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Kidnapped For His Royal Duty
Jane Porter


He needs a substitute bride…And she will be his Queen!When desert Prince Dal’s convenient bride is stolen he must find a replacement—immediately. Suddenly shy secretary Poppy is kidnapped by her merciless boss and whisked away to his kingdom. She’s shocked to find herself willingly surrendering to his expert seduction! But when it becomes clear that Dal has more than pleasure in mind, will Poppy be persuaded to accept his royal proposal?







He needs a substitute bride...

And she will be his queen!

When desert prince Dal’s convenient bride is stolen, he must find a replacement—immediately. Suddenly shy secretary Poppy is kidnapped by her merciless boss and whisked away to his kingdom. She’s shocked to find herself willingly surrendering to his expert seduction! But when it becomes clear that Dal has more than pleasure in mind, will Poppy be persuaded to accept his royal proposal?


New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author JANE PORTER has written forty romances and eleven women’s fiction novels since her first sale to Mills & Boon in 2000. A five-time RITA® Award finalist, Jane is known for her passionate, emotional and sensual novels, and loves nothing more than alpha heroes, exotic locations and happy-ever-afters. Today Jane lives in sunny San Clemente, California, with her surfer husband and three sons. Visit janeporter.com (http://www.janeporter.com).


Also by Jane Porter (#u683a2b59-c2c7-511f-b87b-e0a251099f61)

Bought to Carry His Heir

His Merciless Marriage Bargain

The Disgraced Copelands miniseries

The Fallen Greek Bride

His Defiant Desert Queen

Her Sinful Secret

Stolen Brides collection

Kidnapped for His Royal Duty

And look out for the next Stolen Brides book The Bride’s Baby of Shame by Caitlin Crews Available July 2018

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).


Kidnapped for His Royal Duty

Jane Porter






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-07218-2

KIDNAPPED FOR HIS ROYAL DUTY

© 2018 Jane Porter

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For Kelly Hunter, Carol Marinelli, Abby Green & Heidi Rice.

Thanks for the inspiration and excellent company last summer!

This one is for you!


Contents

Cover (#u790794a0-0e2c-51b1-b543-af1de96ef128)

Back Cover Text (#u9998b6f2-c621-5cd5-a987-1f546249198a)

About the Author (#ue248804e-f909-587b-a552-dfd9848d11bd)

Booklist (#u22cc7734-9cff-56f9-a849-acf9e6caf023)

Title Page (#ud96b8fe0-8ca3-51c5-8b6f-dc2cf8f4c45d)

Copyright (#uce97a577-bcc5-52af-803a-0cfeb07f59d7)

Dedication (#u4f56a7d7-8360-56b1-a3ff-39244c3a74eb)

PROLOGUE (#ud759e678-5313-54ac-8222-a20208daac9f)

CHAPTER ONE (#u13079a74-22a1-5343-ab84-00e903468cdd)

CHAPTER TWO (#u2a017f63-f22b-558c-967b-c45ec52c2de5)

CHAPTER THREE (#ude14963e-445a-5a69-bced-3e33207cc795)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


PROLOGUE (#u683a2b59-c2c7-511f-b87b-e0a251099f61)

THE BRIDE WAS GONE, hauled from the chapel the way a victorious warrior carried the spoils from war.

Poppy’s wide, horrified gaze met Randall Grant’s for a split second before swiftly averting, her stomach plummeting. She’d been trembling ever since the doors flew open and the Sicilian stood framed in the arched doorway like an avenging angel.

She gripped her bridesmaid bouquet tighter, even as relief whispered through her. She’d done it. She’d saved Sophie.

But it wasn’t just Sophie she’d helped; she’d helped Randall, too. Not that Randall Grant, the Sixth Earl of Langston, would be grateful at the moment, because he was the groom after all, and no man wanted to be humiliated in front of two hundred of England and Europe’s most distinguished, their guests having traveled far and wide to Winchester for what the tabloids had been calling the wedding of the year, and would have been the wedding of the year, had the bride not just been unceremoniously hauled away by a Sicilian race car driver. Correction, former race car driver.

Poppy doubted that the Earl of Langston would care about the distinction right now, either, not when he had a church full of guests to deal with. Thank goodness he wasn’t a sensitive or emotional man. There would be no tears or signs of distress from him. No, his notorious stiff upper lip would serve him well as he dealt with the fallout.

But she also knew him better than most, and knew that he wasn’t the Ice Man people thought. She shot Randall another swift glance, strikingly handsome and still in his morning suit, the collar fitted against his strong, tan throat, accenting the lean, elegant lines of his physique, and the chiseled features of his face. He looked like stone at the present.

Detached. Granite-hard. Immovable.

Poppy swallowed quickly once more, trying to smash the worry and guilt. One day Sophie would thank her. And Randall, too, not that she would ever tell him her part in the disaster. He wasn’t just Sophie’s groom—jilted groom—but her boss of four years, and her secret crush. Although he was a very good boss as employers went, and rather protective of her, if he thought she had something to do with this wedding debacle, he’d fire her. Without hesitation. And that would break her heart.

But how could she not write to Renzo?

How could she not send the newspaper clipping? Sophie didn’t love Randall. She was marrying him because her family had thought it would be an excellent business deal back before she was even old enough to drive. It wasn’t a marriage as much as a merger, and Sophie deserved better.

So while Poppy’s conscience needled her, she also remembered how Renzo had shown marauder.

It had been thrilling and impressive—

Well, not for Randall. No, he had to be humiliated. But Sophie... Sophie had just been given a chance at love.


CHAPTER ONE (#u683a2b59-c2c7-511f-b87b-e0a251099f61)

SHE KNEW SOMETHING.

Dal Grant could see it in Poppy’s eyes, the set of her lips and the pinch between her brows.

She’d worked far too long for him not to know that guilty as hell expression, the one she only got when she did something massively wrong and then tried to cover it.

He should have fired her years ago.

She wasn’t irreplaceable. She’d never been an outstanding secretary. She was simply good, and rather decent, and she had the tendency to keep him grounded when he wanted to annihilate someone, or something, as he did now.

Most important, he’d trusted her, which had apparently been the absolutely wrong thing to do.

But he couldn’t press her for information, not with two hundred guests still filling the pews, whispering giddily while Sophie’s father looked gobsmacked and Lady Carmichael-Jones had gone white.

Thank God he didn’t have close family here today to witness this disaster, his mother having died when he was a boy, and then his father had passed away five years ago, just before his thirtieth birthday.

Dal drew a slow, deep breath as he turned toward the pews, knowing it was time to dismiss the guests, including Sophie’s heartsick family. And then he’d deal with Poppy.

* * *

“What did you do?” Randall demanded, cornering Poppy in the tiny antechamber off the chapel altar.

Poppy laced her fingers together uneasily, Randall’s words too loud in her head, even as she became aware of his choice of words.

He hadn’t asked what she knew, but rather, what did she do? Do, as in an action. Do, as in having responsibility.

She glanced over her shoulder, looking for someone who could step in, intervene, but the chapel was empty now, the guests disappearing far more rapidly than one would have imagined; but maybe that was because after Randall announced in a cold, hard voice, “Apologies for wasting your time today, but it appears that the wedding is off,” and then he’d smiled an equally cold, hard smile, the guests had practically raced out.

She’d wanted to race out, too, but Randall pointed at her, gesturing for her to stay, and so she had, while he waved off his aunts and uncles and cousins, and then exchanged brief, uncomfortable words with Sophie’s parents before shaking each of his groomsmen’s hands, sending every single person away. Sending everyone but her.

