Miss Prim and the Billionaire

by Lucy Gordon

  ‘Of course,’ she said.

  ‘I mean you’re obviously a very…sensible…businesslike woman, and I didn’t mean to insult you.’

  She regarded him with ironic humour. ‘You mean it’s quite impossible that I could ever lead a man down dark and dangerous paths? Some women would be more insulted by that than the other.’

  ‘Look I…put my foot in it. I apologise.’

  He retreated in a flurry of embarrassment.

  ‘Well, you certainly made him sorry,’ Marcel declared.

  She managed to laugh. ‘I did, didn’t I? His face!’

  The man had gone to join the couple at the other table, talking wildly and making gestures, clearly explaining something to them. He glanced up, saw Cassie looking at him and gave her an embarrassed grin.

  ‘He’s terrified of me,’ she murmured to Marcel.

  ‘And you don’t mind?’

  ‘Why should I mind? I don’t want to lead him down “dark and dangerous paths”. Hey, the girl’s looking at me now. I wonder if she’s taking warning.’

  ‘That your gaze might turn her to stone?’ Marcel hazarded hilariously.

  ‘No, that a woman can start out like her and end like me. Not that she’d believe it.’

  She had a dizzying sensation of going too far. Surely now Marcel must be remembering the dark and dangerous paths down which they’d travelled together, and reading the truth in her eyes. But the time was not right. If things had been different she could have told him everything now, but that was impossible until he could bring himself to admit that he knew who she was.

  And that day might never come.

  Suddenly she doubted that she had the strength for this. She wanted to cry aloud and flee him. She even moved to rise from her seat, but his hand detained her.

  ‘Are you all right? You look troubled.’

  His voice was gentle, his eyes warm and concerned. It was as though another man had taken him over, or perhaps lured him back to the past, and it was her undoing.

  ‘Look, I must go. It’s late and I’m tired—’

  ‘Of course. I’ll take you home.’

  ‘No!’ The word was almost violent. ‘No, there’s no need for that. I’ll be all right.’

  ‘I’ll tell Hotel Reception to send a car to the front for you. Then you’ll be free of me.’

  ‘It’s not that—’ she began wildly.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ he said. ‘It’s like that for both of us.’ His voice grew softer, more intense. ‘We both need some time to get our heads together.’ His eyes met hers. ‘Don’t we?’

  She nodded dumbly.

  He escorted her out of the hotel and to the waiting car, assisted her into a seat at the rear, then stood with the door still open, leaning in slightly, holding onto her hand.

  ‘It’s all right about going to Paris, isn’t it?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then be ready to travel tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow? But you said I could have the day off to sort out—’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind. There’s no time. You’ll have to do it long-distance when you get there. I’ll collect you at nine tomorrow morning.’ His hand tightened on hers. ‘You will be there, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You won’t vanish?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Promise me.’ His voice was almost harsh in its intensity.

  ‘I promise,’ she said.

  His eyes held hers and for a moment she thought he would refuse to let go of her hand. But then he released her suddenly, slammed the door and stepped back. Her last view of him was standing there, completely still, his eyes fixed on the retreating car like a man clinging on to a vanishing hope.

  He watched her until she was out of sight, then took out his phone and dialled a number given to him by his father. It was a private security firm. In a hard voice he gave her address.

  ‘These are your instructions. You park outside and watch. If she comes out with a suitcase and gets into a taxi you call me. Then follow her. And don’t let her out of your sight for a moment.’

  In her time with Jake, Cassie had grown used to his ways of flaunting his wealth and what he fondly believed to be his status. He would book the most expensive seats on planes, then arrive at the last minute with the maximum of fuss.

  Marcel, in contrast, reached the airport early, got through the formalities with courtesy and was driven quietly to the private jet that was waiting for him.

  ‘My father’s,’ he explained.

  The plane was pure luxury. It could seat eight people in soft, comfortable seats, and had its own galley from which food and drink was served to the two of them by a steward who existed solely for their comfort.

  As they began to move down the runway he said, ‘The weather’s fine so it should be a smooth flight. Nothing to worry about.’

  So he remembered that she was afraid of flying, she thought. After one modelling job she’d returned home still shaken and distraught from a bumpy flight. How bright his eyes had been, how full of expectancy for the night of passion to come. And how quickly he’d forgotten all thoughts of his own pleasure to take her trembling body in his arms and soothe her tenderly. There had been no sex that night, and in the morning she had loved him more than ever for his generosity.

  ‘Have you ever been to Paris?’ he asked now.

  ‘No, but I’ve always wanted to. I’m looking forward to exploring it.’

  ‘You won’t have time for that. You’ll live in the hotel, and have a desk in my office. Everything will be provided to help with your work and you’ll be “confined to barracks”, forbidden to leave.’

  For a moment she almost thought he meant it, but just in time she saw the gleam of wicked humour in his eyes.

  ‘Yeah, right!’ she said cynically.

  ‘You don’t believe me? Wait until you see the locks on the doors.’

  ‘Nonsense!’

  ‘That’s no way to talk to your employer.’

