Книга - Count Maxime’s Virgin

Count Maxime's Virgin
Susan Stephens


Innocent…and in the Count’s bed! When Tara is flashed under Count Lucien Maxime’s nose he’s quite taken with her sweetness…and her wonderfully voluptuous figure. Naked and nervous, Tara’s in the Count’s bed. She realises too late that everything is paid for…including her.Stripped of her innocence and her heart, Tara vows never to make the same mistake again. Until tragedy throws her in the path of the Count once more. She has something he wants. And she won’t be leaving until he gets it…







Her lips…her full, trembling lips…tempted him. He leaned his weight against her and felt her body respond. Was that only to him? He pulled back again and stared down at her. She met his gaze levelly, and this time there were no tears.

‘I want you,’ she murmured, and her eyes had grown dark and slumberous. Brushing her hair back from her brow, as if he would find something to steal his trust away beneath its silky weight, he dipped his head and kissed her.

It felt like coming home.

He had to remind himself he had many homes and didn’t stay long in any of them.


Susan Stephens was a professional singer before meeting her husband on the tiny Mediterranean island of Malta. In true Modern™ Romance style they met on Monday, became engaged on Friday and were married three months after that. Almost thirty years and three children later, they are still in love. (Susan does not advise her children to return home one day with a similar story, as she may not take the news with the same fortitude as her own mother!)

Susan had written several non-fiction books when fate took a hand. At a charity costume ball there was an after-dinner auction. One of the lots, ‘Spend a Day with an Author’, had been donated by Mills & Boon® author Penny Jordan. Susan’s husband bought this lot, and Penny was to become not just a great friend but a wonderful mentor, who encouraged Susan to write romance.

Susan loves her family, her pets, her friends and her writing. She enjoys entertaining, travel and going to the theatre. She reads, cooks, and plays the piano to relax, and can occasionally be found throwing herself off mountains on a pair of skis or galloping through the countryside. Visit Susan’s website: www.susanstephens.net—she loves to hear from her readers all around the world!

Recent books by the same author:

Modern™ Romance DESERT KING, PREGNANT MISTRESS BOUGHT: ONE ISLAND, ONE BRIDE ONE-NIGHT BABY BEDDED BY THE DESERT KING

The Royal House of Niroli EXPECTING HIS ROYAL BABY—Book 5

Modern Heat™ HOUSEKEEPER AT HIS BECK AND CALL LAYING DOWN THE LAW DIRTY WEEKEND




COUNT MAXIME’S VIRGIN


BY

SUSAN STEPHENS




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For my friends, Danielle and Cathy, and of course for la belle France.


CHAPTER ONE

THE men in the bar of the fancy London hotel had laughingly agreed that Tara should get out more. The better-looking of the two, a tall, powerfully built man called Lucien, with striking dark looks and thick nut-brown hair, argued with Tara’s older sister, Freya, that there was no such thing as ‘too quiet’, and if Tara didn’t want to party hard, why should she? Having flashed him a grateful glance, Tara sank back into the shadows with relief.

To get close to her sister was all eighteen-year-old Tara had ever wanted, but she was beginning to wonder if it was possible to get close to a flame that burned as bright as Freya. Maybe this was the way, Tara reflected later as she squeezed into some of her sister’s clothes. The two girls had returned to their bedsit alone and were preparing to go out with the men they’d met earlier. Freya was always encouraging Tara to socialise, and tonight Tara felt it was a chance for her to prove she would do pretty much anything to win Freya’s approval.

But not that, Tara thought, as the face of the man who had defended her earlier swam into her mind. Lucien’s dark chocolate voice and black amused gaze had made her feel so nervous. He belonged to that other, more exciting world, the world Freya yearned to inhabit, the world in which Tara knew she didn’t fit.

Freya thought nothing of talking to men they didn’t know, but it was agony for Tara, who had hardly raised her eyes during the whole embarrassing encounter. She had felt so tongue-tied and gauche, so fat and so plain in her charity shop clothes, perched next to a glamorous older sister who drew attention wherever she went. She had wanted to disappear, and had only looked up once more when she’d been forced to answer the Lucien’s direct question: ‘Shouldn’t you be studying?’

Instead of picking up men in a bar, she had presumed he meant. She had told him she did study, but by then, of course, Freya had moved the conversation on, wanting nothing to detract from the flirtatious tone she’d set. When Tara mentioned the remark later, Freya had laughed it off, saying Tara mustn’t let it get to her, and that she had the rest of her life to study, and must use her youth to snare a man…

Tara’s face was burning with humiliation as she thought about this now, though in fairness Freya had been partly right, for whatever he’d said about studying, Lucien, with the exotic accent, whose knowing gaze had sent flames of heat pulsing through her secret places, had asked Freya to make sure her little sister accompanied her to the party tonight.

Why had he done that? Tara wondered, going hot and cold as she thought about it. She already felt ridiculous, sitting here in their draughty bedsit, drenched in Freya’s French perfume and wearing a body control underskirt Freya had said she must to create the right first impression. The second impression didn’t bear thinking about. She’d have to be cut out of this top, just for starters.

‘Stop fiddling with that top, Tara,’ Freya insisted, breaking off from skilfully applying false eyelashes to admonish her. ‘It cost a fortune—’

‘Sorry…’ Freya had insisted she must wear something glamorous tonight, and had pushed the spangled top into her hands. She was about to stop fiddling as instructed when Freya snatched it back.

‘I’ve decided to wear it. You can have this one—’

‘Thank you…’ It was such a relief to exchange the glittery top Freya had picked out for her to wear, for an older, duller boob tube with a much more modest neckline.

‘I hope you know your man’s a count?’ Freya pouted in the mirror as she applied her lip gloss.

‘A count?’ Tara’s heart rate doubled. ‘Really?’ No wonder Lucien, the man who made her pulse race, was so confident and commanding. But since when was he her man? And if he was her man, what on earth was she supposed to do with him, never mind the fact that he was a count! She would never think of a thing to say to interest a man like that.

