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A dark eyebrow rose. His expression was suddenly saturnine. ‘You thought? Ah, yes—you thought,’ he repeated. He lifted the coffee cup and took a mouthful, setting it down again with a precise, controlled movement. Then, with the same precise, controlled movement, he rested his eyes on her.
There was no expression in them.
‘Shall I tell you what you thought? It would be amusing, non? Because you certainly intended to amuse yourself. What is that expression in English? When the cat is away, the mouse will play?’
His eyes went on resting on her. Her face was expressionless.
Behind that studied, blank visage he knew what she would be doing. She would be thinking, thinking at breakneck speed—what to say, how to play it.
She had played it very well up to now. Superbly, in fact.
She had fooled him completely.
Rage, black and toxic, filled his lungs. He fought it back. This was not the moment for it. And she was not the only target.
He directed some at himself.
For being a fool.
A fool of such enormity that if he thought about it rationally, coolly, he would still be amazed by it. But amazement was not what he felt now. Now there was only a dark, savage rage inside him that had to be controlled or it would devour him. And he would not permit that. Would not give her the satisfaction of seeing it.
Let alone the other emotion he was feeling.
No, there was only one way to do this. With precise, absolute control.
His expressionless gaze watched her. There was an expression forming in her face now, in her eyes—those beautiful, lustrous eyes that had gazed into his so openly, so ardently …
No—that was not permitted. He sliced through his mind like a guillotine, cutting off the head of a corrupt, decadent aristocrat.
He watched the expression form.
Confusion.
Ah, so that was how she was going to play it. He waited for the words that would accompany the expression, and they came as he had known they would.
‘Xavier—I don’t understand. I don’t understand what you are saying—what is happening?’
Her voice was strained, bewildered, anxious. Al
l appropriate emotions to display in the circumstances. She was very good at displaying the appropriate emotions.
Such as passion, and desire … for him and him alone …
No!
The guillotine sliced down again. ‘You don’t understand?’ he echoed sardonically. ‘How can that be? You are returning to London. That is what you want, is it not? After all, you need to be safely back in your impoverished atelier, from which you will be swept away into a wonderful marriage with a handsome, rich young man.’
He watched as the expression of confusion deepened in her face. She opened her mouth to speak, but he forestalled her. His voice had the same deadly sardonic inflection as before.
‘In fact, it is all arranged, is it not? Armand has proposed marriage to you, and it is everything you ever dreamed of, and you will love him for ever for it—non?’
Comprehension hollowed through her. He had heard her phone call.
‘Xavier.’ She spoke urgently. ‘I can explain—’
A smile parted his lips. It chilled her to the core.
‘Of course,’ he agreed pleasantly. ‘You will have at your disposal a very convincing explanation. Very probably a touching one, too. I expect you will explain to me that Armand is—what shall it be?—an old friend? A former lover still carrying a flame for you whose tender feelings you do not wish to hurt? Or perhaps he is someone in love with a friend of yours, and you are playing matchmaker? Who knows what else your fertile imagination will conjure up for my amusement? Perhaps I should even let you make the attempt now. But hélas, le temps c’est pressant, and I have a busy schedule to complete today. Commencing, of course, with your removal both from my life and …’ he paused fractionally ‘… Armand’s, as well.’
