He shrugged. 'Suits me.' Of course he wanted to get rid of her. He'd been amusing himself, baiting her, making her feel embarrassed. Sadist! she fumed inwardly. Beast. Kidnapper.
She went back to Jules. Only a large peach stone remained on his plate. He was leaning back against the pillow, balancing a book against his raised knees. The light was very bad and his eyes were drooping, but he opened them wide as Polly went into the room. 'I enjoyed that,' he said politely. 'Merci, mademoiselle.'
She lifted the tray off the bottom of the bed. 'I think you're ready for sleep now, Jules. Shall I tuck you up and put the light out?'
He yawned, smiled at her angelically and surrendered the book. She put it on the dressing-table and he snuggled down in the bed. He looked very small and rather forlorn under the bedclothes, and Polly felt a pang. She had only known the child a few hours, but something about him pulled at her emotions. She stooped and kissed him. 'Goodnight, Jules.'
'Goodnight, mademoiselle.' He looked very sleepy now. 'Tomorrow I'll show you my book and we can look at the pictures of all the things we saw in the Cathedral.'
Tomorrow, Polly thought, she would be on the plane, flying back to England. She said nothing, but it was as if he read her mind. Suddenly he was wide awake, sitting up in bed. 'You're not going away, mademoiselle?' he quavered. 'You won't leave me with—that man?' He must have seen the uncertainty in her face. 'You promised!' he wailed.
Polly sat on the edge of the bed and took one of his hands in both her own. 'Listen, Jules, you're growing into a big boy now, and soon you'll be a man. So you must be brave and grown-up.' That old stuff! He must have heard it dozens of times before.
'Yes.' He wasn't really listening, 'But you will be here in the morning when I wake up, won't you?'
'Darling,' she said, on a rueful little laugh, 'I've got to go back home to England tomorrow. I've booked my ticket on the plane.' It might have been easier to lie to him, but she couldn't. Polly believed in telling the truth whenever it was humanly possible, especially to children.
Jules's eyes suddenly fixed themselves on a spot over her shoulder, and Polly knew, without looking, that the St Just man had come into the room and was standing behind her.
'I've booked my flight,' she said again, rather helplessly. For some reason she was quite unable to look round. She stared at Jules and he stared over her shoulder at his uncle, and for a long moment there was silence in the room. Then the man spoke, in that deep peremptory voice that vibrated through Polly's head. 'What's a flight booking?' he said. 'Cancel it.'
She spun round, the breath catching in her throat. Never, even in the children's home, where discipline was strict, had she been ordered about in this masterful fashion.
'Of course I can't—' she started to say heatedly at the very moment that Jules squealed. 'Oh, please, you mustn't go!'
'There you are,' said Piran St Just. 'Two to one.'
'Look,' Polly glared at him, 'this is ridiculous, and—'
'Now listen, Polly,' he interrupted smoothly, 'before you start getting on that high horse of yours, consider the thing reasonably. Jules and I are both inviting you to stay and help us out of a slight difficulty, aren't we, Jules?'
For the first time the boy bestowed a look upon his uncle that was decidedly approving. 'Oui, oui.' In his excitement he slid into French nodding his head up and down. 'Restes-toi, je te prie, mademoiselle.'
Piran St Just leaned his back against the door and folded his arms. 'There—' he smiled his ironic smile '—you can't resist that, can you—mademoiselle?'
He was putting on the charm now, of course. He didn't want to be left alone with a fractious child. 'What time's your flight?' he asked.
'Three o'clock,' she told him reluctantly.
'Right. Then I can ring in the morning and cancel it. The phone here doesn't seem to be functioning.' He added as an afterthought, 'You don't have to be back tomorrow? You're not being met?'
Off guard, she said, 'Well, no.' What was she going back to, anyway? A room for the night in a cheap hotel. Then—to sit down and figure out what she was going to do next, how she was going to get a job, how long her meagre finances would last out. 'No,' she said again, 'But this is all so—so—'
'Irregular?' he suggested.
