In Bed with Her Ex Page 8

  Today he’d shocked himself by doing things he’d never intended, and not doing things he’d vowed were essential.

  He’d brought Cassie here to redress the past, although the meaning of that was still vague in his mind. To let her see the riches she’d thrown away, show her the life she could have had instead of the bleak impoverished existence she had now—yes, definitely.

  Revenge? Possibly.

  But during the flight there had been an unexpected change. At the first sign that she might be vulnerable he’d known a passionate desire to protect her. It was what he’d felt long ago and she’d thrown it back in his face, yet it had leapt out of the darkness at him, like an animal waiting to pounce. And, weakling that he was, he’d yielded to it.

  No more weakness. Bringing her here had been a risk, but he wouldn’t back down now. One day soon he would confront her with all the memories she seemed determined to avoid. Then she would answer for what she had done to him. But that must wait until he was ready.

  In one sense at least Cassie and Mrs Henshaw were the same person. When a decision was taken there were no second thoughts, no weakening, only a determined follow-through to the end.

  This particular decision took her downstairs on winged feet, heading for the fashion shop at the back of the hotel. After studying several glamorous gowns she rejected them all in favour of a pair of tight black satin trousers. Only a woman with her very slender figure could have worn such a garment, but that suited her just fine. To go with them she bought a black silk top with a plunging neckline and bare arms.

  It was outrageous, and for a brief moment she hesitated. But then she recalled Brigitte’s face that afternoon, not in the least troubled by the sight of her.

  ‘So you’re not afraid of Mrs Henshaw,’ she addressed the vision. ‘Let’s see if Cassie can scare you.’ She gave a brief laugh. ‘Perhaps she ought to. She’s beginning to scare me.’

  At the beauty salon she described how she wanted to look, aware of the stares of the assistants, incredulous that this plain Jane could indulge such fantasies. But they smiled and got to work, and when they’d finished her curled hair was tumbling over her shoulders, partly—but only partly—hiding her daring décolletage.

  Back in her room she inspected the satin trousers, wondering if she was being wise. She had a dress that would do. It was adequate rather than outstanding, but that might just be better than outrageous.

  She tried on the dress, then removed it and donned the trousers, fighting temptation as she studied her magnificent appearance in the mirror.

  ‘Oh, heck!’ she sighed at last. ‘I can’t do it, can I? But one day I will do it. I must. I can’t settle for being “adequate” for ever, but just for tonight maybe I should.’

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘I’m coming,’ she called without opening it. ‘Just give me a moment.’

  ‘No, now,’ came Marcel’s voice. ‘I need to talk to you at once.’

  She opened the door, pulling it back against her and retreating so that she was mostly concealed behind it. Even so, he could see the cascade of her glorious hair and it stopped him short.

  She could have screamed with frustration. The stunned look on his face was the one she’d longed to see, but what maddening fate had made it happen just at this moment?

  ‘Mrs … I don’t … I wasn’t expecting …’ He was stammering, which would have filled her with delight at any other time.

  ‘You said I should look less severe,’ she told him loftily. ‘Is this sufficiently “un-severe” for you?’

  ‘I … that wasn’t … yes … I suppose …’

  The last time she’d seen him lost for words was nine years ago when her landlady had walked in when they were lying naked on the floor.

  ‘I’m glad you approve,’ she said now, still taking care to conceal as much of herself as possible. ‘Is the Lenoir family here yet?’

  ‘Part of it. Madame Lenoir won’t be coming, but there’s—’ ‘Marcel, ou êtes vous?’ Brigitte’s voice came floating down the corridor.

  ‘I’m here, chérie.’

  She was speaking French in a low voice, clearly meaning not to be overheard. Even so, Cassie managed to make out enough to learn that the mysterious Henri was reluctant to attend the dinner, not wanting to be saddled with ‘the English woman nobody else wanted’. He’d agreed only on condition that he could leave early. Marcel gave a sharp intake of breath, but could say no more because of sounds from further along the corridor. Two men were approaching, hailing them, receiving Marcel’s greeting in return. Then they were in the room, full of polite bonhomie.

