‘What, Kate?’ His eyes were like flint.
Sensation ripped through her—awareness, longing and then finally, after a huge internal battle, resolve. ‘You’ll see to it?’
‘There’s hardly any point—’
‘No point?’
‘I thought I had made myself clear, Kate. There are to be no more holiday homes on the Villeneuve estate—’
‘And I thought I made myself equally clear,’ Kate returned tensely. ‘La Petite Maison is not going to be a holiday home. And, what’s more, it’s not for sale—to you, or to anyone else.’
‘You may come to regret that decision—’
‘Are you threatening me, Guy?’
Rather than checking him, this challenge only served to unleash something primal in his gaze, so that what had once been so direct, so uncompromising, grew dangerously hot. Throwing his head back, he loosed a short and very masculine laugh. ‘Still so fiery, Kate,’ he growled approvingly. ‘Still my little spitfire, aren’t you, Katie Foster?’
The possessive note in his voice…domination almost, released a tidal wave of longing inside Kate’s chest—a tidal wave that swept quickly to inhabit each one of her erotic zones. And not singly, allowing her time to adjust and conceal, but all at once so that she gasped and reddened as instinctively she swayed towards him.
‘A spitfire on heat, Katie?’ he suggested sardonically as he moved away.
Reduced to shaking her head in violent denial, Kate managed to gasp out a correction on her childhood name at least. But even as she uttered the reprimand she knew by his face that it fell on deaf ears.
‘So,’ he said, clearly relishing the moment, ‘it’s good to see that nothing’s changed since we last met.’
His arrogance was astounding, but at least it served as a wake-up call.
‘You might find that quite a lot has changed in ten years,’ Kate said tensely. ‘Not least of which is my capacity for standing up for myself.’
‘Excellent,’ he drawled mildly in French. ‘I love a good fight.’
His bold stare sent ribbons of fire curling down her spine. She watched transfixed as he reached up to loosen his silk tie with one strong tanned hand and then went on to free a couple of buttons at the neck of his crisp white shirt.
‘Maybe some things have changed,’ he agreed as he viewed her through storm-grey eyes. ‘But, as far as I can see, only for the better.’
Kate tried to look away as he lazily fingered the blue-black stubble shading his jaw but found she couldn’t.
‘Stop it!’ she warned as he prowled a step closer. ‘You were wrong about me ten years ago. And you’re just as wrong about me now.’ She saw his eyes gleam at the recollection.
‘Ten years ago there was some excuse for your behaviour,’ he said sternly, his mouth curving with pleasure when he saw how easily the authority in his voice melted her. ‘You were only sixteen,’ he continued relentlessly. ‘And, if I remember the occasion correctly, it was you who made a mistake, not me.’
As he exhaled the last words on a sigh of mock-regret the thunderous pulse in her chest moved down to a lower and far more receptive area.
‘By imagining you were a gentleman?’ she demanded breathlessly, fighting to keep her voice steady as she tried not to betray what was happening.
He shrugged off the insult. ‘By imagining I would take advantage of you when you were little more than a child.’ As his darkly amused glance swept over her it seemed to confirm that she no longer qualified for this consideration.
‘You didn’t have to—’
‘Didn’t have to what?’ he cut in. ‘Throw you over my shoulder and transport you back to the safety of Madame Broadbent’s arms?’
‘They were a damn sight safer than yours!’ She was unprepared for the sensual onslaught precipitated by the images of that one careless remark. But even remembering her clumsy attempt to make a pass at him all those years ago wasn’t to blame for the colour that rushed to her cheeks. It was his friends’ faces when Guy had hoisted her into his arms and carried her away from his party and back to her aunt’s cottage. She felt the humiliation as keenly now as she had done at the time.
‘I’ll forget it if you will,’ he suggested wryly. ‘Shall we start again from scratch?’
‘Not a chance!’ Kate flared as she struggled to free her mind from the embarrassment. She wasn’t expecting him to move at all…let alone so fast. She gasped when he seized hold of her arms in his warm, strong grip.
