Tamed By Her Husband

Elizabeth Power

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

COMING NEXT MONTH

CHAPTER ONE

HE COULD feel the tension in the air. The thick heat of the late afternoon was oppressive and, even in his lightweight suit, Kane Falconer felt decidedly uncomfortable.

Normally, Barcelona was a place in which he liked to linger, but now, striding through the tree-lined, pedestrian thoroughfare, past the stalls with their souvenirs and bright floral displays and the open-air cafés, he was glad his business was over.

The student protest march in which he had very little interest, had brought the city to a standstill. In the surrounding streets, horns blared, throttles revved, with the lurid Spanish phrases being hurled from dusty cabs adding to the noise pollution. A squawking from one of the stalls grazed his already raw nerves, drawing his reluctant gaze to some brightly feathered creatures, caged, ready for sale, their fluttering wings ineffectual in the cramped confines of their environment.

Kane looked away in disgust and longed for his own space. At least he could walk away. He wasn’t trapped here in this noise and heat and dust, he thought gratefully, already sensing mounting vibes of unease. He cast a glance towards the bright blooms of a basket decorating one of the stalls, his gaze falling on the girl who was standing on tiptoe, head thrown back as she inhaled one of the hanging blossoms.

The pale cascade of her hair moved like honey against her arched back, the striking length of that oh, so elegant neck bringing him up short with a swift, sharp stab of recognition.

Shannon Bouvier! Of all the places in all the towns in all the world, he hadn’t expected to find her here.

When he had enquired at the address he had been given for her in Milan over six months ago, he had been told by a rather surly landlord that she had left to move in with her boyfriend—that the two of them had gone abroad—but no one could tell him where.

Shannon Bouvier. Society girl. Rich bitch—as those less kindly disposed were apt to call her. Heiress to a national development company she neither wanted nor cared about.

She was thinner, he noted from an assessing glance over her clinging red crop-top and low-slung, rather shabby combat trousers—much thinner than when he had seen her last. Her features were almost gaunt compared with those of the blooming teenager who had kept her dignity—if not her reputation—under the claws of the mauling British Press—but it was definitely her.

His jaw was set in a determined cast, his body tense from an awareness he didn’t want to acknowledge as he steeled himself to close the distance between them.

Shannon took the pale orchid the elderly stall-keeper handed her—a gesture the Spanish woman had taken to making often when the ‘fragile-looking señorita’, as she called her, passed her stall.

Now the woman shrugged, her arms thrown wide at all the shouting and horn-blowing induced by the marchers. It was supposed to be a peaceful demonstration, but some dissidents had threatened to disrupt it, Shannon remembered uneasily, flicking a glance over her shoulder towards the advancing students. She gasped at the sight of the man blocking her view.

‘Hello, Shannon.’

Something leapt inside her, that familiar excitement she had always felt in his presence coupled with something else which instantly put her on her guard. He was the last person she had expected to see. Yet here he was, as large as life.

No, larger than life, she thought hectically, as his dark and dominating presence seemed to put everything else out of focus so that he became the only noticeable person in Las Ramblas, and the demonstration gaining momentum down the surging thoroughfare was like the backdrop to a movie. Unreal. Only secondary to what was going on between the two of them.

‘Kane!’ If she had wanted to appear unfazed, then that shocked little utterance would have denied her even that simple pleasure. Too long, it seemed, her eyes rested on his hardboned face, reacquainting her with every well-remembered feature; the thick, expertly cut brown hair, the high forehead and firmly-set square jaw; that distinctive and tantalising cleft in his chin. ‘What are you doing here?’

From the pale tailored suit that accentuated the hard fitness of his body, he was obviously there on business, although he was tie-less and his fine white shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, offering a glimpse of tanned flesh beneath the corded strength of his throat.

‘I was about to ask you the same thing.’ Above the blaring horns and angry voices his tone was soft and deep—relaxed. He didn’t seem tense or agitated as she was, left wondering what to say. ‘I thought you’d gone much farther afield.’ Assessingly, his eyes seemed to scour the delicate lines of her face, touched briefly on the equally delicate perfection of the orchid she was holding. ‘Someone told me you were in Rio.’

Had they? Mentally, Shannon dragged herself from the mesmerising effects of those blue-grey eyes. Had he been discussing her? Or had it been just a casual comment on someone else’s part? A careless reference to the girl who wrecked lives, who had made the headlines for a few days nearly three years ago, providing sustenance for a scandal-loving public?

‘Well…as you can see…’ she gave a careless laugh—threw out her arms ‘…I’m not.’ Then wished she hadn’t when the action drew the man’s attention to the swell of her small breasts beneath the scarlet crop-top with its logo emblazoned across it: Emancipation for Bulls.

His mouth—a cruel mouth, she had always thought—firmed, and those steely eyes looked, as they had often looked—as though they were mocking her. Except that they hadn’t the last time. ‘Still fighting the cause of the underdog, Shannon?’

She didn’t even glance down. ‘Someone has to.’

His mouth moved again, a twist of lips that was somewhere between a grimace and a smile. ‘I veer towards the view that if you’re a guest in someone else’s country, you respect their customs.’

With a dignity she hoped she was managing to hang on to, she lifted her chin and said quietly, ‘You’re entitled to your view.’

His head dipped briefly, leaving her feeling like someone who had just won a round merely because their opponent had let them. ‘So what are you doing here in Spain?’

She glanced across at a young couple browsing through the handcrafted jewellery on one of the adjacent stalls. What was she doing here?

About to tell him, she thought better of it and, with a small shrug, uttered, ‘Killing time.’ Well, it was the truth—of sorts.

The amusement went out of the hard masculine face and his mouth took on a decidedly grim line. ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’

Shannon tensed, catching the disapproval in those dangerously soft tones. But then, he had always disapproved. Just like everyone else with his preconceived ideas about her. And no more so than that last time, when he had called her an attention-seeking little socialite. Surprisingly, the memory still hurt.

‘I mean it’s as good a place as any to do nothing.’ To get over things. Recharge one’s batteries, she thought. To get well.

‘Is that what you’re doing?’ He slipped a hand into his trouser pocket, stretching the fabric across hips that were lean and hard. ‘Nothing?’ The disdain on his lips assured her he wasn’t too impressed with her answer.

She shrugged again, a careless gesture saying nothing—expressing everything. Everything he would expect from her, she thought bitterly.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the woman behind the flower stall studying them both, weighing them up, obviously considering them an item. The tall, dynamic-looking man and the equally tall blonde girl. She wondered if everyone considered them a couple; wondered if they could sense that underlying current of electricity that charged the air between them, a sexually charged awareness that had always been there—albeit unacknowledged by either of them—even before Kane had stormed out of her father’s office for good, refusing, unlike the other members of the board, to bend to Ranulph Bouvier’s will.

‘Where are you staying?’ Even as he asked it, Kane felt the tension building inside him, a tension every bit as keen as that that he sensed boiling around them.

The district she named was impressive, but he wouldn’t have expected anything less.

‘On holiday?’

Almost imperceptibly she appeared to hesitate before shaking her head.

‘Are you here alone?’ As his eyes roved over that gaunt, yet strikingly beautiful face, she seemed to be making her own silent assessment of his motives for asking.

‘Yes.’

So the boyfriend hadn’t lasted. ‘Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?’

‘I don’t know. Why doesn’t it?’

God! She was confident! What was she now? he wondered. Twenty-one? But then, even as a gangling adolescent she had had more poise than some women twice her age. He was surprised to realise how vividly he could remember that.

‘You have an apartment here?’

‘A house,’ she corrected. ‘It belongs to a friend of mine.’

‘I see.’

‘No, you don’t,’ she returned, hating his derogatory tone.

No, he didn’t, he thought, wondering why she was so shabbily dressed, wondering what had happened to her. But he didn’t want to pursue the point—didn’t want to discover, to his own unexpected annoyance, that there was a boyfriend after all.

‘So what happens when you’ve grown tired of doing nothing in Barcelona?’ His words were scathing. ‘Or isn’t that very likely?’

