by Lynne Graham
Christien had appeared with Veronique Giraud, his beautiful dark eyes bleak with shock and grief, and Tabby had wanted to go to him to hold him, but she had not had the nerve to reach out in that moment to the man she loved, who had lost his father through her father’s drunken, inexcusable recklessness at the wheel.
‘My father’s death…the crash…it would never have kept me from you.’ Lean strong face taut, Christien hauled her into the sheltering circle of his strong arms.
‘I wasn’t involved with Pete,’ Tabby told him again, determined to make him listen to her.
Christien knotted one hungry hand into her hair and kissed her breathless, shutting out the uneasy feelings she had stirred up. He had no desire to rehash the past. All he could think about was the next time he would be with her and the time after that and how often he would be able to fly up from Paris to be with her. Here in his great-aunt’s summer house on the Duvernay estate? Impossible! He would find her a much more suitable and far superior property elsewhere…
Somewhere in the early hours, Tabby opened her eyes and moaned with helpless pleasure beneath Christien’s expert ministrations. ‘Again…?’ she mumbled, marvelling at his stamina and luxuriating in him being so demanding too.
‘Are you too tired?’ His gorgeous accent was as effective on her as the effortless way he had managed to turn her liquid with longing even while she was still half asleep.
‘Don’t you dare stop,’ she muttered and he laughed huskily and pushed her to fever pitch before he finally, mercifully answered the great shameless tide of hunger he had roused and left her limp and dazed with an overload of satisfaction.
When Tabby wakened again, dawn had been and gone and when she stretched she discovered a dozen aches in secret places. She flipped over to survey Christien while he slept. Black lashes curled against a bronzed cheekbone, blue black stubble roughened his handsome jawline. The sheet was twisted round his hip, a muscular, long brown arm and a slice of hair-roughened chest exposed. Her chin resting on her folded arms, she suppressed a dreamy sigh. It was as if time had gone into reverse and she didn’t really want to wake up and acknowledge the older, wiser individual she was supposed to be four years on.
He was the father of her son, so it wasn’t surprising that she had never been able to forget him. In any case, it now seemed clear that only a stupid misunderstanding had separated them that summer. Such a little thing too that she could almost have screamed her frustration to the heavens: he had seen Pete kiss her and had assumed she’d been cheating on him. Of course that was Christien: the supreme pessimist and cynic always expecting the worst. Her lush mouth quirked. Oh, yes, she now understood why he would not even spare her five minutes on the day of the accident enquiry. His fierce pride would never allow him to overlook or forgive betrayal. For the first time, she also saw that the very ferocity of his rejection then had been revealing.
Last night, she had slept with him again. Over and over and over again. She was shameless, but she knew that if he woke up she still wouldn’t say no to him. He was the only guy she had ever slept with but she was literally his for the asking every time and if she still loved him—and she suspected she did—was that so bad? Especially when fate seemed to be giving them a second chance? Or was it Solange who had given them a second chance? Had the older woman guessed that when she left the cottage to Tabby it would bring Christien into contact with her again?
Tabby smiled because a crazy happy feeling was bubbling up inside her. But then she tensed again for there was no denying that Christien was in for a major shock when she told him about Jake. She decided that she would prefer to spend some time with Christien before she made her big, stressful announcement. Just for one day, she bargained with her conscience, so that they could rediscover their relationship and sort out any other misunderstandings before she delivered the news that he was also the father of her three-year-old son. How was he likely to feel about that? Appalled? Pleased? But wasn’t she rather putting the cart before the horse as well as being very presumptuous? What if…Christien had made love to her again out of simple lust? What if he just wanted to walk away from her again when he woke up? What if what they had just shared meant nothing at all to him?
