Royal and Ruthless: Innocent Mistress, Royal Wife / Prince of Scandal / Weight of the Crown. Robyn Donald
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one to suppose that he wants to keep out of your way. One of Gastano’s closest associates is convinced that he plans to marry M’selle Considine.’
Rafiq’s head came up and he stared at her. ‘Is this good information?’ he demanded. ‘Not just gossip?’
‘I don’t deal in gossip; this is as good as it gets. The source mentioned that the date had been set. Has M’selle Considine said anything about that? Or about Gastano?’
‘Nothing,’ he said briefly. ‘Continue keeping him under observation. I want to know exactly what he is doing, where he goes, who he sees, and I want to make sure that he is unable to contact M’selle Considine for at least another couple of days.’
Therese inclined her head. ‘Her phone calls and email are being monitored, as you requested. If he tries to contact her we will know immediately.’ After a slight pause she said, ‘With respect, sir, I still think it would be better to let them communicate with each other and see what we can learn.’
‘I don’t.’
She gave him what he called her grandmother’s look, and his mouth quirked, his expression lightening. ‘I know how you feel,’ he admitted. ‘I rarely have hunches, but something tells me to keep her under wraps for the present. If it achieves nothing else, the knowledge that his prospective bride is my guest and incommunicado should keep his mind off his overseas affairs.’
With a reluctant smile, Therese said, ‘So far your hunches have been one-hundred-per-cent accurate, so I’d be stupid not to accept this one.’
‘I realise it’s likely to make things more difficult for you.’ After another speaking look from her, his smile widened. ‘But I’m sure you’ll cope.’
When he was alone again he sat back at his desk and stared at the gold pen in front of him.
One part of him was icily furious that Gastano had dared set foot on Moraze, the other was bleakly satisfied—because now the count was in unfamiliar territory where the rules were different.
Greed bolstered by overconfidence often led to mistakes, Rafiq thought with ruthless pragmatism. And coming to Moraze was the first mistake Gastano had made in a long time.
Rafiq got to his feet and walked over to the window, glancing up for a moment at the rampant stallion on the wall of his office, the badge of his house and the symbol of his family’s rule. Everything he did was for Moraze’s welfare.
So, was Lexie what she seemed to be, the complaisant lover of a high-flying criminal, in line to be his wife?
Or was she an innocent dupe, rather charming in her lack of sophistication?
If she wasn’t a partner in Gastano’s schemes, discovering the true nature of her lover could hurt her. But Rafiq knew he couldn’t afford to be squeamish; he needed an edge over Gastano, and if the man planned to marry her this could be it.
Had Lexie been an innocent when she’d met the count?
A surge of lethal fury took Rafiq completely by surprise. Implacably, he fought it back, forcing himself to think analytically. It seemed unlikely. She’d spent years studying to be a vet, and, although universities were by no means hotbeds of vice, she was a very attractive woman with a swift, reckless sexual response that hinted at considerable experience.
Some of it gained in Gastano’s bed, he reminded himself ruthlessly.
The memory of the kiss they’d exchanged still had the power to arouse Rafiq. What had been a rather sardonic whim on his part had changed the instant his lips met hers. She’d been vividly, tantalisingly passionate, and he’d lost himself in her open sensuality.
That kiss had been surprisingly hard to break away from—and even harder to forget.
His household offices were in the old citadel, built on a spur of volcanic rock that overtopped the city by some hundred or so metres, so he had an excellent view of the business district. His gaze skimmed the glittering water of the port, and the bright trees that lined the business area, then beyond to the houses clinging to the surrounding hills.
Logically, dispassionately, he considered the situation, examining it from all angles until he finally came to a conclusion. It was a difficult one, but he had been trained to make difficult decisions, even ones that threatened to exact a personal cost.
As the sweet-scented tropical day drew to a close, Lexie felt so much better she thought quite seriously about heading back to the hotel. Common sense decided that tomorrow would probably be a better day. The maid had insisted she rest again before dinner, closing the shutters even while Lexie was trying to persuade her that she wasn’t tired.
‘The Emir says it is necessary,’ Cari said firmly.
Rafiq the Emir. It suited him, Lexie thought with an odd little shiver.
To her astonishment she did sleep again, lulled by the distant thunder of the waves on the reef, waking to a feeling of lazy wellbeing, a kind of hopeful anticipation, as though something wonderful was in store, something she’d waited for without even realising it…
‘Just watch yourself,’ she said aloud.
But that rash eagerness persisted even after she’d got up, even though she knew Rafiq wasn’t coming back. Irritated by the wistful tone of her thoughts, she made an impatient gesture.
So she was attracted to him. Why should that startle her? Plenty of other women at the party had watched him from the corners of their eyes, avidly appreciating his superb male assets. Like this castle, her suite, her bathroom, he was straight out of a fairy tale—a ruler, strong, and more than a little intimidating.
He’d asked her if she liked the thought of taming a man.
Flushing, she went to brush her hair. The answer was still no, but it would be…exciting to discover whether his imperious control was unbreakable.
Meeting—being kissed by—Rafiq de Couteveille had summoned a hidden, shameful yearning.
To be beautiful.
There, she’d said it, but only in her mind. To rub in how completely ridiculous she was being, she forced the words through her lips: ‘I’d like to be beautiful. I’d like him to look at me the way Marco looks at Jacoba. Even once would do.’
A swift, derisory glance at the mirror revealed why that would never happen. ‘There’s nothing wrong with you—you’re just ordinary,’ she said, pronouncing the word like a curse.
She stared more closely at her reflection, clinically cataloguing her assets.
Good skin, though it turned sallow if she didn’t choose the right colours to wear.
Fine features, but without anything of Jacoba’s witchery.
OK eyes, darkish blue, set off by black brows and long lashes.
Hair that was wavy and thick, boring brown with gold highlights in the sun.
And although she had quite a reasonable figure, she lacked any lush curves; slim and athletic was probably as good as it got.
Lexie curled her lip. All in all—forgettable.
And the kiss they’d shared had clearly meant so little to Rafiq he’d relegated it to some dark cupboard in his memory, never to be opened again.
Which was what she should do, she decided, ashamed by her neediness. It embarrassed her that the independence she’d taken so much for granted had crumbled at one touch from a man’s practised mouth.
She was Lexie Sinclair, and she was a vet—a good vet—and she’d be a better one before she finished. Always she’d gratefully left the limelight to Jacoba and followed her own less-spectacular dreams. Being thrust into the Illyrian spotlight had shocked her, and awakened a difficult conscience within herself, one that forced her to do what she could to alleviate her father’s bitter, brutal legacy. She was proud of what she’d