Desperate Measures (6 page)

one hand.

'Philippa.' There was a kind of anguish in his voice. 'In the name

of God, no! Not like this,
je t'en prie
.'

'I hate you.' She hardly recognised her own voice. 'And I always

will.'

He said harshly, 'So be it, then,' and parted her thighs without

gentleness.

She cried out as he entered her, but it was more surprise than

actual pain. In some crazy way, she wanted him to hurt her—wanted

him to know the guilt of having torn her—made her bleed. But even in

this she was thwarted.

Almost as soon as she'd registered that initial discomfort, it was

over, and all she had as a focus for her anger and resentment was the bewildering un-familiarity of what he was doing to her—the incredible sensation of his hardness and strength sheathed inside her.

She kept her eyes closed so tightly that bright dots began to

dance behind her lids. She tried, in her head, to rehearse her nine

times table, to remember poetry she had learned at school—anything

that would stop her thinking about Alain, and the stark driving force of his body within hers.

But she couldn't remain totally impervious. She was only too

aware of the graze of his sweat-dampened body on hers, and she

could hear the urgent rasp of his breathing. In some strange way, that urgency seemed to be communicating itself to her. Deep in the centre

of her being, in spite of herself, she could feel a spiral of dark, shamed excitement beginning slowly to uncoil...

A sound was torn from Alain's throat, harsh, almost agonised,

then his body slumped against hers,

shuddering in spasm after spasm as he buried his face in her

breasts.

For a moment, she knew a disappointment, a yearning so

intense that her body was nearly rent! apart. Then she lay in utter

stillness under his relaxed weight, while eternity seemed to pass.

At last, convinced that he had fallen asleep, she began slowly,

and by degrees, to edge away from him.

Immediately, Alain's arms tightened around her.
'Qu'est-ce que

tu as?'

She said stiltedly, 'I'd like to get up. I want to go to the

bathroom.'

Alain propped himself on one elbow and studied her for a long

moment, his face cold and derisive.

'Why? So that you can wash all trace of me away from you?'

'Something like that.' Philippa bit her lip.

'I wonder if you can,' he said mockingly. 'But perhaps, my sweet

bride, I don't want you to leave me so soon. Maybe, in a little while, I shall want you again.'

She stared up at the dark face above her, her eyes widening

endlessly, and he laughed harshly.

'But again, perhaps not,' he said, and lifted himself away from

her.

Philippa slid out of bed, grabbing at her discarded nightdress

and huddling it on over her head. She was trembling violently, and her whole body ached in a totally alien way.

She was aware of Alain's gaze tracking her all the way to the

bathroom, and was terrified that he might follow—might insist on

forcing further intimacies on her.

Fortunately, the door bolted from the inside, and she slid the

bolt into place, uncaring whether or not he heard it.

She dragged off her nightdress, hurling it on to the floor, then

walked into the shower cubicle and turned on the hot spray,

methodically soaping and rinsing every inch of her body, as she stood under the tingling jets of water.

Then she wrapped herself in a towel and sat down at the

vanitory unit, staring at herself in the mirror.

With her wet hair plastered to her skull, she looked like a half-

drowned kitten, her eyes enormous in her pale face. She lifted a

corner of the towel and blotted some of the moisture from her face

and neck, watching herself almost warily as if afraid she might break if she pressed too hard. She had heard, or perhaps read somewhere,

that you could tell a woman's sexual knowledge from her eyes. But

she could see nothing reflected in her own but pain and confusion.

She swallowed, noticing almost clinically that there were marks

on her shoulders and breasts which would probably be bruises

tomorrow. But then she bruised easily.

But not any more, she thought, lifting her chin. From now on,

she would neither bruise nor break. She had become, through no

choice of hers, Alain de Courcy's wife in every sense of the word. She knew now the worst that could happen to her, and, God help her, what

she could expect from him in the future. She knew...

No one would ever say she looked untouched again.

It was a long time before she could force herself to go back to

the bedroom, but when she did so, Alain

had gone. She stood for a moment staring at the pretty, empty

bed, with its dishevelled covers and tumbled pillows, then slid under the sheet, pulling it up to her neck. She turned out the lamp beside

the bed, and lay in the darkness, curled up defensively, her arms

clasped round her body.

The ache inside her had intensified, but what else, she thought

bitterly, could she expect?

She had, after all, been violated.

She sank her teeth into her bottom lip until she tasted blood. All

Alain's charm—all the consideration he'd shown her had been nothing

but a facade. I am not a savage, he'd said that first evening in Lowden Square, but he'd lied. He was worse than that. He was a brute—an

animal.

And you said a small hard voice in her head. What about you?

You threw wine at him, you hit him, you tried to scratch his eyes out.

Is it really any wonder he reacted with anger? And you were angry too, not with him but yourself, because you'd actually started to enjoy

what he was doing to you—you'd begun to want him—and your pride

wouldn't allow that. So you fought him instead, and you lost.

Philippa moved restively in the bed, her head turning on the

pillow in violent negation, as she tried to shut out the unwanted

memories crowding back to torment her of Alain's mouth against her

body—his hands...

No, she thought, it wasn't like that—it wasn't. He was vile—he

forced me. I hate him for that, and I always will.

And as if in mockery of her unspoken words, she felt the fierce

hardening of her nipples, and the swift

tumultuous clench of her body in a need she'd never known

existed until then.

With a groan, she rolled on to her stomach, burying her face in

the pillow.

Damn him, she wailed silently. God damn him!

It was hours before she fell into a troubled sleep. When she woke,

the small clock beside her bed told her it was past ten o'clock.

As she made to sit up, her bedroom door opened, and, as if

programmed, Madame Giscard appeared with a tray.

