As soon as they were in the car he pulled her into his arms and kissed her—a steamy, highly explorational clinch that sucked all the breath from her lungs and shut down her brain entirely.

With a husky laugh, Luc murmured, ‘Not here, ma chérie. Soon, soon.’

Soon? How likely was that once he heard her news? But it was impossible to break it just then. She’d have to wait.

Shari hoped lunch wouldn’t take long. What if it went on for ever and she lost the chance to be private with him? Though was it best to be completely private with him? For this sort of news maybe a public place would be preferable? Perhaps a café?

‘You’re too quiet,’ he observed on the way, pausing for some lights. ‘What’s going on inside that head?’

‘Could we just go to a café or …?’ She tried to swallow.

His eyes narrowed on her face. ‘Que veux-tu …?’

‘There’s something I might have to tell you.’

About the Author

As a child, ANNA CLEARY loved reading so much that during the midnight hours she was forced to read with a torch under the bedcovers, to lull the suspicions of her sleep-obsessed parents. From an early age she dreamed of writing her own books. She saw herself in a stone cottage by the sea, wearing a velvet smoking jacket and sipping sherry, like Somerset Maugham.

In real life she became a schoolteacher, and her greatest pleasure was teaching children to write beautiful stories.

A little while ago she and one of her friends made a pact each to write the first chapter of a romance novel in their holidays. From writing her very first line Anna was hooked, and she gave up teaching to become a full-time writer. She now lives in Queensland, with a deeply sensitive and intelligent cat. She prefers champagne to sherry, and loves music, books, four-legged people, trees, movies and restaurants.

Recent titles by the same author:

KEEPING HER UP ALL NIGHT

THE ITALIAN NEXT DOOR …

DO NOT DISTURB

WEDDING NIGHT WITH A STRANGER

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Night That
Started It All
Anna Cleary

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For lovely Amy Andrews, a brilliant and versatile author and a wonderful friend.

CHAPTER ONE

SINCE the break with Manon, his long-time lover, Luc Valentin mostly resisted seduction. Sex risked ever more desire, and desire was a downhill slope to entanglement in a web of female complications. Before a man knew it he could be sucked into an emotional shredder.

So when Luc strolled into D’Avion Sydney and the pretty faces at the front desk lit up like New Year’s Eve, their smiles were wasted on the air.

‘Luc Valentin,’ he said, handing over his card. ‘I’m here to see Rémy Chénier.’

The first beguiling face froze. ‘Luc—Valentin? The Luc Valentin? Of …’

‘Paris. Head Office. That is correct.’ Luc smiled. Rarely had his appearance at one of the company offices sparked such a dramatic effect. ‘Rémy, mademoiselle?’

The woman’s eyes darted sideways towards her fellows. It seemed a strange paralysis had overcome them. ‘Er … Rémy isn’t here. I’m sorry, Mr Valentin, we haven’t seen him for days. He isn’t answering his messages. We don’t know where he is. We don’t know anything. Do we?’ she appealed to the others. She consulted her mobile, then scribbled an address. ‘You might try here. I’m sure if he’s in Mr Chénier will be deligh—overjoyed to see you.’

Luc doubted it. Since his plan was to encourage his cousin to explain the shortfall in the company accounts then wring his unscrupulous neck, joy was likely to be limited.

There would be a woman involved, Luc guessed, driving across the Harbour Bridge under an impossibly blue sky. With Rémy there was always a woman, though in Luc’s thirty-six years never the same one twice.

The address was for a sleek apartment complex on Sydney’s northern shore. Luc pressed the buzzer twice before it connected. Then for several tense seconds all he heard was the rustle of white noise.

Prickles arose on his neck.

At last, enfin, a voice. It sounded muffled, more than a little croaky, as if its owner had a terrible cold. Or had been weeping.

‘Who is it?’

Luc bent to speak into the intercom, which hadn’t been designed to accommodate tall guys with long bones. ‘Luc Valentin. I am wishing to speak with Rémy Chénier.’

‘Oh.’ Through the woman’s husky fog he could detect a certain relief. ‘Are you from his office?’

‘You could say I’m from D’Avion, certainly.’

‘Well, he’s not here. Praise the Lord.’ The last was muttered.

Luc drew his brows together. ‘But this is his apartment, yes?’ The place looked like the sort of residence Rémy would choose. All gloss and sharp edges.

‘Used to be. Not that he ever seemed to know it,’ she added in an undertone. ‘Anyway, he’s gone. Don’t know where, don’t care. Nothin’ to do with me. I’m outta here.’

Luc’s eye fell on a small pile of carefully stacked possessions inside the glass entrance, among them cooking pots and a frilled and very feminine umbrella.

‘Excuse me, mademoiselle. Can you tell me when was the last time you saw him?’

‘Months ago. Yesterday.’

‘Yesterday? So he is in Sydney still?’

‘I—I hope not. Maybe. I don’t know. Look … Look, monsieur …’ Luc noticed a slightly mocking inflection in the ‘monsieur’ ‘… I’m very busy. I can’t keep—’

He jumped in quickly before she cut him off. ‘Please, miss. Just one more thing. Has he taken his clothes?’

‘Mmm …’ There was a pregnant pause. ‘Let’s just say his clothes took a tumble.’

Luc hesitated, picturing the scene those words conjured. He had an overwhelming desire to see the face that went with the foggy voice. ‘Are you Rémy’s girlfriend, by some chance? Or—perhaps—the maid?’

There was a long, loaded silence. Then she said, ‘Yeah. The maid.’

‘Pardonnez-moi, miss, but will you allow me to come upstairs and speak with you face to face? There are some ques—’

The intercom disconnected. He waited for the door to unlock. When it didn’t he pressed again. Finally after one long, persistent ring, she came back on. ‘Look, get lost, will you? You can’t come up.’

‘But I only wish to—’

‘No. You can’t.’ There was alarm in her tone. ‘Go away or I’ll call the police.’

Luc straightened up, frowning. What after all would he expect? Rémy had never been known to leave friends in his wake. Though if she was the maid, why would she be weeping?

She must have a cold.

He noticed a box jammed against the glass. Through its half-open lid he saw it was packed with shoes, some of them a little scruffy. Though certainly feminine in shape and size, these were not the shoes of a femme fatale.

He slid behind the wheel of his hire car, wondering what had happened to his powers of persuasion. In the past he’d have had that door open in a second and the maid eating out of his hand. Of course, in the past he hadn’t learned what he knew now.

The gentle sex were deceptive. The gentle sex were capable of eviscerating a guy and throwing his entrails to the wolves.

From behind a curtain at an upstairs window Shari Lacey watched the car drive away. Whoever he was, he’d had quite a nice voice. Deep, serious and quiet. Charming even, if she hadn’t been over French accents. So over them.

She shuddered.

In the next thirty-six hours Luc ran through everything at the D’Avion office with a fine-toothed comb. Every file, every Post-It note. Tested Rémy’s team until the PA was sobbing and the execs a whiter shade of grey. He sacked the finance officer on the spot. The guy should have known.

Significant sums had vanished from the accounts, neatly siphoned away, while nothing he uncovered gave Luc a clue as to his cousin’s likely whereabouts. With the directors’ meeting in Paris looming, Luc felt his time was running out. With grim clarity he saw the moment was close when he must let the law loose on his cousin.

A chill slithered down his spine. Another family scandal. They’d dredge it all up again. His embarrassment. The public ignominy. “The Director, His Mistress, Their Dog and Her Lover” splashed all over the world again in lurid, shaming letters.

He stared grimly through the office window at Sydney Harbour, a treacherous smiling blue in the midday sun. One way or another he had to find the canaille. Hunt him down and force him to make reparation.

There was one final resort, of course. Luc sighed. He should have known it would come to this.

