by Jill Jones
He’d tried to gather himself together again as she left the room, making no effort to restrain her, indeed wishing she would somehow simply disappear so he would not have to deal with all the old wounds she had reopened. But as his heartbeat finally slowed and his reason returned, he knew he could not allow her to go out in this storm.
“You may stay the night at Brierley Hall,” he continued, wondering if the guest room was made up and working hard to convince himself that the invitation was borne only of Rutledge good manners.
“Are you out of your mind?”
He wasn’t surprised by the utter astonishment he saw in her expression. He also saw her great beauty, the dark eyes that lifted slightly at the outside edges, the full lips, the slender nose. Her ebony hair was pulled away from her face, revealing high cheekbones and a square forehead. The black scarf she’d covered her shoulders with earlier was now draped over one arm, leaving her throat exposed, her breasts accentuated by the low cut of her jersey. He felt the stirrings of an erection again and knew his desire for her must be evident against the soft fabric of his nylon running pants, but he could not help it. All he could do was maintain a safe distance.
“I won’t harm you,” he said. “There is a guest room upstairs you may use.”
He saw her hesitate, but a clap of thunder made both of them jump. She stared at him a long while before speaking. When she finally broke the silence, her words sliced like a stiletto.
“If you ever touch me again, I’ll kill you.”
Simone saw him approach, wearing only elastic banded trousers made of a soft, liquid-like fabric that caressed his lower torso as he walked and outlined the maleness of his being, the other half of her that she desired so fiercely yet fought to escape.
No! she cried out, even though no words came from her lips. She recognized this familiar place, knew somewhere in her deep subconscious that it was the indigo dreamworld where she and her forbidden lover had trysted in recent nights. But something about it was different now.
Before, she had felt no fear. No inhibitions. Before, she had welcomed the man whose face remained in shadow, whereas now, she wanted desperately to run away from him, to hide where he could not find her, to elude his false seductions. Before, she had not known him, but now he wore the face of the enemy. Nick.
She felt naked, vulnerable.
The twilight mists parted, and Simone watched him as he approached, a leopard stalking its prey. She struggled but could not free herself from some invisible bond, an intangible tether that somehow held her steadfast. He at last was upon her, his eyes gleaming darkly, filled with animal hunger.
No! she tried to cry out again, but he did not hear her. He began to feast on his prey, taking small nibbles along the sensitive skin of her ears. Simone swallowed as the touch of his tongue and teeth raised the hair on her arms and hardened the bud of her nipples. Why couldn’t she run? What held her here, a helpless victim? His nibbles became suckles upon her neck, passion bites that aroused her and sent hot moisture to those regions of desire. No! she struggled to communicate again, but her will was ebbing even as those treacherous inner fires began to singe her soul. His suckles lowered to her tight nipples, where he fed hungrily, almost painfully at her breasts. Her belly contracted, and in spite of her intellectual desire to run, her traitorous body arched against him, wanting more of him.
More.
Her breath came in sharp spasms as she felt him answer her desire. He entered her now-molten core, and her bonds slipped away into the nothingness that surrounded her. There was only him, in her. Together. One.
Simone jerked awake, her face burning, her entire body erotically on fire. She blinked and looked around, trying to reorient herself to reality. Her neck was stiff, and she was cold beneath the light blanket that covered her where she’d fallen asleep in one of the high-backed chairs in the drawing room. Then it all came crashing back. Her misadventure in Mary Rose’s garden. The guard and his monster dog. Nick.
Nick.
She sat up abruptly, wishing she hadn’t fallen asleep here, even though she’d adamantly remained in the drawing room, refusing Nick’s offer of a guest bed. She had to get out of this house. His house. The storm had passed, and gray daylight seeped through the English lace curtains, revealing the old-fashioned furnishings of the room and giving her an unreal sense of having been transported into a bygone age. Just as the dream had transported her into an equally unreal dimension. Simone sat very still, considering the dream a moment. It had been like the rest, and yet different. In this one, she had known fear. In this one, she had been seduced against her will, rather than giving herself freely to her lover.
