by Julia James
Nor hers...
CHAPTER EIGHT
MORNING LIGHT WAS bathing them. Tara could feel it warm upon her back, which was partly covered by a single sheet. Her arm was flung across the bare torso of the man beside her, still asleep.
She herself was still drowsy and somnolent from the night that had passed. A night like no other she had ever known.
Memory drenched through her and she hugged her naked body more closely against the one she was entwined with. Had she ever imagined a night like that was possible?
Time and time again he had possessed her—each time a consummation of bliss that had caused her to cry out over and over again as her body had burned with his, in a heat that had been a consuming fire, bathing their straining muscles and sated flesh, her spine arched like a bowstring, his body plunging into hers, her hands clutching at the twisting contours of his shoulders, her head thrashing on the pillow as they reached their peaks together.
And then peace had blanketed down upon her, upon them both—an exhaustion, a sweeping sigh of exhalation as their bodies had closed upon each other, no space between them, pressed to each other in heated fastness, hers turned into his, folded against him, her limbs heavy, his yet heavier. And then, dazed and dazzled, she had sought the rest that had come—instant and obliterating.
Only for him to rouse her yet again...and for her to wake in an instant, to overpowering desire again...
Memories indeed...
She felt her mouth smile against his throat, her eyelids flutter, felt him stir in answer, his hand easing across her flank with soft caress.
For a while they simply lay there, letting the sun from the windows warm their entwined bodies, dozing and then waking slowly to full awareness of the day. Saying nothing, for there was no need.
Not until Marc, with a stretching of his limbs, turned his head to smile across at her. ‘Breakfast? Or—?’
She laid a finger across his mouth. ‘Breakfast!’ she said, shaking her head. ‘One night with you lasts a long, long time...’
He gave a laugh, pleased with her answer. Pleased with the entire universe. He had known women before—many women. But this one...
His mind sheered away. It wasn’t necessary to think, to examine or analyse. It was only necessary to enjoy this gloriously sunny morning, here in the place he loved where he never seemed to have enough time to spend. It was only necessary to get himself up from his bed, reach for a grey silk robe and knot it around his waist.
His muscles felt stretched, fully used...
He reached a hand down to her. ‘If you want breakfast,’ he said, and there was a husk in his voice with which Tara had become very familiar with in the long, sensual reaches of the night, ‘you had better use your own shower.’
He nodded towards the communicating door, then headed for his own en suite bathroom. At the door to it he turned. She was starting to stand up, and the sight of her fabulous racehorse body, full in the sunlight now, almost made him change his mind and carry her through to his own shower, where washing was not going to be a priority...
But his stomach gave a low grumble. He had expended a great deal of energy last night and it needed to be replenished.
So he said only, ‘See you downstairs. And think about what you would like to do today—because if you can’t come up with anything I have a very enticing idea of my own...’
He let his voice trail off and raised a hand in half-salute, leaving her to her own rising.
When they regrouped, out on the terrace, he threw himself into a chair. He was wearing shorts, and a striped top.
Tara, settling herself down opposite him, gave a laugh. ‘You look like a matelot!’ She smiled.
Marc’s eyes glinted. ‘The very thing,’ he said. He sat back. ‘It’s a beautiful day and the wind is just right—let’s take to the water.’
She laughed. ‘Is that your enticing idea?’ she returned. ‘I was assuming something far more...physical...’ she said wickedly.
‘Depends where we drop anchor,’ Marc returned, his expression deadpan.
She laughed again. She could have laughed at anything this morning—this glorious, glorious morning. The morning after the night before...and the night before had been like no other night had ever been...
Could ever be...
For just a moment she felt a dart pierce her. Would anything in all her life ever compare to the night she’d spent in the arms of this man she had so rashly committed herself to? A man she knew she should never have given herself to but had simply not been able to resist?
What if nothing could?
She pushed the question aside. This was not a morning for questions—for doubts of any kind. She was having this time with Marc, and if he was a million miles from her own normality—well, so be it. Too late for regrets now, even if she wanted to have them—which, right now, she did not.
She reached for a croissant, revelling in its yeasty temptation, in yielding to all temptations. ‘That sounds fun.’ She smiled. ‘I didn’t see a boat moored at the jetty, though.’
‘It’s kept at the dock in Pierre-les-Pins, at the head of the bay. I’m having it sailed to the jetty now.’
He said it casually, but the remark lingered in Tara’s head as she busied herself with her breakfast. It was another reminder of just how hugely wealthy he was. Just as much as this villa was a reminder, with its manicured lawn and pool, and its complement of attentive staff, and the top-marque car he’d driven her about in yesterday, and the chauffeur-driven limo, the gourmet restaurants, and the designer wardrobe he’d snapped his fingers for, and every other element of his life.
Unease filtered through her. Before, while she’d been working for him, it hadn’t bothered her, his vast wealth. But now... Was she wise to get personally involved with him in any way? Even for what must inevitably be only a brief time, in this mutually self-indulgent ‘reward’ for their torturous past week? With a man from a world so entirely different from her own?
