African Enchantment

by Andrea Barry

  "The day we met, you almost ran me over. If nothing else, you're a reckless driver, Count de Vincent, and I believe there is much more."

  "Be that as it may, Patrice, if memory serves me correctly, I was just coming to a stop in front of the International Bank and it was you who were in such a rush. You didn't look where you were going." He gave Patricia a quizzical look.

  This man was maddening. He always seemed to be right! When she stopped to think about it, Patricia could see he was closer to the truth than she had been in describing their first meeting. He had practically saved her life by stopping his car and had prevented her from falling when she broke her heel. Yet realizing all this only made her more uncomfortable and annoyed at the disconcertingly attractive man in the seat next to her.

  "Am I to surmise you have never desired a man?" He returned head-on to the very subject she wished to drop.

  Patricia felt her cheeks turn scarlet. She took several deep breaths and said nothing.

  "Are you telling me that you are a virgin?" He probed relentlessly.

  Her upper lip began to glisten with tiny drop-lets of moisture as she strove to contain her anger. The man deserved to be slapped! She had told him nothing—what devilish cleverness had led him to conclude she was a virgin? Was he a mind reader? How had he gotten her into this situation?

  Patricia considered herself a reticent person by nature and felt that her sex life—or lack of it—was her own business. It was a private choice. She was glad she hadn't succumbed to the blandishments of men—not unlike this attractive Frenchman—who were only after a woman's body.

  "I'm not telling you anything, Count de Vincent," she snapped. "You're free to assume anything you wish. As far as my personal life is concerned, you may speculate on it from here to Africa."

  "Well, then," he continued, unperturbed by her outburst. "I shall conclude that you are une vierge pure. I hope, for your sake, that when you decide to give yourself to the man of your choice, it will be someone deserving." His eyes turned soft under his long, thick lashes, as he added slowly, choosing his words carefully, "And you will be a rare prize for the man who truly loves you."

  "Love is a strange word for you to use, Count Armand." An ironic smile flickered on Patricia's lips. "It is wasted on men like you. To you it is a game—a grand chase, and then what?"

  "My beautiful tigresse, if you really wish to know the answer, you'll be around to find out for yourself."

  "Don't bank on it," she parried.

  Despite the antagonism his words aroused in her, Patricia was captivated by this man. She wasn't used to being outwitted. He was challenging, the sparring they engaged in was exciting.

  "Tell me, have you always been afraid of men, or is it that you've been stung?"

  It was none of his business what her past had been or that she had been disappointed in love.

  She made her voice direct and crisp, keeping her gaze slightly away from his eyes. "Has it occurred to you that I prefer making my own selections as to the men I keep company with? I would never choose to associate myself with a man who has a reputation as a playboy."

  "You must believe what you've read in the papers—how naive of you! Relax, beautiful lady." His tone suddenly changed and his eyes darkened. "Put your mind at ease. I have never been known to pursue a reluctant virgin, or a woman who describes herself as cold and uninterested in men. Life is too short, ma chère, to pursue the unattainable."

  "Good," Patricia flashed. "I'm glad we understand each other."

  A silence followed her words, as the plane shook with the turbulence of the storm they were flying through. The storm seemed to have entered their compartment as well, setting Patricia's nerves on edge.

  It is the presence of this maddening roué that makes me jittery, she reflected. She was used to flying in all kinds of weather and had always felt safe and relaxed. Yet, there was no question in her mind that it was the nearness of her unwarranted companion which was causing her present turmoil.

  Patricia doubted the sincerity of his last words. She felt neither comfortable nor safe with the notorious Count at her side. He was obviously a master in the art of seduction and she found him extremely handsome. He repulsed her and at the same time attracted her as no other man ever had.

  Chapter Three

  The Count fell silent as Patricia closed her eyes briefly, trying to regain her serenity—a serenity he had shattered when he appeared, literally, out of the blue. Meeting him in New York accidentally was bad enough; but this was even worse. The first class lounge, meant to be a luxury, had become a prison.