This dream was different, more based in reality, she thought with a cold hard knot forming in her stomach. It had obviously sprung from her own subconscious, not from the seduction of any perfume.
Her body began to quake. Her hands trembled. Tears burned in her eyes, and fear crept into her heart. Had her earlier indiscriminate use of the mysterious aromatic substance opened a Pandora’s box? Had the aphrodisiac effect of the oil somehow preempted her free will and allowed the demons she feared the worst to take libertine pleasures with her in the dreamworld? Every time she slept, would she be ravished against her will by her most hated enemy?
She felt sick to her stomach.
Then another, darker thought frightened her even more…what if somewhere deep within her own psyche she wished to be ravished by Nick?
A brisk knock sounded at the door, and the housekeeper bustled in with a tray. “Mr. Rutledge ordered up breakfast for you, Miss,” she said, her face professionally unreadable. “He asked me t’ give you this and apologize for him.” She handed her a small piece of paper. “He had t’ leave for London. It was a blessin’ that Clyde turned out t’ be a handy mechanic. Fixed that stubborn little car right up.” All this was spoken in a breathy rush as she laid out the dishes on a sideboard. The smell of bacon, sausage, eggs, and roasted tomatoes wafted across the room and into Simone’s nose, heightening her nausea.
“Thanks,” she said, feeling the notepaper slick against her clammy fingers. “But I must be going right away. Is there a phone I can use to call a taxi?”
The stout woman turned and surveyed Simone critically. “You’re too thin. You should eat something before you leave. Here.” She buttered a piece of toast. “Eat this, and I’ll give a call t’ my friend in th’ village t’ come for you.”
Simone accepted the cold, rather limp piece of bread, staring after the housekeeper, bemused. Then she unfolded the note Nick had left for her.
“Please leave Redford at once. No good can come of us running into one another again. Sincere apologies for my abominable behavior last night. Nick.”
Simone sank into the chair, thinking of the dream, wondering if he knew just how abominable his behavior had been.
Nick sped along the motorway, oblivious to the horns and rude gestures of the other motorists into whose lanes he cut, weaving back and forth in the traffic, trying to put as much distance as quickly as possible between him and the woman he’d left at Brierley Hall.
His eyes were haggard, his face unshaven. Thank God that man Covington had been able to coerce the Triumph to start and he’d been able to leave without running into her again. He could not have borne to look upon her after the dream he’d had of her in the night.
Dear God, what was happening to him?
First he’d kissed her. Kissed her! For real. Not in the dream. That was bad enough. But in his dream, which had come upon him unbidden by any damnable perfume, he’d…he had taken her. He’d heard her silently resist, but his lust was out of control. He had wanted her with the intensity of a wild creature. He’d been unable to stop himself.
Nick Rutledge prayed to a God he’d never really believed in that she would do as he’d asked in the terse note he had left for her. He did not know what had brought her to the servant’s cottage. Maybe it was the cursed perfume. Or maybe it was only coincidence. At the
moment he didn’t really care. All he wanted was to never have to face her again.
In reality or in dreams.
Those dark eyes, hate-filled and accusing, sapped him of the determination to proceed with rebuilding the Rutledge name, reestablishing the family’s lost fortune, all he had left to hold onto in his life. And without the will to go on, all that he had done, the crimes he had committed, the sacrifice he had made in leaving the House of Rutledge…would be for nothing.
Nick had worked too hard for it to come to that.
He clenched his jaw tightly as he finally reached the townhouse. He must quit thinking about Simone, for thoughts of her would lead only to disaster.
Half an hour later, Nick emerged from the shower to answer the phone that jangled insistently from the bedroom. His face drained of color as he listened to his new secretary’s message, then flushed again in anger. “I’ll be right there. Call the police.”
