At the French Baron's Bidding

by Fiona Hood-Stewart

  Telling herself not to imagine things, Natasha concentrated on the choice of dishes, deciding on potted shrimp followed by Dover sole. A bit fishy, perhaps, but two things she loved and would not be having in France. Not that she planned to abandon England; in fact, the thought of acquiring a small flat here had occurred to her.

  But not now. Later, maybe.

  Right now she needed to focus on getting the estate into good order and enjoying the flat in Paris and the villa in Eze that her grandmother had bequeathed her.

  Once they had ordered Raoul seemed more relaxed, as though he'd dealt with an important issue and could now focus on her. She noted that whatever or whoever he focused on was given his full attention. She was, Natasha realized ruefully, taking an awful lot of notice of Raoul d'Argentan's habits.

  'So. You like Harry's Bar?' he asked, slipping his hand proprietorially over hers.

  'I think it's delightful. I've never been here before. My father and I always used to go to the Savoy Grill together.'

  'Ah, an excellent choice. But without your father it is not as charming as it used to be?'

  'No. I decided not to go back. I'd rather keep the memories intact.'

  'You are right. It is always better so. Le passé is the passé and should stay that way.'

  'You haven't ever spoken to me of your past,' she remarked, discreetly removing her hand from his.

  'You mean my childhood?' He raised his brow and smiled, that same intense smile that left her swallowing and taking a quick sip of the delicious Pouilly-Montrachet that the sommelier had poured them.

  'Yes. What was it like growing up in a fortress?'

  'No different than growing up anywhere else, I imagine.'

  'Surely it must have been. Not many people have that opportunity. It's a very different life, after all.'

  'Different from what? How would I know the difference? I never lived anywhere else,' he said with a nonchalant shrug.

  'No. I don't suppose you would see the difference,' she said dryly, thinking of all the children she'd looked after in Africa and their deprived backgrounds.

  As though reading her thoughts, he responded, 'That does not mean that I am not aware that I have been very privileged to be born with—what is it you call it in English?—a silver spoon in my mouth?'

  'Something like that.'

  'My mother was very conscious of making me aware of my good fortune. That is why I have many friends in the village. People like Gaston, for instance. We went to the village school together until we were twelve.'

  'What happened after that?'

  'I went to L'Ecole des Roches. It is a prestigious boarding school. The equivalent of your Eton.'

  'And Gaston?'

  'He came too.'

  'Really?'

  'My parents insisted that we both have a similar opportunity in life. My father paid his school fees.'

  'That was nice of him.'

  'Nice? I don't know about nice. It was the right thing to do. Gaston was a far better student than I ever was. He deserved the opportunity. He is a very bright man. But apparently you know that, as you have seen quite a lot of one another, n'est-ce-pas?

  ‘I wouldn't say a lot, but some,' she demurred, realizing he was fishing and determined not to fall into the trap.

  'Don't you find him charming?' Raoul's eyes bored through her as though he were searching her soul.

  'I find him a very nice man. I think he's a good friend. Well, you should know that.'

  'Yes, he is. But there is no friendship where a woman is concerned.'

  'What do you mean?' She stiffened.

  'Merely that when a man and a woman are interested in one another, friendship often falls by the wayside.' He drank, peered at her over the rim of his glass, studying her closely.

  'Is that what you think?'

  'Yes. It is.'

  'Perhaps you should be more trusting,' she replied coldly, 'and not underestimate people. And if you're implying that Gaston made a pass at me you'd be making a big mistake. Not that it's any of your business,' she added, taking a deep breath and looking stonily at her plate. Gosh, the man had a way of getting on her wrong side.

  'Now, now, ma ch Natasha, don't get upset with me. 1 wasn't implying anything at all.' His hand strayed towards hers once more but she slipped it neatly under the table. 'Are you cross with me?' He tilted his head with a disarming smile.

  'I'm not cross, Raoul, just fed up with you always trying to manipulate people and situations.'

  'Moi? Manipulate?' He looked honestly shocked and she could have laughed out loud at his outraged expression.

