Desperate Measures

by Sara Craven

  She told herself it was resentment. He might have a legal right to use her body, but that didn’t mean she had to like it. Besides, resentment—endurance, also represented safety. They enabled her to retreat from Alain emotionally behind the barrier they offered—to resist the temptation of his physical attraction which still tormented her. Because she couldn’t afford to relax her guard against him, even for a moment. The strange hunger in her body told her that, and she was disgusted at her own weakness.

  And what part Marie-Laure de Somerville-Resnais still played in his life, she could only guess. Certainly there were nights when he did not return to the apartment. He offered no explanation, and she certainly never asked for one. He knew the risks implicit in such a relationship, after all, she told herself stonily.

  The threat of the emergency board meeting, with its attendant vote of censure, had been withdrawn, at least temporarily. Louis de Courcy had been forced to acknowledge that his campaign to overthrow his nephew as chairman had been weakened by his new respectability as a married man. But that did not mean he wouldn’t still be watching and waiting for Alain to make some mistake, some slight slip. And a resumption of his affair, however discreet, with the beautiful Baronne would be exactly the excuse that his uncle was looking for, Philippa thought, biting her lip. As for herself, her own feelings on the subject—well, that side of Alain’s life was none of her business, was it?

  The irony of it all was the overt envy she sensed from most of the women she met. They clearly imagined she lived a life, not just of luxury, but also of blissful fulfilment.

  If they only knew, she thought, with a little sigh as she emerged into the late afternoon sunlight.

  The men seemed to come from nowhere—two of them, scrawny and greasy-haired, dressed in denims. One of them pushed her, sending her flying to the pavement, while the other one grabbed at her shoulder-bag.

  Philippa screamed, clutching at the strap, and heard, somewhere near at hand, another male voice answer.

  Suddenly the grip on her bag was released, as the two muggers took to their heels and vanished around the corner.

  ‘Are you hurt, mademoiselle?’ Hands helped Philippa gently to her feet, then set about retrieving her coin purse, compact and other belongings which had become strewn across the pavement in the struggle.

  ‘No, I’m fine.’ The knees of her jeans were torn, and her skin was grazed. She would have bruises tomorrow, she thought, as she leaned against the wall, trying to recover her breath, and taking her first look at her rescuer.

  He was young, dark-haired and undeniably attractive. He was smiling, but his face was concerned as he handed over her bag.

  ‘But you have had a shock, yes? There is a little bar in the next street. You must have some coffee—a cognac. Yes, I insist.’

  She was glad to take the arm he offered. When she tried to move, she found her legs had turned to jelly. The bar was only a hundred yards away. He seated her at a pavement table, and summoned a waiter with a flick of his fingers. The coffee and brandy arrived with the speed of light.

  ‘That’s better, hein?’ he asked as she sipped.

  ‘Much better. I’m so grateful, Monsieur …?’ Philippa hesitated, the question in her voice.

  ‘I am Fabrice de Thiéry, entirely at your service, mademoiselle.’ His eyes were warm, flickering over her with that appreciation which was so totally French.

  She flushed. ‘Actually, it’s madame. My name is Philippa de Courcy.’

  He looked startled, then his expression changed to regret. ‘You look altogether too young to be a married woman.’ His gesture indicated her casual clothing.

  ‘I study art—I work in a studio just back there. The street has always seemed so quiet. I never imagined …’

  ‘Of course not. Probably they have been watching you—hoped to take you by surprise.’

  ‘I can’t imagine why,’ she said candidly. ‘I had nothing of real value in my bag. I only ever carry a few francs at the most.’

  ‘When one has nothing, madame, a few francs can seem a great deal.’ He smiled at her. ‘Tell me about your painting.’

  Her blush deepened. ‘Oh, it’s just something I do for the time being. Are you interested in art?’

  ‘I am interested in most things,’ he said. ‘But I work in accountancy.’ He leaned forward. ‘You look sad. Did they hurt you, perhaps, more than you have said?’

  Philippa shook her head. ‘No—it’s just that—well, my husband doesn’t really approve of my painting, and now that this has happened, he’ll insist on my using the car and the chauffeur, and that’s the end of my independence.’