‘You’re a very lucky girl. It’s up to you to make the most of tonight. Who knows…?’

Who knew what? Tara wondered, struggling to heave the Freya-sized Lycra top over her head. She raised a hesitant smile to please her sister. One thing was sure, she didn’t know anything about that stuff, although her determination to better herself was no less than Freya’s. There might not be room for a desk in their tiny room, but the books she was studying were kept safely under the bed.

‘Here, put this wrap on—’ Freya tossed what looked like a fabulous genuine fur in her direction.

‘I’d rather not—’ Tara shrank from the deep white pelt. In her imagination it still carried the faint scent of fresh air and freedom.

‘Why ever not?’ Freya demanded impatiently.

‘I might spill something on it—’ She hoped Freya was convinced by her excuse.

‘Oh, all right then.’ Freya pulled a face as she sorted through the tumble of clothes on her side of the bed. ‘Take this shawl instead.’

Tara thought the pale blue shawl much prettier than the fur. Stroking it appreciatively, she thought about Freya’s explanation for this fabulous collection of expensive things. ‘Men like to buy me presents,’ Freya had said, ‘and what’s wrong with that?’ Nothing, Tara thought now, smiling fondly at her beautiful sister. Who wouldn’t want to buy Freya gifts? When you lived like this and looked like Freya, no wonder her poor sister yearned for something better.

‘What’s that sigh for?’ Freya demanded suspiciously as Tara started clearing up Freya’s discarded tissues.

‘Nothing…’ Realising Freya had thought her sigh a complaint, Tara rushed to lay out her sister’s coat and bag.

‘See to yourself,’ Freya snapped. ‘I left that skirt out for you specially. Come on, Tara,’ she chivvied as Tara viewed the tight skirt dubiously, ‘we mustn’t be late. And you can leave those cushions,’ Freya snapped, bringing Tara to a standstill. ‘They don’t need plumping. I don’t know why you bought them in the first place. No one’s going to see them. For goodness’ sake, stop tidying the room. You’ll get all hot and bothered and we don’t want that.’

What Freya did want from tonight made Tara very nervous. She knew she was destined to be a failure, because Lucien wasn’t interested in her, and anything nice he’d said was just him being kind. That hadn’t stopped her daydreams, which had a very dark edge to them, for they contained a lot of kissing and touching, which she knew was wrong.

She wasted some precious time fighting with the back zip on the skirt Freya had lent her, which was at least two sizes too small. In the end, she was forced to give up. Flashing a guilty glance at Freya, who thankfully hadn’t noticed, she left the skirt open an inch or two at the top and folded the fabric over.

‘Ready?’ Freya demanded, snatching up her smart new red patent bag.

Ready to try not to show Freya up, Tara thought anxiously, straightening her tights. She hoped she could manage that much.

‘Damn, it’s so cold in here,’ Freya said, rubbing her arms briskly. ‘Come on, it’s probably several degrees warmer outside.’

‘If your fingers weren’t half frozen you’d have been ready ages ago,’ Tara said, laughing nervously in an attempt to cheer up her sister. She so loved to see Freya smile, but Freya was tense tonight, and Tara didn’t need her sister to tell her that a lot hung on the outcome of their meeting with the two men.

Freya soon confirmed these thoughts. ‘Don’t worry, little sister; I don’t plan to be living here much longer.’

Tara blinked at the horror of being separated from Freya. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean there’s a big, wide world out there with a lot of wealthy men inhabiting it, men who want a woman just like me.’

‘Oh…’ Tara bit her bottom lip nervously. Of course Freya deserved a better future, but as her own future rose like an empty canvas in front of her Tara wondered if she would ever get over being separated from her sister. They were orphans and Freya was the only family she had.

‘You can always stay on here,’ Freya said, continuing to touch up her hair as she spoke. ‘Well, it’s a start for you, isn’t it?’ she added, glancing at Tara. ‘I’ll sign the lease over to you before I go, as, most likely, I’ll be living in the south of France—’

Tara knew it was the life her beautiful sister deserved, even if it left her feeling hollow inside. She brushed these selfish thoughts away. ‘You always think of me.’ She smiled, getting off the bed to give Freya a hug.

‘Mind my make up,’ Freya warned, backing away hastily. ‘Now, listen to me,’ she began firmly. ‘You must make sure that count of yours takes you to his place tonight. He mustn’t see this dump—’

‘He isn’t my Count,’ Tara ventured, ‘and I definitely won’t be going home with him—’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that.’ Freya turned and studied Tara keenly. ‘You might be overweight, but you clean up well…’

‘Not as well as you…’

‘Ah, well…’ Freya sighed with satisfaction as she took one last look at herself in the mirror. ‘Hurry, hurry, hurry,’ she exclaimed, spinning on her five-inch heels. ‘We can’t risk anyone poaching our men…’

He was restless as he waited for the two girls to arrive. This outing was a first for him. He never accompanied his brother, Guy, on his hunting expeditions, and yet here he was in a high-class pick-up joint, which his brother had persuaded him was the ‘in’place that season.

After the encounter with the two women that afternoon he hadn’t been able to shake the image of a timid young girl who had wanted to disappear into the shadows. And would have done if he hadn’t coaxed her out of them, he remembered, flashing a glance at his watch, wondering what was keeping Tara. An occasion he had been so sure would bore him had acquired piquancy, thanks to her. Tara Devenish must be at least ten years younger than he was, Lucien reflected, though her sister’s colourful reputation suggested Tara was no innocent. His body warmed at that thought, and right on cue the door of the exclusive supper club opened and in she walked.

The Count of Ferranbeaux drew the attention of the whole room as he rose to his feet. People sensed the dangerous edge to Lucien’s mature elegance and it stopped conversation dead. Lucien was accepting of his physical needs, and after a week of non-stop business meetings even he would have admitted that his libido was in the danger zone, though he could not know that the miasma of testosterone cloaking his muscular frame was almost palpable.

