Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Copyright

“Let me prove it to you!”

“With a kiss?” Emma struggled angrily in Patrick’s arms. “Go to hell! I know precisely what a kiss from you will lead to!”

“Yes, so do I!” Patrick pulled her hard against him. “That’s precisely why I’m going to do it. To force you to acknowledge just how strong the bond between us really is!”

Emma stopped struggling. “What bond? There is no bond…”

“There is, and you know it!”

SARAH HOLLAND was born in Kent, southern England, and brought up in London. She began writing at eighteen because she loved the warmth and excitement of Harlequin Mills & Boon. She has traveled the world, living in Hong Kong, the south of France and Holland. She attended drama school, and was a nightclub singer and a songwriter. She now lives on the Isle of Man. Her hobbies are acting, singing, painting and psychology. She loves noisy dinner parties, buying clothes and being busy.

Master of Seduction

Sarah Holland

www.millsandboon.co.uk

FOR

Karen Patricia White

CHAPTER ONE

THE white Citroën taxi drew up on the quai of St Tropez. A row of glittering white yachts bobbed gently in the warm harbour waters, while opposite them sat hundreds of people at the jaunty cafés lining the street, sipping Perrier and watching the rich go by.

Emma stepped out of the car, scarlet sundress fluttering in the hot breeze, drawing attention to her long, slim legs. Her hair was black as night, long and curvy, framing a beautiful, classical face with cat-green eyes and a full, firm mouth.

‘I’ll pay the fare,’ Liz said with a bright smile. ‘You go to the yacht and ask for some help with the cases.’

Emma stared blankly at the row of luxury yachts. ‘Which one is it?’

‘Oh—sorry. The big one in the middle. It’s called Sea Witch.’

Turning, Emma walked quickly along the hot stone quai, looking up at the yachts with a bemused smile.

All this reminded her of her childhood, when her rich father would pamper and parade her to all his rich friends, and she would play the beloved daughter for his benefit. The only trouble was, she had been very far from beloved. She had been more of a pretty little doll for him to dress in expensive clothes, and the artifice of that world was akin to the glittering artifice of these magnificent yachts. It was an artifice she had rejected when her father died, and one she did not wish to return to.

It therefore seemed ironic to walk along the quai looking for the yacht she would be cruising on for the next two weeks with Liz’s elder brother, Patrick.

Liz was her best friend and also, currently, her employer. Liz wrote romantic novels. Emma detested them. But she also detested an unproductive life, and when her previous job as a secretary had come to a conclusion in January Liz’s secretary had resigned. It had seemed the perfect solution for Emma to begin working for Liz.

She had been working for Liz for six months now, and, while she found the general soppiness of romantic novels absurd, she loved spending every day with her friend.

When Liz’s elder brother had telephoned from America last week to invite Liz on this cruise, Liz had invited Emma. Emma had been delighted to accept, thinking the yacht would be a small and unpretentious craft.

But now she felt swamped by waves of nasty déjà vu as she strolled along the quayside looking for the glittering white multi-million dollar palace of a yacht called Sea Witch.

Suddenly, she was in front of it.

Two people, a man and a woman, sat on white chairs on the deck drinking cocktails. The man was bare-chested with dark hair, and the woman was a glamorous brunette with red lips. They both wore sunglasses.

Emma cleared her throat. ‘Excuse me—I’m Emma Baccarat, Liz Kinsella’s secretary, and——’

‘About bloody time,’ drawled the brunette. ‘We’ve been waiting around all day. It’s gone four and we were supposed to sail at three!’

Emma steeled herself to be polite. ‘Perhaps you should take that up with the airline. It was hardly my fault the flight was delayed. In the meantime, we need some help with our cases. Could anyone lend us a hand?’

‘Yes, I’ll come and help.’ The man got to his feet, revealing himself to be an astonishingly handsome giant, at least six feet six, as he strode, rippling with solid muscle, down the wooden gangplank.

Emma stared at him from behind her dark glasses.

He was the best-looking man she had ever seen. A living archetype of powerful masculinity, with that body, that tough face and that height. Suntan oil sheened his bare, bronzed chest, gleaming on black hairs and solid muscle, down to the flat brown stomach above his faded jeans.

He stopped in front of her, towering over her with a cool, condescending smile. ‘I’m Patrick Kinsella.’

This arrogant giant was Liz’s brother? Emma just stared at him, stupefied, and racked her brains to try to remember everything she had ever heard or read about him.

Meanwhile, Patrick smiled cynically, obviously taking her silence for swooning over his extraordinary looks. ‘Patrick Kinsella,’ he drawled again, clearly pleased by the sound of his own name, and extended a huge hand, adding, ‘Delighted to meet you—welcome aboard.’

‘Thank you.’ Emma shook his hand irritably, deciding he was not only loathsome, but devoid of any moral values, if he was involved with that appalling woman who had just been so rude to her. ‘It was kind of you to invite me on your yacht, Mr Kinsella.’

‘Call me Patrick.’

‘Patrick.’ She smiled coldly as she dropped his vast hand. His name was about all he had going for him, as far as she was concerned. Emma’s mother had been Irish, and Emma had long felt a deep connection with Ireland, something that would have bordered on romanticism, if she had ever felt the slightest bit romantic. Still, at least his accent wasn’t Irish—it was pure upper-class English, and therefore had not the slightest effect on her.

With a cold, polite smile she said, ‘I’m very much looking forward to the cruise. I understand we’ll be stopping in Morocco?’

‘Among other places.’ He gave a cool nod, then lifted his dark head. ‘Is that my sister over there with ten million suitcases?’

‘Yes.’ Emma turned to look at Liz perched like a pixie on a pile of suitcases, her short dark bobbed hair flickering around her gamine face, waving cheerfully at her brother.

They walked over to her together; or rather Emma swayed and Patrick strode like some unidentified species of jungle cat, his powerful body so packed with hard muscle that Emma regarded him through her dark glasses with the same cool detachment with which one might study an animal in a zoo.

‘Hi, Liz!’ Bending a long, long distance, Patrick dropped a kiss on his sister’s cheek. ‘You’re looking very well. Must be all that romantic nonsense you spend your time dreaming about.’

‘Don’t be horrid.’ Liz leapt up from the cases, laughing. ‘Anyway, you wait. One day you’ll fall in love when you’re least expecting it, and then you won’t be quite so pleased with yourself. Have you met Emma?’

‘Yes, we just introduced ourselves,’ Patrick said, without glancing at Emma. ‘I’ve postponed sailing till midnight tonight because I wasn’t sure what time you’d get here. Meanwhile, Charles and Toby have gone up to the old fort for the afternoon. Natasha’s the only one on board.’

Liz made a face. ‘Lord save us all from Natasha! Is she being vile, or just mildly unspeakable?’

‘Mildly unspeakable,’ Patrick said, then looked down at her cases. ‘Is this the lot? If I take four can you two manage the rest?’

They agreed that they could, and Patrick picked up four cases in huge hands, striding away easily with them. Liz and Emma followed at a leisurely pace.

It was quite a relief to Emma to realise that the appalling brunette called Natasha was renowned for vile behaviour. She wondered why Patrick Kinsella was going out with her if he disliked her so much, and decided he was probably the kind of man who liked love-hate relationships with bitchy women. Good luck to him, she thought with an indifferent shrug.

At twenty-six years old, Emma was rather jaded in terms of love relationships. She didn’t believe in romance, nor did she believe in ever finding true love.

Oh, she had a secret ideal man, but she kept him to herself, not telling anyone because she was sure he did not exist and that she would never meet him. She had no idea what he would look like: she wasn’t interested in looks, she was only interested in the mind.

But most men were only interested in sex and showpiece women they could boast about to their friends. She hated artifice—she had, after all, spent most of her early life playing roles, first for her father, then for her late husband. No more role-playing for Emma—she wanted honesty or nothing.

