A Forbidden Desire

A Forbidden Desire
Robyn Donald

A scorching seduction?Jacinta knew as soon as Paul McAlpine opened his front door that she shouldn't stay. Gerard had warned her not to fall for Paul, his cousin, during her visit to Waitapu, New Zealand. But she already had - ten months ago!She'd kept her distance then, determined not to give into the compelling attraction she'd felt for this man. Now she faced spending a long, hot summer in Paul's company. How on earth was she going to deny their mutual, sizzling desire?

“Jacinta, I’ve wanted you ever since I saw you.” (#uaa263280-d511-5f84-bfb5-99ea26d03d96)Letter to Reader (#u76123490-7c41-50c9-9421-8745ea174fc0)Title Page (#ub1b94223-ed05-53cd-b8ba-659dd1175f12)PROLOGUE (#ubbb63104-be90-5d65-88d2-503717589575)CHAPTER ONE (#u2d99e06b-facb-5a1a-97cb-4c585b11e9ed)CHAPTER TWO (#ua37e972c-0ffe-5c6d-929f-029777ecfd74)CHAPTER THREE (#u5a5d4e33-4d7e-5fcf-b33b-011aebca7ebd)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

“Jacinta, I’ve wanted you ever since I saw you.”

Paul continued. “I couldn’t sleep for wondering what your pretty mouth would feel like under mine....”

Dazzled, she sighed, and he took what he wanted, filling her with his taste—mate, dark and mysterious—overwhelming her with expertise, summoning her hidden wildness in response to his passionate mastery.

When at last the kiss ended, they were both breathing erratically, and he surveyed her tender mouth with eyes that were narrowed and lit from within, purposeful and determined on conquest.

Desire clutched at her heart. In a soft, tentative voice she said his name, loving the sound of it on her lips, shaping her mouth to his liking, to her need. “Paul,” she breathed....

Dear Reader,

It is the happiest of omens that the publication of my fiftieth book, A Forbidden Desire, should coincide with Harlequin’s fiftieth anniversary. It’s been a long and pleasant association, and I wish everyone at Harlequin and all our readers a very special celebration.

Because so many readers have asked over the years, “But what about Paul?” I’ve given this happy ending to the man who lost Aura to Flint in Dark Fire. Although red-headed, too, Jacinta is quite different from Paul’s lost love, just as he has altered in the years since Aura married his best friend. A Forbidden Desire brings their stories to a conclusion, although there is always a chance that you might catch glimpses of them in future books!

Thank you all very much for your support. I hope you enjoy the books that are still on their way as much as I have enjoyed writing them for you. If you’d like to contact me, write to:

Robyn Donald

P.O. Box 18240 Glen Innes

Auckland, New Zealand

A Forbidden Desire

Robyn Donald

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

PROLOGUE

HE REFUSED to look across the crowd of people dancing beneath the intense, dark Fijian sky, but a frown half hid his hard blue eyes. He resented this awareness, this almost psychic summons, mainly because he was accustomed to thinking of himself as a restrained man, easily able to control the emotions that prowled in the cage he’d fashioned for them five years ago.

For some reason, tall, slim Jacinta Lyttelton rattled the bars of that cage. It didn’t help that she was completely unaware of her power, or that he didn’t know why the hell she possessed it.

Ignoring a woman who’d been trying to catch his eye for the past four days, he let his gaze roam to the pillars on the edge of the dance floor.

Heat gathered inside him. Yes, there she was, clad in one of the neat, not quite fashionable dresses she wore in the evening. She was standing alone and watching the dancers, looking interested rather than wistful.

The day before, as he’d sat talking to her mother in the shade of the leaning coconut palms, the same insistent tug at his senses had pulled his gaze away from the older woman’s thin, lined face and along the hot white coral sand.

‘There’s Jacinta,’ Mrs Lyttelton had said, smiling, her face alight with pleasure.

To his dazzled, suddenly feral eyes Jacinta had appeared as an embodiment of the fecund extravagance of the tropics, a glowing, sumptuous creature whose hair collected and intensified the sun’s rays, a woman gleaming in the soft, humid air like a spirit of fire and desire.

An urgent hunger had slowed and thickened his blood. Although he’d tried to summon his usual ironic detachment to combat it, the violent physical reaction swamped both will-power and discipline.

