Original Sin
To distract herself from the mocking blue eyes she inspected her surroundings in greater detail. The restaurant was busy, buzzing with talk and laughter. Several French families were eating, plus a sprinkling of Germans, and English. Behind her she could hear voices in her native tongue busily deciphering the intricacies of the fish menu with the aid of a dictionary.
‘This is an attractive restaurant,’ she murmured politely, switching into French deliberately. ‘Is there still a mill-wheel?’
‘Yes. If we’d wanted to we could have sat outside on the grass, near the mill-stream,’ Christian confirmed coolly, also switching to French. ‘But the mosquitoes can be unpleasant.’
‘Another time I’ll wear repellent. I love eating out of doors. It’s such a luxury in England.’
‘Tomorrow night I will bring you here, and you may cover yourself in insect repellent and sit by the mill-stream, Emily.’
‘Oh, I wasn’t suggesting that you bring me here again...’
‘Do not begin blushing again,’ he advised her, with a lazy, speculative grin.
‘I wasn’t!’
But she felt on fire all over as his casual gaze moved slowly, assessingly, from the top of her copper-blonde head, down over her wide brown eyes to the petite curves of her breasts under the silk camisole. Braless, she felt, to her acute chagrin, the tips of her breasts begin to tighten involuntarily in response to that challenging appraisal.
‘Your French is excellent, Emily,’ he praised quietly, leaning nonchalently back in his chair and sliding his hands into his jacket pockets. ‘Is your Spanish also as good?’
‘Reasonable. I suspect my French is better, because I’ve spent more time in France. With my penfriend’s family. In my teens. So...’ she sought, once again, to switch the subject, to shrink back from the spotlight ‘...what was the career which took you abroad so much?’
‘Journalism.’
Did she imagine the slight hardening of the lines around Christian’s mouth? The slight withdrawal?
‘What sort of journalism?’
‘I was a foreign correspondent on a national newspaper. Then I reported foreign news for television.’
‘I see.’ She stared at him in mounting curiosity. Their first course had arrived, a platter of fresh langoustines, and she picked thoughtfully at one of the rigid shells with her fingers, finding herself staring at the beady little eyes of the shellfish with an abrupt shudder of sympathy.
Was this why Christian Malraux had an air of embittered cynicism? Foreign news reporting was an unremitting diet of wars, famine and atrocities, wasn’t it?
‘Did you throw it all in because your uncle was taken ill?’
‘Not entirely. I’d been contemplating making a change, finding a way to get back down to earth, literally as well as metaphorically. TV news reporting can become dangerously addictive. All the flying bullets and front-line bulletins...’
She found herself staring at the scar on his cheek, imagining some hair-raising incident with guerrillas and machine guns. She winced involuntarily, and he saw her reaction, touching the scar with a grim smile.
‘This disfigurement has no connection with my TV journalism. But does it disgust you, Emily?’ He sounded bleakly amused.
‘No!’ She shook her head with some force. ‘No, it most certainly does not disgust me! What a ridiculous suggestion!’
Christian’s gaze had narrowed at her vehement denial. There was a brief silence, then he shrugged, with a slight smile.
‘You do not need to burst with righteous indignation, Emily. I believe you.’
A longer pause stretched out between them, and then with thoughtful deliberation Christian reached across the table, and took her left hand in his, lightly, turning it over to inspect the narrow palm, the long, slim, ringless fingers.
The clasp was impersonal, exploratory. His skin felt warm and dry, his fingers lean and powerful, as if his strength was a latent threat, held in careful reserve.
Emily could hardly breathe. She felt as if something was constricting her windpipe. She stared down at their joined hands, at the strong, dark, hair-roughened back of Christian’s right hand encompassing hers. How could something as simple and innocent as a touching of hands feel so intensely intimate...so annihilating to her senses?
Her heart was thudding painfully hard against her breastbone. She tried to shrug off this overwhelming emotion, this warm, shimmering sensation mysteriously forcing up her blood-pressure, speeding up her pulse-rate, but failed spectacularly.
‘No rings?’ Christian sounded dismissive, releasing her hand with a composure she yearned to emulate.
‘No...’ Resisting the urge to snatch her hand defensively into her lap, she transferred it slowly to her wine glass, proud of her precision control. She took a careful sip of wine.