‘It’s likely.’ In contrast her tone was light, deliberately careless.

‘When?’ he asked roughly. ‘When something—or someone—more exciting comes along?’

Beneath the soft fabric of her top, Shannon’s chest lifted with the effort of stopping herself from throwing some caustic response right back at that arrogant, handsome face. She could feel the latent anger beneath that cool, imperturbable exterior, which she could see no reason for. She had been a fool and she had paid for it. But that was all in the past, so why did he seem hell-bent on constantly reminding her of it?

Now, in answer to his remark about something exciting coming along, she murmured, ‘It usually does,’ refusing to let him see through the invisible barrier she had erected around herself, to see the real Shannon Bouvier.

‘And have you never given any thought to the fact that your father might be wondering where his only daughter has got to?’ Through the seething noise around them his question came hard and disparaging. ‘Just once considered giving some thought to going home?’

Pain vied with the anger his judgemental tone gave rise to, a keen, cutting emotion she fought to suppress. Because, of course, she dreamed of nothing else. But Ranulph Bouvier had made it all too clear after that scandal she’d been involved in what he expected of his only daughter—and it wasn’t a life she wanted. She had more self-esteem leading the life she had been leading for the past two and a half years—of which people like Kane Falconer knew absolutely nothing—than she had under the weight of her father’s controlling millions.

‘No, Kane. I haven’t. And I don’t really think it’s any concern of yours, do you?’

‘With not a word about how he is? How things are back in England?’

A swift surge of anxiety darkened the bright blue of Shannon’s eyes. At first she had kept tabs on how things were at home, reading papers, pumping for information anyone who might be remotely connected with the company, with her father. But that was some time ago now, and for the past few months she hadn’t exactly been in a position to go chasing information…

Tentatively, she asked, ‘Have you been in touch with him?’ If he had, then it would surprise her. From the way he had thrown up his job and the company, there had been no love lost between him and Ranulph Bouvier—no going back.

‘Forget it,’ he rasped. ‘As you said, what you do is none of my business.’ He slipped his other hand in his pocket, glancing over his shoulder at the pedestrian-packed thoroughfare, his jaw set like the hard, grim face of a rock.

He had wanted to say more. He could feel the words choking him as the traffic was choking the streets, because the marchers were at the top of La Rambla now. He could hear them chanting, people shouting, fuelling the aggravation produced by the demonstrators, and he had to raise his own voice to make himself heard.

‘What is this all in aid of?’ It was a rhetorical question. He had already asked it of the MD at the meeting earlier, a satisfactory conclusion of negotiations that had secured him the development of further luxury apartments along the Côted’ Azur.

‘They want fairness. Understanding,’ she answered quietly.

Was she appealing to him for those things? he wondered. Was that why she was looking at him as if he was some inexorable tyrant, because she thought he was treating her unfairly? Failing to understand her? The combination of her husky voice with her fair and fragile loveliness was touching the most elemental core of his masculinity, stirring him to the angry realisation that he was no less affected by her than every other man she must have known. Oh, he understood all right! Understood that Ranulph Bouvier was killing himself over the loss of his only child, while his self-centred, pleasure-seeking daughter was jet-setting round the world, enjoying herself, looking—as she had just admitted herself—solely for excitement. And yet when he had mentioned her going home, he could almost imagine he had seen pain beneath the rebellion in those baby-blue eyes…

‘Perhaps they’re going the wrong way about it,’ he declared loudly over the din. ‘They’re hardly likely to engender sympathy by stopping tired people getting home from work.’

Patches of colour suffused the pale yet flawless skin across her cheekbones. ‘Nor will they if they lie down and put up with everything the establishment dishes out!’

As she had refused to do? The thought rose unbidden in his mind, because, however she had behaved, there was no doubt that Ranulph Bouvier had ruled her with a will of iron, as he did everyone under him—his household staff, his work colleagues, his management. And, looking at the slender girl who stirred him in ways he was ashamed to admit to, and whose rebellious nature seemed too strong for her worryingly fragile appearance, he couldn’t help but understand how smothered she must have felt by it.

‘I’m surprised you aren’t there—’ Kane’s chin jerked upwards ‘—leading the procession.’

‘I might have been, only I had—’ Her attention was distracted by something farther along the street.

Kane followed her gaze to where a group of young men were shouting and pushing one another outside one of the cafés.

‘Only you had what?’ he prompted, and then, unable to hold back the derision, ‘Something more exciting to do?’

For a few seconds those blue eyes of hers seemed to darken—impale him. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ she returned with a defiant toss of her head, her smile artificially sweet. ‘I was—’

Something shot past them at shoulder level; an empty cola can, falling onto the ground behind her with a hollow clatter. It sent flares of danger shooting through Kane’s blood.

‘I think it’s time we got out of here,’ he urged.

Surprisingly, though, she shrugged away the hand clutching her elbow. ‘I don’t think I need—’ she started to say, but her sentence was punctuated by a small cry as a piece of jagged wood glanced across her forehead. ‘Ohh!’

As she crumpled, Kane’s arm shot out around her bare middle. He couldn’t contain the vehement little oath as he caught her, holding her upright. She felt as light as a sparrow against his own strength. ‘Are you all right?’

For a few split seconds everything looked as squidgy as the liquid in a plastic water bottle.

‘Shannon!’ Kane’s worried command fell hazily across her semi-dazed senses, like a shaft of light through a long, dark tunnel. She nodded and heard his heavily drawn sigh of relief.

‘Now will you listen to me?’ He sounded angry again, which was much more in keeping.

‘Why are you angry? You’re always angry with me.’ The words escaped her as if she had had too much to drink. Perhaps, she thought, this was what they meant by punch-drunk.

‘Shut up and walk. You can walk, can’t you?’

‘Of course I can walk,’ she asserted as her spirits returned. What she didn’t think she could do, though, was put up with the sensuous warmth of that soft-sleeved arm around her bare middle. It made her want to lean against him, let him take control, wallow in the comfort and protection he offered as the only link with home. ‘I’m fine,’ she breathed in protest, striving mentally and physically to liberate herself. Physically was easier.

‘Come on, then,’ he insisted, soundly oddly hoarse as he took her elbow again and, grabbing the grubby canvas shoulder bag she had dropped as she’d staggered, propelled her in front of him, away from the imminent danger zone.

‘My orchid!’

She glanced back, saw it lying there, crushed and broken on the pavement.

‘Leave it!’ he ordered, and she felt the unexpected rush of foolish tears prick her eyes as he hustled her away.

At the end of the pedestrian thoroughfare, he was bundling her into a taxi.

‘Why are we going to the marina?’ she asked when he climbed in beside her, having heard him giving the driver their destination.

‘Because I came in on the boat.’ The car door slammed ominously shut behind him. ‘You can rest aboard until all this chaos dies down.’

‘The boat?’ A pulse in Shannon’s temples began to throb. What boat?

Seeing her frown, he smiled. ‘A mixture of business and pleasure,’ he told her as the taxi began nosing its way through the clogged street towards the harbour. ‘Fortunately most of the business has been taken care of, for today at least.’

She didn’t think she could handle this—being marooned with Kane Falconer in something so confining as a boat. Not that she was worried he would treat her with anything but his usual cool courtesy. It was just the unsettling intimacy that the whole thing implied.

‘I really think I should try and get home,’ she stressed, glancing anxiously back over her shoulder.

‘And just how do you propose to do that? On the bus? Or are you hoping for a cab with wings to get you back through town?’

He’d obviously assumed—and correctly—that she didn’t have her own transport. Her Porsche, like most of her possessions, had been left behind when she had fled England and the life she had been unable to face any more.

He had a point though, she thought, looking back again at the city’s gridlocked traffic. The scene behind them had turned frightening and, back beyond the waterfront, not a vehicle was moving, every bus, coach and taxi stuck with private and commercial vehicles in one impossible jam.

‘I can walk,’ she said.

