The French Aristocrat's Baby (2 page)

‘I’ll have a
léger Colombien, s’il vous plaît.’

Coffee was the very last thing Gwen served the sort of people who partied at Le Rossignol, not the first. Despite that, she was ready for anything. At one end of the bar was the best hot drink console she could afford. While she busied herself creating Etienne’s coffee, Gwen was aware of him chatting idly with others at the bar, but she didn’t hear a word. She was too busy enjoying the sensation of his interest running over her. Although she had her back to him, it was as tangible as a touch. When she turned around, his eyes were warm with possibilities. As she passed him the cup his glance flicked down to her left hand.

‘
Merci, mademoiselle.
Won’t you have one with me?’

‘No,
monsieur.
I’m working.’

His beautiful white teeth flashed in a wicked smile. ‘I suppose that means Sophie got to you first. She must have threatened to lay a curse on you, if you distracted me for too long.’

One look and those few words almost made Gwen forget everything she had ever known. Only thoughts of her overdraft stopped her melting into a quivering heap, right there in front of him.

‘Not at all,
monsieur.
I’m on duty. To linger with one guest, however charming, would be unprofessional,’ she said with an ease that felt anything but natural. ‘And now, if you would excuse me, I must circulate.’

The smile Gwen gave him faltered as she saw the warmth in his eyes. Unable to meet the silent laughter dancing there, she left him with as much slow dignity as she could muster.

Etienne sipped his coffee. Darkening with thought, his eyes glittered as he watched her walk away. His companions at the bar were still talking, but he took only a polite interest.

‘It didn’t take you long to get over Angela, did it, Etienne?’ One of the guests laughed, tracking his gaze.

The question brought Etienne back to the present with a jolt. His lip curled with a sneer of disdain. ‘Sentiment is for women and children. I don’t waste time on it.’ Shrugging his shoulder nonchalantly, he pushed the empty coffee cup aside. ‘Excuse me. I should go and have a word with the countess Sophie.’

Leaving the bar, Etienne strode away through the reception area without a backward glance. He wished the
past could be ignored as easily as he could sideline people. Work sometimes dulled the edge of his pain, but never for long. It was so much easier to skim over the surface of life, moving on to the next sensation before he had too much time to think about it. He spent his days crowding his troubled mind with other people’s money worries. When he was able to use his power and influence to help them, it gave him a sense of satisfaction but left his body restless. For hundreds of years the Moreau family had been warriors. Intellectually gifted, Etienne found balance sheets and bank reports easier to read than people—and far more honest. He preferred to use his mind for work and keep his body for more civilised things than warfare.

Right now he was wondering how quickly Miss Gwyneth Williams would surrender to his charm.

As usual, everyone wanted to talk to Etienne. It took him quite a while to track Gwen across the room. A little glance over her shoulder and a half-smile told him she knew he was watching her. That pleased him. It made up for the fact that his stepmother’s niece Emilie was in attendance tonight. A plump, pretty girl dressed in a tight sheath of pink satin, she was standing a respectful distance behind the countess. As Sophie Moreau realised Etienne was on his way over, she eased Gwen aside and jostled the astonished Emilie forward. Etienne didn’t need to wonder why. He shot a conspiratorial look at Gwen. There was a little crease between her brows as she spoke to the countess, but it disappeared as he caught her eye. Her beautiful face lit up with a mischievous
smile, but she was playing hard to get. As he drew closer she disappeared into the kitchens. Etienne was left to corner his stepmother alone.

‘Are you having trouble with the staff, Sophie? Would you like me to hunt that woman down and have a word with her?’ he offered innocently.

The countess scowled. ‘Certainly not. You aren’t here to work, Etienne. You’re here to tell your cousin Emilie what you think of her. Hasn’t she grown?’

There were only two things in Sophie Moreau’s favour: Etienne could read her like a book, and she always came straight to the point. Arching one dark eyebrow, he hid his distaste behind a pleasant smile. Lifting the young girl’s hand to his lips, he gave it a formal kiss.

‘You have, Emilie. How old are you now? It must be all of—sixteen, is it?’

‘Eighteen! That’s why you’ve agreed to be guest of honour at her birthday party, next month!’ his stepmother hissed.

