In the Millionaire's Possession

by Sara Craven

  And now she had better go and catch her train. She was just reaching for her bag when Gaspard arrived, bearing a tray which he placed in front of her with a flourish.

  ‘There must be some mistake,’ Helen protested, watching him unload a cafetière, cups, saucers, two glasses and a bottle of armagnac. ‘I didn’t order any of this.’

  ‘But I did,’ Marc Delaroche said softly. ‘Because you look as if you need it. So do not refuse me, ma belle, je vous en prie.’

  And before she could utter any kind of protest, he took the seat opposite her, so recently vacated by Nigel, and smiled into her startled eyes.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘I THOUGHT you’d gone.’ The words were out before she could stop herself, implying that she took even a remote interest in his actions.

  ‘I was merely bidding au revoir to my friends.’ He filled her cup from the cafetière. ‘Before returning to offer you a digestif.’ He poured a judicious amount of armagnac into each crystal bowl, and pushed one towards her. ‘Something your companion should consider, perhaps,’ he added meditatively. ‘If he continues to rush through his meals at such a rate he will have an ulcer before he is forty.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Helen lifted her chin. ‘I’ll be sure to pass your warning on to him.’

  ‘I intended it for you,’ he said. ‘I presume he is the man you plan to marry at Monteagle with such panache?’ He slanted a smile at her. ‘After all, it is a wife’s duty to look after the physical well-being of her husband—in every way. Don’t you think so?’

  ‘You don’t want to know what I think.’ Helen bit her lip. ‘You really are some kind of dinosaur.’

  His smile widened. ‘And a man with a ruined digestion is an even more savage beast, believe me,’ he told her softly. ‘Just as a beautiful girl left alone in a restaurant is an offence against nature.’ He raised his glass. Salut.’

  ‘Oh, spare me.’ Helen gritted her teeth. ‘I don’t need your compliments—or your company.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ he said. ‘But you require my vote on the committee, so maybe you should force yourself to be civil for this short time, and drink with me.’

  Smouldering, Helen drank some of her coffee. ‘What made you choose this restaurant particularly?’ she asked, after a loaded pause.

  His brows lifted mockingly. ‘You suspect some sinister motive? That I am following you, perhaps?’ He shook his head. ‘You are wrong. I was invited here by my companions—who have a financial interest in the place and wished my opinion. Also I arrived first, remember, so I could accuse you of stalking me.’

  Helen stiffened. ‘That, of course, is just so likely.’ Her tone bit.

  ‘No,’ he returned coolly. ‘To my infinite regret, it is not likely at all.’

  Helen felt her throat muscles tighten warily. ‘Why are you doing this? Buying me drinks—forcing your company on me?’

  He shrugged. ‘Because I wished to encounter you when you were more relaxed. When you had—let your hair down, as they say.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘It looks much better loose, so why scrape it back in that unbecoming way?’

  ‘I wanted to look businesslike for the interview,’ she returned coldly. ‘Not as if I was trading on my gender.’

  ‘Put like that,’ he said, ‘I find it unappealing too.’

  ‘So why are you ignoring my obvious wish to keep my distance?’

  He lifted his glass, studying the colour of the armagnac. He said, ‘Your fiancé arrived late and left early. Perhaps I am merely trying to compensate for his lack of attention.’

  She bit her lip. ‘How dare you criticise him? You know nothing at all about him. He happens to be working very hard for our future together—and I don’t feel neglected in any way,’ she added defiantly.

  ‘I am relieved to hear it, ma mie,’ he drawled. ‘I feared for your sake that his performance in bed might be conducted at the same speed as your lunch dates.’

  She stared at him, shocked into a sudden blush that reached the roots of her hair.

  Her voice shook. ‘You have no right to talk to me like that—to speculate about my private relationships in that—disgusting way. You should be ashamed of yourself.’

  He looked back at her without a glimmer of repentance. ‘It was prompted solely by my concern for your happiness, I assure you.’

  She pushed back her chair and got to her feet, fumbling for her jacket. She said jerkily, ‘When I get the money to restore Monteagle I shall fill the world with my joy, monsieur. And that is the only affair of mine in which you have the right to probe. Goodbye.’

