Читать книгу Original Sin - Rosalie Ash - Страница 4

AT THE sound of the spit of gravel on the drive below, Emily jumped out of the bath, short strawberry-blonde curls still damp from a hasty hairwash, and went to peer curiously from the open window of her bedroom.

The warm July air met her, redolent with the rich, sweet scent of golden broom, pine trees and some other heady, elusive fragrance, some musky blend of smells unique to summers in France. A distant flash of black wings circled in the evening sky around the mossy red pantiled roof and tall chimneys of the opposite wing of the chteau. Bats, probably, Emily decided, thinking how neatly this ancient creeper-clad building lent itself to the occupation of bats in its belfry...

Clutching the ends of the big ivory bath-towel around herself, she shrank back behind the heavy curtain to see a sleek open-top Mercedes sports car sweeping into the courtyard, to halt outside the entrance to the chteau.

It wasn’t really dark yet. Just dusk. The arc of yellow light from the storm light below showed a tall, broad-shouldered man springing athletically from the driver’s seat. Snatching a battered-looking briefcase or flight-bag from inside the car, he thrust his fingers through the lock of dark hair which fell over his forehead and headed, with a purposeful yet oddly preoccupied air, towards the steps. There was a loping spring in his movements which reminded Emily of a lion’s prowl...

Could this be her new boss? Instinct told her it was, even though Lisette Duvert, taken by surprise this morning at Emily’s arrival a day earlier than expected, had predicted that Monsieur Malraux wouldn’t be getting back from his business trip until tomorrow. The new arrival had a distinctly boss-like air about him, Emily told herself, suppressing a smile. He looked as if he exuded that god-like air of indispensability. As if the universe would have quite a struggle continuing to function without him...

She’d better get dried, dressed, and somehow find her way down to announce her presence. Lisette Duvert, the young, glamorous and rather unhelpful housekeeper, had shown her to her room, announced that tonight was her night off, and promptly departed. Emily had been left with vague directions to the nearest restaurant for an evening meal, and with the uncomfortable feeling that she might be the only member of staff of the Chteau de Mordin spending the night here. She wasn’t normally prey to nervous fantasy, but she’d seriously considered jumping back in her hired Renault 5 and driving into Saintes, to see if her old penfriend Marianne and family would put her up for the night...

Before she could make any move towards drying and dressing, however, heavy footsteps sounded on the landing outside her door, and without warning the door was pushed open. A man around her own age, of average height and solid build, with curly brown hair, definitely not the recent arrival from the Mercedes, marched into the room, swung a rucksack on to the bed, and began to discard a short-sleeved red shirt as he strode towards the bathroom.

‘Hey...!’ Her indignant gasp brought the intruder to an abrupt halt, and with a muffled exclamation he reached to switch on the light, then gazed with an unrepentant leer at the sight of Emily, clutching her towel round her slender body, pale with outrage.

‘Well, well! Definitely all mod cons!’ The voice was English, with a slight regional accent. Hazel eyes gleamed with undisguised appreciation. ‘French, English or German?’

‘Whoever you are, will you please get out of my room?’

‘Ah, English. Lisette didn’t tell me I was sharing, but I’ve no objections if you haven’t. Greg Vernon’s the name. I’m hitching round Europe, doing a spot of casual summer work when I can. And you?’

Emily glared at the man, longing for some object to throw.

‘Emily Gainsborough. I’m here to do temporary work for the summer, too. And I’m delighted to meet you, but perhaps we could continue this friendly chat some other time? This is my room!’

Greg Vernon’s eyes were overtly curious as he examined her long, slim legs, the petite line of her hips and breasts covered by the towel, the delicate swell of her breasts above, and the damp, feathery gold curls clinging to her head.

‘Lisette told me third door on the right.’

‘Maybe counting’s not your strong point?’ she suggested cuttingly.

