In the Millionaire's Possession Read online

  And therefore it was—just—worth making an effort with her appearance.

  Only now the moment had come. Daisy had tapped on her door to say that he was waiting downstairs, causing all her concerns and doubts to come rushing back.

  Because she was taking a hell of a risk. She’d said it herself—Marc Delaroche was a man who liked his own way—so what on earth made her think she could manipulate him into doing what she wanted?

  Besides, she already knew he had his own agenda. On my next visit I shall expect to spend the night.

  She’d tried to block that out of her mind—as with so much else that had passed between them.

  But now the words were ringing loud and clear in her head, especially as she’d spent some considerable time getting herself dressed and beautified for him—like some harem girl being prepared for the Sultan’s bed, she thought, and grimaced at the analogy.

  Her skin was smooth and scented. Her eyes looked twice their normal size, shaded, with darkened lashes, and the colour of her dress had turned them from hazel to green. Her mouth glowed with soft coral, as did the tips of her hands and feet.

  She picked up her wrap and bag, and went along the Gallery to the broad wooden staircase.

  Marc was below her, in the entrance hall, pacing restlessly, but as he looked up at her he checked suddenly, his entire attention arrested and fixed on her, his eyes widening and his mouth suddenly taut.

  She felt a strange shiver of awareness rake her body, and for a moment she wanted to turn and run—back to her room, to safety. Back to the girl she really was.

  Because for the first time it occurred to her that she was not simply scared of Marc Delaroche.

  I’m frightened of myself, she whispered silently. And of the stranger I’ve just become—for him.

  She drew a deep shaking breath, then very slowly she walked down the stairs to meet him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE restaurant was just as crowded as Lottie had predicted. Apart from their own, Helen could see only one vacant table, and that was reserved too.

  She was conscious of a surprised stir as they entered, and knew that she’d been recognised by at least half the people in the room, and that the rumour mill had been functioning well. She tried to ignore the speculative looks and whispered comments as, with Marc’s hand cupped under her elbow, she followed the head waiter across the room.

  But a shock wave was preferable every time to a ripple of sympathy, she thought, straightening her shoulders. Lottie had been right about that too.

  And it was difficult to feel too humiliated over Nigel when she’d been brought here in a chauffeur-driven car and was now being seated at a candlelit table in an alcove where a bottle of Dom Perignon on ice and two glasses were waiting for them.

  And also when she was being accompanied by the most attractive man in the room, she acknowledged reluctantly.

  Tonight, as she’d noticed in the car, he was freshly shaven, and the dark mane of hair had been combed into a semblance of order. Close-fitting dark pants set off his long legs, and his well-laundered white shirt was enhanced by a silk tie with the colour and richness of a ruby. The light tweed jacket, slung over his shoulder, shouted ‘cashmere’.

  Certainly there’d been no escaping the frank envy in some of the female eyes as they watched her progress.

  Oh, God, she thought, swallowing, I must be unbelievably shallow to find all that even a minor comfort.

  ‘It has a good reputation, this place,’ her companion commented as the champagne was poured and the menus arrived.

  ‘Yes,’ Helen agreed, glad of a neutral topic. ‘Lottie reckons it’s the best food in miles. And they do rooms as well,’ she added, her mind returning to Monteagle and its problems.

  ‘C’est vrai?’ he queried softly. ‘You wish me to reserve one for later, perhaps?’

  Her head lifted from the menu she was studying as if she’d been shot, her mouth tightening indignantly as she saw the wicked amusement in the dark eyes.

  She said between her teeth, ‘Will you—please—not say things like that?’

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said, showing no obvious signs of repentance. ‘But you are so easy to tease, ma mie, and you blush so adorably. Calm yourself with some champagne.’

  ‘Is there something to celebrate?’ She picked up her glass.

  ‘Who knows?’ He shrugged. ‘But, anyway, let us drink to Monteagle—and its future.’

  ‘Actually,’ Helen began, ‘I’ve been giving that some thought and—’

  He lifted a silencing hand. ‘Later, cherie,’ he told her softly. ‘You must learn how the game is played. And also accept that a man rarely grants favours on an empty stomach,’ he added drily.