It was difficult to remember that—to believe in all that fabulous wealth of his, in the bank that bore his name and was the source of all that wealth—when she was skimming over the azure waters of the Mediterranean, the breeze filling the billowing sails.
But the huge disparity in their wealth was harder to ignore that evening when, gowned once more in one of the fabulous couture evening dresses supplied for her by him for the role that was no longer a role, but real, for whatever short duration it would prove, he whisked her off in the sleek, chauffeured car, to dine out in another fearsomely expensive Michelin-starred restaurant, where every dish cost a fortune and the wines ten times as much.
She put it aside. For this evening, this time they would have together, it was just the two of them, lovers for real now. She felt a little shimmer of wonder at the transformation. She could actually enjoy it. She had Marc to herself, and it was ‘new Marc’—Marc with his ready smile, his air of absolute relaxation, total well-being.
He raised his glass to her and she did likewise, taking a sip of the formidably pricey vintage wine, savouring it even as she savoured all the wonderful delicacies on offer from the menu.
‘This is beyond heaven!’ She sighed blissfully as whatever concoction he’d ordered for her slipped down her throat. ‘I could really get used to this! How on earth am I going to go back to my usual humble fare after this?’
She expected to hear his low laugh, which she was getting used to hearing now, but it didn’t come. Instead there was a flickering in his eyes, as if his thoughts were suddenly elsewhere. And in a place he did not care for.
She wondered at it, then set it aside. Nothing was going to spoil this evening. She gazed around the restaurant, taking it in, knowing that this was an experience she must make the most of. Once she was in her little cottage in Dorset, places like this would be a distant memory only.
A little pang
went through her and her eyes moved back to the man sitting opposite her. He, too, one day, would be only a distant memory...
There was a tiny catch in her throat and she reached for her wine glass, made some deliberately light remark, to which Marc responded this time—as if he, too, had set aside something there was no point thinking about. Not now...not tonight. Not with the night ahead of them...
Anticipation thrummed through her, and a sudden sensual awareness. Her eyes went to him across the table, caught his, saw in them what she knew was in hers... What remained in them all through their long, leisurely and exquisite meal, as conversation flowed between them—easy now, when it had been impossible before.
It was nearly midnight before they left—but when they returned to the villa Tara discovered that the night was still young...
Their night lasted till dawn crept over the edge of the world, and brought with its first light the sleep her body was too exhausted to deny... The sleep that overtook their bodies, all passion finally spent, folded around each other as if parting could never come.
It was a false illusion...
* * *
Marc was in his office, attempting to catch up with work. But his mind wasn’t on it. He gave a rueful grimace. Where his mind was right now was out by the pool—the pool beside which Tara would be sunning herself, turning her silken skin a deeper shade of delectable gold, all the more enticing to caress...
With a groan, he tore the seductive vision from his head and focussed on the computer screen, on the myriad complexities of his normal working life making their usual round-the-clock demands on him. Demands that he had no inclination to meet at the moment but that were piling up nevertheless.
He knew he could not postpone them indefinitely. That at some point he’d have to knuckle down and deal with them. The truth was, he wasn’t used to taking so much time out from work.
Work had dominated his life ever since he’d had to shoulder all the responsibilities of his inheritance at a painfully early age. Even when he set aside his workload for social engagements, or for his carefully considered forays into highly selective affairs, as was his habit, they never interfered with his primary task in life—to see Banc Derenz through to the next era of its survival in an ever-changing financial landscape. So why, he pondered now frowningly, the figures on the screen ignored still, was he being so careless of his responsibilities at this time?
At first he’d put his indulgence at giving in to his inconveniently overpowering attraction to Tara simply as relief at getting the wretched Celine off his case once and for all. But that had been two weeks ago—two weeks of pure self-indulgence, as he was well aware. Of indulging himself with Tara—giving himself to a sensual feast and to a time out of his customary highly disciplined and demanding lifestyle to simply...simply what?
To have a holiday.
That was what he was doing. Simply having a holiday with this irresistible woman! A holiday that was an endless drift of golden days here in the balmy weather of the Riviera. Lounging by the pool, taking out the sailboat, driving along the coast or up into the hills, making a foray across the border into Italy one day to explore San Remo, strolling around the perfumeries of Grasse another day, heading further still to St Raphael, with its ochre-red cliffs, and then St Tropez, with all the nostalgia of its fashionable heyday in the sixties. They had explored the villages and landscapes that had so beguiled the Impressionists, wandered around the narrow streets of the old town in Nice, strolled along the seafront in Cannes, lunched on one of the many private beaches, or out on the jetty over the water...
A procession of easy-going days, relaxed and carefree, before returning home to the villa...and all the sensual delights of the nights they shared.
He shifted in his seat. When would he tire of Tara? When would her allure grow stale? When would he not want to trouble himself with making conversation with her, engaging in repartee as she presumed to tease him and he returned as good as he got, volleying with her until they both were laughing...or kissing...