  She walked past him and out of the restaurant, her face still burning but her head held proudly.

  It was only when she was outside, heading for the tube station, that she realised just how afraid she’d been that he would follow her—stop her from leaving in some unspecified way.

  But of course he had not done so.

  He’s just a predator, she thought, looking for potential prey and testing their weaknesses. He saw I was alone, and possibly vulnerable, so he moved in. That’s all that happened.

  Or was it?

  If only I hadn’t blushed, she castigated herself. I just hope he interprets it as anger, not embarrassment.

  Because she couldn’t bear him to know that she didn’t have a clue what Nigel or any other man was like in bed. And she’d certainly never been openly challenged on the subject before—especially by a man who was also a complete stranger.

  She knew what happened physically, of course. She wasn’t that much of a fool or an innocent. But she didn’t know what to expect emotionally.

  She hoped that loving Nigel would be enough, and that he would teach her the rest. It was quite some time since he’d made a serious attempt to get her into bed, she thought remorsefully. But she couldn’t and wouldn’t delay the moment any longer. It was long overdue.

  Perhaps it was the fear of rejection which had kept him away so often lately. She’d been so wrapped up in her own life and its worries that she hadn’t truly considered his feelings.

  I’ve just been totally insensitive, she thought wearily. And the tragedy is that it took someone like Marc Delaroche to make me see it.

  But from now on everything’s going to be different, she promised herself firmly.

  I still can’t believe you’re back already,’ Lottie said, as she put a shepherd’s pie in the oven. ‘Your phone call gave me a real jolt. I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow at the earliest.’ She threw Helen a searching glance over her shoulder. ‘Didn’t you meet up with Nigel?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Helen said brightly. ‘We had an amazing lunch in one of the newest restaurants.’

  ‘Lunch, eh?’ Lottie pursed her lips. ‘Now, I had you down for a romantic dinner à deux, then back to his place for a night of seething passion. Supper with me is a pretty dull alternative.’

  Helen smiled at her. ‘Honey, nothing involving you is ever dull. And, to be honest, I couldn’t wait to get out of London.’

  Lottie gave her a careful look as she sat down at the kitchen table and began to string beans. ‘Your interview with the committee didn’t go so well?’

  Helen sighed. ‘I honestly don’t know. Most of them seemed pleasant and interested, but perhaps they were humouring me.’

  ‘And is this Marc Delaroche guy that you phoned me about included in the ‘pleasant and interested’ category?’ Lottie enquired.

  ‘No,’ Helen returned, teeth gritted. ‘He is not.’

  ‘How did I guess?’ Lottie said wryly. ‘Anyway, following your somewhat emotional request from the station, I looked him up on the net.’

  ‘And he was there?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Lottie nodded. ‘And he’s into buildings.’

  ‘An architect?’ Helen asked, surprised.

  ‘Not exactly. He’s the chairman of Fabrication Roche, a company that makes industrial buildings—instant factories from kits, cheap and ultra-efficient, especially in developing countries. The compa
ny’s won awards for the designs, and they’ve made him a multimillionaire.’

  ‘Then what the hell is someone from that kind of background doing on a committee that deals with heritage projects?’ Helen shook her head. ‘It makes no sense.’

  ‘Except he must know about costing,’ Lottie pointed out practically. ‘And applying modern technology to restoration work. The others deal with aesthetics. He looks at the bottom line.’

  Helen’s lips tightened. ‘Well, I hope the ghastly modern eye-sore we met in today wasn’t a sample of his handiwork.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that.’ Lottie grinned at her. ‘But I’ve printed everything off for you to read at your leisure.’ She paused. ‘No photograph of him, I’m afraid.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Helen said quietly. ‘I already know what he looks like.’

  And I know the way he looked at me, she thought, remembering her sense of helpless outrage as his gaze had moved over her body. And that glinting smile in his eyes…

  She swallowed, clearing the image determinedly from her mind. ‘But thanks for doing that, Lottie. It’s always best to—know your enemy.’

  ‘Even better not to have an enemy in the first place,’ Lottie retorted, rinsing the beans in a colander. ‘Especially one with his kind of money.’ She went to the dresser to fetch a bottle of red wine and a corkscrew. ‘Did you tell Nigel how your interview went?’

