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‘That’s where you’re staying?’
‘Isn’t everyone?’
Matteo’s mouth twisted with scorn. The marble-built palace of a hotel was situated on the choicest part of the Croisette, and would be full to the brim with other actors, producers, directors, models and wannabes. ‘No,’ he said shortly. ‘It’s too much of a goldfish bowl—you can’t risk going back there in that state. I’m taking you to where I’m staying.’
He wasn’t asking her whether she’d like him to. He was telling her, in that autocratic manner which came naturally after a lifetime of having people run around after him. But Jennifer was too tired and too confused to argue—and, if the truth were known, she was glad that he had taken over.
Somehow he had managed to commandeer the use of a luxury car, and he settled her in the soft leather seat beside him, adjusting his jacket so that it modestly covered her and then barking out a terse instruction in French as the vehicle began to move away.
Dreamily, Jennifer turned her head to watch out of the window as the glittering crescent of coastline sped by in a blur of lights. They passed the cool marble splendour of the Hedoniste—and suddenly Jennifer was relieved that they weren’t going near it, with its hordes of paparazzi and heaven only knew who else.
‘Where’s your hotel?’ she questioned.
Matteo stared out of the opposite window—anything to avert his eyes from her, and from the knowledge that she was all rumpled, her dress all stained…by him… His fingertips were still sticky and warm from having been inside her, and if he drifted them close to his face her particular feminine scent pervaded his nostrils with a potency which made him hard all over again.
‘It’s not really a hotel.’ He swallowed as the car swept through wrought-iron gates, past the dark shapes of lemon trees and cypress.
In the bright moonlight she could see that the hedges were fantastically shaped, and there was an odd-looking sculpture which was emphasised by soft lights pinned into a nearby tree. It looked old and very beautiful, and Jennifer blinked at it in astonished surprise.
‘What is this place?’ she asked quietly.
‘It was once a villa belonging to one of Cannes’s most famous residents—an English aristocrat who discovered the perfect climate here, and the stunning beaches. Now it is owned by an eccentric Frenchman—who will let rooms out, but only if the mood takes him.’
He turned his head and saw her looking down at her crumpled state of undress. ‘He is very particular and very discreet,’ he added. ‘There will be no need to be seen by him, or by anyone else for that matter. One is able to bring guests to a place like this without the whole world knowing. For people in the public eye it is a godsend.’
She couldn’t stop torturing herself with images of him bringing other women here in the future. Perhaps similarly unclad, and also recipients of his remarkable brand of lovemaking.
But Jennifer knew that she couldn’t bring the subject up—certainly not now, when she was already feeling so vulnerable. The sex had been a mistake—but there was no need to compound that mistake by starting to quiz him about his future plans. That would only make her self-esteem tumble and put her in an even more vulnerable position.
Matteo had every right to do whatever he wished. Sex gave you no rights—not even if it was with the man to whom you were still legally married.
But then she remembered what he’d said about Sophia—and for the first time she was able to think about the actress without feeling sick. Had it been true what Matteo had said, about it only being the once and thinking about her all the while? Should the fine detail actually matter?
Of course it mattered. A one-off mistake—if that was really what it was—was completely different from a long-term affair which had been shrouded in secrecy and deceit.
But in a way that was worse—because it gave her a faint flicker of foolish hope that maybe the relationship wasn’t doomed after all. But it was. Too much had been said and done to ever go back. A bout of wonderful sex wasn’t a cure-all. Their marriage was in its death-throes, and that had just been one final, bewitching puff of life breathed into it.
She had to take responsibility for what had just happened between them back there, and then let it go.
But as he led her up a carved wooden staircase which was scented with sandalwood, Jennifer felt a very real shiver of fear ice her skin. What if she wasn’t able to just let it go?
Well, you don’t have the luxury of choice, she told herself. You’ll have to.
At least the room was exquisite enough to distract her from her uncomfortable thoughts—with tall, shuttered windows which led out onto a moon-washed balcony. In the distance she could see the coloured glimmer of the town—like a muted version of the fireworks which would later explode in the night sky as part of the Festival celebrations.
‘Oh, it’s beautiful,’ she said automatically, and turned round to find that he was watching her. She gave a nervous kind of laugh. ‘What the hell am I doing talking about the view? Isn’t this the kind of situation where you wish you could just wave a magic wand and suddenly it’s different?’
‘Don’t you think I spend most of my life doing that?’ he questioned bitterly.
‘Matt—’
He shook his head. ‘Let’s not waste any time with recriminations. There’s no point.’
‘No. But I have to say this. Thanks for...rescuing me and bringing me back here.’
‘A while back you were angry with me for having had my wicked way with you.’
She didn’t answer straight away, but she knew that she couldn’t continue to act like an innocent little virgin who had been coerced into something against her will.