  ‘We can’t wait to meet the brilliant lady you’ve brought with you,’ Monsieur Lenoir declared. ‘Isn’t that so, Henri?’

  ‘I’ve been looking forward to this moment all day,’ came a courteous if unconvincing voice. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Here,’ Cassie said, stepping out from behind the door.

  With the first glance Cassie understood everything she’d heard about Henri. Good looking in a ‘pretty boy’ style, he had a self-indulgent manner and dark hair worn slightly too long for his age, which she guessed at about forty. Definitely a ‘naughty man’, fighting the years.

  His behaviour confirmed it. He was wide-eyed at the vision that confronted him.

  ‘Madame,’ he murmured, ‘I am more glad to meet you than I can say.’ He advanced with his hands out. ‘What an evening we are going to have!’

  He would have thrown his arms around Cassie, but she stopped him by placing her hands in his. Nothing daunted, he kissed the back of each hand. Then he jerked her forward and in this way managed to embrace her. Turning her head against his shoulder, she had a searing vision of Marcel’s face as he gained his first complete sight of her.

  What she saw would stay with her for ever. For one blinding second he looked like a man struck over the heart—astonished, bewildered, aghast, shattered. But in the next instant it was all gone, and only a stone mask remained.

  No matter. She’d seen all that she needed to see. He’d expected to find Mrs Henshaw, but Cassie’s ghost had walked and nothing would ever be the same.

  Now she was glad there hadn’t been time to change into something more respectable. There was a time for restraint and a time for defiance. Mrs Henshaw would have been left floundering, but Cassie was the expert.

  Monsieur Lenoir cleared his throat and came forward, sounding embarrassed. ‘Madame Henshaw, allow me to introduce my son.’

  ‘Well, I think he’s already introduced himself,’ Cassie said with a little giggle.

  ‘But you haven’t introduced yourself,’ Henri said.

  Brigitte intervened. ‘Mrs Henshaw is masterminding Marcel’s purchase of the London hotel.’

  ‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration,’ Cassie said hastily. ‘I’m not exactly masterminding it.’

  ‘But Marcel says that you are a great brain,’ Brigitte reminded her.

  ‘I’m no such thing,’ she defended herself.

  Henri gave an exaggerated sigh of relief. ‘Thank goodness for that. Brainy women terrify me.’

  ‘Then you’ve nothing to fear from me,’ she cooed, giving him her best teasing smile.

  ‘But you must be brainy or Marcel wouldn’t have employed you,’ Brigitte pointed out.

  ‘That’s true,’ Cassie said as if suddenly realising. ‘I must be brighter than I thought.’

  Her eyes met Marcel’s, seeing in them floundering confusion wrestling ineffectively with anger. She was beginning to enjoy herself.

  ‘It’s time were going,’ Monsieur Lenoir declared, edging his son firmly out of the way and offering Cassie his arm. ‘Madame Henshaw, may I have the pleasure of escorting you?’

  ‘The pleasure is mine,’ she replied.

  But then Henri too stepped forward, offering his other arm so that she walked out of the door with a man on each side, leaving Marcel to follow with Brigitte.

  They made a glamorous spectacle a
s they went along the corridor, the men in dinner jackets and bow ties, Brigitte in flowing evening gown, and Cassie in her luxurious black satin that left nothing to the imagination.

  Perhaps that was why Marcel never so much as glanced at her as they went down in the elevator.

  But as they stepped out and headed for the restaurant he raised his voice. ‘Mrs Henshaw, there’s a small matter of business we need to clear up before the evening starts. The rest of you go on and we’ll join you.’

  His hand on her arm was urgent, holding her back and drawing her around a corner, where there was nobody to see them.

  ‘Just what do you think you’re doing?’ he muttered furiously.

  ‘Being civil to the people who are important to you.’ ‘You know what I mean—the way you’re dressed—’ ‘But you told me to.’

  ‘I—?’

