The French Count's Mistress

by Susan Stephens

  ‘Well?’ he pressed. ‘Do you intend to join me any time soon? Or would you prefer just to stand there and stare?’

  The roughness in his voice was even more seductive than the charm, Kate realised as she moved to perch on the very edge of the chair. Smoothing her delicate aquamarine-tinted muslin skirt around her bare tanned legs, she watched him select a folder from the neat pile in front of him. But her gaze, like her thoughts, soon began to wander.

  Ten years before she had been a gawky teenager with a helpless crush on a French aristocrat. Today she sat before the same man, close enough to see the silver wings that time had laced through his thick, wavy black hair—sat before him as a successful woman in her own right, thanks to the runaway success of her Internet travel business. But how did that help when her heart was beating so fast she could hardly breathe? Awe and desire had once consumed her adolescent dreams. It was a real shock to discover that the Count could still provoke those same complex feelings—only now it was worse, far worse, she acknowledged. Now she wasn’t an innocent young girl, but a successful working woman with all the appetites that went with the dynamic territory she inhabited. And there had been no time to assuage those appetites during the crazy rollercoaster ride to the top—or any real temptation before this moment, she realised as she drank in the athletic figure beneath the impeccably cut suit.

  ‘Ready, Kate?’

  She snapped back to attention instantly, irritated by the lapse. She had come to level a complaint against this man, not sum up his potential as a lover! As her fingers strayed to check the fastenings on her casual blouse, she cursed the fact that she hadn’t thought to change into one of her Armani suits. Infuriated by the state of the cottage she had reacted without thinking, jumping into her rented Jeep to beard the lion in his den. But an outfit that had been perfectly acceptable in the balmy French countryside had suddenly become an embarrassment to her when she was locked in confrontation with a man like Guy de Villeneuve. It was far too revealing, for one thing, and had obviously sent out the wrong signals. The Count’s responses so far suggested that he found her capricious and provocative, rather than lucid and determined.

  Kate’s mind blanked as a pair of perceptive grey eyes levelled a gaze of remorseless enquiry upon her face and a very seductive mouth began to curve in the suspicion of a smile. Then with mercurial speed his glance switched to her naked shoulders and began drifting over the sun-kissed flesh to where a swell of ivory showed with each breath she took. And the flimsy skirt was practically transparent, she remembered, hastily wrapping it around her legs.

  The low voice reached her across the desk even though his attention appeared to have returned to the documents in front of him. ‘Careful…it would be a shame to crush such a lovely skirt.’ The compliment might have sounded innocent enough to anyone who didn’t know the Count, but Kate remembered him well enough to realise that his senses were so keenly tuned he missed nothing—nothing at all. And that was a real concern as she had just eased position in response to a rogue shaft of sensation.

  ‘C’est très jolie,’ he murmured before glancing up. ‘Very you.’

  The comment puzzled Kate for a moment. Then she realised that, just as she had her own childhood memories, the Count would always think of her as the little girl who visited his family estate to holiday at her aunt’s cottage. The casual two-piece she was wearing now was very similar in style to the clothes Aunt Alice used to have waiting for her, outfits laid out neatly on the high French bed that had been Kate’s for the duration of her stay. The brightly coloured garments have given her such pleasure—such escape from her rigid existence at home. It had always felt as if she was stepping into a different world when she put them on, as if she could be someone else altogether—at least for the summer. She hadn’t even made the connection when she had purchased the traditional blouse and skirt at the open-air market on her first day back in France. She realised now that it had been a major part of the fantasy she had hoped to recreate—the fantasy the compelling individual in front of her seemed intent on demolishing.

  ‘I haven’t got all day, Kate,’ he prompted.

  Yes, she thought irritably. The indulgent note in his voice was unmistakable. He did think of her as that little girl. She had brought it upon herself. All those years of carving a niche for herself in one of the most competitive business arenas had been erased in a moment by market stall clothes.

