by Carrie Duffy
As the rotors slowed, Philippe indicated that Alyson should remove her headphones and unclip her seatbelt. Then he opened the door and jumped out, his hands around Alyson’s waist as he helped her down. She felt dizzy to be back on solid ground and clung to him for a moment, his arms strong and reassuring.
‘Where are we?’ she asked breathlessly.
‘Château de Marne. My house.’
‘You live here?’ Alyson squeaked incredulously, as she took in the vastness of the property. It must have had forty rooms at least.
‘Occasionally.’ Philippe seemed amused by her reaction. ‘This is my family’s home. I live most of the time in Paris, or St Tropez – when I’m not travelling.’
Alyson burst out laughing. ‘This is madness,’ she cried in disbelief, wondering what on earth she was doing there. She was so far out of her comfort zone it wasn’t funny.
‘I think lunch will be almost ready,’ Philippe told her easily. She expected them to go into the château but Philippe led her away, along a winding path that stretched down towards the riverbank. ‘Et voilà!’
On the grass beside the river, a red-and-white chequered blanket had been spread out, an old-fashioned wicker picnic basket in the centre. Philippe knelt down and began to unpack: baguette, olives, cheese, smoked salmon, salad, a bottle of champagne.
Alyson sat down tentatively beside him, tucking her long legs underneath her. The location couldn’t have been more perfect. ‘This is incredible. Thank you,’ she said softly.
‘You’re pleased? Truly?’ Philippe’s eyes searched her face anxiously. ‘Good.’
The champagne cork flew out with a pop, and Philippe poured two glasses.
‘No thank you …’ Alyson faltered, shaking her head as he held one out to her.
‘Oh, but you must. This is my family’s champagne – see?’ He turned the bottle round for Alyson to read the label. Rochefort Champagne, emblazoned in gold with the traditional family crest.
‘Rochefort Champagne is your company?’
‘Yes. It was founded by my grandfather. The grapes are grown on the land around here. I can show you the vineyards later, if you would like to see them.’
‘I’d love to,’ Alyson breathed, hardly able to take in what she was hearing. ‘I can’t believe you own Rochefort Champagne,’ she finished incredulously.
‘Well, strictly speaking it belongs to the shareholders – it’s a public company. But I’m a major shareholder, and we still think of it as the family business.’
‘That’s amazing. I … I find business really interesting,’ Alyson admitted shyly. ‘I studied it in school, and I just find that whole world fascinating – how people found a company, why they succeed …’ She trailed off, worried that she’d said too much and made herself look ridiculous.
But Philippe was nodding in agreement. ‘You are very perceptive, I think. Most people do not find business so interesting. They are interested in the money, yes,’ he smiled wryly, ‘but not the process behind it. So how come you are working a bar?’ he asked bluntly.
Alyson flushed. ‘It’s not what I want to do,’ she explained, telling him the same story she’d told Aidan – how she’d tried to find an entry-level office job when she first came to Paris but every door seemed firmly closed, and how, struggling for money, she’d fallen back on bar work. She felt awkward and childish, confiding her ambitions to this incredibly successful man who quite clearly had everything – a beautiful house, a dream career, and enough money to make Croesus look like small fry. But Philippe didn’t laugh at her or belittle her. Instead, he handed her a champagne glass and raised his own.
‘Then I hope that one day you will get what you want,’ he said softly, tilting his flute against hers.
Hesitantly, Alyson took a sip, tasting the sharp, bubbling liquid for the first time.
‘It’s good, yes?’
‘It’s delicious,’ Alyson told him honestly.
‘I’m glad.’ Philippe smiled at her once again. Alyson looked away, feeling the familiar sensation of nerves building in her stomach. Her skin felt warm, an unexpected rush of heat low in her belly. She took another sip of champagne, feeling reckless.
‘Shall we?’ he asked, indicating the food.