‘I would never let a step-relative down.’ Etienne inclined his head graciously at Emilie. The girl simpered, the restaurant’s discreet lighting bouncing off her orthodontic scaffolding.

‘Emilie will be leaving her boarding school at the end of next term. Unless you can think of a good reason to free her from the dreadful place before then, Etienne?’ Sophie leered at him.

Feigning ignorance, Etienne waited.

‘Unless…’ The countess leaned forward, prompting him. Tiny beads of perspiration were visible on her faint moustache. She stopped squinting and started frowning.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, don’t be difficult, Etienne! You need a son and heir to carry on the Moreau family line, and inherit all those beautiful houses of yours!’

Etienne sliced off Sophie’s words with a fearsome glare. After a moment’s alarm, she surged back with added venom. ‘It must be two years since you got your fingers burned by that awful woman—you must think of the future, Etienne.’

‘Why? You seem to be doing enough of that for both of us,
step
mother.’ Etienne answered with crushing emphasis.

Out in Le Rossignol’
s
kitchens, preparations for dinner were running exactly on time. Everything was ready to go. It all looked immaculate. Gwen had lost count of the compliments her staff and the restaurant had been given as she moved among the guests. Even so, her nerves were in shreds. It didn’t help to have the waitresses chattering like magpies with all the gossip they picked up as they circulated with drinks and canapés. As Gwen checked the silver salvers before they were carried out one of the regular waitresses passed on a particularly juicy titbit.

‘
Madame
wants to make sure she carries on getting a share of Etienne’s fortune after he marries. That’s why she’s trying to pair him off with her niece.’

‘I’ve told you before, you mustn’t pass on anything you hear, Clemence!’ Gwen rebuked her, wiping a drop of champagne from one of the glasses. ‘It would be horrible for a nice young girl like Emilie to find out people were talking about her.’ However, Clemence’s words
sent evil thoughts flooding into her heart. Secretly, she turned green with envy at the idea.

‘Don’t worry, Chef, it’ll never happen! You only have to read what they say about Etienne Moreau in the papers to know that—’

The doors leading into the restaurant opened, bringing another collection of empty trays for refilling and cutting off Clemence’s shameful but undeniably interesting gossip. Beyond the traffic of waiters and waitresses, Gwen glimpsed the countess Sophie and her niece backing away from the impressive count. Clemence saw it too.

‘Look—he’s given them the brush-off. Now’s your chance, Chef! Count Etienne is worth a fortune. He spends a lot in here, and he’s our best tipper. Be nice to him!’ Clemence said with a wink.

With alarm, Gwen found her heart thumping at the simple mention of his name. She found it hard enough to talk to clients at the best of times. To walk up to this gorgeous man would be impossible for her, unless she had an excuse, and something to hide behind. She found both at the bar. Keen to get opinions on a new Bordeaux she was thinking of putting on the wine list, she poured him a glass. As she carried it over she tried to distract herself from the warm, liquid feeling suffusing her body. It was no good. The magnetism of the count’s slumberous dark eyes demanded her full attention. His expression made her forget any worries she might have had about her only formal dress. He liked it, she could tell. The classic cast of his features and the resolute line of his jaw marked him out as something really special. As she drew closer to him Gwen’s body responded with an
urgency she had never known before. She fought against a tide of desire that threatened to escape in a moan of longing. That scared her. This man was a total stranger, and she was a hard-working, down to earth woman. How could anyone sway her with such strong emotions at first sight? That thought alone was a powerful aphrodisiac.

A tingle of excitement ran along every nerve in her body. Nice girls like her weren’t supposed to have irresistible physical yearnings like this. Nice girls stayed at home, minding the village shop. They didn’t dress in midnight-blue velvet and gallivant about in front of foreign aristocracy. Gwen knew her family would be speechless at the mere thought of it. They had made enough fuss when her eldest brother Glyn married a girl from Bristol and moved across the river. Mrs Williams’ sisters had always warned that Gwen had a wayward streak, and, with an unusual surge of devilment, Gwen wondered if they might be right…

