Kitabı oku: «By Royal Demand»

Robyn Donald
By Royal Demand

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

COMING NEXT MONTH

CHAPTER ONE

GABE CONSIDINE looked up from his desk, his hard steel-blue eyes meeting those of his younger brother. ‘So tell me I’m crazy,’ he invited him curtly.

Marco’s frown turned into wry amusement. ‘You’re crazy.’

Gabe got to his feet and strode across to the window, looking out across the walls, still intact, that surrounded the castle. For almost a thousand years his forebears had lived in the Wolf’s Lair and protected the trade route crossing the mountains between the rest of Europe and the small principality of Illyria on the Mediterranean Sea. Forty years previously, civil war, treachery and death had driven his grandparents, the incumbent Grand Duke and Duchess, to fight with partisans in the mountains until their deaths in an ambush. Although Gabe and his siblings had been born in exile, Marco knew that he felt a strong sense of obligation to the people who had suffered so long, secretly hoping that their lord would come back to them.

Gabe’s richly textured voice showed no emotion when he said, ‘Then come up with a better idea.’

‘What about good old-fashioned threats?’ Marco’s voice deepened into a music-hall villain’s sneer. ‘Tell me where the necklace is or I’ll bankrupt you and throw your mother out into the snow.’

‘Her mother’s dead. And threats will be more effective if she’s here, unable to get away.’

‘A prisoner, you mean,’ Marco said flatly.

Gabe shrugged. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time a woman’s been held prisoner here.’

‘Mostly they were hostages rather than prisoners.’

Gabe, Marco and their sister had grown up steeped in stories of their Illyrian heritage. One such hostage had joined the ranks of their ancestors by marrying the ruling Grand Duke.

Marco asked, ‘What if Sara refuses to admit she stole the necklace?’

Gabe lifted a black brow to devastating effect.

‘Then I’ll do whatever’s necessary to get the Queen’s Blood back.’

The stark, medieval name of the necklace containing some of the most valuable rubies in the world still lifted the hairs on Marco’s skin. ‘Strange that any woman would happily wear something with a name like that.’

His brother gave a sardonic smile. ‘Women like pretty things, even those with a barbaric history. And the Queen’s Blood is more than pretty—it’s magnificent, unique and irreplaceable. Flawless rubies that size are no longer being mined. And then there’s the mystery of how they got from Burma to Europe, and who set them in solid gold. Some unknown Dark Age genius? Or is the necklace the sole remaining work of an unknown civilisation?’

Marco gave a snort of laughter. ‘Come on, now, don’t tell me you believe that old story—that it was made in Atlantis?’

His brother’s mouth twisted cynically. ‘Hardly. But, given all that, not many women would care that the original owner died on the mountainside a few kilometres from here, stabbed in the heart by the leader of a band of brigands. Of late, I find I have some sympathy with him.’

Marco understood the cold self-derision in his brother’s tone. Falling in love with a woman, only to have her steal the priceless Considine heirloom, was definitely not like his cynical, hard-headed brother, noted around the world for his ruthless logic and brilliance. Oh, Gabe had had affairs, but they were always discreetly conducted, and the thought of him actually falling in love was—well, difficult to imagine!

It had been an unlikely romance—a man of ancient heritage with the world at his feet, and a woman from nowhere, struggling to make a career as an interior designer.

Yet Gabe had taken one look at Sara Milton and fallen head over heels, breaking every rule in his book with a whirlwind courtship pursued almost entirely in the full spotlight of the world’s media.

Two weeks after their engagement had been announced to an incredulous public, he’d insisted that Sara wear the Queen’s Blood at a ducal wedding in the south of France.

It was a night he’d never forget, Marco thought grimly, and not only because the rubies’ dramatic beauty, glowing with fiery glamour in heavy, exquisitely worked gold, had set off Sara’s dark hair and smoky grey-green eyes superbly. Each magnificent stone had been a perfect foil for her pale, matt skin.

That night the necklace had disappeared, stolen from a safe in the château Sara was staying at—a safe she’d chosen the combination for.

It still made Marco furious that she’d tried to blame the maid, but Gabe had seen through her ploy.

Although the theft had been kept secret, three days later a brief, uncommunicative announcement of the termination of the engagement between Gabe Considine and Sara Milton had set the media on fire again. Some of the more delirious tabloids had called it the scandal of the century.

Marco met Gabe’s hard, intelligent gaze. ‘You’re still absolutely certain she took it? There was no hard evidence to connect her with the theft, after all, and you’d know if she’d tried to sell it.’

In a tone that warned his brother to go no further, Gabriel said, ‘She stole it.’ He cut off Marco’s next observation with a crystalline glance. ‘If she hasn’t sold it, it’s because she doesn’t dare to. I plan to convince her it will be worth her while to return it to me.’

Oh, Gabe could do that, Marco thought, a note in the cold voice making him even more uneasy. His brother’s potent charisma was based more on his formidable personal authority than the interesting mixture of princely and aristocratic bloodlines that had bequeathed him that autocratic face and the lean, powerful body standing well over six feet.

If anyone could seduce the heirloom’s whereabouts from Sara, Gabe could.

Nevertheless, Marco felt obliged to point out, ‘She was going to marry you, Gabe. She could have had the Queen’s Blood permanently.’

‘She’d already changed her mind about that,’ Gabe told him, his lips twisting in self-derision.

Only Marco and Gabe’s head of security—and one photographer—knew what his brother referred to: a damning shot snapped with a telephoto lens from outside the château where Sara had been staying the night the necklace disappeared.

It showed Gabe’s fiancée locked in the arms of the château’s owner, Hawke Kennedy. Both were naked, and the shot had been taken through the window of Sara’s bedroom.

The day after the Queen’s Blood had been stolen, the picture had arrived in Gabe’s e-mail with a threat to sell the negative to the highest bidder if a ransom wasn’t paid.

Marco said, ‘Has your security expert made any progress in finding out who the photographer was?’

‘Yes.’

‘I gather he won’t be publishing the photograph, no matter what happens?’

Gabe’s smile was as narrow and lethal as the blade of a knife. ‘No.’

‘So why didn’t you tell him to publish and be damned? I’d have said you’d be the last man on earth to let yourself be blackmailed into paying a ransom.’

‘Pride,’ Gabe said shortly. ‘Once it was confirmed to be genuine, I felt a complete fool for letting myself be conned into an engagement by a beautiful, clever thief. I resent being turned into an idiot by my own hormones.’

