‘No,’ she said crisply. ‘Off you go; I’ll be perfectly all right.’
He dithered, then said, ‘I won’t be long.’ After an apologetic smile, he bowed and left her.
Smiling to herself, Lexie watched him being swallowed up by the crowd as he angled towards a middle-aged woman who stood alone.
‘He is one of Prince Rafiq’s security men,’ a voice said from behind her. ‘And that woman is his superior.’
Lexie suddenly felt alone and unprotected, her skin tightening in response to an imaginary threat.
‘Hello, Felipe,’ she said lightly. ‘I always thought security men were eight-feet tall with necks wider than their heads.’
‘The muscle men, perhaps—the grunts. The others come in all sizes and shapes, and I think this one will receive a chastisement from Prince Rafiq for leaving you.’
‘I’m in no danger,’ she said evenly, turning her head to look up at him.
His smile was as charming as ever, his eyes as appreciative, his tone low and flirtatious, yet he left her completely cold.
‘Of course you’re not,’ he agreed. ‘But you know how it is with these rich, powerful aristocrats—they see perils in every occasion.’ He gestured at the milling crowd, a little noisier than it had been before, its laughter ringing free. ‘Even in such a friendly group as this—all devoted subjects.’
He transferred his gaze to her face, surveying her with an intensity that was new and unsettling. ‘Did you know that the word in the bazaars is that Prince Rafiq is very interested in his house guest?’
‘Rumour is—as always—hugely exaggerated,’ she said evenly, and made up her mind. This wasn’t the perfect occasion, but he needed to know. ‘Felipe, I need to tell you—’
‘Not now,’ he interrupted curtly.
He wanted something; she could feel it—a fierce lust, though not for her personally, she realised with a sudden flash of insight.
It had never been her—he’d always seen her as means to some unspoken end.
Before she could finish he went on, ‘And not here. It can wait until later, when de Courteveille releases you.’
‘I’m not a prisoner,’ she said automatically, eager to get this odd, worrying exchange over and done with. ‘And I think this is as good a time and a place as any to say goodbye.’
Felipe Gastano smiled, but although the skin around his eyes crinkled they showed no emotion. ‘So that is it?’ He shrugged. ‘Well, it was fun while it lasted, was it not?’
Relieved yet still wary, she said, ‘I certainly enjoyed it.’
‘I thank you. Perhaps I did not—quite—get what I thought we both wanted, but I also enjoyed our time together. However, before I go, there is something I must tell you. After your little accident, I tried to get in touch with you, but it seems you are not able to be contacted by telephone or email.’
‘What do you mean?’ In spite of the flames of the fire, she felt cold, and the chattering around her seemed to die away.
‘Just that it seems someone is monitoring your communications with the outside world.’
‘I’m sure you’re wrong,’ she retorted.
His smile was condescending. ‘Why don’t you ask de Couteveille? He comes now, and if I read him right he is not happy to see us talking together.’
Indeed, Rafiq sent her a keen glance as he approached, but although his tone when he greeted Felipe again was cool, it certainly wasn’t brusque. Felipe chatted a little about the hotel development before Rafiq and Lexie moved on.
From then on they were never alone. They stayed another hour, saw another dance, this one even more sensual than the first, and then it was time to go.
On the way back to the castle Lexie was aware of a certain air of constraint in Rafiq. He was courteous, amusing, interesting—and unreachable.
Felipe’s observations gnawed at her mind. She wanted to confront her host with them, yet another part of her brain told her to be sensible. Why on earth would Rafiq monitor her phone calls?
Eventually, as they drove in through the gates, she said, ‘Felipe said he’s been trying to contact me, but the staff were uncooperative.’
‘I’m afraid they probably were,’ Rafiq said coolly. ‘I have people who are trained to handle the media, and they dealt with all the calls about you. I gave your sister’s name to them, which is why she was put straight through, but I gained the impression that you wouldn’t want Gastano to have free access to you. If I was wrong, I will of course add him to the list.’
Hastily Lexie said, ‘No, it doesn’t matter, thank you. He won’t be calling again.’ As for the emails—even if Felipe did have her correct address, they’d been known to disappear into cyberspace for days, sometimes weeks, at a time. Curiosity and a certain relief drove her to ask, ‘Were there many approaches from the media?’
‘Quite a few. Some of the big news agencies have stringers on the island, and of course news travels fast.’ His tone hardened. ‘I didn’t think you’d like to be discussed in the gossip columns.’
Distastefully, she replied, ‘You were right.’
Her brief encounter with gossip writers and paparazzi had sickened her of the whole industry. In Illyria she’d been shielded from the worst of their excesses, but she’d seen the havoc they could create, and she wanted no part of it. Besides, she had a feeling that if Jacoba found out she was staying with Moraze’s ruler she’d send Prince Marco down to check him out.
The last thing she wanted was for Rafiq to discover who her father had been.
Honesty warred with shame. Perhaps she should tell him—right now. Yet the words froze in her throat. The sins of the fathers were indeed visited on their sons—and their daughters, she thought wearily, remembering how suspicious the Illyrians had been of her. Mud stuck; occasionally she even found herself wondering if she’d inherited any of her father’s brutality.
No, much better to leave things as they were. Then Rafiq might remember her as an ordinary woman, not as the child of a monster.
Once inside the castle, Rafiq asked, ‘How did you enjoy the evening?’
‘Very much,’ she told him, her tone more brittle than bright. ‘It was interesting to meet the people who’d actually worked on the project. And their singing was fantastic.’
‘What did you think of the dancing?’
His voice was amused, and his eyes half-hidden by his lashes. They were walking towards the terrace with the pavilion and the pool, and she could feel that forbidden, intoxicating anticipation chipping away at her control.
‘It was very sexy,’ she said firmly. ‘And amazingly athletic! At times I thought they might dislocate their hips.’
He threw his black head backwards and laughed, the sound full and unforced. ‘Did it give you the desire to try it?’
‘I know my limitations,’ she said. Curiosity drove her to ask, ‘Can you do it?’
‘Every Moraze-reared person can dance their version of our national dance,’ he said gravely. ‘Our nurses teach us it in our cradles—or so they say.’
They walked across to the pavilion, its translucent draperies floating languidly in the sea-scented breeze. A moon smiled down, silvering everything in a soft, unearthly light—the pool, the white-and-pink water lilies, the shimmering expanse of gauze that surrounded them and shut out the world.
Lexie swallowed something that obstructed her throat and said chattily, ‘I think you’d