by KS Augustin
When she and Guy returned, full of grocery bags and good cheer, Yves could only frown and briefly run through with his assistant what he wanted to achieve that day. With any luck, they could see to the most important issues and have tasks and orders ready by the time Europe started its working day. They worked hard for hours, only pausing for a quick lunch. Helen bustled around them. No, perhaps ‘bustled’ was the wrong word, Yves thought. Helen moved, she flowed, around them, quiet yet with a presence of her own. She was unobtrusive, yet all he had to do was lift his head to either see her lithe figure tending to something inside or outside the house, or breathe in the floral scent of the perfume she seemed to prefer.
She would like the place at Grenoble. He knew that viscerally. She would love wandering around the formal garden, dipping into the heated pool for a leisurely swim or watching the snow softly settle on the city while sipping a hot coffee. And he would be happy to sit there, too, content to watch her while she contemplated life, to watch the emotions flit across her expressive face.
Dinner was simple and delicious and, if it wasn’t for Guy hovering around, Yves could have easily imagined a scene of domestic bliss, the rich aroma of an Italian tomato sauce with pasta wafting through the house while, through the open windows, he heard the distant sound of waves crashing onto a beach. Despite his annoyance at not accompanying Helen on her shopping trip, he was actually—surprisingly—happy to remain in the house not even venturing out to look at the ocean that he knew must be only a short walk away. In Europe, he was known as an unstoppable dynamo, always on the go, thinking, dealing, negotiating, buying. By flying halfway across the world, it was like shedding old skin, revealing a new, softer Yves. Was it the distance that had wreaked such a change in his outlook…or was it due to one person in particular?
As the sky darkened, Guy took himself off for a walk along the beach. It would have been pleasant to accompany him, but Yves preferred to stay put, nodding when Helen offered a refill of the full-bodied Chardonnay they had begun drinking during dinner, watching her as she finally ground to a halt. She had run out of things to tidy, rooms to visit, and must now sit down opposite him without the shield of movement to protect her. He knew she would not be so ill-mannered to leave him alone at the end of the day, but would be forced to keep him company.
“That was a lovely meal,” he complimented, his gaze skimming her figure. Ever practical, Helen wore a pair of three-quarter pants and a loose, scooped neckline T-shirt. Every now and then, as she shifted, he saw a peek of the lavender bra she wore and had the hot urge to replace its presence with his hands. Shifting, he let his hand drift down to his trousers, hiding the semi-arousal that his imagination had fired, twirling the wine glass in his hand so she wouldn’t notice how much he wanted her.
“Thank you. It’s nice to cook for guests.”
From the tone of her voice, he got the impression that she didn’t do it very often, and his heart twinged in sympathy. He, on the other hand, had a surfeit of friends and guests, ever willing to accompany him on meals. In this way, in this little house at Byron Bay, both their needs were satisfied—hers for company and his for peace.
The silence built between them. At first, it was companionable, listening to the sounds of the encroaching night, sipping their wine then it changed. Yves wasn’t sure what did it. Did his gaze linger a little longer than necessary on that eminently kissable mouth of hers, or was it when the breath caught in his throat at yet another glimpse of the flimsy bra strap from beneath her shirt.
“What do you want, Helen?” he asked softly.
She licked her lips, making them glisten in the yellow glow from the floor lamp, an invitation in and of itself.
“I, I don’t understand.”
She did. Of course she did. But if she wanted reassurance at this point then he was more than happy to give it to her.
“You know how I feel,” he told her.
Well, that wasn’t strictly true. Even Yves himself wasn’t quite sure what he felt for this lethal slip of a woman. There was something about her—that potent mixture of competence and vulnerability—that intrigued him, held him, made him want to explore more of the puzzle that was Helen Collier.
“And I think I know how you feel,” he added. “Thanks to you, I’m safe and more relaxed than I’ve felt for months.”
One of her eyebrows quirked. “Are you suggesting sleeping with me out of gratitude?”
It could have been a waspish comment, but her tone was dry, as if she could clearly see the edge of humour in the situation. That was yet another thing he lov–appreciated about her.
“Until now, I feel we have been driven by circumstances outside our control. By surprise, by danger. When we sleep together again,” he lowered his voice to a rumbling purr and noticed the slight tremor in her body with a stab of satisfaction, “I want no guilt involved, cherie. No gratitude. Nothing that either of us can use as an excuse.”
He let the words hang in the air between them, allowing her the time to think over what he was saying—and not saying. A more inexperienced man would have charged in, trying to sway her with bluster or enticements, but Yves had not risen to his current prominence by misreading people, although he conceded that Leonid Alexandrov might have been one of his rare mistakes.
She swallowed hard, obviously thinking about his words, and he felt her indecision as something tangible.
“You’re going back to France next week, aren’t you?” she asked quietly.
Yves silently cursed, thinking furiously. Helen was not like the other women he dated. He knew she didn’t want the photos in the glossy magazines or the expensive trinkets. In a way, being with her was a very serious business because of what he saw in her eyes. Something that he usually ran away from as quickly as his legs could carry him. So, why didn’t he walk away now? Why wasn’t two nights in her arms enough, when it had always been so with other women? Why did the thought of her limbs entwined around his body still have the power to consume his senses?
