by Julia James
He watched her busy herself, mopping up the last of the delicious homemade sauce on her empty plate, disposing of it with relish.
‘Won’t you have to starve extra to atone for this now?’ he posed, a smile in his voice.
She shook her head. ‘Nope. I’m going to be chucking in the modelling lark. It’s been good to me, I can’t deny that, but I haven’t done anything since university that qualifies me for any other particular career—not that I want to work nine-to-five anyway. I’ve got other plans. In fact,’ she added, ‘it’s thanks to being out here that I can make them real now.’
He started to ask what they were, but the owner of the auberge was approaching, asking what else they might like. They ordered cheese and coffee, changing the subject to what they would do in the afternoon. It was an easy conversation, relaxed and convivial.
Marc’s eyes rested on her as they discussed what she might like to see. She was so different, he observed. That all too familiar argumentative antagonism was gone, that back-talking that had irritated him so much. Oh, from time to time there was a wicked gleam in her eye when she said something he knew was designed to try and wind him up, but his own mood was now so totally different it had no effect except to make him laugh.
She’s easy to be with.
It was a strange thing to think about her after all the aggro, all the tension that had been between them.
We’ve both lightened up, he mused.
Only one area was generating any tension between them now. But it was at a low level, like a current of electricity running constantly between them, visible only in sudden veiled glances, in the casual brush of hands, in body contact that was not intentional or was simply necessary, such as handing her a menu, helping her back into the low-slung car as they set off again, catching the light floral fragrance of her scent.
His eyes wanted to linger on her rather than on the road twisting ahead. On their constant mutual awareness of each other. He let it run—low voltage, but there. This was not the time or the occasion to do anything about it. That was for later...for this evening. And then... Ah, then... He smiled inwardly, feeling sensual anticipation ease through him. Then he would give it free rein. And discover, to the full, all that he burned to find in her.
There would be no more drawing back—no more hauling himself away, castigating himself for his loss of self-control, no more anger at himself for wanting her so much...
I am simply not going to fight it any more.
He had not deliberately sought her out, or selected her for a relationship. She had come into his life almost accidentally, certainly unintentionally, because of his urgent need to protect himself from Hans’s amoral wife—but she was here now. And after all he’d had to put up with over Celine, damn it, he deserved a reward!
He glanced sideways at her as they drove back down towards the coast. And she deserved something good too, didn’t she? She’d done the job he’d set her—triumphantly!—so why shouldn’t he make sure that now she had as enjoyable a time remaining as he could ensure?
He would do his best, his very best, to ensure that. It was impossible for her to deny the desire that flared between them, and now there was no more aggravation, no more frustration, no more confusion, no more role-playing and no more barriers.
As his eyes went back to the twisting road ahead, and he steered his powerful car round the hairpin bends, he felt his blood heat pleasurably in his veins. Whatever the risks of breaking the rules he lived his life by—Tara would be worth it.
Most definitely worth it...
* * *
Tara sat at the silvered Art Deco dressing table, carefully applying minimal eye make-up—just a touch of mascara tonight was all that was needed—and a sheen of lip gloss. Her mood was strange. Everything was so similar to the previous night, when she’d been making up her face and getting dressed for that yacht party with Celine’s awful friends, and yet everything was totally different.
Marc was different.
That was the key to it, she knew. That ‘bear with a sore head’, as he had called himself with total accuracy, was simply gone. She couldn’t help but make a face at how he’d railed at her. This time yesterday he’d laid into her furiously in this very room for daring to take matters into her own hands, and to damn well lay off him! But her ploy had worked—and he’d had to admit it had worked even better than either of them could have imagined!
And now, mission more than accomplished, they could both have their reward for freeing poor Hans from his ghastly wife.
Reward...
The word hovered in Tara’s head. Beguiling, tempting.
She knew just what that reward was going to be...
Impossible not to know...
And to know with a certainty that had been building up in her hour after hour, all day.
Marc was right—whatever was happening between them, it was powerful and irresistible. They wanted each other—had done since first seeing each other, and had gone on wanting each other all through those torturous days when they’d both been forced to pretend in public what they had tried so hopelessly to deny in private.
They wanted each other. It was the one undeniable truth between them.
It was as simple as that.
Her eyes flickered around the beautiful room and she looked out through the windows to the darkening view beyond, over the gardens and the sea. Her very first thought on arrival here had been how gorgeous it all was, and how she should make the most of it.
Well...a half-smile played around her mouth...now she was going to make the most of it. And of the man who came with it.
The man who, even when he was at his most overbearing, his most obnoxious, his most short-tempered, possessed the ability to set her pulse racing, her blood surging, her heart-rate quickening...
She could feel it now, and with another little flutter inside her, she got to her feet.
I can’t resist him and there’s no reason to. He wants me—I want him. I know it won’t last—can’t last—but I must simply enjoy this time with him.
