound of pleasure at the flowers and festoons of coloured lights that decorated the place.
From beside her Rafiq said, ‘There are always two openings for any new hotel on Moraze. The first is for the people who actually do the building, and then there is a more formal one, like the one you attended the other night, where publicity is a factor. That was rather stuffy; this will not be.’
The year she’d spent in Illyria had accustomed Lexie to royal occasions, but the moment she walked in with Rafiq she realised how right he was—this was indeed something special.
Smiles and cheers and applause greeted their arrival. Without the burden of being the only child of the dictator who’d terrorised the onlookers, it wasn’t difficult to smile back, to relax in the warmth of their greetings.
Until she saw a face she recognised.
She must have flinched, because Rafiq demanded sharply, ‘What is it? You are not well?’
‘I’m perfectly all right.’ After all, why on earth should she be afraid of Felipe Gastano?
He came towards them with a smile on his too-handsome face, and the air of someone completely sure of his welcome. ‘Dearest Alexa,’ he said smoothly as he bent to kiss her cheek.
Rafiq pulled her a little closer to his side and the unwanted kiss went awry.
Something glittered a second in Felipe’s pale eyes, but the smile stayed fixed as he nodded to Rafiq. ‘I am sorry,’ he said in an apologetic tone that grated across Lexie’s nerves. ‘I was so pleased to see an old friend that I forgot protocol. Sir, it is a pleasure to be here on this auspicious occasion.’
Rafiq said, ‘We’re pleased to see you here.’
An apparently sincere greeting, yet somehow the calm words lifted the hairs on the back of Lexie’s neck. She sensed a very strong emotion beneath his glacial self-control, and wondered if she was the cause of it.
Felipe didn’t seem to notice. Still smiling, he transferred his gaze to Lexie, held her eyes a moment, then turned back to Rafiq. ‘I thought I’d like to see whether my friend Alexa was enjoying all that Moraze has to offer its guests.’
Lexie stiffened, wondering exactly what he meant by those enigmatic words.
The noise level soared suddenly, fuelled by a group of musicians who’d gathered around a bonfire blazing on the sand.
‘I hope you enjoy the evening,’ Rafiq said coolly. ‘After a few short, official speeches there will be dancing on the beach.’ His narrow smile gleamed. ‘Our local dances are a feature of the entertainment here.’
‘I’m sure I shall find them very interesting,’ Felipe said, fixing Lexie with a significant look.
She met it with hard-won composure, both relieved and glad when he stepped back to let another couple be introduced.
As Rafiq had promised, the official part of the evening was short, punctuated by champagne toasts and much good cheer, and then the party really got going. Down on the beach, the band struck up again in impressive rhythm, guitars and keyboards vying with older in struments—a triangle, gourds with seeds inside, and an insistent drum.
‘The hotel dancing troupe will do a demonstration first, but later everyone will join in,’ Rafiq told her as the crowd moved onto the sand, the better to watch the spectacle. ‘You will find it a little different from western dancing; in the sanga, people do not touch.’
Watching the dancers—women in brightly coloured cropped tops and full skirts that reached their ankles, and men in white pirate shirts knotted at the waist above tight breeches—Lexie decided they didn’t need to.
Because the sanga was erotic enough to melt icebergs.
The women began it, holding out their full skirts while they approached the men with sensuous, shuffling steps. They swayed to the music, bare feet moving in an intricate rhythm, smiles bold and challenging as they danced from one partner to another, choosing and discarding until eventually they settled on one particular man.
When that had happened, the drum beats began to build to a crescendo and the dance took an even more provocative turn. Both women and men taunted and teased their partners, hip movements suggesting a much more intimate encounter, smiles becoming slow and languid as the dancers gazed into each other’s eyes.
The insidious spell of the dance—the rhythm set up by the drums and the primitive imperative of the fire, the heat and the gorgeous, primal colours of the women’s full, flounced skirts—set fire to something basic and untamed within Lexie. Her cheeks burned and her eyelids were heavy and slumbrous.
And then, with the drumbeats reaching a frenzied climax, only to abruptly halt, the world seemed suspended in dramatic silence. After several seconds people began to applaud, releasing the dancers from the erotic spell of their own contriving. Many relaxed, laughing, calling out jests to the crowd; others walked off together—still not touching, Lexie noticed.
Carefully avoiding Rafiq’s scrutiny, she looked across the leaping flames of the bonfire and met Felipe Gastano’s cynical smile.
She nodded, wishing she’d never been so silly as to go out with him, wishing—oh, wishing a lot of foolish things, she thought bracingly, trying to still the constant thrumming of her heart.
No wonder people talked of going troppo! This had to be the dangerous enchantment of the tropics.