Lucien made a silent note to add a London home to his ever-growing property portfolio. Entertaining in nightclubs wasn’t for him, especially not on an evening like this. Tara was even lovelier than he remembered. She was quirkier and a good deal more outlandishly dressed too. Her pencil skirt had clearly been borrowed from her much slimmer sister, and the way she’d been forced to hitch it up had left it a good four inches short of respectable. Her ample breasts were stuffed for the occasion into a tight boob tube that revealed some tempting pale flesh, which for some reason she was trying to cover with a pale blue shawl. Surely, his cynical self calculated, shouldn’t she be putting her wares on view rather than hiding them away?

He noticed nothing other than Tara as she walked towards him. He felt her aura of innocence, fear and excitement sweep over him, and when she stopped in front of him and gazed up tremulously he reached for her hand. Bowing over it, he raised it to his lips and, as her gaze sought his face, he felt her tremble.

The evening passed in a blur. The Count was at least ten times more attractive and a good deal more worldly-wise than Tara had remembered. Dressed in an impeccable dinner suit with a crisp white shirt, highly polished shoes and fine black socks, he looked like a film star and couldn’t have attracted more attention from all the ladies present had he tried.

Which he didn’t, and that was one of the nicest things about him. Even nicer than that was the way he looked after her. It was a little unnerving to begin with, because he was so much older than she was and her imagination insisted on working overtime, conjuring up all sorts of forbidden possibilities, but somehow he managed to make her relax. Then it was like a fairy tale. In her dreams she had always favoured the dark, flashing Latin looks of a Mediterranean hero, and Lucien Maxime, the Count of Ferranbeaux, or Lucien, as he had insisted she must call him, took Latin to the extreme.

As he turned to order another bottle of champagne, she stole a proper look at him. Lucien was very tall and very tanned, with hair the colour of roast chestnuts. It was thick and wavy, glossy hair, which he wore a little long, and as the evening progressed Tara decided that with the rough black stubble on Lucien’s face, combined with those dark flashing eyes, he looked like a dangerous pirate. A pirate dressed by Savile Row, of course.

‘Are you all right?’ Lucien enquired, sensing her interest.

Better than all right. But as the keen black stare remained fixed on her face she went all wobbly inside and quickly folded her hands primly in her lap. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she replied politely.

Her simple remark prompted the wickedest look, as if Lucien knew her innocent pose covered some very naughty undercurrents and she gasped as his hand covered hers, though it was barely there for a moment. When he took his hand away she gazed down, certain his print would be branded there. She remained quite still after that, hardly able to believe the Count of Ferranbeaux had actually touched her. Then Freya said something and the spell was broken as Lucien turned away to take part in Guy and Freya’s far livelier conversation, leaving her to watch his sensual lips move as he spoke, and dream more dreams as she inhaled his fabulous cologne.

How was she to guess he would turn so quickly and catch her looking at him? It was a relief when he said nothing to embarrass her, but, as one of his ebony brows peaked, she guessed he knew exactly what she’d been thinking.

Turning away to hide her burning face, Tara retreated into her thoughts, where she could have the luxury of the most frenzied fantasies. The conversation buzzed around her, but she was oblivious to it. She was too busy revelling in a fantasy world where a much older man was about to introduce a young, untried girl to a range of forbidden pleasures.

Freya’s voice jerked her rudely out of this happy state. ‘Come on, Tara, drink up,’ she insisted impatiently.

Tara’s cheeks flamed red as everyone turned to look at her. She had been trying so hard to keep up with Freya’s drinking, for fear of being ridiculed, but had failed miserably. She had resorted to pouring her champagne into a conveniently placed plant pot when no one was looking, but now had no alternative other than to drain her glass.

Taking her by surprise, Lucien lifted it from her hand. ‘We shouldn’t kill too many plants,’ he murmured discreetly, drinking it down, ‘or they might not let us come here again—’

‘Would that upset you?’ Tara exclaimed, instantly concerned that she had offended him.

‘Not a bit,’ he confided, leaning close so that her face tingled with his warmth.

Of course he pulled away again, but not before she had felt a glow of happiness at sharing this private moment with him. She knew it was going nowhere, but made an extra effort to look good when he turned away. She smoothed her skirt and tried to tug it down to appear respectable, but it was Freya’s and Freya liked to wear her skirts short. Adjusting her position on the banquette, Tara tried again. It was suddenly very important to her that Lucien shouldn’t be ashamed of being seen with her. He was so elegant and she already liked him far too much to show him up.

She mustn’t let these daydreams get out of hand, Tara’s sensible inner voice warned. It was clear to everyone that Lucien Maxime was only trying to make her feel at ease and would barely register her existence by tomorrow.

Realising her restlessness had caused a pause in the conversation, Tara listened to her own good advice and remained very still. It would suit her best to be invisible for the rest of the evening, she decided.

They moved on to a restaurant, where Tara watched closely to make sure she was using the correct cutlery for each course. Lucien was kind again, arranging her napkin and spreading paté on her toast when she had been about to attack it with a knife and fork. She reached for some more bread, but quickly withdrew her hand when Freya gave her a warning look. They had agreed that Tara mustn’t put on any more weight.

‘You haven’t finished your meal, I hope?’ Lucien smiled at her as she scrunched her napkin anxiously. ‘Here, try this… No…? A spear of asparagus won’t hurt you.’

Asparagus with butter dripping from it? Tara shook her head a second time, but Lucien insisted on feeding the succulent spear to her himself, even mopping her chin with his own napkin when butter smeared her lips. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, he blotted some of the juice with his thumb sucking it whilst holding her gaze. This had an alarming effect on her, coaxing endless little pleasure pulses out of those secret places she wanted him to touch. Deciding a man like Lucien would surely know that made her cheeks fire up again. If there was a more sensual message a man could deliver to a woman, Tara couldn’t imagine what it might be. But how she was supposed to respond to such advances remained a mystery to her.

She must be joined to Lucien by some invisible chain, Tara decided as her gaze kept wandering to him. Perhaps she was bewitched by him for, rather than wishing the evening could be over with, or that she could be invisible, she wanted the night to last for ever.