  She looked overhead, hoping the FASTEN YOUR SEAT BELTS instructions would be turned off. But no such luck. She gazed out the small window in front of her and stared into blackness. No matter how hard she tried to relax, using her yoga and dance training to blank out her thoughts, she felt the magnetic nearness of the tall dark man beside her.

  Armand de Vincent—one of the most eligible bachelors on the international scene—Patricia remembered reading about him in the movie magazine. So what! Now that Patricia had met him, her only wish was to be rid of him. Her cheeks and neck burned and her blood ran through her veins like a wild river as she reviewed some of his earlier supercilious remarks.

  "Are you telling me you are a virgin?" He had dared to assume. "Have you never loved a man?"

  Patricia couldn't help but wonder, as she watched him casually stretch his long legs, if he were so inquisitive about all the women he met. Asking personal questions and using the answers to lay his trap! She was still seething inwardly about the remarks he had made on the subject of her attitude toward men—making fun of her selectivity! Her palms became damp as she reflected on the mocking way in which he had accused her of being afraid of her own passions. How ridiculous! It was true that she was a virgin, but she most certainly had been in love. When her fiancé had jilted her for another girl, she'd made up her mind that she would never let herself be hurt like that again. She'd put all her energies into her work. That had been several years ago and she had no reason to regret her decision.

  Patricia wasn't ready to change her status quo for the sake of some meaningless fling. Certainly nobody like this Casanova would be given the slightest chance to upset her sense of well-being. She shuddered again as she gave him a sideways glance, catching sight of his aristocratic face. Her gaze traveled over his sensuous full lips that had kissed her fingers, his violet-blue eyes that seemed expert in knowing how to set all of her senses on fire, igniting the most hidden parts of her body; and she shivered.

  Oh, why did she have to run into this awful predator again!

  Patricia prayed silently that the storm the plane was flying through would pass; then she could leave the disturbing presence of this handsome man. Mercifully the stewardess appeared, holding a tray of hors d'oeuvres in her hand. Patricia instinctively started unfastening her seatbelt to escape to the privacy of her own seat below.

  "Please don't get up," the stewardess said pleasantly. "The SEAT BELT sign hasn't been turned off. We're not certain we are out of the turbulence." She smiled in a friendly fashion. "I hope you're not uncomfortable here in the lounge."

  "No, of course not. It's very nice here," Patricia said, resolving not to give the man beside her any further indication that he disturbed her. She would be pleasant and polite to him.

  The stewardess placed the tray of assorted canapés on a small table she pulled out of the wall in front of Patricia and the Count.

  "Would you care for some champagne?" she inquired.

  The Count crossed his legs and Patricia could see the muscles of his strong calves ripple under the softly woven fabric of his slacks. He turned to the stewardess and said, "That would be nice. I'm sure Mademoiselle Wells would also like some."

  The stewardess poured the bubbly liquid into tall, hollow-stemmed glasses she had placed on the table. The Count picked up his glass and raised it slowly to sniff the wine's aroma.

  "A Moët & Chandon," he sa
id approvingly. "A young, sweet champagne. I think you will like it, Patrice." When they were alone again he asked, "Do you believe in Fate?"

  "I… I don't know what you mean." Patricia flushed, not knowing why.

  "It seems Fate has brought us together, here, on this plane, as it did that rainy morning in New York."

  Patricia was at a loss for words. What is this cunning Lothario insinuating?

  "May I drink a toast?" he continued. His deep blue eyes held a fathomless look.

  "Of course," Patricia replied lightly. Remembering her new strategy, she set out to be agreeable to the maddening man.

  "May Fate remain kind—may she continue to bring us together," he said. "But I should not leave it in Fate's hand," he went on slowly. "When you are in Nairobi, I'm sure you'll do some traveling out of the city. My home in Abidjan is only a short flight away. I'd like to invite you for a visit."

  He looked directly at Patricia and she shifted uncomfortably under the penetrating gaze of his deep blue eyes that were sending little hooks into hers.

  "I should love to show you some of the wonders of my country. Much of it is untamed—as you are at times, ma Patrice."

