A Proposal To Secure His Vengeance

The tour of the part of the business they’d be happy to show him, and not the one he’d obviously been angling for. The one that wouldn’t let him pry into secrets that were none of his business. So far they’d managed to hide just how bad things were; she didn’t want Raoul finding out more.

‘Oh, don’t bother.’

That lazy voice was back but she could catch the thread of steel that ran through it like a warning rumble of thunder before a storm broke.

‘I’m sure I can manage on my own. You can find out the things you most want to know that way.’

It was meant to sound casual, indifferent, but there was so much more in his voice. The growing storm was coming nearer, dangerously so. She would have to find out just what was happening with Ciara and figure out how she could proceed from there. And she’d have to make sure that, whatever Raoul had in mind, he didn’t get a chance to put it into action.

This sleek, elegant man with the closely cropped black hair, the burning golden eyes above lean, bronzed cheeks and the arrogant tilt to his proud head was so very different from the man she had met on that magical holiday. The young, carefree, raw and sexy Raoul with the suntanned skin, bare feet and over-long hair was the man she had fallen in love with. The man who had broken her heart. Then his friend Rosalie had warned her that Raoul was not all he seemed, but she’d been so deep in love she’d ignored it. Or at least hadn’t listened to it properly. So she’d been stunned to find that her own teasing nickname for him was the very one that was used in the international business world to describe his ruthless, cold-blooded determination to make a profit.

The Corsican Bandit was the man she was dealing with now. Because of that, she was going to have to tread carefully. And her sister’s arrival had reminded her that there was more than her own future at stake.

‘Enjoy your day!’ she said over-brightly, praying it didn’t sound as fake to him as it did to her own ears. ‘Come on, Ciara, we have lots to do!’

Moving to the open doorway, Raoul stood, eyes narrowed, feet firmly planted wide apart, as he watched the two women walk away across the lush green field towards Blacklands House. He wouldn’t have known the two women were sisters if he hadn’t been told, he reflected. Ciara was shorter, with more rounded curves, and her hair was a glorious red-gold. Just Pierre’s type, damn him.

‘She’s so young, Raoul, and so lovely.’ Marina’s words echoed in his head. ‘And twenty years younger than me—it’s no wonder he’s entranced. I wish I’d never given her the job as nanny!’

Deep in his pockets, his hands clenched into tight, aggressive fists. The image of Imogen and her sister walking so close together, arms linked without a care in the world, it seemed, brought back a bitter remembrance of that photograph in the papers.

The Scandalous O’Sullivan Sisters. His breath hissed in between clenched teeth.

Yesterday had been just the start. A preliminary survey to get the lie of the land. Tomorrow he would put his plan into operation and he would set himself to bring down the O’Sullivan family, one by one.

Starting with Imogen.

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS FAR worse than she had thought. Imogen had tried to imagine all sorts of things that Raoul might have against her sister, but never this. Her blood ran cold. It was bad enough to think that Raoul Cardini had appeared out of her past, to be the spectre at her wedding feast, but to realise that her younger sister too was caught up in the dark shadows he had brought with him made her nerves knot in her stomach.

‘Why didn’t you tell me before now?’

‘I couldn’t,’ Ciara admitted, and Imogen was shocked to see how white she looked. ‘I didn’t really know you when all this happened.’

That was her mother’s fault, Imogen reflected, feeling the raw scrape of bitterness on her soul. Lizzie O’Sullivan had abandoned her marriage when she’d run off with her much younger, much more glamorous lover. Arturo had never wanted children, but Lizzie had persuaded him to take her toddler daughter with them. She had always struggled to get close to Imogen whose bookish, studious nature was nothing like her mother’s. Besides, the elder girl had inherited her father’s love for horses and the stud that provided their livelihood, while her mother loathed and feared the great, enormous beasts. Determined to break off all ties with the family she had left behind in Ireland, Lizzie had never even told Ciara that she had a sister—and to hide it she had adopted Arturo’s name for the family.

