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

by Heidi Rice

  ‘You were his son,’ she murmured, the truth suddenly so obvious she didn’t know why she hadn’t figured it out as soon as Durand had stepped inside her home.

  Or rather his home.

  Had he lived and worked here as a child? And never been acknowledged by Pierre?

  The wave of compassion towards this hard, indomitable man was so fierce it nearly knocked her off her feet. Because suddenly she understood exactly why the vines meant so much to him. Why he wanted them so badly. And why he hated Pierre—or wanted to hate Pierre—as much as she had once wanted to hate her own father. For abandoning her.

  But as the wave of compassion flowed through her, the wave of desire surged too, that shocking feeling of connection breaking down the barriers she’d been trying and failing to construct ever since his gaze had raked over her at the graveside.

  CHAPTER THREE

  WHAT THE HELL did she just say?

  ‘Qu’est-ce qu’elle a dit, là?’

  Maxim was so shocked at the woman’s whispered statement his English deserted him—and momentarily so did his fury at his father’s vindictive attempt to deny him even from beyond the grave. He had said too much, far too much, but even so she couldn’t possibly have figured out the truth so easily when no one else had ever suspected his link to Pierre de la Mare.

  ‘You were...’ She stumbled over the words but her blue eyes were so filled with sympathy he stiffened. ‘You are Pierre’s son. Your eyes, the shading...they’re just like his.’

  It wasn’t a question this time, any more than it had been the first time she’d said it.

  ‘What stupidity is this?’ he said, instinctively denying it.

  But his voice sounded rough with shock as the humiliation that had consumed him as a boy—when he’d discovered what a fool he’d been to believe even for a second that a man of Pierre de la Mare’s breeding and wealth would ever have claimed a bastard like him—threatened to engulf him again.

  He didn’t want her pity. And he had no intention of claiming the legacy; all he wanted was the vines. Vines he’d sweated and laboured over for years, believing his father loved him, or at least respected him, when all he’d ever been to Pierre de la Mare was a mistake.

  ‘Even if you are mine, as your mother claims, do you really think I’d want a whore’s brat to carry the de la Mare name? However good he is with the vines.’

  The words his father had spoken to him the day he’d turned fifteen rang in his head. That was the day he’d finally got up the courage to tell Pierre de la Mare he knew they were father and son. The day he’d told his father how proud he was to carry on that legacy. The day his father had laughed in his face and told him he had no right to any legacy because Maxim would never be more than a field hand, a labourer, a bastard.

  Pierre de la Mare had never been his father, whatever his mother said. It had taken him years to figure out the blood tie between them meant nothing to his father and it never had.

  How the hell his father’s ten-second wife had figured out their connection, though, was beyond him.

  He forced himself to breathe, to calm down as everything inside him rebelled against the pity in her eyes and the volatile mix of emotions it caused to roil in his gut—shame, humiliation, anger.

  ‘I can see him in you,’ she said, searching his face. ‘Pierre spoke of you all the time; you were like an obsession of his. I thought it was because you’d been so successful in this business so young. But I can see now it was always more personal than that.’

  Maxim’s stomach tightened into a knot of fury at the softly spoken words.

  ‘In his own way, although he feared you, I think he was proud of you too,’ she added.

  The comment knifed into his gut. Was she serious? Was this some kind of sick joke? Did she think he gave a damn about what de la Mare thought of him or his business? He’d stopped seeking his father’s approval sixteen years ago. He’d run away from the vineyard that night and left Burgundy the next day to make his own way in the world, after years living on the outskirts of his father’s land, effectively begging for scraps by doing everything de la Mare asked of him in the hope he would one day acknowledge their connection.

  No one here had recognised him when he’d returned. No one except de la Mare—which was precisely why he had enjoyed remaining aloof and at the same time stymied all the old man’s attempts to save the vineyard from its debts. He hadn’t had to get his hands dirty because the old fool had run the place into the ground on his own. And when de la Mare had come to him, begging for help and investment, thinking that Maxim still wanted his acknowledgement, Maxim had taken great pleasure in laughing in his father’s face.

