Original Sin
Original Sin
Rosalie Ash
Guilty Love?When Christian Malraux told Emily, "You will be my sex slave," she should have turned tail and run! Instead, she found herself falling in love. But loving Christian wasn't easy, even though he made it clear that he desired Emily. For there was a dark and mysterious secret in Christian's past that had scarred his soul as well as his face.Emily hoped that the power of her love would bring him out of the darkness and into the light again. But would Christian ever see her as anything more than an object of desire… who conveniently happened to work for him?
Original Sin
Rosalie Ash
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE (#u906bab65-05c1-5623-8ce3-018c5935c1e1)
CHAPTER TWO (#u6b83ae28-a7c4-58d9-a32d-9125231876ea)
CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
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 ONE
AT THE sound of the spit of gravel on the drive below, Emily jumped out of the bath, short strawberry-blonde curls still damp from a hasty hairwash, and went to peer curiously from the open window of her bedroom.
The warm July air met her, redolent with the rich, sweet scent of golden broom, pine trees and some other heady, elusive fragrance, some musky blend of smells unique to summers in France. A distant flash of black wings circled in the evening sky around the mossy red pantiled roof and tall chimneys of the opposite wing of the chteau. Bats, probably, Emily decided, thinking how neatly this ancient creeper-clad building lent itself to the occupation of bats in its belfry...
Clutching the ends of the big ivory bath-towel around herself, she shrank back behind the heavy curtain to see a sleek open-top Mercedes sports car sweeping into the courtyard, to halt outside the entrance to the chteau.
It wasn’t really dark yet. Just dusk. The arc of yellow light from the storm light below showed a tall, broad-shouldered man springing athletically from the driver’s seat. Snatching a battered-looking briefcase or flight-bag from inside the car, he thrust his fingers through the lock of dark hair which fell over his forehead and headed, with a purposeful yet oddly preoccupied air, towards the steps. There was a loping spring in his movements which reminded Emily of a lion’s prowl...
Could this be her new boss? Instinct told her it was, even though Lisette Duvert, taken by surprise this morning at Emily’s arrival a day earlier than expected, had predicted that Monsieur Malraux wouldn’t be getting back from his business trip until tomorrow. The new arrival had a distinctly boss-like air about him, Emily told herself, suppressing a smile. He looked as if he exuded that god-like air of indispensability. As if the universe would have quite a struggle continuing to function without him...
She’d better get dried, dressed, and somehow find her way down to announce her presence. Lisette Duvert, the young, glamorous and rather unhelpful housekeeper, had shown her to her room, announced that tonight was her night off, and promptly departed. Emily had been left with vague directions to the nearest restaurant for an evening meal, and with the uncomfortable feeling that she might be the only member of staff of the Chteau de Mordin spending the night here. She wasn’t normally prey to nervous fantasy, but she’d seriously considered jumping back in her hired Renault 5 and driving into Saintes, to see if her old penfriend Marianne and family would put her up for the night...
Before she could make any move towards drying and dressing, however, heavy footsteps sounded on the landing outside her door, and without warning the door was pushed open. A man around her own age, of average height and solid build, with curly brown hair, definitely not the recent arrival from the Mercedes, marched into the room, swung a rucksack on to the bed, and began to discard a short-sleeved red shirt as he strode towards the bathroom.
‘Hey...!’ Her indignant gasp brought the intruder to an abrupt halt, and with a muffled exclamation he reached to switch on the light, then gazed with an unrepentant leer at the sight of Emily, clutching her towel round her slender body, pale with outrage.
‘Well, well! Definitely all mod cons!’ The voice was English, with a slight regional accent. Hazel eyes gleamed with undisguised appreciation. ‘French, English or German?’
‘Whoever you are, will you please get out of my room?’
‘Ah, English. Lisette didn’t tell me I was sharing, but I’ve no objections if you haven’t. Greg Vernon’s the name. I’m hitching round Europe, doing a spot of casual summer work when I can. And you?’
Emily glared at the man, longing for some object to throw.
‘Emily Gainsborough. I’m here to do temporary work for the summer, too. And I’m delighted to meet you, but perhaps we could continue this friendly chat some other time? This is my room!’
Greg Vernon’s eyes were overtly curious as he examined her long, slim legs, the petite line of her hips and breasts covered by the towel, the delicate swell of her breasts above, and the damp, feathery gold curls clinging to her head.
‘Lisette told me third door on the right.’
‘Maybe counting’s not your strong point?’ she suggested cuttingly.
‘So what are you supposed to be doing here? Odd jobs, like me?’ Greg Vernon ignored her sarcasm, folding his arms and staring hard at the curve of her thighs.
Humouring the man seemed the only option for the moment. She tightened her hold on the towel, and controlled her temper.
‘No, I’m a temporary secretary for the chteau owner. Until I take up a full-time job in the Foreign Office in September. Now would you please...?’
‘The Foreign Office?’
‘Yes. At their Paris embassy.’ Alone in this apparently deserted chteau, Emily was feeling acutely vulnerable. Even if she knew she could probably look after herself, it didn’t dispel her sense of female vulnerability. She didn’t like the way he was ogling her. If she leaned out of the window and screamed, would someone come to her aid?
‘Brainy as well as beautiful?’ He sounded impressed. ‘How old are you, sweetheart?’
‘I’m not your sweetheart. And I’m old enough to look after myself. Now will you please go and find yourself an empty room?’
‘You’re a sight for very sore eyes, did you know that?’ he persisted, his grin widening. ‘I’ve got a soft spot for brainy brown-eyed strawberry blondes.’
‘Will you just get out of here?’
‘Especially brown-eyed strawberry blondes with cheekbones like Kim Basinger’s, who look as if a gust of wind would blow them over,’ he mused, unaffected by the glitter of fury in her eyes. He took a few steps towards her on sturdy, muscular legs with just a hint of bravado swagger. ‘What do you say to giving my back a scrub in the bath, sweetheart? I’ll make it worth your while...’
‘I’m warning you,’ she hissed in a low, shaky voice. ‘If you don’t get out of my room in five seconds flat, I’ll...’
‘You’ll what, sweetheart?’
The masculine goad, the insultingly confident hand reaching towards her, was the deciding factor. Fear abruptly left her. Calmly, with a reaction born of weekly practice at her local sports centre, and several competition wins at national level, she caught his upper arm in a classic judo hold. Before he knew what had hit him, Greg Vernon flipped over to land flat on his back on the floor on the landing outside Emily’s room.
Winded, he lay there, staring up at her. The look of stunned surprise on his face was so comical, she had to fight back shaky laughter as she slammed the door on him.
The towel, loosened in the struggle, suddenly fell to the floor. For a few unavoidable seconds, Emily found herself stark naked, trembling all over, slender thighs braced, small, high, ochre-tipped breasts rising and falling rapidly, and she was just about to snatch her salmon-pink satin wrap from the bed when another voice spoke from the reopened doorway. A deep, scathing, sardonic voice which made her jerk round in dismay.
‘Mademoiselle Gainsborough?’
Beneath an unruly lock of straight black hair, intense, black-fringed smoke-blue eyes met Emily’s wide, slanting brown ones. A rush of heat prickled all over her body as she stared up at the tall, dark man. It was the Mercedes owner, in slate-grey suit, white silk shirt and discreetly patterned silk tie, absorbing the scene, and her nakedness, with a totally deadpan expression. A jagged scar ran down his left cheek. Harsh lines of cynicism and bitterness were scored around his mouth. And yet somehow he was still the most devastatingly attractive man she’d ever seen.
It was only a split second between his appearance and her physical reaction to cover herself up, but it seemed extraordinarily prolonged, as if time had suddenly switched into slow motion.
Opening her mouth to speak, she found that no words would emerge. She settled for a quick nod, and dived, utterly mortified, for the wrap, plunging her arms in and clutching it round herself with trembling fingers. She was going hot and cold alternately; groaning inwardly. The incident with Greg Vernon had been bad enough. To be facing her new employer, in the nude and with a strange male flat-out on the landing floor...not the most auspicious of starts...
‘Would you mind explaining what is going on here?’
‘This man barged into my room, and tried to...to molest me. I’m afraid I used self-defence automatically...’
‘So I had the pleasure of witnessing just now. It is strange, mademoiselle, but I don’t recall any mention of naked martial arts on your curriculum vitae.’
His English accent was near perfect, with a slight American twang, as if he’d learned it in the States rather than in England. There was a glitter of some emotion in his eyes. Emily thought she detected the faintest suggestion of humour, then decided she’d been mistaken. He definitely looked unamused.
Greg Vernon was dragging himself to his feet, ruefully rubbing his hipbone.
‘She’s lethal. Sorry mate.’ He sounded shaken, though slightly sullen. He made a lunge for his rucksack and looked anxious to leave. ‘Are you the new owner of this place?’
The dark man nodded curtly. ‘Christian Malraux. And, according to my housekeeper’s note, I assume that you must be Greg Vernon?’
‘The same. Wrong room. Bit of a mix-up...’
‘Get out, right now.’ The ice in the deep voice sent chills down Emily’s spine. She’d been right. He was not amused.
‘Now, wait a minute...’
‘Out. You’re sacked.’ There was no emotion, no trace of uncertainty. Just harsh, judgemental finality.
‘Sacked? I haven’t even started yet. But you can stick your flaming job right up your...’
With a lightning reflex, the tall, athletic-looking Frenchman had levered himself away from the doorjamb and taken the other man by one arm, jerking it expertly up his back, immobilising him.
‘Guard your tongue,’ he ordered softly, ‘and get off my property.’
With a warning thrust, he released him again. Greg Vernon’s shoulders and back bunched in anger, but he clearly thought better of further challenge. There was an indefinable air of toughness about Christian Malraux; the jagged scar lent a slightly sinister air to his appearance. He stood back to let Greg Vernon through, and Emily, for some perverse reason she hardly understood, felt compelled to speak up on his behalf.
‘There’s no need to fire him on my account,’ she protested quickly, hugging the satin wrap closely around her as the smoky-blue eyes turned their chill intensity on her again.
‘Indeed?’ The deep voice was taunting. Transfixed, she stared at the dark face, frantically trying to analyse why he should be so unsettling. Taken separately, his features were strong, but otherwise unremarkable. He had a large nose, deep-set, deceptively sleepy blue eyes, a wide, hard mouth and a jutting chin with a cleft in the centre. A bluish black shadow on his lower jaw proclaimed his need to shave at least twice a day.
‘Is this man a friend of yours, mademoiselle?’
‘No. But I think it was just a silly...misunderstanding. I think Mr Vernon and I understand each other now.’
‘I am sure that you do.’ The harsh, husky timbre of his voice brought goose-bumps out all over her skin. ‘However, I make the decisions here. I will see you downstairs in ten minutes, Mademoiselle Gainsborough. Keep your door locked in future. Particularly when you are taking a bath.’
With a final penetrating appraisal of her appearance, leaving her feeling stripped naked all over again, he withdrew from the room and shut the door with a decisive click.
Emily leaned against the closed door, and shut her eyes. Arrogant, supercilious man, she muttered out loud. She was shaking, so violently that she could hardly turn the key in the lock.
Why was she so angry with Christian Malraux? she wondered, as she went through automatic motions of dressing, her thoughts flitting wildly. Surely she should be angry with the Englishman? Glad of her employer’s timely intervention? Instead she found herself feeling almost sorry for her brash would-be attacker, and furiously resentful of the patronising, judgemental attitude of Christian Malraux...
Dragging a hairbrush through her short sunset-gold curls, she glared at her reflection. Demure now in knee-length salmon silk sarong-skirt, chocolate silk camisole and loose salmon silk collarless overshirt, she carefully fitted delicate pearl-drop earrings, and slicked a touch of pale pink lipstick over her lips, and gold-brown shadow on her lids. The look was cool, casually elegant, smart enough to cope with any eventuality. Dressed this way she might, just, be able to retrieve her credibility and poise.
As she made her way reluctantly down to meet her new employer, she came to a rueful conclusion about her muddled feelings. She’d managed to get the better of Greg Vernon. She had his measure. She’d met men like him before, and handled them with relative ease. Somehow he presented no threat. Not so with Christian Malraux. She had the feeling he was the kind of man it would be very hard to get the better of. And he seemed to present the biggest threat of all...
* * *
‘Have you eaten?’ the question was barked without preamble. She blinked at him in surprise.
‘No...’
‘Bon. Ça c’est la premire chose faire...first, we eat.’
No consultation. No prevarication. Christian Malraux was cool, calm, and in a disinterested sort of way totally in control. She found herself escorted firmly to the gunmetal-grey Mercedes, and then speeding back down the long, shingled drive of the chteau towards the stone gateway. The headlights lit up massive cedar trees, walnut trees, arcing through the dense parkland. A rabbit froze in the brilliant beam for a split second, then bounded desperately away into the undergrowth.
