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It was said without any recognisable emotion or expression, and took a moment or two to sink in, but then her eyes shot to his face and she saw he was looking at her with that intent grey gaze that betrayed very little. 'Have you?' he repeated calmly.
'I… Y-yes, of course,' she stammered weakly. 'Sometimes.'
'Sometimes.' He nodded thoughtfully. 'And what coloured those thoughts? Any touch of regret or remorse?'
'I… ' He was still holding her hand, and must have felt the convulsive jerk of her fingers, but the cool, relaxed face was quite unreadable, his eyes shuttered and remote. 'Hudson… ' Her voice trailed away again as she felt panic rip through her, even as she told herself she had to speak, to act normally, to play the part she had chosen—no, the part that had been forced on her, she corrected silently—as best she could. He was too intuitive, too perceptive for her to stammer and stutter her way through. 'There's no point in this conversation.'
'You're such a mix of personalities under that smooth, silky skin, aren't you?' he observed with a flatness that was unnerving. 'You make me feel like one of those game-show hosts—"Will the real Marianne Harding please stand up?"—you know?' He smiled, but it held no humour at all. 'But you wouldn't, would you?' he added slowly. 'I see that now.'
'Wouldn't what?' she asked bewilderedly.
'Let me see the real you.' His eyes were keen on her flushed face and she stared at him, searching her mind for a reply that just wouldn't materialise for some moments.
'You make me sound quite mysterious,' she managed at last.
But he turned as she spoke, gesturing to a big basket of sun-ripened cherries an elderly farmer was trying to sell as he asked, in fluent French, how much the fruit was.
They ate the succulent red cherries sitting on an old stone wall overlooking the market-place, the afternoon sun hot but without the fierceness of midday, and the venerable stones warm and mellow. It was a tranquil spot, a soft agelessness to the scene that was terribly poignant.
Marianne knew she would remember the interlude all her life—the bright sunshine, the smells and sights, the feel of the ancient warm stone under her legs and the taste of the cherries on her tongue. And Hudson. Hudson…
'Are you happy, Annie? With your exciting London life and wonderful job?' he asked softly, when she least expected it 'Does your career give you everything you need?'
No, it didn't even begin to. 'Very much so,' she said brightly, his words making her finish her last cherry in one gulp, stone and all. 'Does yours?' she asked with a brittle smile.
'My career?' He shook his head slowly. It's a big part of my life but it doesn't consume me. I have other… pleasures.'
I know, I've seen one of them at the hotel, she thought fiercely as a dart of pain so sharp as to be unbearable shot through her chest 'That's nice.' She forced another smile.
'Isn't it?' he agreed drily, his gaze moving from her face to the bustling scene in front of them, most of the traders beginning to pack their wares and purchases for the long trek home by donkey, bus or bicycle, few of them being able to afford their own car. 'I like to think I'm well-rounded. The old adage of all work and no play still holds goo
d in this frantic age. I've seen more men collapse with overwork than anything else. There has to be a balance in life… enjoyment'
She had no doubt at all that the luscious redhead could give him all the enjoyment he could handle, Marianne thought tightly. 'Quite.' She tried to make her voice even but it came out more as a snap, and to cover up she said quickly, 'Do… do you play a sport? Something you do to relax?'
She didn't believe she'd just said that. As the smoky-grey gaze turned her way she wanted to curl up and die at the dark amusement in his eyes. How could she have put it like that?
'Don't you remember?' he asked softly. 'Two years isn't that long.'
'I… No—At least, I don't think… '
'Squash.' The grey eyes were relishing her hot-faced, mumbling confusion. 'I play squash, Annie,' he said mockingly.
'Right.' She nodded like a demented parrot. 'Squash. Yes.'
'Among other things.'
They arrived back at the car with the late-afternoon sun still high in the sky, and as Marianne slid inside the suffocatingly hot interior she took her hat off and tossed it onto the back seat, looping all the hair she could gather back into the knot on top of her head to cool her overheated neck. The car was like a sauna.
'It's still like spun gold and as fine as silk.'
'What?' As Hudson joined her in the car his voice was deep and throaty, but so velvety-soft she thought she had misheard him.
'Your hair.' His eyes sent trickles of sensation shivering down her spine as they wandered over her, their darkness mesmerising. 'I've known other women who have tried to achieve that sort of look but never quite pulled it off, but with you it's natural, isn't it?' He shook his head slowly. 'And lethal,' he added daddy.
'What sort of look?' she asked warily. There was something in his voice—just the merest something—that made her wonder if he was being complimentary or insulting.
'Temptation with restraint, a sort of come-hither appeal but with the proviso that the unfortunate male doesn't come too close,' he said thoughtfully. 'Sex and innocence—it's a deadly combination and you do it very well.'