‘Still the same unbroken filly longing for a master to ride her into submission,’ he murmured.
The surge of sensation hit with such force that Kate anchored her gaze on the fluttering pennant of a ship under full sail in an undoubtedly priceless oil painting and prayed her knees wouldn’t give way.
But the sound of satisfaction that came from somewhere deep in his throat went on teasing her arousal. ‘I am not one of your polo ponies,’ she managed as he suddenly let her go. ‘Don’t you dare speak to me like that!’
‘I’ll speak to you any way I like. And I dare,’ he said, emphasising the word in a low voice full of amusement, ‘because I’m guessing there’s still everything to play for.’ And then he touched her, running his hands up and down her naked arms with a touch so light it was unbearable, while he watched her trembling with almost clinical interest.
‘This isn’t a game,’ Kate gasped as his hands rested then tightened again on her arms. She knew it was useless to try and pit her strength against his. Since the last time they had seen each other the Count had only grown broader, taller, stronger…and infinitely more desirable. Mashing her lips together fiercely, she refocused fast. Softening in his arms briefly defused his assault and as he released her she reclaimed her professional persona. ‘OK,’ she said coolly. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps we should start afresh.’
The Count acknowledged this apparent change of heart with a thoughtful twist of his sensuous mouth. ‘Bien,’ he agreed, viewing her keenly. ‘You’d better tell me what you’ve got in mind.’
CHAPTER TWO
WHEN Kate left the château she was feeling more battle-shocked than she could ever remember but confident too that she had achieved at least a partial victory; in business that was usually enough for her to lay the foundations for something far more conclusive on the next occasion. The buzz of excitement that always accompanied a hard-won deal was thrumming through every nerve in her body. But was it the deal or something else? Even if her mind was awash with ideas for her new venture now that she had bought herself some time, she couldn’t ignore the fact that seeing Guy de Villeneuve again had really shaken her up.
She paused with her hand on the door of her rented Jeep. The meeting had gone better than she might have expected. Guy had agreed to send his men to tear down the last of the wooden boards covering her windows and clear the worst of the weeds and brambles from the garden. He was also going to see about having the mains services reconnected for her, although the vagaries of local bureaucracy meant this might take some time. The fact that he appeared to have accepted she would not be selling the lease of the cottage back to him, but intended to live in it instead, should have been enough for her. But the part of her mind that handled less tangible matters was very badly shaken indeed. She had never come out of a business meeting with nipples so tight they burned. And the very last thing she needed was erotic fantasies taking her eye off the ball when she had no electricity, only a mobile phone and candles, and her first guests arrived in—she pulled a face as she glanced at her wristwatch—a little under three weeks’ time!
No. She hadn’t been totally straight with Monsieur le Comte. But Guy’s discovery that she intended to live in the cottage had been enough of a shock for him for one day. If he knew she intended to turn the picturesque dwelling into a holiday retreat for exhausted executives… Kate closed her eyes briefly against the image of sheer fury that was conjured up and then firmed her lips determinedly. For now as far as Guy de Villeneuve was con
cerned, ignorance was bliss.
The customary pin-neat state of Aunt Alice’s charming home had lulled her into a false sense of security, Kate realised as she drew to a halt outside the rose-festooned archway marking the cinder path to the front door. Accepting the first bookings had been such a thrill for her she had not even stopped to consider the possibility that everything could deteriorate so quickly. But here in the Garden of France, easily a thousand miles further south than where she lived in England, everything grew so much faster. Even the weeds seemed to possess a special vigour, she noticed as she made her way down the overgrown path. And that was just outside the cottage, she thought ruefully as she slipped the heavy iron key into its impressive lock. Thanks to the boarded-over windows, the hot, airless interior had provided an ideal breeding ground for just about every species of insect she could think of.
