by Jill Mansell
“I’ve been asked to give you this, madam,” said Tomkiss, her pompous driver, and Francine regarded the large, gift-wrapped parcel with mild curiosity. The prospect of that hot bath, however, was more inviting.
“How charming. But do you think it is a bomb, Tomkiss?”
“It doesn’t tick, madam,” he replied stiffly, still holding the parcel toward her.
She suppressed a faint smile. Tomkiss had no sense of humor whatsoever. “Well, that is a good sign. Throw it into the car then, and I’ll look at it later.”
“The gentleman asked me to make sure you opened it right away, madam.”
Francine, now openly amused and enjoying the brief diversion, said, “You mean he gave you money to ensure your cooperation? How much, I wonder. Twenty pounds?”
“Er…fifty, madam.”
“Tomkiss, you must be careful! You know how easily I fall in love with wealthy men. Look, I shall sit in the car and open my parcel. Is that allowed, or must I shiver on the pavement in order to fulfill this present-giver’s wishes?”
“Inside the car will be adequate I’m sure, madam,” said Tomkiss, who was beginning to harbor the suspicion that she was making fun of him.
“That’s most kind of you,” replied Francine gravely. “What a truly good man you are.”
Most of her admirers gave her flowers, jewelry, perfume. Having untied the scarlet silk ribbons and pulled away the chic midnight-blue wrapping paper, she smiled. Some men gave her chocolates, some paintings. One had even presented her with a Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow.
But none before had ever given her a wicker basket containing six fat bundles of fresh asparagus, a dozen perfect artichokes, and two lobsters.
Opening the envelope that nestled cozily between the lobsters, she pulled out a folded piece of newspaper. The Times crossword, completed. In the margin beneath it were written only two words: “Clever enough?”
The door beside her opened. “Well?” said Max, his dark eyes glittering, his expression carefully controlled. “Am I?”
“You certainly are,” purred Francine, patting the seat beside her. “I’m impressed. Come with me back to my hotel, clever man. I have a suite at the Ritz. Maybe, when we get there, you’ll be able to impress me some more.”
• • •
Max felt as if he’d died and gone straight to heaven. As the evening progressed, he found himself falling more and more under Francine Lalonde’s spell. She was everything he had ever wanted in a woman. Even when she did things he actively disliked in other women—like smoking endless cigarettes—he didn’t care. It was as much a part of her as her expressive hands, deliciously dry sense of humor, and faintly accented English. He simply couldn’t imagine her not smoking. It would have been all wrong…
He loved her healthy appetite, the sheer pleasure with which she bit into a tender green asparagus tip, rolling her eyes in appreciation and laughing when the melted butter ran down her fingers. She extracted every morsel of succulent flesh from the cracked lobster claws with an air of triumph that was almost childish, yet a moment later her pink tongue would be darting lasciviously between parted lips, reminding him that she was a forty-year-old sex symbol desired by men the world over and supremely aware of her own sexuality.
“The most delicious meal I have ever eaten,” declared Francine finally, holding up her hands. “But maybe,” she added with a lazy smile, “also the messiest. Look, melted butter everywhere. I think I better take my bath. Max, could you unzip me?”
Better and better, thought Max, wiping his own hands on a linen napkin and rising to his feet as Francine turned her back to him.
The zip slid slowly, noiselessly from neck to waist, revealing an oyster satin camisole beneath. For a second his fingers hesitated, hovering over her spine as he battled with his emotions, but he was too late. Francine, smiling at him over her shoulder, was already making her way toward the bathroom.
“I’m afraid I take very long baths. Will you be OK out here?”
“I’ll be OK,” Max assured her with a slight smile as he admired her swaying walk. “If you have a newspaper around, I’ll do the crossword.”
“So clever,” said Francine, stepping out of her high-heeled shoes and leaving them in her wake. As she disappeared through the doorway she added dreamily, “And such a magnificent body too…”
• • •
When she emerged from the bathroom over an hour later, wrapped in a pale-yellow silk robe and with her wet hair combed away from her face, she looked surprised to find Max still there.