  ‘Be less severe, you said. And only today you brushed my hair forward so that—’

  ‘Never mind that,’ he said hastily.

  ‘I’m only doing what I thought you wanted. Oh, dear!’ She gasped as if in shocked discovery. ‘Didn’t I go far enough? Should the neckline be lower?’

  She took hold as though to pull it down but he seized her hands in his own. Instinctively her fingers tightened on his, drawing them against her skin, so that she felt him next to the swell of her breasts just before they vanished into the neckline.

  He stood for a moment as though fighting to move but unable to find the strength. There was murder in his eyes.

  ‘Damn you!’ he said softly. ‘Damn you, Cassie!’

  He wrenched his hands free and stormed off without waiting for her to reply. She clutched the wall, her chest rising and falling as conflicting emotions raced through her. The signals coming from him had been of violence and hostility but, far from fearing him, she was full of triumph.

  He recognised her. He’d admitted it.

  He’d blurted it out against his better judgement and they both knew it. Whatever the future held, thus far the battle was hers.

  As she turned the corner she saw that he was still there, standing by the door through which they must go. He offered her his arm without meeting her eyes, and together they went on their way.

  The others were waiting for them just inside the restaurant, agog with curiosity, but their polite smiles acted as masks and curiosity went unsatisfied. Monsieur Lenoir pulled out a chair, indicating for her to sit beside him, and Henri nimbly seized the place on her other side. For a moment she thought Marcel would say something, but Brigitte touched his cheek and he hastened to smile at her.

  Cassie looked about her, fascinated. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, golden ornaments hung from the walls. The glasses were of the finest crystal, just as the champagne being poured into them was also the finest.

  She wasn’t usually impressed by luxury, having seen much of it in earlier years, but there was an elegance about this place that appealed to her. She sipped the champagne appreciatively, then took a notebook from her bag and began to scribble.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Henri murmured in a tone that suggested conspiracy.

  ‘Observing,’ she said briskly. ‘That’s what I’m here for.’

  ‘Surely not,’ he murmured. ‘You’re here to have a wonderful time with a man who admires you more than any other woman in the world.’

  ‘No, I’m here to do a job,’ she said severely. ‘Monsieur Falcon has employed me for my efficiency—’

  ‘Ah, but efficiency at what?’ His eyes, raking her shape left no doubt of his meaning.

  ‘At business matters,’ she informed him in her best ‘prison-wardress’ voice.

  ‘But there’s business and business,’ he pointed out. ‘It’s not just facts and figures he wants from you, I’ll bet.’

  ‘Monsieur Lenoir!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Henri, please. I already feel that we know each other well.’

  ‘Henri, I’m shocked!’

  ‘And I’ll bet you don’t shock easily. Do go on.’

  ‘You cannot know me well if you think that of me.’

  ‘Think what of you?’ he asked with an innocence that would have fooled anyone not forewarned. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I’m sure you do.’

  ‘Well, perhaps. I can’t imagine Marcel wasting you on business efficiency when you have so many other lavish talents. He’s known as a man with an eye for the ladies.’

  He inclined his head slightly to where Marcel was sitting. Cassie waited for him to glance across at her, disapproving of Henri’s attention, but he didn’t. He seemed engrossed by Brigitte, sitting beside him, his eyes fixed on her as though nothing else existed in the world. Suddenly he smiled into her eyes and Cassie had to check a gasp. Surely no man smiled at a woman like that unless he meant it with all his heart?

  There was a welcome distraction in choosing the food, which was of the high standard she’d expected. While they ate Henri surprised her by talking sensibly. Her questions about Paris received knowledgeable answers and she was able to listen with such genuine interest that when Marcel spoke to her across the table she failed to hear him.

  ‘I’m sorry … what …?’ she stammered.

  ‘I was merely recommending the wine,’ he said. ‘It’s a rare vintage and a speciality of this hotel.’

  ‘Of course, yes. Thank you.’