Yet even now as the door swung open on its well-oiled hinges she half-expected to find everything unchanged since her last visit. Could that day of laughter and relaxation really have been just six short months ago? There had been no hint of the storm clouds to come…and no Count Guy de Villeneuve to muddy the water. He had yet to return home and claim his inheritance. But everything had changed since the terrible car accident that had killed her aunt and Guy’s father, Kate realised, and the sooner she accepted that fact, the better.
As the door shut with a decisive thud she gave in to a great wave of loss, pausing for a moment with her back pressed against the dark polished oak and both her eyes and mind closed against the alteration. The desecration of the cottage was nothing in comparison to the hollow in her heart that used to be filled by a bubbly old lady with sharp, periwinkle-blue eyes. But just thinking about Aunt Alice was enough to invoke her indomitable spirit and, dashing the tears from her face, Kate feasted her eyes on what did remain at La Petite Maison.
Deciding to make a note of every repair that could possibly be needed once the immediate damage was made good, she stepped outside again and stood hands on hips surveying her new domain. Quirky described it to perfection, she decided. Even the higgledy-piggledy roof tiles shaded from deepest coral to palest sand formed a hat several sizes too large for the half-timbered frame. And, since she had torn down the offending boards from two of the front windows, they winked benignly at her like friendly eyes set in whitewashed walls which billowed out in places like plump chalky cheeks. She felt a rush of pride and affection, as if La Petite Maison was a child about to embark upon a new stage in its life, and she the bow from which this arrow would be launched.
She headed off round the side of the building where she had left all the tools she needed to tear down the rest of the wooden panels. Monsieur le Comte might be sending his men over to help tomorrow, but she couldn’t wait that long. Entry to the rear of the cottage was gained through a stable-style door and to one side of this stood a tall wooden boot box secured with a black iron bolt. Inside the box she had placed a claw hammer for wrenching free nails and a screwdriver for wiggling inside the panels to loosen them until she could manage to heave them off.
Once she had the tools, Kate set about dislodging a really stubborn strip of wood some vandal from the Villeneuve estate office had seen fit to nail across her kitchen window. She exclaimed with angry surprise as the screwdriver skidded off the smooth surface to land, point down, in the heel of her palm. She was still hopping around cursing loudly when she heard the sound of a horse’s hooves crunching briskly along the cinder path that skirted the front garden. ‘Oh, no, not visitors!’ she grumbled, sucking hard on her damaged hand. Then, shooting upright, she thrust the same hand behind her back as both horse and rider came into view. ‘Guy!’ she exclaimed, affecting an expression somewhere between righteous surprise and modest unpreparedness for greeting the Lord of the Manor. ‘What brings you here?’
‘I wanted to see the cottage for myself,’ he said springing down from an edgy looking bay. ‘What have you done?’ he demanded, not fooled by her play-acting for a minute.
Kate looked on warily as he snatched off a pair of well-worn riding gloves and slipped them into the back pocket of his breeches. Then, pausing only to throw the reins over the horse’s neck, he strode over to her, seized her arm and examined her hand.
‘I’m fine. It’s nothing—nothing,’ Kate insisted as she tried to free herself.
‘Hold still,’ he insisted irritably. ‘You’ve punctured the skin. Is your tetanus shot up to date?’
‘Yes,’ she said, wincing as he subjected the tender spot to some more probing.
‘Antiseptic inside?’
Aunt Alice had scored A star in practicalities. There was everything that could possibly be needed to deal with any home emergency inside the locked cupboard in the bathroom.
‘No,’ Kate said, as visions of Le Comte in knee-length black leather boots striding around the bedroom area swam into her mind.
‘No first aid kit?’ he demanded impatiently.
‘I’ve been far too busy trying to undo all the damage here to be concerned about—’
‘Your safety?’
‘Guy, I—’
‘What?’ he said fiercely, keeping a firm hold of her when she struggled to pull away. ‘What would you like to say to me, Kate?’
His voice was demanding and full of an intensity she hadn’t heard before. Her hand hurt like hell. And the fact that it was he who sounded furious when it was she who had every right to be angry, filled her with a heat so profound that for that moment she lost all hold on reason.
