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

by Heidi Rice

  In some ways he was still ashamed of that boy—how weak and foolish he had been to need validation from a man who felt nothing for him. But Cara Evans needed to know that desperate child was long gone.

  ‘I survived very well on my own,’ he continued. ‘In fact my father’s decision to deny our connection, to reject me as a boy because I was a bastard and my mother was from a poor family, made me a much stronger man, prepared to fight for everything that is mine—and I will never allow anyone to have what is rightfully mine ever again,’ he finished.

  Her eyes widened but, instead of the fear he had hoped to instil with the veiled threat, her gaze filled with that infuriating compassion—even rawer and more intense now than it had been moments before.

  ‘Pierre rejected you as a child because you were illegitimate?’ she said, clearly having completely missed the point of the disclosure. ‘How dreadful. I’m... I’m so sorry.’

  She reached across the table in an instinctive gesture of comfort—and sympathy. The touch of her fingertips was like a naked flame, searing his skin and his pride and making the fire in his loins ignite.

  He flipped his hand over and clasped her wrist, preventing her from drawing those incendiary fingertips away again, when she realised her mistake.

  ‘Do not feel sorry for that boy,’ he said, wanting to revel in the shock and wariness in her expression, but still disturbed himself by the fire that continued to spark and spit as her pulse went wild under his thumb. ‘He is long gone.’

  Damn it, he was a billionaire, as far removed from that impoverished, rejected child as it was possible to get. He was rich beyond his wildest dreams now and wielded all the power that boy had been denied, and he was soon to be the master of all he surveyed... Including de la Mare’s ancient vines.

  She tugged her hand free and he let her go, infuriated by the blood still pounding in his groin.

  He could have any woman he wanted. Why the hell should he want this woman—a woman who had once warmed his father’s bed—so much?

  But, even as he asked the question, his gaze landed on her mouth. Her small white teeth dug into her bottom lip and his breathing accelerated at the thought of biting that lush lip too and then soothing the soreness with his tongue, before plunging his fingers into the silky soft hair piled on her head and...

  Arrête.

  He drew a deep breath into his lungs to halt the erotic visions bombarding him, and fuelling the need to transform the wary heat in her eyes into a raging fire, only to have his whole body intoxicated by the scent of her arousal.

  ‘It would be a grave mistake to pity the man he has become, Cara,’ he said, but even he wasn’t sure what he was talking about any more.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CARA.

  The way Maxim Durand caressed her name sounded so intimate, his husky French accent roughening the R in the middle. The intensity in his eyes, though, was as terrifying as it was exciting.

  Cara rubbed her wrist where the light touch of his fingers had burned the skin, desperately trying to escape the explosive sensations which had taken her body captive.

  He made a point of lifting the bread and cheese back to his lips, taking a bite and swallowing, then licking his fingers. But she could see the hunger in his eyes because it compelled her too.

  She dragged her gaze away from his sensual lips and stared down at the grape in her hand. ‘I don’t pity you,’ she said.

  She doubted anyone had ever pitied him, despite the horrors he had let slip about his childhood. He didn’t strike her as a man who would ever inspire anyone’s pity; he was far too forceful, far too commanding, far too controlled.

  Except...

  He hadn’t been able to disguise his response to her any more than she had been able to disguise her response to him. Why did that seem so significant? Why was the thought making her feel so giddy, so light-headed?

  She forced the grape she’d been fidgeting with past her dry lips, made herself swallow it, to buy herself time to think—something that was next to impossible with his dark gaze fixed on her.

  Maxim Durand was Pierre’s illegitimate son. And he’d once worked in the fields here. No wonder he wanted the vines. And Pierre had rejected him in the cruellest way possible when he was still a boy. And for the cruellest of reasons, because he was poor and illegitimate.

  The fruity sweetness of the grape burst on her tongue.

  As charming as Pierre had been to her, and however much she had come to care for him, she knew he could be ruthless when it came to his business. And after what he had done in his will it was hard to ignore the fact that his suggestion of marriage—and the legacy he had left her—had been a means of hurting his son, again, rather than of helping her.

  Perhaps she should give Durand the vines? After everything he’d suffered, did she really have a right to keep them from him?

  ‘How much?’

  She jerked her head up and found herself trapped in Durand’s intense golden-brown gaze again. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘How much do you want to disappear? I am a rich man and I can be generous. You’re clearly a woman who appreciates the value of money and I respect that...’ His gaze dropped to her breasts, and lingered, before rising back to her face. The contempt in his gaze was so clear—and so brutal—it shocked her.

  Her back straightened, even as her nipples squeezed into tight points of need.

  ‘I don’t want your money,’ she said as she wrapped her shirt around herself, attempting to hide her physical response to him.

  ‘Really?’ His sensual lips lifted into a cynical smile and she felt like Little Red again, being baited by the wolf. ‘Even if I offered you half a million euros to disappear, which is considerably more than the property is worth?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, releasing the breath held hostage in her lungs.

  She didn’t want his money. Only moments ago she had been considering giving him the vines. But she wanted to be able to stay at La Maison de la Lune.

  She didn’t want to have to disappear. Again.