‘No ties, no commitments?’ He persisted coolly.
‘None. That’s the way I intend things to stay.’
‘Hence the high-powered Foreign Office job in September?’
She nodded, warming to her impressive display of indifference. Her stomach was in knots. Her heart was racing at twice its normal speed.
‘Too many of my friends finished higher education only to throw it all away to get married! I have a very clear-cut vision of where I’m heading for, and its not the altar!’
Even as she heard herself say it, she was mentally floundering in a warm dark whirlpool of reaction to his touch, his voice, everything about him...
‘Wise girl,’ he approved softly. ‘Stick to your career. Don’t be side-tracked. Love is a destructive emotion.’
With a smiling nod, she stared at him in silence. Her throat felt curiously tight. He’d caught her on the raw again. As if he’d aimed a sharp punch to her solar plexus.
Their food arrived, a welcome diversion. She tackled the delicious skate in caper sauce, absently sliding the white fish off the smooth webbed bone with her fork.
‘Love is a destructive emotion? That’s going a bit far, surely?’ she teased lightly, glancing up when she felt sure she had her emotions under tight control. ‘You sound deeply embittered!’
Christian had opted for a rare filet mignon, oozing pink juices and exuding a rich, savoury aroma. He was eating it with the kind of uninhibited relish Emily decided might be a national characteristic.
‘Life has taught me the value of independence. Take my advice: keep your heart to yourself, Emily.’
The flat words were unemotional. She felt herself go very still, staring warily into the deep-set gaze.
Abruptly, totally without warning, she felt as if she’d stumbled into an entirely new landscape of emotions. In a moment maybe she’d wake up and find she was sleepwalking...
This was awful. This was unthinkable. First the unfortunate introduction, now some sort of humiliating mind-reading. Had he taken a subtle glance inside her head, read her splintering composure, identified it for what it seemed to be? Her very first, long-retarded, breathless, hopeless ‘crush’, overwhelming her as irrepressibly as a bout of flu? What would her brother Ben make of her behaviour tonight? she wondered distractedly. Would he believe his eyes if he saw his brainy little sister, cool and pragmatic, independent and resourceful, tumbling into a crazy, mindless infatuation with a man she’d met barely an hour and a half before?
CHAPTER TWO
ABRUPTLY Emily pushed her knife and fork together.
‘Lost your appetite?’ The deep voice was expressionless.
‘Sort of.’
‘Would you like dessert? Coffee?’
‘Nothing else. I’m feeling sleepy. Travelling affects me like that.’
‘Then I had better take you back to bed, Emily.’
His words hung between them, like a teasing challenge. Had he intended any double meaning?
‘Yes...’ If her cheeks had been hot before, now she felt flames consuming her.
The night air was warm and scented, but it cooled her burning cheeks during the drive back in the open car.
‘You will move into a room nearer to mine tonight.’
Christian’s cool, flat announcement made her jerk her head round in alarm. They’d crunched to a halt in the pebbled courtyard, stepped out of the Mercedes, and were standing in the lamplit darkness.
‘Whatever for?’
‘For your safety, Emily.’
‘Oh...!’ Thrown into confusion, she searched her shattered thoughts. ‘You think Greg Vernon might come creeping back to finish what he tried to start?’ She was half joking, but somehow the words came out with a more serious ring than she’d intended.
‘It is possible.’ Christian’s voice was hard as steel.
‘Oh, I really don’t think he was serious...’ She stopped, suddenly feeling cold inside.
She stared up at the dark bulk of the building. A faint frisson of apprehension slithered down her spine. The Chteau de Mordin was an old, two-storeyed mansion built around three sides of a wide shingled courtyard. Its walls—what could be seen of them beneath dense green creeper, and between endless rows of tall, arched windows with wooden shutters—were smooth-rendered and white-washed. The shrill of the cicadas was the only sound.
For her own peace of mind she’d played down the whole Greg Vernon episode. Now, standing here in the eerie silence of the night, she felt her imagination fire into overdrive. An owl hooted from the vicinity of one of the massive cedars nearby and she jumped involuntarily.
