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‘And, since you pleased me so very much in bed, cherie, who knows but I might have married you myself?’
He watched the emotion in her eyes, and the savage satisfaction came again.
‘As it is—’ he dropped his hand away and gave a light, careless shrug ‘—the comedy, such as it is, is ended.’
For a moment, his eyes changed again, a dark light at the back of them. His face tightened.
‘Belle,’ he murmured. ‘Quelle dommage.’
Then, as she stood frozen, immobile, sick, he reached for her once more, his fingers curving around her chin, tilting it upwards. He lowered his mouth to hers, slanting his lips. Effortlessly he opened her to him, tasting her in a leisurely, intimate fashion.
Then he stepped away. His face was a mask. His voice when he spoke was brisk, expressionless.
‘You will return to London. You will inform Armand that you cannot, after all, marry him. You will do so by phone or letter. You will not meet him. I shall be keeping you under surveillance to ensure this, and if you attempt to meet him I will have you intercepted. For my brother’s sake, to spare him any further distress after his mistaken hopes of love and marriage have been destroyed, I will not tell him of your affair with me. But—’ he held up a hand ‘—if necessary I shall do so. Be in no doubt of that. I will not permit you to marry him. Do you understand?’ His voice sharpened. ‘Do you understand?’ he repeated coldly.
Slowly she nodded. It seemed the only thing to do.
That, and keep herself upright, keep herself together, all the parts of her body—because she was falling apart, fracturing. Tiny hairline cracks were widening, breaking open, shattering her into a thousand pieces.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘And now—’ he glanced at his watch ‘—you will leave. You have ten minutes to pack.’
He walked away, back into the villa.
Behind him, by the table, Lissa stood quite, quite motionless.
* * *
Time had stopped. She could see it flowing somewhere very far away, outside. She could see the wake churning behind her as the launch sped over the water towards the shore. She could see the shore, inching closer. So time must be moving, somewhere.
But not inside her. Inside her, time had stopped. Everything had stopped. She couldn’t feel anything, couldn’t do anything, couldn’t think anything. Eventually, after a long time, the launch drew up at the quayside and the engines were cut, and someone was holding out a hand to help her out of the boat. Then there was a car, and she was sitting in the back of it, and it was nosing out of the marina onto the road, with other cars rushing back and forth, and people on the pavements, and shops and houses and buildings. And then the car was moving, and she was moving inside it, but nothing else was happening. The car reached the airport, and someone was ushering her inside, guiding her up to first-class check-in, and talking French over her head. And she was handing over her passport, and then she was going through into the departure lounge. Later—how much later she couldn’t tell—she was sitting on a plane, in a first-class seat, and staring out of the porthole. The plane took off, and she felt her stomach lift and lurch and fall away like the ground below. The plane climbed up, up into the sky, sun dazzli
ng in her eyes, and then it was heading north, inland, across France.
And as it flew time started again.
And with it came perfect recall.
Xavier walking out onto the terrace and shattering her into a thousand fractured, broken pieces.
Word by word she went over the revelations of the day.
Xavier was Armand’s brother. He had sought her out. He had sought an affair with her deliberately, calculatedly.
To separate her from Armand.
With no other purpose.
Not chance, not desire, not anything other than cold, deliberate purpose.
Making everything, everything between them a lie. From the moment he had come into the casino—to the moment when he’d thrown her from him like a diseased carcass.
Hatred seared in her. What else could it be, the emotion that seared her flesh? Hatred for the man who had lied, and lied and lied to her—day after day, night after night—with every word, with every touch.
It was a glorious day in London, mocking her with golden sunshine. From the plane’s window as it landed, and then from the long windows as she trudged along to baggage reclaim, she could see brilliant sunlight glancing off the parked planes and the airport buildings. Heathrow was crowded, thronged with people—busy, purposeful, hurrying. She walked through them like a dead person. Her suitcase was rotating slowly on the luggage carousel. Another hot wire went through her. It was not the suitcase she had set out from London with but a new one made from finest leather, presented to her in Paris, with her own shabby valise disposed of disdainfully. The distinctive XeL logo in gold lettering on the handles and edging leapt out at her.
XeL.
Xavier Lauran. X. L.
