Desperate Measures (39 page)

Authors: Sara Craven

BOOK: Desperate Measures

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Excitement stirred, catching the breath in her throat. She tried to say 'No,' but all that emerged was a little strained sigh.

Alain lifted a hand, twisting it into her hair, letting the soft strands twine round his fingers. He pulled her head back, making her lie across his arm, supporting her at the waist. He kissed her again, slowly and hotly this time, then let his lips travel down over the long, exposed line of her throat to the opening of her shirt. As his mouth brushed burningly over her vulnerable skin, a shiver of pure weakness trembled through her body.

His teeth tugged at the flimsy shirt buttons, freeing them with almost negligent ease, baring her to the waist.

His mouth closed on her pointed breast, and she cried out sharply. The tug of his lips on her flesh, the stroke of his tongue across her hardening nipple, was a fierce and painful delight. She wanted it to stop. She wanted it to go on forever.

She found herself remembering, with total, shaming recall, just how Alain's body felt, sheathed inside her own.

His hand moved down her body, shaping the curve of her hip, tracing the flat plane of her stomach, the leisurely quest deliberately tantalising. His fingers seemed to linger everywhere, except where she most desired his caress. And he knew it.

From some whirling corner of her mind she realised that he could stretch out this waiting—this wanting— forever. He intended her to ask, to plead, this time.

Shall I make you beg me to take you? He'd asked her that once, some lifetime ago, and she had turned in scorn and panic from the very idea. Now she might be called on to pay for that rejection. And the price might cost her soul.

When at last—at long and screaming last—his fingers touched her lightly, almost questioningly, at the soft and pliant junction of her thighs, a moan of anticipation, almost of greed, burst from her taut throat.

She wanted suddenly to be free of the imprisoning denim which guarded her from him. She wanted to be free—to be naked in his arms.

Slowly he lifted her, steadied her so that she was no longer helpless in his embrace but standing facing him, a little way apart. Their eyes met in a strange, charged acknowledgement.

His asked. Hers answered. He moved, cancelling the space which separated them, as he took the loosened shirt and slipped it from her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.

She tried to speak, but he shook his head, laying a silencing finger on her lips, before allowing his hand

to trail without haste down her throat and between her tumescent breasts, to the clasp of her jeans.

And paused, his eyes going past her to stare at the door with sharp and frowning attention.

He said, half to himself, 'Someone's there...'

Just as he spoke, there was a brisk rapping at the heavy panels, and a voice called, 'Monsieur— Monsieur de Courcy! You are there? It is Madame Bethune. I have a message for you.'

The warm intensity of the past moments was shattered in a second.

Alain's brows lifted, and his mouth twisted cynically. He said, 'You must have a guardian angel, ma femme.' He picked up Philippa's shirt and tossed it to her. 'Now cover yourself while I see what she wants.'

Philippa fled to the stairs. On the small dark landing, she dressed herself with shaky haste, hearing although she could not see Madame Bethune's surge into the room.

'Monsieur de Courcy?' The good woman was clearly bewildered and a little indignant. 'But how is this? I understood you to be Monsieur de Thiery. When we spoke on the telephone, that was the name I was given.'

There was a pause, then Alain said slowly, 'I am sorry if there has been a misunderstanding, madame. I am indeed Alain de Courcy, although it is true the original booking was made by—an associate of mine.'

'And Mademoiselle Roscoe—where is she?'

'I will call her.' Alain raised his voice. 'Philippa, come down, cherie. We have a visitor.

Philippa descended the stairs reluctantly. She had been trembling so much, she wasn't sure whether she'd

fastened all her buttons, or even united them with the correct buttonholes, and she was aware that her hair was tousled, and her breathing still flurried.

But she made herself smile as if she didn't have a care in the world, tensely aware of Alain's sardonic gaze. 'Bonsoir, madame.'

'The little Philippa!' Madame's chins dropped in amazement. 'Oh, but you have changed so much, petite! I would hardly have known you.' She flung her arms round her and embraced her warmly. 'And how is your dear father?'

