by Julia James
The traffic lights ahead turned red and he slowed down to a halt, using the opportunity to glance at Sabine beside him. She was busying herself looking at the contents of an envelope she’d taken out of the bag on her lap. It was, he could see, a bill from the pension. She gave it a cursory check, replaced it in her bag, then took out another envelope. Bastiaan could see it had a French stamp on it, but she was turning it over to open it, so he could not see the writing on the front.
As she ripped it open and glanced inside she gave a little crow of pleasure. ‘Oh, how sweet of him!’
Then, with a sudden biting of her lip, she hurriedly stuffed the envelope back inside her handbag, shutting it with a snap.
Abruptly the traffic lights changed, the car behind him sounded its horn impatiently, and Bastiaan had to move off. But in the few seconds that it took a chill had gone down inside him.
Had he really seen what he’d thought he’d seen?
Had that been a cheque inside that envelope?
He threw a covert sideways glance at her, but she was placing her bag in the footwell, then getting out her phone and texting someone, a happy smile playing around her mouth.
Bastiaan found he was revving the engine, his hands clenching momentarily around the steering wheel. Then, forcibly, he put the sudden burst of cold anger out of his head. Why should Sabine not receive mail? And if that mail were from a man what business was it of his? She might know any number of men. Very likely did...
Another emotion stabbed at him. One he had not experienced before. One he never had cause to experience. Rigorously, he pushed it aside. Refused to allow his mind to dwell on the question that was trying to make itself heard. He would not speculate on just who might be sending her correspondence that she regarded as ‘sweet.’ He would not.
He risked another sideways glance at her as he steered through the traffic. She was still on her phone, scrolling through messages. As his gaze went back to the road he heard her give a soft chuckle, start to tap a reply immediately.
Bastiaan flicked his eyes towards her phone screen, hard though it was to see it from this angle and in the brightness of the sun. In the seconds his glance took a face on the screen impinged—or did it? It was gone as she touched the screen to send her message, but he could feel his hands clenching on the wheel again.
Had that been Philip?
The thought was in his head before he could stop it. He forced it out. It had been impossible to recognise the fleeting photo. It could have been anyone. Anyone. He would not let his imagination run riot. His fears run riot...
Instead he would focus only on the day ahead. A leisurely drive to St Paul de Vence...strolling hand in hand through its narrow pretty streets, thronged with tourists but charming all the same. Focus only on the easy companionable rightness of having Sabine at his side, looking so lovely as she was today, turning men’s heads all around and making a glow of happy possession fill him.
It would be a simple, uncomplicated day together, just like the days they’d spent together at his villa. Nothing would intrude on his happiness.
Into his head flickered the image of her glancing at the contents of that envelope in her lap. He heard again her little crow of pleasure. Saw in his mind the telltale printing on the small piece of paper she’d been looking at...
No!
He would not think about that—he would not.
Leave it be. It has nothing to do with you. Let your suspicions of her go—let go completely.
Resolutely he pushed it from his mind, lifting his free hand to point towards the entrance to the famous hotel where they were going to have lunch. She was delighted by it—delighted by everything. Her face alight with pleasure and happiness.
* * *
Across the table from him Sarah gazed glowingly at him. She knew every contour of his face, every expression in his eyes, every touch of his mouth upon her...
Her gaze flickered. Shadowed. There was a catch in her throat. Emerging from the villa had been like waking from a dream. Seeing the outside world all around her. Being reminded of its existence. Even just driving past the nightclub had plucked at her.
The days—the nights—she’d spent with Bastiaan had blotted out everything completely. But now—even here, sitting with people all around them—the world was pressing in upon her again. Calling time on them.
Tomorrow she must leave him. Go back to Max. Go back to being Sarah again. Emotion twisted inside her. This time with Bastiaan had been beyond amazing—it had been like nothing she had ever known. He was like no man she had ever known.
But what am I to him?