  'Yes. You like to organize everyone and everything around you like pawns on a chessboard.'

  'Vraiment! That is ridiculous. I am the most tolerant of persons. Why, I am all for liberty and—'

  'Fraternity and equality?' she teased, laughing, unable to stop herself. 'Why, Raoul, don't you think it's time you did a reality check?'

  'Now you tease me,' he said, seeing her eyes filled with mirth. Why, this woman was not only lovely and sexy and delicious, she was intelligent too. The thought was somewhat discomforting. He avoided intelligent women on principle. Janine, he recalled, echoes of the past hovering, had been highly intelligent. And much good it had done him.

  'Sorry, just having a little fun at your expense.'

  'Be my guest, ma ch, I have a sense of humour.'

  'Yes, you do.' And it's one of the things I so like about you, she thought regretfully as the waiter placed the potted shrimp and buttered brown bread on the table.

  'I don't know how you eat those things,' Raoul remarked as he cut a morsel of warm foie gras.

  'It's typically English and I won't get much of it in France, I suppose.'

  'Natasha, should you desire it I will have a shipment delivered immediately to the Manoir.' He reached for her hand and raised her fingers to his lips.

  'I don't think I'm that desperate for potted shrimp,' she replied, laughing. The atmosphere, the companionship and the smooth wine were all setting her more at ease than she ever could have imagined.

  The dinner progressed in this same vein, with light banter and amusing small talk, the comings and goings of elegant fellow diners, the bustle of efficient waiters and waitresses serving one delicious dish after the other. Soon they had finished dessert and were ready for coffee.

  'How about having coffee and an after-dinner drink back in one of our suites?' he said, suddenly smiling.

  'Why not?' she replied, liking the idea.

  Moments later, as Raoul summoned the waiter for the bill, she began having second thoughts. Perhaps it wasn't a good idea. She was asking for trouble. She should avoid situations that—

  All of a sudden Natasha pulled herself up with a jolt.

  Damn all her sensible reasoning. Who was she trying to fool? She wanted the man, didn't she? Was more than halfway in love with him. And if the truth be told she knew that she would spend tonight in his arms. It would be the last time she allowed herself to do so. Forget rational thinking for tonight, she ordered herself, and enjoy it.

  If only for a while.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  As THEY stepped out of the car at the hotel the night air felt cool against her skin, and for a moment Natasha shivered. What she was about to do was unlike anything she'd ever done before. Except with Raoul, she admitted, remembering their time at the cottage. But she'd never consciously decided to make love with a man. Particularly knowing that it was not a serious relationship; that there was no commitment.

  'Are you cold?' he asked, slipping his arm protectively around her shoulders as they entered the lobby and walked up the few stairs to the elevator.

  'I'm fine,' she answered, wishing it was true. All at once her stomach felt odd and her head dizzy. The scent of him so close, the feel of his arm around her and the protective aura of his presence seemed suddenly all too much. She was foolish to have allowed herself to get into this position again. For in the end she was the one
who was going to get hurt. And the deeper she got in, the harder the fall and the more intense the pain would be.

  As the elevator climbed to their floor Raoul looked down at her, sensing the tension. There was no pretence between them tonight. They both knew what they were about to do. And he liked it that way, liked the fact that he now controlled the situation, and that they understood one another.

  Game-playing was over.

  It made matters so very much easier. Yet he felt something in her being that was not in entire accord with her decision. And, despite his desire to pay no attention, it bothered him.

  'Is something wrong?' he asked finally as they walked down the corridor to his suite.

  'No, everything's fine,' she lied.

  'I don't think you're telling the truth, Natasha. Something bothers you.' He stopped, looked at her hard. 'If you are not happy, tell me,' he ordered, in that autocratic manner that made her smile.

  'I'm fine, really.' She mustered a bright smile. After all it was she who had given the signal, she who had made up her mind. It was silly to spoil what she herself had opted for.

  'Good.' He looked her over once more, then smiled back, banishing any doubt and concentrating on slipping the card key in the lock.

  'Shall we skip coffee and have a drink?' he suggested, taking off his jacket and slipping it over the back of a chair.