  ‘But it’s not a game,’ she protested. ‘Not to me.’

  ‘Quand même,’ he said. ‘We will eat first.’

  His rules, Helen thought resentfully, transferring her attention back to the list of food. A man who likes his own way. And just how far is he prepared to go in order to achieve it? she wondered, and shivered slightly.

  But in the meantime she might as well enjoy the food, as this would probably be her first and last visit. She chose potted shrimps for her first course, following them with a rack of lamb, roasted pink, with grilled vegetables.

  Marc ordered tournedos of beef, with foie gras and dark-gilled mushrooms, served with a Madeira sauce.

  The Burgundy he picked to accompany the meal seemed to caress her throat like velvet.

  ‘Will you tell me something?’ Helen said, once they’d been served and the waiters had departed.

  ‘If I can.’

  ‘Why did the committee bother to hear me if they meant to turn me down?’

  ‘We interview every applicant, or those that represent them. Mainly we concentrate on projects that will revive the tourist industry in former trouble spots, or attract it to areas entirely off the beaten track.’ He shrugged. ‘Your application was thought to be interesting, but not particularly deserving. Unluckily for you, cherie, you do not have to walk ten miles to find water each day, and your home is lit by the flick of a switch,’ he added drily.

  ‘Only,’ she said, ‘if I can afford to pay the bill.’

  They ate in silence for a moment or two, and she was just nerving herself to mention the bed and breakfast idea when he said, ‘Hélène—in an ideal world, what would you wish for Monteagle?’

  ‘That’s simple. I’d like it to be my home again, but with the money to maintain it properly, of course.’ She sighed. ‘No tour parties, no cream teas. Just peace, comfort and privacy. The way it once was. And the way a home should be, don’t you think?’

  ‘I would not know,’ he told her drily. ‘I have an apartment in Paris and a hotel suite in London. When I was a child my father never settled in any place for very long,’ he added with a faint shrug. ‘Only when he retired did he find somewhere—a vineyard in Burgundy with a small dilapidated château, close to the village where he was born. He planned to live there and make wine, but he died very suddenly before it was even habitable.’

  ‘What happened to it?’ she asked.

  ‘I sold it to an English family in search of la vie douce.’ He smiled faintly. ‘Only God knows if they ever found it.’

  ‘You weren’t tempted to live there yourself?’

  ‘And tend my vines in the sun?’ He shook his head. ‘I have factories to produce, and a world to travel in order to sell them.’

  As he spoke he looked past her, and Helen saw him stiffen slightly, the dark brows snapping together. ‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘C’est complet. The last table is now occupied—and by people you know, ma belle.’

  She said, bewildered, ‘People…?’ And then stopped, staring at him, appalled.

  ‘Oh, God,’ she said unevenly. ‘It’s Nigel, isn’t it? And his new lady?’

  ‘And an older couple—ses parents, sans doute,’ Marc drawled. Then, as Helen began to push her plate away, he reached across the table and captured her hands in his, holding them firmly. ‘Doucement, cherie,’ he ordered softly. ‘You are going nowhere.’

  ‘But I must,’ she whispered frantically. ‘I can’t stay here and see them together. I can’t…’

  ‘But you do not have to,’ he said. ‘It is all quite simple. You just look at me instead.’ He lifted her hands to his lips, brushing light kisses across her white knuckles, nibbling gently at the tips of her trembling fingers, while she sat as if mesmerised allowing it to happen.

  His eyes smiled into hers. ‘Think, Hélène,’ he urged quietly. ‘If you run away, then they will know they have the power to make you suffer—and so they win. Better that you remain here—with me—and we finish our meal, hein?’

  He released her hands and refilled her glass, wincing slightly as she took an unguarded panicky gulp of the precious wine.

  She said huskily, ‘Have they seen me?’

  ‘I notice a certain chagrin, yes.’ His mouth twisted. ‘La mère, I think, wishes to go, but her husband—c’est un homme inflexible, and he will get his way.’

  ‘And Nigel?’ She swallowed. ‘How—how does he look?’

