‘If you’re sure, Immi. Well, you might put some clothes on, young man!’
With this last attempt at defiant challenge, Joe turned on his heel and left, the speed of his departure betraying how glad he was to be on his way.
It was that final retort that proved to be too much for Imogen. Suddenly, the appalling sense of tension that had been twisting in her stomach since the moment of Ciara’s arrival snapped, shattering her composure and taking her sense of control with it.
‘Put some clothes on!’ she gasped, fighting the wave of near-hysterical laughter that overtook her. Her eyes closed, her head bent as she struggled with the giggles that swept through her. ‘Y-young man!’
‘It is some time since I was called that.’
Raoul’s tone was wry. The tiny touch of humour, totally unexpected in his voice, was too much, too full of memories to cope with, breaking her in a very different way. Imogen stiffened and pulled back against his hold and away from the warmth and strength of his body. It was only when she put that space between them that she recognised how, weakly and dangerously, she had given in to the sense of comfort that being held had brought. A lying, deceptive sense of comfort, because Raoul’s arms offered no safety. Instead, he was the real source of menace, the true threat to her peace of mind.
How could she have been weak enough to let herself even think of surrendering to that malign temptation? The shock must have rattled her brain more than she’d imagined.
‘Dad was right—you should put some clothes on,’ she said sharply. ‘If you think I’m going to talk to you with you looking like that…’
‘Why?’ It was wickedly cool and smooth, curling round her like perfumed smoke. ‘Am I distracting you?’
Totally. The sight of so much beautiful skin, the haze of black hair that shadowed the muscular chest tracing a path down towards the point where it disappeared under the immaculate white towelling that was fastened around his narrow waist, was too much of a reminder of the way it had felt to have his hard body, the heated thrust of his manhood, pressed against her. It sent the blood rushing through her body and thundering inside her head.
‘Not at all,’ she managed with a pretence of carelessness. ‘But I think we’ve caused enough scandal for tonight. And if we’re going to talk…’
‘Are we?’ Raoul pushed a lean hand through the crisp, damp strands of his hair as he raised one dark brow interrogatively. ‘What do we need to talk about?’
‘Well…’
She’d spoken without thinking. Stupidly, it seemed. Raoul had managed to turn her whole life upside down and inside out. He’d sent her fiancé away in a black rage, breaking their engagement. He’d ruined the prospect of the wedding that was supposed to be happening tomorrow—today, she realised as she remembered she’d heard the chime of midnight. The wedding that was supposed to have saved them all. It was only now she recognised that somewhere, naively, deep down inside, she’d allowed herself to think that perhaps he might do something to help.
What could have put such a crazy idea into her head? And yet where could she go now that her future lay in ruins at her feet? The idea of going back to her room, to the emptiness and darkness, to face the loneliness and destruction of what she’d done, was more than she could bear.
‘I’m sorry. There’s nothing, of course. I’ll leave you.’
‘Non!’
Somehow the command sounded much more emphatic in his native language. Imogen flinched inside as it reminded her of the time they had once spent together, the way she had tried to learn French to be able to talk to him and to understand the signs and the notices on the sun-warmed island where they’d met. She’d also hoped it would help her understand him. Fat chance of that!
‘N-non?’
‘Perhaps we do need to talk.’
He needed to get out of this towel and into some more concealing clothing. The effect she was still having on his body was so primal that if she came close again she would feel the evidence of how aroused she made him just by breathing. Hell, no, that was a mistake. Thinking of her breathing inevitably brought his gaze to the top of that flame-coloured nightgown, still exposed by the way the silken robe hung half off her shoulders. The smooth curves of pale skin and the deep cleft of her cleavage were tormenting temptation in themselves, and the way those curves rose and fell with the uneven, heightened pace of her breathing threatened to destroy his ability to think at all.