They approached the yacht and walked up the gangplank, watched with interest by the people at the cafés, and as they reached the deck three men in white uniform suddenly appeared.

‘Take these cases down to my sister’s cabin.’ Patrick deposited them on the deck. ‘And the rest to Miss Baccarat’s.’

The men nodded silently, no doubt used to being serfs for Mr Kinsella the incredible hulk, and disappeared with the cases down the long polished wood deck to a slim white door on the right-hand side.

‘Would either of you like to go down to your cabins to freshen up or settle in?’ Patrick studied them both from behind dark glasses.

‘I’d like a drink first,’ Liz told her brother. ‘That journey was hell on two legs, and I see a nice magnum of champagne over there with my name on it!’

Patrick laughed, strolled coolly to the bottle, took two glasses and handed one to Liz, one to Emma. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘this is Natasha de Courcey. Natasha— this is Emma Baccarat.’

‘Ah, yes, Miss Baccarat,’ drawled Natasha. ‘I suppose I ought to shake hands and say how do you do, but I frankly can’t be bothered.’

‘That’s quite all right, Natasha.’ Patrick poured champagne into Emma’s glass. ‘We’re all used to your bad manners. Emma may as well get used to them too.’

Natasha sipped her drink, tapping one foot. ‘I’m just bad-tempered because we’re stuck in St Tropez for hours on end. The only thing to do here is shop, and one gets so bored spending one’s husband’s money.’

‘One wouldn’t know,’ Liz drawled. ‘One doesn’t have a husband. Put a little more champagne in my glass, Patrick…’

‘Well, we all know about your famous single status, Liz, going around dreaming of romance but never finding it. But are you married, Miss Baccarat?’ Natasha arched one silver brow at Emma.

‘No,’ Emma said coolly, ‘I’m a widow.’

‘A widow!’ Natasha smiled slowly, red lips curving like a nasty little pussycat’s. ‘Oh, how very unusual for a girl of your age! How long have you been widowed?’

‘Five years.’ Emma sipped her champagne, face tranquil.

Natasha de Courcey pushed her dark glasses up to reveal a pair of heavy-lidded dark eyes with malice in their depths. ‘How did he die?’

‘A boating accident.’

‘How tragic!’ Natasha said with horrible insincerity. ‘What was he like?’

Emma’s face was expressionless. ‘He was good-looking, adventurous and he loved danger. That’s why he died so young.’

‘I adore men like that. Men who are mad, bad and dangerous to know. Men like Patrick…!’

Patrick gave a hard, dangerous, cynical smile, strolled to the drinks table, put the bottle of champagne down, and watched them all from behind his dark glasses in sexually menacing silence.

‘Well, Miss Baccarat.’ Natasha turned back to her with a nasty smile. ‘Do you think you’ll enjoy this cruise? I mean, you realise there’s a single young man of your age on board? My brother-in-law, Toby.’

‘Your brother-in-law?’ Emma’s brows rose and she looked at Liz. ‘I thought you only had one brother?’

‘I do,’ Liz said, frowning, then realised what Emma had been thinking and started to laugh. ‘Oh, God, what a hoot! You thought Natasha was married to Patrick? I don’t believe it!’

Emma shrugged. ‘Well, I naturally assumed——’

‘That we were together?’ Natasha laughed. ‘Chance would be a fine thing! No, I’m married to Patrick and Liz’s cousin Charles. His little brother is Toby, and I’m sure this is all very fated, Miss Baccarat. After all, he’s single, so are you, and you’re both stuck together for a fortnight on this yacht…’

Liz laughed, sipping champagne. ‘I shouldn’t hold out any hope for a shipboard romance between Emma and anyone. She’s completely cynical, I’m afraid, and doesn’t believe in love.’

‘Doesn’t believe in love!’ Natasha was shocked. ‘But how can you possibly justify that, Miss Baccarat, when you’re working for a romantic novelist?’

‘I initially became Liz’s secretary to lend a helping hand,’ Emma said, practised now in the art of explaining the conflict between her personal beliefs and her work. ‘It was just going to be a temporary thing, but we work so well together that it’s kind of dragged on longer than we expected.’

‘Dragged on!’ Liz’s laughter was as bubbly as the champagne. ‘You see how much she hates romance?’

‘I don’t hate romance,’ Emma amended quickly. ‘And you know I love working for you. I just don’t believe in the books you write, that’s all, Liz. You know what a cynic I am.’

Out of the corner of her eye, she suddenly noticed Patrick studying her with a smile on his tough mouth. Prickling, she gave him a cold, haughty look. He was the kind of man she could read like a book, and she knew precisely what that cynical smile of his meant. He thought all cynical women were available for sex without strings attached. Playboys always thought like that. Well, he could just go and playboy himself to death, if he thought she was that kind of woman.

Emma might have been cynical, but that didn’t mean she was cheap. Far from it. She wanted truth, honesty, integrity. Real emotions, real thoughts, no pretence, no lies…

What was wrong with romantic love was that it wasn’t the truth—any more than money, social position and material success were the truth. There was only one truth worth bothering with in life, and that was the fact that everyone was going to die.

Emma’s eyes glided contemptuously over the handsome playboy, Patrick Kinsella, glided on past him, flickered out to the sea and sky, which were hers as long as she was alive, and far more precious than all the material success or romantic delusion in the world.

The spirit, she thought with a slow, philosophical smile, is something which cannot be bought, and which lives on after death, like a soft sea breeze on that halcyon sky. Now that’s the only romance I’m prepared to believe in.

‘You’re not interested in romance at all?’ Natasha seemed to read her mind. ‘Or gorgeous, sexy men?’

Emma laughed cynically. ‘Gorgeous, sexy men are always a pleasure to look at, but usually inside they’re weak, selfish, vain, conceited and arrogant.’ Her smile flashed contempt at Patrick Kinsella. ‘I’m not interested in packaging. Only in what’s inside.’

‘Worthy sentiments,’ drawled Natasha, ‘but isn’t your life a little dull without romance?’

‘Hardly! I have a wonderful job, a lot of friends, opportunities for travel, and a very interesting future. What more could I ask for?’

‘A man.’ Natasha toyed with her glass in one redtaloned hand.

Emma smiled at her expression. Women like this little man-eater always tried to throw darts at Emma’s confidence in herself, presumably because it rattled them to think that a woman could be quite happy without being obsessed by men, flirtation, romance.

‘Every woman needs a man.’

‘Needs?’ Emma said. ‘I need to eat, I need to breathe, I need to sleep—but need a man? No, I don’t think that’s a statement I can agree with. After all, I’m going to die one day, and I can’t take him with me any more than I can take money or possessions or achievements.’

‘All right, then!’ Natasha’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’d like a man! Someone to love, to kiss, to flirt with.’

‘Well, that’s definitely debatable.’ Emma arched cool dark brows with amusement. ‘If I don’t want to kiss someone, I won’t, and there’s an end to it.’

‘And if you do want to kiss someone?’ Patrick Kinsella suddenly stepped forward, pushed his dark glasses up on to his head, and she saw his eyes. She was so struck by them that she just stared at him in silence for a split-second.

Those eyes were blue—dazzling blue, steely blue, Van Gogh sky-blue, and they seemed to fill the whole deck of the yacht, the whole town of St Tropez. She could no longer see his face or the colour of his hair or even his height or bare chest.

All she could see were those eyes, blazing at her like the brightest lights she had ever seen.

They were so at odds with her initial opinion of him— a handsome, cynical, sex-obsessed playboy—that for a second she was too knocked off balance to speak.

‘Cat got your tongue, Miss Baccarat?’ Patrick drawled.

