His Most Exquisite Conquest: A Delicious Deception / The Girl He'd Overlooked / Stepping out of the Shadows

The stark reminder of just how attractive he was to the opposite sex, coupled with nerves over how she was going to broach the subject with Mitch, made her look flushed and uneasy as she steeled herself to enter the man’s room.

It was light and beautifully furnished, with only the bleep of a machine and other necessary equipment around the bed where Mitch was lying, propped up by pillows, reminding her that this wasn’t some luxury hotel.

‘How are you?’ she asked with genuine concern, despite everything. He looked less florid and much more relaxed than she’d seen him before.

‘No need for preliminaries, child.’ Still his impatient self, he was waving her concern aside. ‘You can see how I am. Alive! And you, I believe,’ he went on, his watery blue eyes unsettlingly direct, ‘have something you want to say to me.’

‘All right, then.’ Now she wondered why she had been worrying about exactly what she was going to say, but she should have known how much he was like King. Love them or hate them, the Clayborne men always made things easy by cutting to the chase. Always taking command. Well, like it or not. She could do that too! ‘Why did you do what you did to my father?’ she demanded with her breasts lifting rapidly under the light fabric of her flattering yet simply tailored shift. ‘I don’t care how many agreements he signed. You could have acknowledged that MiracleMed was his concept and you didn’t.’

Mitch’s mouth twisted as though he was considering how best to answer. ‘Did King tell you that?’ he enquired. ‘That I could have done the decent thing and decided not to?’

‘No. He didn’t have to,’ she murmured torturously, guessing that Mitch must have told him that yesterday, which was why King had looked so … what was it? … devastated, almost, she decided, when he had returned from here last night. But he hadn’t told her because, of course, he would have wanted to protect his father, even though deep down he must have been shocked and thoroughly appalled. She didn’t know how she knew that. She just did.

‘Oh, I know about your … wife.’ It hurt excruciatingly to say it. To have to accept that her father had been having an affair. ‘And yes, King did tell me that. But surely that wasn’t enough reason to …’ She couldn’t go on. Pain and resentment, anger and betrayal—it was all there in the anguish marring her face.

‘Have you ever been in love, Rayne?’ The man’s tone had softened as his silver head tilted to study her. ‘No, don’t answer that.’ His breath seemed dragged from him. ‘That wasn’t any excuse. But Karen was the only woman I’d loved since King’s mother deserted me—deserted both of us—for an Australian rancher. I couldn’t bear it when I saw the whole thing happening again. I was demented with anger—and jealousy.’ His voice sounded even more gravelly than usual from his emotion. ‘I figured that Grant had stolen from me—and something that no amount of money could buy—although I’ve realised since that I was half-crazed and too dim to see that she’d only married me for my money. I thought I was justified in taking something that belonged to him, but it’s haunted me all these years in having done that to a colleague and a friend and, for what it’s worth, I am truly, truly sorry.’

Feeling rooted to the spot, Rayne didn’t know what to think—to say. What could she say? she demanded of herself, hurting unbearably.

With tears burning her eyes, her emotions riding high, she did the only thing she could.

She fled.

Only to bump into something warm and solid as she rounded the corner at the end of the corridor.

‘What the …?’

King’s hands were steadying her, his eyes scrutinizing her face and, seeing the tension and the tears she was battling to control, he said merely, understandingly, ‘Come on.’

They were out of the building before she had even realised it.

The reporters were still there, eager for news of a budding romance.

King, however, shouldered his way through them, ignoring their intrusive questions until, finally, and much to Rayne’s relief, he brought her—unmolested, but feeling the worse for wear—back to the car.

‘Would you care to tell me about it?’ he invited when they were on the road again in the exclusive, quiet haven of the Lamborghini.

‘No,’ was all she said.

To her relief, he didn’t press the point. Silently, she thanked him for that.

Maybe in time she would forgive Mitchell Clayborne, she thought, sinking against the luxuriously padded pale leather upholstery. And even forgive her father. But right then all she could do was sit there with the sun filtering through the tinted windscreen, staring sightlessly out at the palm-fringed road and the glittering waves of a teal blue sea, wishing she had never come to Monte Carlo, wishing she could simply escape.

