In the Millionaire's Possession

by Sara Craven

  She’d planned to take the jacket off, of course, but she felt absurdly self-conscious as she slipped it from her shoulders—as if, she thought, she was suddenly naked under his inscrutable dark gaze.

  ‘Your dress is charming,’ he said, after a pause that seemed to Helen’s overwrought senses to have lasted fractionally too long. ‘Perhaps we should give a party when we return to England, so that all your friends in the village can admire its true glory. What do you think?’

  She shrugged as she walked past him towards the door. ‘I’m sure people will want to see how the house is progressing, anyway,’ she returned quietly. ‘But won’t you find a village party rather boring?’

  His brows lifted. ‘With you beside me, cherie?’ he asked mockingly. ‘Impossible. Now, let us go and eat our wedding supper.’

  A table had been set for them under an awning on the terrace, bright with tiny bowls of scented flowers and candles in little glass shades. Gaston brought Helen the dry white wine she’d asked for, while Marc drank Ricard.

  The food was wonderful, even though Helen was fully aware she was not doing it justice. A delicately flavoured vegetable terrine was followed by poached sole, then tiny chickens simmered in wine and grapes. After the cheese came milles-feuilles, thick with liqueur-flavoured cream.

  Helen was sparing with the excellent Chablis offered with the meal, and, to Marc’s open amusement, resolutely refused the brandy that arrived with the tall silver coffeepot.

  ‘Afraid that it will send you to sleep again, ma chère?’ His brows lifted. ‘I promise it will not.’

  Her heart lurched. ‘Did Elise do all of this?’ she asked, keen to change the subject. ‘She’s a miraculous cook.’

  ‘A lot of people would agree.’ He smiled faintly. ‘And many attempts have been made to lure her away, but she remains faithful to Thierry and Nicole.’

  She said stiltedly, ‘It was kind of them to lend you this beautiful house.’

  ‘And I am sorry we have only a week, instead of the month they offered,’ he returned. ‘But it may be that we can go on a longer trip later in the year—to the Caribbean, perhaps, or the Pacific islands.’ He paused. ‘Would you like that?’

  She didn’t look at him. ‘It—it sounds wonderful.’

  Oh, stop pretending, she begged silently. Please, stop pretending.

  It was growing very late, she realised. The deep indigo of the sky was sparked with stars, and a slight breeze had risen, carrying with it the murmur of the sea.

  She suddenly realised she was going to yawn, and tried desperately to mask it with her hand. But he noticed.

  ‘Tu es fatiguée?’

  ‘No—not at all.’ Her denial was too swift—too emphatic. ‘It’s so lovely here,’ she added, forcing a smile. ‘I’m trying to take it all in.’

  ‘That may be easier in daylight. And I am glad that you are not tired.’ Marc finished his brandy and rose. He came round to her and extended his hand. ‘It is time for bed, ma femme,’ he said softly. ‘Viens.’

  Shakily, Helen got to her feet and let him lead her into the house, across the shadows of the salon and up the stairs beyond.

  At her door, Marc paused, running a rueful hand over his chin. ‘I need to shave,’ he told her. ‘So I will join you presently.’

  Swallowing, Helen backed into her room and closed the door. The lamps had been lit on either side of the bed, and the covers were turned down. One of her nightgowns—the white one—was waiting for her, fanned out over the foot of the bed.

  So she was not to be spared after all, she thought numbly. Even though there was another woman in his life, Marc was still not prepared to forego the novelty of possessing his virgin bride.

  It had been bad enough when she’d only had the danger of her own responses to fight, she thought. But now she had the added humiliation of knowing that she would be sharing him. That even on their wedding night she’d be denied the small comfort of knowing that, for a brief time, he’d been hers alone.

  A laugh like a sob escaped her. ‘My God,’ she whispered. ‘And I thought I could fight him.’

  She went over to the dressing table and sank down on the padded stool. In the lamplight she looked pale, her eyes wide and almost bruised.

  She thought, How can I bear this? What shall I do? And sat motionless, her face buried in her hands.

