Desperate Measures
Sara Craven

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Endpage

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘BUT THIS TREATMENT is totally revolutionary! The specialist says it could make all the difference to Daddy—that it might even cure him permanently. But it’s expensive, and it’s in America, and we just don’t have that kind of money.’

Philippa Roscoe leaned forward, her hazel eyes fixed pleadingly on her former stepmother’s unresponsive face. ‘Monica, you’re the only one I can turn to. Help us—please!’

‘It’s quite impossible.’ Lady Underhay shook her head with finality. ‘I haven’t access to unlimited funds, Philippa, and I certainly can’t ask Lennox for money to go to my ex-husband.’ She flushed, looking self-conscious. ‘He’s always been—a little jealous of Gavin.’

‘They were business partners once.’

‘But that was some time ago. And anyway, Lennox feels the board was more than generous when Gavin left—deserted them in that absurd way to go off and paint.’ Monica’s lips became set. ‘Deserted me, as well.’

You were the one who left! Philippa wanted to cry out. You were the one who wouldn’t risk your lifestyle to let Daddy fulfil his dream. And now here you are, once more, living in the lap of luxury.

But she said none of it. Across the years, she could remember her father’s face, haggard with the strain, his voice telling her huskily, ‘You mustn’t blame Monica, sweetheart, and you mustn’t be bitter either. I’m trying not to be. She loved us, in her way, but she can’t do without money and comfort. She needs it as other people need air to breathe. And, inevitably, she’ll go where money is. Lennox will treat her well. They have a mutual regard for material possessions and security.’

Looking round the elegant drawing-room, Philippa could well believe it. The sale of any of the pictures and antiques it contained would have paid for Gavin Roscoe’s treatment.

‘Anyway, I understood that your father had been quite successful at this precious painting of his. Can’t he produce a few more pictures—pot-boilers or something, to finance his own treatment?’ Monica looked restively at her watch.

Philippa shook her head, thankful that Gavin couldn’t hear her. ‘The disease—or rather the virus that caused it—attacked the muscles on his right side first. He has—difficulty using his hand, so he can’t paint any more.’

Monica bit deeply into the coral curve of her lower lip. ‘I—see. Well, that is tragic, but of course, if he’d remained with the firm, there’d have been private health insurance to cover this kind of eventuality.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, I really am, but there’s nothing I can do.’

Philippa’s hands twisted together in her lap, the knuckles white. ‘Monica, I’ve got to get that money somehow. I’ve got to make sure Daddy has this chance before it’s too late. The specialist says if there’s any more muscle wastage …’ She paused, her voice breaking. ‘I’ll do anything—agree to any terms you offer. I’ll pay the loan back, if it takes the rest of my life, but I’ve got to have it. If you ever cared for Daddy at all, please help me to think of some way.’

Monica flushed again. ‘Naturally I cared. But what you ask is out of the question.’ She paused. ‘Have you approached some financial institution?’

‘I tried, but I had nothing to use as collateral for a loan. I can’t even guarantee there’ll be a lasting cure, or that Daddy will ever be able to paint again.’

‘What a pity Gavin didn’t make some provision for the future before throwing up his business career in that crazy way.’ Monica’s tone was short.

‘He couldn’t know he was going to be ill,’ Philippa protested. ‘He was so well up to that winter—happier than he’d ever been …’ She stopped guiltily, aware that her words were singularly infelicitous, and saw by the tightening of Lady Underhay’s facial muscles that she thought so too.

‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘Lennox will be home at any minute, and I’d as soon he didn’t find you here. We’re entertaining this evening—the head of De Courcy International, as it happens—and there are things I must do.’ She paused. ‘I’m sincerely sorry I can’t help, Philippa, but there’s really nothing I can suggest.’ She hesitated again. ‘Surely there must be similar treatment available in this country on the National Health Service, for instance?’

‘No, as I’ve told you this is completely new. In fact, it’s still at the experimental stage,’ Philippa said tonelessly, rising in her turn. ‘I’m sorry to have troubled you. You were my last hope.’

As she turned to the door, it opened and Lennox Underhay came in. He checked at the sight of her.

‘Philippa, isn’t it? How are you?’ His smile was polite but unenthusiastic, and the look he threw his wife was questioning.

‘She has to rush away, darling,’ Monica intercepted hastily. She put her arm through Philippa’s. ‘I’ll see you out, my dear.’

Her lips were compressed when they reached the hall. ‘No doubt he’ll want to know what you were doing here,’ she said snappishly. ‘I don’t want to seem uncaring, Philippa, and I feel for you in your distress, but you do make things very awkward sometimes.’

‘I wouldn’t have come here if I hadn’t been absolutely desperate,’ Philippa said quietly. She handed Lady Underhay a scrap of paper. ‘This is the telephone number of my hotel. If you do happen to think of something—some way in which I could raise the money, you can reach me there over the next couple of days.’

Monica accepted it with a reluctant sigh. ‘Very well, but I’m promising nothing.’

Life was so unfair, Philippa thought bitterly as she rode home on the Tube. Monica had simply exchanged one luxuriously cushioned setting for another. If leaving Gavin after five years of marriage had caused her any real grief, she’d kept it well concealed. But it had probably been outweighed by her sense of injury at his decision. When Monica was getting her own way, no one could be sweeter. But when she was crossed …

Philippa grimaced inwardly. Gavin, a widower for some years, had indulged and cosseted his second wife, and she’d revelled in it. When Gavin had first announced his intention of giving up his City directorships, his home in London and country house in West Sussex in order to be an artist, Monica had treated it as a bad joke, then as a temporary aberration. When she’d realised he was not only serious, but absolutely determined, she had become angry, and Philippa still shuddered when she recalled the scenes and tantrums, all of which Gavin had borne patiently.

Anyway, Monica had fallen on her feet, firstly with an over-generous divorce settlement, which she seemed conveniently to have forgotten, and later with Lennox Underhay, who had always admired her chic blonde prettiness.

But, at first, everything had worked out for Gavin too. Instead of starving in some foreign gutter as Monica had confidently predicted, he had found a ready and high-paying market for his landscapes, and he and Philippa had enjoyed several heady years of travelling round the Dordogne and Provence together as he worked. Gavin Roscoe, as one critic had said, had a unique ability to express in paint the intensity of heat and shade the southern regions of France could produce.

It had seemed as though it would never end, Philippa thought, biting her lower lip until she could taste blood. Perhaps it was as well that neither of them had realised how little time there really was.

I’m not going to think like that, she castigated herself. I’m going to get the money, somehow, and Daddy’s going to America for this treatment.

But how could she get rich quick? she wondered, leaning her aching forehead against the train window. There were so few avenues left unexplored.

I’ve tried all the conventional ways, she thought. Maybe I should consider more desperate measures. High-class call-girls earn a lot, it’s said, and it’s tax-free. She turned her head a little, studying her reflection in the glass. Only a supreme optimist would think the punters were clamouring for skinny nineteen-year-olds with small breasts, straight hair and very little experience.

