see. Well, it doesn’t matter,’ she said, bravely stopping her lower lip from wobbling. Somehow she needed to see those papers. Pascal wouldn’t help, but maybe someone else would. ‘I’ve come so far, I can’t give up now! I can still ask around. People are always willing to talk to me. I’ll find out. I’ve spent half my life battling against the odds. Finding your father won’t be any problem for me, and I’m sure he’ll see me when he feels a bit better. I can be very persuasive.’
‘With a body like that, I’m sure you can,’ he commented insolently.
Her eyes flared in astonished affront but she forced herself not to dignify his insult with a reaction. Furious with him, she turned haughtily on her heel and walked to the shoreline, determined to prove that she felt so full of confidence that a mid-afternoon paddle was the only thing uppermost in her mind now.
In fact, she needed time to think. Tired from travelling all day, shaky from Pascal’s awful reception, she was finding it hard to pull her woozy brain together. The earlier elation had vanished, leaving a heavy depression, and she’d need to overcome that if she was to make any headway with her plans.
As she walked through the cooling water with her head held high to catch the light breeze on her hot face, she wanted to cry because she felt quite weak with disappointment. This had begun with such promise!
She was tired of struggling. She wanted Dave back. Strong arms to hold her. Someone who cared, who’d give her support and encouragement. The world was a lonely place when you had no one, and she’d been alone for too long.
The tears threatened to spill out and she blinked rapidly in case Pascal could see her face and would think that she was upset because of him. She didn’t want to give him that satisfaction. What a brute he was!
She’d almost reached the rocks at the end of the beach when a hand gripped her shoulder. And she flinched because it was so similar to Dave’s—similar but different. Harder. Less loving, less gentle, more masterful and compelling. Pascal.
‘Oh, why are you following me?’ she asked in despair.
‘You need persuading,’ he said curtly.
‘I won’t be persuaded! Get lost!’ she snapped over her shoulder, almost at the end of her tether.
Abruptly, she found herself being pivoted around like a doll. They stood very close in the rolling surf and the drag of the water was so strong that she kept losing her balance as the sand was sucked from under her feet.
‘Careful.’
Pascal steadied her, his hands sliding to her arms. Irrationally, she longed for him to hold her closer and say sorry, he’d help. And then she’d cry the tears she’d been holding back in sheer relief.
‘I don’t need you!’ she muttered, more for her own benefit than his.
‘You will always need men,’ he observed, a husky warmth threading his voice. ‘Need them, want them, encourage them.’
She blinked in surprise and turned her head away to gather her composure. He was horribly right—not about the encouragement, but yes, to be totally honest, she did need them, want them.
Dave’s death had rendered the thought of loving another man inconceivable. But certain things—lovers kissing in a bus shelter, passionate scenes on the television, and personal memories of making love on a warm, moonlit night with the curtains fluttering in the soft breeze—all these and more had repeatedly jolted her deep sexuality into life again, driving her crazy with the torment, brutally reminding her how wonderful married love could be. And she hungered for something she could no longer have, because she’d never fall in love again and sex without love—without marriage—was unthinkable.
She missed being hugged by her beloved husband. She missed the joy of sex. And the bliss afterwards.
Slowly her limpid gaze came back to focus on his. ‘Spoken like a true chauvinist,’ she said resentfully. Yet the memories had roughened her voice and she sounded horribly husky and inviting.
‘You need men... and I need women. There’s something terrible about the sex urge, isn’t there, Mandy?’
Taking advantage of her astonished silence, he slowly displayed his masculine approval by openly studying her body. Mandy squirmed uncomfortably, aware that her sweat was holding her thin dress against her damp skin and that he must be learning more about her figure than he should.
‘Don’t!’ she husked, reeling from his intense sexuality. It was making her body throb... It was such a long time since a man had been so bold and poured desire from the depths of his eyes! Her mouth trembled and pouted. ‘Don’t!’
‘Invitation and rebuke. Little-girl sweetness, womanly sensuality. Demure and innocent, yet offering the promise of curves that will fire an old man’s loins. What a joy you must be to lustful old satyrs,’ mused Pascal with breathtaking insolence.
‘What?’ she gasped.
‘Easy arousal is vitally important when you’re dealing with lowered libido,’ he drawled.
‘Is that an observation from personal experience?’ she snapped waspishly.
He smiled with the confidence of a man who knew he couldn’t ever give the impression that he might be less than one hundred per cent pure male. ‘I have a very high libido. It’s a problem sometimes,’ he murmured. ‘Particularly when faced with temptation.’
Her chin jerked down, following the direction of his fascinated and mocking gaze. The freshening breeze—or something—had teased each dark centre of her breasts into a firm peak which thrust at the cloth assertively in an unspoken invitation. No wonder Pascal’s mouth was looking sultrier by the minute! Hastily, she covered their come-and-get-me appeal with defensively folded arms.
‘Don’t flatter yourself that that’s anything to do with you!’ she snapped. ‘Get your libido back in line. I’m not interested in you—’
‘What about money?’ he suggested.
‘All I’m interested in at present is your father—’
‘They amount to the same thing. He represents money for you.’
‘He represents my dreams,’ she corrected.
‘You’re determined to stay on, aren’t you?’ he murmured. ‘So...we’ll have to get along together after all.’ His mouth twisted at her wide-eyed hope. ‘Would you like to spend an hour or two on my boat?’ he suggested casually.
Although he was smiling at her innocently, she couldn’t mistake the sinfully arched eyebrow and the undercurrent of male desire in his deep blue eyes.
‘No. I wouldn’t. And I know what you’re suggesting and you’re no gentleman—’
‘True,’ he admitted. ‘I’m the local rogue.’ And he flashed his dazzling, tigerish grin.
She was beginning to get his measure. A playboy. Rolling in his father’s hard-earned wealth.
Perhaps, she thought, elaborating on the theme, the antipathy between father and son came from Monsieur St Honoré’s