  He had promised Pierre de la Mare at that meeting that once the old bastard was dead he would buy the vines and stamp the Durand name, his mother’s name, his low-class gutter name on them—and the de la Mare legacy that his father had been so proud of, and so determined to deny him once, would be gone for ever.

  The old bastard had married this woman in a last-ditch attempt to trick Maxim out of the legacy that was rightfully his. And for that alone he should despise her...

  Although...

  Devoid of make-up, the girl’s face—fresh sun-burnished skin, high cheekbones, wide too-blue eyes and a mouth ripe for kissing—was all the more compelling. And her body, even disguised in the shorts and work shirt, looked ripe for a great deal more. No wonder his body had responded to her. She was a beautiful woman. The fact that she was his father’s widow did not detract from her physical allure.

  He huffed out a harsh laugh, determined to break the spell she had weaved over him so effortlessly. ‘Do you actually think I care what that bastard thought of me?’

  She blinked, obviously taken aback by the savage tone.

  He realised too late he had made a tacit admission that the girl was right about his biological connection with de la Mare when the lawyer—whom he’d forgotten was in the room with them—murmured, ‘Is this true, Monsieur Durand? Pierre de la Mare was your biological father?’

  He glanced at the lawyer, who looked shocked to the core.

  He could continue to deny it. He had no desire to have it become common knowledge. But, feeling the girl’s eyes on him, he realised he didn’t want to lie. Lying made the truth more powerful. Made it seem as if he cared about the connection when he considered it nothing more than an unfortunate accident of birth.

  ‘My mother was one of de la Mare’s mistresses,’ he said, careful to keep any inflection out of his voice. ‘Elise Durand Pascale. We lived here—’ he glanced around the room ‘—until he got bored with her.’ He shrugged. ‘Then he allowed us to live in a small shack on the edges of the estate. But as soon as I was old enough, de la Mare insisted I work for him to pay for that privilege as my mother was too weak to work full-time.’ The bile rose in his throat, but he swallowed it down, the details of that devil’s bargain, a bargain he had only become aware of when he’d confronted de la Mare years later as a fifteen-year-old, still sickened him. What a fool he’d been to believe his father had wanted to train him in the art of winemaking so he could eventually take over the business, when all the old bastard had really wanted was a free field hand. ‘But I have no desire to claim a connection I take no pride in,’ he continued. ‘If you don’t keep the information private you’ll be facing a lawsuit.’ He turned back to de la Mare’s widow, although calling her anyone’s widow seemed absurd. Her young heart-shaped face was surprisingly guileless for a woman who had slept with an old man to get a hand on his property. Somehow he couldn’t quite get himself to think of her as a putain any more, though, when the disturbing mix of pity and understanding in her expression looked genuine.

  ‘And that includes you, Madame de la Mare,’ he said, just in case she was in any doubt.

  Instead of looking surprised, she simply nodded. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Your connection to
Pierre is private, I understand that.’

  He doubted she did understand. Perhaps she thought she had a better chance of keeping the land if no one knew of his relationship to de la Mare. If so, she was mistaken. He didn’t need to be de la Mare’s son to take the land... And complete his revenge on the man who had sired him. And then discarded him.

  ‘If you wish to dispute the will based on this information you would have to submit to a DNA test,’ the lawyer said, obviously fearful for his job. He had to know Maxim had an impressive legal team and enough money at his disposal to keep the guy’s practice tied up in litigation for years over the legality of this last-minute bequest.

  ‘I have every intention of disputing this will,’ he clarified. ‘But I certainly don’t need to prove I am de la Mare’s flesh and blood to do it. All I have to do is prove the man wasn’t of sound mind when he made it.’ He let his gaze rake over the woman in front of him, lingering on the rise and fall of her breasts under the worn cotton camisole she wore beneath her shirt.

