Original Sin

Christian had turned to gaze around the courtyard. He stood with his back to her, his hands thrust into his jacket pockets, and she stared at him unwillingly. Tall, over six feet, and broad-shouldered, he had the smooth-muscled physique of an athlete. In profile his features had a brooding, hooded power. The trouble was, Emily acknowledged ruefully, that Christian Malraux exuded far greater danger than Greg Vernon ever could...

‘I’ll be fine, honestly,’ she countered hurriedly. ‘I’ll lock my door. Don’t worry...’

‘You will move across to the room next to mine. Tonight.’ Christian turned to gaze down at her, his expression harder. ‘I have no wish to lie awake half the night worried that rape and pillage may be taking place across there.’

‘For heavens’ sake, there’s no need for any fuss. I’ll be perfectly safe! And I can take care of myself!’

‘You will do as I say.’ The deep voice held an implacable note, raising her hackles. Christian Malraux could be charming when he wished, but he had a nasty tyrannical streak, Emily decided crossly. She recalled his icy dismissal of Greg Vernon. Here was a man used to being obeyed.

‘I’d rather stay where I am now!’

‘Indeed?’ One dark eyebrow angled scathingly as he studied her mutinous face. ‘Perhaps I misjudged the situation? Perhaps, if I had not intervened, the outcome would have been very different?’

She stared at him in silence.

‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘Things are not always what they appear,’ he murmured thoughtfully. ‘Is it possible perhaps that you were enjoying your rough session with Greg Vernon, Emily? And my appearance spoiled things for you?’

Anger gripped her. ‘If you mean what I think you mean, that’s a...a disgusting suggestion!’

‘Is it?’ Christian sounded unperturbed by her pent-up outrage. ‘In that case, you will be happier sleeping in another room. Come, we’ll fetch your things.’

There was little option, Emily decided furiously, but to follow orders, for the time being. And humouring her new boss seemed diplomatic, when she’d controlled her temper enough to take a calm view of the situation.

‘Is the chteau always this deserted?’ In a valiant effort to somehow retrieve the deteriorating atmosphere between them, Emily’s query was made with elaborate politeness as they returned across the shadowy courtyard with her repacked cases. ‘It gives me the distinct impression that it was built to house more than two people!’

She’d endured his patronising supervision while she collected her belongings. Now she felt a fresh stab of annoyance at his humourless smile.

‘Before my aunt died, the place was usually packed with staff, guests, weekend parties. I imagine that social life tailed off these last few years. The village “fte champtre” is traditionally celebrated here. There is a floodlit grand bal here in two weeks’ time. That should bring a little more life to the place...depending on the numbers attending.’

There was that dry cynicism again in his voice, which seemed to intrude whenever the chteau was mentioned...

‘But the business side of things—surely there are more live-in staff than your housekeeper, Lisette Duvert, and the occasional casual odd-job man like Greg Vernon?’

‘This is as my uncle left it. I’ve been working on building up the sales side, but I haven’t been able to give the place my undivided attention. Too many loose ends from my former profession. And I have not yet fully decided on the future of the Chteau de Mordin.’

Emily stopped in the doorway of the bedroom he’d shown her into, staring up at him in surprise. ‘You mean you might sell?’

He shrugged. ‘It’s possible. I have not decided. Six years ago, I had no wish to vegetate in provincial France in the family business. I am not sure if anything has really changed on that score.’

For some reason, she felt shocked. She took care not to show it. She hardly knew this man. It wasn’t for her to show surprise at his lack of enthusiasm for what seemed to her an idyllic goldmine of a place...

‘This place has enormous potential,’ she began idly. ‘I thought that the moment I saw it...’

‘Indeed? I’d be interested to hear your views on it.’ His tone was wry, far from sincere, she thought resentfully.

‘Sure. Any time.’ Suddenly overwhelmingly tired, she pressed a hand to her forehead, shivering.

‘Are you all right, Emily?’ Behind the implacable shutters of his expression, the smoky blue gaze held a hint of concern.

‘I’m fine. It’s been a long day...’

This was true. She’d been up with the lark at her home in Gloucestershire, flown from Birmingham to Bordeaux, then driven up here on congested French roads in the hectic July holiday traffic. The sight of the big, square bedroom just along the landing from Christian’s suite, freshly welcoming in shades of blue and gold, with a door ajar into a matching shower-room, was enticing.

Emily suddenly realised that this window looked straight across the courtyard into the window of the bedroom she’d been given by Lisette. No wonder Christian had detected trouble and arrived on the scene when he had—once Greg Vernon had snapped on the light, the scenario in the bedroom would have been floodlit for all to see...