Marco said nothing, and after a moment his brother continued in the same dispassionate voice. ‘Apart from that, just before the theft Alex had suggested that I come back to Illyria and be confirmed as Grand Duke of the Northern Marches.’

Marco lifted his brows. ‘So?’

‘Once I broke off the engagement the newspapers had a field day.’

Marco grimaced. ‘Don’t remind me—the scandal of the century! But what did Alex’s proposition have to do with that—or the photograph?’

‘It complicated the situation.’ Gabe shrugged. ‘The Illyrians—especially here, in the mountains—still believe that they need to be led by strong men. As you well know, they’ve got fairly rigid ideas on the respective roles of men and women. The broken engagement was bad enough. If it became known that I’d fallen for a woman who slept with another man while she was plotting to steal the Queen’s Blood, the peasants would totally lose respect for me.’ He gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘Fair enough, but if I’m to do anything for them I need respect.’

‘So even then you were seriously thinking of taking up Alex’s suggestion?’

Alex, their several-times-removed cousin, had been crowned hereditary Prince of Illyria a few years previously by the determined and overwhelming will of the people. He now used his money and prestige to set his small realm, blighted by years of repression, onto the road to prosperity.

‘Yes,’ Gabe said. ‘It will be announced in a couple of weeks.’

Marco whistled. ‘So Sara missed out on being a Grand Duchess,’ he observed thoughtfully.

A singularly unpleasant smile curved Gabe’s mouth. ‘Sad, isn’t it?’

‘Why did you decide to take it on?’ Marco asked curiously. ‘You don’t need the power, and I know the title doesn’t mean much to you beyond a certain sentimental attachment to our ancestors. And you certainly don’t need any more money—not that it looks as though the estate’s going to produce anything for years. It’s just going to be a drain on your purse.’

Gabe had a big purse; like Marco, he’d carved out an empire in the piratical world of modern business with the zest and forceful flair their ancestors had devoted to keeping their turbulent lands in order. But the valley Marco had flown over that morning looked like something from a medieval print, with people huddled in tiny villages and no signs of modernisation beyond the military road the dictator had built through the pass.

Gabe shrugged and looked out over the valley, its serene beauty hiding the grinding poverty. ‘Every peasant in this valley was punished over and over again by the dictator because they were loyal to our grandparents. I owe them.’

Marco nodded. Responsibility was Gabe’s big thing. ‘You could help them without reverting to feudalism and becoming a ruling Grand Duke.’

His brother said ironically, ‘You know Alex’s powers of persuasion—after all, he talked you into taking on his software business so he could devote himself to Illyria.’

‘Yeah, he did.’ Marco grinned. ‘And I jumped at it. I’m having a ball. What’s your excuse?’

‘I’ve been coming here for the past year, trying to find out how I can best help these people, and they’ve made it plain that they want a Grand Duke, just as they wanted Alex back. It seems a psychological boost for the generation who remember the good old days, but even the younger people are eager.’

While Marco was digesting this, Gabe added caustically, ‘Which is why I felt that a photograph of my nude fiancée with her latest lover would taint both the title and Alex’s hard work.’

‘I see your point.’ Marco looked ironically at his older brother. ‘You should have charged the tabloids for providing material. First they went berserk when you and Sara announced your engagement, then a fortnight later you dumped her. Talk about starting a feeding frenzy!’

Marco still found it hard to believe that Sara Milton had stolen the necklace. Or taken Hawke Kennedy for a lover. OK, Sara was beautiful in a way that got to any man with decent eyesight and the smallest drop of testosterone in his body, but he’d also liked her very much.

Still, a likeable personality would be a very useful asset for a con woman.

Without any hope of persuading his brother, he felt obliged to point out, ‘If you go ahead with this crazy scheme, you’ll be leaving yourself open to more blackmail. Kidnapping is an offence in Illyria, Gabe. Even Alex might not be able to save you if Sara decides to press charges.’

He watched his brother’s boldly chiselled features harden. That same inflexible expression blazed from the portraits of their ancestors. Ruthless men—and women—known for their formidable, uncompromising loyalty to their prince and their superb skills in the art of war, they’d held the border with a mixture of intimidating authority and brutal intelligence.

Oh, Gabe would make a fitting Grand Duke. And he’d certainly help Alex with his plans to restore Illyria’s prosperity and confidence.

Still, Marco felt distinctly wary. Gabe was the last person he’d accuse of an obsession, but his brother seemed immune to any doubts.

When Gabe spoke, his voice was cold and deep, not betraying any emotion. ‘She’s coming here of her own free will.’

‘She doesn’t know this is your castle, or that you plan to keep her here until she gives you what you want.’

Gabe smiled unpleasantly. ‘Until she gives me what I own,’ he corrected. He surveyed his brother’s face. ‘Relax. I don’t plan to torture her or confine her to the dungeons. The minute she tells me where the necklace is she can go. And she won’t go to the police—or to the media.’ The icy contempt in his tone lifted the hairs on the back of Marco’s neck. ‘I imagine her last joust with them battered her enough to make her avoid them like the plague.’ He dismissed the topic as though it meant nothing and smiled at his brother, his affection plain. ‘Are you ready to go?’

‘Yes. Anything you want me to relay to Alex?’

Gabe’s face softened. ‘Just give the baby a hug for me.’

Marco grinned. ‘I’ll do that. Fancy picking you to be his godfather! Still, you’re good with kids.’ He sobered swiftly. ‘I don’t like this, Gabe, but I know better than to try and talk you out of it. Just—take care, will you?’

Gabe shrugged. ‘I won’t need to. She’s on my territory this time, and I hold all the cards. Last time I was halfway across America when I heard what had happened; she was free to do what she wanted.’

He went down to the helicopter with Marco and watched it disappear down the valley towards the coast. Strolling back into the castle, he looked around, keen eyes noting the various things that needed to be done.

His brother was too easily swayed by a lovely face that managed to be gracious and composed even when Sara Milton was lying in her teeth.

But then, why should he blame Marco for that weakness? She’d fooled him, too, and, God knew, during his meteoric rise in the world’s rich list he’d rapidly learned to spot the signs of a woman intent on snaring a billionaire husband.