‘So what are you supposed to be doing here? Odd jobs, like me?’ Greg Vernon ignored her sarcasm, folding his arms and staring hard at the curve of her thighs.

Humouring the man seemed the only option for the moment. She tightened her hold on the towel, and controlled her temper.

‘No, I’m a temporary secretary for the chteau owner. Until I take up a full-time job in the Foreign Office in September. Now would you please...?’

‘The Foreign Office?’

‘Yes. At their Paris embassy.’ Alone in this apparently deserted chteau, Emily was feeling acutely vulnerable. Even if she knew she could probably look after herself, it didn’t dispel her sense of female vulnerability. She didn’t like the way he was ogling her. If she leaned out of the window and screamed, would someone come to her aid?

‘Brainy as well as beautiful?’ He sounded impressed. ‘How old are you, sweetheart?’

‘I’m not your sweetheart. And I’m old enough to look after myself. Now will you please go and find yourself an empty room?’

‘You’re a sight for very sore eyes, did you know that?’ he persisted, his grin widening. ‘I’ve got a soft spot for brainy brown-eyed strawberry blondes.’

‘Will you just get out of here?’

‘Especially brown-eyed strawberry blondes with cheekbones like Kim Basinger’s, who look as if a gust of wind would blow them over,’ he mused, unaffected by the glitter of fury in her eyes. He took a few steps towards her on sturdy, muscular legs with just a hint of bravado swagger. ‘What do you say to giving my back a scrub in the bath, sweetheart? I’ll make it worth your while...’

‘I’m warning you,’ she hissed in a low, shaky voice. ‘If you don’t get out of my room in five seconds flat, I’ll...’

‘You’ll what, sweetheart?’

The masculine goad, the insultingly confident hand reaching towards her, was the deciding factor. Fear abruptly left her. Calmly, with a reaction born of weekly practice at her local sports centre, and several competition wins at national level, she caught his upper arm in a classic judo hold. Before he knew what had hit him, Greg Vernon flipped over to land flat on his back on the floor on the landing outside Emily’s room.

Winded, he lay there, staring up at her. The look of stunned surprise on his face was so comical, she had to fight back shaky laughter as she slammed the door on him.

The towel, loosened in the struggle, suddenly fell to the floor. For a few unavoidable seconds, Emily found herself stark naked, trembling all over, slender thighs braced, small, high, ochre-tipped breasts rising and falling rapidly, and she was just about to snatch her salmon-pink satin wrap from the bed when another voice spoke from the reopened doorway. A deep, scathing, sardonic voice which made her jerk round in dismay.

‘Mademoiselle Gainsborough?’

Beneath an unruly lock of straight black hair, intense, black-fringed smoke-blue eyes met Emily’s wide, slanting brown ones. A rush of heat prickled all over her body as she stared up at the tall, dark man. It was the Mercedes owner, in slate-grey suit, white silk shirt and discreetly patterned silk tie, absorbing the scene, and her nakedness, with a totally deadpan expression. A jagged scar ran down his left cheek. Harsh lines of cynicism and bitterness were scored around his mouth. And yet somehow he was still the most devastatingly attractive man she’d ever seen.

It was only a split second between his appearance and her physical reaction to cover herself up, but it seemed extraordinarily prolonged, as if time had suddenly switched into slow motion.

Opening her mouth to speak, she found that no words would emerge. She settled for a quick nod, and dived, utterly mortified, for the wrap, plunging her arms in and clutching it round herself with trembling fingers. She was going hot and cold alternately; groaning inwardly. The incident with Greg Vernon had been bad enough. To be facing her new employer, in the nude and with a strange male flat-out on the landing floor...not the most auspicious of starts...

‘Would you mind explaining what is going on here?’

‘This man barged into my room, and tried to...to molest me. I’m afraid I used self-defence automatically...’

‘So I had the pleasure of witnessing just now. It is strange, mademoiselle, but I don’t recall any mention of naked martial arts on your curriculum vitae.’