'Very well. I hope he'll be joining me here soon.'

'Joining us, cherie,' Alain corrected silkily. 'Isn't it time you told Madame Bethune your news—that you and I are married?'

Madame's round dark eyes seemed to increase in diameter. 'You are married?' she exclaimed. 'Then this is a honeymoon, enfin.'

Alain sent an ironic look in his wife's rigid direction. 'Hardly that,' he said with a shrug. 'It is more—a working holiday.'

Madame Bethune emitted a squeak of amusement. 'Work, monsieur! But when a man and his young wife are alone together, they should think only of pleasure, isn't it so? You should not allow her to work. If I were in her shoes, it would be very different, I promise you.'

'You flatter me, madame' Alain grinned at her, flirting good-humouredly. 'You wish to console me, perhaps?'

'With so new a bride, you should not need consolation.' Madame gave a gusty sigh. 'But if I were twenty years younger...' and she gave Alain a deli-

cately ribald dig in the ribs with her elbow, and collapsed into a gale of mirth.

'But I forgot my errand,' she said at last, still shaking with laughter. 'I have had a telephone call from Monsieur Bartran at the garage. His brother has returned this evening from Bordeaux with the part for your car, monsieur. It will be fitted tomorrow.'

'Merveilleux!' Alain's smile flicked at Philippa. 'That's what we've been waiting to hear, isn't it, cheriel'

From some icy deep inside her, Philippa heard herself answer, 'Yes.'

'That is good.' Madame beamed at them both. 'And now I shall intrude no longer,' she added firmly, declining Alain's offers of coffee and wine. She embraced Philippa again. 'Be happy, my little one,' she commanded, and departed on a wave of goodwill.

Her departure was succeeded by a profound silence.

Alain broke it at last. 'You said a while ago that you were going to your room. Perhaps you should do so.' There was no emotion at all in his voice, or, when she dared look at him, his face.

'Is that—what you want?' She couldn't believe she had actually said that. Had she really so little pride, so little self-respect?

He shrugged again. 'What I want,' he said with cool and deadly emphasis, 'is to drive away from here tomorrow as soon as my car is fixed.' The green eyes grazed her mockingly. 'After all, ma belle, it was— only a kiss.'

She whispered, 'Yes—of course.' Then she turned and went away from him, back upstairs into the darkness.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The darkness was everywhere. It swirled around her, suffocating her. And it was within her, consuming her in pain and loneliness.

Only a kiss. The words seemed to be etched on her mind in letters of fire. That was how little it had meant to Alain. She had been on the verge of giving herself completely, and without reservation, for the first time—but even so, he would still have driven away tomorrow without a backward glance.

And it was no use reminding herself that Alain's departure was what she'd wanted—what she'd urged on him. By coming here, she had intended to separate herself from Alain once and for all. Now he was prepared to gratify her wish.

It had to be, she told herself vehemently, over and over again. She couldn't accept a continuation of their marriage on the terms he was offering. She wasn't prepared to occupy the fringe of his attention, waiting to be noticed when he could spare the time like— Patient Griselda or some other wimp.

And when they parted, she would have nothing to reproach herself for. Nothing to remember with shame. That had to be her comfort.

There was no sign of him when she eventually ventured downstairs in the morning. For a moment she thought, stunned, that he had already gone without even a goodbye, but a swift check in his room revealed that his clothes and toilet articles were still there, half

packed. He must be down in Montascaux standing impatiently over the mechanics.

She took her coffee to the studio, and made her preparations for the day. She looked long and critically at Alain's portrait. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but it seemed to her to be the best thing she had ever done. But perhaps that was because she was seeing it with the eyes of love, she thought wistfully.

An hour later, she heard the sound of the car. Her heart jolted and she began to alter a highlight with savage concentration. Eventually he came up the stairs and stood in the doorway.

She said, too brightly, 'Is the car fixed?'

'It's fine.'