‘With that bang on the head?’ Incredulity laced his words. ‘You feel up to that, do you?’

She wished she could say she did, but the truth was, she didn’t.

‘Why the rush?’ he asked a little more gently when she didn’t respond. ‘Do you have some hungry pet waiting at home?’

‘No.’

He laughed softly, sensing her lingering reluctance. ‘Don’t worry,’ he advised. ‘If you’ve got a date tonight, I’m sure we can get you back there before he thinks you’ve stood him up.’

‘Thanks,’ she snapped, averting her head so that the hot June sun shining through the open window played across the bright gold of her hair, accentuating the tense beauty of her profile.

‘Have you?’ he prompted suddenly.

‘Have I what?’

‘Got a date?’

Whatever his motive for asking, she was sure it wasn’t for any magnanimous reason like helping her to keep it, and quietly she responded, ‘I don’t see that that’s anything to do with you.’

They were crossing the bridge, the imposing monument of Columbus that dominated the skyline catching his attention for a moment.

‘You’re right, it isn’t,’ he said.

‘Why did you ask, then?’ she challenged and, wanting to throw him off balance, tagged on, ‘Or was that an overture to asking me out yourself?’

He laughed then, a harsh, cynical sound that assured her of what he thought of that idea. He didn’t have to say anything. After all, he had had ample opportunity to ask her in the past, and he never had.

Suddenly, feeling ridiculously desperate for his approval, she murmured, ‘Believe it or not, Kane, even I stay at home sometimes to wash my hair.’

‘Meaning?’

‘I wasn’t doing anything in particular.’

The look he shot her was one of pure scepticism, which just showed her how pointless it was, she thought, even trying to change his mind about her.

‘Must be tough,’ he observed, his mouth turning mocking, ‘doing nothing all day and then having nothing to do all night.’ His eyes were more serious now, uncomfortably assessing. ‘I would have credited you with more intelligence than to drift around the world—as you admitted in your own words—“killing time”.’

Would he? She looked at him quickly. Did he consider her intelligent? Worth something? That her life had some value? Something warming and utterly reckless stole along her veins.

‘Who says I’m drifting round the world?’

‘Aren’t you?’ he said grimly. And before she could answer, ‘Life isn’t all one whopping big party, Shannon. I’d hoped you would have learnt that by now.’

She glanced out of the window, biting her tongue to stop herself hurling back just how big a party life had been for her. A little way ahead, rows of countless masts pointed skywards from the bobbing dinghies in the marina; small sailing craft, moored alongside the gleaming hulls of more powerful motor vessels.

‘Isn’t it?’ Hair stirring in the wind, she brought her attention back to him again. ‘Maybe not for you, Kane, but, as we both know, I’m one of the privileged few. I’ve never been required to work. Daddy foots the bill for my every need through direct debit once a month—and I sleep late most days so I can get my kicks out of enjoying myself every night!’

Something in her outburst made him gravitate towards her, broad shoulders turning, mouth firming in disdain. He was altogether too big, too dominant and too disturbingly sexy, she thought with a tightness in her throat, noticing the way the soft fabric of his trousers pulled across his thighs as he breathed in a voice low enough so that their driver wouldn’t hear, ‘And am I supposed to be impressed by that?’

It was no good, she realised, despairing at the condemnation that glittered beneath those thick, dark lashes. Because, of course, she hadn’t been trying to impress him, nor was any of it true. But the fact that he was so ready to believe the worst about her only fuelled her determination to let him.

‘Go to hell,’ she murmured, turning away.

In the marina, with Kane having paid off the taxi, Shannon shrugged aside the assistance he offered, making her own way beside him along the quay.

‘Which is yours?’ she quizzed sarcastically, glancing at some rustic-looking fishing tubs that made up the line of moored vessels, along with small masted craft and compact cabin cruisers, built for speed but with very little comfort.

She was lagging behind him, finding it increasingly difficult to match his stride.

He stopped beside one of the small cruisers, cutting an impressive figure against the sleek, gleaming lines of an oceangoing motor yacht that caught Shannon’s attention just ahead of them, waiting for her to catch up.

Now, that would suit you more, Kane, she fantasised, dragging her weary eyes from what had to be over fifty feet of sporty-looking, unadulterated opulence. That’s more your style. Fast. Powerful. Expensive.

‘Are you all right?’

She had suddenly become the subject of his hard assessment and knew, as she drew level with him, that those shrewd eyes had seen the dampness that beaded her forehead, the way her chest was lifting a little too rapidly, making her breathing shallow.

‘I’m fine.’ She wasn’t, though. She was feeling exhausted.

‘Is it the bang on the head?’

‘No, I’m OK,’ she uttered, moving past him so as not to draw attention to herself. Just not as well yet as she had thought.

‘Like hell!’ he muttered, moving to catch her, lift her, and then, as if she were weightless, to step with her onto the gleaming yacht.

CHAPTER TWO

‘YOU didn’t have to carry me on,’ she breathed, when he had made short work of the teak-laid steps to the covered aft deck and set her down in front of the yacht’s sloping glass patio doors. ‘I was perfectly capable of managing on my own.’

‘Were you?’ At the press of a button, the doors glided open on to an interior of pure luxury, cream leather settees contrasting with polished maple, soft carpeting complementing a ceiling panelled in suede. ‘For one thing,’ Kane said, ushering her down the few steps that gave the low-level saloon complete privacy from the quayside, ‘you’ve been dazed. For another you looked on the verge of collapse. You’re pale. You’re dark under the eyes. On top of which, you’re far too thin. In fact, you look an absolute wreck!’

‘Thanks,’ Shannon sent back over her shoulder with a rather pained grimace. ‘Remind me to return the compliment sometime.’

He guided her up more carpeted steps into what comprised a beautifully appointed dinette and galley.

Back in the city, sirens wailed—police vehicles racing to control the disturbance.

‘Sit down,’ Kane commanded softly.

As much as she resented taking orders from him, in this instance Shannon was grateful to sink down onto the soft cream upholstery of the semicircular settee, rest her arms on the gleaming oval table around which it curved.

‘I’m serious, Shannon. You look dreadful,’ he reiterated, dumping her bag down on the table. ‘What have you been doing for the past—what is it? Two, two and a half years?’ Censure burned in the eyes that raked disapprovingly over her. ‘Playing too hard, as usual?’

Broodingly she watched him move around the marble-topped counter in the galley—as well-equipped as any modern kitchen—and fish for something in a cupboard before turning on one of the sparkling chrome taps over the sink.

‘If you know, why ask?’ she challenged, humouring him, because, after all, he knew it all, didn’t he? ‘I think it’s called “burning the candle at both ends”, but then you never do that, do you, Kane? Or are you just so big and strong that you can deflect all that hard living?’ An involuntary glance over those broad shoulders and unquestionably fit physique made her blood race, increasing the ache at her temples as he strode back to her.

‘Let’s take a look at that,’ he said, without answering her.

Disconcertingly, he caught her chin, his touch surprisingly gentle as he inspected the injury she had sustained to her forehead.

‘The skin’s not broken, but I don’t think you’ll escape without some bruising.’ Deftly he applied a cold compress to the wound with the moistened lint he had taken from the cupboard, causing Shannon to suck in her breath.

‘Does it hurt?’

‘No,’ she lied, not wanting him to think her feeble. But it wasn’t only that. It was being this close to him, with the disturbing intimacy of his action that was making her pulse throb so hard that she wondered if he could hear it, so that, not trusting herself to look anywhere else, she kept her gaze fixed on the fine transparency of his shirt through his open jacket and the suggestion of dark body hair beneath it that spanned the hard contours of his chest.

‘Do you actually own this thing?’ she asked tightly, trying not to let him see how his tangible warmth and the subtlety of his cologne were affecting her as he gently bathed her wound. If he did own it, then he must have done very well for himself, she thought, since leaving Bouvier’s.

‘Would I be more of an interesting proposition for you if I said I did?’

