A Tycoon to Be Reckoned With

He pressed her hands again, his gaze intent.

‘Have faith, Sarah—have faith in yourself, in what you can accomplish. You are so nearly there! I would not waste my genius on you otherwise,’ he finished, with his familiar waspish humour.

He stepped back, patting her hands before relinquishing them.

‘So—go. Take off. Do anything but sing. Not even Sabine’s dire ditties. I’ll sort it with Raymond—somehow.’

He dropped a light kiss on her forehead.

‘Go!’ he said.

And Sarah went.

* * *

Bastiaan nosed the car carefully down the narrowing street towards the harbour. She was here somewhere—she had to be. He didn’t know where her pension was, but there were a limited number, and if necessary he would check them all out. Then there was the nightclub as well—someone there at this time of day would know where she might be.

I have to find her.

That was the imperative driving him. Conscious thought was not operating strongly in him right now, but he didn’t care. Didn’t care that a voice inside his head was telling him that there was no reason to seek her out like this. One night with her had been enough to achieve his ends—so why was he searching for her?

He did not answer—refused to answer. Only continued driving, turning into the area that fronted the harbour, face set, eyes scanning around as if he might suddenly spot her.

And she was there.

He felt his blood leap, his breath catch.

She was by the water’s edge, seated on a mooring bollard, staring out to sea. He felt emotions surge through him—triumph shot through with relief. He stopped the car, not caring whether it was in a parking zone or not. Got out. Strode up to her. Placed a hand on her shoulder.

‘Sabine...’ His voice was rich with satisfaction. With possession.

Beneath his hand he felt her whole body jump. Her head snaked around, eyes widening in shock.

‘Oh, God...’ she said faintly.

He smiled. ‘You did not truly believe I would let you go, did you?’ he said. He looked down at her. Frowned suddenly. ‘You have been crying,’ he said.

There was disbelief in his voice. Sabine? Weeping? He felt the thoughts in his head rearrange themselves. Felt a new one intrude.

‘What has made you cry?’ he demanded. It was not him—impossible that it should be him.

She shook her head. ‘It’s just...complicated,’ she said.

Bastiaan found himself hunkering down beside her, hands resting loosely between his bunched thighs, face on a level with hers. His expression was strange. His emotions stranger. The Sabine who sat here, her face tear-stained, was someone new—someone he had never seen before.

The surge of possessiveness that had triumphed inside him a moment ago on finding her was changing into something he did not recognise. But it was moving within him. Slowly but powerfully. Making him face this new emotion evolving within him.

‘No,’ he contradicted, and there was something in his voice that had not been there before. ‘It is very simple.’ He looked at her, his eyes holding hers. ‘After last

night, how could it be anything else?’

His gaze became a caress and his hand reached out softly to brush away a tendril of tangled hair that had escaped from its rough confines in a bunched pleat at the back of her head. He wanted to undo the clasp, see her glorious blond mane tumble around her shoulders. Although what she was wearing displeased him, for it seemed to be a shapeless tee shirt and a pair of equally shapeless cotton trousers. And her face was blotchy, her eyes strained.

Yet as he spoke, as his hand gently brushed the tendril from her face, he saw her expression change. Saw the strain ebb from her eyes, her blotched skin re-colour.

‘I don’t know why you ran from me,’ he heard himself say, ‘and I will not ask. But...’ His hand now cupped her chin, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips. ‘This I will ask.’

His eyes rested on hers—his eyes that had burned their way into hers in the throes of exquisite passion. But now they were simply filled with a single question. The only one that filled his head, his consciousness.