'Then I suppose you'll be off now.' She made a business of altering the position of the easel.

'Soon,' he said. 'I thought you wanted me to give another sitting.'

Philippa shrugged. 'I don't want to cause you any inconvenience.'

'You won't.' He walked to her side and looked at the canvas. 'Is there much else to do?'

'Not with this one,' she said. 'I can finish the rest from memory, if necessary.' God how achingly true that was!

'I see.' Alain's face was quizzical. 'I did you an injustice, ma femme, when I tried to dissuade you from continuing your studies. You have real talent. I hope that you develop it to its full.' His smile was friendly, but it contained an element of dismissal— set her at a distance, and she knew it. 'Will you sell me this painting?'

She shook her head. 'Not this one. With this, I came of age as a painter. I'm sure you understand.'

'I don't think that understanding has ever played a great part in our relationship,' he said gravely. 'But I promise to try.' He paused. 'So—what about this final sitting? Do you want me to strip for you?'

Philippa swallowed. It sounded deafeningly loud in the sudden quiet of the studio. She tried to smile. 'You—you don't mean it, surely?'

'Why not? It would be a new experience for me— as for most men—to take my clothes off for a woman who has no interest in me except as a composition of light and shade, of planes and angles.' He gave her a mocking look. 'Isn't that how it is, ma chere?

'Well—yes.' Her heart was hammering.

'So why don't you ask me, then?' He paused. 'Or is my body not interesting enough for you? You feel, maybe, that you know me too well?'

She lifted the canvas carefully off the easel, not looking at him. 'It—isn't that.'

Dear God, she thought, almost hysterically, she didn't know him at all. Not in that way.

She managed a ghost of a laugh. 'You've—rather taken me by surprise. But if this is a serious offer, Alain, then of course I'd like to make some drawings of you. I—I do need the practice,' she added lamely.

'We seem to be surprising each other,' he said. He glanced round. 'I presume you wish to alter the setting?'

They moved the table away, and arranged a makeshift platform with boxes and some old gold brocade curtains Philippa had discovered in a packing case the previous day. She spent some time over the brocade, pulling at its folds, making it fall just as she wanted, aware of a feeling of total unreality.

Oh, God, she thought, I shouldn't be doing this— I shouldn't be allowing it to happen. Because I can't be objective. I can't just treat it as a useful exercise.

She turned away and picked up her sketching block, her hands trembling. She'd never, she thought, actually looked at Alain naked before. Not really. That first time, she had been too embarrassed and angry— and since then their few encounters had been in the dark. This would be a moment of truth for her.

And it had arrived, she realised, as he said, 'I'm ready'

Philippa turned slowly to face him. He was—magnificent. There was no other word for it. Hands on hips, head slightly thrown back, he endured her fascinated, almost obsessive scrutiny.

'Are you going to draw me, ma belle, or commit me to memory?'

She started, faint colour flaring in her face. 'Oh, will you sit, please—and turn sideways a little? Drop your shoulder. No, that's too much.'

'It would be simpler if you showed me.'

She hesitated momentarily, then went over to him, putting her hands on his warm shoulders and manipulating him into the position she wanted, savouring as she did so the silken smoothness of his skin, and the firm play of muscle in his back and arms.

She said, 'Now this time you must tell me if you get tired—or cold.'

'Or even too warm, perhaps.' His tone was laconic. 'Do you know something, cherie I think this is the first time you 've ever touched me of your own accord.'

Philippa snatched her hands away. 'Remember the pose, please,' she said, and went back to her drawing board.

She made a number of false starts, crumpling sheet after sheet and throwing them away.

'Is something wrong?' Alain asked at last. 'You seem disturbed. Shall I get dressed and find you a nice safe vase of flowers instead?'

She gritted her teeth. 'No, thanks. Maybe the pose is wrong—too forced.'

Alain sat up, shrugging. 'Then that is easily remedied.' He turned on his side, propping himself on his elbow, one long leg bent, and slightly drawn up. He smiled at her. 'Is that better?'

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