“My God, I forgot all about you,” she murmured distractedly, softening the insult with a smile and reaching for her half-empty wineglass. “Did you see a hair dryer, chéri? I’m sure I left it around here somewhere.”
She hadn’t only changed, she seemed almost to have forgotten who he was. Their earlier rapport might never have existed. Max felt as if he’d been punched very hard in the stomach. Silently he handed her the hair dryer, which had been lying on the floor beneath the coffee table.
“Look,” said Francine with a hint of apology. “It’s been wonderful. Maybe some other time it will be wonderful all over again, but I’m really very tired right now. All I want to do is go to bed.”
It was all Max wanted to do as well, but he was damned if he was going to say it aloud and give her the satisfaction of further humiliating him. That kind of masochism wasn’t his style at all.
“You do look tired,” he replied evenly, matching her veiled insult with one of his own, but inwardly longing to pull her into his arms. “And I really do have to get back to Bath.”
“Of course you do. I have to be in Scotland by nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Hey, it’s a hard life we have, don’t you think?” She laughed, pulling a comb out of her pocket and shaking her head so that droplets of water sprayed from her hair. Then she moved toward Max, put her arm around his neck, and kissed his cheek.
“I really am sorry, Max. I’m not always easy to be with. My manager says I am a cold and hot person. Sometimes he says I am loopy, you know?”
He nodded, unsmiling. It hurt too much to smile.
“But be in touch, yes? I will like to see you again when I am not so tired.”
“Maybe.”
Francine pouted, parodying his clipped tones. “Maybe. Mon Dieu! Is that a maybe yes or a maybe no? Come on, Max. Don’t sulk with me. It’s so bloody British!”
He gathered his dinner jacket and discarded bow tie from the back of the settee and headed toward the door. Opening it, he turned to gaze at her once more, assessing her as if she were a somewhat bizarre abstract painting in an art gallery.
“It’s just maybe,” he said, as casually as he knew how. “And don’t pout like that, Francine. It’s so bloody Gallic.”
Chapter 5
When Tessa pulled open her front door, Ross experienced afresh that jolt of longing. In a baggy, white cotton sweater and primrose-yellow cutoffs, her long, curling blond hair fastened in a disorganized topknot and her face once again devoid of makeup, she looked as stunning as he had remembered.
At the same time, he longed to pick her up and shake her. What the hell did she think she was playing at, anyway?
“Hello, Tessa,” he said slowly. And waited.
Tessa couldn’t believe this was happening. Why was he here? How had he found her? How much did he know, and how on earth did he know anything anyway?
Logically, she realized that all this was in some way connected with Holly. But she still couldn’t figure out how, since Holly didn’t know anything either. And Ross, she sensed with mounting unease, wasn’t going to give her any time at all in which to gather her thoughts.
“Hi.” Wiping her paint-stained hands with a tissue, she stood aside to allow him in, since that was obviously why he had come here. She glanced at her watch. “Can I get you a drink?”
&n
bsp; “No.” Ross had had several hours in which to gather his own thoughts, and he had assumed that it would give him the advantage, but now that he was here he found himself most uncharacteristically at a loss for words. He could scarcely even remember what he had planned to say.
“I paint,” said Tessa unnecessarily, nodding toward the easel set up beside the window. Ross glanced in turn at the jar of brushes on the windowsill, the blank canvases propped against a chair, the paint palette balanced across its arms, and the half-dozen or so framed paintings hanging on the whitewashed living room walls. With barely a hint of sarcasm, he said, “Really?”
“I’m afraid the place is in a bit of a mess…”
“Oh, do shut up.” He pushed his hands into his pockets and turned to face her, his dark eyes flashing, his determination renewed. “Tessa, why the bloody hell did you do it?”
