by Julia James
‘Why did you refuse to come to dinner with me?’ Again, the question was blunt—challenging. Taking her by surprise.
‘You were a complete stranger.’ She sought for the only explanation that was relevant—whether or not it was one that Sabine would have made.
Thoughts flickered across her mind like random electric currents. Would Sabine have found that objectionable? Or would she have made her decision about whether to let a man take her to dinner—and what might follow—on quite different grounds?
Such as if the man were the most devastating male she’d ever set eyes on—who’d had the most powerful impact on her she’d ever experienced—who’d stilled the breath in her lungs and sent her pulse into overdrive...
But she was given no opportunity to think coherently about that, or about anything at all, because now his eyes had a glint in them that was setting her pulse racing even faster.
‘Well, I am not a stranger now.’
Not when I hold you in the intimacy of this embrace...your soft, satiny body in my arms, the warmth of your palm against mine, the brush of your thighs as we move to the music together...
He felt the flush of heat beating in his veins. Telling him how susceptible he was to what she possessed.
The power to make him desire her...
His senses were overpowering him. There was a lingering perfume about her—not cloying, as he might have expected, but faintly floral. Her hair, curved around her shoulder as it was, was not sticky with spray but fine and silky. He wanted to feel it running through his fingers. Wanted to drink in the fine-boned beauty of her face, see again that flash of emeralds in her eyes...
A sudden impulse possessed him. To wipe her complexion free of the mask of make-up covering it and see her true beauty revealed.
‘Why do you wear so much make-up?’ His question came from nowhere—he hadn’t meant to ask it.
She looked momentarily startled. ‘It’s stage make-up,’ she answered. She spoke as if she found it hard to believe he’d asked.
He frowned. ‘It does not flatter you,’ he stated.
Now, why had he said that? he grilled himself. Why tell this woman such a thing?
Because it is the truth—she masks her true beauty, her true self, behind such excess.
Her expression changed. ‘It’s not designed to flatter—only to withstand the stage lighting. You don’t imagine that I wear these spiders on my eyes for any other reason, do you?’ Her voice was dry.
‘Good,’ he said, giving a brief nod.
Even as he did so he realised he was way off agenda. What on earth was he doing, talking about her stage make-up? Let alone expressing approval—relief?—that it was only make-up. He sought to resume the line of enquiry he’d started. That was the reason he was dancing with her—so that he could continue his assessment of her. Purely for the purposes for which he’d arrived in France, of course...
To free his cousin from her.
Free her from Philip—
The thought was there—indelible, inadmissible. He wiped it instantly. There was no question of freeing her from his cousin. It was Philip—only Philip—he was concerned about. That was what he had to remember.
Not the way her body was moving with his to the soft, seductive cadences of the music, drawing them closer and closer to each other...
Not the way her fragrance was coiling into his senses. Not the way his eyes were lingering on her face...her parted lips... The way he was feeling the soft breath coming from her...intoxicating him...
The melody ended. He stopped abruptly. Even more abruptly she disengaged herself from his grasp. But she did not move—simply stood there for a moment, continuing to gaze at him. As if she could not stop...
Her breasts, Bastiaan could see, were rising and falling as if her breathing were rapid—her pulse was more rapid still. Colour was in her cheeks, beneath the thick layer of foundation. He could just see it...sense it...
Her gaze was dragged from him, back across to where Philip was sitting, his expression a mixture of impatience at her absence, discontent that she had been dancing with his cousin, and his usual fixed regard of uncritical admiration.
She walked across to him—her dress felt tighter suddenly, and she was all too conscious of the swaying movement of her hips. She could almost feel Bastiaan Karavalas watching her...
She reached the table. Philip stood up immediately, his chair scraping.
‘Phew!’ she said, pointedly not resuming her seat. ‘I’m worn out by dancing. Two dances and two partners—quite an evening for me!’ She spoke with deliberate lightness, obvious humour. Reaching for her glass of water, she took a quick gulp, finding she needed it, then set it down. ‘I must go backstage,’ she said. ‘Prep for my next set.’