Pale as parchment and feeling sick at that potential scenario, Tabby averted her gaze from him and crept out of bed. When she checked her watch, she grimaced for it was already almost nine. She had loads and loads of things to get done and very little time in which to accomplish them. Tomorrow she had to leave early to catch the ferry back to England again, she reminded herself doggedly. Lifting her overnight bag, she headed downstairs to freshen up and get dressed. She would call Alison from the public phone box she had noticed in the village and speak to Jake. She had to buy in wood and get the range going as well as stock up on basic groceries. In little more than a week’s time she would be bringing Jake back over to France with her and she needed to make the cottage as welcoming as possible for his benefit.
Ought she to leave a note for Christien explaining where she had gone and when she hoped to be back from her errands? Wouldn’t that make her seem a little clingy and desperate? She winced, feeling too vulnerable to lay herself open to the risk of rejection. It was better to do nothing at all. He knew where she was and he would have to go home for breakfast anyway as there was no food whatsoever in the kitchen. In any case, when she had made love with him the night before, she conceded painfully, she had demonstrated a remarkable ability to overlook the biggest stumbling block between them: the horrid accident in which his father had died. No matter how Christien felt, she was certain that his family would react to the news of his renewed involvement with her, not to mention the reality of her son’s parentage, with horrified disgust. Fifteen minutes later, Tabby drove off.
She was recalling how, at the accident enquiry, Solange had made an embarrassed attempt to excuse her relatives’ palpable hostility towards Tabby. ‘My niece, Christien’s mother, is under sedation today. Her suffering is terrible,’ the old lady had confided. ‘We all grieve for Henri, but in time the family will appreciate that many other people have also lost loved ones.’
When Christien wakened, he was surprised to find himself still at the cottage and even more surprised to find himself alone. He never, ever stayed the night with a woman. He could not initially credit that Tabby could have gone out and left him and he entered the sun lounge from which he had a clear view of the garden before he accepted that she was nowhere to be found.
The bright room was cluttered with all the paraphernalia of an artist and when he saw the miniature painting on display he stopped to study it in some amazement. He had never seen anything so tiny, perfect and detailed as that landscape. At least, not outside the giant elaborate doll’s house that his mother had made her lifetime hobby. If the miniature canvas was of Tabby’s creation, she was very talented, but he was convinced that she had to be wrecking her eyesight painting in such a minute scale and he knew he would waste no time in suggesting that she concentrate her skills on larger creations.
She must have gone out to buy something for his breakfast, Christien decided. He wandered back up to the bedroom and strode to the window when he heard a car. A silver Mercedes coupé had drawn up on the other side of the road. A slight frownline divided his level dark brows for Matilde Laroche owned a car very similar, although she had not driven herself anywhere since his father’s death. At the same time, he could not help but uneasily recall her hysterical overreaction the day before to the revelation that Tabby was taking possession of Solange’s property. His Ferrari was sitting parked out front. Really, really discreet, Christien, he mocked himself. Bon Dieu, it was madness to even let it cross his mind that his ladylike parent might be so off the wall that she would lurk outside the cottage like some weird kind of stalker! Even so, suddenly he was very keen to see the car registration, but by the time he reached the front door the Mercedes had driven off again.
Initially, Christien made the most of his time alone
to make several calls on his mobile phone and arrange a trip to a property in the Loire Valley. It was picturesque and secluded and enjoyed spectacular views. Tabby was sure to leap at his offer because it would be certifiable insanity to do anything else. When another thirty minutes passed without her reappearance, he started to worry that something might have happened to her. Suppose she had climbed into that clapped-out old van and forgotten that his countrymen drove on a different side of the road from the British? He paled. Jumping into his car, he headed for the village a couple of kilometres away. Tabby would have passed through it the day before and if she had gone out to buy food, it was the most obvious destination.
There on the steep and narrow single street he had the edifying sight of seeing Tabby, looking very appealing in a short, frilled denim skirt and a white T-shirt, standing chattering and laughing while a grinning tradesman loaded up her van with firewood and admired her lithe, shapely legs. Nowhere could Christien see any evidence that she might have gone shopping to provide him with a breakfast or even that she was anxious to hurry back to the cottage!
