what about you? What are your secrets, Romain?’ Her voice felt very brittle, like her control. ‘How come you’re not married?’
Where had that come from?
Romain sat back. At least she’d had the desired effect. His eyes narrowed on hers.
‘I was engaged once, actually…’
‘You were?’ Sorcha’s treacherous heart fell.
He nodded briefly, curtly. ‘Yes. A long time ago. I was eighteen.’ His mouth twisted cynically. ‘She was my first true love. But one day I walked into her bedroom and caught her in bed with my older half-brother.’
The words were said without a hint of emotion, but Sorcha could intuit the pain. God only knew, she’d become so adept at hiding her own innermost emotions that she could see it a mile away in someone else. But she knew he wouldn’t welcome sympathy.
One big shoulder shrugged with apparent insouciance. ‘She’d found out that he stood to inherit the title of Duc. While I too have inherited a title, it’s that of mere Comte. He was older, richer, more experienced—and he also stood to inherit the family château.’
He felt familiar satisfaction rush through him when he thought of how he’d bought back that château just a couple of years before. His brother had come to him, begging for aid. And yet, even though it had been a moment he’d waited for a long time, the satisfaction, while still there, hadn’t tasted as sweet as he’d thought it would. He’d somewhere along the way lost that all-consuming desire to get back at the brother who had made his life a complete misery from when he was a small child.
‘I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to bring up something so—’
Before she could say painful, and put a word to his feelings, Romain laughed harshly. ‘It was a long time ago. She was dead to me a long time ago, and since then—’ he made a very Gallic facial expression ‘—I haven’t had the inclination to repeat the experience.’
His face and demeanour said it all to Sorcha. He’d tarred every woman since then with the same brush. His treatment of her said it all too. His obvious ruthlessness in his desire to get her into bed, despite his initial misgivings, which were conveniently dropping away. Which she was allowing him, helping him to shed. God, did she want him so badly that she was contemplating letting someone so jaded take her in the most intimate way?
She couldn’t read his expression. A tense silence surrounded them and then, as if a switch had been flicked on, he smiled. Jekyll and Hyde. Sorcha shivered.
‘I think we’ve had enough questions and answers—yes?’
She nodded mutely.
‘Let’s have some dessert…’ And he called over the waiter.
Within minutes, he was fast weaving her headlong into the tapestry of desire again, making her forget all her misgivings.
On the boat on their way back to the hotel, the mood was considerably lighter. He made her laugh uncontrollably with funny stories about various fashion designers and their prima donna behaviour. And then she remembered something he had said earlier. ‘So you’re a count? What does that make you—Monsieur le Comte de Valois?’
He looked at her sharply. He hadn’t mistaken the teasing in her tone, even if her face was serious.
He nodded. ‘I never use it though. It seems a bit outdated these days.’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Sorcha slid him a mischievous glance. ‘A count with, I assume, at least one château?’ she asked, looking to him for confirmation. He nodded again. ‘Well, that’s quite the package. In that case I should have curtsied when we met…’
Now she was definitely laughing at him. He couldn’t believe it. For a second he felt all the righteous anger and pride of his forebears, and then at the next moment, seeing her mouth twitch helplessly, he had to give in.
‘How refreshing—a woman who isn’t dropping at my feet with the mention of a title and a château.’
Again he had that split second sensation of thinking, she’s playing me…
She looked at him from under long black lashes. There was no make-up on her slightly freckled face, and she was so beautiful that his chest ached. But even as he looked he saw something come into her eyes, and she drew back, inwards.
They made the rest of the trip in silence. He could feel Sorcha becoming more and more tense beside him. On disembarking the boat she said a quick brusque thank you and didn’t meet his eye, then she fled.
Romain watched her go, a small predatory smile playing around his hard mouth.
A little later, after a shower, Sorcha gave up trying to have a siesta—too jittery and on edge after that lunch. She felt overloaded with sensations and desires and feelings that confused her. One in particular being that she had to admit to herself that she liked him. Really liked him. As for what he did to her body…just thinking about that made her heat up.
She decided to take a walk in the nearby streets to try and calm down.
She ducked into an ornate Hindu temple, feeling for a moment as if she were being followed, and cursed her imagination. Inside, all the different deities were painted in a profusion of bright colours. Little children danced around her, asking for ‘school pens’, and gave her incense to light. She took some pictures. Those moments, and as she walked through markets, bought herself some clothes, gave her some sense of equilibrium back.
The streets were heaving with humanity, sacred cows and eye-wateringly strong smells. She dodged the rickshaws that held beautiful and mysterious sari-clad women and thought that she was mad to be even thinking about anything to do with Romain de Valois. She was no match for him. He just didn’t realise it yet.
Returning to the hotel, she was relieved not to have bumped into anyone, but in the corridor on the way back to her room she heard a hissed, ‘Sorcha!’
It was Lucy, in the room next to hers. ‘Are you OK?’
Lucy looked up and down the corridor and gestured for Sorcha to come in.
She groaned inwardly. She really didn’t want to get all girly and chat. But when she got to the door Lucy pulled her inside, shutting the door after her.
‘Lucy, I’m really tired—’
‘I have something you might be interested in.’
The hair stood up on the back of Sorcha’s neck. The younger girl held out a small paper packet full of white powder. Sorcha’s stomach fell. She’d encountered this over the years—people mistakenly believing what they might have heard…
‘Look, Lucy, I’m really not interested in that stuff. And you shouldn’t go waving it around.’
Lucy laughed. ‘Oh, don’t be such a square. Come on—what’s the harm?’
Something hard settled in Sorcha’s chest. She made a split-second decision, and behind it was the urge to protect. She grabbed the paper out of Lucy’s hand, folding it up carefully.
‘Hey—’