‘So you arrived early,’ he said expressionlessly. ‘Lisette was not expecting you until tomorrow.’
‘There must have been a misunderstanding. I was under the impression I was due to start today.’
The shadowed face flicked briefly towards her, then fixed ahead in concentration on driving expertly fast along the winding country roads.
‘Lisette also thought you weren’t due back from your business trip until tomorrow!’ she added calmly, marvelling how composed she could sound when inside she was a quivering jelly of nerves and reaction. Sitting here in the open Mercedes, beside Christian Malraux, she was experiencing the most unnerving dj vu sensation, as if she’d driven with him before, had known him before, as if he was someone important in her life, someone with a deep connection on another, subconscious level.
Since his saturnine appearance at her bedroom door, he’d swapped the grey suit for stone-coloured fine gabardine trousers, a black cotton mesh collarless shirt, and a loose, unstructured stone cotton jacket. He looked expensively casual, European designer-style. And heart-stoppingly attractive. Privately she decided Christian Malraux could probably manage to dress in a frilly pink sundress and still set every female heart within a two-mile radius thudding in ecstasy.
‘My meetings finished earlier than expected,’ he informed her harshly. ‘Which, from what I saw tonight, is just as well.’
‘If you’re referring to Greg Vernon, I was quite capable of dealing with him myself!’
‘So I saw. But I suspect you had an element of luck on your side, Mademoiselle Gainsborough. Never underestimate your adversary. Once that initial element of surprise is gone, you would do well to remember that.’
‘I happen to possess a brown belt in judo,’ she told him with calm pride. ‘A friend’s father is an instructor. I’ve fought in national competitions.’
‘Impressive.’ He didn’t sound particularly impressed. The dark face turned briefly in her direction again, and she sensed a mocking smile. ‘I know something of the martial arts myself. Your performance was certainly entertaining. But your linguistic and secretarial qualifications will be of more use to me.’
‘Oh, I’m definitely versatile!’
His glance was sardonic. Instantly she wished she hadn’t bothered with the flippant response. Her face was burning again in the darkness as she briefly relived the scene in her bedroom. She sought quickly to change the subject on to something less personal.
‘Did I get the impression you’d recently taken over the chteau, Monsieur Malraux?’
‘Three months ago.’ He nodded in the darkness. They were approaching some lights on the left now, pulling off the road beside a restaurant which looked as if it had been converted from an old mill.
‘You bought it from the previous owner?’
He shook his head briefly. ‘Years ago I lived at the chteau, with my uncle and aunt. But I chose another career, which took me abroad. I had not been back to Chteau de Mordin for five years. Until my uncle was taken ill and then died.’
Emily had the strong impression that Christian Malraux was far from delighted to be back at the chteau now. There was a cool cynicism underlying his words.
The cynicism she found hard to relate to. Casting embarrassment aside, her own emotions felt heightened. She found it hard to explain how she was feeling, even to herself. All she knew was that from the moment he’d appeared in her bedroom doorway she’d felt as if some obscure inner organ of her body had gone into slow meltdown. Combined with embarrassment at the scene he’d interrupted, and resentment at his authoritarian manner, this was a bewildering reaction. She was feeling slightly breathless, and shivery, and decidedly dithery...
With such a sharp focus on her own emotions it simply wasn’t fair to sense that Christian Malraux was offhandedly doing his duty, escorting his new secretary out for a meal on her first night, with his thoughts and his heart far away on some other, more enthralling life he’d been forced to abandon...
She caught herself up sharply. What idiotic fantasies were these? How could she be allowing her brain to run riot with such adolescent melodrama? She was twenty-two, a languages graduate filling in the summer before taking up a responsible job at an embassy. To date she’d had countless casual boyfriends—enjoyed lots of platonic friendships with the opposite sex, too. How could she be feeling this...this illogical kaleidoscope of emotion half an hour after meeting Christian Malraux?
She resolved to take a stern grip on herself.
But inside the restaurant, seated opposite her new employer at a check-clothed table, she met the smoky, sleepy, slightly bored blue gaze across the menu and felt the breath knocked out of her lungs again.
‘Seafood of all kinds is excellent in Charente Maritime,’ he told her coolly, assessing the slight involuntary flush of her cheeks with an air of detachment. ‘Just about every kind of fish that swims in the sea is caught and cooked and coated in some cunning sauce.’
‘Yes...I already know the area. That’s the main reason I chose this particular job. I have a penfriend fairly close by. I used to spend summers with her and her family.’
‘Where do they live?’ The query was perfunctory.
‘Saintes.’
‘A beautiful town. The Roman amphitheatre is extraordinary.’
‘Yes...’ She studied the menu unseeingly. This cool small talk was somehow infinitely disturbing. ‘I...I think I’ll have the raie.’
‘Would you like some wine?’
She nodded. ‘Chteau de Mordin produce a Sauvignon, don’t they?’
A slow smile altered the brooding darkness of the face opposite her. He thrust long, spatulate fingers through the persistent fall of dark hair on his forehead, and narrowed his blue eyes speculatively.
‘You have already done your homework, mademoiselle?’
‘I’m a naturally inquisitive person. Chteau de Mordin houses a co-operative of a hundred and forty-five vine growers, covering seven hundred hectares. You primarily make pineau cognac, which is one part cognac to three parts grape juice, with wines a secondary product. You produce three white wines, including a cuvée spéciale, plus a ros and a red.’
He laughed, completely demolishing her fragile composure. Christian Malraux had a deep, husky, infectious laugh and excellent, even white teeth. The slash of brilliance against the dusky tan of his skin make her think, irrationally, of pirates.
‘Little Miss Efficiency. My friend at your college was right when he said I’d be sorry to lose you.’
Emily was appalled to find herself blushing. Even more mortified when she realised that Christian Malraux was aware of her hot cheeks.
‘What an intriguing mixture you are, mademoiselle...’
‘Please, call me Emily!’ she snapped, pressing her hands together in the soft silk of her lap, willing herself to be cool and collected.
‘Emily.’ He said it consideringly, rolling the syllables deliberately, teasing around his tongue, his accent more in evidence. ‘Oui, d’accord. Emily. You must call me Christian.’
There was a momentary pause. Lost in the sleepy black-fringed blue eyes, Emily found she was holding her breath.
‘Yes. Thank you...Christian.’ She’d only spoken the man’s first name, for heaven’s sake. She felt as tense as if she’d just confessed some intimate secret...
The waiter came. Christian dispatched their order, then turned his attention back to her still-flushed face.
‘As I was saying,’ he continued softly, as if there’d been no interruption, ‘you are an intriguing mixture, Emily. Cool enough to use judo successfully against a man, to defend yourself. Professional enough to carry out detailed background research for what is merely a temporary job. Yet you look so fragile, as if a man could crush you if he held you too tightly.’
‘I...’
‘And shy enough to blush like a schoolgirl when you are paid a compliment.’
‘I don’t normally blush!’ she protested with a soft vehemence which clearly amused him even more. ‘You’ll have to excuse me. I’m feeling a little...off balance tonight. For obvious reasons!’
‘Ah. You mean your enchanting...nudity...on our first meeting?’ he goaded, equally soft. The smile sent her into a helpless inner tailspin. ‘Or perhaps you mean you are still shaken by the unpleasant incident with Vernon?’
‘Both,’ she agreed shortly, glancing up in some relief as their wine arrived. ‘You know, I came here this summer to brush up my business French,’ she went on hurriedly, desperate to switch the persistent spotlight off herself and her emotions, ‘yet we’ve done nothing but speak English.’
‘We are not talking business, Emily.’ Wretched man. He was enjoying watching her squirm!
‘No...’
‘Shall we agree to speak French in the vineyard office?’
‘I suppose so.’
He was humouring her, she recognised frustratedly. Her new employer was obviously finding her intensely amusing. She took a long mouthful of the cool white wine. It tasted faintly of apricots and wild herbs, with a crisp refreshing bite to it. A basket of aromatic fresh bread had been placed on the table. She realised how hungry she was. Tension or no tension, with or without Christian Malraux’s extremely unchivalrous taunts, she was going to enjoy this meal.
To distract herself from the mocking blue eyes she inspected her surroundings in greater detail. The restaurant was busy, buzzing with talk and laughter. Several French families were eating, plus a sprinkling of Germans, and English. Behind her she could hear voices in her native tongue busily deciphering the intricacies of the fish menu with the aid of a dictionary.
‘This is an attractive restaurant,’ she murmured politely, switching into French deliberately. ‘Is there still a mill-wheel?’
‘Yes. If we’d wanted to we could have sat outside on the grass, near the mill-stream,’ Christian confirmed coolly, also switching to French. ‘But the mosquitoes can be unpleasant.’
‘Another time I’ll wear repellent. I love eating out of doors. It’s such a luxury in England.’
‘Tomorrow night I will bring you here, and you may cover yourself in insect repellent and sit by the mill-stream, Emily.’
‘Oh, I wasn’t suggesting that you bring me here again...’
‘Do not begin blushing again,’ he advised her, with a lazy, speculative grin.
‘I wasn’t!’
But she felt on fire all over as his casual gaze moved slowly, assessingly, from the top of her copper-blonde head, down over her wide brown eyes to the petite curves of her breasts under the silk camisole. Braless, she felt, to her acute chagrin, the tips of her breasts begin to tighten involuntarily in response to that challenging appraisal.
‘Your French is excellent, Emily,’ he praised quietly, leaning nonchalently back in his chair and sliding his hands into his jacket pockets. ‘Is your Spanish also as good?’
‘Reasonable. I suspect my French is better, because I’ve spent more time in France. With my penfriend’s family. In my teens. So...’ she sought, once again, to switch the subject, to shrink back from the spotlight ‘...what was the career which took you abroad so much?’
‘Journalism.’
Did she imagine the slight hardening of the lines around Christian’s mouth? The slight withdrawal?
‘What sort of journalism?’
‘I was a foreign correspondent on a national newspaper. Then I reported foreign news for television.’
‘I see.’ She stared at him in mounting curiosity. Their first course had arrived, a platter of fresh langoustines, and she picked thoughtfully at one of the rigid shells with her fingers, finding herself staring at the beady little eyes of the shellfish with an abrupt shudder of sympathy.
Was this why Christian Malraux had an air of embittered cynicism? Foreign news reporting was an unremitting diet of wars, famine and atrocities, wasn’t it?
‘Did you throw it all in because your uncle was taken ill?’
‘Not entirely. I’d been contemplating making a change, finding a way to get back down to earth, literally as well as metaphorically. TV news reporting can become dangerously addictive. All the flying bullets and front-line bulletins...’
She found herself staring at the scar on his cheek, imagining some hair-raising incident with guerrillas and machine guns. She winced involuntarily, and he saw her reaction, touching the scar with a grim smile.
‘This disfigurement has no connection with my TV journalism. But does it disgust you, Emily?’ He sounded bleakly amused.
‘No!’ She shook her head with some force. ‘No, it most certainly does not disgust me! What a ridiculous suggestion!’
Christian’s gaze had narrowed at her vehement denial. There was a brief silence, then he shrugged, with a slight smile.
‘You do not need to burst with righteous indignation, Emily. I believe you.’
A longer pause stretched out between them, and then with thoughtful deliberation Christian reached across the table, and took her left hand in his, lightly, turning it over to inspect the narrow palm, the long, slim, ringless fingers.
The clasp was impersonal, exploratory. His skin felt warm and dry, his fingers lean and powerful, as if his strength was a latent threat, held in careful reserve.
Emily could hardly breathe. She felt as if something was constricting her windpipe. She stared down at their joined hands, at the strong, dark, hair-roughened back of Christian’s right hand encompassing hers. How could something as simple and innocent as a touching of hands feel so intensely intimate...so annihilating to her senses?
Her heart was thudding painfully hard against her breastbone. She tried to shrug off this overwhelming emotion, this warm, shimmering sensation mysteriously forcing up her blood-pressure, speeding up her pulse-rate, but failed spectacularly.
‘No rings?’ Christian sounded dismissive, releasing her hand with a composure she yearned to emulate.
‘No...’ Resisting the urge to snatch her hand defensively into her lap, she transferred it slowly to her wine glass, proud of her precision control. She took a careful sip of wine.
‘No ties, no commitments?’ He persisted coolly.
‘None. That’s the way I intend things to stay.’
‘Hence the high-powered Foreign Office job in September?’
She nodded, warming to her impressive display of indifference. Her stomach was in knots. Her heart was racing at twice its normal speed.