  ‘Kate?’ His voice had grown sharper. ‘I’m sorry, Kate, but I really must insist—’

  His tone of voice left her in no doubt that they had almost passed the point where she had any credibility left. Guy de Villeneuve’s switch from sexual predator to time-starved tycoon was effortless and Kate knew she would have to match his mood or capitulate.

  ‘I’m not selling the cottage back to you,’ she said at last. ‘I’m going to live in it.’

  The Count’s face betrayed no emotion whatever as he reached for a folder from a pile stacked in front of him.

  ‘Well?’ Kate pressed. ‘Don’t you have anything to say?’

  ‘There are a few things I think I need to explain to you about La Petite Maison,’ he said as he slipped some documents from the folder and laid them out on the desk.

  ‘I disagree,’ Kate said firmly. ‘It all seems pretty clear to me. The cottage used to belong to my aunt, Madame Broadbent. And now it belongs to me.’

  ‘I am aware that the cottage you refer to was included in the estate of Madame Broadbent,’ the Count agreed evenly. ‘But until today—’

  ‘You had no idea—’

  ‘To whom she had bequeathed it,’ he murmured as he scanned the papers. After checking them briefly he pushed them across the desk to her.

  ‘Before I look at these,’ Kate said, fixing him with a determined stare, ‘I would like to know what has happened to the money I have been paying into your estate office. You can’t tell me there isn’t a record—’ She stopped. Something in his expression warned her that this was not the moment to jump on her high horse.

  ‘I am aware of every payment received for La Petite Maison,’ the Count assured her. ‘But those transactions show nothing more than a company name.’ Picking out a couple more sheets, he passed them over to her.

  Kate’s stomach contracted. Even Guy de Villeneuve could not be expected to know that Freedom Holidays was her company. But that didn’t excuse the state of the cottage. As she felt his gaze resting on her she pretended interest in the invoice… But his sexual aura was lapping around her senses, clouding her mind with erotic images that had nothing to do with the purpose of her visit.

  ‘But if all these payments are in order,’ she began huskily, ‘how do you explain the neglect at the cottage?’ She tossed the invoices back across the desk to avoid looking at him.

  ‘Ancient covenants govern La Petite Maison just the same as they do all the other cottages on the estate. Also it is leasehold. Accordingly, I don’t need to explain my actions. The fact that I choose to—’

  ‘You choose to?’ Kate flared, even though her logical mind told her he was acting honourably.

  ‘Certainement,’ he confirmed.

  ‘So, no one has any rights except you?’ Her emotional self took another battering as he answered her heated question with just a slight lift of his shoulders.

  ‘Who else did you imagine owned the land on which all the estate cottages stand, Kate?’

  ‘You—’ She found herself flailing about mentally, wondering why on earth she hadn’t confronted this obvious fact before. Why had she chosen to ignore the reality of Guy de Villeneuve as a neighbour? And now it seemed as landlord too!

  ‘That is correct,’ he said, making a bridge of his fingers on which to rest his chin.

  She knew he was waiting to see what her response would be now she knew he held all the cards. Well, that look might have weakened other women— ‘I have found no record of my aunt ever making a payment for ground rent,’ she said, confronting the gaze he was levelling at her w
ith an unwavering stare. ‘And I have checked through every one of her documents thoroughly—’

  ‘All except the deeds for the cottage, I presume,’ he observed, keeping his eyes trained on her face.

  As she watched them darken from silver-grey to steel and then grow blacker still she raced to gather her wits while she still had some left. ‘Well, yes,’ she admitted. ‘I left that to my solicitor. And he said…’ Her voice tailed away.

  Mr Jones had been at pains to explain that property law pertaining to ancient estates in France could be quite a minefield. He had asked her to make an appointment so that they could have a proper discussion regarding his many concerns. But she had been too busy to meet him—too busy making plans for this, her new venture.