  Patricia recovered her composure and replied with sweetness. "Thank you very much for your offer," she said, moving her gaze away from his haunting eyes, knowing their magnetic effect upon her. "I'm afraid I will be very busy in Nairobi. I'll be staying with my aunt. She isn't well and I plan to spend all my time with her."

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I hope it's nothing serious. By the way," he continued. "Who is your aunt?"

  "Lady Malborough," Patricia answered politely.

  "Really?" his face lit up in a big smile. "You know, Europeans who live in Africa are like one big family. My father and your uncle knew each other well. As a matter of fact they worked together on conservation projects. I have the pleasure of seeing your aunt quite often. But I've been in the U.S. recently and didn't know she was ill. I hope she recovers quickly. When she's feeling better, you must both come to Ivory Coast."

  Patricia inadvertently turned her head toward him and his eyes probed the very fabric of her soul.

  "Ivory Coast is a beautiful country," he went on, as if Patricia's visit were a fait accompli. "Abidjan, the capital, is the center of what we, the French, call the African Riviera, a rugged coastline with magnificent beaches. Oh, but you will see it as we land. The plane refuels in Abidjan on its way to Nairobi. That's where I shall be saying a temporary 'adieu' to you."

  How sure he is of himself, she thought. Yet he seemed very pleasant now. Patricia almost forgot that only a few seconds ago she had shivered under his piercing gaze. What a changeable man he is. He must drive women crazy.

  "You haven't touched the hors d'oeuvres," he said with solicitude. "Surely you don't also fast when you practice yoga?"

  "Yes, I do sometimes. It's a very good experience and a healthy one. Even the medical profession sanctions occasional fasting, provided you drink a lot of certain liquids while you fast."

  "You amaze me with the amount of knowledge you possess." He hesitated and took another sip of champagne. "You're so dedicated to your chosen pursuits. It's an enviable trait. One to be admired. How lucky will be the man you choose!"

  He watched her blush and noticed annoyance appearing in her limpid green eyes.

  "Do you enjoy sports?" He quickly changed the subject.

  "Yes," she admitted.

  "One of my favorites is horseback riding." He paused, delighted to see her smile approvingly. It was a favorite sport of hers also, although living in New York she had little chance to ride, except along the riding paths in Central Park.

  "Riding through the jungles of the Ivory Coast is an exhilarating experience. You discover many of nature's mysteries as you gallop under the green canopies of one-hundred-foot trees, with eerie sounds all around you." His face lit up with delight. "When I was a little boy in Paris, my grandfather had already lived on the Ivory Coast for a long time. He had a large coffee plantation not far from his house. I used to visit often and ride with him. He introduced me to the Ivorian jungle. I made up my mind right there and then I would spend a lot of time there."

  Patricia sensed that his body, sinewy and tan under the impeccably tailored clothes, was well conditioned and that his movements would be one with those of the animal he rode. She could picture him cantering, his head thrown back, his black unruly hair tousled by the wind. Wild— that's what he really was. A man whose real love was nature.

  "I can see you long for the simple, elemental mysteries of your jungles," she said.

  "Oh, I wouldn't say I mind being right where I am." He laughed.

  Crazy thoughts rushed through Patricia's mind, as she looked at the man only inches away from her. She could feel the strength of him under his beautifully fitting clothes. All her senses responded alarmingly to the power he radiated, causing her to tremble.

  She focused her attention on the appetizing hors d'oeuvres still untouched. He followed her gaze and lifted the small tray.

  "Try the pate de foie gras," he suggested. "The airline flies it in from Strasbourg."

  Patricia picked up a dainty triangular bit of thin dough, covered with a creamy substance. She found it delicious.

  "And this is a mousse de crevettes, those tiny lobsterlike shellfish. They're an Ivorian specialty." He tasted one himself and added, "There's a bit of curry and cayenne pepper mixed in. See if you like it."

  She did. The round puff was nicely spiced.

  "When you come to Ivory Coast, you will enjoy the food. We have some of the best French chefs."