How she wanted to go, too, and she’d even tried to make a belated escape but he’d caught her as she was inching toward the vestibule exit, trapping her in this little antechamber typically reserved for the clergy.

“What did you do, Poppy?” he repeated more quietly, eyes narrowing, jaw hardening, expression glacial.

Her heart thumped hard. He was tall, much taller then she, and she took an unconscious step backward, her shoulders bumping against the rough bricks. “Nothing,” she whispered, aware that she was a dreadful liar. It was one of the things Sophie said she’d always liked best about her, and the very thing that had made Randall Grant, the Earl of Langston, hire her in the first place four years ago when she needed a job. He said he needed someone he could trust. She assured him he could trust her.

“I don’t believe you,” he answered.

Her heart did another painful thump as her mouth dried.

“Let’s try this again. Where is my bride? And what the hell just happened here, and why?”

Poppy’s eyes widened. Randall Grant never, ever swore. Randall Grant was the model of discipline, self-control and civility.

At least he’d always been so until now.

“I don’t know where she is, and that’s the truth.” Her voice wavered on the last words and she squirmed, hating that he was looking at her as if she’d turned into a three-headed monster. “I had no idea Renzo would storm the wedding like that.”

His dark eyebrow lifted. “Renzo,” he repeated quietly, thoughtfully.

She went hot, then cold, understanding her mistake immediately.

She shouldn’t have said his name. She shouldn’t have said anything.

“Poppy.”

She stared at his square chin and bit her lower lip hard. It was that or risk blurting everything, and she couldn’t do it; it wouldn’t be fair to Sophie.

Instead, she tugged at her snug, low-cut bodice, trying not to panic, which in her case meant dissolving into mindless tears. She actually didn’t feel like crying; she just felt trapped, but whenever trapped, Poppy’s brain malfunctioned and she’d lose track of her thoughts and go silent, and then those traitorous tears would fill her eyes.

It had happened in school. It had happened during her awful summer camps before Sophie rescued her and invited her home with her for the summer holidays. Poppy had thought she’d outgrown the panic attacks, but all of a sudden her chest constricted and her throat closed and she fought for air. Her incredibly tight, overly fitted bridesmaid gown, the icy-pink shade perfect on women like Sophie with porcelain complexions and gleaming hair, but not on short, frumpy secretaries who needed a pop of color near the face to lift a sallow complexion, suffocated her.

“I think I might faint,” she whispered, not quite ready to actually collapse, but close. She needed fresh air, and space...and immediate distance from her furious employer.

Randall’s black brow just lifted. “You don’t faint. You’re just trying to evade giving an honest answer.”

“I can’t get enough air.”

“Then stop babbling and breathe.”

“I don’t babble—”

“Breathe. Through your nose. Out through your mouth. Again. Inhale. Exhale.”

He couldn’t be that angry with her if he was trying to keep her calm. She didn’t want him angry with her. She was just trying to help. She just wanted the people she loved to be happy. Good people deserved happiness, and both Sophie and Randall were good people, only apparently not that good together. And Poppy wouldn’t have sent that note to Renzo about the wedding if Sophie had been happy...

Her eyes prickled and burned as Poppy’s gaze dropped from Randall’s gold eyes to his chin, which was far too close to his lovely, firm mouth, and then lower, to the sharp points of his crisp, white collar.

She struggled to keep her focus on the elegant knot of his tie as she inhaled and exhaled, trying to be mindful of her breathing, but impossible when Randall was standing so close. He was tall, with a fit, honed frame, and at the moment he was exuding so much heat and crackling energy that she couldn’t think straight.

She needed to think of something else or she’d dissolve into another panic attack, and she closed her eyes, trying to pretend she was back in her small, snug flat, wearing something comfortable, her pajamas for example, and curled up in her favorite armchair with a proper cup of tea. The tea would be strong and hot with lots of milk and sugar and she’d dunk a biscuit—

“Better?” he asked after a minute.

She opened her eyes to look right into Randall’s. His eyes were the lightest golden-brown, a tawny shade that Poppy had always thought made him look a little exotic, as well as unbearably regal. But standing this close, his golden eyes were rather too animalistic. Specifically a lion, and a lion wasn’t good company, not when angry. She suppressed a panicked shiver. “Can we go outside, please?”

“I need a straight answer.”

“I’ve told you—”

“You are on a first-name basis with Crisanti. How do you know him, Poppy?” Randall’s voice dropped, hardening.

He hadn’t moved, hadn’t even lifted a finger, and yet he seemed to grow bigger, larger, more powerful. He was exuding so much heat and light that she felt as if she was standing in front of the sun itself. Poppy dragged in a desperate breath, inhaling his fragrance and the scent of his skin, a clean, masculine scent that always made her skin prickle and her insides do a funny little flip. Her skin prickled now, goose bumps covering her arms, her nape suddenly too sensitive. “I don’t know him.”

His eyes flashed at her. “Then how does Sophie know him?”

Poppy balled her hands, nails biting into her palms. She had to be careful. It wouldn’t take much to say the wrong thing. It wasn’t that Poppy had a history of being indiscreet, either, but she didn’t want to be tricked into revealing details that weren’t hers to share, and to be honest, she wasn’t even clear about what had happened that night in Monte Carlo five weeks ago. Obviously, something had happened. Sophie didn’t return home on the last night of the trip, and when they flew out of Monte Carlo, Sophie left Monaco a different woman.

Maybe most people wouldn’t pick up on the change in Sophie, but Poppy wasn’t most people. Sophie wasn’t just her best friend, but the sister Poppy had never had, and the champion she’d needed as a charity girl at Haskell’s School. Sophie had looked out for Poppy from virtually the beginning and finally, after all these years, Poppy had found an opportunity to return the favor, which is why her letter to Renzo Crisanti wasn’t about sabotaging a wedding as much as giving Sophie a shot at true happiness.

* * *

Dal battled to keep his temper. Poppy was proving to be extremely recalcitrant, which was noteworthy in and of itself, as Poppy Marr could type ninety-five words a minute, find anything buried on his desk or lost in his office, but she didn’t tell a lie, or keep a secret, well at all.

And the fact that Poppy was desperately trying to keep a secret told him everything he needed to know.

She was part of this fiasco today. Of course she hadn’t orchestrated it—she wasn’t that clever—but she knew the whys and hows and that was what he wanted and needed to understand.

“Go collect your things,” he said shortly. “We’re leaving immediately.”

“Go where?” she asked unsteadily.

“Does it matter?”

“I’ve plans to go on holiday. You gave me the next week off.”

“That was when I expected to be on holiday myself, but the honeymoon is off, which means your holiday is canceled, too.”

She blinked up at him. She seemed to be struggling to find her voice. “That doesn’t seem fair,” she finally whispered.

“What doesn’t seem fair is that you knew about Crisanti and Sophie and you never said a word to me.” He stared down into her wide, anxious eyes, not caring that she looked as if she might truly faint any moment, because her thoughtlessness had jeopardized his future and security. “Collect your things and meet me in front of the house. We’re leaving immediately.”

* * *

Poppy was so grateful to be out of the antechamber and away from Randall that she practically ran through the Langston House entrance and up the huge, sweeping staircase to the suite on the second floor that the bride and attendants had used this morning to prepare for the ceremony.

