‘No!’ At last sanity was returning, and she thrust him away, taking him by surprise. ‘Oh, how could I let myself—! I hate you!’ she cried, pummelling at his chest in her frenzy of temper. ‘I hate you! Do you hear?’
‘Cut out the hysterics,’ was his heartless response as with brutal force he jerked her roughly to him again. This time his passion was so unbridled that she was carried into a raging tempest that sent her head spinning, her senses reeling, so that for several seconds she seemed to be poised on the brink of oblivion. His whipcord-hard body was all but possessing hers as his male hardness was thrust against her soft, vulnerable flesh, and the hands pressing her to him were merciless in their strength as once again, but weakly now, Emma made some attempt at escape. Shudders of ecstasy ripped through her, and she felt then that she was lost.
A cry—a plea—left her lips; she felt it was a futile attempt, but to her amazement he released the pressure and within a moment he was cool and collected—a miraculous transformation! He stood away, a twisted smile on his lips, his dark eyes narrowed as if he would conceal the passion still to be seen within their depths.
‘Why did I stop?’ He was asking himself the question, and he shook his head and said with the hint of a frown, ‘I shall never know.’ He walked away to pour himself a drink then turned, half expecting her to be gone. But instead she had sunk weakly into a chair, ashamed of her fatigue but aware that he would know of it.
‘I hate you. . . .’ She spoke softly and her mouth trembled. ‘Just why are you doing this to me?’
For a full thirty seconds he seemed not to have an answer to her question. But at last he said, in that faintly accented voice which for some reason seemed very alien now, ‘You appeal to me, physically, Emma, and—’
‘Don’t call me Emma!’ she seethed. ‘You know my name!’
He seemed amused, eyes glimmering.
‘That temper again. I rather think I would like to curb it for you.’
She drew a breath.
‘You’ll not have the opportunity!’ she assured him. ‘I’m leaving here—’
‘As I was saying,’ he broke in casually, ‘you appeal to me—more than any woman has for years. How would you like to stay for a while? You’d leave far richer than when you came.’
So cool! Emma gasped and shook her head. The man was crazed with his own importance to women!
‘I’ll bid you good night!’ she said and rose unsteadily from the chair, conscious that desire was still affecting her nerves. The ache in her loins was still there, the thrilling sensation of his fingers on her breast.
‘Sit down,’ he advised, pointing to the chair. ‘You’re not yourself yet.’
She managed to get to the door.
‘Think about my offer,’ he said as she opened it. ‘I rather have an idea you will accept it.’
‘Then your head’s bigger than I thought.’ She waited, but he said nothing and she added with a curious inflection, ‘You seem very serious about our having an affair, but have you visualised the situation it would create? My sister works here; she has a—well—liking for you. How would she feel? And do you suppose I’d be willing to hurt her?’ She shook her head in faint bewilderment. ‘You haven’t considered anything, have you?’
‘On the contrary,’ he rejoined, ‘I have considered every aspect. I would offer you a post in one of my offices in Saint Louis where I also own a delightful apartment, at present rented to a businessman, but he leaves in a week’s time. You can have the post—and I’d see, of course, that your hours were very short—just for appearance sake and to put your sister off the scent, as it were, and live in the apartment which I would refurbish for you.’ His suave voice faded as Emma shook her head in disbelief, a gasp on her lips.
‘You’ve worked it all out?’ Again she moved her head from side to side. ‘How confident you must be!’
‘I am, my dear, very confident. I can—’ He stopped abruptly, for Emma had opened the door.
‘—go to hell,’ she threw over her shoulder, finishing the sentence her way. And she went out, leaving the door wide open behind her.
Chapter Three
Emma stood watching Jeremy playing ball on the lawn with one of the younger gardeners. He needs company of his own age, she thought, knowing that Louise could do much more for the child than she was doing. Was it her attitude towards Paul Fanchette that had caused her to become lax? There was certainly an essence of lethargy about her for most of the time; she had no patience with anyone these days.
