Midnight Temptation

by Nancy Gideon

  “Well, well,” rumbled one of the others. “What have we here? Spirited little baggage, aren’t you?” And he struck her a hard, will-sapping blow to the cheek. Nicole went down upon the puddled stones and her attacker was quick to straddle her with his knees.

  The third man was distracted by a soft whistle from behind him. He turned to take a powerfully flung punch full in the face. He fell, howling, his hands cradling a crushed nose.

  “Hey, poltron,” the newcomer taunted as the remaining man looked up from where he had Nicole pinned to the wet ground. “Can you only beat up on women, or is it just that you fear to face another man?”

  A glitter of steel flashed in the dimness as the villain rose up and stepped away from his intended victim. “I enjoy a good fight as much as a quick fondle. Let’s get the first over so I can get back to the second.”

  “Bâtard!” Nicole hissed. She surged up with startling speed to lay open her assailant’s cheek with the gouge of her nails. He grunted in pain and hit her again, knocking her against one of the damp brick walls. Then he turned his attention and his knife back to the interloper.

  “You should not have interfered,” he snarled. “Now you will die.”

  “I’ve seen enough death. Run away or I’ll make you wish for it,” came the low, confident drawl.

  The bully hesitated as the figure approached. The man cast a huge shadow along the alleyway. His walk was no arrogant strut but rather an easy swing of powerful grace. A man who knew how to handle himself in a dangerous spot. A man cowards didn’t provoke. And all three of the would-be rapists were devout cowards.

  Spitting a curse, the bully sheathed his knife and went to drag his docile friends to their feet. The three of them quickly disappeared into the misty nether regions of the premature darkness.

  “Mademoiselle, are you all right?”

  A soft sound was uttered in response from the woman pressed back against the wall as she faced him as another threat. It wasn’t a whimper but rather a low rippling sound, almost like a growl. A trick of light made her eyes gleam golden and her rescuer paused, momentarily taken off guard.

  “Mademoiselle, remember me? From this morning. Camille’s friend. I mean you no harm.”

  He heard her breath exhale in a fragile sob and the alarm that had frozen him to the spot abated. For just a second, he could have sworn she was more dangerous than the three roving cutthroats put together.

  Abruptly, she seemed to crumple, sliding down the surface of wet brick with a weak bonelessness. He stepped up quickly to catch her in mid-swoon. She was soaked clear through and shivering helplessly. Surely the threatening pose of moments before had been an illusion, for she was all frail female now.

  “Who are you?” she whispered feebly as he wrapped her up inside the warmth of his coat. She burrowed in against his body heat with an instinctive urgency, making him disturbingly aware of her feminine form through the sodden garments.

  “My name is Marchand. I followed you. A good thing, eh?”

  “A good thing,” she agreed just before pooling into a faint within the circle of his arms.

  She was no tigress, only a wet kitten. Shaking his head to scatter the image of her all bristled, with feral eyes glittering, Marchand lifted her easily and began carrying her slight burden back with him.

  THE TANTALIZING scent of warming stew coaxed Nicole back to awareness. And instantly, she was wary, uncertain of where she was or of how she’d gotten there. She slit her eyes open to observe her surroundings without betraying the fact that she was awake. It took a moment, but finally she recognized the large one-room flat where she lay upon a corner pallet, and the man tending the stove. Marchand. She remembered the name, then the circumstance, and her gasp of recall brought him about to face her.

  “Ah, there you are at last. How do you feel, ma’m’selle?”

  She didn’t answer right away, for just then, she discovered she was stark naked beneath the woolen blanket draped over her. Her fingers clenched in the stiff folds of the covering, drawing it up beneath her chin as she struggled into a seated position. She saw her clothes to the intimate last detail spread out near the stove’s heat. Where he’d put them. After taking them off her.

  He noticed the direction of her stare and the depth of her blushes, treating both with a casual shrug. “You were drenched to the skin. I feared you would take a chill and that could have been fatal. No one has ever perished from embarrassment, to my knowledge. Your things are almost dry and this meal is ready. You look as though you could stand a little something sticking to your ribs.”

  Nicole sat unmoving in a moment of confused emotion. She was grateful for his intervention. She was so hungry, she would have eaten scraps off the floor. She knew he was right in removing her wet things, yet the thought of a stranger seeing her . . . touching her. Virginal horror clashed with indignation. And then, behind all those proper feelings seeped a seditious disappointment that she’d been unconscious at the time. She hadn’t expected the first man to undress her to be someone she didn’t know or care about. And what had he meant by his last remark?

  Had he found the sight of her displeasing?

  And that, quite amazingly, bothered her more than the idea of him disrobing her.

  Just then, he placed a bowl upon the table and gestured her toward it with a spoon. Modesty couldn’t overcome the savory smell of whatever was in that bowl. She bundled the blanket about her and dragged it to the table, making sure it was tucked in at all the appropriate places as she angled into a chair.

  “Eat,” he instructed. She didn’t wait to be told twice. Breaking off a chunk of crusty bread, she turned her attention to the thick stock and sparse amount of meat and vegetables.

