their union as he filled her. Knowing that here, at last, was the ultimate in consummation.
For a moment, he paused. ‘There is no problem?’
‘None.’ He was so anxious for her, but it wasn’t necessary. Surely he could tell how much she wanted him? she thought, half-dizzy with this new sensation, her inner muscles clenching round him—holding him.
Remy began to move without haste, his lean hips driving powerfully as he carried her with him into the surging ebb and flow of passion, and she responded avidly, instinctively, matching the rhythmic motion he was creating, her hands digging into his shoulders as her legs lifted to enclose him. To lock round him.
At once she sensed a new urgency in him that he was clearly struggling to restrain, and she knew that he was still trying to be patient, to wait until she was ready to accompany him to their mutual release.
But I, she thought, want it now…
She smiled into his eyes, her lashes sweeping down onto desire-flushed cheeks, letting her hands follow a leisurely path down his back to the flat male buttocks and stroking them with her palms, while one finger traced a delicate, enticing pattern on the sensitive nerve-endings at the base of his spine.
She heard his involuntary gasp, felt the pace of his possession quicken suddenly—fiercely. Recognised with candid female triumph the almost remorseless increase in its intensity that she had coaxed from him.
Was aware of a stirring deep inside her in reply, as warm tendrils of sensation began to spread, to intensify in their turn, splintering what little was left of her control.
Then, a voice she hardly recognised as hers cried out in wild disbelief, as the frenzy of her senses sent her pulsating body into soaring and ecstatic climax.
And Remy followed her, her name wrenched with a groan from his straining throat as he reached the frantic culmination of his own pleasure, and she felt his exhausted weight slump across her, his head heavy on her breasts as he tried to calm the tortured rasp of his breathing.
And she was content to lie like that, holding him tightly, her lips caressing the strands of sweat-dampened hair on his forehead.
Because instinct seemed to be telling her that if ever there was a moment for confession, this was it. When he was in her arms, his sated, emptied body still joined to hers like this, surely he would forgive her anything—wouldn’t he?
‘Remy.’ His name was a breath from her lips. She put her cheek on his hair. ‘Darling—there’s something I have to say. Something I should have told you long ago—when we first met. Only I never knew—never guessed—we would love each other. That you would mean everything in the world to me.’
She swallowed. ‘Sweetheart—mon amour… I—I’m married. I have a husband in England. But I don’t love him, and I never did. So I’m going back to finish it, get a divorce.’
She ended on a little rush of words, and waited tautly for his response. Only there was none.
She was prepared for shock—certainly for anger and recriminations—but not—silence.
Or was he simply too stunned to speak?
She said questioningly, ‘Remy—darling…?’
He mumbled something drowsy in reply, burying his face more closely against her, his body totally relaxed, his breathing deep and steady.
My God, she thought with an inward groan, he’s asleep. Which means he hasn’t heard a single word I’ve said, even though it took every atom of courage I possess to say it.
She was tempted to wake him there and then—to repeat her stumbling confession. But he looked altogether too peaceful, all tension gone from the dark face. He was even smiling a little as he slept.
Well, Allie thought, sighing. I suppose it will keep a little longer at that. But I must tell him soon—very soon. And, on that resolve, she closed her own eyes and allowed herself to drift slowly away.
She awoke with a start, and lay for a moment totally disorientated, her heart thudding. Hugo, she thought. Oh, God, I was dreaming about Hugo.
Then she heard the rain still lashing the window and realised where she was, and why, and relief and joy flooded through her.
She turned her head slowly and looked at Remy, still fast asleep beside her. At some point he must have moved a little, lifted himself away from her, although his arm was still thrown possessively across her waist.
Did he know? she wondered with passionate tenderness. Did he have the least idea how she was feeling? Did he understand her starved body’s reaction to the miracle of physical delight he’d created for her?
For the first time in years she felt totally relaxed and at peace. Also happier than she had ever believed possible.
And when he woke she would tell him so, along with, she decided, a suitable reviver.
She slid carefully from under the protection of his arm and swung her feet to the floor. From the tangle of clothing beside the bed she retrieved Remy’s shirt and slipped it on, fastening a few discreet buttons on the way. She could detect the faint fragrance of the cologne he used, and she put the sleeve to her nose, sniffing luxuriously.
She pulled the coverlet over him, then padded quietly out of the room and downstairs to the kitchen, where she stood looking around her, getting her bearings.
He’d offered her coffee some lifetime ago, she told herself, so the makings had to be available.
She looked first in the refrigerator, finding milk, and mineral water too, and she uncapped one of the small bottles, drinking thirstily as she leant back against the work surface.
This would be an amazing kitchen to work in, she thought, imagining herself here with Remy, preparing a meal together.
She sighed, smiling. Well—perhaps—one of these days. But coffee would do to be going on with.
Inspection of the pale wood cupboards eventually yielded a pack of ground beans and a cafetière, so she filled the elegant stainless steel kettle and set it to boil, humming quietly to herself as she did so. She’d just located a set of earthenware beakers when she heard a sound behind her and turned quickly.
Solange was standing in the middle of the living room, staring at her, lips parted, eyes burning with anger and disbelief in her white face.
And Allie knew, of course, what the other girl must be seeing. The dishevelled hair, the half-buttoned shirt reaching only to mid-thigh, the shining eyes and swollen mouth. Everything about her, she realised with dismay, must be screaming Sex.
Oh, God, she thought. Why didn’t I get dressed properly?
‘Chienne.’ Solange’s voice shook. ‘Sale vache.’
For a moment, all Allie wanted to do was run. To get away from the fury and the ugly words. And from the French girl’s bitter disappointment, too—which, perhaps, was the worst thing of all. But she stood her ground, lifting her chin defiantly.
‘Please don’t call me names, mademoiselle,’ she said quietly. ‘I am neither