Had Greg Vernon been seriously about to molest her? If she hadn’t turned her hand to her bit of surprise judo, if Christian hadn’t appeared when he did, would things have got unpleasantly or even dangerously out of control...?
At the time she’d put the Englishman down as a relatively harmless flirt, with delusions about his own sex appeal. Now, delayed reaction was setting in.
Christian had turned to gaze around the courtyard. He stood with his back to her, his hands thrust into his jacket pockets, and she stared at him unwillingly. Tall, over six feet, and broad-shouldered, he had the smooth-muscled physique of an athlete. In profile his features had a brooding, hooded power. The trouble was, Emily acknowledged ruefully, that Christian Malraux exuded far greater danger than Greg Vernon ever could...
‘I’ll be fine, honestly,’ she countered hurriedly. ‘I’ll lock my door. Don’t worry...’
‘You will move across to the room next to mine. Tonight.’ Christian turned to gaze down at her, his expression harder. ‘I have no wish to lie awake half the night worried that rape and pillage may be taking place across there.’
‘For heavens’ sake, there’s no need for any fuss. I’ll be perfectly safe! And I can take care of myself!’
‘You will do as I say.’ The deep voice held an implacable note, raising her hackles. Christian Malraux could be charming when he wished, but he had a nasty tyrannical streak, Emily decided crossly. She recalled his icy dismissal of Greg Vernon. Here was a man used to being obeyed.
‘I’d rather stay where I am now!’
‘Indeed?’ One dark eyebrow angled scathingly as he studied her mutinous face. ‘Perhaps I misjudged the situation? Perhaps, if I had not intervened, the outcome would have been very different?’
She stared at him in silence.
‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘Things are not always what they appear,’ he murmured thoughtfully. ‘Is it possible perhaps that you were enjoying your rough session with Greg Vernon, Emily? And my appearance spoiled things for you?’
Anger gripped her. ‘If you mean what I think you mean, that’s a...a disgusting suggestion!’
‘Is it?’ Christian sounded unperturbed by her pent-up outrage. ‘In that case, you will be happier sleeping in another room. Come, we’ll fetch your things.’
There was little option, Emily decided furiously, but to follow orders, for the time being. And humouring her new boss seemed diplomatic, when she’d controlled her temper enough to take a calm view of the situation.
‘Is the chteau always this deserted?’ In a valiant effort to somehow retrieve the deteriorating atmosphere between them, Emily’s query was made with elaborate politeness as they returned across the shadowy courtyard with her repacked cases. ‘It gives me the distinct impression that it was built to house more than two people!’
She’d endured his patronising supervision while she collected her belongings. Now she felt a fresh stab of annoyance at his humourless smile.
‘Before my aunt died, the place was usually packed with staff, guests, weekend parties. I imagine that social life tailed off these last few years. The village “fte champtre” is traditionally celebrated here. There is a floodlit grand bal here in two weeks’ time. That should bring a little more life to the place...depending on the numbers attending.’
There was that dry cynicism again in his voice, which seemed to intrude whenever the chteau was mentioned...
‘But the business side of things—surely there are more live-in staff than your housekeeper, Lisette Duvert, and the occasional casual odd-job man like Greg Vernon?’
‘This is as my uncle left it. I’ve been working on building up the sales side, but I haven’t been able to give the place my undivided attention. Too many loose ends from my former profession. And I have not yet fully decided on the future of the Chteau de Mordin.’
Emily stopped in the doorway of the bedroom he’d shown her into, staring up at him in surprise. ‘You mean you might sell?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s possible. I have not decided. Six years ago, I had no wish to vegetate in provincial France in the family business. I am not sure if anything has really changed on that score.’
For some reason, she felt shocked. She took care not to show it. She hardly knew this man. It wasn’t for her to show surprise at his lack of enthusiasm for what seemed to her an idyllic goldmine of a place...
‘This place has enormous potential,’ she began idly. ‘I thought that the moment I saw it...’
‘Indeed? I’d be interested to hear your views on it.’ His tone was wry, far from sincere, she thought resentfully.
‘Sure. Any time.’ Suddenly overwhelmingly tired, she pressed a hand to her forehead, shivering.
‘Are you all right, Emily?’ Behind the implacable shutters of his expression, the smoky blue gaze held a hint of concern.