  Even famished, she ate with proper manners, Marchand mused as he watched her. Who was she? A beauty, certainly, even half drenched. A woman of the streets? He was beginning to think not. A woman of experience would have viewed her natural state as an opportunity, not with maidenly dismay. Her clothes, though ruined by the mud and rain, were of fine, expensive cloth and made-to-order tailoring. He knew of no grisettes who could afford such garments, let alone have the good taste to don them. But what was a young woman of quality doing wandering the streets without enough money to buy bread?

  He turned one of the chairs around so he could straddle the seat and lean his forearms upon the high back. She glanced up then, aware of and perhaps nervous under his intense regard. A beauty, certainly! Her features were marvelously cut, like the strong, elegant lines of the crystal his family had once owned. And her eyes—Mon Dieu!—-eyes a man could sink into like the crisp new green of spring grasses. Her lips, which were pursed now with uncertainty, were full and ripe, too enticing for the innocence the rest of her face projected. He was hardly a stranger to the charms of women, but aligning her winsome loveliness with the perfection of form he’d already admired was a combination a man was not meant to ignore. And a healthy stir of attraction quickened behind his curiosity. Questions first, he told himself. That was the sensible way to approach things.

  His appreciative study narrowed in focus, and he frowned. “I thought you had cut your face.”

  Her fingertips lifted to one cheekbone. The same one he was sure had been bruised and torn by her attacker’s cruelty. But he must have been mistaken. Her skin was smooth and flawless now.

  “Perhaps just a trick of the light,” she offered, feeling the spot as if she, too, was surprised.

  “Perhaps,” he agreed. Then, because he could see her growing agitated, he changed the subject. “How did you come to know Camille?”

  Her gaze lowered, but not before he saw the return of distress his words evoked. “We became friends while he was painting near—near the school I attended.”

  “And he brought you to Paris with him from this school you attended?”

  “Y-yes. I hav
e no family, you see, and my funds had run out. Camille was going to let me model for him.”

  “If you are going to lie to me, do a better job, or simply tell me it’s none of my business.”

  She glanced up in surprise, her wide-eyed gaze confirming his suspicions. “Why would you think I’m lying to you?”

  “Because he would never use you for a model.”

  “And why not? How would you know? You are no artist.”

  A small smile moved the corners of his mouth. “And why would you think that, ma’m’selle?”

  “You don’t have the hands of an artist.”

  He held them out to examine them; big, broad-fingered hands.

  Hands that had touched her skin. Nicole swallowed convulsively, ashamed of her own guilty pleasure.

  “And what’s wrong with my hands?”

  “They are too clean. No traces of paint in the creases or beneath the nails.”

  He chuckled softly. “Very observant of you. No, I am no artist.”

  “Then how can you be so certain Camille would not want me for a subject? Do you think I am too—unexceptional?”

  “Oh, no. Hardly that. I can imagine you would make quite a fetching picture garbed as you are now.” Then he chuckled again as she tugged up the edges of the blanket. “But you see, Camille never painted portraits, only landscapes. If you were such a good friend of his, you would have known that, wouldn’t you? Now, shall we try again? Why did he bring you to Paris?”

  She met his direct stare without blinking. “That’s none of your business.”

  He laughed, a full-bodied sound of enjoyment. A sound that disturbed an odd quiver along the surface of her exposed flesh. Then he sat and simply looked at her, an unnerving and unswerving stare as if he was certain he could learn all her secrets if he looked long and hard enough. She didn’t want to give him the opportunity.

  “My things should be dry by now.”

  He rose up at the same time she did. He was bigger than she remembered; not terribly tall but very strong and developed through the body. Not an artist. Something in his steady gaze shifted subtly in purpose and she could tell as his study took in the drape of the blanket that he was remembering what she looked like beneath it. She moved quickly to snatch up her garments, not caring that they were still slightly damp. They’d dry quick enough upon the heat of her flushed skin.

  A glance about the room told her there was no private place in which to dress.

  “We aren’t awfully modest here,” he told her with a silkiness of tone as potent as a caress. And he waited as if expecting her to garb herself right in front of him. Her circumstances sank in then, deep and dire. She was alone in Paris, alone with this powerful stranger within his flat with little more than a thin blanket between them.

  “I’d better get dressed and go.”’

  “It’s still raining out,” he mentioned casually.

  “Then I’ll get wet.”

  “There’s no need for that. You can stay here.” And he moved a step closer, his bold body posture making his intention very clear. Still, she felt none of the disgust that had roiled during her earlier propositioning or attempted violation. His offer woke a strange quiver of anticipation. She stood motionless as his fingertips grazed her cheek and he murmured with smoky appreciation, “You are very beautiful. I think we can work out a beneficial arrangement where you need not get wet or be cold again.”

  Shaking off the strong enticement of his words, she glided backward, out from under his seducing touch. “I don’t think I care to pay in the manner you have in mind.”

  And there it was again, that cold golden glitter in eyes that had moments before been pools of vulnerability. A warning that she was not as helpless as she appeared.