Freya soon put a stop to that, announcing that it was time to move on to an all night jazz club.

‘Don’t look so worried,’ Lucien reassured Tara, seeing how concerned she was. ‘You’re coming home with me…’

Tara’s face lit up. She was so grateful to Lucien. An early night, safe and alone with her dreams, was exactly what she wanted.


CHAPTER TWO

TARA was so relieved to hear that Lucien was taking her home she relaxed immediately and threw him a grateful glance. Then she saw how delighted Freya was and realised she’d missed the meaning behind Lucien’s message. Going home with him meant going back to his hotel room.

She felt such a fool when they arrived outside the grand entrance to Lucien’s magnificent penthouse suite, and only fear of upsetting Freya prompted her to follow him inside. Freya’s insistent whispering before they’d parted—that everything was going so well for her and Guy that Tara mustn’t screw things up now—was ringing in her head. Her fate was sealed, Tara realised the moment Lucien closed the door, for if there was an eighteen-year-old who could resist the Count of Ferranbeaux’s brutally masculine charm it wasn’t her.

She stepped cautiously across a cream-coloured carpet with pile so deep it felt like a mattress and gazed in awe at antique mirrors framed in gold, and at grand vases in matching pairs as tall as she was. The furniture was antique and both fabrics and walls were decorated in ivory and cream, as if dirt wouldn’t dare to intrude here. The ceilings were high and decorated with gilt and plasterwork, and there was a heady fragrance in the air which she couldn’t place at first, and then she realised it was wealth.

She was so entranced that Lucien had to take her by the elbow and lead her into the next room. This room was equally ornate, with arched windows dressed in heavy soft gold silk and a fire burning silently behind a glass screen.

‘It’s fake,’ Lucien murmured, seeing her staring at the fire.

Of course she knew that, Tara pretended, reddening as she gave a little self-conscious laugh. It was a gas flame fire; she could see that now. She turned away quickly, though how she was supposed to act nonchalant amidst all this luxury, she had had no idea. She was standing in the middle of an intimate sitting room of a type she had no idea existed in hotels. It was a home away from home for the super-rich, she surmised, with magazines on the table, books on the shelves and an assortment of fruit that looked as if it had been picked that very morning. There were pictures on the walls that might have been original works of art and, instead of wallpaper, fabric—silk—glowing softly in tones of rich bronze and…

‘Come over here and sit down before you fall over,’ Lucien prompted.

She turned to see him smiling at her. What a country bumpkin he must think her. She pulled herself together quickly and crossed the room, trying to look confident, but there were so many lamps and tables she hardly knew where to tread and, in her usual clumsy way, she managed to stumble over a chair leg. Gasping with alarm, she reached out, only to feel strong arms catching her.

‘Better now?’ Lucien commented good-naturedly, steadying her back on her feet.

She had felt so safe in his arms that perhaps she didn’t move as quickly as she ought to have done, and his next words proved it. ‘I was going to order champagne,’ he murmured against her hair, ‘but I’ve changed my mind…’

She stared up at him, and his knowing half-smile sent ribbons of seduction rippling through her. She closed her eyes and just for a moment allowed herself to believe he was as captivated by her as she was by him and that now was the moment when he would sweep her off her feet…

‘I’ve some freshly squeezed orange juice in the fridge,’ he said casually, setting her aside so he could move towards the smart built-in bar. ‘Or perhaps you would prefer me to call down for a hot drink…’ He turned at this point. ‘Cocoa, perhaps?’

Cocoa? Freya would not be pleased. Tara gulped unhappily. She could think of nothing to say. But how would she ever explain this mess to Freya?

‘Why don’t I make myself comfortable,’ Lucien suggested, ‘while you make up your mind?’

He was doing everything he could to make this easy for her, Tara realised, but she still couldn’t relax. Her throat felt so dry she couldn’t have spoken a word to him even if she could have thought of something to say. One look from Lucien was all it took to make her nipples pucker, so she crossed her arms over her chest and remained where she was, dithering in the middle of the room.

Lucien shrugged off his jacket, and his look of amusement caught her mid-gulp as she weighed up the width of his shoulders. She turned away, but not before registering the fact that his fingers were supple and capable as he deftly untied his bow-tie, and this only stirred more rebellion in her lower regions, which she could have well done without. Leaving the tie hanging, he next freed some buttons at the neck of his shirt. Sneaking glances at him, she now decided he looked exactly like a man in an advertisement for some high end luxury product, though far more handsome, of course. She went all dreamy again as she imagined touching that smooth tanned flesh and feeling it warm beneath her hands until the jangle of Lucien’s heavy gold cuff-links hitting a glass bowl on the table jerked her back to reality.

‘Won’t you at least take your shawl off?’ Lucien encouraged. ‘Here, I’ll put it somewhere safe for you…’ He held out his hand.

She stared at him foolishly. By now he was folding back his sleeves, revealing powerful forearms shaded with black hair. ‘I was just about to take it off,’ she lied, wondering how a single inch of Lucien’s fabulous suite could be called safe while he was in it. She took off her shawl, conscious that an acre of untoned naked flesh was now on show. Freya’s hours at the gym had paid dividends for her, but Tara didn’t have the time between jobs to follow suit, and would have felt too embarrassed to strip down in front of everyone, anyway.

‘Come and sit here with me,’ Lucien invited, beckoning her over to one of the sofas.

She chose the couch facing his and perched tensely on the edge of it. She was careful to sit very straight and lift her ribcage as Freya had shown her, in order to prevent herself looking too plump. But, as she did so, Lucien murmured, ‘Impressive…’

Did he mean to give her confidence? She gulped in horror, realising too late that he must think she was displaying her breasts for his approval. She quickly hunched her shoulders and lowered her gaze.

‘Do I make you so nervous, ma petite?’

Risking a glance at him, she garbled something unintelligible that made him laugh.