Conscious that Philip’s cousin was standing behind her, she could say very little else to Philip. She took a step away, encompassing Bastiaan Karavalas in her movement.
‘I’ll bid you goodnight,’ she said, making her voice sound nothing more than effortlessly casual.
She had to get control back—the way Sabine would. Sabine would have been utterly unfazed by that slow, seductive dance with Bastiaan Karavalas. Sabine wouldn’t have felt as if her whole body were trembling, her senses overwhelmed. No, Sabine would stay composed, unruffled—would be well used to men like Bastiaan Karavalas desiring her.
Philip was speaking and she made herself pay attention, drag her thoughts away from his cousin.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow at the...here...?’ he asked.
Sarah was relieved that he’d just avoided saying at the rehearsal.
She smiled. A warm smile. Because she didn’t want to hurt him, and his feelings were so transparent. ‘Why not?’ she said lightly. ‘Unless...’ And now her eyes found Bastiaan again. ‘Unless you and your cousin have plans...? You must make the most of him while he’s here.’
Dark lashes flickered over even darker eyes. She saw it—caught it. ‘I may well be here some time,’ Bastiaan Karavalas said. ‘It all depends...’
She made no answer—could only give a vague, brief smile and bestow a little wave on Philip, because she wanted to be nice to him, and he was so young, and felt so much...
And then she was gone, whisking away through a little door inset into the wall beside the low stage.
Slowly, Bastiaan sat down. Philip did too, but Bastiaan said nothing—his head was full. Far too full. Only one thought was predominant—he wanted to hear her sing...he wanted to feast his eyes on her again.
Feast so much more than his eyes...
CHAPTER FIVE
AS SARAH TOOK her place on the stage she was burningly aware of those dark, heavy eyes upon her. It was the same sensation she’d had the previous night, when she hadn’t known who was watching her—had only been able to feel it. As she felt it now, again, that same sense of exposure. But now there was so much more—now there was a frisson running through her body, her veins, that came from his heavy-lidded perusal.
Why? The question kept circling in her head. Why was she reacting like this? Why was this man—this dark, disturbing cousin of Philip—able to arouse such a response in her? Never, never before had she been so affected by a man.
By a man’s desire for her.
Because it is a desire that echoes in me too...
That was the truth of it. Out of nowhere, like a bolt of lightning crashing into tinder-dry trees, he’d set her alight....
A sense almost of panic swept over her.
I can’t handle it. I’m not used to it. No man has ever made me feel this way—like I’m on fire, burning from the inside. I don’t know what to do—how to react...
Nothing with Andrew had prepared her for this. Nothing!
I didn’t know it was possible to feel this way. To feel this overwhelmed—this helpless.
This aroused...
Standing there in the spotlight, knowing that the dark, heavy eyes of Bastiaan Karavalas were resting on her, that she was exposed to h
is view, her body had reacted as if her flesh were aflame.
She wanted to run, bolt from the stage, but that was impossible. Impossible to do anything but continue to stand there, the microphone between her fingers, her voice intimate.
While Bastiaan Karavalas looked his fill of her.
No! The cry came from within. It isn’t me he’s gazing at—it’s Sabine. Sabine is standing here, feeling like this.
And Sabine—Sabine could handle it. Of course she could. Sabine was not helpless or overwhelmed by the blatant desire in those dark, heavy eyes.
Or by her own desire...
Sabine was who she must be to cope with what was happening to her, with the fire that was running in her veins, burning her senses. That was what she clung to as she worked her way through her numbers.
Never had her set seemed longer, and how she got through it she wasn’t sure, but in the end she was heading off stage, filled with relief.
As she gained her dressing room she saw Philip waiting. He launched in as soon as he could.
‘Sarah—this Sunday—will you...will you come over to the villa for lunch?’ He got the words out in a rush, his eyes filled with eager hope. ‘I’ve been wanting to ask you, but it was Bast who suggested it.’
She felt a quiver inside her, even though she strove to stanch it. Why? Why had Bastiaan Karavalas suggested inviting her to his villa?