His arrogantly outlined mouth drew into a thin line. Yet he’d been a total idiot over Sara. In spite of his experience, he’d let himself be dazzled by her lovely face, serene eyes and passionate mouth. So much so, he’d lowered his guard enough to decide to marry her, and matched the heirloom Queen’s Blood with a ruby on her finger.

More fool him!

A light flashed in the gathering dusk over the mountain, and the distant thump-thump-thump of rotors gathered strength as another helicopter swooped towards the castle. Warily, he monitored his emotions.

He felt nothing, he was pleased to realise, beyond a compelling determination to shake the whereabouts of the necklace from her. Once that was done, he’d have the greatest pleasure in throwing her out of the castle and Illyria.

And then he’d never think of her again.

CHAPTER TWO

FOR a heart-stopping second, Sara’s breath caught in a shocked gasp. The light from the helicopter illuminated a fiery scarlet flow over the ancient stone walls of the castle; they looked as though they were awash with blood.

Another, closer survey revealed the outline of leaves and long ropy stems. The violent colour was merely autumn shades in an ancient vine.

‘Get a grip,’ she muttered, trying to quell a sudden, primitively superstitious sensation. Into her mind popped memories of vampire stories she’d read as a teenager, vivid enough to make her lift uneasy eyes to the mountains surrounding the valley.

This was ridiculous. Since PrinceAlex had been restored to the throne of Illyria some years previously it had become a civilised state, open to the world. Besides, weren’t vampires supposed to live in Rumania? Her mouth tilted in an ironic smile. She’d grown up on a small Pacific island, and her knowledge of their natural habitats was limited to the books she’d borrowed from her mother’s employer.

Anyway, she wasn’t going to be here long; all she had to do was check out three bedrooms and bathrooms and come up with a brilliant plan to redecorate them, one that kept the medieval ambience intact while incorporating modern plumbing.

If only it were that easy, she thought, fear gnawing beneath her ribs. She was desperate to get this commission. Winning the approval of the elegant American heiress who owned the castle might set her career back on track after the disaster of the past year.

Don’t go there, she commanded herself instantly, but pain came rolling in like a grey cloud, smothering everything in the aching misery she knew so well. Sightlessly she stared down at a green lawn sheltered within the castle walls.

If the past months had taught her anything, it was that, no matter what happened, life had to go on.

The chopper touched down with a slight bump. She shivered and blinked, dragging herself out of her sombre recollections. Frowning, she peered into the dusk. She’d known the owner wasn’t going to be there, but she hadn’t expected the castle to be deserted. No lights shone from windows flanked by shutters painted with some heraldic outline.

‘A wolf?’ she muttered.

Yes, it looked like a wolf—ears, teeth and a very red tongue stood out prominently. Very rampant, she thought mordantly; definitely a wolf to be reckoned with! Sensation crawled between her shoulder-blades, setting every sense strumming.

She turned her head to inspect more blank, dark windows climbing a turreted tower. Of course she felt as though she was being watched; that was what the castle had been built to do! It loomed over the valley to guard the trade route through the mountains.

Stop letting it get to you—right now! she ordered herself sturdily, but followed the words with a muffled laugh that sounded too much like a sob. It didn’t matter. The pilot was busy doing whatever helicopter pilots did just after they landed, and he didn’t speak English anyway.

All she needed to finish off this interminable day was the appearance of a servant called Igor!

The door slid back, the noise of the blades assailing her ears, then easing. ‘Madam?’

Ah, a human being—a short, stout man who had butler written all over him. And, far from being an Igor, he was an Englishman, if she’d heard his accent correctly above the roar of the rotors.

Relieved, she smiled and unclipped her seat belt and swung long legs out onto the grass, automatically ducking as he urged her away from the helicopter.

A safe distance from the rotors, he indicated an arched door in the massive stone wall. ‘This way, madam.’ When she hesitated he added, ‘Your luggage will follow.’

He held out his hand for her heavy tote bag. Reluctantly, Sara handed it over.

The door led into a courtyard. Sara could see flowers glimmering in pots, and her tension eased as she drew in a deep breath. Fresh and wholesome, free of the mechanical taint of whatever fuel powered the chopper, the air was still suffused with warmth from the brilliant autumn day. Subduing her foolish fear, Sara straightened her shoulders and followed the butler, determined to give this commission her very best.

The cobblestones came as a surprise, their rounded, uneven surface tossing her off balance.

She recovered quickly, but the man beside her murmured solicitously, ‘Not very far now, madam,’ and indicated another large, solid door, clearly built to repel any invaders foolish enough to attack.

Or keep prisoners well and truly incarcerated, she thought with an inward qualm, irritated with herself for letting her imagination run wild. The American who owned this castle had been totally un-sinister, a perfectly groomed, modern woman who just wanted three bedrooms turned into welcoming, elegant havens for her guests.

The heavy wooden door, armoured with an impressive medieval lock, opened onto a large stone-flagged hall.

The manservant gave her a polite smile. ‘Please come in. I hope you had a pleasant journey.’

‘Very, thank you,’ Sara said automatically, following him into the castle.

And of course it wasn’t chilly and dank inside—cool, but she’d expected that; very old furniture and artefacts suffered from central heating.

The place was immaculate. No spider webs hung from rafters, nothing gibbered in a corner…

The butler led her across the hall towards yet another forbidding door. Grim, superbly crafted suits of armour lined the walls, their hard, masculine ambience barely tempered by flowers in great urns and bowls. At the other end of the hall a banner was draped from on high. Although muted by age and wear, Sara’s wondering eyes discerned the outline of a wolf.

Her skin tightened. What the hell was she doing here? Her expertise lay in houses, not this kind of architecture, with its overt statement of power and ruthlessness. She’d decorated apartments in London and the South of France, but never anything as old as a castle.

Well, it would be a challenge, and it would look damned good on her CV.

The butler held open another door and led her along a stone passage that had probably served as part of the defensive structure.

To break the oppressive silence, she said brightly, ‘Does the castle have a name?’

‘Why, yes, Miss Milton. The Castle of the Wolf—or, as the locals call it, the Wolf’s Lair.’

Too much! ‘Then the banner in the great hall must be the crest of the original owners?’

‘Indeed it is,’ he said, opening a small door that led into a lift.

She smiled ironically as she followed him into it. Of course the castle had a lift, which its sophisticated American owner would call an elevator. Sara hoped it wasn’t the only concession to the twenty-first century!

Several floors up, the manservant showed her into a room where painted panelling overpowered a four-poster bed, its head- and footboard carved in a delicate tracery of flowers and vines. With restoration it would be charming.

