Imogen O’Sullivan is horrified when charismatic tycoon Raoul breaks up her engagement and makes her his own convenient bride! She once surrendered everything to Raoul—body, heart and soul. But as he stalks back into her life, it’s clear he has punishment in mind, not just passion! Can Imogen resist Raoul’s potent brand of delicious vengeance?

KATE WALKER was born in Nottingham, in the UK, but grew up in West Yorkshire. She met her husband at university in Wales and originally worked as a children’s librarian. After the birth of her son she returned to her childhood love of writing. Her first book was published in 1984. She now lives in Lincolnshire with her husband—also a writer—and two cats who think they rule her life.

Also by Kate Walker

The Good Greek Wife?

The Proud Wife

The Return of the Stranger

The Devil and Miss Jones

A Throne for the Taking

Olivero’s Outrageous Proposal

Indebted to Moreno

Rhastaan Royals miniseries

A Question of Honour

Destined for the Desert King

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

A Proposal to Secure His Vengeance

Kate Walker

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07174-1

A PROPOSAL TO SECURE HIS VENGEANCE

Published in Great Britain 2018

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

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.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Extract

CHAPTER ONE

THE WALK DOWN the aisle on your wedding day was supposed to be the longest walk in the world, and today it certainly felt as if that would be the case.

Imogen shivered at the way the words whirled in her head as she contemplated the stone-flagged aisle of the small village church, making her admit to the state of mind she’d been trying so hard to hide—even from herself—for the past few weeks.

A feeling that had grown so much worse as the date of her wedding had come closer, so that now it was just a couple of days away and she still wasn’t ready at all.

She doubted if she would ever be ready.

It could all have been so much worse. She could have had no one to turn to, no one who could help her and her family out of the morass of disaster they had fallen into, and with it the loss of the stud that had been in the family for over a century. Even perhaps the prospect of a prison sentence for her father.

No one to push her into a marriage she didn’t want but saw as the only way she and her family could possibly go forward.

Imogen pushed her hands through the tumble of black hair that fell onto her shoulders, exerting extra pressure with her fingers as if she could erase the chaos of her thoughts.

It was the only way, she told herself silently. Adnan at least was a friend; they liked each other—always had—and they both had so much to lose if this didn’t go ahead.

Besides, there was another possible advantage, she hoped, that perhaps, after her marriage, the scandal press would let go of the hateful nickname they used whenever she or her sister Ciara were mentioned. If this redeemed Ciara’s reputation too, left her free to go forward in life and put her own shadows behind her, then that was another reason it would be worth it.

She’d always loved this little village church. The church where her parents had married, where she’d been christened, and her sister after her. She had so loved being an older sister, until their mother had run away with a new, much younger lover, taking Ciara with her. At least the preparations for this wedding had brought Ciara back to the family home where she belonged and now, hopefully, could actually stay.

After a lifetime apart, she had only discovered the whereabouts of her sister a couple of years ago, but the two of them hadn’t had any real time to get to know each other properly. Ciara since then had been living and working in Australia, and Imogen’s whole attention had had to be focused on fighting to save the reputation and financial position of the stud. But she’d adored Ciara from the moment they’d met again and if she could do anything to help make up for the loss of happiness and family life that Ciara had endured, then she’d do her damnedest to make sure that happened.

She owed Adnan so much. After all, it could have been someone else she was so deeply indebted to, someone else she was having to marry.

Someone like Raoul Cardini, a wicked, tormenting little voice whispered into her subconscious.

‘No!’

Involuntarily she started away from the pew beside which she had been standing, the surge of memories taking the strength from her legs. She was so distracted that she didn’t hear the heavy wooden door open behind her, the soft footsteps on the floor that marked the arrival of someone else into the church.

He hadn’t expected to see her here, Raoul reflected as he stood just inside the open porch, staring down the aisle at the tall, slender figure who stood with her back to him, one hand on the polished edge of the pew beside her. Just seeing her like this, so unexpectedly, brought all the bitterness, the cold fury that he’d been fighting to hold in check bubbling up inside him.

The original idea had been to wait until the pre-wedding dinner tonight to implement his plan for revenge. He had been looking forward to seeing the sudden rush of shock in her eyes, the way her expression would change. Yes, he was sure she would fight to keep control, do everything she could not to show how she was feeling. She was good at that, he recalled, remembering the cool control he had seen her exhibit at times during the two weeks they had spent almost every moment in each other’s company.

She certainly hadn’t shown any emotion when she had left him, two years before, her face tight and controlled. He hadn’t begun to suspect the secrets that lay behind that expression, the truth she had hidden from him without a qualm. She’d never even revealed a hint of that life-changing secret until it was gone, the tiny beginnings of what might have been his son or daughter thrown away with the help of the expensive clinic she’d taken herself to. He’d never seen her composure break.