The family connection.

Emilie, Rémy’s twin, was married to an Australian now, but as far as Luc knew she and Rémy had always been close. Despite not having seen her for a few years, Luc thought of Emi with affection. Though she shared Rémy’s gingery curls and blue eyes, she was as different from her twin as a warm, happy wren from a vulture.

Trouble was, like all the women in his family she wanted to know too much.

Eyeliner in hand, Shari leaned closer to the mirror. Dark blue along right lower lid, continue without breaking across bridge, now ease onto left lower lid.

She winced. Careful. While the swelling had subsided, her bruise was still tender. Her badge. The perfect parting gift, really, for a mouse. It brightened up her face. It seemed she could never have compared to all those exciting women Rémy had known in France. And she was too demanding. Suspicious. Difficult. Too clever for her own good. Too emotional— Well, that one was certainly true. Too mouthy. Too jealous. Too unforgiving. Frigide. A frump. Needy. Victorian …

His complaints had mounted over time. No wonder the poor guy had been forced to seek so much feminine consolation far and wide.

She knew in her mind the trick was not to believe the things he’d said, but to ridicule them. Though in her heart …

He’d stopped being sweet some time back, but this recent encounter had been … a shock. Nothing she’d ever anticipated. Though she needed to remind herself it could have been far worse. For a while there she’d thought he might actually force her into sex.

Hot shame swept through her again. To think something like this could happen to her. The irony of it, when her girlfriends had so envied her for her sexy Frenchman. At one time. Before they noticed his roving eye. However tactful they tried to be around her, Shari knew they’d seen it.

But if any of them found out it had come to this squalid end—the ones she had left, that was—what would they think of her? Would they assume he’d been violent all along? Would they think she’d tolerated it?

She wished she wouldn’t keep thinking of all those battered wives she’d seen on television shows over the years. All those sad women, too beaten down to defend themselves, believing they deserved their punishment, making excuses for their abusers. Forgiving them, walking the domestic tightrope fearful of saying the wrong thing.

She started breathing fast, getting too emotional again. It was no use getting worked up again. She wasn’t those women. She hadn’t been too entangled in the relationship to see she had to extricate herself. She’d acted swiftly and decisively, give or take a couple of cruel tweaks of her hair. A twist of her ear. A nipple. Shari Lacey would not be, could never be, downtrodden.

From now on it was all good. She was in her lovely old Paddington again, with every pretty street teeming with the sort of inspirations a children’s author needed. She had everything to sing about.

Still, it was amazing how a man’s fist had only needed to be slammed in her face the one time to leave her as jumpy as a kitten. Thank heavens she’d already dealt with the estate agents and fixed up the details of her move before Fist Day, or she wasn’t sure how she’d have coped.

But she was a rational person. She was safe now. She would get over it. The important thing was to fight fear. Not to turn into an emotional cripple, cringing at the sound of every male voice. She could still enjoy men and indulge in a little flirty chit-chat.

Maybe.

Rémy was not typical. Her head knew this. Once again, though, it was her heart that was the trouble.

In fact it was a good thing, a needful thing, that Neil was insisting she come to his party. There’d be loads of men there, all quite as civilised as her lovely brother. It could be her testing ground. From this moment on, serenity was her cloak and her shield.

When her hand grew steady again, she lined both lids with the darker shade, painted a band of purple shadow beneath her eyes and on the upper lids, then switched to the turquoise brush inside the corners, across the bridge and all the way to her brows.

Standing back to examine her handiwork, she felt a surge of relief. Not only was the bruise undetectable, the stripe across her eyes looked quite atmospheric. It was dramatic, maybe a little over the top, but it suited her. Somehow it made her irises glow a vivid sea-green.

If she hadn’t been kicking herself over what a fool she’d been, how needy she must have been to fall for such a cliché, she’d have laughed to think of how poor old Neil and Emilie would freak when she turned up looking like Daryl Hannah in Bladerunner.

Though Emilie was no fool. She had grown up with Rémy.

That set Shari worrying again, so as an added decoy she drew a frog on her right cheekbone.

Now what to wear to Neil’s fortieth? If a woman was forced to go to a party wearing a stripe, it might be best to look gorgeous. A little shopping might be called for. Her smile broke through. With her camouflage in place, the frump could go out.

She’d cried her last tear over the man who couldn’t love. Cried and cried till she was empty.

It was time to get back on the horse.

CHAPTER TWO

LUC was made to feel abundantly welcome in Emilie and Neil’s pretty harbourside home. Luc, and at least a hundred of their friends. The place was crowded, its family atmosphere so warm it was palpable.

Too warm. A reminder of all that had departed from his world.

And, quelle surprise, Emilie was pregnant.

It seemed to Luc everyone was. Everywhere he looked from Paris to Saigon to Sydney women were swollen, their husbands strutting about like smug cockerels. The epidemic had spread across the equator.

He doubted he’d have noticed if he hadn’t looked, really looked that day, at the boulanger in the Rue Montorgeuil strolling with his pregnant wife, a brawny tender arm around her waist. The guy had been so proud, so cock-a-hoop, so in love with life and the world, Luc had carried the image home with him.

Worst mistake in history.

Apparently, when lovers ran out of things to say to each other, the last remedy to propose was marriage. Manon’s response to the suggestion of a child had been as swift as it was ferocious.

‘What has happened to you, darling? Do you suddenly want to tie me in chains? I am not the brood mare type. If you want that, find another woman.’ Her smile hadn’t diminished the anger in her lovely eyes.

Once he’d recovered from the shock, he’d realised the enormity of what he’d suggested. The fact that some women did agree to sacrificing their freedom and autonomy to reproduce was nothing short of a miracle.

Inclining his head, he accepted another canapé, wondering how long he would have to wait here in this hothouse of domestic fecundity before Rémy put in an appearance. He was beginning to have his doubts it would even happen. Could his cousin have got wind of his arrival? He’d hardly known himself until the last minute, when he was due to leave Saigon and thought of his pleasant Paris apartment waiting for him.

That empty wasteland. Traces of Manon in every corner.

Otherwise he doubted he would ever have dreamed of travelling so far. But from Saigon a few extra hours’ hop to Sydney had had its appeal. Deal with the Rémy problem, enjoy a few days of sunshine, blue seas and skies. Postpone work, Paris, his life. What was not to enjoy?

He should have realised. Wherever he went in the world, he was there.

At least Emi hadn’t changed. Like the sweetheart she was, every so often she darted back to the corner he was lurking in to ensure he wasn’t neglected.

Smiling, she offered him wine, her blue eyes so reminiscent of her twin’s. Or would have been if Rémy’s had ever possessed any kindness, humanity or the tiniest hint of the existence of a soul.

‘So tell me, Luc … is it true? Manon is pregnant?’

A familiar pincer clenched Luc’s entrails, though he maintained his smile. ‘How would I know? I don’t keep up.’

Emilie flushed. ‘Pardon, mon cousin. I don’t mean to intrude. I was just so surprised when Tante Marise mentioned it. I wouldn’t have thought … Manon never seemed the—the type to want babies.’

No, Luc acknowledged behind his poker face. She hadn’t been the type when she was with him. But there were only so many forms of betrayal a man cared to discuss.

He steered Emilie away from the blood-soaked arena of his personal life and onto the subject of burning interest to Head Office.

‘Do you see Rémy often?’

Emilie shook her head. ‘Mais non. Not so often since he was engaged.’ She smiled fondly. ‘He is in love at last. I think he has no need of his sister any more.’

Her hopeful gaze invited Luc to think the best of her beloved brother. Fat chance. The notion of Rémy in love with anyone but himself was about as easy to gulp down as this over-oaked blend.

