The Right Bride?: Bride of Desire / The English Aristocrat's Bride / Vacancy: Wife of Convenience

‘Bonjour, Alys.’

For a shocked second, she thought she’d dozed off and was actually dreaming, but one startled sideways glance revealed battered espadrilles and, rising out of them, a pair of long, tanned and totally masculine legs.

‘You?’ She almost sat up, remembering just in time her loosened top. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I wished to make sure that the events of the other morning had left no lasting trauma.’ He grinned down at her, totally at his ease, casual in shorts and a cotton shirt unbuttoned almost to the waist.

‘And is this how you normally make house calls?’ It was difficult, she found, to glare at someone effectively when you were forced to lie prone, and all they could see was your profile. ‘Just—march in without knocking or asking permission?’ And half-dressed?

‘No,’ he said. ‘But this is not a professional visit, you understand. Also, I met with Madame Colville on the road, and she gave me leave to visit you.’

He looked her over with undisguised appreciation, his eyes lingering, she realised furiously, on the narrow band of jade fabric that scarcely masked the swell of her buttocks.

‘The sun is fierce today,’ he said softly. ‘And you should not risk burning such lovely skin.’ He knelt down beside her, reaching for the bottle of sun lotion. He tipped some into the palm of his hand and began to apply it to her shoulders, in smooth, delicate strokes.

For a moment she was rendered mute with shock, then hurriedly pulled herself together.

‘Thank you,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘But I’m quite capable of doing that for myself.’

‘Vraiment?’ His brows lifted in polite enquiry, but he made no attempt to bring his unwanted ministrations to an end. ‘You are, perhaps, a contorsionniste? No? Then be still, and allow me to do this for you.’

His light, assured touch on her skin sent alarm signals quivering along her nerve-endings.

I don’t want this, she thought almost frantically. I—really do not…

She would have given anything to be able to sit up and snatch the damned bottle from his hand, but she was anchored to the rug. If only—only—she hadn’t unfastened her top. And the fact that he must have seen hundreds of women with bare breasts in his career made not an atom of difference.

Because Remy de Brizat was not her doctor, and, for all his comments about trauma, she was not his patient and never would be.

He took all the time in the world, his hands lingering, while Allie, raging with the knowledge of her own temporary helplessness, lay with her eyes shut and her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she fought a losing battle over the slow, inevitable awakening of her senses.

This can’t be happening to me, she thought. It just can’t.

One of the reasons I ran away was because I didn’t want to be touched—because I couldn’t bear it any longer.

And this man—this stranger—has no right to make me feel like this—as if my skin was made of silk, and my bones were dissolving. He has no right at all.

At last he paused, running a light finger along the rim of her bikini briefs but venturing no further, and she released her held breath, thinking that her ordeal was over.

Only to find herself stifling a startled whimper when he began to anoint the backs of her thighs, moving gently down to reach the sensitive area in the bend of her knees.

‘Alors.’ With sudden briskness, he recapped the bottle and put it down beside her. ‘The rest I am sure you can manage for yourself.’

‘Thank you,’ she said with icy politeness. ‘But I think I’ve had enough sun for one day.’

‘Perhaps you are wise,’ he said, faint amusement in his voice. ‘Why take more risks with such a charming body?’

Her throat tightened. ‘Thank you for your concern,’ she said. ‘But I can look after myself.’

She fumbled for the edges of her bra top and tried to bring them together across her slippery skin, with fingers made clumsy through haste.

‘Of course—as you prove so constantly, ma belle.’ She could hear him smiling, damn him. ‘Permettez-moi.’ He took the strips of material from her, and deftly hooked them into place.

Too bloody deftly altogether…

She sat up, pushing her hair back from her flushed face with a defensive hand. ‘Does that fulfil your quota of good deeds for the day?’ she asked stiffly. ‘Or do you have other visits to make? Because I wouldn’t wish to delay you on your errands of mercy.’

He studied her for a moment. ‘Why do you speak to me as if I were your enemy, Alys?’

Her colour deepened. ‘I—don’t,’ she denied shortly.

‘No?’ His mouth twisted wryly. ‘Then I hope we do not meet when you wish to be hostile.’

She took a swift breath. ‘I would actually prefer it, monsieur, if we didn’t meet at all after this.’ She lifted her chin. ‘You got me out of a nasty situation the other day, and I shall always be grateful for that. But now I would really like to be left in peace to—to enjoy my vacation without any further intervention from you. I’m sure you understand.’

‘I think I begin to,’ Remy de Brizat said slowly. ‘Tell me, Alys, do all men make you so nervous, or is it just myself?’

She gasped. ‘I’m not the slightest bit nervous—of you, or anyone.’

‘Then prove it,’ he said, ‘together with this gratitude you say you feel, and have lunch with me tomorrow.’

‘Lunch?’ she echoed in disbelief. ‘But why should I do any such thing?’

He shrugged. ‘I have already given you two good reasons,’ he said. ‘Besides, everyone needs to eat, and midday is considered a convenient time by most people.’ The blue eyes considered her again, more thoroughly. ‘And you are a little underweight, you know.’

She lifted her chin. ‘Is that in your medical opinion, or for your personal taste?’ she queried coldly.

He grinned at her. ‘I think—both.’

Well, she’d asked for that, but it didn’t improve her temper or weaken her resolve to keep him at bay.

He had a proud face, she thought, stealing a lightning glance at him from under her lashes. There was even a hint of arrogance in the high cheekbones and the cool lines of his mouth.

This was a man who was almost certainly unused to rejection, and equally unlikely to take it well.

I don’t suppose, Allie mused, he’s ever been stood up in his life. And—who knows?—it might teach him a muchneeded lesson. And, more importantly, it will demonstrate that I’m not available. Let’s hope he takes the hint.

She shrugged a bare shoulder, half smiling, as if resigned to her fate.

‘Very well, then. Lunch it is. As you say, we all need to eat.’ She paused. ‘What do you propose?’

There was a brief silence, then he said slowly, ‘There is a good restaurant on the road towards Benodet—Chez Lucette. You think you can find it?’

‘Of course.’

‘Bon. Then, shall we say—twelve-thirty?’

‘Perfect.’ Allie looked down demurely. ‘I—look forward to it, monsieur.’