Original Sin

How to make an enemy in ten seconds flat, Emily reflected dubiously, left facing Christian with mixed emotions. Under that intense appraisal she felt agitated, horribly self-conscious. Abruptly she had no idea what to do with her hands. The T-shirt felt transparent...

‘You don’t go in for finesse in your relationships with your employees, do you?’ She couldn’t help it, the accusation tripped off her tongue.

Christian’s face darkened. ‘Lisette is a hang-over from my uncle Thierry’s occupancy. As housekeepers go, she leaves much to be desired.’

‘What do you mean, a “hang-over”?’ Clasping her hands behind her back didn’t help. It only served to emphasise the thrust of her breasts against the fine jersey material. She settled for a defensively aggressive position, arms folded across her chest.

‘I mean that I did not appoint her. And that, if I stay long enough, I may well have to replace her.’

Through the receding haze of sleep, and the distracting effect of Christian’s presence, Emily felt she understood the situation even less than she had last night. Was Christian Malraux here against his will, as a reluctant caretaker of his family business, because of his uncle’s death?

And yet last night he’d talked of his need to find an alternative career, to find something which literally ‘brought him back down to earth’. What could be more ideal than growing grapes, producing wine? What could be more creative, more satisfying? So why was he so stubbornly unenthusiastic about his current role? She was intrigued to find out. He didn’t strike her as the kind of person who did things half-heartedly. If he appeared to show little enthusiasm for his current situation, Emily decided there had to be a reason why...

‘Eat your breakfast. I doubt if Lisette has poisoned it,’ Christian advised, a mocking note in his husky voice.

She levelled a calm gaze at him, taking in his cool, muscular appearance in suede boots, denims and loose white sweatshirt.

‘I may be fresh from secretarial college,’ she told him succinctly, ‘but I hope I don’t have many jobs with quite such a bizarre beginning as this one.’

‘Things can only get better,’ he agreed laconically, turning away with a glitter of laughter in his eyes. ‘I’ll see you down in the office in half an hour. D’accord?’

‘I’ll be there.’

When she’d consumed the strong chicory-scented coffee and warm buttery croissants, showered and dressed, and gone in search of her employer, she was struck once again by the potential for tourist trade here. The old chteau seemed sadly neglected. Most of it seemed unused. There were endless possibilities, she decided, her brain whirring as she took in the dilapidated reception area, the unvisited cellars, the lack of wine tastings. Yes, there were plenty of improvements she could suggest, just waiting to be put into effect...

The office, however, when she finally found it, wasn’t the dusty cell she’d half expected. It looked surprisingly well equipped. There was some highly polished antique furniture, but the contrast of ultra-modern computers. The room was full of sun, with windows overlooking the rear lawns.

Christian was propped against one of the desks, ankles crossed, talking in quick-fire French on the telephone.

‘Ah, Emily...’ He cradled the receiver momentarily, his gaze intent on her appearance. ‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’

She hesitated, then went to sit behind the other desk, studying the brand new word processor with interest, assessing her ability to instantly master its intricacies.

The receiver clicked back in place. She jerked up her head to find the lidded blue gaze trained exclusively on her. Her skin prickled in reaction. Immediately she became body-conscious. The nutmeg silk suit she was wearing, short-skirted, chic and businesslike, somehow felt insufficient covering.

‘Well?’ he enquired flatly, watching as she lowered her eyes and made a show of examining the keyboard of the computer. ‘Do you think you will be happy working here?’

‘Happy?’ She blinked involuntarily, then nodded hastily. ‘Happy’ wasn’t a word she’d use to describe her tangled emotions so far, but it really was high time she pulled herself together.

‘Yes. I’m sure I shall be quite happy,’ she confirmed evenly. ‘This office is far more up-to-date than I expected...’

‘You were expecting some airless cellar surrounded by cobwebs and bats?’

‘More or less.’ She felt a smile tug at her mouth, but if she’d expected a similar flash of warmth from Christian it wasn’t forthcoming. Whether it was the telephone call or some other reason, he seemed even more tense and preoccupied than usual. The relaxed if cynical escort of last night’s meal seemed to have vanished into thin air. The tyrant seemed to have the upper hand at the moment.

‘My three months here have not been entirely wasted,’ he said abruptly, ‘although my uncle’s illness meant the place was neglected for longer than it should have been.’

‘I...I’m sorry about your uncle...’

‘So am I. He was my last living relative!’ There was a bleak flippancy in Christian’s voice which idiotically made Emily want to reach out and lay a hand on his shoulder, comfort him. She controlled the urge. Last night’s unnerving eruption had arisen from an innocent act of sympathy, or comfort, hadn’t it? Being in this man’s vicinity felt like walking on eggs.