‘Maybe he has gone to the outback to see a client,’ Emi said eagerly. ‘You know he needs to fly to the clients sometimes.’

Luc frowned. ‘Without informing his staff?’

Emilie coloured and cast a glance at her husband, who’d just joined them. ‘Well, Rémy’s always been—private.’

‘Secretive,’ Neil put in.

‘Neil. Don’t say secretive.’ Emilie gave her husband a spousely shove. ‘I’m sure he’s done nothing wrong. He may just have forgotten to leave a message.’

Reading Neil’s suddenly bland face, Luc had the impression Neil didn’t share his wife’s confidence in her charming brother.

Shari took a moment to nerve herself before pressing Neil and Emilie’s bell. She’d stopped wearing the ring weeks ago, of course, but if anyone asked her about it, if they even mentioned Rémy’s name, she still wasn’t sure how far she could trust herself not to turn into a complete wuss and burst into tears.

Too emotional. Just too emotional.

Emilie opened the door.

‘Enfin, Shari, after all this time …’ She stopped short, looking Shari up and down. ‘My God. Is it really you? You look … incroyable.’ Emilie kissed her on both cheeks and dragged her inside. ‘I adore it. So sexy and mystérieuse.’ Emilie thought she was speaking in English, but it often came out sounding like French.

With gratifying awe she examined Shari’s transformation. The stripe across her eyes was intriguing enough, Shari supposed, but it was her chiffon dress and new five inch platforms that really had Em reeling.

‘Oh-h-h,’ the darling woman enthused. ‘I am green. How can you walk in them? But what have you done to your eyes?’ Shari’s heart suffered a momentary paralysis, but Emilie continued exclaiming. ‘Pretty, so pretty. Is that frog a tattoo, really?’

Shari eased back out of the direct light. ‘You know me. Always faking it.’

Emilie giggled. ‘No, don’t say so. Now, where’s Rémy?’ She peered out into the dark street.

Shari tightened her grip on the strap of her shoulder purse. ‘Rémy isn’t coming.’

‘Not?’ Emilie looked nonplussed. ‘Oh, but … quick, phone him. Tell him he has to. Our cousin is here to see him and he’s looking so stern everyone is terrified.’

Shari looked steadily at her. ‘No, Em. I can’t.’

Emilie blinked bemusedly at her, and Shari was about to drop the bombshell when more guests piled in through the gate and hailed the hostess.

Shari seized her escape.

‘Catch you later.’ She smiled, and walked through to the party like a woman riding a storm.

It was a while since she’d visited. As things had deteriorated on the engagement front, she’d chosen to avoid the perceptive gazes of her brother and Em. Little changes had taken place in their home since the last time she’d dropped by to hang and read to their little girls.

Tonight the rooms were crowded, people spilling from the living rooms to the pool terrace. A small army of hired staff was flitting about, distributing hors d’oeuvres like largesse to the poor.

Heading for a quiet corner, Shari felt conscious of eyes turning to follow her. For a scary moment she feared her stripe wasn’t holding up, until a likely lad stepped in her path and told her she looked hot.

Hot? Oh, that glorious word. Pleasure flowed into the dry gulch where her self-esteem had once bubbled like the tranquil waters of an aquifer. Her spine stiffened all by itself. She loved the sweet-talking hound.

Standing way taller on her new platforms, she blew him a kiss. ‘Too hot for you, sweetie,’ she tossed over her shoulder as she swished by.

There now, that wasn’t too hard, was it?

She greeted a few faces she recognised, flashed a wave here, a smile there, just as though everything in her little corner of the world was hunky-dory. She hoped no one inquired about her so-called fiancé. She should never have promised to allow Rémy time to break the news to Em in his own way. She might have known he’d never drum up the courage.

Face it, she’d known all along she should have told Neil and Em herself. Weeks ago, she saw now, instead of feeling she had to avoid them all this time. How much could she tell Emilie about her beloved Rémy, though? It was clear she couldn’t reveal anything tonight, with her sister-in-law under pressure.

And she’d have to be careful how much she told Neil. She’d long sensed he didn’t like Rémy. He’d always been so protective of her, heaven knew what he might do if he knew about this last thing. And how might that impact on Emilie?

She spotted Neil then, standing in a group with a tall, dark-eyed, sardonic-looking guy who was scanning the room, looking gloomy and detached.

Luc noticed his host waving at someone and suppressed a yawn. These Australians were so open. So forward. So relentlessly friendly and lively. To a jet-lagged Frenchman, a houseful of them was overwhelming. He listened, nodded, made meaningless conversation with strangers and mentally gritted his teeth.

These days, an hour in any roomful of couples was an eternity.

He watched a couple’s unconscious linking as they chatted with other people. Hands brushing. Hips. Under duress he could admit to himself he missed those touches. The tiny automatic intimacies a man had with his lover.

At least he lived cleaner now. No promises, no lies. And no pain. It was honest, at least.

As though in ridicule of this absurd reflection a pang of yearning sliced through him. If only he could grow used to this life with no alleviating softness in it. No excitement. No warm body to open to him in the deep reaches of the night. What he needed was a …

Through a chink in the crowd his eye was snagged on a flash of colour. He looked. And looked again. He caught a fleeting glimpse of a face, and for a minute the breath was punched from his lungs.

The crowd moved, and now only her soft blonde hair was visible to him. He waited, not breathing, until she angled his way again. Ah. An intriguing sensation thrilled through him. It was her eyes. They were fascinating. So deep and alluring and mysterious. Eyes to haunt a man.

He felt his blood quicken.

The crowd parted again and he was able to take in the whole of her. She’d have fitted in well in any nightclub, but in this assembly she looked almost theatrical. Fragile, with her long legs in the high heels, the soft chiffon dress slipping off one shoulder, neat little shoulder purse knocking against her hip.

Mesmerised, he couldn’t drag his gaze away.

Shari smiled as a waiter proffered a tray. She helped herself to a shot of vodka, downed it, then replaced the empty glass and took another to be going on with. She was casting about for a friendly face when she noticed the dark-eyed guy still watching her, his brows lowered and intent.

What the …? Had she broken the vodka laws?

His eyes had a strangely hypnotic quality. A girl had to ask herself if it was really the vodka that was so capturing his attention.

She attempted to crush his impudence with a haughty glare, but he didn’t even flinch. Shaken by a momentary pang of insecurity, she hastily drowned it with another gulp of the potato elixir.

For goodness’ sake, she was at risk here of tipsiness, not a good thing in platforms. If the guy didn’t look away soon she’d be unable to lie on the floor without holding on.

Luc was aware other women were probably present. Pretty women with breasts and soft hair. Women with an air of mystery. Blondes. Legs, long and lovely, shimmering with every slight movement.

He just hadn’t until this moment burned to touch one particular one.

Shari eyed her vodka guiltily. Although why should she? She was free, single and twenty-eight, and it was a party. She called the waiter back and rescued another glass from the tray. Turning then to face her examiner, she held them up and waved them at him, then took a sip from each.

His frown intensified. He shook his head at her a little, and she felt her blood stir thrillingly. At the same time a nervous shiver slithered down her spine. This guy was inviting a connection. The question was—what kind?

Shari flicked a glance about to see who else he might be with. He must belong to someone. In that swish dark suit and black silk shirt only a madwoman would have let him out on his own.

But no. At this actual moment, he only seemed to be with Neil.

His dark eyes swept her, bold, sensual while at the same time mildly censorious. Was he disapproving of the vodka, or what? If it had been Rémy he’d have been pouring the stuff down her throat to make her more compliant.

This vodka was a highly underrated substance. She could feel a warm glow coming on. Amazing how it could boost the confidence. Despite the fabled ice packing her mouse veins, she was pretty sure if she passed by that guy she could scorch him with her body heat.