She quickly pulled her shattered wits together. ‘If I wanted to kiss someone, I would do just that—kiss them!’

He laughed. ‘Are you telling me you’ve never wanted to? How old are you? Twelve?’

‘Well, of course I’ve wanted to!’ she snapped, flushing hotly. ‘But only when I was younger, more naïve, and believed in romance the way every teenager does.’

He was unfazed by her anger. ‘Which do you hate most? Romance or sexual attraction?’

‘What an impertinent question!’

‘Why is it impertinent?’

‘I would have thought that was perfectly obvious!’

‘Because I mentioned sex? Very interesting. I think you’ve answered my question.’

Her face flamed. ‘That’s just the kind of stupid, sexist remark I’d expect from an arrogant playboy!’

‘Resorting to personal insults already?’ He laughed softly. ‘Well, well, well. So it is sex that bothers you.’

‘Don’t you try to Freudian-analyse me, Mr Kinsella!’ Her green eyes flared with temper as she pushed her dark glasses up on to her head, glaring at him. ‘The truth is that I don’t hate either romance or sexual attraction! I just see through them.’

‘How do you do that?’

‘What do you mean—how do I do that?’ She was livid because her anger hadn’t stopped him pushing at her. ‘It must be perfectly obvious!’

‘Not to me.’

‘Then you must be even younger than the twelve you accused me of being!’

He laughed, enjoying her rage. ‘That annoyed you, did it?’

‘Of course it did!’ She was determined to remain lucid and intelligent, not to lose her cool again. ‘And I’m surprised at a man of your obvious experience saying you don’t see through either romance or sexual attraction. I should think you’ve had more than your fair share of relationships based on nothing but plain lust!’

He arched cool dark brows, revealing respect in his blue eyes at the direct honesty of her words. ‘Clearly— so have you.’

‘Of course I have.’ She remained blindingly honest. ‘I’m a young woman, I’m reasonably attractive, and I’ve had more than my fair share of men trying to seduce me.’

‘Trying to?’

‘Yes—trying to!’

‘Obviously you never let them succeed.’

‘Why should I?’ Her face flushed unexpectedly. She felt defensive, lifting her chin. ‘I have no intention of being hoodwinked by romantic delusion in order to let a man get the better of me sexually. That’s what the game is, isn’t it? That’s how playboys reach their goal!’

He smiled, studying her assessingly. ‘True, but not all men are playboys. You must have met at least one decent man since your husband died—surely? Or are you like most women, and find decent men boring?’

‘They’re certainly not as boring and predictable as playboys or fortune-hunters!’

‘Fortune-hunters? A rich woman as well as a cynic, then?’

‘Money and cynicism go hand in hand when everyone you meet just wants to relieve you of both your money and your virtue. And in truth I’d give all my money away to find one honest, decent, trustworthy man!’

‘Then you do believe in love, after all.’

Her face flamed scarlet. ‘No, I do not, and what is this anyway? Twenty questions? My private life is none of your damned business! Get off my back or I’ll leave this yacht immediately!’

‘OK.’ He shrugged coolly, astonishing her while she stood there, bristling, poised for further fury, staring at him, a string of insults on the tip of her tongue—only to be completely outmanoeuvred because he strode mildly past them all, saying over one enormous bare, hard-muscled shoulder, ‘I’m going into town for an hour or so. I’ll see you all tonight. Seven-thirty on deck for cocktails…’

Speechless, furious, Emma stared after him as he picked up a nearby shirt, pulled it on lazily as he strode down the gangplank, and disappeared into the glamorous mêlée of people on the quai of St Tropez.

‘That was Patrick doing the Spanish Inquisition, wasn’t it?’ Liz said as she too stared after Patrick. ‘I wonder why?’

‘He was probably just bored,’ Emma said tersely, loathing him even more, and feeling shaken by the conversation. She decided she detested Patrick Kinsella, and would avoid him like the plague from now on. She turned to Liz, saying, ‘I think I’d like to go down to my cabin now—take a shower, unpack, settle in. Would that be all right?’

‘Yes, of course!’ Liz put her drink down. ‘See you later, Natasha.’

Natasha smiled acidly, said something spiteful, and refilled her glass while Liz led Emma along the hot wooden deck towards the white door which opened on to a long narrow staircase.

As they went down the stairs, Emma said tautly, ‘Sorry about that row with your brother. I felt pinned down by all those questions, and the conversation was getting much too personal.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about it.’ Liz waved an airy hand. ‘He was obviously just intrigued to find a woman as cynical as he is.’

‘Yes,’ she said, eyes narrowing, ‘I noticed his mad, bad and dangerous sex appeal before Natasha pointed it out. No doubt he’s used to women falling at his feet in a romantic daydream.’

‘Precisely,’ Liz agreed. ‘He stopped believing in love so long ago that I can’t really remember a time when he wasn’t a cynical swine.’ She laughed, leading the way along a luxurious corridor. ‘Not like me, of course, always rattling on about hearts and flowers.’

Emma smiled, following her past a series of doors. She liked Liz’s preoccupation with romance, found it rather sweet, especially in the way it was expressed in her books—all that passion, faith in love, a belief in the goodness of people, not the bad.

It was a shame she had never married, but then she had had a ten-year blazing love-affair with a man who was married to an insane woman and felt unable to divorce her. ‘All very Jane Eyre and Mr Rochester,’ Liz often remarked with a sigh, but it had ended in tragedy when the man had died in a plane crash, leaving Liz alone in a world with no love but the romance in her beloved novels.

Liz opened the door of Emma’s cabin, and smiled as she heard Emma’s rapid intake of breath.

‘My God, it’s beautiful…!’

‘Yes, my brother’s very stylish in everything he does.’

Emma hated Patrick for being very stylish, but couldn’t deny that he was, because this room was ravishing. It was vast, sunlight pouring in through two long windows, illuminating the sprawling silk-covered double bed, the deep-pile sea-green carpet, the expensive sofas and armchairs, the long low polished mahogany coffee-table, the antique writing-desk, and the exquisite paintings hanging on the silk-wallpapered walls.

‘I’ll leave you to get on with it, then,’ said Liz with a cheery smile. ‘See you at seven-thirty on deck for predinner cocktails.’

As soon as the door was closed, Emma started to unpack, hanging all her clothes in the wardrobe, piling lingerie, T-shirts and jeans into the chest of drawers, and arranging her various shoes neatly.

Then she laid out her cosmetics, perfume and hairstyling appliances on the beautiful dressing-table, enjoying the reflection of that stylish bottle of Ralph Lauren’s Safari in the three-tiered mirror.

Going into the bathroom with her toiletries, she gasped anew at the beauty, luxury and understated style of the room.

Patrick Kinsella really did have exceptional taste.

Taste meant a lot to Emma. Her late husband had had appalling taste, and living with it for the two years of their brief marriage had been very unpleasant. Another symptom of artifice and role-playing: Emma had let Simon indoctrinate her in everything he liked, as though she simply ‘became’ him, and pretended to like all his friends, his hobbies, his bad taste, his selfishness…

She had also, along the way, pretended to forgive him his brutality, violence, infidelity, deceit and vicious spite. All those qualities had only surfaced after the wedding— but then that was what you got, thought Emma, for pretending instead of telling the truth.

She wasn’t bitter about the past, or about her bad marriage, or about the fact that she had been forced to role-play for so many years. She had dealt with it all long ago, accepting it and moving forward to a new life and a new way of dealing with the world.

What was there to do but forgive and, in doing so, forgive herself for the part she had played in her own unhappiness? Her parents had not loved her properly— but they had loved her, and she had loved them. It hadn’t been their fault that they were so incapable of seeing her as she really was, it had simply been a product of their own unhappy childhoods, when their parents had not loved them properly.

