A Forbidden Night With The Housekeeper (Mills & Boon Modern)

by Heidi Rice

  ‘What?’ Maxim’s attention switched to the lawyer—the girl had already disappeared anyway—as he struggled to hide his shock. He ruthlessly quashed the foolish kernel of hope. He knew there would be nothing for him in the man’s will.

  ‘Monsieur de la Mare requested you attend two days before he died when he made his will.’

  ‘Why did he even make a will?’ Maxim said, his voice hoarse with anger. ‘He had nothing but debts to pass on and no heirs to pass it to as I understand it.’

  Or none he was prepared to claim.

  Bitterness rose in his throat like bile.

  He swallowed it down as he had so many times before. Ever since he was a small boy and his mother had tied him to his bed to stop him from running through the woods to La Maison de la Lune in a desperate bid to see the man who did not want to see him.

  ‘You have not heard?’ The lawyer looked sheepish.

  ‘Heard what? I only returned from my business in Italy yesterday and I’ve been in the fields all day,’ Maxim demanded as the sick dread—which had been a large part of his childhood—churned in his gut.

  ‘Mademoiselle Evans, La Maison’s housekeeper, and Monsieur de la Mare were married three days ago, and she is now his widow.’

  Bitterness knifed through his gut as his mother’s face seared his memory—fragile and drawn and exhausted—the way he remembered her, the last time he’d seen her, on the morning he’d left Burgundy as an outraged and humiliated fifteen-year-old.

  ‘Merde,’ he murmured as his anger became icily cold.

  The little English whore hadn’t just been screwing de la Mare, she’d managed to seduce the old bastard into doing something no other woman ever had—putting his wedding ring on her finger.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘MADAME DE LA MARE, THANK YOU for receiving us at this difficult time.’

  Us?

  Cara nodded as Pierre’s debonair lawyer Marcel stood in the farmhouse’s doorway an hour after the funeral. ‘It’s good to see you, Marcel. Is...is someone else coming?’ she asked. Marcel’s English was usually flawless. But then the SUV she’d seen at the cemetery drove into the farmyard. And Maxim Durand stepped out of the car.

  He’d changed out of the grubby T-shirt and jeans he’d worn at the graveside into a pair of designer trousers and a white linen shirt rolled up at the sleeves. His dark hair was damp and slicked back from his face as if he’d recently showered and his jaw clean-shaven. But he still looked untamed and intimidating as he strode across the yard.

  He’d also lost the sunglasses, the piercing gaze even more devastating than it had been at the cemetery when it raked over her figure. Thankfully, she’d changed out of the too-revealing dress, but she wished she had dressed in something more formal than the pair of shorts and the thin cotton camisole and shirt she was wearing. Marcel had visited the house often, especially in the last few weeks, to see Pierre and she’d stopped standing on ceremony with him months ago. But Durand wasn’t a friend or even an acquaintance.

  ‘Bon soir, Madame de la Mare. Marcel asked me to attend at your husband’s request,’ Durand said with a perfunctory nod of greeting. His perfect yet heavily accented English though, like his gaze, was ripe with thinly veiled contempt.

  Cara ruthlessly quashed the shiver of distress, and the heady ripple of sensation which hadn’t died as she had hoped.

  She hadn’t realised quite how large he was at the cemetery, his shoulders wide enough to block out the glow of twilight as he stood in the doorway. The top of her head barely reached his collarbone.

  Why had Pierre requested his presence? This made no sense. The will was just a formality, a chance for Pierre to pay her the wages he owed her, wasn’t it?

  Had Durand already bought the estate? Was that possible? Would she have to leave tonight? Or first thing in the morning? She’d thought she would have more time, a few days at least.

  And why couldn’t she control the liquid pull tugging at the deepest reaches of her body? This was worse than seeing him from several yards away at the graveyard. Up close and personal, Maxim Durand was a force of nature, who seemed to have a control of her senses she could neither rationalise or deny.

  She didn’t want to invite him into her home. Her sanctuary.