  He shrugged. ‘He seems to have survived his wetting in the lake.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ she said miserably. ‘He’ll never forgive me for that.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But that can no longer be allowed to matter to you.’ He paused to let that sink in, then nodded at her plate. ‘Now eat, ma mie, and take your time. After all, we still have the dessert to come. The apricot soufflés, I think, which have to be cooked to order, and will prove, therefore, that we are in no particular hurry.’

  He cut off a sliver of beef and proffered it to her on his fork. ‘In the meantime, try this, and—smile at me a little.’

  ‘It’s all right for you.’ Unwillingly she did as she was told. The fact that he was talking sense made his advice no more palatable. ‘You’re not the one whose heart is being broken.’

  He gave her a sardonic look. ‘And nor are you, cherie, although you may not believe it at this moment.’

  ‘How can you say that? How can someone like you possibly understand?’ Helen asked passionately.

  His brows lifted. ‘You speak as if I was something less than human. Yet, je t’assure, I share all the normal emotions.’ He smiled at her coolly. ‘You wish me to demonstrate?’

  ‘No!’ Her face warmed. ‘I meant that you’ve obviously never loved someone all your life as I’ve loved Nigel.’ She shook her head. ‘Why, I’ve never even looked at another man.’

  ‘Perhaps because you have never had the chance to do so,’ he said, unmoved. ‘And your life is far from over. Now, eat something, ma belle, before your lack of appetite is noticed.’

  Helen shot him a mutinous look from under her lashes, then reluctantly complied.

  As they ate, Marc chatted to her lightly, asking mainly questions about the history of Monteagle, encouraging her to expand her monosyllabic replies into real animation as she warmed to her subject.

  Making it almost possible, she realised with a sense of shock, for her to believe that she was there with him because she wished it, and not as a matter of expedience.

  But she had to convince him of her enthusiasm, and her will to work, she thought, if she was to persuade him to lend her the money for the guest house scheme.

  If only Nigel hadn’t been there she’d have been able to outline her plan by now—have a proper business discussion, she thought with vexation. As it was, her companion had taken advantage of the delay while they waited for the soufflés, and taken her hand again, and was now playing gently with her fingers.

  She glanced up, a muted protest already forming on her lips, but as their eyes met, and she saw the frank desire that smoked his gaze, she forgot completely what she was going to say.

  She looked away swiftly, hating the involuntary colour that warmed her cheeks, trying unavailingly to release her hand from the caress of his long fingers.

  She said haltingly, ‘I—I don’t know how you can—pretend like this.’

  His faint smile was crooked. ‘But I am not pretending, cherie,’ he told her quietly. ‘I want you. I have made no secret of it.’

  She stared down at the tablecloth. ‘Then you’re due for a serious disappointment, Monsieur Delaroche. Even if I was in the market for an affair—which I’m not—you’d be the last person on earth I’d choose.’

  ‘Then at least we agree on something,’ Marc drawled. ‘Because I do not want an affaire either. Au contraire, I wish you to become my wife.’

  Helen was very still suddenly. She could feel her throat muscles tightening in shock. The blood drumming crazily in her ears.

  ‘If—this is some kind of joke,’ she managed hoarsely, ‘then it’s in very poor taste.’

  ‘There is no joke,’ he said. ‘I am asking you to marry me, ma belle, and I am completely serious.’

  She said, ‘But you don’t know anything about me. We’ve met three times at most.’ She shook her head. ‘We’re strangers, for heaven’s sake. You must be mad even to think of such a thing.’

  ‘I do not suggest that the ceremony should take place next week.’ He smiled at her. ‘I intend to court you, Hélène. Give you some time to accustom yourself to the idea.’ He paused. ‘To all kinds of ideas,’ he added drily.

  He meant sleeping with him, she realised dazedly. She would have to face the prospect of him making love to her. With a sense of shock she found herself remembering their last encounter—the hard strength of his arms and the relentless heated urgency of his mouth on hers. Even though they’d both been fully dressed, she’d still been aware of every inch of his lean body against hers. And the thought of being held—touched—without the barrier of clothing, sent her mouth dry with panic.

