Bought for His Bed. Kate Hardy
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his hand falling to his thigh, where it clenched into a fist. After a moment he said harshly, ‘You pack a hell of a punch, Fleur.’
She did? Fleur swallowed to ease her dry throat. ‘So do you,’ she said with bleak honesty, and scrambled for another subject, anything to relieve the tension that crackled between them.
Staring out of the window, she realised the car had just gone past the gates of his parents’ house. Relieved, she blurted, ‘You said your parents were away. Are they on holiday?’
‘Having another honeymoon,’ he said, his tone telling her that he knew exactly what she was doing.
She managed a cracked little laugh. ‘Sounds romantic.’
‘They’re a very romantic couple,’ he said coolly. ‘A testament to the fact that two strong-willed people can live happily together.’
‘Some people have all the luck,’ she said on a flippant note.
‘Luck?’ He considered the word. ‘Luck that of all the people in the world they met at the right time, perhaps. But after that it isn’t luck that makes a marriage like theirs.’
Did he believe in the romantic ideal? If his parents were still lovers after many years, possibly he did—and possibly she might, too, if she hadn’t seen first-hand how marriages could shatter, leaving nothing but shards of lives. Her father had believed in romance—she remembered huddling in her bed as he’d told her mother, not wanting to hurt her yet unable to resist the great passion he’d found.
‘Good for them,’ she said brightly as the car drew up outside the porticoed front entrance of his house.
Once inside he said, ‘The charity dinner I told you about is being held here tomorrow night. It will be followed by an after-dinner dance at a mystery venue. Wear something elegant with sparkles.’
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ she asked tentatively.
‘I shouldn’t think so.’ He scrutinised her. ‘How are you feeling now?’
‘Fine,’ she said a little blankly. ‘I seem to have fully recovered from dehydration. I just feel a bit tired, that’s all. I think the doctor was overreacting when she said I shouldn’t go home yet.’
He shrugged, penetrating grey eyes still scrutinising her face. ‘I don’t. And tonight I suggest you have dinner in your bedroom and go to bed early. Tomorrow night is likely to be very late, although of course we can come home if you get tired.’
He went on, ‘Gabrielle and her grandfather are arriving midmorning. They’re bringing another couple—friends of mine—with them.’
The second couple of friends turned out to be royalty—Prince and Princess Guy of Dacia, an island realm in the Mediterranean. Thrown this bombshell when Luke introduced them, Fleur wondered feverishly if she should curtsey, but a few moments spent talking to them soothed her. They were charming, the Princess a tall Englishwoman with milk-white skin and black hair and eyes like silver crystals, while her even taller husband’s face and tawny eyes revealed his Mediterranean heritage.
‘You’re from Northland?’ the Princess—Lauren—said enthusiastically. ‘Oh, it’s a gorgeous place. I’ve spent some wonderful holidays in the Bay of Islands. Do you know Lucia Radcliffe?’
‘I’ve heard of her,’ Fleur said noncommittally.
Her home village on the wild west coast of Northland was an hour’s drive and another world away from the cosmopolitan tourist centre of the Bay of Islands. She had never met—or even seen—the Dacian princess who’d married a New Zealander and appeared in magazines from time to time, although never of her own choice. Apparently she was very happy with her two children and her handsome tycoon of a husband on their huge estate in the hills north of the Bay.
Lauren smiled. ‘She loves New Zealand, too. How are you enjoying Fala’isi?’
This she could deal with. ‘Who wouldn’t? It’s my first visit to the tropics, and it’s even more beautiful than the photographs.’
‘Isn’t it just!’ But the Princess’s smile slipped a little, and her husband was instantly at her elbow.
Luke said to the couple, ‘I’ll show you to your room.’ He looked at Fleur and gave her a slow, heart-stopping smile that melted her bones. ‘Perhaps you could order tea for us all out on the terrace.’
Which left Fleur entertaining an elderly Frenchman whose keen eyes saw too much, and his granddaughter, a beautiful creature who viewed her with a mixture of irritation and aristocratic hauteur.
As Fleur led the way out onto the terrace and seated them, she wondered how on earth she’d let herself be talked into this masquerade. Damn Luke and his calm assumption that the world was his to command!
And stupid her, for letting him override her sensible reservations.
Fortunately both Gabrielle and her grandfather had exquisite manners, and all three were talking easily—if with some reserve—when the others came back without the Princess, who’d decided to rest until lunchtime.
Was she pregnant? Fleur wondered, and was horrified at the pang of longing that consumed her. Fighting it, she concentrated on the guests.
Lunch passed pleasantly, but afterwards in her room she allowed herself a small sigh. The Prince and Princess weren’t publicly demonstrative, but their feelings for each other burned like a smouldering fire.
It was foolish and ungracious to let others’ happiness make her envious, especially as such relationships were the exception rather than the rule—well, according to gossip columnists, anyway.
So she’d banish this feeling of being the odd one out, and organise herself for the night ahead. At the thought of dancing with Luke reckless heat consumed her, melting her bones and bringing a dangerous, decadent smile to her lips.
Oh, it would be wonderful. And terrifying. So she had to make sure he didn’t realise just how wonderful and terrifying.
A knock at the door brought her around. It was the maid, her pleasant face creased and anxious.
‘What is it?’ Fleur asked.
‘I’m sorry, miss, but I can’t find Mr Luke, and the tuna hasn’t come for the dinner and the cook is angry.’
‘Mr Luke’s gone riding with the Prince,’ Fleur said. ‘All right, I’ll come along.’
It appeared that the most essential part of the dinner menu, the specially caught and sliced tuna, hadn’t arrived, and no one could tell the apoplectic chef where it was.
‘It has to be marinated in lime,’ he explained at the top of his voice. ‘If it doesn’t get here soon it will be too late and then everything will be ruined.’
‘Everything won’t be ruined because you’ll already have made another starter,’ Fleur said firmly. ‘I’m quite sure that someone with your experience and your skills can do that and still make it a meal to remember.’
He said sulkily, ‘But everything—the wine, the menu—has been specially chosen to meld together to make one perfect meal. Any alteration—any deviation—will bring the whole wonderful edifice crashing down.’
Fleur let her brows drift upwards. ‘Are you telling me you can’t produce another starter that’s just as suitable?’
‘Of course I’m not,’ he said explosively, ‘but I am telling you that Mr Chapman will have to choose another wine and it will have to be chilled.’
‘I’ll make sure that he knows the problem the moment he gets back from the stables,’ she said soothingly. ‘What suggestions do you have for an emergency starter?’
He frowned, and rattled off several alternatives. Surmising that any hesitation on her part would be a bad thing, Fleur chose the only one she recognised. ‘The