‘I’m fine. It’s been a long day...’
This was true. She’d been up with the lark at her home in Gloucestershire, flown from Birmingham to Bordeaux, then driven up here on congested French roads in the hectic July holiday traffic. The sight of the big, square bedroom just along the landing from Christian’s suite, freshly welcoming in shades of blue and gold, with a door ajar into a matching shower-room, was enticing.
Emily suddenly realised that this window looked straight across the courtyard into the window of the bedroom she’d been given by Lisette. No wonder Christian had detected trouble and arrived on the scene when he had—once Greg Vernon had snapped on the light, the scenario in the bedroom would have been floodlit for all to see...
‘You’ve gone very pale.’
‘I think it’s delayed reaction to that ridiculous episode earlier...’ The brief smile she gave him was tight with suppressed emotion. It had only just sunk in how close she might have come to a vicious assault earlier in her room. And this arrogant individual had the nerve to suggest she’d been enjoying herself...
To her mortification she discovered that she was close to tears. Spinning desperately away from him, cursing her tiredness, her emotional state, the wine, the whole tense, edgy evening, she willed him to melt away and leave her alone to weep a few therapeutic tears and collapse into bed.
Instead, she felt strong hands on her shoulders, and she was twisted into the hard warmth of Christian Malraux’s arms, and held firmly against the muscular wall of his chest.
‘You are trembling. Emily, I apologise if I offended you. You are quite safe here...’
The deep voice was cool, with a trace of anger beneath the surface. Was he angry with her? Or with himself, for suggesting that nasty twist to what might have happened?
She tensed, panic-stricken, rigid with furious denial as he slid one hand up to the narrow nape of her neck, casually and confidently caressing her hair. He stroked the back of her head in a calming, brotherly fashion. It could have been Ben, hugging her better after some minor accident at home. She felt herself relax against him involuntarily as the warmth of his body transferred itself to her.
And then, with no warning, the warmth subtly changed. Secure and fraternal it suddenly wasn’t. Searingly aware of every intimate detail of the hard, clean-smelling male body so close to hers, Emily found all her reassurance vanished.
When Christian gave an abrupt, astonished expletive and crushed her harder to his body, she lifted her head and blindly proffered her lips to his demanding, exploratory possession of her mouth...
She parted her lips with a sort of compulsive curiosity. The exquisitely raw sensations rippled through every nerve of her body. His tongue fenced with hers, then plunged hungrily deeper. He slid his hands up her slender back and cupped her head, his fingers tangling in the short, feathery rose-gold curls of her hair.
Dragging trembling hands across his ribcage, she spread her fingers across the width of his chest, superficially going through the motions of trying to push him away. Her lack of conviction must have been pathetically obvious, she decided dimly, shivering as her fingers encountered the strong ridges of his pectoral muscles. She clenched her fingers into small fists, fighting her feelings with every ounce of her strength, but then of their own volition her hands slid to his shoulders, spanning the firm column of his neck, seeking the strong pulse beating at his throat, the texture of his hair at his nape.
His hair was thick and clean, crisp to the touch. His body, through the light cotton of his clothes, felt lean and spare, powerfully muscled. A fresh wave of fire swept through her as he traced the narrow indentation of her spine with one firm hand. He caressed lightly all the way down to her small buttocks, and with shocked awareness she felt the heavy shaft of his sex, confined by clothes but nevertheless rampantly male, powerfully and unmistakably aroused, pressing against the flatness of her stomach through the silk of her sarong-skirt. A shudder of need seemed to resonate through her, but alongside it came a faint return to sanity.
The shudder seemed to transfer itself to Christian, and with a thick curse under his breath he abruptly separated himself from her. One hand on her shoulder, he caught her chin with the other, to lift her flushed face for inspection. The smoky blue eyes were darker. The sleepy, lidded gaze was shuttered, and unreadable.
‘Je m’excuse, Emily. I did not intend that to happen. I did not seek to light a conflagration between us...’ His breathing was erratic, his deep voice was harder, but ruefully amused as well. As if he’d been taken genuinely by surprise.
‘I...you didn’t...’ Her voice sounded disembodied. She was trembling from head to foot.
