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Away, too, from the frankly enticing scent of soap and shampoo emanating from his cool, damp skin. But that would take her nearer to the bed, so she stood her ground. Because she was the one with the right to be angry. And she needed to stay angry.
She said defiantly, ‘You find her attractive. Your behaviour the other night made that perfectly clear. And she hasn’t had a great deal of experience of men, so she’ll have been flattered. But she’s engaged—in love.’ She added with energy, ‘And I won’t let her screw up her life just so that you can satisfy a passing fancy.’
‘Engaged, certainement. At least for the present. In love?’ He shrugged. ‘Who knows? I think you are the one who is naïve, Virginie.’
He paused.
‘But let us be frank. Would it not make you happy if the young Monsieur Welburn, the rich and worthy, was no longer your sister’s fiancé and could, peut-être, return for consolation to the girl he chose first—toi-même.’
He added harshly, ‘Now you are the one who must not pretend. Or did you think your so tender and half-dressed embrace with him that night had been unobserved?’
She remembered the sound of the closing door. She said hoarsely, ‘You—were there?’
‘I had been saying goodnight to Marguerite. When I saw that I intruded, I left another way.’
Ginny lifted her chin. She said with cool clarity, ‘There was no intrusion. What you saw was perfectly innocent. He’d had a wretched evening, and was—upset, that’s all.’
His mouth twisted cynically. ‘And when they are married, he and your sister, and all his evenings become wretched, who will he turn to then? Because la belle Lucille, she requires a stronger man than the unfortunate Jonathan. Someone who will not indulge her foolishly, but give purpose to her life each day, and teach her to be a woman in his bed at night.’
She stiffened. ‘I suppose you’re referring to yourself with all this macho nonsense.’
The dark brows lifted. ‘And if so, why should you care? I would be doing you a favour, n’est ce pas? Is that not what you want?’
Her mouth felt suddenly dry. She touched her lips with the tip of her tongue, as she searched for a reply. Any reply, as the silence in the room lengthened. Tautened. Began to spark with emotions that had nothing to do with the anger which had brought her here like an avenging Fury. And which scared her.
She thought with swift desperation, What am I doing—challenging him like this? I should have spoken to Cilla instead. I must be crazy...
In a voice she did not recognise, she said, ‘I shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry. I—I have to go...’
To get out of here while I still can...
She took a step towards the door, but he remained where he was, blocking her path.
‘Not,’ he said, ‘until you have answered my question. And told me the truth.’ The dark eyes bored into hers. ‘So, say it to me—what do you most want, Virginie?’
She looked away, trembling. ‘I—I can’t tell you.’ She moved her hands almost helplessly, as she faced the shocking truth he had demanded. ‘Because I—I just don’t know any more.’
‘Then I, moi-même, shall tell you.’ His voice was a harsh whisper. He reached for her, pushing her coat from her shoulders, letting it tumble to the carpet, then pulled her close, his mouth seeking hers with a hunger that would not be denied.
She knew a moment of blind panic, telling herself to fight. To kick his bare legs with her heavy shoes. Rake his face and chest with her nails. Anything to get free—to be safe again.
Yet, somehow, she did none of those things. Because she would also be fighting herself, she realised in some dazed corner of her mind. Because, to her bewilderment and eternal shame, she knew that she shared his hunger, swaying against him, her lips parting under his to allow him the access he demanded.
This can’t—this mustn’t happen. The words might echo in her head, but their warning was soon drowned by the mounting urgency in her body, in the heavy thud of her pulses, the sensation that the blood in her veins was flowing slow and sweet, like honey.
She leaned into him, welcoming the heated tangle of his tongue with hers, shivering at the glide of his hands under her sweater and across the supple line of her back. Admitting that this was what she’d wanted since the first time he’d kissed her.
Deftly, he unhooked her bra, his fingers pushing aside the loosened lace cups to encompass the warm, firm roundness of her small breasts, his thumbs teasing her nipples until they stood proud and erect, making her gasp with shocked pleasure against his smile.