As for Simon—well, he fell into the same category. Treated badly as a boy, he had grown up thinking that love meant treating other people badly, and his violence had been a product of long-buried rage.

Horrors.

What a minefield relationships were.

Now she was free of it all, content with her life, and looking back on the past was like looking back on another person. It would have been romantic of her to use the word ‘rebirth’ to describe her new life and, although she detested romance, she rather liked the word ‘rebirth’.

Stripping her clothes off, she stepped into the luxurious shower, and proceeded to luxuriate under the warm needles of water, washing the grime of her long journey from her slender body.

To think she had left her London home at six o’clock this morning! God, that delay at London Heathrow had been a nightmare!

When she had dried herself, styled her hair, and pulled on a pair of pale blue jeans, she slipped a white silk top on, then decided it would be a shame to waste St Tropez if they were sailing out tonight, so she went up on deck with her sunglasses and handbag, and pootled down the gangplank into town.

Hot sunlight assailed her from all angles. Artists stood on the quai in front of their easels, palettes in hand as they stroked hot oil paints on to the canvases, and seagulls cried sharply among the bobbing boats, the glittering blue waters, the freedom-filled glamour of the town.

Emma walked lazily up bleached, winding, ancient streets, until she came to the main square, where old French men played boules among the trees and the dust, watched by glamorous tourists in pretty canopied cafés.

Sitting on a canvas chair, Emma watched the men, and ordered a coffee. Then suddenly, across the square, she saw a pair of blazing blue eyes watching her.

Dazzling blue, she thought again as she stared unsmilingly straight at Patrick Kinsella.

He just stood still, watching her, staring directly at her, and even though he was a long way away she felt the power of that stare, felt it very deeply, like a mirror turned in sudden blazing recognition.

She did not smile either. Nor make any attempt to wave or signal that she had seen him. Flicking her gaze expressionlessly from his, she glanced at the tree beside her as the warm breeze ruffled through its green leaves, and thought, Who the hell does he think he is?

When she glanced back with a cool expression, Patrick had gone. Frowning, she looked to see where he had disappeared to, but there was nothing there save the men playing boules, the trees, the dust, the cafés, and the sudden buzz of a motorbike driving along in the hot afternoon.

Oh, well. She shrugged philosophically, but it was irksome to have been stared at like that by her host, her employer’s brother, as though he had no need to smile or wave or even acknowledge her.

What a sauce, she thought irritably. And after the way he spoke to me, asking me such rapid, personal questions. I may not be the best person he’s ever invited aboard his yacht, but there’s no need to completely ignore me in public, as though we’ve never met.

A second later, Liz appeared on the same side of the square as Emma.

‘Hi!’ Emma waved to her, and Liz waved back, looking hilarious in multi-stripe leggings, a long T-shirt and a bright orange baseball cap perched on her pixieish head.

‘Hello there!’ Liz raced over to her table, sank down in a chair and put her shopping down with a thud. ‘Phew! This shopping is thirsty work! I must have a huge glass of Perrier.’

Emma signalled the waiter and ordered it for her.

‘Settled in all right?’ Liz asked.

‘Yes, wonderfully well. I didn’t want to waste St Tropez, though.’ She hesitated, then, ‘Just saw your brother, by the way, on the other side of the square.’

‘And what did he have to say for himself? Anything interesting?’

‘No, he didn’t speak to me.’ She sipped her coffee, still irritated by Patrick Kinsella’s ignoring her.

‘Didn’t he? Maybe he didn’t see you.’

‘Yes, he did,’ laughed Emma, ‘but he was probably too busy eyeing up the other women in the cafés here to waste a smile on me!’

‘He hardly needs to waste a smile on any woman,’ sighed Liz. ‘He’s always had women flinging themselves at his feet—why should he bother to approach them?’

‘Why indeed?’ Emma said tightly. ‘James Bond never has to do more than lift an eyebrow, and your brother seems to think he has a lot in common with James Bond, doesn’t he?’

‘Ouch!’ Liz laughed. ‘Poor Patrick! You really hate him, don’t you?’

‘One hundred per cent.’

‘So there’s no chance of you ever falling in love with him?’

Emma just laughed and shook her head.

Fall in love with him! The very idea…

CHAPTER TWO

EMMA dressed carefully that night, aware of the importance of first impressions, and aware that she didn’t want either Toby or Charles, whom she had not yet met, to think she was a sexy woman up for grabs. Knowing Natasha just a little by now, she was fairly sure that Toby would have been told Emma was young, single and ready to mingle. I don’t want to get grabbed, she thought, ready to spike Natasha’s nasty little matchmaking guns.

The black evening dress she chose was serenely sensual, made of loose, elegant silk, making her look attractive without looking available. Pearls gleamed around her throat, pearl and diamond drops in her ears, glistening against the wealth of her long black curly hair. She wore strappy, black high heels, and was bathed in a discreet aura of Safari.

When she went up on deck, she steeled herself not only to spar with Natasha and meet the other two guests, but also to be very cool with the arrogant, conceited and thoroughly detestable Mr Patrick Kinsella.

To her annoyance, he was the only one there. Emma stopped on the tranquil deck, studying Patrick, who stood leaning against the steel railings looking out at St Tropez with his back to her. The sun glowed evening gold across the town, music came from the cafés opposite the yacht, and sports cars zoomed about, carrying breezy young people from lazy cafés to exclusive nightclubs. Patrick was wearing a black dinner-jacket, impeccably cut, and the way it fitted his powerful muscular body was pure poetry. Emma remembered Liz telling her that women threw themselves at his feet and, looking him up and down with dislike, she had to admit she could see why. He wasn’t her type, but as far as gorgeous playboys were concerned he was a magnificent specimen.

He turned suddenly then and saw her. She found herself momentarily breathless. His eyes were even more blue, more dazzling, more acutely sensitive than she remembered.

‘Hi,’ Emma said warily, and did not smile at him, remembering his unsmiling stare in the leafy square of the town and prickling under this latest, cool assessment.

‘Hi.’ He didn’t smile either, but he did push lightly away from the railings and lift his dark brows, saying, ‘Do you want a drink?’

‘Thanks.’ She walked towards him, her heels clickclacking elegantly on the wooden deck. ‘Something light and cold would be nice.’

Patrick moved like the giant he was to the table, and poured a long cold drink for her. Emma watched his body movements. He seemed at once fascinating and loathsome. She wondered why. Then it occurred to her that fascination and loathing were both intense reactions, which meant that she was far from indifferent to him.

Emma was a great analyser of feelings. She had been blinded too many times by emotions—powerful emotions, the kind that blistered and bludgeoned one’s logic into oblivion—and she had no intention of ever again finding herself kneeling at the feet of some great male god, who later turned out to be all too horribly human.

So recognising an emotional response to Mr Patrick Kinsella was something which instantly sent her logic into overdrive, demanding a rapid analysis of just why she might react so strongly to him.

What had Liz told her about him? she wondered now with narrowed, wary eyes. All she could remember was that he was occasionally in the newspapers and that, in the past, he had been a notorious womaniser.

Work hard, play hard had been his motto, and the string of beauties his name had been linked with formed an impressive collection—film stars, beauty queens, models. He had hardly led a blameless life.

But lately, according to Liz, that aspect of his life had been played down in the Press because it had begun to affect his very serious reputation at work. All sex appeal aside, he was first and foremost a businessman, and he could hardly continue to live the life of James Bond without it rebounding on his business reputation. That didn’t mean, however, that he no longer womanised. Far from it. He was probably just a lot more discreet. And that was further indication of quite how clever, calculating and cynical Patrick Kinsella really was.

‘Here,’ he said, and silver cuff-links flashed in his crisp white cuffs as he turned to hand her her drink. She thanked him with a polite smile, and for a second they drank in silence.