And the only answer she could think of sent that quiver vibrating through her again, quickening her pulse.
I don’t have time for this. I don’t have time to have Bastiaan Karavalas looking at me the way he does, have the impact on me he does. I just don’t have time—not now. And I can’t cope with it anyway—can’t cope with him. I don’t know how to respond or react. And, anyway, it isn’t me he’s inviting—it’s Sabine! Sabine’s the one he’s drawn to—not me. He wants what Sabine would offer him...
The hectic thoughts tumbled through her mind, incoherent and confused. She had to answer somehow—but what? And how?
‘So, will you come? Please say yes,’ Philip’s eager voice pressed.
She pulled herself together forcibly. ‘I’m...I’m not sure...’ she got out.
‘What’s this you’re plotting?’
Max’s voice sounded behind her. It sounded amused, but with a pointedness in it that Sarah was not deaf to.
Philip turned. ‘I was asking Sarah if she would come over to the villa for lunch on Sunday with my cousin and me,’ he relayed.
‘Cousin?’ Max raised his eyebrows.
‘My cousin—Bastiaan Karavalas,’ supplied Philip. ‘It’s his villa I’m staying at. He’s visiting me from Greece.’
‘Karavalas...’ murmured Max.
Sarah knew he was storing the information away and would check it out later—just as he’d checked out Philip’s name. Any cousin of Philip’s would be rich as well, and for that reason she knew she might be disheartened by what Max said next, but she could not be surprised.
Max smiled at Philip. ‘Why wait till Sunday?’ he said blandly. ‘Make it tomorrow—I’ll rejig the schedule so Sarah can get away at noon. How would that be?’
Philip’s face lit. ‘Fantastic! I’ll go and tell Bast now. Brilliant!’
He beamed at Sarah and Max, and then rushed off to front of house.
Sarah turned to Max. ‘Max—’ she began, about to remonstrate.
Max held up a hand. ‘Say nothing. I know your opinion about asking Philip for money. But...’ his voice changed ‘But this Bastiaan Karavalas, the cousin—well, that’s a different matter, isn’t it? A grown man who owns a villa on Cap Pierre—and presumably a whole lot else—doesn’t require kid-glove-handling, does he? So, cherie, off you go to lunch with these lovely rich people and make yourself agreeable to them.’
Sarah’s expression hardened. ‘Max, if you think—’
‘Cherie, it’s just lunch—nothing more than that. What did you think I was suggesting?’
He sounded amused, and it irritated Sarah. ‘I don’t know and I don’t care,’ she shot back, shutting her dressing room door in his face.
Consternation was flooding through her. She did not want to go over to Bastiaan Karvalas’s villa and spend the afternoon there. She didn’t want to spend a single moment more in his company. Didn’t want another opportunity for him to work his dark, potent magic on her senses...
I don’t need this distraction. I have to focus on the festival—it’s all that’s important to me. Nothing else. I want Bastiaan Karavalas gone—out of my life!
She stilled suddenly as she started to change out of her costume. Her mind raced.
Maybe going to the villa wasn’t so bad an idea after all. Maybe she could turn the invitation to her advantage. Find an opportunity to get Bastiaan Karavalas on his own and suggest that it would be a really good idea for him to whisk Philip away. Distance would soon cause his youthful crush to atrophy.
And it would take Bastiaan Karavalas away as well... Stop him disturbing her the way he did so that she could get back to the only important thing in her life now: preparing for the festival. Not being swept away by what was in his dark, desiring eyes.
Yes. She took a steadying breath. That, surely, would make it worth enduring an afternoon of his company. Because there was no other reason for wanting to spend an afternoon with Bastiaan Karavalas.
Liar, said a voice inside her head. A voice that whispered to her in Sabine’s soft, seductive tones...
* * *
‘She’ll come over tomorrow!’ Philip exclaimed happily as he re-joined Bastiaan.
‘How surprising...’ murmured Bastiaan.
Of course Mademoiselle Sabine had jumped at the invitation to get a foot...literally...in the door.