He knew he couldn’t lie to her. And it had never ever been his policy to lie to any of his other female companions. He wouldn’t start now.
“Oui. If everything goes to plan, I’ll be leaving next week.” Adding anything more—like the fact he had already tried to mentally reschedule the next few months without success—would sound like nothing more than a flimsy excuse.
They stared at each other across the small room, and Yves thought he could read every thought that flitted through her mind. When she was a bodyguard, she might be focused and appear impervious to everything, but relaxed, her face reflected what she thought. He saw disappointment, confusion then resoluteness. When he saw the resoluteness remain ascendant, he knew she was bowing to the inevitable. Slowly, like a trainer not wanting to startle a nervous colt, he got to his feet and walked towards her. Reaching gently for her hands, he tugged lightly, and was gratified when she, too, rose. Still holding her hands, he dipped his head and captured her lips with his. It was tender and quick, a harbinger of what he wanted to do with her, and he pulled away reluctantly.
“Tonight. I will come to your room tonight. And there will be nothing between us. Oui?”
She nodded.
* * * *
Helen sat in bed. Her knees were pulled up, and she curled her arms around her legs, in the timeworn posture of a pensive teenager. Yves’ question had struck a deep chord within her.
What do you want, Helen?
At one time, even three months ago, that question would have been so easy to answer. She’d wanted a pleasant life with someone she respected who, in turn, respected her. She hadn’t been after a grand passion, just support and affection from a man who didn’t feel threatened by her or her profession. One month ago, all she’d wanted was time to come to terms with Pete’s death and with the feeling of an opportunity gone forever. She’d wanted to start her life all over again, as she had told Ryan.
One week ago, she’d wanted to get the assignment over and done w
ith and to use the freshly injected money in her bank account to move to Byron Bay. And now? Now, she was in love with a man so far out of her reach that she might as well hope to capture a star and keep it in a jar in the kitchen.
So, after two wonderful nights, should she keep him at arms’ length? It would be painful doing such a thing, but it had the advantage that she would lessen her heartbreak in the long run. On the other hand, giving in to her fantasies meant that, at least, she’d have some memories—ones not overlaid with guilt—to remember him by.
Helen’s grip on her legs tightened, and she groaned then heard a small knock on her bedroom door. Taking a deep breath, she slid off the bed and padded over to the door, opening it cautiously, as if unsure of who was on the other side. At the sight of Yves’ bulk, her heart started an irregular staccato in her chest. Silently, she moved to one side and let him enter.
She expected him to sweep past her, eye the simply furnished room, and sit on the bed, beckoning her forward with one finger. The window blinds were up, letting wide beams of moonlight into the room. Every move he made was clear, bathed in the bright silvery light. And he did none of those things. Instead, he stopped just inside the door and embraced her, lifting her off the floor and kissing her passionately. Hungrily. As if thousands of miles away, the door clicked shut softly behind them. After only a moment’s hesitation, her hands crept up his chest, pushing aside the rough towelling of his robe, resting for a moment against the hardness of his chest, before moving upwards to curl themselves in the silky thickness of his hair.
“Do you want this, cherie?” he whispered against her lips.
“Yes.”
“Just us? No excuses, no rationalisations, nobody and nothing else interfering?”
“Just us,” she answered. And she wasn’t lying, not even to herself.
He moved swiftly, carrying her as if she weighed little more than a feather, and Helen—fully awake this time—had never felt so petite, so feminine in anyone’s arms before. All at once, she was aware of the T-shirt and sleep pants she wore and couldn’t help but cringe. She had wanted to dress in something sexy and seductive, something Yves was probably more used to from the women he bedded, but the sad truth was that she didn’t have anything like that, and certainly nothing she kept at the Byron house resembled such fine lingerie.
But he didn’t seem to care. She felt the firm softness of the mattress at her back, and breathed in the masculine scent of the man whose hands roamed her body then coherent thought ceased.
Yves tugged the T-shirt off her head, exposing Helen’s breasts in the moonlight, their cool light touching the smooth curves and highlighting the puckered nipples, gilding them with silver. She felt the chill of the night against her flesh then the heat of a questing mouth replacing the soft fabric, suckling at her and sending sharp shocks of pleasure through her body. Helen bucked and sightlessly reached for him, frantically trying to pull the robe from his body so she could feel him press against her, flesh against flesh. She moaned in frustration at her lack of success, until Yves helped by shucking out of the confining clothing.
Helen gloried in the feel of him against her, his small nipples hard and flat against her skin as his mouth captured hers again, stilling all protest. His tongue sought hers out, probing the moist, sensitive cavern, forcing a response, until her fingers dug hard into his shoulders, feeling the movement of his muscles as he shifted position. His left hand moved to cup her bare breast, pinching the sensitive flesh until it pebbled again under his touch, and then he pushed downwards, over the side of her body and under the elastic of her pants. She gasped, and he breathed that in, relentlessly continuing his onslaught, skimming his fingernails across her triangle of damp curls as he caressed her groin with the back of his hand. He had enough time to shove the pants down while Helen kicked them off then she opened her legs, welcoming his touch.
