by Julia James
He did not bring his amours here.
For a moment he tried to imagine Madeline de Cerasse here, or any of the similar women he’d had affairs with, and failed completely. They would have been completely out of place, pestering him to take them back to his Monte Carlo apartment, disliking being stuck here, away from the fashionable restaurants and nightspots where they could socialise and dress up to the nines.
But Lissa—
He lifted his head from the tedium of market analysis by sector and geographical location, and let his eyes rest with pleasure on her. She was clambering over the rocks of the little cove the villa overlooked, as lithe as a gazelle, and with her hair caught up in a ponytail and wearing shorts and a T-shirt, as youthful looking as a schoolgirl.
He watched her gain the land again and set off towards him.
Xavier’s eyes fixed on her. Even in such simple clothes she looked breathtaking, young, fit and natural.
That word again. It came to him over and over again whenever he looked at her or thought about her. She put nothing on for him—no arts, no lures, no coquetterie. She took enjoyment in what he offered her, and … enjoyed it. Enjoyed him. Enjoyed everything of their time together.
As did he her.
Had he ever been this relaxed with a woman? Or this content—just to sit watching her, being with her?
It was a strange thought, and not one that he had had before.
She came up to him, perching herself on a corner of the table that stood on the terrace, at which they generally ate breakfast and lunch. As it always did when she set eyes on Xavier, Lissa’s heart squeezed. She had thought him devastating in business clothes—or none at all, she blushed mentally—but in casual clothes such as the chinos he was wearing now, with a polo shirt stretched across his lean torso, his hair slightly ruffled, he looked even more devastating, lounging back on the padded chair with a lithe grace that made her breath catch.
Was she really, truly here with Xavier? Or was it some fantasy she was imagining real? Yet the glow of her body as she looked at him told her that it was real. Every day—and every night. Real and rapturous.
And it was a rapture that just seemed to get more and more blissful. Every time, it seemed to her, dazed and amazed, was better than the last. In Xavier’s arms she had discovered a sensuality that she had never known she possessed. Although he was clearly so very much more skilled in the exquisite art of lovemaking than she was, she never felt inadequate or inexperienced—never felt that she could not give the same pleasure as he gave her in such breathtaking abundance. And that, she recognised, was the greatest skill of all—to make her feel that she was as beautiful, as sensual, as desirable as she knew he would want a woman to be. She glowed in his arms, and came alive in a way she had never known before.
And it was not just when she was in his arms that he made her feel beautiful and desirable. With every look, she read it in his eyes. And it sent a thrill through her that she treasured.
And a glow that warmed her. Warmed her deep into the core of her being. Just being here, with him. With Xavier.
Yet it troubled her, that warmth she felt. Into her head, words darted a warning: be careful.
She did not—would not—put into words or even thoughts what it was she was warning herself about, but she knew, with some inner instinctive sense of danger, that she must heed that warning.
The blind fate that had taken so much from her in a handful of moments on that terrible day of twisted metal had all but destroyed everything she had once thought would be there for ever. In the same unfathomable way, it had given her this radiantly happy time now. Xavier Lauran had walked into her life—she knew not why, only that fate had made it happen, had given her this gift. For that was what he was to her, she knew. A gift.
Coming from nowhere and, she knew, with clear, non-decieving eyes, going to nowhere.
There was no future with Xavier. There could not be. He was like a glass of the finest vintage champagne, handed to her by the whim of that same fate that had taken so much from her. She would drink the champagne that was her time with Xavier to the full. She would let him go to her head like champagne.
But she would be wise, and never let him go to her heart.
And now, with the bubbles beading at the brim, she gazed smilingly across at him from her perch on the table. She was at ease with him—had been at ease for all their time together. What had they done, day after day? Their nights had been spent in each other’s arms, full of passion and desire that melted the bones in her body, that took her to ecstasy and beyond. Their days had been spent easily, drifting, slipping away one by one. The deep exhaustion that had been a constant part of her life for so long had finally drained out of her in the lazy, lotus-eating days they’d passed here. There was no work to be done in the little villa—a local couple took care of housekeeping and meals and what little gardening there was to attend to on the private grounds.
What did they do each day? She tried to think. They breakfasted late—for sleep came late after lovemaking, and had a tendency to be interrupted by yet more in the night, and their levée was languorous and sensual and protracted. They lingered over breakfast, feasting on fragrant coffee and fresh croissants, with the aroma mingling with the tangy scent of the pine trees and the sun shafting between their trunks, glittering on the azure sea beyond. They would read, and sun themselves, and take a walk through the pine woods or along the sea’s edge. Though it was too cold to swim, the shoreline was beautiful and deserted. There was a motorboat drawn up in the cove, a little one, with an outboard motor, and Xavier had taken her out in it, pottering around the islands, crossing over to the larger, more populated ones. She had loved the Île St Honorat, with its working monastery and old medieval fortifications, and even the twin Île of Ste Marguerite, though its natural beauty had been dimmed by the sad tale of the Man in the Iron Mask, who had been so mysteriously incarcerated in the now-ruined fortress there in the seventeenth century. But both islands had been peaceful and beautiful, with wooded walks and secret beaches.