  Helen hesitated. ‘Some of it. He was really pushed for time, so I couldn’t go into details.’

  ‘And you’ll be seeing him this weekend, no doubt?’

  ‘Actually, no.’ Helen made her voice sound casual. ‘He’s got a party to go to. A duty thing for his chairman’s birthday.’

  Lottie stared at her. ‘And he hasn’t asked you to go with him?’ She sounded incredulous.

  ‘Well, no,’ Helen admitted awkwardly. ‘But it’s no big deal. It will be a black tie affair, and Nigel knows quite well I haven’t anything to wear to something like that.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘He probably wanted to save me embarrassment.’

  ‘For the same reason he might have considered buying you an evening dress,’ Lottie said with a touch of curtness. ‘He can certainly afford it.’

  Helen shrugged. ‘But he didn’t,’ she said. ‘And it really doesn’t matter.’ She paused. ‘Of course it will be different when we’re officially engaged.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Lottie agreed drily, filling their glasses.

  ‘And what about you?’ Helen was suddenly eager to change the subject. ‘Have you heard from Simon?’

  Her friend’s face lit up, her blue eyes sparkling. ‘The dam’s nearly finished, and he’s coming home on leave next month. Only two weeks, but that’s better than nothing, and we’re going to talk serious wedding plans. He says from now on he’s only accepting contracts which allow accompanying wives, so I think he’s missing me.’

  Helen smiled at her teasingly. ‘You can’t leave,’ she protested. ‘How are the locals to give dinner parties without you to cook for them?’

  ‘I promise I won’t go before I cater for your wedding reception,’ Lottie promised solemnly. ‘So can you please fix a date?’

  ‘I’ll make it a priority,’ Helen returned.

  She was in a thoughtful mood when she walked home that night. There’d been a shower of rain about an hour before, and the air was heady with the scent of damp earth and sweet grass.

  She was delighted at Lottie’s obvious happiness, but at the same time unable to subdue a small pang of envy.

  She wished her own life was falling so splendidly and lovingly into place.

  Yet Nigel seems to be managing perfectly well without me, she thought sadly. If only we could have talked today—really talked—then maybe we’d have had Lottie’s romantic kind of evening—and night—after all. And he’d have bought me a ring, and a dress, and taken me to Sussex. And he’d have told everyone, ‘This is my brand-new fiancée. I simply couldn’t bear to leave her behind.’

  She’d started the day with such optimism and determination, yet now she felt uneasy and almost frightened. Nothing had gone according to plan. And miles away, in a glass and concrete box, her fate had probably already been decided.

  I need Nigel, she thought. I need him to hold me and tell me everything will be all right, and that Monteagle is safe.

  She walked under the arched gateway and stood in the courtyard, looking at the bulk of the house in the starlight. Half-seen, like this, it seemed massive—impregnable—but she knew how deceptive it was.

  And it wasn’t just her own future under threat. There were the Marlands, George and Daisy, who’d come to work for her grandfather when they were a young married couple, as gardener and cook respectively. As the other staff had left George had learned to turn his hand to more and more things about the estate, and his wife, small, cheerful and bustling, had become the housekeeper. Helen, working alongside them, depended on them totally, but knew unhappily that she could not guarantee their future—specially from Trevor Newson.

  ‘Too old,’ he’d said. ‘Too set in their ways. I’ll be putting in my own people.’

  You’ll be putting in no one, she’d told herself silently.

  I wish I still felt as brave now, she thought, swallowing. But, even so, I’m not giving up the fight.

  Monteagle opened to the public on Saturdays in the summer. Marion Lowell the Vicar’s wife, who was a keen historian, led guided tours round the medieval ruins and those parts of the adjoining Jacobean house not being used as living accommodation by Helen and the Marlands.

  Her grandfather had been forced to sell the books from his library in the eighties, and Helen now used the room as her sitting room. It had a wonderful view across the lawns to the lake, so the fact that it was furnished with bits and pieces from the attics, and a sofa picked up for a song at a house clearance sale a few miles away, was no real hardship.