“Dupuis!” he snarled, slamming down the phone. “You son of a bitch.” He knew that the slimy little Frenchman wouldn’t let him out that easily. It didn’t surprise Nick that Dupuis would try to destroy Nick’s new enterprise before it could pose any real threat to the House of Rutledge.
But he’d never expected him to attempt something so blatant.
A police car stood in the parking lot in front of the square, nondescript concrete building that housed the offices of Bombay Fragrances, Ltd. Inside, the place was torn apart. File drawers yawned open, papers were scattered everywhere. Brenda, the woman he’d hired only days before, was pale but remained a pillar of efficiency, pouring coffee for the two investigators who were waiting for him to arrive.
“What happened?” Nick asked, his gaze taking in Brenda’s frightened countenance, the havoc around him, the curiosity on the face of the officers.
“Looks like the place was ransacked,” the senior officer stated the obvious. “What were they after?”
Nick looked at Brenda. “Dupuis is obviously behind this,” he said, trying to control his anger. “But I don’t know what he thinks he is going to find. He already has everything I’ve ever worked to develop. Is anything else disturbed?”
“Your office looks just like this one,” his secretary answered grimly. “It’s a good thing the equipment hasn’t arrived yet. He might have destroyed it, too.”
The idea turned Nick’s stomach. He’d thought this site would offer adequate security. It was fire safe and patrolled, and there were other similar businesses in the office park. But then, he’d never thought Dupuis would stoop to breaking and entering. Or actually destroying his property.
Nick answered the investigators’ questions as best he could, his wrath mounting as the minutes ticked by. At last they were finished and left with an admonition that Nick repair the broken door lock immediately.
“Do they think I’m an imbecile?” he growled, looking out through the panes of the heavy door that had been jimmied open with a crow bar. “I’ll have the whole damned door replaced and an alarm system installed by tonight.”
And that wasn’t all he would do. Going into his office, he made a few phone calls. Then he went back into the reception area.
“Are you afraid to stay here by yourself?” he asked Brenda.
She hesitated only slightly. “No, sir. Not during the day.”
“Good. I’ve made arrangements for the security company to come out and make this place burglar proof. I would appreciate it if you would stay until that is accomplished, then you can take the rest of the day off.”
“I’ll try to straighten up some of this mess,” the woman offered, giving Nick a reassuring, somewhat motherly smile.
Nick left the office and ground the starter on the Triumph until the engine kicked in. He shot out of the parking space and sped down the tree-lined street of the industrial park, jerking to a halt at the stop sign at the corner. In his rearview mirror, he noticed a long black car pull out of the lot across the street from the offices of Bombay Fragrances and into the lane of traffic behind him. The glass on the limo was tinted, and he could not make out the face of the driver, but as it stayed on his tail, making every turn just behind him, Nick became uneasy. Was this Dupuis’s henchman? Was he out for Nick, as well as the company?
The idea seemed ludicrous, like something out of a James Bond film, and Nick decided that his paranoia was getting out of hand again. He drove steadily back to his townhouse, watching the following vehicle carefully as he turned into the drive. It slowed, but it did not stop. When he got out, he saw it resume a normal speed for the traffic and disappear around the corner.
Anger and outrage dispelled any fear, and Nick slammed into the house determined to put a stop to Antoine Dupuis’s funny business then and there. He raced up the stairs, changed into a navy blue suit, white shirt, red tie, shined shoes. He knew how to play the power game. Dupuis had taught him well.
The House of Rutledge stood like an icon of British tradition, its red brick Neo-Classical architecture grand beneath the summer green boughs of the mature trees that lined the avenue in London. Simone paid the taxi driver and turned to face her future. Her heart thundered, her pulse raced, but she gave herself no time to change her mind. She’d left Redford on the train to London a little less than two hours before, returning to Esther Brown’s only long enough to shower and change clothes and make a single phone call.