In a roomful of people, why not give it a shot?

Enough of all this shillying and shallying, surely it was time to hug the birthday boy. With a deep breath, and assuming her most glamorous and mysterious expression, she summoned her inner Amazon and swished across to Neil, where she planted some lipstick on his cheek.

‘Happy birthday, bro,’ she said huskily.

Dear old Neil looked appreciatively at her. ‘Didn’t I see you in the movies?’ He gave her a brotherly hug, then peered into her face. She had to steel herself not to flinch away for fear of him spotting the reason for her disguise. ‘That’s not a tattoo there, is it?’ He wrinkled his brow. ‘What do you think, Luc? Do we want our women branded with frogs?’

But the guy’s dark velvet gaze had travelled well beyond her frog. He was drinking her all in, razing her to the parquet. True, tonight her curves were exceptionally appealing, but anyone would have thought this was the first time he’d ever laid eyes on a woman.

Though she seriously doubted it. Not with his bones.

Her chiffon top slid off one shoulder and she saw his eyes flicker to the bare section. Against all the odds, a shivery little tingle shot down her spine.

The guy queried Neil without taking his eyes from her. ‘Qui est-elle?’

‘My sister,’ Neil said, his arm around her. ‘This is Shari. Shari, meet Luc. Em’s and Rémy’s cousin.’

‘Oh.’ An unpleasant sensation rose in the back of Shari’s throat and she took an involuntary backwards step. The door guy. He hadn’t mentioned being related.

The guy’s eyes—Luc’s—sharpened, while Neil goggled at her in surprise.

Recovering her party manners with an effort, Shari pulled herself together.

‘Delighted,’ she lied through her teeth. Lucky she was holding the two shot glasses and wasn’t required to touch Rémy’s cousin. Just her luck though, Neil chose that moment to exercise what he considered his brotherly prerogative, and snatched the glasses from her.

‘Thanks for these,’ he said, and swilled the contents one after another.

Trapped. There was no preventing the Frenchman from taking her hand.

‘Shari,’ he said. ‘Enchanté, bien sûr.’ He leaned forward and brushed each of her cheeks with his lips.

Oh, damn. Her skin cells shivered and burned, though they’d been inoculated against the male members of this family.

Not that this guy resembled the Chéniers, with their reddish hair and blue eyes. Where Rémy was impulsive, surface cute and brutal, this cousin seemed more measured. Graver. Seasoned. Harsher face, experienced eyes. Dark compelling eyes, with golden gleams that reached into her and made her insides tremble.

‘Do you live nearby?’

Ah, the voice. The deep, dark timbre was even more affecting without the intercom, that tinge of velvet accent around the edges.

Clearly he didn’t recognise hers. She guessed she must have sounded different over an intercom with a busted eye and a swollen nose.

‘Paddington, across the harbour. And you?’

‘Paris. Across the world.’

She cast him a wry glance beneath her lashes, and he smiled and shrugged. The tiny, instantaneous communication lit the sort of spark in her blood a recently disengaged woman probably should have had the taste to ignore.

In a perfect world.

No wedding ring marred the tanned smoothness of his hands. A faint chime in her memory struggled to retrieve something of a story she’d once heard over coffee with Emilie. Something about a Parisian cousin, possibly a Luc—or did she say a duke?—and a woman. Some sort of scandal.

If he was the one, she didn’t care to imagine too closely what had happened with the woman. His part in it.

‘I see stripes are in this season.’ He continued to hold her in his gaze. ‘Do you always binge on vodka?’

‘Unless coke’s on offer.’

Beside her, Neil choked on the bruschetta he was wolfing. ‘Steady on, girl. Luc’ll get the wrong impression.’

She’d forgotten Neil. Smiling, she patted the brotherly shoulder. Neil needn’t have worried. Luc was receiving her loud and clear, all right. For one thing, he seemed drawn by her rose carmine lipstick. She was in a likewise hypnotically drawn situation. The more she looked, the more she liked. Her eyes could scarcely unglue themselves.

He didn’t seem at all fazed by her coke pun either. Instead, he smiled too, as if he understood she was kidding but it was a secret shared only by them.

‘You don’t look like a Chénier.’ Heavens, was that her voice? Suddenly she was as throaty as a swan.

‘I’m not a Chénier,’ he said at once, a tad firmly. ‘I’m a Valentin.’

That was all to the good. She tried not to betray herself by staring, but his mouth was so intensely stirring she couldn’t resist drinking in the lines. Stern, yet so appealingly sensuous. A mouth for intoxicating midnight kisses. The trouble was, a woman could never be sure how a man would turn out beyond midnight.

‘Forgive me if I mention it …’ He moved a smidgin closer and she caught her breath in the proximity. ‘You seem a little tense. Don’t you enjoy parties?’

In need of fortification, she snagged a champagne flute from a passing waiter and let her roséd lips form a charming smile. ‘I adore them. Don’t you?’

‘No.’

‘Ah. Then I guess that’s why you smoulder. I was beginning to think you were a misogynist.’ Like his cousin.

She’d once read a novel in which a Frenchman whose honour was being challenged assumed a very Gallic expression. Perhaps that described the expression crossing Luc’s handsome face at that very instant.

She could sense Neil’s ripple of shock. It gave her a charge of pure enjoyment.

Luc’s dark lashes flickered half the way down. ‘I like women. Especially provocative ones.’

‘How about dull, mousy, dreary ones?’

He cocked a brow at her, then, amused, glanced about. ‘I don’t see any here.’

‘They could be in disguise.’

His dark eyes lit. ‘But what dull, mousy, dreary people would ever think of wearing a disguise? Only very exciting, sexy, playful women do that.’

Her spirit lifted with a warm buzz. At last a man was divining her true nature. She was exciting, sexy and playful, given the proper inspirational framework. She felt his glance touch her throat and breasts, and the glow intensified. Imagining his smooth fingers tracing that same pathway, she might have begun to emit a few sparks.

She noticed Neil shift restlessly at her side, then mumble something and drift away.

Alone in a crowded room with a sophisticated Frenchman, another sophisticated Frenchman, Shari felt her feet edge to the precipice. A whisper of suspense tantalised the fine down on her nape. This might have been just a bit of aimless flirting, but something in his eyes, something intentional behind his glance, made the breath catch in her throat.

All men weren’t like Rémy. Of course they weren’t.

The Frenchman gazed meditatively across the room, then back at her. ‘What are you trying to drown with all that alcohol?’

‘Tears, of course. My broken heart.’

‘There are better ways.’

Meeting that dark sensual gaze, she had no doubt of it. The battered old muscle in her chest gave a warning lurch. Keep it light, Shari.

She felt his gaze sear her legs and, smiling, inclined her head to follow his glance. ‘Oh. Have I snagged a stocking?’

‘Not that I can see. Your legs look very smooth.’ His mouth was grave. ‘Quite tantalising.’

His fingers were long. Imagining how they would feel curved around her thighs triggered an arousing rush of warmth to a highly sensitive region. Ridiculous, she remonstrated with herself. Inappropriate. Here she was, raw on the subject of men, bruised, and he was a total stranger. And so close to family. Family connections were such a mistake.

She supposed she was succumbing to flattery. The sad truth was Rémy’s endless series of nubile nymphs had messed with her confidence. Her view of herself had altered. While she’d laughed in his face at some of his insults, always delivered with that mocking amusement, a few had penetrated her heart like slivers of glass.

With a momentary pang of panic it struck her she wasn’t really ready to get back on the horse. But her rational self intervened. How would she know unless she tried a little canter?

As though alive to the odds she was weighing, Luc’s dark eyes met hers, sensual, knowing. ‘Are you with someone?’

Her heart skittered several beats. ‘No. Are you?’