As though sensing her restlessness, Rafiq said, ‘Would you like to see around the hotel? The gardens and pool area are magnificent.’
‘I’d love to,’ she said, grateful for the chance to get away from too many interested eyes.
They walked there through a grove of casuarinas, the long, drooping needles whispering together in the scented breeze. Lexie recovered some of her composure as she admired the glorious gardens and a pool out of some designer’s Arabian dream, only to lose it when they walked back to the beach and Rafiq said, ‘A moment.’
She stopped with him, looking up enquiringly. He was smiling, but the intent expression of his eyes warned her what was coming, and her blood sang inside her.
Quietly he said, ‘I neglected to tell you how very lovely you are.’
The kiss was merely an appetiser, one snatched before they rejoined the crowd, but she longed for more. The screen of trees was thick enough to hide them from anyone on the beach, but she hadn’t thought Rafiq was the sort of man to indulge in almost-public displays.
Emerging from the feathery shade of the grove, she felt slightly embarrassed, as though everyone knew about that kiss.
From beside her Rafiq said, ‘I’m afraid I must leave you for a few minutes.’ A swift lift of his brows summoned a younger, good-looking man to stand beside her. ‘You will enjoy discussing the dancing with Bertrand,’ he said after introducing them.
Which she did. Bertrand was respectful and knew a lot about the dances of Moraze, revealing that different areas had different versions, some more restrained…
‘And some—ah—less so,’ he finished with a cheerful smile. ‘But you won’t be seeing any of them tonight. Everyone is on their best behaviour because our ruler is with us.’
She encouraged him to talk about Rafiq. Not that he needed much encouragement, she thought with a wry, inner smile after five minutes. Clearly he thought his ruler only one step below the gods!
‘You are laughing at me,’ he said, and grinned before becoming quickly serious. ‘But I am truly beholden to him. Without his intervention, I would have been cutting either sugar cane or flowers in the fields. He sits on the board that chooses the ones deserving of further education, and although I was a bad boy at school, he persuaded them to give me a chance. Everyone else thought I was beyond help; he did not. I would die for him.’
His words were simply stated, without false bravado.
‘It’s a lucky ruler who can inspire such loyalty,’ Lexie said, meaning it. She too had experienced Rafiq’s consideration and his honesty.
Bertrand drew himself up. ‘It is a lucky subject who can follow such a leader,’ he said. He glanced over her head and frowned. ‘Oh, I will have to leave you only for a moment. I must find someone to keep you company.’
‘No,’ she said crisply. ‘Off you go; I’ll be perfectly all right.’
He dithered, then said, ‘I won’t be long.’ After an apologetic smile, he bowed and left her.
Smiling to herself, Lexie watched him being swallowed up by the crowd as he angled towards a middle-aged woman who stood alone.
‘He is one of Prince Rafiq’s security men,’ a voice said from behind her. ‘And that woman is his superior.’
Lexie suddenly felt alone and unprotected, her skin tightening in response to an imaginary threat.
‘Hello, Felipe,’ she said lightly. ‘I always thought security men were eight-feet tall with necks wider than their heads.’
‘The muscle men, perhaps—the grunts. The others come in all sizes and shapes, and I think this one will receive a chastisement from Prince Rafiq for leaving you.’
‘I’m in no danger,’ she said evenly, turning her head to look up at him.
His smile was as charming as ever, his eyes as appreciative, his tone low and flirtatious, yet he left her completely cold.
‘Of course you’re not,’ he agreed. ‘But you know how it is with these rich, powerful aristocrats—they see perils in every occasion.’ He gestured at the milling crowd, a little noisier than it had been before, its laughter ringing free. ‘Even in such a friendly group as this—all devoted subjects.’
He transferred his gaze to her face, surveying her with an intensity that was new and unsettling. ‘Did you know that the word in the bazaars is that Prince Rafiq is very interested in his house guest?’
‘Rumour is—as always—hugely exaggerated,’ she said evenly, and made up her mind. This wasn’t the perfect occasion, but he needed to know. ‘Felipe, I need to tell you—’
‘Not now,’ he interrupted curtly.
He wanted something; she could feel it—a fierce lust, though not for her personally, she realised with a sudden flash of insight.
It had never been her—he’d always seen her as means to some unspoken end.
Before she could finish he went on, ‘And not here. It can wait until later, when de Courteveille releases you.’
‘I’m not a prisoner,’ she said automatically, eager to get this odd, worrying exchange over and done with. ‘And I think this is as good a time and a place as any to say goodbye.’
Felipe Gastano smiled, but although the skin around his eyes crinkled they showed no emotion. ‘So that is it?’ He shrugged. ‘Well, it was fun while it lasted, was it not?’
Relieved yet still wary, she said, ‘I certainly enjoyed it.’
