At the French Baron's Bidding

by Fiona Hood-Stewart

  'I know that. But all things have to move on at some point,' she reasoned thoughtfully.

  'That is a ridiculous statement,' he bit back. 'Selling the Manoir is out of the question.'

  'Might I remind you,' she said, drawing herself up, 'that it really is none of your business what I do with my property.'

  'You can remind me as much as you like,' he answered, his burning eyes meeting hers full on in a clash of wills, 'but I assure you, mademoiselle, that I will personally make your life as difficult as possible should you even contemplate such an action. Mon Dieu. What would Marie Louise do if she could hear you? She must be turning in her grave at this very instant.' He sent her a withering look across the table and signalled the waiter for the bill.

  'I don't see how you can stop me if I do decide to sell,' Natasha challenged, furious at his meddling. 'I have every right to do whatever I like with all three properties. Neither you nor anyone can stop me.'

  'Technically I may not be able to stop you,' he replied in a low, menacing voice as the waiter approached, 'but I assure you that you would regret it if you so much as thought about selling the Manoir.'

  'Are you threatening me?' Her chin jutted out and she faced him head on.

  'Merely warning you that you are on shaky ground when it comes to selling. You have inherited a duty to your name and your lineage,' he threw, his tone as biting as it was derisive. 'Surely even an Englishwoman like you can understand that? Doesn't your bloodline mean anything to you?'

  'You are insupportable,' Natasha hissed, throwing down her napkin on the table and getting up while the waiter hovered anxiously. 'I'll do whatever I like with my property, and I'll thank you to leave me alone. I need neither your assistance nor your advice. Goodnight.' On that dramatic note she swept regally from the table and made her way to the entrance of the restaurant.

  When the doorman asked her if she wanted a cab she acquiesced gladly, still fuming from the altercation while desperately trying to ignore the needling truth that Raoul's words had brought home: she did feel a link to the past, and to her name and to all she owed it. But she was damned if she would admit that to him, she reflected savagely, let-ting out a cross huff as she waited impatiently for the cab.

  So she had a temper. Well, he liked her all the better for it. But he was damned if he was going to let her get all sorts of ridiculous ideas into that pretty head of hers. Sell the Manoir indeed. Absurd. Plus, that might lead to the divulging of past history much better left buried.

  Having settled the bill, Raoul made his way to the entrance of the restaurant, where he could see Natasha's back stiffly etched in the doorway. A smile hovered about his lips. She was turning out to be quite a handful, the drab little English miss. Not only had she been transformed into a raving beauty, but her character was proving more and more intriguing by the moment.

  Signalling the doorman, he murmured to him to cancel the cab and approached Natasha.

  ‘Excusez-moi, mademoiselle, if I said anything to offend you,' he murmured in a conciliatory tone, 'but the truth must be faced.'

  She whirled around, eyes blazing. 'I've had just about enough of you for one evening, Raoul d'Argentan. Now, please leave me alone. I've ordered a cab and I can find my way back to the apartment perfectly well on my own.'

  'But the doorman has just indicated to me that there are no taxis available in Paris at this hour,' he said, sounding much more French than he had before, and raising his hand in a very Gallic manner while shaking his head, eyes twinkling.

  'Really? That wasn't the case five minutes ago,' she replied coldly.

  'No? Well, things can change very fast in Paris. Transport is unreliable.' He slipped an arm into hers and began walking. 'Much better to let me accompany you—which, I might add, I do with pleasure.' The slight lilt of a French accent thickened and his eyes sparkled. 'Really, Natasha, there is no need to be upset. It is only a ride home, apr tout, and you are only cross because I pointed out something that I have a funny feeling you already know deep down inside yourself.'

  Natasha swallowed, bereft of words. How did he know? And how could she deny the truth? She glanced back at the doorman, who sent her an apologetic look. Anger still seethed inside her at the way she'd been so accurately read and cleverly manipulated. But, she realized, letting out a sigh, it was unlikely that the doorman would order her a cab now that the Baron had imposed his wretched will, and the best she could do, without causing an embarrassing scene, was to concede gracefully.