‘Don’t you dare shout at me!’ she raged, thumping his chest with her free hand. But, instead of shouting back, he only laughed as he grabbed her flailing arm and held her close. So close she was rammed against his chest where the steady rhythm of his heart throbbed in her ears and the comfortingly fresh scent of clean brushed cotton and warm hard man worked some sort of magic on her agitated mind.
‘Better?’ he murmured, stroking her head.
Confused, distressed, but spent, she moved her head slightly in agreement. ‘It hurts,’ she admitted. And if he thought she meant her hand then that was for the best. But when Guy held her in his arms the same longings that had made her teenage years such misery rose up again to taunt her with the unbridgeable gap between them.
It wasn’t just the twelve years or so that separated them by age, but the wealth of experience possessed by a man like the Count. And the years of separation only seemed to have given that impression strength, as if it had been resting dormant like some forgotten seed. They were as far apart as ever…perhaps more so, because now they were adults with their own lives to lead and sooner rather than later, Guy, Comte de Villenueve was going to discover that she had misled him badly.
He released her after a couple of minutes, but only to arm’s length. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing in the cottage we can treat your hand with?’
Kate missed a beat as she considered how to stop him going inside without being downright rude. She wasn’t ready for visitors yet, especially not Guy. Until every single detail inside the cottage had been returned to the way that she wanted it…remembered it, no one was going to get past that door.
‘No. I cleared everything out. Past the sell-by date.’ She held her arms open in a gesture of helpless regret. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll go to the pharmacie in the village.’
He still looked unconvinced. ‘I’ll take you.’
‘No. Don’t be silly, I—’ But he wouldn’t let go of her wrist, and they were already halfway across the yard before she realised what was happening. Lifting her up, he swung her on to his horse’s back, and moments later, he was seated behind her with his free arm banded around her waist.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll take it easy,’ he promised, nudging the horse into a gentle walk.
The fact that she hadn’t ridden since childhood was nothing to fear in comparison to the touch of Guy’s warm arm about her. And it was no good trying to keep a safe distance from him when he only yanked her back again.
&n
bsp; ‘Relax,’ he murmured so close to her ear that she shivered involuntarily. ‘You’re making him nervous.’
The horse’s sensibilities were the last thing on Kate’s mind, but the relaxed clip-clop was certainly going some way to soothing her shattered nerves. Soon she was swaying easily in time to the rhythm of the stallion’s hooves and the earlier rigidity gave way to what she managed to convince herself was a far more natural posture—resting close up to Guy.
‘Where are we going?’ As she turned to ask the question her cheek encountered the rugged planes of his beard-roughened face. It felt good. Scratchy, but good. And the heat that collected instantly in her cheeks moved quickly on to more erogenous zones so that she savoured the effect of Guy’s muscle-corded forearm against her sensitive nipples and even relished the movement of the horse as he held her firmly in place on the saddle.
‘Does it hurt?’
His murmured question trespassed on these sensual indulgences so that she felt vulnerable and guilty, as if she was a child again and he had caught her out doing something naughty. ‘It’s not too bad now,’ she said huskily. ‘Why?’
‘I heard you sigh. I just wondered—’
He let the sentence hang as he waited for her explanation. ‘Where are we going, Guy?’ she said, forcing some focus back into her voice.
‘Château…pharmacie,’ he said casually. ‘Your choice.’
‘Pharmacie,’ Kate said quickly.
‘As you wish,’ he agreed evenly, turning the horse on to a right-hand fork in the road.
‘At least there Monsieur Dupont, the pharmacien can take a look at it,’ Kate pointed out, trying to excuse her reluctance to place herself on Guy’s territory—under his control. She shook her head in an effort to banish all wayward thoughts concerning Guy once and for all.
He made a sound of agreement low down in his chest and tightened his arm a fraction. ‘Are you ready to go faster?’
Any faster than this and she would not be held responsible for the consequences, Kate thought.
The French Count's Mistress Page 3
