Royal and Ruthless: Innocent Mistress, Royal Wife / Prince of Scandal / Weight of the Crown. Robyn Donald
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everybody in this Indian Ocean fantasy of a salon wore their sophistication like a badge of belonging.
Standing alone in the elegant, crowded room, she was attracting interested glances. Rafiq had to rein in a disturbing urge to forge his way through the chattering mob and cut her out, like a stallion with its favourite mare.
As he watched she turned and walked out through the wide doors into the warm, tropical night, the light from the chandeliers gleaming over satiny, golden-amber hair.
Across the room Gastano looked up, said something to the film star, and set off after his mistress. Rafiq fought back a raw anger that drove him to follow Gastano, and moved with the lithe gait of a man in complete control of his body.
He should leave it to the security men, of course, but he wanted to see them together, Gastano and Alexa Considine. That way he’d know for certain the truth about their relationship.
It was, he thought cynically as he stepped out onto the wide stone terrace, a perfect night for dalliance—the stars were as big as lamps, the sea gleamed like black silk shot with silver, and erotic perfumes from the flower farms of Moraze drifted lazily through the palms.
Stopping in the shadow of a vine heavy with flamboyant scarlet blossom, Rafiq watched the count walk up to Alexa Considine, and fought a primitive impulse to follow the man and best him in a territorial contest of overt masculine power.
The impulse startled him. Even in his amours he never allowed himself to be anything other than self-possessed, and this proprietary attitude towards a woman he didn’t even know—and planned to use—was an unwelcome development.
Of course, it couldn’t be personal—well, it was, he thought with a slow burn of anger, but it was between him and Gastano. Attractive though she was, the woman was merely a bystander.
Frowning, he noted her reaction to the count’s opening remark, scanning her face for emotions as she turned from her contemplation of the lagoon.
Although Rafiq had a hunter’s patience, he must have made some slight movement, because the woman looked over the count’s shoulder. Her eyes widened momentarily, only to be hastily covered by long lashes.
Not in fear or surprise, he thought, but in warning. A very cool customer, this one. No, he didn’t have to concern himself about her feelings; she was fully in command of them.
Narrowly he inspected the regular features highlighted by the silver witchery of starlight. Her sensuous mouth was compressed, her detached expression not altering as Gastano bent his head down to her.
The count’s voice was pitched too low for Rafiq to hear what he said, but the tone was unmistakeable—intimate and smoothly caressing.
The woman’s brows lifted. ‘No, I haven’t changed my mind.’
Again the count spoke, and this time Rafiq caught a few words. He stiffened.
Speaking in English, the count had said, ‘Come, don’t be so angry, my dearest girl,’ accompanied by a lingering, significant gaze.
She tossed back a crisp comment and walked past him, her spine straight as she headed for Rafiq.
‘Hello,’ she said in English, her voice clear and steady. ‘I’m Lexie Sinclair. Isn’t it a gorgeous evening?’ Not giving him time to answer, she turned to include the count and asked in a pleasant tone, ‘Do you two know each other?’
Full marks for social skills, Rafiq thought sardonically. Aloud he said, ‘Of course.’ Without offering a hand, he favoured the other man with a slight unsmiling inclination of his head. ‘Gastano.’
‘Ah, sir, how delightful to meet you again.’ The count’s voice was a mixture of impudence and false man-to-man heartiness. ‘I must congratulate you on yet another superb investment—I can tell you now that this hotel will be a huge success. I’ve already had two film stars singing its praises, and at least one minor European royal is planning to bring his latest mistress here for a week’s tryst.’
He switched his attention to the woman, letting his eyes linger on her face, and went on in a voice where the impertinence had transmuted into charming ruefulness. ‘Alexa, I must introduce you to Rafiq de Courteveille. He is the ruler of this lovely island, and all who live here, you know. But I must warn you to beware of him—he is well known to be a breaker of hearts. Sir, this is Alexa Considine, who prefers to be known as Lexie Sinclair. Perhaps she will tell you why.’
With an ironic smile, he bowed to them both then walked back into the hotel.
Aware of the anger that tightened her neat features, Rafiq took Alexa’s arm. Ignoring her startled resistance, he walked her towards the edge of the wide, stone-flagged terrace.
A volatile mixture of irritation laced with apprehension had prompted Lexie’s decision to make use of this stranger. If she’d known that he was the hereditary ruler of Moraze she’d never have dared; she’d probably shattered protocol. It had been kind of him to ignore her lack of manners.
So why did she feel that her impulsive approach to him had set something dangerous in motion? Resisting a faint, foolish urge to turn and run, she stole a rapid sideways glance at his face and dragged in a silent breath. A silver wash of starlight emphasised boldly angular features, strong and thrusting and uncompromising.
Dead gorgeous, she thought with involuntary appreciation, her heart picking up speed. In superbly tailored evening clothes he carried himself like an autocrat, his six-foot-several-inches of lean manhood almost intimidating.
Against such steel-hard authority, Felipe’s glamorous sophistication suddenly seemed flashy and superficial.
Sedately, she said, ‘It’s an honour to meet you, sir.’
‘My name is Rafiq.’ He smiled at her, his dark eyes intent.
Lexie’s pulse rate accelerated further, and an odd twist of sensation tightened her stomach. Trying to curb her runaway response, she struggled to remember what she’d read about the man who ruled this small, independent island state.
Not a lot. He didn’t make the headlines, or figure largely in the tabloids. Felipe had referred to him contemptuously as ‘the tinpot fake prince of a speck of land thousands of miles from civilisation.’
But Felipe’s jeering dismissal of the man beside her had been foolish as well as wrong. Rafiq de Couteveille walked in an aura of effortless power based on formidable male assurance.
Her mind jerked away from the memory of the moment that morning when, tired after the long flight from Europe, she’d discovered that Felipe had organised for her to spend the week in a room with him.
It had been a shock. She’d already decided she wasn’t in love with Felipe, and by going back to New Zealand she’d be ending their relationship.
The week in Moraze on her own was to have been a holiday, seven days to reorient herself to her real life as a country vet in Northland. Being met by Felipe at the airport had been unexpected. But when he’d swept her off to the hotel he was staying in, and they’d been shown into a suite with flowers everywhere and a bottle of champagne in a silver bucket prominently displayed, she’d realised with dismay and a certain unease that he’d set the scene for seduction.
Still, she’d been civilised about it, and so had Felipe, when she’d told him that no, she wasn’t going to join him in any sensual fantasy.
He hadn’t argued. Felipe never did. He’d taken her rejection with a smiling shrug, observing that it didn’t matter, that he’d sleep on one of the very comfortable sofas. That was when she’d found out that he’d cancelled her booking at her own, much more modest hotel some miles away. It had been impossible to get a room to herself—it was the holiday season and all the hotels were fully booked, an apologetic clerk told her.
It hadn’t been the first time Felipe had suggested they make love, but before it had always been with a light touch so she’d never felt pressured.
This time there