Heat trickled through her and she felt her throat close over, even though his mocking tone assured her he was only toying with her. What respect did he have for her, after all? she reminded herself poignantly. Hadn’t he condemned her along with all the rest?

‘I wouldn’t be tempted by you, Kane, if you had twenty yachts,’ she returned with feigned sweetness, her artificial smile concealing pain—a deep, long-buried yearning. Her heart was beating too hard; much too fast. ‘Anyway, don’t you have a wife stowed away somewhere in one of those cabins?’ A little jerk of her head indicated the steps she could see dipping down beside the helm, obviously leading to the vessel’s sleeping quarters, while she racked her brain to remember whether he’d been seriously involved with anyone before.

‘No wife,’ he answered succinctly.

Relief was sweet and almost weakening. ‘Why not?’ she pressed and, trying to offset the feeling, ‘You aren’t getting any younger, you know.’ What was he now? she asked herself. Thirty-three? Thirty-four?

‘Keep still,’ he commanded, without rising to her bait, so that suddenly she felt childish for making such a ridiculous statement. She’d always thought his maturity one of the most exciting things about him, and that hard sophistication had only increased with the years.

Plunged back into an enforced silence, she swallowed to ease the dryness in her throat, her eyes straying over his tight, lean waist and beyond.

Oh, heavens! she thought, deciding she would have more control over her reactions if she didn’t have to look at him. She closed her eyes, then realised that his scent was even more acute, and that now she was even aware of his breathing. It was quite rapid, really—hard and shallow—as though carrying her hadn’t been quite as effortless as she had thought.

‘Here. You hold this.’ His tone—his whole manner—as he surrendered the cold compress and moved away from her was surprisingly abrupt.

Kane was glad that he could busy himself with cups and saucers and filling a kettle. Touching Shannon Bouvier wasn’t something that he—or any man, he was certain—could do imperviously. She affected him in ways he didn’t want to be affected—in the profound and purely sensual way she had always affected him, he thought, if he was honest with himself—and silently he rebuked himself for the stirring he felt in his body. He’d be glad when the demonstration in town had broken up and he could take her home, he told himself, slamming a cupboard door, then wondering, as he spooned tea into a pot, why he felt an underlying reluctance to see her go. She didn’t look well, and yet even her fragility lent itself to that mind-blowing sexuality of hers; did things to him that he knew weren’t just the keen sense of the strong male to protect the weaker female, but stemmed from a less magnanimous, more primal desire to make this disastrously beautiful girl his. Because to lose oneself in a fatal submission to her lovely womanhood would be disastrous—and she was certainly a woman now, he recognised, that deceptively innocent look she had once had gone with the smouldering intensity of her full-blown sensuality. But for all that, she wasn’t well. Anyone could see that, and he was concerned about her being in a strange country on her own. If she was on her own.

Damn it! Why did he have to get involved? he asked himself, gritting his teeth as he switched off the kettle and poured boiling water onto the fine-leaf tea. It wasn’t as if he owed anything to Ranulph Bouvier, and even less to his pampered, self-indulgent daughter.

She wasn’t his responsibility, he assured himself. He could just put her in a cab and let that take her back. She was over eighteen. She had chosen her life and it wasn’t anything to do with him if she wanted to ruin it. So why did he feel this ridiculous and misplaced need to protect her?

‘Does this thing have a bathroom?’

‘Yes, it’s…’ Turning round as she was getting to her feet, he broke off, noticing how shaky, how drained she looked. Spaced out was the phrase that flew to his mind.

‘Are you all right?’ Coming around the counter, he could see the perspiration now dampening her forehead.

‘Yes, I’m fine.’ Her words, though, were slurred with fatigue. Or something else, he thought, feeling a sick fear suddenly grip him.

The way she looked. The gaunt features… Why hadn’t he considered the possibility?

‘Oh, no, you don’t!’ His hand clamped down on the scruffy canvas bag that, upon realising his intention, she had suddenly been making a grab for. He wouldn’t put anything past this girl.

His fingers bit into the delicate bones of her wrists as he grasped them both, turning them over, subjecting each arm to his hard, critical inspection.

‘What are you looking for?’ Shocked anger sparked in her eyes before she tugged forcibly away from him. ‘Signs of self-abuse?’

Without conscious thought, he was shaking out the contents of the bag onto the polished surface of the table.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she challenged, looking aghast.

He felt her heated indignation beating against him as he rifled through her things, and he hated himself for his actions, but he felt compelled to do it. For her sake. For her father’s. For his…

Lipstick. Comb. Purse. Various papers. Bottle of tablets?

He picked it up to study the label, but swiftly she snatched the bottle away from him.

‘An intestinal problem. All right? That’s why I’m here and not Peru!’

His eyes narrowed questioningly. This girl sure got around. ‘Peru?’

She shrugged. ‘Rio. Peru. What does it matter to you? You’re not interested in where I’ve been or what I might be doing. You’re just worried about what I might be bringing onto your precious boat!’

That wasn’t strictly true—in fact, not at all true—but he couldn’t tell her that.

‘So I was wrong.’ He began dropping her belongings back into the bag, but she snatched that from him too.

‘I suppose that’s less of a climb-down than saying you’re sorry!’ Angry colour gave some glow to her cheeks as she began scooping up her possessions. ‘I might not amount to much in your—or a lot of other people’s—eyes, and basically I don’t give a fig! But I do draw the line at—’ her words were punctuated by short, angry breaths ‘—drugs, other people’s husbands, and anything that puts me out of control! And I do happen to value my own body!’

As if that was a cue for them to do so, Kane’s eyes slid, of their own volition, over her slender frame, coming to rest with a wave of heated awareness on the smooth flesh of her naked midriff, that small waist that most women would die for, that enviably flat stomach with its tantalising navel, the creamy camber of her hips. He wanted to coil his arm around her, draw her close as he had done when she had been struck back there on the Ramblas, only not to protect her this time, he realised shamefully, but to feel her warmth, the silky softness of her skin beneath his hands…

Blast her! He was thinking just like some smitten youth. He put a chastening clamp on his thoughts, picking up the small red document still lying on the table and handing it to her.

‘Do you always carry your passport around with you?’ That, too, was whisked from his hand to disappear with the rest of her things into the canvas holdall. ‘I was burgled twice when I was…’ She paused, looking at him as though weighing up what she was about to say. ‘Anyway, ever since, I’ve kept it with me. Anyone who wants it will have to get past me first,’ she told him determinedly, adding as a very pointed afterthought, ‘and that includes you!’

Kane studied her with a dubious lift of an eyebrow. ‘I’m sure you’re strong enough to fend off anyone,’ he commented wryly.

Her smile would have dazzled any man, but he wasn’t fooled. She wasn’t at all impressed by his remark.

‘I don’t think it would be a bad idea for you to lie down for a while,’ he advised, bringing her below into the luxuriously appointed berth of the forward cabin with its pale lacquered furniture and queen-size bed. ‘You look as though a bit of extra rest wouldn’t do you any harm. And the shower…’ He indicated the glass door leading off the bedroom. ‘When you’ve freshened up, I’ll bring you some tea.’

‘Thanks.’

She looked like a waif, he thought, standing there in her shabby combats and little red top with that ridiculous slogan printed across it. Not like the heiress to a multimillion-pound concern whose difficulties she could have no concept of, and in which she certainly had no interest beyond the lifestyle it provided her with, he reminded himself with his jaw tightening. She might have been just some ordinary girl he had plucked off the street, if he hadn’t known better—felt the deadly appeal in that dangerous vulnerability of hers that called to everything that was masculine in him…

‘You said you drew the line.’

‘What?’ She pivoted round, startled. Obviously she thought he had already left.

‘At other people’s husbands,’ he said softly.

She looked at him askance, some dark emotion crossing her lovely face, making him instantly regret having brought it up. Why had he? he wondered. To remind himself of just how dangerous she was? To protect himself? She was just a girl, for heaven’s sake! What protection did he need?

‘Yes.’ She gave a careless shrug. ‘Well, you know how the saying goes. Once bitten—twice shy.’

