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His face tightened. It didn’t matter now—all that mattered was that he must reach his mother’s house before his brother ruined his life by marrying a woman he must not marry.
Fury lashed him again. He should have told Armand the truth about her. Told him just what she was, what she had done. Warmed his own brother’s bed.
Instead he had sought to spare Armand’s feelings, relying on the threat he held over her head to stop her from trying to hold on to his brother.
Well, she had fooled him yet again, the treacherous little bitch.
I have to get there in time to stop it.
Only a personal confrontation would do, he knew. If he phoned, if he were not there to face her, she would find a way to get out of it. Find a way to convince Armand that black was white, that she was as pure as driven snow. Not a woman who had amused herself with his own brother while waiting for Armand to make his offer of marriage.
But would he be there in time? The outward flight from Seoul had been delayed, and he had had to change in Tokyo, and then again in Paris. He was cutting it fine—very fine. Mentally he urged the helicopter on. The coastline below was passing with painful slowness. Villefranche, Monaco, Cap Martin, until finally Menton, and the Italian border just beyond. Landing in the grounds of his mother and stepfather’s villa would be extremely tight, but it could be done. Must be done.
The old gold of the villa came into sight, its gardens terraced down to the sea. With skilled precision the pilot brought down the machine, cutting the rotors as soon as possible to minimise the damage to plants.
Xavier was out of the helicopter in moments, striding up towards the house. The terrace doors to the drawing room were wide open. He hurried his steps. A cluster of figures came to the French windows, drawn by the noise of the helicopter, which was now lifting off again.
He took in the group instantly. His stepfather Lucien, and his mother. A priest.
And Lissa.
Emotion punched through him. Overpowering, like a tidal wave. He strode up to them over the gravelled pathway.
Lissa was standing as still as a statue. Frozen. Emotion punched again.
She was wearing a frock. A floaty, floral frock, calf-length, like a ballerina, in palest ivory with printed flowers in soft yellows, and delicate sandals. She held a posy of flowers in her hands. Her long, loose hair was caught back in wings from either side of her face, a fresh flower at the clasp on the back of her head.
She looked impossibly beautiful.
Impossibly innocent.
Impossibly bridal.
His mother’s face lit. ‘Xavier! You came in time. Wonderful.’
She held her arms out to him, and perforce he had to drop a kiss on each scented cheek. She looked happy, radiantly so. Xavier’s heart chilled.
She didn’t know. But how could she? How could anyone? His eyes seared Lissa—in all her beautiful, innocent, bridal beauty. How could anyone know the truth about her from the way she looked now?
Her face was expressionless. There was nothing in it. Savage fury blanked through him. Well, he would put some expression in it.
His stepfather Lucien was greeting him, introducing him to the robed priest. He answered automatically, his eyes skirting inside the drawing room for his brother. There was no sign of him. He stepped inside, and the others parted to let him in, then reformed.
‘Where’s Armand?’
Xavier’s voice was curt.
‘He’ll be here.’ His mother had answered. ‘I know it’s unusual, but—’
He cut across her. ‘I have to speak to him. Alone,’ he emphasised.
‘Darling, I hardly think there’s time.’ His mother’s voice sounded uncertain.
‘Afterwards, my boy, afterwards,’ agreed Lucien, nodding avuncularly.
Xavier turned on them. ‘You don’t understand. This marriage cannot take place.’
There was a gasp of consternation. But not from Lissa. She just went on standing there, her face expressionless.
