by Sara Wood
‘I think you’d worked that one out for yourself, hadn’t you, Tessa?’
She nodded. ‘You didn’t stay a waiter. You became very successful.’
‘I was driven, wasn’t I?’ he replied, his eyes remote and hard. ‘I intended to return to Turaine a wealthy man. I graduated to commis chef and then...’ He paused, took a deep breath and said, ‘then the restaurant owner’s daughter told me she was pregnant-and I knew I must be the father.’
CHAPTER NINE
TESSA froze. Her eyes reproached him. He must be talking about Giselle. ‘Was that deliberate?’ she asked unhappily. He looked away. ‘No. We’d been going around together and she’d been coming on strong for a while. I’d been holding out. I had principles in those days,’ he said with a grim smile. She shivered. He was suggesting that he had none now. ‘Did she love you?’
He shrugged. ‘Who knows? She said so. I thought I might love her. She was seven years older than me, though I think I looked pretty mature for my age. Eventually we made love. Later, she admitted to me that she got pregnant deliberately and told her father that she wanted to marry me.’
‘How did you feel about that?’ she asked curiously. He shrugged. ‘I was young, ambitious and we had good sex,’ he answered bluntly. ‘I was very hungry. I enjoyed having a woman to hold. Someone who wouldn’t tear my heart from my body.’ A small, sardonic smile briefly touched his sombre mouth. ‘I was determined to avoid my father’s mistake. I never want to feel I’m dying of love.’
‘You’ll miss a lot,’ she said huskily. ‘Sure. Pain,’ he scathed.
‘True friendship. Sharing. Happiness.’ She felt very heavy, as if a weight held her down. Perhaps it was sadness at the thought that Guy would go to his grave with an untouched heart. A sigh escaped her parted lips.
‘I told you,’ he said, his voice a little thick with emotion, ‘I can be ruthless with others and with myself. I was promoted to managing the gourmet food business her father had started as a sideline. My mother continued to spend money indiscriminately, so I continued to work all the hours God gave me, fighting to promote the business and make my name. Things weren’t so bad, though I didn’t love my wife.’
‘Didn’t?’ she picked up quickly.
‘We parted a few years ago. She took me to the cleaners. Women seem to have a habit of emptying de Turaine pockets,’ he said wryly.
‘And you were longing to come home, all the time,’ she mused. So Giselle was someone new. Tessa frowned, not wanting to know about the woman, though she wasn’t clear why. She couldn’t be jealous-that would be too ridiculous.
A depression settled on her. Through the willow leaves she could see the tinges of pink in the sky. Time to go back. But the lethargy in her limbs held her there.
Gentle fingers touched her shoulder and she started like a frightened fawn. ‘Hey,’ he murmured in smoky tones.
The hand almost withdrew, then came to rest, his fingers touching her bare neck. She liked him, she realised. And knew that was a fatal thing to admit to herself. Tessa knew her breathing had shortened and she was helpless to prevent her lips from parting to release the quick, rapid puffs of sweetness which must, surely, be fanning his close-too close-face. ‘I must go,’ she said heavily, dismayed to hear how reluctant she sounded.
‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘I think you should.’ Neither of them moved. Tessa became acutely aware of Guy’s breath-sharp, hard, hot. It wafted over her lips and made them quiver in anticipation. And slowly,
inexorably, his head was angling, moving closer and closer... ‘I’ll walk you back,’ he murmured, almost into her mouth. But she couldn’t move. Desire had paralysed her. Bewildered, she begged Guy for help with her eyes, because nothing else seemed to obey her sluggish brain. ‘On second thoughts...’ he drawled.
And she closed her eyes, seeing his intention and unable to bear the sight of the eloquent sensuality of his mocking mouth. Their lips met softly, tentatively. Almost too gently. The pain of it-the uncertain, faltering touch-was a delicious torture. Kiss me, she thought recklessly, her whole body tense as a drumskin. Kiss me, she wished silently. Or had she spoken aloud? She didn’t care. Cared only that he should-properly. Fiercely. Because the heat, the need, the pounding desire in every vein and muscle and brain cell were all at screaming pitch as Guy hovered, lightly brushing her lips with his. And she might have let out a sigh of desire. She wasn’t sure. But Guy had heard it. And had taken her in his arms, crushing her against him, relieving at last the terrible emptiness of her body as he kissed her with a thoroughness that left her breathless but exhilarated.