  Several minutes later they drove alongside the Seine, past famous bridges, with the lights from the barges and bateaux mouches shimmering. On the Isle Saint-Louis she heard the chime of the bells at N Dame. It was impossible to be here, in this the loveliest of cities, and not surrender to its charm and enchantment.

  'How about a drink before we turn in?' Raoul asked, taking a sidelong glance at her as he kept the car steady in the flow of traffic. She looked calmer, more composed. And he had no intention of letting her go home right now. She looked too beautiful in that silk dress, her hair flowing like golden wheat over her shoulders. Plus, he'd finally dispatched Clothilde and was therefore free as the wind. Added to all these valid reasons was the fact that the kiss they'd shared the other night: in the car had remained strangely imprinted in his mind.

  'I suggest we pop over to the bar of the Plaza Ath. If you haven't been there before you'll find the decoration amusing.' He pulled his mobile out of his pocket, and before Natasha had a chance to agree or refuse he was reserving a table in quick French.

  'Raoul, I never said I was going,' she said when he'd finished.

  'Do you always have to protest against every good idea?' he countered with a shrug, a wicked smile breaking on his handsome face. 'Just relax—voyons—and go with the flow, as they say in America. After all, you're in Paris. Enjoy it.'

  She sighed, realizing she was beaten and that actually she rather wanted to go for a drink. Plus, there really could be no possible harm in joining him in the bar of one of Paris's best hotels, she justified.

  Soon they were seated in the corner of the dimly lit bar and Raoul ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon. The atmosphere was fun and young, and Natasha eyed the bar counter—a replica of a huge slab of ice, internally illuminated—intrigued.

  'Like it?' Raoul asked, following her gaze. 'It's fun, isn't it? I like coming here.'

  It was only then that he saw a slim familiar figure silhouetted across the room, seated with friends by the window, and his heart sank. Clothilde sat, sylphlike and languorously elegant, dressed as always in the latest Dior fashions. Her dark-eyed gaze fulminated as it rested upon him. Raoul glanced away. Why hadn't he remembered that she'd probably be here tonight? Hopefully she would be too proud to make a scene.

  But his hopes were dashed when two minutes later Clothilde snaked between the tables, her slim hips swaying, then stood before him, her long black hair shrouding her face, a cigarette waving in her nervous fingers.

  'Monsieur le Baron,' she threw sarcastically, 'to what do we owe the pleasure of your presence here tonight? I thought you were ruralizing for a while.'

  'Good evening, Clothilde. May I introduce an English friend of mine, Natasha de Saugure?'

  'Non!' Clothilde exclaimed. 'I'm not interested in your friends or your lies,' she spat venomously, sending Natasha a scathing look. 'You're a liar and a cheat, Raoul d'Argentan, and I'll make sure all of Paris knows it. Be careful of him,' she added, addressing Natasha, 'he's the biggest bastard in town.' Then, tossing her head, she turned on her spiky high heels and stalked back to her table, where her cohorts sat watching approvingly.

  Raoul sighed and shook his head. 'Sorry about that,' he murmured. 'I'm afraid Clothilde is rather theatrical.'

  'Who is she? Your girlfriend?'

  'Ex-girlfriend. If you can call her that. I dated her for a while and she thought it was more serious than it ever was. Why is it that women always fall into that trap?' he enquired, brows knit. 'I don't understand why they
can't just accept the status quo and enjoy it. It always amazes me how they complicate life.' He shook his head and let out a sigh.

  'Perhaps the women you run into have a deeper sense of commitment than you do,' she replied, tongue in cheek, before taking a sip of chilled champagne.

  'Maybe. But no commitment ever existed in the first place. Not on my side anyway. I made that abundantly plain from the outset.'

  'But things can start out as casual in life and then become deeper as time goes on,' Natasha argued.

  He shrugged in what she considered to be a very French gesture. 'I never make promises that I might break. And I never offered marriage or even an in-house living arrangement to Clothilde. I really don't see why she's so upset.'

  'Well, she seems to think she has a ton of reasons,' Natasha remarked tartly.

