A Touch of Sin (3 page)

"You should have waited. In the morning I would have given you
five
thousand."

"No… I couldn't. I mean—I couldn't stay. You don't understand."

"Explain it to me later," he coolly said. She didn't seem apologetic about taking his money; he was mildly intrigued at such brazenness. But he was more intent on having the beautiful mademoiselle in his bed tonight, and that took precedence over any degree of curiosity. He reached down to pick up her valise.

Pushing his hand away, she snatched up her belongings.

Nursing his smarting fingers, he gazed at her with a cool regard. "And here I was looking forward to a quiet evening at home," he murmured with a sardonic smile. "Now I'm going to have to exert myself."

"Don't touch me," she warned.

He gave her marks for rash courage. "But I want to."

"You can't." Terror-stricken, she felt her heart thudding in her chest.

"No one's said that to me in a very long time," he observed in almost a whisper, advancing on her.

"I'll bargain with you," she blurted out, trying to melt into the metal gate.

"We'll bargain with each other." He grasped the ornate ironwork on either side of her head and leaned into her body.

"No, no, I didn't mean that," she cried, dropping her valise, then pressing her palms against his chest, pushing, trying to hold him back.

But a second later she felt his powerful body hard against hers.

"Now you tell me what you want," he murmured, "and I'll tell you what
I
want."

"No… please. You're wrong about this." She pushed against his unyielding weight. "Incredibly wrong."

"
Au contraire
, this feels very right," he whispered, moving his lower body in a slow, tantalizing rhythm.

His erection was enormous, hot against her body. She should feel affront or rage at the indignity, at the disrespect, at the assumption she was Langelier's mistress, but she felt instead an unwelcome, provocative, sharply physical response deep in the pit of her stomach, and as he leaned down to touch her lips with his, she struggled to dismiss the sudden flare of pleasure streaking through her senses. Pummeling his chest, she frantically cried, "No," into the soft warmth of his mouth.

His hands shifted to clasp hers, to still their movement, and she fought to resist the intoxicating sensations she hadn't experienced for years. This was impossible, this couldn't be happening to her, she thought, horrified and appalled at her body's shameful response. In an urgent rush of guilt and self-pity, she thrust her entire weight against Pasha, kicking out violently.

He swung away at the stinging pain, standing beyond the range of her feet. "You're going to leave bruises, darling," he softly said.

"I'm not your darling." But her breathing had altered. She was flushed, trembling.

Pasha recognized female arousal to a nicety after years of standing stud to all the Parisian belles, and the mademoiselle's body was available, he knew, whether she cared to admit it or not. He lifted his hands in a calming gesture. "I have no intention of hurting you."

"This is frightfully disturbing," she whispered.

She was huddled against his garden gate like some lost urchin, and suddenly struck by her vulnerability, he said as one would to a frightened child, "Would you like to come inside where it's warm and have something to eat?"

When she looked up at him, the moon framed her golden hair in a radiant nimbus, drenching her in a startling innocence. Her eyes were huge in the light, all her uncertainties mirrored in their depths. She didn't answer for a very long time, and then softly said, "I
am
hungry."

"Come then," he offered. "Have something to eat."

"Just that," she cautioned.

"No one's going to make you do anything you don't want to do." He had a conscience, rare in men of his class.

"I still need some of your money." She had given in to weariness and taken a leap of faith, but she had to make her position clear. The events of the past few moments were too unsettling to allow anything but pragmatic considerations of the future.

"I understand."

"I could pay you back… eventually."

"If you wish." He shrugged. "A couple thousand francs isn't of great issue. Would you like me to carry your valise or would you prefer carrying it?" He grinned. "Or we could leave it here for a convenient exit later."

He hadn't seen her smile before. He was dazzled.

"Usually men who live in houses like this are less selfless."

"I know. They're my friends. Although don't think me a saint," he clarified. "You'd be wrong."

"Understood, Monsieur Duras."

"Pasha."

