The Night That Started It All (9 page)

He nodded along with her words as she spoke, though she noticed a certain tension infuse his gorgeous limbs. Then he lifted one quizzical brow. ‘Ah. You think I should forget about meeting you at Emilie’s?’

‘I do. We should both forget it.’

‘So then …’ His black lashes flicked tauntingly downwards. A silky note entered his voice. ‘You wish me to forget Emilie’s garden?’

She eyed him carefully. What in particular might he be remembering about the garden? The last thing she needed to be reminded of was how easily she’d succumbed to that dark stroll into the shrubbery. ‘I’m—surprised you even remember the garden.’

His eyes gleamed in reminiscence. ‘Are you? But it was so pleasant,
d’accord
? In the dark, with all the fragrances and the moonlight.’ His long fingers toyed idly with his spoon. The same fingers that had recently toyed with parts of her.
‘You must remember the moonlight.’ Her nerve jumped. ‘The harbour lights.’

‘Where are we going with this?’ Although she knew where he was headed with it, all right.

He leaned forward, a lazy smile playing on his sexy mouth. ‘I think you know where. Where else but to the boathouse? You’re not expecting me to forget the
boathouse, chérie, n’est-ce pas
?’

‘Well, I’ve forgotten it. As far as I’m concerned, nothing about it was very memorable.’

He threw back his head and laughed. He looked so handsome, with amusement illuminating his face and the light dancing in his eyes, a wave of hot and bitter frustration swept her. He had no right to be so attractive and to mock her.
He
was the one who’d found the magic moments shameful and made her feel like a disgrace to womanhood.

Luckily the waiter arrived just then, or she might have snatched up the coffee pot and whacked Luc over the head with it.

Controlling her annoyance, she turned her full attention to the menu, consulting earnestly with the waiter, feeling Luc’s lazy glance scorch her face, throat and hands.

Everything enshrined on the list sounded delicious, but in the end she confined herself to ordering a spoonful of gentle, soothing yoghurt, along with some strawberries claimed to have been washed in morning dew. To follow she requested the buttery scrambled eggs, waiving both the caviar garnish and the champagne to wash them down.

Well, she had to show some respect for her stomach. It felt fine now, but who knew when it might rear up again in revolt?

While she enjoyed her yoghurt, Luc reflected on the effect their encounter had left on him. He still thought of it. No wonder he’d followed her home like a madman.
Nom de Dieu
, he was only flesh and blood. Would he ever forget holding her in
his arms in that dark, sea-salty place? Her throaty little cries as he buried himself in her moist heat?

As he watched her soft lips close over a strawberry his blood stirred unbearably.

His underclothes tightened and he had to exert careful control over his voice. ‘How—long do you plan to stay?’

‘A couple of days. Tomorrow I thought I might visit the
Musée D’Orsay
. I fly home the day after that.’

Every sinew in his body tensed in utter rejection of that ludicrous plan. But outwardly he controlled the reaction. ‘But how will you see Paris?’

‘Well, I—I haven’t come for a sightseeing tour, have I?’

She raised her glass to her lips. As she swallowed he noticed the muscles contract in her satin throat. Without warning a rush of hot turgid blood raced to his groin. He forced himself to shift his agonised gaze to the wall, the window, the orchid in its vase. Everywhere, anywhere until he could trust his voice.

‘That’s—a very brief visit. Surely … you can transfer your flight to a future date?’

She shot him a glance. ‘I’m not sure why I would do that.’ He waited for the next flash of green, his breath on hold. ‘I suppose … if I had a
reason
…’

He could think of a damned good one, but not one that was sayable. Surely she could feel the pulse as strongly as he? Why did things have to be so complicated with women?

‘A reason to stay in Paris,’ he mused aloud. ‘Not many people in the world would find that a challenge.’

The sensual note in his voice registered in Shari’s hearing. With his lashes at half mast she was reminded of a devious, smouldering wolf. Why should she find that so scarily thrilling? The dangerous little tongue of flame threatening to undo her licked deep.

Her scrambled eggs were set before her, moist, speckled with parsely, and accompanied by pale golden toast. The eggs
melted on her tongue, while the hot chocolate might well have been the most divine ever to pass human lips.

Unusually for her, however, she didn’t manage to clean up every last scrap. It was hard to concentrate her attention on even food when such a man was distracting her.