‘No. It’s hot in here, do you find? Will we walk outside in the cool air?’ Smiling, he took the champagne from her and placed it on a side table. The flash of his white teeth was only outdone by the dazzle in his dark eyes.

She felt a warning pang reverberate through her vitals and mingle with the desirous little pulse awakened there. The guy was smooth. But what would the old Shari have done, just supposing a Frenchman had ever been this suave?

Oh, that was right. The old Shari would have fallen into his hands like a ripe and trusting plum. But having finally achieved exciting, sexy and playful status, was she to just throw it all away?

With dinner about to be served, people were swarming inside. Only a scant few were left out there on the pool terrace. But what was the guy likely to do? Black her eye? Could she allow herself to remain socially paralysed for the rest of her life?

While she was still wrestling with the possibilities, Emilie came fluttering by. ‘Oh, Shari. Good, good, you’re looking after Luc. Luc, pardonne-moi, mon cher. I so want to find out all the family gossip. But as you see, now I am a little occupée … Shari can show you …’ One of the staff came to murmur something in her ear, and with more profuse apologies Emilie flitted away to deal with her domestic crisis.

That sealed it. Stepping out into the balmy night air, Shari knew she was doing her sisterly duty. Luc was her responsibility. Looking after him was her given work.

He glanced down at her. ‘Do you love that moment when you feel suspended on the edge of something?’ His dark eyes shimmered with a light that made her insides frizzle and fry.

‘On the edge—of what?’ The night seemed to gather around her and listen.

‘Something—exciting. Perhaps unforgettable.’ His eyes caressed her face with a seductive awareness. ‘You’re not nervous, are you?’

‘Yes.’ She gazed at him. ‘At this moment, I’m quite nervous.’ He looked taken aback, and she hastened to stutter, ‘A—a-are you in Sydney long?’

He made a negative gesture. ‘Tomorrow I must fly out. I really came tonight in pursuit of my cousin. There are things I need to discuss with him on behalf of D’Avion. But for once in his life Rémy has done something—great.’

‘What’s that?’

He smiled to himself, then shot her a glance. ‘Failed to show.’

Hear hear, she could have cried above her thundering heart. It was reassuring to know he saw through Rémy. Maybe he was one of her kind, after all.

They reached the end of the pool terrace and paused. Beyond, pale garden lights reflected the moonlight and illuminated the pathway that snaked down through the shrubbery to the boathouse. Beyond, lights glimmered from craft moored in the bay.

She noticed Luc’s glance stray towards the path.

With a surge of adrenaline she knew wickedness beckoned down that shadowy track. Or—maybe just friendliness. A respectful cousinly chat. She was no longer engaged. Why should every move be such a struggle?

Though this might be the moment she should let slip her knowledge on the subject of Rémy. Tell Luc his charming cousin was bound to be in LA by now. No doubt with a woman along, maybe even the twenty-year-old he’d recently taken up with. That was if he’d been able to find his missing passport, after turning over the apartment and her in his fruitless, vindictive search.

It was all so ugly. The old revulsion threatened, and she turned impatiently away from all things Rémy. Tonight she needed to wipe him from her mind.

‘Are you very important in D’Avion?’ she said conversationally, just as if she hadn’t noticed their feet were on the path.

The air was heavy with the sweet sultry fragrance of night jasmine. The back of Luc’s hand touched hers and her skin cells shivered in welcome.

They turned the corner and were out of sight of the house. Excitement infected her veins with a languor, as if her very limbs had joined the conspiracy.

‘Very,’ he said gravely, though his eyes smiled. ‘And you? Are you in the theatre, by some chance?’ She shook her head, and he considered her, his lashes heavy and sensual, his eyes appreciative. ‘Let me guess.’ He touched her nape, drew a caressing finger down to the edge of her top. Magic radiated through her skin and into her bloodstream. ‘Something creative. You give the impression of not always being bound by the ordinary rules. Would that be true?’

Her heart lurched. It was such a line, but all at once it seemed quite possibly true. Especially now she was in disguise.

‘Oh, well.’ She hated to exaggerate her minuscule claims. ‘I guess I’m an artist of sorts.’ She flashed him a brilliant smile. Gouache, crayons and cuddly possums didn’t go with five-inch heels and red toenails, but they had their excitements.

‘So you paint?’

She barely hesitated before she nodded. ‘Partly.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Well, I write stories for children. And paint—you know, the illustrations. I’m not that good yet, but I have actually had a book published. It’s a picture story book about a cat.’

She pulled herself up, not wanting to babble on about herself and bore the man to tears, but he was gazing intently at her as if genuinely interested.

He drew in a breath. ‘Tiens. Shari, that’s very impressive.’ He spoke so warmly she couldn’t doubt his sincerity. ‘You are a genuine author.’

Inwardly, she absolutely glowed. ‘Oh, in a very small way.’

He took her hand and pulled her to face him. It had been so long since a man had touched her in that special way. She trembled inside her bones with a nervous yearning. What if she froze and couldn’t summon the necessary fire? What if she embarrassed herself and shied away at the crucial moment like a scared animal?

She felt her mouth dry to an uncomfortable clumsiness.

‘You are modest.’ He said rather hoarsely, ‘I think you are not what I expected.’

She said breathlessly, ‘What did you expect?’ Compelled to moisten her lips, she saw a hot flare in his eyes.

He kissed her then, a firm, purposeful sexy pressure that shot a delicious flame through her blood and made her entire being tremble with longing.

Ready to swoon, she moved against his hard body, opening up to the full sexy onslaught, but he pulled back and released her. He gazed at her, his eyes unreadable, then traced the outline of her face with his finger. He pressed her lower lip with his thumb and her insides melted in the blaze.

‘You taste douce.’ His voice was a little gravelly.

Douce. Douce? Was that all? To her parched senses he tasted like man and sex and long, hot nights.

With her adrenaline pumping like crazy, they resumed walking until they reached the end of the path where the boat-house gazed out over the water, its windows blank and enigmatic. As they stepped onto the boardwalk near the landing stage, the moonlight contoured the Frenchman’s face with hard lines and angles. She caught the desire glowing in his velvet eyes, and felt confused.

Having seduced her thus far, was he having second thoughts?

‘What sort of things inspire you to write?’ he said.

‘Oh, well.’ She made an expansive motion with her hand. ‘All sorts. Owls. The moon.’ His mouth was so achingly close. Her lips, her entire being hungered to be touched, stroked, enjoyed, caressed, pampered, kissed, loved …

Would he touch her again, or was that it?

‘Owls?’ He sounded surprised.

‘Oh, owls are really very magical, ethereal beings. Have you … have you ever read—Rebecca?’

He frowned in thought. ‘What is that? Is it to do with owls?’

‘No, no.’ She laughed heartily. ‘It’s … I guess it’s a romance. A—mystery. A bit of a thriller. Rebecca has the family boat-house furnished like a private apartment. Her secret love nest where she can meet her illicit lover.’

He lifted his hands. ‘I don’t think I know it. Romances, enfin …’ He made an amused, negative shrug.

What an idiot she was. Of course men didn’t read romances. Just as well, or they’d know too much.

His eyes glinting, he cast a smiling glance at Neil and Em’s boathouse. ‘What do you think? Would this one—have furniture?’

All the fine hairs stood up on her spine and shivered in suspenseful, gleeful exultation. She hesitated a breathless instant, then spread her hands. ‘Well, we could always see. I know where they keep the key.’

He looked keenly at her. Said offhandedly, like a guy who didn’t care one way or the other, ‘Are you sure?’

The thing was, though, his voice had deepened in timbre just that betraying bit.

