Harlequin Presents January 2015 Box Set 3 of 4(154)

Her skin warmed as she remembered with blazing clarity that strange shock of recognition when she opened the door to him and—later—the exquisitely practised sophistication of his lovemaking.

She said, ‘I think it was a lousy trick to play.’

‘Vraiment?’ His smile was edged. ‘I thought it would please you, ma mie, to find that you also will not be required to live in a hovel.’

‘You’re wrong,’ she said shakily. ‘Nothing about this—arrangement pleases me, or ever will.’

His mouth hardened. ‘Then let us hope a night’s rest will bring you to a more equable state of mind. Because this is my future as well as yours, and you would do well to accept it as I am prepared to do.’ He inclined his head curtly. ‘À demain.’

For a moment, Ginny stood staring at the door he had closed behind him and then, with a little inarticulate cry, she ran to it, twisting the heavy key in the lock. Wanting the physical bulk of wood and iron to create a barrier between them.

And ashamed to her soul that she should feel it necessary.





CHAPTER SEVEN

GINNY AWOKE SLOWLY, as if she was swimming upwards through layer after languid layer of comfort.

For a moment, as she opened her eyes, she felt disorientated, looking round an unfamiliar room from the depths of an unfamiliar bed. But then the memories of yesterday’s incredible sequence of events came flooding back.

She had not expected to sleep and yet it seemed she had—almost as soon as the silk-shaded bedside lamp had been extinguished.

Off with the light, then out like a light, she thought, her mouth twisting. But it’s a new day now and I need to be wide awake and firing on all cylinders to deal with whatever it brings.

She pushed aside the covers and slid down to the floor, the polished boards striking cold to her feet. She retrieved her ruby robe from her case and huddled it on over her pyjamas before going to the window and opening the shutters. To find herself standing motionless, gasping at the unexpected glory confronting her.

There had been a hard frost in the night, and, as a result, the red-gold ball of the early sun had turned the vine-clad slopes spreading as far as the eye could see into living flame.

A welcome contrast to the darkness of her arrival and maybe, from now on, she would see more clearly in other ways.

But maybe not hear or speak so well, with only her schoolgirl French to rely on. But that would probably be the least of her inadequacies, she thought, pulling her robe further around her with a shiver and taking one last look at the vibrant glow of the landscape before turning away.

She picked a pair of jeans and a thick navy Guernsey from her case, then transferred the rest of her meagre haul of clothing to the depths of the armoire where it looked small and slightly lost. Rather how I feel myself, she thought wryly, locating her hairdryer and putting it on the bed.

Collecting a handful of underwear and a towel, she was on her way to the bathroom when there was a loud knock at the bedroom door and a rattle as the handle was tried.

She halted. ‘Who is it?’ Just as if she didn’t know.

‘Andre.’ He rattled the handle again. ‘Open the door, Virginie.’

Reluctantly, she obeyed, turning the key in the lock. He walked in and stood, hands on hips, his face grim as he looked her up and down. Although she was perfectly decent, Ginny had to fight an impulse to draw her robe even more closely round her.

Which was ridiculous when he knew perfectly well what she looked like naked, she thought with a pang that mingled embarrassed discomfort with something altogether more ambiguous.

‘I thought we had agreed to trust one another,’ he commented coldly. ‘So why lock your door?’

She shrugged defensively. ‘My first night in a strange house. I felt—nervous.’ And she was nervous now. His arrival made the room seem almost smaller. And he hadn’t shaved, rekindling unwanted memories of the way his stubble had grazed her bare skin.

He nodded. ‘And if there had been a fire and we had been unable to reach you? What then?’

‘Is that likely?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘But not impossible. Alors...’ He took the key from the lock and slipped it into the pocket of his jeans. ‘I came to say that Madame Rameau will be preparing breakfast. I hope you will join us.’

‘Yes,’ she said jerkily. ‘Yes, of course. I—I’ll soon be ready.’

He turned towards the door, then swung back and came over to her, his fingers reaching for her sleeve, grasping the soft ruby fabric. He said softly, ‘I find I do not care for this garment. Something else I should have told you to leave behind, ma mie.’

And, before she could form any kind of protest, went.