Alyson forked a little salad onto a bone-china plate, as Philippe helped himself and told her more about his life. Alyson watched him as he spoke. She’d never met anyone like him before, someone so well travelled and cultured. He’d seen and experienced so much in his life – all the things she wanted to do – and he made her feel a part of it. She felt significant speaking to him, no longer the lonely, scared girl she’d been back in Manchester. He made her feel as though she had something valuable to offer the world.
She didn’t want to talk about herself but Philippe didn’t seem to mind. He didn’t pressure her into anything or force her to answer any questions. She felt comfortable with him, she realized. Such was his charisma that simply being around him made her feel special too. He was intelligent, charming … and incredibly handsome.
He stretched out on the rug in front of her, a relaxed posture that showed off his body. Alyson couldn’t help but check him out. His arms were muscular, with dark hair on his forearms, and his shoulders were broad, his body tapering down to a solid waist, strong thighs, an unmistakeable bulge between his legs … Alyson flushed and looked away.
‘There’s something very sensual about eating with your hands, don’t you think?’ Philippe asked casually, breaking into her thoughts. He held out a ripe strawberry, fat and juicy. ‘Here, try one of these.’
Alyson leaned forward to take a bite and her lips brushed against his fingers. She sat up quickly, her cheeks flaming, but Philippe didn’t take his eyes off her. She felt a pull deep within her stomach, a charge of electricity that shot through her whole body. She wanted him, she realized. She wanted him to kiss her. And then, the next moment, almost as though he’d read her thoughts, Philippe moved towards her and his mouth was on hers, her senses overwhelmed at the smell, feel, taste of him. She’d always imagined she’d be terrified when this moment came, but Philippe was so assured, taking charge completely. Gently, he pulled her in towards him, his body so large, his arms so strong. It was intoxicating.
‘I’ve been wanting to do that since the first moment I saw you,’ he murmured.
‘I …’ Alyson didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t seem to think straight. ‘What time is it?’ She checked her watch and was shocked to discover it was late afternoon. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she apologized. ‘I have to get back … I have to work.’
‘Do not worry about it – I will sort everything. If you would like to stay, you can stay. No pressure,’ Philippe said evenly.
Alyson looked around her, at the beautiful landscape, so tranquil and still. Paris felt like a world away – out here she could do anything, be who she wanted to be. She felt as though she’d jumped from a ledge expecting to hit the ground, but instead she was flying.
‘Would you like to stay?’ Philippe repeated, his dark brown eyes intense as he looked at her.
‘Yes,’ she replied, her voice barely more than a whisper. ‘I’ll stay.’
Aidan was behind the bar at Chez Paddy, gearing up for the Saturday night rush. It was getting busy and Alyson hadn’t turned up yet. Aidan hoped she was okay – she was never usually late.
The phone in the back began to ring. Quickly, Aidan finished serving the couple at the bar, then sprinted over to pick it up.
‘Allo?’
‘Aidan Kennedy?’
‘Yes?’
‘Good evening. My name is Philippe Rochefort. I believe I may have spoken with you when I came into your bar last week? I’m calling on behalf of Alyson Wakefield.’
Aidan instantly stiffened. He knew exactly who was calling. He’d recognized the man’s voice straight away.
‘I’m a … friend of hers. I’m calling to let you know that, unfortunately, she won’t be able to make it into work this evening.’
‘Where is she?’ Aidan demanded.
He heard Philippe laugh softly on the other end of the line. ‘Don’t worry about her – she’s fine. She’s with me. I really am sorry if this causes any problem. Perhaps if there’s a way we can settle this financially? I’d be happy to pay for any inconvenience this will cause—’
‘I don’t want your money,’ Aidan spat.
There was a pause. Aidan could almost hear Philippe smirking. ‘As you wish. Oh, and you might want to find cover for her shift tomorrow. I don’t think she’ll be in then either. But I’ll try and have her back with you by Monday, d’accord?’
He chuckled softly and hung up. At the other end of the line, Aidan slammed the phone back into its cradle.
He was so mad he couldn’t see straight. His fingers itched to punch something.