She gazed fleetingly into his eyes, not needing to read beyond that hot, lustful gleam. He cared all right. He wanted her, and she felt propelled by a wicked, reckless desire to mount that untamed stallion and do something wild.

‘Sure I’m sure.’ Her breath came faster.

She slipped her hand under the iron tile between the pylon and the floor where she’d seen Neil hide the key a dozen times.

Bingo. It was there.

Her hands shook so badly as she fitted it into the lock, she had to hunch to prevent Luc from seeing.

Once inside, she was assailed with the boat smell of paint and varnish and salty, fishy weekends. Neil’s cruiser floated silently in the lower room, a ghostly presence in the silent dark. A flight of steps led to the upper loft where supplies were stored.

Shards of moonlight illuminated the walls. Shari indicated the way, stumbling once on the stairs. Luc took her arm to steady her.

She didn’t speak, just turned her breathless gaze to him. Even in the dim light his eyes were burning. Her blood ran hot in her breasts, fanned fire between her legs.

They finished the climb to the loft. She was trembling again, in the grip of something more elemental now than mere nerves. She faced him, aflame.

He pulled her to him. This kiss was a rough and hungry collision, his tongue in her mouth, possessive, lustful, his hands in her hair, moulding her shoulders, unfastening her bra. She dragged at his shirt and fumbled to release the buttons, avid to feel his naked skin beneath her palms.

With the mingled scents of aftershave, wine and man rising giddily in her head, she thrilled as he stroked her breasts. Then his mouth closed over her nipple and the blaze in her blood roared. She sobbed in deep quivering breaths as he slipped his hand inside her pants, caressing, stroking her engorged sex until she swooned with ecstasy.

Then he slid a finger inside her and massaged, sending waves of erotic pleasure thrilling through her burning flesh. She rocked against his hand, maddened, desperate.

‘Oh,’ she groaned, clinging to his shoulders. ‘Yes, yes, yes.’

To her intense disappointment his hand paused. She felt his hot breath on her neck.

‘I don’t have any protection with me,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Do you have anything?’

‘What? What?’ She could hardly believe her ears, but the exigency of the moment must have jerked her memory, because she dredged up an image of a thin emergency package in the deepest reach of her purse.

Maybe fate or the devil were on her side, for, scrabbling among the debris, her fingers located the precious article. She held up the battered package.

‘Here,’ she breathed in triumph.

She saw his eyes as he snatched it from her. Their focused, hungry gleam incited such an intense and burning heat in her, such an inferno of responsive lust, she could barely wait for him to sheathe himself.

Swiftly it was done.

She clung to him and locked her legs around his waist. Then he thrust his virile length inside her again and again, filling her up, stroking the inner walls of her yearning, burning flesh. It was good, so, thrillingly, shudderingly good.

As she felt his fabulous hardness inside her her passion escalated out of control and she zoomed to an extreme and explosive climax. Her first during the actual act. Fantastically, his tumultuous spill happened almost at the same time, groans of release shuddering through his big frame while pleasure rayed through her bloodstream like light.

He held her close to his beating heart, crushing her damp breasts, his hot breath fanning her ear. She felt shattered, and bathed in jubilation. She needed to pinch herself. So this was what all the shouting was about.

Of course she couldn’t rely on it happening every time. It might even have been a fluke, brought on by the forbidden aspects of the scene.

Even so, it was such a precious moment. For a wild minute she adored Luc Valentin. Felt pretty sure she would adore him and this boathouse for the rest of her life.

‘We should go back,’ she breathed into his ear at last. ‘We don’t want to be missed.’

He held her away from him, his dark gaze urgent, compelling. ‘Come with me to the hotel. We’ll have a little supper and enjoy each other properly. You will come?’ He gazed at her, then kissed her. ‘Bien sûr you will.’

Excited, relieved, she hardly knew what she said. ‘Oh. Well … who can resist a little supper? I’ll have to say goodnight to Neil and Em, though, you know. Otherwise they’ll wonder …’

His mouth was grave, though his eyes gleamed. ‘No, we don’t want them to wonder.’

CHAPTER THREE

SHARI slipped from the downstairs bathroom, anticipation bubbling in her veins. Luc was across the hall, waiting. Like her, he was spruced again, as immaculate as if their stolen encounter had never happened.

She started towards him just as Emilie emerged from the dining room. They both halted, Luc backing into a convenient doorway before he was noticed.

‘Oh, chérie,’ Emilie exclaimed. ‘I’ve been wanting to ask you. What’s happening with Rémy? Where is he?’

Shari hesitated and glanced past her to see if Luc had heard. Her heart lurched when she saw his expression. He was staring at her, his eyes sharply alert.

‘Well, he … I—I—I don’t know for certain.’ In a low voice Shari added, ‘He’s gone away, I think. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow, I promise.’

But Emilie wasn’t to be fobbed off. ‘You don’t know? Come on, Shari, something is going on. We haven’t seen either of you for months. He’s your fiancé. You should know. What game is he playing with you, chérie?’

As she felt the blistering intensity of Luc’s concentrated gaze on her face Shari’s guilty cheeks burned. ‘Tomorrow, Em. I’ll tell you everything. I promise.’

Emilie looked as if she was about to insist, but some other people burst into the hall, laughing, from the dining room, and she compressed her lips. She threw up her hands and exclaimed in a lowered voice, ‘It’s always something with him. When will he ever—? D’accord, Shari. Tomorrow. Don’t forget. I won’t sleep until I know.’ She hurried away to her guests.

Luc waited until they were alone, then bore down upon Shari, his eyes glittering danger. She felt an involuntary pang of alarm.

Resisting an impulse to back against the wall, she stood her ground. ‘I know what you must be thinking,’ she said in a hurried murmur. ‘It’s not how it looks. I can explain.’

‘Of course you can.’ His voice was smooth as silk and laced with sarcasm. ‘You are engaged to my cousin.’ His eyes were hard and accusatory. ‘That was you in his apartment.’

‘Shh,’ she whispered, glancing towards the nearby dining room. ‘Yes, yes, it was me, but no, I’m not his fiancée. Not any more. The engagement, such as it was, has been broken for weeks. Months.’

‘Then how is it Emilie doesn’t know? Your sister-in-law?’ He looked incredulous.

‘Well … I—put off telling them. Rémy’s her brother, Neil’s my brother …’ She spread her hands. ‘Em has had difficulties with her pregnancy and … She’s so attached to Rémy, and any bad news is bad for her blood pressure. Rémy talked me into keeping quiet because he wanted to break the news himself.’ She grimaced. ‘He’s probably dead scared of some of the things I might tell them.’

‘What things?’ His dark eyes were stern.

She glanced at him, then darted a glance towards the living room. ‘This isn’t a good place to talk. I’ll explain more when we’re alone.’ She slipped her hand into her purse and grabbed her mobile. ‘Do you have your own wheels, or shall I phone for a cab?’

‘A moment.’ He raked her with his eyes, then turned sharply away from her as if the very sight were deadly. He crooked an elbow over his eyes, shading them from some dangerous glow she emitted. His voice sounded as if it were being wrenched from the centre of the earth. ‘This—break-up. Just how recent is it?’

‘I said. I told you …’ Her voice faltered a little. She could see where he might be headed with this. ‘Not that recent.’

‘How recent?’

She started to feel annoyed at his tendency to fire questions like bullets. ‘Well, officially I gave the ring back a couple of months ago. Though by then it was well and truly on the rocks.’

‘“Officially”.’ He made mock quotation marks with his fingers. There was a definite snap in his voice that riled her. ‘What does that mean?’

She glared at him. ‘Look,’ she whispered fiercely, ‘not that it’s anyone’s business, but he and I imploded almost at the start, only like a fool I kept on …’

He swung about to impale her with his gaze. ‘Forget the excuses. Give me a straight answer. When was the last time you were together?’