His English accent was near perfect, with a slight American twang, as if he’d learned it in the States rather than in England. There was a glitter of some emotion in his eyes. Emily thought she detected the faintest suggestion of humour, then decided she’d been mistaken. He definitely looked unamused.

Greg Vernon was dragging himself to his feet, ruefully rubbing his hipbone.

‘She’s lethal. Sorry mate.’ He sounded shaken, though slightly sullen. He made a lunge for his rucksack and looked anxious to leave. ‘Are you the new owner of this place?’

The dark man nodded curtly. ‘Christian Malraux. And, according to my housekeeper’s note, I assume that you must be Greg Vernon?’

‘The same. Wrong room. Bit of a mix-up...’

‘Get out, right now.’ The ice in the deep voice sent chills down Emily’s spine. She’d been right. He was not amused.

‘Now, wait a minute...’

‘Out. You’re sacked.’ There was no emotion, no trace of uncertainty. Just harsh, judgemental finality.

‘Sacked? I haven’t even started yet. But you can stick your flaming job right up your...’

With a lightning reflex, the tall, athletic-looking Frenchman had levered himself away from the doorjamb and taken the other man by one arm, jerking it expertly up his back, immobilising him.

‘Guard your tongue,’ he ordered softly, ‘and get off my property.’

With a warning thrust, he released him again. Greg Vernon’s shoulders and back bunched in anger, but he clearly thought better of further challenge. There was an indefinable air of toughness about Christian Malraux; the jagged scar lent a slightly sinister air to his appearance. He stood back to let Greg Vernon through, and Emily, for some perverse reason she hardly understood, felt compelled to speak up on his behalf.

‘There’s no need to fire him on my account,’ she protested quickly, hugging the satin wrap closely around her as the smoky-blue eyes turned their chill intensity on her again.

‘Indeed?’ The deep voice was taunting. Transfixed, she stared at the dark face, frantically trying to analyse why he should be so unsettling. Taken separately, his features were strong, but otherwise unremarkable. He had a large nose, deep-set, deceptively sleepy blue eyes, a wide, hard mouth and a jutting chin with a cleft in the centre. A bluish black shadow on his lower jaw proclaimed his need to shave at least twice a day.

‘Is this man a friend of yours, mademoiselle?’

‘No. But I think it was just a silly...misunderstanding. I think Mr Vernon and I understand each other now.’

‘I am sure that you do.’ The harsh, husky timbre of his voice brought goose-bumps out all over her skin. ‘However, I make the decisions here. I will see you downstairs in ten minutes, Mademoiselle Gainsborough. Keep your door locked in future. Particularly when you are taking a bath.’

With a final penetrating appraisal of her appearance, leaving her feeling stripped naked all over again, he withdrew from the room and shut the door with a decisive click.

Emily leaned against the closed door, and shut her eyes. Arrogant, supercilious man, she muttered out loud. She was shaking, so violently that she could hardly turn the key in the lock.

Why was she so angry with Christian Malraux? she wondered, as she went through automatic motions of dressing, her thoughts flitting wildly. Surely she should be angry with the Englishman? Glad of her employer’s timely intervention? Instead she found herself feeling almost sorry for her brash would-be attacker, and furiously resentful of the patronising, judgemental attitude of Christian Malraux...

Dragging a hairbrush through her short sunset-gold curls, she glared at her reflection. Demure now in knee-length salmon silk sarong-skirt, chocolate silk camisole and loose salmon silk collarless overshirt, she carefully fitted delicate pearl-drop earrings, and slicked a touch of pale pink lipstick over her lips, and gold-brown shadow on her lids. The look was cool, casually elegant, smart enough to cope with any eventuality. Dressed this way she might, just, be able to retrieve her credibility and poise.