‘I think,’ he said quietly, somewhere in the far distance, ‘I should not take advantage of the sunset and the warm afternoon like this.’
Why not? was her first wild, unthinking reaction as the emptiness, the loss of his mouth, made her want to take the initiative and catch his dark head in her two hands so that she could bring their mouths together again and drive away the overwhelming feeling of deprivation.
But slowly sense returned and her protective shield wrapped itself around her. He was giving her an excuse, like the gentleman he was. Or escaping from an entanglement he didn’t want.
Maybe he hadn’t noticed that she’d been out of her mind. She went pink, knowing how easy it would have been for him to murmur sweet nothings into her ear and seduce her. Even now her body was yelling in protest, lungs desperate for air, heart flipping about in her throat, all her heat concentrated in one hungry, aching place.
And the madness that possessed her, the hurting, aching longing, gave her an unwelcome insight into the unstoppable passion that Guy’s father had felt.
No matter that reacting to Guy in that way was stupid, or that it demeaned her, wiping away her self-respect because he already had a relationship with Giselle. No matter that Guy had probably kissed her to make her malleable. Reason had fled. She needed his touch so badly that she could almost fling caution to the wind and invite him into her arms. For a second or two she pictured herself slipping languorously to the ground and offering her body. Then, appalled at her weak moral fibre, she hunted around for something brisk which would obliterate the smouldering atmosphere, and said crushingly, ‘Forget the warm afternoon and the sunset; I have to check the drains.’
His cynical smile tormented her. Because she wanted to kiss it away and bring back the urgency of his mouth, the hot, driving passion ... She shuddered deliciously. And turned it into a shiver as if she felt cold.
‘Ever practical. Or is it the humour you use when you’re scared, Tessa?’
Clever. So close to the truth that it hurt. ‘It’s the humour I use when I have to check the drains,’ she muttered, getting to her feet unsteadily. ‘My legs have gone to sleep!’ she declared, with a small laugh to excuse her shakiness. ‘Massage?’ he suggested wickedly.
Her eyebrow managed to answer for her, offering a jaundiced and cynical reply in the way it arched. And, to her relief, he didn’t press home the advantage he had. Either he didn’t know how weak she felt or he thought he’d gone far enough in his bid to soften her up. She hated him for playing on her emotions-and herself for behaving like hand-softened putty. ‘I know what you were doing,’ she said, managing some semblance of sharp reproof. ‘Enlighten me.’
‘Softening me up,’ she muttered resentfully. ‘How did I do?’ he asked, with no expression in his voice at all. ‘Hopelessly,’ she lied. ‘A kiss here or there doesn’t sway me.’
‘Lucky you.’
Shading her eyes against the low, shafting sun, she tried to identify something in his expression that would explain the odd response. But he returned her gaze with a calm detachment which she envied because she felt as mushy as jelly inside. Returning with him across the fields, the orange sun warming her back, she fought the tension knotting her muscles and screwing up her heart as it flung itself recklessly against her ribcage. This was an ordinary man, she told herself crossly. He breathed, he lied, he kicked people out of his way. Sometimes he was kind and coo
ked pasta for starving waifs, but only if it suited his purpose.
And she’d better remember that, or she’d be hurt so badly that the episode with David would be something she’d look back on and laugh merrily at in contrast.
‘Still on for tomorrow evening?’ he asked quietly, when they reached the lane to her cottage.
‘I don’t know.’ She tried to sound casual, as if she wasn’t afraid. But now she had no faith in her ability to rebuff him and that scared her.
‘Think about it. Let me know,’ he said gently. ‘Don’t let a casual kiss interfere with business. There’s only one thing I’ll have on my mind tomorrow evening, Tessa. Perhaps that will relieve your anxieties?’
No, she thought, watching him saunter away. She knew how she felt. Nothing would change that. This time her feelings were well out of control. Her anxieties wouldn’t go away, however much she tried to divert them. Hungrily her eyes devoured him-the easy, confident walk, the carriage of his head, the narrow hips. And she turned, thrusting her key in the door angrily, knowing with a sinking feeling that she was obsessed by him
and temporarily insane.