‘Too many of my friends finished higher education only to throw it all away to get married! I have a very clear-cut vision of where I’m heading for, and its not the altar!’
Even as she heard herself say it, she was mentally floundering in a warm dark whirlpool of reaction to his touch, his voice, everything about him...
‘Wise girl,’ he approved softly. ‘Stick to your career. Don’t be side-tracked. Love is a destructive emotion.’
With a smiling nod, she stared at him in silence. Her throat felt curiously tight. He’d caught her on the raw again. As if he’d aimed a sharp punch to her solar plexus.
Their food arrived, a welcome diversion. She tackled the delicious skate in caper sauce, absently sliding the white fish off the smooth webbed bone with her fork.
‘Love is a destructive emotion? That’s going a bit far, surely?’ she teased lightly, glancing up when she felt sure she had her emotions under tight control. ‘You sound deeply embittered!’
Christian had opted for a rare filet mignon, oozing pink juices and exuding a rich, savoury aroma. He was eating it with the kind of uninhibited relish Emily decided might be a national characteristic.
‘Life has taught me the value of independence. Take my advice: keep your heart to yourself, Emily.’
The flat words were unemotional. She felt herself go very still, staring warily into the deep-set gaze.
Abruptly, totally without warning, she felt as if she’d stumbled into an entirely new landscape of emotions. In a moment maybe she’d wake up and find she was sleepwalking...
This was awful. This was unthinkable. First the unfortunate introduction, now some sort of humiliating mind-reading. Had he taken a subtle glance inside her head, read her splintering composure, identified it for what it seemed to be? Her very first, long-retarded, breathless, hopeless ‘crush’, overwhelming her as irrepressibly as a bout of flu? What would her brother Ben make of her behaviour tonight? she wondered distractedly. Would he believe his eyes if he saw his brainy little sister, cool and pragmatic, independent and resourceful, tumbling into a crazy, mindless infatuation with a man she’d met barely an hour and a half before?
CHAPTER TWO
ABRUPTLY Emily pushed her knife and fork together.
‘Lost your appetite?’ The deep voice was expressionless.
‘Sort of.’
‘Would you like dessert? Coffee?’
‘Nothing else. I’m feeling sleepy. Travelling affects me like that.’
‘Then I had better take you back to bed, Emily.’
His words hung between them, like a teasing challenge. Had he intended any double meaning?
‘Yes...’ If her cheeks had been hot before, now she felt flames consuming her.
The night air was warm and scented, but it cooled her burning cheeks during the drive back in the open car.
‘You will move into a room nearer to mine tonight.’
Christian’s cool, flat announcement made her jerk her head round in alarm. They’d crunched to a halt in the pebbled courtyard, stepped out of the Mercedes, and were standing in the lamplit darkness.
‘Whatever for?’
‘For your safety, Emily.’
‘Oh...!’ Thrown into confusion, she searched her shattered thoughts. ‘You think Greg Vernon might come creeping back to finish what he tried to start?’ She was half joking, but somehow the words came out with a more serious ring than she’d intended.
‘It is possible.’ Christian’s voice was hard as steel.
‘Oh, I really don’t think he was serious...’ She stopped, suddenly feeling cold inside.
She stared up at the dark bulk of the building. A faint frisson of apprehension slithered down her spine. The Chteau de Mordin was an old, two-storeyed mansion built around three sides of a wide shingled courtyard. Its walls—what could be seen of them beneath dense green creeper, and between endless rows of tall, arched windows with wooden shutters—were smooth-rendered and white-washed. The shrill of the cicadas was the only sound.
For her own peace of mind she’d played down the whole Greg Vernon episode. Now, standing here in the eerie silence of the night, she felt her imagination fire into overdrive. An owl hooted from the vicinity of one of the massive cedars nearby and she jumped involuntarily.
Had Greg Vernon been seriously about to molest her? If she hadn’t turned her hand to her bit of surprise judo, if Christian hadn’t appeared when he did, would things have got unpleasantly or even dangerously out of control...?
At the time she’d put the Englishman down as a relatively harmless flirt, with delusions about his own sex appeal. Now, delayed reaction was setting in.
Christian had turned to gaze around the courtyard. He stood with his back to her, his hands thrust into his jacket pockets, and she stared at him unwillingly. Tall, over six feet, and broad-shouldered, he had the smooth-muscled physique of an athlete. In profile his features had a brooding, hooded power. The trouble was, Emily acknowledged ruefully, that Christian Malraux exuded far greater danger than Greg Vernon ever could...
‘I’ll be fine, honestly,’ she countered hurriedly. ‘I’ll lock my door. Don’t worry...’
‘You will move across to the room next to mine. Tonight.’ Christian turned to gaze down at her, his expression harder. ‘I have no wish to lie awake half the night worried that rape and pillage may be taking place across there.’
‘For heavens’ sake, there’s no need for any fuss. I’ll be perfectly safe! And I can take care of myself!’
‘You will do as I say.’ The deep voice held an implacable note, raising her hackles. Christian Malraux could be charming when he wished, but he had a nasty tyrannical streak, Emily decided crossly. She recalled his icy dismissal of Greg Vernon. Here was a man used to being obeyed.
‘I’d rather stay where I am now!’
‘Indeed?’ One dark eyebrow angled scathingly as he studied her mutinous face. ‘Perhaps I misjudged the situation? Perhaps, if I had not intervened, the outcome would have been very different?’
She stared at him in silence.
‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘Things are not always what they appear,’ he murmured thoughtfully. ‘Is it possible perhaps that you were enjoying your rough session with Greg Vernon, Emily? And my appearance spoiled things for you?’
Anger gripped her. ‘If you mean what I think you mean, that’s a...a disgusting suggestion!’
‘Is it?’ Christian sounded unperturbed by her pent-up outrage. ‘In that case, you will be happier sleeping in another room. Come, we’ll fetch your things.’
There was little option, Emily decided furiously, but to follow orders, for the time being. And humouring her new boss seemed diplomatic, when she’d controlled her temper enough to take a calm view of the situation.
‘Is the chteau always this deserted?’ In a valiant effort to somehow retrieve the deteriorating atmosphere between them, Emily’s query was made with elaborate politeness as they returned across the shadowy courtyard with her repacked cases. ‘It gives me the distinct impression that it was built to house more than two people!’
She’d endured his patronising supervision while she collected her belongings. Now she felt a fresh stab of annoyance at his humourless smile.
‘Before my aunt died, the place was usually packed with staff, guests, weekend parties. I imagine that social life tailed off these last few years. The village “fte champtre” is traditionally celebrated here. There is a floodlit grand bal here in two weeks’ time. That should bring a little more life to the place...depending on the numbers attending.’
There was that dry cynicism again in his voice, which seemed to intrude whenever the chteau was mentioned...
‘But the business side of things—surely there are more live-in staff than your housekeeper, Lisette Duvert, and the occasional casual odd-job man like Greg Vernon?’
‘This is as my uncle left it. I’ve been working on building up the sales side, but I haven’t been able to give the place my undivided attention. Too many loose ends from my former profession. And I have not yet fully decided on the future of the Chteau de Mordin.’
Emily stopped in the doorway of the bedroom he’d shown her into, staring up at him in surprise. ‘You mean you might sell?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s possible. I have not decided. Six years ago, I had no wish to vegetate in provincial France in the family business. I am not sure if anything has really changed on that score.’
For some reason, she felt shocked. She took care not to show it. She hardly knew this man. It wasn’t for her to show surprise at his lack of enthusiasm for what seemed to her an idyllic goldmine of a place...
‘This place has enormous potential,’ she began idly. ‘I thought that the moment I saw it...’
‘Indeed? I’d be interested to hear your views on it.’ His tone was wry, far from sincere, she thought resentfully.
‘Sure. Any time.’ Suddenly overwhelmingly tired, she pressed a hand to her forehead, shivering.
‘Are you all right, Emily?’ Behind the implacable shutters of his expression, the smoky blue gaze held a hint of concern.
‘I’m fine. It’s been a long day...’
This was true. She’d been up with the lark at her home in Gloucestershire, flown from Birmingham to Bordeaux, then driven up here on congested French roads in the hectic July holiday traffic. The sight of the big, square bedroom just along the landing from Christian’s suite, freshly welcoming in shades of blue and gold, with a door ajar into a matching shower-room, was enticing.
Emily suddenly realised that this window looked straight across the courtyard into the window of the bedroom she’d been given by Lisette. No wonder Christian had detected trouble and arrived on the scene when he had—once Greg Vernon had snapped on the light, the scenario in the bedroom would have been floodlit for all to see...
‘You’ve gone very pale.’
‘I think it’s delayed reaction to that ridiculous episode earlier...’ The brief smile she gave him was tight with suppressed emotion. It had only just sunk in how close she might have come to a vicious assault earlier in her room. And this arrogant individual had the nerve to suggest she’d been enjoying herself...
To her mortification she discovered that she was close to tears. Spinning desperately away from him, cursing her tiredness, her emotional state, the wine, the whole tense, edgy evening, she willed him to melt away and leave her alone to weep a few therapeutic tears and collapse into bed.
Instead, she felt strong hands on her shoulders, and she was twisted into the hard warmth of Christian Malraux’s arms, and held firmly against the muscular wall of his chest.
‘You are trembling. Emily, I apologise if I offended you. You are quite safe here...’
The deep voice was cool, with a trace of anger beneath the surface. Was he angry with her? Or with himself, for suggesting that nasty twist to what might have happened?
She tensed, panic-stricken, rigid with furious denial as he slid one hand up to the narrow nape of her neck, casually and confidently caressing her hair. He stroked the back of her head in a calming, brotherly fashion. It could have been Ben, hugging her better after some minor accident at home. She felt herself relax against him involuntarily as the warmth of his body transferred itself to her.
And then, with no warning, the warmth subtly changed. Secure and fraternal it suddenly wasn’t. Searingly aware of every intimate detail of the hard, clean-smelling male body so close to hers, Emily found all her reassurance vanished.
When Christian gave an abrupt, astonished expletive and crushed her harder to his body, she lifted her head and blindly proffered her lips to his demanding, exploratory possession of her mouth...
She parted her lips with a sort of compulsive curiosity. The exquisitely raw sensations rippled through every nerve of her body. His tongue fenced with hers, then plunged hungrily deeper. He slid his hands up her slender back and cupped her head, his fingers tangling in the short, feathery rose-gold curls of her hair.
Dragging trembling hands across his ribcage, she spread her fingers across the width of his chest, superficially going through the motions of trying to push him away. Her lack of conviction must have been pathetically obvious, she decided dimly, shivering as her fingers encountered the strong ridges of his pectoral muscles. She clenched her fingers into small fists, fighting her feelings with every ounce of her strength, but then of their own volition her hands slid to his shoulders, spanning the firm column of his neck, seeking the strong pulse beating at his throat, the texture of his hair at his nape.
His hair was thick and clean, crisp to the touch. His body, through the light cotton of his clothes, felt lean and spare, powerfully muscled. A fresh wave of fire swept through her as he traced the narrow indentation of her spine with one firm hand. He caressed lightly all the way down to her small buttocks, and with shocked awareness she felt the heavy shaft of his sex, confined by clothes but nevertheless rampantly male, powerfully and unmistakably aroused, pressing against the flatness of her stomach through the silk of her sarong-skirt. A shudder of need seemed to resonate through her, but alongside it came a faint return to sanity.
The shudder seemed to transfer itself to Christian, and with a thick curse under his breath he abruptly separated himself from her. One hand on her shoulder, he caught her chin with the other, to lift her flushed face for inspection. The smoky blue eyes were darker. The sleepy, lidded gaze was shuttered, and unreadable.
‘Je m’excuse, Emily. I did not intend that to happen. I did not seek to light a conflagration between us...’ His breathing was erratic, his deep voice was harder, but ruefully amused as well. As if he’d been taken genuinely by surprise.
‘I...you didn’t...’ Her voice sounded disembodied. She was trembling from head to foot.
‘Now I think I have frightened you even more than Greg Vernon.’
She made a determined effort to laugh it off, backing away and twisting her chin free from the disturbing warmth of his fingers. ‘Don’t worry, I doubt if I’ll have nightmares!’
‘Good.’ He was smiling wryly now, a wary, watchful light in his eyes. ‘We would not want any complications to hinder our working relationship, would we?’
‘I’ll be sure to lock my door!’ she said tartly.
‘That would be advisable.’ His blue eyes held such a gleam of dry humour that it twisted a fresh knot in the painful muddle of her emotions. Some inner parts of her body she had never even known existed until now were aching and shimmering and melting, and behaving in an outrageously unladylike fashion. ‘You’re quite a little sex siren, aren’t you, Emily?’