‘I don’t think I am succeeding at putting you at your ease, am I?’ Lucien demanded softly, ‘though I’d very much like to do so…’

By sitting next to her? By draping his arm across her shoulders? She was about as far from at ease as she had ever been. In fact, she was quivering all over, wondering what Lucien expected of her.

‘Relax,’ he murmured, making her ear tingle with his warm, minty breath.

There was something so soothing in his voice she leaned into him. It felt so good just for a moment to rest her head against his firm chest and listen to the steady beat of his heart. Lucien made her feel so secure, and just for once she longed for rock instead of shifting sand, but when he brushed some errant strands of hair from her brow with his lips, she stirred self-consciously. ‘Relax,’ Lucien insisted.

She tried so hard to do what he wanted, but all the time her inner voice was warning her that this was no dream and was far more reality than she could handle.

‘What would you like me to do next, little one?’ Lucien murmured.

Her gaze flickered up, only to discover that Lucien’s had darkened from sepia to black. Did that mean the world of wicked thoughts in her head was an open book to him? His knowing look suggested that was exactly the case, and his next words confirmed it. ‘Shall we go to the bedroom?’

As he spoke Lucien touched his forehead to hers. It was such an intimate thing to do, her dreams took flight again. Oh, yes, she wanted to say, let’s go there now, but she heard herself reply, ‘I’m quite comfortable here, thank you.’ Her voice had grown very small, and she knew that at this point she was supposed to sound breathy and provocative, as Freya had taught her.

‘Then we’ll stay here,’ Lucien agreed with a shrug.

He didn’t seem the least bit disappointed in her, Tara noticed with relief.

‘Don’t look so worried,’ he insisted, cupping her chin. ‘I won’t bite…’

Or, at least, if he did, she would enjoy it, Tara thought as Lucien’s lips tugged in a wicked half-smile. Sensation streamed through her at this thought, which he must have sensed because the hand that wasn’t caressing her jaw began trailing a path of fire down her neck to her breastbone and, from there, unbelievably, incredibly, and quite fantastically, on to her bosom. She was transfixed. Whatever she had imagined about sensation, this was so much more—so much better. She hardly dared to breathe in case she distracted him as Lucien’s sensitive fingers continued to tease and coax and cajole. Smiling faintly whilst holding her gaze, he murmured something in his own language. She didn’t know what he said, but she could imagine and it made her groan.

‘I think you like that,’ he observed, continuing to abrade the tip of her nipple.

So much, he could have no idea. No one had ever touched her there before, and she doubted anyone could have coaxed so much feeling out of her. And yes, she liked it; she liked it a lot. Added to which, Lucien’s stern voice was strumming her senses and causing the ache between her legs to grow until she could hardly remain still.

‘You do like that,’ he approved as she groaned once more beneath his skilful touches. She wouldn’t know where to begin telling him how much. Her breathing was fast and shallow and her eyes were locked onto his burning gaze. She had no idea how to put her thoughts, her needs into words, though she was desperate to communicate them to him. Her biggest fear was that Lucien would tire of this and let her go. Unsure as she was of their final destination, she wanted to experience everything Lucien could teach her along the way. She was grateful when the flimsy top she’d had so much trouble tugging on proved no barrier to Lucien’s explorations. He drew it over her head quite easily and then stared openly at her naked breasts, making a sound with his tongue against his teeth and shaking his head in disapproval when she tried to cover them.

‘You should wear a bra,’ he said at last.

‘Should I?’ she said anxiously, even as his stern command sent a pulse of arousal darting to her core. Something else she’d got wrong.

‘Of course you should,’ Lucien murmured with amusement, ‘because that way there’d be more layers for me to unwrap, and I enjoy the process…’

She was beginning to understand the game, Tara realised, risking an uncertain laugh as Lucien peeled off her skirt.

‘You must never, never apologise,’ Lucien insisted. ‘Certainly not for your magnificent breasts.’

He weighed them appreciatively in his big hands as he said this and, rolling her head back, she sighed, thrusting them towards him for more of his delicious attention.

She wanted as much of this as Lucien had to give her, but the moment he turned away to reach for something in a drawer she took the opportunity to tug off her shabby knickers. Lingerie was the one thing she had put her foot down over. Freya had wanted her to wear an uncomfortable lacy thong, while she preferred her tried and trusted comfortable knickers. But they were very old now, and she couldn’t bear for Lucien to see them. By the time he turned back to her she had rolled them up in her discarded skirt.

Dipping his head, Lucien buried his face in her cleavage before rasping his stubble against her supersensitised skin, and by the time he tugged on her nipples again she could only cry out with abandonment. ‘Oh, Lucien, I can’t bear this…’

‘Can’t bear what?’ he demanded sternly. ‘This?’ He suckled fiercely on one nipple, teasing the other between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Or this…?’ His voice was firmer still as he slipped a hand between her thighs, teasing the silky curls.

‘Both,’ she cried out in a voice that begged him for more. ‘I can’t choose… I don’t know…’

By this time she was crazy for him and squirmed shamelessly beneath his touch. She had no idea how to ease the frustration mounting inside her, and only knew that she must… ‘No!’ she cried wildly when Lucien stopped touching her.

Lifting his handsome head, he studied the effect he was having on her with slumberous intent. ‘No?’ murmured.

‘No, don’t stop!’ she explained frantically. Burying her fingers in his thick hair, she brought him back to her. Nothing—nothing—must stop this feeling inside her… It was going somewhere wonderful, though she didn’t know where. Lucien had awoken appetites she had never guessed she had, and these appetites were sucking out the common sense from her head and replacing it with hot, hungry need.