  He wanted her. He’d said so. Therefore he would not expect to be fended off—kept waiting until after the wedding.

  Except there would be no wedding, she told herself with sudden fierceness. So why was she treating his outrageous proposal as if it was all cut and dried?

  She said, ‘You’re wasting your time, monsieur. Did you think I’d be so terrified of being a spinster that you could catch me on the rebound?’ She shook her head. ‘You’re wrong. Nothing on earth could persuade me to marry you.’

  ‘Not even Monteagle?’ he challenged. ‘You wish it to become a home again. You said so.’ He shrugged. ‘Moi aussi. Become my wife, and I will make funds available for the whole house to be restored in the way that you want.’

  ‘No,’ she said huskily. ‘That’s impossible. I couldn’t—I can’t.’

  ‘Yet you said at the interview that you would do anything to save it.’ He sat back in his chair, watching her from under half-closed lids. ‘Clearly your devotion to your house is not as profound as you claim.’

  ‘When I said that I was desperate.’ Helen lifted her chin. ‘But now I have a plan.’

  ‘D’accord,’ he said. ‘A plan that you wish to share with me. But after we have finished our desserts,’ he added calmly, apparently unfazed by her refusal, just as a waiter bore down on them with the soufflés, tall as chefs’ hats, in their porcelain dishes.

  She said unsteadily, ‘You think I could eat anything else—after that bombshell?’

  ‘Mais, j’insiste. One spoonful at least. To calm you,’ he added, his mouth twisting wryly.

  Unwilling, totally unnerved, she obeyed. The delicate flavour and texture melted deliciously on her tongue, and was impossible, she discovered, to resist.

  So,’ Marc said at last, putting down his spoon, ‘what is this plan, and how will it save Monteagle?’

  Helen took a breath. ‘I want to restore and refurbish all the bedrooms so that I can offer bed and breakfast to tourists,’ she said baldly.

  His face gave nothing away. ‘And you have costed this scheme? You have taken into your calculations the price of supplying each room with a bathroom en suite? Also refurbishing the dining room so that your guests have somewhere to eat this petit dejeuner without the ceiling falling on their heads? And, of course, there will be the updating of the kitchen to be considered, so that it meets the demands of Health and Safety regulations.’

  ‘Well, no,’ Helen admitted, disconcerted. ‘Not entirely. Because I’ve only just thought of it. But I’ll get proper estimates for all the work for you to approve first.’

  ‘For me?’ he queried, brows lifted. ‘How does this concern me?’

  She bit her lip, suddenly wishing that her earlier rejection of his proposal had been a little less forceful. ‘I was hoping that—you would lend me the money.’

  There was a silence. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘But you have forgotten that there is an offer already on the table, where I give you all the money you need and you become my wife.’

  She said breathlessly, ‘But if you gave me a loan we wouldn’t need to be married. And I’d have thought you were the last man on earth in the market for a wife.’

  The dark eyes glinted at her. ‘It does not occur to you, ma mie, that, much like yourself, I might be deeply and irresistibly in love?’

  Helen felt as if all the breath had suddenly been choked out of her lungs. She stared at him, her eyes widening endlessly.

  She said in a small, cracked voice, ‘I don’t—understand…’

  ‘No? But you have only yourself to blame, ma chère. If you had not written and spoken about Monteagle with such passion, then I would not have been tempted to come and see it for myself. Et voilà. The rest, as they say, is history.’

  She clutched at her reeling senses. She said huskily, ‘You—mean that what you really want—is Monteagle. Monteagle? That’s what you’re saying?’ She shook her head. ‘Oh, I don’t believe it. It’s impossible, besides being ridiculous—ludicrous. You can’t…’

  His brows lifted. ‘Pourquoi pas? Why not? Along with my lack of humanity, do you also claim that I have no feeling for history—or appreciation of beauty?’

  ‘How do I know,’ she said stormily, ‘what you think—what you feel about anything? You’re a complete stranger, and as far as I’m concerned you always will be.’ She looked at him, her eyes flashing. ‘But you’re talking about my home. Mine.’

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