“Do what?” Unnerved by his attack, she moved across to the window, looking out as if she was expecting another visitor. But there was only Ross’s car, a sleek white Mercedes, glittering in the cold December sunlight and serving as a cruel reminder of the difference in their lives.
“Everything.” He gestured with his hands, almost knocking her latest painting from its easel. “Why did you slope off that morning without leaving me your phone number? Why did you push the money into the bottle? Why wouldn’t you even tell me your name?”
Tessa shrugged. “None of those things seemed relevant at the time, I suppose.”
“Why the hell not?” he demanded. “What could be more relevant than leaving me with some means of contacting you? I told you I wanted to see you again, dammit.”
“But there would have been no point in us seeing each other again,” she tried to explain. It was clear in her own mind, but from the look on Ross’s face he obviously didn’t understand at all. Although that, she realized, was because he simply wasn’t used to being run out on. His pride had been hurt. She had resisted an irresistible man, and now he was challenging her to admit that she’d been wrong. He needed reassurance.
And since he appeared not to know about the baby, she felt she could afford to humor him.
“What would have been the point?” she said, her tone reasonable. “Look at how different we are, the two of us. I’m poor and you’re wealthy. You’re wildly successful and I’m not the least bit successful—yet. We’re different in every way possible…”
“I don’t know anything about you,” he interjected. “You wouldn’t tell me a single bloody thing about yourself in all those hours we spent together.”
“Take it from me,” she said solemnly, “we’re different. Look, nothing would ever have happened—I mean properly happened—if we’d carried on seeing each other. You can have any woman you want, for heaven’s sake. I knew that I couldn’t compete. So I saved us both a bit of embarrassment and slipped away quietly. Don’t you see it was the best thing to do?”
“No, I do not,” declared Ross, his knuckles white. “And if all these so-called differences were so important to you, why the fuck did you sleep with me in the first place?”
For the first time since his arrival, Tessa smiled. Her green eyes narrowed, and she tilted her head slightly to one side as she considered her answer. And despite himself, despite the fact that this beautiful, self-willed girl confused and irritated him beyond belief, Ross smiled too.
“OK, I know.” He pushed his fingers through his dark hair. “That was the dumbest question I’ve ever asked in my life.”
“It was nice.”
“A nice question?” He grinned, deliberately misunderstanding her. Quite suddenly the challenge and tension between them had dissipated.
“The question was dumb. The sleeping with you was nice.”
“You really thought so?” Now he was openly teasing her. “You aren’t just saying that to be kind?”
“Actually I am. You know how it is with you men and your fragile egos. We wouldn’t want you getting impotent again, after all.”
Ross took a step toward her. What he desperately wanted to do was pull her into his arms, slide that baggy sweater off her shoulders, and tumble her into bed. But all he did was take a single step forward. He was beginning—maybe—to learn how to deal with Tessa Duvall.
“Wouldn’t we?” he challenged softly.
Tessa realized at once what he was doing, and she was shaken by how badly she wanted him to do it. It was all happening again: the tidal wave of adrenaline, that surge of sexual desire so powerful that her knees were actually trembling, the longing to touch and explore, to give and receive pleasure…
But this time she wasn’t going to give in. The reasons she had given Ross for not seeing him again hadn’t been part of some elaborate game; she had been speaking the truth. And it had been hard enough trying to get him out of her mind after just one night. If she gave in now it would only make matters worse. She was going to kick the habit before it got completely out of hand.
This time she was going to say no.
Or she would have done if Ross hadn’t chosen precisely that moment to pull her gently but firmly into his arms.
• • •
Unaccustomed as he was to being turned down, Ross couldn’t believe that Tessa was doing so again. Even worse, she didn’t even have the decency to take him seriously.
“What’s so funny?” he demanded, falling back against the pillows and watching her laugh at him.
“You are.” Tessa leaned across and kissed the tip of his nose. “I bet you say that to all the girls. You really should be more careful; one of these days someone’s going to take you up on it.”