It was faintly uncomfortable. But Emma had no intention of making polite chit-chat with him, particularly after the way he’d behaved towards her so far.

Eventually, it was Patrick who broke the silence.

‘Did you do any shopping in town?’

‘Yes.’ She sipped her drink and did not look at him.

‘There are a number of very interesting shops here.’

‘Yes, there are.’ Emma nodded expressionlessly.

‘My favourite is the tiny little art shop in the old part of town.’

Emma smiled politely and sipped her drink again. Patrick was silent for a moment, then came to loom next to her at the ship’s railings. Emma pretended interest in the town. Patrick loomed. He was watching her. She felt acutely aware of his gaze and also aware of his anger.

Slowly, she looked up.

Their eyes met in a cool moment of mutual recognition.

He smiled slowly. So did she.

‘We’re going to be stuck on this yacht together,’ drawled Patrick Kinsella, ‘for another fortnight. Life will be so much easier if you don’t bear a grudge.’

‘I’m not bearing a grudge,’ she drawled, just as cynical as he. ‘I just respond to treatment, like any other normal human being.’

‘And as my treatment of you thus far——’ his hard mouth moved in a faint, rueful smile ‘—has hardly been exemplary, you intend to pay me back in kind. Is that it?’

‘Precisely.’

‘Because of our discussion this afternoon?’

‘I felt attacked, Mr Kinsella. Didn’t you notice?’

‘I thought you could take it.’

‘I can take it. But every action has a reaction.’

‘And this is yours? Hmm. Well, that’s something I can take, too. Besides, you were patronising all of us with what you were saying.’

‘Oh, was I?’

‘Yes, you were.’ His blue eyes were as direct as his words. ‘You thought we were all arguing for romance. You thought you were talking to a bunch of naïve teenagers still living in bluebird-and-orange-blossom land.’

‘I can assure you,’ she laughed cynically, ‘I would never put you in that particular category!’

‘Better not, Miss Baccarat. I stopped believing in romance a long time ago.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ she said, eyeing him with cat-like suspicion. ‘I had you pegged for an arrogant, cynical swine as soon as I saw you.’

He laughed. ‘Good for you.’ The blue eyes danced with rakish amusement as he looked down his arrogant nose at her. ‘Honest as well as beautiful.’

‘Flattery won’t work with me.’

‘It’s not flattery. You are honest—and beautiful. I didn’t notice it when you first boarded. You just seemed like another pretty little dolly in a red dress. But dollies don’t have serious integrity, and you do appear to have, even if it is a little misguided.’

‘Forgive a mere dolly having the presumption to ask, but how can integrity be misguided?’

‘Because it misses the mark.’

‘And what particular mark might that be?’

His brows arched. ‘The truth.’

Emma smiled through her perfect white teeth. ‘You’re very patronising.’

‘Am I?’

‘I fear so. But don’t let it worry you. I fully intend to patronise you into the ground before this cruise is out.’

He laughed again, eyes smiling into hers as he leant idly beside her, tall and handsome and well aware of it. ‘Well, that’s what you were doing this afternoon. That’s why I broke in and stopped you pussyfooting around. You’re so used to being with people who still live in fairyland that you automatically feed them palliatives instead of saying what you really think.’

‘There’s no point in trying to destroy their illusions, Mr Kinsella. They wouldn’t listen even if you did try.’

‘Well, I won’t argue with that. You have to leave them wandering blindfold through a maze, bumping into things, never recognising them for what they are, labouring under the delusions of love, romance, happyever-after…’ He laughed harshly and shook his dark head. ‘It’s enough to make one horribly cynical.’

She laughed too, green eyes blazing with a strange mixture of dislike, admiration and understanding. ‘But you are horribly cynical.’

‘So I am!’ He laughed then, but as the breeze gently played with his jet-black hair his smile faded and he drawled, ‘It’s very isolating, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it is.’

They seemed to have reached a point of mutual agreement without realising it, and Emma didn’t stop to think about what she said next, because it just seemed like a natural progression of the conversation, which she thought was still an argument.

‘I often wonder,’ she said, ‘if I’ll ever be able to be completely honest with another human being, because everyone I meet always tries to persuade me that black is white and white is black.’

‘Like addicts trying to get you hooked on their particular drug.’ He nodded coolly, unsmiling. ‘Religion isn’t the opium of the masses any more—romantic love is. And, as with all drugs, once the haze clears, one cannot tolerate real life. One has a clear-cut choice: take some more of the drug, or face reality.’

Emma shuddered. ‘I prefer reality.’

‘Me too.’ He studied her with a smile. ‘But, as you so rightly said, one despairs of ever finding someone with whom one can be completely honest. It’s as though everybody else is living on another planet. I used to find it depressing, but I’m so used to feeling isolated from the people I love that I——’ He broke off suddenly, staring at her, then gave a slow smile, looking right into her eyes with a frown, and drawled sardonically, ‘What an extraordinary conversation!’

The sea breeze flickered through Emma’s hair as she smiled at him, thinking the same thing.

Patrick gave a cool, wry laugh. ‘What made me tell you all of that?’

‘I don’t know.’ Emma smiled lazily at him. ‘I’m just wondering the same thing myself, about what I told you.’

‘Most embarrassing,’ he drawled with a rakish laugh. ‘Let’s not tell anyone we had this conversation!’

‘Agreed!’

‘Shake on it.’

Their hands moved out, touched, clung.

Suddenly, a peculiar silence descended on them, one of deep intimacy, respect and mutual understanding. Emma’s toes curled. Her hand was in his and she just kept smiling, felt her heart begin to beat faster. He smiled too, eyes glittering down into hers, then, very slowly, he stopped smiling, and as he did she felt her heart thud, her body jump as though energised by some unstoppable force, and her eyes drop like fire to his hard, handsome mouth.

When she looked up she saw that he was staring at her mouth too. His gaze flashed up suddenly to meet hers. Their hands tightened together, and the unexpected violence of sexual attraction reared up between them so powerfully that Emma felt her whole body shake with it.

‘Ahoy there!’ Liz called cheerily from along the deck.

Patrick and Emma leapt away from each other as though burnt—or as though they’d been caught in some illicit, deeply intimate act.

‘Where are all the others?’ Liz tottered towards them in a peacock-blue silk dress, high heels and a cloud of Joy perfume. ‘Don’t tell me Charles and Toby are still in town!’

‘No, they came back to the ship at around six…’

Emma struggled for composure as Patrick talked to his sister, but she was deeply shaken, and so was her body—her heart was pounding much too fast, her pulses racing like wildfire, and the tension suddenly coiling in her stomach was at once frightening and exciting.

Stupid, she said to herself, sipping her drink too quickly, alarmed by the tremor of her hands. We were only talking. No need to get so pathetically romantic about it all of a sudden, as though I genuinely wanted to kiss him.

Of course I don’t want to kiss him, she thought, and stared at his firm, handsome, sexy mouth.

‘So,’ said Liz with a smile, ‘what have you two been talking about up here on your own?’

Emma’s eyes met Patrick’s in a fierce blaze of mutual understanding. She looked away quickly, but not before she had noticed how very handsome his face was, the tough bones beneath the tanned skin strikingly male, revealing a formidable personality in the hard, sensual set of his mouth, the uncompromising line of his jaw, and the sexy droop of those heavy eyelids.

He’s quite superb, she thought with a shock as she heard her voice say with false gaiety, ‘Oh, we were just talking about St Tropez.’

Patrick shot her a quick, unsmiling stare that made her blush. She had lied. Why had she lied? She couldn’t understand it.

‘Good old St Tropez!’ Liz was pouring herself a drink. ‘Patrick, did you tell her how many times you’ve been here?’