Not so the rest of the room, all gilt and heavy crimson and stark white, the furniture second-rate reproductions. No wonder Mrs Abbot Armitage wanted the rooms redecorated! Whoever had perpetrated this shoddy travesty should be prevented from going anywhere near a room again, Sara thought vigorously.

Still, at least there was no sign of any wolf here. Perhaps Mrs Abbot Armitage didn’t care for wolves in the bedroom.

Sara could only agree.

The manservant indicated a door in the panelling. ‘Your bathroom is through there,’ he told her. ‘If you would like to rest for an hour or so I will return to escort you down to the drawing room for a drink before dinner.’

‘Oh.’ When he looked at her with an expression of mild enquiry she elaborated. ‘I didn’t think there was anyone here.’ She stopped, because that sounded stupid. ‘In residence,’ she amended.

‘Oh, yes,’ was all he said, putting her bag down on a chair before he left.

Frowning, Sara stared at the door as it closed behind him, and decided there must have been more warmth behind the American heiress’s patrician face than she’d suspected. At least she wasn’t to be given a meal to eat in her room, like a Victorian governess!

But, kindness or not, Sara reminded herself that her future depended on delivering a plan for the rooms that would outdo those submitted by other decorators.

A cool shiver of foreboding tightened her skin. She looked around and noticed a casement open to the evening air.

‘Stop dramatising everything!’ she ordered herself sternly, and leaned out.

It was still light; even now, ten years after she’d left Fala’isi, she found the slow twilights of Europe enchanting. The tropical nights of the Pacific had crashed down like a pall, snuffing out the hot, brilliant colours of the island within minutes.

The air was pure, scented with a ripeness that hinted at harvest and full barns. Because the room was above the ramparts, she could look out across the valley. Small dim clusters of lights marked villages, and high on the bulk of the surrounding mountains the few pinpricks must be from isolated farmsteads.

Craning, she saw several windows glowing in one of the castle towers; as she watched, someone walked across them, pulling the curtains closed.

Some primal instinct made her cringe back. Eyes wide and strained, she watched the unknown man—probably the uncommunicative manservant—extinguish the squares of golden light.

Above her glittered stars, the constellations alien. Growing up, she’d learned every star—and had known almost every palm tree and person on the island, she thought wistfully.

Homesickness and something more painful washed over her. However much she loved Fala’isi, there was nothing there for her now, and this was her last chance to retrieve the career that Gabe had ruthlessly derailed.

Her mouth twisted into a grimace. Not that she could trace the swift extinction of her career directly to him—he was far too subtle. But although the nouveau riche might have flocked to patronise a woman who’d been engaged to such a powerful man, any hint that she was a thief would have sent them fleeing.

And hint there must have been. The theft of the necklace, the famous Queen’s Blood, had never reached the media, but her employer had sacked her the moment Gabe had broken their engagement.

The necklace had blighted everything she’d worked for, everything she’d loved. The most precious heirloom of Gabe’s family for a thousand years. For her, she thought starkly, it was cursed.

The only time she’d worn it, at the very grand wedding of a cousin of Gabe’s, a superstitious shudder had iced her spine.

Gabe had put it on her himself, and even the touch of his hands on her shoulders hadn’t been able to warm her. She’d asked too quickly, ‘Who made it?’

‘No one knows. Some experts say it originated from a Scythian hoard,’ Gabe had said, eyes narrowed and intent as he’d settled the heavy chain on her shoulders. ‘They were a nomadic people from the steppes, noted for their cruelty and their magnificent work in gold. The rubies are definitely from Burma.’

She’d watched herself in the mirror, half entranced by the necklace’s beauty, half repelled by its bloody history. It had a presence, an aura made up of much more than the fact that it was beyond price, so rare it couldn’t be insured.

And in spite of her heartfelt, desperate protests, Gabe had been so certain she’d stolen it he’d broken off their engagement in the cruellest way. She’d learned of it from his press release.

Even now she felt sick at the memory of the resulting media uproar, the flashbulbs, the sickening innuendoes, the lies and gossip and jokes. For three months she’d frantically searched for a new job and watched her savings dwindle.

Yet nothing had been as nightmarish as realising that the man who’d wooed her with a savage tenderness that had swept her off her feet had ruthlessly used his power and influence to ruin her life.

She’d loved Gabe so much, and, fool that she was, she’d let herself be convinced that this magnificent man loved her, too. But at the first test of his love it had been revealed to be an illusion. Her only buttress against collapse had been her pride.

And her skill as an interior designer, she reminded herself. She was good, damn it!

Fala’isi was as distant to her as the stars, part of a life long gone. Fortunately, after several months of desperate endeavour, one decorator had agreed to give her a chance. She owed it to him to do this properly, even though he’d made it more than clear that if there was ever the smallest slip-up she’d go. So far he’d watched her closely, but the fact that he’d let her off the leash now must mean that he was learning to trust her.

A knock on the door jerked her out of her unhappy thoughts. ‘Come in,’ she called.

The manservant brought in her suitcase and placed it on a stand.

‘Thank you,’ she said, smiling at him.

He gave a stiff nod. ‘If you need anything, madam, there is a bell-pull,’ he said, and left, closing the door silently behind him.

Rebuffed, Sara caught sight of herself in a mirror and shuddered. She needed a shower and she needed it now. Mourning the forlorn mess her life had become wasn’t getting her anywhere; better to summon her energies and make this a success. And the first thing to go, she thought, should be the bell-pull, long and gold and tasselled in the most vulgar way.

The bathroom was just as depressing as the bedroom, an abomination in mock-Victorian style with gilded taps and a marble tub. And the plumbing—well, it needed first aid.

No, surgery—a major transplant, in fact. Grimly Sara washed in water that was barely lukewarm.

Back in the room she looked around, her frown deepening as she realised that her suitcase had disappeared. Heart thumping, she went across to a large armoire against one wall and, yes, there were her clothes, either stacked on the shelves or hanging. Someone—not the man who’d shown her in, she hoped—had been busy while she’d showered.

Prominently displayed on a hook inside the door were her sleek, ankle-length black skirt, a jetty silk camisole and her discreet, long-sleeved textured top, its transparent black webbed by silver mesh.

Obviously castle owners dressed for dinner. She hadn’t brought high heels, but the skirt was long enough to hide the tops of her black ankle boots.