As she made her way reluctantly down to meet her new employer, she came to a rueful conclusion about her muddled feelings. She’d managed to get the better of Greg Vernon. She had his measure. She’d met men like him before, and handled them with relative ease. Somehow he presented no threat. Not so with Christian Malraux. She had the feeling he was the kind of man it would be very hard to get the better of. And he seemed to present the biggest threat of all...

* * *

‘Have you eaten?’ the question was barked without preamble. She blinked at him in surprise.

‘No...’

‘Bon. Ça c’est la premire chose faire...first, we eat.’

No consultation. No prevarication. Christian Malraux was cool, calm, and in a disinterested sort of way totally in control. She found herself escorted firmly to the gunmetal-grey Mercedes, and then speeding back down the long, shingled drive of the chteau towards the stone gateway. The headlights lit up massive cedar trees, walnut trees, arcing through the dense parkland. A rabbit froze in the brilliant beam for a split second, then bounded desperately away into the undergrowth.

‘So you arrived early,’ he said expressionlessly. ‘Lisette was not expecting you until tomorrow.’

‘There must have been a misunderstanding. I was under the impression I was due to start today.’

The shadowed face flicked briefly towards her, then fixed ahead in concentration on driving expertly fast along the winding country roads.

‘Lisette also thought you weren’t due back from your business trip until tomorrow!’ she added calmly, marvelling how composed she could sound when inside she was a quivering jelly of nerves and reaction. Sitting here in the open Mercedes, beside Christian Malraux, she was experiencing the most unnerving dj vu sensation, as if she’d driven with him before, had known him before, as if he was someone important in her life, someone with a deep connection on another, subconscious level.

Since his saturnine appearance at her bedroom door, he’d swapped the grey suit for stone-coloured fine gabardine trousers, a black cotton mesh collarless shirt, and a loose, unstructured stone cotton jacket. He looked expensively casual, European designer-style. And heart-stoppingly attractive. Privately she decided Christian Malraux could probably manage to dress in a frilly pink sundress and still set every female heart within a two-mile radius thudding in ecstasy.

‘My meetings finished earlier than expected,’ he informed her harshly. ‘Which, from what I saw tonight, is just as well.’

‘If you’re referring to Greg Vernon, I was quite capable of dealing with him myself!’

‘So I saw. But I suspect you had an element of luck on your side, Mademoiselle Gainsborough. Never underestimate your adversary. Once that initial element of surprise is gone, you would do well to remember that.’

‘I happen to possess a brown belt in judo,’ she told him with calm pride. ‘A friend’s father is an instructor. I’ve fought in national competitions.’

‘Impressive.’ He didn’t sound particularly impressed. The dark face turned briefly in her direction again, and she sensed a mocking smile. ‘I know something of the martial arts myself. Your performance was certainly entertaining. But your linguistic and secretarial qualifications will be of more use to me.’

‘Oh, I’m definitely versatile!’

His glance was sardonic. Instantly she wished she hadn’t bothered with the flippant response. Her face was burning again in the darkness as she briefly relived the scene in her bedroom. She sought quickly to change the subject on to something less personal.

‘Did I get the impression you’d recently taken over the chteau, Monsieur Malraux?’

‘Three months ago.’ He nodded in the darkness. They were approaching some lights on the left now, pulling off the road beside a restaurant which looked as if it had been converted from an old mill.

‘You bought it from the previous owner?’

He shook his head briefly. ‘Years ago I lived at the chteau, with my uncle and aunt. But I chose another career, which took me abroad. I had not been back to Chteau de Mordin for five years. Until my uncle was taken ill and then died.’

Emily had the strong impression that Christian Malraux was far from delighted to be back at the chteau now. There was a cool cynicism underlying his words.

The cynicism she found hard to relate to. Casting embarrassment aside, her own emotions felt heightened. She found it hard to explain how she was feeling, even to herself. All she knew was that from the moment he’d appeared in her bedroom doorway she’d felt as if some obscure inner organ of her body had gone into slow meltdown. Combined with embarrassment at the scene he’d interrupted, and resentment at his authoritarian manner, this was a bewildering reaction. She was feeling slightly breathless, and shivery, and decidedly dithery...