The other bridesmaids had already collected their things and all that was left was Sophie’s purse and set of luggage, the two smart suitcases packed for the honeymoon—and then off to one side, Poppy’s small overnight bag.

Poppy eyed Sophie’s handsome suitcases, remembering the treasure trove of gorgeous new clothes inside—bikinis and sarongs, skirts, tunics and kaftans by the top designers—for a ten-day honeymoon in the Caribbean. A honeymoon that wasn’t going to happen now.

Suddenly, Poppy’s legs gave out and she slid into the nearest chair, covering her face with her hands.

She really hoped one day Randall would thank her, but she sensed that wouldn’t be for quite a while, but in the meantime, she needed to help Randall pick up the pieces.

She was good at that sort of thing, too.

Well, pretty good, if it had to do with business affairs and paperwork. Poppy excelled at paperwork, and filing things, and then retrieving those things, and making travel arrangements, and then canceling the arrangements.

She spent a huge chunk of every day booking and rebooking meetings, conferences, lunches, dinners, travel.

But Poppy never complained. Randall gave her a purpose. Yes, he’d been Sophie’s fiancé all this time, but he was the reason she woke up every day with a smile, eager to get to work. She loved her job. She loved—no, too strong a word, particularly in light of today’s fiasco, but she did rather adore—her boss. Randall was incredibly intelligent, and interesting and successful. He was also calm, to the point of being unflappable, and when there was a crisis at work, he was usually the one to calm her down.

She hated humiliating Randall today. It hurt her to have hurt him, but Sophie didn’t love Randall. Sophie was only marrying Randall because her family had thought it would be an excellent business deal back before she was even old enough to drive. It wasn’t a marriage as much as a merger and Sophie deserved better. And Randall definitely deserved better, too.

“I came to find out what was taking so long,” Randall said from the doorway.

His voice was hard and icy-cold. Poppy stiffened and straightened, swiftly wiping away tears. “Sorry. I just need a moment.”

“You’ve had a moment. You’ve had five minutes of moments.”

“I don’t think it was that long.”

“And I don’t think I even know who you are anymore.”

She blanched, looking at him where he remained silhouetted in the doorway. “I’m not trying to be difficult.”

“But at the same time you’re not trying to help. I don’t want to be here. I have my entire staff downstairs trying to figure out what to do with the hundreds of gifts and floral arrangements, never mind that monstrosity of a wedding cake in the reception tent.”

“Of course. Right.” She rose and headed toward Sophie’s luggage. “Let me just take these downstairs.”

“Those are Sophie’s, not yours. She can make her own arrangements for her luggage.”

“She’s my best friend—”

“I don’t care.”

“I do, and as her maid of honor—”

“You work for me, not her, and if you wish to continue in my employ, you will get your own bag and follow me. Otherwise—”

“There’s no need to threaten me. I was just trying to help.”

“Mrs. Holmes manages my house. You manage my business affairs,” he answered, referring to his housekeeper.

“I just thought Mrs. Holmes has quite a lot to manage at the moment. She doesn’t need another worry.”

“Mrs. Holmes is the very model of efficiency. She’ll be fine.” He crossed the room and pointed to a small, worn overnight case. “Is this one yours?” When he saw her nod, he picked up her case. “Let’s go, then. The car is waiting.”

Poppy’s brow furrowed as she glanced back at Sophie’s set of suitcases but there was nothing she could do now, and so she followed Randall down the sweeping staircase and out the front door.

Mrs. Holmes was waiting outside the big brick house for them.

“Not to worry about a thing, sir,” she said to Randall, before turning to Poppy and whispering in her ear, “Poor lamb. He must be devastated.”

Poppy wouldn’t have described Randall as a poor lamb, or all that devastated, but Mrs. Holmes had a very different relationship with Randall Grant than she did. “He’ll recover,” Poppy answered firmly. “He’s been caught off guard, but he’ll be fine. I promise.”

Randall’s black Austin Healey two-seater convertible was parked at the base of the stairs in the huge oval driveway.

He put Poppy’s overnight bag in the boot, and then opened the passenger door for her. The car was low to the ground and even though Poppy was short, she felt as if she had to drop into the seat and then smash the pink gown’s ballerina-style tulle in around her so that Randall could close the door.

“This is a ridiculous dress to travel in,” she muttered.

She’d thought she’d been quiet enough that he wouldn’t hear but he did. “You can change on the plane,” he said.

“What plane?” she asked.

“My plane.”

“But that was for your honeymoon.”

“Yes, and it can fly other places than the Caribbean,” he said drily, sliding behind the steering wheel and tugging on his tie to loosen it.

“Speaking of which, should I begin canceling your travel arrangements?”

“My travel arrangements?”

She flushed. “Your...honeymoon.”

He gave her a look she couldn’t decipher. “I may have lost my bride at the altar, but I’m not completely inept. Seeing as I made the reservations, I will cancel them.”

Her hands twisted in her lap. “I’m just trying to help.”

“I’m sure you are. You are a singularly devoted secretary, always looking out for my best interests.”

She sucked in a breath at the biting sarcasm. “I’ve always done my best for you.”

“Does that include today?”

“What does that mean?”

“What do you think it means, Poppy? Or have you suddenly become exceptionally good at playing dumb?”

* * *

Dal wanted to throttle Poppy; he really did. She knew far more than she was letting on but she was determined to play her role in whatever scheme she and Sophie had concocted.

He was disgusted, and not just with them, but with himself. He’d always believed himself to be an excellent judge of character, but obviously he was wrong. Sophie and Poppy had both betrayed his trust.

He hated himself for being oblivious and gullible.

He hated that he’d allowed himself to be played the fool.

His father had always warned him not to trust a woman, and he’d always privately rolled his eyes, aware that his father had issues, but perhaps in this instance his father had been right.

Dal’s hand tightened on the steering wheel as he drove the short distance from Langston House to the private airport outside Winchester. There was very little traffic and the sky was blue, the weather warm without being hot. Perfect June day for a wedding. This morning everything had seemed perfect, too, until it became the stuff of nightmares.

He gripped the wheel harder, imagining the headlines in tomorrow’s papers. How the media loved society and scandal. The headlines were bound to be salacious.

Unlike Sophie, he hated being in the public eye, detesting everything to do with society. In his mind there was nothing worse than English society with its endless fascination of classes and aristocrats, and new versus old money.

He’d spent the past ten years trying to avoid scandal, and it infuriated him to be thrust into the limelight. The attention would be significant, and just thinking about having cameras or microphones thrust in his face made him want to punch something, and he hadn’t wanted to fight in years.

Dal had been a fighter growing up, so much so, that he’d nearly lost his place at Cambridge after a particularly nasty brawl. He hadn’t started the fight, but he’d ended it, and it hadn’t mattered to the deans or his father, that he’d fought to defend his mother’s name. To the powers that be, fighting was ungentlemanly, and Dal Grant, the future Earl of Langston, was expected to uphold his legacy, not tarnish it.

The school administrators had accepted his apology and pledge, but his father hadn’t been so easily appeased. His father had been upset for weeks after, and then as usual, his anger finally broke, and after the rage came the despair.

As a boy, Dal had dreaded the mood swings. As a young man, he’d found them intolerable. But he couldn’t walk away from his father. There was no one else to manage the earl, never mind the earldom, the estates and the income. Dal had to step up; he had to become the dutiful son, and he had, sacrificing his wants for his father’s mental stability, going so far to agree to marry the woman his father had picked out for him fifteen years ago.

