Was she new at her trade?
And genuinely shy?
He asked himself that same question a short time later when she’d not yet emerged from the dressing room. He wouldn’t have expected shyness in Langelier’s mistress. Nor was she shy, he discovered brief moments later when he opened his dressing room door to find the chamber empty. A swift survey of the room revealed the lady’s true occupation.
The small money box he kept for petty cash in his bureau was empty on a chair. And the pretty, self-styled Simone had disappeared along with her portmanteau.
She wouldn’t know the second-floor corridors as well as he, he calmly thought, striding back through his sitting room, nor would she find the latch on the front gate a simple device to operate. A remnant of Richelieu’s penchant for mechanical contrivances, he’d kept it as a conversation piece. The back entrance was relatively inaccessible so he needn’t worry about her finding that. But he ran down the corridor, took the stairs in leaping bounds and exited the house through the library doors, well-shielded by shrubbery. His view of the front gate brought a faint smile to his lips.
Moments later, he softly said, “That’s a tricky latch.”
She twirled around at the sound of his voice and stood rigid against the twined metal, her hands clenched at her sides. “It’s not what you think.”
“You’re a clever little baggage,” Pasha drawled. “Did Langelier teach you that ploy?”
“I despised him.”
Pasha’s brows rose faintly. “Now I’m wondering if you killed him … but you were too pristine in all that blood. Perhaps you had him killed.”
“I most certainly did not.”
Her vehemence was well done, he thought. She was an accomplished little actress. “And I’m supposed to believe you?” he lazily inquired.
“It’s the truth.” Each word was clipped.
“As is the ten thousand francs you stole from me.” His temper showed for a moment.
She had the grace or more likely the intelligence to look remorseful. “I can explain.”
“Why don’t you explain to me inside,” he said, a quiet restraint in his voice.
“No.”
His dark eyes widened briefly. “What makes you think you have a choice?”
“I’ll scream for help,” she replied, a small defiance in her posture and stance.
“And should someone come,” he softly said, “I’ll tell them that you just stole ten thousand francs from me.”
“I didn’t know I’d taken so much,” she quickly replied, not in atonement but in vindication. “All I need is a thousand.”
“You should have waited. In the morning I would have given you five thousand.”
“No … I couldn’t. I mean— You don’t understand.”
“You can explain it to me later,” he coolly said. She wasn’t apologetic about taking his money; he was mildly intrigued at such brazenness. But he was more intent on having the beautiful mademoiselle in his bed tonight and that took precedence over any degree of curiosity. He reached down to pick up her valise.
Kicking his hand away, she snatched up her belongings.
Nursing his smarting fingers, he gazed at her with a cool regard. “And there I was looking forward to a quiet evening at home,” he murmured with a sardonic smile. “Now I’m going to have to exert myself.”
“Don’t touch me,” she warned.
He gave her marks for rash courage. “But I want to.”
“You can’t.”
“No one’s said that to me in a very long time,” he observed in almost a whisper, advancing on her.
“I’ll bargain with you,” she blurted out, alarmed by his nearness.
“We’ll bargain with each other,” he murmured, grasping the ornate ironwork on either side of her head and leaning into her body.
“No, no, I didn’t mean that,” she cried, pressing her palms against his chest, pushing, trying to hold him back.
But a second later she felt his powerful body hard against hers.
“Now you tell me what you want,” he murmured, “and I’ll tell you what I want.”
“No … please. You’re wrong about this.”
“Au contraire, this feels very right,” he whispered, moving his lower body in a slow, tantalizing rhythm.
His erection was enormous, rigid, long, hot against her body. She should feel affront or rage at the indignity, at the disrespect, but she felt instead an unwelcome, provocative flutter deep in the pit of her stomach and as he leaned down to touch her lips with his, she struggled to dismiss the sudden flare of pleasure streaking through her senses. Pummelling his chest, she cried, “No,” into the soft warmth of his mouth.
His hands shifted to clasp hers, to still their movement, and she fought to resist the intoxicating sensations she hadn’t experienced for years. This was impossible, this couldn’t be happening to her, she thought, horrified and appalled and in an urgent rush of guilt and self-pity, she thrust her entire weight against Pasha, kicking out violently.
He swung away at the stinging pain, standing beyond the range of her feet. “You’re going to leave bruises, darling,” he softly said.