His cousin completely missed the sardonic note in his voice. ‘Isn’t it?’ he answered. ‘Considering how—’ he stopped short.
Bastiaan cocked an eyebrow. ‘Considering...?’ he prompted.
‘Oh, nothing,’ Philip answered hastily, but looked as if he were hiding something.
Yet again the question fired in Bastiaan’s head. How far has this infatuation gone? What is Philip hiding?
But surely his instincts were correct? Philip was not radiating the aura of a young man who had achieved possession of the object of his desire and devotion. He was still worshipping at the altar.
A silent growl of raw, male satisfaction rasped through him. Its occurrence did not please him. Just the opposite. Damnation—the very thought that he could be glad that Philip was still merely mooning over the delectable blonde singer for any other reason than that it meant that it would be easier separating him from Sabine, extricating him from her toils, was unacceptable.
He changed the subject deliberately. ‘So—tonight... Do you want to come over to Monte? We can eat out and you can stay at my apartment.’
Again, it was a deliberate trail, to discover whether Philip would otherwise have been heading towards La Belle Sabine for a midnight tryst...
To his satisfaction Philip was perfectly amenable to this suggestion, helping Bastiaan to confirm his judgement that, however besotted Philip was with the woman, it had not yet progressed to anything more...tangible.
Then another, more unwelcome thought struck him. Is she holding out on bestowing herself upon him until he has control over his own funds?
Was that her game plan? His expression hardened as they left the club. He was looking forward to lunch tomorrow—it would give him more time to study her. Assess her.
All for the sake of rescuing his cousin, of course. Not for any other reason...
None that he would permit.
* * *
‘Stop!’ Max threw his hand up impatiently. ‘I said sostunuto, not diminuendo! If you can’t tell the difference, Sarah, believe me—I can! Take it again.’
Sarah drew her breath in sharply but said nothing, though her jaw was set. Max was being particularly tyrannical this morning, and Alain, her tenor, playing The Soldier, was fractious. So wa
s she, she admitted to herself. She was hitting vocal difficulties all over the place, and it was frustrating the hell out of her. The rehearsal session was not going smoothly and Max was finding fault with all of them. Nerves were getting jittery all round.
She shut her eyes to center herself.
‘In your own time, Sarah,’ came Max’s sarcastic prompt.
Somehow her next attempt managed to assuage him, and he turned his exacting attention to Alain and his apparently many flaws, before resuming his attack on Sarah for the next passage that displeased him.
By the time he dismissed her Sarah felt ragged. She definitely needed fresh air and a change of environment. For the first time she actually felt grateful that she was to have the afternoon off, courtesy of Philip’s invitation. As she scooped up her bag she heard Max start in on the alto and the baritone, and hurried to make her escape from the fraught atmosphere.
Philip had texted to say he’d pick her up from her pension, where she headed now to change into something suitable for having lunch at a millionaire’s villa on the exclusive Cap Pierre.
Just what constituted ‘suitable’? she pondered.
In the end there was only one outfit that was possible. It was one she’d bought when she’d first arrived in France to join the opera company, after the school term had ended. It wasn’t her usual floaty, floral style, but a chic sixties-style shift in a shade of green that suited her fair colouring.
She pushed her hair back with a white band, and completed the retro look with pastel lipstick, frosted eyeshadow and a lot of eyeliner.
She studied her reflection—yes, definitely more Sabine than Sarah. Just what she needed.
‘Oh, my goodness!’ she exclaimed as she stepped outdoors and immediately saw the low, lean, bright red Ferrari parked there.
‘Isn’t it a beauty?’ Philip said lovingly. ‘It’s Bast’s. He keeps it in Monte Carlo—he has an apartment there as well—and he’s letting me drive it today.’
He sounded awestruck at the prospect.
‘Bast’s already at the villa,’ Philip explained, helping her into the low, luxurious passenger seat. ‘So...’ He looked at her expectantly, his eyes alight, as he started the engine with a throaty growl. ‘What do you think?’