And perhaps King was wise to exactly how she was feeling, she speculated, surprised when, without a word, he took her for a long drive along the dramatically sculpted coast.

Above them, pastel-coloured houses seemed in places to cling precariously to cliff ledges among the forested mountains, while parasol pines, their branches spread with welcoming shade, grew abundantly amidst fig and date palms, interspersed with vibrant splashes of colour from the Mediterranean flowers.

She was beginning to feel better by the time he pulled onto the harbourside of an ancient port lined with a mixture of fishing boats and dinghies and exclusive yachts. A row of craft shops, galleries and cafés had been converted out of the old buildings beside the quay.

‘Watch your footing,’ he cautioned when they were out of the car, taking her hand to guide her safely past tethered ropes and crates of provisions being loaded onto vessels that amazed her with their sheer size. But it was those cool fingers around hers that left her breathless, with a sharp thrill running through her as she thought of the passion they had shared both that morning and the previous night.

His yacht was moored at one end of the ancient harbour and, after he had settled Rayne on board, leaving her brewing coffee in the well-equipped galley, King popped back to the quayside shops for some provisions.

The coffee had just brewed when Rayne heard him step back on board.

She was reaching up for two mugs in one of the modern cupboards just as he came down into the galley. His arm going around her waist made her gasp, as did the arrangement of white perfumed blooms he was holding against her breast and which were filling the air with their heady fragrance.

‘Roses!’ She laughed in breathless surprise.

‘A peace offering,’ King told her, ‘for being such an overbearing oaf—and for jumping to all the wrong conclusions.’ And when she looked enquiringly over her shoulder with a velvety eyebrow raised, he said, ‘Mitch’s previous record with a woman young enough to be his daughter resulted in devastating consequences. You couldn’t blame me for being on my guard.’

‘On your guard?’ She gave a censorious little laugh. ‘You’ve been like a prowling tiger!’

‘Because I knew you were hiding something,’ he said. ‘You confirmed that the first morning when you said Mitch had told you I was in New York, because Mitch hadn’t known. But also, I suspect, because I wanted—’ He broke off, exhaling heavily as he pulled her back against him. ‘Correction. Want you myself.’

Want. Nothing else, Rayne forewarned herself as every nerve leapt in response to the lips that were suddenly caressing the sensitive skin exposed to him by the slashed neckline of her simple shift.

‘I just didn’t want to be turned out before I was able to speak to Mitch. That’s why I didn’t tell the truth,’ she murmured with a sensuous little shudder because of what he was doing to her.

‘If you’d come to me—explained how you felt—I’d have at least looked into it,’ he told her softly against her cheek now. ‘Instead, I was left to pre-judge.’

‘Without knowing anything about me,’ she scolded gently. ‘And you still don’t know anything about me. Or very little,’ she tagged on, with colour appearing along the crest of her cheekbones as she reminded herself that after last night and this morning, physically, at least, he knew her very, very well.

‘Don’t I?’ He was smiling as though hugging some secret he wasn’t prepared to share with her. Or perhaps, she thought, he was just remembering their time in bed together too …

‘All right, so I rip men’s shirts off and then take advantage of them when I’ve got them at their most vulnerable,’ she conceded jokingly, loving the heat of his hand through the fine fabric of her dress and the warm strength of him pressing into her back.

Seriously, though, she couldn’t help thinking about how shattered he had looked when he had returned from the clinic last night, after what had been an obviously gruelling day. Shattered, not just from worrying about Mitch, but by the things Mitch must have told him. Realising he’d been wrong about her, too, probably hadn’t helped lessen the load.

‘If that was taking advantage of me, then I can’t wait for the next time,’ he drawled, and pretended to double up when she gave him a gentle nudge in the ribs with her elbow.

‘You’re right. Enough of this or we’ll starve,’ he said, laughing, as she took the flowers and stood them in the centre of the dining table that curved around its seating area next to the galley. ‘And then I do have an hour or so’s work to do,’ he apologised. ‘But first …’

She hadn’t realised it until then, but in his other hand he had been clutching the strap of a square insulated cooler, which he lifted up now onto the counter beside the cooker.

‘Oysters in Madeira with cheese sauce for starters,’ he told her, opening the bag and looking very pleased with himself. ‘Fresh tuna steak—to be seared, of course—with salad and crusty bread and fresh raspberries and passion fruit coulis to follow.’

