href="#litres_trial_promo">AN INTERVIEW WITH SHARON KENDRICK
EVEN the brilliant Mediterranean sunshine couldn’t lighten her mood.
With a stab of frustration, Kat pushed the spill of dark hair away from her eyes and leaned back against the soft leather seat of the limousine. A week had passed, but the memories of that night were still vivid. A night when accusations—and counter-accusations—had spun through the air like the blade of a helicopter. And another guilty family secret had reared its ugly head.
If only…
If only it hadn’t happened at the glittering Balfour Charity Ball—where half the world’s press had been camped outside, waiting for an almighty scoop. Briefly, Kat closed her eyes. Bet they couldn’t believe their luck.
Last year’s ball had been bad enough—when she had made a humiliating fool of herself in front of the arrogant Spaniard, Carlos Guerrero—but at least nobody except her father had witnessed it. This time had been worse—with her twin sisters announcing the news that their beloved sister Zoe had been sired by another man and was not a true Balfour after all.
Scenting blood—the paparazzi had been baying around the fabulous family mansion for days—and once again the Balfour name had been splashed all over the papers. Those words Kat had become so used to, whenever her family’s name was mentioned, were once again the hot topic of the day. Words that still had the power to wound, no matter how many times she’d heard them.
Scandal.
Shame.
Secrets.
And the truth was that, yes, the Balfours were brimming with all of those things—and more. But just because they were rich, didn’t mean they were impervious to pain or hurt. Prick them, and they bled—just like everybody else. Nobody saw that, of course, and nobody ever would—well, certainly not in Kat’s case. She allowed herself a grim smile. Because the moment you showed hurt, you made yourself vulnerable—and vulnerability was the most dangerous thing of all. Didn’t she know that better than anyone?
She stared out of the car window, reminding herself how she’d coped with the latest indignity. The same way that she always coped. She’d cut loose and run from the family estate. Not far, it was true—only as far as London—where she had booked into a hotel, using a fake name and a vast pair of sunglasses to hide behind. Until her father had rung her yesterday morning offering her an ‘opportunity.’
Why had she felt a momentary wave of suspicion? Was it because that although Oscar was her true blood father, he had never been close to her heart in the same way as her beloved stepfather, Victor? Kat blinked back the tears which sprang to her eyes and replaced them with the defiant expression she had perfected. She wasn’t going to think about her stepfather, or the past. She just wasn’t. Because that way lay madness and regret and all those other painful emotions which she fought like crazy to keep at bay.
Nonetheless, her voice had been wary as she’d replied, ‘What kind of opportunity, Daddy?’
There had been a pause. Had she imagined the unfamiliar steely quality which had entered his voice? ‘The kind of opportunity which should be seized,’ he said flatly. ‘Didn’t you tell me at the ball the other night that you were bored with your life, Kat?’
Had she said that? In a moment of weakness, had she been stupid enough to let on to the patriarch of the Balfour clan that a stream of loneliness as deep as a river seemed to be coursing through her veins?
‘Did I?’
‘Indeed you did. So why not grab at the opportunity for a change of scene and a change of air. How does a boat trip round the Mediterranean sound?’
It sounded exactly what she needed. Some good sea air and the chance to escape. And even though her father had tantalisingly refused to give her any more details, Kat knew it would be a treat. Because despite the impatience Oscar occasionally felt towards his daughters, deep down he loved nothing more than to lavish life’s extravagances on them.
Which was why she was now reclining in the back of a luxury limousine, heading for the glamorous port of Antibes, while outside the brilliant Provençal sun beat down on all the wealthy holidaymakers. The glittering sea was shaded brilliant colours of cobalt and azure and the port was crammed with the biggest motor yachts you would find anywhere in the world. But that was the south of France for you—all glamour and glitz and buckets of money.
With a slickness perfected by years of practice, Kat pushed away her troubled thoughts as the limo slid to a halt next to a line of beautiful, bobbing yachts.
‘There it is, miss,’ said the driver, pointing to the biggest boat of all—where a couple of white-uniformed crew members were moving purposefully around the deck.
Suddenly, her mood was forgotten as Kat stared up at the most amazing-looking yacht she’d ever seen. With its long, aerodynamic shape and pointed prow, it rose up out of the water like some dazzling seabird. She could see a polished wooden deck and the turquoise glimmer of a swimming pool—as well as the ultimate convenience of a helicopter pad.
‘Oh, wow,’ she said, lips softening into a smile. Since babyhood, she had mixed in exalted and rich circles and knew that superyachts cost a fortune to own and maintain—but this magnificent vessel really was in a league of its own. It was…spectacular. Tourists were standing taking photographs of it and briefly Kat wondered who the owner could possibly be—and why her father had tantalisingly refused to tell her.
The name gave few clues. Painted in dark, curving letters along the side were the words Corazón Frío. Behind her dark glasses, Kat’s eyes narrowed. Meaning what, precisely?
She was certainly no linguist—but even she could recognise that the language was Spanish. Her heart skipped an erratic beat. As was the only man who had ever slapped her down and humiliated her in public.
And who had haunted her dreams ever since. A man with a hard, lean body and wild black hair and the coldest eyes she had ever seen.
Shaking away a memory even more unsettling than the uproar at last week’s ball, Kat stepped out onto the quayside and couldn’t help noticing that people had stopped to look at her.
But then, people always did. If you dazzled them with the externals, then they never really looked beyond to see the real person underneath. Clothes could be the armour that shielded you—that stopped people from getting too close. And it was better that way. Much better.
She was wearing a teeny pair of shorn-off denim shorts and a shrunken white T-shirt which gave the occasional glimpse of a flat midriff tanned the colour of pale caramel. Shiny black hair cascaded down over her shoulders and all the way down her back—and her Balfour blue eyes were hidden behind a pair of enormous shades. She knew exactly what kind of uniform to wear on this kind of rich and privileged yachting trip—and she had abided to it by the letter. You dressed down, but you wore as many status symbols as possible.
‘Bring my bags, will you?’ Kat said to the driver, before making her way towards the gangplank. Teetering a little on a pair of the season’s most fashionable espadrilles, she saw a fair-haired man in uniform approaching her and she smiled.
‘Hello. You’re probably expecting me. I’m Kat Balfour,’ she said.
‘Yeah.’ The man nodded, squinting his pale blue eyes at her, a small diamond glinting at his ear lobe. ‘I thought you must be.’
Kat looked