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‘Let me go!’
‘Not if you’re going after him.’
‘Going after him? Don’t be stupid! Did you hear what he said? Do you think he’d want me now?’
She twisted round in Raoul’s arms, needing to face him, then immediately wished she hadn’t. The movement brought her hard up against him, her pelvis crushed against his so she couldn’t be unaware of the swollen evidence of his arousal beneath the inadequate concealment of the towel. The heat of it, the burning sensation, froze her in total shock.
‘Let me… I’ll go after him…’
It was Ciara who spoke, turning and running out the door, following where Adnan had marched away just moments before. Imogen heard her dashing along the corridor, down the stairs, and then her steps faded into silence.
‘No point,’ she tried to respond, but no one was listening. Outside, there was the roar of the powerful engine of Adnan’s car and the spurt of gravel under the wheels as he sped away.
‘Immi…’
She had forgotten her father was there.
Joe O’Sullivan’s stunned expression was just too much for her battered and bruised mind to take in. Her senses were assailed by the strength of Raoul’s arms around her, the rise and fall of his powerful ribcage as he breathed, the dark glint of watchful golden eyes. If she inhaled, she took in his scent; if she moved her head, she felt the scrape of his bristled chin. And all the time there was that hot, hard, demanding pressure into the cradle of her hips, reminding her of wilder times, dangerous days when she had lost herself in the strength and fire of this man’s passion.
‘Oh, Immi…’
The sound of her name from her father again barely reached her through the whirling confusion in her thoughts. It also had a fraying edge on the word, one sadly she knew all too well. Joe O’Sullivan had been celebrating his daughter’s upcoming wedding—and his own prospective freedom from fear and debt—just a little too well. As she blinked away the sense of apprehension in her own eyes, she saw Raoul look down at her, dark and intent, his focus fixed on her and nowhere else.
‘Get out,’ he said, cold and stark.
For a moment, Imogen thought his words were addressed to her and she lifted her head to try to look around. Then immediately wished she hadn’t. The movement brought her eyes round to the mirrored door in the huge, old-fashioned wardrobe that stood against the far wall, with her image reflected in it. And the sight of that reflection brought the heat rushing up her body, scorching through every cell.
Was that what Adnan had seen? If it was then it was no wonder he had walked out without a single glance back, their arrangement, their friendship shattered in a moment. He must have seen that wanton-looking woman in another man’s arms, her hair tossed and tangled down her back, the make-up she had forgotten to take off in her haste to talk with Raoul smudged under her eyes. The robe had been dragged apart and hung halfway off one shoulder, the thin strap of her nightgown following it to drape partway down her arm.
No wonder Adnan had stalked away. No wonder he had turned his back on her—and the future they had hoped to secure for Blacklands. Guilt tore at her conscience and blended fiercely with fury at the way Raoul had behaved, the way he’d trapped her here like this with her father.
‘Dad…please,’ she begged, unable to turn and look at him, unable once again to drag her gaze away from Raoul’s burning eyes. The hypnotic hold he had on her was far stronger than the muscular grip that held her so close. ‘Go now.’
‘But Immi—what about the wedding? What—?’
‘Go.’ It was Raoul’s voice, flat and emphatic, no room for argument. ‘Go now.’
‘Dad—please do as he says.’
If she could hear the pleading note in her father’s voice, then surely Raoul could too. Or was that just because she knew what was behind it? How much had depended on her wedding, and how much would be ruined now that Adnan would never go through with the event.
‘Go!’ Raoul repeated, his tone darkening dangerously.
Imogen didn’t have to look back over her shoulder to see her father’s expression. She could sense it in the quality of his silence. The bristling defiance was combined with an underlying fear and the need to protect himself from the consequences of his own irresponsible actions. It had been there in his face, in his tone, when she had told him that she was going to marry Adnan. He’d known he shouldn’t be asking this of her, but he hadn’t been able to hold back the relief at the thought that there was a chance of being rescued from the desperate situation he had found himself in. It was no wonder he was in this mess; he was fine with the horses he knew and loved—but financial problems and the real world were way beyond him. He had never been a strong man emotionally, which was why she had never told him about her pregnancy and its tragic end.