Let’s face it, she thought. No experience at all.

She was thankful her father had no idea what she was contemplating, even in joke. He thought she was trying to sell the last painting he’d produced before the muscle wastage became too severe.

But even that had been hopeless. The man at the Orbis Gallery had been very kind, very understanding, but the painting had been almost unrecognisable as Gavin Roscoe’s work. It had been unrealistic to think they might take it.

I’m going to need a miracle, Philippa thought.

She was stretched on the bed in her tiny single room a few hours later, trying to interest herself in a detective story she’d bought at the station, when the phone rang.

It was probably reception checking when she was leaving, she thought as she lifted the receiver.

Instead, her stepmother’s voice said curtly, ‘Can you come over to the house right away? There’s something I want to discuss with you.’

‘Something about the money.’ Philippa’s heart skipped a beat. ‘You mean you’ve thought of a way?’

‘Possibly.’

‘But that’s wonderful! What is it?’

‘It’s not something I care to talk about on the telephone,’ Monica returned frostily. ‘As for it being wonderful—well, that remains to be seen.’ She paused. ‘It would help if you came looking reasonably presentable.’ She replaced the receiver.

Presentable, Philippa thought with bewilderment, reviewing in her mind the details of the scanty wardrobe she’d brought with her. There was little there that would fall within Monica’s stringent requirements.

She compromised with clean jeans, and a cream full-sleeved shirt, brushing her brown hair until it shone, then fastening it behind her ears with two tortoiseshell combs.

She took a cab to Lowden Square. She found Monica alone, standing by the marble fireplace in the drawing-room, brandy glass in hand. She turned as Philippa was shown in, and her lips thinned. ‘My God, I said presentable, and you turn up looking like some art student!’

‘Which is exactly what I am,’ Philippa returned, lifting her chin. ‘Anyway, do my clothes really matter so much? I’m not going to be offered a modelling contract, surely?’

‘There’s no guarantee you’re going to be offered anything at all,’ Monica said with a snap. ‘When he sees you, he may well have second thoughts, and who can blame him?’

‘He?’ Philippa frowned. ‘Just who is he?’

‘He is Alain de Courcy,’ Monica said shortly. ‘As I think I mentioned, he’s the head of De Courcy International, and he has a proposition to put to you. If you’re as desperate for money as you claim to be, you’ll listen to him, although I find the whole thing totally incredible—unthinkable.’ She drank some of her brandy. ‘He’s waiting for you in the library, so I suggest you don’t keep him waiting any longer.’

Philippa walked the few yards to the library, her mind whirling. She had rarely seen her stepmother so on edge—not since the time she’d first learned Gavin’s plans for the future. Obviously the important dinner party hadn’t gone precisely to plan.

She’d heard of de Courcy International, of course. Who hadn’t? But what on earth could anyone connected with such a vast and influential organisation want with someone as insignificant as herself? As Monica had indicated, it made no sense.

She paused outside the library door, wondering whether she should knock, then, deciding against it, turned the handle and walked into the room.

All the lights were on, and Philippa paused, blinking a little after the relative dimness of the hall. Then, as her eyes grew accustomed to the glare, and she saw him, she stopped dead, completely taken aback.

The head of an important company like De Courcy should be an older man, she found herself thinking dazedly. Someone heavyweight, middle-aged and mature—like Lennox Underhay, for instance.

But this man was young, and she realised, incredibly attractive, as her artist’s eye took in the underlying strength of his superb bone-structure which would last long after his surface looks were gone. The thick dark hair, waving back from his forehead, the green eyes with their almost feminine sweep of lashes, the firm-lipped mouth and deeply cleft chin—all these were only a bonus.

He was tall too, his broad-shouldered, lean-hipped body perfectly set off by the formal elegance of his evening clothes.

He looked surprised as well, the dark brows snapping together autocratically above his high-bridged nose as he looked her unhurriedly up and down.

Philippa’s hands felt damp suddenly, and she wiped her palms on her jeans. The movement broke the silent stillness which seemed to enclose them, and he moved too, suddenly, abruptly, as if he was angry about something.

But when he spoke, his cool, faintly accented voice was only meditative. ‘So—you are Philippa.’

‘Yes.’ She swallowed, still staring at him as if mesmerised, aware that her throat was dry, and that her pulses were doing disturbing things. ‘And you are—Monsieur de Courcy.’

He smiled briefly and sardonically. ‘Oh, I think, in the circumstances, we should be less formal, perhaps. My name is Alain.’

‘What circumstances?’ Suddenly she was afraid. I didn’t mean what I said about being a high-class callgirl, she placated some unknown but clearly humourless deity. ‘I—I don’t understand, monsieur.’

‘You have not been told?’ The green eyes met hers, held them. ‘Then the task—the privilege is mine, it seems. You and I, mademoiselle, are destined to be married.’

For a moment, Philippa’s mind seemed numb. She couldn’t move or speak—or even think coherently. Incredible, Monica had said. But it was worse than that. It was completely insane. The word kept running through her brain. The head of De Courcy International had gone stark raving mad, and they were the only ones who knew.

‘You had better sit,’ Alain de Courcy added curtly. ‘Before you fall down.’ His gaze raked her again, taking in the cling of the tight-fitting jeans to her slender hips, the slight swell of her breasts under the thin shirt. The frown returned. ‘How old are you, mademoiselle?’

‘I’m—nearly twenty.’ She ran her tongue round her dry lips. ‘Did you really say—married?’

He nodded unsmilingly.

She swallowed. ‘But I’ve never seen you before in my life—never even knew you existed until tonight.’

‘Nor I you,’ he said with a slight shrug. ‘But that need not be an obstacle.’ He fetched a high-backed chair and set it for her, then placed another one opposite for himself. ‘Before you reject me out of hand as a dangerous lunatic, allow me to explain. I need to be married, mademoiselle, and urgently too. Before I came to dinner tonight, I was seriously contemplating advertising for a wife in some newspaper.’

‘This must be some tasteless joke,’ Philippa said thickly. ‘I shall never forgive Monica—or Lennox. I suppose it was because I made a nuisance of myself earlier—said I was desperate for money.’

‘There is no joke,’ Alain de Courcy said quietly. ‘I was distrait at dinner, and they persuaded me to speak of my problems. It was then that your stepmother suggested that your dilemma might provide the solution to mine. This is why you were asked to come here tonight. This is why we are alone together now.’

She took a breath. ‘I—can’t believe this. It’s crazy!’ She sent him a scornful look. ‘Putting an ad in a paper, indeed! You’re the last person in the world who needs to resort to something like that.’

He smiled faintly. ‘Merci du compliment—if that’s what it was. But the truth is, I know very few women of a suitable age and background and even fewer who would allow themselves to be taken in marriage in such a headlong way, without a conventional period of courtship at least—if not vows of undying love and devotion. Anything less, however insincere, would insult them.’

