Chateau D'Armor Page 11

  She heard him move; the soft thud of a booted foot on the carpet, and a second later he was standing immediately behind her, the warmth of his nearness sending her pulses into wild, head-spinning chaos. “Again you hesitate,” he remarked, so close to her ear that she felt the flutter of his breath against her neck. “Is it so difficult to remember not to call me Paul, petite?”

  Jesamine’s hands curled tightly at her side, and she did not dare turn her head in case he was even closer than she thought. “No more difficult than for you to remember to call me mademoiselle!” she retorted breathlessly, and only then remembered how firm she had decided to be about mentioning that.

  “And you dislike the formality of that?”

  It was impossible to carry on such a conversation while she still had her back to him, though she turned only slowly and with obvious reluctance. As she expected, he was much too close for comfort, and there was an expression in his eyes that she found infinitely disquieting.

  Everything James had said came rushing back to warn her, but still there was nothing she could do about the rapid, urgent beating of her heart, or the sudden weakness she felt in her legs as she faced him. It seemed she had known that strong rugged face since the beginning of time, she thought wildly, and fought hard against the effect of steely grey eyes that seemed to see right through her.

  “I have no objection to being formal, if that’s the way you prefer it,” she told him, in a small and suddenly husky voice. “In fact it might be a good idea in the circumstances!”

  “In the circumstances?” He was close enough to bend his head over her, so close she could smell the dust on his hair and his clothes, and he was looking down at her mouth with the same heart-stopping intensity he had once before, when she had stood barefoot on the gallery and he had so nearly kissed her. “The circumstances you are quite able to cope with, mademoiselle?” he suggested, and she realised with a flush of certainty that he was laughing at her.

  She stepped back away from him, but could only go as far as the chair behind her allowed, then she was brought up short, her breath catching in her throat. “You know perfectly well what I mean,” she whispered breathlessly.

  Paul was smiling, his strong teeth almost wolfish in his rugged face, and she felt her heart fluttering nervously when he took a step forward, following her. She put her hands behind her on the back of the chair, glad of its flimsy support, but he reached around her and put his own big hands over hers, pinning her fingers helplessly with a force that startled her.

  It brought him closer too, and the light pressure of his body aroused a startling sense of excitement in her that she hastily stifled. She could not claim that the situation was unforeseen, but she had not for one moment realised how she would react, and her own lack of initiative stunned her.

  “Your friend warned you, did he not, of the kind of man I am?” he asked in a voice that shivered along her spine. “But you would stay on, would you not, ma belle? You tried so hard to make him return without you, and I think now perhaps you are sorry that you did so!”

  Jesamine kept her eyes downcast, even though it meant she was looking directly at the vulnerable warmth of his throat where it emerged from the open neck of his shirt.

  “I’m not sorry at all,” she denied, her voice whisperingly unsteady. “I—I had the chance of a holiday and I took it.”

  “And this time, ma belle?” he questioned her softly, his voice itself a weapon of seduction, and she felt her whole body trembling. “Why are you still here? To catalogue our collection of antiques?” He laughed. “Mais non, though you may convince Grand’mere, that is why!”

  Jesamine struggled to free her hands, but his iron-hard fingers still restrained her, and she breathed erratically as she looked up at him. “I—I took a job with your grandfather,” she told him in a small tight voice. “You know that’s all there is to it—you know I’m here doing a job.” Despite the chaos of her emotions, her blue eyes held a glint of defiance. “If you have any other reason in mind, Monsieur Paul, you—you flatter yourself!”

  “Petite minette!”

  The steely grey eyes still laughed at her, and there was no relaxing of those strong fingers that imprisoned hers, but she thought the shaft had gone home, and guessed it was not often that Paul d’Armor was spoken to quite like that—especially by a woman.

  Then he bent his head suddenly and his mouth lightly touched the soft skin below her left ear. Her body tensed, there was nothing she could do about the instinctive reaction, and she was enveloped in a heady mixture of masculine scents that included some spicy after-shave as well as the dusty, earthy smell of the vineyards.

  She leaned back, trying to evade that evocative caress on her neck, but it only brought him that much closer, and turning her head away did not deter him. “Will you please—”

  Her words were cut off sharply when his mouth found hers and tipped back her head with the force of his kiss. Her lashes drooped instinctively cutting off the sight of those steely grey eyes, and she tried only briefly to turn her head again before his arms came around her, crushing her close against the fierce vigour of his body.

  When he raised his head at last, it was to look down at her with an intensity that shivered through her like fire and ice. His mouth curved slowly into a smile, and it was when she saw that smile that she began to realise he had known exactly how she would react when he kissed her.

  She put her hands to his chest and pushed hard, trying to rid herself of the touch of him, for while he was that close she could not guarantee her own strength of will. “I—I suppose you did that to prove something,” she whispered huskily, and he laughed.

  “What have I proved, ma belle?” he asked, his eyes bright and mocking. “That you are not as capable of taking care of yourself as you thought? That your James was right to warn you about men like me? You should have gone home with your lover, jeune fille!”

  “James isn’t my lover!” The protest sounded childish, even to her own ears, and she could see the glint of amusement it caused Paul. “Will you please let me go!” she breathed anxiously.