Her blood pressure rose. ‘Does that matter?’

‘It may not to some guys, but I have a strong distaste for screwing women who are still hot from my cousin’s bed.’

She flushed. ‘I’m not hot from his bed.’ Her chest heaving with indignation, she added sweetly, ‘Though until a minute ago you could have said I was hot from your arms.’

For an instant his eyes flared, then he concealed them behind his dark lashes. ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

‘Wednesday, okay?’

‘This week?’ His frown intensified, though his glance strayed to her mouth.

‘Yes. He was looking for his passport. He accused me of holding onto it after I threw his things out of the apartment. As if I would. He said he had to go to LA on the firm’s business.’

A tinge of contempt touched his face. ‘Vraiment. So … did you give him the passport?’

‘I told you. I didn’t have it.’

His dark eyes flickered over her, searching, suspicious. It was pretty clear he didn’t believe a word she said. The hackles rose on her neck. She was so over being insulted by the men in this family.

‘So,’ he said with maddening silkiness. ‘You sleep with a man on Wednesday, then you sleep with his cousin on Saturday.’

She hissed in a long, simmering breath. ‘Only if his cousin’s very, very lucky.’

The raw anger in her voice finally penetrated Luc’s brain. She wasn’t taking his perfectly natural concerns well. As he scanned her face his certainties suffered a jolt. There was a sparkle in her eyes that gave him pause.

Her luscious mouth was firmly compressed, when only minutes ago those lips had been so soft and yielding, so tinglingly responsive.

She turned away from him.

With quicksilver rapidity a dozen arguments flashed through his mind. From her point of view she might have been telling the truth. She was a woman, after all. What woman ever understood the dictates of honour between men? Particularly men of the same family?

The night’s original agenda scintillated in his mind’s eye. Perhaps he was being harsh. Overly fastidious. If she was no longer officially engaged …

And he’d be gone from Australia tomorrow. They’d be ships in the night, et cetera. Passing on the stormy seas of his bed at the Seasons. Plunging and plunging in the sweet, fresh sheets, her naked beauty his to enjoy to the full. Totally naked, and by lamplight …

Gazing at her sweet profile, he felt a renewed urgent stir in his loins. It would be too cruel to have to sacrifice this now. Rémy would never have to know.

At that admittedly seedy reflection shame started to seep through him. What was he doing? He’d come to relieve Rémy of his job, not his woman. For all he knew they’d had a mere lovers’ tiff and she’d be back in his bed in a few days.

Avoiding looking at her for fear of succumbing to temptation and throwing honour out of the window, he chilled his tone. ‘Let’s be adult about this. I think we have to acknowledge that our recent—interlude—was an error of judgement.’

She turned coolly on her heel and stalked away in the direction of the front door.

‘Shari.’ Galvanised to action, he caught up with her in a couple of strides.

A mere beat ahead of him, she was first to grab the door knob. As he reached over her blonde head to take it from her he heard a small startled sound issue from her throat and just for an instant he noted a curious rigidity in her. He touched her shoulder and she started, then spun around, alarm in her eyes.

‘Pardonne-moi.’ He drew back in concern. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’

‘You don’t scare me. And you’d better believe that.’

Bemused by the tense glitter in her eyes, he tried to placate her. ‘You’re upset. Shari, please.’ He gestured imploringly. ‘Be reasonable. Maybe you’re angry with Rémy. Try to understand, I cannot allow myself to be exploited as a weapon of revenge in some—dispute between lovers.’

‘Exploited,’ she echoed, her voice low and trembling. ‘Revenge.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Oh, why didn’t I see? You’re just like him.’

‘How am I like him?’ he retorted, stung.

Her eyes sparkled fiercely. ‘Everything you’re saying, every word is—is—accusing me of cheating. You’re calling me a-a-a slut.’

His blood pressure made a surprising leap, but he cooled that purely visceral response. ‘No,’ he said coolly. ‘I am far too polite.’

She wrenched the door open and walked quickly down the path.

After a second, driven by some impulse, he strode in pursuit. He’d almost caught up to where she stood outside on the pavement, when without warning she dashed forward and hailed a passing taxi.

The car drew into the kerb and she scrambled in. As it moved into the road she turned to cast him a last icy, burning look through the window.

He felt stunned. Nom de Dieu. What sort of guy did she think she was dealing with? With fire flaring in his veins, he raced for his hire car.

Attempting to keep her cab in sight among the many, he wove in and out of the traffic—absurdly heavy for a country of this size—rationalising his impulse. At least if he talked to her again he could explain his position more fully. Surely it was important to leave their encounter on a positive note.

They were practically family, weren’t they? She’d be grateful, as he would be. After all, it had been a fantastic few minutes they’d shared. Fantastic.

Her silky softness still seemed to be in his senses, her voice, her very essence … His hands tightened on the wheel. If he was honest, he wasn’t ready yet to call it quits with her.

They left the Harbour Bridge behind, wound a way through the neon city and plunged into a maze of narrow one-way streets lined with terraces. Having lost the taxi a couple of times, he thought he still had the same one in view, and was heartened when he saw the name Paddington on a shop front.

Wasn’t that where she’d said she lived?

Just his luck, he was trapped on the wrong side of a red light. By the time he started again, the cab was out of sight.

He cursed long and colourfully. Taking the direction he calculated his quarry must have taken, he crossed a couple of intersections before he reached one where he caught a fleeting glimpse of someone alighting from a stationary cab. The distance was too far for him to be certain it was Shari, but it was a chance. His only chance.

Curbing his impatience, he recircuited the block and waited for the lights again, drumming his fingers on the wheel in his urgency to backtrack.

By the time he reached the terrace he’d estimated was the one, the cab was well and truly gone, the street quiet.

Breathing fast, her heart still thumping painfully, Shari paused in the delicate task of stripping her face bare. She would not accept the verdict. She wasn’t guilty of anything.

She’d done nothing to feel ashamed of. She didn’t care what Luc Valentin thought of her. She’d allowed him to enjoy her body purely out of generosity.

She took some deep calming breaths to slow herself down, then, when her hand was steadier, gingerly dabbed the paint from the bruise, revealing it in all its violent glory.

Was it her imagination it looked worse? She cleaned her teeth, then changed into her flowery old oversized tee shirt and slipped into bed. Lying there in the dark, she rolled the events of the evening around in her mind.

It was his problem if he couldn’t appreciate an honest human exchange without labelling a woman. And the insulting way he’d refused to believe a word she’d said. What was that all about?

She was startled from her reflections by noise from outside. Her heart thudded until she remembered tonight was the neighbourhood’s bin collection night. Hers was crammed full to overflowing with trash left by the previous tenants.

She should get up and take out the bin. She should.

From his park across the street Luc scrutinised the row of houses in the terrace. He suspected 217 could be the one, for a light had recently gone out in its upper front window. Now the entire house was in darkness, as was its neighbour.

What if he was mistaken? He began to see how ridiculous his mad chase was. He couldn’t knock on every door in the terrace. And how likely was Shari to open the door to him anyway? She’d probably accuse him of stalking her.

Le bon Dieu, he was stalking. Whatever it was about her that had got under his skin was compelling him to linger there even now, when he knew he’d lost any opportunity he might have had if only he’d been able to keep the cab closer.

It wasn’t as if he could throw pebbles at her window. The chances were he might terrify some poor little old lady to death.

He was about to cut his losses and call it a night when he heard a familiar rumbling, then at 221 an old guy came into view hauling a wheelie bin. He trundled it through his gate and parked it next to some others lined up under a streetlight.

A minute or two later one after another all the lights came on at 219.

Luc waited, watching, then his heart leaped. Another bin was being wheeled from the gate of 219, this time by a woman.