  ‘If you were any other employer I wouldn’t, but we both know that I’m not just here to study the facts of La Couronne. I’m here to absorb the atmosphere, and that means the atmosphere of the city as well.’

  ‘Very subtle,’ he said appreciatively. ‘So you’ll arrange the job to suit yourself.’

  ‘It’s what I’m good at,’ she said impishly. ‘Being in control.’

  He grinned. She smiled back, happy in this brief moment of warmth and ease between them. But then a scream burst from her as the plane jerked and plunged a few feet.

  ‘Sorry,’ came the pilot’s voice. ‘Air pocket. It’s going to be a little turbulent.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Marcel took both her hands in his. ‘It’ll be over soon. There’s no danger.’

  ‘I know it’s not dangerous,’ she said huskily. ‘It’s just…being shaken…’

  ‘Just hold onto me.’ His hands tightened.

  She did so, closing her eyes and shaking her head. It was foolish to be scared but she couldn’t help it. As the plane shuddered she whispered, ‘No, no, no—’

  ‘Look at me,’ Marcel commanded. ‘Open your eyes.’

  She did so, and the world vanished. His gaze held hers as firmly as if he had her in chains. And they were the most dangerous chains of all because she had no wish to break them.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘It’s finishing now.’

  He was right. The plane’s juddering was fading, then ceasing altogether. But that wasn’t why the sense of peace and safety was stealing over her. She held him tightly because while he was there nothing could go wrong.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said in a shaking voice. ‘It’s stupid to be scared—’

  ‘We all have our nightmares. They don’t have to make sense.’

  She managed an edgy laugh. ‘So much for being in control.’

  ‘We’d all like to be in control,’ he said quietly. ‘And we all spend our lives discovering how wrong we are.’
/>   ‘No,’ she said defensively. ‘I don’t believe it has to be like that.’

  ‘I only wish you were right.’

  He looked down at their hands, still clasped, and gently released her. She had to suppress the impulse to hold on, refusing to let him go. But she must not give in. She was strong. She was in control. She’d just said so.

  At the airport a limousine was waiting to convey them into the heart of Paris. She watched in delight as the landmarks glided past, and they came to a halt in the Champs Elysées in the glamorous heart of the city.

  La Couronne towered above her, grandiose and beautiful. Stewards hurried forward to greet their employer and regard herself with curiosity. One of them seized Cassie’s bags and invited her to follow him.

  ‘I’ll join you later,’ Marcel said.

  Her accommodation was high up, a luxurious suite where a maid was waiting for her. She’d been wondering what to expect, but the reality took her breath away.

  ‘My name is Tina,’ said the maid. ‘I am here to serve you. I will start unpacking.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll go and freshen up.’

  She went into the bathroom and regarded herself critically in the mirror. Marcel had told her to soften her appearance, but so far she hadn’t done so. On the journey he’d glanced at her appearance but made no comment. Now she loosened her hair, letting it fall about her face, not in waves as he’d once known it, but long and straight.

  I’m not really Cassie any more, she thought. I’ve been fooling myself.

  Sighing in frustration, she left the bathroom and immediately halted at the sight that met her eyes.

  ‘Tina let me in,’ Marcel said. ‘I came to see how you were settling. If you’re ready I’ll show you around.’

  ‘Fine, I’m almost finished. I’ll just—’ She raised a hand to her hair, but he stopped her.

  ‘Leave it.’

  ‘But it’s all over the place. I can’t go around looking as though I’d been pulled through a hedge backwards.’

  ‘True, but it won’t take much to make you a little neater. Just brush it back here—and here—’

  As he spoke he was flicking his fingers against her blonde locks, sending them spinning back over her shoulders, then smoothing them away. She tried not to be conscious of his fingertips softly brushing her face, but some things could never be driven away. The touch of a lover’s hand, the feel of his breath whispering against her face in agitated waves.

  But he’s no longer my lover. Remember that.

  Firmly she pushed feelings aside. She couldn’t afford them.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she said. ‘I really want to see the hotel.’

  ‘I suppose you’ve read enough to know the background,’ he said, showing her outside.

  ‘I know it was once the home of the Marquis de Montpelier, a friend of royalty, who could have anything he wanted, including three wives, five mistresses and more children than he could count.’

  ‘Until the Revolution began, and they all went to the guillotine,’ Marcel supplied. ‘If you look out of this window you can almost see the place where they died.’

  There in the distance she could just make out the Place de la Concorde, where the guillotine had once stood.

  ‘I wonder how often they looked at that view, never dreaming of what would happen to them in the end,’ she murmured.

  Now, she thought, their palace was the centre of a business empire, and the man who controlled it was safely armoured against all life could do to him.

  ‘Some of the building still looks as it did then,’ Marcel told her. ‘I keep it that way for the historical interest. Plus I have a friend who claims to have second sight and swears she can see the ghosts of the Montpelier family, carrying their heads under their arms.’

  ‘And you make the most of it,’ she said, amused.

  ‘Let’s say the rooms on that corridor are always the first to be hired.’

  ‘Do you live on that corridor?’