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.

‘I’m not your chère anything!’ she retorted, pulling away from him with a force that rammed her hip into the wooden side of the pew. ‘Not now—not ever! And I never wanted to be.’

‘Of course not.’ His tone made a mockery of her declaration.

He moved slightly, stepping out of the direct light and into a spot where the multi-coloured gleam of the sun burning through the stained-glass windows turned his face into a mosaic of blues and reds, a tiny touch of gold gilding the hard slash of carved cheekbones. The skin was drawn rather more tightly across those bones than it had been before and there were a few more lines around his eyes than she recalled but, if anything, those tiny signs of the passing of years only added to the devastating appeal of his stunning features. The colours from the window played like a kaleidoscope over the white shirt he wore, sleeves rolled up over long, muscular forearms. The shadowy interior of the church hid the burnished glow of golden skin, softly hazed with crisp black hair, but Imogen didn’t need to see to remember.

She knew what those arms looked like when gilded by the Corsican sun; knew only too well the feel of them curled around her waist, pressed close up against her skin where it was exposed by the vivid blue bikini she’d felt brave enough to wear in the heat of the sun. And in the heat of his appreciative eyes. She knew what it felt like to lie with her cheek resting on the strength and solidity of his bones, the power of his muscles, the scent of his skin in her nostrils as the beat of her heart slowly ebbed and she slipped into sleep, exhausted after a night of love-making.

She knew too well—and she didn’t want to remember.

‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe that,’ he drawled now.

‘Believe it! It’s the truth.’

The burn in her veins chilled as she watched his beautiful mouth twist in a cynical response.

‘That wasn’t what you said at the time.’

It sounded almost gentle, but the ice in his golden-eyed stare warned her she’d be a fool to believe there was anything kind in him at all.

‘What I said at the time didn’t mean a thing.’

Imogen drew in her breath in a rush, fighting for control. She felt she was being dragged backwards into her past, swallowed up by a dangerous quicksand, suffocating slowly and painfully. Head over heels and crazy in love, all she’d done was to say that she didn’t want their sun-filled idyll to end, that she wanted to stay with him. She’d never expected he would turn on her, accuse her of being a greedy gold-digger and dismiss her—for good, he had declared.

‘Those were the foolish, thoughtless declarations of a naïve adolescent. I’d had too much sun, too much wine...or something.’

Too much of Raoul Cardini, certainly. But she’d never been drunk when she was with him—she’d never needed to be. He was intoxicating enough to make her mind swim in heated abandon. She’d never had a head for wine anyway, or the taste for it. Except for that one crazy evening she’d spent with Ciara just after they’d rediscovered each other. They’d both been struggling with the darkness that had fallen over their lives, and as a result the joy of the evening together had gone to their heads faster than the most potent alcohol.

‘None of it was true—none of it was real.’

‘And none of it is relevant now.’

Cold and cutting, it made her feel as if the ground beneath her had shifted disturbingly. She’d known two years ago that he could turn away from her without a second’s thought, dismissing all she’d believed they’d been to each other in between one breath and another. But she’d never heard him state it in words of pure ice that he tossed in her face without a blink. And once she knew just how impossible she had found it to forget him, that realisation slashed deep into her soul.

She wished she could find the strength to turn and walk right out of here. Brush straight past him and head for the door. The trouble was that she didn’t think ‘brush’ would be the word to describe the way she would encounter Raoul on the way. Even whispering past the tall, forceful body of the man before her would be like thudding straight into a brick wall.

‘Nothing between us is relevant at all. So, if you’d just let me past...’

An elegant wave of his hand indicated the fact that there was plenty of space for her to walk by him.

‘Be my guest.’

She was nearly past him when he stirred slightly and she could hear the hateful smile in his voice as it drifted after her.

‘I’ll see you back at the house.’

It stopped her dead, her head ringing as if his words had been a blow.

‘I think not!’

It was only now she realised, shockingly and disturbingly, that there was a question she had never asked. One that should have been right at the forefront of her mind from the moment he had first spoken to her but she’d been too stunned even to consider. She’d never thought fate could be so unkind. It was bad enough that he should be here, now, so close to her wedding day, but to think that this was not just an appalling error of chance...

‘You’re not coming back to the house!’

‘Oh, but I am.’

That brought her spinning round, needing to see his face. The deadly smile was still there in his voice but there wasn’t a trace of it in his expression.

‘No way. I mean...why are you here at all?’

There it was. The question she should have asked from the start. The one that, she now realised, she hadn’t dared to ask because she’d feared the answer.

Now the smile was not just in his eyes but very definitely curling the edges of that obscenely sexy mouth. At least, it was obscene for Imogen to consider anything about this man sexy. That was what had caught her in the first place, trapping her in the coils of his dark sensuality, taking her life out of her hands and putting it into his, to torment and break as he wished.