He had anticipated her skin was like silk that carried the faint aroma of summer meadows, but he had not expected his fingertips to tingle with awareness like this. He took his time to trace each smooth pale inch of her, marvelling as he did so at the way her breasts filled his palms as if they had been made to fit there. Wherever he touched made her groan with pleasure, and whenever she groaned he found some new place to explore and increase that pleasure. Long before he had been ready to undress her she had started wriggling out of her wretched skirt, and he’d only had to help her to remove it. When he’d turned back to her after securing protection for them both, she had attacked his shirt without any of her former timidity, tugging it out of the waistband of his trousers and pushing it from his shoulders with a gasp of admiration. He wasn’t a vain man, but he had always made time to work out. As she whimpered and reached for him, he realised he had never known a woman so hungry for love before. She was moving and clutching and sighing and even parting her thighs for him before he had thought of preparing her. ‘Not so fast,’ he warned. ‘You’ll enjoy it so much more if you learn to take your time…’

He had intended this to be a lingering seduction, but it seemed to him that Tara’s intentions were very different. Perhaps she had been instructed to snare him fast? Perhaps those were her orders from her sister, Freya? Freya had hinted as much to him with her knowing looks and lascivious smiles in the direction of her younger sister, though if he had sensed Tara was at all unwilling he would have acted quite differently. Reluctantly, he was coming to the conclusion that Tara was part of a sophisticated double act in which she played as crucial a role in padding out the family finances as her sister.

There was an upside to this. It gave him the freedom to enjoy her, and he would make it worth her while. He was disappointed in her, he couldn’t deny it, but the thought of sinking into that moist, plump flesh…the thought of pleasuring her, was irresistible.

But he would not make Guy’s mistake and imagine this was more than it was.

‘Lucien?’

He was instantly distracted by a voice as sweet and as innocent as Freya could have wished for. ‘What is it, mapetite?’ He had to hand it to Freya—she had trained her sister well. ‘Tell me, chérie,’ he encouraged. Tara was still new enough at this for him to want to take care of her.

She pouted prettily, a device no doubt learned from her sister. Tara might lack Freya’s polished skills, but that didn’t stop her throwing everything she had into this pursuit of her wealthy target. ‘You have forgotten me, Lucien,’ she complained.

‘Never,’ he murmured, soothing and petting her. But it wasn’t enough; she wanted more. Of course she did. She had been told she must return to Freya like a hunter with her prize of a wealthy lover in the bag.

Even at the age of eighteen and a virgin, Tara knew the danger signals and had chosen to ignore them. She believed this was her one and only chance to live the fairy tale and have an incredible-looking man like Lucien Maxime make love to her. But, more importantly, she felt safe with him, and she had never felt safe before. In his eyes she could see the reflection of a sophisticated, smooth-running world where everyone was safe. She longed to be part of that world, under Lucien’s protection, and knew she never could be, though for this one night she could pretend…

At the touch of his fingertips on her naked arms she exhaled raggedly. Lucien could communicate so much through touch. He promised so much pleasure, and she wanted to experience that pleasure. She wriggled shamelessly into a position where his hand must encounter her breast again. She might be plain, but she had seen men look at her chest before, and knew they liked it… If she could just keep Lucien’s thoughts on the pleasures her body could afford him, perhaps he wouldn’t turn away just yet…

She was perfect. Her breasts were a feast of perfection and he thought her lovely. This might be going nowhere, but he could lose himself for now. Tara was doing everything she could to make this possible for him and in return he would take her to paradise and back. If there was one thing he understood about a woman, it was her body and how to make it sing.

He lavished attention on every smooth and perfect inch of her, kissing and caressing her as he made her wait so that her senses sharpened. When that moment came and she couldn’t wait any longer she grabbed his hand, guiding him to the sweet swell of her belly and pushing his hand down between her legs again. She parted those legs as if it was the most natural thing on earth to her, and even lifted her knees to encourage his exploration.

Moving down the bed, he tasted her and found her more than ready, but it pleased him to hold her back a little longer, knowing her pleasure would increase if she would only wait. She called to him during all this time with little whimpers of desire, which he answered by parting those swollen lips to find the receptive little bud trembling in anticipation of his touch. At the first lash of his tongue she shrieked his name. He caught her as she bucked and held her firmly in place to make sure she derived maximum pleasure from the experience. Far from subsiding in his arms when it was over, she clung to him and begged for more.

‘Of course, ma petite…’ He reasoned that she would want him to go ‘all the way’ so she could report back to Freya that she had bagged the Count as instructed. And she had, he thought a little sadly, knowing he was being manipulated. With his appetite, it was hardly likely that one night of excess with such a voluptuous young woman would be enough for him. His only hope of salvation was that by morning he would wake to find reason had returned.

Having protected them both, he slipped a pillow beneath her hips to tilt her into the most receptive position. Moving over her, he paused. The anticipation of sinking into that warm, throbbing flesh was so intense he wanted to hold back and savour the moment, but she wouldn’t have it and, drawing up her knees as far as she could, she looked at him plaintively. He feasted his gaze on somewhere other than her face before testing himself inside her. They both exhaled sharply, which told him that neither of them could possibly have predicted this level of sensation. Even with his experience, this was a revelation. He withdrew completely, only in order to enjoy entering her again. He went deeper this time, taking her slowly and gently, conscious that he was stretching her. Whatever he thought of her, and whatever her level of experience, he was so much stronger than she was and honour demanded that he must treat her with care. When he thought he might be hurting her he stopped, but she urged him on, clamping her fingertips into his buttocks and working with him.

‘Please Lucien…don’t stop now,’ she begged him when his impulse was to soothe her. But she was very tight, and he was very large, which made him move with the utmost care. Finally it seemed she relaxed again, and as her pleasure built her mouth fell open, and it pleased him to hear her sob in ecstasy.

He could see she was consumed by pleasure as he set up a regular pattern. He stared deep into her eyes to ensure she enjoyed this on every level. Her answer was to urge him on, straining to meet every stroke he dealt her as she closed her muscles around him to draw him deep.

It was more important for him to please Tara than he could possibly have imagined, though the sane part of his brain continued to warn that she had been well trained to please a man. He could see it all now. The Devenish sisters had set out that night in a wholly calculated manner to land a double prize, but whereas Freya might have succeeded, Tara’s future remained in her own hands.