  The visible outline of her nipples had the now familiar heat settling low in his belly. He knew he should ignore it—he didn’t want de la Mare’s leftovers—but then her breath caught and the heat intensified, despite his best efforts.

  So she could feel it too? This pull between them that had disturbed him so much at the graveside.

  ‘I doubt it will be hard to persuade a judge that de la Mare was enthralled by the charms of his new wife when he made this will,’ he said, the husky tone hard to disguise. ‘And the ludicrous stipulations contained within it.’

  In truth, he doubted the girl had had anything to do with the will—de la Mare had probably planned this final slight ever since their meeting two years ago, and she had simply been a willing participant. But that didn’t make his instinctive attraction, and his apparent inability to control it, any less baffling. Or annoying.

  The girl’s flush rose up her neck and her breathing became shallower. Her nipples were so prominent now, he felt sure they must be painful. The heat throbbed and swelled in his groin as he imagined easing down the soft cotton to relieve her pain with his lips. He inhaled, capturing the scent of wild flowers and the vague musk of her arousal.

  Damn, but she was exquisite. Beautiful, fiercely desirable and apparently unable to disguise her sexual needs. The veneer of innocence—however fake—was also captivating.

  While it pained him to realise it, he couldn’t fault the old bastard for his taste.

  ‘Monsieur Durand, I assure you the will is watertight. Monsieur de la Mare was entirely cognisant when he made it,’ the lawyer said. ‘And Madame de la Mare had no knowledge of the contents of it before today, as per my client’s wishes.’

  ‘We will see,’ he replied, never taking his eyes off the girl. For that was what she looked like to him. Exactly how old was she? He’d wondered earlier, but he was wondering even more now. She had to be more than a teenager, but in the casual clothes, and out of the revealing dress, she didn’t look like much more. And his father had been in his sixties.

  For a moment he considered that age difference. Her gaze darted from Marcel and back to him, her nervousness only increasing his desire.

  Exactly how desperate must she have been to consider spreading her legs for an old man? And how could he hold that against her, when he had done things he wasn’t proud of himself as a boy, simply to survive.

  He glimpsed the table, where an array of fresh local cheese and fruit and bread had been artfully arranged. And the thick fog of desire finally cleared enough for him to start thinking... If not clearly, then at least coherently.

  The solution to this problem was simple. Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? Surely if she had married an old man for his property, she could be bought. All he had to do was make her an offer she could not refuse—controlling this inexplicable surge of desire would also be a good start.

  ‘I will stay to eat after all—and try out the wine—so we can discuss the situation further,’ he said.

  ‘I am afraid I must leave,’ the lawyer said. ‘My wife will have dinner waiting for me.’

  The girl’s brows lifted, and wariness flashed across her features. She didn’t like the suggestion that she be left alone with him.

  Good, he had the upper hand at last. And that was all that mattered in a negotiation of this sort. He needed to be ruthless now—and stop obsessing about her rigid nipples.

  Walking to the sideboard, Maxim poured himself a glass of de la Mare’s wine to keep his hands busy. And concentrate his thoughts on what he wanted to achieve—namely getting his hands on de la Mare’s ancient vines, not his nubile young widow.

  He watched an array of emotions cross the girl’s face.

  Concern, panic, maybe even fear.

  But was she scared of him, he wondered, or the hunger her rigid nipples and shallow breaths had acknowledged, even if she could not?

  Satisfaction surged at the evidence that she was finding it even harder than him to control her responses. Whether she was scared of him or the provocative passion that had blindsided them both, he could make her fear work in his favour. If he kept his head.

  Before she could formulate a polite way to kick him out of the house he added, ‘This may be my last chance to eat a meal in the house where I was born.’

  He couldn’t care less about having a final meal in La Maison. He barely remembered living here; all he could remember was the early mornings spent racing across the fields from the shack where he and his mother had ended up, and working with his father’s field hands in the predawn mist, or after school long into the night and watching and waiting for his father to arrive, and hopefully notice him and how hard he worked. And the day he had come to claim that connection, full of pride and longing, and had been left standing at the back door to meet his father—because he was considered too low-class to enter the house.