'Well, isn't it?' She spread out her hands. 'This morning I didn't even know that you existed, or Jules, or Madame Brunet, and now—'
'—now you seem to be involved with us. That's life, isn't it? Welcome the unexpected and you'll never be bored. Always something new to intrigue one.'
'Should I be intrigued?' Unwisely, she met his eyes, those dark, hooded eyes full of ironic amusement, and she had a weak, sinking feeling inside. She was no match for this man and never could be.
'Well, aren't you? Admit the truth.'
She turned her eyes to Jules, who was sitting up in bed taking all this in with great interest. She wondered how much he was aware of the tension between herself and his uncle.
She said, 'Jules and I are friends, aren't we, Jules?' smiling at him.
Piran St Just laughed aloud. 'I think we've won, old boy,' he said. 'I think you can look forward to seeing Mademoiselle in the morning when you wake up.'
Jules bounced up and down on the mattress. 'Bon! Can she sleep in that bed over there where Grand'maman used to sleep?'
'We'll have to see about that,' said his uncle. 'Now off you go to sleep. Goodnight.'
Jules snuggled down obediently. 'Bonne nuit, mon oncle,' he said rather shyly. And then 'Bonne nuit, mademoiselle.'
Polly kissed him, pulled up the covers, turned out the light, and followed Piran St Just back into the living-room. Here she sank into a chair, exhausted. Piran St Just stood looking down at her in silence. Then he went across to the table and poured out some of the red wine and brought it to her. 'Drink this,' he said in a tone that allowed of no refusal. 'You look as if you need it. It isn't exactly what I would prescribe, but it's better than Madame Brunet's gin.'
Polly was too tired to argue. As she drank from the glass she was acutely aware that his lips had touched the same glass only a short time before. It gave her a very strange sensation of—what?—almost of intimacy, and she shivered, so that the glass clattered against her teeth.
'Are you cold?' the man said. 'I'll see if I can get this heating to work.'
He began to fiddle with the regulator on the central heating, but Polly said, 'No, really, I'm not cold—just tired, I think. It's been quite a day.'
He was wandering round the room, looking into cupboards. At last he pulled out a small bar electric fire. 'This will be better than nothing. The heating probably is centrally controlled through the whole building and hasn't come on yet. I'll see the concierge about it in the morning.'
The electric fire gave out a cheerful warmth from its one bar. Polly rubbed her hands together. 'That's nice. I think I must have been cold after all.'
'Not surprising.' Piran St Just pulled up a chair close to hers and said, 'Now, if we're going to spend the night together, perhaps we should get to know each other a little better.'
Polly gasped. He couldn't possibly mean what his words suggested. Or could he? Was he the kind of man to proposition a girl he had only just met? 'You're not suggesting—' she began.
He held up a hand in protest. 'I'm not suggesting anything. Perhaps I didn't phrase that too tactfully.
Although—' the dark eyes narrowed in amusement '—I'm not saying that any offer would be refused. It's going to be quite a cold night.'
Polly felt a wriggle of fear. What an idiot she had been to let herself in for this, even to help Jules. She knew she was out of her depth completely with this man St Just. He was a sophisticated man of the world and he made her feel young and naive. But if she was innocent she certainly wasn't ignorant. If he made a determined pass at her she could still walk out, she assured herself. In spite of all the dreadful things Madame Brunet had said about Piran St Just Polly didn't think he was the kind of man who would start an
unpleasant scene. All the same, she sat up and put both hands on the arms of her chair, in readiness for instant flight if it became necessary.
'There won't be any offer,' she said coldly. 'I agreed to stay only because of Jules, I think you know that, Mr St Just.'
He was studying her face as she spoke and he was silent for a moment when she had finished. Then he nodded. 'Yes, I do know,' he said, and he spoke seriously and without irony. 'I was only teasing— trying to lighten the atmosphere a bit. But I still think we ought to find out a little about each other. God knows what impression you've got of me from Madame Brunet, but you won't condemn me on the evidence of one witness, surely? Ask me anything you'd like to know and I'll do my best to answer honestly.'