He couldn’t help the quip that slipped from his lips. ‘Is that why you asked if I was married, Shannon?’

As the cabin door clicked closed behind him, Shannon felt like throwing something at it. So she’d made a mistake. Been a poor judge of character. But why, oh, why, had Kane felt compelled to bring it up?

He was still treating her like the super-rich bitch the taw-drier papers had named her back home, she thought with an aching regret for the reputation she had unwittingly cultivated, and which she had left England to escape. And yet it was Kane’s harsh opinion of her that had hurt her most, and still did, she realised hopelessly, dropping her grubby bag down onto the pale coverlet of the bed, before sliding back the door to the en suite.

The oyster-coloured shower and basin and the blending marble of the counter tops brought a small, appreciative curve to her lips. It seemed a long time since she had enjoyed luxury like this. It was something she had relinquished when she had decided to make a bid for freedom, run from the gossip and the papers, from her father’s dictatorship and increasing disapproval, and stand on her own two feet.

There was no evidence of Kane’s occupation in here though, and, grateful for a few moments’ respite from her profoundly disturbing awareness of him, she ran the taps and splashed water onto her face, wishing, as she watched the water swirl out of the basin, that she could as easily erase her memories of the past.

She had been nine years old when her mother had died after a riding accident, and forever afterwards Ranulph Bouvier hadn’t known what to do with his fast-developing, much too adventurous daughter. Her life had become a series of expensive boarding schools and, during the holidays, trips abroad with whatever grudging member of his staff he could pay to accompany her. What she had wanted—needed—was her father’s love and affection, but he was always too busy, too preoccupied to give her any time. Instead he had indulged her to the nth degree. Fast cars. Jewellery. Clothes. And, of course, holidays. She had had it all, but unfortunately, Shannon thought sadly, it wasn’t enough. She would have forfeited all the trappings of her father’s wealth for a loving and harmonious relationship with him—to be able to talk to him about her dreams and aspirations, have her opinions taken seriously—but Ranulph Bouvier wasn’t the sort of man who would listen to anyone.

Perhaps it was his refusal to accept that she wanted to do something more worthwhile with her life than simply support a suitable husband, as her mother had, that had set her on that course of single-minded rebellion. The all-night parties. The publicity. The questionable company. At the time it had seemed to fulfil a need for the love and attention that was missing from her life; a need to be noticed. But the fulfilment was superficial and short-lived, like every relationship she tried to form with any of the men who pursued her. And as her disillusionment grew, so did her father’s disapproval. He didn’t like the way she was behaving: her inability to stick with one boyfriend, the adverse publicity she was courting. Didn’t she know she was making a fool of herself? Developing the worst possible kind of reputation? But she couldn’t help it if every man she took an interest in just seemed to be after her money, her body, or both.

All except Kane Falconer, that was.

Replacing the towel on its gleaming rail, she moved back into the bedroom. The large bed with its plump pillows beckoned invitingly, and the blind at its porthole was pulled down against the fierce heat of the Spanish sun.

Perhaps she would do as he’d suggested, she thought, and lie down for a while. The problem in town was going to take some time to sort out and it would be ludicrous even considering going home until it was safe.

Subsiding onto the sumptuous bed, she tried not to think about where Kane slept when he was on board. Nevertheless, she couldn’t prevent him from intruding unsettlingly on her thoughts, just as he had been doing since she was seventeen.

She had been dangerously affected by the man from the moment she had first set eyes on him, the day she had called into the modern Bouvier office building and seen him sitting there behind her father’s desk, as if he belonged there.

He hadn’t looked up for a moment, but a moment was all it had taken for the full impact of those compelling good looks and that hard virility to print themselves forever on her consciousness.

Staring down at his groomed dark head, at the breadth of his shoulders beneath the sophisticated cut of his dark jacket, she had started fidgeting, a little irritated that he hadn’t noticed her. Everyone noticed her. She had been wearing a black silk suit that day with her hair swept up, and she could still remember how sensuously the low-cut jacket and trousers moved against her body.

He had looked up then, as though it had only just dawned on him that she was there—although she’d known that that wasn’t the case, that very little would get past a man like him—and, tall as she was herself in her four-inch heels, as he’d risen to his feet she had felt unusually eclipsed by his dominating height.

‘Kane Falconer.’ His voice was deep and sexy, and as he reached across the deck her irritation melted under the blaze of his smile. ‘The newest assignee to the board.’ The board of directors, that was, which gave him top-notch status. The fingers that clasped hers were warm and firm, their contact so overwhelming that she completely forgot her manners and failed to return the courtesy of an introduction, hearing herself stammering uncharacteristically instead, ‘W-where’s my father?’

‘Your…’ Clarity dawned in eyes that reminded her of a cool blue alpine lake beneath the thick sable of long lashes. ‘So you’re Jezebel,’ he remarked, with his mouth twitching at the corners, repeating the name that one of the newspapers had so detrimentally used to describe her.

Had she been older, perhaps she would have laughed about it, Shannon decided in retrospect. As it was, for all her confidence, she had been too insecure and already hopelessly ensnared by that hard dynamism of his to take such unprovoked criticism from him lightly.

Feigning nonchalance as a protective armour, she had murmured, ‘If you say so. Didn’t she flout convention and shame herself by wearing red to the ball when every other woman wore white?’ She remembered watching a video once of the old Hollywood film. And when the man behind the desk dipped his head in the subtlest acknowledgment, she’d continued, ‘Perhaps they should have named me Danielle,’ with a forced little laugh. ‘For daring to stand alone.’

’Daniel,’ he corrected, releasing her at last, ‘was a man. And he faced lions—which I would have said was far preferable to a gossip-hungry press. And you’re just a girl.’ He might have thought so, but in that moment when those cool eyes moved over the smooth length of her throat, touched on the swell of her pale breasts beneath the low-cut jacket, she grew up; knew that she had met her match and, with a throbbing recognition, her mate. ‘Doesn’t it hurt or bother you?’ he said. ‘What they’re printing?’

Of course it did, but let anyone know it and they would have won—torn her to pieces, she thought bitterly. So, with the slightest movement of her shoulder that unintentionally exposed more of her breast to that hard masculine gaze, she answered, ‘What? That I’m seen at every wild party from here to John O’Groats and that I change my boyfriends as often as I change my underwear?’ She couldn’t believe she was quoting such derogatory statements to him, not only because they were totally untrue, but also because she had never in her young life met a man on whom she had so instantly wanted—no, needed—to make a good impression. Nevertheless, she felt herself cringing as she shrugged again and said, ‘Why should it?’, knowing that she couldn’t have sounded less bothered—as he’d put it—if she’d tried.

‘It hurts your father.’ He rocked back on his heels, surveying her with narrowed eyes and a dark heat that startlingly she recognised as something other than anger; something basic and feral. ‘But perhaps that’s the intention.’

Even while reeling from the shock of a mutual sexual chemistry, Shannon felt the sting of his remark like a whip across her face. Who did this man think he was? What right did he have to speak to her like this when he didn’t even know her? When he didn’t know anything about her—or of her unhappy relationship with her father?

‘I don’t know who you are, or what you’re doing here, Mr Falconer. But I don’t think my private life—or anyone else’s in this family—is any of your concern! Unless you think your duties include trying to take me in hand and dragging me back onto the straight and narrow—in which case I can tell you now, you’re wasting your time!’

He was moving some papers on the desk with those long, well-shaped hands, but glanced up, looking totally unperturbed by her outburst.

‘I’ve no intention of dragging you anywhere, Shannon.’ It was the first time he had spoken her name and, despite everything, hearing the way he said it in that deep, rich baritone voice made the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. ‘Much as I wouldn’t balk at the challenge, I’m rather opposed to seeing my name in the tabloids.’

She walked out of the office that day with her head held high, yet close to tears, having completely forgotten why she had gone there in the first place.