She lay next to him, watching Lucien sleep. The fantasy might be over, but she was determined to imprint every fragment of it on her mind. Biting down on her lip, she remembered the sharp pain that had marked the end of her innocence. But even that pain was precious because it was the only gift she had to give to Lucien.

Though the shock when he had taken her…

He had stretched her beyond anything she could have imagined possible. But he had also reassured her, and it was Lucien’s care and gentle treatment of her that would stay in her mind.

She had been full of lust, Tara remembered, smiling shyly down at him, but Lucien had turned it into more than that, and for that she would never forget him or this night of passion. Whatever life held for her in the future, this precious memory of Lucien Maxime, the Count of Ferranbeaux, would remain safely locked away in her heart.

Which would have to be enough for her, Tara told herself sensibly, settling down in bed a respectful distance away from Lucien. She might have fallen for a man called Lucien, but the man lying beside her was the mighty Count of Ferranbeaux, and she wasn’t silly enough to imagine he felt the same.


CHAPTER THREE

Two years later.

STORM clouds, unusual for the time of year in the far south of Europe, threatened rain as Lucien Maxime, the Eleventh Count of Ferranbeaux, halted his Aston Martin outside one of his many grand country hotels. Opening the car door, Lucien unfolded his powerful frame, retrieved his pale summer-weight jacket and threw it on. Sensing he was being watched, he glanced up. An unremarkable plump young woman with an infant in her arms was looking down at him from a wrought iron balcony.

Tara Devenish.

The shock of seeing Tara again was like a battering ram to his solar plexus and time melted away as he stared back at her. Was it only two years since that night? He’d lost a brother and gained a niece in that time. Guy and Freya had been married little more than a year when they had been killed in a horrific car crash, and the baby in Tara’s arms was their orphaned daughter.

The sight of his niece lifted his heart, but to see Tara holding Guy’s innocent child sickened him. He could only think of that night when Tara had ground her hips so shamelessly against him. She’d been good—better than good, she’d been practised, she’d been excellent—and he had later learned his brother had thought so too.

With a sound of disgust he slammed the car door, remembering how, shortly before the fatal crash, Freya had publicly denounced Tara for sleeping with her husband. Who knew what Guy’s state of mind had been when he’d embarked on that tragic car journey? The way he saw it, Guy’s blood was on Tara’s hands and if she thought that touching cameo of her holding Guy’s child would soften him she was out of luck. Someone should have warned her he was not as gullible as Guy—he was a different man, a very different man. He couldn’t believe he had misjudged her character so badly.

Uniformed doormen, in the claret and gold of the aristocratic Ferranbeaux family, raced to open the door for him, but he got there first. Swinging the door wide, he acknowledged each man in turn by name. He might loathe the fuss and deference many men in his position so avidly courted, but believed that was no reason to brush people off.

Today, with little time to spare, he moved swiftly on. He didn’t need the heraldic shield emblazoned on each man’s jacket to remind him why he was here. The honour of the family was once more under siege, another scandal pending; another situation for him to deal with before the rumours got out of hand. Guy’s death had opened Pandora’s box and now Pandora herself, or that young ingénue, as he had once so foolishly thought of Tara Devenish, was here at his command. She had been easy to manipulate, wanting to see where Poppy would live before agreeing to sign the adoption papers. He suspected she had seen this as one last chance to follow her sister’s lead in securing a wealthy husband. Why else had it taken a single phone call to her lawyer from his for her to agree to this meeting?

His hand strayed to the cheque already made 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 condemning her and, without exception, her friends and colleagues had refused to believe a word they said. If only Lucien could be like them.

He wasn’t, and there was no point wishing she could change him. Lucien had descended on the hotel like an avenging angel and was clearly not in the mood for negotiation, and now she had to meet him.

With every part of her trembling with apprehension. Lucien frightened her. His power frightened her. Anticipating the fact that he might look at her and laugh at her frightened her most of all.

She smoothed her skirt for the umpteenth time—her cheap skirt. But at least it fitted this time; she’d made sure of it. She checked her blouse—her cheap blouse. It was so cheap the fabric was like tissue paper, but if she kept her jacket fastened you couldn’t see her bra…but then if she did that the buttons bulged…

Her breasts again…

Too big…

Everything about her was too big…

Including the big fat tears rolling down her cheeks. She hated them. They were a sign of weakness she couldn’t afford with Poppy to defend.

Dashing them away, she sniffed loudly. Working out what was for the best, she decided on fastening the middle button on her jacket and leaving the other two undone…

Better.

Passable…

Not smart, but not bulging quite so badly now.

She was ready for whatever lay ahead.

Including Lucien Maxime, the Count of Ferranbeaux.

Lucien might be the all powerful Count of Ferranbeaux and hold all the cards, but did Lucien have the skills necessary to raise a child in the warmth and security of a loving family home? She wasn’t going to let Poppy live in Ferranbeaux, cared for by strangers, just as she and Freya had been. Lucien could buy most things, but he couldn’t buy time, and his business interests took up a lot of time…

Hearing a tap on the outer door of her suite, Tara whirled around. Her stomach was in knots. ‘Come in…’ Her voice sounded small, tremulous, pathetic, even to her.

‘Ms Devenish?’

Tension seeped from her shoulders when the door opened and the hotel manager walked in. ‘Yes?’

‘Monsieur le Conte has arrived, and is waiting for you downstairs…’

Having powered through the gates in his twenty-first century equivalent of a fiery black stallion. Yes, she’d seen him.

‘Ms Devenish?’ the hotel manager prompted.

She was panic-stricken. There were too many holes in her plan. She needed more time. She had brought Poppy to Ferranbeaux because her lawyers had said she must, but whose orders were they obeying? Tara wondered now. She had seen Lucien’s contempt for her as he must have seen her feelings for him. He believed the newspaper articles; ergo he believed her unfit to care for Poppy. He had come to take Poppy away. He thought her one more conniving woman who expected to profit from his brother’s death.