Xavier had offered to take her to the mainland once, but she hadn’t wanted to go. Her reluctance was not only because she could see little appeal in the overdeveloped coastline, with its marinas stuffed with massive yachts, and its shoreline built up with hotels and high-rise apartments. There was another reason, too—and it was not just because she revelled in having Xavier to herself.
It was because here, on this tiny, secluded isle, she could keep the outside world at bay. Here, she was utterly with Xavier, thinking only of Xavier, being only with Xavier. Absorbing all her mind, her time.
Keeping her mind very far away from what was happening in America, and when she would hear again from Armand.
She did not want to think about that. Did not want that biting undercurrent of anxiety to well up when there was nothing she could do about it. All she could do was wait until Armand contacted her. Then she would know.
Until then, she had Xavier. And she must make the most, the very most of him. How short a time she had with him.
Anguish pierced at her, but she pushed it aside. She would not let it spoil this brief, precious time. This magical, wonderful time. All that she would have with him.
Now, reaching out one bare leg, she toed the market report that Xavier held in his hands. She grinned across at him.
‘Oh, chuck the boring old report, Xavier, and come beachcombing with me,’ she teased.
‘Beachcombing?’ he echoed, with a humorous frown at the colloquialism.
‘You know—wandering along the beach to see what you can find.’
‘But there is no beach, only rocks,’ he objected.
She made a face. ‘Oh, you French are so logical. Do come. The water may be freezing, but it’s absolutely beautiful and crystal-clear.’ She looked about her and took a deep breath. ‘I love the scent of the pines—it permeates everything.’
He gave a smile, putting down the report, glad to do so. ‘You have missed
the mimosa, which is a shame—its scent is quite exquisite. We’re missing the lavender, too—we saw the fields on the Île St Honorat, remember, where the monks grow it to make their liqueur.’ He cocked an eyebrow at her. ‘Would you like to visit Grasse while we are here? It is the centre of the perfume industry in France—and XeL has a parfumerie there which I could show you. And we really should go to St Paul de Vence, which is not too far from there. The Matisse chapel is nearby, and in the village itself is the celebrated Colombe d’Or Hotel, which has its very own art collection from the famous artists who stayed there. We should have lunch there.’ He made a rueful face. ‘I have shown you very little of the Cote d’Azur, hélas.’
He sounded regretful as he watched Lissa drop with her innate grace into the lounger beside him.
‘It hasn’t bothered me,’ she assured him. ‘I’m happy here at the villa. Blissfully so!’
It was true she could hardly recall ever knowing such happiness, as she had here in their private, secret world, with their private, secret happiness.
She sought to rationalise her reluctance to leave the island and the villa.
“I wish the whole Riviera were still like this—just pine trees and a rocky shoreline, with a few villas and maquis up in the hills, with deserted bays and headlands and beaches every few miles. It’s such a shame it’s been so spoilt.’ She caught herself as she finished, and it was her turn to put on a rueful expression. ‘I’m sorry—I should not be so critical.’
But he was not offended—far from it. ‘There are still some parts that are not concreted over,’ he said with a half smile. ‘Up in the hills, away from the coast in the Alpes Maritimes, where St Paul de Vence is, for example, is far less spoilt. Even on the coast there are some parts less ugly and less modern. Beaulieu, between Nice and Monte Carlo, still lives up to its name of “beautiful place” and just on the Italian border Menton could still be mistaken for the last century, or even the one before. My mother lives there with my stepfather—’
He broke off suddenly. Then, scarcely missing a beat, he resumed.
‘Antibes, too, is far less touristy—a working town—and on the Cap d’Antibes is the Musée de Napoleon. Did you know that he landed on the coast there when he escaped from Elba?’
Lissa was diverted, as Xavier had intended. It had been a slip of the tongue to mention his mother and stepfather.
‘Didn’t the King send an iron cage for him to be imprisoned in when he was captured?’ she said, groping in her memory.
Xavier laughed. ‘That was what Marshal Ney promised to do. He’d turned from Bonapartist to Bourbonist after the Restoration. He set off with an army to stop Napoleon in his tracks—iron cage and all. But instead he went over to him, and his army, too. Then Napoleon marched on Paris.’
‘To meet his Waterloo,’ Lissa finished. ‘Trounced by the English!’
Xavier shook his head and gave a laugh. ‘Ah, your Wellington only beat him thanks to the Prussians. Napoleon had won the battle already, but the Prussian army arrived in the nick of time to save Wellington’s neck. Don’t they teach you proper history in English schools?’
His eyes were dancing, and Lissa grinned. ‘We’re just taught that we won, that’s all,’ she said impishly. She tugged at his arm. ‘Anyway, you’re only trying to talk about history to get out of coming down to the beach with me. Come on, lazybones! We need some exercise before lunch.’
Xavier caught her fingers and started to nibble one.
‘I can think of excellent exercise—and we don’t even have to walk ten metres,’ he murmured, with a glint in his eyes.
But Lissa got to her feet and tugged at him again. With a show of reluctance he stood up, tossing the market report aside on the table.
