Desperate Measures (10 page)

'If you want—but I don't think he expects anything. He was just

—very kind.'

Philippa winced slightly as she turned to pick up the brocade

suit. She'd washed her grazes in the shower, but they still stung.

'You are hurt?' He came to her side, frowning.

'I fell over.' She shrugged. 'It's nothing.'

'Hardly nothing.' He pushed her down on to the edge of the bed

and knelt in front of her examining the marks on her leg.

'Honestly, it's all right.' She felt vulnerable— embarrassed as his

hand gently cupped the back of her knee.

'Have you applied some antiseptic? Should you use a plaster?'

'They're only a few scratches. They're not even bleeding any

more.' Philippa moved restively. 'Alain— please. I need to finish getting ready. We're going to be late.'

'There is no hurry.' His voice was husky.
'Pauvre petite.
This should not have happened.' He bent his head and touched his mouth,

swiftly, sensuously to the angry mark on her knee.

Longing, sharp and bitter and totally involuntary, pierced her to

the core of her being. A shocked gasp at her own reaction rose to her lips and was suppressed. She moved restively, but his hand detained

her.

'Don't pull away.' There was sudden anger in his voice. 'Is it just

my touch you find so abhorrent, or did you flinch from this stranger

also?'

Her voice was uneven. 'It—isn't the same thing. He was just

being—kind.'

'And is that what you want from a man, my innocent one—just—

kindness?' His fingers moved gently on her skin, making it spark and

tingle in response.

'I don't know,' she said rawly, stifling a sob. 'Alain, let me go—

please!'

'But perhaps it does not please me.' He looked up at her gravely.

'Maybe there is nothing between us that pleases me, or you either, my cool, prim little bride.' He kissed her again, his lips gentling her knee before travelling up to her slender rounded thigh. His mouth was

warm and lingered, as if savouring the fragrance of her skin. His hand began to stroke her, questing along the lacy rim of her briefs, almost touching her intimately, but not quite—yet, at the same time, making

every secret crevice of her body clench in longing.

Philippa's head fell back. Suddenly it was difficult to breathe—to

think. And impossible to speak, to utter the protest that should—that must be made.

In one lithe, fluent movement Alain rose from his knees and sat

beside her on the bed, his breath warm on her cheek.

'Is there other damage?' he asked softly. He took her hands,

making her extend her arms, so that he could study their bare length.

Then he pressed his lips to the delicate skin inside each elbow in turn, before allowing the caress to travel unhurriedly down to her wrists.

'There's—nothing.' She hardly recognised her own voice. The

beat of her pulses seemed to vibrate through her body, filling the

world. He must be aware of their haste, their flurry. Must be...

'That,
ma belle
, I intend to discover for myself.' His voice was a whisper. His fingertips skimmed her shoulders in a featherlight caress that sent every nerve-ending tingling. He slid down the straps of her bra, then his hands began a leisurely descent to find and release the fastener and allow the tiny garment to fall away from her body

completely.

His fingers cupped her breasts, stroking the tautening nipples

lightly and rhythmically until they stood proud and erect.

'No,' he said softly, his mouth curving in appreciation of her

helpless physical response to his touch. 'They are still unflawed—

perfect.'

He drew her forward without effort into his arms, holding her

across his body, looking down into her face, his eyes unsmiling—

questioning. Then he bent to her, and his lips parted hers in a demand that would not be denied.

Philippa felt her body melt into surrender. Alain lifted her against

him so that the excited rosy peaks of her breasts were brushing the

starched frills of his shirt. He deepened the kiss, making her taste him

— drink from him, as he did from her. Of her own volition, her small

hands slid upwards and clasped his neck, holding him close.

They seemed to be enclosed in a golden, honeyed silence,

broken only by the fever of their own breathing.

The knock on the bedroom door, swift and respectful though it

was, seemed like a hammerblow, shattering the fragility of their

enraptured world in a second.

'Monsieur Alain—Madame!' It was Madame Giscard's voice.

'Marcel wishes me to say that the car is at the door.'

'Oh, my God!' Philippa, jolted back to stark reality, struggled to

free herself from Alain's arms. A few yards away, her dressing-table

mirror provided a merciless reflection of herself, almost naked, flushed with desire and surrender. 'Let me go—you must...'

'Must I?' The green eyes glittered down at her. 'Why don't I tell

Marcel and the car to go to the devil, and spend the evening here with you,
cherie
?

'Because we're expected at this dinner party.' Her voice shook

uncontrollably, and every inch of her body seemed to be blushing as

she dived to retrieve her bra, and the modicum of modesty it

represented. 'You can't afford to offend people, Alain,' she gabbled on, as she covered herself. 'You're not out of the wood yet. Your uncle Louis is just looking for an excuse...'

'I think,' Alain cut across her, his face icily sardonic, 'I think that my uncle Louis is not alone in that.' He rose, walked across to the

dressing-table and stood for a moment, smoothing his dishevelled

hair, and straightening his tie. 'I shall await you in the
salon
, madame.'

Left to herself, Philippa struggled into her clothes, fumbling with

buttons and zips with unwontedly clumsy fingers.

Hastily she renewed her lipstick, and ran a comb through her

hair, letting it swing simply into place

around her hectically flushed face. She stood for a moment,

staring at herself in the mirror, almost unable to believe what had

happened.

If it hadn't been for that knock on the door, she thought, she

could have made a terrible—an irretrievable mistake. It made her

cringe to think how easily Alain had engineered her surrender—how

close he had come to subjugating her completely.

She shivered as she picked up her cream kid purse. She would

need to be even more on her guard from now on, she told herself as

she went to join him in the salon.