  If the weather was fine Helen and Daisy Marland served afternoon teas, with home-made scones and cakes, in the courtyard. With the promise of warm sunshine to come, they’d spent most of Friday evening baking.

  Helen had been notified that a coach tour, travelling under the faintly depressing title ‘Forgotten Corners of History’ would be arriving mid-afternoon, so she’d got George to set up wooden trestles, covered with the best of the linen sheets, and flank them with benches.

  Placing a small pot of wild flowers in the centre of each table, she felt reasonably satisfied, even if it was a lot of effort for very moderate returns. However, it was largely a goodwill gesture, and on that level it worked well. Entries in the visitors’ book in the Great Hall praised the teas lavishly, particularly Daisy’s featherlight scones, served with cream and home-made jam.

  For once, the coach arrived punctually, and as one tour ended the next began. Business in the courtyard was brisk, but evenly spaced for a change, so they were never ‘rushed to death’, as Mrs Marland approvingly put it. The weather had lived up to the forecast, and although Monteagle closed officially at six, it was well after that when the last visitors reluctantly departed, prising themselves away from the warmth of the early-evening sun.

  The clearing away done, Helen hung up the voluminous white apron she wore on these occasions, today over neatly pressed jeans and a blue muslin shirt, kicked off her sandals, and strolled across the lawns down to the edge of the lake. The coolness of the grass felt delicious under her aching soles, and the rippling water had its usual soothing effect.

  If only every open day could go as smoothly, she thought dreamily.

  Although that would not please Nigel, who had always made his disapproval clear. ‘Working as a glorified waitress,’ he’d said. ‘What on earth do you think your grandfather would say?’

  ‘He wouldn’t say anything,’ Helen had returned, slightly nettled by his attitude. ‘He’d simply roll up his sleeves and help with the dishes.’

  Besides, she thought, the real problem was Nigel’s mother Celia, a woman who gave snobbi
shness a bad name. She liked the idea of Helen having inherited Monteagle, but thought it should have come with a full staff of retainers and a convenient treasure chest in the dungeon to pay the running costs, so she had little sympathy with Helen’s struggles.

  She sighed, moving her shoulders with sudden uneasiness inside the cling of the shirt. Her skin felt warm and clammy, and she was sorely tempted to walk round to the landing stage beside the old boathouse, as she often did, strip off her top clothes and dive in for a cooling swim.

  That was what the thought of Nigel’s mother did to her, she told herself. Or was it?

  Because she realised with bewilderment that she had the strangest sensation that someone somewhere was watching her, and that was what she found suddenly disturbing.

  She swung round defensively, her brows snapping together, and realised with odd relief that it was only Mrs Lowell, coming towards her across the grass, wreathed in smiles.

  ‘What a splendid afternoon,’ she said, triumphantly rattling the cash box she was carrying. ‘No badly behaved children for once, and we’ve completely sold out of booklets. Any chance of the wonderful Lottie printing off some more for us?’

  ‘I mentioned we were getting low the other evening, and they’ll be ready for next week.’ Helen assured her, then paused. ‘We have had a good crowd here today.’ She gave a faint grin. ‘The coach party seemed the usual motley crew, but docile enough.’

  Mrs Lowell wrinkled her brow. ‘Actually, they seemed genuinely interested. Not a hint of having woken up and found themselves on the wrong bus. They asked all sorts of questions—at least one of them did—and he gave me a generous tip at the end, which I’ve added to funds.’

  ‘You shouldn’t do that,’ Helen reproved. ‘Your tour commentaries are brilliant, and I only wish I could pay you. If someone else enjoys listening to you that much, then you should keep the money for yourself.’

  ‘I love doing it,’ Mrs Lowell told her. ‘And it gets me out of the house while Jeff is writing his sermon,’ she added conspiratorially. ‘Apparently even a pin dropping can interrupt the creative flow. It’s just as well Em’s got a holiday job, because when she’s around the house is in turmoil. And it’s a good job, too, that she wasn’t here to spot the coach party star,’ she went on thoughtfully. ‘You must have noticed him yourself during tea, Helen. Very dishy, in an unconventional way, and totally unmissable. What Em would describe as “sex on legs”—but not, I hope, in front of her father. He’s still getting over the navel-piercing episode.’