“I have never asked anyone to marry me before,” declared Ross, outraged. “And I didn’t plan that when the occasion arose I would be laughed at. Now will you bloody well marry me or not?”
“Not!” Tessa giggled, wishing that he would see the funny side. “Look, this is absurd. You don’t propose marriage to people just because it’s fun going to bed with them. There’s no need to worry,” she went on, whispering in his ear, “I won’t tell anyone. Your reputation shall remain intact.”
“Ah,” said Ross, equally softly, “but what about your reputation? You’re the one who’s pregnant, after all.”
He watched her freeze. Then, jerking away from him, she covered her face with her hands. When she didn’t say anything, Ross went on, “Holly told me about it. She explained that you’d had a one-night stand with some guy you met at Max’s party and that you weren’t going to see him again because he was off the scene. But I’m not off the scene, am I? I’m here and you’re pregnant and I’ve asked you to marry me. How the hell can you be so stubborn?”
“I’ve told you.” Tessa’s tone was flat, uncompromising. “It wouldn’t work, and it’s stupid to even pretend that it might.”
“But you’re having my child.” Again he was torn between wanting to hug her and shake some sense into her. Then a thought struck him. “You are going to have it, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am.”
“Then why didn’t you want me to know about it?”
“Oh please!” exclaimed Tessa, her green eyes flashing. “What was I supposed to do, trail into the hotel and ask you for money?”
“In your situation it’s what most girls would do.”
“Well, I’m not most girls,” she retaliated harshly. “And I don’t beg from anyone. I’ll manage perfectly well by myself.”
“A child needs a father.” Ross was aware that he sounded unbelievably pompous, but he couldn’t help himself. “It isn’t fair to deprive it of a parent simply because you’re too bloody obstinate to want to share it. And how’s it going to feel when it grows up enough to understand that it’s illegitimate? What about the stigma?”
He was quite unprepared for Tessa’s reaction. Swinging around, she hit him as hard as she could on the side of the head, so fiercely that
for a second Ross saw real stars.
“Jesus,” he muttered, touching his temple and somehow expecting to see blood.
“Exactly.” Tessa was shaking with fury, her tone icy with disdain. “He was illegitimate too. So was I. And I don’t think it did either of us such terrible harm.”
Now that he understood, he was appalled by his own insensitivity. Risking life and limb, he pulled her into his arms. Burying his face in her long hair, he said urgently, “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. I only said it because you’d shot down every other argument I could think of. I didn’t mean a word of it anyway.”
For endless seconds Tessa said nothing, staring instead at the Prussian-blue ceiling of her bedroom. Finally, she patted his arm in a gesture that was curiously maternal.
“I’m sorry as well. I shouldn’t have hit you like that.” She paused, then broke into a grin. “But just think how annoyed I would have been if I really were illegitimate.”
• • •
Holly was up to her ears on reception when Tessa strolled past, arm in arm with Ross. She did a classic double take, but Tessa, the bitch, simply winked and carried on walking, leaving Holly to deal with a party of excitable Mafia-types who seemed to think that if they spoke slowly and loudly enough in their incomprehensible Sicilian dialect she would somehow miraculously understand them.
Boiling with curiosity, she had to endure another hour of chaos and frustration before Tessa finally emerged from the restaurant alone. By some miracle there was no one requiring attention and the phone was silent. Holly darted out from behind the desk and frog-marched Tessa into the ladies’ restroom.
“Tell me everything,” she demanded, glancing at her watch. “And in less than thirty seconds. Ross will kill me if he finds out I’m missing—he has some very strange ideas about women’s bladders.”
“OK,” said Tessa, mimicking Holly’s rapid-fire line of speech. Holding up the fingers of one hand, she began ticking them off. “We met. We had a quickie. He asked me to marry him. I turned him down. I slapped his face. Shit, I’ve run out of fingers. Never mind. And he agreed to let me sell my paintings in the hotel.”