Читать книгу Mistress for a Month - Ann Major - Страница 10

If only she could look at him without feeling all nervous and out of breath, but she couldn’t. So she fidgeted.

He was sleek and edgy and yet he seemed familiar, which was odd because he wasn’t the sort of man a woman with youthful hormones onboard would easily forget.

Curious, intrigued, attracted, Amy couldn’t help studying him when he wasn’t looking. His thickly lashed eyes were brown and flecked with gold. The brows above them were heavy and intimidating. He had the most enormous shoulders and lots of jet-black hair that he wore long enough so that a lock constantly tumbled across his brow.

He was too amazingly gorgeous to believe, and far too male and huge to be sitting across from her in such a ladylike tea shop. But here he was.

Amy bit her lips just to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.

Despite his powerful body, he looked so elegant in his long-sleeved, black silk shirt and beige silk slacks. So grown up and successful compared to Fletcher, who wore old bathing trunks and T-shirts.

“Have you ever been to Hawaii?” she asked, struggling to make the kind of small talk that beautiful, polished Carol would be so good at.

Lame. Did she only imagine that he looked bored?

“No. Why do you ask?” His deep, dark, richly accented voice made her shiver.

“Because I live there. Because lots of tourists come there and I thought…maybe I’d seen you. I mean, you seem so familiar.”

“Do I?” Did she only imagine a new hardness in his voice?

He cocked his head and stared at her so intensely she couldn’t quite catch her breath.

Continuing to gaze at her in that steady, assessing way, his big, tanned hand lifted his wafer-thin teacup to his sensual mouth. She was too conscious of his stern lips, of his chiseled cheekbones, of those amber sparks flashing in his eyes, of his long, tapered fingers caressing the side of the tiny cup.

A beat passed. His eyes scanned the other women in the tea shop before returning to her. She swallowed.

When he grinned, she blushed.

“I—I’m not usually this nervous,” she whispered.

“You don’t seem nervous.” His low tone was smooth. Everything about him was smooth.

When she touched her teacup to lift it, it rattled, sloshing tea. “Oh, God! See? My hand is shaking.”

“Did you skip lunch?”

“How did you…? Why, yes, yes I did! There were so many things to look at in the markets. Sometimes I forget to eat when I shop.”

“I skipped lunch, as well. Maybe we’ll both feel better if we have a scone. They’re very good here.”

“Do you come here often?”

“Never. Until now. With you.”

“Then how do you know they’re good?”

“Reputation. I have a friend who comes here.”

Amy imagined a woman as beautiful as Carol. His friend would be delicate—slim and golden and well-dressed, the type who wouldn’t be caught dead shopping at the Camden Market. His type.

Ignorant of her thoughts and comparison, her companion was slathering clotted cream and jam on his scone. When he finished, he handed the dripping morsel to her. Then he made one for himself. When she gobbled hers much too greedily, he signaled the waitress and ordered chilled finger sandwiches and crisps.

Licking jam and cream off the tips of her fingers, she willed herself to calm down. He was right; she was shaking because she was starving, not because he was gorgeous and sexy and maybe dangerous.

She was perfectly safe. They were in a sedate tea shop with a table and a tablecloth, pink-and-gold china teacups and saucers between them. They were surrounded by lots of other customers, too. So, there was absolutely nothing to be nervous about.

“So, you haven’t been to Hawaii,” she mused aloud, staring at his hard, too-handsome face with that lock of black hair tumbling over his brow. “Are you famous?”

He started.

She bit into a second scone, and the rich concoction seemed to melt on her tongue. “A movie star?” she pressed, sensing a strange, new tension in him as she licked at a sticky fingertip. “Is that why you look so familiar?”

“I’m an investor.” He was watching her lick her finger with such excessive interest, she stopped.

“You don’t look like an investor,” she said.

“What did you have me pegged for?”

“You have a look, an edge. You certainly don’t seem like the kind of man who goes to the office every day.”

Did she only imagine that his mouth tightened? He lowered his eyes and dabbed jam on his second scone. “Sorry to disappoint you. I have a very dull office and a very dull secretary in Paris.”

