At the French Baron's Bidding

by Fiona Hood-Stewart

  He let out a long huff and shook his head. Women were, as he'd remarked only last night after Clothilde's little display of hysterics, incomprehensible. But that didn't help him.

  As the morning drifted by he felt increasingly frustrated that there was no phone call, no indication at all of Natasha's whereabouts. By midday he was impatiently ringing the Manoir, where he met with another negative.

  So she hadn't gone back there.

  Had she returned to England? he wondered, glancing at his watch, aware that he was expected at the Relais Plaza in half an hour, for lunch with his cousin Madeleine.

  Precisely on time, he entered the restaurant and was greeted by name by the head waiter, who immediately showed him to a table by the window on the banquette. Two minutes later Madeleine, a chic, attractive Parisian woman of his own age, entered the restaurant and he rose to greet her. Soon they were settled and sipping champagne.

  'So, mon vieux, how is life treating you?' she asked, sending him an amused smile across the table.

  'Not too bad. That is to say, did you hear of the death of Marie Louise de Saugure?'

  'Actually, yes. I read the obituary. I meant to come up for the funeral but I got caught up with Frederic's exams. Tell me about it.'

  'Oh, very impressive—old retainers lining the road as the hearse went by. Just as it should have been.'

  'God, you're so medieval,' she remarked, shaking her head and sighing gustily. 'Just like our ancestor Regis, I'll bet, and just as wicked.'

  'That is pure speculation.'

  'Is it? I wonder if his lover thought so,' she mused.

  'The beautiful Natasha?'

  'Yes. I've always wondered why those two never married. It always struck me as so silly. All because of false pride. Men are so stupid.'

  'What rubbish you talk, Madeleine.'

  'Maybe, but the legend has always intrigued me. She was very beautiful, if the portrait at the Manoir is anything to go by. She should have used that to snare him.'

  'What an idea. He would never have conceded.' Raoul suddenly remembered the portrait and his eyes narrowed. Damned if it didn't resemble the present Natasha.

  'I shall miss Marie Louise and her acerbic remarks,' Madeleine said with a sigh as she glanced through the menu. 'She was a wonderful old lady—although I remember when I used to quake in my shoes whenever we went over to the Manoir when we were children. Now, tell me, who inherits?'

  'An English granddaughter,' he replied blandly. 'How about some foie gras?'

  'You don't say? I'd forgotten the Comtesse had a son she disinherited.'

  'She did. He was considerably older than us, which is why we don't remember him well. He married unsuitably. An Englishwoman of no consequence. The Comtesse was very f.'

  'And cut him out of her will?'

  'Exactly. He was disinherited. But apparently she changed her mind shortly before her death. And now the granddaughter, who never even knew her and arrived for a visit only hours before her death, has inherited everything.'

  'Well. What a story. And what is her name?'

  'Natasha.'

  'Excuse me?' Madeleine put her glass down with a snap and their eyes met. 'You can't be serious. Natasha? But surely no one in that family would adopt the name after— well, after what happened.'

  'I wouldn't have thought so.' He shrugged. 'Either Hubert de Saugure had a warped sense of humour or he wanted to thwart his mother.'

  'Natasha,' Madeleine mused thoughtfully. 'I've often wondered why she did what she did, damaging both our families so completely. She must have loved Regis very much. It all happened so long ago, yet the shadow of her ghost seems to linger, doesn't it?' 'Frankly, I've never considered the matter.'

  'How typical. Still, it has to be more than a coincidence.'

  'A surprising course of events, I admit, but don't let's stretch our imaginations too far.'

  'Tell me, what's she like, this English girl?' Madeleine asked, intrigued. 'How old is she?'

  'Young. About twenty-three. She is an interesting young woman who has spent the past few years in Africa doing humanitarian work.'

  'Goodness.' Madeleine's brows flickered. 'That sounds dreadfully righteous.'

  'Not at all. I get the impression of an intelligent and sensitive human being.' He couldn't explain why, but it annoyed him that his cousin should dismiss Natasha in such a callous manner.

