Original Sin

‘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.