After that she tried to avoid him, but, of course, it was impossible. Having struck a hit with Ranulph Bouvier from the outset, Kane was often invited to the house for dinner. Sometimes she found herself having to speak to him if he rang her father at home—totally unaware of how even his deep, disembodied voice had the power to make her insides melt; her loins burn with a tense and feverish heat. And then, of course, he was at every company function that Ranulph insisted she attend.

‘How old are you?’ she found the courage to ask him after he had asked her to dance at that last company dinner.

And he replied, ‘Too old for you.’

Approaching nineteen, confident of her looks and a sexuality she had sometimes despaired of, she laughed up into his strong, exciting face and, using everything that was feminine in her to try and break through his hard imperviousness towards her, answered sweetly, ‘And what makes you think that that simple question suggests I’d want you?’

Her boldness surprised him, but he merely laughed under his breath and pulled her shockingly close.

‘Because I’m probably the only man in London who hasn’t shown any inclination to bed you,’ he returned, his smile blazing, his eyes coolly sardonic. ‘And one thing I strongly suspect about you, Shannon, is that your greatest challenges are the things you know you can’t have.’

Though she laughed it off, his remark depressed her, assuring her that, when it came to getting Kane Falconer to like her—let alone want her—she was wasting her time. He was too experienced, much too clever for her to outwit, argue with or even try to use her teenage charms on, and in his company she merely suffered one frustrating humiliation after another.

When she started seeing Jason Markham and he asked her to spend the summer with him at his lochside cottage in Scotland she grabbed the chance, as an opportunity to escape not only her father’s increasing domination, but also her hopeless feelings for Kane. They were, she decided, blind and stupidly juvenile; outrageously sexual; agonisingly intense.

Her relationship with Jason, on the other hand, provided her with something far less dramatic, along with friendship, of which, at the time, she seemed to be in short supply. Most of the women she tried to befriend since she had blossomed into womanhood seemed to view her only as a sexual rival, and most men as a means of boosting their egos.

Jason seemed interested in her as a person. He listened to her ideas; seemed to share her dreams. And if the relationship was a little less passionate to start with than he had hoped, well, he had no intention of rushing her—he was a patient man, he assured her, content to wait. And that was how she felt—content and comfortable. As one should feel with a person you were considering making a life with, she managed to convince herself. Not so crazy with wanting that you felt you’d burst from the agony of it; not like the mindless, adolescent crush she had harboured for Kane. And if Jason never drove her to those frenzied heights she had dreamed of reaching in Kane Falconer’s arms…well, wasn’t that for the best? What she felt for Jason was real, not something imagined; real and whole and lasting. Because Jason Markham, up-and-coming racing driver and son of a prominent cabinet minister, was real. Jason was there. Jason was hers.

Which was why, when the story hit the headlines of his wife’s suicide attempt following his infidelity, the tabloids had a field day, citing Shannon as the proverbial femme fatale with Markham as the hapless victim.

Numb with disbelief—over being lied to—she returned to London to face a barrage of questions she refused to answer, as well as a double dose of her father’s temper when she discovered that Kane Falconer had had a disagreement with him that same week and walked out.

She knew Kane had on more than one occasion been head-hunted by the competition; knew he’d found Ranulph difficult to work with. But after the pain of her own betrayal by a man she had convinced herself she was in love with, or at the very least trusted, Kane’s defection lanced her to the quick.

Disillusioned, hurting, she was alone at the house when he called that weekend to pick up some personal papers, when the scandal she was at the centre of turned his usual mocking detachment into full-blown anger with her after she pelted him with an angry tirade of abuse.

‘You dare to question my behaviour?’ His eyes were hard with hostility. ‘That’s rich coming from an attention-seeking little socialite who’ll stop at nothing to get her kicks! And I can think of far worse names, Shannon, but I’ll spare you those.’ She didn’t realise then that he was a friend of Jennifer Markham’s family, which must have accounted for why he was so angry. ‘I only hope you find what you’re looking for—for your sake as well as everybody else’s!’ he sliced at her as he crossed to the door.

Stung by his opinion, by his leaving, by the frustration of never having had this man on her side, she flung back at him, ‘You called me a Jezebel the first time you saw me. Well, if I’m a Jezebel, you’re a Judas! Crossing over to the other side!’

It was her hurt anger that had made her say it; and her envy that he was free to walk away, because secretly she admired him for standing up to her father. He wasn’t a yes man—not a man her father, or anyone for that matter, could push around.

He’d walked out then, slamming the front door behind him, and she hadn’t seen him again until today. Rumour had it that he hadn’t joined another company immediately. She even recalled Ranulph saying he’d cut off his nose to spite his face and that he’d live to regret walking out on Bouvier’s the way he had. But he hadn’t, she thought, if this yacht was anything to go by. He’d obviously got another lucrative post; used those skills and that amazing insight to take him to the top in some other company…

She yawned widely, the occasional gentle motion of the boat relaxing her, making her eyelids heavy…he’d obviously done all right for himself.

The evening sun was streaking gold across the water and, standing on the aft deck, Kane breathed in the cooling air coming off the sea.

Across the wharf the traffic was moving again. He could hear the hum of engines, noticed the first lights coming on in the bars and cafés around the marina, and found himself thinking back to that day, nearly a year ago, when he had answered that distress call from Ranulph Bouvier.

He had found him then, because of circumstances he could so easily have predicted, distraught, driving himself too hard, a near broken man. He had brought it all on himself, Kane knew, but he’d been unable to hold that against the man. Ranulph had needed his help and advice, and Kane had been too worried about him and the company he had once worked for to refuse.

The man was killing himself, he thought. The doctors had told him to take things easy, but it wasn’t just the problems of the company that were driving him into the ground, Kane was sure. It was his estrangement from Shannon that was responsible for that.

On the evening breeze he could still hear Ranulph’s words as he’d stood with him that first evening on the patio of the Bouvier mansion. Find my daughter! For pity’s sake, find my daughter! Find her and…

Effectively, he brought the shutters down over the rest of their conversation, and yet that genuine plea from his old employer still tore at his heart.

The man was a tyrant—an oppressor—yet, handled correctly, he was like a tiger with all its teeth pulled out…loud but harmless. And he wanted his daughter back.

Kane inhaled another deeply impatient sigh. So what if he did? It was none of his business. He might have the know-how to turn the fortunes of a company around, but what he knew about human relationships—father and daughter relationships—he could write on a postage stamp. True, he’d made several attempts to find her—and for his own reasons. But it had been a difficult year, and he had had very little time to go chasing missing heiresses, and when he had had the time he had always drawn a blank. Until today…

And now he had found her, he was beginning to wish he hadn’t. She didn’t look—wasn’t—well, and he was immensely concerned over what she might be doing to herself.

If only he could make her see sense. Persuade her to go home before she wound up making herself really ill, he thought, anxiety clenching his jaw from the futility of his wishful thinking. Because how could he expect to do that in just a couple of hours? he asked himself, cursing his schedule, for once impatient with the commitments he had made that left him very little time.

Above the marina, his glance fell on the imposing monument of Columbus; noticed for the first time that the great man was pointing, not westwards towards the Americas he had discovered, but to the east, and the glittering expanse of the Mediterranean Sea. Inside Kane’s head, a thought took root, sprouted, expanded and grew.

She’ll hate you for this, Falconer, he warned himself, swinging round and crossing the deck with sudden, calculating purpose. And that, he decided wryly, was something he would have to deal with when the time came.

CHAPTER THREE

THE drone of the helicopter was growing louder. The children were laughing and waving, calling to her while the whirr of blades kept drawing nearer, whipping through the heat and the dust. She could just make out the faces of the children now. They weren’t laughing any more. They were looking at her in alarm—some were crying, others screaming—while she lashed frantically at the air, and the sound wasn’t the buzz of a helicopter any more, but of a whole hatch of attacking insects…

’No!’ Shannon shot up, heart thudding, face buried in her cupped hands as she gasped for air.