  Marchand wasn’t slighted by her refusal. In fact, he’d never planned on making such an offer. He had no use for the kind of women who lived off a man’s passions. It turned a private thing into practical purpose. But something about the thought of her wandering the streets of Paris led him to extend his protection. A crazy, impulsive thing to do, but once he’d said the words, he knew how deeply he meant them. The idea of having a woman like this one was enough to alter any man’s convictions. The idea of having her nightly was enough to alter his breathing pattern.

  But she’d said no, and his respect came grudgingly.

  “My luck that the first woman I bring home has morals.”

  Before Nicole could think of a proper retort, the door to the flat opened and they were confronted by a trio of startled faces. Clad in a blanket, with her clothes clutched to her chest, Nicole retreated behind Marchand’s solid figure though there could be no escaping what the man and two women were thinking as they beheld her.

  Especially when the man drawled with obvious humor, “Marchand, mon frère, what have you been hiding from us?”

  “I guess it is no secret any longer.” He turned and wound his arm about Nicole’s rigid shoulders, drawing her up tight against his side. “I’ve taken your advice and found myself a lover.”

  Chapter Four

  WHEN IT WAS evident that none were as surprised by the news as the lady in question, Marchand hugged Nicole up hard enough to drive any protest from her lungs. And as he nuzzled her ear, his mouth moved against it in a soft whisper.

  “Say nothing. Trust me.”

  Trust him? Nicole didn’t even know him!

  But when he straightened to regard her with a superbly pretended amorous affection, she didn’t dispute it.

  “My, my, this is sudden,” remarked the taller, darker woman. Her black eyes were red-rimmed by recent tears. She assessed Nicole in an incremental judgment and apparently, was not pleased with the whole.

  “That is the way of passion, is it not?” was Marchand’s comment.

  She made a noncommittal murmur.

  The other woman, a petite young redhead, also had the swollen-eyed look of fresh weeping and Nicole deduced that these were friends of Camille’s and that she was intruding upon a private moment of mourning. But she was allowed no chance at a dignified retreat, as the redhead gave a somewhat strained smile and scolded, “Marchand, your manners. Introduce us to your amoureux.”

  Marchand looked momentarily blank, then purred down with an insulting nonchalance, “Forgive me, mon petit chou, but in the heat of things, I seem to have forgotten to ask your name.”

  “It is Nicole,” she hissed through gritted teeth.

  Without appearing the least bit disgraced, he smiled and announced smoothly, “Nicole, cher, may I present my friends Bebe Soulie and Musette Mercier and my brother, Frederic LaValois.”

  “Enchantée,” Frederic murmured with a polite bow, but the black-haired Bebe was not as charmed.

  “Is she staying here?”

  “I’ve asked her to,” Marchand drawled. “Have you a problem with that, Bebe?”

  The challenge was immediate and, Nicole sensed, nothing new. Then the statuesque beauty snapped, “Do what you like, Marchand.”

  He smiled thinly. “I usually do. Besides, it could be to our good fortune if she knows how to cook and clean. Something the two of you care little about.”

  “Hah!” the little redhead laughed. She put her arms around Marchand’s brother. “Frederic does not love me for my cooking.”

  Marchand’s dry remark of “I should hope not,” had her making a face at him.

  “I should like to get dressed,” Nicole whispered in an urgent undervoice.

  His dark gaze swept over her. “Yes, of course.” And with his palm against the small of her back, he guided her away from the others. Gripping a curtain she hadn’t noticed before, he drew it across the corner of the room to block off a section of privacy. Except it wasn’t private, with him standing next to her.

  “I can dress myself, m’sieu
r.”

  “I’m sure you can.” He made no effort to move. So she made no attempt to alter the concealing drape of the sheet.

  “Why did you say that?”

  “What?”

  “That we are lovers. They will think we’re sleeping together!”

  “What do you care what they think. You don’t know them. And besides, if you expect to stay here, you will be sleeping with me. You have no choice. It is your choice, of course, whether or not we will be doing anything more than sleeping.”

  She sucked a shocked breath. Shocked not because he would mention such a scandalous thing but because she was thinking about staying here with him. And, after a brief summation of his handsome face and form, about what it would be like to do more than just sleep. Morality made her stammer, “I think I’d just better go.”

  “Where? Back to where I found you? Have you any money? Have you any other friends here in Paris? Or was there just Camille?”

  Looking up at him in helpless dismay, she was horrified to feel her eyes well up with tears. He stroked one shimmering droplet away with the pad of his thumb and didn’t mock her desperation.

  “I thought as much.” His tone was low and consoling; just the intonation a frightened young girl in her position longed to hear. “You will be safe here. You can consider us your friends.”

  “Why?” That had troubled her since he’d stepped into that dark alleyway. “Why did you come after me?”

  “Because I was not there to save Camille.”

  She considered his words a moment, then nodded. But that only answered one of her questions. “Why did you tell the others that we were—intimate? Why not tell them the truth?”

  “You haven’t told that to me yet.” Then he sobered. “Bebe fancied herself Camille’s fiancée. To have you arrive at such a time and present yourself as his . . . friend, would have hurt her unnecessarily. She is a vain and foolish creature, but I care for her and I would not have her hurt by whatever you and Camille had together.”