‘You don’t think it would insult me?’ Philippa stiffened.

Alain de Courcy shrugged. ‘From what little I have learned tonight, I don’t think you can afford to be insulted,’ he countered levelly. ‘I understand you need a substantial sum of money to pay for your father’s medical treatment in the United States, and maintain him there in a private clinic. If you marry me, I will make sure sufficient funds are made available for you to use in this way—or as you wish.’ He paused. ‘You need me for your father’s future, mademoiselle. I need you for mine. Do we have a bargain?’

Monica had said, ‘Listen to him.’ Philippa found herself shivering.

‘First, you’d better explain why you need to be married so quickly,’ she said. ‘Why can’t you wait—find a wife whom you might—care for?’

‘Marriage, ma chère, is a lottery,’ he said cynically. ‘Until now I have always managed to avoid buying a ticket. But now I find myself under pressure through my family.’

He paused. ‘I inherited the chair of De Courcy International from my grandfather. Since then, my uncle Louis has always borne a grudge that he was passed over for me. For the past two years, he has been working against me, trying to thwart deals I was involved in—attempting to undermine my authority by castigating me to the more sober members of my board as an irresponsible playboy.’

He shot her a swift glance. ‘You smile at last, mademoiselle, and I too found the situation amusing— once. But lately it has become altogether more serious. My name has recently been linked with a woman, who is married to a man of importance in the government. There have been hints in the papers—rumours and innuendo in the circles I move in.’

He shrugged. ‘There has been gossip before—I am not a saint—but this time my uncle has managed to gain support for his opinion that my conduct is a disgrace, and that, through me, De Courcy International is likely to be plunged into a major scandal with all kinds of repercussions. I am, he says, unfit to be chairman any longer.

‘Accordingly, he has called an emergency meeting in two weeks’ time to discuss the situation, and call for my resignation. He plans to become chairman in my place, against my grandfather’s expressed wish, and that is now a distinct possibility. You must believe that it would also be a disaster. You see my problem?’

Philippa bit her lip. ‘I—suppose so. But maybe your uncle’s right—perhaps you are irresponsible. After all, if you’re having an affair with this woman—neglecting the company for her …’

His mouth twisted. ‘My uncle, mademoiselle, has an insufferably bourgeois mind. My private life has no bearing on my role as head of De Courcy. No woman has ever come between me and my work, or ever will.’

He hesitated, his expression rueful. ‘There is an additional factor. My uncle has a daughter, Sidonie. He has dropped unmistakable hints that if I were to offer marriage to my cousin his opposition to me would cease immediately.’

‘Then isn’t that the obvious solution?’

‘You would not suggest such a thing if you had ever met my cousin Sidonie. She has a bad complexion, and the disposition of a jealous shrew.’

Philippa bit her lip. ‘I might be just as bad.’

‘That is a risk I shall have to take.’ His eyes swept with disturbing candour over her face, and down her body. ‘Your skin at least is clear—what I can see of it. And you are also a loyal and loving daughter, or so Lady Underhay assures me. That is why she and her husband suggested I should have this interview with you.’

He paused. ‘We both have dire problems, mademoiselle, and to solve them, only desperate measures will do. Agreed?’

Desperate measures, she thought. Her own words come back to haunt her.

‘Well—perhaps.’ She spread her hands helplessly. ‘But—marriage …’

He studied her for a long moment. ‘The implications of that word deter you, peut-être. You wish to be reassured about the exact nature of the relationship I am offering?’

Philippa found she was blushing to the roots of her hair. ‘Yes.’

‘Well, that is natural.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘I am not a savage, Philippa, but at the same time I need to ensure that the de Courcy name continues to the next generation. I will, one day, ask you to give me a son. But you will be given time—as much as you need—to—accustom yourself before that happens. Is that the assurance you require?’

‘Yes—no—I don’t know.’ Philippa gripped her hands together. ‘Oh, this is ridiculous—an impossible situation!’

‘As you say. But it is also a practical solution to our mutual difficulties.’

‘And that’s all that matters?’

‘What else is there?’ He sounded amused.

‘What about—love?’

‘What about it, indeed?’ He was laughing openly now. His teeth were very white, she noticed irrelevantly. ‘But as you mentioned earlier, mademoiselle, we have only just met. I feel any declaration of passion on my part would be premature …’

‘I didn’t mean that,’ she said angrily.

‘No? Then are you telling me there is already an important relationship in your life?’

The frankly sceptical note in his voice grated on her, and she lifted her chin, her blush deepening hectically. ‘Is it so impossible?’

‘It is unlikely,’ he said with infuriating calmness. ‘You have a disturbingly—untouched quality.’

She glared at him. ‘As a matter of fact, I was really wondering what would happen if, after we were married, one of us—both of us—met someone else.’

‘Marriage is not always a barrier to such relationships,’ he said softly. ‘As long as discretion is maintained.’

‘That’s an abominably cynical point of view!’

‘And, again, I thought I was being practical,’ Alain de Courcy retorted. ‘In any event, we are not yet married, so why look for difficulties where there are none?’

‘Oh, of course, everything’s going to be plain sailing,’ Philippa flung back at him scathingly. ‘I can see that.’

He was silent for a long moment, then he said levelly, ‘Philippa, marriage is never easy. Even if we had met and fallen madly in love, there would still have to be—adjustments. Our situation is unusual, perhaps, but who can say that a marriage which springs from mutual convenience and friendship cannot succeed eventually?’

‘Except that we’re not friends,’ she said in a stifled voice.

‘Not yet, perhaps, but is the prospect so impossible?’

‘Almost completely, I’d have said.’ She shook her head. ‘Oh, there must be someone else you can ask.’

He shrugged. ‘As I have said, I can always advertise. But to whom will you go for the money that you need with such desperation? Or did your stepmother exaggerate this?’

‘No.’ Philippa bent her head wretchedly. ‘She was quite right. Only—I just didn’t think it would—come to this.’ She glanced at him. ‘You—wouldn’t consider just—lending me the money.’

‘Only with a marriage certificate for security. I want to buy instant respectability from you, ma chérie. I spend a lot of my time in your country. I propose to tell my family and friends that we met on a previous visit, and I have been courting you ever since. We kept our marriage private because of your father’s ill health.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Voilà! All the rumours silenced at one blow.’

She sighed deeply. ‘It isn’t that simple. I can’t answer you now—tonight. You’ve got to let me have time to think—to decide …’

‘That is reasonable. I am staying at the Savoy Hotel. You may contact me there.’ He got to his feet, and she followed suit. ‘But don’t keep me waiting too long, mademoiselle. For both of us, time is of the essence.’ He paused. ‘Would it make any difference if I told you I possess one of your father’s pictures?’

‘Oh?’ Her lips parted in renewed astonishment. ‘Which one?’