With such a sharp focus on her own emotions it simply wasn’t fair to sense that Christian Malraux was offhandedly doing his duty, escorting his new secretary out for a meal on her first night, with his thoughts and his heart far away on some other, more enthralling life he’d been forced to abandon...

She caught herself up sharply. What idiotic fantasies were these? How could she be allowing her brain to run riot with such adolescent melodrama? She was twenty-two, a languages graduate filling in the summer before taking up a responsible job at an embassy. To date she’d had countless casual boyfriends—enjoyed lots of platonic friendships with the opposite sex, too. How could she be feeling this...this illogical kaleidoscope of emotion half an hour after meeting Christian Malraux?

She resolved to take a stern grip on herself.

But inside the restaurant, seated opposite her new employer at a check-clothed table, she met the smoky, sleepy, slightly bored blue gaze across the menu and felt the breath knocked out of her lungs again.

‘Seafood of all kinds is excellent in Charente Maritime,’ he told her coolly, assessing the slight involuntary flush of her cheeks with an air of detachment. ‘Just about every kind of fish that swims in the sea is caught and cooked and coated in some cunning sauce.’

‘Yes...I already know the area. That’s the main reason I chose this particular job. I have a penfriend fairly close by. I used to spend summers with her and her family.’

‘Where do they live?’ The query was perfunctory.

‘Saintes.’

‘A beautiful town. The Roman amphitheatre is extraordinary.’

‘Yes...’ She studied the menu unseeingly. This cool small talk was somehow infinitely disturbing. ‘I...I think I’ll have the raie.’

‘Would you like some wine?’

She nodded. ‘Chteau de Mordin produce a Sauvignon, don’t they?’

A slow smile altered the brooding darkness of the face opposite her. He thrust long, spatulate fingers through the persistent fall of dark hair on his forehead, and narrowed his blue eyes speculatively.

‘You have already done your homework, mademoiselle?’

‘I’m a naturally inquisitive person. Chteau de Mordin houses a co-operative of a hundred and forty-five vine growers, covering seven hundred hectares. You primarily make pineau cognac, which is one part cognac to three parts grape juice, with wines a secondary product. You produce three white wines, including a cuvée spéciale, plus a ros and a red.’

He laughed, completely demolishing her fragile composure. Christian Malraux had a deep, husky, infectious laugh and excellent, even white teeth. The slash of brilliance against the dusky tan of his skin make her think, irrationally, of pirates.

‘Little Miss Efficiency. My friend at your college was right when he said I’d be sorry to lose you.’

Emily was appalled to find herself blushing. Even more mortified when she realised that Christian Malraux was aware of her hot cheeks.

‘What an intriguing mixture you are, mademoiselle...’

‘Please, call me Emily!’ she snapped, pressing her hands together in the soft silk of her lap, willing herself to be cool and collected.

‘Emily.’ He said it consideringly, rolling the syllables deliberately, teasing around his tongue, his accent more in evidence. ‘Oui, d’accord. Emily. You must call me Christian.’

There was a momentary pause. Lost in the sleepy black-fringed blue eyes, Emily found she was holding her breath.

‘Yes. Thank you...Christian.’ She’d only spoken the man’s first name, for heaven’s sake. She felt as tense as if she’d just confessed some intimate secret...

The waiter came. Christian dispatched their order, then turned his attention back to her still-flushed face.

‘As I was saying,’ he continued softly, as if there’d been no interruption, ‘you are an intriguing mixture, Emily. Cool enough to use judo successfully against a man, to defend yourself. Professional enough to carry out detailed background research for what is merely a temporary job. Yet you look so fragile, as if a man could crush you if he held you too tightly.’

‘I...’

‘And shy enough to blush like a schoolgirl when you are paid a compliment.’

