She doubted if she would ever be ready.
It could all have been so much worse. She could have had no one to turn to, no one who could help her and her family out of the morass of disaster they had fallen into, and with it the loss of the stud that had been in the family for over a century. Even perhaps the prospect of a prison sentence for her father.
No one to push her into a marriage she didn’t want but saw as the only way she and her family could possibly go forward.
Imogen pushed her hands through the tumble of black hair that fell onto her shoulders, exerting extra pressure with her fingers as if she could erase the chaos of her thoughts.
It was the only way, she told herself silently. Adnan at least was a friend; they liked each other—always had—and they both had so much to lose if this didn’t go ahead.
Besides, there was another possible advantage, she hoped, that perhaps, after her marriage, the scandal press would let go of the hateful nickname they used whenever she or her sister Ciara were mentioned. If this redeemed Ciara’s reputation too, left her free to go forward in life and put her own shadows behind her, then that was another reason it would be worth it.
She’d always loved this little village church. The church where her parents had married, where she’d been christened, and her sister after her. She had so loved being an older sister, until their mother had run away with a new, much younger lover, taking Ciara with her. At least the preparations for this wedding had brought Ciara back to the family home where she belonged and now, hopefully, could actually stay.
After a lifetime apart, she had only discovered the whereabouts of her sister a couple of years ago, but the two of them hadn’t had any real time to get to know each other properly. Ciara since then had been living and working in Australia, and Imogen’s whole attention had had to be focused on fighting to save the reputation and financial position of the stud. But she’d adored Ciara from the moment they’d met again and if she could do anything to help make up for the loss of happiness and family life that Ciara had endured, then she’d do her damnedest to make sure that happened.
She owed Adnan so much. After all, it could have been someone else she was so deeply indebted to, someone else she was having to marry.
Someone like Raoul Cardini, a wicked, tormenting little voice whispered into her subconscious.
‘No!’
Involuntarily she started away from the pew beside which she had been standing, the surge of memories taking the strength from her legs. She was so distracted that she didn’t hear the heavy wooden door open behind her, the soft footsteps on the floor that marked the arrival of someone else into the church.
He hadn’t expected to see her here, Raoul reflected as he stood just inside the open porch, staring down the aisle at the tall, slender figure who stood with her back to him, one hand on the polished edge of the pew beside her. Just seeing her like this, so unexpectedly, brought all the bitterness, the cold fury that he’d been fighting to hold in check bubbling up inside him.
The original idea had been to wait until the pre-wedding dinner tonight to implement his plan for revenge. He had been looking forward to seeing the sudden rush of shock in her eyes, the way her expression would change. Yes, he was sure she would fight to keep control, do everything she could not to show how she was feeling. She was good at that, he recalled, remembering the cool control he had seen her exhibit at times during the two weeks they had spent almost every moment in each other’s company.
She certainly hadn’t shown any emotion when she had left him, two years before, her face tight and controlled. He hadn’t begun to suspect the secrets that lay behind that expression, the truth she had hidden from him without a qualm. She’d never even revealed a hint of that life-changing secret until it was gone, the tiny beginnings of what might have been his son or daughter thrown away with the help of the expensive clinic she’d taken herself to. He’d never seen her composure break.
Except for the night she and her sister had been caught by the paparazzi emerging from the casino arm in arm, he recalled, his hands clenching into fists at his side. Neither of them had seemed in the least bit steady on the towering heels they’d worn.
The Scandalous O’Sullivan Sisters! the headline above the photo had shrieked, and it had been in that moment that Raoul had put Imogen and Ciara together, realising that the surname of the nanny who had threatened to ruin his sister’s marriage was shared by the woman who had destroyed his chances of being a father. He had recognised her in a moment, but had been stunned to see both of them out of control in a way he had never seen the older O’Sullivan girl before.
Except in bed.
Raoul felt a curse echo inside his thoughts as he fought the rush of heat through his body. He’d thought he’d wiped that particular memory from his mind but it seemed that all it needed was her presence, just metres away from where he stood, and every cell was inflamed. He couldn’t afford to let that distract him from his purpose.
She looked a little different, but he knew inside she would be the same. Still tall and elegant, but now with a glossy mane of black hair tumbling down her back. It was longer than before. He remembered the crisp, silky feel of the sharp pixie cut she’d sported back then, the smooth strands catching the gleam of the sun. She was dressed differently too, in a plain white tee-shirt and tight-fitting jeans, simpler and more subdued than the bright skirts and sundresses she’d worn on the beaches at Calvi or Bonifacio. She’d grown thinner too, the tight-fitting denim clinging to shapely hips and long, slender legs, the occasional stylish rip in the material exposing the pale cream of her beautiful skin. She didn’t look like a woman who had carried a child. But then, of course, she had never let her baby live long enough to change the shape of her body, had she? It had barely existed before it was gone.
It was shocking how even that dark knowledge didn’t stop his more basic male urges responding to the feminine appeal of her.
* * *
No! She would not remember Raoul!
Imogen shook her head sharply, desperate to drive away the last lingering threads of memories that bruised her soul; memories she had never wanted to recall. But it seemed that just dredging up that once-loved name from the silt in which she’d hoped to have buried it brought everything rushing back.
‘The longest walk in the world.’
The voice spoke suddenly from behind her, its rich, husky accent obvious on the words. An accent that sounded alien in this small Irish village. But not unknown. She knew that voice only too well...but how she wished she didn’t.
‘Is that not what they say?’
‘I—No...’
She whirled around to face the newcomer, spinning so hard that she went over on one ankle, needing to reach out and grab a nearby pew for support. But it wasn’t the worn, polished wood that her fingers closed over. Instead she felt the warmth of skin, the strength of muscle and bone under her grasp, and there was the scent of lemon and bergamot in her nostrils, blended with a sensual trace of clean, musky male skin.
It was a scent that jolted her sharply out of the present and right back to a holiday in Corsica two years before. A starlit night, still warm after the burning heat of the day. The slide of soft sand under her feet, the sound of waves breaking in her ear and the hard, warm palm of the man who had just become her very first lover tight against her own as they walked along the beach.
The man who, just six days later, had broken her heart.
‘No?’
That shockingly familiar voice was back, softly questioning in her ear, and she blinked hard against the red mist that had hazed her eyes.
This had to be a mistake; a crazy, mindless fantasy. Her unwanted memories had created a mirage in her mind, conjuring up an image of the man she had weakly let into her thoughts for a moment but now wanted so desperately to forget.
‘R-Raoul...’