  ‘And that matters to you?’

  ‘Very much.’ She forced a rueful smile. ‘The thieves stole more than they realised.’ She set down her coffee-cup and looked at her watch, an exclamation escaping her. ‘Oh, look at the time! I’m going to be late. I must find a taxi …’

  ‘I have a car. May I drop you somewhere?’

  Philippa hesitated. ‘I don’t like to impose,’ she protested. ‘You’ve been so kind already …’

  He pooh-poohed that. ‘Anyone would have done the same,’ he declared, signalling for the bill. ‘What is your address?’

  She told him, and his brows rose almost comically.

  ‘Oh, lá, lá. You are the wife of that de Courcy?’

  She nodded. ‘Does that mean I don’t get my lift?’

  ‘Of course not. But your husband is right.’ He was frowning. ‘You should not be walking the streets of Paris unescorted. But I will take you home straight away, and perhaps he will not be too angry, hein?’

  ‘I have to thank you again for rescuing me,’ Philippa said, as his car drew up outside the apartment building.

  ‘It was my pleasure.’ He took the hand she held out to him, and kissed it. His eyes smiled at her. ‘But I still think you look too young to be married,’ he murmured. ‘Au revoir, Madame de Courcy.’

  ‘Au revoir, Monsieur de Thiéry.’ As she scrambled out of the car, Philippa was aware her heart was thumping. How pleasant it was to be regarded as attractive and not merely useful, she thought, as she rode up in the lift. When she got to the door, she realised to her dismay that her keys were not in her bag.

  They must have fallen out, and I missed them when I was picking everything up, she thought, as she pressed the buzzer.

  Madame Giscard answered the door, wearing her usual grim expression. ‘Monsieur has been asking for you,’ she began, then her eyes widened. ‘But what has happened, madame? Your clothes are torn, and there is blood!’

  ‘Someone tried to snatch my bag, but fortunately they were disturbed.’ Philippa tried to shrug it off. ‘I’m sorry if Monsieur Alain is waiting. I’ll get ready straight away.’

  She dashed to her room, took the cream brocade skirt and the jacket with the deeply squared neckline from her wardrobe, grabbed some underwear and flew into the bathroom for a hasty shower.

  She was back in her bedroom, clad only in her white silk and lace bra and briefs, frantically applying her make-up, when the door opened without ceremony to admit Alain.

  ‘What is this Henriette has been telling me? That you’ve been robbed?’ His voice was sharp. ‘How did it happen?’

  Philippa sighed. Now the recriminations would start, she thought.

  ‘I’d just come out of Zak’s,’ she told him. ‘These two men tried to grab my bag, then another man appeared and they ran off. They didn’t actually manage to take anything,’ she added appeasingly.

  Alain’s brows rose. ‘They cannot have been very determined thieves if the presence of one other man put them to flight,’ he said, after a pause. ‘How fortunate that he happened to be there.’

  ‘Yes, it was,’ Philippa agreed fervently. ‘He was marvellous afterwards as well—bought me a drink, and then drove me home.’

  ‘Ah.’ Alain strolled over to the window and glanced down into the street. ‘And do you know the name of your gallant rescuer?’

&nbs
p; ‘Of course. He’s called Fabrice de Thiéry.’

  ‘I must try and trace him—offer him some reward.’

  ‘If you want—but I don’t think he expects anything. He was just—very kind.’

  Philippa winced slightly as she turned to pick up the brocade suit. She’d washed her grazes in the shower, but they still stung.

  ‘You are hurt?’ He came to her side, frowning.

  ‘I fell over.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Hardly nothing.’ He pushed her down on to the edge of the bed and knelt in front of her examining the marks on her leg.

  ‘Honestly, it’s all right.’ She felt vulnerable—embarrassed as his hand gently cupped the back of her knee.

  ‘Have you applied some antiseptic? Should you use a plaster?’

  ‘They’re only a few scratches. They’re not even bleeding any more.’ Philippa moved restively. ‘Alain—please. I need to finish getting ready. We’re going to be late.’