  As if scenting victory, the Count had grown very still like a jungle cat about to pounce. ‘It was remiss of your solicitor not to mention—’

  ‘No,’ Kate admitted reluctantly. ‘I am the one to blame. My solicitor wanted to go through everything with me in detail. I just haven’t had time—’

  ‘Ah,’ the Count said as if to imply that she might have done better to slow down and prioritise. ‘Is there something else?’ he added shrewdly.

  ‘Yes,’ Kate said, feeling she was on to something. ‘You still haven’t explained why there are no records of Aunt Alice ever making payment for a lease—’

  ‘Madame Broadbent was never asked for money,’ the Count revealed quietly. ‘As one of my mother’s closest friends it would have been highly inappropriate to exact any form of payment from her.’

  ‘You seemed to have no trouble accepting mine,’ Kate said, feeling unaccountably stung by this revelation.

  ‘All your payments will be returned with interest.’

  ‘But I don’t want them returned. I want the money spent on the cottage,’ she insisted again.

  ‘C’est impossible,’ he said with finality. ‘There will no longer be any independent cottages on my estate.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Unfolding his impressive frame, the Count got to his feet. ‘You will find my offer more than generous,’ he said in a voice that suggested their meeting was over. ‘I can assure you that everyone else has been more than satisfied—’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Oui, vraiment.’ His voice was clipped and dry, but abruptly his steely gaze softened. ‘Come on, Katie,’ he urged. ‘What do you need a second home in France for if you are so busy—?’

  ‘My name is Kate!’ Kate flared, horrified to hear the break in her voice.

  ‘Kate,’ he amended easily. ‘But, however you like to be called, you still haven’t answered my question.’

  From cool and collected businesswoman, Kate suddenly found herself plunged into an emotional maelstrom she couldn’t contain. ‘Well, here’s one for you,’ she said hotly as she sprang up to confront him. ‘Are you trying to tell me that everyone—absolutely everyone else has accepted this deal?’ The way she stressed the last word turned it into an accusation.

  ‘I’m not trying to tell you anything, Kate,’ the Count countered calmly. ‘It’s a fact. And I’m not offering anyone a deal. I’m making them a fair offer.’

  Kate couldn’t speak for a moment as she stood mashing her lips together in total impotence while fractured images of blissful childhood holidays flashed behind her eyes—holidays she had naïvely imagined she could recreate. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said stubbornly.

  ‘Believe it,’ he returned steadily. ‘The days when holiday homes were an integral part of the Villeneuve estates are in the past.’

  ‘But what about all the other tenants—their relatives—friends?’ Kate said heatedly as the eclectic group of characters that used to holiday on the estate each year gathered in her mind. ‘Don’t you care about them at all?’

  ‘The people to whom I presume you are referring used the cottages as second homes—holiday homes,’ he said patiently. ‘And without a single exception they were all delighted to accept my offer.’

  ‘Well, I’m not,’ Kate said, clenching her fists into balls of frustration.

  ‘You haven’t heard what’s on offer yet,’ he pointed out.

  ‘And I don’t need to,’ Kate assured him as her heart struggled to accept the fact that she could not hold on to the past by sheer force of will.

  ‘Ca suffit maintenant! You must listen to what I have to say, Kate,’ he insisted firmly. ‘This is a working estate now, not a holiday camp.’

  ‘It never was a holiday camp,’ she fired back at him. ‘And I seem to remember a time when your family welcomed visitors.’ But the heat was seeping out of her attack. He had made it quite clear that there was no crusade for her to embark on—it was far too late for that.

  ‘That may have been true when my father was alive,’ he conceded gently. ‘But the Villeneuve estates are destined to make a great deal of money now. These vineyards will eventually become some of the most profitable in the world—’

  ‘Money!’ Kate muttered angrily as she turned away to lash her arms around her body in a defensive hug. ‘Is profit and loss all you care about now?’ She swung round to confront him again.