A fight was going on inside Polly. In one way she didn't want to know anything at all about this man; she didn't want to involve herself with him for a moment longer than was necessary. All she wanted was to be sure that Jules was going to be happy with him. Or at least not desperately unhappy. In another way—well, she was aware of a curious interest to know the truth about him, and she was fairly sure that she hadn't heard the whole truth from Madame Brunet.
At last she said, 'Well, there's one thing I'd like to know. What do you intend to do about Jules?'
'That's easy,' he said. 'I intend to take him back to my home in England, as soon as I can get the formalities put through. Tomorrow morning I shall go and see the British Ambassador and find out exactly what they are. When I get Jules home I shall make sure he's properly looked after.'
Looked after by his wife, no doubt! Polly had a fleeting picture of Mrs St Just. Smooth, beautifully dressed, haughty—and as sophisticated as he was himself.
She said, 'You're proposing to take Jules away from his home and his mother?'
'His home?' The dark brows rose contemptuously as he glanced round the grimy room. 'What sort of home is this for a boy? You've seen the way he has to live. You've seen the kitchen—the bathroom—the lot. Would you consider this a good place to bring up a child in?'
'Well, no,' Polly had to admit. 'But it's one thing to take him away from a not very desirable background, and quite another to remove him from the care of his mother and grandmother.'
The dark angry look was back in his face. 'I hardly think he'll miss his mother—or she him,' he added. 'She hasn't seen much of him for the last two years, since his father died.' A bitter note crept into his voice.
'She doesn't live here, then?'
'She comes and goes. That is, she goes when she finds a man with money who'll give her what she considers a good time. She comes back when he gets tired of her, as they always have, up to now. This time, however, she seems to have caught a man permanently. She was married last week and has departed for America. That'—he spread out his hands '—is why I'm here. I was in Italy when the news reached me. I hired a fast car and I drove up here hell for leather.'
If he had been driving all night it would explain why he had looked such a brigand this morning. He had shaved since, Polly noticed, although the dark shadow was just beginning to show again on his square, stubborn chin. His light jacket fitted immaculately and his rough hair had been brushed, but he still-looked like a brigand. Not a man to give up something that he wanted. But he might not find it so easy to win this particular game, Polly guessed.
She said, 'I suppose his grandmother has been the one to look after Jules since your brother died?'
'That,' he said darkly, 'is what I intend to put a stop to. That woman is about as fit to look after a child as— well, if you could meet her daughter, Jules's mother, you'd know what I mean. There's only one thing that Madame Brunet is interested in—money.'
Polly began to get the picture. If this man was telling the truth, then Jules would certainly be better off in a settled home. But children are conservative little creatures and they fear change. Especially, she thought, Jules would. He must have had a good many shocks and changes already in his short life. Like I had, she thought, remembering. Perhaps that was why she felt so warm and sympathetic towards the boy. Polly, too, had lost her father, and her mother had— well, she didn't want to think about her mother now.
'I think you may have difficulty in getting him to go away with you,' she said. 'You can't very well kidnap him, can you?'
'Is that what Madame told you I meant to do?'
She smiled faintly. 'You're not exactly Madame's favourite person. I gathered that from our conversation on the coach.'
He nodded grimly. 'That I can well believe. She isn't mine, either.'
'All the same,' Polly said, 'I think we should phone the hospital and find out how she is.' She had a chilling feeling that he wouldn't be sorry if the news was dire.
He groaned, but he got up out of his chair. 'I suppose you're right. I'd better go out and look for a phone that's working.'
Polly said, 'Would you like me to go?'
He gave her a dark look. 'No, I wouldn't. You might not come back.'
She said indignantly, 'Of course I would have come back. I promised to stay tonight.'
'Yes, I know you did.' He looked down at her, darkly cynical. 'But I'm afraid my experience of women's promises doesn't encourage me to take them too seriously.'
'That's a pity,' Polly said matter-of-factly, 'because when I make a promise I keep it. But you're not to know that, are you, Mr St Just, because you don't know me. All right, you go. Although—' a wicked twinkle came into her eyes '—how are you going to be sure I'll be here when you get back, if you're so beastly suspicious?'