  Noticing her surprised glance, he explained. "The Ivory Coast was a French colony until recently and it has remained French in tradition, even though it is now an independent republic."

  Patricia listened attentively as he spoke of his country—his home. As much as she hated to admit it, she realized to her dismay that he wasn't all dislikable. And he did make her feel extremely attractive. She could sense his gaze stopping to feast on her eyes, her lips, every bit of her. The sensation wasn't unpleasant, but she suddenly felt naked under his gaze. She regretted wearing the light green silk and wool knit that clung to her body. In spite of the high neck, the slinky fabric made her feel undressed in front of this observant, virile male.

  She moved her hand to a long fringed scarf she wore around her throat and lowered it to her shoulders, trying to cover herself.

  "Are you cold?" he asked. He reached up toward a nook above their seats to produce a small blanket, then unfolded the baby-blue cloth and draped it carefully over Patricia's shoulders. It was a protective gesture and she felt a tenderness in the action.

  "How beautiful you are, Patrice," he murmured, his face so close to hers, she could almost feel the texture of his smooth-shaven cheeks. "Strong and wild sometimes, but there is also a fragile side to you. You're as delicate and precious as a Dresden figurine. And yet you inspire heights of passion and desire in a man. You're an enchantress. Any man would be your willing slave."

  Patricia felt warm all over. Her clear, green eyes became caught in the spell of his eyes. Her hand tingled as his long, tapered fingers touched hers ever so lightly.

  "Would you care to have dinner served here in the lounge?" Neither of them had noticed the entrance of the stewardess.

  Patricia's cheeks colored scarlet as she realized the sign that had kept her in her seat next to the Count had been turned off. She had become so captivated by the charms of Armand de Vincent that she had lost all sense of reality.

  He's a dangerous man, her brain signaled. He'll make a plaything out of you if you let him. The image she had seen of him in the magazine —practically making love in public to the French movie star—flashed in her mind.

  "I'll have dinner in my seat below," she said to the stewardess.

  Her whole body was feverish with emotion. She hoped the Count wouldn't notice her confusion, and he gave no sign of acknowledging her embarrassment. Instead he rose p
olitely.

  "I see you find it unacceptable to share a meal with me," he said tersely. Then he added, "Do you find me such a nuisance?"

  Flustered, wanting only to get away before she lost all sense of propriety, and before he could find out how very much he had upset her composure, invaded her very soul, Patricia heard herself answer, "Yes, I find you a nuisance… Goodbye."

  But for some unknown reason, as she walked down the plane's curving stairway leading to the safety of her own seat, she felt a pang of regret.

  A white-clad cabin steward wheeled a dinner cart down the wide aisle of the first class compartment of the airplane. Patricia quickly regained her composure after the encounter with the disquieting French Count in the upstairs lounge. She realized gratefully that since her seat was in the front row of the cabin, she would be able to avoid any further meeting with Armand de Vincent, even in the small confines of the aircraft.

  She resolved that she would stay in her seat the next morning when the plane landed in Abidjan and her adversary deplaned. If necessary she would feign sleep. Under no circumstances would she leave the plane during the stop-over. She knew she wouldn't feel completely safe until she was airborne and headed for Nairobi, leaving the man who had caused her so much emotional upheaval far behind.

  Patricia enjoyed her dinner and went to sleep soon after eating, stretching out across the empty seat next to her and sleeping comfortably the whole night through. However, when the plane approached Abidjan the next morning and made ready for landing, Patricia found, to her dismay, that she would have to leave the aircraft after all.

  "Due to circumstances beyond our control," it was announced over the loudspeaker, "a change of aircraft will be necessary for all passengers in transit to Nairobi." They continued, explaining that since there were no planes available at this time, all passengers headed for Kenya would have to make an overnight stop in Abidjan.

  A lady sitting across the aisle from Patricia was delighted. "Abidjan is a beautiful city," she informed Patricia. "This is really a lucky break! The airline will arrange a stay for us in a first class hotel and see to it that we're pleased with the arrangements."