Vacation with a Commanding Stranger

by Penny Jordan

  ‘You tell me, Livvy. Am I being unfair?’

  Sadly, Livvy shook her head. No, Gale wasn’t being unfair, she reflected later as she drove home. But she could perhaps be more understanding…more compassionate…more aware? Wryly Livvy admitted that the chances of her strong-minded cousin’s exhibiting any of those emotions were very slim indeed.

  * * *

  ‘Two months in the Dordogne, rent-free—you lucky thing,’ her colleagues had sighed enviously.

  ‘Mmm…maybe you’ll meet some gorgeous, sexy Frenchman,’ Jenny, the maths teacher, had teased her.

  Livvy had laughed. ‘We’re talking about rural France, not Paris,’ she had told her. ‘Any Frenchmen I do meet, handsome or otherwise, will be very, very firmly attached to their wives and children.’

  ‘So?’ Jenny’s eyes had twinkled. ‘Who’s talking about anything permanent? What’s wrong with a small summer fling, an excitingly brief affair?’

  ‘What’s wrong with it is that I don’t want it,’ Livvy told her firmly. ‘Getting involved with a man who just wants to use me isn’t my idea of fun.’

  ‘You might not be able to stop yourself. What if you fall in love?’

  ‘In lust, you mean,’ Livvy had corrected her, shaking her head as she added determinedly, ‘No, I’d never do that. My self-respect wouldn’t let me. When I do love a man it will be because I admire and respect him intellectually and emotionally, not because I’m turned on physically by his body…’

  She had left the staff-room with Jenny’s laughter still ringing in her ears.

  ‘Be careful,’ Jenny had called warningly after her. ‘You could be tempting fate, saying something like that.’

  ‘No way,’ Livvy had responded with a grin. ‘Tempting fate, or a Frenchman, is the last thing I intend to do!’

  At twenty-five she considered herself far too responsible and mature to plunge into the kind of reckless, hedonistic, dangerous type of affair Jenny had teased her about. Such affairs, from what she had observed of them, inevitably led to someone being hurt, and badly, and she considered that she was far too cautious and self-protective by nature to risk bringing that kind of pain upon herself.

  No, she would be far too busy preparing for the new term and thinking about her own future to have time for romance, even if it were something she wanted—which it wasn’t.

  Not that her time in France was going to be completely taken up with work, though: she had promised herself some relaxation, some sightseeing trips and explorations. She had even generously offered to take off Gale’s shoulders the burden of liaising with the local tradesmen and suppliers in connection with some of the more urgent renovations Gale was organising, agreeing that it would be far easier for her to deal with the French contractors, since she was in situ.

  ‘Are you sure you actually want to go ahead with these alterations?’ she had asked her cousin when they had discussed Gale’s plans for modernising the existing bathroom and adding a new one. ‘After all, if George does insist on selling…’

  ‘He won’t. Not once I get him out of Robert Forrest’s clutches for long enough to make him see sense. I shouldn’t be surprised if he’s the one who’s turned George against the farmhouse in the first place; he’s that kind of man,’ she added darkly.

  Livvy had given her a thoughtful look. She hoped Gale was right about being able to persuade George to keep the property, because she could tell how important it was to her. She understood Gale’s desire for her sons to experience the same pleasure they had known as children, but at the same time she felt, fair-mindedly, that a smaller and more modest environment would provide those benefits just as well and be far less of a financial burden on George.

  She wondered if Gale was right to lay the blame for George’s changed behaviour at the feet of his new employer. As the victim of an unhappy marriage, it was perhaps only to be expected that he should have a bias against marriage and feel suspicious or antagonistic towards the female sex.

  She hoped Gale would not ride too roughshod over George’s views. He was a nice man and a good husband and father.

  She stifled a yawn and moved sleepily beneath the duvet. The more she observed of other people’s relationships, the more wary it made her of that kind of commitment. She was glad she was not the type to fall drastically and dangerously head over heels in love.

  Beneath the bedclothes she gave a small shiver. Knowing her luck, if she did it would probably be with entirely the wrong type of man.