  She did not hear the door open, but some deep instinct warned her when she was no longer alone. She raised her head and met his gaze in the mirror. He was standing behind her, wearing a robe of dark silk which she knew would be his only covering.

  He had showered as well, she realised. The clean damp scent of his skin filled her senses, and she took a swift breath of helpless longing.

  He said quietly, ‘I thought you would be in bed, ma belle.’

  ‘My dress,’ she said, snatching at an excuse. ‘I—I couldn’t reach…’

  ‘You could have come to me, Hélène. Asked me to help you.’ His hands closed on her shoulders, urging her gently to her feet. ‘Like this,’ he whispered.

  Helen felt the tiny hook on her bodice give way, and the faint rasp of the zip as he lowered it. She felt his mouth touch the nape of her neck, then move with sure gentleness to her shoulder, pushing away the thin strap, baring the soft skin for his lips.

  She felt the dress begin to slip down her body, and clutched it with both hands as the first dangerous and uncontrollable tremor of need quivered through her body.

  He turned her slowly to face him, his mouth seeking hers. He said softly, ‘Mon ange.’

  Angel, she thought dazedly, her pulses swimming. My angel. My—Angeline… Was that what he called her too—mon ange? Were these the caresses he used to seduce his mistress—and countless others?

  Marc’s women—so easily interchangeable. So soon forgotten.

  But only if she allowed it, she told herself, anger building on wretchedness.

  As he kissed her she turned her face away sharply, so that his mouth grazed only her cheek. In a voice she didn’t recognise, she said, ‘No—no, Marc, please.’

  He paused, frowning, but more in surprise than annoyance. His hands cupped her face, making her look at him. ‘Qu’as tu?’ His tone was still gentle. ‘What is the matter?’

  ‘I can’t do this.’ She swallowed. ‘I thought I—could. But it’s impossible.’

  He put his arms round her, his hands slipping inside the loosened dress, gently stroking the naked vulnerability of her back, making her shiver and burn.

  ‘Mon amour,’ he murmured, as if he sensed her body’s confusion. ‘There is nothing to fear. Do you think I would hurt you? I promise I shall not.’

  But she was in pain already. She screamed at him soundlessly. She occupied an agonising wasteland where need fought with reason and heartbreak and humiliation waited to devour her like hungry tigers. And if she turned to him now, she would be lost.

  ‘Please—you have to let me go.’ Her voice cracked. ‘I—I can’t be what you want—do what you want. You—you said you’d be patient…’

  ‘Patient,’ he repeated, almost incredulously. ‘You dare to say that to me? Mon Dieu! When have I not been patient? Even when your body was mine for the taking, I held back. Waited for the moment when you would be my wife in honour.’

  ‘There is no honour,’ Helen said, her voice a shaken breath. ‘We—made a deal. That’s all.’

  Grim-faced, he stepped back from her. ‘Mais, oui,’ he said. ‘We had a deal—that sordid little bargain of ours, to which you agreed, ma chère, however much you may regret it at this moment.’

  She faced him, her arms wrapped round her body. ‘You threw me a lifeline,’ she said. ‘And I was grateful. I didn’t let myself consider—the personal implications. At least, not until now.’

  ‘Not even when you were in my arms, ma belle?’ His laugh was harsh. His words seared her to the core. ‘I think you are lying.’ He paused. ‘But here is something else for you to consider. Why should I continue to keep to the ter

ms of our agreement if you do not?’

  There was a silence. At last she said hoarsely, ‘You mean you’d—abandon Monteagle? Stop all the work because I—I won’t…’

  She stared at him pleadingly, but found she was looking into the narrowed angry eyes of a stranger.

  She said, stammering slightly, ‘But you couldn’t do that, surely? You—you love it too much. Besides, you promised…’

  ‘And you,’ he said, ‘made a vow also. Just today. And, whatever I feel about the house, I hate being cheated far more, ma petite trompeuse. And if you can break your word so easily, then so can I.’

  He paused. ‘Or maybe you would prefer to—reconsider, my beautiful wife. After all, we still have the rest of the night. And surely for the sake of your beloved Monteagle you can endure this—minor inconvenience. But do not make me wait too long for your decision,’ he added coldly, turning away. ‘And this time, madame, you will come to me.’