Thank God his father wasn’t alive today. His father wouldn’t have handled today’s humiliation well. God only knows what he would have done, never mind when. But his father wasn’t present, which meant Dal could sort out this impossible situation without his father’s ranting.

And he would sort it out.

He knew exactly how he’d sort it out. Dal shot a narrowed glance in Poppy’s direction. She was convenient, tenderhearted and malleable, making her the easiest and fastest solution for his problem.

He knew she also had feelings for him, which should simplify the whole matter.

Dal tugged on his tie, loosening it, trying to imagine where they could go.

He needed to take her away, needed someplace private and remote, somewhere that no one would think to look. The Caribbean island he’d booked for the honeymoon was remote and private, but he’d never go there now. But remote was still desirable. Someplace that no one could get near them, or bother them...

Someplace where he could seduce Poppy. It shouldn’t take long. Just a few days and she’d acquiesce. But it had to be private, and cut off from the outside world.

Suddenly, Dal saw pink. Not the icy-pink of Poppy’s bridesmaid dress, but the warm, sun-kissed pink of the Mehkar summer palace tucked in the stark red Atlas Mountains... Kasbah Jolie.

He hadn’t thought about his mother’s desert palace in years and yet suddenly it was all he could see. It was private and remote, the sprawling, rose-tinted villa nestled on a huge, private estate, between sparkling blue-tiled pools and exquisite gardens fragrant with roses and lavender, mint and thyme.

The spectacular estate was a two-hour drive from the nearest airport, and four hours from the capital city of Gila. It took time to reach this hidden gem secreted in the rugged Atlas Mountains, the estate carved from a mountain peak with breathtaking views of mountains, and a dark blue river snaking through the fertile green valley far below.

He hadn’t been back since he was an eleven-year-old boy, and he hadn’t thought he’d ever want to return, certain it would be too painful, but suddenly he was tempted, seriously tempted, to head east. It was his land, his estate, after all. Where better to seduce his secretary, and make her his bride?

The jet sat fueled and waiting for him at this very moment at the private airfield, complete with a flight crew and approved flight plan. If he wanted to go to Mehkar, the staff would need to file a new flight plan, but that wasn’t a huge ordeal.

Once upon a time, Mehkar had been as much his home as England. Once upon a time, he’d preferred Mehkar to anyplace else. The only negative he could think of would be creating false hope in his grandfather. His grandfather had waited patiently all these years for Dal to return, and Dal hated to disappoint his grandfather but Dal wasn’t returning for good.

He’d have to send word to his grandfather so the king wouldn’t be caught off guard, but this wasn’t a homecoming for Dal. It was merely a chance to buy him time while he decided how he’d handle his search for a new bride.


CHAPTER TWO (#u683a2b59-c2c7-511f-b87b-e0a251099f61)

POPPY CHEWED THE inside of her lip as the sports car approached the airstrip outside Winchester.

She could see the sleek, white jet with the navy and burgundy pinstripes on the tarmac. It was fueled and staffed, waiting for the bride and groom to go to their Caribbean island for an extended honeymoon.

She’d only learned that Randall owned his own plane a few weeks ago, and that he kept the jet in a private hangar at an executive terminal in London. Poppy had been shocked by the discovery, wondering why she hadn’t known before. She’d handled a vast array of his business affairs for years. Shouldn’t she have known that he owned a plane, as well as kept a dedicated flight crew on payroll?

“We’re back to London, then?” she asked Randall as the electric gates opened, giving them admittance to the private airfield.

“Will there be press in London?” he retorted grimly.

“Yes,” she answered faintly.

“Then we absolutely won’t go there.”

His icy disdain made her shiver inwardly. This was a side of him she didn’t know. Randall had always been a paragon of control, rarely revealing emotion, and certainly never displaying temper. But he’d been through hell today, she reminded herself, ridiculously loyal, not because she had to be, but because she wanted to be. He was one of the finest men she knew, and it could be argued that she didn’t know many men, but that didn’t change the fact that he was brilliant and honorable, a man with tremendous integrity. And yes, she had placed him on a pedestal years ago, but that was because he deserved to be there, and just because he was short-tempered today didn’t mean she was ready to let him topple off that pedestal. “But won’t there be press everywhere?” she asked carefully.

“Not everywhere, no.”

“You have a place in mind, then?”

He shot her a look then, rather long and speculative. It made her feel uncomfortably bare, as if he could see through her. “Yes.”

Her skin prickled and she gave her arm a quick rub, smoothing away the sudden goose bumps. “Is it far?”

“It’s not exactly close.”

“You know I don’t have my laptop,” she added briskly, trying to cover her unease. “It’s in London. Perhaps we could stop in London first—”

“No.”

She winced.

She knew he saw her expression because his jaw hardened and his eyes blazed, making her feel as if he somehow knew her role in today’s disaster, but he couldn’t know. Sophie didn’t even know, and Sophie was the one hauled away on Renzo’s shoulder.

Randall braked next to the plane and turned the engine off. “You can cry if you want, but I don’t feel sorry for you, not one little bit.”

“I’m not crying,” she flashed.

“But knowing you, you will be soon. You’re the proverbial watering pot, Poppy.”

She turned her head away, determined to ignore his insults. She’d take the higher ground today since he couldn’t. It couldn’t be easy being humiliated in front of hundreds of people—

“I trusted you,” he gritted, his voice low and rough. “I trusted you and you’ve let me down.”

Her head snapped around and she looked into his eyes. His fury was palpable, his golden gaze burning into her.

Her heart hammered. Her mouth went dry. “I’m sorry.”

“Then tell me the truth so we can clear up the confusion of just what the hell happened earlier today.”

“Renzo took Sophie.”

“I got that part. Witnessed it firsthand. But what I want to know is why. Why did he come? Why did Sophie go? Why are they together now when she was supposed to be here with me? You know the story. I think it’s only fair that I know it, too.”

Poppy’s lips parted but she couldn’t make a sound.

His narrowed gaze traveled her face before he gave his head a shake. “I appreciate that you’re loyal to Sophie. I admire friends that look out for each other. But in this instance, you took the wrong side, Poppy. Sophie was engaged to me. Sophie had promised to marry me. If you knew she was having a relationship with another man, you should have come to me. You should have warned me instead of leaving me out there, stupid and exposed.” And then he swung open his door and stepped out, walking from her in long, fast strides as if he couldn’t wait to get away from her.

Poppy exhaled in a slow, shuddering breath. He was beyond livid with her. He was also hurt. She’d never meant to wound him. She’d wanted the best for him, too. And beautiful Sophie would have been the best if she’d loved him, but Sophie didn’t love him. There had been no love between them, just agreements and money and mergers.

Shaken, Poppy opened her door and stepped out. She needed to fix this, but how? What could she possibly do now to make it better?

She wouldn’t argue with him, that was for sure. And she’d let him be angry, because he had a right to be angry, and she’d be even more agreeable and amenable than usual so that he’d know she was sorry, and determined to make amends.

Poppy went around to the back of the car to retrieve her bag, but a young uniformed man approached and said he would be taking care of the luggage and she was to go on board where a flight attendant would help her get settled.

Poppy wasn’t surprised by the brisk efficiency. Randall’s helicopter was always available and his staff was always the epitome of professional but it still boggled her mind that he had a helicopter and a private plane. It had to be a terrible expense maintaining both of these, as well as his fleet of cars. Randall loved cars. It was one of his passions, collecting vintage models as if they were refrigerator magnets.