  How many times had she been forced to do that in the past? Because of the whims of others. Whatever his motives, Pierre had given her the house she had come to love. And she had earned this chance. ‘I want to stay living here, as Pierre planned. But I’d be more than happy to lease the vines to you, as Marcel suggested.’

  His smile flatlined. ‘I don’t wish to lease them; I wish to own them. And you can’t remain here, as I intend to demolish this place.’

  ‘But... What? Why?’ She jumped from her seat, distressed not just by the suggestion but the chilling conviction in his tone. ‘Why would you do that?’

  He stood too, the cynicism replaced by a thunderous frown. ‘I do not have to explain my reasons to you.’

  She crossed her arms over her chest to try to stop the trembling in her limbs—and to disguise the ache in her treacherous nipples. ‘Well, you can’t demolish La Maison de la Lune because it belongs to me.’

  ‘And once I have challenged the will, it will belong to me.’

  He was actually serious. She stared, trying to gauge why he would do such a thing. Pierre had treated him appallingly, she understood that. But he’d said himself he wasn’t that rejected boy any more. And what was the point of obliterating the legacy of a dead man?

  ‘But you can’t,’ she pleaded again. ‘La Maison is beautiful...’ She let her gaze roam over the old furniture, the worn armchairs and sturdy table, the beautiful vista beyond—not just of the old vineyard, but the ancient forest that rimmed the property, the small stream that bisected the land, gilded now by the full moon. ‘It deserves to be here for generations to come.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t. The only thing that matters are the vines.’

  He walked around the table, bearing down on her, making her more aware of his strength, his size. But, instead of feeling intimida
ted, she felt energised, exhilarated, mesmerised by the fierce passion in his eyes.

  Was it for the grapes? It had to be, but why then did his passion feel as if it were infecting her body, rushing like wildfire over her skin, making the hot sweet spot between her thighs burn?

  ‘If you knew anything about viniculture, Cara, you would understand,’ he said, saying her name again like a caress, the harsh cynical anger morphing into something rough and raw with a devastating promise. ‘The soil here is unique, rich in complex minerals that give a specific flavour to the grapes.’

  The thickness in his throat seemed to echo in the deepest reaches of her body. She didn’t know what was happening to her. But for the first time ever she felt truly seen.

  He cupped her face, the rough calluses on his palm making her shudder as his thumb brushed across her lips. She should step back, away from that incendiary passion, but she felt trapped, owned and so desperately needy, the pulse between her thighs spreading out to ignite her entire body.

  ‘Once I own the vines,’ he murmured, ‘I can propagate them and replant on the land, creating a new vintage, even better than the Montremere.’

  She was breathing heavily, they both were. She licked her dry lips and the passion in his eyes exploded, darkening the pupils to black. She felt the answering explosion in her sex.

  But, instead of drawing her closer, his hand began to slip from her cheek.

  The need seemed to spring from nowhere, more than passion, more than desire. Something deep and elemental, that probably went all the way back to that rejected girl.

  And in that split second all she could see was the boy he had been too. The child who had been rejected and betrayed and exploited. She covered his hand with hers, the way she had attempted to do before at the table, to comfort him.

  But this time comfort wasn’t the only thing she felt. She didn’t want to lose his touch.

  Lifting on tiptoe, she placed her lips on his, needing to strengthen that connection, wanting to feed the hunger so she could obliterate his pain. And her own.

  She heard him groan, but then his hands were gripping her cheeks, pulling her against him and his mouth was on hers.

  Wild, hungry, demanding.

  Her mouth opened on a gasp and he captured the sob as he angled her head, giving him better access. Her own hands dropped from his face and she found herself clinging to him, her fingers fisting in his linen shirt. She shuddered, too aware of the overwhelming heat of his body, the press of his chest against her swollen breasts, her thrusting nipples becoming more engorged as she rubbed against the muscular strength like a cat desperate to be stroked.

  His tongue branded the secret recesses of her mouth. She tried to respond in tentative darts and licks. She had no idea what she was doing, all she knew was she needed more of his taste, his passion, his heat. His fingers threaded into her hair, releasing the pins she’d used to keep the wild mass aloft. She could hear them scattering on the stone flooring, hear the pounding rush of the blood pumping around her over-sensitised body and plunging into her sex.

  At last he yanked his mouth free. His dark eyes stared down at her, his expression stunned. But not as stunned as she felt.

  He swore softly, the searing gaze rising up to her hair then concentrating on her mouth. ‘I want you,’ he said. ‘Even though I should not. It is madness.’

  The raw honesty in the confession spoke to something deep inside her.

  ‘I know...’ she said, because she understood exactly how mad it was.

  They were in Pierre’s house. A house Durand wanted to destroy, a house she had come to love, on the day of Pierre’s funeral and she was Pierre’s widow. She shouldn’t want him and he shouldn’t want her. But all she could really feel was the need pounding in her blood, fuelled by the heady feeling of connection—their shared pain a living, breathing thing.

  And all she could see was the possessive desire in his eyes.

  No man had ever looked at her with that furious hunger, that passionate intensity. And, before she could stop herself, she said the words that had been echoing in her head ever since she first saw him climb out of his Jeep that afternoon.