  'Oh? So you've talked to her in depth?' A mischievous smile similar to his own curved Madeleine's expressive lips. 'Already smitten, mon cousin?'

  'Rubbish. But I have had occasion to speak with her, yes. Naturally I went over there to offer my condolences.'

  'Naturally.' She nodded, her flashing eyes belying her words. 'Raoul, ch, this is me you're talking to—your old devoted playmate who knows you like the back of her hand. And all I have to say is that it would be the first time in history that you went to see any young woman unless she was minimally attractive.'

  'Really, Madeleine,' he murmured, his lips quivering, 'you underestimate me.'

  'So I presume,' she continued, ignoring him, 'that your new neighbour is at the very least gorgeous?' She quirked a brow and waited.

  'She's attractive,' he conceded, reluctant to say more lest Madeleine make the wrong assumptions. 'Frankly, at first I thought she was a dowd. But she seems to have had some sort of make-over. Quite surprising, really. Now, why don't we order?' he said picking up the menu and signalling the waiter. 'I hear the filets de sole meuni are excellent today.'

  Madeleine opened her mouth, about to say more, then decided against it. Something told her that perhaps she shouldn't meddle this time. So with good grace she picked up the menu and made her choice.

  * * *

  When by that evening Raoul still had no news of Natasha— and to his annoyance found it hard to concentrate on any-thing else—he decided he must take measures to ensure his comfort. He was damned if he was going to let her disturb his equilibrium in this manner. He wanted her—wanted to bed her. And that was exactly what he intended to do.

  It was only next morning when he woke up that he remembered Marie Louise's villa in Eze and sat up in bed with a start. 'Voilà,' he exclaimed, snapping his fingers. 'I'll bet that's where she's hiding out.

  Minutes later he was up and packing an overnight bag. After a quick croissant and café au lait at the brasserie on the corner of his street he jumped in the car and headed south on the autoroute. It would take several hours to reach Eze, but he wasn't in a hurry. He had advised his office that he would be absent for a couple of days, and only to contact him on his mobile in case of an emergency.

  Raoul loved a good chase, and this was certainly turning into one. A better one than he'd been offered in a while. Of late his women seemed to comply all too boringly with his every wish. And thus they bored him.

  But Natasha certainly didn't do that.

  She felt deliciously calm here at the Villa Le Caprice, Natasha decided, letting out a long, delighted sigh. Even though it wasn't that hot as yet, she found lying by the pool relaxing, reading or simply thinking about the future, an ideal occupation. It allowed her to put into perspective everything that lay before her. She must, she realized, find out more about her family's history. It intrigued her now. As though part of her had been missing all these years. She particularly wanted to learn the tale of Regis d'Argentan and how he was connected to the Saugures. There appeared to be a mystery connected to him and her family, and she had every intention of finding out what that mystery was. She wished now that instead of letting herself go all gooey in Raoul's arms she'd spent the time more productively, finding out about her ancestry.

  The thought of Raoul—who, if she was truthful, was never far from her mind—made her swallow. What a good thing she'd taken the decision to leave Paris. Thank God she was sensible at heart. Feeling a slight sense of pride at having exercised self-control, despite the longing images that flashed regularly before her at the mere thought of him, Natasha decided that today she would wa
nder further afield. Her grandmother had a wonderful 1960s convertible Rolls, and she couldn't resist the temptation of taking it out for a spin. Madame Bursin and her husband Jacques were everything that was kind and helpful, and the car had been taken to the garage to make sure it was in excellent working order. Now she couldn't wait.

  The day was perfect, with a blue cloudless sky and sparkling sea below. Having donned a pair of white capri pants and a pretty matching top, Natasha put on her sunglasses and tied back her hair, feeling positively like a fifties movie star. Tossing her large handbag on the passenger seat, she was about to get into the vehicle when she heard the rumble of an engine.

