Distracted, she replied defensively, ‘You don’t have an alarm, you have an early warning radar system. You need a maths degree to work it out.’
He gave her a wicked grin which she did her best to ignore. ‘And don’t think you can throw me off beam,’ she felt compelled to add. ‘I resent you treating me like a puppet. Pull a few strings, and watch me respond!’
‘Why?’ he demanded. ‘Unless you had Hancock lined up as a marriageable opportunity. With me a no-go area, were you trying your luck elsewhere?’
‘You’re mad,’ she threw at him.
‘Good,’ he said, pleased with that answer. ‘Then there’s no problem, is there? I did you a favour. He looked as though he could be a bit on the obnoxious side.’
He leaned back and closed his eyes and it was all she could do not to scream with frustration. The man, she thought, was a steamroller. How was it that she had never seen that before? She must have been too shellshocked by the effect he had had on her senses.
‘Well, thank you,’ she said sarcastically, ‘O, great one. I’m so grateful to you that I’m speechless.’
It was, water off a duck’s back, of course. He was quite unperturbed at what he had done, and he was even less perturbed by her reaction to it, and the worst thing was that he was right. She was glad that she hadn’t had to fend off any unwelcome attentions from Stephen, not that she would ever admit that in a thousand years.
It was something of a relief when the plane landed and they were in a taxi, heading for their hotel. She could genuinely lose herself in the wonderful spectacle of Paris and pretend to herself that James wasn’t sitting next to her, a tantalising, threatening presence that left her weak kneed.
There was something utterly refined about Paris, with its graceful architecture and chic women hurrying through the streets. London could be breathtaking, but Paris was haughty, and Claire’s eyes were round with the newness of it all by the time they arrived at the hotel.
James had obviously been before. He was recognised and treated with the servile respect given to dignitaries passing through. Claire hovered in the background, looking around her at the impressive if heavy decor, wondering whether she liked it or whether what she felt was a sort of guilty intimidation. So this was what it was like living in the lap of luxury, taking for granted the first-class flights, the first-class hotels. James barely noticed any of it.
Had Olivia been as gauche as she was? Claire wondered, and the thought of that blonde, elusive but everpresent shadow immediately made her stiffen.
James had checked them in and they followed the porter to the lift, up to the third floor, where they were shown to the two separate rooms.
Claire immediately felt a gush of relief which was not lost on him.
‘Did you think that I would book us into one room?’ he asked, his lips twisted into a harsh smile. ‘The world is full of willing women; why do you think I would force my attentions on a reluctant party?’
‘You’re so flattering, James,’ she answered sarcastically, offended.
His eyes narrowed. ‘Realistic. Believe it or not, you haven’t got the monopoly on honesty. Why is it that women love dishing out home truths but the minute the table’s turned they become venomous?’
‘That’s a terrible generalisation.’
‘Is it?’ He indicated to the porter to leave their bags and gave him a tip in francs, which met with a broad smile.
‘Was your wife like that?’ Claire asked, continuing hurriedly when she saw the expression in his eyes. ‘I mean, you never speak about her. I know you didn’t plan on my finding out about her existence, but now that I have, why don’t you talk about her?’
He gripped her forearms with his hands and his fingers bit painfully into her. ‘When I want counselling, I’ll ask. In the meanwhile, take some advice and drop the subject of my wife.’
‘Why?’ Claire pursued recklessly. What did she have to lose? She had already lost him, not that he had ever been hers for the asking. ‘Why should I tiptoe round her memory? What was she like? Did she laugh a lot? Was she quiet? Introvert?’
