Royal and Ruthless: Innocent Mistress, Royal Wife / Prince of Scandal / Weight of the Crown. Robyn Donald
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spent the next morning in luxurious laziness with a couple of books Rafiq had sent up to her room via the maid, with a brief note apologising for his absence. One was a novel written by a famous author from Moraze, the other a beautifully produced guide to the island with fabulous photographs and a very entertaining history. She then tired herself by swimming lengths in the pool, and napped in the heat of the day, determined to be alert that night and prove that she was fully recovered from the very minor results of the accident.
For dinner she wore a sleek resort dress in a subdued gold that brought out the lights in her hair. She didn’t look too bad at all, she decided, adjusting the neckline. The skirt fell to her ankles, and the sash belt clung to her narrow waist.
Tiny hot shivers tightened every nerve in her body. Later she and Rafiq would be alone together. Perhaps they’d kiss, and she’d know once more that aching, bittersweet delight in his arms.
And this time, instead of following his lead, she’d let him know—subtly, she hoped—that she was ready for the next step.
Whatever that might be…
Rafiq drove them to the restaurant in an unmarked car. By mutual consent they kept the conversation light, speaking mostly of the island and its beauty. A few miles inland they came to a large building throbbing with lights, and almost jumping with music. Lexie was glad when they passed it by.
He said, ‘Since the sugar industry was rationalised years ago, some of the old mills have been transformed into places like this where the locals can get together to sing and dance and play music. They’re now being discovered by tourists, but I thought that you might prefer somewhere smaller and more intimate. You agree?’
It was a good sign that he’d read her so accurately, though right this minute she’d probably have agreed if he’d told her the moon was falling into the sea. Sedately she said, ‘It sounds perfect.’
The rest of the short journey was made in silence, although a vibrant awareness hummed between them as Rafiq turned the car down a narrow road that led back towards the coast again. Palms swayed languidly above, and the salty tang of the sea mingled with the flower perfumes that saturated these coastal lowlands. Lexie kept her eyes on the white line of the reef around a headland that jutted like a giant castle, gaunt against the star-dazzled sky.
She could wait; in fact, this slow build-up would make their kisses even sweeter, more fiery. Half eager, half apprehensive, she wondered if tonight…?
Rafiq’s car was clearly well known; they were met by a man who indicated a secluded parking spot away from the small courtyard.
How many other women had Rafiq brought here? Lexie squelched the jealous little query. Live for the moment, she advised herself fiercely as she went with him into the vine-hung restaurant.
Afterwards, looking back, Lexie would always remember it as an evening of enchantment. They ate superb seafood and drank champagne, and he honoured her with his plans for the future of his country, although he first warned her, ‘I’m likely to bore you.’
Lexie’s brows rose. Nothing about him would bore her—and she suspected he knew it. Furthermore, she’d had enough of protecting herself. She didn’t care any more. ‘As a citizen of another small island nation—with about a million fewer people than Moraze—I’m interested in how you see its future.’
‘I hope it will eventually be an independent and self-sustaining country under its own prime minister,’ he said promptly. ‘But there is some time to go before we reach that point. Democracy isn’t well-established here; my father and grandfather were benevolent autocrats of the old school, so it’s been left to me to introduce changes, and old habits die hard. It will probably take another generation before the reforms are so firmly bedded in that the citizens of Moraze will both choose and be their own rulers.’
‘And you don’t regret giving up power?’
He shrugged. ‘No.’ He scanned her face and said, ‘The band’s striking up. Would you like to dance?’
On Moraze, it seemed, ballroom dancing was the established mode. Fortunately Lexie had accompanied a friend to classes while they were at high school. If she’d known then that someday she’d be dancing a waltz with the ruler of an exotic island in the Indian Ocean, she’d have paid much more attention to the steps, she thought as she got up with him.
Heart thumping, she went into Rafiq’s arms, felt them close around her, and gave herself up to the sensation. He moved with the lithe, powerful grace of an athlete, keeping perfect time. In his strong arms, his body only an inch or so away from hers, Lexie found the sexual magnetism that crackled between them both compelling and dangerously disturbing.
Part of her wanted to get these preliminaries over and go back to the castle to lose herself in this voluptuous recklessness. Another part treasured this subtle communication of eyes and senses, this aching, unsatisfied physical longing that promised an eventual rapturous release in each other’s arms.
At first they talked, but eventually both fell silent; Rafiq’s arm tightened across her back, and her breath came faster and faster between her lips as their bodies brushed and swayed and were taken hostage by the music.
Lexie forgot there were others there, that although the lights were dim and subdued they could be seen. Eyes locked onto Rafiq’s darkly demanding ones, she danced in a thrall of desire.
He said, ‘Let’s get out of here.’
In a voice she didn’t recognize, she said, ‘Yes.’
BUT 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