  ‘Never mind him,’ Henri said. ‘Let me finish telling you—’

  ‘You’ve had your turn,’ Monsieur Lenoir objected. ‘I may be an old man, but I’m not too old to appreciate a beautiful woman.’ He gave a rich chuckle. Liking him, Cassie gave him her most gracious smile and they were soon deep in conversation. On the surface he was more civilised and restrained than his son, but his observations about Paris tended to linger on the shadowy romantic places. Clearly Henri wasn’t her only admirer.

  At last an orchestra struck up and dancers took to the floor. Monsieur Lenoir extended his hand and she followed him cheerfully.

  He was a reasonably good dancer for his age and weight, but what he really wanted, as she soon discovered, was to flaunt his sexy young companion, enjoying envious gazes from other men. She laughed and indulged him, careful not to go too far, and they finally left the floor, laughing together in perfect accord.

  Henri was waiting for them, looking theatrically forlorn.

  ‘I’m all alone,’ he mourned. ‘You’ve got my father. Marcel and Brigitte look like they’re set up for the night.’

  ‘Yes, they do, don’t they,’ Cassie said, observing them from a distance, dancing with eyes only for each other.

  ‘So when will it be my turn?’ Henri wanted to know.

  ‘Right now,’ she said firmly. ‘Do you mind my leaving you alone?’ This was to Monsieur Lenoir.

  ‘No, you two young things go and enjoy yourself. I’m puffed.’

  Before she knew it she was spinning around the floor. Henri was a good dancer. So was she, she suddenly remembered. How long had it been since she’d had the chance to let go and really enjoy herself?

  For a little while she gave herself up to the thrill of moving fast. Her mind seemed to be linked to Henri, so that when he waggled his hips she instinctively did the same, and heard cheers and applause from the rest of the floor. The world was spinning by in a series of visions. They came and went in her consciousness, but the one that was always there was Marcel, watching her with narrowed, furious eyes. No matter how often she turned, he always seemed to be directly in front of her. She blinked and he vanished. And yet he was still there, because he was always there.

  As the dance ended there was a mini riot, with Henri indicating that he wanted to partner her again, and at least three other men prepared to challenge for the privilege. But they all backed off when they saw Marcel, with murder in his eyes, stretching out his hand to her.

  ‘My dance, I think,’ he said.

  His voice was soft but dangerous, and tonight danger had an edge that she relished.

 
‘I don’t think so,’ she said with a challenging glance at her other suitors. ‘I think you have to wait your turn.’

  It was a crazy thing to say but she couldn’t have stopped herself for anything in the world. Suddenly she felt herself yanked fiercely against him, his arm so tight about her that she was breathless.

  ‘I wait for no man,’ he said. Then, in a voice even softer and more menacing than before, he added, ‘And no woman.’

  ‘Then I guess I have no choice,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’

  The music had slowed, enabling him to draw her onto the floor in a waltz, his body moving against hers. She tried not to feel the rising excitement. That was to be her weapon against him, not his against her. But the shocking truth was that he was equally armed and her defences were weak. Now her only hope of standing up to him was not to let him suspect her weakness.

  She reckoned a suit of armour would have been useful: something made of steel to protect her from the awareness of his body so dangerously close to hers. Lacking it, she could only assume the nearest thing to a visor, a beaming, rigid smile that should have alarmed him.

  ‘I don’t think you should hold me so tightly,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t try to fool me,’ he murmured in soft rage. ‘This is exactly what you meant to happen.’

  ‘You do me an injustice. I was going to wear something more conventional but you arrived before I could change.’

  ‘Oh, please, try to think of something better.’

  ‘Why must you always judge me so harshly?’

  ‘If you don’t know the answer to that—mon dieu, you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘When is the truth fair? I know how your deceiving little mind works—’

  ‘How can you be so sure you know about me—a woman you met only a few days ago?’

  His face was livid and she thought for a moment he would do something violent. But he only dropped his head so that his mouth was close to her ear. ‘Ne me tourmente pas ou je vais vous faire désolé. Prenez garde pendant qu’il est encore temps….’

  She drew in her breath. He’d warned her against tormenting him, telling her to take heed while there was still time.