Original Sin

Opening her mouth to speak, she found that no words would emerge. She settled for a quick nod, and dived, utterly mortified, for the wrap, plunging her arms in and clutching it round herself with trembling fingers. She was going hot and cold alternately; groaning inwardly. The incident with Greg Vernon had been bad enough. To be facing her new employer, in the nude and with a strange male flat-out on the landing floor...not the most auspicious of starts...

‘Would you mind explaining what is going on here?’

‘This man barged into my room, and tried to...to molest me. I’m afraid I used self-defence automatically...’

‘So I had the pleasure of witnessing just now. It is strange, mademoiselle, but I don’t recall any mention of naked martial arts on your curriculum vitae.’

His English accent was near perfect, with a slight American twang, as if he’d learned it in the States rather than in England. There was a glitter of some emotion in his eyes. Emily thought she detected the faintest suggestion of humour, then decided she’d been mistaken. He definitely looked unamused.

Greg Vernon was dragging himself to his feet, ruefully rubbing his hipbone.

‘She’s lethal. Sorry mate.’ He sounded shaken, though slightly sullen. He made a lunge for his rucksack and looked anxious to leave. ‘Are you the new owner of this place?’

The dark man nodded curtly. ‘Christian Malraux. And, according to my housekeeper’s note, I assume that you must be Greg Vernon?’

‘The same. Wrong room. Bit of a mix-up...’

‘Get out, right now.’ The ice in the deep voice sent chills down Emily’s spine. She’d been right. He was not amused.

‘Now, wait a minute...’

‘Out. You’re sacked.’ There was no emotion, no trace of uncertainty. Just harsh, judgemental finality.

‘Sacked? I haven’t even started yet. But you can stick your flaming job right up your...’

With a lightning reflex, the tall, athletic-looking Frenchman had levered himself away from the doorjamb and taken the other man by one arm, jerking it expertly up his back, immobilising him.

‘Guard your tongue,’ he ordered softly, ‘and get off my property.’

With a warning thrust, he released him again. Greg Vernon’s shoulders and back bunched in anger, but he clearly thought better of further challenge. There was an indefinable air of toughness about Christian Malraux; the jagged scar lent a slightly sinister air to his appearance. He stood back to let Greg Vernon through, and Emily, for some perverse reason she hardly understood, felt compelled to speak up on his behalf.

‘There’s no need to fire him on my account,’ she protested quickly, hugging the satin wrap closely around her as the smoky-blue eyes turned their chill intensity on her again.

‘Indeed?’ The deep voice was taunting. Transfixed, she stared at the dark face, frantically trying to analyse why he should be so unsettling. Taken separately, his features were strong, but otherwise unremarkable. He had a large nose, deep-set, deceptively sleepy blue eyes, a wide, hard mouth and a jutting chin with a cleft in the centre. A bluish black shadow on his lower jaw proclaimed his need to shave at least twice a day.

‘Is this man a friend of yours, mademoiselle?’

‘No. But I think it was just a silly...misunderstanding. I think Mr Vernon and I understand each other now.’

‘I am sure that you do.’ The harsh, husky timbre of his voice brought goose-bumps out all over her skin. ‘However, I make the decisions here. I will see you downstairs in ten minutes, Mademoiselle Gainsborough. Keep your door locked in future. Particularly when you are taking a bath.’

With a final penetrating appraisal of her appearance, leaving her feeling stripped naked all over again, he withdrew from the room and shut the door with a decisive click.

Emily leaned against the closed door, and shut her eyes. Arrogant, supercilious man, she muttered out loud. She was shaking, so violently that she could hardly turn the key in the lock.

Why was she so angry with Christian Malraux? she wondered, as she went through automatic motions of dressing, her thoughts flitting wildly. Surely she should be angry with the Englishman? Glad of her employer’s timely intervention? Instead she found herself feeling almost sorry for her brash would-be attacker, and furiously resentful of the patronising, judgemental attitude of Christian Malraux...

Dragging a hairbrush through her short sunset-gold curls, she glared at her reflection. Demure now in knee-length salmon silk sarong-skirt, chocolate silk camisole and loose salmon silk collarless overshirt, she carefully fitted delicate pearl-drop earrings, and slicked a touch of pale pink lipstick over her lips, and gold-brown shadow on her lids. The look was cool, casually elegant, smart enough to cope with any eventuality. Dressed this way she might, just, be able to retrieve her credibility and poise.