Fortunately she had a lot to do the next morning. At seven, the van delivered the building materials she’d bought with some of her precious savings. She flung herself energetically into work on The Old Bakery, finding something soothing in the physical effort of mixing sand and lime and cement together for fresh mortar, and she even enjoyed chipping out the old with the little pick-hammer.
Voices murmured down the street but she ignored them, intent on balancing on the ladder she’d found in the old storeroom in the attic. Carefully, using a pointing trowel, she scooped up some mortar from the hawk-board in her hand, then expertly flicked the mixture into the gap between the stone. A quick scrape to compress it, and …
Two men below, she registered. One must be Guy, judging by the wobble of her legs as some part of her brain recognised those wide shoulders and the smooth dark head.
Solemnly she worked away at the pointing, proud of her skill and her composure, even if she felt the ladder shaking with her treacherously trembling limbs.
‘How’s your capricorne beetle?’ yelled Guy.
‘Fine. How’s yours?’ she called back, intently slicking a fresh dollop of mortar into a deep crack.
‘Munching away at my beams from inside out, without any sign they’re there-you know how sneaky they are.’ Were they? Perhaps she had them after all! ‘The place is crawling with sneaky creatures,’ she said, unable to fiddle around any more. She’d almost run out of mortar. Darn it! ‘Yes. Speaking of them, have you heard from your mother?’ he called insolently.
Tessa tightened her mouth and let loose the last remaining dollop of mortar from her trowel. In Guy’s direction. ‘Oh, whoops!’ she cried, seeing it land on his highly polished shoe. No. Someone else’s! ‘I’m sorry!’ she called, blushing. And hurried down the ladder. ‘Let me get it off-’ The man rattled away in French.
‘He says,’ drawled Guy, ‘not to bother.’ The man had already taken a rag from his pocket and wiped the shoe clear. ‘This-now you’ve descended from your lofty perchis the telephone engineer. The village is having new lines put in. You’ll be without a phone for a day or so. No problem, I hope?’
‘N-no,’ she said, reluctantly postponing her decision to ring her father, no matter what her mother had said. Guy apparently told the man to go ahead, because he dumped his set of tools and strode off to the van at the end of the lane. ‘You’re pretty skilled,’ Guy observed, watching while she measured out more sand and cement. ‘Where did you learn that? From your father?’
‘No.’ She sloshed water on the board and hefted the shovel, ready to mix everything together. ‘At the stately home I helped to restore in Cornwall.’ She bent to the physically demanding task. ‘It was-gutted by fire and we had to-start almost from scratch.’
She paused to wipe the back of her hand across her sweating brow, wishing she hadn’t worn such short shorts. Guy was unfairly good at making her aware of her own body! And everything-hips, breasts, bottom—
seemed to be rolling around while she cut and patted at the mortar. ‘I started off as a tea-girl,’ she said, taking a breather, ‘and graduated to concrete, gravel paths, puddling ponds and repointing. Then I acquired a load of other talents,’ she added airily, ‘ending up with my special skill: carpentry.’
‘So many talents in one woman. I could use you,’ he purred. She nearly snapped that he was doing his darnedest to, but stopped just in time. ‘I’d be glad to-’
‘Offer your services?’ Primly her lips pinched in. ‘To join your restoration team,’ she said haughtily. And suddenly realised that she meant that. Surprised, she turned to him. ‘I’d like to do the work,’ she said seriously. ‘I love seeing the transformation. Would you employ me?’
‘If I like what you do,’ he said meaningfully, ‘then I see no reason why not.’
She understood that look of his. Sell the cottages to him and she could have a job-one that might last years. A little ripple ran through her body at the thought of being here, near Guy, for that length of time. It reached the core of her body and created such a pleasurable feeling that her alarmed eyes flew up to his, in case he’d seen the betraying flush of shame that warmed through her.