‘Yes, I did,’ Patrick lied, and now it was her turn to stare at him. He looked away from her, raking a hand through his jet-black hair. She saw him raise his glass to his mouth, take a drink, then look back at her with a hard, narrowed stare that focused on her eyes, then on her mouth, then moved slowly down her body in a rapid, unsmiling assessment, as though he had only just noticed her body—but how he noticed it now, in every detail, fast, fast, fast, whizzing over the curve of her full breasts, the narrow slenderness of her waist, down past her slim hips and on down over her legs—long, shapely legs—right down to her narrow ankles.

‘I love St Tropez.’ Liz was oblivious to their silent intimacy. ‘It’s such a beautiful place, full of so many…’

Patrick’s eyes met Emma’s suddenly, and the dark, dangerous desire she saw revealed in them made her want to run screaming from this sunlit deck.

‘Oh, look!’ Liz broke off her rhapsody of St Tropez. ‘Here come good old Toby and Charles!’

Emma dragged her hectic gaze from Patrick’s, breathing in shallow, inaudible little gasps as she struggled to come to terms with what she was feeling— and what he was so obviously feeling too. She told herself it couldn’t possibly be real. It must be some kind of mistake or accident. After all, nobody really felt physical attraction so powerfully. That was just something that happened in storybooks, films, romantic novels.

‘Evening all!’ called a jolly, boyish blond man in his mid-thirties. ‘Crack open the champers! I’ve arrived!’

‘Hi, Toby!’ Liz went to greet him with a kiss. ‘You’re looking awfully flushed! You must have caught the sun this afternoon!’

‘I always do. It’s the de Courcey skin. I think one of our ancestors must have been old Dracula himself.’

Emma was acutely aware of Patrick standing close to her, watching her with his heavy-lidded eyes. He was leaning against the rails, one strong hand close to the small of her back, and all she could think about was how close it was, and how very easily it could slide up on to her back, those long fingers moving lightly over her skin…

‘Toby, have you met my friend Emma Baccarat?’

‘No, but I can’t wait to do so! Look at that stunning figure!’

Emma smiled politely, shook his hand, aware of Patrick’s blue eyes on her, and of the long hand so close to her back.

‘What a cracker you are!’ Toby giggled. ‘Why didn’t anyone tell me the new arrival was so gorgeous?’

Everyone laughed.

‘And have you met our cousin Charles?’ Liz was gesturing to the tall, elegant blond man who was with Toby. ‘He’s married to Natasha.’

‘The Wicked Witch of the West,’ Toby said, giggling.

‘Don’t be horrible about my poor darling Natasha,’ said Charles.

Emma barely noticed either Toby or Charles. She was too busy noticing Patrick Kinsella, standing beside her, stunningly gorgeous, unbearably handsome, frighteningly real…

‘How do you do, Miss Baccarat?’ Charles de Courcey said with infinite charm, shaking her hand, his dark eyes gentle and sweet.

‘Very well, thank you.’ Emma shook his hand and wished Patrick would disappear. ‘And you?’

‘Oh, marvellous. Had a lovely day; looks like it’s going to be a super night…’

Patrick finished his drink, moved with cool male grace to the table, put his glass down. Emma didn’t look at him but she saw every move he made, every ripple of muscle beneath that impeccable black dinner-jacket, every turn of his dark head and every flicker of his blue, blue eyes.

‘Uh-oh!’ Toby giggled suddenly. ‘Here comes The Evil One.’

Natasha appeared on deck looking drop-deadly in a shimmering silver sheath which she must have been poured into, for it clung to her every slender curve. Her dark hair was pushed back in a sultry swath, her heavy eyelids were outlined in black and her lips dripped bloodred gloss.

‘Vampirella, I presume!’ Toby joked.

‘Do be quiet, Toby,’ Natasha said, slinking towards them. ‘Don’t give Charles a drink, Patrick—he’s been knocking back the sherry all afternoon, and I don’t want him to lose consciousness too soon. Why, Miss Baccarat! Weren’t you told to dress for dinner?’

Emma barely registered the insult—she was too busy forcing herself not to feel what she was feeling.

‘I think Emma looks absolutely superb,’ Patrick murmured coolly, watching her from beneath those heavy eyelids and making her heart skip rapid beats.

‘Well, you would, Patrick!’ Natasha said waspishly. ‘No doubt you’ve decided to take up the challenge. After all, if anyone can get Miss Baccarat to fall wildly in love, it’s you.’

Emma stiffened like a board, her hand clutching her glass so tightly, she thought it might shatter into a thousand pieces. Over my dead body! she told herself furiously. Over my dead body!

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ asked Toby.

‘Oh, we were having this conversation when they first arrived…’ said Natasha, but Emma wasn’t listeningshe was furiously remembering Patrick’s reputation as a lady-killer, playboy, seducer par excellence. She felt a fool, humiliated, aware now that Patrick Kinsella had probably elicited these responses in her through experience or cynical manipulation or some other technique which she had no defence against.

I knew they weren’t real feelings, she thought angrily, sipping her drink too fast. I knew feelings like these didn’t exist outside storybooks.

‘…and she said she didn’t believe in love or romance.’

Emma’s face was burning angry crimson. She didn’t know where to look or what to say. She wanted to die.

‘So I told her she must want someone to kiss from time to time…’

Patrick moved coolly, suddenly, and as his powerful body blocked the others from her view Emma looked up into his clever, serious eyes and felt breathless all over again because he clearly understood what was going on inside her mind. She swallowed hard, dragging her gaze from his. He hesitated for a second, then his long fingers touched her cheek, making her quite literally catch her breath and stare up at him again, horrified.

‘…and then Patrick asked her if she’d ever wanted to kiss anyone…’

Emma looked down suddenly at his mouth, then went scarlet, felt more vulnerable than she had ever felt in her life, and had no option other than to bend her dark head because there was nowhere else to hide.

Turning from Emma, Patrick cut into Natasha’s diatribe. ‘I think it’s time we all left for dinner.’

They all turned to look up at him, as though he were a god.

‘I booked the table for eight o’clock, and it’s nearly that now.’ He studied the black and silver Rolex on his wrist, the crisp white cuff shooting back to reveal a tanned, black-haired forearm. ‘As we have to sail at midnight, I think an early start is advisable.’

They left the yacht, a glamorous set of people bathed in gold evening light, walking along the expensive shopping streets while open-topped sports cars zoomed past and little red Lambretta scooters whizzed along carrying young people in jeans, their hair blowing back in the hot breeze.

Naturally, they fell into pairs as they walked. Charles and Toby. Natasha and Liz…

Patrick fell into step beside Emma. She felt her heart beating too fast. The warm sun was on her skin, the breeze in her hair, and all the lights of St Tropez seemed bright, hot, blazing with glamour.

‘Do you think you’ll enjoy the cruise?’

It was small talk, and Emma was grateful for that, answering, ‘Yes. Particularly Morocco. I’ve never been there.’

‘Rabat is very beautiful.’ His voice was deep, cool, very male. ‘It’s the capital, but it’s quite a way inland from Casablanca, which is where we’ll be stopping. I’ll hire a car, drive you into the city for——’

‘No, that’s quite all right!’ Emma tried hard not to sound as though she was afraid of spending an entire day alone with him, although she had a sneaking suspicion that she was. ‘Casablanca will be fine for me. I don’t need to see Rabat.’

He just looked at her coolly, analytically, from under those heavy eyelids, and her heart skipped so many beats she was surprised she didn’t have a cardiac arrest.

‘How much longer till we get to this restaurant?’ she demanded with a brittle laugh, and then blushed hotly, aware of his serious blue eyes burning through her pretence. ‘I’m really quite hungry!’

He looked at her in cool enquiry, and his eyes wanted to know why she was resorting to such artifice.

Feeling sick, she looked away from him.

