To Wager the Marquis of Wolverstone (20 page)

A muscle at the corner of his mouth
tightened, then released. “Did Charles know you well enough? Or did
you pull this ice princess routine on him too?”

Ice princess? Ouch.

“You see,” he continued before I could
answer, “I wonder if maybe you had something on him. Threatened
him—”

“Threaten Charles?” The idea was ludicrous
enough to make me smile. “Do I look suicidal to you?”

Stone obviously had no sense of the
ridiculous. “Is that,” he pursued, “why he cut his sister and niece
out of his will? So you could play company director?”

“I doubt it.” Charles might’ve possessed a
twisted sense of humor, but he’d lived for his work, had a strong
sense of duty toward his employees, and I’d made it clear I wanted
to sit on the board of a company—any company—as much as I wanted to
poke my eye out with a red-hot nail file. “But then, he didn’t
discuss his intentions with me. Anyway, when was receiving an
inheritance of nearly three million pounds redefined as being cut
out of someone’s will?”

“It’s a valid definition if your expectation
was tenfold. How do you sleep at night? Or do you?” He gave me a
sweeping glance. “Do you have the time? I believe congratulations
are in order.”

I probably looked as blank as I felt.
“Congratulations?” Condolences, yes. Congratulations? Hardly.

“On your pregnancy.” That sardonic little
twist flickered over his mouth again. “Such incredible news. I
understand Charles was quite bowled over. As for the timing, I’ll
bet he found it hard to believe.”

The words were innocuous enough. His tone
was not, skimming south of unpleasant and heading for
offensive.

Son of a bitch. I rose. “Our business,” I
said, my voice as cold as I could make it, “is concluded.”

I started to move toward the mantelpiece and
the bell, but he rose too—as fluid as a cat—and intercepted me.
Fighting down the impulse to back away, I forced myself to stand
straight, to face him. Calm. Expressionless. “You’re in my way, Mr.
Stone.”

“No,” he said, mouth grim, eyes hard,
“you’re in mine. And trust me, you don’t want to be there. I’m
familiar with women like you—beautiful on the surface but rotten at
the core. You know where Annalise is or have some idea. Make no
mistake, I’ll find her with or without your help. But if you
imagine I’m going to dance to your tune, then you’re wrong.”

“Am I indeed?”

“Yes.” His voice frosted, then iced.
“Imagine if certain rumors currently being whispered find their way
to the tabloids. Dead millionaire’s girlfriend carries another
man’s baby, for example.”

“Be my guest.” I moved around him and
pressed the bell. “And when you see the Sharrocks again, tell them
they’re even more foolish than I thought them. As, Mr. Stone, are
you.”

“I’m whatever you like,” he said pleasantly.
“But at least I’m not the kind of fool who’d take a rapacious bitch
into my home and let myself be cuckolded by—”

The sound of flesh striking flesh brought me
to my senses. That and the pain in my hand where it had struck
Stone’s face.

Savagery rippled over his eyes like water
over river gravel, raw and primal. For a heartbeat I thought he’d
come after me, strike back. In fact, I hoped he would. I really
hoped he would. Everything in me raged for a physical outlet for
the wound he’d dealt me. Try it, I goaded him in my head. Just you
try it.

But he didn’t. Instead he inhaled the
violence back into him as a smoker inhales nicotine. It faded from
his face, his eyes, his body, leaving only the memory, the scent of
it, on the air.

“I apologize,” he said stiffly. “That
was—”

“Don’t.” Through a fog of thwarted fury I
was aware Kendall had arrived, but I no longer gave a damn. “Don’t
waste your breath. Or your apology. You can say what you like about
me—anything at all—but you will speak of Charles Dayton with
respect, or God help you. Now, get out of his house. And don’t come
back. Kendall, Mr. Stone is leaving.”

Kris Pearson
www.krispearson.com

Excerpt…

“So I suppose he had a busy life?” she
needled, thinking of all the magazine articles she’d seen about
royalty and their myriad social activities.

“He worked impossible hours. He was devoted
to his people. My people now.”

Laurel stayed silent for a while before
asking anything else. Rafiq had ‘people’? He seemed to be serious.
But why should she believe his outrageous claim?