He’d been disappointed and relieved when she got closer and the fiery goddess turned into an almost plain woman, tall, too thin, her breasts hidden by a large, faded cotton shirt, only her long, lightly tanned legs hinting at that promise of hidden passion.

Watching her now, he felt his gut clench and his body spring to painful life as he was gripped by the unmistakable burgeoning of desire. Thank God the torches that flamed around the dance floor cast enough shadows to hide his response.

The flaring light touched her pale skin with fire and licked with adoring incandescence across the aureole of her hair. The previous day she’d worn the thick, tumbling curls pulled back in a practical ponytail, but tonight she’d left it unharnessed, and the bright abundance shouted an invitation.

Dragging his eyes away, he concentrated his blue gaze on his hand on the table, saw with astonishment the rigid curl of his fingers as he fought for control. Within inches of those dark fingers flowers lay in artful, casual glory—vivid scarlet hibiscus, frilled and suggestive, and the cool, smooth stars of frangipani, their creamy restraint belied by the sweetly pervasive, erotic perfume. He wanted to crush them in his hands—he wanted to pick them up and heap them on a bed for her and take her on it for long, passionate hours until she surrendered completely and eagerly to his will.

A couple of hundred years ago he’d have believed that Jacinta Lyttelton had bewitched him. Oh, he’d always been susceptible to brilliant colouring, but the women he desired had invariably been beautiful, with a certain mysterious allure that excited the explorer in him.

Jacinta possessed neither. Skin of translucent ivory and big hazel eyes—even a soft, red, inviting mouth—were dominated by a straight, high-bridged nose and subdued by a round chin. Good legs and delicate ankles and wrists didn’t compensate for the hollows at her collarbone, the angular body. Apart from that astonishing colouring, he thought, trying to be coolly dispassionate, she had no presence.

His bizarre reaction—the urge to carry her off to the nearest bedroom and stamp his imprint on her so starkly that she never looked at another man—was a sexual aberration, a primitive, freakish eccentricity caused by some delusion.

Which was just as well, because she had enough to deal with at the moment. One glance had told him that her wheelchair-bound mother was dying. He had no idea why mother and daughter had chosen to stay at this expensive resort hotel in Fiji at the hottest time of the year, but Mrs Lyttelton was enjoying it and the affection between mother and daughter was obvious.

His eyes narrowed as one of the hotel guests, a tall, brawny Australian with shoulders as wide as a barn door, approached the woman in the shadows.

A primal jealousy fogged his brain; he was on his feet and halfway across the room before he realised he’d moved. Even as he told himself that he was behaving like a fool he felt an unusual aggression tighten his muscles and fill him with unrepentant hostility.

The Australian didn’t even see him, grinning, he said something that brought a smile to that soft red mouth, and turned to go out onto the beach.

Jacinta waved a hand and turned back to her survey of the dancers.

Relaxing his headlong pace, he watched the man go out into the dark night, but his skin was tight and the heavy, hungry need that prowled though him snarled softly, thwarted of legitimate prey. Noiselessly he walked up to her, some savage part of him enjoying the little jump she gave when she became conscious of his presence.

‘Would you like to dance?’ he asked, masking his emotions with the smile he knew was one of his greatest assets.

She looked startled, but after a moment said, ‘Yes. Thank you.’

He wanted her to stumble, be heavy on her feet, not know the steps. But she was like the wind in his arms, a fragrant, spice-scented wind, swaying seductively through the languid flowers of the tropics, warm, flowing silkily against him

Every cell in his body shouted in triumphal recognition. Anger at his helpless response cooled his voice. ‘Is your mother not well enough to come tonight?’

‘She’s just tired’

The faint huskiness beneath her voice smoothed across his skin like silk velvet. ‘Is she enjoying the holiday?’

She looked swiftly at him, and then away again. The thick curls moved slightly as she nodded. ‘She’s having a wonderful time,’ she said quietly. ‘Everyone’s been so kind.’

Because he couldn’t trust himself to say anything that wouldn’t increase her distress, he remained silent. Unfortunately that meant his mind could concentrate on the multitude of signals his rioting senses relayed—like the fact that her eyes were actually green, and that the hazel effect came from little gold flecks embedded in the cool depths...

Like the curve of her brows, slightly darker than her hair, and the deeper colour of her lashes as they lay on her skin, casting mysterious little shadows...

Like the tiny creases at the corners of her mouth that gave it an upward tilt...