  'Great.' Natasha sat down on the sofa, slipping off her pashmina, determined to feel at ease and sophisticated, as though she did this all the time. She thought fleetingly of her friend Melina, who dated different men constantly and had no problem enjoying sex with them. Why couldn't she just think of it like that? As a moment of pleasure.

  But as she watched him prepare two brandies, she had to force herself not to experience a rush of something so deep and so intense that it made her feel faint. She swallowed. How had this man managed to captivate her as she was sure he had so many others—women he then dropped as soon as he'd had his fill of them?

  Stop it.

  Angry with herself, Natasha forced another bright smile and patted the sofa invitingly.

  He didn't need to be asked twice.

  Raoul sat next to her and, after placing the brandies on the coffee table before them, wasted no time in taking her into his arms.

  Ah, she was delicious, he reflected, lowering his lips slowly to hers, nibbling them, allowing his fingers to travel down her swan-like throat, trail lightly over the curve of her small yet full breasts, determined to enjoy the extent of what she was offering. Slipping his other hand into the small of her back, Raoul worked on her zipper and then the hook of her bra. When it gave way he let out a satisfied growl, and, slipping the dress off her shoulders, drew back to view his handiwork.

  'Ravissante,' he muttered, enjoying the sight of her peaking breasts awaiting his attentions, her lips so sensual, just parted, her eyes full of expectation and that slight hesitation he found so terribly tantalizing. He leaned forward and gently pushed her back among the cushions, where she lay, hair splayed over crimson velvet. 'You are too beautiful, ch,' he murmured, lowering his lips to her right breast, taking the nipple delicately between his teeth, satisfied when he heard her quick intake of breath. Tonight he was going to love her fully, as he'd be willing to bet she'd never been loved before.

  Drawing back, he lifted a brandy snifter and, tilting it, allowed a few drops to fall on her breast. Then his tongue followed, flicking there. 'Delicious,' he murmured, reaching his fingers towards her other nipple, which he played with, using index finger, thumb and his tongue to drive her wild. He could feel her begin to writhe underneath him, feel the spiral of tension rising within her, knew she must be aching now between her thighs. And he continued slowly, patiently, determining the rhythm, allowing her no choice but to submit entirely to his whim.

  'Ahh.' Natasha let out a small cry of pleasure as his tongue and fingers worked magic. And this was just the beginning. She wasn't even fully undressed. He was just ravishing her breasts as though they alone were the pivotal point of his attention. When she could bear it no more, feeling the rush of damp heat burst between her thighs, an involuntary gasp escaped her and she clung to him, her nails digging into the back of his shoulders as though holding on for dear life, an indescribable pleasure ripping through her like a flash of hot lightning. Then, just as quickly, it eased, leaving ripples in its wake. But when she was about to sink back into the cushions she felt him slip her dress and stockings over her thighs. Soon she was lying naked before him.

  'Ah, ma Natasha,' he murmured, his dark eyes filled with an expression so intense it affected her as much as his fingers. 'Look at you, how lovely, how beautifully you give yourself.' His fingers trailed over the soft white surface of her naked thighs, temptingly close but not quite touching the spot she was dying for him to reach. It was like a delicious torture, a taunting that she wanted to beg him to end yet delighted in. Then to her utter surprise he was kneeling on the floor, and instead of his fingers he lowered his lips to her.

  Hands lacing his hair, Natasha cried out as his tongue found her, flicked her most vulnerable sensitive spot as cleverly he discovered her. Then, just as she thought this was more than she could bear, his fingers penetrated, bringing her to such unutterable completion that she shook, her whole body racked with indescribable bliss, her gratification such that all she could do was collapse, her fingers raking his hair, gasping.

  Raoul rose and, sitting back on the sofa, took her into his arms.

  'Ah, Natasha, you are so beautiful, so lovely, such a complete woman. You were made to be loved by a man who can satisfy your desires. How is it that you waited so long to fulfil them?'