‘I thank you. Perhaps I did not—quite—get what I thought we both wanted, but I also enjoyed our time together. However, before I go, there is something I must tell you. After your little accident, I tried to get in touch with you, but it seems you are not able to be contacted by telephone or email.’
‘What do you mean?’ In spite of the flames of the fire, she felt cold, and the chattering around her seemed to die away.
‘Just that it seems someone is monitoring your communications with the outside world.’
‘I’m sure you’re wrong,’ she retorted.
His smile was condescending. ‘Why don’t you ask de Couteveille? He comes now, and if I read him right he is not happy to see us talking together.’
Indeed, Rafiq sent her a keen glance as he approached, but although his tone when he greeted Felipe again was cool, it certainly wasn’t brusque. Felipe chatted a little about the hotel development before Rafiq and Lexie moved on.
From then on they were never alone. They stayed another hour, saw another dance, this one even more sensual than the first, and then it was time to go.
On the way back to the castle Lexie was aware of a certain air of constraint in Rafiq. He was courteous, amusing, interesting—and unreachable.
Felipe’s observations gnawed at her mind. She wanted to confront her host with them, yet another part of her brain told her to be sensible. Why on earth would Rafiq monitor her phone calls?
Eventually, as they drove in through the gates, she said, ‘Felipe said he’s been trying to contact me, but the staff were uncooperative.’
‘I’m afraid they probably were,’ Rafiq said coolly. ‘I have people who are trained to handle the media, and they dealt with all the calls about you. I gave your sister’s name to them, which is why she was put straight through, but I gained the impression that you wouldn’t want Gastano to have free access to you. If I was wrong, I will of course add him to the list.’
Hastily Lexie said, ‘No, it doesn’t matter, thank you. He won’t be calling again.’ As for the emails—even if Felipe did have her correct address, they’d been known to disappear into cyberspace for days, sometimes weeks, at a time. Curiosity and a certain relief drove her to ask, ‘Were there many approaches from the media?’
‘Quite a few. Some of the big news agencies have stringers on the island, and of course news travels fast.’ His tone hardened. ‘I didn’t think you’d like to be discussed in the gossip columns.’
Distastefully, she replied, ‘You were right.’
Her brief encounter with gossip writers and paparazzi had sickened her of the whole industry. In Illyria she’d been shielded from the worst of their excesses, but she’d seen the havoc they could create, and she wanted no part of it. Besides, she had a feeling that if Jacoba found out she was staying with Moraze’s ruler she’d send Prince Marco down to check him out.
The last thing she wanted was for Rafiq to discover who her father had been.
Honesty warred with shame. Perhaps she should tell him—right now. Yet the words froze in her throat. The sins of the fathers were indeed visited on their sons—and their daughters, she thought wearily, remembering how suspicious the Illyrians had been of her. Mud stuck; occasionally she even found herself wondering if she’d inherited any of her father’s brutality.
No, much better to leave things as they were. Then Rafiq might remember her as an ordinary woman, not as the child of a monster.
Once inside the castle, Rafiq asked, ‘How did you enjoy the evening?’
‘Very much,’ she told him, her tone more brittle than bright. ‘It was interesting to meet the people who’d actually worked on the project. And their singing was fantastic.’
‘What did you think of the dancing?’
His voice was amused, and his eyes half-hidden by his lashes. They were walking towards the terrace with the pavilion and the pool, and she could feel that forbidden, intoxicating anticipation chipping away at her control.
‘It was very sexy,’ she said firmly. ‘And amazingly athletic! At times I thought they might dislocate their hips.’
He threw his black head backwards and laughed, the sound full and unforced. ‘Did it give you the desire to try it?’
‘I know my limitations,’ she said. Curiosity drove her to ask, ‘Can you do it?’
‘Every Moraze-reared person can dance their version of our national dance,’ he said gravely. ‘Our nurses teach us it in our cradles—or so they say.’
They walked across to the pavilion, its translucent draperies floating languidly in the sea-scented breeze. A moon smiled down, silvering everything in a soft, unearthly light—the pool, the white-and-pink water lilies, the shimmering expanse of gauze that surrounded them and shut out the world.
Lexie swallowed something that obstructed her throat and said chattily, ‘I think you’d probably need to learn it in the cradle to be able to do it without falling over or making a total idiot of yourself. And constant practice must be necessary to give your hips and legs that flexibility.’
‘Don’t be so wary—I am not like the dancers at the hotels who sometimes lure tourists onto the sand to show them how very lacking in flexibility their hips are. And to dance properly you need drums and music.’ He looked down at her, his eyes gleaming and intent. ‘But I would like to teach you,’ he said deeply.
‘Teach me what?’
