“Say you’ll marry me,” he demanded softly as she tried to continue the conversation with Robin.
“Stop it, Guy,” she begged, holding the mute button so that Robin would not hear.
“Not till you say you’ll be my wife.”
He continued the torture till a helpless little sound escaped her throat.
“What was that, Poppy?” Robin enquired in alarm.
“Er, nothing—a frog in my throat. What were you saying, Robin?”
“I love you, Poppy Winters,” Guy whispered hoarsely in her ear. “I love you, and I want to marry you. You’re the most gorgeous,” he punctuated each word with a teasing kiss, working slowly along her jawline till it became almost impossible to carry on the phone conversation, “wonderful, lovable…”
“What did you say?” she asked throatily.
“I say, Poppy, you do sound strange—perhaps I should come round and see for myself that things are okay.”
“Things are very okay, Robin,” she assured him, the happiness growing within putting a smile on her face, as she realized what Guy had said. He loved her! “In fact, they’re more than okay. Guy’s just asked me to marry him, and,” she turned to the man in question, a flush on her cheeks, a sparkle in her eyes, “I’ve just accepted.”
“You have?” both men asked simultaneously.
“I have,” she assured them both happily.
Guy snatched the phone.
“I hope you’re satisfied now, Robin, that I haven’t strangled the wretched woman! Sorry, old boy. Can’t talk now—things to do.”
He returned the phone to its cradle.
“And you,” he informed Poppy purposefully, “are the person I intend to do them with for the rest of our lives. Come here, woman.”
About the Author
Lorna McKenzie (Nora Fountain) is a professional writer and translator. She has had short stories published in lots of magazines, including People’s Friend, Yours, Australian Women’s Weekly, Woman’s Day and Fiction Feast.
Nora lives in Dorset. She is a member of the Society of Authors and the Chartered Institute of Linguists. She is also a committee member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association.
Readers are welcome to contact Nora directly at: [email protected].
Look for these titles by Lorna McKenzie
Now Available:
To Sara—With Love
Twentieth-Century Pirate
Pictures in Provence
Storm Damage
Coming Soon:
Vienna Masquerade
The most perilous landscape is hidden in the heart.
Pictures in Provence
© 2014 Lorna McKenzie
When Joanna wanders into a Paris gallery, her fascination with the stunning landscapes of Jean Duval turns to amazement as she discovers one of his portraits contains a familiar face—her own. Why would a famous artist she’s never met paint a picture of a barely-out-of-school concert violinist?
Confusion takes a back seat to her visceral attraction to the gallery’s handsome owner, Gilles Ledoux. A man whose piercing eyes and elegant bearing veil a passion he unleashes behind closed doors.
After a magical night at the opera that ends in a luscious kiss, though, Gilles puts distance between them, literally and figuratively. But when a mishap puts her musical career on hold, suddenly Gilles is back, sweeping her off to recuperate at his estate in Provence.
Once there, mystery clouds what should have been a blissful interlude. Why won’t Gilles introduce her to the artist who lives next door—the one whose paintings fill Gilles’ Paris gallery? Is it jealousy…or something connected to her tragic past?
Enjoy the following excerpt for Pictures in Provence:
The lights dimmed, the curtains rose and an expectant hush descended on the auditorium.
Joanna was entranced by the familiar music and was soon engrossed in the saga of Tosca’s jealousy, Mario’s reassurances, and Scarpia’s lustful machinations, but throughout the first act she was never once unaware of the man at her side. His presence added a new dimension to her enjoyment.
“It’s wonderful!” she enthused as the curtain went down to thunderous applause after the first act. “Thank you for inviting me, Gilles.”
“My pleasure—let’s have a drink.”
They remained loosely in contact as they made for the bar, his hand at her elbow. He was big and solid, all male, and for the first time in her life, Joanna felt small and protected—and intensely feminine.
