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Has she adapted too well? Got too used to it?
The thought was in his head before he could stop it. Reminding him of all the reasons why he never took up with women who did not share his own lifestyle in their own financial right.
His eyes went to his screen. No sum of money there was without a whole string of zeroes after it—it was the realm he worked in, that encompassed the accounts of his extremely rich clients. Sums of money that the likes of Tara would never see in her lifetime...
Memory scraped in his head. Unwelcome, but intruding all the same. How Tara had sat with Celine on that ultra-tedious afternoon in Monte Carlo, and made that casual comment that ‘marrying money’ was still a sure-fire way to help oneself to riches. He’d considered it a snipe at Celine, but now, his frown came again. But maybe it was something she believed herself?
More memories came...uglier and more intrusive, forcing their way in. Marianne...making up to him...enticing him and luring him, the young heir to Banc Derenz, only to callously abandon him for a much safer financial bet—a man with his own wealth already safely in his pockets.
Another image formed in his mind. Sitting in that restaurant with Tara—one of the most exclusive and expensive on the Riviera—the day after their first night together. ‘I could really get used to this!’ she’d said, and sighed pleasurably...
More thoughts came to him—disturbing and uneasy. He had declared to Celine that Tara was his fiancée, and the sole purpose of the announcement had been to try and get Hans’s wife’s clutching claws off him. But had that impulsive proposal set thoughts running in Tara’s head? Was she remembering them when they were together now? When they kissed...embraced...made love?
Does she think I might propose for real? Make her my wife?
Roughly, he pushed his chair away from his desk. He would not let such thoughts in. He glanced at his watch. She’d been sunning herself far too long—she must not burn her skin...her oh-so-delectable skin.
Again memory skimmed in his mind—of how irritated he’d been that first day here, to arrive and find the woman he had hired to keep Celine at bay behaving as if she were here on a free luxury holiday.
Well, now she really is here on a free luxury holiday...
Again the unwelcome thought was in his head. Again he dismissed it. For she could enjoy this time with him with his blessing—enjoy all the luxury he took for granted himself. His expression changed. After all, she was a luxury herself—to him. An indulgence like none he’d ever experienced. And he wanted to indulge himself...
An anticipatory smile played about his mouth. Her heated skin would need cooling down—and a shower together was the very thing to achieve that. He would lather her body all over with his own hands...every beautiful centimetre of her...
His mood much improved, he abandoned any fruitless attempt to work and strode impatiently from the room to make his anticipation reality.
* * *
Tara stretched languorously and rolled over so that it was her back—bare from neck to hip—that received the blessing of the sun’s rays.
This really was gorgeous. To be basking here in the sun, after a late, leisurely breakfast, with nothing more strenuous to do than maybe take a cooling dip in the pool beside her and then, later on, drape herself in her chiffon sarong and drift across to where the staff were setting out their customary al fresco lunch.
She and Marc would make their déjeuner of the finest delicacies, all freshly prepared by hands other than theirs, and whisked away at the end of their meal by those other hands, leaving them nothing to do but laze th
e afternoon away or take the sailboat out, or swim off the jetty in the calm seas lapping the shore. Or maybe, if they were feeling energetic, head off in that powerful black beast of a car, purring like a contented tiger, to see yet more of the fabled Côte d’Azur.
And then they’d return as the sun was lowering, to sip sundowners by the pool and wait for yet another gourmet meal to be served to them by others’ labour.
A pampered lifestyle indeed...
Idly she flexed her toes, eased the arms cushioning her head, utterly at ease. I could get used to this...
Oh, she could indeed! she thought, half-ruefully, half-languorously. No wonder the rich liked being rich...
But, for all the luxury of her surroundings and the ease of her days, she knew that not a single glass of vintage champagne, not a moment spent lounging like this beside the pool, would count for anything at all were she not here with Marc.
It was Marc and Marc alone who was turning this luxury into paradise for her. Marc—who only had to glance at her with those dark, knowing eyes of his and she would feel her whole body flicker as if with unseen electricity. All he had to do was touch her...
A shadow fell over her, and as if she’d conjured him from her thoughts he was hunkering down beside her, letting his index finger stroke sensuously down the long curve of her spine, arousing every bit of that flickering electricity.
She gave a little moan in her throat at the sensation and heard his low laugh. Then, suddenly, she was being caught in his arms, dizzyingly swept up. Her moan of sensuous pleasure turned into a squeal, and he laughed again.
‘Time for a cool-down,’ he informed her.
For a second she thought he was going to toss her into the pool, but he was striding indoors with her, heading upstairs. Suddenly mindful of her abandoned bikini top, she pressed herself hurriedly against his torso, lest they encounter one of the staff. She felt her breasts crest, and knew there was only one way that this was going to end...
Lunch was going to have to wait...