‘You’ve gone very pale.’

‘I think it’s delayed reaction to that ridiculous episode earlier...’ The brief smile she gave him was tight with suppressed emotion. It had only just sunk in how close she might have come to a vicious assault earlier in her room. And this arrogant individual had the nerve to suggest she’d been enjoying herself...

To her mortification she discovered that she was close to tears. Spinning desperately away from him, cursing her tiredness, her emotional state, the wine, the whole tense, edgy evening, she willed him to melt away and leave her alone to weep a few therapeutic tears and collapse into bed.

Instead, she felt strong hands on her shoulders, and she was twisted into the hard warmth of Christian Malraux’s arms, and held firmly against the muscular wall of his chest.

‘You are trembling. Emily, I apologise if I offended you. You are quite safe here...’

The deep voice was cool, with a trace of anger beneath the surface. Was he angry with her? Or with himself, for suggesting that nasty twist to what might have happened?

She tensed, panic-stricken, rigid with furious denial as he slid one hand up to the narrow nape of her neck, casually and confidently caressing her hair. He stroked the back of her head in a calming, brotherly fashion. It could have been Ben, hugging her better after some minor accident at home. She felt herself relax against him involuntarily as the warmth of his body transferred itself to her.

And then, with no warning, the warmth subtly changed. Secure and fraternal it suddenly wasn’t. Searingly aware of every intimate detail of the hard, clean-smelling male body so close to hers, Emily found all her reassurance vanished.

When Christian gave an abrupt, astonished expletive and crushed her harder to his body, she lifted her head and blindly proffered her lips to his demanding, exploratory possession of her mouth...

She parted her lips with a sort of compulsive curiosity. The exquisitely raw sensations rippled through every nerve of her body. His tongue fenced with hers, then plunged hungrily deeper. He slid his hands up her slender back and cupped her head, his fingers tangling in the short, feathery rose-gold curls of her hair.

Dragging trembling hands across his ribcage, she spread her fingers across the width of his chest, superficially going through the motions of trying to push him away. Her lack of conviction must have been pathetically obvious, she decided dimly, shivering as her fingers encountered the strong ridges of his pectoral muscles. She clenched her fingers into small fists, fighting her feelings with every ounce of her strength, but then of their own volition her hands slid to his shoulders, spanning the firm column of his neck, seeking the strong pulse beating at his throat, the texture of his hair at his nape.

His hair was thick and clean, crisp to the touch. His body, through the light cotton of his clothes, felt lean and spare, powerfully muscled. A fresh wave of fire swept through her as he traced the narrow indentation of her spine with one firm hand. He caressed lightly all the way down to her small buttocks, and with shocked awareness she felt the heavy shaft of his sex, confined by clothes but nevertheless rampantly male, powerfully and unmistakably aroused, pressing against the flatness of her stomach through the silk of her sarong-skirt. A shudder of need seemed to resonate through her, but alongside it came a faint return to sanity.

The shudder seemed to transfer itself to Christian, and with a thick curse under his breath he abruptly separated himself from her. One hand on her shoulder, he caught her chin with the other, to lift her flushed face for inspection. The smoky blue eyes were darker. The sleepy, lidded gaze was shuttered, and unreadable.

‘Je m’excuse, Emily. I did not intend that to happen. I did not seek to light a conflagration between us...’ His breathing was erratic, his deep voice was harder, but ruefully amused as well. As if he’d been taken genuinely by surprise.

‘I...you didn’t...’ Her voice sounded disembodied. She was trembling from head to foot.

‘Now I think I have frightened you even more than Greg Vernon.’

She made a determined effort to laugh it off, backing away and twisting her chin free from the disturbing warmth of his fingers. ‘Don’t worry, I doubt if I’ll have nightmares!’

‘Good.’ He was smiling wryly now, a wary, watchful light in his eyes. ‘We would not want any complications to hinder our working relationship, would we?’

‘I’ll be sure to lock my door!’ she said tartly.

‘That would be advisable.’ His blue eyes held such a gleam of dry humour that it twisted a fresh knot in the painful muddle of her emotions. Some inner parts of her body she had never even known existed until now were aching and shimmering and melting, and behaving in an outrageously unladylike fashion. ‘You’re quite a little sex siren, aren’t you, Emily?’

‘I assure you I am not!’ she snapped, incensed at his laughing mockery. ‘And what a typical sexist male comment! Blaming the female for his own lack of control!’