The party was being held at a large house outside Paris. It was a

warm evening, and the doors on to the terrace had been left open, so

that the other guests, who were mainly much older than either Alain

or Philippa, could enjoy their aperitifs overlooking the formal gardens, if they wished.

Philippa was thankful to be able to make her escape into the

fresh air. She had been tautly aware of Alain's enigmatic gaze fixed on her during the car journey, and although little had been said, she

knew, with a kind of desperation, that the encounter between them

had been merely interrupted, and not terminated completely. Now

that she had unwittingly betrayed her own needs, her own capacity

for response, she knew that Alain would no longer be content with the embarrassed passivity she had shown in his arms up to now.

She was unable to explain how she could have been so weak—

such a fool. The shock of the attempted robbery must have

temporarily lowered her resistance, she thought wretchedly, as she

leaned on the

stone balustrade, holding her untouched glass of kir royale.

And now Alain was stalking her—the hunter who knows his

victim is helpless, and is poised for the ultimate victory. The kill.

She grimaced slightly, knowing that she was being

overdramatic. Yet wouldn't it be a kind of death to yield to Alain, to allow herself to become his plaything for a few hours, and then to see him walk away in search of other amusement when he tired of her?

Her whole body seemed to constrict sharply and painfully. That

was something she couldn't permit— couldn't even contemplate.

Because for her there could be no casual giving. Once she belonged to Alain, he would have her heart and soul in his uncaring, predatory

hands. And that would be total disaster.

She lifted her chin. Well, she would not be his victim. Nor would

she be his toy—to be used because he was bored with the outward

respectability which marriage had forced upon him, and thought it

would be entertaining to seduce his unwilling wife.

'Ah, Madame de Courcy, I have been looking everywhere for

you.' Her hostess's smiling tones reached Philippa's ear. Smothering a sigh, she prepared for yet another introduction.

'May I present one of our oldest friends, Monsieur Gerard de

Crecy? Unfortunately, Madame his wife has succumbed to la grippe,

so he is accompanied by his daughter, who says you are already

acquainted.'

There was a trace of a musky scent in the air. As she turned

obediently, her polite smile already in place, Philippa became aware of it. Recognised it.

She hardly noticed the portly white-haired man who was bowing

to her, and murmuring a courteous greeting. Her eyes were fixed on

the woman at his side, clad in a clinging gown of midnight blue.

'Madame de Courcy.' The full lips were smiling, but the violet

eyes glittered with malice. 'I hope so very much that you remember

me?' said Marie-Laure de Somerville-Resnais.

CHAPTER SIX

PHILIPPA'S lips parted in a soundless gasp. At the same time, the

glass she was holding slipped from her grasp and shattered on the

flagstones at her feet, splashing its contents on to her cream brocade skirt as it did so.

Her hostess, exclaiming in distress, waved away Philippa's

confused apologies, decreeing that the skirt must be sponged before

the crime de cassis in the drink stained it irretrievably. She would

summon her housekeeper, who was a treasure, and would know the

correct way to achieve this.

The last thing Philippa was aware of as she was led away by the

housekeeper was Marie-Laure's smile, feline and triumphant. And, as

she passed him in the doorway, Alain's thunderous expression.

Waiting in a cotton wrap, while her skirt was attended to, she

fumed inwardly at her own gaucherie. She'd behaved like an idiot, as

Alain would undoubtedly tell her later. All she'd needed to do was

smile coolly in acknowledgement of the other woman's presence, then

ignore her.

At the same time she acquitted their hosts, Monsieur and

Madame le Gres, of engineering another confrontation between Marie-

Laure and herself. They were kindly souls, friends of Alain's late

parents, as well as business colleagues, and heavily involved in charity work. They probably didn't even know that there was any involvement

between Alain and Marie-Laure. And, of course, the Baronne's father

was quite

within his rights to ask his daughter to accompany him to a

formal dinner if his wife was ill.

No, it was just one of those unfortunate coincidences, and now

her stupidly over-the-top reaction to Marie-Laure's presence could

easily have set all the tongues wagging again, she thought miserably.

Her skirt was eventually returned to her, miraculously restored,

if a little damp in places, and she was able to join the rest of the party as they went into the dining-room. She was immediately besieged by

concern and goodwill.

Her husband had explained the terrible incident that had

befallen her earlier that day. To be robbed in the open street—
quelle
horreurl
Such lawlessness! It was no wonder that she was

affreusement nerveuse
. But how was it that she should be in the street alone?

'I was just leaving my painting class,' Philippa explained lamely.

'I work at a studio every day. I wasn't expecting anything to happen.'

'Ah, yes, your little career as an artist.' Marie-Laure leaned

forward, her expression solicitous. 'It still continues? You have not yet wearied of it?'

'I'm not likely to do that,' Philippa said crisply. 'It's too important to me.'

Marie-Laure shrugged creamy shoulders. 'You mean there is

some lack in your life, for which you seek compensation?' Her brows

rose in simulated amazement. 'How can it be possible? I hope that our dear Alain is not failing in his duties as a husband.'

There was a sudden shocked silence, and a number of eyebrows

were raised in earnest. Madame le Gres hurried to fill the breach with a description of the plans the local community were formulating to celebrate Bastille Day, and conversation became general again.

Philippa sat back in her chair, her heart thumping. Alain was at

the opposite end of the dining-table, and she did not dare look at him.

What on earth was the Baronne trying to do? she asked herself in

bewilderment. Her remarks had been indiscreet to say the least. It was almost as if she was deliberately trying to make trouble, stir up more gossip. Yet, surely, it was in her interests too that there shouldn't be any more scandal. So what was going on?

She had to force herself to eat her dinner and chat brightly to

her neighbours, behaving as if everything was perfectly normal. With

any luck, Marie-Laure's comments would be simply written off as a

sample of female spite, and not attended to too closely, she told