Now that she had come right out and asked him, she found that she was dying of curiosity. She had contained all her questions, thinking that silence on the subject was a form of self-defence against acknowledging how much he had loved his wife, but why should she carry on with that forever? He didn’t mind barging back into her life, accusing her of being a gold-digger, and then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, lecturing to her on her stupidity in supposedly getting involved with Stephen Hancock. What if she had been serious about Stephen? That possibility hadn’t stopped him from ruining that. He had manipulated them both because he thought her too damned stupid to look after herself, not that that was any ongoing concern of his. He probably felt guilty that he had slept with her, taken her virginity, when he had had no intention whatsoever of making their relationship permanent. He must have known from the start that she was gullible, not like those sophisticated women he normally surrounded himself with, and now he felt some kind of warped obligation to protect her from herself.
‘Why do you want to know?’ he asked tightly, his darkfringed eyes boring into hers. Sometimes, like now, she felt as though she was staring at a stranger. It was hard to believe that this was the same man who had made love to her countless times, who had touched her with unhurried tenderness, who had made her laugh and made her cross. She told herself that all that had changed the minute he realised that she was no longer going to be his plaything, but deep down she knew that it had all changed the day his wife’s existence had been brought out into the open.
‘Would it make you feel better to know what your competition had been like?’ he continued in the same unrecognisable, hard voice. ‘Is that it? Do you think that if you knew what Olivia had been like, you might be able to adapt yourself a bit, make yourself a little more like what you think I want? Is that it?’
Claire couldn’t believe her ears. ‘Yes,’ she snapped, ‘that’s it exactly!’
That only made him angrier, and his anger made him more frightening and remote. He shook her like a rag doll and she tried to wrench herself free of him.
‘Leave me alone!’ she panted, and he ignored her.
‘OK,’ he rasped, ‘you want to know what Olivia was like? Well, I’ll tell you. She was nothing like you. If you’re planning on modelling yourself on her to get back into my good books now that Hancock is through the window, then you’ve got a long way to go.’
Claire stared at him helplessly. ‘What do you mean, she was nothing like me?’ she whispered in a small voice. What’s wrong with me? she wanted to say.
He stared at her then let his arms drop to his sides. ‘Olivia was self-assured,’ he said harshly. ‘She was a woman, a sophisticated, confident woman who knew what she wanted out of life and wasn’t afraid to go allout to get it.’
‘And me?’
‘What happened between us was a mistake,’ he said roughly. ‘I knew that at the time, but I couldn’t resist.’
There was a pause and she could hear her heart thumping in her chest. She felt so sick that she had to reach out and support herself against the doorframe. It had seemed logical to fire all those questions at him, but she hadn’t stopped to think that she mightn’t like the answers.
‘You went to my head like a drug,’ he said, and that dark anger in his eyes was replaced by something else, something she recognised.
‘Don’t you dare—’ she began, but she couldn’t finish
what she was going to say because his dark head swooped down and his mouth covered hers hungrily while his hand reached up behind her neck so that she was forced against him and she found her body curving into his, her mouth opening to receive his tongue.
With one violent movement she kicked him hard on the shin and he jerked back.
‘You little…!’
Claire looked at him icily. ‘So I’m a drug, am I?’ she asked, clasping her arms around her body because she didn�
��t want him to see how aroused she was. ‘Well, you’ll have to wean yourself off me, won’t you? And shock therapy is the best.’ Her voice sounded unsteady, though, and she hoped that he would put that down to anger, because however aroused she was, she was fuming. ‘Is that why you got me over here? To try and get me back into bed? To make sure that Stephen wasn’t around to get in your way?’ A thought struck her. ‘All that rubbish about him was a lie, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it? Well, we’re here on business, so what are your plans for today? What time will we be going to see your company?’
She looked at him evenly. Less than four months ago, she would never have been able to see that handsome, hard-boned face without lighting up like a Christmas tree. From the moment she had realised that she loved him, she had made no pretence about keeping it to herself. Now, though, she was fast learning a very useful art of marshalling her features into an expressionless mask, even if her emotions were going mad under that cool surface.
‘Don’t be a fool,’ was all he said, in a grim voice. He rubbed his shin and muttered, ‘You pack one hell of a kick for someone so small.’