  But as Marcel and Durand stood on the doorstep she knew she didn’t have a choice. The realisation made her feel like she had so many times as a child, being told she was going to be uprooted again and moved to a new family.

  Powerless.

  ‘I... I see,’ she said, although she really didn’t see. ‘Please come in,’ she murmured, but her arm shook as she held the door open.

  Durand’s shoes echoed on the farmhouse’s stone flooring as he walked past her, the scent of expensive sandalwood soap tinged with the distinctive salty scent of the man filling her senses.

  She shifted away from him, feeling like Red Riding Hood being stalked by the wolf.

  Without waiting for another invitation or any directions, Durand strode down the corridor towards the visitors’ salon at the back of the house where she had laid out a light meal for her and Marcel.

  The shiver of distress, and unexplained heat, was joined by a spike of anger.

  Durand didn’t own her home yet.

  Given his height, he had to duck his head to get under the door lintel before entering the large airy room now suffused with the golden glow of full dusk. That he did it instinctively and seemed to know exactly where she would have laid out the wine and food she had prepared only rattled Cara more.

  How did Durand know the house so well? Had he been here before? Pierre had certainly never mentioned that he had met his nemesis in all the conversations they’d had about his business rival.

  Pierre had been obsessed with the man, but she’d always assumed that was simply because the Durand Corporation had been encroaching on the shrinking de la Mare estate for so long.

  But now she wondered. Was Pierre’s dislike of this man, his enmity towards him, more personal? It was just one more reason to be wary.

  Durand stood in the large room, somehow managing to make it look small, with his back to the butcher’s block table where she had arranged an array of cheeses, a fresh baguette and a platter of fruit. He stared out at the de la Mare vineyard, his legs wide and his arms crossed, making the seams of his shirt stretch over his shoulder blades. The rolled-up sleeves revealed the bulge of deeply tanned biceps. The sun had set half an hour ago, but there was enough light to see the gnarled roots of the ancient vines that were the de la Mare legacy.

  Durand’s stance looked nonchalant, dominant, as if he were already surveying his own property, but tension vibrated through him too, almost as if he were a tiger waiting to pounce.

  She covered an instinctive shudder by hastily lifting the carafe of wine she’d left breathing on the sideboard.

  ‘Pierre asked that I serve the Montramere Premier Cru tonight,’ she said, taking an additional glass from the sideboard.

  But as she began to pour the wine Durand’s gruff voice intervened, the husky purr stroking her skin despite the brittle tone.

  ‘Don’t bother pouring me a glass. I prefer not to mix business with pleasure.’

  If she’d been in any doubt the enmity between Pierre and Durand wasn’t personal, she wasn’t in doubt any more.

  ‘Very well, Monsieur Durand,’ she managed, pouring a glass for herself and Marcel. She lifted the wine to her lips, attempting to appear calm and unruffled by Durand’s surly presence. ‘To Pierre,’ she added. ‘And the de la Mare vines.’

  Durand’s features remained schooled into a blank expression. But she noticed a muscle jump in his jaw when he dipped his head in acknowledgement then murmured, ‘Aux vignes, mais pas à l’homme.’

  Perhaps he thought she didn’t understand him, but she got the gist of what he had said.

  To t
he vines, but not the man.

  ‘To Pierre,’ the lawyer said, raising his glass without acknowledging Durand’s inflammatory comment. Either Marcel was trying to defuse the tension or he was deaf.

  After sipping the excellent vintage, the lawyer sighed with appreciation. ‘Magnifique.’ He indicated the chairs at the table. ‘Let us sit,’ he said before taking a seat, ‘and enjoy the refreshments Madame de la Mare has provided while I outline the terms of Monsieur de la Mare’s will.’

  ‘I don’t wish to sit,’ Durand announced, ‘or eat. I wish to get this over with.’

  The lawyer nodded and opened his briefcase, drawing out a laptop.

  Cara sat opposite Marcel, determined to ignore Durand.

  Clearly she wasn’t to be afforded any respect as Pierre’s widow. Or even as the host for this evening’s meeting. But she could agree on one thing with Durand.