‘Thank you, whoever you are,’ she said devoutly to the unknown person who’d taken pity on her and hinted at suitable gear.

Once dressed, a quick glance in the mirror revealed that she looked suitably anonymous. She made up with restraint, settling on a faint darkening of her eyes and berry-coloured lipgloss rather than the full armour. She couldn’t afford, she thought cynically, to look like a woman on the make!

Carefully she pulled back her hair, pinning it into a neat, classic chignon at the back.

A tactful knock at the door set her heart slamming in her chest. Calm down, she told herself sternly. No Igor, no vampires; this is a job—and your future depends on it, so go out there and do your best.

The manservant stood back as she came through. ‘This way, madam,’ he said, and took her down in the lift, although not all the way to the bottom floor, then escorted her along another stone corridor.

‘To the parlour,’ he told her in his colourless voice. ‘It is less formal than the drawing room.’

Oh, good, so this wasn’t going to be a formal occasion.

Trying to regulate her heartbeats, she gazed discreetly around for clues to the taste of the owners. In spite of her American client, the original ancestors were still in residence; Sara met the painted eyes of one haughtily beautiful woman and wondered who she was, and why she seemed strangely familiar.

Her companion stopped outside a door and flung it open, announcing, ‘Miss Milton.’

And Sara walked into the nightmare that had haunted her dreams for the past year.

After the tasteless kitsch of her bedroom, the elegant, panelled study came as a shock—but not as much a shock as the man who stood beside the marble Renaissance chimneypiece.

Gabe Considine, the man she’d loved and had been going to marry. Tall, lean, yet powerfully built, clad in the formal black and white of evening clothes, his boldly chiselled features and slashing cheekbones exuding an uncompromising impression of power and authority.

And although not a muscle in his lean, handsome face moved when he saw her, Sara sensed a dark, formidable satisfaction in him that chilled her through to her bones.

For a terrified second every muscle in her body locked into stasis, holding her frozen to the floor.

‘Thank you, Webster,’ Gabe said, his voice cool and autocratic. He waited until the door closed behind the man, then smiled, and drawled, ‘Welcome to my ancestors’ castle, Sara.’

Pride stiffened her spine; pride, and the sick knowledge that a trap had been sprung.

After swallowing, to ease her arid throat, she said thinly, ‘I won’t say it’s a pleasure to be here.’

‘I didn’t expect you to.’ Eyes the colour and warmth of polished steel raked her face, summoned scorching heat to her skin as his gaze drifted downward.

Cynically, Gabe decided that she’d dressed carefully for this. Although her clothes were outwardly demure, the neckline revealed the lovely lines of her throat and her every breath subtly called attention to the curves of the breasts beneath the silver mesh.

As for the straight black skirt, so simple and straight—until she took a step, and the skirt opened just above the knee to showcase a long, elegant leg.

A cold haze of jealousy clouded his brain. According to the firm that was running surveillance on her, she hadn’t gone out with anyone else in the past year, but her salary wasn’t enough to buy clothes like this. Second-hand? Probably; whatever, it didn’t matter.

The classic hairstyle revealed her perfect features, cool and composed except for the luscious mouth, and even that she’d toned down with a mere film of rosy colour. She wore no jewellery at all, yet the overall effect was of a woman confident of her body and her sexuality.

Unbidden memories swamped his mind—of her beneath him, soft and warm and silken, of her little gasping cries as she climaxed around him, the scent of her skin and the silken cloak of her hair, the way her voice changed from crisp confidence to an enchanting husky shyness when he made love to her, the way she laughed—

Ruthlessly Gabe reimposed control over his unruly body.

‘You look well,’ he said smoothly. ‘Cool, sophisticated, yet businesslike. But then, image is your talent.’

He watched the colour fade from that exquisite magnolia skin. No sign of blusher, he noted.

‘I hope my talent is a little more substantial than that,’ she said, crisply turning the unspoken insult from herself to her work. ‘I like to feel that interior decorating does more than create a pretty background. This, for example—’ looking around his study ‘—bears no resemblance to the bedroom you’ve given me. I’m sure I don’t need to ask you which room you feel most comfortable in.’

A quick rally; but then, people who made a living from conning others had to have instant recovery when they were caught out.

‘I chose to meet you here in the study because this is how I want the rest of the castle to be,’ he said smoothly. ‘Appropriate is probably the best word to use. Would you like a drink?’

To his surprise she accepted, although her eyes widened when he poured champagne. She’d noticed that it was an extremely good vintage, and she was wondering what he was celebrating. Good; he wanted her unsettled.

And he’d succeeded. When she took the glass her fingers tightened for a betraying few seconds around the fragile stem.

Gabe waited, then said, on a note of caustic appreciation, ‘Here’s to reunions.’

Her lashes drooped over the tilted grey-green eyes, and his pulses leapt. She was, he thought with savage self-contempt, the only woman who could override his common sense with one sideways glance.

She took a swift sip of the wine, then set the glass down and turned her head to gaze into the leaping flames in the fireplace. Her hair gleamed rich mahogany against the matt satin of her skin.

‘Why did you bring me here?’ she asked, her voice level and toneless.

He didn’t answer straight away, and after a moment she glanced back at him.

She’d lost weight, he thought with an irrational spurt of concern. ‘I thought it was time we discussed things without the unnecessary complication of emotions.’

Had he got over her so soon? A swift glance at his implacable face convinced her. Of course he no longer loved her…if he ever had.

Probably their relationship had been a temporary aberration on his part. He couldn’t have felt anything true or lasting.

After all, what could the scion of a princely house, a man who moved confidently in the upper regions of power and influence, have in common with a woman like her? No money, no family—no idea of her father’s name, even—and no status.

She hid her pain with another sip of the champagne. But he could have been kinder—well, no. Her lips sketched a cynical little smile. He thought she’d conned him out of his most precious possession, and the huge media fall-out from their break-up would have rubbed his pride raw.

‘I don’t know why you set this up,’ she said evenly. ‘I have nothing to say to you, beyond that I don’t know where the necklace is. If I’d known you were here I would never have come.’

He lifted a mocking brow. ‘I find that hard to believe. You once told me that you researched your clients well before you started a job. And you knew I had links to Illyria.’

‘I knew you were a cousin of the Prince, but I had no idea that you owned a thumping great castle here!’ she countered. ‘Anyway, you’re meant to be in—’

His cold smile stopped the betraying words.