“You are so wet, cherie,” he murmured into her hair. “Aching for me, oui?”
Helen swallowed a lump in her throat. “Yes, I am,” she gasped.
“As I ache for you, ma petite.” But he still made no move to assuage himself, content to capture her nipples with his searing tongue and send licks of pleasure coursing through her system. She arched against him, her skin taut against her ribs, silently begging him to sweetly torture her second breast as he was doing to the first. One hand was pressed against the back of his neck, the curl of his dark hair tickling her fingers, while the other grabbed at the bedsheets, holding onto them convulsively while Yves wreaked delicious havoc on her body.
She was wet with want now, but he still teased her, grazing the junction of her thighs, and she was sure he could feel the moist heat emanating from her sex. It made her feel wanton and shameless.
When he gently parted her lips, she almost bucked off the bed completely with the intensity of the sensation, then his fingers were caressing her wetness, stroking her, and she groaned out aloud, abandoning all effort at control. She was unaware that he moved, only that he was doing wonderful, sinful things to her body and she wanted more, then she felt his mouth on her clitoris and choked out a cry.
The sensations rocking her trembling body were sensual spikes, made more intense by her recent extended bout of celibacy. Had she really denied herself this, the firm flick of a tongue against her most private of places, the brush of masculine fingers against her salty wetness? She opened her legs further, feeling the small waves of sensation start to coalesce into something larger and more uncontrollable.
“Yves,” she sobbed, grabbing at him with frenzied fingers, her eyes staring wildly at the ceiling, beyond comprehension. The pleasure was building, and the need to have him inside her, thrusting into her, joining her in primitive rhythm, was insatiable.
It was as though he read her mind. The silvery beams across the ceiling disappeared, replaced by his bulk as he moved above her. There was a pause, as he removed his loose pants, and she heard the quick rip of a foil packet then she felt his legs between hers, the hard length of his penis slowing pushing into her, the delicious friction once more firing the ripples of an imminent climax. His dark eyes glittered in the night, his expression taut with the sexual tension that also gripped her. Then they were moving together, Helen working up a counterpoint to his movements, increasing the feel of him inside her as she tilted her hips. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, and she had a moment to register his skin, hot and slick, before her world shattered.
The cries she uttered seemed to come from another person. Helen was unaware of them ripping from her throat. Dimly, as if through a veil, she heard Yves’ cries of release, then there was a moment of respite before he rolled over so she was on top of him, and he kissed her deeply. She felt the solid thudding of his heart beneath her torso, the frantic pounding settling down to something more sedate, and—as if it was even possible—fell in love with him a little bit more. His arms were strong and gentle around her and she felt cradled, treasured, next to his heart. It was a feeling she never thought she’d experience, more used to male partners who wanted to show off their independence in front of her. But Yves seemed content just to hold her. He landed a gentle kiss on her hair, and she melted into his embrace.
“I would like to stay with you tonight,” he said softly.
“Yes.”
His arms tightened at her quiet answer, then relaxed, moving her so they were both in a more comfortable position. Helen’s eyes felt heavy, Yves’ steady breathing acting as a lullaby, slowly sending her to sleep. He got up briefly, but was soon back, pulling her into his arms, and Helen forgot her profession, her recent grief, her dissatisfaction with her life. Warm arms enfolded her, and she fell asleep.
* * * *
The weight across her waist was unfamiliar but welcome. Helen woke to a room bathed in strong yellow light, and she grimaced as she remembered that she hadn’t drawn the blinds the night before. Then she remembered what she had done the night before, and a slow heat crept along her cheekbones.
She had been shameless, there was no other way to put it. And insatiable. Oh, she couldn’t believe how insatiable she’d been! She and Yves’ first bout of lovemaking in the bedroom had been only the first of many, interspersed with contented naps before one of them reached again for the other. At one point, she had scrabbled in the dark herself for a pack of condoms she had bought on impulse months ago, the small box still wrapped in cellophane. It crinkled as she ripped at the covering, and she’d felt embarrassed, until Yves moved up—unabashed in his nakedness—chortling quietly while he helped her liberate the box’s contents.
She moved…and groaned. There were muscles aching that she’d never even knew existed. Yves must have heard her, because his hand tightened and he pulled her closer.
“Tired, cherie?” he asked, slanting her a wicked smile.
If Yves looked dark and mysterious in the moonlight, he looked like a deity bathed in the early morning sun. The last two times they’d been together, other circumstances had intervened. But now that Helen had the luxury of drinking him in, she realised he was even more magnificent out of clothes than in them. The scrap of bedsheet covered her more than it did him, only barely concealing his hips. Helen saw the line of fine dark hair arrowing down beneath and sheet and tried not to salivate. She wanted him again. Now. Hard. Then she realised that they weren’t alone in the house, and quickly closed her eyes.
“Guy,” she said. She had forgotten about him during the night, but her conscious mind was back with a vengeance, reminding her of her duties and responsibilities. Of the second person she was supposed to guard.