  ‘There is no hurry.’ His voice was husky. ‘Pauvre petite. This should not have happened.’ He bent his head and touched his mouth, swiftly, sensuously to the angry mark on her knee.

  Longing, sharp and bitter and totally involuntary, pierced her to the core of her being. A shocked gasp at her own reaction rose to her lips and was suppressed. She moved restively, but his hand detained her.

  ‘Don’t pull away.’ There was sudden anger in his voice. ‘Is it just my touch you find so abhorrent, or did you flinch from this stranger also?’

  Her voice was uneven. ‘It—isn’t the same thing. He was just being—kind.’

  ‘And is that what you want from a man, my innocent one—just—kindness?’ His fingers moved gently on her skin, making it spark and tingle in response.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said rawly, stifling a sob. ‘Alain, let me go—please!’

  ‘But perhaps it does not please me.’ He looked up at her gravely. ‘Maybe there is nothing between us that pleases me, or you either, my cool, prim little bride.’ He kissed her again, his lips gentling her knee before travelling up to her slender rounded thigh. His mouth was warm and lingered, as if savouring the fragrance of her skin. His hand began to stroke her, questing along the lacy rim of her briefs, almost touching her intimately, but not quite—yet, at the same time, making every secret crevice of her body clench in longing.

  Philippa’s head fell back. Suddenly it was difficult to breathe—to think. And impossible to speak, to utter the protest that should—that must be made.

  In one lithe, fluent movement Alain rose from his knees and sat beside her on the bed, his breath warm on her cheek.

  ‘Is there other damage?’ he asked softly. He took her hands, making her extend her arms, so that he could study their bare length. Then he pressed his lips to the delicate skin inside each elbow in turn, before allowing the caress to travel unhurriedly down to her wrists.

  ‘There’s—nothing.’ She hardly recognised her own voice. The beat of her pulses seemed to vibrate through her body, filling the world. He must be aware of their haste, their flurry. Must be …

  ‘That, ma belle, I intend to discover for myself.’ His voice was a whisper. His fingertips skimmed her shoulders in a featherlight caress that sent every nerve-ending tingling. He slid down the straps of her bra, then his hands began a leisurely descent to find and release the fastener and allow the tiny garment to fall away from her body completely.

  His fingers cupped her breasts, stroking the tautening nipples lightly and rhythmically until they stood proud and erect.

  ‘No,’ he said softly, his mouth curving in appreciation of her helpless physical response to his touch. ‘They are still unflawed—perfect.’

  He drew her forward without effort into his arms, holding her across his body, looking down into her face, his eyes unsmiling—questioning. Then he bent to her, and his lips parted hers in a demand that would not be denied.

  Philippa felt her body melt into surrender. Alain lifted her against him so that the excited rosy peaks of her breasts were brushing the starched frills of his shirt. He deepened the kiss, making her taste him—drink from him, as he did from her. Of her own volition, her small hands slid upwards and clasped his neck, holding him close.

  They seemed to be enclosed in a golden, honeyed silence, broken only by the fever of their own breathing.

  The knock on the bedroom door, swift and respectful though it was, seemed like a hammerblow, shattering the fragility of their enraptured world in a second.

  ‘Monsieur Alain—Madame!’ It was Madame Giscard’s voice. ‘Marcel wishes me to say that the car is at the door.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Philippa, jolted back to stark reality, struggled to free herself from Alain’s arms. A few yards away, her dressing-table mirror provided a merciless reflection of herself, almost naked, flushed with desire and surrender. ‘Let me go—you must …’

  ‘Must I?’ The green eyes glittered down at her. ‘Why don’t I tell Marcel and the car to go to the devil, and spend the evening here with you, chérie?’

  ‘Because we’re expected at this dinner party.’ Her voice shook uncontrollably, and every inch of her body seemed to be blushing as she dived to retrieve her bra, and the modicum of modesty it represented. ‘You can’t afford to offend people, Alain,’ she gabbled on, as she covered herself. ‘You’re not out of the wood yet. Your uncle Louis is just looking for an excuse …’

  ‘I think,’ Alain cut across her, his face icily sardonic, ‘I think that my uncle Louis is not alone in that.’ He rose, walked across to the dressing-table and stood for a moment, smoothing his dishevelled hair, and straightening his tie. ‘I shall await you in the salon, madame.’

