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And ashamed to her soul that she should feel it necessary.
CHAPTER SEVEN
GINNY AWOKE SLOWLY, as if she was swimming upwards through layer after languid layer of comfort.
For a moment, as she opened her eyes, she felt disorientated, looking round an unfamiliar room from the depths of an unfamiliar bed. But then the memories of yesterday’s incredible sequence of events came flooding back.
She had not expected to sleep and yet it seemed she had—almost as soon as the silk-shaded bedside lamp had been extinguished.
Off with the light, then out like a light, she thought, her mouth twisting. But it’s a new day now and I need to be wide awake and firing on all cylinders to deal with whatever it brings.
She pushed aside the covers and slid down to the floor, the polished boards striking cold to her feet. She retrieved her ruby robe from her case and huddled it on over her pyjamas before going to the window and opening the shutters. To find herself standing motionless, gasping at the unexpected glory confronting her.
There had been a hard frost in the night, and, as a result, the red-gold ball of the early sun had turned the vine-clad slopes spreading as far as the eye could see into living flame.
A welcome contrast to the darkness of her arrival and maybe, from now on, she would see more clearly in other ways.
But maybe not hear or speak so well, with only her schoolgirl French to rely on. But that would probably be the least of her inadequacies, she thought, pulling her robe further around her with a shiver and taking one last look at the vibrant glow of the landscape before turning away.
She picked a pair of jeans and a thick navy Guernsey from her case, then transferred the rest of her meagre haul of clothing to the depths of the armoire where it looked small and slightly lost. Rather how I feel myself, she thought wryly, locating her hairdryer and putting it on the bed.
Collecting a handful of underwear and a towel, she was on her way to the bathroom when there was a loud knock at the bedroom door and a rattle as the handle was tried.
She halted. ‘Who is it?’ Just as if she didn’t know.
‘Andre.’ He rattled the handle again. ‘Open the door, Virginie.’
Reluctantly, she obeyed, turning the key in the lock. He walked in and stood, hands on hips, his face grim as he looked her up and down. Although she was perfectly decent, Ginny had to fight an impulse to draw her robe even more closely round her.
Which was ridiculous when he knew perfectly well what she looked like naked, she thought with a pang that mingled embarrassed discomfort with something altogether more ambiguous.
‘I thought we had agreed to trust one another,’ he commented coldly. ‘So why lock your door?’
She shrugged defensively. ‘My first night in a strange house. I felt—nervous.’ And she was nervous now. His arrival made the room seem almost smaller. And he hadn’t shaved, rekindling unwanted memories of the way his stubble had grazed her bare skin.
He nodded. ‘And if there had been a fire and we had been unable to reach you? What then?’
‘Is that likely?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘But not impossible. Alors...’ He took the key from the lock and slipped it into the pocket of his jeans. ‘I came to say that Madame Rameau will be preparing breakfast. I hope you will join us.’
‘Yes,’ she said jerkily. ‘Yes, of course. I—I’ll soon be ready.’
He turned towards the door, then swung back and came over to her, his fingers reaching for her sleeve, grasping the soft ruby fabric. He said softly, ‘I find I do not care for this garment. Something else I should have told you to leave behind, ma mie.’
And, before she could form any kind of protest, went.
High-handed, dictatorial, and arrogant were just some of the words Ginny muttered under her breath as she stood under the blissful heat of the powerful shower. Words that she repeated over and over again as if they were a spell which would give her some kind of protection.
Although she should not need protection. She was hardly here through choice, yet while she might have accepted the deal on offer, there were still parameters to be drawn. Limits to be observed.
Her mood was not improved when she realised she could not plug in her hairdryer, and therefore she would be going down to breakfast with her hair hanging to her shoulders in rats’ tails.
But what the hell, she thought, raking the damp strands back from her face. Looking attractive was hardly a preferred option.
She took off her robe and, shivering in bra and briefs, reached for her jeans. At which moment the door opened and Andre walked in.
She snatched up the jeans and held them defensively in front of her. Her voice shook. ‘Can’t you knock?’