‘Now I think I have frightened you even more than Greg Vernon.’
She made a determined effort to laugh it off, backing away and twisting her chin free from the disturbing warmth of his fingers. ‘Don’t worry, I doubt if I’ll have nightmares!’
‘Good.’ He was smiling wryly now, a wary, watchful light in his eyes. ‘We would not want any complications to hinder our working relationship, would we?’
‘I’ll be sure to lock my door!’ she said tartly.
‘That would be advisable.’ His blue eyes held such a gleam of dry humour that it twisted a fresh knot in the painful muddle of her emotions. Some inner parts of her body she had never even known existed until now were aching and shimmering and melting, and behaving in an outrageously unladylike fashion. ‘You’re quite a little sex siren, aren’t you, Emily?’
‘I assure you I am not!’ she snapped, incensed at his laughing mockery. ‘And what a typical sexist male comment! Blaming the female for his own lack of control!’
‘I count myself fortunate. At least I have not been immobilised by one of your terrifying judo techniques. Bonne nuit, Emily. Dors bien.’
She clenched her fists at her sides, opened her mouth to speak, but found it impossible. She was too choked with anger.
When he turned away and she closed the door on his cool, retreating lope down the landing she stood quite still, staring at the panelled dark oak door, filled with such a savage intensity of reaction that she felt like screaming and sobbing and hammering furiously against the wall.
* * *
Lisette Duvert woke her, with a tray of breakfast which she set down, none too graciously, on the table beside her bed.
‘Christian said I’d find you in here,’ she announced without prevarication. ‘What happened between you and Greg last night?’ She spoke in French, and her tone was decidedly unfriendly.
Emily blinked, rubbing her eyes, and struggled to sit up in bed, staring at her uninvited visitor. Lisette was an intensely pretty girl, with an oval face and the sort of ethereal pallor which men would doubtless find fascinating. Her eyes were as green as the sloping lawns visible through the rear windows of the bedroom. With her shoulder-length black hair and heavy fringe, and wearing a short, figure-hugging black sundress, she had a faintly witch-like air about her.
‘Didn’t Christian...Monsieur Malraux tell you?’ She managed to keep her voice level, and polite.
‘He told me some unlikely story of Greg bursting into your room and trying to molest you!’
Lisette sounded as if she had no doubt that Emily had made the whole thing up. Emily swung her legs out of bed, and stood up, facing the French girl. She was thankful for her relatively modest nightwear, an oversized white T-shirt with a yellow sun printed on the front. And she felt grateful, too, for the fact that even in bare feet she was an inch taller than Lisette.
‘I gather you hired Greg Vernon?’ she queried calmly. ‘So I’m sorry if you feel upset that he was fired straight away! But I can assure you the story is no exaggeration...’
‘No? Or perhaps you simply twisted it around to suit yourself?’ Dislike blazed out of Lisette’s green eyes.
Emily blinked involuntarily under the heat of the other girl’s temper. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘I mean, perhaps Christian came back and caught you in an embarrassing situation, and you threw the blame on Greg?’
This was so close to Christian’s cynical conjecturing last night that Emily felt a sick tightening in her stomach.
‘That’s simply not true—’ she began furiously.
‘On the contrary...’ It was Christian’s husky, cuttingly amused voice from the door, making both of them swing round. ‘Emily did not throw the blame on Greg, she threw Greg. Over her shoulder.’
His dark face was sardonic as he assessed Lisette’s dismayed reaction to his sudden appearance. ‘Emily is a judo expert, Lisette. We shall all need to tiptoe carefully around her while she is working here.’
With a toss of her black head, Lisette gave Christian a slow, provocative smile, then cast a withering glance back at Emily.
‘Judo?’ she sneered disbelievingly. ‘Greg is a friend of mine. I do not need to use judo against him! This girl was obviously leading him on!’
‘Ça suffit, Lisette.’ Christian’s voice contained a razor-edge which Emily was beginning to recognise. ‘If you wish to continue working for me, I advise you to occupy yourself only with matters which concern you.’
The put-down was cool and devastating. The French girl gave an angry shrug, glaring at Christian with such simmering reproach that Emily had to suppress a smile. After a fraught silence, she spun on her heel and marched from the room.
