His Perfect Partner. Laura Martin

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СКАЧАТЬ Rachel.’ His voice was deep, smooth—not so heavily accented now, but still with the same mesmeric quality. ‘How are you?’

      He hesitated for a moment, then crossed the room towards her, holding out his hand in formal greeting—as if, she thought, to greet her thus was the most natural thing in the world.

      He hadn’t expected this—that she should look virtually the same. He had learned of her rise up the career ladder, and had convinced himself that she would look altogether more sophisticated, more a woman of the world, more, in fact, like many of the women he now dated. But she didn’t. Here she was, six years older, and she was still as fresh and young and as beautiful as ever…

      Rachel forced her gaze away from Jean-Luc’s face, stared at his strong, tanned fingers for a moment in a daze and then found herself shaking his hand. ‘I’m…fine,’ she murmured automatically. ‘Just fine…’

      ‘I’ve come at a difficult time.’

      ‘Yes.’ She couldn’t think straight, hardly knew what to think. He looked older, more sensationally attractive, if that were possible, but different. Sharper, groomed, more…polished and refined, not like the Jean-Luc Manoire she had known and loved. Not at all.

      ‘I was sorry to hear about the death of your aunt.’

      ‘Were you?’ Now that the horrendous initial shock was over, Rachel could begin to think a little more clearly. ‘I don’t see why,’ she added stiltedly. ‘You always disliked her.’

      ‘And that translates to wanting to see her dead, does it?’ His voice was mild, but there was the hint of steel at the edge of each perfectly spoken syllable.

      Rachel released a taut breath. It had been a foolish remark, born out of shock and sheer nervousness. He wasn’t the sort of man you could treat casually—she should have remembered that.

      She glanced down at the faded carpet, desperately trying to compose herself, and said, ‘No, of course it doesn’t.’

      ‘You sound weary. You look—’

      ‘I know how I look!’ Rachel’s voice was tinged with anger. She pursed her lips, determined to save him the trouble of lying. ‘I look a mess!’ She cleared her throat, conscious of her trembling voice. She usually looked immaculate—her position as manager of a small prestigious hotel in the Cotswolds demanded it. Typical, she thought, that he should see me this way—so ragged and ill at ease.

      ‘Let’s forget the formalities, shall we?’ she continued. ‘I think I’d just prefer it if you told me what it is you’re doing here!’

      Her words set the tone. She watched his expression. Not a flicker of expression marked Jean-Luc’s angular face—just the slightest tightening of the jaw, maybe a hardening of the ebony eyes. He knew how she felt, how she wanted things to be, how things had to be.

      ‘Very little has changed here,’ Jean-Luc commented, glancing around the room that looked as if it had been locked in a time warp for the past fifty years. His dark eyes came to rest on Rachel’s pale face. ‘Except maybe you.’

      ‘I’m older!’ she responded flatly. But not wiser, she thought despondently, aware of the agony of her thudding heart. Definitely not that.

      ‘And poorer, I understand.’ Jean-Luc’s glance was cool, controlled. Almost cruel in its ability to calmly survey her face.

      He wondered if he would be able to keep this up—to act as if the sight of her had little or no effect on him. He was a man who supposedly thrived on challenge, but this was a bigger challenge than any he had ever attempted—except maybe the one of trying to forget her, of course.

      Rachel met the uncaring gaze with a cold expression, marvelling in some far-off corner of her mind at her capacity to even begin to cope with this conversation. ‘Yes, quite poor.’ Her voice was like ice.

      ‘A shock, I should think,’ Jean-Luc continued. ‘Your aunt always gave such a good impression of being a wealthy woman.’

      ‘She was a wealthy woman,’ Rachel responded swiftly. ‘She just made some wrong choices, invested badly…’ Her voice trailed away. ‘Am I to presume, then, that you’ve come all the way here to offer your condolences?’ she asked, after a slight but telling pause. ‘You’re a little late. The funeral was early last week and, as you can undoubtedly see,’ she added, glancing at the muddled room, ‘I am still in the middle of sorting through and clearing everything out. So, if you’ll excuse me—’

      ‘You misunderstand, Rachel,’ Jean-Luc replied crisply, forestalling her retreat towards the door. ‘This isn’t a social call.’

      ‘No?’

      ‘Naomi gave you my card, I presume?’

      Rachel had almost forgotten about it. She thrust a hand into the pocket of her jeans and retrieved it. ‘She did.’ She hesitated a moment then walked on slightly unsteady legs over to a side table, where a selection of bottles and glasses stood on a tray. She poured herself a measure of mineral water and took a healthy gulp—her mouth was so dry she could hardly talk any more.

      ‘Not that it meant anything to me—JSJ Corporation?’ She glanced at the card in her hand, raising arched eyebrows—trying to play it cool. ‘Another faceless conglomerate—is that who you work for?’

      ‘In a manner of speaking.’ Jean-Luc strolled over to stand beside her. ‘May I?’ he asked, and began pouring a small measure of whisky into a tumbler before Rachel could say a thing. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it. JSJ has its fingers in several very large pies.’ He reeled off a handful of well-known projects that had received recent media attention in countries worldwide, and Rachel finally had to admit defeat and acknowledge with a slight nod that she had heard of at least some of them.

      ‘OK! OK! I get the picture. JSJ is a legitimate firm.’ She moved away—because to stand so close to Jean-Luc after all these years was torture of the worst kind—and walked over to the window to look out through the leaded panes at the car parked on the weedy, gravelled drive.

      It was large and swish and very expensive. It matched this new image of Jean-Luc, the one that Rachel was having such difficulty coming to terms with—immaculate, powerful, an uncompromising presence that made heads turn and would not, or could not, be ignored.

      He had clearly done very well for himself. Rachel had imagined her success in the hotel trade as being pretty impressive, considering she had started on one of the bottom rungs of the ladder as a lowly part-time receptionist and had worked her way up with determination and not a small amount of natural flair, but it was clear that her achievements were nowhere near on the same scale as this.

      A chauffeur-driven car meant status, and that equalled success far beyond anything she had ever, or would ever, manage to achieve.

      She spun around and said, ‘Forgive me for being dense, but I still don’t see what a company like the JSJ Corporation would find of interest here—a run-down country estate like this. Is your boss totally mad?’

      ‘I’m beginning to think so.’ She turned then to look at Jean-Luc. There had been something in his voice…‘The initials of the company—they obviously don’t mean a great deal to you,’ he added briskly.

      ‘No.’ СКАЧАТЬ