‘Don’t lie, Sara.’ Like her Polynesian friends in Fala’isi, he pronounced her name with a long vowel—Sahra…

She’d always loved the way he said it, the two syllables falling lazily, sensuously, from his tongue like an endearment, his tone a seduction in itself.

Not now, though. He’d turned it into a hard, subtly insolent epithet.

Bitterness and anger shortened her words into sharp little arrows. ‘Of course I made sure that you wouldn’t be in Illyria. Why aren’t you in South America at the United Nations conference?’

‘Because I arranged for you to come here.’

CHAPTER THREE

GABE came towards her, silent and formidably graceful as the wolf his ancestors had been called. Only a tough involuntary pride stopped Sara from taking a backward step, and she lifted her chin to meet his eyes with as much defiant composure as she could produce. She would not be intimidated.

She’d done nothing wrong.

‘I won’t be here for long,’ she retorted smartly.

‘You’ll stay until I send you away, Sara.’

‘You can’t do that!’ She dragged in a sharp breath, but it failed to deliver enough oxygen to energise her stunned brain.

‘I can do anything I want with you.’ He waited, drawing out the silence before finishing softly. ‘No one knows you’re here.’

‘My boss…’

His smile chilled her blood. ‘He won’t help.’ He waited with speculative dispassion while she struggled with the implications of that confident statement.

Sara’s hand clenched on the stem of her glass and a huge emptiness hollowed out her insides. Stonily she asked, ‘Are you implying that you arranged my job for me?’

‘Of course. I wanted you where I could keep an eye on you.’ He spoke casually, as though it was the most natural thing in the world for him to have done.

And, of course, it was.

Sara’s mouth dropped open. Stunned, she gazed at him in stupefied disbelief.

The unexpected offer of a job from a respected interior designer had literally given her something to live for. To learn that Gabe had organised it, and that her work meant nothing, hurt her so deeply she couldn’t speak.

She should have known, Sara thought as humiliation ate into her, leaving her cold and shaky. Gabe didn’t take betrayal lightly; he was famous for his long memory and his insistence on fair play. He’d want revenge. And he had the power and the money to seek it cold, to organise it with ruthless efficiency, so that she had no way of protecting herself.

Struggling to keep a clear mind, she fought back a sense of debilitating helplessness. He’d played with her life as though she were a puppet. It hurt, and it frightened her.

Nevertheless, she wasn’t going to surrender. He’d enjoy that; it would satisfy his desire to humiliate her. ‘I suppose I’m no longer working for him?’

‘That depends entirely on you,’ he said, watching her with coldly speculative eyes. ‘I want the Queen’s Blood, Sara. Tell me where it is and your life will be your own again.’

Her own? She could almost have laughed if his dispassionate tone hadn’t bruised so painfully. Gabe might have been able to cut her out of his life with merciless precision, but her heart was not so easily placated; it still trembled when she looked at him, longing for a commitment that had only ever existed in her wishful thinking.

If he’d loved her, he’d have at least given her a hearing when she’d tried to see him. But, no—he’d accepted the word of his grandmother’s maid rather than listen to the woman he’d been planning to marry!

Knowing it was hopeless, she said in a brittle voice, ‘If I knew where the rubies are, believe me, I’d have told you.’

‘Listen to me,’ he said forcefully, his eyes hooded and dangerous. ‘It occurred to me that you might be afraid. That’s why I brought you here—where you’ll be completely safe.’

‘Not from you!’ she retorted.

His wide shoulders moved in a slight negligent shrug. ‘Of course you’re safe from me—I’m not a barbarian.’

‘You threatened me about half a minute ago!’ He wasn’t going to get away with deliberately trying to intimidate her. She matched his hostile stare with one of her own, eyes glinting green as grass beneath her slim winged brows.

Another shrug underlined his Mediterranean heritage, from those warlike warriors whose blood had mingled with that of princesses from all over Europe to give him arrogantly handsome features and stunning colouring—hair like ebony, eyes as cold and blue as the sheen on a scimitar, and skin of warm bronze.

‘I knew you wouldn’t be intimidated,’ he said coolly. ‘But planning and executing a heist as successful as the Queen’s Blood is one thing—selling the thing is another. That involves criminals, and where this amount of money is involved the criminals are not loveable rogues. Stop hedging, Sara—it’s not getting you anywhere. Tell me where the Queen’s Blood is and I’ll let you go without fear of prosecution.’

The last tiny flicker of hope died. How could he be so intelligent in every other respect, yet so bone-headedly convinced that she’d stolen the necklace? Sara snatched another look at his face and saw beneath his amused contempt an unsparing determination.

Mindless panic roiled starkly beneath her ribs. She hid it by snapping, ‘You meant it when you said you could do whatever you liked with me.’

His black brows drew together in a forbidding frown that revved her heart-rate up into the stratosphere. ‘Oh, yes, I meant it. I could.’ His voice turned sarcastic. ‘But do try to restrain your vivid imagination. I don’t intend to hurt you.’

‘Why should I believe you?’ she demanded, realising too late that attacking his credibility was hardly the best way to get him to reconsider this crazy scheme and let her go.

Anyway, it wouldn’t work. Oh, Gabe definitely had a temper, but it was all the more intimidating for being so tightly controlled. More steadily she finished, ‘You didn’t believe me.’

‘Did I ever hurt you?’

‘I—no,’ she admitted reluctantly. Not physically, anyway. Indeed, he’d always been exquisitely tender with her.

Her heart-rate picked up as she remembered just how tender—and how she’d gloried in his strength and his potent male sexuality.

‘So stop pretending to be scared of me,’ he said crisply. ‘And don’t try to evade the subject. If you’re worried about your safety, be assured that no one can reach you here—no army has ever taken the castle by force.’

Sara remained stubbornly mute. Anything she had to say would only make things worse.

He waited, and when she didn’t fill the silence, went on relentlessly. ‘Give me the details of the theft and who else was involved. I promise you’ll be safe.’

As he’d once promised to love her?

‘I don’t know what happened to the wretched necklace,’ she told him, each word emerging with mechanical precision. ‘I gave it to the maid—to Marya—to put in the safe, and to the best of my knowledge she did just that.’