She didn't reply for a lengthy moment and then she said, "Pasha," so sweetly, he had to remind himself he
had
a conscience.

As it turned out, he carried her valise into the house but she stopped him from returning it to his apartments. "I'd prefer the dining room," she said.

There were choices of dining rooms in the house Richelieu had built and he allowed her to choose one even while his first instinct was to take her directly to the small breakfast room at the back of the house.

They must have been soul mates in some other universe because she preferred the breakfast room, too. Because of the birds and butterflies painted on the walls, she told him. Because of the soft cushions on the window seat, he thought, and the seclusion from the rest of the house.

Pasha's chef was wakened along with his staff, and the mademoiselle indicated her preferences in food. Simple fare as it turned out, so in order to bring a smile to his chefs face, Pasha ordered his special strawberry
soufflé.
¹
"And champagne," he added, "if Mademoiselle agrees."

Ensconced in a down-cushioned
fauteuil
near a small fire that had been set in the grate to take the chill from the room, the candlelight lending a magical realism to the birds and butterflies on the painted walls, Mademoiselle smiled and nodded her agreement.

A smile like that prognosticated well for their future friendship, Pasha decided, moving toward her.

The servants had withdrawn, the firelight lent an added enchantment to the mademoiselle's considerable charms, and peace had been restored. The evening should prove gratifying. "It's cold for May, isn't it," he pleasantly said, dropping into the chair opposite her.

"I want to explain about the money." She ignored his politesse, new resolve in her voice, her sense of self restored in the tranquil ambiance of Pasha's household. "I'm not what you think I am."

"Your name isn't Simone Croy," he replied with a smile.

"No."

"And?"

"I'm not sure I wish to divulge my name."

"Suit yourself."

His tone was too suave, too understanding. "You may not believe me anyway, you're saying."

"I'm saying, Mademoiselle, you can tell me as little or as much as you wish. Nothing more."

"Because you're not really interested," she gently countered.

"Don't take offense so easily. We're not all like Langelier."

"He kept me against my will."

Pasha's gaze sharpened. "You were a prisoner?"

"His hostage," she bitterly replied.

"For what purpose?" Her story was bizarre even for Langelier.

She hesitated briefly, not sure how much of her life she cared to expose.

"For money obviously, knowing Langelier," Pasha interposed.

"Of course for money." Aversion vibrated in her voice.

"He was more of a cad than I realized," Pasha murmured, half to himself. "Did he have other women working for him?"

"No!" Shock registered on her face. "You misunderstand! I was never his mistress. He simply wanted my son's inheritance."

"He's a relative?" Sleeping with a niece was a bit of an outre relationship even for Langelier. Despite her avowal, he found it difficult to believe she wasn't his mistress, unclothed as she had been.

She sighed, looked away for a moment before facing his gaze once again. "It's all very personal."

"But then we had a uniquely personal meeting. And I'm not easily shocked."

She turned cherry red under his amused scrutiny. "He kept my clothes locked away in his armoire."

"Really," he murmured. "Always?"

"No, no, not like that," she hastily replied, reading the innuendo in his tone. "I had my dressing gown to wear."

"Not when I saw you." Softly put, it was more a statement than a challenge.

But she felt the need to explain for her own peace of mind. "I was going to sleep when Langelier ran into my room trying to escape his executioner."

"Really." That musing conjecture again.

"Yes, really," she staunchly affirmed. "I
hated
him. Like others, apparently." She shut her eyes briefly to close out the stark, bloody vision of that awful scene, resisting the memories, not wanting to ever relive those terrifying moments. "He told me he had a wife and family, that I could stay with them while the lawyer worked on my case," she went on with a small weariness, the weeks under his custody like a nightmare. "I should have known better."

How trusting, Pasha thought, like a young schoolgirl on her first sightseeing trip to Paris. She was remarkably naive.

"I was
never
his lover." She shuddered minutely at the thought. "In fact, I bargained away part of my inheritance in order to retain my respect."