Etienne’s day had been totally predictable, but his evening was improving by the minute. He had given his stepmother something to think about, and now he was enjoying the sight of Gwyneth Williams bringing him a second drink. Although he visited Le Rossignol often, he’d never been lucky enough to meet her before. He had heard whispers about her, and they were all true. She really was worth watching. Her voluptuous charms were enhanced by the cut of an evening dress so beautiful, no other woman in the room was worthy of it. Its pacific-blue colouring and glorious texture made him want to reach out, to touch and possess. The sinuous
way this woman moved through the crowds towards him made Etienne wish they were the only two people in the place…

He brought himself up short for even considering it. That disastrous liaison with Angela Webbington should have put him off ill-considered flings for life. But who wouldn’t be tempted by the charms of a woman like this Gwyneth Williams? It was no wonder the gaze of every man in the place followed her. She had the perfect hourglass figure—full, soft breasts and a beautifully defined waist emphasising the smooth curve of her derriere. When she reached him and lifted those long dark lashes to reveal the clear beauty of her azure eyes, Etienne rediscovered the full physical meaning of the words ‘sexual chemistry’.

‘You’ve been very generous to my staff in the past,
monsieur.
Allow me to offer you this, with the compliments of Le Rossignol.’

Her words lilted like music. They had an immediate effect on Etienne. A powerful chain reaction coursed through his muscular body, coiling in his groin ready for action. She passed him the glass. Their fingers touched for an instant, but before they could exchange any words Gwen was called away. Etienne watched her go, his unwanted drink forgotten. As she passed by a gaggle of male guests one of them said something to her. Etienne was too far away to hear what it was, but saw her round on the man with icy disdain. Roses flared in her otherwise pale cheeks. Etienne instantly began moving forward. Although Gwen looked to be coping, he knew you could never be sure in situations like this.

Gwen counted to ten silently, thinking of the final demand notices she had at home. She had to pander to these awful people. Their word of mouth recommendations were vital if her business was to survive.

‘You’re wasted in the kitchen!’ The groper smirked. ‘You look like you’re sitting on a fortune,
bonbon.
How about it?’

In one swift movement he stuffed a five-hundred-Euro note into her cleavage.

Gwen’s brittle smile was for public consumption only. She pulled out the banknote and dropped it onto the floor.

‘I’ve got plenty more where that came from,’ the man scoffed.

‘I’m so glad,
monsieur
,’ Gwen managed with dignity. Turning her back on the group, she walked back into the safety of her kitchens. Her head was held high. When she looked like that, the staff went quiet.

‘Ask Eloise to check the guest list,’ she announced into the relative silence. ‘She can put a marker on the names of those men sitting beside the aquarium. In future we’re going to be fully booked whenever they ring for a reservation. I won’t have men who behave like that at Le Rossignol—we don’t need them,’ she stated, with more conviction than she felt. Right now her business was balanced on such a knife-edge she couldn’t afford to turn anyone down. She had to take so much care not to upset her rich clientele. They all knew each other, and word travelled around their clique at the speed of light. The rich stuck together in their own little world. People like her were expected to fetch and carry, and take all the flak. It was so unfair.

It was a relief for Gwen to retreat from the social whirl into the organised chaos backstage. This was the world she knew, and a place where she was in total control. Outside in the restaurant she was expected to be constantly charming and beautiful—something ornamental rather than useful. Here in the noise and movement of the kitchens, she could be herself. She could concentrate on producing the best and most beautiful meals her customers would ever experience. Until that evening, the satisfaction of a job well done had been enough for her. But now something threatened to come between Gwen and her work.

She had been introduced to something—or rather,
someone
—far more potent. Etienne Moreau was already affecting her behaviour. As she’d confronted that drunk she had known the handsome count was watching her. A situation that made her feel like running for the hills had had to be faced in a way she knew would impress him. She needed him to see her in action as the perfect hostess, and totally in control.

Because whenever she glanced in his direction, control was the last thing on her mind.

Etienne saw Gwen’s confrontation with her guests, and how she handled it. It was quite obvious Le Rossignol’s chef-patron was a woman who knew her own mind. He admired the cool way she managed to defuse the situation herself.
Defuse but not disarm
, he thought, making a mental note to mention the bad behaviour he had seen to some of his more influential friends. He recognised the villains, and they would find themselves excluded from
society’s more discerning events from here on in.
Not that it’s any of my business
, he warned himself, annoyed that the little drama should have unsettled him so much.