His response was unexpected. Instead of the chilling disbelief she’d had to endure when she’d tried to convince him of this a year before, he nodded. ‘And she swears that she did that, too. But about an hour afterwards she realised that she hadn’t put your engagement ring there, so she slipped down from her bedroom to do that. When she got there, the safe was empty. It had been opened by someone who knew the combination, which, as you set the combination when you arrived to stay with Hawke, means that you took it.’

A raw edge in his voice alerted her. She glanced up sharply, shock freezing her brain when she saw the dangerous glitter in his eyes. Stubbornly she retorted, ‘Or Marya.’

Holding her gaze, he said on a lethal note, ‘Marya is completely trustworthy.’

‘You’re so sure of that?’ she asked impetuously, knowing even as the words tumbled from her lips that she was on a hiding to nothing.

She hadn’t stolen the necklace, so the thief had to be Marya. Why, she didn’t understand, but there was no one else.

‘I’m sure,’ he said, his handsome, autocratic face hardening. ‘And, as the Queen’s Blood hasn’t yet appeared on the market—’

‘How do you know?’

Wide shoulders lifting in the slightest of shrugs, he kept his steel-blue gaze fixed on her face. She felt as though she had diamond lasers boring through the outer layer of skin and bone, right into her brain.

But if he could do that, he’d see her innocence.

He said, ‘The jewellery world is small, and it’s been under surveillance ever since the Queen’s Blood was taken. Apart from the value of the gold and the stones, the necklace is priceless as an artefact; an ancient, solid gold chain studded with perfectly matched cabochon rubies could only be sold to a collector. He’d have to be very rich and very unscrupulous, and have more money than sense.’

She frowned. ‘Why more money than sense?’

‘Because it could never be worn, never be shown—not for generations, if ever. It’s so well known that it would immediately be claimed by me, or my heirs. And if my line fails, Illyria would be entitled to the thing because it was originally found here.’ He stopped for a few measured seconds before adding deliberately, ‘But it hasn’t been bought by any collector, Sara.’

Eyes as cold and hard as ice searched her face. He thought she already knew all this; he was humouring what he considered to be her sly treachery.

Pain cramped her into rigidity. A year hadn’t been long enough to chisel him from her heart. She’d loved him so much….

Without emotion, he continued, ‘It could have been broken up and sold discreetly, stone by stone, on the black market. When the tyrant took over Illyria, my grandfather gave the necklace to someone to hide. After the usurper was assassinated, the only person who knew the hiding place brought it to me. I had each gem in the necklace measured and profiled, and its signature is stored. Burmese rubies the size of those in the Queen’s Blood and of the very best quality and colour—pure red with the faintest undertone of blue—haven’t been found for centuries. If even one such ruby turned up on the market I’d know within a few hours. It hasn’t happened.’

‘Because Marya doesn’t want to sell it.’

Without moving a muscle, he said, ‘Can you give me one good reason why Marya, who was my grandmother’s maid, would want to steal the Queen’s Blood?’

During the last year Sara had cudgelled her brain, trying to think of just such a reason, and the only one she could come up with was that the Illyrian woman had believed an upstart nobody to be completely unsuitable for her lord’s wife.

She was probably right.

The flames in the fireplace sprang high, then collapsed, and a faint, familiar scent reminded Sara of apples. Prunings from the orchards she’d seen beneath the helicopter, she thought, clinging to that simple sweetness in a room filled with fear and tension.

Oppressed by the weight of centuries of history, of death and war and disillusionment within the walls of the castle, she said flatly, ‘I’m sorry it was stolen, but I had nothing to do with it.’

Gabe drank some wine, then put his glass down with a sharp movement that set the golden liquid surging in the flute. ‘I don’t believe Marya took it because she was the one who hid the necklace when my grandparents abandoned the castle.’

Astonished, she stared at him. She knew the story. The general of the revolutionary army—a man whose violence had been legendary—had threatened to kill every person in the valley if the castle was defended. Gabe’s grandparents had slipped away in the night and joined the partisans, fighting in the mountains until they eventually died in an ambush.

In a thin voice she said, ‘Is that why you wanted her to be my maid?’

‘Partly. She asked if she could be when she heard that we were engaged. I suggested it to you because she was my grandmother’s maid, and I suppose it satisfied something in me to have her take care of you and your clothes.’

Sara bit her lip.

‘Yes,’ he said sardonically, answering her unspoken response. ‘You chose the wrong person to frame, Sara. Marya would never have stolen the necklace because she spent forty years protecting it at huge personal cost to herself and her family. She endured everything because she was loyal and because she understands the necklace’s enormous symbolic value.’

‘Is that why you’re so determined to find it?’ At least she could now understand why Gabe was so sure of Marya’s innocence. Not that it helped. ‘Does it confer some sort of divine right to rule on whoever holds it?’

‘No,’ Gabe said deliberately, surveying her with hooded, scornful eyes. ‘I’m trying to explain why I know Marya didn’t steal it. Whereas you lied to me and betrayed me. Give me one reason why I should believe you.’

Humiliation leached the colour from her skin. She stumbled over her next words, then caught her breath and forced herself to repeat stubbornly, ‘I didn’t lie or betray you.’

‘All I want is the Queen’s Blood,’ Gabe responded indifferently, making it more than obvious he didn’t believe her.

So what else was new?

He went on, ‘It’s an heirloom of my house, and I want it back again. Then you’ll be free to go.’

The beautiful, fabulous object, rich with history and tragedy and glamour, had shattered her heart. Gabe valued it more than he’d valued her, and his so-called love hadn’t withstood the suspicion that had swirled around her after the necklace had disappeared.

Sara dragged in a slow, jagged breath. ‘I wish you had it,’ she said, pain thinning her voice, ‘but I don’t know what happened to it and I can’t tell you where it is. I’m sorry.’

‘Won’t tell me.’ His voice was controlled and impersonal, as though he was discussing a business deal. ‘I’m prepared to pay you the value of the Queen’s Blood for information about its whereabouts.’ He named an amount that horrified her.

Sara closed her eyes. Just how far would he take this? ‘I don’t know where it is,’ she repeated dully.

‘The offer stands. It’s considerably more than you’ll get from breaking up the necklace and selling the stones on the black market. And much more than you’ll get from a collector who knows you don’t dare offer it legally.’ He picked up his glass and drank some of the champagne, his long fingers tanned and strong against the delicate transparency of the crystal stem.

They’d always been exquisitely gentle on her body. Sara turned away as memories exploded in intimate, painfully acute clarity. She tried to wall them off, but her skin tightened at the recollection of the heat of his sleek, bronzed hide against hers, the power and the rapture of impassioned hours locked in his arms, and the transcendent ecstasy of his possession.