  Like the one across the hallway, for instance? Ridiculous—what woman in her right senses would fall in love with a man like that, who for all his spectacular aura of raw masculinity and power had shown by his attitude that he had as much awareness of and respect for the female psyche as she had of what went on inside the head of a man-eating tiger?

  No, if she ever did fall in love, it would be with someone compassionate and caring, intelligent and aware, a man who valued her as an equal human being, not one who dismissed her as a sexual object, condemning her with cold-eyed disgust.

  * * *

  The BMW was still in the car park when Livvy left early the next morning. She gave it a dismissive look as she walked virtuously past it, reflecting on the laziness of its slothful owner and the fact that he was missing what was for her one of the best parts of the day.

  Well, at least she was unlikely to come into contact with him again, she reflected thankfully as she let herself into her own car and pulled on her seatbelt.

  Having planned her route carefully in advance, Livvy didn’t have any trouble in reaching Beaulieu, which was the nearest sizeable town to the farmhouse.

  She ate a late lunch in the town and shopped for provisions, just enough to tide her over for the first couple of days. After all, one of the pleasures of being in France was the food. Her French grandmother had taught her how a Frenchwoman shopped and the important role that not just the consumption of food but its purchase and preparation played in the traditional French lifestyle.

  It was mid-afternoon before she started the final part of her journey, taking her time as she carefully checked each road sign, not wanting to miss her way on the mass of narrow country roads which criss-crossed the countryside, and her diligence was finally rewarded when she drove into the small village closest to the farmhouse.

  Although she had not visited it before, she had seen photographs of it and had agreed with Gale that it was idyllically situated, surrounded by lush countryside with a view looking out across a small tributary of the Dordogne river, its privacy assured by the farmland which surrounded it…

  George had tentatively expressed the view that it might be a bit too isolated, but Gale had told him firmly that he was wrong and that its isolation only added to its appeal.

  ‘For us, maybe,’ George had conceded. ‘But the children…’

  ‘The children will love it,’ Gale had interrupted him. ‘Clean, fresh air, a simple country lifestyle will be very good for them; it’s exactly what they need.’

  Now, Livvy wondered if after all George might not have had a point. Isolation was all very well for adults, craving the peace and quiet of the countryside, but children…teenagers…

  If he had, it wouldn’t be easy getting Gale to acknowledge it, Livvy acknowledged. Rather sadly, Livvy wondered how much of the time George was giving to his work was actually being forced upon him by his new boss, and how much might be voluntary: a means of escape from a wife whose strong-mindedness might sometimes be rather wearying?

  Just as she was beginning to wonder uneasily if she had after all taken a wrong turning, the thickly forested countryside through which she was travelling gave way to open land, the fields which Gale had told her went with the farmhouse and which, although presently neglected and unworked, she hoped to rent out to a local farmer.

  ‘The money we get from letting the land will help to pay for the work on the farmhouse,’ she had explained to Livvy.

  Now in front of her she could see the shape of a b
uilding, its age betrayed by the soft, fading colour of the sandstone walls.

  Thankfully, Livvy stopped her car in the unevenly flagged yard. It was just starting to grow dark, but there was still enough light for her to make her way to the heavy front door, the keys Gale had given her held firmly in her hand. Weeds had sprung up and rooted themselves firmly between the worn slabs of stone, evidence of the length of time the farm had been uninhabited.

  Livvy was no stranger to rural France, although this was the first time she had visited the Dordogne, and she found the silence that surrounded her soothing rather than unnerving. She unlocked and opened the door, wincing as the unoiled hinges squeaked rustily.

  The door opened directly into the kitchen, a large, rectangular-shaped room with small windows and a musty, slightly damp smell. As she switched on the light, Livvy winced a little in its harsh brightness.

  ‘The kitchen will have to be completely refitted,’ Gale had told her. ‘I want something very simple and sturdy—a free-standing kitchen range would be ideal.’

  ‘But very expensive,’ Livvy had warned her.