Tabby saw the Ferrari and froze in dismay. Christien was watching her from the lowered window, designer sunglasses obscuring his expression, handsome jawline at a determined angle. He swung out of the car, six feet three inches of lean, lithe, gorgeous masculinity. A surge of colour warming her complexion, her mouth running dry as she remembered the passion of the night hours, she watched him approach. ‘How did you know where I was?’ she asked breathlessly.
‘I didn’t. I’m on my way home to Duvernay,’ Christien murmured smooth as glass.
Tabby looked snubbed.
Against his own volition, Christien found himself smiling. ‘I’ll pick you up at twelve…OK?’
Warmth and animation leapt back into her expressive face. ‘Where are we going?’
‘I’d like that to be a surprise, chérie.’
When Tabby ought to have been cleaning the ancient kitchen range and scrubbing the terracotta floor tiles, she was washing her hair, daydreaming like a schoolgirl and dampening the single dress she had brought with her in the hope of getting the creases out of it.
Startlingly handsome in tailored cream chinos and a black shirt, Christien collected her and took her to an airfield where they boarded a small private plane.
‘You’re planning to fly us?’ Tabby exclaimed in dismay.
‘I’ve had my licence since I was a teenager…I do own an airline,’ Christien reminded her gently.
‘I don’t like flying and, if I have to fly, I’m probably happiest in a jumbo jet,’ Tabby confided with a grimace.
‘It’s a short flight, ma belle.’ Christien dealt her a wide, appreciative grin that made her heart skip a beat. ‘You have to be the only woman I’ve ever met who would dream of telling me that she hated flying.’
Undaunted by her nervous tension, he kept up a calm running commentary on the sights that she was too ennervated to take in during the flight. He flew with the same confidence with which he drove very fast cars. They landed at an airfield outside Blois where a chauffeur-driven limousine awaited them.
‘Curiosity is killing me,’ Tabby admitted. ‘Where are you taking me?’
‘Be patient,’ he urged, linking long, lean fingers lazily with hers.
Some ten minutes later, the limo turned up a steep lane bounded on either side by vineyards and finally came to a halt outside an elegant house built of mellow golden stone and ringed by shaded terraces ornamented with urns of beautiful flowers.
‘At least tell me who we’re visiting…’ Tabby hissed.
As Christien mounted the steps a charismatic smile slashed his lean, strong face. ‘We’re the only visitors.’
Recalling the astonishing pleasure of that beautiful mouth on hers, Tabby felt dizzy and it was an effort to think again. ‘Then…what are we doing here?’
Christien pushed the door wide on a spacious tiled hall. ‘I’d appreciate a feminine critique of this place.’
Assuming that the house was for sale, Tabby relaxed, flattered that he should want her opinion, but secretly amused that he should have chosen the inappropriate word, ‘critique’ for a property that even at first glance seemed to possess every possible advantage. It enjoyed immense privacy, a swimming pool and a hillside setting blessed with panoramic views of the wonderful wooded countryside. The interior was even more impressive. Fascinated, she strolled from room to room. It was an old house that had been renovated with superb style. Rich, warm colour, antique and contemporary furniture melded in a timeless joining. French windows led out to cool stone terraces and finally to one where she was surprised to find a uniformed waiter stationed in apparent readiness to serve them beside a table already set with exquisite china and gleaming crystal glasses.
‘Lunch,’ Christien explained with the utmost casualness as he pulled out a seat for her occupation. ‘I don’t know about you but I am very hungry. I usually eat at one.’
Tabby sank down and watched the waiter pour the wine. ‘I thought this house belonged to someone else and you were thinking of buying it.’
A broad shoulder lifted in a fluid shrug. ‘No, it’s already mine but I’ve never been here before,’ he admitted. ‘Property is an excellent investment and I buy most of it through advisors sight unseen.’