That was the question that shaped itself as they set off after lunch, his powerful, expensive car snaking its way back towards Cap Pierre. The question that pierced her like an arrow. She thought of how she’d assumed that a man like him would be interested only in a sophisticated seductive affair—a passionately sensual encounter with a woman like Sabine.
Was that still what she thought?
The answer blazed in her head.
I don’t want it to be just that. I don’t want to be just Sabine to him. I want to be the person I really am—I want to be Sarah.
But did she dare? That was what it came down to. As Sabine she had the protection of her persona—that of a woman who could deal with transient affairs...the kind a man like Bastiaan would want.
Would he still want me if I were Sarah?
Or was this burning passion, this intensity of desire, the only thing he wanted? He had said nothing of anything other than enjoying each hour with her—had not spoken of how long he wanted this to last or what it meant to him, nor anything at all of that nature.
Is this time all he wants of me?
There seemed to be a heaviness inside her, weighing her down. She stole a sideways look at Bastiaan. He was focussed on the road, which was building up with traffic now as they neared Nice. She felt her insides give a little skip as her gaze eagerly drank in his strong, incisive profile—and then there was a tearing feeling in its place.
I don’t want to leave him. I don’t want this to end. It’s been way, way too short!
But what could she do? Nothing—that was all. Her future was mapped out for her and it did not include any more time with Bastiaan.
Who might not want to spend it with her anyway. Who might only want what they were having now. And if that were so—if all he’d wanted all along was a kind of fleeting affair with Sabine—then she must accept it.
Sabine would be able to handle a brief affair like this—so I must be Sabine still.
As Sarah she was far too vulnerable...
She took a breath, steeling herself. Her time with Bastiaan was not yet up—not quite. There was still tonight—still one more precious night together....
And perhaps she was fearing the worst—perhaps he wanted more than this brief time.
Her thoughts raced ahead, borne on a tide of emotion that swelled out of her on wings of hope. Perhaps he would rejoice to find out she was Sarah. Would stand by her all through her final preparations for the festival—share her rejoicing if they were successful or comfort her if she failed and had to accept that she would never become the professional singer she had set her sights on being.
Like an underground fire running through the root systems of a forest, she felt emotions flare within her. What they were she dared not say. Must not give name to.
Right man—wrong time...for now...
But after the festival Bastiaan might just become someone to her who would be so much more than this incandescent brief encounter.
‘Shall we stop here in Nice for a while?’
Bastiaan’s voice interrupted her troubled thoughts, bringing her back to the moment.
‘They have some good shops,’ he said invitingly.
The dress she was wearing was pretty, but it was not a designer number by any means. Nor were any of the clothes she wore—including that over-revealing evening gown she wore to sing in. He found him
self wanting to know just how a dress suitable for her beauty would enhance her. Splashing out on a wardrobe for her would be a pleasure he would enjoy. And shopping with her would keep at bay any unnecessary temptation to worry about the cheque she had exclaimed over. He would not think about it—would not harbour any suspicions.
I’m done with such suspicions. I will banish them—not let them poison me again.
But she shook her head at his suggestion. ‘No, there’s nothing I need,’ she answered. She did not want to waste time shopping—she wanted to get back to the villa. To be with Bastiaan alone in the last few dwindling hours before she had to go.
He smiled at her indulgently. ‘But much, surely, that you want?’
She gave a laugh. She would not spoil this last day with him by being unhappy, by letting in the world she didn’t want to think about. ‘What woman doesn’t?’ was her rejoinder.
Then, suddenly, her tone changed. Something in that world she didn’t want to let in yet demanded her attention. Attention she must give it—right now.
‘Oh, actually...could we stop for five minutes? Just along here? There’s something I’ve remembered.’
Bastiaan glanced at her. She was indicating a side street off the main thoroughfare. Maybe she needed toiletries. But as he turned the car towards where she indicated, a slight frown creased his forehead. There was something familiar about the street name. He wondered why—where he had seen it recently.