As she made her way reluctantly down to meet her new employer, she came to a rueful conclusion about her muddled feelings. She’d managed to get the better of Greg Vernon. She had his measure. She’d met men like him before, and handled them with relative ease. Somehow he presented no threat. Not so with Christian Malraux. She had the feeling he was the kind of man it would be very hard to get the better of. And he seemed to present the biggest threat of all...

* * *

‘Have you eaten?’ the question was barked without preamble. She blinked at him in surprise.

‘No...’

‘Bon. Ça c’est la premire chose faire...first, we eat.’

No consultation. No prevarication. Christian Malraux was cool, calm, and in a disinterested sort of way totally in control. She found herself escorted firmly to the gunmetal-grey Mercedes, and then speeding back down the long, shingled drive of the chteau towards the stone gateway. The headlights lit up massive cedar trees, walnut trees, arcing through the dense parkland. A rabbit froze in the brilliant beam for a split second, then bounded desperately away into the undergrowth.

‘So you arrived early,’ he said expressionlessly. ‘Lisette was not expecting you until tomorrow.’

‘There must have been a misunderstanding. I was under the impression I was due to start today.’

The shadowed face flicked briefly towards her, then fixed ahead in concentration on driving expertly fast along the winding country roads.

‘Lisette also thought you weren’t due back from your business trip until tomorrow!’ she added calmly, marvelling how composed she could sound when inside she was a quivering jelly of nerves and reaction. Sitting here in the open Mercedes, beside Christian Malraux, she was experiencing the most unnerving dj vu sensation, as if she’d driven with him before, had known him before, as if he was someone important in her life, someone with a deep connection on another, subconscious level.

Since his saturnine appearance at her bedroom door, he’d swapped the grey suit for stone-coloured fine gabardine trousers, a black cotton mesh collarless shirt, and a loose, unstructured stone cotton jacket. He looked expensively casual, European designer-style. And heart-stoppingly attractive. Privately she decided Christian Malraux could probably manage to dress in a frilly pink sundress and still set every female heart within a two-mile radius thudding in ecstasy.

‘My meetings finished earlier than expected,’ he informed her harshly. ‘Which, from what I saw tonight, is just as well.’

‘If you’re referring to Greg Vernon, I was quite capable of dealing with him myself!’

‘So I saw. But I suspect you had an element of luck on your side, Mademoiselle Gainsborough. Never underestimate your adversary. Once that initial element of surprise is gone, you would do well to remember that.’

‘I happen to possess a brown belt in judo,’ she told him with calm pride. ‘A friend’s father is an instructor. I’ve fought in national competitions.’

‘Impressive.’ He didn’t sound particularly impressed. The dark face turned briefly in her direction again, and she sensed a mocking smile. ‘I know something of the martial arts myself. Your performance was certainly entertaining. But your linguistic and secretarial qualifications will be of more use to me.’

‘Oh, I’m definitely versatile!’

His glance was sardonic. Instantly she wished she hadn’t bothered with the flippant response. Her face was burning again in the darkness as she briefly relived the scene in her bedroom. She sought quickly to change the subject on to something less personal.

‘Did I get the impression you’d recently taken over the chteau, Monsieur Malraux?’

‘Three months ago.’ He nodded in the darkness. They were approaching some lights on the left now, pulling off the road beside a restaurant which looked as if it had been converted from an old mill.

‘You bought it from the previous owner?’

He shook his head briefly. ‘Years ago I lived at the chteau, with my uncle and aunt. But I chose another career, which took me abroad. I had not been back to Chteau de Mordin for five years. Until my uncle was taken ill and then died.’

Emily had the strong impression that Christian Malraux was far from delighted to be back at the chteau now. There was a cool cynicism underlying his words.

The cynicism she found hard to relate to. Casting embarrassment aside, her own emotions felt heightened. She found it hard to explain how she was feeling, even to herself. All she knew was that from the moment he’d appeared in her bedroom doorway she’d felt as if some obscure inner organ of her body had gone into slow meltdown. Combined with embarrassment at the scene he’d interrupted, and resentment at his authoritarian manner, this was a bewildering reaction. She was feeling slightly breathless, and shivery, and decidedly dithery...

With such a sharp focus on her own emotions it simply wasn’t fair to sense that Christian Malraux was offhandedly doing his duty, escorting his new secretary out for a meal on her first night, with his thoughts and his heart far away on some other, more enthralling life he’d been forced to abandon...