‘Eh, bien—let us go and comb the beach, then, if you insist,’ he said resignedly. Long lashes swept down over his eyes as he baited her gently.
He took her hand and she felt its warmth and strength closing around her fingers, making her feel suddenly safe and cherished.
A little tremor went through her, and, like a ghost whispering in her head, she heard again the warning to be careful.
She heard the words, felt them imprinting, but in their wake came another whisper, that set through her a deeper tremor yet.
Too late.
‘Honestly, Xavier, you’re such a wimp. The water’s not that cold.’
Lissa grinned with amused exasperation at Xavier’s adamant refusal to do as she was. They’d gained the headland of the tiny promontory, scrambling over rocks to get there, and were now sitting on a large, flat rock that projected slightly over the sea. Lissa had not hesitated to take off her canvas shoes and dangle her toes in the water. It was cold, no doubt about it, but that was hardly adequate reason for wimping out.
Xavier was sitting beside her, his legs drawn up, arms loosely looped around his splayed knees. He cast her a disdainful look.
‘Masochism has never appealed to me, cherie,’ he informed her. ‘And don’t even dream of thinking that I’m going to rub the circulation back into your feet when they get frostbite.’
She laughed, leaning back on her elbows, letting her hair pool on the sun-warmed rock, and gazed up at him.
‘You’ve obviously never been to the British seaside, then, have you?’ she teased. ‘Let alone St Andrew’s up in Scotland. That’s what I call cold water—even in summer! It’s a fantastic beach, though, even if it is the North Sea. It’s right by the famous golf course, and my father loved to play there—’
She broke off. There was a painful lump in her throat suddenly.
Xavier’s attention shifted from contemplating the way her posture so invitingly thrust up her breasts. It was rare to hear Lissa mention her family. Actually, now that he thought about it, she never did. Neither did he—for obvious reasons—apart from that slip of the tongue he’d made about his mother living in Menton.
Where was her family? he wondered. Then, deliberately, he put the question from him. He didn’t want to think about families—hers or his. Didn’t want to think about her existence anywhere but here. Didn’t want to remember the job she’d done, or how she’d been involved with his brother. He wanted to shut all that out of his consciousness. He only wanted her to be here, with him, alone at his villa, secluded from the world beyond, in a private haven where he could have her all to himself, without the interference and complications of the outside world.
Yet, unwanted thoughts flickered at him. He might want to, but he could not remain here indefinitely. Already, the two weeks he’d allowed himself from the office had overrun. How much longer could he put off returning to Paris? He was already receiving agitated e-mails from his PA and directors, indicating that they needed his full attention focussed on XeL again.
Irritation and annoyance shafted through him. He didn’t want to think about XeL. He didn’t want to have to go back to Paris, make decisions, take meetings, involve himself with his job again. Not yet, anyway.
This time was too precious to him.
He gazed down at Lissa. She had shut her eyes, relaxed back on her elbows, face lifted to the sun.
He felt emotion dart through him. It was desire, he knew. Familiar and enjoyable. He let his eyes roam over the exquisite lines of her face. It gave him pleasure every time he did so. He could look at her for ages.
There was something serene in her face now, lifted to the sun, hair falling back from her head. Her long, delicate lashes brushed against her cheek, flushed with the beginning of a pale tan. The gentle breeze coming off the water played with the strands of her hair, caressing her skin.
His breath caught suddenly.
Elle est si belle!
More than beautiful.
More than desirable.
Something moved in him—something he did not recognise but could feel, like a strange, alien presence.
What was it? He tried to think, to understand with his mind. His reason. But he could not. Words formed in her mind. Words he could not stop.
I don’t want to let her go.
That strange, alien emotion moved through him again, and he felt its presence, stronger now. He could give it no name.
But one thing he could give a name to. One thing he knew and understood with absolute certainty. As he gazed down into her unseeing face, tracing with his eyes the line of her features, the outline of her tender, generous mouth, he knew there was only one thing to be done here, on this secluded rock, beneath the warm sun.
He let his lips move down over hers, easing them apart with a languorous sensuality. A hand curved, as if on its own, around the soft swell of her breast.
He felt her response, felt her mouth begin to move against his, and with a deep, abiding sense of satisfaction and enjoyment he began to make love to her, slowly, exquisitely, beneath the sun.
CHAPTER TEN
AFTER DINNER, AS they sat over coffee, candles burning low on the rough-hewn table in the single living room of the villa, the embers of a fire dying away to keep the faint night chill at bay, Xavier told Lissa he had to return to Paris the day after next.
‘I can avoid it no longer,’ he said, his voice flat. ‘I’m sorry.’
A stone congealed in Lissa’s insides. Hard and horrible. She made herself speak.
‘Of course. I understand. It was good that you could take this time off.’ Her words were jerky.
‘It’s a damnable nuisance,’ Xavier said with sudden emphasis.
She gave a tight smile. ‘It’s your job. I understand that. Work doesn’t give us choices.’ Had her voice sharpened as she’d said that last bit? She didn’t know. Didn’t care. Only knew that all of a sudden the idyll was over.