It was all right, she thought, looking around her, trying to steady her breathing. She had just fallen asleep and she was still in the cabin on Kane’s boat—a swift survey of the pale lacquered wood and rich furnishings around her confirmed it—and the sound she had heard was the throb of the—

Quickly she sat upright on the big, luxurious bed, frowning, listening. The engine? she thought, puzzled.

Feet groping for the mules she had kicked off—goodness knew how long before!—Shannon thrust her toes into them and raced over to peer through the blind.

Through the oval porthole, Barcelona was just a view, and a rapidly diminishing view at that, she realised, aghast.

Without wasting a second, she stumbled back across the cabin, unsteady from the motion, still groggy with sleep.

Kane wasn’t at the lower helm, she noticed as she emerged from below and saw the vacant control seats behind the galley, which meant he had to be powering the boat from the upper deck.

He was sitting at the helm as she climbed the steep steps to the flybridge, and was steering the vessel through the open waters, capable hands dealing with the wheel.

He had changed out of his suit into a black T-shirt and jeans and, in spite of everything, Shannon couldn’t fail to notice the width and power of his shoulders, how dauntingly masculine he was, as she came across the open deck.

‘Where are we going?’

He sent a surprised glance up at her as she moved to stand beside him, her pale features challenging, her hair blowing softly in the wind.

‘So you’re awake at last,’ he observed, returning his attention to the various switches and screens on the instrument panel. ‘How are you feeling?’

How could he dare ask that? Impatiently, Shannon glared down at his bent head. The rays of the low sun were picking out the fiery highlights in his hair. ‘I said, where are we going?’

He was monitoring something on the panel, didn’t even look up as he said, ‘You might have been killing time back there, Shannon, but I wasn’t. I’ve got a schedule to meet.’

‘A sched—What schedule?’ she demanded anxiously. They were cruising at a rate of knots, each powerful slicing of the waves carrying them further and further into the open sea. ‘Where the hell do you think you’re taking me?’ she demanded again.

He was handling the craft with the skill of a master, she realised as she waited for his answer, looking behind at the sun streaking fire across their foaming wake.

‘I have to deliver this thing to Cannes before the end of the week and I’ve already lost valuable time,’ he told her phlegmatically, ‘so I’m afraid you’re going to have to stick with me until delivery.’

‘Cannes. Cannes!’ she repeated, horrified. She couldn’t believe he was saying this. He had to be joking surely? ‘That’s France!’

His mouth moved in mock appreciation as he kept his course, making progress seaward, still following the coast. ‘Ten out of ten for geography, Shannon. It’s good to know you learnt something at those fancy schools you attended.’

‘You arrogant louse!’ With a swish of her hair, angrily she glared at the diminishing coastline, then Kane’s hard countenance again. ‘Turn this thing around this minute!’ And when he simply ignored her, sitting there with that determined thrust to his jaw: ‘I said turn it around!’ she ordered.

‘I’m sorry, Shannon. I can’t do that,’ he said calmly. ‘As I told you, I’m already behind schedule. I’m down a crew member from my outbound journey and you’ve already admitted you weren’t doing anything particular back there.’

‘You abduct me…and you’ve got the audacity to ask me to crew for you?’ It came out as a squeak.

‘You said you were looking for excitement.’

‘I said—’ Had she said that?

‘And I know you’ve done it for your father.’

Yes, in the past. He had even come out on the yacht with them once or twice, she remembered, recalling how excited—how gauche—she had felt in his company. But that was different…

‘So you’re kidnapping me to do it?’ Suddenly fear was the overriding emotion, fear and a deepening anger over the fact that he had tricked her onto the vessel in the first place. ‘If you don’t turn this thing around, so help me, I’ll swim back!’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

‘Just watch me!’ Already she was stumbling away, unaware of Kane reducing their speed, only of knocking her hip on the hard casing that housed a fridge and barbecue, in her crazy bid to carry out her threat.

‘Don’t be such a fool!’ As she made it to the steps, he was just that bit too quick for her and she let out a small cry when his arm came round her middle like an iron bar.

‘Let me go!’ She twisted round in his grasp, pummelling at the hard wall of his chest. ‘Let me go, you big bully!’

‘For heaven’s sake, Shannon! Calm down! Do you really think I would have chosen to bring you with me? I’d already lost valuable time through my meeting starting late this afternoon, but you were sleeping far too peacefully for me to disturb. You had a pretty hard smack on the head—and even without that, you weren’t in any fit state for me to leave back there!’

Head swimming, feeling weak—but from his nearness—forcibly, she pulled out of his grasp. ‘Oh, so now you’re doing it for my benefit!’

‘Ultimately, I hope so.’

The evening sun was dazzling, making her squint as she tilted her head to look challengingly up at him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means that I think you could do with a few days’ looking-after. And if I can persuade you to see what you’re doing to yourself—what you’re throwing away by not facing facts and going home in the process—so much the better!’

Anger turned her eyes almost to sapphire. ‘What do you mean? Face facts? What facts?’

‘A company that will very probably be yours one day—whether you like it or not. A father who isn’t getting any younger.’

Anxiety was suddenly replacing the hot emotion staining her cheeks, corrugating her otherwise smooth forehead. ‘You said you hadn’t seen him.’

‘No, I didn’t.’

Hadn’t he? She couldn’t remember all of what he had said back there in Las Ramblas.

‘What, then? He’s all right, isn’t he?’ The question was a worried whisper.

‘Is that actual concern I see, Shannon?’

‘What do you think?’ she snapped, recognising scepticism in that hard face. Ranulph Bouvier might not have shown himself to be a loving and affectionate parent, but he was her father.

‘What I think is that it’s time you stepped off the merry-go-round of socialising and living it up with your fancy friends and start to consider that your father might possibly need you. Consider that in some things he might also be right instead of opposing and rebelling against everything he stands for just for the sheer hell of it!’

‘For the sheer hell of it?’ Was that what he thought? ‘Why?’ she contested angrily. ‘If I happen to disagree with a lot of what he believes in? I might be a lot of things, but I’m not a hypocrite, Kane. And I don’t recall you always being so deferential to my father. In fact, you were very much against him when you walked out and left him in the lurch!’

His mouth took on a grim cast. Perhaps he didn’t like being reminded, she thought suddenly, wondering also if he remembered how bitterly they had faced each other that last time he had called at the house.

‘If anyone left him in the lurch it was his dearly beloved and very wayward daughter! And only after she’d managed to drag the Bouvier name through the mud!’

‘That’s not true!’ she defended, her flesh tautening over her high, gaunt cheeks as she remembered. She had been slated—and unjustly—by a scandal-raking Press; made a scapegoat and a victim by people who had more power than she had and who, after putting her through the wringer, had effectively hung her out to dry. But being misunderstood and blamed by a father who was too busy and uninterested even to notice what was happening to his only child was worse than anything else. ‘And I left because he refused to acknowledge that I had views and opinions—just as you did!’

‘With one difference,’ Kane uttered succinctly.

‘Oh?’

‘He didn’t raise me.’

She turned around with her shoulders hunched, her arms wrapped protectively around her, staring unseeingly at the diminutive buildings of the Spanish mainland in the distance, dark silhouettes against the vivid red ball of the setting sun.

She couldn’t go back to the oppression—to being dictated to. Nor could she stand everyone believing the worst about her when her only crime was being taken in by a man she had thought was—to all intents and purposes—free to love her. The fact that he’d ranked highly in a couple of world-class races and had a prominent politician father only served to make the supposed affair front-page news when his still very resident wife had taken that overdose and lost her unborn baby because of it. Perhaps, Shannon thought now, it would have been better if she had divulged her side of the story, but she had remained silent when those reporters had hounded her, preferring to be thought an adulteress rather than a fool. Afterwards Ranulph Bouvier had tried to tighten his control of her, tried to deprive her of her independence and her freedom, until his authority had stifled her. Eventually, only weeks after Kane had left the firm, she had fled London for good.