A queue was building up at the bar, but Aidan didn’t care. He stayed out back, standing in the dingy corridor where he forced himself to breathe deeply, in through the nose and out through the mouth.
So Alyson was with this Philippe guy. He’d heard of him of course – a rich society guy, part of the Rochefort Champagne dynasty. She’d gone away with him for the weekend and hadn’t even had the decency to tell him herself. And she was staying overnight. They were on a romantic weekend together, sharing a bed. The idea was torture for Aidan, the image of Alyson in another man’s arms. And not just any man – that arrogant, sleazy French guy.
He’d thought Alyson was different, but she was just like every other woman out there, her head turned by money and power. Aidan cursed himself for being so stupid, for being taken in by the sweet, innocent act. That’s all it had been – an act. He’d almost fallen for it as well. Those huge doe eyes, wide and tearful as she confided in him about her mother’s illness and her father leaving. She’d seemed so sweet, so genuine.
Aidan had told himself to take it slowly, that she wasn’t ready for anything heavy, and all the time she was fucking another man behind his back. What an idiot he’d been.
He exhaled heavily as he looked around him – at the grimy walls that needed repainting, the out-of-date health-and-safety posters peeling off the walls, grotty old cleaning cloths piled in a corner. He’d been here too long, he saw that now. What did he have to offer a woman? He was coasting with his life. He had real ambitions, a business plan that was sitting, forgotten, in a drawer upstairs. He needed to get out of here to make sure he could look at himself with pride when he looked in the mirror.
Perhaps it wouldn’t work out between Alyson and this guy. Perhaps Philippe was exaggerating.
Aidan wanted to see her again. He felt sure that, at heart, she was still the same, sweet Alyson he knew. How could he have got it so badly wrong? He’d be able to tell as soon as he looked at her exactly what the true story was.
All he needed was to look into her eyes, just once, and he would know.
15
Alyson lay stretched out in a glorious bubble bath, filled liberally with L’Occitane bath foam. The water was hot and she’d filled the tub almost to the top, sinking down low so the bubbles covered her entire body. Through the steam she stared out at the bathroom; it was old-fashioned and decadent, sumptuously decorated in marble and gold. The claw-foot bath in which she was reclining stood in the centre of the room, and dramatic arched windows, draped with heavy curtains in cream and gold, looked out over the estate.
She should be halfway through her shift at Chez Paddy by now, Alyson realized guiltily, but she pushed the thought away, all regret washed down the drain with the lavender-scented bathwater. Paris seemed like another planet, far, far away. She felt as though she’d been here, in Château de Marne, forever.
She’d spent an unforgettable afternoon with Philippe, strolling in the vineyards as they looked over his grounds and property. He was fascinating to talk to, never tiring of showing her things that he thought might interest her. He’d barely left her side all day, his arm wrapped round her waist as they walked. She liked that. It felt strong, and protective.
They’d reached a secluded spot, low in the valley and hidden from view by a thicket of trees. The clouds were heavy and threatening, only the occasional shaft of sunlight piercing through to reach the ground below, but nothing could dent Alyson’s good mood. They looked out over the glorious countryside, and Philippe had taken her in his arms and kissed her once again, Alyson recalled lazily, the memory of his lips on hers still fresh in her mind. She’d felt as though she was floating, drifting through some wonderful dream from which she never wanted to wake up.
When they’d finally returned to the house, faces glowing with exertion, Alyson found that a formal dinner had been set up for them in the vast dining room. Wood-panelled and hung with forbidding-looking portraits, the room was almost gothic in style and more than a little intimidating. Candles had been lit, with antique silverware and fine French china laid out on the twenty-foot-long polished mahogany table. For a moment, Alyson was speechless.
‘I didn’t bring a change of clothes,’ she finally blurted out stupidly, indicating the simple cotton dress she was wearing, the sandals on her feet.
‘I did not expect you to,’ Philippe smiled. ‘This was meant to be a surprise. Please, do not make yourself uncomfortable,’ he added, seeing the awkwardness on her face. ‘It will just be the two of us, no one else. Now, what would you like to eat? Anything you want.’