‘Only when I have to,’ Claire said, eyeing him scathingly. Not only unsophisticated, a complete buffoon in fact, but a dwarf with it. In fact, everything his tall, elegant, sophisticated wife wasn’t. ‘And you’d better not try anything else or you’ll find my party-piece even more unimpressive.’
He grinned at her and she scowled. ‘We can leave here in about an hour’s time,’ he said, straightening and towering over her. ‘You damned vicious tigress. That should give you enough time to freshen up, unless, of course, you need a little longer? We’re not due at any particular time, but I’ve told the managing director to expect me.’
Wasn’t that, she thought, just like him? He gave orders and was obeyed. Life was something that he had under control. Well, just so long as he didn’t continue to think that he had her under control as well.
‘An hour should be fine,’ she said, shifting her eyes away from his face to the potted plant unobtrusively occupying the corner by the lift. ‘Shall I meet you in the lobby downstairs?’
He inclined his head, and she turned and walked into the bedroom, making sure to lock the door behind her. In the sanctuary of the bedroom she could be herself, could free her body from its rigid tension, give rein to the frustrating, disturbing suspicion that she could never rid herself of his power over her.
She unpacked her bag quickly, had a shower and then changed into a taupe suit, another new acquisition, which, as she stared at her reflection in the mirror, fitted her rather better than the one she had travelled in. The skirt was knee-length and flattered her small waist, and the jacket, fitting to the waist, gave her a slightly sexy look.
James didn’t say a word about how she looked, but the managing director, she was blushingly flattered to see, was not so reticent. He was a short man, balding, but with an expressive face, very mobile, his eyes shrewd and dark, like a sparrow’s. He took her hand and kissed it, in an antiquated gesture which Claire found rather touching, and said something to her in rapid French, which she didn’t understand, but which James drily translated for her. It was a compliment, and she murmured a polite thank-you, still red-faced, back to him in her Anglicised French accent.
The rest of the day passed in a whirlwind of activity. James had arranged to meet the financial director, and vanished once she was established with the managing director and the marketing manager, both of whom, in semi-fluent English, took her through the products, their method of manufacturing, and what aspects they were hoping to emphasise in an advertising campaign.
The adverts were destined for both the newspapers and several magazines, and it was five o’clock before she realised it. They had only broken off briefly for some sandwiches in between. Her mind was buzzing with ideas, which she planned to discuss with the marketing manager the following day. Did they want something modern? Nostalgic? Evocative? Factual?
She was totally absorbed when James strode in to collect her. She read the amused smile on his face, and, in a pleasantly satisfied frame of mind, couldn’t work up the energy to erect her defences, so she smiled back and said, ‘It’s been an enjoyable day.’ Henri, the marketing manager, nodded and then addressed James in French, while Claire listened, impressed, as James replied in equally rapid French.
On the way out to the car, a chauffeur-driven Citroen which was waiting for them, she said casually, ‘How’s your shin?’
‘Nothing,’ he said with a sidelong look at her, ‘that a spot of gentle massage wouldn’t cure.’
‘You must mention it to the hotel manager,’ Claire answered calmly. ‘I’m sure something could be arranged for you. I had no idea that you spoke French, by the way.’
‘And German,’ he replied drily, acknowledging the change of subject. ‘In the business world, it pays to have a grasp of a foreign language. It’s a cut-and-thrust world out there, and if you’re not on your toes it’s easy to get gobbled up by predators.’
‘So the trick is to stay one step ahead of them all, is that it?’ she asked with a wry glance. The chauffeur was holding the back door open for them, and she slipped inside, moving across so that he could sit alongside her.
It had been a long day and she was beginning to feel tired, but pleasantly so. It was easy to forget that the man sitting next to her was a threat to her wellbeing.
‘Something like that,’ he replied, shrugging.