Champagne materialized as if by magic—he must have ordered it earlier. Several people stopped to talk to Gilles, impeding their progress across the bar but he pressed determinedly on through the crush of people, towing Joanna along by the hand in his wake. One particular woman, however, was not so easily dismissed. A slender brunette of about thirty, she possessed a worldly chic Joanna could only envy. Her perfect curves were sheathed in black silk, encrusted with jet, one brown shoulder left bare.
“Gilles, chéri!” Scarlet-tipped fingers curled about his forearm obliging him to transfer his glass to the other hand and release his hold on Joanna. “I thought you didn’t care for opera?”
She cast curious glances at Joanna but Gilles did not introduce them.
“Bonsoir, Nadine. So did I, but I decided to fill a gap in my education, and I’m enjoying it immensely. If you’ll excuse us.”
Joanna glanced back at narrowed, hostile eyes till a distinguished-looking man, his brown hair greying at the temples, led Nadine firmly away. As they reached a deserted corner Gilles released Joanna’s hand and propped himself against the wall, half turning towards her. They were in a little oasis of their own where Joanna felt both protected and threatened. A warmth stole through her system despite the cold champagne.
“Is it true?” she asked him with some misgivings. “Don’t you like opera?”
He smiled, his eyes gleaming wickedly. “It’s true that I am enjoying this evening even more than I expected.”
“I’m glad. It would be awful if you were hating every moment while I am loving it.”
But he already had the tickets, after all, before inviting her! Or had he?
“Have no fear, Joanna.” His long, cool fingers circled her upper arm and ran upwards to disappear beneath the little cape, brushing her flesh in a strangely intimate gesture. “I’m very happy to be here with you.”
“What kind of music do you prefer?” she asked, steering the conversation away from the personal, and relieved when his hand dropped to his side. Her voice had taken on a husky quality she tried to ignore along with the excitement that coursed through her bloodstream in response to his touch.
“Pretty conservative stuff, really.” His words were cool yet in the soft light his eyes gleamed with dark, unfathomable depths. “I suppose you go for the modern composers that I can’t understand and find horribly discordant.”
She laughed. “I know what you mean, but no, actually I like classical music, too.”
“So soon!” he sounded almost annoyed when the bell rang, announcing the second act. “We’ll continue this conversation in the next interval.”
As they resumed their seats, Joanna began to speculate on what relationship, if any, existed between Gilles and the beautiful Nadine. Why hadn’t he introduced them? Did he prefer to keep his women apart? His women! Yes, tonight she was his woman and she was not going to allow anything to spoil it.
The familiar story unfolded on stage: Tosca was agonizing over whether to save her lover further torture by betraying his secret to Scarpia, to be decided by Mario’s piercing cry which suddenly rent the auditorium. Though Joanna was half expecting it, she gasped involuntarily.
Her hand was immediately enclosed in long, brown fingers. She glanced up and was shocked by the dark, disturbing fire in the Frenchman’s eye
s; she tried to free her hand but his fingers tightened momentarily, his thumb stroking over her fingertips before releasing them. The contact had been minimal yet it left her heart pounding with a wild excitement.
What on earth was happening to her? She must concentrate on the music and fight this crazy urge to lean closer to Gilles, to reach up and touch his darkly handsome face. A particularly delicate aria was just ending and the ensuing applause helped give some release and restore Joanna’s equilibrium. By the time Tosca stabbed Scarpia to death at the end of the second act Joanna had fully recovered.
“Can you follow the storyline?” she asked as she sipped more sparkling champagne.
“I speak passable Italian,” he informed her dismissively.
He probably did everything well. He probably made love superbly. Oh God, another wickedly errant thought!
“I expect it’s useful.” He looked puzzled as if his thoughts too had been elsewhere. “Italy is a great country for art, isn’t it?”
“Oh, surely,” he replied.
As they left the theatre the closing notes were still echoing in her mind. Gilles helped her into his car, went round and climbed in beside her and closed the door.
