Ruthless Awakening. Sara Craven

      And at that moment Rhianna became aware of the steady throb of a powerful engine. And she knew, with horror, that they’d sailed. She almost flung herself at the stateroom door, twisting the handle one way and then another, tugging it, dragging at it breathlessly, refusing to believe that it was actually locked.

      Diaz had implied that he was descended from a Spanish pirate, but this was the twenty-first century, for God’s sake.

      Rhianna faced him, hands folded to hide the fact they were shaking.

      ‘Just what do you think you’re doing? Diaz, you’re being ridiculous. You can’t behave like this.’

      ‘And just who is going to stop me?’ His voice held faint amusement.

      Diaz straightened, coming away from the door and walking across to her. Standing over her so that in spite of herself she shrank back.

      ‘You see, Rhianna, I just don’t think you can be trusted. I think you spell trouble in every line of that delectable body.’ His eyes were hard. ‘You’re coming with me, sweetheart. You might not be my companion of choice, you understand, but—hey—the time will soon pass. We’re sailing off into tomorrow’s sunrise. Together.’

      Sara Craven was born in South Devon and grew up in a house full of books. She worked as a local journalist, covering everything from flower shows to murders, and started writing for Mills & Boon^® in 1975. When not writing, she enjoys films, music, theatre, cooking, and eating in good restaurants. She now lives near her family in Warwickshire. Sara has appeared as a contestant on the former Channel Four game show Fifteen to One, and in 1997 was the UK television Mastermind champion. In 2005 she was a member of the Romantic Novelists’ team on University Challenge—the Professionals.

      Recent titles by the same author:

      THE SANTANGELI MARRIAGE

      ONE NIGHT WITH HIS VIRGIN MISTRESS THE VIRGIN’S WEDDING NIGHT INNOCENT ON HER WEDDING NIGHT

      RUTHLESS AWAKENING

      BY

      SARA CRAVEN

      CHAPTER ONE

      AS THE train from London crossed the Tamar, Rhianna felt the butterflies in her stomach turn into sick, churning panic.

      I shouldn’t be doing this, she thought desperately. I have no right to go to this wedding. To stand in Polkernick Church, watching as Carrie gets married to Simon. I should have kept away. I knew it before the invitation came. And even before it was made forcefully clear to me that I wouldn’t be welcome. That I should keep my distance.

      So how can I be on this train—making this journey?

      Ever since the engagement had been announced she’d been dreading the arrival of the elegantly embossed card, and had already drafted her polite letter of regret with the same excuse—the shooting schedule on the next series—that she’d previously used to get out of being a bridesmaid.

      And then Carrie had phoned unexpectedly to say she was coming to London trousseau-shopping, and would Rhianna meet her for a girls’ lunch?

      ‘You must come, darling.’ Her voice had been eager, laughing. ‘Because it might just be the last one now that Simon’s got this job in Cape Town. Heaven knows when we’ll be back in the UK.’

      ‘Cape Town?’ Rhianna had heard the sharp note in her voice and cursed herself. She’d made herself speak more lightly. ‘I had no idea that he—that you were planning to live abroad.’ Nothing’s been said…

      ‘Oh, it wasn’t planned,’ Carrie had said blithely. ‘Someone Diaz knows had an opening in his company, and made Simon an offer that was too good to miss.’

      Diaz…

      Rhianna had repeated the name under her breath, tension clenching like a fist in her stomach. Yes, she’d thought dully. Painfully. It would have to be Diaz. Making sure that Simon was removed to a safe distance. Out of harm’s way. Regardless of the damage already done, which would be left behind.

      Diaz—twitching the strings from across continents and oceans to make sure the puppets danced to his tune, and that Carrie, his much-loved young cousin, would walk up the aisle of the twelfth-century church in the village to be united with the man she’d adored since childhood.

      The perfect match, she’d thought, her throat tightening. And nothing would be allowed to prevent it.

      She should have made some excuse about lunch, and she knew it, but she’d been torn between the pleasure of seeing Carrie again and the anguish of keeping silent while the other girl talked about Simon and her plans for the wedding. Of making sure that not one word, one look or one hint escaped her.

      But, dear God, it had been so hard to sit opposite Carrie and see her pretty face radiant with happiness. To see the dream in her eyes and know how hideously simple it would be to turn that inner vision into a nightmare.

      How simple, and how utterly impossible.

      ‘So you will be coming to the wedding—you promise faithfully?’ Carrie had begged. ‘You’ll introduce a note of sanity into the proceedings, darling. A rock for me to cling to, because by then I’ll need it,’ she’d added, shuddering. ‘With the respective mothers already circling each other in a state of armed neutrality. I reckon there could be blood on the carpet before the great day dawns.’

      And Rhianna had agreed. Because the only reasons she was left with to justify her absence were the ones she could never say.

      But mainly because Carrie was her friend. Had been her first real friend, and shown her the only genuine kindness she’d ever known at Penvarnon. She—and Simon, of course. Which was how the trouble had first begun…

      And now Carrie, who loved her, was here to make innocently sure that wild horses wouldn’t keep Rhianna from attending her wedding.

      But wild horses didn’t even feature, Rhianna thought, her mouth twisting harshly. Not when they were up against the arrogant power of Diaz Penvarnon.

      Against whose expressed will she was travelling to Cornwall. Defying his mandate.

      His anger had been like a dark cloud, waiting in the corner of her mind to become a storm. A tangible thing, as if he were still standing over her, his lean face inimical.

      ‘Don’t say you weren’t warned…’

      As she remembered, her mouth felt suddenly dry, and she uncapped the bottle of mineral water on the table in front of her and drank it down without bothering with the glass the attendant had brought her.

      Pull yourself together, she thought. You’ll be in Cornwall for three days—four at the outside. And once Carrie’s wedding is over you’ll be gone—for good this time.

      Besides, Diaz probably won’t even be there. He’ll be back in South America, arrogantly confident that his commands will be obeyed in his absence.

      The rest of the occupants of that big grey stone house on the headland might not relish her presence, but there was no one who could really hurt her any more, she thought, her mouth tightening. No one to look down on her or treat her like an intruder. That section of her life was in the past, and she would make sure it stayed that way.

      Because she was no longer the housekeeper’s unwanted niece, the skinny waif that the daughter of the house, Caroline Seymour, had inexplicably and unsuitably decided to befriend