‘The Bridge at Montascaux. It would be a pity to let such talent and vigour—waste away.’ He allowed his words to sink in for a few seconds, then smiled at her. ‘Now, may I drive you home?’

‘Oh, no, thank you.’ Philippa took an involuntary step backwards away from him. She felt as if she’d been inadvertently locked into a cage with a tiger, and lucky to escape with her life.

But if I marry him, she thought, panic closing her throat, there’ll be no escape. I shall have to live with him—share a roof. Eventually—a bed.

Her mind blanked off, refusing to accept such a possibility.

Yet there was the money for Gavin—available for her, as he’d promised. That was what she had to remember. She needed a miracle, and perhaps that was what she was being offered.

But it didn’t feel like any miracle. It felt like a two-edged sword—dangerous and unpredictable. I am no saint, he had said, and she could well believe it.

She realised he was watching her closely, the green eyes narrowed, and hurried into speech.

‘I’ll let you know tomorrow what I decide—I promise.’

‘Then I shall wait impatiently until then.’ He strolled across to her, and before she realised what he intended, lifted her hand briefly to his lips. The contact was fleeting, but she felt as if her flesh had been seared.

He looked down at her, smiling faintly into her eyes. He said softly, ‘I wish you a restful night, ma chère. And if you cannot sleep, think well.’

CHAPTER TWO

WHEN SHE AWOKE the following morning to pale sunlight filtering through the curtains, Philippa thought at first it had all been some wild, preposterous dream.

Things like that just didn’t happen, she told herself, huddling under the covers. Not in real life. A girl like herself, with no particular looks to recommend her, couldn’t possibly receive an offer of marriage from a French millionaire for any reason whatever, no matter how practical it had been made to sound. She tried to recall to mind exactly what he’d said, but her brain refused to co-operate, producing only a jumble of confused impressions.

It must have been a dream, she told herself foggily. My worries and the name of Monica’s dinner guest just got muddled in my subconscious, that’s all. There’s a logical explanation for everything.

She stretched her arms above her head, then brought them down slowly in front of her. She had small, workmanlike hands, which she was accustomed to seeing stained with paint. Latterly, though, she’d been using them mainly to help nurse Gavin, and they looked almost respectable for once.

Suddenly, as she looked at them, one of the images in her mind sharpened into a reality she couldn’t ignore. She sat bolt upright, stifling a startled yelp.

My God, she thought, he kissed my hand! She sat for a moment, staring at her fingers, as if she expected to see them marked with the brand of Cain—re-living with shock the swift brush of his mouth against her skin. Knowing helplessly there was no way in which she could have dreamed that particular sensation.

It happened, she thought. It all really happened. And, in that case, what the hell do I do now?

Well, first she could answer the phone, which rang at that moment as if obeying some cue.

‘Well?’ was Monica’s response to her guarded ‘Hello.’

Philippa swallowed. ‘Well what?’ she countered feebly.

Monica sighed irritably. ‘Please don’t behave as if you’re half-witted,’ she commanded crisply. ‘What have you decided? Are you going to accept Alain de Courcy’s offer?’

There were dust motes whirling in the broad beam of sunlight slanting between the thin curtains.

That’s what I feel like, Philippa thought, gripping the receiver as if it was her sole contact with reality. As if I’ve been caught up in something I don’t understand and can’t control, and now I’m helpless—going round and round forever.

‘Philippa?’ Monica’s impatient voice sounded in her ear. ‘Hello—are you still there? I asked what you were going to do.’

She said quietly, ‘I don’t think I really have a choice. I’m going to—to take his money.’

‘Not merely the money, my dear.’ Monica gave a short laugh. ‘You’ll also be getting an exquisite Paris apartment, a country house near Fountainebleau, and a villa in the hills above Nice, and that’s just to start with. And Alain is one of the most attractive and eligible bachelors in France. You’re doing extremely well for yourself.’

‘Am I?’ Philippa asked. Her heart felt like a stone.

‘You’d better be married from Lowden Square,’ Monica went on. ‘Will Gavin be well enough to attend the ceremony?’

Philippa sat up as if she’d been shot. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I’m afraid not. I hope by the time it takes place he’ll already be in America, starting his treatment.’

‘Well, just as you wish, of course. I’ll have a room prepared for you, and expect you some time later today. We’re going to have to do some serious shopping.’

‘Why?’

Monica’s sigh quivered with irritation. ‘My dear girl, although the ceremony will undoubtedly be very quiet, and extremely private, you still cannot be married in denim jeans. Lennox and I will supply your trousseau as our gift.’

‘It really isn’t necessary …’

‘Nonsense,’ Monica said crisply. ‘I’ll see you later.’ And rang off.

An hour later, Philippa found herself being shown into Alain de Courcy’s hotel suite. He was sitting at a table by the window, eating breakfast and reading a newspaper, as she entered, but he rose to his feet immediately, greeting her courteously.

‘I’m sorry,’ Philippa said when they were alone. ‘I should have telephoned first. I’m obviously too early …’

‘Pas du tout.’ He motioned her to the seat on the other side of the table. ‘Have you eaten?’

Philippa realised with embarrassment that the table was laid for two. ‘Oh—you’re expecting company as well.’

He smiled at her. He was casually dressed this morning, she noticed, in slim-fitting dark blue pants and a matching shirt, open at the neck to reveal the tanned column of his throat, and the first shadowing of hair on his chest.

He said, ‘I was expecting you, ma chère. Will you have some coffee?’ He lifted the pot and poured some into the other cup, then offered her cream and sugar which she refused.

Alain de Courcy took an apple from the bowl of fruit which had accompanied his breakfast and began to peel it.

‘You’ve had sufficient time to think?’

She nodded wordlessly.

‘So—what is your answer?’

She picked up the spoon and aimlessly stirred the dark aromatic brew in her cup, deliberately not looking at him.

‘I—will marry you, monsieur.’ She paused. ‘But there are conditions.’

‘I imagined there might be,’ he said with a certain irony. ‘Tell me about them.’

She said, ‘My father’s treatment is to start as soon as possible—and he’s to know nothing about our—arrangement.’

‘You are going to keep our marriage a secret from him? But why?’

‘Because he’d know why I was doing it, and he’d refuse to go to America—to let me sacrifice myself for him. I can’t risk that happening.’

‘I understand, but I am not sure you will be able to carry it through. There will come a time when he has to know.’

Philippa flushed dully. ‘You mean when—if I get pregnant? I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.’

‘I did not entirely mean that,’ Alain said slowly. ‘If the treatment is successful, he will wish to take up his former life again, and you were a close part of that. Don’t you think he might notice you had acquired a husband?’

She said quietly, ‘If the treatment works—when he’s fully recovered, I’ll tell him everything, because it will be too late then for him to object, and I hope he’ll understand why I had to do it.’ She paused, biting her lip. ‘If it doesn’t work, then it won’t matter anyway.’