  ‘I want you too.’

  He frowned, and tensed, his body poised, shocked but undecided, and for one agonising moment she thought he was going to refuse her.

  But then the confusion cleared, almost as quickly as it had come, and he scooped her into his arms.

  ‘Bien,’ he murmured.

  She grasped his neck, struggling to catch her breath as he strode out of the room and down the hallway. He took the stairs two at a time to the first landing.

  ‘Show me to a room you did not share with de la Mare,’ he demanded, his voice gruff and broaching no argument.

  The answer was simple. She pointed to her own bedroom at the end of the landing—the one she’d lived in ever since becoming Pierre’s housekeeper.

  He kicked open the door and flicked on the light with his elbow, then let her down beside the narrow double bed.

  She stood trembling, her body like a leaf being buffeted by the winds of her own desire. She’d never felt this way before, excited, exhilarated, out of control.

  He cupped her cheek, pressed a kiss to her lips, his large hand slipping down to cradle her neck and drag her against him. His lips devoured her cheek, her chin, the rioting pulse in her collarbone, sending the unbearable need darting into her sex, her breasts, and everywhere his mouth conquered.

  He wrapped an arm around her limp body, tugging her against the hard line of his, and the thick evidence of his arousal pressed into her quivering belly through their clothes.

  His hands were frantic but gentle as he tugged off her shirt, skimmed his fingers under the cotton camisole. Her bra released with a sharp snap and he drew away to watch her reaction as his thumbs found her aching nipples beneath the soft cotton. The tight peaks swelled and hardened as he played with them—circling and plucking and making them ache even more.

  ‘I need to see you,’ he groaned.

  She nodded, not sure if he was asking a question or making a demand. But, before she had a chance to second-guess herself, he had stripped off her bra and camisole. And she stood naked from the waist up.

  ‘Trop belle,’ he murmured, the reverent growl making her feel truly beautiful for the first time in her life.

  He cupped the underside of one breast in his callused palm and then bowed his dark head to capture the ripe, throbbing peak in his lips.

  She sunk her fingers into his hair, the sensations so exquisite as he suckled her that a raw moan broke from her lips.

  He teased and tortured her, circling the areola with his tongue, nipping at the swollen peak then drawing it deep into his mouth, the hot suction driving her wild. Her moans became sobs, her fingers fisting in the silky locks of his hair to draw him closer, demanding he give her more. The fire sparked and sizzled in her sex, threatening to consume her.

  ‘Please... I need...’ What did she need? She didn’t even know.

  ‘Tell me what is good for you,’ he rasped in her ear, hugging her trembling body close, notching the ridge of his erection against the melting spot between her thighs.

  The heat swelled and strengthened, but not enough...she needed to feel him, his strength, his hardness, filling the empty spaces inside her.

  ‘I need you naked too,’ she managed, shocking herself with the explicit request.

  He chuckled, the sound harsh. ‘Mais oui, Cara.’

  Placing a last kiss on the crest of her breast, he drew away to strip off his shirt.

  His chest was as broad and strong and magnificent as the rest of him. She devoured the sight of him, so bold and unashamed in the yellow glow from the ancient light fixture.

  The defined muscles of his pecs and the brown discs of his nipples were scattered with hair that arrowed down in a t
hin line bisecting the ridges of his abdominal muscles. She folded her arms over her breasts, trying to hold onto her sanity as he unbuttoned his trousers. Her heart slammed into her throat and pounded harder in her sex as he kicked them off and then lowered the stretchy black boxer shorts.

  The massive erection sprang free from the nest of hair at his groin.

  She’d never seen a naked man in his physical prime before, and certainly not one who was fully aroused.

  She swallowed heavily, unable to take her eyes off the hard shaft, which thrust up towards his belly button, so long and thick.

  How on earth was that supposed to fit inside her? But, even as the panic rippled through her, her sex moistened and softened, the muscles tensing and releasing in anticipation.

  She didn’t know if she could take something so huge, but she wanted to try.

  ‘Cara?’ he murmured as he nudged her chin up, forcing her gaze to meet his. ‘Ça va?’ he asked, the flash of concern crossing his face making her heart thud against her ribs.

  She nodded. ‘Can I...? Can I touch it?’

  Creases appeared in the tanned skin at the corners of his eyes, the dark depths sparkling with amusement as his lips quirked in a curious half smile. ‘Of course—you do not need to ask permission.’

  She nodded again, cursing her inexperience. She didn’t want him to know he was her first. Didn’t want him to suspect what a big deal this was to her. Because it was not a big deal to him.

  Reaching out, she touched his erection. Her fingertip glided along the rigid length, exploring the velvet softness of his skin, the hardness beneath.

  The erection jumped against her palm, thrilling her. He let out a rough groan as her thumb glided across the broad tip, gathering the bead of moisture that seeped from the slit.

  He grasped her wrist. ‘Arrête, Cara. You are killing me,’ he said as he lifted her fingers to his mouth and kissed them. The sight was so erotic her breath seized in her lungs. How could she be this turned on and not dissolve into a puddle?