“So what do you invest in?”

“Lots of dull things—stocks, mutual funds, real estate. My family has interests all over Europe, in the States…Asia, too. Emerging markets, they call them. Believe me, I stay busy with my, er, dull career. I have to, or I’d go mad.” His voice sounded bleak. “And what do you do?”

“I just have a little shop. I sell old clothes that I buy at estate sales and markets.”

“And do you enjoy it?”

“Very much. But it would probably seem dull and boring to someone like you.”

“The question is—is it dull and boring to you?”

“No! Of course, not! I love what I do. I live to find some darling item at a bargain price, so that I can sell it to a customer with a limited budget. Every woman longs to be beautiful, you know.”

“Then I envy you.” Again she heard a weariness in his voice. Only this time she sensed the deeper pain that lay beneath it.

“And you don’t think I’m boring…because I sell old clothes?”

He laughed. “Don’t be absurd.”

“No, really, you must tell me.” She leaned forward, holding her cup in two hands for fear of spilling. “Since we’re strangers, we can speak freely. Was your first impression of me…Did you think I looked boring and old?”

He set his scone down. “Who the hell’s been telling you a stupid thing like that?”

“My boyfriend.” Why had she admitted that?

“Then dump him.”

“I sort of did, but I’ve always loved him. Or, at least, I thought I did. Maybe he’s just been in my life forever.”

“So you’re the loyal, committed type?”

“Well, anyway, I can’t stop thinking about him. All day I thought about him. And the things he said.”

His black brows shot together so alarmingly her hands, which still held her teacup, began to shake. “Stick with your decision.”

“But I’ve loved him since I was five, I think,” she whispered a bit defensively. “My mother disapproves of him, though.”

“No wonder you cling to him.”

“No, it’s not like that.” She smiled. “It’s just that I’m not sure I did the right thing to break up with him. I did it so fast, I mean. That’s not like me. I spent several years planning before I opened my store.”

“Maybe the decision had been coming on for a while.”

“But Fletcher—”

“Fletcher?” His handsome features hardened. “Well, you’re not boring or old. So, you want to know my first thoughts about you. I thought you were lovely. Fresh. Nice. Different. Too nice for me probably, but a woman I definitely would want to know better if I were a different sort of man—one capable of commitment. Sexy.” He bit off that last rather grumpily. “Sexy in a nice way. You’re the kind of woman a nice guy, who has a good job and wants to settle down, marries so he can have a houseful of kids to play soccer with on the weekends.”

His dark eyes with those sparking flecks said much more, and she grew hot with embarrassment.

“That’s sweet,” she said.

When his hand reached across the table for hers, she jumped.

“Responsive, too. That’s another first thought.”

She yanked her hand free and tucked it beneath her pink napkin.

“This Fletcher doesn’t deserve you. But let’s talk of something more pleasant. I can tell we’ll never agree on this subject, so why argue? Your love life is your choice. Not mine. I barely know you.”

He seemed out of sorts suddenly, defensive, almost jealous. But that wasn’t possible. A man like him, who was wealthy, refined and movie-star sexy couldn’t be jealous of her. Especially not when they’d just met.

“I’m sorry if I upset you.”

“So, you have a sister?” He was clearly determined to change the subject. “Here in London?

“Carol. Actually, she lives outside London. On a rather grand estate near Wolverton. She has a large house with a conservatory. And a lovely garden, too. That sounds so English, doesn’t it? But she and her husband—he’s a lord and a very important person, mind you—keep a flat here in St. James so they can stay in the city whenever they need to, which is usually four or five nights a week. She’s a barrister, and he’s high up in the government. They both work in the city.”

“So how much time do you have with them? What sights are you going to see while you’re here?”

“I’m flying to Marseilles tomorrow afternoon. But I hope to ride the Eye and walk across the Millennium Bridge. I’m sure those seem like dull and boring things to you.”

“Quit running yourself down. We’ll do it, then,” he said.

“We’ll?”

“If you’ll accept my invitation. Are you free for dinner and dancing tonight?”