She hesitated again. ‘Also, I was wondering whether you wanted me to have a medical examination.’

He put down the quarter of apple he was eating and stared at her. ‘Why should I wish such a thing? Are you feeling unwell? Do you believe your father’s illness is hereditary in some way?’

‘Oh, no.’ Philippa’s face was like a peony. ‘I was thinking over what you said about wanting a—a child—an heir. I thought maybe you’d want to check that I was capable …’

Alain lifted a hand and stemmed the halting words. ‘You are not some brood animal that I am purchasing,’ he said bitingly. ‘I think, when the time comes, that nature should be allowed to take its course, don’t you?’

She mumbled something in acute embarrassment.

‘I can’t hear you,’ he said with faint impatience. ‘And why don’t you look at me when you speak?’

She gave him a despairing glance. ‘I said—this is never going to work. I mean, no one in their right mind is ever—ever going to believe in this marriage.’

‘Pourquoi pas?’

‘Well, just look at me!’

‘I am looking,’ he said. ‘You are a little underweight, and your hair needs cutting. What else is there to say?’

Philippa’s hands clasped together tensely in her lap. ‘I don’t feel like anyone’s wife—especially someone who’s a millionaire and has got houses dotted all over France. I don’t know what you expect …’

‘Believe me, I expect very little. At the beginning it will be enough that you exist—that you appear in public at my side.’ He shrugged. ‘As for my homes—I employ efficient staff.’ He gave her an ironic glance. ‘You will not have to keep the rooms clean or cook for me.’

‘But you’ll want me to act as hostess when you entertain—and I’ve never done anything like that before.’ Her voice broke a little as she remembered the endless sundrenched days with Gavin in the southwest of France, the casual camaraderie, the street markets and the tiny bistros.

‘You can speak,’ he said. ‘You can express yourself articulately. But I would be at your side—and I would naturally warn you if there were any topics of conversation best avoided with particular people.’

‘And I’d have to wear—different clothes.’

His mouth twisted in faint amusement. ‘Did you plan to spend the rest of your life in those deplorable jeans, ma petite?’

‘Of course not.’ Philippa was silent for a moment, then said jerkily, ‘I don’t think you realise just how fundamentally my whole life is going to change.’

‘Mine also. Marriage as a concept has no more appeal for me than for you, ma chère.’

‘Well, I still think it would make more sense if you married your cousin Sidonie,’ she said stubbornly, drinking the last of her coffee. ‘She must know you don’t care for her, and if she’s prepared to pretend …’

‘But she is not,’ Alain said coldly. ‘She would wish me to do so, however. She would expect me to act as if I was madly in love with her—to explain every absence from her side each minute of the day and night in order to spare myself tears, temper and jealous scenes. I would find that wearing in the extreme.’

‘I can imagine,’ Philippa said sarcastically. ‘I gather I’m not supposed to ask questions?’

‘Ask whatever you want, ma chère.’ He gave her an enigmatic look. ‘But don’t blame me if you do not like the answers.’

He pushed back his chair and rose. ‘And now we have a busy day ahead of us. I will contact my lawyers, and the London branch of my bank, and arrange to have a preliminary payment made to you for your father’s expenses.’ He walked round the table and stood looking at her with a slight smile. ‘You will not, I hope, take the money and run, chérie. Because that would not amuse me at all.’

‘I’ll keep my word.’ Philippa lifted her chin. ‘We shall just have to—trust each other, monsieur.’

‘So it seems.’ He held out his hand. ‘Shall we seal our bargain in the usual way?’

Reluctantly, she allowed his fingers to encompass hers, and, shocked, found herself drawn forward before she could resist. Alain’s arm went round her, anchoring her against him, and she felt the firm, cool pressure of his mouth on hers.

She tried desperately to pull away, but he would not allow it. If she’d been tempted to think of him as an effete businessman, she now realised her mistake. His muscles were like iron.

Yet his lips were silk, she realised with a kind of wonder, moving gently and persuasively on hers. Coaxing her. Tempting her …

The kiss could only have lasted a few seconds, but it seemed an eternity before he raised his head.

When she could speak, she said thickly, ‘You—shouldn’t have done that.’

‘No, I shouldn’t,’ he agreed, running a rueful hand round his chin. ‘I have not shaved yet today, and I have marked you a little. You have delicate skin, ma belle. I shall have to remember that.’

‘All you need to remember,’ Philippa said hotly, ‘is that you promised you wouldn’t—molest me. That you’d give me time.’

Alain’s brows lifted. ‘What a fuss about such a chaste salute! Now if I had really kissed you …’ He slanted a smile at her. ‘Come and talk to me while I shave,’ he invited softly. ‘And then let us see, hein?’

‘No.’ She took a step backwards, aware that her breathing was flurried, and that he knew it too. ‘I—I have to go. I’ve got to talk to my father—to his specialist—tell them the good news—make arrangements.’

To her relief, he made no attempt to detain her. ‘So how do I maintain contact with you?’

‘I’ll be at Lowden Square. Monica has invited me to stay with her—until the wedding.’

He nodded. ‘Then I will see you there. Au revoir.’

Until we meet again, Philippa thought wretchedly when she was safely outside in the corridor with the door closed between them. She stood for a moment, allowing her hammering heartbeat to abate slightly. But she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to meet someone as disturbing as Alain de Courcy again especially under the circumstances to which she was now committed.

I wish, she thought, that we had just said—goodbye.

A week later, she saw her father leave for America in the care of a private nurse. She’d invented a story that some money had been left inadvertently in a company pension plan. She wasn’t sure he believed her, and if he had been well he would probably have asked some searching questions. As it was, he was having one of his bad spells, and he was clearly too relieved at the prospect of some treatment to interrogate her too minutely, and she was thankful for that. Three days after his departure, she became the wife of Alain de Courcy.

The days in between had passed in a kind of blur. Philippa retired somewhere inside herself, and allowed events to take charge with a kind of passivity totally foreign to her nature.

But then nothing that was happening seemed to bear any resemblance to real life. She tried on clothes with total detachment, sat in the hairdresser’s while her long hair was cut in a sleek and manageable bob, and subtly highlighted, and listened to Monica’s impatient chivvying without actually hearing a word she said.

Reality finally impinged when she found herself on a private jet flight to Paris in the chic amber wool going-away dress which Monica had chosen for her. She stared down at the broad gold band on her wedding finger, and tried to remember without success how she’d felt when Alain had placed it there a few hours before.

Numb, she thought. And that was how she still felt.

But at least she did not have a honeymoon to endure. They would have to dispense with that convention for the time being, Alain had told her, because he had already taken more time off to stay in London than he could spare. So they were going straight to his Paris apartment.

‘I hope it won’t be too dull for you,’ he said.