He wasn’t a man she’d ever have got involved with had it not been for him hiring her, but since he had, and she was—well, why not accept what was happening between them?
Why not—as she was doing now—slip into an ankle-length, fine cotton sundress in a vivid floral print of vibrant blues and crimsons that was nothing like the formal evening gowns and cocktail dresses she’d worn when the Neubergers were there. She was ‘off duty’ now, and she wanted only to feel comfortable.
It was a look that Marc had echoed, she saw as she joined him out on the terrace. He wore a plain white open-necked shirt with the cuffs turned back and dark blue chinos. Still devastatingly attractive, but relaxed.
The two of them were all set, ready for a comfortable and relaxed evening together...
She felt that little flutter inside her again.
But that was for later. For now there was just the warmth in Marc’s eyes—a warmth that wasn’t only male appreciation of her, but a side of him she hadn’t seen in him before, except for when he had greeted Hans. A side of him that had so taken her aback as he’d dropped that perpetual ill-humour of his.
He was walking towards her, an open bottle of champagne and two flutes in his hands. He set the flutes on a table laid for dinner, with candles glowing in protective glass cases, and started to pour the champagne. Silently he handed her a softly effervescing glass, keeping the other for himself.
‘It’s a champagne evening,’ he announced, a smile playing at his mouth. He raised his glass. ‘To us,’ he said softly, his eyes never leaving her. ‘To our champagne evening. Salut!’
And it was a salute, Tara knew. It was a recognition of what was happening between them—what had been happening ever since their first encounter. An acknowledgement that neither of them could walk away now from the other...from t
his champagne evening.
I want this—I want everything about it. Even for the short while that it will be mine...
The words were in her head—unstoppable. And she didn’t want to stop them, to silence them. All she wanted, on this evening of all evenings, was what there was and what was to come.
‘Salut...’ she said in soft reply, and took a mouthful of the delicate drink, her eyes still holding his. There was a glow in her body, a sweetness in her veins, a low pulse at her throat.
He drank as well, and then, with a smile, said, ‘Walk with me.’
She did, and they strolled across the darkening garden to the edge of the lawn, where the manicured grass gave way to rougher land, and then a rocky shore tumbled down to the lapping sea below.
There was a little jetty, and steps cut into the rocky outcrop to take them there, and he led her down. They stood on the jetty awhile, looking out across the night-filled sea. From this point at the tip of the Cap there was no line of sight to the shoreline with all its bright lights. Even the villa behind them was not visible this low below the shoreline.
‘We might be on a desert island...’ Tara breathed, her voice still soft. ‘All on our own.’
At her side, Marc gave a low laugh. ‘The world vanished away,’ he said.
He turned to her. Lifted the hand that was not holding his flute to trail a finger along the contours of her mouth.
‘I want this time with you,’ he said, and she could hear the husk in his voice now, feel the frisson in her veins that it engendered. ‘We are free to have it—and I very much wish to share it with you.’
There was a question in his voice—and yet an answer too. For how could she refuse him? She knew she would not be here, standing with him out on the jetty, beneath the gathering night, if she did not want what he wanted too.
* * *
Marc felt desire creaming inside him, yet he knew he must not be precipitate. He had considered her out of bounds, was breaking all his rules by indulging himself with her, and as that was so he wanted to take from this forbidden liaison d’amour all that it could offer him.
And it will be worth it! She is promising everything I want—everything I have already so tantalisingly tasted.
* * *
Tara made no reply to what he had said, but she did not need to, she knew. Perhaps, it was unwise, letting herself be drawn into a world that was not hers, to a man who could never be hers for that reason, and she knew it must be brief, but she accepted it. Accepted all of it. This beautiful villa, this beautiful place, and the man whose domain it was.
She took another slow mouthful of her champagne, feeling its potency ease into her bloodstream, committing her to what she was doing.
They stood awhile, as the sky darkened to absolute night and one by one the stars began to shine. The low lapping of the water was seductive...as seductive as the warm, caressing breeze that lifted off the sea. Then, the sky dark, the champagne drunk, they made their way back to the terrace to dine together.
What they ate Tara would not afterwards remember. She knew only that it was delicious, and that the conversation flowed between them as effortlessly now as it had been fraught before. Had they really been so...so intemperate towards each other? So antagonistic, so irritated and exasperated by each other? It seemed impossible. Impossible to think of Marc as the man he had been when now his ready smile, his low laugh, his lambent eyes were warm upon her.
What they talked about she would not remember either. She only knew that another conversation was taking place as well—a conversation that, as the meal ended and liqueurs were consumed, the coffee pot drained, he suddenly brought to vivid life as he reached for her hand, drew her to her feet.
The staff were long gone, and they were here alone on the candlelit terrace. He stood in front of her, so dark against the night beyond. She caught his scent, felt herself sway and smile...