As the hotel manager cleared his throat Tara swiftly refocused. Words had never come easily to her, and before the accident she had been content to remain in Freya’s shadow, but with Poppy to protect that part of her life was over now. Tipping her chin, she spoke firmly. ‘Thank you for delivering the Count’s message. Please tell him I would like a little longer—’

‘A little longer’ would never be enough. It was better to get on with it, get it over with.

The manager’s huff of surprise suggested he thought so too. But this was all just such a leap from the quiet life she had shared with Poppy since the accident. All the more reason to hold their first meeting here, rather than in a public arena where she might make a fool of herself… ‘Could you ask the Count to come to my suite in say…ten minutes?’

‘Here?’

The hotel manager seemed astounded, and Tara guessed that only years of training in the art of discretion allowed him to keep his opinions to himself.

Her relief was short-lived when he turned to go, for now the clock was counting down the seconds before she saw Lucien again—the man she adored, the man whom, the last time they’d met, had paid her off like a whore.

She listened intently to every sound, waiting for Lucien… She stilled her breathing, waiting for his footfall on the stairs. She wished she wasn’t so tense. If she’d been more skilled in womanly wiles she might have known how to soften him, or if she’d been feisty, rather than hapless, helpless and useless, she might have known how to stand up to him. Unfortunately, she was none of these convenient things. She was barely twenty, and pretty clueless when it came to men. She was also plump, plain and poor and even her own sister had called her boring. Finding the right words was the least of her worries when she couldn’t launch a good argument to save her life. And when it came to clothes and social graces…

By this point Tara’s teeth were chattering with fear, which was no help when her body was thrumming with awareness at the thought of Lucien just a few strides away. She knew he wouldn’t have been idle while he’d been waiting. He would have been using this time to finesse his plan to eject her from Poppy’s life.

She must blank her mind of fear if she was going to get through this. It was no good talking herself into meltdown; she must think things through clearly.

But, try as she might, the only thought Tara could come up with was that if Poppy had been old enough to pick a champion, her Aunty Tara should be last pick.

But who else was there to champion Poppy’s cause? Lucien?

He’d make a far better job of it than she could, Tara reasoned, though he’d do it remotely through his servants.

Crossing to the window, she flung it open and inhaled deeply, hoping for a miracle. But there were no miracles—there was just Tara, an orphaned baby, and the Count of Ferranbeaux. That was the cast and it was up to her to decide whether she was content to play a role, or whether she would write the play. It was certainly time to get a grip. She wasn’t the girl of two years ago; she was trained in childcare now and where Poppy’s happiness was concerned she would fight tooth and nail to preserve it. It helped remembering a tutor at the college telling her she possessed a natural air of authority, and that it would raise her tiny stature in the eyes of a child. Would it work on the Count of Ferranbeaux? Somehow, she doubted it.

Lucien paced the room. Servants hovered, anxious to cater for his every whim. He waved them away. He wanted one thing, and one thing only, which was to have this meeting over with. Only then could he take his niece to a place of safety. At least, that was what he had been telling himself for the past half an hour, but the truth was more complicated. He wanted Poppy safe, that was a given, but Tara had dug her neat clean fingernails into some hidden part of him, and he was impatient to pluck them out.

He glanced at his watch again. How dared she keep him waiting? Didn’t she think this meeting important enough to be on time? He had imagined she would be keen to get to work on him. Perhaps she was too busy luxuriating in the suite of rooms he had provided to remember her manners…

He stopped pacing to rake his hair. Even he was prepared to admit that last thought didn’t reflect the Tara he knew. She might be cleaning the suite. He still remembered her surreptitiously picking up the napkin Freya had carelessly dropped on the floor, and then mopping up a pool of wine Freya had spilled on the table in the same graceful sweep. That Tara certainly didn’t live up the sluttish image the media and her sister had painted.

He’d only just reassured himself with this thought when the old newspaper headline bounced into his head: The Unexpected Mistress. And the images of Tara in Guy’s arms that conjured up made him physically sick. Lucien thought back to his own night with Tara; when she had thought he was sleeping she had whispered that there would be no other lovers.

So much for such adoration and innocence!

What was keeping the hotel manager? Lucien’s eyes narrowed with suspicion as he stared through the open door towards the stairs. It was time to remember that Tara shared Freya’s tainted blood. It was time to confront her.


CHAPTER FOUR

IT WASN’T just the aura of danger surrounding Lucien Maxime that drew attention as he crossed the hall. Tanned by the sun, and hardened by experience, Lucien married menace with style, which was a compelling combination. His tailoring was the best, and his only adornment a wrist-watch and a pair of gold cuff-links engraved discreetly with his crest. A man whose estates encompassed thousands of squares miles either side of the French and Spanish borders felt no need for the show other men considered necessary to boost their status.

Halting at the foot of the stairs, Lucien saw the hotel manager hurrying towards him. ‘Where is she?’ he demanded.

‘Ms Devenish will not be coming downstairs, Monsieur le Conte—’

A spear of concern pierced him. ‘My niece—’

‘Is quite well, as far as I can determine, monsieur.’

Relief coursed through him, but his thoughts switched immediately to Tara. ‘Then why does Ms Devenish choose to remain in her room?’

‘Mademoiselle Devenish asked me to inform you that she will be happy to receive you in her suite in ten minutes.’

She will be happy? She will be happy?

Anger flared inside him. Not only had Tara defied his explicit instruction, she had dared to issue one of her own. It was time to call her bluff. How much could she have changed? Was she cowering in her suite? Or exulting in it at the thought that her pay cheque was only a few steps away? Whatever her motive, his niece would be raised in the security and stability of his family home and would not be left to the careless affections of some woman on the make. ‘No matter,’ he rapped in a tone that caused the unfortunate manager to press back against the wall. ‘I will go to her.’

‘Yes, Monsieur le Conte…’

As he mounted the stairs he fingered the cheque in the breast pocket of his jacket. If he had learned one thing from his father, it was that life had a universal currency. Tara would have her price. He would pay her off and then forget her. He stopped at the half landing and turned to see the manager still hovering and eager to be of service. ‘I take it Ms Devenish is alone?’





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