He frowned. 'You have a point. I tell you what, we'll both go. You look in and make sure that Jules is asleep.'
She didn't move. 'Please?' she said.
She thought he looked faintly startled. Then a smile pulled at his long, sardonic mouth. 'Please, Miss West, if you can spare a moment, will you look in and see if Jules is asleep?'
She nodded her acknowledgment coolly, walked over and peeped into the darkened bedroom. Jules was indeed asleep. He looked happy and peaceful, his cheeks flushed and a lock of dark hair straggling across his forehead. Asleep, he looked more like his uncle than ever. Polly wondered how the man out there would look when he was asleep. Would the cynical, world-weary look smooth away? Quickly, she went out and closed the door. 'He's fast asleep, Mr St Just,' she said.
'Good. We'll go, then. And by the way, don't you think the "Mr" is rather formal for two people who've been thrown together as we have? My name's Piran.'
'Celtic?' Polly enquired as they walked down the stairs together.
He glanced back over his shoulder. 'Not many people cotton on to that.'
It was quite absurd that she should feel a tiny glow of satisfaction. So far he had treated her as a lesser form of life—useful in her own small way, but in the dimwit category as far as he was concerned.
'Early history was my subject,' she said.
They had reached the street now, where the lamplight shone softly through the leaves of the overhanging trees.
'Interesting!' Piran St Just said conversationally. 'And what do you do with your early history? Research? Library work?'
For the first time he seemed to be taking her seriously, and she said, 'I hoped to teach, but it fell through at the last minute. That's why I'm having a holiday in Paris.'
They walked on a little further and then Piran St Just said, 'Ah, here's the phone box, I thought I'd seen one around here.'
They stopped outside the glass-sided cubicle. 'You'd better come in with me,' he said.
Polly looked up at him and was suddenly aware of the sheer hard masculinity of the man. The thought of being close to him in that confined space made her shiver. 'N—no,' she stammered, 'I'll wait outside.'
'You'll come in,' he said, and putting an arm firmly round her he opened the door and pushed her inside, making sure his body was blocking the exit so that she couldn't escape. As he searched for the hospital number she had given him, and felt in his pocket for coins, she was pressed against him an
d her mouth went dry. She twisted round and tried to concentrate on the scene outside: the traffic, the passers-by. It was so quiet inside the phone box that she was sure he must hear her heart thumping. He probably wouldn't be particularly surprised that she was responding to his closeness. No doubt he had that effect on every girl he met—he must be quite used to it.
But Polly wasn't used to it. Never before had any man had such a devastating appeal to her senses. Not Mike, not any man before.
In her three years at college she had listened to the ravings of the other girls about their boy-friends, and felt pleasingly superior, because she herself had no wish to rush into affairs in the way that seemed expected of her. She had managed to acquire the reputation of being a cool girl. Some of the men avoided her, some were intrigued enough to try their luck, without success. Polly was at college to work, not to experiment with sexual encounters.
Piran St Just put in his coins and dialled, in the sequence demanded in French telephone boxes. As he waited for the number he stretched out an arm casually and drew Polly closer against him. To make sure she didn't make a bolt for it, of course! But making a bolt for it was the last thing Polly was capable of at that moment. She was so close to him that her hair was brushing his chin, her cheek was pressed against the thin stuff of his jacket and she could feel his body warmth through it. In her nostrils was the healthy male smell of the man, and she was beginning to feel dizzy with longing to press even closer to him.
As the number came through he eased his arm a little and she pulled away, her mouth dry, her senses roused to a pitch that was quite alarming. Her knees felt like rubber bands and her whole body was weak and pliant. It was too shame-making, too utterly humiliating that this man should have such a devastating effect on her emotions. She recognised the danger and knew there were only two ways of dealing with it—fight or flight. Any fight wouldn't be with Piran St Just, it would be with herself. So the obvious thing to do was to get away at the first possible moment. Surely by tomorrow Jules should have got over his nervousness of his uncle, and she would book another flight back to England and safety, where those dark, hooded eyes could no longer turn her inside to water.
One Who Kisses Page 4