that even one month of your intimate company might be more than I could bear.’ She took a steadying breath. ‘Is there really nothing else you would agree to—for Monteagle?’
‘You are brutally frank.’ His mouth twisted. ‘So let me be the same. My answer to that is nothing. I take the house and you with it, Hélène. Or you will be left to your—freedom. The choice is yours.’
Her fingers played with a fold of her dress. ‘I—I’ll give you an answer tomorrow.’
He glanced at his watch. ‘It is already tomorrow. You are running out of time, ma belle.’
She said with sudden heat, ‘I wish—I really wish you’d stop saying that. Stop pretending that I’m beautiful.’
He studied her for a moment with half-closed eyes. ‘Why do you do this?’ he asked quietly eventually. ‘Why do you so undervalue yourself?’
‘Because I’m a realist.’ She finished the brandy in her glass. ‘I loved Nigel and he chose someone else. Someone beautiful.’ She paused. ‘I didn’t get a chance to look at her at the restaurant, so I assume she is—beautiful.’ Her glance challenged him. ‘You’re supposed to be a connoisseur, Monsieur Delaroche. What do you think—now that you’ve seen her again?’
He was silent for a moment, then he shrugged. ‘She has her charms. Dark hair, a sexy mouth and a good body. And a tigress in bed, I imagine,’ he added sardonically. ‘Is that what you wanted to hear?’
Colour flared in her face, and her own completely unsexy mouth didn’t seem to be working properly.
She said thickly, ‘That’s rather—too much information.’
‘You hoped I would say she was plain and undesirable and that her only attraction is her father’s money?’ He spoke more gently. ‘I wish it was so.’
‘Don’t pity me,’ she said raggedly. ‘Just don’t—bloody pity me.’
He watched her for a moment, his expression wry. ‘I think, Hélène, that you have had enough brandy.’
‘Well, I don’t agree.’ She held out her glass defiantly. ‘In fact I’d like some more—lots more—if you don’t mind.’
Marc lifted the decanter. ‘As you wish. But it is really too good to be used as an anaesthetic, ma mie.’
Helen tilted her chin. ‘Maybe I want to be…’ She tried the word ‘anaesthetised’ under her breath, but decided not to risk it. The room seemed very warm suddenly, and her head was swimming. ‘Drunk,’ seemed a safer alternative, and she said it twice just to make sure.
‘I think you will achieve your ambition,’ he told her drily. ‘And sooner than you believe.’
She hoisted the refilled glass in his direction, aware that he seemed to have receded to some remote distance. Which was all to the good, of course. Perhaps, in time, if she went on drinking, he might disappear altogether.
‘Cheers, monsieur,’ she articulated with great care, and giggled at her success. Fine, she told herself defiantly, swallowing some more brandy. I’m—perfectly fine.
‘Salut, petite.’ His voice sounded very close. She felt the glass being removed from her hand, gently but firmly. Felt herself drawn nearer so that she was leaning against him, her cheek against his shoulder.
She knew she should resist, and swiftly, but her senses were filled with the warm male scent of him, and she was breathing the musky fragrance of the cologne he used. An odd weakness seemed to have invaded her body, and she wasn’t sure she could get to her feet even if she tried, or stand upright if she did.
She was suddenly aware, too, that his hand was stroking her hair, softly, rhythmically, and she was shocked by this unexpected tenderness from Marc of all men. Because it seemed as if he had, in some strange way, become her sole rock in an ocean of desolation.
But that, she knew, was impossible. The complete opposite of the truth. Because he was danger, not comfort. Her enemy, not her friend. The predator, with herself as prey.
She moved suddenly, restlessly, trying to free herself, but the arm that held her was too strong, and the caressing hand almost hypnotic as it moved down to smooth the taut nape of her neck and the curve of her shoulder.
‘Sois tranquille.’ His voice was gentle. ‘Be still, Hélène, and close your eyes. There is nothing to fear, I swear it.’
And somehow it was much simpler—almost imperative, in fact—to believe him and obey. To allow herself to drift endlessly as her weighted eyelids descended. And to surrender her own body’s rhythms to the strong, insistent beat of his heart against hers.
She was never sure what woke her, but suddenly she was back to total consciousness, in spite of her aching head and her eyes, which some unfeeling person had filled with sand.
She took a cautious look round, then froze, all self-inflicted wounds forgotten. She was still on the sofa, but stretched out full-length in the arms of Marc, who was lying asleep beside her, his cheek resting on her hair.
She was so close to him, she realised, alarmed, that she could feel the warmth of his bare, hair-roughened chest through the thin fabric of her dress.
One arm was round her shoulders and the other lay across her body, his hand curving round her hipbone, and her movement was further restricted by the weight of his long leg, which was lying slightly bent over both of hers, imprisoning her in an intimacy as disturbing as it was casual.
Dear God, she moaned silently. How did I let this happen?
Her only small comfort was that apart from their shoes, which were on the floor, they were both dressed. But she could hardly have felt more humiliated if she’d woken up naked.
And just how long had this been going on anyway? she wondered miserably.
The lamp was still burning, but the fire was a pile of grey ash covering just one or two glowing embers.
Moving her arm carefully, she glanced at her watch and saw that it was nearly four a.m.
She took a steadying breath. I have to get out of here, she thought. Right now.
It didn’t appear as if anything untoward had happened—in fact, she knew it hadn’t—but she felt totally vulnerable like this, in his embrace. She certainly couldn’t risk his waking and finding her there with him, in case he decided, after all, to—take advantage of the situation.
With the utmost caution she pushed his leg away, then slid, inch by wary inch, from beneath his arm, putting down a hand to balance herself before lowering herself slowly to the floor.
She sat motionless for a moment, listening intently, but he did not stir and there was no change in his even breathing.
In spite of the pounding in her head, she managed to get to her feet. Then, sandals in hand, she tiptoed to the door and let herself out into the dark house. She knew every step of the way, every creaking floorboard to avoid as she fled to her bedroom. Once safely inside, out of breath and feeling slightly sick, she turned the key in the lock, and for good measure pushed a small wooden chair under the handle.