  His deliberately wistful comment had the desired effect, though, when the sympathy and misplaced sentiment for his plight he had noticed earlier crossed the girl’s face again, and she nodded. ‘I understand, Monsieur Durand.’

  The lawyer packed up his laptop and his papers, then snapped his briefcase shut. ‘If you have any questions, Madame de la Mare...’ He inclined his head towards Maxim. ‘Or Monsieur Durand. Feel free to contact me at my office.’ He laid down a business card for each of them. ‘But I do hope we can be civil about this.’ He gave a hearty if strained laugh. ‘I think a quiet meal together to discuss amicably how to proceed makes perfect sense. While de la Mare did not want the vines sold to the Durand Corporation, I see no reason why Madame de la Mare should not lease them to you, Maxim, if you wish to carry on producing the Montremare Premier Cru in your father’s honour.’

  Maxim nearly choked on the salty cube of Brie de Meaux he had popped into his mouth. He swallowed his outrage with a sip of his father’s famous wine. ‘That is an interesting possibility,’ he managed, thinking Caron was an imbecile.

  He had no desire to do anything in honour of that bastard. And he didn’t want to lease the vines, he wanted to own them. Because only then could he obliterate the last of de la Mare’s legacy. And complete his revenge on the man who had rejected him all those years ago.

  But he had no intention of revealing that to either the girl or her lawyer. He had exposed himself enough already. He wasn’t usually a man given to emotion. In fact, he was famous for his cold, clinical business practices. But right now he wasn’t feeling cold or clinical. He was feeling hot and on edge. Somehow he needed to find a way to use that to his advantage in his negotiations with the girl.

  As the lawyer left, Maxim watched his father’s widow make a point of sitting in the chair on the opposite side of the table. She picked at the grapes.

  She was nervous, as well as turned on. Good—at least he wasn’t the only one unsettled by this inconvenient attraction.

  ‘How
old were you?’ she asked. ‘When Pierre expected you to come work for him to pay for the use of the shack you lived in?’

  ‘Ten. Eleven. I don’t recall exactly.’ He shrugged, but the movement was stiff. He could see that damn sympathy clouding her eyes again and it was the last thing he wanted. ‘It wasn’t a hardship,’ he murmured. ‘I enjoyed the work. And I came to love the vines.’

  She took the hint, her flush igniting again. ‘I’m sorry, it must be hard for you that he made that bequest.’

  ‘Not at all, I expected no less from him, Madame...’ He paused. He disliked calling her by that old bastard’s name. ‘What is your prénom?’

  ‘My first name?’ she said, and he realised he had lapsed into French again. Why did he find it so hard to concentrate around her?

  ‘Oui, your Christian name.’

  ‘It’s Cara. Cara Evans... Or, rather, Cara de la Mare, I guess.’ She didn’t sound sure.

  ‘Cara Evans is a better name,’ he said, oddly pleased by her hesitation.

  Bright flags of colour hit her cheeks and the heat in his groin surged—which only confused him more.

  ‘As you were only married to the old bastard for a few days I think you do not need to take his name,’ he added.

  ‘Please don’t call him that,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry he wasn’t a good father to you. But Pierre was my friend.’

  My friend. What a coy way to describe the man she had a long-term affair with.

  ‘You do not understand,’ he said, annoyed by the warmth in her voice.

  Why couldn’t she get it through her head that he had no need of her compassion? Whatever his father had or hadn’t done to him a lifetime ago had no bearing on who he was now.

  ‘I did not need for him to be a good father to me, or any kind of father,’ he said, determined to spell it out to her.

  He tore off a chunk of the fresh baguette and spread it with Brie, then bit into the snack and let the creamy, salty taste melt on his tongue—determined to look nonchalant if it killed him. He had never spoken to anyone of that time in his life when he had tried so desperately to win Pierre de la Mare’s admiration and affection, not even to his mother.