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As Carol talked, Amy barely listened.
She was thinking about Remy and aching on a soul-deep level to see him again.
Would he be at Château Serene when she got there?
Or would he play it smart and avoid the hell out of her—unless she thought of some way to lure him back to her bed.
Because she wanted him again.
Five
Paris, France
R emy said hello to Marie-Elise, his secretary. Then he directed her to hold his calls and to make no appointments until the next day. Before she could say much, he strode past her into his own starkly modern office and shut the door.
When he flipped on the lights, his gaze went to the only decoration in the room—a framed photograph that lay facedown on his chrome-and-glass bookshelf.He forced himself to walk over to the shelf. Carefully he picked up the snapshot of himself and André Lafitte when they’d been boys. In the picture they were grinning from ear to ear as they stood in front of their racing karts. They’d been fourteen. André’s doting father, Maurice, who despised Remy now, had been full of pride and joy in both boys when he’d taken the picture.
Remy’s hands were shaking by the time he set the picture upright on its glass shelf. He stood there, staring at the tarnished frame and faded picture in silence for as long as he could bear. The picture had lain facedown for a year.
After a few minutes alone in his office, he began to feel so alienated and full of self-loathing he almost flew back out to Marie-Elise’s office. Instead, he swallowed and turned toward the window.
Outside, the morning was gray and bleak, but no bleaker than the darkness of his own guilty heart.
Slowly he turned away from the window and sat down at his desk, which was piled high with envelopes, flyers, brochures and telephone messages. Determined to accomplish something his first morning back, he emptied the contents of the first envelope. It was a letter from his estate agent, complaining that Amelia was balking. Several telephone messages and faxes from the agent were attached to the envelope, one with yesterday’s date. The agent called her obstinate and difficult.
Amelia was the last person Remy wanted to deal with. He should never have agreed to meet her. Or kept his identity a secret. Or bedded her. Hell.
No use in thinking about her now. But despite his efforts to put her out of his mind, he constantly imagined her on the bridge laughing about the bubbles or dancing in his arms or writhing underneath him, and an ache in his soul would rise up to torment him. Determined to banish her, he wadded up the agent’s messages and threw them in the trash. Then he slashed into envelopes, tossing garbage onto the floor beside the can with a vengeance. When he couldn’t stop thinking about her, he decided to return his phone calls. Not that that worked any better.
Somehow he passed the morning slogging through the piles on his desk and returning his calls. When it was almost noon, and his desk still had numerous piles, he regretted his promise to lunch with his mother, whose preferences dictated long, formal meals. The hour was nearly upon him, and he was getting up to go meet her when Marie-Elise slipped into his office and quickly shut the door. She was a thin, efficient girl with a pale complexion. She always wore dark, loosely fitting clothes, large glasses and shoes with thick rubber soles so that she could move about like a shadow and not attract attention, especially male attention. He suspected she was much prettier than she appeared.
Once she’d implied she’d been in a bad marriage. She hadn’t gone into the particulars, and he hadn’t asked.
“Maybe you should go out the back way, monsieur. A man is here to see you.”
“I said no appointments.”
“I told him, but he laughed and ordered me to give you this. Ordered me! He assured me that he needed no appointment.” Blushing, she handed him a business card. “If I may say so, he’s a very pleasant young gentleman, monsieur.”
Marie-Elise had never complimented a man before, at least not to him.
With a lift of his eyebrows, Remy took the card. In the next instant he was smiling, too. Then he was laughing. “Didn’t take him long to charm you.”
She blushed—Marie-Elise, who never blushed or took the least notice of any man.
Remy stared at her for a long moment. “His wife left him a year ago. You could do worse.”
Again her cheeks reddened becomingly, making him think she really could be pretty if she tried.
“Sorry,” he said. Feeling like an idiot, he rushed from his office into hers.
“Remy!” A short, painfully slim man gripped the sides of his chair and pushed himself to his feet. Gripping his cane, he steadied himself. Then he grinned from ear to ear.
He was hospital pale, and he looked years older than thirty. Years older than last year.