  Standing up straighter, she stiffened. Surely it couldn't be him. Yet there he was, cruising up her drive in that damn sports car of his, as cool as you please. She should have left orders not to let him in. But, she realized, as the vehicle drew up and Jacques hastened towards it, he probably had this lot under his thumb as well.

  Knowing she could not make a scene in front of the servants, Natasha pulled herself together and tried to look dignified.

  'Well,' she remarked, ignoring her racing pulse once he'd exited the car, 'what are you doing here?' She hoped to God she looked more poised and sophisticated than she felt.

  'I think you know exactly why I'm here,' he answered in a low husky voice as he leaned over to peck her cheek, leaving her no option but to submit to this form of address.

  The attractive sight of him dressed in designer trousers, a loose sports shirt and loafers with a navy jersey casually thrown over his shoulders, had not escaped her, and she swallowed bravely, determined not to let him faze her.

  'I can't think what can have brought you here,' she replied in what she hoped was a nonchalant tone. 'In fact, you're very lucky to have caught me as I was about to go for a spin.'

  'But please don't let me stop you,' he insisted, stepping around the car and opening the door for her. 'It will be my pleasure to be your guide.'

  'I wasn't aware I needed one.'

  'Oh, but surely, ma ch, you don't imagine I would abandon you. It would be too callous of me to allow a young woman on her own—the granddaughter of an old family friend, I might add—to venture alone onto the Riviera without my assistance.' He demurred, eyes sparkling with mischief, as he held the door.

  'Oh, do stop talking such rot and rubbish,' she exclaimed, caught between amusement and irritation and the chills coursing down her spine. 'I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, I'll have you know. I don't need a chaperon.'

  'Ah, but that is where you are wrong. All women need a chaperon—especially beautiful wealthy ones. There are always unscrupulous young men out to make a buck.' He tut-tutted, grinned devastatingly at her and held out his hand. 'Let's call a truce, fair Natasha. I shan't bother you, merely try to be a friend? Okay? You agree?' He smiled winningly now, leaving her no alternative but to shrug and slide behind the wheel with as much grace as she could muster.

  CHAPTER SIX

  IT WAS impossible not to melt, impossible not to surrender to the enchantment of enjoying the South of France with such a handsome, suave escort.

  Raoul knew everything and everybody. They were received in restaurants by name, accompanied by obsequious head waiters to the best tables, and attended to in the best possible manner. How, Natasha wondered dolefully as they returned on their third evening to the villa, could she simply go back to her old life and pick up where she'd left off?

  And all at once she knew that it would be impossible.

  Sad as it made her feel, she could not go back to Africa.

  That part of her life was over and a new chapter was opening before her. For a moment she glanced through the shadows at Raoul, then concentrated on driving up the Corniche back to the villa. He had not, she reflected ruefully, so much as tried to kiss her again. In fact, he'd been so platonic she almost wished he would. Somehow staving him off was a lot more satisfying than wondering why he hadn't made the attempt.

  As she drew the car up on the gravel Raoul leaned coolly back into the corner of the passenger seat and watched her. He would let her stew just a little longer, he decided, an amused smile curving his lips through the darkness. She was delightful, his little English miss, but he wanted her on his terms: wanting him. To the point where he could twist his little finger and put into practice some of the many fantasies that had crossed his mind during the past few nights. If truth be told, sleep had come with difficulty. It was not until the early hours that Raoul had encountered peace on his pillow. Now he had no desire for peace. Rather, he wished he could give vent to the strong longing coursing through him. But it was too soon. He needed her to give him that subtle, undefined signal which meant he'd won.

  And to his utter annoyance it hadn't come.

  When was the last time he'd waited three whole days for a woman to submit to his advances? He couldn't even recall. It was absurd, ridiculous, and he was very nearly losing his patience. But wait he must, or she would have the upper hand. And that, he realized ruefully, he couldn't allow. And then, too, there was something about Natasha herself that stopped him from taking the action he would normally—something he had rarely encountered before in a woman. Not obstinacy, not petulance or selfish desire, which were traits of many of the women he'd dated, but rather a sense of purpose to her life that he found intriguing. They had spent several hours talking about the future, about her plans. He'd sensed her initial reluctance to stay in France, her doubts about whether she should go back to her job or stay in what would be a comfortable and easy lifestyle. And knew from the start that she was seeking something more.