The memory of the long years not knowing anything about her little sister still had the power to hurt Imogen. When Lizzie had finally resurfaced, abandoned by her lover and left without the financial support she had looked to him for, it was to demand her right to one half of the O’Sullivan ‘fortune’. A fortune that had dwindled dangerously while their father Joe had taken his hands off the reins and let the stud run down desperately. Her mother’s demands had threatened to bring bankruptcy crashing down on their heads, but Joe had been determined to pay her off to get her out of his life, even though it had taken every last penny and put the stud even further into debt. That was why Imogen had finally agreed to Adnan’s businesslike suggestion of a marriage of convenience between them.

The one good thing that had come out of her mother’s reappearance was that it had brought the sisters back in touch with each other. Only then had Imogen discovered that Ciara and her mother had been estranged for some time and that her sister had been working as a nanny in Australia, but the job had come to an end and she was now living in London.

At last, Imogen had finally made contact with her again and they had arranged to meet up. It had only been in the time she’d spent away from Blacklands and the stresses of her father’s gambling addiction that she’d noticed her period was late. A pregnancy test had confirmed her fears.

Imogen nodded sadly. ‘We might be sisters, but we were complete strangers at the start.’

‘And we didn’t have enough time to get to know each other when I was heading for that new job in Melbourne.’

A brief visit to the stud before she’d left was all they’d managed to fit in. That was why she’d had such high hopes when Ciara had come to the wedding. Perhaps now they could build real bridges and finally erase the separation of the past.

‘Then you were so ill...’

This time Imogen had to bite down hard on her lower lip to hold back the pain that almost escaped her.

‘I don’t think I’d have got through losing my baby without you.’

Ciara had held her tight when Imogen had endured the agony of an ectopic pregnancy, losing the baby she had conceived during those magical two weeks on the island of Corsica. It had meant so much to have another female to hold her and murmur soothing words. She had endured so many long years without a mother’s comfort, so a sister’s love had been a wonderful solace when she most needed it. She had never been able to share anything of her sadness with her father. He had been busy driving himself down the path to destruction, turning to the bottle for solace, and had never even picked up on her unhappiness.

She only wished she could have brought her sister home to see the stud as it had been, if not in its glory days, at least in some degree of stability and success. But Ciara had only been in London temporarily. She’d been looking forward to creating a new life in Australia.

Ciara had never shared just what was troubling her when she had returned home. Did that mean Imogen hadn’t really been there when her sister had needed her? Had her own misery blinded her to the way Ciara was feeling when she had lost her job—and the circumstances in which she’d lost it?

Imogen had never suspected that Raoul Cardini was the brother-in-law of Pierre Moreau, the man who had caused her sister so many problems, dragged her name through the mud and ultimately sacked her in disgrace. Now that she did know, it seemed obvious that Raoul would delight in making Ciara pay for what he saw as the insult to his family, his sister and her children. The tension that had been dragging at her insides just knowing Raoul was here, bringing with him those dark shadows of the past they had once shared, twisted into tight, painful knots. What did Raoul plan to tell Adnan? Because he did mean to expose someone and something, that much was certain.

Imogen was determined to make sure Raoul did nothing to hurt Ciara. It was the way she could make up for not realising just how low her sister had been at that first meeting.

She’d been trying to find Raoul ever since she’d made her way back to the stud but there hadn’t been a trace of the damn man. In the end, she’d had to take the chance that he still had the same number as the one she’d been weak enough to keep on her own phone in a last attempt to reach him.

What would Adnan do if Raoul revealed all he knew about her own past, and her sister’s? Would he go through with the wedding? Or would he decide that even their friendship, and the prospect of keeping his promise to his grandfather to provide him with an heir, cost too much at the price of tying himself to her scandalous family? He was a friend, but was he that much of a friend?

* * *

Raoul’s phone beeped again, for perhaps the tenth time that afternoon, and a twitch of a smile curled the corners of his mouth as he saw Imogen’s name as the sender of the incoming text.

We need to talk.