  He grinned. ‘No, I don’t like to be disturbed by howling spectres.’

  As they went over the building she recorded her impressions into a small microphone while Marcel listened, impressed.

  ‘Now let’s go to my apartment,’ he said, ‘unless you’re tired.’

  ‘No, let’s keep working.’

  She was eager to see where he lived and learn what it could tell her about his present personality. But when they arrived she was disappointed. Only the room he used as an office was accessible. The rest was kept hidden behind closed doors.

  ‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ he said. ‘Access anything you want on the computer.’

  He went out into the corridor, and she began to familiarise herself with his computer, which was state-of-the-art. She had expected no less. There was a mountain of information for her to take in and she went quickly from one item to the next. A casual onlooker would think she couldn’t possibly be absorbing information with such brief glances, but that would be a mistake. She had a photographic memory, which in the old days she’d hidden because it clashed with her sexy image. Marcel had been one of the few people to discover that beneath the ditzy surface was a mind like a machine.

  That was it!

  She gasped as she realised that she had the answer to the question that had teased her. When she and Marcel had exchanged phone details yesterday, she’d offered to return his and he’d said, ‘You could have memorised it by now.’

  She’d barely glanced at the scrap of paper, yet he’d known that would be enough for her because he knew something about her that no stranger could have known.

  ‘A great brain’, he’d called her, laughing as he clasped her in his arms.

  ‘How do I dare to make love to a woman with such a great brain? A mighty brain! A genius! Some men might find that intimidating.’

  ‘But not you, hmm?’

  ‘No, because she has other virtues. Come here!’

  Now, sitting in Marcel’s office, she began to shake with the violence of the emotion possessing her. She’d guessed that he recognised her, but now she was sure. He had brought her here, to the heart of his own world. Couldn’t she dare to hope that they might open their arms to each other and put right the wrongs of the past?

  She’d thought she wanted vengeance, but that was being crowded out by other sensations beyond her control.

  Now was the moment, and she would seize it with eager hands. If only he would return quickly.

  She heard footsteps in the corridor. He was coming. In just a few moments everything would be transformed. The old attraction was beginning to rise up inside her, and surely it was the same with him. There might even be happiness again.

  But the next instant the dream died, smashed to smithereens by something she knew she should have anticipated, but had carelessly overlooked.

  Which meant there was no one to blame but herself.

  CHAPTER SIX

  FROM outside came an urgent tapping on the door and a woman’s voice in a high-pitched scream of excitement.

  ‘Marcel, mon chéri—ouvrez le porte et me prendre dans tes bras. Oh, combien je suis heureux que mon véritable amour est de retour.’

  Her limited French was just up to translating this.

  ‘Marcel, my darling—open the door and take me in your arms. Oh, how happy I am that my true love has returned.’

  So that was that. Another stupid fantasy destroyed.

  Don’t be so naïve again!

  Bringing herself under control, she opened the door and backed away just in time to avoid being lovingly throttled by a girl who was young, sexy, beautiful, vibrant with life.

  And she’d called Marcel ‘my true love’.

  The newcomer began to babble again in French, then switched abruptly to English.

  ‘I’m sorry—you must be Mrs Henshaw—and English, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Marcel has told us all about you.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘My papa is Raul Lenoir,
Marcel’s lawyer. He has spoken much of Mrs Henshaw, his new assistant who will handle important business for him in London. I am so pleased to meet you.’

  Cassie took the hand she held out, murmuring untruthfully, ‘And I am pleased to meet you.’

  ‘My name is Brigitte Lenoir. Where is Marcel? I have missed him so much.’

  ‘He went out a moment ago, but he’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Oh I can’t wait. I have so much to tell him.’

  ‘I think that’s him now.’

  The door opened and Marcel appeared, his face brightening as he saw his visitor. They next moment they were in each other’s arms. Brigitte covered his face with kisses and he laughed, returning the compliment again and again.

  ‘Brigitte, ma chérie, mon amante—’

  Cassie returned to the computer, trying not to hear the sounds coming from behind her.

  ‘Brigitte, I want you to meet Mrs Henshaw,’ Marcel said at last, freeing himself from her clasp.

  ‘But we have already met, and I am so impressed,’ Brigitte declared.

  ‘So you should be,’ Marcel said. ‘She’s a great brain and we’re all afraid of her.’

  ‘Papa will be most interested to meet her. You must both come to dinner with us tonight.’

  Cassie flinched. ‘I’m not sure—’

  ‘Oh, but you must,’ Brigitte assured her.

  Both her mind and heart rebelled at the thought of spending an evening with these two, watching them all over each other.

  ‘I have a lot of work to do—’

  Brigitte began to mutter in French. Without understanding every word, Cassie gathered that she was telling Marcel that he must persuade her. Another woman was vital and Mrs Henshaw would be useful.

  ‘She’s just what we need. She can keep Henri talking without—you know—’

  The meaning of ‘you know’ was all too clear. Whoever Henri was, her duty was to keep him talking without attracting him in a way that might be ‘inconvenient’. In other words, a plain woman. Like Mrs Henshaw.