‘Sounds energetic and tiring,’ Claire mused, leaning back against the tan leather upholstery and half closing her eyes. There was a dark partition between the front and back seats, and in the relative privacy she almost felt as though she could fall asleep. ‘I can’t imaging going through life always obliged to keep one step ahead of the rest of mankind.’
‘That’s because you’re trusting,’ he said lazily. ‘There’s a streak of the romantic in you, which is fine if you don’t spend your life dealing with sharks.’
‘How can I be romantic if I’m a gold-digger?’ Claire said without heat.
‘Touchr,’ he drawled, looking at her from under his lashes. ‘A woman of contradictions.’
‘And don’t start flirting with me,’ she said, lying back with her eyes closed. She felt too relaxed to fight, and anyway there was something teasing about his voice, nothing that she could get worked up about.
‘Are you scared you might respond?’
‘No,’ she answered, but the corners of her mouth tilted into a smile. ‘I’m scared I might cause you permanent damage.’
He laughed at that, and she felt her pulses quicken. She had been wrong. This bantering was even more dangerous than open warfare.
‘Permanent damage,’ he said oddly. ‘Now there’s a thought.’ He laughed again, softly. ‘As to the flirting, maybe you’re right. Maybe I won’t try that with you again. Maybe,’ he said, ‘I’ll just try for the kill.’
CHAPTER NINE
TRY for the kill. James’s promise echoed in Claire’s head until she had to lie on the bed with her eyes shut, as if she were an invalid convalescing from some debilitating illness. Which, the thought crossed her mind, wasn’t too inaccurate a comparison.
She hadn’t been watching his face when he had uttered those words, she had been leaning back on the head-rest, thinking how easy it was to let his charm lower her defences and vaguely realising that she couldn’t afford to let his warmth and humour, when he chose to display them, send her spinning back to square one. But she had heard the amused threat in his voice and had jerked forward to stare at him, aghast.
He had smiled at her, and then looked at her, very slowly, in that way he had, as if his eyes were eating you up. In the past, that look had been enough to send her reeling, but in the taxi it had made her mouth go dry.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ she had said, trying to make her voice sound menacing and instead sounding uneasy and a little desperate.
‘OK,’ he had agreed, inspecting her with that same devastating
smile. ‘I won’t.’
Faced with that, Claire had muttered, ‘Good,’ but his tone of voice had made her feel even more restless and panicky.
She might not have known of Olivia’s existence until recently, that might have been a huge chunk of his life of which she had been unaware, but after months in his company she knew him well enough to know how his mind worked. He had never intended anything lasting with her, and, who knew, maybe he seriously thought that she had been after his money, but he had fancied her and he still did. She had surprised him by walking out on him and, whatever he believed of her, he wanted her back in his bed, even if it was for one night only.
The arrival of Stephen on the scene had been a temporary set-back and he had dealt with it the only way he knew how: by using his considerable power to nullify it. As far as James was concerned, problems were not to be tolerated, they were to be eliminated. It was the same rule that applied to his work as to his personal life. He could be quite ruthless, and he hadn’t hesitated to use that streak in getting rid of what he saw as an unwelcome problem. It was debatable whether all that stuff he had told her about Stephen had actually been fact. She didn’t think that he would have lied, but because he might not have lied, it didn’t mean that he had been scrupulously truthful. Look at how he had kept her in the dark about his wife.
He had spent the rest of the journey back to the hotel chatting to her about Paris, making the taxi driver take the most convoluted way back so that he could point out various landmarks to her. In fact, making sure that she couldn’t bring the conversation back to what he had said.
When they had arrived back at the hotel, and he had asked her to have dinner with him, she had been forced to accept because the expression in his eyes implied that, if she didn’t, then it was because she was frightened of being alone with him. She couldn’t win.
She lay on the bed and groaned. James Forrester was an exercise in determination. He hadn’t needed to tell her that what he wanted, he got. It was there for her to read in the self-assurance of his smile and in the knowing, confident lift of his brows.
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