'Oh, thank you,' Philippa said awkwardly in French, trying to use

the sheet to conceal the fact that she was naked. 'I'm sorry if I've

caused any inconvenience.'

The housekeeper gave her a look of polite astonishment. 'At

your service, madame.'

She went to the wardrobe, selected a robe and brought it back

to the bed, her face expressionless.

'Monsieur de Courcy left for the day some hours ago, madame.

He asked me to tell you he will join you for lunch.'

Philippa thanked her again quietly, colour rising in her face, and

watched her leave.

The woman's whole manner indicated that she was quite

accustomed to serving breakfast in bed at all hours of the day to

naked girls in Alain de Courcy's establishment. And the fact that he was legally married to the current occupant made no difference at all.

Philippa drank her chilled peach juice, and sampled the hot

chocolate in its tall pot, and the crisp croissants wrapped in a napkin, without particular appetite.

During the wakeful hours before dawn, she had come to terms

with the fact that she was caught in a trap of her own devising.

However disastrous her marriage, she couldn't walk away from it as

every fibre of her being was urging her to do, because otherwise the

money for Gavin would cease. Alain had made that clear the previous

night. So, somehow, she would have to get through the days—and

endure the nights. Somehow.

She showered quickly and dressed in a well-cut russet skirt and

a matching blouse. She was still very pale, and there were deep

shadows under her eyes, but she made no attempt to disguise them

with cosmetics. She looked, she supposed, shrugging, like any other

girl on the morning after her wedding night—except that most brides

probably looked radiant as well as exhausted.

It was a very long morning. Philippa soon discovered that her

new environment ran like clockwork, needing no interference from her.

In fact she was sure that any attempt to involve herself in Madame

Giscard's superbly efficient regime would be strongly resented.

She wandered restlessly about the apartment, unable to settle. In

spite of the stunning views over Paris from every window which she

hadn't been conscious of the previous night, she still found it

characterless, and wondered if she would ever feel at ease there.

But she couldn't spend the rest of her life looking at views. She

would have to find some way of occupying herself—even if only to

stop herself from thinking.

As lunchtime approached, she found herself becoming more and

more on edge. The eventual sound

of Alain's voice in the hall sent her scuttling to one of the sofas

in the salon. She tucked her legs beneath her, pretending to leaf

through a current affairs magazine, and hoping she looked composed

and relaxed.

She heard him come into the room, and sat staring down at the

picture spread on her lap until the photographs danced crazily in front of her.

'Bonjour.' As Alain broke the silence, she was forced to look up.

She returned his greeting, annoyed to hear her own voice falter

slightly.

'How was your morning?' He came to sit beside her on the satin-

covered sofa, close, but not touching.

'Fine—and yours?' Was this how they were going to play it, she

wondered hysterically, with meaningless social chit-chat?

'Busy.' He paused. 'May I offer you an aperitif?'

'Just some Perrier water—if there is some.'

'There can be whatever you wish,' he said politely.

Philippa sat clutching the glass he'd handed her. He had poured

himself a large whisky, she noted before resuming his seat beside her, still at the same careful distance.

After a silence, he said, 'About last night...'

'I'd rather not talk about it.'

'I think we must.' His contradiction was courteous but

implacable. 'My behaviour was quite unforgivable, after all. I can only offer you my profound regrets.'

His expression was as cool as his voice. Stealing a glance at him

under her lashes, Philippa saw a faint mark on his cheek where one of her nails must have caught him.

She said stonily. 'It really doesn't matter. I—I married you, so I

suppose I should have expected—

something of the sort.' She took a deep breath. 'You said you

wanted a child. Well, perhaps it's happened—and you'll be able to—to

leave me alone in future.'

Alain said curtly, 'I doubt, ma femme, whether matters generally

arrange themselves quite so conveniently. However, let us hope you

are right.' He swallowed the remainder of his whisky and sat for a

moment, staring at the empty tumbler.

His face was expressionless, but Philippa was suddenly and

frighteningly aware of an anger in him which transcended anything

she had experienced the previous night—a violence that was almost

tangible. She had the crazy feeling that at any moment, the delicate

piece of crystal in his hand was going to shatter against the fireplace in a million glittering shards.

She made a little sound, and her hand lifted involuntarily to grab

his arm. He glanced at her, and as swiftly and completely as if a wire had snapped, she felt the tension between them subside.

Alain set the tumbler down on a side table and rose to his feet.

He gave her a smile which did not reach his eyes. 'Shall we go in to

lunch now?'

Wordlessly she nodded, and together they left the salon and

crossed the hall to the imposing dining-room, just as Madame Giscard

was bringing in the soup.

The meal proceeded largely in silence. Philippa kept stealing

covert glances at Alain across the flowers reflected in the sheen of the polished table. She had found to her cost last night how ruthless he

could be. Now she had learned he had a temper too. She wondered

what other discoveries the ensuing weeks,

months—even years would unfold, and shivered inwardly.

'You haven't been eating,' Alain said brusquely, startling her. 'Is

there something wrong with the food?'

'Oh, no,' she stammered. 'It's wonderful. I think I'm still rather

tired...' She stopped abruptly, feeling the colour sweep into her face, and expecting some sardonic rejoinder.

But all he said was, 'Then have a rest this afternoon. You have to

look radiant for this evening, remember.'

She kept her voice level. 'I'm hardly likely to forget in the

circumstances.'

'That is unfortunately true. Last night was hardly a glorious hour

—for either of us.' His smile was brief and tight-lipped. 'I shall try and behave with more consideration in the future. Tonight, for instance, will be enough of an ordeal for you, I think, without dreading my presence in your bed when we return. You have my word you will be left in