‘Thanks,’ she mumbled, loading up the hawk. Herr face fell. It wouldn’t happen. She wasn’t going to sell to him-and he’d be furious. So she’d have to manage on her own. She slopped the mortar about on the board to hide her disappointment. ‘Can’t stop. This’ll set,’ she said shortly, starting up the ladder. ‘You’ve got yourself well organised. Are these things hired, or did you buy them?’ he called.
‘I bought them. I had them delivered this morning. Why?’
‘Just interested. You’re clearly determined to go ahead, aren’t you? Come to see me this evening, Tessa,’ he said persuasively. ‘I really want to show you the architect’s sketches for the village. Promise?’
She really wanted to see them too. Looking down at Guy’s upturned face, she felt a wrench at the pleasure on his face. ‘I will. See you this evening, then,’ she said, feeling as if her lungs had been constricted.
‘Look forward to it.’ His eyes crinkled in a lovely smile.
Later that day she finished the pointing. Feeling hot and dusty and deeply satisfied with her achievement, she hauled the ladder, the tools and the sacks into the woodshed at the bottom of the garden before cleaning herself up for the meeting with Guy.
Pink from her bath, she munched on a jam sandwich for sustenance, studied the limited range of outfits on the bed and wondered which to wear. Something prim, of course. Except... Giselle would be there. Vanity, self-respect and pride flung themselves together and did their darnedest to coax her to make the best of herself.
Though it wouldn’t matter what she wore; he’d only have eyes for Giselle. The forest-green skirt, then. She wriggled the skirt up and fastened the wide-banded waist with a little difficulty, recognising that she’d put on a couple of pounds over the last few days. But it still sat smoothly over her curvy hips, flowing to the ground in soft folds. The effect was rather flattering, and she decided she preferred herself with a little more flesh on her bones.
‘No law says I can’t look as good as possible!’ she declared, and slipped on the matching top-a sleeveless halter-neck which scooped down low to the middle of her spine. Dark green eyes, she decided. And stared at her reflection in momentary surprise. The light here was incredibly kind! If only she could take it with her! Grinning, she found a headband and drew her newly washed hair back from her face, discovering that somehow it made her cheekbones stand out more than usual. Things were looking up.
A touch of the dreaded mascara, since she wasn’t expecting to cry, and a coral lipstick brought her features into strong focus. She might not be drop-dead gorgeous but she’d done miracles with unpromising material. She’d feel confident faced with the undoubtedly lovely Giselle, and that was t
he main thing. Stuffing the deeds to the cottages in her capacious canvas shoulder-bag, she carefully locked the door and walked to the square, very conscious that she was being watched by a group of villagers chatting by the old market hall. So she gave them a wave. Whereupon they turned their backs. It was a challenge. She’d win them round. And, quite determined to show Guy that she wouldn’t be intimidated by him-or the hostile villagers-she strode decisively to the imposing chateau entrance, lifted the rather rusty latch and pushed at an excruciatingly squeaky gate, as nervous as a young girl on her first date.
Her eyes rounded as she stepped into ... She grinned. Sleeping Beauty country! Weeds grew up through the tarmac of the drive, though a track had been recently made through them by the wheels of a car. Overhead, an avenue of overgrown limes formed a dark tunnel, and on all sides the garden romped and flowered untamed, as though it had been let go for fifty years. The fairy-tale chateau showed similar signs of neglect. As Tessa walked slowly towards it, her soft forest-green skirt brushing a pathway strewn with poppy petals, she saw that one of the pepper-pot towers had lost its conical roof, which now lay in ruins. Dark green shutters hung by rusting hinges or were scattered where they had fallen fifty feet to the ground and shattered.
Deeply saddened by the decay of what must have been a beautiful house, she stopped short at the incongruous sight of a large obviously second-hand caravan parked to the side of the courtyard. Her eyes only briefly took in the stunning view across the river to miles of verdant countryside before she saw something even more extraordinary.
‘Guy?’ she called with a little laugh of surprise, realising who was sitting on the caravan steps.
‘Welcome to my home.’ A casual wave of his arm indicated the caravan.
‘Good grief!’
‘Please come in.’
In amazement, she followed his tall figure as he ducked to
avoid hitting his head on the low doorway. ‘I was expecting to meet Giselle,’ she said cautiously, noticing no traces of female occupation.