“What about the car?” she asked him.

“I’m driving it back to Langston House,” the young man answered with a quick smile. “Do you have everything?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Enjoy your flight.”

Poppy boarded the plane self-consciously, pushing back dark tendrils of hair that had come loose from the pins. She felt wildly overdressed and yet exposed at the same time. She wanted a shawl for her bare shoulders and comfy slippers for her feet. But at least she wasn’t the only one in formal dress. Randall still wore his morning suit, although he’d loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button on his crisp, white dress shirt.

A flight attendant emerged from the jet’s compact kitchen galley and greeted Poppy with a smile. “Welcome on board,” she said. “Any seat.”

The flight attendant followed Poppy down the narrow aisle, past a small conference table to a group of four leather armchairs. The seats were wide and they appeared to be the reclining kind with solid armrests and luxuriously soft leather.

She gingerly sat down in the nearest chair and it was very comfortable indeed.

“Something to drink?” the pretty, blonde flight attendant asked. “A glass of champagne? We have a lovely bottle on ice.”

“I’m not the bride,” Poppy said quickly.

“I know. But the wedding is off so why not enjoy the bubbles?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. I don’t want to upset Randall.”

“He was the one who suggested it.”

Poppy laughed, nervous. “In that case, yes, a small glass might be nice. I’m shaking like a leaf.”

“From the sound of things, it’s been quite a day. A little fizz should help you relax.”

The flight attendant returned to the galley and moments later Randall and the pilots boarded the plane. The three men stood in front of the cockpit, still deep in discussion. The discussion looked serious, too. There wasn’t much smiling on anyone’s part, but then, Randall wasn’t a man that smiled often. She wouldn’t have described him as grim or stern, either, but rather quiet and self-contained. The upside was that when he spoke, people listened to him, but unfortunately, Randall didn’t speak often enough, tending to sit back and listen and let others fill the silence with their voices. Sophie thought his silence and reserve made him rather dull, but there were plenty of women who found him mysterious, asking Poppy in whispers what was the Earl of Langston really like?

Poppy usually answered with a dramatic pause and then a hushed, Fascinating.

Because he was.

He had a brilliant mind and had taken his father’s businesses and investments and parlayed them into even bigger businesses and more successful investments, and that alone would have been noteworthy, but Randall did more than just make money. He gave his time generously, providing leadership on a dozen different boards, as well as volunteered with a half dozen different charities, including several organizations in the Middle East. Randall was particularly valuable to those latter organizations since he could speak a staggering number of languages, including Egyptian, Arabic and Greek.

The Earl of Langston worked hard, very hard.

If one were to criticize him it would be that he worked too much. Sophie certainly thought so. Poppy had tried to educate Sophie on Randall’s business, thinking that if Sophie was more interested in Randall’s work and life, the couple would have more in common, and would therefore enjoy each other’s company more, but Sophie wasn’t interested in the boards Randall sat on, or his numerous investments. Her ears had pricked at the charity work, because Sophie had her own favorite charities, but the interest didn’t last long, in part because Randall failed to reciprocate. He took Sophie for granted. He didn’t try to woo her, or romance her. There were no little weekends away. No special dinners out. It was almost as if they were an old married couple even before they married.

Sophie deserved better. She deserved more.

Poppy hoped that Renzo marching down the aisle of Langston Chapel would ultimately be a good thing for Sophie.

But even if it was a good thing, it would be scandalous. It would always be scandalous.

Heartsick, Poppy closed her eyes and found herself wondering about Sophie. Was she okay? Where had Renzo taken her? And what was happening in her world now?

“Guilty conscience, Poppy?”

Randall’s deep, husky voice seemed to vibrate all the way through her.

She opened her eyes and straightened quickly, shoulders squaring so that the boned bodice pressed her breasts up.

He was standing over her, which meant she had to tilt her head back to look up at him. He was tall and lean, and his elegant suit should have made him look elegant, too, but instead he struck her as hard and fierce, and more than a little bit savage, which was both strange and awful because until today she would have described Randall Grant as the most decent man she’d ever met. Until today she would have trusted him with her life. Now she wasn’t so sure.

“No,” she said breathlessly, worried about being alone with him. It wasn’t that he’d hurt her, but he struck her as unpredictable, and this new unpredictability made her incredibly anxious.

The flight attendant appeared behind him with the flute of champagne. “For Miss Marr,” she said.

Randall took it from her and handed it to Poppy. “We’re celebrating, are we?” he said mockingly.

Her pulse jumped as their fingers brushed, the sharp staccato making her breathless and jittery. She glanced from his cool, gold eyes into the golden bubbles fizzing in her flute. “The flight attendant said you were the one that suggested the champagne.”

“I was curious to see what you would do.”

Her eyes stung. Her throat threatened to seal closed. “Take it back, then,” she said, pushing the flute back toward him. “I didn’t want it in the first place.”

“I wish I could believe you.”

The hardness in his voice made her ache. She’d thought she’d done the right thing by writing to Renzo, but now she wasn’t sure. Had she been wrong about Randall and Sophie?

Did Randall actually love her? Had Poppy just inadvertently broken his heart?

It didn’t help being this physically close to Randall when her emotions were so unsettled, either. Nor did she know how to read this new Randall Grant. He wasn’t anything like the quiet, considerate man she’d worked for, a man who always seemed to know how to handle her.

“You like champagne,” he said carelessly, dropping into the seat opposite hers. “Keep it. I have a drink coming, too.”

“Yes, but I shouldn’t drink, not when working. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You were thinking that you’re a bundle of nerves, and a little bit of alcohol sounded like the perfect tonic.”

“Maybe. But we don’t drink together. I don’t think you and I have ever had a drink, just the two of us. If there was wine, or champagne open, it’s because Sophie was there and Sophie wanted a glass and we never let her drink alone.”

“No, we never did. We both looked after her, didn’t we?”

Poppy’s throat thickened. “Please don’t hate her.”

“It’s impossible to like her right now.”

Poppy stared down into her glass. “Maybe it’s better if we don’t discuss her.”

“Four hours ago she was to be my wife. Now I’m to simply forget her? Just like that?”

She looked up at him, struggling to think of something she could say, but nothing came to her and she just gave him a look that she hoped was properly sympathetic without being pitying.

“I’m shocked and angry, not broken. Save the sympathy for someone who needs it.”

“Do you want her back?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Why?”

“Because even if she did decide she’d made a mistake, I don’t think you’d forgive and forget. At least not for a long time.”

The corner of his mouth curled. “I don’t like being played for a fool, no,” he said, giving her a long, penetrating look that made her squirm because it seemed to imply that he also thought she had played him for a fool. And if that was the case, then spending the next week working together was asking for trouble. He wouldn’t be in a proper state of mind.

The flight attendant appeared with a crystal tumbler. “Your whiskey,” she said, handing him the glass. “Captain Winter also wanted you to know that the new flight plan has been approved, and we’ll be departing in just a few minutes.”

“Thank you,” Randall said, giving the attendant a warm smile, the kind of smile he used to give Poppy, the kind of smile that had made her put him on a pedestal in the beginning.

And just like that, tears filled her eyes and she had to duck her head so he wouldn’t see. Because if she did look at him, he’d see more than she wanted him to see. Randall was startlingly perceptive. He paid attention to people and things, picking up on details others missed.

“I knew it wouldn’t be long before you got weepy,” he said, extending his long legs, invading her space. “Before this morning, I would have said you are nothing if not predictable, but you surprised me today. You’re not at all who I thought you were.”