  A woman with a purpose in her life.

  This was definitely a new breed of female he had rarely encountered. Oh, he'd met enough ambition in his time to recognize that—the calculating style of women determined to claw their way up the social or professional ladder at whatever cost. But Natasha had no such intention. It was as though she was seeking a deeper motivation to make her decision. As though she needed to know what her purpose in France was before she could choose it.

  Raoul opened the car door and got out. He felt strangely confused, annoyed with himself and suddenly with her for placing him on this new untrodden territory. He didn't like being on unfamiliar terrain. Perhaps it was time to leave, shake off this strange spell Natasha had cast over him and return to Paris.

  He watched as she stepped out of the vehicle, then together they made their way back into the silent villa and moved towards the terrace.

  'A nightcap?' he suggested casually.

  'No, thanks.' She shook her head and headed towards the French windows and the terrace. The moon shone full and bright, over the shimmering waters of the Mediterranean; the lights of the gin palaces twinkled merrily. Natasha sat on the balustrade and gazed down at them, trying to sum up the past few days, to escape the awareness of Raoul's physical presence: so close, so tempting, so alluring. She was dying to give in to him, to submit to his intense male allure, to all the feelings throbbing inside her. But something stopped her.

  She looked up as he came to join her, a snifter of cognac in his hand.

  'I shall be returning to Paris tomorrow,' he remarked in that languid tone that left her no clue as to what he felt. She felt a stab and swallowed. How was it possible that in these few short days she'd grown so used to his presence?

  'Of course,' she replied, hiding her dismay. What would it be like to be here alone? It was almost as if France and Raoul had become synonymous. Which was ridiculous, she chided herself. She simply must pull herself together and face reality. She had decisions to make. Life-changing decisions. And she needed all her wits about her to make them.

  'You don't mind?' He quirked an eyebrow in her direction. 'I had the impression we were getting on rather well, you and I.' He poised a loafered foot on the balustrade and swirled his cognac thoughtfully.

  'I think we've spent a very pleasant time,' she said, her voice non-committal lest she betray any feelings.
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  'A pleasant time?' he remarked, letting out a laugh. 'That is so cool, so very British. I would rather say that we have spent des moments formidables. But then I'm French.' He looked down at her speculatively. 'Are you sure this was nothing but a pleasant time, Natasha? Are you really able to deny the intense attraction we feel for one another?'

  'I—' She clasped her hands, confused by his direct attack.

  'You what?' He slipped onto the balustrade next to her, his proximity leaving her in intense turmoil.

  'I don't know. I just think, well, that—'

  'Stop thinking. One of your problems is that you think too much, ma ch. This is about feeling, not thinking.'

  The glass was abandoned and his arms closed about her as he drew her up to standing position and folded her in them. 'Stop thinking, Natasha,' he growled into her ear. 'Just feel—feel everything I have to give you.'

  She stood stiffly for a moment, then, unable to resist, gave way as his mouth found hers. The kiss was long and sensuous, his tongue investigating her mouth slowly while his hand slipped down her back and cupped her bottom, pressing her against him firmly, so that she felt the hardness of him pressed temptingly against her. Her breasts felt suddenly taut and aching, that strange new tingle throbbing between her thighs so strong and so compelling that instinctively she pressed herself harder against him. Then Raoul's expert fingers trailed down her throat and reached the tip of her aching breast. Natasha threw her head back and let out a sigh of contentment as his fingers grazed the taut peaks, taunting her tender nipples, before reaching further down, down, until he slipped beneath her panties and penetrated the warm, damp softness.

  'No, Raoul, please,' she begged weakly. She mustn't let him do this—could not let herself be dominated by this man and her own uncontrolled desire. But she had never experienced anything like it before. She was swooped into a new, terrifying landscape that both frightened and enthralled her.