“I’m not your darling.” But her breathing had altered; she was flushed, trembling.
Pasha recognized female arousal after years of standing stud to all the Parisian belles, and the mademoiselle’s body was available, he knew, whether she cared to admit it or not. He lifted his hands in a calming gesture. “I have no intention of hurting you.”
“This is very disturbing,” she whispered.
She was huddled against his garden gate like some lost urchin and suddenly struck by her vulnerability, he said as one would to a frightened child, “Would you like to come inside where it’s warm and have something to eat?”
When she looked up at him, the moon suddenly framed her golden hair in a radiant nimbus, drenching her in a startling innocence. Her eyes were huge in the light, all her uncertainties mirrored in their depths. She didn’t answer for a very long time and then she said very low, “I am hungry.”
“Come then,” he mildly said, “have something to eat.”
“Just that,” she cautioned.
“No one’s going to make you do anything you don’t want to do.” He had a conscience, rare in men of his class.
“I still need some of your money.” She had to make her position clear; the events of the past few moments were too unsettling to allow anything but pragmatic considerations in the future.
“I understand.”
“I could pay you back … eventually.”
“If you wish.” He shrugged. “A thousand francs isn’t of great issue. Would you like me to carry your valise or would you prefer carrying it?” He grinned. “Or we could leave it here for a convenient exit later.”
He hadn’t seen her smile before. He was dazzled.
“Usually men who live in houses like this are not so selfless.”
“I know. They’re my friends. Although don’t think me a saint,” he clarified. “You’d be wrong.”
“Understood. Monsieur Duras.”
“Pasha.”
She didn’t reply for several moments and then she said, “Pasha,” so sweetly, he had to remind himself he had a conscience.
As it turned out, he carried her valise into the house but she stopped him from returning it to his apartments. “I’d prefer the dining room,” she said.
There were choices of dining rooms in the house Richelieu had built and he allowed her to select one even while his first instinct was to take her directly to the small breakfast room at the back of the house.
They must have been soul mates in some other universe because she preferred the breakfast room too. Because of the birds and butterflies painted on the walls, she told him. Because of the soft cushions on the window seat, he thought, and the seclusion from the rest of the house.
Pasha’s chef was awakened along with his staff and the mademoiselle indicated her preferences
in food. Simple fare as it turned out so in order to bring a smile to his chef’s face, Pasha ordered his special strawberry souffle. “And champagne,” he added, “if mademoiselle agrees.”
Ensconced in a down-cushioned fauteuil near a small fire that had been set in the grate to take the chill from the room, the candlelight lending a magical realism to the birds and butterflies on the painted walls, mademoiselle smiled and nodded her agreement.
A smile like that prognosticated well for their future friendship, Pasha decided, moving toward her.
The servants had withdrawn, the firelight lent an added enchantment to the mademoiselle’s considerable charms, and peace had been restored. The evening should prove gratifying. “It’s cold for May, isn’t it,” he pleasantly said, dropping into the chair opposite her.
“I want to explain about the money,” she bluntly declared, ignoring his politesse. “I’m not what you think I am.”
“Your name isn’t Simone Croy,” he replied with a smile.
“No.”
“And?”
“I’m not sure I want to tell you.”
“Suit yourself.”
His tone was too suavely understanding. “You may not believe me anyway.”
“Mademoiselle, you can tell me as little or as much as you wish. Nothing more.”
“You’re not really interested.”
“Don’t take offense so easily,” he gently countered. “We’re not all like Langelier.”
“He kept me against my will.”
Pasha’s gaze sharpened. “You were a prisoner?”
“His hostage,” she bitterly replied.
“For what purpose?” The story was bizarre even for Langelier.
She hesitated, not sure how much to divulge.
“For money obviously, knowing Langelier,” Pasha interposed.
“Of course for money,” she retorted, aversion in her tone.
“He was more of a cad than I realized,” Pasha murmured, half to himself. “Did he have other women working for him?”
“No!” she exclaimed, shock registering on her face. “You misunderstand! I was never his mistress. He simply wanted my son’s inheritance.”
“He’s a relative?” A bit of an outre relationship even for Langelier—sleeping with a niece.
She sighed, looked away for a moment before facing his gaze once again. “It’s all very personal.”