“But we just met. I bet I’m not the sort of girl you usually ask out.”

“What the hell are you talking about now?”

“Just what I said. I’m not the sort of girl you usually hang out with.”

“No, you’re not. But maybe that’s why I like you so much. Why I find you so not boring and old, as you put it, that I want to clear my schedule, which is jam-packed I assure you, and spend as much time as I can with you before you leave.”

She was thrilled and yet startled, too. She was in a foreign city, and she didn’t know anything about him. Except that he was sexy, and she wasn’t sure that was exactly the best recommendation.

“I’ll have to check with my sister. She went to Edinburgh on business, but she’s going to try to get back tonight in time to have me come for dinner. I came over here in such a rush, and she had a calendar full of engagements and business commitments.”

“I understand.” He pulled out a little black notebook and tore out a page. Then he scribbled two numbers. “This one’s my mobile. The other rings at the flat. Call me if you’re free.” Then he shrugged in that wonderful Gallic way he had as he handed it to her.

His deep voice was as heated as his gaze, causing her to shiver even before he placed the note in her hand. Instantly she curled her fingers around the scrap of paper. When his fingers lingered warmly over hers for long seconds, her own hand froze.

Soon the heat of his long fingers wrapping hers proved too unnerving. She couldn’t think or talk or breathe. Not with her pulse knocking a hundred beats a minute.

“Why do you seem so familiar?” she blurted, pulling her hand away so she could put his note in her purse. She gasped for a breath. “I—I just know I’ve seen you before.”

“I don’t think so.”

With a scowl, he picked up the bill. Then before she knew what he was about, he lifted her hand and brought it to his lips, turning it over slowly. His mouth against her palm and wrist sent her pulse leaping even faster than before. Then heat swept her body.

“I don’t need to call you later. I’ll go with you…dancing…everything…tonight,” she said in a rush.

“What about Carol?”

“Carol?” Her mind was blank.

“Your sister.” He smiled much too knowingly.

“Right.” She gasped. “Right. Of course. Carol. I’ve got to wait until Carol calls. I forgot all about her.”

He laughed. “You’re wonderful in your own special way. I envy that nice guy with the job who’s going to get you. Lucky man.”

When he got up, he helped her out of her chair. After he paid the bill, he escorted her out of the shop and said he hoped he’d see her soon. On the sidewalk he lifted her hand to his mouth and said goodbye before walking rapidly toward Piccadilly.

Amelia looked at the little scrap of paper with his phone numbers on it. He hadn’t written his name down, nor had he introduced himself properly. He hadn’t asked her for her name, either.

Why?

He had impeccable manners.

Was he famous?

Why did he seem so familiar?

France’s Highest Court Upholds Dismissal of Manslaughter Charges against Comte Remy de Fournier!

Her mouth agape, riveted by the news headlines, lurid photographs and articles in the newspaper she was holding, Amelia sat perfectly still on Carol’s “bloody-expensive” sofa.

Remy de Fournier. No wonder he’d seemed so edgy. No wonder he hadn’t told her who he was.

He’d killed his best friend, André Laffite, because he’d driven on bad tires on a wet day to win. Since the wreck, he’d slept with every beautiful woman with a title on the continent, heartlessly jilting them, not caring if he broke their hearts as long as they pleasured him.

So, they hadn’t met quite by accident.

She took a deep breath against the hurt that threatened to overwhelm her. He wasn’t attracted to her. He’d been feeling her out, figuring out a strategy to get the valuable properties he coveted.

Beneath the blaring headline were pictures of the crash that had ended the life of his best friend. Apparently Remy had been determined to win at any cost. More photographs of the wreck were splashed across a back page. There were numerous shots of Remy and the beautiful women he’d dated and jilted. One of the women had even made a suicide attempt after her affair with him. Not that the woman herself blamed Remy. No, she said he’d helped her through a difficult time. There was an awful picture of him smashing his fist into a reporter’s jaw.

