Loves Choices

If she had not given Alexei her word … If she had not he would undoubtedly have instructed Pierre to stand guard over her night and day, Hope thought wryly. He was unswervingly determined to have his revenge on her father.

What had Tanya been like, she wondered idly. Her portrait showed a startling similarity to her brother, although in Tanya, the harshly masculine features were softened into feminine lines. There was a vulnerability about her, too, that Alexei didn’t possess, and Hope shivered, remembering that she had taken her own life. She must have loved her father very deeply, and he … hadn’t he guessed how she would react when he ended their relationship?

In many ways her father was more of a stranger to her than Alexei. It was a disquieting thought, but one which Hope found recurring as the days passed.

The fourth morning of Alexei’s absence found Hope reading Claire Bretécher’s cartoon in Le Nouvel Observateur, when she heard the sound of a car outside. Immediately her body tensed, but she forced herself to keep on reading, picking up her coffee cup and drinking a little unsteadily from it, not because she was thirsty, but because the action prevented her from jumping up and running to the window overlooking the courtyard.

Masculine footsteps and the deep timbre of Alexei’s voice warned her of his arrival before the kitchen door opened, and Hope was amazed at the wealth of information her senses relayed to her about him long before she lifted her eyes from the papers.

‘Bonjour, mon petit. Have you missed me?’

His tan had deepened while he was away, and Hope felt her stomach clench disturbingly as she looked into his face. Had he been to the Caribbean? Making sure perhaps that the scene was set for his big dénouement. She responded coolly to his greeting, seeing his smile widen, his teeth white against the darkness of his skin, as he bent towards her and murmured against her ear. ‘I have driven at a speed well in excess of the limit all the way from the airport, hoping to find you still in bed, but Pierre tells me you have become an early riser during my absence. Dare I hope it is because you find our bed lonely without me beside you in it?’

‘It is not “our” bed—it is yours—and if I rise early perhaps it is because I have no wish to linger somewhere that holds unpleasant memories for me.’

She had had three days in which to martial her defences against him and Hope had the satisfaction of seeing his mouth tighten, the smile disappearing. The sensual response of her body to his lovemaking was something that still had the power to shock and disturb her and her own intelligence conveyed to her the knowledge that she could not depend on herself to resist him physically. For the sake of her pride and her sanity she had to find some other way to erect a barrier between them and she had come to the conclusion that while she could not resist him physically, she must do so mentally, so that no matter how many times he tortured her with the vulnerability of her body, her mind remained aloof and antagonistic.

Pierre came in with fresh coffee and warm croissants and Hope watched as Alexei poured himself a cup and bit into the flaky, sweet roll. He looked well-pleased with life, a warm smile curling his mouth, faintly reminiscent as though he were remembering something—or someone—with whom he had shared pleasure. What did he do when he wasn’t pursuing his vengeance against her father, Hope wondered sharply. He was a sophisticated man, who had already shown her by his tastes and conversation that he did not remain on his estate all year round, merely tending his vines, and yet he had mentioned his sister’s lack of wealth which seemed to suggest that he himself was far from being a wealthy dilettante, free to pursue a life of pleasure and idleness. No, that was definitely not Alexei, she thought intuitively, his mind was too keen and sharp to be that of a man who did not use it. The papers which were delivered daily to the château covered a diverse number of subjects.

‘You’re looking very thoughtful.’

Hope raised her head, her eyes clashing bitterly with his. ‘And you find that surprising?’ Her temper rose when she saw the indulgent amusement her anger brought to his eyes. ‘Your absence seems to have improved your mood in addition to your tan,’ she said heatedly. ‘What did you find in the Caribbean? That my father is in even greater financial difficulties than you thought?’

‘The Caribbean? What makes you think I have been there?’ The good humour fled from his eyes and he said curtly, ‘You are behaving like a child, Hope. If it has not yet occurred to you that I have a life apart from that which contains my feelings towards your father, perhaps it ought to. I have been to the Napa Valley where I own a vineyard. It is a new venture for me, and one in which I have sunk a large amount of capital. If my “mood”, as you call it, strikes you as “good”, you can put that down to the fact that I now believe my investment will pay off. I am not a wealthy man in the terms that your father and his crowd define “wealth” …’

‘And you envy those who are?’ Hope demanded scornfully. His face tightened and darkened slightly. ‘No, Hope, I do not,’ he corrected slowly. ‘When you have a little more maturity, you will appreciate that men value most that which they earn for themselves. I personally can conceive of nothing worse than inheriting or owning vast wealth. Everyone needs a goal in life, something to work and aim for. My aim, or one of them, is to restore this château to what it once was—that, and to produce a new wine from my Napa Valley vineyards which might one day equal those we produce here in France. My trip to California had already been postponed once, and consequently there is a considerable backlog of work for me to catch up on.’

‘Here at the vineyard?’ Hope asked the question reluctantly. She didn’t want to get involved in Alexei’s day to day life. She wanted to hold herself aloof, to remain distant from him, and yet, in spite of her resolutions, she was interested.

‘Here, in Beaune, where I serve on the committee which upholds the old traditions of this area, and in Paris, where I have an interest in a wine-broking business.’

‘I’m surprised as such a very busy man that you managed to fit in the time to … to kidnap me, and plan your revenge on my father,’ Hope said with what she hoped was a commendable degree of sarcasm, but it was her face that was tinged with betraying colour and not her opponent’s, his face calmly unimpressed as he poured himself a second cup of coffee.

‘You would do well to learn how to wield the rapier correctly, before you attempt to thrust against an expert, mon petit,’ he mocked her, refilling her own cup. ‘Now, have you any more questions for me, anything more you wish to know about my life?’

‘Nothing!’ Hope told him vehemently, too vehemently she feared if his amused expression was anything to go by. She glanced into his dark face and wondered numbly about the women who shared his life, quickly trying to quell the thought. What were they to do with her? Did they resent his absence while he spent his time with her? What sort of relationships did he have that he was able to do so? Was he as remote and taunting with them as he was with her?

‘So many busy thoughts chasing one another through your head.’ He picked up his cup and finished his coffee. ‘What is it that brings such an arrested expression to your face, I wonder?’

‘I was just thinking. You are spending a lot of time with me.’ She had blurted out the truth without thinking, and came to an abrupt halt, realising the dangerous ground on which she was treading, but it was too late.

‘And …’ Alexei pressed softly, the mockery in his eyes daring her to ask the questions she was sure he knew were racing through her mind, prompting her to ignore the warning voice inside her skull and to say instead, her chin lifting firmly:

‘I was thinking you must be a very cold, hard man, and one who does not care where he causes pain, just so long as he is able to accomplish what he desires.’

‘Meaning?’ Now there was an iron hardness beneath the soft tone.

‘Meaning, I am not so naïve as to suppose that you live your life as … as a monk,’ she managed, hating the colour seeping up under her skin, ‘and that it surely must cause your …’