where are we?’ They seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, she realised with alarm. And isolated too. There were no other cars around that she could see, so it couldn’t be a very popular establishment.
‘This is my house.’ The mockery was back, full force. ‘The family mas I was telling you about.’
He paused. ‘I decided, ma belle, that we would dine at home tonight. Enjoy our mutual discoveries in private.’ He let that sink in, then added silkily, ‘I hope you approve?’
THE SILENCE IN the car was almost electric. Meg was rigid, her mouth dry.
How could she have been such a fool? she asked herself with agonised disbelief. She should have listened to her misgivings, but instead she’d trusted him—because he was the first attractive man to show any interest in her, she flayed herself savagely—and now here she was, in some kind of ghastly trap.
This is my house. Here, in the back of beyond, miles from anywhere—and she didn’t even know where ‘anywhere’ was.
‘“Will you walk into my parlour?” said the spider to the fly.’ And she’d done exactly that. A nightmare coming true.
Her hands curled into fists in her lap.
She said, keeping her voice cool and even, ‘I seem to have lost my appetite. Will you take me back to the auberge, please?’
There was a silence, then Jerome Moncourt shrugged, the dark eyes agleam with amusement, as if he knew exactly the thoughts and fears churning under her calm exterior.
‘Of course—if that is what you prefer,’ he agreed equably. ‘But Berthe will be desolated if you do not at least taste her cassoulet.’
‘Berthe?’ she questioned.
‘My housekeeper,’ he said. ‘She and her husband Octavien have lived here, looking after the house and the vines, since my grandfather left. Now they look after me.’ He pointed towards the house. ‘See?’
A man had emerged from the front entrance, and was standing hands on hips, watching them curiously. He was of medium height and stocky build, his face as brown and wrinkled as a walnut, the inevitable beret pulled on over his shock of white hair. He had bow legs, and a drooping moustache, and bore no resemblance to the kind of sinister henchman who’d collaborate in kidnap and rape, Meg decided, feeling suddenly oddly reassured.
‘Will you risk my dining-table now?’ Jerome Moncourt enquired courteously. ‘Or shall we eat here, in the car?’
Put like that, it did sound ridiculous, Meg admitted to herself, as she got out of the car with all the dignity she could muster.
‘All the same,’ she said, as they walked towards the house, ‘you should have told me we were coming here.’
‘Perhaps I did not dare. You might have refused—and,’ his voice gentled, ‘I so much wanted to see you tonight.’
It was the perfect answer, she thought. Perhaps almost too perfect, as if this was a well-practised line, her head reminded her as her heart began to thud against her ribcage. But then she surely didn’t think she was the first young woman to feel her pulses quicken and her body grow feverish with excitement at the smile in his eyes?
And she’d been stupid to think he’d ever need to resort to rape, or any kind of force, she told herself wrily. His tactics would be far more subtle, and just as dangerous in their way. He was still the spider, and she the fly, and she mustn’t forget that.
But his web was a delight.
The house was built on two storeys, the roof tiled in faded terracotta, sloping gently down to the storage buildings which flanked it. Beneath the roof, the stone walls were washed the colour of rich cream, dark green shutters guarded the windows, and a golden climbing rose flung a triumphal arch over the square doorway.
The door led straight into the main room of the house, the ceiling low and dark-beamed, the floor flagged. At one end there was a large fireplace, its massive hearth empty now. On either side of it two battered leather sofas confronted each other. Opposite the entrance, glazed doors gave access to a courtyard bright with stone troughs filled with flowers. In the corner, a spiral staircase led to the upper floor.
At the other end of the room was a magnificent refectory table at which two places were laid, and six high-backed leather chairs. Apart from a well-filled bookcase, and a bureau overflowing with papers, there was no other furniture. The effect was uncluttered, but it also created a very masculine environment with few soft touches, Meg thought, as she looked around her.
‘Is this the project you talked of?’ she asked, catching sight of some timber and other building materials in a corner of the courtyard.
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