“Is Rafiq your real name?”

“One of them. I have many.”

“Are you fighting to get the throne back? Is
that why I was kidnapped? Am I a hostage so they’ll re-instate
you?”

Despite looking so tired, he roared with
laughter.

“What?”

His chuckles subsided. “I wish it was that
simple.”

“Don’t just laugh at me,” she snapped. “I’ll
have to let Mrs. Daniels know where I am. She’ll be horribly
worried by now. Is there a phone?”

He shook his dark head.

“Do you have a mobile then?”

“There’s no reception way out here.”

“I’ve got to let her know somehow.”

“Not a chance, Miss Kiwi. No-one must know
where you are—for your own safely as well as my own. You’ve ended
up as the meat in a most unpleasant sandwich. Not your fault in the
least. But for now you must stay out of sight and out of contact
with the rest of the world. It’s necessary that certain people
think you are dead.”

“I’m not the least important.”

“As Laurel the nanny, possibly not. But as
Laurel the hostage you’re vital to the success of my current
mission. And many other lives hang in the balance because of
you.”

She drew her brows together. “But how?
Why?”

“Just believe that it’s so. I can’t tell you
everything. It should be enough you have a King’s word.”

She blew out an exasperated breath. “Prove
you’re a King, then. I don’t know why you expect I’ll go along with
that fantasy.”

“Would you recognize my parents, the late
King and Queen, if I showed you their photographs here in this
house?”

She shrugged. “I doubt it.”

“Then I have no other way of convincing you
right now. You’ll be well looked after but you’ll be staying here,
out of sight and out of contact.”

He spoke over the top of her next question.
“The world won’t stop turning without you. Leave it for tonight.
We’ll talk more in the morning. Yasmina!” He gestured for
coffee.

Laurel stayed poised with her mouth open,
ready to object to such cavalier treatment. How dare he just cut
her off like that? He’d stolen her freedom and apparently had no
intention of giving it back. Taken her away from everything
familiar and safe. A furious burn started at the back of her
throat. She willed herself not to give in to tears.

The servant hurried across with the coffee
pot and poured two small cups of aromatic liquid almost thick
enough to stand the spoons in. A brass bowl of fresh apricots
followed.

“Thank-you Yasmina. Good-night.”

“Good-night My Lord Rafiq.”

She tipped his injured forehead to the
light, inspected the dressing one last time, and sniffed her
disapproval before leaving them alone.

“What did she call you?”

“What she has always called me.”

“And what’s that?”

A slow smile spread across his handsome
face. “Do you wish to call me the same, Laurel?”

“I doubt it,” she said with spirit, somehow
sensing from the unnerving gleam in his eyes that she didn’t.

“I doubt it too,” he agreed. “Yasmina has
always addressed me as ‘My Lord Rafiq’.”

“How absolutely feudal.”

Rafiq watched as she reached for an apricot
and bit into the golden fruit. A savage bite. Her even white teeth
sank into its softness and he imagined himself doing the same to
her delicious flesh. A nip on her shoulder, a nibble on her
earlobe, a sustained assault on her luscious lips. He would be much
gentler with her than she was being with the unfortunate apricot.
He would scrape and tease and torment her long and thoroughly to
punish her for calling him ‘feudal’...for laughing at the
possibility he was the rightful heir to Al Sounam’s throne.

She owed him her life, and he hoped she’d
realize that very soon and start behaving in a suitably grateful
manner.

He sipped his coffee, considering what he
needed to do next day. Buy her some clothes. Some books perhaps. He
wouldn’t keep her at the lodge for long. A fortnight at most.
Perhaps if he showed her who was boss—a very accommodating and
accomplished boss—she might soften like honey in sunshine and melt
into his arms?

He’d be kind to her. Kind and generous. He
would flirt gently, flatter her, let her know he found her
desirable. That should be enough? She was a pretty thing and would
make a pleasant diversion. He had nothing urgent to do for the next
little while. He’d deliver the second demand to the TV station at
the end of the week and buy some more time. Every passing minute
would bring greater possibilities of success—for his under-cover
mission as well as his new-found personal one.

_________________