‘Oh, no,’ Philippa had stammered, hardly able to conceal her relief. Simply sharing a roof with him would be ordeal enough, she thought. The prospect of being alone with him in the bridal suite of some exotic location with all that implied had been more than she could bear. And judging by the sardonic slant of his mouth he’d known exactly what she was thinking.

She put a hand to her throat and touched the string of matched pearls which had been his wedding gift to her.

‘Exquisite!’ Monica had exclaimed as she helped Philippa to change.

‘Yes—but don’t they mean tears?’ Philippa had felt faintly troubled as she fastened the clasp.

‘Not, my dear, if you have any sense.’ Monica’s smile held a touch of envy not unmixed with malice. ‘Enjoy the loot, Madame de Courcy. Because you may find that’s all there is,’ she added cynically, then glanced at her watch. ‘Now do make haste. Your husband’s waiting.’

Your husband. Philippa stole a covert look at this unexpected and alarming phenomenon who sat beside her, apparently engrossed in a sheaf of papers from his briefcase.

She didn’t know whether to feel glad or aggrieved at his absorption, and decided on balance that even if it wasn’t exactly flattering, it was a relief. At least she didn’t have to try to make conversation.

During the past ten days she had seen Alain almost daily, but she knew him no better than she’d done that first evening when she’d walked into the library at Lowden Square, she acknowledged ruefully.

To her relief, he had made no further attempt to kiss her, or move their relationship on to a more intimate level than the friendship he’d promised, although they were still really no more than acquaintances, she admitted to herself.

He had been invariably charming to her, however, setting himself, she realised, to draw her out, discovering her tastes in literature and music as well as art, whether she preferred ballet to opera, if she enjoyed tennis or squash, her preferences in food and wine.

It was as if he was compiling a dossier on her. And perhaps he was—a series of facts to be fed into a computer somewhere at De Courcy International and resurrected at birthday or anniversary times.

And she was only just beginning to realise how very little he had vouchsafed in return, this stranger who was now married to her for better or worse.

For better or worse. Philippa repeated the words in her head, and shivered suddenly.

In no time at all, it seemed, they were landing. The formalities at the airport were mercifully brief, then Philippa found herself being whisked away in a chauffeur-driven limousine. She supposed this was the kind of treatment she would have to get accustomed to.

Almost before she was ready, she found herself walking into an imposing building in one of the city’s most fashionable areas, and travelling up in the lift to the penthouse.

The apartment, Alain had told her, was not part of the family estate which he had inherited, but had been acquired by himself a few years previously as a pied-à-terre near his business headquarters. He was looked after by a married couple, a Madame Henriette Giscard, and her husband Albert, and they were waiting to welcome their master and his new bride, their faces well-trained masks.

When the introductions were completed, Alain took her to one side. ‘Will you be all right if I leave you here?’ he asked in a low tone. ‘I need to go to the office, and I cannot say when it will be possible to return.’

‘Oh, that’s all right—that’s fine,’ Philippa stammered, feeling the colour rise in her face under his quizzical look.

‘I don’t doubt it.’ Mouth twisting, Alain ran his forefinger down the curve of her hot cheek. He turned back to Madame Giscard, waiting at a discreet distance. ‘I shall not be here for dinner, Henriette. Make sure Madame has everything she requires.’ He lifted Philippa’s nerveless hand and pressed a swift kiss into its palm. ‘Au revoir, mignonne.’

If the Giscards considered his departure eccentric behaviour for a new bridegroom, they kept their opinions well hidden. Philippa found herself being conducted over the apartment with a certain amount of ceremony. It seemed evident from the covert glances she’d seen them exchanging that not only was the marriage itself a shock to them, but that the Giscards considered her the last kind of wife they would have expected Alain de Courcy to choose. Her lack of sophistication and experience must be woefully apparent, she thought bitterly, and if she couldn’t fool the servants, how could she hope to deceive his family and friends?

She managed to contain her sigh of relief when Madame Giscard expressionlessly showed her to her bedroom, a pretty Empire-style room immediately adjoining the one used by Alain himself. In spite of the neutral attitude he had adopted towards her up to now, she had still secretly feared some confrontation over the sleeping arrangements once they were actually married. It was good to know he could be trusted after all.

She requested a light dinner, and was served promptly and without fuss with a cup of bouillon, and a perfectly grilled sole with fresh fruit to follow. Afterwards she telephoned the New York clinic, as she always did, to ask after Gavin. She received the usual response—that it was still too early for any definite prognosis—and after that she was left pretty much to her own devices.

She decided to conduct her own, more leisurely exploration of the apartment without Madame Giscard’s chilly presence at her side. She found the place slightly austere and unwelcoming, with its large, high-ceilinged rooms, and vaguely reminiscent of Lowden Square in its elegant formality. There was nothing in the least homelike about it, Philippa decided, hearing the clatter of her heels on the polished floor. The furniture and curtains seemed to warn, ‘Look, but don’t touch.’ She found herself wondering how much time Alain actually spent there.

But there was one blessedly familiar touch—Gavin’s painting of the bridge at Montascaux which hung over the elegant marble fireplace in the salon. She stood, her hands behind her back, staring up at it. She had loved their time at Montascaux. She sighed soundlessly as she remembered the jumble of roofs on the steep hillside sweeping down to the river, with the ruined château towering above the gorge. They’d rented a house high above the village, with a wood behind it. The house in the clouds, she thought nostalgically. While Gavin painted, Philippa had done her own sketching, then shopped at the small but cheerful market, concocting what she now recognised must have been some weird and wonderful meals for them both. But her father had never complained, she thought, a smile trembling on her lips.

As she turned away, uttering a wordless prayer for her father’s safety and restoration to health, she noticed the exquisite clock which occupied pride of place on the mantelpiece.

Certainly Alain seemed in no hurry to return, she thought. Not that she wanted him to, of course, she hastily reminded herself, but, on the other hand, he could have made slightly more effort to ease her into her new environment. Didn’t he realise how totally strange and isolated she must be feeling? she asked herself with faint resentment.

She tried to watch some television, but found it required more concentration than she was capable of. And a more extensive vocabulary too, she realised uneasily. She would probably have to have some intensive language coaching before she and Alain did any proper entertaining, although she could not imagine herself ever acting as hostess in these frankly formidable surroundings.

In spite of her new hairstyle and new dress, she was still a fish out of water. It was an oddly desolate thought, and her throat constricted suddenly.

Oh, no, she told herself determinedly. You’re not going to cry. You’re just tired and rather fraught after one hell of a day, so you’ll go to bed—and, in the morning, you can start keeping your side of the bargain by getting to grips with this new life of yours.

She was on her way across the wide entrance hall when the telephone rang. For a moment she hesitated in case the Giscards reappeared from whatever fastness they had retired to and thought she was usurping their prerogative, but when its shrill summons went on and on unchecked, she reached out and gingerly lifted the receiver.

‘Alain?’ It was a woman’s voice, low, warm and husky. ‘C’est toi, mon coeur?’