A subtle, hidden softening deep inside her shocked her into awareness of her danger. Bitterly she forced the seductive images to the back of her mind. Oh, he’d been a magnificent lover, but he’d instantly believed that she’d stolen the necklace.

Now she understood why, but his reasons simply underlined the fragility of their relationship. For all its fire and flash and transient ecstasy, love had opened her to an anguish that would scar her for life.

‘I can’t help you. I’ll leave now,’ she said quietly, clutching at a composure so brittle she was afraid it would splinter at his next insulting word.

‘You’re not going anywhere.’ His reasonable tone warred with the determination she saw in his handsome face.

Tension knotted inside her. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth when she said, ‘You can’t keep me here, and you know it.’

‘You’ll stay here until I find out what you’ve done with the necklace,’ he told her with uncompromising decision. His implacable eyes kindled, and she realised with a cold clenching of her heart that he meant it.

Dry-mouthed, she protested, ‘That’s kidnapping.’

‘You can go as soon as the necklace is in my hands.’

She cast him a glance of mingled shock and distrust. ‘I don’t imagine your cousin would be happy to learn that you’re holding me prisoner.’

His expression darkened, but he said coolly, ‘I’ll worry about Alex if and when I have to.’

‘You’re being completely crazy!’ She tried to infuse her voice with crisp scorn. ‘And I’m not going to put up with it. Your ancestors might have been able to shut up anyone who offended them in the dungeons, but this is a different world.’

Back held so stiffly she thought she could feel her spine cracking, she swung on her heel and set off for the door. She’d only taken two steps when he stopped her with a hand on her upper arm, one smooth, decisive movement swinging her around to face him.

Every treacherous sense quivered at the faint, intensely masculine scent that was solely his, an evocative sexual promise that set her heart racing. Her stomach clenched as she shivered at the electricity that poured through her, destroying defences she’d been so sure would never be breached again.

In a cracked voice she muttered, ‘Gabe, be sensible! You can’t do this!’

‘Who’s going to stop me? You?’ His smile was a masterpiece of cold irony.

Before she could formulate an answer he bent his head and kissed her, his mouth demanding the response she dared not give. But although she could keep her lips clamped tightly together, she couldn’t control the spontaneous, involuntary betrayal of her body.

Of course he understood each sensual signal. He knew her too well not to recognise the quickening pulse-rate, the heat that stung her lips and skin, the bemused, sultry droop of long lashes over dazed green eyes as she fought her reckless surrender.

And his body reciprocated with fierce awareness, a forceful tension that sent more electricity sizzling through her. Whatever he thought of her, believed her to be, he wasn’t immune to the dangerous primal chemistry that raged between them.

The kiss hardened into urgency, and her willpower snapped. On a muffled groan she lifted her arms and reached for him, desperate to enjoy for a few seconds more that sense of utter security she’d always felt when he’d held her, as though nothing and nobody could ever hurt her again.

He pulled her into the powerful planes and angles of his big, lithe body, imprinting her with his need while his mouth plundered hers in a blaze of carnal pleasure.

For a few precious moments she let herself savour the potent sensation of her breasts crushed against him, the strong arm that held her hips clamped to his. And then he lifted his head.

Muttering something in a harsh, jagged voice, he dropped his arms and stepped back, a slash of colour along his barbaric cheekbones contrasting with the ice-blue of his narrowed eyes.

He’d spoken in Illyrian, but the words and tone didn’t need any translation. Swallowing to ease her dry throat, she said hoarsely, ‘I couldn’t agree more. Not one of your better ideas.’ Although her lips felt tender, and her body throbbed with unappeased need, she met his eyes defiantly. ‘What were you trying to prove?’

‘Don’t push your luck,’ he said roughly. ‘You have no power here, Sara.’

She shrugged and turned blindly away, only to trip over the edge of a chair. Instantly he caught her by the arm.

‘Are you all right?’ She didn’t answer, and his grip tightened to give her a slight shake. ‘Answer me, Sara.’

When she winced theatrically he loosened his grip, but didn’t let her go. Adrenalin pumped through her and her muscles tightened as she weighed up her chances of getting away if she kneed him in the groin or clawed at his eyes.

A metallic gleam in his eyes warned her that he knew what she was thinking. In spite of her fitness she had no hope of matching his lean, virile strength.

‘Try it,’ he invited softly. ‘Try me, Sara.’

His words ricocheted around her brain, momentarily silencing her. Mesmerised, she stared at him while time stretched; she could sense his readiness, his formidable confidence. Tension hummed like electricity between them, taut with unspoken hunger.

She had to get out of this! She searched for words, but when they came they were thin and ineffectual. ‘You tried me, Gabe, and condemned me without a hearing.’

‘I heard a pack of lies,’ he said indifferently. ‘Try me with the truth.’

She closed her eyes, then forced them open to glare at him. ‘You wouldn’t accept the truth if it hit you in the face! Eventually you’ll have to let me go.’

‘Why?’

When she stared at him he lifted a black brow and smiled.

‘Who would miss you?’ he asked, in a voice that sent chills scudding the length of her spine.

‘Don’t be so stupid! Of course I’d be missed! I have friends….’She lifted her chin and met his implacable gaze, pitiless and unforgiving as Arctic seas. ‘Besides, you don’t want me here.’

‘I think I’ve just shown why I might want you here, always ready, always waiting for me.’

Shock almost robbed her of speech. He was toying with her, she thought valiantly, cruelly manipulating her with his implied threats.

‘Then you’ll have to kill me eventually, because when you let me go the first thing I’ll do is go to the police. And if the police here are so delighted to have their wolf back that they refuse to do anything about it, I’ll contact Interpol. And the press.’

‘Would anyone believe you if you tried to lay charges?’ he asked, burnished eyes opaque and unreadable. ‘No one knows why our engagement was broken; if anyone gets wind of your presence here, they’ll assume we’re trying again. Everyone loves a fairy story, and our engagement had all the right ingredients.’

The fingers on her arm relaxed, slid down to grip her elbow; he urged her across the room, releasing her only to hand back the glass of champagne she’d abandoned.

Sara clutched the glass as though her life depended on it. Hoarsely, she said, ‘This is the twenty-first century and you’re a modern man, not some medieval despot who can get away with murder.’