  She wanted this over with now too, as quickly as possible, so she could get this man and his disturbing effect on her out of her home. She had never felt this unsettled, this disorientated and yet oddly exhilarated in the presence of any man. And she didn’t like it. Why couldn’t she control her elemental response to Durand, especially given his apparent contempt for her?

  Marcel took several painfully long minutes tapping on the keyboard of his laptop and retrieving documents from his briefcase while Durand continued to stand on the opposite side of the room, his presence like a shadow—crowding out all her memories of Pierre.

  Cara downed a huge gulp of the fragrant Pinot Noir as she waited, not caring that she wasn’t fully appreciating the delicious notes of clove and smoke and white pepper in the exceptional vintage. Right now, all she wanted to do was forget about Durand and the strange sensations he aroused. And find out if Pierre had left her enough to stay solvent over the next month while looking for a new job.

  ‘To avoid too much legal language I shall summarise the main portion of the will,’ Marcel said, passing a copy of the document across the table to her and another towards Durand, who didn’t approach but left it on the table.

  ‘Monsieur de la Mare has left the property known as La Maison de la Lune and the surrounding vineyards of the de la Mare estate to his widow. Unfortunately, as the estate has considerable debts he understood she would have to sell part or all of the property. He was happy for her to do so, but has added a clause: Madame de la Mare must not sell any part of the estate to Maxim Durand, the Durand Corporation, any of its subsidiaries or any shell companies in which Maxim Durand or the Durand Corporation has an interest or she will forfeit this inheritance.’

  ‘C’est pas vrai!’ Durand shouted, startling Cara, who was still struggling to get to grips with the news.

  The bubble of hope expanding in her chest at the prospect of owning La Maison burst at his furious reaction.

  Why had Pierre done this? As much as she loved the vineyard, if Pierre had wanted the de la Mare legacy to continue the only answer was to sell the vines to Durand. For all his sharp business practices, the man was known as an excellent vintner. And no other reputable vintner would buy the land if it meant defying Durand.

  A stream of French swear words followed as Durand stalked across the room. The leash on Durand’s temper was off now, if it had ever been on.

  ‘This is nonsense,’ he said, switching to English for her benefit. ‘He cannot prevent me from buying the vines; I have waited long enough for them. And anyway, who the hell is she?’ He glared at Cara. ‘She knows nothing of viniculture.’

  Cara flinched—something about Durand’s fury and the anger in his eyes felt so personal.

  This wasn’t about the vines. How could it be? Just as she had suspected at the graveyard, when Durand had appeared so unexpectedly. And when he’d turned up this evening at Pierre’s request. There was something between Durand and Pierre. Something that went way beyond the business of winemaking.

  Oh, Pierre, is this why you insisted on marriage? Not to help me, but to defy Durand?

  Her stomach turned over. Had Pierre used her? Surely he must have known his bequest would put her in the firing line of Durand’s wrath.

  ‘I don’t... I don’t understand,’ she said, feeling betrayed. Pierre knew enough about her childhood and adolescence to know how much she hated conflict. ‘Why would Pierre do this?’

  ‘I cannot tell you, Madame de la Mare,’ Marcel murmured, eyeing Durand with caution. ‘I advised against this course, but Pierre was insistent. He did not explain to me his motives but I believe it was important to him you be allowed to remain at La Maison de la Lune. And that you take ownership of the vines.’

  ‘She can’t have the vines,’ Durand announced, the cursing having stopped to be replaced by steely anger. ‘The vines are mine; they belong to me, not to some English salope who has been here only a few months.’

  Cara shot out of her chair at the derisive comment. She clenched her fists, determined to face him down, not caring that he was bigger and angrier and a lot more intimidating than she was. Just because he was rich and powerful, and owned every acre of land surrounding the de la Mare estate for as far as the eye could see, didn’t mean he could insult her.

  ‘The vines are not yours, Mr Durand,’ she said with as much dignity as she could muster while her hands were shaking and her whole body was far too aware of his nearness. His strength. ‘And apparently they never will be,’ she said, ruthlessly quashing the ripple of guilt. And confusion.