‘He’s taking no harm.’ Louise had come up behind her on the patio. ‘You fuss too much, Emma. Jeremy is quite happy; he does have company at school, remember.’
‘And a good thing too,’ returned Emma dryly.
‘You think I’m shirking my duty, don’t you?’
‘If you want a forthright answer, it’s yes.’ Emma rested her hands on the rail, her eyes pensive. Two days had passed since that unforgettable scene with Paul Fanchette, but embarrassment and humiliation still filled her being whenever she thought about it, which quite naturally was often.
She had determined to remove herself the following morning, but she could find no excuse to give her sister. She could scarcely reveal the truth, and so she decided to stay on—at least for a while—but as before, she vowed to keep out of Paul Fanchette’s way.
Up till now it had been easy, since he was in his study for most of the day, but an hour or so ago he had come upon Emma and Louise and said casually, ‘I’d like you two to have dinner with me this evening,’ and he had moved on without affording either of them the chance to accept or reject the invitation.
Louise was in high spirits, declaring that it was her especially whom he wanted for company.
‘He’s been better with me these past two days—but I expect you’ve noticed?’ she said, and Emma returned dryly, ‘I haven’t noticed, no. He’s been in his study most of the time as far as I could see.’
‘He’s spoken to me several times, and not once to find fault or treat me with that awful contempt I’ve become used to.’ Her lovely face was radiant; her big blue eyes shining. Emma sighed with impatience and wondered, not for the first time, what would be the outcome of all this.
‘I wish you wouldn’t attach so much importance to this invitation,’ she had said with a sigh. ‘I’m very sure it means nothing.’
‘It must mean something,’ argued Louise, ‘for otherwise he’d not have invited me to dine with him—I mean, us,’ she corrected on noticing the lift of her sister’s eyebrows.
Now, as she stood on the patio watching the little boy at play, Emma wondered what she was going to tell her mother when she wrote to her tomorrow. Mrs. Morris had begged her to write as soon as possible after her arrival and tell her what was wrong between Louise and her employer—for Mrs. Morris now regarded Paul Fanchette as her daughter’s employer.
Emma had not been able to write, as she had no idea how to word a letter so as not to worry her mother even more than she was worried already.
‘So you do think I’m shirking my duty!’ Louise spoke into Emma’s musings, and she turned from the rail to regard her critically.
‘You know yourself you’re not giving Jeremy the care which his parents expect you to do. You must have been much more proficient when they were at home?’
Louise merely shrugged her shoulders. It was plain her thoughts were elsewhere . . . on this evening and the excitement of dining with the man she had so foolishly fallen in love with.
‘I didn’t really know Paul then,’ she submitted at last and then asked Emma if she were contemplating doing any sight-seeing while she was in Mauritius.
‘I’d hoped to do some, yes, but as you are working I’ll have to go on my own, which I’m not wildly excited about. . . .’ She tailed off as Paul Fanchette came striding onto the lawn and glanced around, his face stern and set.
‘He’s looking for me,’ from Louise self-deprecatingly. ‘I ought to be with Jeremy.’
‘I’d go if I were you,’ recommended Emma. ‘He doesn’t appear to be in the best of moods.’
Louise, following her advice, went off and joined the little boy, and Paul went back into the house.
Emma’s mood became pensive; she had recently admitted that it could have been extremely difficult for Louise not to fall in love with a man so attractive as Paul Fanchette, simply because she had always been far more impressionable than Emma; she was immature, easily influenced by people and by circumstances.
Pity welled up as Emma watched Louise moving with steps far more light and eager than before she received the invitation to dinner. Optimism seemed to ooze from her; she laughed when the ball hit her in the face and lifted a hand gaily to wave at Emma.
What reason had the wretched man for the invitation? There seemed no feasible explanation for it that Emma could see—unless, of course, he had begun to have pangs of guilt at not making Emma more welcome . . . Welcome? Why should he bother to make the sister of one of his employees welcome, anyway? His only interest seemed to be in her physical attributes!