  'You see?' He turned and threw his hands up. 'That is exactly what I mean. Women are all the same—always-filling in the blanks with all sorts of reasons and justifications for getting their own way. I will never understand them.'

  Natasha smothered a smile and decided there was little point in pursuing the subject. But Clothilde's burst of anger had left her thinking. It was clear that Raoul was a seasoned playboy, used to getting his own way. Perhaps she should take the other woman's warning seriously. After all, she knew nothing about him except that he was her neighbour in Normandy.

  Later, as they drove back to the apartment through the quiet streets of the city, she determined to keep her distance from this man. She'd learned her lesson with Paul, hadn't she? The minute you trusted you could also be betrayed. And, frankly, she had very few reasons to trust Raoul.

  When they reached the imposing building he stopped the car and parked. 'How about inviting me in for a nightcap?' he said with a grin.

  'I don't think so. I'm quite tired tonight. I have a long day tomorrow—meetings with my grandmother's lawyers and so on.'

  'Ah, you're meeting with Perret, I take it.' He nodded. 'He's quite a good man on the whole, but I told Marie Louise she might want to consider a change of legal counsel.'

  'And why is that?'

  'Oh, I'll tell you some other time, when you have more time on your hands,' he answered affably.

  Natasha could have kicked herself for falling into the trap.

  'Right—well, I'd better be going.' She began opening the door, but he leaned quickly across her and held it closed.

  'Not so fast, ma belle,' he murmured, his voice turning husky. 'You can't be in that much of a hurry.'

  'I—' Natasha felt her body click into overdrive. What was it about this man that left her mesmerized, unable to react as she should? When his hand slipped behind her neck and he drew her close, his lips dropping a trail of deliciously feathery kisses on her cheek, down past her lips, her throat, then slipped to her breast, instead of repulsing him she let out a pent-up sigh of longing.

  It was as though her mind had blurred and her normal functions simply didn't work. She knew she should react, knew it was ridiculous to allow him this liberty, but as his fingers expertly caressed her taut nipples and his lips ravaged her mouth with such intense desire it was impossible to resist. Inside she felt a new and strange sensation, the same as she'd felt the other night, as though he'd pressed an invisible button over which he had complete control. His fingers slipped under her top and she gasped as skin met skin and his skilled fingers taunted further, making her writhe, leaving her conscious of a deeper yearning, a need for further fulfilment, that left her aching and damp, longing to throw caution to the winds and let him have his way.

  But finally reason asserted itself and she withdrew reluctantly from his embrace. Righting her clothes, Natasha said in a shaky voice, 'I think it's better if we don't see each other any more. This—this shouldn't be happening. I— we're neighbours. We shouldn't— What I mean is—'

  Raoul laid his hand over hers and leaned back in the soft cream leather seat. 'Are you afraid, Natasha?'

  'I—I don't know. It's all too fast. Too much has happened to me in the past few days. I can't keep up.'

  'You mean you're scared of enjoying yourself?' he queried, a subtle knowing smile hovering about his lips. 'My dear, what is wrong with seeking pleasure?'

  'Look, I can't handle this, okay?' she said, suddenly upset, tears of frustration and confusion burning as she grappled for the car door handle. 'I want to go.'

  'Then of course you shall,' he said quietly, eyeing her, a slight frown entering his eyes. He had not expected this reaction from her.

  Quickly Raoul stepped out of the vehicle and opened the door. 'I'll say goodnight and au revoir, then, but not goodbye. We will see each other, and if you don't want me to kiss you then I won't,' he said, touching her cheek in a under gesture. 'But don't get upset. It was just a nice interlude for both of us. Sans plus,' he added lightly.

  'Right.' Natasha swallowed and took a deep breath.

  'I'll give you a call. Maybe I can take you to see some of the sights you may want to enjoy. We could go out to the country for lunch one day.'

  This was said in a firm, friendly tone, and Natasha wondered if she'd been dreaming. Had this same man who was now casually saying goodnight held her in his arms so passionately only moments before?

