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Except for the night she and her sister had been caught by the paparazzi emerging from the casino arm in arm, he recalled, his hands clenching into fists at his side. Neither of them had seemed in the least bit steady on the towering heels they’d worn.
The Scandalous O’Sullivan Sisters! the headline above the photo had shrieked, and it had been in that moment that Raoul had put Imogen and Ciara together, realising that the surname of the nanny who had threatened to ruin his sister’s marriage was shared by the woman who had destroyed his chances of being a father. He had recognised her in a moment, but had been stunned to see both of them out of control in a way he had never seen the older O’Sullivan girl before.
Except in bed.
Raoul felt a curse echo inside his thoughts as he fought the rush of heat through his body. He’d thought he’d wiped that particular memory from his mind but it seemed that all it needed was her presence, just metres away from where he stood, and every cell was inflamed. He couldn’t afford to let that distract him from his purpose.
She looked a little different, but he knew inside she would be the same. Still tall and elegant, but now with a glossy mane of black hair tumbling down her back. It was longer than before. He remembered the crisp, silky feel of the sharp pixie cut she’d sported back then, the smooth strands catching the gleam of the sun. She was dressed differently too, in a plain white tee-shirt and tight-fitting jeans, simpler and more subdued than the bright skirts and sundresses she’d worn on the beaches at Calvi or Bonifacio. She’d grown thinner too, the tight-fitting denim clinging to shapely hips and long, slender legs, the occasional stylish rip in the material exposing the pale cream of her beautiful skin. She didn’t look like a woman who had carried a child. But then, of course, she had never let her baby live long enough to change the shape of her body, had she? It had barely existed before it was gone.
It was shocking how even that dark knowledge didn’t stop his more basic male urges responding to the feminine appeal of her.
* * *
No! She would not remember Raoul!
Imogen shook her head sharply, desperate to drive away the last lingering threads of memories that bruised her soul; memories she had never wanted to recall. But it seemed that just dredging up that once-loved name from the silt in which she’d hoped to have buried it brought everything rushing back.
‘The longest walk in the world.’
The voice spoke suddenly from behind her, its rich, husky accent obvious on the words. An accent that sounded alien in this small Irish village. But not unknown. She knew that voice only too well…but how she wished she didn’t.
‘Is that not what they say?’
‘I—No…’
She whirled around to face the newcomer, spinning so hard that she went over on one ankle, needing to reach out and grab a nearby pew for support. But it wasn’t the worn, polished wood that her fingers closed over. Instead she felt the warmth of skin, the strength of muscle and bone under her grasp, and there was the scent of lemon and bergamot in her nostrils, blended with a sensual trace of clean, musky male skin.
It was a scent that jolted her sharply out of the present and right back to a holiday in Corsica two years before. A starlit night, still warm after the burning heat of the day. The slide of soft sand under her feet, the sound of waves breaking in her ear and the hard, warm palm of the man who had just become her very first lover tight against her own as they walked along the beach.
The man who, just six days later, had broken her heart.
‘No?’
That shockingly familiar voice was back, softly questioning in her ear, and she blinked hard against the red mist that had hazed her eyes.
This had to be a mistake; a crazy, mindless fantasy. Her unwanted memories had created a mirage in her mind, conjuring up an image of the man she had weakly let into her thoughts for a moment but now wanted so desperately to forget.
‘R-Raoul…’
The name stumbled from her lips as she forced herself to focus and found it only made matters worse. That tall, lean frame was a powerful, dark force in the silent atmosphere of the little church.
‘Ma chère Imogen.’
It was soft, almost gentle. But that gentleness was a lie, she knew. There was no tenderness in this man, as she should have realised from the start. If she had, she might have escaped with her body and her heart intact. Her baby might never have been conceived—or was that actually the worst thing that could have happened? To have known Raoul’s child growing inside her for even the shortest time had brought her such joy, such happiness, that she could never have wished it hadn’t happened. Even if it had ended so cruelly.