‘I assure you I am not!’ she snapped, incensed at his laughing mockery. ‘And what a typical sexist male comment! Blaming the female for his own lack of control!’
‘I count myself fortunate. At least I have not been immobilised by one of your terrifying judo techniques. Bonne nuit, Emily. Dors bien.’
She clenched her fists at her sides, opened her mouth to speak, but found it impossible. She was too choked with anger.
When he turned away and she closed the door on his cool, retreating lope down the landing she stood quite still, staring at the panelled dark oak door, filled with such a savage intensity of reaction that she felt like screaming and sobbing and hammering furiously against the wall.
* * *
Lisette Duvert woke her, with a tray of breakfast which she set down, none too graciously, on the table beside her bed.
‘Christian said I’d find you in here,’ she announced without prevarication. ‘What happened between you and Greg last night?’ She spoke in French, and her tone was decidedly unfriendly.
Emily blinked, rubbing her eyes, and struggled to sit up in bed, staring at her uninvited visitor. Lisette was an intensely pretty girl, with an oval face and the sort of ethereal pallor which men would doubtless find fascinating. Her eyes were as green as the sloping lawns visible through the rear windows of the bedroom. With her shoulder-length black hair and heavy fringe, and wearing a short, figure-hugging black sundress, she had a faintly witch-like air about her.
‘Didn’t Christian...Monsieur Malraux tell you?’ She managed to keep her voice level, and polite.
‘He told me some unlikely story of Greg bursting into your room and trying to molest you!’
Lisette sounded as if she had no doubt that Emily had made the whole thing up. Emily swung her legs out of bed, and stood up, facing the French girl. She was thankful for her relatively modest nightwear, an oversized white T-shirt with a yellow sun printed on the front. And she felt grateful, too, for the fact that even in bare feet she was an inch taller than Lisette.
‘I gather you hired Greg Vernon?’ she queried calmly. ‘So I’m sorry if you feel upset that he was fired straight away! But I can assure you the story is no exaggeration...’
‘No? Or perhaps you simply twisted it around to suit yourself?’ Dislike blazed out of Lisette’s green eyes.
Emily blinked involuntarily under the heat of the other girl’s temper. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘I mean, perhaps Christian came back and caught you in an embarrassing situation, and you threw the blame on Greg?’
This was so close to Christian’s cynical conjecturing last night that Emily felt a sick tightening in her stomach.
‘That’s simply not true—’ she began furiously.
‘On the contrary...’ It was Christian’s husky, cuttingly amused voice from the door, making both of them swing round. ‘Emily did not throw the blame on Greg, she threw Greg. Over her shoulder.’
His dark face was sardonic as he assessed Lisette’s dismayed reaction to his sudden appearance. ‘Emily is a judo expert, Lisette. We shall all need to tiptoe carefully around her while she is working here.’
With a toss of her black head, Lisette gave Christian a slow, provocative smile, then cast a withering glance back at Emily.
‘Judo?’ she sneered disbelievingly. ‘Greg is a friend of mine. I do not need to use judo against him! This girl was obviously leading him on!’
‘Ça suffit, Lisette.’ Christian’s voice contained a razor-edge which Emily was beginning to recognise. ‘If you wish to continue working for me, I advise you to occupy yourself only with matters which concern you.’
The put-down was cool and devastating. The French girl gave an angry shrug, glaring at Christian with such simmering reproach that Emily had to suppress a smile. After a fraught silence, she spun on her heel and marched from the room.
How to make an enemy in ten seconds flat, Emily reflected dubiously, left facing Christian with mixed emotions. Under that intense appraisal she felt agitated, horribly self-conscious. Abruptly she had no idea what to do with her hands. The T-shirt felt transparent...
‘You don’t go in for finesse in your relationships with your employees, do you?’ She couldn’t help it, the accusation tripped off her tongue.
Christian’s face darkened. ‘Lisette is a hang-over from my uncle Thierry’s occupancy. As housekeepers go, she leaves much to be desired.’
‘What do you mean, a “hang-over”?’ Clasping her hands behind her back didn’t help. It only served to emphasise the thrust of her breasts against the fine jersey material. She settled for a defensively aggressive position, arms folded across her chest.
‘I mean that I did not appoint her. And that, if I stay long enough, I may well have to replace her.’
Through the receding haze of sleep, and the distracting effect of Christian’s presence, Emily felt she understood the situation even less than she had last night. Was Christian Malraux here against his will, as a reluctant caretaker of his family business, because of his uncle’s death?
And yet last night he’d talked of his need to find an alternative career, to find something which literally ‘brought him back down to earth’. What could be more ideal than growing grapes, producing wine? What could be more creative, more satisfying? So why was he so stubbornly unenthusiastic about his current role? She was intrigued to find out. He didn’t strike her as the kind of person who did things half-heartedly. If he appeared to show little enthusiasm for his current situation, Emily decided there had to be a reason why...
‘Eat your breakfast. I doubt if Lisette has poisoned it,’ Christian advised, a mocking note in his husky voice.
She levelled a calm gaze at him, taking in his cool, muscular appearance in suede boots, denims and loose white sweatshirt.
‘I may be fresh from secretarial college,’ she told him succinctly, ‘but I hope I don’t have many jobs with quite such a bizarre beginning as this one.’
‘Things can only get better,’ he agreed laconically, turning away with a glitter of laughter in his eyes. ‘I’ll see you down in the office in half an hour. D’accord?’
‘I’ll be there.’
When she’d consumed the strong chicory-scented coffee and warm buttery croissants, showered and dressed, and gone in search of her employer, she was struck once again by the potential for tourist trade here. The old chteau seemed sadly neglected. Most of it seemed unused. There were endless possibilities, she decided, her brain whirring as she took in the dilapidated reception area, the unvisited cellars, the lack of wine tastings. Yes, there were plenty of improvements she could suggest, just waiting to be put into effect...
The office, however, when she finally found it, wasn’t the dusty cell she’d half expected. It looked surprisingly well equipped. There was some highly polished antique furniture, but the contrast of ultra-modern computers. The room was full of sun, with windows overlooking the rear lawns.
Christian was propped against one of the desks, ankles crossed, talking in quick-fire French on the telephone.
‘Ah, Emily...’ He cradled the receiver momentarily, his gaze intent on her appearance. ‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’
She hesitated, then went to sit behind the other desk, studying the brand new word processor with interest, assessing her ability to instantly master its intricacies.
The receiver clicked back in place. She jerked up her head to find the lidded blue gaze trained exclusively on her. Her skin prickled in reaction. Immediately she became body-conscious. The nutmeg silk suit she was wearing, short-skirted, chic and businesslike, somehow felt insufficient covering.
‘Well?’ he enquired flatly, watching as she lowered her eyes and made a show of examining the keyboard of the computer. ‘Do you think you will be happy working here?’
‘Happy?’ She blinked involuntarily, then nodded hastily. ‘Happy’ wasn’t a word she’d use to describe her tangled emotions so far, but it really was high time she pulled herself together.
‘Yes. I’m sure I shall be quite happy,’ she confirmed evenly. ‘This office is far more up-to-date than I expected...’
‘You were expecting some airless cellar surrounded by cobwebs and bats?’
‘More or less.’ She felt a smile tug at her mouth, but if she’d expected a similar flash of warmth from Christian it wasn’t forthcoming. Whether it was the telephone call or some other reason, he seemed even more tense and preoccupied than usual. The relaxed if cynical escort of last night’s meal seemed to have vanished into thin air. The tyrant seemed to have the upper hand at the moment.
‘My three months here have not been entirely wasted,’ he said abruptly, ‘although my uncle’s illness meant the place was neglected for longer than it should have been.’
‘I...I’m sorry about your uncle...’
‘So am I. He was my last living relative!’ There was a bleak flippancy in Christian’s voice which idiotically made Emily want to reach out and lay a hand on his shoulder, comfort him. She controlled the urge. Last night’s unnerving eruption had arisen from an innocent act of sympathy, or comfort, hadn’t it? Being in this man’s vicinity felt like walking on eggs.
She caught her breath in frustration. She wouldn’t be intimidated by him, overawed, like a shy child...
‘You said you lived with your uncle and aunt as a child? What happened to your own parents?’
‘They died,’ Christian supplied briefly.
‘When? How?’ she persevered gently, secretly aghast at her forwardness.
‘Together. From smoke asphyxiation. They’d gone for a touring holiday in India. There was a fire in one of the hotels.’
‘How old were you?’ Emily found she simply couldn’t help herself. The questions just tumbled now, irresistibly, off her tongue.
He shot her a look of barely suppressed impatience. ‘Seven. They’d sent me to stay at Chteau de Mordin while they made their trip. So instead of going back to my own home in Avenue Foch in Paris I just stayed on with my uncle and aunt. And now, Emily,’ Christian’s smile was humourless, his tone deeply cynical, ‘enough questions. You were right—you are commendably inquisitive. Perhaps not so commendable when it becomes personal. Save it for your job.’
‘Fine. Sorry I spoke,’ she said with a tight smile. ‘Emily Gainsborough, reporting for duty. Ready for work when you are!’ As a rebellious follow-up, she clicked her heels and sketched a cheeky salute.
Levering himself off the desk, he gazed down at her consideringly. There was a slightly bemused expression on his hard, dark face.
‘A word of advice, Emily...’ he began softly, a twitch of humour finally lifting the corner of his mouth.
‘Not more advice on affairs of the heart?’ she queried, wide-eyed.
‘No. Advice on how to ensure you don’t get sacked on the first day of your Foreign Office post in September.’ The deep voice held elaborate patience.
‘Right. Let me guess... Number one: don’t let my new boss catch me practising judo in the nude on the point of introduction? Number two: don’t let my new boss practise his hot French kissing technique on me a couple of hours later?’
The silence which followed this defiant humour seemed endless. Braced for a possible eruption of anger, Emily stood before him, erect and slender, huge brown eyes levelled on his dark face. Finally, to her intense relief, Christian lifted his hands and dropped them to his sides in a quick, essentially Gallic gesture, and then he laughed.
‘In fact, I was going to advise against cheek, sarcasm, and acting too clever for your own good,’ he informed her wryly, gesturing towards the door. ‘But I have the feeling I was about to waste my breath. You will just have to learn the hard way. Come, Emily, let me take you on a guided tour, so you know your way around.’
Chastened, she followed in silence. Her light-hearted attempts at ice-breaking hadn’t worked out quite the way she’d envisaged.
The tour proved infuriatingly hard to concentrate on. One half of Emily’s mind was on the information Christian was relaying, the names of the chteau employees who apparently lived locally, the layout of the working areas of the chteau, the storage and the ageing cellars.
The other half was absorbed in fighting down the insidious attraction she felt towards Christian Malraux, an attraction which grew stronger the more time she spent in his company, an attraction which seemed intent on defying all laws of common sense. Think about self-preservation, she told herself impatiently, the dangers of getting involved, of somehow forfeiting any of her independence while her own career plans were still so fresh and untried ahead of her...
‘And this is virtually back where we started from. What do you think of my ideas, Emily?’ Christian was saying, sending her into a flurry of embarrassment as he turned a quizzical gaze on her, clearly awaiting a reply.
‘Sorry? I’m afraid I drifted,’ she confessed, colouring slightly.
They’d finished the interior of the chteau, done a complete circuit of the grounds, and returned to the ageing cellar, with its impressive line-up of big four-hundred-litre oak barrels. This was where the pineau cognac matured for up to ten years. There was a display, beside an old copper still. It showed the different stages of the ageing process, from pale yellow to marigold-orange to its final dark sienna.
‘You drifted? Didn’t your secretarial college include a course on how to combat drifting, Emily?’ The deep, husky voice sounded harshly amused.
They were standing very close, far too close for her peace of mind. Her throat dry, she glanced around them in panic. His physical presence was doing unspeakable things to her poise.
She met the lidded blue gaze with a fresh surge of resentment. No one had any right to upset her equilibrium quite so thoroughly. If only he hadn’t grabbed her last night, demonstrated that super-macho expertise, she’d have been fine...
‘No...it didn’t,’ she heard herself saying. ‘It didn’t include a course on how to combat the after-effects of kissing our new boss within three hours of meeting him, either...’
There was a charged silence. Her heart was thudding uncontrollably as Christian stared down into her face, his expression narrowed, his mouth grim.
‘You found last night...disturbing?’ he said at last, deceptively casual. The faint jerk of a muscle on the hard jaw betrayed his sudden tension.