‘Here we are!’ Natasha said suddenly, stopping at a vast restaurant surrounded by black iron grilles, plants and flowers and trees in the garden beneath the long blue and white canopy. ‘Well done, Patrick! You unerringly pick the most exclusive restaurants.’

He gave a cool, wry smile. ‘Just for you, Natasha,’ he said, and pushed open the gate of the private enclosure, watching Emma as she walked past him, making her very aware of his every look, his every flicker of thought.

The maître d’ swept up to them, bowed low. ‘Monsieur Kinsella! How wonderful to see you again! May I show you to your table…?’

Emma walked with the others across the terracotta paving. Women stared at Patrick in open admiration, men with jealous awe.

‘He looks like one of your heroes, doesn’t he?’ Natasha said to Liz. ‘Tall, dark and dangerous.’

Emma pretended not to hear. Dry-mouthed, she wandered aimlessly around while the others took their places. Patrick sat at the head of the table, leaning back coolly, his powerful eyes watching her trying to sit as far away from him as possible.

‘Oh, are you sitting up here with me?’ Toby said in surprise as she sat down beside him, in the furthest chair from Patrick. ‘I thought you were getting on famously with Patrick?’

‘Well, I just ended up walking with him, that’s all.’ She smiled, aware of Patrick’s laser-blue eyes burning on her, and deliberately did not look in his direction, smiling instead at Toby. ‘And now I’ve ended up sitting with you.’

‘Good-oh!’ Toby giggled amiably. ‘What shall we talk about? Oh—I know! Let’s talk about sex! That’s always a good dinner party conversation!’

‘Trust Toby to lower the moral tone,’ Natasha said contemptuously. ‘I say—is that Brigitte Bardot over there?’

Everybody looked to see if it was.

The waiter came up to take their order. Emma decided on sole meunière with salad because she had a feeling she was losing her appetite, and didn’t want everyone to notice—especially not Patrick.

‘I must remember to use this restaurant in one of my books,’ Liz said when the waiter had gone. ‘It’s a great place for the hero to take the heroine. They could have that corner table over there and argue passionately over their main course.’

‘Why do they always have to argue?’ Natasha asked.

‘Because,’ said Liz, ‘when two people fall in love they invariably fight tooth and claw to stop it happening.’

Emma slowly leaned her head to one side to look at Patrick while he wasn’t looking at her. She knew he couldn’t be looking at her, because she could hear him talking to Charles, but she was mistaken—he was looking straight at her, and as their eyes collided she felt so violently exposed that it was like being staked stark naked to her chair.

‘Usually, though,’ said Liz, sipping her wine, ‘the man recognises it first and acts on it.’

Emma dragged her gaze from Patrick’s and stared at the crystal glass in front of her.

‘But it’s all tied up with sexual attraction, you see, especially for him,’ Liz went on. ‘So he just keeps trying to get the heroine into bed, and, of course, she reacts like a scalded cat, because she thinks that’s all he wants.’

‘It usually is,’ said Natasha.

Patrick’s blue eyes flicked briefly, hotly, to Emma’s breasts.

‘And that’s why they argue so much,’ Liz said. ‘It’s the age-old difference between the sexes.’

‘Men want sex and women want love?’ Natasha laughed. ‘Stale news!’

‘So the minute the man pounces on the woman,’ said Liz, ‘all hell breaks loose because he can’t admit his feelings and she can’t let him make love to her until he does. Stalemate. Somebody has to give.’

Patrick Kinsella looked directly at Emma, his face hard, handsome, very cool, and as she met his eyes she felt devoid of all defence, completely convinced that he could see the bare vulnerability in her face, her skin, her hands, her shoulders, the very set of her body.

Pull yourself together! she thought furiously, and looked down at her knife and fork. Her hands shook as she blindly rearranged them.

‘Oh, look!’ said Natasha. ‘Miss Baccarat’s gone all shaky!’

Emma flicked angry green eyes up to her spiteful face. ‘I’m tired. I should have slept instead of going shopping.’

‘Not all this talk about passionate lovers, then?’ Natasha laughed. ‘You must be getting quite desperate now that you’re twenty-six, mustn’t you? Speaking of desperate—where the hell is my lobster? I’m starving.’

‘Desperate?’ said Toby with a laugh. ‘Who, this little beauty? She’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve seen in years. In fact I’m surprised Patrick hasn’t commented on her stunning looks. He’s usually the fastest gun in the West when it comes to seducing a pretty lady.’

Emma’s mouth tightened and she steeled herself not to look at Patrick.

‘But then he’s so discreet,’ said Toby, ‘that he’s probably planning to come to your cabin later tonight and relieve you of your négligé.’

Patrick’s dark lashes flickered and a faint smile touched his hard, sensual mouth. He shot a quick, lazy, burning look at Emma that told her Toby had hit the nail right on the head.

That was exactly what he had been planning to do.

Over my dead body, thought Emma furiously, glaring at him. Over my dead body!

CHAPTER THREE

THE ship sailed at midnight.

Emma stood on deck, leaning on the railings, her hair flickering gently in the breeze as the yacht motored out of harbour. The sky was black, pin-pricked by stars, and St Tropez looked beautiful as it got further away in the distance, that little cluster of bleached buildings still lit up in gold, villas dotted on the dark hills around, and lights winking up and down the night-time coast of the Gulf of St Tropez.

Patrick was standing coolly on the other side of the deck, talking to Liz in a deep, murmuring voice. Emma was aware of his every move although she did not look at him once.

‘We’ll be in Málaga tomorrow lunchtime,’ Toby said, drinking a glass of champagne. ‘It’s the perfect place for lazy tourists.’

‘To be honest,’ Emma replied, ‘Málaga doesn’t really interest me. I’d much rather go to Granada. I thought I could hire a car…’

‘Oh, don’t be boring!’ Toby laughed. ‘Spend the day in Málaga with me. Go on. We are both young, single and gorgeous!’

Emma laughed wryly, caught the turn of Patrick’s head, saw the narrowing of his tough blue eyes, and knew not only that he had overheard Toby’s gentle pass at her, but had not liked it.

‘Besides,’ said Toby, putting an arm around her slim shoulders, ‘we’re stuck together on this yacht for the next fortnight. We may as well make the most of it…’

Emma instinctively slithered out of Toby’s embrace. Years of practice made her appear to brush him away affectionately, a smile in her eyes and warmth in her body. The perfect rejection of an unwanted advance. And Patrick Kinsella noted it with cynical amusement from the other side of the deck.

‘Speaking of getting used to this cruise,’ Emma said lightly as she moved completely away from Toby, ‘I’m exhausted. All that travelling! Would anyone mind if I went straight down to bed?’

‘No, of course not, Emma!’ Toby tried to kiss her goodnight.

‘Night night!’ she said lightly, slithering artfully away from him and his kiss.

Patrick’s eyes glinted as he watched her across the deck, but he said nothing, and as everyone else chorused their goodnights to her she went downstairs to her cabin.

The motion of the ship was strange at first, making her clutch the banister on the stairs as they swayed faintly this way and that. The wood was creaking slightly, the throb of the engines was oddly comforting, and she certainly felt a lot better moving into the privacy of her cabin after an entire nerve-racking evening with Patrick Kinsella around.

Once inside her cabin, she undressed, pulled on her black silk pyjamas, took off her make-up and brushed out her long curly black hair.

It was warm, private, something of a sanctuary with such low lighting, and as she slid in between the soft, clean sheets she was already feeling sleepy. Plunging out the lights, she buried her head on the fat pillows and closed her eyes. What exactly was going on—if anything—with Patrick? This deep physical attraction, this overwhelming awareness—how on earth had it sprung up so unexpectedly between them?