“A pity they always die,” she murmured.
“That’s what comes of being romantic,” he teased lightly. “One crowded hour and then—nothing. Now then, what would mademoiselle prefer? An early night? Dancing till dawn in a boite de nuit? Or a walk up the Champs Elysées and perhaps a drink in some late night bar?”
Certainly not the first. Joanna had never felt more alive and less like sleeping, and she did not think he was inviting himself to her bed. The second she did not dare contemplate. She wanted his arms about her too much. His slightest touch put her system in overdrive. How could she survive dancing all night in his arms?
“Let’s walk,” she suggested, unfastening her seat-belt.
So they did, from the nearby Place de la Concorde with its fountains, balustrades and colonnades, and the dozen perilous lanes of traffic, along the impressive length of the famous street towards the triumphal arch at I’Etoile. Cars and taxis roared past even at this late hour, oblivious of the couple strolling along, his black head inclined towards her golden one as they exchanged thoughts on anything and everything, moving from the realms of art and music to touch on the problems of the world and how best to set it to rights. They had soon discovered each other’s favourite foods, right down to what each of them preferred for breakfast with all the curiosity of those who are falling in love.
“And talking of food,” said Joanna after a minute or two of a pleasantly companionable silence, “do you know what I’d like right now?”
“Surprise me,” he laughed, putting his arm round her and drawing her close. They had been walking along side by side, not touching, just brushing occasionally together. They could have been made for each other, she thought now, all too aware of his lips a whisper away at the level of her crown and enjoying the feel of his hard body beside her softness. “What would you like now?”
Held like that so that she could feel the warmth of his body and smell its clean, subtly discernible essence mingling with tangy aftershave, she yearned for quite different things. What was it she had been about to say?
“I fancy some hot chocolate and a croissant if it’s possible at this hour,” she remembered aloud.
“Your wish is my command.”
As they headed for the welcoming lights of Fouquet’s, she longed for him to turn her into his arms in some shadowy doorway where the light of street-lamps did not reach, and press his sensual mouth to her eager lips, to relieve the unbearable tension that was numbing her brain. Their footsteps slowed, his fingers hard at the indentation of her waist, urging her round to face him. Had he read her thoughts? A long finger tilted her chin forcing her gaze to his. His head lowered very slowly towards hers but then a crowd of young people erupted from the café, laughing and shouting. They had soon disappeared into the night but the moment was gone, leaving her to wonder if she had imagined it, after all.
In the softly lit ambience of the café, the late-night customers were mostly couples. Lovers, Joanna amended mentally, most of them holding hands, oblivious to the rest of the world. They soon had their own secluded table but Gilles made no move to integrate with the scene. She must have misunderstood his intentions outside.
Joanna had never had a lover; never even been in love, she reflected as their order was served. She had never had the time: till now, music had been her life. Before she met Gilles Ledoux she had hardly given the matter thought.
“What are you thinking?”
Gilles’ voice beside her ear was deep, soft and vibrant, and she glanced up, startled, wondering if he had read her mind.
“Nothing,” she replied quietly.
“Liar,” he whispered, taking her hand and drawing it to his lips.
Slowly, one by one, he kissed her finger-tips then, turning her hand over, pressed his lips to the soft skin of her wrist, moving slowly to her sensitive palm. The tingle that started in her finger-tips spread like flame through her system. She saw a dark flush run along his cheek-bones and slid her hand hastily away, regaining possession of it, but not of her teeming senses.
“I’d like to go home, Gilles,” she said shakily, then, afraid that might be misconstrued, hastily clarified, “I’ll take a cab.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” he said huskily. “Drink up, I’ll take you.”
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
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Storm Damage
Copyright © 2014 by Lorna McKenzie
ISBN: 978-1-61922-146-8
Cover by Angela Waters
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Original Publication by Robert Hale, Ltd.: 1993
First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: December 2014
www.samhainpublishing.com
Storm Damage Page 12