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Rosalie Ash
Guilty Love?When Christian Malraux told Emily, "You will be my sex slave," she should have turned tail and run! Instead, she found herself falling in love. But loving Christian wasn't easy, even though he made it clear that he desired Emily. For there was a dark and mysterious secret in Christian's past that had scarred his soul as well as his face.Emily hoped that the power of her love would bring him out of the darkness and into the light again. But would Christian ever see her as anything more than an object of desire… who conveniently happened to work for him?
Original Sin
Rosalie Ash
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE (#u906bab65-05c1-5623-8ce3-018c5935c1e1)
CHAPTER TWO (#u6b83ae28-a7c4-58d9-a32d-9125231876ea)
CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
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 ONE
AT THE sound of the spit of gravel on the drive below, Emily jumped out of the bath, short strawberry-blonde curls still damp from a hasty hairwash, and went to peer curiously from the open window of her bedroom.
The warm July air met her, redolent with the rich, sweet scent of golden broom, pine trees and some other heady, elusive fragrance, some musky blend of smells unique to summers in France. A distant flash of black wings circled in the evening sky around the mossy red pantiled roof and tall chimneys of the opposite wing of the chteau. Bats, probably, Emily decided, thinking how neatly this ancient creeper-clad building lent itself to the occupation of bats in its belfry...
Clutching the ends of the big ivory bath-towel around herself, she shrank back behind the heavy curtain to see a sleek open-top Mercedes sports car sweeping into the courtyard, to halt outside the entrance to the chteau.
It wasn’t really dark yet. Just dusk. The arc of yellow light from the storm light below showed a tall, broad-shouldered man springing athletically from the driver’s seat. Snatching a battered-looking briefcase or flight-bag from inside the car, he thrust his fingers through the lock of dark hair which fell over his forehead and headed, with a purposeful yet oddly preoccupied air, towards the steps. There was a loping spring in his movements which reminded Emily of a lion’s prowl...
Could this be her new boss? Instinct told her it was, even though Lisette Duvert, taken by surprise this morning at Emily’s arrival a day earlier than expected, had predicted that Monsieur Malraux wouldn’t be getting back from his business trip until tomorrow. The new arrival had a distinctly boss-like air about him, Emily told herself, suppressing a smile. He looked as if he exuded that god-like air of indispensability. As if the universe would have quite a struggle continuing to function without him...
She’d better get dried, dressed, and somehow find her way down to announce her presence. Lisette Duvert, the young, glamorous and rather unhelpful housekeeper, had shown her to her room, announced that tonight was her night off, and promptly departed. Emily had been left with vague directions to the nearest restaurant for an evening meal, and with the uncomfortable feeling that she might be the only member of staff of the Chteau de Mordin spending the night here. She wasn’t normally prey to nervous fantasy, but she’d seriously considered jumping back in her hired Renault 5 and driving into Saintes, to see if her old penfriend Marianne and family would put her up for the night...
Before she could make any move towards drying and dressing, however, heavy footsteps sounded on the landing outside her door, and without warning the door was pushed open. A man around her own age, of average height and solid build, with curly brown hair, definitely not the recent arrival from the Mercedes, marched into the room, swung a rucksack on to the bed, and began to discard a short-sleeved red shirt as he strode towards the bathroom.
‘Hey...!’ Her indignant gasp brought the intruder to an abrupt halt, and with a muffled exclamation he reached to switch on the light, then gazed with an unrepentant leer at the sight of Emily, clutching her towel round her slender body, pale with outrage.
‘Well, well! Definitely all mod cons!’ The voice was English, with a slight regional accent. Hazel eyes gleamed with undisguised appreciation. ‘French, English or German?’
‘Whoever you are, will you please get out of my room?’
‘Ah, English. Lisette didn’t tell me I was sharing, but I’ve no objections if you haven’t. Greg Vernon’s the name. I’m hitching round Europe, doing a spot of casual summer work when I can. And you?’
Emily glared at the man, longing for some object to throw.
‘Emily Gainsborough. I’m here to do temporary work for the summer, too. And I’m delighted to meet you, but perhaps we could continue this friendly chat some other time? This is my room!’
Greg Vernon’s eyes were overtly curious as he examined her long, slim legs, the petite line of her hips and breasts covered by the towel, the delicate swell of her breasts above, and the damp, feathery gold curls clinging to her head.
‘Lisette told me third door on the right.’
‘Maybe counting’s not your strong point?’ she suggested cuttingly.
‘So what are you supposed to be doing here? Odd jobs, like me?’ Greg Vernon ignored her sarcasm, folding his arms and staring hard at the curve of her thighs.
Humouring the man seemed the only option for the moment. She tightened her hold on the towel, and controlled her temper.
‘No, I’m a temporary secretary for the chteau owner. Until I take up a full-time job in the Foreign Office in September. Now would you please...?’
‘The Foreign Office?’
‘Yes. At their Paris embassy.’ Alone in this apparently deserted chteau, Emily was feeling acutely vulnerable. Even if she knew she could probably look after herself, it didn’t dispel her sense of female vulnerability. She didn’t like the way he was ogling her. If she leaned out of the window and screamed, would someone come to her aid?
‘Brainy as well as beautiful?’ He sounded impressed. ‘How old are you, sweetheart?’
‘I’m not your sweetheart. And I’m old enough to look after myself. Now will you please go and find yourself an empty room?’
‘You’re a sight for very sore eyes, did you know that?’ he persisted, his grin widening. ‘I’ve got a soft spot for brainy brown-eyed strawberry blondes.’
‘Will you just get out of here?’
‘Especially brown-eyed strawberry blondes with cheekbones like Kim Basinger’s, who look as if a gust of wind would blow them over,’ he mused, unaffected by the glitter of fury in her eyes. He took a few steps towards her on sturdy, muscular legs with just a hint of bravado swagger. ‘What do you say to giving my back a scrub in the bath, sweetheart? I’ll make it worth your while...’
‘I’m warning you,’ she hissed in a low, shaky voice. ‘If you don’t get out of my room in five seconds flat, I’ll...’
‘You’ll what, sweetheart?’
The masculine goad, the insultingly confident hand reaching towards her, was the deciding factor. Fear abruptly left her. Calmly, with a reaction born of weekly practice at her local sports centre, and several competition wins at national level, she caught his upper arm in a classic judo hold. Before he knew what had hit him, Greg Vernon flipped over to land flat on his back on the floor on the landing outside Emily’s room.
Winded, he lay there, staring up at her. The look of stunned surprise on his face was so comical, she had to fight back shaky laughter as she slammed the door on him.
The towel, loosened in the struggle, suddenly fell to the floor. For a few unavoidable seconds, Emily found herself stark naked, trembling all over, slender thighs braced, small, high, ochre-tipped breasts rising and falling rapidly, and she was just about to snatch her salmon-pink satin wrap from the bed when another voice spoke from the reopened doorway. A deep, scathing, sardonic voice which made her jerk round in dismay.
‘Mademoiselle Gainsborough?’
Beneath an unruly lock of straight black hair, intense, black-fringed smoke-blue eyes met Emily’s wide, slanting brown ones. A rush of heat prickled all over her body as she stared up at the tall, dark man. It was the Mercedes owner, in slate-grey suit, white silk shirt and discreetly patterned silk tie, absorbing the scene, and her nakedness, with a totally deadpan expression. A jagged scar ran down his left cheek. Harsh lines of cynicism and bitterness were scored around his mouth. And yet somehow he was still the most devastatingly attractive man she’d ever seen.
It was only a split second between his appearance and her physical reaction to cover herself up, but it seemed extraordinarily prolonged, as if time had suddenly switched into slow motion.
Opening her mouth to speak, she found that no words would emerge. She settled for a quick nod, and dived, utterly mortified, for the wrap, plunging her arms in and clutching it round herself with trembling fingers. She was going hot and cold alternately; groaning inwardly. The incident with Greg Vernon had been bad enough. To be facing her new employer, in the nude and with a strange male flat-out on the landing floor...not the most auspicious of starts...
‘Would you mind explaining what is going on here?’
‘This man barged into my room, and tried to...to molest me. I’m afraid I used self-defence automatically...’
‘So I had the pleasure of witnessing just now. It is strange, mademoiselle, but I don’t recall any mention of naked martial arts on your curriculum vitae.’
His English accent was near perfect, with a slight American twang, as if he’d learned it in the States rather than in England. There was a glitter of some emotion in his eyes. Emily thought she detected the faintest suggestion of humour, then decided she’d been mistaken. He definitely looked unamused.
Greg Vernon was dragging himself to his feet, ruefully rubbing his hipbone.
‘She’s lethal. Sorry mate.’ He sounded shaken, though slightly sullen. He made a lunge for his rucksack and looked anxious to leave. ‘Are you the new owner of this place?’
The dark man nodded curtly. ‘Christian Malraux. And, according to my housekeeper’s note, I assume that you must be Greg Vernon?’
‘The same. Wrong room. Bit of a mix-up...’
‘Get out, right now.’ The ice in the deep voice sent chills down Emily’s spine. She’d been right. He was not amused.
‘Now, wait a minute...’
‘Out. You’re sacked.’ There was no emotion, no trace of uncertainty. Just harsh, judgemental finality.
‘Sacked? I haven’t even started yet. But you can stick your flaming job right up your...’
With a lightning reflex, the tall, athletic-looking Frenchman had levered himself away from the doorjamb and taken the other man by one arm, jerking it expertly up his back, immobilising him.
‘Guard your tongue,’ he ordered softly, ‘and get off my property.’
With a warning thrust, he released him again. Greg Vernon’s shoulders and back bunched in anger, but he clearly thought better of further challenge. There was an indefinable air of toughness about Christian Malraux; the jagged scar lent a slightly sinister air to his appearance. He stood back to let Greg Vernon through, and Emily, for some perverse reason she hardly understood, felt compelled to speak up on his behalf.
‘There’s no need to fire him on my account,’ she protested quickly, hugging the satin wrap closely around her as the smoky-blue eyes turned their chill intensity on her again.
‘Indeed?’ The deep voice was taunting. Transfixed, she stared at the dark face, frantically trying to analyse why he should be so unsettling. Taken separately, his features were strong, but otherwise unremarkable. He had a large nose, deep-set, deceptively sleepy blue eyes, a wide, hard mouth and a jutting chin with a cleft in the centre. A bluish black shadow on his lower jaw proclaimed his need to shave at least twice a day.
‘Is this man a friend of yours, mademoiselle?’
‘No. But I think it was just a silly...misunderstanding. I think Mr Vernon and I understand each other now.’
‘I am sure that you do.’ The harsh, husky timbre of his voice brought goose-bumps out all over her skin. ‘However, I make the decisions here. I will see you downstairs in ten minutes, Mademoiselle Gainsborough. Keep your door locked in future. Particularly when you are taking a bath.’
With a final penetrating appraisal of her appearance, leaving her feeling stripped naked all over again, he withdrew from the room and shut the door with a decisive click.
Emily leaned against the closed door, and shut her eyes. Arrogant, supercilious man, she muttered out loud. She was shaking, so violently that she could hardly turn the key in the lock.
Why was she so angry with Christian Malraux? she wondered, as she went through automatic motions of dressing, her thoughts flitting wildly. Surely she should be angry with the Englishman? Glad of her employer’s timely intervention? Instead she found herself feeling almost sorry for her brash would-be attacker, and furiously resentful of the patronising, judgemental attitude of Christian Malraux...
Dragging a hairbrush through her short sunset-gold curls, she glared at her reflection. Demure now in knee-length salmon silk sarong-skirt, chocolate silk camisole and loose salmon silk collarless overshirt, she carefully fitted delicate pearl-drop earrings, and slicked a touch of pale pink lipstick over her lips, and gold-brown shadow on her lids. The look was cool, casually elegant, smart enough to cope with any eventuality. Dressed this way she might, just, be able to retrieve her credibility and poise.
As she made her way reluctantly down to meet her new employer, she came to a rueful conclusion about her muddled feelings. She’d managed to get the better of Greg Vernon. She had his measure. She’d met men like him before, and handled them with relative ease. Somehow he presented no threat. Not so with Christian Malraux. She had the feeling he was the kind of man it would be very hard to get the better of. And he seemed to present the biggest threat of all...
* * *
‘Have you eaten?’ the question was barked without preamble. She blinked at him in surprise.
‘No...’
‘Bon. Ça c’est la premire chose faire...first, we eat.’
No consultation. No prevarication. Christian Malraux was cool, calm, and in a disinterested sort of way totally in control. She found herself escorted firmly to the gunmetal-grey Mercedes, and then speeding back down the long, shingled drive of the chteau towards the stone gateway. The headlights lit up massive cedar trees, walnut trees, arcing through the dense parkland. A rabbit froze in the brilliant beam for a split second, then bounded desperately away into the undergrowth.
‘So you arrived early,’ he said expressionlessly. ‘Lisette was not expecting you until tomorrow.’