  Helen stood motionless, hardly breathing as she watched the door close behind him.

  After a while she unclasped her arms and let the dress slide to the ground. She stepped out of it and went into the bathroom, running water into the tub as she took off her underwear and put it in the linen basket.

  Then she climbed into the bath and lay back, closing her eyes, trying to be calm—rational.

  All over the world, she thought, women were having sex when they didn’t want to. That was nothing new. She couldn’t, of course, fake an orgasm. Even if she knew how she guessed Marc would not be deceived for a moment. Instead, she would have to feign the frigidity that Nigel had once accused her of. Maintain some kind of integrity by her indifference, no matter what the cost—and instinct told her it would be high.

  This minor inconvenience, he’d said, his mouth twisting cynically.

  Oh, God, she whispered wretchedly. How little he knew.

  She could only hope he would soon become bored by her passive resistance. But until then…

  She dried herself, cleaned her teeth and brushed her hair. Calming herself with the usual routine of bedtime.

  She went over to the bed, picked up the pretty, fragile thing that lay there, and slipped it on over her head. She supposed he would want her to take it off. Supposed, but did not know. Not for certain. Nothing for certain.

  It’s ludicrous, she thought, swallowing a small, fierce sob. My first time with a man and I haven’t a bloody clue.

  Except, of course, the remembrance of his hands weaving their dark magic on her skin only a short time before. The magic she’d always known could be her downfall.

  The white silk rustled faintly above her bare feet as she went slowly out of the room and across the passage. The door of his room was ajar, and she pushed it open and stepped into the lamplit silence.

  CHAPTER NINE

  MARC was lying propped up on an elbow, facing the door. Waiting, she realised, without one solitary doubt for her to appear. Savouring his victory in advance. The enjoyment he so confidently expected.

  Yet there was no triumph in the brief, bleak smile he accorded her.

  He pulled back the cover, indicating without words that she should join him. Helen obeyed, lying rigid and awkward beside him, aware of the painful thud of her heart, but even more conscious of his naked warmth and the grave dark eyes studying her face.

  Still propped on his elbow, Marc lifted his other hand, stroking the hair back from her temples with his fingertips, then moving down to trace the arch of her eyebrows. His touch was as light as the brush of a butterfly’s wing as it followed the hollows of her cheekbones, then hovered at the corner of her mouth.

  ‘Hélène.’ His voice was oddly gentle too. ‘Do you know how I have longed for this moment—and for you?’

  He bent his head and kissed her, his lips moving coaxingly on her unresponsive mouth while his hand slid down to the demure neckline of her nightdress, brushing its straps off her shoulders.

  ‘C’est très jolie, ça,’ he whispered. ‘But I think you would be even lovelier without it.’

  She was shaking inside as the silk slipped down her body, and she heard his soft murmur of satisfaction as his fingers cupped her bare breast. No matter how determined she might be to withstand him, she found with dismay that she could not prevent her nipple hardening in excitement at his caress, or deny the sudden languorous melting between her thighs.

  Marc bent towards her again, his mouth closing on the rounded softness he’d uncovered, his tongue laving its engorged peak with passionate finesse.

  He was lying beside her now, his arm round her shoulders, holding her against him, leaving her in no doubt that he was fiercely aroused. His hand drifted slowly downwards over her body, exploring each curve and contour through the thin fabric of her nightdress, creating a delicate, enticing friction against her skin.

  She felt his fingers linger on her hipbone, then move inwards across the flat plane of her stomach with unmistakable purpose while his mouth sought hers with renewed intensity.

  She moved then, swiftly, frantically, both hands capturing his and dragging it away from her body. ‘Don’t,’ she said hoarsely. ‘Don’t touch me.’

  He was still for a moment, then she heard him sigh.

  ‘Ah, mon amour.’ He took her hand and raised it to his lips, caressing her palm softly. ‘Don’t fight me, je t’en supplié. Relax. Let me make this beautiful for you.’

  ‘Beautiful?’ She echoed the word with bitter incredulity. ‘You bought me for sex, monsieur, so how can it possibly be beautiful? Not that it matters. I—just want it to be over.’

