By Request Collection April-June 2016. Оливия Гейтс

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      He flushed darkly. A muscle moved in his lean cheek. ‘I don’t believe so. That is not how I feel when I think of you. Far from it. But I’m naturally—surprised. You despised him, yet you have made this very long journey to say goodbye to him. And now to show such—emotion.’

      ‘Well, but it was all so overwhelming, I just … Wouldn’t you feel sad to say goodbye to someone you once loved?’ She turned to look at him.

      Through the smudged mascara her aquamarine gaze pierced Luc. An unpleasant knowledge solidified in his brain and skewered him straight through his gut. It hadn’t mattered whether or not she’d liked the bastard. She’d loved him.

      He said tightly, ‘I can’t imagine being sad about someone who—violated the rules of civility. But I believe there are women who love certain men—whatever they do.’

      A flicker of pain disturbed the cool green sea of her irises. She made a small, defensive gesture that sent a pang through Luc. The moment they’d shared at her front door flooded back to him with sharp immediacy. What an insensitive fool he was to bring that up now. He was handling this so badly. Dieu, was he jealous of a dead man?

      ‘I doubt they do,’ she said quietly. ‘I think that’s a myth.’ The pride and earnestness in her voice touched him in some susceptible spot. ‘Women fall in love then out of it, but some remain trapped by circumstances. That has never applied to me. It could never.’ He watched her slim hands twist. The hat brim prevented him from seeing more than a section of cheek, an exquisite curve of chin.

      His blood stirred with a sharp and bittersweet desire. He closed his eyes. She was here now, overwhelmingly present. Not a dream, not a fantasy. Whether he wanted it or not, yearning had him in its grip.

      He sought for something to say to soften his former harshness. ‘Très bon. Men too can find themselves trapped. Passion is a dangerous thing. It can—drag you in.’ She lanced him with her clear green gaze and he caught his breath. ‘Not recommended for ones’ health.’

      ‘No,’ she agreed, lowering her lashes. ‘If only it were possible to consider your health at the time, no one would ever take the risk.’ She hesitated. ‘I—I … I’m sorry about the night you phoned. I know you meant to be kind.’

      ‘I woke you from your sleep?’ She nodded. He studied her face. ‘You were angry.’

      ‘Yes, well … It was a difficult time. I’m sorry.’

      ‘Don’t apologise. I phoned because I longed to hear your voice.’

      Shari looked sharply at him, her heart revving up. His eyes were scorching hot and were having quite a dizzying effect. Could he really talk as if nothing had happened?

      This was no time for desire an hour after she’d farewelled Rémy. And hadn’t Luc made it clear what he thought of her? Did he assume she was ready to ride that thorny road with him again? Had he forgotten what had happened after their boathouse tryst?

      She started unsteadily, ‘I don’t know why you think I came all this way, Luc …’

      ‘Then tell me. Why did you?’ His dark eyes were compelling, alert, and at the same time so searingly sensual.

      ‘For Emilie, of course. To—honour her loss. Pay our family’s respects. And to—to acknowledge the love I once had for Rémy. Naturally.’

      His gaze flickered over her, searching, intent. Then he lifted his shoulders in a gentle gesture. ‘I always wonder when someone gives many reasons for doing something grande if they only really have the one. The one they wish to conceal from themselves.’

      Her heart made a maniacal skitter. What? Did he think it had to do with him? Did the guy think one little encounter had affected her that deeply?

      ‘And what do you suppose it to be?’ She smiled in mocking disbelief. ‘The one I need to conceal?’

      His dark gaze was mercilessly direct. ‘Bien sûr, you came to see me.’

      She gasped. Before she could deny it he curled his fingers under her chin and took her mouth in a fierce, highly sexual kiss. After the initial paralysed instant, her body sprang into tingling life. An erotic charge electrified her blood, her nerve fibres, her tender intimate tissues, as if this and this alone were her raison d’être.

      Who said she couldn’t communicate adequately in French? It was clear now all she’d ever needed was the inspiration. Luc Valentin’s hand merely had to caress her kneecap and slide up under her skirt and she burst into flame.

      All right, she was bad. Bad in every way, but he felt so good. The delicious sinful pleasure of him thrilled through her and inflamed her every wanton molecule.

      Sadly, just when she was ready to crawl onto his lap and express her appreciation more fulsomely for them both, he broke away. Drawing back, he studied her, his dark eyes beneath their thick black brows smouldering and amused.

      ‘Good. Some colour in your cheeks.’

      She felt herself flush. She supposed those cool, insolent words were intended to convey his macho self-possession. But to the sensitive ears of the guilt-ridden woman, the slightly thickened texture of his voice was a welcome giveaway. Luc Valentin was affected by her. Strongly affected.

      ‘That was hardly appropriate,’ she said breathlessly, patting down her suit and adjusting her hat. ‘Now. Of all times. Aren’t you ashamed?’

      ‘No. I would say—triumphant.’

      Too shocked for words, she stared speechlessly at him, and he laughed and kissed her again. She was struggling for more words to express her discomfort at this bold exploitation of her weakened state, when the limo noticeably slowed.

      Paris in all its glory had been flowing by—cafés, bridges, palaces, La Seine—and she’d barely had a chance to take in a thing. Now here they were at the city’s throbbing heart. Even as she looked they drew up before a palace with ivory awnings over its several entrances.

      ‘Where is this? Where are you taking me?’ Straining, she narrowed her eyes to read the inscription on the nearest.

      ‘To breakfast.’

      A single word, emblazoned in a flowing script, adorned the graceful awning.

      Ritz.

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      THE Ritz was the perfect antidote to an ordeal. The beauty, the food, the luscious notes of a string ensemble wafting on the air … Even the silk-festooned windows in their own lavish way declared the hotel’s sincere desire to swaddle the emotionally gouged woman in loving and soul-restoring luxury.

      There was a placard in the reception area announcing that the hotel was soon to close its doors for a major renovation and refurbishment. Shari prayed fervently they wouldn’t change a thing.

      The bathroom alone was an oasis of tranquillity, though she nearly freaked when she saw herself in СКАЧАТЬ