I must tire of her soon. Surely I must?
She wasn’t from his world, so how could he think of her as anything other than a passing amour? Oh, she’d adapted to it easily enough—but then, what woman wouldn’t find it easy to adapt to the wealthy ease of his highly privileged life.
Has she adapted too well? Got too used to it?
The thought was in his head before he could stop it. Reminding him of all the reasons why he never took up with women who did not share his own lifestyle in their own financial right.
His eyes went to his screen. No sum of money there was without a whole string of zeroes after it—it was the realm he worked in, that encompassed the accounts of his extremely rich clients. Sums of money that the likes of Tara would never see in her lifetime...
Memory scraped in his head. Unwelcome, but intruding all the same. How Tara had sat with Celine on that ultra-tedious afternoon in Monte Carlo, and made that casual comment that ‘marrying money’ was still a sure-fire way to help oneself to riches. He’d considered it a snipe at Celine, but now, his frown came again. But maybe it was something she believed herself?
More memories came...uglier and more intrusive, forcing their way in. Marianne...making up to him...enticing him and luring him, the young heir to Banc Derenz, only to callously abandon him for a much safer financial bet—a man with his own wealth already safely in his pockets.
Another image formed in his mind. Sitting in that restaurant with Tara—one of the most exclusive and expensive on the Riviera—the day after their first night together. ‘I could really get used to this!’ she’d said, and sighed pleasurably...
More thoughts came to him—disturbing and uneasy. He had declared to Celine that Tara was his fiancée, and the sole purpose of the announcement had been to try and get Hans’s wife’s clutching claws off him. But had that impulsive proposal set thoughts running in Tara’s head? Was she remembering them when they were together now? When they kissed...embraced...made love?
Does she think I might propose for real? Make her my wife?
Roughly, he pushed his chair away from his desk. He would not let such thoughts in. He glanced at his watch. She’d been sunning herself far too long—she must not burn her skin...her oh-so-delectable skin.
Again memory skimmed in his mind—of how irritated he’d been that first day here, to arrive and find the woman he had hired to keep Celine at bay behaving as if she were here on a free luxury holiday.
Well, now she really is here on a free luxury holiday...
Again the unwelcome thought was in his head. Again he dismissed it. For she could enjoy this time with him with his blessing—enjoy all the luxury he took for granted himself. His expression changed. After all, she was a luxury herself—to him. An indulgence like none he’d ever experienced. And he wanted to indulge himself...
An anticipatory smile played about his mouth. Her heated skin would need cooling down—and a shower together was the very thing to achieve that. He would lather her body all over with his own hands...every beautiful centimetre of her...
His mood much improved, he abandoned any fruitless attempt to work and strode impatiently from the room to make his anticipation reality.
* * *
Tara stretched languorously and rolled over so that it was her back—bare from neck to hip—that received the blessing of the sun’s rays.
This really was gorgeous. To be basking here in the sun, after a late, leisurely breakfast, with nothing more strenuous to do than maybe take a cooling dip in the pool beside her and then, later on, drape herself in her chiffon sarong and drift across to where the staff were setting out their customary al fresco lunch.
She and Marc would make their déjeuner of the finest delicacies, all freshly prepared by hands other than theirs, and whisked away at the end of their meal by those other hands, leaving them nothing to do but laze th
e afternoon away or take the sailboat out, or swim off the jetty in the calm seas lapping the shore. Or maybe, if they were feeling energetic, head off in that powerful black beast of a car, purring like a contented tiger, to see yet more of the fabled Côte d’Azur.
And then they’d return as the sun was lowering, to sip sundowners by the pool and wait for yet another gourmet meal to be served to them by others’ labour.
A pampered lifestyle indeed...
Idly she flexed her toes, eased the arms cushioning her head, utterly at ease. I could get used to this...
Oh, she could indeed! she thought, half-ruefully, half-languorously. No wonder the rich liked being rich...
But, for all the luxury of her surroundings and the ease of her days, she knew that not a single glass of vintage champagne, not a moment spent lounging like this beside the pool, would count for anything at all were she not here with Marc.
It was Marc and Marc alone who was turning this luxury into paradise for her. Marc—who only had to glance at her with those dark, knowing eyes of his and she would feel her whole body flicker as if with unseen electricity. All he had to do was touch her...
A shadow fell over her, and as if she’d conjured him from her thoughts he was hunkering down beside her, letting his index finger stroke sensuously down the long curve of her spine, arousing every bit of that flickering electricity.
She gave a little moan in her throat at the sensation and heard his low laugh. Then, suddenly, she was being caught in his arms, dizzyingly swept up. Her moan of sensuous pleasure turned into a squeal, and he laughed again.
‘Time for a cool-down,’ he informed her.
For a second she thought he was going to toss her into the pool, but he was striding indoors with her, heading upstairs. Suddenly mindful of her abandoned bikini top, she pressed herself hurriedly against his torso, lest they encounter one of the staff. She felt her breasts crest, and knew there was only one way that this was going to end...