  ‘Mmm. Well, hopefully we’ll be able to find someone local whom I can organise to make exactly what I want. The farmer we bought the house from has the most wonderful armoire, and there was a dresser in the kitchen. It shouldn’t be too difficult to pick up some good antique pieces quite reasonably.’

  Given her cousin’s determination and energy, it probably wouldn’t be too long before she did transform the kitchen, Livvy acknowledged, but right now…

  It would probably look better in the morning when she had had a good night’s sleep, Livvy acknowledged as she surveyed the grimy, deep porcelain sink and the old-fashioned cooking range.

  The fridge-freezer standing in one corner of the room, attached to a large Calor gas canister, looked oddly incongruous, as did the small stove adjacent to it. Incongruous but very welcome, Livvy acknowledged as she saw the kettle standing on it and went to pick it up.

  The water which spurted from the tap was icily cold and slightly brownish in colour. The farmhouse had neither mains water nor electricity, the former being supplied via its own well and the latter from a generator installed in one of the outbuildings.

  While she was waiting for the kettle to boil, she might as well bring in her things, Livvy decided.

  She had brought one small case with her; the rest of the space in her car had been filled with the boxes of bedding, towels, kitchen utensils, food and other items which Gale had insisted she bring with her.

  Gale and George had bought the farmhouse complete with its furniture. Rubbish in the main, Gale had snorted, but the beds, heavy, old-fashioned affairs with wooden head- and foot-boards, had been worth keeping, although she had of course had to replace the mattresses.

  The sturdy, worn stairs led up from a room adjacent to the kitchen, the British equivalent of a comfortable family breakfast-room.

  Wearily, Livvy climbed them.

  ‘You can use any bedroom you like,’ Gale had told her. ‘Although the double ones at the front have the best views.’

  Livvy opened the first door she came to and switched on the light.

  She would sleep well tonight, she acknowledged half an hour later when she had drunk her tea and finished making up the bed. She was almost too tired for even the briefest of sluices under the feeble trickle of the antiquated shower, only habit compelling her to go through the motions of getting ready for bed.

  Ten minutes later, her body still glowing from the rough towelling she had given it, she curled up gratefully under her duvet.

  Tomorrow her holiday could begin properly. Her mouth watered as she contemplated the pleasure of eating croissants fresh from the boulangerie, washed down with rich, fragrant coffee.

  Mmm…it would make a delicious and welcome change from her normal rushed breakfast of a few mouthfuls of muesli eaten hurriedly between checking her diary, reading her post and generally getting ready for work.

  * * *

  Livvy could hear a noise. A car door slamming. She sat up groggily in bed frowning as she glanced at her watch. It was just gone nine. She had slept for longer than she had intended.

  As she climbed out of bed and reach for her cotton wrap, she wondered who her unexpected visitor was.

  She guessed that it would probably be the farmer from whom Gale and George had bought the house. Gale had described him to her, fifty-odd, short and gnarled, very good at playing dumb when he chose and even, ridiculously, trying to pretend at times that he could not understand Gale’s excellently fluent French, and with the financial acumen that many a finance director would envy.

  Livvy smiled to herself now, remembering how she had guessed from the acid note of chagrin in Gale’s voice that for once her cousin had met her match.

  It was a pity she had overslept; if the Dordogne was anything like the other parts of rural France she had previously visited its inhabitants would operate a code of behaviour almost Victorian in its formality. Appearing to greet a neighbour a nine o’clock in the morning not dressed, her hair tousled and still half asleep, would doubtless reinforce the French belief in their superiority as a race.

  She was halfway across the kitchen when she heard someone turning a key in the door lock.

  Frowning, she stood still. It made sense that the farmer should have a key so that he could keep a check on the property while it was empty, but Gale had told her that she was going to warn him to expect her, and, even though she had parked her car out of sight in one of the outbuildings, surely he might at least have knocked first.

  The door opened and Livvy froze in shocked disbelief.