Restless and depressed, Emma decided to take a swim, and a few moments later she was on the seashore, walking barefoot on the warm, soft sand, her towelling wrap open to reveal a pretty one-piece bathing costume.
She had been in the water for only a few minutes when to her disgust Paul Fanchette came along, obviously with the same idea as she had had. She watched the long strides eat up the distance and realised he would enter the lagoon close to where she was swimming. She saw him toss his wrap and towel on the sand, then he was in the water, coming closer. . . .
Something akin to panic seizing her, she swam to the shore and picked up her wrap. Paul came ashore close behind her, reached for the wrap and took it from her trembling fingers.
What what was he up to now? she wondered, once again aware that she had placed herself in a vulnerable situation since there was not anyone else on this little curving beach which was, of course, the property of Paul.
‘Give me my wrap!’ she shot at him, having the greatest difficulty in not turning to run. His eyes were taking their fill of her figure from her shapely ankles to her thighs, her tiny waist, her breasts, so very plainly outlined beneath the wet costume.
‘You have an exquisite form,’ he murmured, eyes still lingering, an odd expression in their depths. ‘Your sister tells me you are twenty-four years old. How is it you’re still unmarried?’
‘You asked Louise my age?’ Emma looked at him in surprise, diverted for the moment and forgetting her need for her wrap.
‘I was curious.’ He flickered a glance to her face. ‘I asked you a question. How is it that you’re not married?’
‘The reason should be obvious.’
‘Nobody asked you?’ in tones of mocking satire. He shook his head. ‘I can scarcely believe that.’
‘Perhaps the men I’ve met are all like you,’ she could not resist retorting. ‘They consider all women the same—fine to have an affair with but marriage—’ She flipped a hand expressively. ‘No fear! Far too risky!’
He threw back his head and laughed.
‘I like your sense of humour, Emma.’ He pointed to a spot at his feet. ‘Come here,’ he ordered, and now his voice was in a lower pitch, but unmistakably authoritative. Emma stayed where she was and again asked for her wrap. She was vitally aware of him as a man, the tensed muscles of legs and arms, the narrow waist and hips, the broad shoulders, powerful and straight. Lastly, the handsome face, bronzed and clear-skinned. Louise had said he was twenty-eight. He looked a couple of years older but no more than that.
Suddenly she was thinking of her mother who married a man fifteen years older than herself . . . and now she was widowed, and very lonely.
‘I’m only four years younger than Paul—with a gasp of disbelief Emma cut her thoughts. What on earth had brought a thing like that into her head!
‘Emma . . .’ Paul Fanchette’s soft voice brought her eyes to his, and she saw the sternness in them, the glint of mastery. ‘I told you to come here.’
‘You ordered me to!’
‘Have it how you wish.’ A small, significant pause and then, ‘Any order I give is usually obeyed.’
‘Except this time! I’ll have my wrap if you don’t mind!’ She was trying her best to appear cool and arrogant, but it was difficult when she was wearing such a scanty covering.
‘If you don’t obey me, Emma,’ came the dangerously quiet words, ‘I shall do something to you you’ll not like at all.’
‘You—!’ The blood rushed into her face and she swiftly averted her eyes. ‘You wouldn’t dare!’ she shot at him, almost dazed by the very fact of the threat. The man was too familiar by far!
‘Wouldn’t dare to spank you?’ He spoke with amusement now, his whole manner having undergone a change. ‘I rather think you’ll be wise enough not to take the risk. For the last time, come here.’
Biting her lip with mortification, she nevertheless obeyed, something deep within her subconscious telling her that there was some specific reason for this man’s attitude . . . but what could that reason be? The very fact of his order was an intimacy she would never have dreamed he’d show . . . and the threat he had made was even more intimate.
‘That’s better,’ he said as she reached him. ‘Now turn around.’
‘What for?’ So he could feast his eyes on her other curves! she supposed.
‘I’m merely going to help you into your wrap,’ was his amused reply. ‘What a suspicious mind you have, Emma. Did you fear I was going to do something to embarrass you?’