  She didn’t deserve this legacy.

  She had been friends with Pierre, but she had only known him for a year; she wasn’t his family and they hadn’t been husband and wife. Not in any real sense of the word. She could see with complete clarity now, Pierre had used her as a pawn in his fight with Durand. How could he have had her best interests at heart if he had always intended to set her up against a man with Durand’s power and influence? By leaving her the vines and stopping her from selling to Durand he was setting her up to fail, setting up the vineyard to fail. However sick he had been, he had never been stupid.

  Had Pierre hated Durand more than he had loved the vines? Perhaps.

  One thing was certain, though—he had hated Durand more than he had cared for her. And that hurt, more than she wanted to admit.

  ‘What do you know about the de la Mare vines?’ Durand asked, his handsome face ripe with contempt. ‘About how to nurture and care for them? Or how to get the best out of them?’ His gaze raked over her figure, the heat in his eyes so contemptuous it burned. ‘You know nothing,’ he replied, answering his own question. ‘And yet you think you can take what is mine because you opened your legs for that bastard, comme une pute?’

  Like a whore.

  ‘Monsieur Durand! There is no call for such language,’ the lawyer said.

  But Cara couldn’t hear Marcel, all she could hear was the blood pounding in her ears. She didn’t care what Durand thought of her, what anyone thought of her, so why did his disgust cut through her composure to the wounded girl who had been called names so many times before? And why was his forceful fury only making the sensations racing over her skin more volatile, more electric, more uncontrollable?

  ‘I’m not a whore, I’m his wife,’ she said, her voice breaking on the words. ‘You certainly have no more right to the vines than I do.’

  ‘You think not?’ Durand stepped closer, close enough for her to feel the heat of his anger pumping off him, and see the tension in his jaw, the brittle fury in the vivid brown of his eyes. But there was something else in the dark depths that was even more disturbing. Something hot and vibrant that she could feel deep in her abdomen.

  ‘I have every right to these vines. I nurtured them and fed them, protected them from frost and fire and blight, picking off the insects until my fingers bled,’ he said, the forceful words as compelling as the passion sparking between them. A passion she did not want to acknowledge but couldn’t deny
. ‘I worked these fields for hours, when I wasn’t even old enough to see over the top of the vines,’ he murmured. ‘And I promised myself then, some day they would be mine.’

  Durand’s origins were sketchy. She’d heard the stories whispered about him in the media, that his mother had come from a poor family and no one knew who his father was. That he had started out very young working in the fields, had little formal schooling and had worked his way up from nothing, eventually earning enough to buy his first stake, then expanded and grown his business. But no one had ever suspected he came from Burgundy, and certainly not from around here, or someone surely would have mentioned it before now.

  ‘Are you saying you worked for Pierre and he didn’t pay you?’ Cara asked, her voice shaking. Was he lying to her? She could imagine he would be ruthless enough to do just that, but something about the tone of his voice, as if he were admitting something he was ashamed of, suggested the opposite. ‘I don’t... I don’t believe you.’

  It couldn’t be true.

  Pierre had been a complex man, perhaps more complex than she had realised, but he wasn’t a monster. Was he?

  ‘Oui, he paid me,’ Durand snarled. ‘The money he insisted I owed him for being born. And I did the work willingly until I realised that all he had ever wanted from me was free labour. That he never had any intention of acknow—’ He stopped short and something slashed across his features, something more than fury. Something that looked suspiciously like betrayal and hurt, as well as anger.

  Cara recognised that emotion because she had endured the same feelings of confusion and inadequacy as a child, on the day her father had left her at the children’s centre in Westminster and told her he couldn’t look after her any more.

  It was the last time she had ever seen him.

  As she absorbed the echo of that shattering emotion now, tightening her ribs and making her heart thunder, she thought of the confusing statement he’d made—why would Pierre believe Durand owed him money for being born...?

  Then she noticed the golden halo around the dark brown of Durand’s irises for the first time.