She drew her legs back farther to keep her ankles from touching his, and told herself to bite her tongue, and then bite it again because arguing with him would only make the tension worse.

He gave his glass a shake, letting the amber liquid swirl. “Did you know about Crisanti?”

Poppy continued to bite her tongue, because how could she answer that without incriminating herself? Clearly in this case, the best answer was no answer.

“Poppy.”

The flight attendant was closing the door and locking it securely, and the deliberate steps made Poppy want to jump out of her chair and race off the plane. She should go now, while she could do. She needed to escape. She needed to go. She couldn’t stay here with Randall—

“My bride was carted off from the church today, and she didn’t even make a peep of protest,” he continued quietly, almost lazily, even as his intense gaze skewered her. She didn’t even have to look at him to know he was staring her down because she could feel it all the way through her.

Poppy swallowed hard. “I think she peeped.”

“No, she didn’t. And neither did you.” He growled the words, temper rising, and she jerked her head up to look at him, and the look he gave her was so savage and dark that Poppy’s pulse jumped and her stomach lurched.

“You weren’t surprised to see Crisanti marching down the aisle today,” he added, lifting a finger to stop her protest. “Enough with the lying. It doesn’t become you. You forget, I know you. I’ve worked with you, worked closely with you, and I saw it in your face, saw it in your eyes.”

“Saw what?”

“Guilt. But I also saw something else. You were happy to see Crisanti arrive. You were elated.”

“I wasn’t elated.”

“But you weren’t devastated.”

She placed the flute down on the narrow table next to her. “I’d like to take my vacation time, the time you promised me. I don’t think it’s a good idea to work together this next week. I think we both need some time, and time apart—”

“No.”

“I can take the train back to London.”

“No.”

“I don’t enjoy you like this—”

“Perhaps it’s not about you anymore, Poppy. Perhaps it’s now about me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I want to know what happened today. I want to know everything.”

His voice was deep and rough and it scratched her senses. She dragged her attention up, her gaze soaking in his face. She knew that face so well, knew his brow and every faint crease at the corner of his eyes. She knew how he’d tighten his jaw when displeased, and how his lips firmed as he concentrated while reading. If he was very angry, his features would go blank and still. If he was relaxed, his lovely mouth would lift—

No. Not lovely.

She shouldn’t ever think his mouth was lovely.

Even though she’d vanished, he still belonged to Sophie. He’d always belong to Sophie. They’d been engaged since Sophie was eighteen, with the understanding that they’d be married one day happening even earlier in their lives.

The fact was, Randall and Sophie had been practically matched since birth, an arrangement that suited both families, and the respective family fortunes, and Sophie insisted she was good with it. She’d told Poppy more than once that she hadn’t ever expected to marry for love, and wasn’t particularly troubled by the lack of romance since she liked Dal, and Dal liked her, and they complemented each other well.

A lump filled her throat because Poppy didn’t just like Randall, she truly cared for him. Deeply cared. The kind of feelings that put butterflies in her stomach and made her chest tighten with tenderness. “It’s not my place,” she choked. “I wasn’t your bride!”

“But you were part of today’s circus. You took part in the charade.”

“It wasn’t a charade!”

“Then where is Sophie?”

* * *

His question hung there between them, heavy and suffocating, and Dal knew Poppy was miserable; her brown eyes were full of shadows and sorrow, and usually he hated seeing her unhappy. Usually he wanted to lift her when she struggled but not today. Today she deserved to suffer.

He’d trusted her. He’d trusted her even more than Sophie, and he’d planned on spending the rest of his life with Sophie.

Dal shook his head, still trying to grasp it all.

If Sophie had been so unhappy marrying him, why didn’t she just break the engagement before it got to this point?

It was not as if he didn’t have other options. Women threw themselves at him daily. Women were constantly letting him know that they found him desirable. Beautiful, educated, polished women who made it known that they’d do anything to become his countess, and if marriage was out, then perhaps his mistress?

But he’d been loyal to Sophie, despite their long engagement. Or at least he’d been faithful once the engagement had been made public, which was five and a half years ago. Before the public engagement was the private understanding, an understanding reached between the fathers, the Earl of Langston and Sir Carmichael-Jones. But for five and a half years, he’d held himself in check because Sophie, stunning Sophie Carmichael-Jones, was a virgin, and she’d made it clear that she intended to remain a virgin until her wedding night.

He now seriously doubted that when she’d walked down the aisle today she’d still been a virgin.

Dal swore beneath his breath, counting down the minutes until they reached their cruising altitude so he could escape to the small back cabin, which doubled as a private office and a bedroom.

Once they stopped climbing, he unfastened his seat belt and disappeared into the back cabin, which had a desk, a reclining leather chair and a wall bed. The wall bed could easily be converted when needed, but Dal had never used it as a bedroom. He preferred to work on his flights, not rest.

Closing the door, he removed his jacket, tugged off his tie and unbuttoned his dress shirt. Half-dressed, he opened the large black suitcase that had been stowed in the closet and found a pair of trousers and a light tan linen shirt that would be appropriate for the heat of the Atlas Mountains.

Hard to believe he was heading to Mehkar.

It’d been so long.

No one would think to look for him in his mother’s country, either, much less his father’s family. Dal’s late father had orchestrated the schism, savagely cutting off his mother’s family following the fatal car accident twenty-three years ago.

It was on his twenty-first birthday that his past resurrected itself. He’d been out celebrating his birthday with friends and returned worse for the wear to his Cambridge flat to discover a bearded man in kaffiyeh, the traditional long white robes Arab men wore, on his doorstep.

It had been over ten years since he’d last seen his mother’s father, but instead of moving forward to greet his grandfather, he stood back, aware that he reeked of alcohol and cigarette smoke, aware, too, of the disapproval in his grandfather’s dark eyes.

Randall managed a stiff, awkward bow. “Sheikh bin Mehkar.”

“As-Salam-u-Alaikum,” his grandfather had answered. Peace be to you. He extended his hand, then, to Randall. “No handshake? No hug?”

It was a rebuke. A quiet rebuke, but a reproof nonetheless. Randall stiffened, ashamed, annoyed, uncomfortable, and he put his hand in his grandfather’s even as he glanced away, toward the small window at the end of the hall, angry that his mother’s father was here now. Where had he been for the past ten years? Where had his grandmother gone and the aunts and uncles and cousins who had filled his childhood?

He’d needed them as a grieving boy. He’d needed them to remind him that his beautiful mother had existed, as by Christmas his father had stripped Langston House of all her photos and mementos, going so far as to even remove the huge oil family portrait only completed the year before, the portrait of a family in happier days—father, mother and sons—from above the sixteenth-century Dutch sideboard in the formal dining room.

Perhaps if Dal hadn’t spent a night drinking, perhaps if Dal’s phone call with his father the evening before hadn’t been so tense and terse, full of duty and obligation, maybe Dal would have remembered the affection his mother had held for her parents, in particular, her father, who had allowed her to leave to marry her handsome, titled, cash-strapped Englishman.

And so instead of being glad to see this lost grandfather, Dal curtly invited his grandfather in. “Would you like tea? I could put the kettle on.”

“Only if you shower first.”

And Randall Grant, the second-born son who shouldn’t have become the heir, the second son who had never flaunted his wealth or position, snapped, “I will have my tea first. Come in, Grandfather, if you wish. But I’m not going to be told what to do, not today, and certainly not by you.”