“But then we had a uniquely personal meeting,” Pasha replied with a faint smile. “And I’m not easily shocked.”
She turned cherry red under his amused scrutiny. “He kept my clothes locked away in his armoire so I couldn’t leave. I was never his lover.” She shuddered minutely at the thought. “In fact, I bargained away part of my inheritance in order to retain my respect.”
“You’re a virgin?” He gazed at her from under his dark lashes, faint disbelief in his tone. Her impetuous arousal short moments ago suggested something more.
Her blush deepened, her discomfort was obvious. “I have a son,” she quietly declared.
He’d been right; she didn’t have the responses of a virgin. “So this is your husband’s inheritance Langelier was trying to appropriate?”
“No.”
He masked his surprise. “I see.”
“The inheritance is in controversy.”
“The father’s family is resisting.” A common response with a love child.
She nodded. “I’m a widow.”
“My sister was recently widowed. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. He was a spineless drunkard.”
“I see,” he said again, mildly astonished. The lady was full of surprises, Pasha mused, and unconventional to all appearances. A pleasant thought.
“I would have preferred not telling you all this, but under the circumstances …”
“Your explanation clarifies things immensely,” he said with polished charm. “And rest assured, your disclosures will be kept in the closest confidence. I can’t imagine—”
A servant entered with the champagne.
“Just leave it, Jules,” Pasha said, rising from his chair to take the ice bucket. “We can manage. Ah, the reserve bottles. You’ll like this—” He looked up from his manipulation of the cork. “What is your name?”
“Beatrix.”
He paused in his task. “You don’t look like a Beatrix.”
“This is what a Beatrix looks like.” She smiled at his objection. “My family called me Trixi.”
“There. I knew you had to have another name. You’re a perfect Trixi.”
“Pasha suits you.”
It was her first personal remark. He was encouraged. “My maternal grandparents were Russian.”
“How wonderfully exotic. My family is stolidly from Kent. Or were,” she softly corrected. She still forgot that her family was gone—at times like this when her thoughts were in disarray, when she wasn’t at home to be reminded of their absence.
“My family is in Paris at the moment; you met my father tonight,” he said, handing her a glass of champagne. “To future success on all your ventures,” he offered, lifting, his glass to hers.
“I’ve rather given up on my ventures,” she said with a rueful smile, lifting her glass, “but I’m looking forward to going home to my son.”
They talked idly then of children. Pasha had three younger siblings, he told her, the youngest fifteen. Trixi’s son was five and precocious, she said. She smiled when she spoke of him, of his favorite activities and his love for his pony. They shared memories of their childhood ponies for a time and he discovered small revealing bits of her background. An only child of a country gentleman, the Honorable Beatrix Howard had spent an idyllic youth in Kent. She never mentioned her husband or the father of her son, however, and he had no intention of asking her. When they touched briefly on the money she needed for her return to England, she apologized for deceiving him.
“Keep the money,” he said. “Buy something for Chris.”
“You’re too kind,” she murmured, warmed by the fire, by the wine, by her host’s benevolence. By her liberation from Langelier.
She laughed at something he said a short time later and he was charmed. Her smile was warm, expansive as she lounged back in her chair; her eyes held his for a glittering moment.
It must be the wine, she thought, startled at the sudden rush of desire.
I’ll unbutton the small pearl buttons at her prim collar first, he thought, watching the flush rise on her beautiful face. Very slowly, and then …
Bantam Books by Susan Johnson
The Kuzan Dynasty Trilogy
SEIZED BY LOVE
LOVE STORM
SWEET LOVE, SURVIVE
The Braddock-Black Series
BLAZE
SILVER FLAME
FORBIDDEN
BRAZEN
The St. John-Duras Series
SINFUL
WICKED
TABOO
A TOUCH OF SIN
and
BLONDE HEAT
SEDUCTION IN MIND
TEMPORARY MISTRESS
LEGENDARY LOVER
TO PLEASE A LADY
OUTLAW
PURE SIN
About the Author
Susan Johnson, award-winning author of ten previous novels, lives in the country near North Branch, Minnesota. A former art historian, she considers the life of a writer the best of all possible worlds.
Researching her novels takes her to past and distant places, and bringing characters to life allows her imagination full rein, while the creative process offers occasional fascinating glimpses into complicated machinery of the mind.
But perhaps most important … writing stories is fun.
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