When the waiter returned to clear her dishes, she noticed Luc listening to her flowery praise of the chef, a smile lurking in his eyes.

‘You were very kind,’ he observed after the man had gone.

‘Artists ought to be appreciated.’

‘Artists like you?’

‘Now who’s being kind?’

He met her gaze, smiling in return, making her helpless heart somersault. ‘I believe I have seen your book.’

She widened her eyes. ‘Here? Honestly?
Here
?’

‘
Oui
. In a bookshop. I happened to wander in and—there it was. I thought it was—’ every nerve in her body held its breath in trembling hope ‘—so—beautiful.’

Oh, the relief. Her fearful heart glowed so fiercely she could have danced, sung and cried all at the same time. It didn’t matter if he was sincere. Just that he was being kind. Just for that moment she loved him. Loved Luc Valentin with all her heart.

‘Thanks.’ Her smile burst through. ‘It’s always lovely not to be crushed.’

He grinned, then his face grew rather grave and he cleared his throat. ‘
Alors
, Shari, I do wish to express how … I—I—regret the way it ended in Sydney.’

‘I’m glad you brought it up,’ she said tensely, thinking of all those sleepless nights of futile yearning, knowing he thought so badly of her. The injustice of the things he said. Her mortification when he caught her at her most naked. Her anger and misery, and …
Oh, God
. Maddening, unsatisfiable desire. ‘I—I don’t think you know how those things you said—
hurt
me. I …’

He blinked, then concealed his eyes behind his lashes. He said stiffly, ‘Perhaps you took it all too much to heart.’

She sat back and smiled coolly. ‘Which part?’ She could feel herself start to tremble. ‘The part where you didn’t believe me? Where you accused me of being a dishonourable slag? Or the bit when you followed me home like a stalker?’ She kept on smiling, though her heart was suddenly working like a piston.

A tinge of colour darkened his bronzed cheek. ‘Perhaps it seemed that way. But you must see that at the
time …
’

‘
No
.’ She disciplined herself to keep her voice low. ‘At the
time
, Luc, I was not a liar. If I committed any crime it was a crime against myself. My own code of behaviour—and—and—
safety
in offering the pleasure of my body to a man I didn’t know and couldn’t trust.’

‘Trust?’ He spoke so sharply she jumped. ‘
Vraiment
, this was a matter of honour. I was afraid you—might still be involved with
my cousin
.’

Startled by his vehemence, she compressed her lips, but, unable to hold in
some
defence of herself, she burst into a fierce whisper. ‘If I
had
been do you think I’d have betrayed him? Are you still thinking of me like that? As a—a
whore
? Oh, it’s too much. Too much.’ She threw down her napkin and rose to her feet, emotion rising faster in her than high tide at Bondi.

‘Shari, no, no, I don’t think that. Please.’ He sprang up and took her arms, his eyes earnest and intent. ‘I have never
said
that. I thought you were a very passionate and beautiful woman in the midst of a—a complex situation. I could see we needed to discuss it and—analyse it like rational adults. Why do you think I followed you home?’

‘Oh,
why
? Obvious. You thought you could sweet-talk your way into my bed. And is that why you’ve brought me here to the Ritz? You’re hoping to try your luck
again
?’

He looked shocked. His handsome face assumed such a gravely wounded expression she wondered if she’d been unjust.

‘That is a—disappointing suggestion.’

It was a suggestion that had only just surfaced in her mind, but once it did, it took root.

He was shaking his head in austere denial of the charge when her glance fell on his mouth. Paradoxically, against all reason and logic, in total betrayal of herself and the sisterhood of women, she was seized with an irresistible impulse to ravage that stirring mouth, to tease those sternly compressed lips apart with her tongue and drink in every last masculine drop of Luc Valentin.

At the same time her nipples, the tender vibrant tissues between her legs tingled and flamed with a violent, feminine yearning impossible to repress.

As though he were divining her lustful state a piercing gleam lit Luc’s eyes. He lifted his brows. A subtle change came over his demeanour. ‘Shh, shh,
chérie
.’ His voice became silky smooth. ‘It has been a stressful morning. Sit down again for a minute. Come, now.’

