Royal and Ruthless. Robyn Donald

her; she’d have presumed the ruler of a place with several million inhabitants would have a limousine with a chauffeur. Instead he drove a late-model car, sleek, and with all the accoutrements of luxury.

      Hanging on to the remnants of her composure, she said steadily, ‘This is very kind of you.’

      ‘It is the least I can do,’ he said, adding with a smile that barely tucked in the corners of his sculpted mouth, ‘We value our tourists. It is a pity your trip to the jungle was cut short. When you are fully recovered I will take you there.’

      Lexie stared straight ahead, refusing to allow herself to feel any excitement at the prospect. They were passing beneath an avenue of tall palms, and the shadows of their long, slender trunks flashing across her eyes set up such an unpleasant rhythm that she turned her head away.

      Unfortunately this gave her an extremely good view of Rafiq de Couteveille’s profile in all its autocratic purity. Whatever interesting meld of races and cultures had given him that face, it was disturbingly beautiful in a very masculine way—a compelling amalgam of angles and curves and hard-honed lines that spoke of formidable power.

      And perhaps just a hint of cruelty? She would not, she thought with an inner shiver, closing her eyes, want to make an enemy of him.

      His voice broke into her thoughts. ‘Here, take these.’

      Eyes flying open, she realised he was holding out his sunglasses. ‘I can’t—you’ll need them,’ she said, unwilling to wear something so intimately connected to him.

      He shrugged. ‘You are not accustomed to this sun. I am.’

      And very much accustomed to getting your own way, she thought dryly.

      But then rulers were notorious for that. Reluctantly she accepted the spectacles and perched them on the end of her nose.

      They made an immense difference. She said quietly, ‘Thank you. I’m not usually so wimpish.’

      ‘You are too harsh on yourself. There is a difference between being fragile and being a wimp, and an accident always leaves one shaken. Why don’t you put your head back and rest quietly?’

      It was couched as a question, but clearly he expected her to obey. And because it was simpler she did, waiting for the hum of the engine to calm her.

      Only to find the impact of the man next to her negated any soothing effect. Rafiq de Couteveille got to her in a way no other man ever had, his presence alerting unsuspected sensory receptors in her mind and body, so that everything seemed suddenly more vivid, more exhilarating, more more, she thought with a surge of apprehension.

      She didn’t need this. Because she’d spent so much of her time studying, she’d missed out on the social aspect of university life. But she’d watched with considerable bewilderment when heartbroken friends suffered agonies over young men she’d considered shallow and inconsiderate.

      Eventually she’d decided there had to be something missing in her. Possibly growing up without a father had somehow stunted her response to men.

      In a way, that was why she’d let herself be beguiled by Felipe. It had been such a relief to discover that she could enjoy flirting with a man!

      But this—this was entirely different—a driving, uncontrollable reaction that was dangerous and altogether too tantalising.

      If this was how lust started, she thought wryly, she could at last understand why it was so difficult to resist. She catalogued her symptoms: racing heartbeat, a kind of softening of the muscles, a fluttering in her stomach that hovered between apprehension and excitement, a keen attentiveness and heightened physical responses.

      And an involuntary reaction to the memory of his mouth on hers that still embarrassed and shocked her.

      Yes, it sounded like the first stages of attraction, all right. And of course it was doomed, because Rafiq de Couteveille was a kind of king, even though he didn’t have any title.

      No, not a king—a sheikh, she decided, watching him through her lashes. His profile was strongly marked and arrogant, and when he walked she could almost hear the swish of robes about that lean, powerfully muscled body. In spite of the superb tailoring of his clothes and his luxurious car, there was something untamed about him, as though he lived by a more elemental code.

      Beneath the sophisticated exterior he was a warrior, and she sensed a warrior’s uncompromising determination. Clearly he was of French descent, but Rafiq was an Arabic name, and she’d bet that Moraze’s ruler had familial links to both cultures.

      ‘Are you feeling all right?’

      Lexie’s eyes flew open. ‘Yes, fine, thank you,’ she said a little disjointedly.

      Rafiq snatched a sideways glance at his passenger, then fixed his gaze on the road ahead. Her exquisite skin was still pale, and her ribs would probably be painful beneath the seatbelt. ‘It’s not very far now.’

      Smoky eyes hidden by his sunglasses, she leaned forward, a frown showing in her tone. ‘I don’t remember this part of the road.’

      Rafiq shrugged. ‘Possibly because you have not seen it before. When the doctor and I discussed your condition, we agreed it would be better for you to spend the next few days in a place with more peace than the hotel could provide. So you will be staying with me.’

      And he waited with interest and a certain amount of anticipation for her response.

      Her head swung around. She snapped off the sunglasses to glare at him, eyes gleaming the blue of a Spanish sword blade, her lush mouth compressed in outrage. ‘Why wasn’t I included in this discussion?’ she demanded tautly.

      ‘It wasn’t necessary,’ Rafiq replied, intrigued in spite of himself.

      She could be a consummate actress. And she could be truly in love with Gastano. In which case, she’d thank him one day for this abduction.

      After scrutinising him as though she couldn’t believe what she’d heard, her delectable mouth opened, then closed again, to bite back what were clearly intemperate words.

      Fully aware of her seething resentment, Rafiq kept his eyes on the road ahead and waited.

      In the end she said through gritted teeth, ‘There is no need to treat me like a halfwit just because I’ve been in a minor—a very minor—accident.’

      ‘I’m sure your family would agree with me that you need a few days’ respite after a nasty experience,’ he said blandly. ‘Should I contact them to check?’

      ‘No!’

      ‘Why not?’

      After a second’s hesitation, she said reluctantly, ‘My sister is six months’ pregnant. She’d insist on flying out here, and the trip would exhaust her. I’m sure you and the doctor are only thinking of my wellbeing, but I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself. You don’t have to feel any sort of responsibility for me.’

      ‘Possibly not, but the hotel management said they were not equipped to deal with someone convalescing, and it was agreed that this was the best solution.’ He allowed that to sink in, ignoring her mutinous expression to finish, ‘You will spend several days at my home—which is big enough to give you all the privacy you desire—and once the doctor has given you the all-clear you can go back to the hotel.’

      After considering this she said briefly, ‘In that case, I should let Count Gastano know where I’ll be.’

      Rafiq controlled the curl of his lip, despising himself for wanting to believe she was just a naive New Zealand girl entangled by the count’s deceptive charm. His brows drew together. This wildfire, highly inconvenient attraction couldn’t—wouldn’t—be allowed to distract him from his reason for keeping her tucked safely away where she couldn’t contact the self-titled count.

      ‘Gastano has already been told about your accident.’ Rafiq let that sink in, then