‘There must have been a misunderstanding. I was under the impression I was due to start today.’
The shadowed face flicked briefly towards her, then fixed ahead in concentration on driving expertly fast along the winding country roads.
‘Lisette also thought you weren’t due back from your business trip until tomorrow!’ she added calmly, marvelling how composed she could sound when inside she was a quivering jelly of nerves and reaction. Sitting here in the open Mercedes, beside Christian Malraux, she was experiencing the most unnerving dj vu sensation, as if she’d driven with him before, had known him before, as if he was someone important in her life, someone with a deep connection on another, subconscious level.
Since his saturnine appearance at her bedroom door, he’d swapped the grey suit for stone-coloured fine gabardine trousers, a black cotton mesh collarless shirt, and a loose, unstructured stone cotton jacket. He looked expensively casual, European designer-style. And heart-stoppingly attractive. Privately she decided Christian Malraux could probably manage to dress in a frilly pink sundress and still set every female heart within a two-mile radius thudding in ecstasy.
‘My meetings finished earlier than expected,’ he informed her harshly. ‘Which, from what I saw tonight, is just as well.’
‘If you’re referring to Greg Vernon, I was quite capable of dealing with him myself!’
‘So I saw. But I suspect you had an element of luck on your side, Mademoiselle Gainsborough. Never underestimate your adversary. Once that initial element of surprise is gone, you would do well to remember that.’
‘I happen to possess a brown belt in judo,’ she told him with calm pride. ‘A friend’s father is an instructor. I’ve fought in national competitions.’
‘Impressive.’ He didn’t sound particularly impressed. The dark face turned briefly in her direction again, and she sensed a mocking smile. ‘I know something of the martial arts myself. Your performance was certainly entertaining. But your linguistic and secretarial qualifications will be of more use to me.’
‘Oh, I’m definitely versatile!’
His glance was sardonic. Instantly she wished she hadn’t bothered with the flippant response. Her face was burning again in the darkness as she briefly relived the scene in her bedroom. She sought quickly to change the subject on to something less personal.
‘Did I get the impression you’d recently taken over the chteau, Monsieur Malraux?’
‘Three months ago.’ He nodded in the darkness. They were approaching some lights on the left now, pulling off the road beside a restaurant which looked as if it had been converted from an old mill.
‘You bought it from the previous owner?’
He shook his head briefly. ‘Years ago I lived at the chteau, with my uncle and aunt. But I chose another career, which took me abroad. I had not been back to Chteau de Mordin for five years. Until my uncle was taken ill and then died.’
Emily had the strong impression that Christian Malraux was far from delighted to be back at the chteau now. There was a cool cynicism underlying his words.
The cynicism she found hard to relate to. Casting embarrassment aside, her own emotions felt heightened. She found it hard to explain how she was feeling, even to herself. All she knew was that from the moment he’d appeared in her bedroom doorway she’d felt as if some obscure inner organ of her body had gone into slow meltdown. Combined with embarrassment at the scene he’d interrupted, and resentment at his authoritarian manner, this was a bewildering reaction. She was feeling slightly breathless, and shivery, and decidedly dithery...
With such a sharp focus on her own emotions it simply wasn’t fair to sense that Christian Malraux was offhandedly doing his duty, escorting his new secretary out for a meal on her first night, with his thoughts and his heart far away on some other, more enthralling life he’d been forced to abandon...
She caught herself up sharply. What idiotic fantasies were these? How could she be allowing her brain to run riot with such adolescent melodrama? She was twenty-two, a languages graduate filling in the summer before taking up a responsible job at an embassy. To date she’d had countless casual boyfriends—enjoyed lots of platonic friendships with the opposite sex, too. How could she be feeling this...this illogical kaleidoscope of emotion half an hour after meeting Christian Malraux?
She resolved to take a stern grip on herself.
But inside the restaurant, seated opposite her new employer at a check-clothed table, she met the smoky, sleepy, slightly bored blue gaze across the menu and felt the breath knocked out of her lungs again.
‘Seafood of all kinds is excellent in Charente Maritime,’ he told her coolly, assessing the slight involuntary flush of her cheeks with an air of detachment. ‘Just about every kind of fish that swims in the sea is caught and cooked and coated in some cunning sauce.’
‘Yes...I already know the area. That’s the main reason I chose this particular job. I have a penfriend fairly close by. I used to spend summers with her and her family.’
‘Where do they live?’ The query was perfunctory.
‘Saintes.’
‘A beautiful town. The Roman amphitheatre is extraordinary.’
‘Yes...’ She studied the menu unseeingly. This cool small talk was somehow infinitely disturbing. ‘I...I think I’ll have the raie.’
‘Would you like some wine?’
She nodded. ‘Chteau de Mordin produce a Sauvignon, don’t they?’
A slow smile altered the brooding darkness of the face opposite her. He thrust long, spatulate fingers through the persistent fall of dark hair on his forehead, and narrowed his blue eyes speculatively.
‘You have already done your homework, mademoiselle?’
‘I’m a naturally inquisitive person. Chteau de Mordin houses a co-operative of a hundred and forty-five vine growers, covering seven hundred hectares. You primarily make pineau cognac, which is one part cognac to three parts grape juice, with wines a secondary product. You produce three white wines, including a cuvée spéciale, plus a ros and a red.’
He laughed, completely demolishing her fragile composure. Christian Malraux had a deep, husky, infectious laugh and excellent, even white teeth. The slash of brilliance against the dusky tan of his skin make her think, irrationally, of pirates.
‘Little Miss Efficiency. My friend at your college was right when he said I’d be sorry to lose you.’
Emily was appalled to find herself blushing. Even more mortified when she realised that Christian Malraux was aware of her hot cheeks.
‘What an intriguing mixture you are, mademoiselle...’
‘Please, call me Emily!’ she snapped, pressing her hands together in the soft silk of her lap, willing herself to be cool and collected.
‘Emily.’ He said it consideringly, rolling the syllables deliberately, teasing around his tongue, his accent more in evidence. ‘Oui, d’accord. Emily. You must call me Christian.’
There was a momentary pause. Lost in the sleepy black-fringed blue eyes, Emily found she was holding her breath.
‘Yes. Thank you...Christian.’ She’d only spoken the man’s first name, for heaven’s sake. She felt as tense as if she’d just confessed some intimate secret...
The waiter came. Christian dispatched their order, then turned his attention back to her still-flushed face.
‘As I was saying,’ he continued softly, as if there’d been no interruption, ‘you are an intriguing mixture, Emily. Cool enough to use judo successfully against a man, to defend yourself. Professional enough to carry out detailed background research for what is merely a temporary job. Yet you look so fragile, as if a man could crush you if he held you too tightly.’
‘I...’
‘And shy enough to blush like a schoolgirl when you are paid a compliment.’
‘I don’t normally blush!’ she protested with a soft vehemence which clearly amused him even more. ‘You’ll have to excuse me. I’m feeling a little...off balance tonight. For obvious reasons!’
‘Ah. You mean your enchanting...nudity...on our first meeting?’ he goaded, equally soft. The smile sent her into a helpless inner tailspin. ‘Or perhaps you mean you are still shaken by the unpleasant incident with Vernon?’
‘Both,’ she agreed shortly, glancing up in some relief as their wine arrived. ‘You know, I came here this summer to brush up my business French,’ she went on hurriedly, desperate to switch the persistent spotlight off herself and her emotions, ‘yet we’ve done nothing but speak English.’
‘We are not talking business, Emily.’ Wretched man. He was enjoying watching her squirm!
‘No...’
‘Shall we agree to speak French in the vineyard office?’
‘I suppose so.’
He was humouring her, she recognised frustratedly. Her new employer was obviously finding her intensely amusing. She took a long mouthful of the cool white wine. It tasted faintly of apricots and wild herbs, with a crisp refreshing bite to it. A basket of aromatic fresh bread had been placed on the table. She realised how hungry she was. Tension or no tension, with or without Christian Malraux’s extremely unchivalrous taunts, she was going to enjoy this meal.
To distract herself from the mocking blue eyes she inspected her surroundings in greater detail. The restaurant was busy, buzzing with talk and laughter. Several French families were eating, plus a sprinkling of Germans, and English. Behind her she could hear voices in her native tongue busily deciphering the intricacies of the fish menu with the aid of a dictionary.
‘This is an attractive restaurant,’ she murmured politely, switching into French deliberately. ‘Is there still a mill-wheel?’
‘Yes. If we’d wanted to we could have sat outside on the grass, near the mill-stream,’ Christian confirmed coolly, also switching to French. ‘But the mosquitoes can be unpleasant.’
‘Another time I’ll wear repellent. I love eating out of doors. It’s such a luxury in England.’
‘Tomorrow night I will bring you here, and you may cover yourself in insect repellent and sit by the mill-stream, Emily.’
‘Oh, I wasn’t suggesting that you bring me here again...’
‘Do not begin blushing again,’ he advised her, with a lazy, speculative grin.
‘I wasn’t!’
But she felt on fire all over as his casual gaze moved slowly, assessingly, from the top of her copper-blonde head, down over her wide brown eyes to the petite curves of her breasts under the silk camisole. Braless, she felt, to her acute chagrin, the tips of her breasts begin to tighten involuntarily in response to that challenging appraisal.
‘Your French is excellent, Emily,’ he praised quietly, leaning nonchalently back in his chair and sliding his hands into his jacket pockets. ‘Is your Spanish also as good?’
‘Reasonable. I suspect my French is better, because I’ve spent more time in France. With my penfriend’s family. In my teens. So...’ she sought, once again, to switch the subject, to shrink back from the spotlight ‘...what was the career which took you abroad so much?’
‘Journalism.’
Did she imagine the slight hardening of the lines around Christian’s mouth? The slight withdrawal?
‘What sort of journalism?’
‘I was a foreign correspondent on a national newspaper. Then I reported foreign news for television.’
‘I see.’ She stared at him in mounting curiosity. Their first course had arrived, a platter of fresh langoustines, and she picked thoughtfully at one of the rigid shells with her fingers, finding herself staring at the beady little eyes of the shellfish with an abrupt shudder of sympathy.
Was this why Christian Malraux had an air of embittered cynicism? Foreign news reporting was an unremitting diet of wars, famine and atrocities, wasn’t it?
‘Did you throw it all in because your uncle was taken ill?’
‘Not entirely. I’d been contemplating making a change, finding a way to get back down to earth, literally as well as metaphorically. TV news reporting can become dangerously addictive. All the flying bullets and front-line bulletins...’
She found herself staring at the scar on his cheek, imagining some hair-raising incident with guerrillas and machine guns. She winced involuntarily, and he saw her reaction, touching the scar with a grim smile.
‘This disfigurement has no connection with my TV journalism. But does it disgust you, Emily?’ He sounded bleakly amused.
‘No!’ She shook her head with some force. ‘No, it most certainly does not disgust me! What a ridiculous suggestion!’
Christian’s gaze had narrowed at her vehement denial. There was a brief silence, then he shrugged, with a slight smile.
‘You do not need to burst with righteous indignation, Emily. I believe you.’
A longer pause stretched out between them, and then with thoughtful deliberation Christian reached across the table, and took her left hand in his, lightly, turning it over to inspect the narrow palm, the long, slim, ringless fingers.
The clasp was impersonal, exploratory. His skin felt warm and dry, his fingers lean and powerful, as if his strength was a latent threat, held in careful reserve.
Emily could hardly breathe. She felt as if something was constricting her windpipe. She stared down at their joined hands, at the strong, dark, hair-roughened back of Christian’s right hand encompassing hers. How could something as simple and innocent as a touching of hands feel so intensely intimate...so annihilating to her senses?
Her heart was thudding painfully hard against her breastbone. She tried to shrug off this overwhelming emotion, this warm, shimmering sensation mysteriously forcing up her blood-pressure, speeding up her pulse-rate, but failed spectacularly.
‘No rings?’ Christian sounded dismissive, releasing her hand with a composure she yearned to emulate.
‘No...’ Resisting the urge to snatch her hand defensively into her lap, she transferred it slowly to her wine glass, proud of her precision control. She took a careful sip of wine.
‘No ties, no commitments?’ He persisted coolly.
‘None. That’s the way I intend things to stay.’
‘Hence the high-powered Foreign Office job in September?’
She nodded, warming to her impressive display of indifference. Her stomach was in knots. Her heart was racing at twice its normal speed.
‘Too many of my friends finished higher education only to throw it all away to get married! I have a very clear-cut vision of where I’m heading for, and its not the altar!’
Even as she heard herself say it, she was mentally floundering in a warm dark whirlpool of reaction to his touch, his voice, everything about him...