‘Your father invited me, of course.’

The deadly nonchalance with which he tossed the words at her made her stomach tighten.

‘Dad? You’re kidding!’

That was just too much. She actually laughed in a blend of shock and relief, at the realisation that this simply could not be true. How could he ever be here for the wedding? How could he have been invited when no one but her knew him well enough to offer him an invitation? She sure as hell had never let anyone know that for a brief space of time he had once been such an important part of her life. Her short-lived summer love affair and its bitter consequences would neither have concerned nor interested her father.

‘Do I look as if I’m joking?’

He looked supremely confident, totally at ease, and with not a trace of amusement on his carved features.

‘My father would never invite you here. And definitely not for this wedding.’

‘Why not?’

There was the flash of challenge in those golden eyes now, clashing with the disbelief in her own stare.

‘Not good enough, is that it? You think, ma belle, your father would not want to invite a simple olive farmer to his daughter’s wedding of the year?’

‘Oh, come on!’

She had to cover up her reaction to that casual ‘ma belle’, needing to hide the way it had the bite of acid. Once she had loved to hear him call her that, had gloried in a new-found sense of feeling beautiful in his eyes. But now the bitter memory of how quickly she had gone from being ma belle to a mere nothing, a plaything tossed aside and abandoned on the beach where they had first met, curdled in her stomach.

‘We both know you’re no simple olive farmer and you never were.’

That had been the pretence he had hidden behind when they’d met. He’d let her believe he was a hard-working farmer who was delighted to meet this young Englishwoman on holiday and spend time with her. His friend Rosalie had been the one to warn her that there was more to Raoul Cardini than that. But even she had never revealed the full story. It was only when Imogen had got home and, still nursing the hurt in her heart, had been unable to resist looking up the beautiful island of Corsica on the Internet that she had found the truth that had rubbed salt deep into the wounds his rejection had inflicted on her.

‘I don’t think the Cardini olive oil empire could ever be described as just farming!’

What had she said? It was only the truth, after all, but it was as if she had flung some vile insult into his face so that his head went back, bronze eyes narrowing, beautiful mouth clamping tight, turning his lips into a hard, thin line.

‘Not just the olive oil empire,’ he said. ‘At least get your facts right.’

‘Of course there’s more, isn’t there? More you didn’t trouble to tell me. Did you think it wasn’t worth me bothering my head about?’

She flicked her eyes at him, there and away again fast, wanting him to see that she really couldn’t give a damn about anything else he hadn’t revealed to her. At one time, discovering the fact that, like her family, he was a dedicated breeder of fine horses might have brought them together. But the time to care about the lies he had told, the secrets he had kept from her, was long gone. The memory of the one secret she had kept from him burned in her soul, threatening to destroy her if she let it free.

‘Your father thinks it is. That’s why he agreed to a deal I proposed. And he wanted to mix business with pleasure.’

Could he make that last word sound any more toxic? She knew something was very wrong—it had to be. How could her father have agreed to a business deal when there was nothing left of the family business? If there had been any other possibility then she wouldn’t be here, living through her last days of freedom before she walked down this aisle with Adnan Al Makthabi. The marriage was supposed to save the Blacklands Stud from complete ruin. It was supposed to ensure they didn’t have to sell off the few remaining horses, including the magnificent stallion Blackjack.

The cost of the stallion had crippled their already overly strained finances, the loan her father had insisted on taking out to pay for him depleting further an already empty bank account and adding thousands to the interest repayments. But at least Adnan and his family wanted Blackjack—perhaps more than they wanted Imogen herself.

‘He suggested I come now and share in the celebrations. And he offered me a room in Blackland House for the week so we could discuss the deal at the same time.’

He made it sound perfectly reasonable, natural even, but the nasty twisting sensation in Imogen’s stomach told her it couldn’t possibly be that way. Her father couldn’t discuss any sort of ‘deal’—he had nothing to offer! From the date of her wedding, he wouldn’t even own the stud—or Blackjack.

‘So tell me—what did you use to buy my father’s interest?’

She’d gone too far with that. Dangerously so. She could see it in the way a muscle ticked in his cheek, the glare that had turned the warm colour of his eyes to ice in the space of a heartbeat.

‘I don’t buy my business partners. Ask your father. You might not want me here but, believe me, your father does. He invited me to stay and be a guest at your wedding—so, naturally I said yes. I wanted be here to watch you plight your troth to your perfect bridegroom.’

Raoul spat the words at her before he spun on his heel and marched away, down the aisle and out of the church. The staccato sound of his angry footsteps echoed through the silent interior of the church until the heavy wooden door slammed loudly behind him.

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