Then she was pointing again. ‘Just there!’ she cried.
He pulled across to the pavement, looked where she was pointing, and with an icy rush cold snaked down his spine.
‘I won’t be a moment,’ she said as she got out of the car. Her expression was smiling, untroubled. Then, with a brief wave to him, she hurried into the building.
It was a bank. And Bastiaan knew, with ice congealing in his veins, exactly which bank it was—a branch of the bank that Philip’s cheque for twenty thousand euros had been paid into...
And in his head, imprinted like a laser image, he saw again the telltale shape of the contents of that envelope she’d opened in the car that morning, which had caused her to give a crow of pleasure. Another cheque that he knew with deadly certainty she was now paying into the very same account...
A single word seared across his consciousness with all the force of a dagger striking into his very guts.
Fool!
He shut his eyes, feeling cold in every cell of his body.
* * *
‘All done!’ Sarah’s voice was bright as she got back into the low-slung car. She was glad to have completed her task—glad she’d remembered in time. But what did not gladden her was having had to remember to do it at all. Letting reality impose itself upon her. The reality she would be facing tomorrow...
Conflict filled her. How could she want to stay here as Sabine—with Bastiaan—when Sarah awaited her in the morning? Yet how could she bear to leave Bastiaan—walk away from him and from the bliss she had found with him? Even though all the hopes and dreams of her life were waiting for her to fulfil them...
I want them both!
The cry came from within. Making her eyes anguished. Her heart clench.
She felt the car move off and turned to gaze at Bastiaan as he drove. He’d put on dark glasses while she’d been in the bank, and for a moment—just a moment—she felt that he was someone else. He seemed preoccupied, but the traffic in the middle of Nice was bad, so she did not speak until they were well clear and heading east towards Cap Pierre.
‘I can’t wait to take a dip in the pool,’ she said lightly. She stole a glance at him. ‘Fancy a skinny-dip this time?’ She spoke teasingly. She wanted to see him smile, wanted the set expression on his face to ease. Wanted her own mood, which had become drawn and aching, to lighten.
He didn’t answer—only gave a brief acknowledging smile, as fleeting as it was absent, and turned off the main coastal route to take the road heading towards Pierre-les-Pins.
She let him focus on the road, her own mood strained still, and getting more so with every passing moment. Going through Pierre-les-Pins was harder still, knowing that she must be there tomorrow—her time with Bastiaan over.
Her gaze went to him as he drove. She wanted, needed, to drink him in while she could. Desire filled her, quickening in her veins as she gazed at his face in profile, wanting to reach out and touch, even though he was driving and she must not. His expression was still set and there was no casual conversation, only this strained atmosphere. As if he were feeling what she was feeling...
But how could he be? He knew nothing of what she must do tomorrow—nothing of why she must leave him, the reality she must return to.
Urgency filled her suddenly. I have to tell him—tell him I am Sarah, not Sabine. Have to explain why...
And she must do it tonight—of course she must. When else? Tomorrow morning she would be heading back to the ville, ready to resume rehearsals. How could she hide that from him? Even if he still wanted her as Sarah she could spend no more time with him now—not with the festival so close. Not with so much work for her yet to do.
A darker thought assailed her. Did he even want more time with her—whether as Sarah or Sabine? Was this, for him, the last day he wanted with her? Had he done with her? Was he even now planning on telling her that their time together was over—that he was leaving France, returning to his own life in Greece?
Her eyes flickered. His features were drawn, with deep lines around his mouth, his jaw tense.
Is he getting ready to end this now?
The ache inside her intensified.
As they walked back inside the villa he caught her hand, stayed her progress. She halted, turning to him. He tossed his sunglasses aside, dropping them on a console table in the hallway. His eyes blazed at her.
Her breath caught—the intensity in his gaze stopped the air in her lungs—and then, hauling her to him, he lowered his mouth to hers with hungry, devouring passion.
