out to Tara in his breast pocket. It was an amount large enough to cover her expenses for Poppy to date, and to buy Tara out of their lives for good. Everything he did for his brother’s child would be above reproach and on his terms. Uproot, unsettle and unmask was the way he had dealt with every scrounger who had plagued him since Guy’s death and he saw no reason to change his modus operandi now. Tara Devenish might think she was very clever, in her sensible shoes and neat suit, wisely deciding to cut a very different figure to her wayward sister, but it would take more than a costume to convince him she was not the double-dealing slut Freya had declared her to be.
Tara could evoke surprisingly strong feelings in him, Lucien realised as thunder rumbled an ominous sound-track to his thoughts. Two years ago he had thought her worth saving, and wanting to help out, he had left money for her on the night stand—lots of money, in the hope that she would use it to make a better life for herself. Now he felt he had been duped. He only had himself to blame. It wasn’t even as if the signs had been unclear. Tara had been drenched in cheap scent and plastered in make-up, wearing an outfit designed to seduce. He could only conclude that his brain must have been lodged below his belt that night.
As the hotel manager hurried across the lobby to greet his Count, Lucien Maxime dealt swiftly with the formalities before making straight for the private sitting room where he had arranged for his meeting with Tara to take place. Lucien gave the room a quick once-over to check that everything was as he had requested. He had specified no flowers, no refreshments—no softening touches of any description. He would not allow Tara to imagine she had him in her sights again.
Having sent the manager to fetch her, he paced the room. Was it the prospect of seeing Tara or his niece that stirred such unaccustomed feelings in him? The truth, he accepted reluctantly, was that Tara had occupied far too great a part of his mind for the past two years. He had even considered looking for her to check on her progress, until of course the world’s media had done that for him. The rage he’d felt then, when he’d read the newspaper reports documenting Tara Devenish’s affair with his brother…
Even now it was all he could do to contain his anger. He shut that anger out, only to have another and even more disturbing image intrude on his thoughts—Tara, as she had looked in his bed.
He still wanted her.
That was the true torment.
As the minutes ticked by and there was still no sign of Tara, Lucien’s expression darkened. She knew he was waiting for her to come down. At the very least, good manners demanded she should be on time for this appointment. Two years ago he had been prepared to indulge her, but no longer. Two minutes more and then he would go upstairs and bring her downstairs. An English court might have awarded Tara Devenish temporary custody of their niece, but both baby and Tara were under his jurisdiction now.
Seeing Lucien again was like a miracle—a miracle that made every part of her feel alive. She had forgotten how beautiful he was and felt a shy embarrassment remembering how well they knew each other. When he quit the car and the wind caught his hair, her body reacted powerfully. When he straightened up all she could think was how safe she had felt in his arms. But when he looked at her and she saw the cold disappointment in his eyes her dreams collided with reality and she rushed to shut that cruel look out.
She was too naïve for her own good, Tara reasoned, walking across the room to put her sleeping niece down to sleep. She could talk herself into believing anything: that he had missed her; that he was coming to sweep her up in his arms; that he was as eager to see her as she was to see him…
That he had forgiven her never even came into her thinking, because surely he must know the lies that had been told about her couldn’t be true…
Get real, Tara, she told herself impatiently. The sordid facts were these: the first time she’d seen Lucien in daylight was ten minutes ago. They’d met in a supper club and had moved on to Lucien’s hotel room, where they’d had sex. At least, that was how he would see it. She had woken to find him gone and in his place a wad of money, along with the telephone number of a local taxi company. Lucien had bought her services and, in fairness to him, considering her lack of experience, he had rewarded her well.
How red was her face now? Staring at herself in the mirror, she patted her chipmunk cheeks, remembering how, in her innocence, she had asked the man behind the hotel reception desk on that night two years ago if the Count of Ferranbeaux had left a forwarding address, or perhaps a telephone number she could call. The man had smirked as he’d told her that the Count of Ferranbeaux had checked out some time before, leaving no forwarding address, but that everything was paid for—including her, his expression had clearly stated.
She must have been the talk of the hotel, Tara thought, staring at the cruel reflection in front of her. The hotel staff must have laughed their heads off when she’d left. She only had to remember how pleasantly surprised and pleased with her Freya had been when she’d reported back to the bedsit. And no wonder—Freya must have known it was a long shot that Tara would interest Lucien.
Freya had been packing to leave with Guy, Tara remembered, and the fear and hollowness she had felt then came back to her now. Contemplating life without Freya had been dreadful. She had had no idea that one day their parting would be for good. Freya had smiled that morning and said gaily that it didn’t matter if Tara never saw Lucien again, for there were plenty more where he came from, and that at least now Tara would know what to do with them…
Even today Tara shrank with shame as she relived that moment. She had been heartbroken, and had refused to believe that what Freya had said to her could possibly be true. Surely she would see Lucien again? Life would be unbearable if she didn’t.
And now it was unbearable, because she must…
The only good thing to come out of all this was the lesson she’d learned; the life Freya had mapped out for her wasn’t what she wanted at all.
Tara stared at her reflection in despair. She could breathe in, but she couldn’t hold her breath for ever, and she couldn’t drop three dress sizes in ten minutes. Running her fingers through her mass of bright red-gold curls did little to tame her hair, but perhaps a little make-up would help…
If she had brought some with her.
She agonised, realising that high factor sun cream for infants and baby powder would hardly improve her looks. But it was all she had…
Grabbing the bottle of baby powder, she upturned it and sprinkling some on her palms, she wiped them across her burning cheeks…
Better…
Not much better…and certainly not perfect, but not so shiny, not so red…
Raking her bottom lip with her teeth, she wished it would plump out like it was supposed to do, and that she could reverse the colour of her lips and her cheeks—one so ashen and the other so red, but everything the wrong way round…
She tried hard to breathe steadily when she went to see Liz, the young nanny she’d brought with her. Liz had been trained by the same childcare college Tara had attended. Tara had paid her college fees with the blood money Lucien had left her; it had helped the shame somehow. Graduating with honours from that college had been the proudest moment of her life, and she must hang onto that now. ‘Could you look after Poppy for me while I see the Count?’ she asked Liz.
Tara had been offered a job on the staff of the college before tragedy struck, and when she had asked for leave to come and see where Poppy would be living the head of the college had been compassionate and had insisted she must bring Liz with her to Ferranbeaux. Everyone who knew Tara had read the newspaper articles