He said her name—a caress—and lifted his hand to her hair to draw her closer to him. But there was no need. With a little sigh, closing her eyelids, she let her body fold against his, let it rest, as it wanted so much to do, against the strong column of his. He took her weight against him effortlessly and her hand slid around his waist, resting on the cool leather of his belt, the tips of her fingers feeling the hard heat of his flesh beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.
She gave a soft, almost inaudible sigh in her throat. And then his mouth was silencing her. Moving with the velvet softness that had caused her sleepless nights, and which now sent a drowning bliss through her with every feathering touch.
She gave herself to it. This time... Ah, this time there was no barrier, no regret, no resistance to what was happening between them. She was giving herself utterly to it...
Their kiss was long, unhurried, for they had all the night before them... Then, as her breasts engorged, their peaks cresting against the hard wall of his muscled chest, she heard him growl, felt his mouth releasing hers. His eyes poured down into hers, and she felt with a frisson of arousal that he was responding as strongly as was she.
Was it wickedness that made her loop her hands around his neck and whisper, ‘Shall we slow dance?’
For tonight they could—oh, yes, they could indeed—and with that came the knowledge that now there need be no more play-acting, that they could finally accept and revel in the desire that flamed between them. No more being thwarted, no more pulling away... At last they could give in to what they had wanted from the very first.
The growl came again—a low rasp—and instead of an answer she was suddenly, breathlessly, swept up into his arms.
‘We can do better than that,’ he told her, and the deep husk in his voice was telling her just what that ‘better’ was going to be.
She gave a half-cry, half-laugh, and then he was striding indoors, across the marble hall, up the marble stairs. She clung to him, and she was held fast in his powerful grip as he carried her along the landing, to head inside a room she had never yet stepped into.
It was dark, but he knew the way. Knew the way to the wide bed waiting for them. And as he lowered her to its surface, coming down beside her, he knew there were no more questions to ask, no more answers. Their bodies had asked and answered all that was needed.
Desire—that was the question and the answer. And it flamed between them, powerful and unquenchable. They were to be aroused by all that it could offer, to savour it...to enjoy. In a sharing of slow, caressing pleasure, a banquet of the senses.
He leant over, dark against the dimness of the room, smoothing the tumbled mass of her glorious hair, spearing his fingers through the lush tresses as she gazed up at him, starlight from the undrawn drapes shining in her dilated eyes. Waiting for his possession. For her possession of him.
He kissed her again slowly, tasting, drawing from her every drop of nectar. Again he felt his body fill with desire, with wanting.
For a moment he held back, as if to give himself one last chance to draw away completely, but she caught his mouth again, arching her neck, her spine, putting her hands around his back, drawing him down to her to feel the swell of her breasts, to hear the soft moan of desire in her throat.
He gave a low, husky laugh, cut short as his kiss deepened, his arousal surged. His palm closed over one peak and her soft moan came again as she pressed against his caressing hand, wanting only what he could arouse in her. Heat filled her body—her limbs...the soft vee of her thighs.
Her dress was in the way, and restlessly she sought to free herself. But he was there before her. His hands slipped the material from her, cast it aside even as he cast aside his own clothing, freeing them both to come together now, as their bodies longed to do, with a will they could not stop, nor wanted to.
They wanted only to do as they were doing—to wind themselves around each other, pinioning and clasping. His mouth was gliding down the satin contours of her slender body, an
d again low moans came from her.
Her head twisted helplessly on the pillow as she gave herself to his silken touch. Desire soared within her and she wanted more—oh, she wanted all of him! She felt her thighs slacken, her body’s heat flare, and her fingers clawed over his strong, muscled shoulders.
She drew him into her and he surged in full possession. She cried out, gasping at the power of him, the potency. Her hands clutched him tighter, and more tightly yet, as he moved on her, within her, releasing with every surge more and more of what was rising within her, unstoppable, unquenchable. A glory of sensation, a gasping of delight, of mounting urgency...
And then it broke within her, flooding out into every vein, every portion of her body, racing out from her pulsing core to the furthest extremity, her whole body burning in this furnace of ecstasy.
As she cried out he surged within her again, his body thrashing, fusing with hers like metal melting into metal, white-hot and searing.
And she was everything he desired—everything he wanted. She was fulfilling all her promise, pulsing around his body, her own body afire, until the fire consumed itself and he felt her hands at his shoulders slacken, felt her whole body slacken.
He felt his do so too, heavy now upon her, and he rolled her, with the last of his strength, so that she was beside him and he could fold her to him, feel her shuddering body calm, her racing heartbeat slow, her hectic breathing quieten. He held her as his own slugging heart steadied, his limbs heavy, inert.
Slowly he felt the lassitude of her body’s repletion ease through her as he stroked her hair, murmuring to her he knew not what. He knew only that his soft caressing, his softer murmurs, brought her to stillness in his cradling arms.
He felt his eyelids droop, sleep rushing upon him. He knew he must yield to it—for now. But as consciousness slipped from him, and the warmth and the silken length of her body pressed against his, something told him his sleep would not be long...