‘Answer it,’ the man with him said easily.

Raoul shook his head, his shoulders lifting in a shrug of indifference.

‘It’s not important—it can wait.’

‘No, answer it. I’ll make us another drink.’

As his companion got out of his seat and strolled out of the room, Raoul reached lazily for the phone that was still buzzing annoyingly.

We have things we need to talk about.

His thumb flew over the keyboard, casually creating his reply.

I’m busy.

He waited a nicely calculated moment, then added:

I’m talking to Al Makthabi right now.

After that he deliberately switched off the phone and dropped it into his jacket pocket.

* * *

Just how long could Raoul be talking to Adnan—and about what? Imogen stared out of her bedroom window and down onto the winding drive that led to the main house, her fingers drumming against the window pane.

Her phone calls had gone straight to voicemail, her texts unanswered after that final declaration that he was with her fiancé, and she had heard nothing, seen nothing of him, for the rest of the day.

With a sigh, she rested her aching head on the hand that rested on the window pane—a hand that had been carefully manicured, the nails painted a delicate pink, ready for the moment when Adnan would place a gold ring on it and make her his wife. Behind her, the beautiful white silk dress hung outside the wardrobe, protected by a cotton covering. Imogen hadn’t been able to bring herself even to look at it since the dressmaker had delivered it. She had always had contradictory feelings about it, knowing it was part of a wedding of convenience, not a true, romantic marriage of love. But now she felt the nerves tightening in her throat and stomach as her eyes blurred after too long spent watching to see when Raoul would appear.

‘I think I need an early night, to be fresh for tomorrow,’ she’d told her father, knowing there was no chance at all she would sleep.

Even if Raoul returned soon, Ciara was still out somewhere in the dark, wet night, the sudden storm and driving rain taking all trace of summer from the atmosphere. She would never be able to settle until she knew her sister was safe.

The glare of headlights drew her attention, warning her that a car was arriving. Squinting through the rain, she saw the sleek, dark vehicle draw to a halt at the door and three male figures get out, heads bent as they dashed through the rain and up the steps.

‘At last!’

Now, surely, she would have a chance to try to get the truth out of Raoul, to find out just what fiendish scheme was in his mind. Would he let the wedding go ahead tomorrow or did he plan to spoil it somehow?

The shudder that ran through her was as if the window had suddenly blown wide open, letting the rain in. She had changed into her nightwear when she’d come up to the room, but now the strappy nightie felt too cold, too little protection against the chill of the night, so she turned from the window, reaching for her robe as an extra layer of warmth. Adnan had been one of the men who’d arrived; she recognised the distinctive leather jacket he wore. Her father had been another. How could she manage this without being seen by these two men? She couldn’t bear to wait until everyone was asleep. The burn of apprehension and fear was bad enough already.

Her question was answered by her father’s voice down in the hall declaring that he had a fine whisky to share.

‘We could have a nightcap...?’ he offered jovially.

‘Not for me, thanks. I’m going to turn in.’ That was Raoul; the sexy accent made it clear.

As heavy male footsteps came up the stairs, the sound of the library door swinging shut behind the other two men made Imogen sag against the wall in relief. At last she was free to make her way to Raoul’s room, and she wasn’t going to leave without some much-needed answers.

But she couldn’t head for Raoul’s bedroom openly—across the main landing, straight to his door. That would be just asking for trouble.

Luckily, Blacklands House was old enough to have many secrets, amongst which were the hidden passages that linked one room to another by a series of stone steps. Much of her childhood had been spent running along these passages, learning how to get into them from every room and where each one came out.

The fake wall beside the bookcase was easy to open if you pressed one of the plaster roses that decorated it. Slipping inside, she made her way along the passage in darkness, bare feet making no sound. It was as she pushed slightly open the secret entry door into Raoul’s room that she heard the main door open again down in the hall. At last, Ciara was home. Now she needed to make sure that her sister’s fears—and her own—could be put behind them. Somehow, she had to convince Raoul not to ruin the wedding, or to drag Ciara’s name any further through the mud than it had been already.