She shot him a glowering look.
‘Seeing that you’ve embarrassed me several times already, it would not be surprising if I expected the worst.’ She had added the last word without thinking there might be a better one, and he laughed outright, showing strong, even, white teeth.
‘The worst? Come, now, you enjoyed our little interludes of romance.’
Of torrid passion, more like! Naturally Emma did not voice this correction. He held out the wrap, and she turned to put her arms in the sleeves.
‘I do realise that repetition becomes boring, but I just have to say again that you’re the most arrogant, pompous, self-opinionated man I have ever met!’
‘Thanks,’ casually as he turned her around again to fasten the belt of her wrap. The whole situation was ludicrous, she thought. Unreal, made so by the unpredictable character of the man. ‘Your wording was a little different but the meaning was clear enough.’ He had tied the belt, but his hand was in it so that she could not have moved away had she wanted to.
And with a shock of surprise that left her dazed, she was admitting that she did not want to move away. He smiled narrowly, eyes perceptive. ‘Self-opinionated or not,’ he commented smoothly, ‘you are plainly asking me to kiss you—no, you don’t, my girl!’ he added when in anger she would have struggled for freedom. ‘That temper of yours certainly needs to be curbed.’ He bent to possess her lips, caressing moistly and with movements so sensuous that she felt she must reciprocate if he did not release her soon. This he did, slowly drawing his lips from her mouth to her cheek before drawing away from her altogether. He smiled faintly in amusement as he stared down into her lovely eyes, wide and limpid and somewhat shy. ‘You’d have struggled away in your temper—if you could, that is. And immediately you’d have regretted it. You know very well, Emma, that you enjoy my kissing you equally as much as I enjoy doing it.’
True; she could not honestly deny it. She was bewildered by what was happening to her; wondered if she were oversexed and had discovered it only now when this man with his ardour tempted her, for never before had she found herself drawn physically to any man. A kiss, yes, and an embrace. But never had she known the aching desire and excitement which Paul Fanchette could so easily arouse within her.
‘I must go,’ she said, and her voice was far from steady. Surely she wasn’t following in her sister’s footsteps and falling in love with
the creature!
‘I’m coming along, too,’ he supplied as he picked up his own wrap. ‘Did I tell you that dinner tonight will be at eight?’
‘I knew it was; Louise told me you always dine at eight.’
‘Louise. . . .’ A frown touched his brow. ‘Yes, she’s coming too,’ he added as if the recollection had just come to him.
Emma’s nerves tensed. Louise had believed it was she whom Paul wanted . . . but Emma was now sure it was herself. Why? Of course! He was still hoping she would accept his offer of an affair—an affair that would result in her becoming richer than when she arrived here. Some imp of mischief prompted her to say, slanting him a provocative look, ‘You mentioned wanting to have—an affair with me. Er—how long was it to be?’
The fine lips curved in a half smile.
‘You told me to go to hell, remember? And now—are you considering my offer?’ Something faded in his voice and suddenly his mouth was tight. The eyes glinted . . . at some secret thought? Or was he angry with her?
‘I was simply curious to know how soon you would tire of me.’
He looked narrowly at her and said, ‘What’s the idea? Why the sudden interest in my proposal?’
‘Oh, I’m not thinking of accepting,’ she assured him, then frowned at what appeared to be a slackening of the taut facial muscles. This man certainly was a puzzle to her by these changes of expression. Emma wished she could understand him. ‘I merely wanted to know how long you would have—er—found me attractive.’
‘That,’ he replied tersely, ‘is something one cannot predict. However, as long as you reject my offer there seems no logical reason for discussing it, does there?’ He was staring down into her face; she felt like a spanked child and consequently, subsided into silence. They were walking along the golden sands towards the small gate through which they would enter the chateau grounds. Before they reached it, Paul stopped, tilted her chin and said, ‘You can begin calling me Paul, seeing that I have chosen to call you Emma.’
Spell of the Island Page 4