  It couldn’t be, but it was: the man who had just let himself into the farmhouse was the same man she had seen at the auberge last night, the same man who had been so rude to her in the car park, the same man who had so contemptuously ignored her plight later.

  As she stared into his cold, arrogantly handsome face and felt the shock of the invisible force-field which seemed to surround him, she was temporarily completely lost for words.

  Distantly her mind registered the fact that, for some odd reason, her body was reacting to his presence in the most alarming and dangerous way.

  Beneath her terry robe and the thin cotton T-shirt she had slept in, her nipples were peaking with unfamiliar and confusing intensity, a shock-wave of sensation exploding inside her.

  Quickly, she pulled her robe protectively closer to her body. Her heart was beating fast and heavily; she felt confused and powerless, plunged into a situation which both alarmed and excited her.

  What was he doing here? How had he found her? Why had he followed her?

  Giddily her thoughts swirled dizzily through her brain, temporarily robbing her of her normal, calm control, and then chillingly she realised how dangerous the situation was, how vulnerable she was.

  She was alone here, vulnerable and unprotected, and for all his apparent wealth and respectability he could…he might…

  Firmly she swallowed back the fear and confronted him.

  ‘Never allow yourself to be intimidated or to show fear. Never let anyone else take control from you,’ she and her fellow students had been told before they went into teaching, and that advice applied just as much to this situation as it did to facing a class of pupils.

  Forcing her tense throat muscles to relax, she demanded huskily, ‘What are you doing here…why have you followed me? If you don’t leave immediately, I shall call the police.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘FOLLOWED you?’

  The harsh derision in his voice was as abrasive as sandpaper against vulnerable flesh, making Livvy wince and tense.

  ‘You’ve got some nerve. If anyone will be calling the police it will be me. People like you who break into private property and squat… You’ve no right…’

  Break in! Squat! Livvy was almost too angry to speak. How dared he accuse her?

  ‘You’re the one who has no right to be here,’ she
interrupted him furiously. ‘Not me. This house belongs to my cousin and her husband and it was Gale who invited me to spend the summer here, and…’

  ‘You’re Gale’s cousin?’

  Against her will, Livvy found herself responding to the sharp authority of his tone, inclining her head in curt agreement as he cut across her angry speech. A persistent and unignorable warning bell was beginning to ring in her brain. ‘You know Gale and George?’ she demanded warily, trusting its authenticity.

  ‘Yes,’ came the terse response. ‘What do you mean, Gale invited you to spend the summer here? George told me the house would be empty.’

  Livvy swallowed.

  ‘You will tell George that I’m going to be there, won’t you?’ she had asked her cousin.

  ‘Of course I will,’ Gale had reassured her. ‘Once he can bring himself to spare us some of his precious time.’

  As she looked into the face of the man watching her, the stark, cold realisation of why he was here suddenly struck her.

  ‘George wanted to sell the farmhouse,’ Gale had told her. Then Livvy had taken Gale’s complaints about her husband with a pinch of salt, genuinely believing that George would never behave in such an underhand manner, but this man’s presence here confirmed everything Gale had told her.

  He looked the type who would take advantage of someone else’s problems for his own pecuniary gain, she decided cynically.

  Tilting her chin, she told him sweetly, ‘Well, now you can see that it isn’t, can’t you? If you want to look round I can’t stop you, but obviously I’d like you to leave as soon as possible…’

  ‘Me, leave…? My arrangement with George was that I would stay here for a while…’

  ‘Surely it doesn’t take long for you to decide whether or not you want to buy the place?’ she asked derisively. He certainly didn’t look the indecisive type, far from it.

  ‘To buy it?’ He was frowning at her now, but Livvy wasn’t deceived.

  ‘Yes, and no doubt you’re hoping to get it at less than the market value,’ she added scathingly, her lip curling. ‘I’ve met men like you before, men who are always looking to take advantage of other’s misfortunes, men who put money and materialism above everything else. You should get on well with George’s boss. He’s another man who thinks that money and power are everything, who doesn’t care about the effects his demands on the people who work for him could be having on their family lives.