Susan Stephens Selection: The French Count's Mistress / The Spaniard's Revenge / Virgin for Sale / Bedded by the Desert King. Susan Stephens

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СКАЧАТЬ had no electricity, only a mobile phone and candles, and her first guests arrived in—she pulled a face as she glanced at her wristwatch—a little under three weeks’ time!

      No. She hadn’t been totally straight with Monsieur le Comte. But Guy’s discovery that she intended to live in the cottage had been enough of a shock for him for one day. If he knew she intended to turn the picturesque dwelling into a holiday retreat for exhausted executives… Kate closed her eyes briefly against the image of sheer fury that was conjured up and then firmed her lips determinedly. For now as far as Guy de Villeneuve was concerned, ignorance was bliss.

      The customary pin-neat state of Aunt Alice’s charming home had lulled her into a false sense of security, Kate realised as she drew to a halt outside the rose-festooned archway marking the cinder path to the front door. Accepting the first bookings had been such a thrill for her she had not even stopped to consider the possibility that everything could deteriorate so quickly. But here in the Garden of France, easily a thousand miles further south than where she lived in England, everything grew so much faster. Even the weeds seemed to possess a special vigour, she noticed as she made her way down the overgrown path. And that was just outside the cottage, she thought ruefully as she slipped the heavy iron key into its impressive lock. Thanks to the boarded-over windows, the hot, airless interior had provided an ideal breeding ground for just about every species of insect she could think of.

      Yet even now as the door swung open on its well-oiled hinges she half-expected to find everything unchanged since her last visit. Could that day of laughter and relaxation really have been just six short months ago? There had been no hint of the storm clouds to come…and no Count Guy de Villeneuve to muddy the water. He had yet to return home and claim his inheritance. But everything had changed since the terrible car accident that had killed her aunt and Guy’s father, Kate realised, and the sooner she accepted that fact, the better.

      As the door shut with a decisive thud she gave in to a great wave of loss, pausing for a moment with her back pressed against the dark polished oak and both her eyes and mind closed against the alteration. The desecration of the cottage was nothing in comparison to the hollow in her heart that used to be filled by a bubbly old lady with sharp, periwinkle-blue eyes. But just thinking about Aunt Alice was enough to invoke her indomitable spirit and, dashing the tears from her face, Kate feasted her eyes on what did remain at La Petite Maison.

      Deciding to make a note of every repair that could possibly be needed once the immediate damage was made good, she stepped outside again and stood hands on hips surveying her new domain. Quirky described it to perfection, she decided. Even the higgledy-piggledy roof tiles shaded from deepest coral to palest sand formed a hat several sizes too large for the half-timbered frame. And, since she had torn down the offending boards from two of the front windows, they winked benignly at her like friendly eyes set in whitewashed walls which billowed out in places like plump chalky cheeks. She felt a rush of pride and affection, as if La Petite Maison was a child about to embark upon a new stage in its life, and she the bow from which this arrow would be launched.

      She headed off round the side of the building where she had left all the tools she needed to tear down the rest of the wooden panels. Monsieur le Comte might be sending his men over to help tomorrow, but she couldn’t wait that long. Entry to the rear of the cottage was gained through a stable-style door and to one side of this stood a tall wooden boot box secured with a black iron bolt. Inside the box she had placed a claw hammer for wrenching free nails and a screwdriver for wiggling inside the panels to loosen them until she could manage to heave them off.

      Once she had the tools, Kate set about dislodging a really stubborn strip of wood some vandal from the Villeneuve estate office had seen fit to nail across her kitchen window. She exclaimed with angry surprise as the screwdriver skidded off the smooth surface to land, point down, in the heel of her palm. She was still hopping around cursing loudly when she heard the sound of a horse’s hooves crunching briskly along the cinder path that skirted the front garden. ‘Oh, no, not visitors!’ she grumbled, sucking hard on her damaged hand. Then, shooting upright, she thrust the same hand behind her back as both horse and rider came into view. ‘Guy!’ she exclaimed, affecting an expression somewhere between righteous surprise and modest unpreparedness for greeting the Lord of the Manor. ‘What brings you here?’

      ‘I wanted to see the cottage for myself,’ he said springing down from an edgy looking bay. ‘What have you done?’ he demanded, not fooled by her play-acting for a minute.

      Kate looked on warily as he snatched off a pair of well-worn riding gloves and slipped them into the back pocket of his breeches. Then, pausing only to throw the reins over the horse’s neck, he strode over to her, seized her arm and examined her hand.

      ‘I’m fine. It’s nothing—nothing,’ Kate insisted as she tried to free herself.

      ‘Hold still,’ he insisted irritably. ‘You’ve punctured the skin. Is your tetanus shot up to date?’

      ‘Yes,’ she said, wincing as he subjected the tender spot to some more probing.

      ‘Antiseptic inside?’

      Aunt Alice had scored A star in practicalities. There was everything that could possibly be needed to deal with any home emergency inside the locked cupboard in the bathroom.

      ‘No,’ Kate said, as visions of Le Comte in knee-length black leather boots striding around the bedroom area swam into her mind.

      ‘No first aid kit?’ he demanded impatiently.

      ‘I’ve been far too busy trying to undo all the damage here to be concerned about—’

      ‘Your safety?’

      ‘Guy, I—’

      ‘What?’ he said fiercely, keeping a firm hold of her when she struggled to pull away. ‘What would you like to say to me, Kate?’

      His voice was demanding and full of an intensity she hadn’t heard before. Her hand hurt like hell. And the fact that it was he who sounded furious when it was she who had every right to be angry, filled her with a heat so profound that for that moment she lost all hold on reason.

      ‘Don’t you dare shout at me!’ she raged, thumping his chest with her free hand. But, instead of shouting back, he only laughed as he grabbed her flailing arm and held her close. So close she was rammed against his chest where the steady rhythm of his heart throbbed in her ears and the comfortingly fresh scent of clean brushed cotton and warm hard man worked some sort of magic on her agitated mind.

      ‘Better?’ he murmured, stroking her head.

      Confused, distressed, but spent, she moved her head slightly in agreement. ‘It hurts,’ she admitted. And if he thought she meant her hand then that was for the best. But when Guy held her in his arms the same longings that had made her teenage years such misery rose up again to taunt her with the unbridgeable gap between them.

      It wasn’t just the twelve years or so that separated them by age, but the wealth of experience possessed by a man like the Count. And the years of separation only seemed to have given that impression strength, as if it had been resting dormant like some forgotten seed. They were as far apart as ever…perhaps more so, because now they were adults with their own lives to lead and sooner rather than later, Guy, Comte de Villenueve was going to discover that she had misled him badly.

      He released her after a couple of minutes, but only to arm’s length. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing in the cottage we can treat your hand with?’

      Kate missed a beat as she considered how to stop him going inside without being СКАЧАТЬ