The count’s voice was pitched too low for Rafiq to hear what he said, but the tone was unmistakeable—intimate and smoothly caressing.
The woman’s brows lifted. ‘No, I haven’t changed my mind.’
Again the count spoke, and this time Rafiq caught a few words. He stiffened.
Speaking in English, the count had said, ‘Come, don’t be so angry, my dearest girl,’ accompanied by a lingering, significant gaze.
She tossed back a crisp comment and walked past him, her spine straight as she headed for Rafiq.
‘Hello,’ she said in English, her voice clear and steady. ‘I’m Lexie Sinclair. Isn’t it a gorgeous evening?’ Not giving him time to answer, she turned to include the count and asked in a pleasant tone, ‘Do you two know each other?’
Full marks for social skills, Rafiq thought sardonically. Aloud he said, ‘Of course.’ Without offering a hand, he favoured the other man with a slight unsmiling inclination of his head. ‘Gastano.’
‘Ah, sir, how delightful to meet you again.’ The count’s voice was a mixture of impudence and false man-to-man heartiness. ‘I must congratulate you on yet another superb investment—I can tell you now that this hotel will be a huge success. I’ve already had two film stars singing its praises, and at least one minor European royal is planning to bring his latest mistress here for a week’s tryst.’
He switched his attention to the woman, letting his eyes linger on her face, and went on in a voice where the impertinence had transmuted into charming ruefulness. ‘Alexa, I must introduce you to Rafiq de Courteveille. He is the ruler of this lovely island, and all who live here, you know. But I must warn you to beware of him—he is well known to be a breaker of hearts. Sir, this is Alexa Considine, who prefers to be known as Lexie Sinclair. Perhaps she will tell you why.’
With an ironic smile, he bowed to them both then walked back into the hotel.
Aware of the anger that tightened her neat features, Rafiq took Alexa’s arm. Ignoring her startled resistance, he walked her towards the edge of the wide, stone-flagged terrace.
A volatile mixture of irritation laced with apprehension had prompted Lexie’s decision to make use of this stranger. If she’d known that he was the hereditary ruler of Moraze she’d never have dared; she’d probably shattered protocol. It had been kind of him to ignore her lack of manners.
So why did she feel that her impulsive approach to him had set something dangerous in motion? Resisting a faint, foolish urge to turn and run, she stole a rapid sideways glance at his face and dragged in a silent breath. A silver wash of starlight emphasised boldly angular features, strong and thrusting and uncompromising.
Dead gorgeous, she thought with involuntary appreciation, her heart picking up speed. In superbly tailored evening clothes he carried himself like an autocrat, his six-foot-several-inches of lean manhood almost intimidating.
Against such steel-hard authority, Felipe’s glamorous sophistication suddenly seemed flashy and superficial.
Sedately, she said, ‘It’s an honour to meet you, sir.’
‘My name is Rafiq.’ He smiled at her, his dark eyes intent.
Lexie’s pulse rate accelerated further, and an odd twist of sensation tightened her stomach. Trying to curb her runaway response, she struggled to remember what she’d read about the man who ruled this small, independent island state.
Not a lot. He didn’t make the headlines, or figure largely in the tabloids. Felipe had referred to him contemptuously as ‘the tinpot fake prince of a speck of land thousands of miles from civilisation.’
But Felipe’s jeering dismissal of the man beside her had been foolish as well as wrong. Rafiq de Couteveille walked in an aura of effortless power based on formidable male assurance.
Her mind jerked away from the memory of the moment that morning when, tired after the long flight from Europe, she’d discovered that Felipe had organised for her to spend the week in a room with him.
It had been a shock. She’d already decided she wasn’t in love with Felipe, and by going back to New Zealand she’d be ending their relationship.
The week in Moraze on her own was to have been a holiday, seven days to reorient herself to her real life as a country vet in Northland. Being met by Felipe at the airport had been unexpected. But when he’d swept her off to the hotel he was staying in, and they’d been shown into a suite with flowers everywhere and a bottle of champagne in a silver bucket prominently displayed, she’d realised with dismay and a certain unease that he’d set the scene for seduction.
Still, she’d been civilised about it, and so had Felipe, when she’d told him that no, she wasn’t going to join him in any sensual fantasy.
He hadn’t argued. Felipe never did. He’d taken her rejection with a smiling shrug, observing that it didn’t matter, that he’d sleep on one of the very comfortable sofas. That was when she’d found out that he’d cancelled her booking at her own, much more modest hotel some miles away. It had been impossible to get a room to herself—it was the holiday season and all the hotels were fully booked, an apologetic clerk told her.
It hadn’t been the first time Felipe had suggested they make love, but before it had always been with a light touch so she’d never felt pressured.
This time there had been something about his humorously regretful acceptance that didn’t ring true; he’d sounded satisfied, almost smug. Oh, she wasn’t afraid, but right now she felt a long way from home, and rather vulnerable and wary, whereas before she’d always been at ease with him.
Well, almost always.
He’d talked her into accompanying him to the party, only to abandon her after the first half-hour. It seemed very like punishment.
Yes, she thought—deliberate and rather vindictive. That sense of unease grew. Because she was out of place in this assembly of famous faces she’d seen in newspapers and gossip columns. Others were complete strangers, but they too wore fabulous clothes and even more fabulous jewels, and they all seemed to know each other.
‘You are all right?’ the man beside her asked in a deep, cool voice that ruffled across her skin like dark velvet.
‘Yes, of course.’ Goodness, was that her voice? Pitched slightly too high, the words had emerged almost breathlessly.
‘Should I apologise for disturbing you and your friend?’ Rafiq de Couteveille asked.
‘No, not at all,’ she said, again too quickly. She fixed her gaze on the lagoon, placid and shimmering beneath the tropical night.
She stole a glance at Rafiq de Couteveille, and a hot shiver worked its way down her spine, igniting her nerves so that she was acutely, almost painfully aware of him. Like her he was looking out across the lagoon, and in the darkness his arrogantly autocratic profile was an uncompromising slash across the star-gemmed sky.
Both he and Felipe were exceedingly good-looking, but the difference between them couldn’t have been greater.
Felipe had dazzled her; after the hard work of proving herself to the Illyrians, he’d accepted her without comment, made her laugh, introduced her to interesting people and generally entertained her with a light touch.
And, until she’d been presented with the fait accompli of that huge double bed, she’d taken him at face value.
Perhaps she should have seen the signs sooner—like the moment, after they’d been seeing each other for a month or so, when he’d noticed she was tired and told her he could get something that would take away her tiredness…if she wanted him to.
After one glance at her stunned expression he’d laughed softly and with affection, before apologising