The roar of the elderly shower from the bathroom hid the sound of the door sliding closed behind her as she crept into the room.

* * *

Raoul reached up and switched off the shower with a violent snap of his wrist. It had taken an age for the damn thing to run even close to warm, never mind hot, and he was far from feeling the relaxation he had hoped for.

Grabbing a towel, he rubbed it roughly over his soaking hair, thankful that the short, cropped cut retained little of the water. It was so damn cold in this ramshackle place; no hint of warmth in the old-fashioned bathroom.

‘Nom de Dieu!’ he swore explosively, tossing the damp towel aside and reaching for another, slinging it around his hips and fastening it tight. It was supposed to be summer!

But it wasn’t just the weather that was turning his mood sour, he knew. It was being here at all that was the problem. Being here, surrounded by the beauty of the countryside, the magnificence of the spectacular animals that grazed in the field, and knowing that the whole enterprise was rotten to the core; that there was no money to support the business and everything was in hock to the bank. Even the magnificent stallion Blackjack... Knowing that he had been conned into paying stud fees for a horse that didn’t actually belong to Joe O’Sullivan burned like acid in his gut.

Rubbing the back of his hand across his face to wipe away the moisture, he padded across the tiled floor, wrenching the handle to yank the door open. The financial situation couldn’t be any worse, so Imogen had clearly turned to the oldest trick in the book—marrying the nearest really wealthy man in order to help clear her family’s debts. The same trick that she’d tried to pull on him when she’d discovered that he was not the simple olive farmer he’d claimed to be. Obviously, the financial problems had already begun to bite back then.

‘Damn her to hell!’

He had known this—most of this—before he’d arrived. It was the reason he was here, after all. But it had all seemed so much simpler before he’d left Corsica. The woman who had tried to get her hands on his fortune had now found someone else equally wealthy to marry. Someone else whose child, it seemed, she was prepared to have when the truth was that she had already got rid of her first baby—his child. Tossed it aside because its wealthy father wasn’t going to fall into the trap she’d laid for him.

But now, she’d found someone who would do just as she wanted. Someone who would marry her, pour money into this downtrodden estate and pay off the bills.

He had come here to stop that wedding.

But things had got so much more complicated since he’d arrived. He’d seen Imogen and her sister. He’d met the man Imogen was going to marry, and—damn it to hell—he liked Adnan Al Makthabi. Respected him. Adnan was the type of man he’d like as a friend—if he had such a thing.

‘Raoul...’

A voice, soft, uncertain and shockingly familiar, broke into his thoughts, bringing his head up. Dashing any last trace of water from his eyes, he swung round sharply to face her.

It was as if his heated sexual memories of their time together, the ones that had made the inadequate temperature of the shower a positive bonus, had brought her out of the past, conjured her up as a real person here in his room.

But how the devil had she got in here? He was between her and the exit and he knew he’d turned the key in the bedroom door when he’d gone into the bathroom. Yet there she was, tall and slender in a deep crimson robe wrapped tightly around her, tied at the waist. She was standing against the wall, half-hidden by the heavy, embroidered drape of the curtains around one of the carved posters of the bed.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’

He saw the way her breasts rose and fell under the delicate silk of her robe with every sharp, uneven breath she took. The wide, wide eyes were clear and sapphire blue even in the dusky shadows, and her mouth was partly open, as if to speak—or to kiss, his rebellious thoughts whispered to him. She’d always been beautiful. Hell, she was still beautiful—more so than before, if that were possible.

She had once worn a scarlet dress that had been little more than the nightgown she had on under the robe, but it had been short and sweet with a flippy sort of hem that had shown off her long legs. He had revelled in watching the pale, Celtic skin slowly tan to a subtle, sexy golden brown after days in the sun. The kick of lust at his groin was unwelcome and ill-timed—and appallingly distracting. The white towel suddenly felt like no covering at all and he shifted uncomfortably, pulling it tighter at the waist, tucking the edge in again.

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