‘Wise girl,’ he approved softly. ‘Stick to your career. Don’t be side-tracked. Love is a destructive emotion.’
With a smiling nod, she stared at him in silence. Her throat felt curiously tight. He’d caught her on the raw again. As if he’d aimed a sharp punch to her solar plexus.
Their food arrived, a welcome diversion. She tackled the delicious skate in caper sauce, absently sliding the white fish off the smooth webbed bone with her fork.
‘Love is a destructive emotion? That’s going a bit far, surely?’ she teased lightly, glancing up when she felt sure she had her emotions under tight control. ‘You sound deeply embittered!’
Christian had opted for a rare filet mignon, oozing pink juices and exuding a rich, savoury aroma. He was eating it with the kind of uninhibited relish Emily decided might be a national characteristic.
‘Life has taught me the value of independence. Take my advice: keep your heart to yourself, Emily.’
The flat words were unemotional. She felt herself go very still, staring warily into the deep-set gaze.
Abruptly, totally without warning, she felt as if she’d stumbled into an entirely new landscape of emotions. In a moment maybe she’d wake up and find she was sleepwalking...
This was awful. This was unthinkable. First the unfortunate introduction, now some sort of humiliating mind-reading. Had he taken a subtle glance inside her head, read her splintering composure, identified it for what it seemed to be? Her very first, long-retarded, breathless, hopeless ‘crush’, overwhelming her as irrepressibly as a bout of flu? What would her brother Ben make of her behaviour tonight? she wondered distractedly. Would he believe his eyes if he saw his brainy little sister, cool and pragmatic, independent and resourceful, tumbling into a crazy, mindless infatuation with a man she’d met barely an hour and a half before?
CHAPTER TWO
ABRUPTLY Emily pushed her knife and fork together.
‘Lost your appetite?’ The deep voice was expressionless.
‘Sort of.’
‘Would you like dessert? Coffee?’
‘Nothing else. I’m feeling sleepy. Travelling affects me like that.’
‘Then I had better take you back to bed, Emily.’
His words hung between them, like a teasing challenge. Had he intended any double meaning?
‘Yes...’ If her cheeks had been hot before, now she felt flames consuming her.
The night air was warm and scented, but it cooled her burning cheeks during the drive back in the open car.
‘You will move into a room nearer to mine tonight.’
Christian’s cool, flat announcement made her jerk her head round in alarm. They’d crunched to a halt in the pebbled courtyard, stepped out of the Mercedes, and were standing in the lamplit darkness.
‘Whatever for?’
‘For your safety, Emily.’
‘Oh...!’ Thrown into confusion, she searched her shattered thoughts. ‘You think Greg Vernon might come creeping back to finish what he tried to start?’ She was half joking, but somehow the words came out with a more serious ring than she’d intended.
‘It is possible.’ Christian’s voice was hard as steel.
‘Oh, I really don’t think he was serious...’ She stopped, suddenly feeling cold inside.
She stared up at the dark bulk of the building. A faint frisson of apprehension slithered down her spine. The Chteau de Mordin was an old, two-storeyed mansion built around three sides of a wide shingled courtyard. Its walls—what could be seen of them beneath dense green creeper, and between endless rows of tall, arched windows with wooden shutters—were smooth-rendered and white-washed. The shrill of the cicadas was the only sound.
For her own peace of mind she’d played down the whole Greg Vernon episode. Now, standing here in the eerie silence of the night, she felt her imagination fire into overdrive. An owl hooted from the vicinity of one of the massive cedars nearby and she jumped involuntarily.
Had Greg Vernon been seriously about to molest her? If she hadn’t turned her hand to her bit of surprise judo, if Christian hadn’t appeared when he did, would things have got unpleasantly or even dangerously out of control...?
At the time she’d put the Englishman down as a relatively harmless flirt, with delusions about his own sex appeal. Now, delayed reaction was setting in.
Christian had turned to gaze around the courtyard. He stood with his back to her, his hands thrust into his jacket pockets, and she stared at him unwillingly. Tall, over six feet, and broad-shouldered, he had the smooth-muscled physique of an athlete. In profile his features had a brooding, hooded power. The trouble was, Emily acknowledged ruefully, that Christian Malraux exuded far greater danger than Greg Vernon ever could...
‘I’ll be fine, honestly,’ she countered hurriedly. ‘I’ll lock my door. Don’t worry...’
‘You will move across to the room next to mine. Tonight.’ Christian turned to gaze down at her, his expression harder. ‘I have no wish to lie awake half the night worried that rape and pillage may be taking place across there.’
‘For heavens’ sake, there’s no need for any fuss. I’ll be perfectly safe! And I can take care of myself!’
‘You will do as I say.’ The deep voice held an implacable note, raising her hackles. Christian Malraux could be charming when he wished, but he had a nasty tyrannical streak, Emily decided crossly. She recalled his icy dismissal of Greg Vernon. Here was a man used to being obeyed.
‘I’d rather stay where I am now!’
‘Indeed?’ One dark eyebrow angled scathingly as he studied her mutinous face. ‘Perhaps I misjudged the situation? Perhaps, if I had not intervened, the outcome would have been very different?’
She stared at him in silence.
‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘Things are not always what they appear,’ he murmured thoughtfully. ‘Is it possible perhaps that you were enjoying your rough session with Greg Vernon, Emily? And my appearance spoiled things for you?’
Anger gripped her. ‘If you mean what I think you mean, that’s a...a disgusting suggestion!’
‘Is it?’ Christian sounded unperturbed by her pent-up outrage. ‘In that case, you will be happier sleeping in another room. Come, we’ll fetch your things.’
There was little option, Emily decided furiously, but to follow orders, for the time being. And humouring her new boss seemed diplomatic, when she’d controlled her temper enough to take a calm view of the situation.
‘Is the chteau always this deserted?’ In a valiant effort to somehow retrieve the deteriorating atmosphere between them, Emily’s query was made with elaborate politeness as they returned across the shadowy courtyard with her repacked cases. ‘It gives me the distinct impression that it was built to house more than two people!’
She’d endured his patronising supervision while she collected her belongings. Now she felt a fresh stab of annoyance at his humourless smile.
‘Before my aunt died, the place was usually packed with staff, guests, weekend parties. I imagine that social life tailed off these last few years. The village “fte champtre” is traditionally celebrated here. There is a floodlit grand bal here in two weeks’ time. That should bring a little more life to the place...depending on the numbers attending.’
There was that dry cynicism again in his voice, which seemed to intrude whenever the chteau was mentioned...
‘But the business side of things—surely there are more live-in staff than your housekeeper, Lisette Duvert, and the occasional casual odd-job man like Greg Vernon?’
‘This is as my uncle left it. I’ve been working on building up the sales side, but I haven’t been able to give the place my undivided attention. Too many loose ends from my former profession. And I have not yet fully decided on the future of the Chteau de Mordin.’
Emily stopped in the doorway of the bedroom he’d shown her into, staring up at him in surprise. ‘You mean you might sell?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s possible. I have not decided. Six years ago, I had no wish to vegetate in provincial France in the family business. I am not sure if anything has really changed on that score.’
For some reason, she felt shocked. She took care not to show it. She hardly knew this man. It wasn’t for her to show surprise at his lack of enthusiasm for what seemed to her an idyllic goldmine of a place...
‘This place has enormous potential,’ she began idly. ‘I thought that the moment I saw it...’
‘Indeed? I’d be interested to hear your views on it.’ His tone was wry, far from sincere, she thought resentfully.
‘Sure. Any time.’ Suddenly overwhelmingly tired, she pressed a hand to her forehead, shivering.
‘Are you all right, Emily?’ Behind the implacable shutters of his expression, the smoky blue gaze held a hint of concern.
‘I’m fine. It’s been a long day...’
This was true. She’d been up with the lark at her home in Gloucestershire, flown from Birmingham to Bordeaux, then driven up here on congested French roads in the hectic July holiday traffic. The sight of the big, square bedroom just along the landing from Christian’s suite, freshly welcoming in shades of blue and gold, with a door ajar into a matching shower-room, was enticing.
Emily suddenly realised that this window looked straight across the courtyard into the window of the bedroom she’d been given by Lisette. No wonder Christian had detected trouble and arrived on the scene when he had—once Greg Vernon had snapped on the light, the scenario in the bedroom would have been floodlit for all to see...
‘You’ve gone very pale.’
‘I think it’s delayed reaction to that ridiculous episode earlier...’ The brief smile she gave him was tight with suppressed emotion. It had only just sunk in how close she might have come to a vicious assault earlier in her room. And this arrogant individual had the nerve to suggest she’d been enjoying herself...
To her mortification she discovered that she was close to tears. Spinning desperately away from him, cursing her tiredness, her emotional state, the wine, the whole tense, edgy evening, she willed him to melt away and leave her alone to weep a few therapeutic tears and collapse into bed.
Instead, she felt strong hands on her shoulders, and she was twisted into the hard warmth of Christian Malraux’s arms, and held firmly against the muscular wall of his chest.
‘You are trembling. Emily, I apologise if I offended you. You are quite safe here...’
The deep voice was cool, with a trace of anger beneath the surface. Was he angry with her? Or with himself, for suggesting that nasty twist to what might have happened?
She tensed, panic-stricken, rigid with furious denial as he slid one hand up to the narrow nape of her neck, casually and confidently caressing her hair. He stroked the back of her head in a calming, brotherly fashion. It could have been Ben, hugging her better after some minor accident at home. She felt herself relax against him involuntarily as the warmth of his body transferred itself to her.
And then, with no warning, the warmth subtly changed. Secure and fraternal it suddenly wasn’t. Searingly aware of every intimate detail of the hard, clean-smelling male body so close to hers, Emily found all her reassurance vanished.
When Christian gave an abrupt, astonished expletive and crushed her harder to his body, she lifted her head and blindly proffered her lips to his demanding, exploratory possession of her mouth...
She parted her lips with a sort of compulsive curiosity. The exquisitely raw sensations rippled through every nerve of her body. His tongue fenced with hers, then plunged hungrily deeper. He slid his hands up her slender back and cupped her head, his fingers tangling in the short, feathery rose-gold curls of her hair.
Dragging trembling hands across his ribcage, she spread her fingers across the width of his chest, superficially going through the motions of trying to push him away. Her lack of conviction must have been pathetically obvious, she decided dimly, shivering as her fingers encountered the strong ridges of his pectoral muscles. She clenched her fingers into small fists, fighting her feelings with every ounce of her strength, but then of their own volition her hands slid to his shoulders, spanning the firm column of his neck, seeking the strong pulse beating at his throat, the texture of his hair at his nape.
His hair was thick and clean, crisp to the touch. His body, through the light cotton of his clothes, felt lean and spare, powerfully muscled. A fresh wave of fire swept through her as he traced the narrow indentation of her spine with one firm hand. He caressed lightly all the way down to her small buttocks, and with shocked awareness she felt the heavy shaft of his sex, confined by clothes but nevertheless rampantly male, powerfully and unmistakably aroused, pressing against the flatness of her stomach through the silk of her sarong-skirt. A shudder of need seemed to resonate through her, but alongside it came a faint return to sanity.
The shudder seemed to transfer itself to Christian, and with a thick curse under his breath he abruptly separated himself from her. One hand on her shoulder, he caught her chin with the other, to lift her flushed face for inspection. The smoky blue eyes were darker. The sleepy, lidded gaze was shuttered, and unreadable.
‘Je m’excuse, Emily. I did not intend that to happen. I did not seek to light a conflagration between us...’ His breathing was erratic, his deep voice was harder, but ruefully amused as well. As if he’d been taken genuinely by surprise.
‘I...you didn’t...’ Her voice sounded disembodied. She was trembling from head to foot.
‘Now I think I have frightened you even more than Greg Vernon.’
She made a determined effort to laugh it off, backing away and twisting her chin free from the disturbing warmth of his fingers. ‘Don’t worry, I doubt if I’ll have nightmares!’
‘Good.’ He was smiling wryly now, a wary, watchful light in his eyes. ‘We would not want any complications to hinder our working relationship, would we?’
‘I’ll be sure to lock my door!’ she said tartly.
‘That would be advisable.’ His blue eyes held such a gleam of dry humour that it twisted a fresh knot in the painful muddle of her emotions. Some inner parts of her body she had never even known existed until now were aching and shimmering and melting, and behaving in an outrageously unladylike fashion. ‘You’re quite a little sex siren, aren’t you, Emily?’
‘I assure you I am not!’ she snapped, incensed at his laughing mockery. ‘And what a typical sexist male comment! Blaming the female for his own lack of control!’
‘I count myself fortunate. At least I have not been immobilised by one of your terrifying judo techniques. Bonne nuit, Emily. Dors bien.’
