Her mother had been out at a line-dancing class that night and Rayne was glad she had because it was the first and only time in her life she had seen her father cry. Her strong and devoted father, who had always been her rock and the backbone of his family, reduced to tears in losing all he’d worked for. But he had no proof of his copyright for that software he had written, and the Claybornes had gone on to prosper unbelievably because of it, while Grant Hardwicke’s troubles had only increased.
Because of his age, he had found it impossible to get another position. He’d started drinking, which made him ill, and then he was made bankrupt, which in turn meant her mother having to lose her lovely home.
Rayne was certain that all her father’s problems had started that night she had walked in on King’s unmitigated venom. A venom that had had a poisoning effect on her family, virtually destroying everything that had been good about it, everything she’d loved.
What she had felt for him had been unreal, Rayne thought bitterly, mocking herself now. A teenage fancy, as insubstantial as mist, killed off by his pulsing anger and his verbal brutality towards her father, even before she’d realised how unscrupulous he was. As well as defending Grant, she knew now that in striking King that night she had been giving vent to the loss of all her young dreams. But long after the anguish of that night had receded, it was the physical power of him and those firm hands on her body as he’d put her from him that had lingered in her memory …
She came downstairs now with half a hope that, in spite of what Mitch had said, perhaps his son’s visit might have been a flying one and that he might have been called away on some vital company business during the night.
That was until she saw him striding in through the front door in a short-sleeved white shirt that exposed his tanned, muscular arms and dark suit trousers hugging his powerful hips and her heart seemed to stand still before vaulting into a double-quick rhythm.
‘Good morning, Rayne.’ He was tie-less, she realised, with her gaze instantly drawn to the bronze skin beneath his corded throat. The white T-shirt she had teamed with her jeans suddenly felt too snug for her breasts as that steely gaze burned over her. ‘I trust you slept well.’
She hadn’t, but she said in a tight little voice, ‘Very, thank you.’ In fact she had been waking up all night, going over that scenario with him on the terrace, aware that it was absolutely imperative that she confront his father about that software before King had a chance to work out who she was.
Consequently, the bruised-eyed-looking creature who had stared back at her from the mirror this morning as she’d swept her hair up into a loose knot left her feeling quite bedraggled in contrast to King, who looked as fresh and energized as the morning and ready to take the world on those wide, powerful shoulders.
‘You’ll be pleased to know you won’t have to drive my father into town as you were planning to do this morning,’ he said smoothly, those keen eyes seeming to assess her every reaction. ‘He decided to leave early and, as I was up, I drove him in myself.’
The front door was open and she could see the huge bulk of the Bentley parked there on the drive. A short distance away, the sleeker, more powerful beast of a black Lamborghini stood gleaming in the bright morning sun.
‘You didn’t need to do that. I mean …’ her eyes strayed towards the carved wooden door concealing the lift that would have borne Mitch down in his wheelchair. ‘… he should have called me.’
‘Oh, I think I did.’
Meaning what? Rayne’s throat contracted nervously from the way he was looking at her. That he was protecting his father from her supposedly mercenary clutches? Or was his sole intention to get her alone? And, if so, why? To interrogate her further?
Mentally, she pulled back her shoulders, telling herself that he was just trying to unsettle her. That he’d hardly be likely to discover the truth about her just so long as she kept her head.
‘In that case …’ she flashed him what she considered would look like a grateful smile ‘… I’ll go and get some breakfast.’
‘I think you might be disappointed there.’
Stopping in her tracks, she glanced up at him with her brow furrowing. ‘Excuse me?’
‘I instructed Hélène not to bother. I’ve given her the morning off.’
A cloud of wariness darkened the green flecks in her eyes. Why had he done that? Had he realised who she was and was planning on giving her marching orders while his father was out of the way?
A smile illuminated his strong features like the sun burning through the haze of the mountains she’d been admiring earlier, making her pulse quicken in infuriating response. ‘As it was such a lovely morning I thought I’d have breakfast out. I also thought you might care to join me.’
Oh, did he?
‘No, really. That’s very nice of you,’ she blurted out, even though ‘nice’ was definitely not a word she would have applied to Kingsley Clayborne, ‘but …’
But what, exactly? She couldn’t claim she never ate breakfast after what she had just told him. Nor could she inform him that she didn’t like him, and that if she had to choose between sharing breakfast with him or with a pride of lions, she’d take the pride of lions.
‘I … I need to stay here for when your father needs to be picked up,’ she hedged, wishing she didn’t sound so defensive.
‘He won’t. Not until later. If you haven’t discovered it yet, you’ll soon learn that my father is a creature of unwavering habit. Always reliable, but sometimes tiresomely predictable.’ Which was how she had managed to meet him that day outside that café. ‘He’s doing some business and then playing chess with a friend and won’t be ready to come home until mid-afternoon. Any change in those plans and he’ll ring me. That’s settled then,’ he declared when she procrastinated too long, having run out of reasonable excuses. ‘And I can assure you …’ his tone had changed in a way that sent a cautioning little shiver through her ‘… I’m not trying to be nice.’
‘I’m glad you told me.’ She sent another forced smile over her shoulder as she obeyed his gesture for her to precede him through the front door.
‘No,’ he called out as she moved towards the Bentley, ‘we’ll take mine.’
A skein of unease uncoiled in Rayne’s stomach after she’d crossed the tarmac and pulled the door of the Lamborghini closed behind her.
This sleek and powerful machine with its cream leather-scented interior represented major success. Arrival. It was also Kingsley Clayborne’s territory. With its smooth engineering wrapped around her and the cushioning curves of the passenger seat seeming to suck her in, she felt uncomfortably under his influence, as though her own power and control had suddenly been considerably reduced.
‘Relax,’ he advised, sensing her tension, obviously thinking it stemmed from something else altogether, she realised, when he tagged on, ‘I might be renowned for my love of power, but I’m not altogether insensitive to those riding alongside me.’
Was that what he thought? That she was afraid of how fast he might drive this thing? Or was he talking about a different kind of power altogether? Because she didn’t doubt that he enjoyed being in command. Of himself. Of others. And of his multi-billion, multi-national company. Because, where the Clayborne empire was concerned, it was common knowledge that he had been the one taking all the major decisions for some years now.