For a second, Philippa felt as if she’d been turned to stone. But what the hell was she surprised about? Alain had made no secret of his proclivities, after all. It was because of them that she was here at all. She just hadn’t expected this kind of confrontation so soon.

She said curtly in French, ‘I’m afraid Monsieur de Courcy is not here, madame.’

‘And who are you?’ Some of the warmth had dissipated.

‘His wife,’ said Philippa, and put down the phone.

CHAPTER THREE

PHILIPPA WAS SHAKING with temper, and another less easily defined emotion, when she closed her bedroom door behind her. If the phone rang again, it could burst into flames before she’d answer it, she told herself. Turning a blind eye to Alain’s amours, as required, was one thing, taking messages from them quite another.

She stood still for a moment, taking a few deep breaths to restore her equilibrium. Madame Giscard must have unpacked for her, she realised, as she looked round her. Her toilet things were waiting for her, and one of the new nightgowns Monica had insisted on was lying, elegantly fanned out, across the turned-down bed.

Philippa looked at it with distaste. Its oyster satin and lace had cost more than she’d been used to paying for a whole term’s clothes at art school, she thought with irritation. What a terrible waste of money for a garment no one would see but herself!

The bed itself came in for its fair share of disapproval too. She glanced at the draped and ruched green silk bed-head, and wondered if she would ever be able to sleep amid such opulence.

She shook herself mentally, telling herself she was now being petty. Maybe a warm bath would relax her a little.

The bathroom, needless to say, was the last word in luxury. Philippa, accustomed to fighting for her turn with half a dozen others, was in the seventh heaven as she lay back in the deep, scented water, feeling the tensions slowly seeping out of her.

She dried herself slowly on one of the enormous fluffy bath sheets, then experimented with some of the deliciously perfumed lotions and colognes provided before putting on the nightgown. She looked at herself judiciously in one of the long mirrors, and grimaced. The tiny lace bodice hugged her small high breasts, and each side of the sleek shimmering skirt was slashed, almost to the thigh. With her hair hanging, straight as rainwater, almost to her shoulders, she looked like a child playing at being an adult, she thought disparagingly.

She flicked the soft brown strands away from her face and walked back into the bedroom, halting with a gasp as she found herself face to face with Alain.

He looked almost as taken aback as she did herself, she realised, her face flaming.

He was still wearing the formal dark suit in which he’d been married, but he had discarded the jacket and silk tie, and unbuttoned his waistcoat.

‘What are you doing here?’ Her voice was husky with embarrassment as she looked round vainly for a robe, or some other covering to shield her from the totally arrested expression in his green eyes. ‘What do you want? It’s late.’

He said slowly, ‘I came to wish you goodnight.’

‘Well, now you’ve said it, perhaps you’ll go.’ Her tone was curt, and his dark brows lifted in surprise and hauteur.

‘I also brought some champagne to drink to our future.’ He indicated the ice bucket and glasses waiting on a convenient table.

‘I don’t think that’s necessary.’

‘But it’s traditional—for a wedding night.’

‘But it isn’t—not really—I mean, we’re not …’ Philippa ground to a halt, her flush deepening. ‘Oh, you know what I mean.’

Alain poured wine into the glasses and held one out to her. ‘I am not sure that I do.’

She took the glass, holding it awkwardly. ‘You said that you’d—wait,’ she reminded him, her voice trembling a little. ‘That you’d give me time to—accustom myself.’

He drank some champagne, watching her meditatively over the rim of the glass. ‘But how much time, my reluctant bride? This year, next year, some time—or never, perhaps?’

Philippa flicked her tongue round her dry lips. The small nervous movement was not lost on him, she realised, her nerves grating. ‘I’ll keep my word—when it becomes necessary. But not yet.’

‘And if I told you that it is necessary now—tonight?’

‘Then I wouldn’t believe you.’ Still holding her untouched glass, she took a step backwards. ‘Please stop saying these things, and leave me in peace as you promised.’ She paused, gathering her courage. ‘Besides, you’re obviously expected elsewhere.’

His dark brows snapped together. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘It means I’d be grateful if you’d ask your mistresses not to telephone you here.’ Philippa lifted her chin. ‘Perhaps you should have warned the lady in question that you’re now, nominally, a married man. Get her to ring you at your offices from now on. I’m sure your secretary is used to dealing with such calls.’

There was a long and ominous silence. When he spoke, his voice was like ice. ‘How dare you speak to me like that?’

‘And how dare you expect me to act as go-between with your women?’ Philippa spoke defiantly, but she felt frightened suddenly, wishing she hadn’t mentioned it quite so precipitately. But she couldn’t retract what she’d said now. ‘Anyway, she’s clearly waiting for you, so I wouldn’t waste any more time.’

‘When I want your advice on how to conduct my personal life, ma femme, I will ask for it.’ There was a tiny muscle jumping beside his grim mouth. ‘However, I have no intention of spending the night anywhere but here.’

There was another profound silence. Philippa swallowed. ‘When you say “here”,’ she began. ‘I hope you don’t mean …’

He gave her a brief hard smile. ‘I mean exactly what you think, ma belle.’

‘No—oh, no!’ She took another dismayed step away from him. ‘You promised me …’

‘Listen to me,’ he said harshly. ‘My first task when I left you earlier was to inform my uncle of our marriage. When he had managed to overcome his chagrin a little, he insisted that we dine with him tomorrow evening—so that he and his family may meet you, Philippa.’ He shrugged. ‘I could hardly refuse.’

‘But he can’t do that!’ She gave him an imploring look. ‘Please—you’ve got to put him off. It’s too soon—I’m not ready to face anyone yet.’

‘Exactly the point I am trying to make,’ Alain drawled. ‘They are expecting, my uncle, my aunt and my cousin Sidonie, to meet my loving and loved wife, not some frightened shrinking virgin. So we will need to present them with a normal marriage, not a pretence a child could see through. You begin now to see the necessity, perhaps?’

‘No,’ she said hoarsely. ‘No, I don’t. I can’t meet them yet. You’ll have to think of some excuse.’

‘Au contraire,’ Alain said quite gently, and put down his glass. The green eyes swept over her, making her feel, terrifyingly, as if the concealing satin no longer existed. ‘I think I shall have to see what I can do to—persuade you.’

‘Get out of my room.’ Her voice cracked. ‘Don’t come near me—or I’ll scream the place down!’

‘Vraiment?’ His brows lifted mockingly. ‘And who do you imagine will hear you—or care? The Giscards are far too well trained to interfere.’

‘You—bastard!’

‘Calling me names will change nothing. We have a bargain, you and I. On my side at least it has been generously fulfilled, and will continue to be so, as long as I receive equal—generosity from you, ma chère.’ He beckoned. ‘Now, come here to me.’