When she finished reading the articles and looking at the pictures, Amy felt sick. She reexamined them, anyway. When she was done, she shot to her feet and began to pace with the newspaper clutched to her heart. If half the accusations were true, she should despise him. Wadding the paper up, she threw the pages at the wall and then flung herself back down on Carol’s sofa.

Bastard. Liar. Jerk.

A memory came back to her. Remy had been eighteen, and she’d been in the garden when the comte had hurled brutal, damning insults at him. Never would she forget the torment in Remy’s eyes when he’d stormed out of the château and straight into her.

“What the hell were you doing?” he’d thundered. “Spying?”

“But I wasn’t.”

“Damn little eavesdropper! Get out of my way!”

“No. I—I wasn’t. I swear.”

“Liar.”

“No. I—I’m sorry about what he said. Maybe he didn’t mean it.”

“Spare me your fake kindness. He meant it, all right. I hope I never have the bad fortune to meet you or your aunt again.” He slammed past her and out the gate and she hadn’t seen him for seventeen years. Till today.

And now? Outwardly he was much changed from the tall, awkward, angry boy who’d been so rude to her.

Fool. He’d been deliberately charming because he wanted the vineyard and the painting.

Still, he’d gone out of his way to make her like him. Even now when she should be furious because he’d deceived her so he could use her or so his agents could trick her, she wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.

He is loathsome. So much worse than Fletcher.

But that woman who’d tried to kill herself had defended him.

Why did the bad boys of the world always appeal to her? Why couldn’t she fall for some nice, paunchy accountant going bald, someone like Carol’s Steve, an upright, type-A achiever? Or even just the normal guy Remy had described: the nice guy with a job who wants to settle down and marry so he can have a houseful of kids to play soccer with on the weekend.

If a hard-partying surfer was the frying pan, Remy, the womanizing, ex–Formula One driver, who’d watched her buy transparent panties and had made her pulse race, was definitely the fire.

She was lying on the couch in a state of utter depression as she tried without success to conjure up a dull ideal mate when the phone rang.

“Hey!” Carol said too brightly, sounding like her overly self-confident self. “I’m at the house. If you took the train from Euston, you’d be here in an hour and I could have dinner ready. The kids and Steve are very keen about seeing you.”

The very last person in London she felt like seeing was her perfect, superior, drop-dead gorgeous, big sister.

“I don’t feel too well,” she heard herself say.

“What’s wrong?”

“Something I ate, probably. Or jet lag. I’ll have to catch you on my way home.”

“I’m so sorry you don’t feel well. I worked so hard all day just so we could all be together tonight. Do you need a doctor? Should I come to London?”

Guilt swamped Amy. She felt like dirt. Here she was lying, and Carol sounded so concerned and caring. “I’m sure after a quiet night here, I’ll be just fine.”

“Well, then, if you’re sure…I really am tired after the trip. Maybe I’ll just pop by and check on you first thing in the morning on my way to the firm. Maybe bring you a croissant or something.”

They talked a little while longer, making tentative plans to see each other in the morning before they hung up.

I can’t believe I did that! I’ve let him ruin my visit with Carol! My mood! Everything!

She stared across the room at the wadded-up newspaper.

All those women, women as beautiful and poised and perfect as Carol. They must’ve liked him, too.

He’d said he liked her because she was different.

Quit thinking about him!

Usually, Amelia wasn’t one for hard liquor, but this was an emergency. She went to the kitchen, telling herself she was after a bottle of sparkling water or a soda, but the bottle of scotch lived in the same cabinet with the sodas, and it spoke to her. She grabbed a glass and poured a shot over some chunklets of ice. Swirling the glass, she returned to the living room, where she settled herself on the couch once more. For a long time, she just sat there, glumly sipping Carol’s scotch as she glared at the wadded-up newspaper and the half of Remy’s face she could see.

Then she stood. Crossing the room, she picked up the newspaper again. This time a photograph she’d barely noticed caught her attention. His stony face bleached of arrogance and any conceit, Remy was walking through the pits carrying André’s helmet under his arm. All she saw in his hard features was shock and grief.