  He was suddenly tense, his fingers gripping hers almost painfully. At last he said quietly, ‘Hélène, you do not know what you are saying.’

  ‘Yes—yes, I do.’ The words tumbled out of her, heartsick and wounded. ‘I’m sick of this hypocrisy—this pretence that I’m anything more to you than just another girl in another bed, marriage or no marriage. And I can’t bear to be touched—kissed,’ she added quickly. ‘So just—do it and let me go. Because I don’t want you and I never will.’

  His sudden harsh laugh made her flinch. He released her and sat up, the sheet falling away from his body, his mouth grim. ‘And what now, madame? I am expected, perhaps, to admit defeat and send you back to the virgin sanctity of your room. Is that it? To be followed by a swift, discreet annulment back in England?’

  He shook his head. ‘Well, you may dream on, mon coeur. Because you will go nowhere until I have made our marriage a reality.’

  Before she even realised what was happening he had lifted himself over her, his hand pushing back her nightgown and parting her thighs with ruthless determination.

  She felt his fingers discover the moist silken heat that he’d created, in spite of herself, heard him laugh softly, and could have died of shame.

  ‘You’ll make me hate you,’ she stormed, trying to twist away from him and failing totally.

  ‘That is your privilege,’ he said. ‘This—is mine.’ And, poised above her, slowly, skilfully, he guided himself into her.

  She lay beneath him unmoving, hardly able to breathe, her eyes closed and one fist pressed against her mouth, waiting for the pain but determined that she would not cry out.

  Yet there was no need. She had not expected consideration. Probably did not deserve gentleness. But he offered them to her just the same. In spite of the unyielding tautness of her body, his possession of her was deliberately leisured and totally complete. Also utterly determined.

  Yet at the same time it was a curiously sterile performance. Sexually naïve as she was, Helen could still recognise that. And although she’d stipulated no kisses or caresses she’d not expected him to listen. But it seemed that he had, because apart from that one supreme intimacy of his body joined to hers there was no other physical contact between them. His weight was supported by his arms, clamped either side of her on the bed.

  When he began to move, it was also without haste. The drive of his body was controlled and clinical, expressing an almost steely resolve, and when Helen risked a scared, fleeting glance upwards at his face she saw that it was set and expressionless, his gaze fixed on the wall above the bed. As if he had withdrawn behind some silent, private barricade.

  And even as she realised with anguish, This is not—not how it should be…she felt, deep within her, at that moment, a small stirring, as if the petals of a flower were slowly unfurling in the sunlight. But as her shocked mind acknowledged it, tried with a kind of desperation to focus there, it was gone.

  At the same time she heard his breathing change suddenly, and felt his body convulse violently inside hers as he reached his climax.

  She heard him cry out something that might almost have been her name, his voice hoarse and ragged, as if that unyielding wall of reserve had suddenly crumbled, and for an instant she felt his weight slump against her, pressing her down into the bed.

  But he released himself almost at once and rolled away from her, burying his face in his folded arms so that she was free.

  For a while she lay still, adjusting to the slight soreness between her thighs and knowing at the same time that it did not compare with the vast ache of loneliness and frustration that now filled her bewildered body, making her want to moan aloud.

  She moved away a little, towards the edge of the bed. She said, dry-mouthed, ‘May I go now—back to my own room?’

  For a long moment there was silence, then slowly he raised his head and looked at her, his face wearily sardonic. ‘Pourquoi pas? Why not? I assume you do not wish to sleep in my arms and have me kiss you awake in the morning. So go back to your sanctuary, my little cheat.’

  His words stung, especially when she knew that even now, if he reached for her—held her—she would not be able to resist him.

  She lifted her chin. ‘I hardly cheated. I did what you expected.’

  ‘Did you?’ His mouth twisted. ‘How little you know, cherie.’ He shrugged a sweat-slicked shoulder. ‘And I still say you are a cheat. Because your victim is now yourself. You have defrauded your own body of the warmth and passion of being a woman. And you did it deliberately. Or did you think I would not know?’ he added with contempt. ‘So sleep with that, hein?’

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