‘Did my father ask you to find me?’ Suspicion narrowed her eyes as she turned back to Kane. ‘Try to bring me home?’ And when he didn’t answer, his mouth still set in that inexorable cast, ‘So that’s it!’ she breathed, letting her arms fall in clarification, her pose no longer defensive, but all-attacking now. ‘He’s got you back working for him again, hasn’t he?’ she accused, certain of it, her lips tightening mutinously when she noticed that almost indiscernible shrug of his shoulder. ‘This is my father’s boat, isn’t it? It isn’t yours at all. And I thought you’d done better for yourself!’ She couldn’t contain the derisory little laugh that trembled through those last words, her laughter masking the pain she had nursed for what seemed like centuries from his cruel opinion of her; the frustration of never being able to tell him that he was wrong; that nothing was as it seemed. ‘So the Bouvier name isn’t that muddied for you after all!’ she continued to taunt him. ‘Or was the deal being offered so much more attractive to you this time?’

Almost inaudibly, she heard him catch his breath. ‘You think that’s all it boils down to, don’t you?’ he said scathingly. ‘Money?’ With that he was striding away from her, back to the helm.

‘Doesn’t it?’ Shannon, following, threw at his broad back. In her experience, it had ranked very highly on most people’s list of priorities, in the men she had met, in the obvious hangers-on, in the long line of superficial, so-called ‘friends’. ‘What’s he offered you? A nice fat bonus if you bring me back?’ She watched him take up his position behind the wheel again and increase the vessel’s speed with a swift, controlling ease. ‘Whatever he’s paying you, I’ll double it,’ she suggested desperately through the sudden, ominous throbbing of the powerful engine.

‘Out of your allowance?’ From that half-cocked eyebrow, as the boat surged forward, he looked remarkably sceptical.

Perhaps he thought she couldn’t afford him, she considered, wondering how much he knew.

‘I have assets!’ she assured him, clutching the cool steel of a handrail, having to raise her voice above the upsurge of the water, the rush of the stiff and freshening wind. There was the jewellery she hadn’t wanted. The paintings she had left back in England. Not Monets or Constables, it was true, but certainly worth a lot of money by anyone’s standards. And there was her Porsche…

‘So I see.’

‘Not that!’ she berated, when she saw the way his eyes were roving over the slender lines of her body with mocking sensuality, causing her breathing to quicken, her cheeks to flame from the realisation that he had deliberately misinterpreted what she had meant.

‘I’m relieved to hear it,’ he called back over the increasing turbulence of the water, ‘for both our sakes. Much as I find you tempting, it’s not my policy to get involved with news-courting little socialites, so your honour’s quite safe, if that’s what you’re worried about.’ And then, before she could retaliate, stung as she was by his remarks, he was adding, ‘And what makes you think your father’s offered me anything?’

‘Because I know my father.’ Deftly she watched him flick a switch, saw a jumble of data appear on one of the screens. ‘And I know now that, like most people, you can be bought if the price is right.’

‘Well, Shannon,’ he said without looking at her, ‘I’m afraid taking you back there is going to cost me far more than you can afford.’ Then with a pointed glance at her small breasts and the logo stamped blatantly across them, ‘so I’m afraid,’ he intoned firmly, ‘the bulls are going to have to manage without your gallant support for a while.’

‘You…’ The little invective she uttered was barely audible above the boat’s powerful slicing through the waves. ‘And I used to think you were a cut above the rest.’

For a moment as his eyes met hers she saw in his a silent query; a studied contemplation as though she had surprised him with that reckless little confession. Swiftly, though, he was turning away, giving all his attention to the task of steering and navigation. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you,’ he said.

Lips tightening, Shannon swung away from him, down the steps and through the doors into the saloon, where she flopped wearily onto one of the pale leather settees. He’d said he was sorry to disappoint her. Well, she was sorry too, she thought.

She had always admired and envied him: his candidness; his refusal to be anything but his own man. Now she was profoundly disappointed to discover that, when it came down to it, he was just the same as everybody else.

And why? she asked herself bitterly. Surely these feelings he still aroused were only the leftovers of a fierce and painful adolescent crush? And even if she was still affected by that hard, masculine, bred-in-the-bone confidence and by his intensely powerful sexuality, it was only that, just sexual, after all.

Which was just as well, she decided with a sudden clenching of her teeth, because he had certainly made it clear—and with no beating about the bush—that he wasn’t interested in her! As far as he was concerned, she was just a spoilt rich bitch whom he was being paid to return to where he thought she belonged, without knowing anything about her, what made her tick, her values, her hopes, her dreams.

Well, carry on, Kane Falconer! she thought, flicking angrily through a glossy magazine she had plucked from the floor-mounted coffee table before tossing it back down again. You don’t know anything about me—nor are you going to! she determined wretchedly, retreating behind the wall of self-protection she had built around herself. If you want to think the worst about me, then carry on!

Having glanced back over his shoulder when Shannon had stormed off, Kane hadn’t failed to notice that deflated look about her.

She had said she’d thought him a cut above the rest, which surprised him immensely, but he was also surprised to discover how much it pleased him too. He had always thought her opinion of him low to say the least, and now, because of the way she had sounded when she had—unintentionally, he felt—dispelled him of that notion, suddenly he felt like a first-rate heel. He’d condemned her, not because everybody else did. It had never been in his nature to listen to mere gossip—follow the common trend—but because, like everyone else with a gram of common sense, he could see the road she was going down, and he couldn’t deny that that crazy lifestyle of hers invited criticism. But even the most condemned of men—or women, he amended wryly—deserved a hearing, and he hadn’t even allowed her that. Perhaps he should have left her back there, instead of trying to get her to see things his way when she was so hell-bent on refusing to. But if he had, and then something happened to her…

He shook off the thought, wishing he didn’t feel so inextricably involved.

She had been right, when she had accused him of being seduced back to Bouvier’s by an attractive deal, although it wouldn’t have been in his interests—and much less the company’s—to refuse. But if she really knew the ‘deal’ Ranulph had initially offered him for bringing her home—a deal he himself had had no compunction about turning down flat—she would probably have jumped over the side without a backward glance.

Checking the compass, estimating the distance from his intended mooring, he wondered if she had believed him when he had admitted to being worried about her; wondered whether, in using her health and safety as the only reason for keeping her with him, he was being entirely honest with himself.

Because the whole truth was that, ever since the first day he had seen her when she had breezed into her father’s office nearly five years ago, she had stirred in him every masculine instinct it was possible to stir. Concern. Anger. Protectiveness. As well as downright lust! And that was it, he thought, despairing at himself, because, young as she had been then—and angry—as she had been that last time when she had stood there calling him a Judas, she had had the power to arouse him, and still arouse him, like no other girl or woman he had ever met.

With a tense clamping of his jaw, fingers tightening around the wheel, he steered the powerful vessel through the gathering dusk. How the hell he was going to keep his mind on getting this thing to Cannes with her on board was anybody’s guess when he wanted to undress her every time he looked at her. Even in that urchin outfit he found himself wanting to peel her clothes off her, and he had only made that ridiculously outmoded statement about her honour to warn himself to watch his own step. Even thinking about her lying on that big bed—as she’d been earlier when he had gone below with some tea and found her sleeping, her blonde hair splashed across the pillow—filled his mind with thoughts that were anything but honourable. Just as in the past, even while he’d been bitterly disappointed and angry with her—with himself—after that scandalous affair, for still wanting her, he found himself envying every man whose bed she might have shared, wanting to be the one whose name that soft voice whispered, for whom those blue eyes grew heavy with desire; to hear her moan in acquiescence as he kissed the pale satin of her body and feel his own body harden—as it was doing now—from the unbelievable ecstasy of pleasuring her…

‘What happened to your last passenger?’

‘What?’ He swung round so fast that he almost sent a mug beside the control panel flying.

‘Your last passenger. The one who helped you crew? What happened to them?’ Shannon repeated.

‘Nothing happened to them.’ He sounded tense—impatient, she noted, her eyes drawn reluctantly to those strong, tanned hands steadying a mug; hands, she realised through that familiar unwelcome tension, that were experienced in handling more than just an ocean-cruiser… ‘She got off in Barcelona.’