  She tugged uselessly at the arms that still held her, but broke free only because he let her. She was angry, it showed in the brightness of her blue eyes, but there were other, more disturbing emotions stirring in her that she dared not allow to surface, and she could not move away even now that she was free of his arms, because he was standing too close to her.

  “Will you please let me past?” she said, trying hard to steady her voice. “I—I want to do some more work before lunch time.”

  “Mais oui!”” He stepped back a couple of paces and allowed her to pass him, though she was obliged to brush against him as she did so. He watched her cross the room on legs that trembled like leaves, and perched himself on the corner of the escritoire, apparently heedless of its delicacy or value. “And after lunch, petite?” he asked.

  Jesamine turned and looked at him, taken by surprise. She had forgotten that initially he had come seeking her for some reason as yet unspecified, and she could not imagine the reason for his present interest. “Why—I’ll come back here and work, of course,” she told him, frowning curiously. “Why do you ask?”

  Paul shook his head, thrusting his hands into the front pockets of his slacks and smiling. “Because my grandfather has the idea that you would enjoy to see the vineyards and the cellars, he told her. “I shall understand if you do not wish to spend the afternoon in my company, of course, but perhaps you will be good enough to explain to my grandfather—he will find it more difficult to understand your dislike of the idea!”

  To Jesamine the invitation was so completely unexpected that she stared at him for several moments with wide, unbelieving eyes. If she had had some intimation of what he had in mind when he came in, she could have had an answer ready, found something sensible to say instead of simply staring at him as she was.

  Her natural inclination found the idea of spending the afternoon with him almost irresistibl
e. It was the cool voice of reason, and James’s cautious warnings, that told her how rash she would be to accept after what had just happened. She looked at him surreptitiously and wondered just what his own feelings were in the matter—whether he would want her to accept or if he was merely bowing to his grandfather’s wishes.

  It was the prompting of some unbidden sense of mischief that decided her to accept simply to see how he would react. “It was very kind of Monsieur d’Armor to think of it,” she said, watching his face through her lashes. “I’d love to go—that is if you don’t mind taking me, of course,” she added, and saw him frown.

  He eased himself from the corner of the desk and stood looking down at her for a moment, confirming her suspicion that he had neither foreseen nor wished for the answer she gave him. “You wish to go?” he asked, his brows drawn, and Jesamine nodded.

  She could see now, she thought, why he had behaved as he did when he came in. Those seductive caresses and that kiss had been meant to deter her, to make her wary of being in his company, as he had said, but now that she knew their purpose she felt angry—angry enough to accept the invitation just because she knew he did not want her to.

  “I’d love to,” she told him, her eyes bright and defiant. “Unless, of course, Monsieur Paul, you’ll find it an embarrassment being seen with me.”

  The cool grey eyes regarded her steadily for several seconds and she knew he sensed the reason behind her acceptance. He inclined his head in a brief, formal little bow, that to her expressed his dislike of the situation. “I am at your service, mademoiselle,” he said.

  He sounded so cool and perfunctory that for a moment she almost changed her mind. “You don’t mind?” she asked.

  He neither confirmed nor denied his willingness, but looked down at the dusty clothes he wore. “I apologise for the state of my clothes,” he said in a flat, impersonal voice, “but it is hot and dirty in the vineyards and, like you, I have work to do.” His eyes had the familiar challenging look when he looked at her again. “I will make myself available as your guide, mademoiselle, if you will accept me as I am. You will be ready at deux heures, s’il vous plait. Two o’clock,” he added impatiently when he saw her puzzled frown, and Jesamine nodded.

  It seemed she was committed now, although he would obviously condone a change of mind. The outing could be interesting, even though she had to admit that a whole afternoon in his company could prove less than enjoyable if his present mood prevailed. If only, she thought, she was perverse enough to enjoy the knowledge that he was such an unwilling guide, it would have given her more satisfaction. As it was she felt more unhappy than defiant, and followed his tall, stern figure to the door with wide, uncertain eyes.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  JESAMINE was in two minds whether or not to call off the visit to the vineyards with Paul, but his grandfather seemed so anxious that she should go that she had not the heart to disappoint him. He was certain she would find it very interesting, he assured her, and no one was better informed on the subject of wine-growing than his grandson.

  Despite his insistence that she would have to accept him as he was, she noticed at lunchtime that Paul had changed into a clean shirt. His hair appeared to be slightly damp too, which suggested he had showered, and certainly he seemed less dusty and earthy than before.

  Not quite sure what to wear herself, she put on a pair of slim-fitting blue jeans and a thin cotton shirt—it was too hot to wear very much—and tied her hair round, gypsy fashion, with a spotted scarf. There was evidently nothing wrong with her choice, for he nodded his head when he saw her, and she felt sure he would have made some comment if he considered her unsuitably dressed for the occasion.

  From his manner through lunch, she suspected he nursed hopes of her changing her mind, but she refused to have second thoughts now and looked up at him with a gleam of stubbornness in her blue eyes as they got into his car.