‘I don’t normally blush!’ she protested with a soft vehemence which clearly amused him even more. ‘You’ll have to excuse me. I’m feeling a little...off balance tonight. For obvious reasons!’

‘Ah. You mean your enchanting...nudity...on our first meeting?’ he goaded, equally soft. The smile sent her into a helpless inner tailspin. ‘Or perhaps you mean you are still shaken by the unpleasant incident with Vernon?’

‘Both,’ she agreed shortly, glancing up in some relief as their wine arrived. ‘You know, I came here this summer to brush up my business French,’ she went on hurriedly, desperate to switch the persistent spotlight off herself and her emotions, ‘yet we’ve done nothing but speak English.’

‘We are not talking business, Emily.’ Wretched man. He was enjoying watching her squirm!

‘No...’

‘Shall we agree to speak French in the vineyard office?’

‘I suppose so.’

He was humouring her, she recognised frustratedly. Her new employer was obviously finding her intensely amusing. She took a long mouthful of the cool white wine. It tasted faintly of apricots and wild herbs, with a crisp refreshing bite to it. A basket of aromatic fresh bread had been placed on the table. She realised how hungry she was. Tension or no tension, with or without Christian Malraux’s extremely unchivalrous taunts, she was going to enjoy this meal.

To distract herself from the mocking blue eyes she inspected her surroundings in greater detail. The restaurant was busy, buzzing with talk and laughter. Several French families were eating, plus a sprinkling of Germans, and English. Behind her she could hear voices in her native tongue busily deciphering the intricacies of the fish menu with the aid of a dictionary.

‘This is an attractive restaurant,’ she murmured politely, switching into French deliberately. ‘Is there still a mill-wheel?’

‘Yes. If we’d wanted to we could have sat outside on the grass, near the mill-stream,’ Christian confirmed coolly, also switching to French. ‘But the mosquitoes can be unpleasant.’

‘Another time I’ll wear repellent. I love eating out of doors. It’s such a luxury in England.’

‘Tomorrow night I will bring you here, and you may cover yourself in insect repellent and sit by the mill-stream, Emily.’

‘Oh, I wasn’t suggesting that you bring me here again...’

‘Do not begin blushing again,’ he advised her, with a lazy, speculative grin.

‘I wasn’t!’

But she felt on fire all over as his casual gaze moved slowly, assessingly, from the top of her copper-blonde head, down over her wide brown eyes to the petite curves of her breasts under the silk camisole. Braless, she felt, to her acute chagrin, the tips of her breasts begin to tighten involuntarily in response to that challenging appraisal.

‘Your French is excellent, Emily,’ he praised quietly, leaning nonchalently back in his chair and sliding his hands into his jacket pockets. ‘Is your Spanish also as good?’

‘Reasonable. I suspect my French is better, because I’ve spent more time in France. With my penfriend’s family. In my teens. So...’ she sought, once again, to switch the subject, to shrink back from the spotlight ‘...what was the career which took you abroad so much?’

‘Journalism.’

Did she imagine the slight hardening of the lines around Christian’s mouth? The slight withdrawal?

‘What sort of journalism?’

‘I was a foreign correspondent on a national newspaper. Then I reported foreign news for television.’

‘I see.’ She stared at him in mounting curiosity. Their first course had arrived, a platter of fresh langoustines, and she picked thoughtfully at one of the rigid shells with her fingers, finding herself staring at the beady little eyes of the shellfish with an abrupt shudder of sympathy.

Was this why Christian Malraux had an air of embittered cynicism? Foreign news reporting was an unremitting diet of wars, famine and atrocities, wasn’t it?

‘Did you throw it all in because your uncle was taken ill?’

‘Not entirely. I’d been contemplating making a change, finding a way to get back down to earth, literally as well as metaphorically. TV news reporting can become dangerously addictive. All the flying bullets and front-line bulletins...’