She clenched her fists at her sides, opened her mouth to speak, but found it impossible. She was too choked with anger.
When he turned away and she closed the door on his cool, retreating lope down the landing she stood quite still, staring at the panelled dark oak door, filled with such a savage intensity of reaction that she felt like screaming and sobbing and hammering furiously against the wall.
* * *
Lisette Duvert woke her, with a tray of breakfast which she set down, none too graciously, on the table beside her bed.
‘Christian said I’d find you in here,’ she announced without prevarication. ‘What happened between you and Greg last night?’ She spoke in French, and her tone was decidedly unfriendly.
Emily blinked, rubbing her eyes, and struggled to sit up in bed, staring at her uninvited visitor. Lisette was an intensely pretty girl, with an oval face and the sort of ethereal pallor which men would doubtless find fascinating. Her eyes were as green as the sloping lawns visible through the rear windows of the bedroom. With her shoulder-length black hair and heavy fringe, and wearing a short, figure-hugging black sundress, she had a faintly witch-like air about her.
‘Didn’t Christian...Monsieur Malraux tell you?’ She managed to keep her voice level, and polite.
‘He told me some unlikely story of Greg bursting into your room and trying to molest you!’
Lisette sounded as if she had no doubt that Emily had made the whole thing up. Emily swung her legs out of bed, and stood up, facing the French girl. She was thankful for her relatively modest nightwear, an oversized white T-shirt with a yellow sun printed on the front. And she felt grateful, too, for the fact that even in bare feet she was an inch taller than Lisette.
‘I gather you hired Greg Vernon?’ she queried calmly. ‘So I’m sorry if you feel upset that he was fired straight away! But I can assure you the story is no exaggeration...’
‘No? Or perhaps you simply twisted it around to suit yourself?’ Dislike blazed out of Lisette’s green eyes.
Emily blinked involuntarily under the heat of the other girl’s temper. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘I mean, perhaps Christian came back and caught you in an embarrassing situation, and you threw the blame on Greg?’
This was so close to Christian’s cynical conjecturing last night that Emily felt a sick tightening in her stomach.
‘That’s simply not true—’ she began furiously.
‘On the contrary...’ It was Christian’s husky, cuttingly amused voice from the door, making both of them swing round. ‘Emily did not throw the blame on Greg, she threw Greg. Over her shoulder.’
His dark face was sardonic as he assessed Lisette’s dismayed reaction to his sudden appearance. ‘Emily is a judo expert, Lisette. We shall all need to tiptoe carefully around her while she is working here.’
With a toss of her black head, Lisette gave Christian a slow, provocative smile, then cast a withering glance back at Emily.
‘Judo?’ she sneered disbelievingly. ‘Greg is a friend of mine. I do not need to use judo against him! This girl was obviously leading him on!’
‘Ça suffit, Lisette.’ Christian’s voice contained a razor-edge which Emily was beginning to recognise. ‘If you wish to continue working for me, I advise you to occupy yourself only with matters which concern you.’
The put-down was cool and devastating. The French girl gave an angry shrug, glaring at Christian with such simmering reproach that Emily had to suppress a smile. After a fraught silence, she spun on her heel and marched from the room.
How to make an enemy in ten seconds flat, Emily reflected dubiously, left facing Christian with mixed emotions. Under that intense appraisal she felt agitated, horribly self-conscious. Abruptly she had no idea what to do with her hands. The T-shirt felt transparent...
‘You don’t go in for finesse in your relationships with your employees, do you?’ She couldn’t help it, the accusation tripped off her tongue.
Christian’s face darkened. ‘Lisette is a hang-over from my uncle Thierry’s occupancy. As housekeepers go, she leaves much to be desired.’
‘What do you mean, a “hang-over”?’ Clasping her hands behind her back didn’t help. It only served to emphasise the thrust of her breasts against the fine jersey material. She settled for a defensively aggressive position, arms folded across her chest.
‘I mean that I did not appoint her. And that, if I stay long enough, I may well have to replace her.’
Through the receding haze of sleep, and the distracting effect of Christian’s presence, Emily felt she understood the situation even less than she had last night. Was Christian Malraux here against his will, as a reluctant caretaker of his family business, because of his uncle’s death?
And yet last night he’d talked of his need to find an alternative career, to find something which literally ‘brought him back down to earth’. What could be more ideal than growing grapes, producing wine? What could be more creative, more satisfying? So why was he so stubbornly unenthusiastic about his current role? She was intrigued to find out. He didn’t strike her as the kind of person who did things half-heartedly. If he appeared to show little enthusiasm for his current situation, Emily decided there had to be a reason why...
‘Eat your breakfast. I doubt if Lisette has poisoned it,’ Christian advised, a mocking note in his husky voice.
She levelled a calm gaze at him, taking in his cool, muscular appearance in suede boots, denims and loose white sweatshirt.
‘I may be fresh from secretarial college,’ she told him succinctly, ‘but I hope I don’t have many jobs with quite such a bizarre beginning as this one.’
‘Things can only get better,’ he agreed laconically, turning away with a glitter of laughter in his eyes. ‘I’ll see you down in the office in half an hour. D’accord?’
‘I’ll be there.’
When she’d consumed the strong chicory-scented coffee and warm buttery croissants, showered and dressed, and gone in search of her employer, she was struck once again by the potential for tourist trade here. The old chteau seemed sadly neglected. Most of it seemed unused. There were endless possibilities, she decided, her brain whirring as she took in the dilapidated reception area, the unvisited cellars, the lack of wine tastings. Yes, there were plenty of improvements she could suggest, just waiting to be put into effect...
The office, however, when she finally found it, wasn’t the dusty cell she’d half expected. It looked surprisingly well equipped. There was some highly polished antique furniture, but the contrast of ultra-modern computers. The room was full of sun, with windows overlooking the rear lawns.
Christian was propped against one of the desks, ankles crossed, talking in quick-fire French on the telephone.
‘Ah, Emily...’ He cradled the receiver momentarily, his gaze intent on her appearance. ‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’
She hesitated, then went to sit behind the other desk, studying the brand new word processor with interest, assessing her ability to instantly master its intricacies.
The receiver clicked back in place. She jerked up her head to find the lidded blue gaze trained exclusively on her. Her skin prickled in reaction. Immediately she became body-conscious. The nutmeg silk suit she was wearing, short-skirted, chic and businesslike, somehow felt insufficient covering.
‘Well?’ he enquired flatly, watching as she lowered her eyes and made a show of examining the keyboard of the computer. ‘Do you think you will be happy working here?’
‘Happy?’ She blinked involuntarily, then nodded hastily. ‘Happy’ wasn’t a word she’d use to describe her tangled emotions so far, but it really was high time she pulled herself together.
‘Yes. I’m sure I shall be quite happy,’ she confirmed evenly. ‘This office is far more up-to-date than I expected...’
‘You were expecting some airless cellar surrounded by cobwebs and bats?’
‘More or less.’ She felt a smile tug at her mouth, but if she’d expected a similar flash of warmth from Christian it wasn’t forthcoming. Whether it was the telephone call or some other reason, he seemed even more tense and preoccupied than usual. The relaxed if cynical escort of last night’s meal seemed to have vanished into thin air. The tyrant seemed to have the upper hand at the moment.
‘My three months here have not been entirely wasted,’ he said abruptly, ‘although my uncle’s illness meant the place was neglected for longer than it should have been.’
‘I...I’m sorry about your uncle...’
‘So am I. He was my last living relative!’ There was a bleak flippancy in Christian’s voice which idiotically made Emily want to reach out and lay a hand on his shoulder, comfort him. She controlled the urge. Last night’s unnerving eruption had arisen from an innocent act of sympathy, or comfort, hadn’t it? Being in this man’s vicinity felt like walking on eggs.
She caught her breath in frustration. She wouldn’t be intimidated by him, overawed, like a shy child...
‘You said you lived with your uncle and aunt as a child? What happened to your own parents?’
‘They died,’ Christian supplied briefly.
‘When? How?’ she persevered gently, secretly aghast at her forwardness.
‘Together. From smoke asphyxiation. They’d gone for a touring holiday in India. There was a fire in one of the hotels.’
‘How old were you?’ Emily found she simply couldn’t help herself. The questions just tumbled now, irresistibly, off her tongue.
He shot her a look of barely suppressed impatience. ‘Seven. They’d sent me to stay at Chteau de Mordin while they made their trip. So instead of going back to my own home in Avenue Foch in Paris I just stayed on with my uncle and aunt. And now, Emily,’ Christian’s smile was humourless, his tone deeply cynical, ‘enough questions. You were right—you are commendably inquisitive. Perhaps not so commendable when it becomes personal. Save it for your job.’
‘Fine. Sorry I spoke,’ she said with a tight smile. ‘Emily Gainsborough, reporting for duty. Ready for work when you are!’ As a rebellious follow-up, she clicked her heels and sketched a cheeky salute.
Levering himself off the desk, he gazed down at her consideringly. There was a slightly bemused expression on his hard, dark face.
‘A word of advice, Emily...’ he began softly, a twitch of humour finally lifting the corner of his mouth.
‘Not more advice on affairs of the heart?’ she queried, wide-eyed.
‘No. Advice on how to ensure you don’t get sacked on the first day of your Foreign Office post in September.’ The deep voice held elaborate patience.
‘Right. Let me guess... Number one: don’t let my new boss catch me practising judo in the nude on the point of introduction? Number two: don’t let my new boss practise his hot French kissing technique on me a couple of hours later?’
The silence which followed this defiant humour seemed endless. Braced for a possible eruption of anger, Emily stood before him, erect and slender, huge brown eyes levelled on his dark face. Finally, to her intense relief, Christian lifted his hands and dropped them to his sides in a quick, essentially Gallic gesture, and then he laughed.
‘In fact, I was going to advise against cheek, sarcasm, and acting too clever for your own good,’ he informed her wryly, gesturing towards the door. ‘But I have the feeling I was about to waste my breath. You will just have to learn the hard way. Come, Emily, let me take you on a guided tour, so you know your way around.’
Chastened, she followed in silence. Her light-hearted attempts at ice-breaking hadn’t worked out quite the way she’d envisaged.
The tour proved infuriatingly hard to concentrate on. One half of Emily’s mind was on the information Christian was relaying, the names of the chteau employees who apparently lived locally, the layout of the working areas of the chteau, the storage and the ageing cellars.
The other half was absorbed in fighting down the insidious attraction she felt towards Christian Malraux, an attraction which grew stronger the more time she spent in his company, an attraction which seemed intent on defying all laws of common sense. Think about self-preservation, she told herself impatiently, the dangers of getting involved, of somehow forfeiting any of her independence while her own career plans were still so fresh and untried ahead of her...
‘And this is virtually back where we started from. What do you think of my ideas, Emily?’ Christian was saying, sending her into a flurry of embarrassment as he turned a quizzical gaze on her, clearly awaiting a reply.
‘Sorry? I’m afraid I drifted,’ she confessed, colouring slightly.
They’d finished the interior of the chteau, done a complete circuit of the grounds, and returned to the ageing cellar, with its impressive line-up of big four-hundred-litre oak barrels. This was where the pineau cognac matured for up to ten years. There was a display, beside an old copper still. It showed the different stages of the ageing process, from pale yellow to marigold-orange to its final dark sienna.
‘You drifted? Didn’t your secretarial college include a course on how to combat drifting, Emily?’ The deep, husky voice sounded harshly amused.
They were standing very close, far too close for her peace of mind. Her throat dry, she glanced around them in panic. His physical presence was doing unspeakable things to her poise.
She met the lidded blue gaze with a fresh surge of resentment. No one had any right to upset her equilibrium quite so thoroughly. If only he hadn’t grabbed her last night, demonstrated that super-macho expertise, she’d have been fine...
‘No...it didn’t,’ she heard herself saying. ‘It didn’t include a course on how to combat the after-effects of kissing our new boss within three hours of meeting him, either...’
There was a charged silence. Her heart was thudding uncontrollably as Christian stared down into her face, his expression narrowed, his mouth grim.
‘You found last night...disturbing?’ he said at last, deceptively casual. The faint jerk of a muscle on the hard jaw betrayed his sudden tension.
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Rosalie Ash
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Guilty Love?When Christian Malraux told Emily, «You will be my sex slave,» she should have turned tail and run! Instead, she found herself falling in love. But loving Christian wasn′t easy, even though he made it clear that he desired Emily. For there was a dark and mysterious secret in Christian′s past that had scarred his soul as well as his face.Emily hoped that the power of her love would bring him out of the darkness and into the light again. But would Christian ever see her as anything more than an object of desire… who conveniently happened to work for him?