  They drove barely more than one kilometre along the Grosvallee road, then he stopped the car on a patch of sun-parched grass beside the road and got out. Fields of vines stretched away on both sides of them, and Jesamine wondered what one did when being shown over a vineyard, not to show too much ignorance of the subject.

  She looked at him a little uncertainly, now that the moment had come, but he paid her no heed at all at the moment. He did not even walk round and open the door for her, instead he took out and lit one of the king-sized cigarettes he smoked and, after a second or two, she too got out, standing on the grass border waiting while he gazed in silence across the endless vista of vines.

  With the width of the car between them she watched him surreptitiously while he drew on the long cigarette, expelling the smoke forcibly from tight lips, his eyes narrowed. Looking across at her suddenly, he raised a brow, his eyes cool and steely grey. “I hope you have comfortable shoes,” he told her. “From here on you walk, ma fille!”

  He sounded just about as discouraging as it was possible, but far from having the effect he obviously hoped, it served only to make her the more determined. She smiled and answered him with a pert brightness that defied his attempt to deter her. “Oh, don’t worry,” she said, “I put on shoes that I could walk for miles in, if I had to.” Walking round the car, she showed him the low-heeled casuals she was wearing. “These are all right, aren’t they?” she asked.

  Paul nodded without comment, drawing again on the cigarette before he reached out a hand to take her arm. It was an unexpected familiarity in the circumstances, and she felt her heart flutter warningly when his hard fingers curled into her soft flesh. But it was done only for the purpose of turning her in the right direction and then he released her at once.

  “Come, he said shortly, “I have many people to see—I can only hope that you will not be bored!”

  “Oh, but I’m sure I shan’t be!” she assured him, then hastily avoided the brief narrow-eyed look he gave her before he started off across the field, leaving her to keep up as best she could. It was not going to be a very enjoyable afternoon, she reflected, if he continued in the current vein, and she glanced up at him as they made their way between the first two rows of vines. “You were hoping I’d say no, weren’t you?” she asked, and went on before he could either confirm or deny it. “Or else that I’d change my mind!”

  He glanced down at her, his grey eyes cool and calculating. “I should have known that you would not,” he said. “Though you will find little enjoyment in this heat, and it is very dusty and uncomfortable—I know, I have been out here for most of the morning.” Briefly his fingers dug hard into her arm again, and made her gasp. “But you have your own reasons, have you not, petite minette?”

  Jesamine pulled her arm free, but almost stumbled and fell on the stony ground as she did so. Rubbing her hand over the marks left by his fingers, she looked up at him angrily. “That hurt!” she declared. “And don’t call me little cat!”

  “Pussy,” he corrected her, without a vestige of smile. “You are too small and soft to be a cat, ma belle!”

  “Why didn’t you want to bring me?” she demanded, ignoring the provocation for the moment. “I won’t hinder you! You can simply act as if I wasn’t here! Go off and do whatever it is you have to do, I don’t mind in the least finding my own way around!”

  “My grandfather expects me to show you whatever you wish to see, as you well know,” he told her, and there was some expression in the steely grey eyes that puzzled her as much as his words did. It was as if he expected her to read something more into his answer than was actually said, and she looked up at him curiously.

  “I don’t—know anything,” she denied, watching his face. “Not even why you’re so resentful about bringing me to see the vineyards!”

  He made no reply but simply looked at her meaningly from the corners of his eyes before acknowledging the casual salute of a short dark-haired young man who was working along one of the rows of vines. “Bonjour, Georges!”

  They conversed for a few moments in rapid incompr
ehensible French, but the man’s dark appreciative eyes followed her as she walked beside Paul, and his knowing smile as they left him had a disquieting effect on her confidence.

  She had some difficulty in keeping up with Paul over the stony ground, for his stride was far longer than she was capable of and, almost inevitably, she went sprawling suddenly. It had been bound to happen sooner or later and she wondered hazily if he had realised it. Paul in this curiously malicious mood was a new experience for her, and she felt suddenly and alarmingly vulnerable.

  For a second or two she lay breathless and face down on the dusty ground, feeling incredibly foolish because she knew the incident had been witnessed by the dark-eyed Georges and his fellow workers. But before she could recover her breath sufficiently to get to her feet two large hands spanned her slim waist and lifted her clear of the ground, like a puppy, and set her firmly on her feet again.

  “Are you hurt?” His voice was unexpectedly solicitous, though she barely noticed it in her embarrassment.

  He could have taken her hands and helped her to get up, or lifted her by her arms, but to haul her up bodily with his hands around her waist lent even further indignity to her position, and she found it hard to forgive him that. She sensed watching eyes and heard the murmur of voices on the hot dusty air, and her cheeks flushed hotly as she brushed the dust from her jeans, feeling oddly tearful for some reason she could not quite explain.

  “No, I’m not hurt,” she told him in a small tight voice, and brushed hard at her dusty jeans with both hands. She refused to look around her at the moment or at him. “Not in body, at least!”

  “Comment?”

  The steely grey eyes quizzed her steadily, until she was almost convinced he did not know what she meant, and she shook her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she told him huskily. “But please go on without me. I can’t keep pace, and I’m getting very hot and out of breath.”