  Unable to answer, she lay in his arms, basking in contentment, happy just to savour the moment and not think of anything except the delightful fulfilment she was experiencing. Never in her wildest dreams had she ever thought making love could be anything like this. Nothing, she realized, turning her face into his chest as a rush of tears came over her, could have prepared her for this.

  'Are you all right, ma ch?' he asked, stroking her hair with one hand while unbuttoning his shirt with the other.

  She nodded silently, unable to speak, too afraid that if she did the spell would break and she would wake up from this wondrous dream.

  Soon Raoul was naked too. She could feel his growing desire hard and tense against her thigh, and a new and intense stirring began. Was it possible that after all she'd just experienced she could feel the spiralling excitement quivering once again?

  As though reading her thoughts, Raoul rose and lifted her in his arms. 'Time for the real thing,' he said, smiling down at her as he entered the dimmed bedroom and laid her on the large bed, its covers turned down.

  Natasha knew it was her turn, that she should pleasure him as he had her. But Raoul didn't give her the chance. When she attempted to reach for him he removed her hand.

  'Another time,' he whispered, placing himself on top of her. Parting her thighs, he braced his hands on each side of her and in one quick deep thrust entered her.

  Again Natasha gasped, her hips reaching up to meet his. And once again he smiled down at her. 'Not so fast, mon amour. Lie back and enjoy. There is time enough for you to join me.' Then, as though by some miracle of witchcraft, he began making love to her slowly, rhythmically, determinedly, easing himself within her, seeking that crucial spot deep inside as though he knew every secret place within her. And Natasha obeyed him, lay back and allowed him to take her on a new incredible journey of discovery. But suddenly she could bear it no more and, reaching up, she pulled him down on top of her, thighs curling about his hips, crying out for him as they joined in a frenzied, perfect coupling that intensified until all at once, together, they tumbled over the edge of a ragged cliff, gasping, crying with joy as they fell, limp and satisfied, in each other's arms among the rumpled sheets.

  Several minutes passed before Raoul opened his eyes and realized he had Natasha pinned beneath him. He was finding it hard to di
gest the experience. Never in all these years and with all the women he'd been with—and God knew there had been a few—had he experienced anything quite like this. It was fantastic, but also troubling, and he sat up, withdrawing his arm and pulling the sheet over them.

  'Are you cold?' he asked, for something to say to restore normality to a situation that, had he not been a down-to-earth, sensible man, he might have believed was magical.

  'No,' she murmured, turning on her side, opening her eyes and looking at him in a way that left his already fast-beating pulse leaping.

  This was ridiculous.

  Absurd.

  Usually once he'd made love with a woman he made an excuse to get into the shower and then leave. Yet here he was, unable to stop himself from leaning down and kissing her, stroking her hair, sinking back into the pillows and surrounding her with his arms, curling up against her and holding her close. 'Go to sleep, ma mie,' he murmured, giving way to temptation and breathing in the soft, enticing scent of her hair. 'Make sweet dreams.'

  Natasha smiled sleepily into the pillow and slipped her hand over the one that was covering her breast. It felt so right, so warm, so wonderful.

  And she wished it could last for ever.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  IT WAS autumn now and a panoply of multicoloured leaves carpeted the wide stone terrace that led from the front fa of the Manoir to the lawn.

  Natasha stared out of the study window, unable to pin her thoughts down, unable to concentrate on the bills and accounts she'd had lying on the desk for several days now but which she seemed incapable of addressing.

  There had been not a word from Raoul after their return from London. Then all at once he'd phoned and said he wanted to dine with her. Knowing she'd be signing her own death warrant if she accepted, Natasha had forced herself to refuse. She'd been off-hand, almost bored on the phone, leading him to believe that she was very busy and had little interest in his company.

  But nothing could have been further from the truth. Not an hour passed without something sparking her memory, reminding her of the passion they'd shared, making her want to rush to the phone and say that she'd changed her mind. When he'd phoned her again, two days later, and asked if she'd like to join him in Paris for the Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe race at Longchamps, she'd wavered. Surely it wouldn't be so bad just to see him? After all, it was a day event, with other people. Surely she could handle that?