Royal and Ruthless: Innocent Mistress, Royal Wife / Prince of Scandal / Weight of the Crown

Logically, dispassionately, he considered the situation, examining it from all angles until he finally came to a conclusion. It was a difficult one, but he had been trained to make difficult decisions, even ones that threatened to exact a personal cost.

As the sweet-scented tropical day drew to a close, Lexie felt so much better she thought quite seriously about heading back to the hotel. Common sense decided that tomorrow would probably be a better day. The maid had insisted she rest again before dinner, closing the shutters even while Lexie was trying to persuade her that she wasn’t tired.

‘The Emir says it is necessary,’ Cari said firmly.

Rafiq the Emir. It suited him, Lexie thought with an odd little shiver.

To her astonishment she did sleep again, lulled by the distant thunder of the waves on the reef, waking to a feeling of lazy wellbeing, a kind of hopeful anticipation, as though something wonderful was in store, something she’d waited for without even realising it…

‘Just watch yourself,’ she said aloud.

But that rash eagerness persisted even after she’d got up, even though she knew Rafiq wasn’t coming back. Irritated by the wistful tone of her thoughts, she made an impatient gesture.

So she was attracted to him. Why should that startle her? Plenty of other women at the party had watched him from the corners of their eyes, avidly appreciating his superb male assets. Like this castle, her suite, her bathroom, he was straight out of a fairy tale—a ruler, strong, and more than a little intimidating.

He’d asked her if she liked the thought of taming a man.

Flushing, she went to brush her hair. The answer was still no, but it would be…exciting to discover whether his imperious control was unbreakable.

Meeting—being kissed by—Rafiq de Couteveille had summoned a hidden, shameful yearning.

To be beautiful.

There, she’d said it, but only in her mind. To rub in how completely ridiculous she was being, she forced the words through her lips: ‘I’d like to be beautiful. I’d like him to look at me the way Marco looks at Jacoba. Even once would do.’

A swift, derisory glance at the mirror revealed why that would never happen. ‘There’s nothing wrong with you—you’re just ordinary,’ she said, pronouncing the word like a curse.

She stared more closely at her reflection, clinically cataloguing her assets.

Good skin, though it turned sallow if she didn’t choose the right colours to wear.

Fine features, but without anything of Jacoba’s witchery.

OK eyes, darkish blue, set off by black brows and long lashes.

Hair that was wavy and thick, boring brown with gold highlights in the sun.

And although she had quite a reasonable figure, she lacked any lush curves; slim and athletic was probably as good as it got.

Lexie curled her lip. All in all—forgettable.

And the kiss they’d shared had clearly meant so little to Rafiq he’d relegated it to some dark cupboard in his memory, never to be opened again.

Which was what she should do, she decided, ashamed by her neediness. It embarrassed her that the independence she’d taken so much for granted had crumbled at one touch from a man’s practised mouth.

She was Lexie Sinclair, and she was a vet—a good vet—and she’d be a better one before she finished. Always she’d gratefully left the limelight to Jacoba and followed her own less-spectacular dreams. Being thrust into the Illyrian spotlight had shocked her, and awakened a difficult conscience within herself, one that forced her to do what she could to alleviate her father’s bitter, brutal legacy. She was proud of what she’d achieved in her year in Illyria. But now it was over she craved privacy, and the chance to get on with the life she’d planned.

So how the heck had she ended up in a royal palace on an exotic island in the Indian Ocean, with the most handsome prince in the world as her reluctant host?

‘Sheer chance. And you’ll soon be out of here,’ she told herself. ‘Then you can forget about this interlude.’

But even as she turned away and dressed she knew she’d never forget Rafiq de Couteveille.

The tropical twilight was draping the hills in a hazy robe when she made her way down the stairs. At the bottom of the flight, a table stood with a huge vase of flowers, some completely alien to Lexie. Entranced by their colours and shapes, she stopped to admire them, but her attention was caught by a photograph beside the urn.

A girl—in her mid-teens perhaps, and clearly a close relative of Rafiq. Her bright, beautiful face was a softened version of his features.

From behind, Cari said, ‘The Emir’s sister.’

‘I didn’t know he had a sister,’ Lexie said rapidly, warned by a note in the older woman’s voice that something was amiss.

The maid looked sadly at the photograph. ‘Her name was Hani. She is dead since two years,’ she said. ‘I will show you to the courtyard.’

‘I know the way to it.’

‘I think not. You sat with the Emir in the garden. This is different.’

Lexie followed her into an arcaded square, where a fountain played musically in a grassy lawn sectioned into quarters by gravel paths. Flowering shrubs were set out in patterns, the formal style tempered by luxuriant growth and the penetrating, languorous perfumes of the tropics. Along the wall that looked out over the sea was another arcade, deeply shadowed.

After telling the maid that she needed nothing, Lexie was left alone to watch the darkness come, surprised that it brought no coolness. Within minutes the sea was cloaked and the stars sprang out, forming their ancient patterns in the velvet sky.

An ache chilled her heart. How had that vital, laughing girl died? Straightening up, she turned to go back inside. Her skin tightened when she saw Rafiq walk out, and wildfire anticipation flared to life in her guarded heart.

This was what she’d been waiting for.

A faint tremor tempered her first undisciplined emotion when Rafiq came towards her—tall, powerfully built and compelling as a panther. He looked austere, as harshly forbidding as that long-ago desert sheikh who’d lost his favourite daughter to a French exile.

No words formed in her brain; silent, except for the thudding of her heartbeat in her ears, she watched him approach and wished she’d worn something more sophisticated than trousers and a shirt.

Because she felt stupid just standing there and staring, she tried for a smile, holding it pinned to her lips for a few seconds too long to be natural.

He stopped a few feet away and treated her to another trademark survey, swift and unwavering, his gaze ranging across her face.

One foolish hand started to move in an instinctive attempt to shield herself. Hastily she controlled the betraying gesture, straightening her arm.

‘Have you a headache?’ he demanded sharply, crossing the intervening space in three long strides.

‘No.’

But he’d already taken her chin in his hand and was examining her face carefully, running his fingers through the hair at her temple where her own hand had strayed. Something sparked in the dark green eyes, and Lexie felt herself melting, her bones turning heavy and lax, a tide of honeyed sensation stirring inside her.

In a quick, panicked voice, she said, ‘I’m perfectly all right. My head didn’t get hurt.’ Her neck still spasmed when she turned it incautiously, but apart from that she felt remarkably fit.

He let her go and stepped back, his mouth held in an uncompromising line. ‘So I see. Cari tells me you have slept again. You look better.’

‘I do, thank you.’ Self-consciously she cleared her throat because something had caught in it, turning her normally clear tones husky.

‘Good. Come and sit down. Would you like something to drink?’ When she hesitated, he smiled and added, ‘Without alcohol, if you prefer that.’