  She had always known that once Guy de Villeneuve took over the running of the estates he would make a success of it…of his life…of everything. She pulled her gaze away when she saw that the corners of his mouth were slipping down in a rueful smile.

  ‘I’m sorry you feel like that, Kate,’ he said evenly. ‘I know money isn’t everything. But would you rather the estate went bankrupt…that families who have lived in the village for generations were scattered to the four winds? Because that’s where harsh reality was leading. I haven’t enjoyed every part of this revival, despite what you think. Yes, sacrifices have had to be made. But something had to give and I was determined it wouldn’t be those people who depend on me for their livelihoods.’ And, when she didn’t reply and only hugged herself closer in the full knowledge that what he was saying made sense, he added softly, ‘Think what you will of me, Kate. But the fact remains that times have changed and so have I. And so must you—’

  ‘No!’ she flared passionately, suddenly overcome with a great dread of leaving France—of abandoning her hopes, her dreams. The very idea was insupportable. ‘Take your wretched ground rent! Ten years in advance if you must! I own the lease on the cottage now and I have no intention of selling it back to you. You’ll just have to conduct your business around me.’

  ‘That can be arranged,’ he agreed thoughtfully.

  Too thoughtfully, Kate realised, even through the red haze of anger that was threatening to engulf her. He seized every barb she flung his way and sent back a rainbow. In that sense if no other nothing had changed between them. She was still the wilful tomboy in thrall to Guy de Villeneuve’s mastery. But she was a successful woman now, with her own business empire to run, she reminded herself furiously. And this obduracy on his part was infuriating and unfair. He clearly wasn’t going to take her seriously, unless—

  ‘So, you’ll conduct your business around me while I carry out my business from the cottage?’ she demanded as the need to provoke a reaction overtook her caution. She watched as one of his upswept ebony brows quirked in mild surprise and waited for what she confidently expected would be a huge explosion.

  ‘Your business?’ he enquired softly.

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  But what do you intend to—?’

  ‘Oh, more of the same,’ Kate confessed vaguely, flipping her wrist as if what it was need not concern him.

  ‘The same as what, Kate?’ he pressed, an ominous note sounding now in his mellow tone. ‘Having established that you are in fact the principal shareholder of Freedom Holidays,’ he continued, as if reasoning everything through out loud, ‘I can hardly imagine that you intend to set up one of your vast Internet travel shops in the heart of the French countryside. Where will you get your customers from? Not to mention your staff—’

  ‘For what I
have in mind,’ Kate revealed, feeling her confidence growing by the second, ‘I am the only member of staff necessary.’ She knew she had struck a goal at last and had the satisfaction of seeing his handsome brow pleat in puzzlement.

  ‘But all your other sites are on the high street—’

  ‘No. You’re missing the point,’ she said, feeling the same rush of excitement she felt each time she contemplated this new turn in her career.

  ‘Vraiment, I am?’ he said, bringing his brows together to view her through narrowed silver-slit eyes.

  ‘This isn’t going to be like my other sites,’ she said, struggling to rein back her enthusiasm in case she gave too much away too soon.

  ‘A new venture?’

  ‘You could say that,’ she admitted, forced to look away from his sharp stare.

  ‘So, explain what you mean,’ he insisted in a tone that was gentle in the same way that he might be gentle with a fishing line before giving it that final tug.

  Or gentle like an extremely persuasive and ultimately demanding caress, Kate thought, momentarily losing her train of thought. Changing tack, she went back on the attack.

  ‘That’s more than enough information for now,’ she said, relishing the unaccustomed sense of having outmanoeuvred him for once. ‘I shall expect your people to come tomorrow and pull down all the boards covering my windows, tidy the garden, reconnect the mains services—’

  ‘Seigneur! Is that all?’

  And now she gave him the full benefit of her confident emerald stare. ‘I’m not joking, Guy’ she warned. ‘I’ve paid good money for the upkeep of La Petite Maison and now I want to see some results. The whole place is in a chaotic state…and I thought I was paying for—’