She wished she could trust Felipe to sleep on the sofa, but she didn’t. If she chose the bed, she suspected he might see it as an invitation for him to join her, and she did not want an undignified struggle when he finally decided to come up for the night.
Making up her mind, she pulled the light coverlet from the foot of the bed, grabbed a pillow, changed into cotton trousers and a shirt and curled up on the sofa.
She woke to music—from outside, she realised as she disentangled herself from the coverlet. Vaguely apprehensive, she glanced towards the closed bedroom door and grimaced. Once she’d finally fallen asleep, Rafiq de Couteveille had taken over her dreams to such an extent that she was possessed by an odd, aching restlessness.
The light she’d left on glowed softly, barely bright enough to show her a note someone had slipped under the door. Heart thudding, she untangled herself and ran across to retrieve it.
My dear girl, she read, I am sorry to have inconvenienced you. As it upset you so much to think of sharing a room with me, I have thrown myself on the sympathy of good friends who have a suite here. Because I do not trust myself with you.
Felipe had signed it with an elaborate F.
Lexie let out a long breath. She could have slept in the bed without fear, it seemed. It was thoughtful of Felipe.
Or perhaps, she thought, remembering the way he’d more or less ignored her at the party last night, this too was a little punishment?
Surely he wouldn’t be so petty?
It didn’t matter; the clerk had promised her a room of her own tomorrow—today, she amended after a glance at the clock. Felipe’s consideration should have appeased her, but his assumption that he could manipulate her into bed had crossed a boundary, and she knew it was time to tell him that their friendship would never develop any further.
Surprised at the relief that flooded her, she realised she’d been resisting a creeping sense of wrongness ever since he’d offered to buy drugs for her.
So her decision had nothing to do with the fact that he seemed far less vital—almost faded—next to the vital, hard-edged charisma of the man who’d kissed her on the terrace.
Felipe’s kisses had been warm and pleasant, but conveyed nothing like the raw charge of Rafiq’s…
‘Oh, stop it!’ she commanded her inconvenient memory.
Irritated, she poured herself some water to drink, and carried it across to the glass door leading onto the balcony.
The music that had somehow tangled her dreams in its sensuous beat had fallen silent now, the only sounds the sibilant whisper of a breeze in the casuarinas, the sleepy hush of small waves on the beach, and the muted thunder of breakers against the reef. As far as she could see the lagoon spread before her like a shadowy masquerade cloak spangled with silver.
She drank deeply, willing herself to relax, to enjoy the breeze that flirted with her hair, its hint of salt and flower perfumes mingling with a faint, evocative scent of spices, of ancient mysteries and secrets hidden from the smiling beauty of daylight.
It was almost dawn, although as yet no light glowed in the eastern sky. Feeling like the only person in the world, she took a deep breath and moved farther out onto the balcony.
The hair on the nape of her neck lifted, and unthinkingly she stepped back into the darkness of the overhang, senses straining as her eyes darted back and forth to search out what had triggered that primitive instinct.
Don’t be an idiot, she told herself uneasily, there’s no one out there—and even if there were it would be some sort of night watchman.
Moving slowly and quietly, she eased into her room and pulled the glass door shut, locking it and making sure there was no gap in the curtains.
But even then it was difficult to dispel that eerie sense of being watched. She marched across to the bathroom and set the glass down, washed her face, and then wondered how she was going to get back to sleep.
Half an hour later she gave up the attempt and decided to email her sister Jacoba.
Only to discover that for some reason the internet link wouldn’t work. Thoroughly disgruntled, she closed down her laptop and drank another glass of water.
It seemed that Felipe had decided to continue his charade of rejection. After breakfast in her room the butler hand-delivered a note that told her Gastano had business to attend to in Moraze’s capital, and would see her that evening.
Suddenly light-hearted, Lexie arranged the transfer of her luggage to a new room, then organised a trip up to the mountains, eager to see the results of the world-famous bird-protection programme.
It was a surprise to find herself alone in the small tourist van with a woman who informed her she was both driver and guide.
‘Just you today, m’selle,’ she confirmed cheerfully. ‘I know all about this place, so, if you got any questions, you ask.’
And know about Moraze she did, dispensing snippets of information all the more intriguing for having a strong personal bias. Lexie plied her with questions, and once they reached the high grasslands she looked eagerly for signs of the horses.
‘You like horses?’ the driver asked.
‘Very much. I’m a vet,’ Lexie told her.
‘OK, I tell you about the horses.’
Lexie soaked up her information, much of which concerned the legendary relationship between the horses and the ruler.
‘As long as the horses flourish,’ the guide finished on the approach to a sweeping corner, ‘Our Emir will also, and so will Moraze.’
She spoke as though it were written law. Lexie asked curiously, ‘Why do you call him the Emir?’
‘It’s kind of a joke, because the first de Couteveille was a duke in France. He got into trouble there, and after a couple of years of roaming in exile he found Moraze. He brought an Arabian princess with him.’ She gave a thousand-watt smile. ‘Their descendants have kept Moraze safe for hundreds of years, so you better believe we look after those horses! We don’t want anyone else taking over our island, thank you very much.’
Lexie gasped with alarm as the guide suddenly jerked the wheel. The van skidded, the world turned upside down, and amidst a harsh cacophony of sounds Lexie was flung forward against the seatbelt. It locked across her, the force driving the breath from her lungs, so that she dragged air into them with a painful grunt.
The laboured sound of the engine and a strong smell of petrol forced her to ignore her maltreated ribs. A cool little wind played with her hair, blowing it around her face. She forced her eyes open and saw grass, long and golden, rustling in the breeze.
The car had buried its nose in the low bank on one side of the road, and when she tried her door it refused to open. She turned her head, wincing at a sharp pain in her neck, to see the driver slumped behind the wheel. The woman’s harsh breathing filled the vehicle.
‘I have to turn off the engine,’ Lexie said aloud. If she didn’t it might catch fire.
Easing herself around, she freed the seatbelt and groped for the key. She could just reach it. With shaking fingers, she twisted rapidly, hugely relieved when the engine sputtered into silence.
Now she had to see if the driver was all right. If it was a heart attack she could at least give CPR. But first she had to get out, which meant crawling over the poor woman, possibly making any injuries worse…
She reached for the driver’s wrist, hugely relieved when the pulse beat strongly beneath her shaking fingers. And then she heard the distant throb of a powerful engine, a sound she identified as a helicopter.
The pilot must have seen the wrecked car because the chopper altered course. The clack-clack-clack of the engine