‘I … I don’t know,’ she stammered. Presented with the choice of whatever she wanted, she couldn’t seem to think of a single thing. How could she tell him that food was the last thing on her mind? That she was so deliriously happy just being around him that she might never need to eat again. ‘I don’t … Perhaps something light?’ she suggested desperately. ‘I ate so much at lunch and … It’s beautiful, Philippe, but it’s all so overwhelming.’ She waved her arms to indicate the opulence of the room.
‘That is not a problem,’ Philippe said, instantly understanding her. ‘Do not worry. Come, follow me.’
He led her down a spiral staircase to the kitchen and dismissed the half-dozen staff there, then told her to help herself to anything she wanted. They sat on bar stools at the counter, picking tubs out of the fridge and eating whatever they felt like. It suited Alyson far more than sitting stiffly at some straight-laced dinner. She began to relax once again, totally at ease in Philippe’s company. When he opened another bottle of champagne, she didn’t try to stop him.
It grew dark outside the tiny, leaded windows, and Philippe reached across to take her hand.
‘If you would like to go home, I can call for a car,’ he told her, his voice low and insistent. ‘Or, if you would like to stay tonight …’
Alyson felt her stomach flip-flop, an exhilarating mix of nerves and anticipation. ‘I’ll stay,’ she whispered. She didn’t know what she had just agreed to, but she was excited about finding out.
Philippe had taken her hand and led her up the main staircase, a grand, sweeping affair.
‘This is your room,’ he told her, pushing open a heavy wooden door, deep within the stone walls of the château. The rich burgundy walls were hung with paintings – countryside scenes, and images of hunting. An enormous fireplace dominated the centre of the room, and directly opposite it stood a four-poster draped in white voile. Through a small open door beyond was the en-suite bathroom.
‘Is everything satisfactory?’ Philippe asked, watching her expression carefully.
‘It’s incredible,’ Alyson told him genuinely. It seemed ridiculous that Philippe was worried about whether or not she liked his house, when she’d never stayed anywhere this beautiful in her whole life. It was a world away from the cramped terraced house in Oldham where she’d grown up.
‘Good. I’ll leave you to rest. There’s a robe in your closet. Use anything that you need to, and any clothes you would like to have cleaned, leave them outside your door and they will be washed and returned to you before the morning.’
‘Thank you, Philippe.’ Alyso
n felt overwhelmed with gratitude at everything he’d done for her. It was almost magical, the way he’d taken her from her ordinary life and into this dreamlike existence. ‘I’ve had such an amazing day – you’ve been so good to me.’
Philippe shook his head. ‘Not at all. I feel privileged that you’re here with me. You’re such a joy to be around, Alyson, simply beautiful – not just physically, but in spirit. I’m glad you’re happy to be here. I would not wish to be with anyone else.’
He bent down to kiss her once again and Alyson responded. She loved the feel of his kisses, the touch of his rough stubble against her skin, the lingering smell of the Acqua di Parma cologne he wore. More than anything, she adored the way her whole body trembled when he kissed her, little pulses of electricity firing through her lips, her stomach, all the way down to her groin.
He pulled away and she took a moment to catch her breath, her eyes wide, pupils dilated.
‘Goodnight, Alyson,’ Philippe said finally. He looked as though he wanted to say something else, as if he was wrestling with himself in some way. Then he turned on his heel and walked quickly out of the door.
Alyson remained motionless, trying to gather her thoughts. Her mind was racing and she knew there was no way she could sleep just yet. Perhaps a bath would help her relax.
She’d emptied almost half a bottle of L’Occitane foam into the churning water, and now lay in the scented bubbles, her mind replaying her incredible day. She didn’t know whether she was disappointed or relieved that she’d been put in a guest bedroom, instead of in the master bedroom with Philippe lying beside her. It was incredibly considerate, of course, that he’d given her privacy and hadn’t taken anything for granted. But there was still a part of her that wanted to know … to experience what it felt like to …