As she saw it, she had two choices. She could run away now, return to New Orleans, and put the distance of the Atlantic Ocean between her and the man who kept invading her dreams. In the United States, she knew she could find a good job in the fragrance industry, and that she would never have to encounter Nicholas Rutledge again.
Or…
She could at last fulfill the desire for revenge that had eaten at her for the past ten years. The opportunity quite literally stood right in front of her.
Simone brushed the skirt of the tasteful cream-colored suit she wore with a rosy silk blouse. Her hair was pulled back and fastened with a pearl-studded clasp at the nape of her neck, and she wore modest pearl earrings. Other than the color of her blouse, this was the kind of outfit the school had suggested students wear when interviewing for a job. She took a deep breath.
She knew she looked better in red than navy or tan, which the school had also suggested as appropriate. And she knew that she was after more than just a job.
Ascending the steps, she opened one of the tall, ebony doors with a firm grasp on the brass knob. Inside, a woman looked up from the reception desk and gave her a warm smile.
“Miss Lefevre?”
Simone was impressed that the receptionist remembered her name from the hasty call she’d placed to see if she could set up this meeting with Antoine Dupuis. “Yes. Thank you for your help today.”
“Monsieur Dupuis was most pleased that you wished to meet with him so soon,” she said, getting up. “I’ll let him know you have arrived.”
Simone surveyed her surroundings while she waited on the man who likely would become her employer…today, she hoped. The building was quite large, obviously formerly a grand residence. Home to Nick’s ancestors? The reception area was to the right of the entrance, in a large, sunny parlor furnished tastefully in period pieces. An unused fireplace was framed by a marble mantle, above which hung the portrait of a woman dressed in the fashion of a long-ago era. A Rutledge? Could she work in a place so pervaded by the heritage of the man she abhorred?
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, and she turned to see a short, balding man hurrying toward her. When he reached her, he took her by complete surprise when instead of shaking her hand, he bowed slightly and grazed her fingers with a kiss. “Mademoiselle Lefevre, this is indeed a pleasure,” he gushed in French. “I am delighted that you decided to come earlier than we had planned.” He raised his eyes to hers, and his expression grew serious. “I hope it portends a decision on your part to join the House of Rutledge.”
Simone withdrew her hand. Although
the man in front of her, immaculate in his Italian suit and suave manner, had done nothing to affront her, he made her uneasy. Even if she considered his greeting too personal, it wasn’t out of line. He was French. At least he hadn’t kissed both cheeks. But his words betrayed an eagerness that didn’t make sense to her. How did he know she would suit as a Master Perfumer? Wasn’t he even going to test her abilities?
“It is a rather awesome responsibility,” she hedged in reply. “I am not certain that I will be qualified.”
Dupuis took her by the elbow and escorted her down the long center hallway into an opulent office toward the rear of the building, reassuring her as they went. “I have taken the liberty of checking your background,” he told her, indicating for her to take a seat on a velvet couch in the office. The surroundings in this room were decidedly French, a little too rococo for her taste. “Not only did I find you have an excellent record in your university study of chemistry, but the people at the Institute in New York told me that you were the greatest natural nez they had ever seen.”
Le nez. The nose. It was the one tool of the perfumer that science and technology had not managed to displace with computerized equipment. Technicians can assemble fragrance, but only a nose can create a great perfume.
Yes, she was a great “nose,” as her talent was called in the business. Her father’s genes and a childhood spent among the finest essences of the world had given her a gift few people shared. It was not a matter of simply being able to differentiate between the scent of a rose and a tulip. It was the ability to detect in a mixture of more than a hundred ingredients the precise amount of the substances that contributed to a formula. She was able not only to recognize instantly by their smell the raw ingredients in a mix, but could tell whether a certain lot of labdanum was from Mediterranean soil or that of the Middle East, whether the oil of ylang-ylang came from the Philippines or the Moluccas. Her skill as a chemist was just icing on the cake.
