went into the bathroom and found it very pretty: the fittings a primrose-yellow, a pine shelf along the wall filled with French toiletries—bath oil, soaps, gels, shampoo, talc.
Annie washed, then deliberately left her face bare of make-up, brushed her long black hair up into a neat bun at the back of her neck, made herself look as unattractive as possible.
Looking at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, she saw the nervous awareness in her green eyes and turned away quickly. In this situation it was very dangerous to admit, even to herself, in the privacy of her own head, that she found him attractive. No, more than that, if she was honest. Ever since she first saw him she had been mesmerised; and that was scary.
He might keep telling her not to be scared, that he wouldn’t hurt her, but the fact remained—he had kidnapped her, brought her here by force. Why had he done that, if not for ransom? What on earth was going on here? She was afraid to think about it.
Was he out of his head? Look at his obsession that they had met before! Yes, one of them had to be crazy, and it wasn’t her. She was one hundred per cent certain she had never seen him in her life until today.
Then she remembered that fleeting dizziness when he opened the shutters, the feeling of déjà vu, and she frowned, bit her lip. What on earth had that been about? For a second she almost had thought she remembered...something...
Angrily she pushed the thought away. She was letting him get to her, that was all. She must not let him hypnotise her into joining him in his fantasy. That way lay madness.
Feeling calmer, she went downstairs, started looking into rooms, until she opened a door into a large, bright kitchen with golden pine fittings, white walls and red and white gingham curtains. There were bowls of hyacinths in bloom on the windowsill, and the whole room was full of their scent and the fragrance of fresh coffee.
While she hesitated at the door, Marc turned to look at her, his narrowed eyes skating over her face and hair, his brows rising sardonically.
‘You look about fifteen! Is that meant to make me keep my distance?’
‘I hope you will anyway,’ she said primly, not meeting his eyes.
There was a long silence, and at last she had to look up. He was watching her seriously, his dark eyes level and frowning.
‘I told you, you don’t need to be afraid. I’m not holding you for ransom, I won’t hurt you, and, I assure you, I won’t leap on you suddenly. I won’t force you to do anything you don’t want to do.’
Red burned in her cheeks. ‘You forced me to come here, and you’re forcing me to stay here against my will.’
‘It was the only way I could get you to myself for long enough,’ he coolly told her.
‘Long enough for what?’
‘To get to know me,’ he said. ‘Now come and sit down at the table and we’ll have lunch.’
Still absorbed in thinking over what he had just said, she didn’t argue. She sat down automatically and looked at the food he had put out on the square pine kitchen table—a large bowl of crisp green salad tossed in dressing, black olives in a dish, some hard-boiled eggs, tomatoes, a gingham-covered wicker basket of sliced French bread, a platter of various French cheeses and a bowl of fruit.
Annie hadn’t felt hungry until then, but the food looked so good that she felt a surprising pang of hunger.
‘Help yourself,’ he said as he sat down opposite her.
She took salad—a mixture of avocado, lettuces, cucumber, green peppers—a hard-boiled egg, a tomato, some black olives, a slice of Brie, some of the golden bread.
‘I’m sorry there’s nothing more exciting,’ he said, and she looked up, her green eyes startled, then smiled.
‘It’s great food—I’ve always loved a picnic; that’s what this is—a picnic indoors.’
‘But picnic food tastes better in the open air,’ he said, reaching over to pour white wine into her glass, and that was when Annie had another of those strange déjà vu flashes, a baffling sense of having seen him do that before.
As she drew a sharp, startled breath he looked up at her, his body stiffening, his face watchful.
‘Annie?’ he said again, as he had before, and she slowly lifted her own eyes to stare back at him, dazed.
He held her eyes. ‘Tell me what you felt,’ he softly said.
‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘It was...nothing...’
‘It was something,’ he said, and his black eyes glittered. ‘You’re beginning to remember.’
CHAPTER THREE
‘WHY don’t you tell me when we’re supposed to have met, and stop playing games?’ Annie burst out.
Shaking his head, he gestured. ‘Taste the wine.’
‘Was it in England? In London?’
‘There’s no point in trying to guess. When you remember, you’ll know.’
But she was beginning to read his expressions, the fleeting thoughts passing through those brilliant liquid black eyes, the way his mouth changed, softening, tightening, twisting. He might not have denied that they’d met in England, but something about his face just then told her that that wasn’t where they had met. Where else could it have been? She was determined to make him tell her.
‘America?’
He laughed, shook his head.
That didn’t leave many other countries. Annie hadn’t travelled very widely yet. So she came to the most likely answer.
‘Was it here, in France?’
He didn’t answer, but his eyes were as bright as black stars.
‘It was, wasn’t it?’ she said slowly.
‘So now you believe we have met,’ he said, his voice deep, vibrating with a new note, passionate, excited. She felt her pulses leap, and this time it was she who didn’t answer. She didn’t have to; her sudden flush, the way she looked down, her dark lashes cloaking her eyes, spoke for her.
Huskily she finally said, ‘I believe you think we did. But I really don’t remember—I’m sorry. I’ve only been to France a couple of times—it must have been on one of those trips, I suppose. The last time I came here I spent two weeks in Normandy with my best friend and her sister. We stayed in a wonderful old hotel in Caborg, right on the sea. It was very hot that summer; we spent a lot of time on the beach—was that where we met?’
He shook his head, sipping wine and leaning back in his chair, his lids half down over his dark eyes, his legs stretched full-length sideways. Annie didn’t mean to stare, but she couldn’t help noticing that under his shirt she could almost see the ripple of lean muscled flesh every time he breathed. He had a very slim waist and hips, or was that a visual illusion