‘Goodness!’ Rayne laughed, realising she’d been expecting something far less exotic. ‘When you go to town—you go to town!’

But of course he would, she thought, watching those long deft hands unpacking the carefully selected items. A man like Kingsley Clayborne would never do things by half measures.

‘Oysters and passion fruit? Aren’t oysters supposed to be an aphrodisiac?’ she remembered with a sidelong provocative glance up at him. ‘As for passion fruit … what sort of afternoon are you planning?’

‘If you keep looking at me like that, not a very productive one,’ he responded with a feral smile.

‘And don’t tell me …’ she laughed again, thinking how wonderful it was to feel so at ease with him ‘… Clayborne’s shares will drop like a stone and the whole global workforce will be on the dole because the company’s CEO stopped to enjoy himself for a while.’

‘That’s about the size of it,’ he replied dryly, although there was a hint of seriousness in his voice that made her realise how hard he worked and how dedicated he was in what he did, which helped provide a living for so many thousands of people across the globe.

‘So how did you come by all this stuff for such a gourmet meal?’ Rayne asked. After all, he hadn’t been gone that long.

‘The owner of that restaurant over there …’ this with a sideways toss of his head towards the quayside ‘… is a very good friend of mine. I rang him earlier and told him to expect me.’

‘You …’ dark horse, she finished silently, warmed by the knowledge that he’d been planning all this even before they had left the clinic. Probably even the roses too.

She couldn’t remember much of what they talked about during the meal, which they ate out on the lower deck under the awning. Their conversation was light and casual and surprisingly easy. Then afterwards, with the dishwasher humming away in the galley and King working in the salon on his laptop, she lazed on the upper deck in her burgundy satin bra and panties because she didn’t have her bikini with her.

Listening to the deep resonance of his voice, hanging on every word he uttered as he conducted his international business over the phone and arranged meetings, her gently tanning body pulsed from the memory of their lovemaking, and throbbed in reckless anticipation of what might be to come.

Her cellphone rang while she was lying there. She didn’t recognise the caller as anyone she knew, answering it rather uncertainly.

‘Hello, Lorrayne,’ Nelson Faraday began. ‘I got your number from an old associate of ours …’ He named a mutual colleague with whom they had worked on the same paper and with whom Rayne still sometimes kept in touch. ‘He told me your mother had been ill. I hope she’s feeling better.’ Preliminaries over with, he dived straight into the reason why he was ringing her. ‘I understand you were seen looking more than chummy with Kingsley Clayborne. Want to tell me about it?’

A trickle of unease ran through Rayne like a paralysing poison. ‘No.’

‘Just good friends, eh? Or is there far more to your being here with him than meets the eye?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said tremulously, knowing this man could spell trouble for her.

The journalist chuckled softly, without a trace of humour. ‘Don’t you? You have a short memory, Lorrayne.’

‘If you think I’ve forgotten the methods you use to dig up your stories, then trust me—my memory’s as long as an elephant’s!’

Laughter came again, a little more sincerely now. ‘That sounds more like the fiery creature I knew. Look, I think we should talk. How about meeting me for drinks at the Café de Paris?’

The man had to be joking! ‘How about barking up some other tree, Faraday? I’ve got nothing to say to you. Goodbye!’

She found she was shaking as she cut him off and tossed down her phone on the sunbed.

‘What’s wrong?’ King asked, choosing that exact moment to emerge from the lower deck.

His shirt was partially unbuttoned with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and with those light beige trousers moulding themselves to his hips and very muscular thighs he looked no less than utterly magnificent.

‘Nothing,’ Rayne fibbed, trying to restore her agitated features into some semblance of order.

‘Nothing?’ He glanced down at her cellphone, dark brows knitting together. Numbly, she wondered exactly what she might have said and how much he might have heard.

‘Just someone ringing up enquiring about Mum,’ she supplied, which was partly true at any rate. She even managed a smile.

‘She’s all right, isn’t she?’

The concern lining his face with that strong hand on her shoulder had the effect of melting her worries like butter over a hot stove.

‘Of course,’ she murmured, tilting her head back, her smile genuine this time, her peach-tinted lips inviting—craving—the pressure of his.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.