She found herself staring at the scar on his cheek, imagining some hair-raising incident with guerrillas and machine guns. She winced involuntarily, and he saw her reaction, touching the scar with a grim smile.

‘This disfigurement has no connection with my TV journalism. But does it disgust you, Emily?’ He sounded bleakly amused.

‘No!’ She shook her head with some force. ‘No, it most certainly does not disgust me! What a ridiculous suggestion!’

Christian’s gaze had narrowed at her vehement denial. There was a brief silence, then he shrugged, with a slight smile.

‘You do not need to burst with righteous indignation, Emily. I believe you.’

A longer pause stretched out between them, and then with thoughtful deliberation Christian reached across the table, and took her left hand in his, lightly, turning it over to inspect the narrow palm, the long, slim, ringless fingers.

The clasp was impersonal, exploratory. His skin felt warm and dry, his fingers lean and powerful, as if his strength was a latent threat, held in careful reserve.

Emily could hardly breathe. She felt as if something was constricting her windpipe. She stared down at their joined hands, at the strong, dark, hair-roughened back of Christian’s right hand encompassing hers. How could something as simple and innocent as a touching of hands feel so intensely intimate...so annihilating to her senses?

Her heart was thudding painfully hard against her breastbone. She tried to shrug off this overwhelming emotion, this warm, shimmering sensation mysteriously forcing up her blood-pressure, speeding up her pulse-rate, but failed spectacularly.

‘No rings?’ Christian sounded dismissive, releasing her hand with a composure she yearned to emulate.

‘No...’ Resisting the urge to snatch her hand defensively into her lap, she transferred it slowly to her wine glass, proud of her precision control. She took a careful sip of wine.

‘No ties, no commitments?’ He persisted coolly.

‘None. That’s the way I intend things to stay.’

‘Hence the high-powered Foreign Office job in September?’

She nodded, warming to her impressive display of indifference. Her stomach was in knots. Her heart was racing at twice its normal speed.

‘Too many of my friends finished higher education only to throw it all away to get married! I have a very clear-cut vision of where I’m heading for, and its not the altar!’

Even as she heard herself say it, she was mentally floundering in a warm dark whirlpool of reaction to his touch, his voice, everything about him...

‘Wise girl,’ he approved softly. ‘Stick to your career. Don’t be side-tracked. Love is a destructive emotion.’

With a smiling nod, she stared at him in silence. Her throat felt curiously tight. He’d caught her on the raw again. As if he’d aimed a sharp punch to her solar plexus.

Their food arrived, a welcome diversion. She tackled the delicious skate in caper sauce, absently sliding the white fish off the smooth webbed bone with her fork.

‘Love is a destructive emotion? That’s going a bit far, surely?’ she teased lightly, glancing up when she felt sure she had her emotions under tight control. ‘You sound deeply embittered!’

Christian had opted for a rare filet mignon, oozing pink juices and exuding a rich, savoury aroma. He was eating it with the kind of uninhibited relish Emily decided might be a national characteristic.

‘Life has taught me the value of independence. Take my advice: keep your heart to yourself, Emily.’

The flat words were unemotional. She felt herself go very still, staring warily into the deep-set gaze.

Abruptly, totally without warning, she felt as if she’d stumbled into an entirely new landscape of emotions. In a moment maybe she’d wake up and find she was sleepwalking...

This was awful. This was unthinkable. First the unfortunate introduction, now some sort of humiliating mind-reading. Had he taken a subtle glance inside her head, read her splintering composure, identified it for what it seemed to be? Her very first, long-retarded, breathless, hopeless ‘crush’, overwhelming her as irrepressibly as a bout of flu? What would her brother Ben make of her behaviour tonight? she wondered distractedly. Would he believe his eyes if he saw his brainy little sister, cool and pragmatic, independent and resourceful, tumbling into a crazy, mindless infatuation with a man she’d met barely an hour and a half before?