"You're a virgin?" He gazed at her from under his dark lashes, faint disbelief in his tone. Her impetuous arousal short moments ago suggested something else.

Her blush deepened, her discomfort obvious. "I have a son," she quietly declared.

Of course. She'd said that, which explained why she didn't have the responses of a virgin. "So this is your husband's inheritance Langelier was trying to appropriate?"

"No."

He masked his surprise. "I see."

"The inheritance is in controversy."

"The father's family is resisting." A common response with a love child.

She nodded. "I'm a widow."

So she'd been married, but not to her son's father. Again, not a particularly rare circumstance. "My sister was recently widowed," he politely remarked, his speculation left unsaid. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. My husband was a spineless drunkard."

"I see," he said again, mildly astonished. The lady was full of surprises, Pasha mused, and unconventional to all appearances. A pleasant thought.

"I would have preferred not telling you all this, but under the circumstances . : ."

"Your explanation clarifies things immensely," he said with a polished charm. "And rest assured, your disclosures will be kept in the closest confidence. I can't imagine—"

"I have a confession."

His gaze took on a sharpness as he anticipated a more realistic account of her relationship with Langelier. She was so flamboyantly female, he found her story of a virginal captivity difficult to believe.

"I'm glad Langelier's dead," she said, clearly uncomfortable. "I know I shouldn't be… but I am. I felt in a way as though the murderer was an avenging angel come to save me." Her violet eyes held a note of entreaty. "Do you think me mad?"

"No, of course not. Langelier was long overdue for an avenging angel."

"He wouldn't have let me go, you know. With each passing day I'd become more certain," she quietly declared. "I'm not mystical by nature, but I feel a profound sense of divine intervention with… first Langelier's"—she took a small breath—"death… and then your sudden appearance. Like a savior."

"Nothing so sanctified," Pasha protested with a faint smile. "We were on an avenging mission as well. My sister had fallen under Langelier's spell and my father and I were going to suggest he find some other prey."

"I'm so pleased you came," she simply said, "regardless the reason. And I appreciate all you've done for me."

"My pleasure," Pasha murmured. "You could hardly be left out in—"

A servant entered with the champagne.

"Just leave it, Jules." Pasha rose from his chair to take the ice bucket. "We can manage. Ah, the reserve bottles." He gave his majordomo a nod of gratitude. "You'll like this—" He looked up from placing the container on a table, the door closing with a faint click as he gazed at her. "What
is
your name?"

"Beatrix."

He paused in his manipulation of the cork. "You don't look like a Beatrix."

"This is what a Beatrix looks like." She smiled at his objection. "My family called me Trixi."

"There. I knew you had to have another name. You're a perfect Trixi."

"Pasha suits you."

It was her first personal remark. He was encouraged. "My maternal grandparents were Russian."

"How wonderfully exotic. My family is stolidly from Kent. Or were," she softly corrected. She still forgot that her family was gone—at times like this when her thoughts were in disarray, when she wasn't at home to be reminded of their absence.

"My family is in Paris at the moment. You met my father tonight." He handed her a glass of champagne. "To future success on all your ventures," he offered, lifting his glass to hers.

"I've rather given up on my ventures," she said with a rueful smile, lifting her glass. "But I'm looking forward to going home to my son."

They talked idly then of children. Pasha had four younger siblings, he told her, the youngest fifteen. Trixi's son was four and precocious, she said. She smiled when she spoke of him, of his favorite activities and his love for his pony. They shared memories of their childhood ponies for a time and he discovered small revealing bits of her background. An only child of a country gentleman, the Honorable Beatrix Grosvenor had spent an idyllic youth in Kent. She never mentioned her husband or the father of her son, however, and he had no intention of asking her. When they touched briefly on the money she needed for her return to England, she apologized for deceiving him.

"Keep the money," he said. "Buy something for Chris."

"You're too kind." She felt warmed by the fire, by the wine, by her host's convivial benevolence. By her liberation from Langelier. As for the money, she'd think about that later.