Dark gaze hooded, Sheikh Mansur bin Mehkar looked his oldest living grandson, Randall Michael Talal, up and down, and then turned around and walked away.

Randall stood next to his door, his flat key clenched in his hand, and watched his grandfather head for the steep staircase.

He should go after him.

He should apologize.

He should ask where his grandfather was staying.

He should suggest meeting for dinner.

He should.

He didn’t.

It wasn’t until the next morning that Randall discovered the envelope half-hidden by the thin doormat. Inside the envelope was a birthday greeting and a packet of papers. For his twenty-first birthday he’d been given Kasbah Jolie, his mother’s favorite home, the home that had also been the Mehkar royal family’s summer palace for the past three hundred and fifty years.

He wouldn’t know for another ten years that along with the summer palace, he’d also been named as the successor to the Mehkar throne.

But both discoveries only hardened his resolve to keep his distance from his mother’s family. He didn’t want the throne. He didn’t want to live in, or rule, Mehkar. He didn’t want anything to do with the summer palace, either, a place he still associated far too closely with his beloved mother, a mother he’d lost far too early. It was bad enough that at eleven he’d become Viscount Langston following his older brother’s death. Why would he want to be responsible for Mehkar, too?

* * *

Poppy glanced up and watched as Dal approached. He’d changed into dark trousers and a light tan linen shirt, the shirt an almost perfect match for his pale gold eyes. He looked handsome, impossibly handsome, but then, he always did. She just never let herself dwell on it, knowing that her attraction was unprofessional and would only lead to complications. Gorgeous, wealthy men like Randall Grant did not like women like her. Why should they when they could have the Sophie Carmichael-Joneses of the world?

“Your turn,” Randall said shortly. “And once you change, please throw that damn dress away. I never want to see it again.”

“Where is my bag?”

“In the closet in the back cabin.”

Poppy located her worn overnight bag in the closet but when she opened it, she had only her nightgown, travel toiletries, a pair of tennis shoes and her favorite jeans. The jeans and tennis shoes were good, but she couldn’t leave the cabin without a shirt.

* * *

Poppy sat back on her heels and tried to remember where she’d put the rest of her clothes. Had they gotten caught up in Sophie’s things? Or had she left them at the hotel when they checked out this morning?

Suppressing a sigh, she returned to the chairs in the main cabin.

The flight attendant was in the middle of setting up a table for a late lunch, covering the folding table with a fine white cloth before laying out china plates with thick bands of gold, crystal stemware, and real sterling flatware.

“You didn’t change,” Randall said, spotting her.

“I don’t have a blouse or top or...or bra...for that matter.”

“You could borrow one of my shirts, and braless is fine. It’s just me here. I won’t stare.”

* * *

There was nothing provocative in his words and yet her face and body flooded with heat. “Then yes, thank you. Because I’m ready to get out of this dress, too.”

He rose from his seat, stepping around the table, and she followed him back to the cabin. The private cabin was small, and felt even tinier when Randall entered the room with her.

She stepped back so he’d have room to open his suitcase and find a suitable shirt for her.

“What are you wearing on the bottom?” he asked.

“Jeans.”

He rifled through his clothes, selecting a white dress shirt with blue pinstripes for her. “This should cover you,” he said.

“Thank you.”

He nodded, and he turned to leave and she took a step to give him more room but somehow they’d both stepped in the same direction and now he was practically on top of her and he put out a hand to steady her, but his hand went to her waist, not her elbow, and his hand seemed to burn all the way through the thin silk fabric, and she gasped, lips parting, skin heating, her entire body blisteringly warm.

In the close confines of the cabin, she caught a lingering whiff of the cologne he’d put on this morning and it was rich and spicy and she wanted to step closer to him and bury her face in his chest, and breathe him in more deeply.

He smelled so good, and when he touched her, he felt so good, and it was frightening how fast she was losing those boundaries so essential to a proper working relationship.

“Looks like we’re tripping each other up,” he said, his deep voice pitched so low it made the hair on her nape rise and her breasts tighten inside her corset, skin far too sensitive.

“I’m sorry,” she said breathlessly. “I didn’t mean to get in your way,” and yet she couldn’t seem to step away, or give him space.

His hands wrapped around her upper arms and he gently but firmly lifted her, placing her back a foot, and then he exited the small cabin without a glance back.

Poppy exhaled in a rush, shuddering at the extreme awkwardness of what had just taken place. She’d walked into him, and then stayed there, planted, as if she’d become a tree and had grown miraculous roots.

Why?

Poppy carefully closed the door and then pressed her shoulder to the frame, wishing she could stay barricaded in the cabin forever. It was one thing to have an innocent crush on your boss, but it was another to want his touch, and Poppy wanted his touch. She wanted his hands on her in the worst sort of way. Which raised the question, what kind of person was she?

Poppy had always prided herself on her scruples. Well, where were they now?


CHAPTER THREE (#u683a2b59-c2c7-511f-b87b-e0a251099f61)

POPPY STRUGGLED WITH the minute hooks on the pink dress, freeing herself little by little until she could wiggle out of the gown. The dress had been so tight that it had left livid pink marks all over her rib cage and breasts. It was bliss to finally be free and she slid the shirt on, buttoning the front. The fabric had been lightly starched and it rubbed against her nipples, making them tighten. She prayed Randall wouldn’t notice. Things were already so awkward between them. She’d always thought they had the ideal relationship, professional but warm, cordial and considerate, but today had changed everything.

Today he overwhelmed her, and her brain told her to run but there was another part of her that desperately wanted to stay.

And be touched.

That was a very worrying part of her.

She’d have to work hard to keep that part in check, because elegant, refined Randall Grant was one thing, but dark, brooding Dal Grant was something else altogether.

Poppy finished changing, stepping into the soft, faded jeans that now hung on her hips thanks to four months of determined dieting, and after pulling the pins from her hair, she slipped her feet into her tennis shoes and headed back to her seat.

While she was gone, the flight attendant added a low arrangement of flowers to the center of the table, the lush red and pink roses reminiscent of the bouquet Sophie had carried this morning. The flowers made Poppy heartsick and guilty all over again.

“You look more comfortable,” he said as she slid into her seat.

“I am.”

“Tell me your sizes and I’ll have some basics waiting for us when we land.”

“I can shop for myself, thank you.”

“There won’t be shops where we’re going.”

“Where are we going?”

“Jolie.”

The flight attendant appeared with the salad course, and Poppy waited for Randall to reach for his fork before she did the same. “Is it a country house?” she asked.

He didn’t pick up his fork, or answer right away, instead he glanced away, his long black lashes lowering, accenting the high, hard lines of his cheekbones.

She’d always thought he had the most impressive bone structure, with his lovely high cheekbones, strong jaw and chin coupled with that long nose. Sophie had always disdained of his nose—not refined enough—but Poppy had disagreed, thinking he had the nose of a Roman or Greek.

“Something like that,” he finally answered, his dark head turning, his light gold gaze returning to her, studying her for a long moment, making her feel strangely light-headed. And breathless. Far too breathless.

Poppy inhaled slowly, trying to settle her nerves. She’d had a crush on him for four years and she’d managed to keep her feelings in check. There was no reason to let herself get carried away just because he was suddenly single.

And free.

Her heart did a funny little beat, the kind of beat that made her feel anxious and excited, but neither emotion was useful. She needed to settle down and be calm and steady and strong.