She went up like dry tinder. It was a conflagration to answer his, like petrol thrown on a bonfire. Desperation was in her desire. Exultation at his desire for her.
In moments they were in the bedroom, shedding clothes, entwining limbs, passions roused, stroked and heightened in an urgency of desire to be fulfilled, slaked.
In a storm of sensation she reached the pinnacle of her arousal, hips straining to maximise his possession of her. His body was slicked with the sheen of physical ardour as her nails dug into his muscled shoulders and time after time he brought her to yet more exquisite pleasure. She cried out, as if the sensation was veering on the unbearable, so intense was her body’s climax. His own was as dramatic—a great shuddering of his straining body, the cords of his neck exposed as he lifted his head, eyes blind with passion. One last eruption of their bodies and then it was over, as though a thunderstorm had passed over a mountain peak.
She lay beneath him, panting, exhausted, her conscious mind dazed and incoherent. She gazed up at him, her eyes wide with a kind of wonder that she could not comprehend. The wildness of their union, the urgency of his possession, of the response he’d summoned from her, had been almost shocking to her. Physical bliss that she had never yet experienced.
And yet she needed now, in the aftermath, to have him hold her close, to cradle her in his arms, to transform their wildness to comfort and tenderness. But as she gazed upwards she saw that there was still that blindness in his eyes.
Was he still caught there, on that mountain peak they’d reached together, stranded in the physical storm of their union? She searched his features, trying to understand, trying to still the tumult in her own breast, where her heart was only slowly climbing down from its hectic beating.
Confusion filled her—more than confusion. That same darkening, disquieting unease that had started as they’d driven back from Nice. She wanted him to say something—anything. Wanted him to wrap his arms about her, hold her as he always did after the throes of passion.
But he did no such thing. Abruptly he was pulling away from her, rising up off the bed and heading into the en-suite bathroom.
As the door closed behind him an aching, anxious feeling of bereavement filled her. Unease mixed with her confusion, with her mounting disquiet. She got out of bed, swaying a moment, her body still feeling the aftermath of what it had experienced. Her hair was still in its plait, but it was dishevelled from their passion. Absently she smoothed it with her hands. She found that they were trembling. With the same shaky motion she groped for her clothes, scattered on the floor, tangled up with his.
From the bathroom came the sound of the shower, but nothing else.
Dressed, she made her way into the kitchen. Took a drink of water from the fridge. Tried to recover her calm.
But she could not. Whatever had happened between them it was not good. How could it be?
He’s ending it.
Those were the words that tolled in her brain. The only words that could make sense of how he was being. He was ending it and looking to find a way of doing so. He would not wish to wound her, hurt her. He would find an...acceptable way to tell her. He would probably say something about having to go back to Athens. Maybe he had other commitments she knew nothing about. Maybe...
Her thoughts were jumping all over the place, as if on a hot plate. She tried to gather them together, to come to terms with them. Then a sound impinged—her phone, ringing from inside her bag, abandoned in the hallway when Bastiaan had swept her to him.
Absently she fished it out. Saw that it was Max. Saw it go to voicemail.
She stared blindly at the phone as she listened to his message. He sounded fraught, under pressure.
‘Sarah—I’m really sorry. I need you to be Sabine tonight. I can’t placate Raymond any longer. Can you make it? I’m really sorry—’ He rang off.
She didn’t phone back. Couldn’t. All she could do was start to press the keys with nerveless fingers, texting her reply. Brief, but sufficient.
OK.
But it wasn’t OK. It wasn’t at all.
She glanced around the kitchen, spotted a pad of paper by the phone on the wall. She crossed to it, tore off a piece and numbly wrote on it, then tucked it by the coffee machine that was spluttering coffee into the jug. She picked up her bag and went out into the hallway, looked into the bedroom. The tangled bedclothes, Bastiaan’s garments on the floor, were blatant testimony to what had happened there so short a while ago.
