A Very French Affair. Эбби Грин

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      Sorcha left and went back to her own room next door. It felt as if the white powder was burning a hole in her pocket. She dropped her shopping bag and went straight to her bathroom. She was about to flush it down the loo, when a knock came on her door. Panicking slightly, she stuffed it again into her back pocket.

      She opened the door and felt immediately dizzy. Romain stood there, larger than life. And then, without so much as a by-your-leave, he sauntered in as if he owned the place. Sorcha gripped the door handle, loath to shut the door. What was he doing here? He had to leave! She could feel herself pale. She could feel the packet, and it suddenly weighed a ton. A cold sweat broke out on her brow. Of all the times!

      ‘Can…can I help you?’ she asked, and her voice sounded strained to her ears.

      He leant back against the door that opened out onto her patio. His eyes narrowed on her face and Sorcha felt herself flush guiltily. What was he doing here?

      ‘Shut the door,’ he said quietly.

      Sorcha’s mind raced even as she did as he asked, not thinking to question it. Could he have seen anything? Overheard anything? He couldn’t have…This had to be unrelated. Because if it wasn’t…Her blood ran cold.

      The door shut behind her, and Romain called softly from across the room. ‘Come here.’

      Feeling more and more like Alice in Wonderland, slipping down a hole, Sorcha haltingly moved forward. If she could just get into the bathroom -

      ‘You don’t need to look like you’re about to go to your own funeral,’ he drawled, ‘It’ll be nice, I promise…’

      Sorcha looked at him then, and stopped by the bed. He’d cut through the turmoil in her brain even as her insides clawed with guilt. Nice? She shook her head as if that might try and clear it. ‘I’m sorry…look…what do you want?’

      He pushed himself off the door and strolled towards her with dangerous intent in his eye. Too late, Sorcha realised what his intention was only when he came so close that she couldn’t breathe.

      ‘I told you that next time we wouldn’t be interrupted…’

      He couldn’t mean…

      ‘I want you.’

      He did. Within a cataclysmic split second Sorcha’s world was reduced to Romain pulling her into his arms, chest to chest, and before she could say stop, or go, or even take a breath, his mouth was stealing every bit of sanity from her.

      The rush of sensation and reaction made her forget everything. With shocking ease, her whole being melted into his.

      The matter of fact way he’d just come in…the intent in his eyes that reached out to wrap her in a haze of desire…it scrambled her brain so much that all she was aware of was the need to have him kiss her again, to feel his arms around her. That last kiss was seared onto her memory, and now she was coming back to life in his arms.

      His mouth moved over hers with insistent mastery. A flame of white-hot desire was racing along every one of Sorcha’s veins, and when her mouth opened on a little sigh, and his tongue made contact with hers, her hands reached out and tightened on his shoulders to stop herself from falling at his feet.

      Sorcha’s two arms twined up around his neck. She stood on tiptoe, couldn’t stop the hitched indrawn breath against his mouth when she felt his hand on her back, reaching under her T-shirt to stroke up over the silky skin, moulding the outline of the curve of her waist. An aching wanting grew at the apex of her thighs, and when Sorcha innocently moved her hips, felt his arousal press insistently against her, her heart beat so fast she thought it would burst from her chest.

      His arms around her felt so good, so strong, and when one hand moved down to cup her bottom through her shorts, moving her even closer, she couldn’t help a little mewl of acquiescence. His hand on her bottom sought to get even closer. She felt him slide it into her pocket—

      Sorcha’s whole body went rigid in a second. As if ice had just been poured through every artery. His hand was right there.

      She pulled back and looked up into his face. She couldn’t help the look of shock she knew must be there. At another time his reaction might have been almost comical.

      He looked surprised at first. Then a small frown appeared and, with deadly, awful inevitability, his fingers closed around the small paper packet and she felt him pull it free from her back pocket. His arms slackened, and all the heat and insanity disappeared as he let her go.

      Romain stepped back and a chasm opened up, like an arctic wind blowing between them. Sorcha’s eyes closed, her hands were dead weights by her side. She didn’t think she was even breathing. The situation was so horrifically awful and unfair she couldn’t take in the magnitude of what it meant.

      His voice was so cold when it came that it made her flinch.

      ‘Open your eyes.’

      She opened them, and could feel the colour drain from her face again. She was freezing.

      He held the folded-up paper which had opened slightly, revealing the white powder between his forefinger and thumb, a look of complete and utter disgust on his face—much the same as hers had been only short moments before. Moments which now felt like years.

      ‘I…’ Her voice felt scratchy and her lips and mouth still tingled.

      ‘There is not one thing you can say. Not. One. Thing.’

      Sorcha’s mouth shut. The total and utter immediate condemnation on his face shocked her. He hadn’t even a shred of doubt in his mind…and why would he? But it hurt. She bit the inside of her lip so hard she could feel blood. She wrapped her arms around her waist and felt shock set in, felt the shaking starting up, that awful dropping of her stomach—even though she hadn’t even done anything wrong!

      But one thing she did know, and it was very clear. She could not subject Lucy to this man’s wrath. She was just a young girl, starting out in her career. And Sorcha knew she’d look even worse in Romain’s eyes if she tried to blame someone else younger, more inexperienced.