Taken for Revenge, Bedded for Pleasure

‘Then allow me…’ Olivier almost expected her to protest as he took her hand and led her to the stairs, but passively she allowed him to lead her. Even so, he had the impression that a fierce battle was going on beneath that graceful exterior. This little rich girl had been brought up to be polite and well behaved, but all the etiquette and good breeding couldn’t quite conceal the wildness that heated her blue-tinged blood.

Just like her Grandmother. Just like the original Dame de la Croix.

He followed her across the thickly carpeted upper landing. She opened a door, revealing a pretty room with a window set into its sloping roof. Outside a blue August twilight was gathering over the treetops in the residents’ garden opposite, casting deep, inky shadows in the room. Just inside the door she stopped and turned to him.

‘Wait!’ She looked agitated. ‘I don’t know anything about you. I don’t even know your name…’

‘Olivier Moreau.’ Solemnly he held out his hand and said with a tiny hint of sarcasm, ‘Millionaire city boy.’

He was rewarded with a smile so brief it had disappeared before it was properly there. ‘You said I was only half right about that. Who are you really?’

‘I’m a hedge fund manager.’

‘What does that mean?’

He paused, weighing up how to answer. ‘I buy and sell… things.’

‘What things?’

He shrugged. ‘Anything. But I like dealing in the complex, indefinable things best. Rain, air quality, confidence…’

‘Or other people’s heritage?’ she added bitingly.

He acknowledged the dig with a small smile. ‘Exactly. As long as it gives me a good return on the investment. What else can I tell you? I’m French, but I’ve been based in London for the last four years. I collect art. I’m not married and I have no children. Is there anything else you’d like to know?’

‘Why you came here tonight.’

She walked away from him into the room, but he stayed where he was, lounging easily against the doorframe. He didn’t want to rush her, or pressure her. There was no need.

‘I wanted to see you again,’ he said simply. ‘After yesterday.’

She was standing by the wardrobe with her back to him, her head bent as she fumbled with the buttons on the back of the dress. In the melting blue light her neck was as pale and delicate as the petals of a lily.

‘What for?’

Her directness was unexpected, but Olivier admired her for it. Slowly he moved across the twilit room, desire licking through him in instant, automatic response as he reached out to help her. His libido obviously had little respect for history or family loyalty, he thought dryly, noticing that she stiffened slightly as he slid the button from its tiny satin loop.

His fingers moved down to the second button. ‘I wanted to give you what’s rightfully yours.’

‘The painting?’ There was a pause as the dress slid from her shoulders, revealing the flawless expanse of her bare back. It glimmered milk-white in the moonlight for a moment, and then she turned round so she was facing him.

‘Of course.’

In her ‘take-me’ heels, with the caviar-smeared black dress clutched against her breasts, she looked dishevelled and wanton, but when she spoke the icy hauteur in her voice shattered the enchantment.

‘No, thanks.’

He felt an uncomfortable jolt of surprise but instantly concealed it, looking at her steadily. ‘Why not? You said it was your grandmother’s house. If that’s the case then she should have it.’

‘It’s too expensive.’

He moved slowly towards her, genuine interest gleaming in his eyes. Having a woman turn down a gift on the grounds that it was ‘too expensive’ was a bit like having a goldfish decide against a bowl of water on the basis that it was too wet. He was intrigued.

‘I thought you said yesterday that you didn’t care how much it was worth?’

‘I did,’ she said with cold disdain. ‘But that’s irrelevant now. You’re a businessman, Mr Moreau, and I assume that part of your success rests on knowing your market. You no doubt think that all this—’ she made a sweeping gesture with one arm, causing a corner of the dress to fall down, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of voluptuous flesh ‘—means I’m some wealthy, profligate trus-tafarian, and you can sell the painting to me at a profit because you know how much I wanted it.’ She shook her head emphatically. ‘Well, I just hope that your projections in the boardroom are a lot more accurate than the ones you’ve made about me, because that’s a huge miscalculation. It makes no difference how much I want the painting because I can’t afford it.’

She stopped, her chin raised in awkward defiance, her dark hair framing a face that burned with fury and bitterness and passion. For a moment neither of them spoke, and above the distant thud of the band Olivier could hear Bella’s laboured breathing. In the half-light her shoulders looked fragile and translucent as they rose and fell rapidly.

‘Great speech,’ he said dryly after a long pause. ‘However, completely unnecessary. I said I came to give it to you.’

‘Why? Why would you do that?’

The space between them seemed to pulse with possibility. Watching her closely, Olivier could see that the hostility that crackled around her like static was due in part to a deep-seated uncertainty. Insecurity, perhaps. Having seen her arrogant, overbearing brother at work, it wasn’t hard to work out where that had come from.

He gently lifted the fallen edge of her dress, tucking it back in place and hiding the ivory swell of her breast, careful not to let his fingers brush her skin.

She shivered.

‘You want it,’ he said simply, looking at her thoughtfully. He saw the heat flare in her eyes and knew she had all but forgotten, as he had intended her to, that he was referring to the painting.

He turned, hiding his slight smile of triumph, and walked casually across the room. ‘I left it downstairs. I hope your grandmother likes it,’ he said, and closed the door quietly behind him.

Going down the wide stairs, he counted each step. Would she come after him before he reached the first floor, or would she manage to hold out for longer and leave it until he’d reached the hallway?

There was, of course, no question that she would come after him.

He reached the front door and, ignoring the imperious manservant who had welcomed him on the way in, stepped out into the warm evening. He had to hand it to her. She was pushing it to the limit. Unhurriedly he crossed the empty street to where his car was waiting, and was just reaching out a hand to the open the door when he heard the clatter of her heels on the marble floor behind him. At the sound of her voice he found he was smiling.

‘Wait—please wait!’

He arranged his face into an expression of bland enquiry before he turned round.

She had put on a short dress of vivid scarlet silk, loose and flowing like a smock, and as she ran down the steps towards him the silk rippled against the curves of her body like water cascading over a statue in a fountain. The transformation from the bland, dutiful girl he had watched up there in the drawing room to this vibrant beauty was breathtaking. It was as if she had been brought back to life.

She came to an abrupt halt by the pillared entrance portico.

‘I’m sorry for being so suspicious and cynical,’ she said, and her voice vibrated with suppressed emotion. She was trembling. ‘I’ve learned the hard way, I’m afraid. It made me forget that there are good people out there too. I’m sorry, please—forgive me.’

Olivier found himself taking a couple of steps towards her, so he was standing in the middle of the carless road.

‘Apology accepted.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Was there anything else?’

‘Yes.’ Keeping her chin held high, she came down the steps to where he stood. Her eyes flashed with feeling. ‘I never said thank you.’

The height of her heels meant that she didn’t have to stretch upwards very far to press a kiss on his cheek, but they also made her unsteady. As she leaned over she wobbled slightly, and Olivier found himself grasping her arms as the warmth and softness of her lips met his skin.

He didn’t let go of her straight away. ‘There’s no need to thank me,’ he said with a trace of mockery. ‘According to you the painting was morally yours all along.’