Who was he really? He’d been so nice to her today. He’d been attentive to her needs, and he’d gone out of his way to make her feel special and beautiful. Was he that sensitive, caring person or the man she’d just read about?

He’d had lots and lots of women. He couldn’t have had all those women if he wasn’t a really good lover. He was French. Frenchmen had a worldwide reputation for being good lovers. She knew it was crazy, but she began to envy those glamorous women whose hearts he’d broken.

Fletcher had accused her of being old and boring. More than anything she wanted to be exciting.

Remy de Fournier had asked her to go dancing tonight. Maybe he was totally awful like the papers made him out to be.

Or maybe he was just the man she needed to show her how to be a more exciting and confident woman. He’d made her feel interesting and beautiful today.

Maybe it was time she learned a new set of life skills. What sort of things could he teach her if she spent an entire night with him?

Her mother was always saying she could be and have so much more if she refused to settle. Maybe it was time to live a little dangerously.

Slowly Amy dug into her pocket and felt for the scrap of paper with Remy’s phone numbers on it. For a long moment she studied the flowing black letters. Then with shaking fingers she began dialing his mobile, but after letting it ring once, she hung up, and would have chewed her nails except she couldn’t because she had on those new tips.

Damn!

She was still staring at her fake pink fingernails in utter frustration when the phone rang.

Expecting Carol, she picked it up.

“Did someone from this number call me?” Remy’s deep, dark voice spoke with such tender concern she almost forgot he was the terrible person she’d read about and not the sweet man she’d met by chance and had liked so much this afternoon.

He sounded so nice.

“Me!” she squeaked, forgetting the terrible bit. “That would be me! The girl you bumped—”

He laughed as if he were thrilled, too. “I know who you are.” Somehow the way he said that made her feel very special, like she was the only woman in the world who mattered to him. Which was ridiculous. He was a womanizer.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t call,” he said, again sounding so sincerely worried and humble she could almost feel her heart shatter. He was that good.

Or that bad.

Either way, this could be a win-win.

Hang up on him.

She plunged in recklessly. “I—I’m free tonight. Carol…” Amy glanced across the room at a silver-framed photograph of her blond sister and Steve and silently crossed herself. “We…we won’t be getting together, after all. She…has a headache.”

“Nothing too serious, I hope.”

“No.”

“Excellent. I can be there as soon as you can be ready.”

“But I don’t have anything to wear.”

“I don’t really object to that,” he teased. “I could bring dinner over, and we could stay in. You could wear…nothing. I wouldn’t mind. I swear.”

She laughed. “You are terrible.”

“So I’ve been told.” He laughed. “What do you want, chérie?”

If she wanted lessons in love from an expert, she should say, “You.” She should say, “Yes! Yes!”

“Fortnam and Masons is only two blocks away. If I could just pop over there…”

“I particularly liked your dress this afternoon.”

“I’ll call you when I’m ready.”

“I can’t wait to see you,” he said in a dark, eager tone that sent a chill through her.

“Me, too,” she responded in a voice that was probably too low for him to hear.

When he hung up, she licked her lips with the tip of her tongue and drew a slow, deep breath. Just talking to him made her feel sexy and daring.

She exhaled a long, shaky breath. And then another. Oh, my God. She was so excited she’d held her breath almost the entire phone call.

Deep down she knew that if she were smart and practical, she would return to Honolulu and regroup. No way should she fly to France to negotiate with his agents or his family about the vineyard or even think about the Matisse until she had her head on straight. If she were smart and practical she would tell him she knew who he was and ask him to leave her alone.

But despite everything she’d read about him, or maybe because of it, she wanted to go out with Remy. Which was crazy.

He’d tricked her!

But he’d been charming, devastatingly charming. And he had not pressed his advantage, she told herself.

Not yet, anyway.

Her mind warred with itself, but soon the hunger for adventure with a dangerous, incredibly attractive man won out over good sense and logic.

He was a comte. Despite his many faults, that would cut a lot of ice chunklets with her shallow mother and brilliant sister. Definitely, he was a win-win.

Now all she had to do was to find a sexy red dress!