She caught her breath in frustration. She wouldn’t be intimidated by him, overawed, like a shy child...

‘You said you lived with your uncle and aunt as a child? What happened to your own parents?’

‘They died,’ Christian supplied briefly.

‘When? How?’ she persevered gently, secretly aghast at her forwardness.

‘Together. From smoke asphyxiation. They’d gone for a touring holiday in India. There was a fire in one of the hotels.’

‘How old were you?’ Emily found she simply couldn’t help herself. The questions just tumbled now, irresistibly, off her tongue.

He shot her a look of barely suppressed impatience. ‘Seven. They’d sent me to stay at Chteau de Mordin while they made their trip. So instead of going back to my own home in Avenue Foch in Paris I just stayed on with my uncle and aunt. And now, Emily,’ Christian’s smile was humourless, his tone deeply cynical, ‘enough questions. You were right—you are commendably inquisitive. Perhaps not so commendable when it becomes personal. Save it for your job.’

‘Fine. Sorry I spoke,’ she said with a tight smile. ‘Emily Gainsborough, reporting for duty. Ready for work when you are!’ As a rebellious follow-up, she clicked her heels and sketched a cheeky salute.

Levering himself off the desk, he gazed down at her consideringly. There was a slightly bemused expression on his hard, dark face.

‘A word of advice, Emily...’ he began softly, a twitch of humour finally lifting the corner of his mouth.

‘Not more advice on affairs of the heart?’ she queried, wide-eyed.

‘No. Advice on how to ensure you don’t get sacked on the first day of your Foreign Office post in September.’ The deep voice held elaborate patience.

‘Right. Let me guess... Number one: don’t let my new boss catch me practising judo in the nude on the point of introduction? Number two: don’t let my new boss practise his hot French kissing technique on me a couple of hours later?’

The silence which followed this defiant humour seemed endless. Braced for a possible eruption of anger, Emily stood before him, erect and slender, huge brown eyes levelled on his dark face. Finally, to her intense relief, Christian lifted his hands and dropped them to his sides in a quick, essentially Gallic gesture, and then he laughed.

‘In fact, I was going to advise against cheek, sarcasm, and acting too clever for your own good,’ he informed her wryly, gesturing towards the door. ‘But I have the feeling I was about to waste my breath. You will just have to learn the hard way. Come, Emily, let me take you on a guided tour, so you know your way around.’

Chastened, she followed in silence. Her light-hearted attempts at ice-breaking hadn’t worked out quite the way she’d envisaged.

The tour proved infuriatingly hard to concentrate on. One half of Emily’s mind was on the information Christian was relaying, the names of the chteau employees who apparently lived locally, the layout of the working areas of the chteau, the storage and the ageing cellars.

The other half was absorbed in fighting down the insidious attraction she felt towards Christian Malraux, an attraction which grew stronger the more time she spent in his company, an attraction which seemed intent on defying all laws of common sense. Think about self-preservation, she told herself impatiently, the dangers of getting involved, of somehow forfeiting any of her independence while her own career plans were still so fresh and untried ahead of her...

‘And this is virtually back where we started from. What do you think of my ideas, Emily?’ Christian was saying, sending her into a flurry of embarrassment as he turned a quizzical gaze on her, clearly awaiting a reply.

‘Sorry? I’m afraid I drifted,’ she confessed, colouring slightly.

They’d finished the interior of the chteau, done a complete circuit of the grounds, and returned to the ageing cellar, with its impressive line-up of big four-hundred-litre oak barrels. This was where the pineau cognac matured for up to ten years. There was a display, beside an old copper still. It showed the different stages of the ageing process, from pale yellow to marigold-orange to its final dark sienna.

‘You drifted? Didn’t your secretarial college include a course on how to combat drifting, Emily?’ The deep, husky voice sounded harshly amused.

They were standing very close, far too close for her peace of mind. Her throat dry, she glanced around them in panic. His physical presence was doing unspeakable things to her poise.

She met the lidded blue gaze with a fresh surge of resentment. No one had any right to upset her equilibrium quite so thoroughly. If only he hadn’t grabbed her last night, demonstrated that super-macho expertise, she’d have been fine...

‘No...it didn’t,’ she heard herself saying. ‘It didn’t include a course on how to combat the after-effects of kissing our new boss within three hours of meeting him, either...’

There was a charged silence. Her heart was thudding uncontrollably as Christian stared down into her face, his expression narrowed, his mouth grim.

‘You found last night...disturbing?’ he said at last, deceptively casual. The faint jerk of a muscle on the hard jaw betrayed his sudden tension.

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