‘I’ll see you in hell first! You gave your word—and you lied to me.’ Panic was pounding in her chest, almost closing her throat. ‘You can’t do this! You don’t even want me …’

‘What,’ Alain said softly, ‘do you know of desire, petite innocente?’

‘I know I don’t want you.’

The words hung in the air between them. He gave her a long, considering look, then, without haste shrugged off his waistcoat and let it drop to the floor before beginning to unfasten the buttons of his shirt.

His lithe, muscular body was deeply tanned, his chest darkly shadowed with hair. Philippa watched him, petrified, hardly able to breathe as he began to unbuckle his belt. She’d seen men naked before in the life classes at art school, but Alain—this stranger she’d married—stripping in front of her like this was shockingly different.

He looked deep into the confusion in her hazel eyes. He said gently, almost mockingly, ‘Shall I make you beg me to take you?’

She gave a cry like a small hunted animal, and threw the wine she was holding straight in his face.

He was very still for a moment, then he picked up his discarded shirt and dried the moisture from his face and chest, his eyes never leaving hers.

He said quietly, ‘You should have more respect for good wine, ma belle. And more respect for me, also. I see I shall have to teach you.’

The glass dropped from her shaking hand and rolled away on the thick carpet as he came towards her. He took her by the shoulders and pulled her towards him, his fingers hard on her flesh, brooking no resistance. Then his mouth closed ruthlessly on hers.

When he’d kissed her before, he had been gentle. There’d been nothing to prepare her for this—onslaught. She tried to move her head, to escape from the suffocating pressure, but he would not allow that. One lean hand lifted to tangle in her hair and hold her still, while his kiss deepened, inevitably, inexorably.

He parted her lips with his, allowing his tongue to invade her mouth with devastating sensuality, plundering her warmth and sweetness with insolent mastery.

There was no point in fighting him—in struggling, Philippa realised from some whirling, fainting corner of her mind. He was too experienced, and more significantly, too determined. She was made aware once more of his physical power, the sheer muscularity of his body.

And her shocked consciousness told her that in these first brief moments, he was demonstrating to her with swift and frightening emphasis what passion could mean, and what other demands might be made of her before the night was over.

The heat of his hard body scorched through her thin nightgown, and even as she stiffened in helpless outrage she felt his other hand stroke down her body from the point of one shoulder to the curve of her hip, lingering on the way to shape her small, pointed breast in his palm.

She was not prepared for that, or for her body’s shaken, helpless reaction to the first intimate caress it had ever received. She might hate him for what he was doing to her, but she couldn’t control the hardening of her nipple under the subtle play of his fingers, or the swift onrush of moist heat through her whole body.

Then, his mouth still locked to hers, he lifted her and carried her to the bed. He placed her on the cool linen sheet and lay beside her. He stroked her cheek, turning her to face him so that he could kiss her again, slowly and explicitly, his hand travelling unhurriedly from her excited, tumescent breasts to explore with tantalising precision the exposed length of her silken thigh through the deep side-slit of her gown.

When he lifted himself away from her, she thought for one moment of agonised hope that he had relented, only to realise in the next second that he was simply removing the rest of his clothing. She turned away with a gasp to bury her heated face in the pillow.

She felt the slight dip of the mattress as he came to lie beside her again, and her whole body tensed, fear quivering through her, as his hand touched her shoulder.

‘Relax,’ he whispered. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’

‘Another promise?’ Philippa demanded bitterly, keeping her back rigidly turned to him.

‘One I intend to keep.’ His mouth touched the nape of her neck, blowing away the soft strands of hair to bare her skin for his caress. A shudder that had nothing to do with revulsion ran through her body.

She was not proof against this, she thought wretchedly, yet she had to be if she was to retain the least element of her self-respect.

He’d lied to her, broken a solemn promise, and she could not forgive him for that. If he wanted her, he would have to take her, she told herself bravely. Because she would not give, no matter what it might cost her.

When his hand began to slide the hem of her nightgown up towards her thigh, she stopped him with a little cry.

‘Don’t!’

‘Then take it off for me.’

‘No!’

‘What is the problem?’ Although she wasn’t looking at him, she could hear the smile in his voice. ‘You have some deformity that you’ve been keeping from me, mignonne?’

‘You know quite well I haven’t,’ she said bitterly.

‘How can I know?’ he said. ‘When I have only uncovered your body in my imagination—until now.’

Philippa, quivering with shame and indignation, found her nightgown deftly drawn over her head, and discarded on the floor beside the bed.

‘Oh, God,’ she said, half sobbing. ‘At least put out the light.’

‘No.’ Gently but implacably he turned her to face him again. ‘I want to see what my money has bought me.’

She closed her eyes, sinking her teeth into her lower lip as she endured his lingering scrutiny.

‘What are you so afraid of?’ he asked at last.

‘I’m not afraid. I—I’m disgusted. I thought I could trust you, but you lied to me.’

He laughed softly. ‘And now I’m going to lie with you, my little one. Why don’t you stop fighting me in that stubborn mind of yours, and learn a little about yourself? Who knows? You might get a pleasant surprise.’

‘Being betrayed and degraded hardly features on my list of enjoyable experiences,’ she said raggedly.

‘So you find my presence here with you a degradation.’ His voice held a sudden chill. ‘My profound regrets, madame. But it changes nothing. You can behave as childishly as you wish, but tonight you are going to learn what it means to be a woman. You might find it easier if you made a conscious effort to stop hating me,’ he added drily.

‘Never!’ she said fiercely. ‘I won’t forgive you for this!’

His teeth glinted in a brief, unamused smile. ‘Tant pis,’ he said, and began to kiss her again, his lips warmly, deliberately arousing as they moved on hers, then down the long line of her slender throat to her breasts.

The touch of his mouth, the stroke of his tongue against her flesh was a revelation—a pleasure that was almost pain.

I can’t stand this, Philippa thought, as his lips delicately encircled each throbbing nipple in turn.

‘Don’t,’ she said hoarsely. ‘Just—do whatever it is you’re going to do, then leave me in peace.’

‘In my own good time, mignonne.’ Alain’s fingers feathered against her rounded thighs and lingered with persuasive purpose. ‘Couldn’t you defy your stern principles and meet me halfway?’

There was a new, almost disarming warmth in his voice. Philippa found herself shivering suddenly, tempted beyond all bearing to yield, to let him lead her down whatever sensuous path he wanted.

Her lashes lifted slowly, and she looked into the dark face so close to her own, registering just in time the flicker of amused triumph in the green eyes as he recognised her inner struggle.

It was the expression of a man, she thought dazedly, who was used to succeeding with women. The arrogant seducer who did not intend to fail with his—bargain basement bride.

She brought up her hand and slapped him across the face as hard as she could.

His head jerked back almost incredulously, then he swore under his breath, and his hands came down hard on her shoulders, pinning her to the bed.

She began to fight him in earnest then, her body struggling to be free of the weight of his, her hands flailing at him, nails clawing at his shoulders and chest.