The answer was fairly obvious, in truth—Patrick had manufactured it by working some peculiar kind of magic on her. He was very practised at seduction. She might be cynical and aware of the dangers, but that didn’t mean she was immune, especially to the charms of a clever womaniser.

Still vulnerable after all these years, she thought with a sigh, and closed her eyes, vowing just to ignore her inexplicable feelings for Patrick, regardless of how much magic he managed to work on her during this cruise.

The ship swayed this way and that. They were out of the gulf now, steaming across the Med towards the Spanish coast, and as they negotiated bigger waves the walls creaked more heavily, until the sound of the engines, the creaking of the walls and the gentle motion of the yacht became something of a lullaby, and she fell asleep.

Sleep, sleep, sleep…

She dreamed deeply.

She was in her parents’ house, and she was eighteen again. The doorbell rang. She ran to answer the door, ran outside, and found herself surrounded by a sunlit forest. When she turned around, the house had vanished. All that was left was her bed, in the middle of the sunlit forest clearing, and Patrick Kinsella was sitting on the bed, waiting for her, just watching her in silence.

Emma woke up with a stifled gasp.

The cabin was in pitch-darkness, the walls were creaking, and somebody was sitting on her bed.

She punched on the light with a cry of horror.

Patrick shielded his eyes; so did she.

‘What are you doing in here?’ she said hoarsely, clutching at the duvet, her heart pounding fifty million beats per minute.

‘God, that light’s bright!’ His voice was deep as he let his hand fall, eyes narrowed.

He still wore his black trousers, but the jacket had been discarded, and so had the tie. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the throat: she could see the black hairs on his chest and the powerful muscles below.

‘Just answer my question, Patrick!’ Emma said. ‘What are you doing here, alone in my bedroom with me——’ she glanced hectically at her watch ‘—at two o’clock in the morning?’

‘I couldn’t sleep.’

‘That’s not a good enough reason.’

‘I wanted to see you.’

Breathless, she looked away, muttering huskily, ‘That’s…not a good reason either.’ Now how had her voice come out sounding husky?

Patrick gave her a cool, charming smile. ‘Are you going to tell me you didn’t notice anything odd happening tonight between us?’

‘No.’ She felt her face burning red, her heart banging loudly. ‘Nothing at all.’

His smile mocked her. ‘So why did you avoid me all night?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Yes, you did.’

‘No, I didn’t.’

His hand caught her chin in a sudden angry vice-like grip with long fingers, forcing her to look at him, his blue eyes glittering. ‘I think you did, Emma!’

She stared up at him, her heart hammering insanely, and felt unable to think of a reply. Denying it wouldn’t help, and there was little chance of slithering successfully away from him in these circumstances—she was alone in bed and he was stronger than she was. Slithering was definitely out of the question.

‘No clever come-back?’ His dark brows arched with amusement.

‘Give me a minute,’ she muttered huskily. ‘I’ll think of one.’ She hated the way her voice kept going husky all of a sudden. She had had no idea that her voice contained that particular quality or tone. ‘Meanwhile I’d be grateful if you’d let go of me and get out of my cabin!’

‘And I’d be grateful if you’d tell me the truth.’

She couldn’t look at him. ‘What truth?’

‘The truth you’re avoiding with your eyes right now.’

She stared fixedly at a point just above the open neck of his white shirt, refusing to meet his eyes, aware that if she did he would bend his dark head and kiss the living daylights out of her.

‘What a little coward you are!’ Patrick murmured tauntingly. ‘So much for Emma Baccarat, the soul of integrity, the woman who can tell the difference between romance and sexual attraction!’

‘I can tell the difference! That’s why I want you to get off my bed and out of my cabin immediately!’

‘Because you’re scared of the attraction between us?’

‘That’s right!’

‘But I thought you said nothing was happening between us?’

She caught her breath, staring directly into his eyes and feeling pinned down through the centre of the heart by the hard black pupils surrounded by all that steely, stunning blue.

‘I think you should leave,’ she said huskily.

‘I don’t want to leave. I want to kiss you.’

Her heart raced like mad. ‘Oh, God…’

‘That’s what I was thinking, all night, every time I looked at you.’

‘Don’t——’

‘Or didn’t you notice I couldn’t take my eyes off you?’

‘I’ve had enough of this!’ She tried to push him away and get out of the bed, but he stopped her, staring down at her, and for a second she was motionless.

Then he suddenly lowered his dark head.

She caught her breath, struggled wildly, but he was insistent, and even though he was a giant, bigger and stronger than she was, he was surprisingly gentle as he forced her, completely against her will, to accept his kiss.

The cabin was punctuated with sounds of their tussle: the sheets rustling, the light thud against the wall, the gasps from her mouth as she tried to evade him.

Then suddenly, as though a switch had been thrown, she felt a rush of desire so powerful that she moaned, let her lips part just for a second, felt his tongue slip through to meet hers, and a second later she was kissing him back with an answering passion that appalled her as much as it excited her.

His prey surrendering briefly, Patrick moved like lightning. He pushed her back on to the pillows, almost clumsy in his haste. They fell together awkwardly, and she tried to sit up again, murmuring, ‘No,’ against his hot mouth, but he was quick, very quick, his lips opening hers beneath him as one strong hand tunnelled into the wealth of her dark hair, making her helpless as her arms wrapped themselves around his neck and the kiss took fire.

Her head spun dizzily. She could barely breathe. Her excitement was so violent, so unprecedented and so out of the blue that all she could do was kiss, be kissed, lose herself in his mouth, his arms, his touch, his scent…

‘Yes…!’ Patrick said thickly, and fumbled with one hand to punch out the light. Darkness fell between them and, as it did, so Emma’s fear slipped away under a tidal wave of unprecedented hunger, making it easy, so easy to drown in his kiss, the touch of his hands, the completely natural feel of it all…

Her mouth drank thirstily from his. She felt as though they had entered a completely different dimension. It was as though a door had opened between them when they’d talked together earlier today, and that Patrick had just walked through it to claim her forever.

Forever lay in this kiss. Forever…

This is insane, she thought wildly. Why am I thinking such crazy, romantic, stupid, stupid thoughts?

She started to fight, aware even as she pushed at his powerful chest that she loved the feel of it, wanted to undress him, be naked with him, make absolute love with him and lose herself in his body.

‘Don’t, don’t, don’t…!’ her swollen mouth muttered against his, and he stopped, raising his head an inch from hers, dragging air into his lungs. ‘Please!’

His face was flushed in the darkness. ‘Are you all right?’

‘No, I’m not all right!’ Her voice shook. ‘I don’t like this at all and I want it to stop happening!’

‘I don’t think it’s going to, but I certainly agree we should talk before we go any further.’

‘What do you mean, go any further? You don’t seriously think this is going to lead to sex, do you? You do! I can see it in your eyes! My God, get off this bed before I——’

‘I think we need to talk—that’s all.’

‘Not like this, not on my bed, not in the dark!’

He breathed harshly for a moment in silence, then slowly reached out one hand to punch the light back on. It flooded the cabin, blinding them both once more.

For a second, Emma just lay there staring up at his hard, handsome face, seeing the dark colour on his cheekbones, the fierce heat of his blue eyes, the tousled black hair where her own fingers had run so passionately through it.

Then she pushed back the duvet and tried to get out of bed.

He stopped her at once, his hands gripping her slim shoulders.

‘Take your hands off me!’ she whispered fiercely, and he didn’t move for a second, but he saw the fierce glare of her eyes, glittering like savage emeralds in her flushed face. His dark lashes flickered. He released her, lowered his gaze, and she scrambled off the bed in a breathless movement, black silk pyjamas rippling on her slender body.

Putting a hand to her forehead, she moved to the windows, breathing in shallow, inaudible gasps. She pulled the curtain back a little, staring out at the dark, moonlit sea as they sailed on through the night.

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