  Left to herself, Philippa struggled into her clothes, fumbling with buttons and zips with unwontedly clumsy fingers.

  Hastily she renewed her lipstick, and ran a comb through her hair, letting it swing simply into place around her hectically flushed face. She stood for a moment, staring at herself in the mirror, almost unable to believe what had happened.

  If it hadn’t been for that knock on the door, she thought, she could have made a terrible—an irretrievable mistake. It made her cringe to think how easily Alain had engineered her surrender—how close he had come to subjugating her completely.

  She shivered as she picked up her cream kid purse. She would need to be even more on her guard from now on, she told herself as she went to join him in the salon.

  The party was being held at a large house outside Paris. It was a warm evening, and the doors on to the terrace had been left open, so that the other guests, who were mainly much older than either Alain or Philippa, could enjoy their aperitifs overlooking the formal gardens, if they wished.

  Philippa was thankful to be able to make her escape into the fresh air. She had been tautly aware of Alain’s enigmatic gaze fixed on her during the car journey, and although little had been said, she knew, with a kind of desperation, that the encounter between them had been merely interrupted, and not terminated completely. Now that she had unwittingly betrayed her own needs, her own capacity for response, she knew that Alain would no longer be content with the embarrassed passivity she had shown in his arms up to now.

  She was unable to explain how she could have been so weak—such a fool. The shock of the attempted robbery must have temporarily lowered her resistance, she thought wretchedly, as she leaned on the stone balustrade, holding her untouched glass of kir royale.

  And now Alain was stalking her—the hunter who knows his victim is helpless, and is poised for the ultimate victory. The kill.

  She grimaced slightly, knowing that she was being overdramatic. Yet wouldn’t it be a kind of death to yield to Alain, to allow herself to become his plaything for a few hours, and then to see him walk away in search of other amusement when he tired of her?

  Her whole body seemed to constrict sharply and painfully. That was something she couldn’t permit—couldn’t even contemplate. Because for her there could be no casua
l giving. Once she belonged to Alain, he would have her heart and soul in his uncaring, predatory hands. And that would be total disaster.

  She lifted her chin. Well, she would not be his victim. Nor would she be his toy—to be used because he was bored with the outward respectability which marriage had forced upon him, and thought it would be entertaining to seduce his unwilling wife.

  ‘Ah, Madame de Courcy, I have been looking everywhere for you.’ Her hostess’s smiling tones reached Philippa’s ear. Smothering a sigh, she prepared for yet another introduction.

  ‘May I present one of our oldest friends, Monsieur Gérard de Crecy? Unfortunately, Madame his wife has succumbed to la grippe, so he is accompanied by his daughter, who says you are already acquainted.’

  There was a trace of a musky scent in the air. As she turned obediently, her polite smile already in place, Philippa became aware of it. Recognised it.

  She hardly noticed the portly white-haired man who was bowing to her, and murmuring a courteous greeting. Her eyes were fixed on the woman at his side, clad in a clinging gown of midnight blue.

  ‘Madame de Courcy.’ The full lips were smiling, but the violet eyes glittered with malice. ‘I hope so very much that you remember me?’ said Marie-Laure de Somerville-Resnais.

  CHAPTER SIX

  PHILIPPA’S LIPS PARTED in a soundless gasp. At the same time, the glass she was holding slipped from her grasp and shattered on the flagstones at her feet, splashing its contents on to her cream brocade skirt as it did so.

  Her hostess, exclaiming in distress, waved away Philippa’s confused apologies, decreeing that the skirt must be sponged before the crême de cassis in the drink stained it irretrievably. She would summon her housekeeper, who was a treasure, and would know the correct way to achieve this.

  The last thing Philippa was aware of as she was led away by the housekeeper was Marie-Laure’s smile, feline and triumphant. And, as she passed him in the doorway, Alain’s thunderous expression.