a man is thirty-five and famous—make that infamous, especially with women—he is likely to resent such a command, especially from his mother. Even if she is a countess.
Without warning the slim young woman his mother wanted him to keep in his sights—for business reasons only—sprinted across the street.
Not wanting to alarm her, Remy waited a few seconds before loping after her.
He frowned. His mother had nothing to worry about. The wholesome Miss Weatherbee wasn’t his type.
Brown hair, thickly braided. Hazel eyes. Not ugly. But not beautiful. Nondescript really, except for…His gaze drifted to her swaying hips again. Then he remembered all the sexy lingerie he’d watched her buy and wished she weren’t forbidden because that made her infinitely more fascinating.
From birth, Remy de Fournier, or rather the Comte de Fournier, had had a taste for the forbidden. His mother and his older, brilliant sisters only had to tell him not to do a thing and he’d do it. As an adult he’d liked his cars fast and his women even faster—until the accident a year ago at the Circuit de Nevers at Magny-Cours had turned his life into a nightmare. Ever since, except for brief trips to Paris, he’d been living in self-imposed exile in London.
Yesterday the highest courts in France had decided not to charge him with manslaughter. As soon as he could make the arrangements he would be going home, which was the reason his mother had given for calling him. She wanted to set up a celebratory lunch in Paris with him and his first serious girlfriend, Céline, whom he hadn’t seen in years.
He should have felt relieved that he’d been exonerated, that his mother would even speak to him. Instead, last night he’d dreamed of the crash and of his steering wheel jamming. Again he’d felt that horrible rush of adrenaline as he’d fought the curve and the car and lost, hurtling into that wall at 160 mph before ricocheting into André’s car and then into Pierre-Louis’s.
With the memory of André’s terrified black eyes burning a hole in his soul, Remy had dressed and bolted out of his flat at four in the morning to buy coffee, returning to work on the family’s portfolio on his computer. Hours later he’d still been in a cold mood when his mother had called to discuss Céline and her lunch plans and to put him on to Mademoiselle Weatherbee, who was even now sashaying, her cute butt wiggling, glossy red shopping bags swinging against her thighs, toward her sister’s flat on Duke Street in St. James.
Why was it that the longer he trailed that ample bottom, the more appealing it became?
Usually he chose leggy blond models or busty socialites and princesses, sophisticated women, who knew how to dress. Céline was his type. Mademoiselle Weatherbee with her wide, trusting doe eyes and thick brown braid was not. Deliver him from naive Americans with no sense of style.
Still, it was growing easier and easier to look at her. The worn faded blue stripes of her vintage cotton sundress made her look innocent even as it showed off her slim shoulders, narrow waist and, okay, hell, emphasized that pert and rather large ass of hers and its moves.
Nice moves. Very nice.
What would she feel like naked under him? Would she writhe? Or just lie there? Damn, if she were his, he’d make her writhe.
His bossy mother’s predawn call had annoyed the hell out of him, even more than usual.
“I’m too excited to sleep,” she said. “It’s all over the Internet. You’re a free man. And…Mademoiselle Weatherbee stayed at her sister’s flat on Duke Street in St. James last night! And will stay there tonight, as well! Since you live so close, I thought maybe you could…check on her.”
“I have back-to-back commitments before I can leave London.”
“So far, she’s refused all our offers to buy Château Serene, and she seems to want to follow her aunt’s wishes about donating the Matisse.”
“Isn’t she on her way to France?”
“Tomorrow…”
“Well, then, negotiate when she gets there.”
“She’s in London to do a little shopping for her store. I thought maybe you could meet her and work a little of your magic. But don’t take it too far. She probably doesn’t follow Grand Prix headlines, and with any luck, she won’t check the Internet and the London papers will ignore you.”
“I met her once, you know.”
“Years ago. If she doesn’t recognize you, don’t tell her who you are. No telling what Tate told her about us. Or you.”
“This town’s enormous. If I can’t call her or knock on her door and introduce myself, how the hell can I meet her without scaring her away? What would be the point?”
“Improvise. I’m going to fax you a recent photograph of her and her sister’s address.”
“You want me to stalk her, hit on her and entice her into some pub?”
“But be careful. The last thing we need is more nasty headlines.”
When she hung up, Remy crushed his paper coffee cup and pitched it into the trash. No sooner did it hit the can than he heard the fax in his bedroom. Amelia Weatherbee was not someone he’d ever wanted to see again.
Even her photograph brought painful memories. Holding it to the light, he noted the same youthful wistfulness shining in her eyes. Only now, there was a bit of a lost look in them, too, a sadness, a resignation.
He’d met her only that once. What was it—seventeen years ago? He’d been eighteen, she around thirteen. She’d eavesdropped on a private conversation, and he’d vowed to hate her forever for it even though she’d been kind. Especially because she’d been kind. Dammit! Who was she to pity him?
Funny how that same vulnerability in her eyes and sweet smile seemed enchanting and made him feel protective now.
He’d forced himself to dress and walk over to her flat, where he’d waited outside, reading the Times. When the varnished doors trimmed in polished brass had finally swung open and she’d stepped out into the sunshine, he’d shrunk behind his paper. Bravely armed against the gray sky with her yellow umbrella, she’d looked bright and fresh in her faded cotton dress and scuffed sandals.
He’d been trotting all over the city after Mademoiselle Weatherbee’s yellow umbrella and cute butt ever since. He’d watched her shop at Camden Market and Covent Garden, then Harvey Nicks and last of all Harrods Food Hall. But had she eaten? Hell, no! So he hadn’t eaten, either. Because of her, he was starving and grumpy as hell.
Americans. What sort of barbarian instinct made her skip lunch, a sacred institution to any man with even a drop of French blood?
During the lunch hour she’d gone into a nail shop, where she’d had a pedicure and had gotten tips put on her ragged nails. A decided improvement. Still, she’d skipped lunch.
At the Camden Market, he’d felt like a damn pervert when she’d fingered dozens of bright, silky bras and panties, holding them up to herself as she tried to decide. In the end, she’d surprised him by choosing his favorites—the skimpiest and sheerest of the batch.
Why couldn’t she be the practical-schoolteacher sort who wore sensible