  Once inside the building Natasha entered the elevator, sank against the wall, and let out a relieved sigh. Yet it was impossible to deny the internal havoc she was experiencing, the molten desire still throbbing in places she had never before been wholly conscious of. She really must get away from Raoul before she made a complete fool of herself, she reflected, biting her lower lip. Perhaps after the meetings tomorrow she would head down to the South of France and visit her grandmother's villa, near the village of Eze, above Monte Carlo. That would give her time to breathe, to understand better all that had occurred over the past few days, help her to take the decisions that eventually must be faced.

  On reaching her floor, she entered the apartment and closed the door carefully behind her. So much had happened so fast and it was hard to keep up. And the roiling feelings caused by the moments spent in Raoul's arms were as perturbing as all the rest.

  If not more so.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE meeting with Monsieur Perret proved to be long and rather boring. He went over and over several deeds and papers, leaving Natasha wondering if perhaps Raoul wasn't right, and that more efficient legal counsel might be found. But for now all she wanted was to escape Paris and the proximity of the dangerous Baron. It was most degrading to think that he merely had to touch her to cause her to react as though she'd been lit by a damned match, that a mere kiss and a flick of his skilled fingers could make her quiver like a jelly. It was shaming. Made her wonder just what kind of a woman she was.

  But even as she packed her bag, determined to get on the TGV as soon as possible, Natasha found herself unable to banish the previous evening as summarily as she would have liked. She simply must exercise more control over herself, she reflected, zipping the suitcase. Imagine if this happened to her the minute any man touched her! Yet why had it never occurred with Paul? she wondered as she entered a taxi and made her way through the busy Parisian streets to the station.

  Once on the train, Natasha sat next to the window and read the paper, determined not to allow Raoul and his magnetic aura to occupy her thoughts. She was dealing with so many new factors in her life. The last thing she needed was to be distracted by silly nonsense.

  Several hours later the train arrived in Nice, and she took a taxi up to the medieval village of Eze. The stunning Mediterranean villa stood on a small plateau, caught between sea and mountain. It was spectacular, and had maintained all of its original character, and Natasha knew at once that this was one spot she would not let go of easily. It was as if she immediately identified with the place.

  Madame Bursin, the housekeeper, had prepared a lovely room, decorated in pale blues and whites. And all at once time rolled back and Natasha recalled her father telling her of wonderful summers sp
ent here in his youth. She experienced a rush of nostalgia. What a pity it was that her grandmother had banished them so definitively from her life. They could have spent such wonderful times here together.

  But there was little use regretting the past, and instead she changed into a brief white bikini and headed out towards the cerulean pool that overlooked the glistening Mediterranean below, dotted with yachts and small craft. It was a sight she knew she would never tire of.

  Lying down on a chaise-longue, Natasha sighed and smiled. She felt better now, more in control. And even proud of herself. She'd escaped Raoul's clutches and could go back to being her own person. Now all she had to do was relax, think about her life and how it was going to shape up, and she'd be well on her way.

  'What do you mean she left?' Raoul asked crossly.

  'I'm afraid she's gone, Monsieur le Baron. She left this morning after her meetings with Monsieur Perret.'

  'And did she say where she was going?' Raoul drummed irritated fingers on the sleek teak desk of his Paris office and cradled the phone against his shoulder. This was not going according to plan.

  'No. I'm afraid mademoiselle didn't say.'

  'Thank you.' He hung up abruptly and swung around in the black leather chair, his expression foreboding. She was running away from him. The thought both annoyed and intrigued him. Women never ran away from him. Rather they invented pathetic excuses to see him again. Raoul stopped swinging and sat up straight. He must find out where she was. Though why the hell it mattered he hadn't fathomed yet. Perhaps it was just the fact that he didn't like being thwarted. And, although he knew it was not strictly wise, he knew he had every intention of having an affair with Natasha. Or at least taking her to bed a few times to satisfy his desire for her. He had the feeling they would both enjoy that. And she knew it. He knew that she knew it. Could tell by her reactions, the way she moved in his arms, the way her body turned pliant and receptive the minute he grazed her breast. So why run? Why not stay and enjoy it?