“You’re not doing much to clarify things.” She tried to smile, a steady, professional smile. “Where is it exactly?”

“Out of the country.”

Did he just say out in the country, or out of the country? It was a tiny preposition, but a significant difference. “Where is the nearest airport?”

“Gila.”

She touched the tip of her tongue to her upper lip as her mouth had gone dry and her stomach was doing a wild free fall. “I’m not familiar with Gila.”

“The capital of Mehkar?”

For a moment she still didn’t understand, unable to process what he was saying, and then everything inside her did a horrifying free fall. “We’re going to Mehkar?”

“Have you been before?”

“No.”

“It neighbors Morocco—”

“I know where it is, but we can’t go to Mehkar!”

“Of course we can. We’re en route now.”

“But how? Why? It’s hours away and I have no passport, just an overnight bag with virtually nothing in it at all.”

He shrugged carelessly. “Sophie had nothing when she left the church, did she?”

Poppy’s throat sealed closed and she stared at Randall, heartsick. He stared right back, his light gold gaze hard, so hard that it made him look like a stranger.

“You’re not worried about her, are you?” he added, his voice dropping, deepening, an edge of menace in his tone.

A shiver raced through her. In the past hour Randall Grant had gone from chivalrous to dangerous.

“Answer me,” Randall demanded, leaning forward, his anger altogether new. The Randall Grant she knew was impossibly calm, impossibly controlled.

“I didn’t agree to leave the country,” she said, voice rising, tightening. “I didn’t agree to go to Mehkar. I’d like to return to London immediately. I have work to do—”

“You work for me.”

“But the work I need to do for you is all there,” she said, making a jabbing motion behind them. “So, please ask your captain to turn around and take me back to Winchester, or to London, so I can take care of the one hundred and one things that need to be done by Monday.”

“You can do them in Mehkar.”

“But I can’t.”

“You can, and you will, because it’s your job to handle this crushing mountain of work I’ve tasked you with.”

“I never said it was crushing.”

“You make it sound crushing.”

“I do have a lot of responsibility, and I take my work seriously. Nor do I want to let you down.”

His firm lips quirked, but it wasn’t a friendly smile. “I don’t think that’s true at all.” His gaze slowly traveled across her face, as if examining every inch. “In fact, I know it’s not true.”

Heat rushed through her and she felt every place his gaze touched grow uncomfortably warm. “No?”

“No.” He was about to add something else, but the flight attendant appeared to remove their salad plates even though neither of them had barely touched the greens.

Randall remained silent the entire time she was gone, and stayed silent while their next course was placed before them. Poppy stared down at her seafood risotto, feeling increasingly queasy. Seafood risotto was Sophie’s favorite, not hers. Poppy didn’t like seafood, or risotto.

She looked up at Randall to discover that he was watching her intently, his dark head tipped back against the pale leather seat, lids lowering, lashes dropping, concealing part of the golden glimmer. “If you valued your position with me, Poppy, you would be loyal to me. Yet, you’re not.”

For a second it seemed as if all the oxygen in the plane disappeared and she stared at him, lips parting, but no air moving in or out of her lungs. No air, and no words, either, because what could she say? How could she defend herself?

“Have you found a new position, Poppy?”

She shook her head, eyes stinging.

“Are you interviewing?”

She shook her head again.

“Résumés out...inquiries...networking?”

Poppy’s stomach twisted. “No. I am not job-hunting. I like my job.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“Then maybe it’s time you showed me some loyalty, Poppy Marr, and tell me what you know about Sophie and this Crisanti fellow.”

She deserved that. Because she had taken sides, hadn’t she? She’d taken Sophie’s. Sophie was her best friend. Her only friend. If Sophie was queen, Poppy would be her lady in waiting. “I would like to help you,” she said, stomach still churning, nerves and nausea. It didn’t help that the smell of the risotto was making her want to gag. She carefully pushed her bowl away. “But I don’t really know much of anything.”

His set expression indicated he didn’t believe her. “But you know something,” he said. “So let’s start with that. How long has Sophie known Crisanti? Where did she meet him?”

“I don’t want to do this, and it’s not fair of you to ask me when you know Sophie is the only one who has ever looked out for me—”

“Are you saying I haven’t?”

He’d spoken lowly and yet his words vibrated all the way through her. She clutched the edge of the table, panicked and overwhelmed, not simply by what he was asking, but by the unreality of their situation.

She’d harbored the crush for years, falling for him almost from the very start as he was handsome and intelligent and wildly successful and best of all, he was kind to her, and always so very thoughtful, mindful of her feelings even when things were stressful at work.

It was on one of those terribly stressful days that Poppy had overshared with him, blurting out her fears and insecurities that she’d always be single, because men wanted women like Sophie, women who were strong and confident, women that made men feel like men.

Randall had sputtered on muffled laughter and then he shook his head, eyes smiling. “You can’t compare yourself to Sophie. That’s not fair of you. Sophie is Sophie Carmichael-Jones for a reason. There’s only one of her, but also, there is only one of you. The key, Poppy Marr, is to be you.”

“I don’t think that’s enough,” she answered tearfully.

“Trust me, it’s more than enough.”

And as he’d looked at her, his gold eyes still smiling, she’d melted into a puddle of aching gratitude, want and wishful dreams. Imagine having Randall Grant as your champion. Imagine him in your corner, as your partner. Poppy had never been more envious of Sophie in all her life.

Poppy swallowed hard now, a lump in her throat. “You’ve always been very, very kind to me. Probably better than I deserve.”

“So why only protect Sophie? Why not try to protect me?”

“But I did!” she choked. “I wasn’t just trying to help Sophie. I was trying to help you, too!”

“So how did you help us?” he asked softly, silkily. “What did you do?”

He’d done it. He’d trapped her, cornered her, and she’d all but confessed.

Horrified, Poppy tried to run, but Randall caught her by the wrist as she attempted to leave the table. His fingers tightened around her slender bones, and he pulled her toward his side.

“Tell me,” he said quietly, tugging her closer to his chair. “Let’s have the truth.”

She tried to pull free, but he was so much stronger than she was, and then he began to stroke the inside of her wrist with his thumb, lightly running the pad of his thumb over her wildly beating pulse. It was the most electric sensation, her nerves jumping, dancing, sending little rivulets of feeling everywhere.

“Sit,” he said, drawing her toward him, and then pulling her down so that she perched on the arm of his chair. “Talk. The truth now.”

But how could she think, much less say anything coherent, when his thumb was caressing her wrist, making her tingle all over?

She looked up into his eyes and her breath caught as she saw something in his eyes she’d never seen before.

Heat. A fierce, raw, masculine heat that was completely at odds with the man she knew.

But then his thumb caressing her pulse was equally at odds with Randall Grant, the Earl of Langston. The Earl of Langston was elegant, disciplined, restrained. The Earl of Langston did not want her.

“I can’t think when you’re doing that,” she said under her breath.

“And I can’t have you running off every time the questions get uncomfortable.” He moved his hand, sliding it from her wrist up over the flat of her hand so that they were palm to palm, his long fingers pressing against hers, parting them.

She shivered at the press of his hand to hers. It felt wildly indecent.

“I would say this is far more uncomfortable than any of your questions,” she whispered, trying to slip her hand out, but only succeeding in dragging her palm down his, sending sparks of sensation up her arm, through her breasts and into her belly below.

His fingers laced through hers, holding her still.

She looked down at their joined hands because there was no way she could look into his face right now. “I don’t think this is proper.”




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