This time, he had shown the same need to have her cover herself, had done the job for her with a rough coldness that brutally contradicted the desire she’d thought she’d felt when he was pressed up against her back. Obviously, that had been the primitive, basic response of a red-blooded man to any half-tolerable female. But then, when he had realised precisely which woman he had been dealing with, his whole mood had changed in the space of a heartbeat.
With an abrupt movement, Imogen yanked her robe up around her, belting it as tightly as she could, then made her way across to the table where the bottle of wine stood next to two glasses.
Two? Who had he been expecting? The question froze her hand, leaving it suspended in mid-air as she forced herself to consider the question. Had Raoul had an assignation here? But he didn’t know anyone in Ireland. Or did he?
He’d said that he’d visited Ireland once before. Was it possible he had met some other woman? In a bar, maybe, as he had once met her, inviting her back to the house, to his room…
Having previously not dared to risk the effects of alcohol on her already jangled mood, Imogen now grabbed for the bottle and slopped an amount of the rich red liquid into a glass, not caring that some of it splashed over the side. The thought of arriving here in this room, having come along the secret passageway, to discover Raoul entertaining his female visitor, possibly even in bed with her… She needed the wine even more at the thought, gulping it down with foolish abandon.
That would be worse…
Shocked, she pulled herself up short, the closing of her throat making it impossible to swallow the last dregs of her wine. How could it have been worse if she’d come upon Raoul here, with another woman? How could that possibly be worse than this? Worse than the destruction of her hopes and dreams, her plans for the future?
For both herself and Adnan.
The sudden opening of the bathroom door behind her made her start, and she almost choked on the rich liquid.
‘Don’t kill yourself.’ Raoul’s tone was dry and darkly amused. ‘You’re supposed to sip the stuff, not swig it down.’
‘I do know how to drink wine,’ Imogen managed as she forced the liquid past the knot in her throat. ‘I’m not the same person you met all those years ago.’
Then, she’d rarely drunk wine, or alcohol of any sort. She’d seen what it had done to her father in his dark days and she’d never wanted to go down that road herself. But Raoul had introduced her to the sensual experience of a really good wine, the enjoyment of sipping it slowly.
Not like she’d done just now.
‘I can see you’re not,’ was Raoul’s drawled response, the dark gleam of his eyes going to the drops of wine on the table, the level in the bottle that had dropped rather too far for comfort. ‘But clearly your father is.’
It was a remark guaranteed to have her slamming the near-empty glass down on the nearest surface. She had forgotten that she’d confided in Raoul the reason why she was so hesitant to share the bottle of wine he’d brought over to her table on her first night in Corsica. He had taken it that she’d been accusing him of trying to get her tiddly, so she had flung the explanation at him in a nervous rush, anxious that this devastatingly handsome man should not think her naïve or, worse, that she was trying to repulse his approach.
Short of admitting she’d been watching him for some time across the bar, and begging him to stay because he’d just made all her dreams of the perfect holiday come true when he had strolled over to speak to her, she’d blurted out the truth. That her father had a drink problem and that watching him lose himself in a bottle had made her wary. That it was only because she had left him in the care of his determined sister that she had felt able to snatch a moment of freedom and enjoy this short holiday on the beautiful island.
She’d expected that he’d laugh at her, or walk away from someone so naïve and vulnerable. Instead he’d hooked a chair out with one foot and lowered himself to sit opposite her.
‘Forget the wine, then,’ he’d said. ‘A fruit juice—or perhaps just water. It comes from the mountain springs.’