‘I can’t imagine owning a house and not being curious enough to come and see it,’ she admitted, reminded more than she liked of the vast material differences between them, something she had airily ignored and refused to consider important when she had first known him.
Over a sublime meal of endive salad followed by delicate lamb cutlets that melted in her mouth and a blackberry tart, Christien entertained her with stories of the rich history of the locality before moving on to describe the beautiful, tranquil water meadows of the Sologne as a nature lover’s paradise. It was a hot, sultry afternoon and the sky was a deep, intense blue. Far across the lush valley she could see the fanciful turrets of one of the many châteaux in the area. Only birdsong challenged the silence and it was idyllic.
‘You haven’t offered a single opinion on this place yet,’ Christien commented.
‘It’s fantastic…you’ve got to know that.’ Tabby nibbled at her lower lip, colour lighting her cheeks as she squirmed on the acknowledgement that her standards might well lie far below his. ‘But then, of course…I don’t know what you’re looking for.’
‘What pleases you, ma belle.’ Christien captured and held her startled upward glance. ‘That’s all I seek.’
Meeting those rich dark eyes framed by black spiky lashes, she could hardly breathe for the pure bolt of longing that shot through her and tightened her skin over her bones. Almost giddy with the force of her response to him, she took a second or two to register what he had just said.
‘What pleases…me?’ Tabby echoed, uncertain of his meaning.
In a graceful movement, Christien rose upright and stretched out a lean brown hand in invitation. ‘Let’s take another tour…’
He walked her slowly through the house again, but only on a superficial level was she appreciating the beautiful rooms and the stupendous outlook from every window. Her thoughts were in turmoil. Was he asking her to live with him here in this fabulous house? Why else would he care what pleased her in the property stakes? She sucked in a quivering breath in an effort to steady herself, but a wild burst of joy was thrilling through her.
‘You like it here…don’t you?’ he prompted.
‘Who wouldn’t?’ Tabby was so scared that she had picked him up wrong that she vented a discomfited laugh
‘It might be too quiet for some, but it strikes me as the perfect environment for an artist. Peaceful and inspiring,’ Christien murmured huskily.
It was little more than twenty-four hours since she had arrived in France. Could her eminently sensible and practical Christien be so impulsive? Could he have decided so quickly that he wanted to recapture what they had shared almost four years earlier? Did he, like
her, feel bitter at the events that had driven them apart? Was he as greedy as she was to make up for lost time?
Tabby focused on the bottle of champagne in the ice bucket sitting on an occasional table and belatedly took note of the reality that he had chosen to stage the dialogue in the main bedroom. Coincidence? She didn’t think so. She tried not to smile at how he planned even romantic gestures for she did not want to offend his pride. At seventeen she had once told him angrily that he had no romance in his soul at all and he had made extraordinary efforts to prove her wrong with surprise gifts and flowers and holding hands without anything more physical in mind. But she had always recognised the cold-blooded, purposeful planning it took for him to make an effort to do anything he saw as an essential waste of time.
‘This property is also very convenient to Paris where I spend most of my working week.’ As if to stress that leading declaration, Christien drew her back against his lean, muscular length.
The heat and proximity of his lithe, masculine frame tightened her nipples into stiff little points and stirred a dulled ache between her thighs. Trembling, she leant back into him for support. It seemed that he had spoken the truth when he’d told her that the manner of his father’s death would never have kept him from her. Tears burned behind her eyes, tears of happiness, and her throat constricted. He was being crazily impractical and that was so out of character for him that it could only mean that he still had strong feelings for her.
Tabby stared hard into the mirror across the room that reflected them both: Christien, so straight and tall and serious and beautiful, her own reflection that of a woman so much smaller, decidedly rounder in shape and a great deal more given to smiles. ‘This is so romantic…it must have taken loads of planning—’
‘You used to say that the essence of real romance was not being able to see the strings that were being pulled to impress you,’ Christien interposed.