She glanced about. Naturally, there were a few interested parties straining to catch every word—a couple of princes, several duchesses with their beaux and a sheikh—though none of them seemed to be goggling with as much curiosity as they would have if this scene had been taking place in a Sydney restaurant.

In a fever of confusion, she resumed her place. How could she desire someone who’d caused her such distress? How could she want to bite his bronzed neck, drink his blood and eat him alive?

He leaned forward, his lean face stern, his eyes searing her with an urgent intent. ‘We need to talk. Settle this somewhere private, where we can be alone.’ Suddenly he was radiating energy, like a ship’s captain taking charge of a serious aquatic catastrophe. He grasped her hand and squeezed. ‘Give me two minutes—I’ll arrange a quiet corner.’ He stood up. ‘Will you be OK here?
Oui
? Now, don’t leave.’

He gave her a firm look to hold her there, then strode away.

Shari closed her eyes. What was wrong with her? She’d been angry with him for so long, now as soon as she met him
again, she felt— Oh, face it. Thrilled to be with him. Everything he said—even the bits that outraged her—every small nuance was etching itself on her heart.

He was devastating her again. The last time a Frenchman made her feel this way … Look what happened! She should have walked out. Summoned a taxi and flown back to the Hôtel du Louvre. Taken off her hat, crawled into bed and eased her mad and insatiable desires as best she could in the time-honoured way.

But his electrifying squeeze was still burning her hand. And she needed to hear what he had to say. Maybe he would apologise so sincerely she could honourably forgive him.

Forgive him and …

Anyway, it would be a shame to take off the hat before it was absolutely necessary.

To evade more vulgar curiosity, she swanned to the bathroom and, armed with her toothkit from the plane, managed to give her teeth a good minty scrub.

She emerged in time to see Luc return from the direction of the reception area. He walked with such confident masculine authority, such athletic energy in his long limbs, she felt a flame of longing sear deep inside her.

He caught sight of her and changed course, strolling across to smoothly, possessively take her arm. ‘Come.’

Slipping her bag onto her shoulder, she savoured the erotic graze of his suit fabric on her skin. ‘Have you—found a place where we can talk?’

‘No problem.’ His dark gaze dwelled smoulderingly on her face. ‘They assure me it will be very, very quiet.’

He ushered her into a lift and pressed the button for the fifth floor.

‘Have you …?’ She turned to gaze at him. ‘Have you ever read
The Pursuit of Love
?’

He glanced keenly at her, eyes gleaming. ‘
The
Pursuit of …
?’

She tried not to show it, but she was breathing so fast her
breasts were rising and falling like twin peaks during a major quake. ‘
Love
. The heroine finds herself stranded at the Gare du Nord without any money. This Frenchman strolls by …’

His eyes sharpened. ‘A Frenchman?’

‘Yes. A tall, very sexy, very wicked duke. He persuades her to go home with him and he …’

He lifted his brows. ‘
Oui
? What does he do?’

‘Oh. Well, er …’ She stared at his mouth and said breathlessly, ‘I may need to revisit that part of the story to remind myself.’

His eyes burned. The air crackled with a tension that singed her very nerve endings.

The doors slid open and he guided her along a hushed corridor until they came to a door numbered 514. He slipped the card into the lock.

The door opened to a light, elegant foyer.

Shari blinked. ‘But—this is a room.’

He shrugged. ‘
Bien sûr.’

She walked in, tingling with a primitive anticipation. The room was spacious, with beautiful panelled walls and moulded ceilings at least four metres high. The carpet under her feet felt as deep and soft as a cloud. The further in she walked, the more there was to steal her breath.

A fine antique tapestry. Paintings, sparingly placed. Silken panels in shades of carmine and duck-egg blue, reflecting the gorgeous colours in the Persian rugs. Then there were the double windows with their long sensuous drapes, the moulded fireplace and heartbreakingly exquisite Louis Quinze furnishings.

What was most significant to her eye, though, and zinged through her like an ocean wave, was beckoning through an open door. A magnificent king-sized bed, arrayed with plump, inviting pillows set atop a charming counterpane.

‘Oh,’ she said faintly. ‘It’s a suite.’

‘As private as we could wish for, surely.’ He strolled across to the windows and gazed down into the street. She noted a
sudden tension in the set of his wide shoulders. A suspenseful tension that communicated itself to her and electrified the very room.