CHAPTER TWELVE

      HE HAD EVERYTHING he wanted. Everything. So why wasn’t it enough?

      Rafe paced the floor of his Manhattan apartment, where outside the glitter of skyscrapers meant you couldn’t really see the darkness of the night sky. A bit like him. He was functioning as normal. Closing deals and starting new ones. Working out and going to parties. Life had to go on in every sense. He knew that. He’d even taken a woman to the theatre last night.

      He stopped his relentless pacing and gave a ragged sigh. She must have thought he was crazy. Successful and beautiful, she’d made it plain she’d like nothing more than to have him share her bed.

      And just the thought had left him cold. Worse than cold. His skin had crawled at the thought of touching a woman. Any woman.

      Except Sophie.

      Damn her.

      His pacing resumed. Why the hell couldn’t he stop thinking about her, despite his conviction that this was the best thing for both of them? Because if he couldn’t give her what she really wanted then neither of them would be satisfied.

      An image of her face swam into his mind. Her eyes as blue as a Queensland sky. Her dark hair threaded with sapphires or tumbling free over bare shoulders. The cool smile she’d given him as he’d left Isolaverde. He’d thought the flatness in her eyes had been for the benefit of her watching brother, who was clearly irritated by this latest turn of events. But then Rafe realised it was all for him. There had been no reproach in her gaze—just a quiet dignity, which had preoccupied him all the way home to America and continued to preoccupy him.

      So what was he going to do about it?

      His mouth tightened.

      He had a problem. Wasn’t it about time he started seeking a solution?

      * * *

      Bright sunlight flooded into the breakfast room of the Isolaverdian palace and the King sat back and regarded his younger sister.

      ‘I wondered if you might take a run out to Assimenios Beach today,’ said Myron.

      Sophie pushed away her half-eaten dish of grapefruit segments and forced a smile to her lips. The one which seemed to split her face in half but which she hoped Myron found convincing. He probably did. He wasn’t exactly the kind of man who spent his life analysing the facial expressions of women, especially not those of his sister. Why should he care if she was happy or not?

      ‘Any particular reason?’ she questioned.

      ‘Could be. I’m thinking of building a house there,’ said Myron. ‘And I’d like your input.’

      ‘Mine?’

      ‘Sure. Why not?’

      Sophie opened her mouth to say she wasn’t sure her opinion was up to much at the moment, then quickly shut it again. Because wasn’t this another sign that Myron was being more inclusive—something she had told him she wanted? It wasn’t his fault that she wasn’t firing on all cylinders, she thought as she went to her room and crammed on a light straw hat over her ponytailed hair. It wasn’t anybody’s fault except for...

      She stared into the mirror, aware of the new definition of her cheekbones and the shadowed hollows of her eyes. She had to stop thinking this way. She couldn’t blame Rafe. She really couldn’t, because he’d been honest with her from the start. If there was any blame to be apportioned, she should heap it all on herself because she had been the one who had been unable to settle for what he was offering. She was the one who’d wanted more than he was capable of giving. He’d ruled out love from the start but she had demanded it—a bit like someone walking into a fish restaurant and demanding to know why there was no steak on the menu.

      And it wasn’t as if she were without choices. She might have yet another failed love affair behind her, but things had changed. She was getting stronger by the day. Sometimes she even managed a whole fifteen minutes before Rafe’s shuttered features would swim into her mind and she’d be reminded of everything she’d lost. No, not lost, she reminded herself fiercely. She hadn’t lost something. She had walked away from something which would ultimately damage her and bring her pain—a one-sided marriage with a man incapable of love. She had been strong, not weak—and one day she would be grateful for that strength.

      Just not today.

      Myron had agreed to expand her royal role and to give her more responsibility. Just as he had agreed that if she wanted to go abroad and forge a career for herself, she would have his blessing. Because after Rafe had gone and she’d cried the last of those bitter tears, Sophie had realised she needed to take control of her own life and that running away to sail a boat over the Pacific wasn’t the answer this time. She needed to stop letting herself be moved around by these powerful men, like a token on a gaming table. So she had gone to Myron and told him she was planning to enrol on a cookery course in Paris in late spring.

      And Myron had just nodded his head and agreed!

      Maybe independence had always been that simple, she mused as she climbed behind the wheel of her car, which had been brought round to the front of the palace by one of the servants. Maybe all she’d needed to do was to have stood up for what she wanted from the start. Trouble was that she hadn’t really known what she wanted until she met Rafe, and now she was going to have to learn to want other things. Different things. Things which were nothing to do with him.

      Reminding herself of his impenetrable eyes, she headed off on the coastal road towards the eastern side of the island. The sky was a shimmering bowl of palest blue, contrasting with the much deeper blue of the Mediterranean which glittered far below. The roadsides were thick with early spring flowers and the distinctive and unique yellow and white bloom known as the Isolaverdian Star shone out from the grassy verges as far as the eye could see. Sophie glanced into her rear mirror, the bodyguard’s car further away than usual, thinking they were giving her a lot of leeway today.

      Assimenios was the most picturesque spot on an island not exactly short of picturesque spots—a private beach of pure white sand, which was used only by the royal family and their guests. Crystal waters lapped against the sheltered bay and it was as stunning as any Caribbean getaway. She parked her car and began to scramble down the sandy incline, reminded of childhood holidays when she, Myron and Mary-Belle would play beneath the wide beach umbrellas.

      The beach should have been deserted but as her canvas shoes sank into the soft sand she looked up and saw a yacht in the water, lazily swinging to her anchor in the gentle breeze. Her expert eye ran