A blonde woman.

He got out of the car and strode swiftly across the street.

She’d changed from her party clothes into some long, flowing robe-like garment, but as he drew nearer he saw it was Shari. Admittedly, his heart was beating a tad too fast for a cool guy in charge of the situation.

She angled the bin into line with its neighbours just as he caught up with her.

‘Shari.’

She jumped, and with a strangled cry started back through her gate.

Realising the enormity of having suddenly seemed to appear out of the dark, he was filled with contrition. ‘Shari.’ He only just restrained himself from grabbing her. ‘Forgive me for startling you. I—I only want to talk. I just want to explain …’

‘Luc.’ Her voice was stunned, incredulous. ‘Do you have any idea …? What—what are you even doing here?’

He noticed her draw the lapels of her garment close and fold her arms across her breasts. It affected him with a burning desire to hold her to him, kiss her hair.

‘Shari,’ he said thickly, advancing on her. ‘Shari …’

The light fell full on her face then, and he narrowed his eyes for a closer look. With a gut-wrenching shock he saw it wasn’t a shadow darkening the area surrounding her right eye.

She turned sharply away, covering the bruise with her hand, and started striding for the house. ‘Leave me alone.’

After a second of stunned paralysis, comprehension flooded through him and he was aware of a sharp twist in his chest. Her whimsical make-up had had a purpose, after all. He bounded after her onto her little verandah with the blind intention of pinning her down and making her talk to him, but she reached her door first.

Before she could close it, he rammed his knee against it. ‘What happened? Who did that to you? Was it him? Rémy?’

‘Of course not. What do you think, that as well as being a slut I’m a … a …? I had an accident, all right?’ She was flushed and trembling, so achingly vulnerable in her fierce pride he felt something inside him give.

Accident, vraiment. He couldn’t believe that. At the fragile pretence he felt so torn with tenderness and remorse, he hardly knew what he was saying, only that his voice grew hoarse. ‘Shari, chérie. Don’t be so … I didn’t mean to imply … This—this is not how we should say au’voir.’

In the verandah light her naked face was strained, her eyes dark with emotion. ‘We are strangers. We will never meet again. Move away from the door, please.’

She closed it in his face.

CHAPTER FOUR

BUT the world as Shari knew it jolted off its axis. It was Rémy she never saw again.

Soon after dawn one morning in the autumn, Neil came hammering on her door with the shattering news. Rémy had been driving too fast on a foggy Colorado mountain road, misjudged a corner, and skidded over a cliff.

The shock was so immense, Shari was overcome with nausea and had to run to the bathroom to throw up. The details were sketchy, but it was clear Rémy hadn’t been alone in the car.

What a surprise.

In the hours that followed, once Shari had begun to assimilate the news, she wished she could cry. At least poor Emilie had that release. Em was so distraught, so overcome with grief, Neil was beside himself with anxiety for her health and that of their soon-to-be-born twins.

The best Shari could do was to change into her old track pants and run for miles, thanking heaven Luc Valentin wasn’t there to see her in her running clothes. Her emotions were a mess, not improved by an even more than usually massive dose of PMT.

She tried not to speculate about what Luc would be thinking about Rémy’s loss, and concentrated on feeling sad. Of course she must be, deep down. She must be torn with sadness, though the main feeling she was aware of was her sympathy for Em. Overcome as she was, as they all were, she refused to delude herself about Rémy.

His death didn’t change the cruel things he’d done. Some of the wounds he’d inflicted had had a bitter afterlife.

All right, maybe her plunge into adventure with Luc had been a bit soon after the end of the engagement, but officially—technically—despite the things Luc had said to her, she had done nothing wrong. Impulsive maybe, to share pleasure with a man who couldn’t appreciate a woman’s generosity in the best spirit, but not wrong.

She’d stick to that even as Luc Valentin tied her to the stake and applied the flaming torch.

No. If she did feel any guilt, the real reason, the one she could never admit to Em, was that, where Rémy was concerned, the worst she could feel was this terrible, awful hollowness. On the other hand, where Luc was concerned, she felt—

Raw.

The shock shook some Parisian quarters as well. In his executive office high above the Place de l’Ellipse, Luc Valentin was riveted to the police report, his pulse quickening by the second.

The loss of a young life was a tragedy, of course, though his cousin hadn’t exactly endeared himself to many of his relatives. Luc guessed poor Emilie would be the one who suffered most. The only surprise was that it had been an accident. Despite Rémy’s oily ability to slip out of tight situations, the chances had always been that eventually someone would murder him.

Someone like himself.

He’d considered it a few times after his tumultuous encounter in Sydney.

All at once finding his office suffocating, he took the lift down to the ground.

He strode block after block, seeing nothing of the busy pavements as the vision that haunted his nights invaded his being. Shari Lacey, powerful, vivid, as searing as a flame. Shari, her emerald eyes glowing with the sincerity of her denials. Shari …

Her very name was a sigh that plucked at his heartstrings. No, he mused wryly, wrenched them. If only Australia hadn’t been so far away. If he could talk to her. Hear her voice …

In the midnight hours he’d once or twice considered taking a month’s vacation and taking the long flight back. Just to—catch up. See if she needed protecting.

Those last bitter moments at her house stayed with him. We are strangers still rang in his ears. In English the words sounded even harsher than they did in French. That cold click of her locking her door, locking him out, had reverberated through him with a chill familiarity.

He grimaced at himself. Suddenly women were rejecting him on both sides of the world. Why? He’d never been a guy to pursue an unwilling woman. Vraiment, until Manon’s sudden betrayal he doubted he’d ever before experienced one. All his life, he’d taken for granted his ease at acquiring any woman he desired.

But first Manon, and now Shari … Somewhere on the journey, he’d lost his way.

Maybe he should have stayed in Australia and persevered. If it hadn’t been for that crucial directors’ meeting he might have stayed and … What?

Remonstrated with her? Sweet-talked her? Tried to make her forget Rémy? But how could he have? What man would dream of trying to impose his will on a woman who was already wearing the evidence of brute masculine force?

His fists, his entire being clenched whenever he thought of it. If he ever came across the canaille who’d done that to her …

He felt certain it had been Rémy. No wonder she’d been weeping when he’d gone to the apartment in search of him. How could such a woman have been sucked in by the guy?

He threw up his hands in bafflement.

Was that why Shari had insisted her wound had been an accident? She was still in love with her fiancé, ex-fiancé, whatever he’d been?

One thing was certain, whatever her status that night, she wasn’t engaged now.

Nom de Dieu. This impulse to contact a woman on the other side of the world, make some sort of approach, remind her he was alive, was ludicrous.

His feet slowed at the place where the red-curtained windows of a bar spilled an inviting glow into the grey afternoon.

Signalling the bartender for cognac, he took a table by the window. A couple of women came in and sat down. One of them had fair hair, not unlike Shari’s.

He drew the accident report from his pocket and re-examined it. Had they told Shari about the other woman in the car? Maybe she was in despair, grieving for the coquin.

He took out his mobile, calculated the time in Australia, then with a gesture of impatience slid the phone back into his pocket.

A blonde woman at the other table turned his way.

He dropped his glance, conscious of disappointment. There wasn’t the slightest resemblance.

Jolted from sleep, Shari dragged her eyelids apart as her phone vibrated with maddening persistence. She stretched out her hand for the bedside table.

‘Hello,’ she croaked.

‘Shari. Ça va?’

The masculine voice slammed Shari with a sickening shock. Her heart froze.

‘Rémy?’

There was a nightmare instant of suspense, then the voice, contrite, apologetic, said, ‘Shari, c’est moi. Luc. I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you.’

‘Sorry? You’re sorry?’ The relief, the warm, weakening relief flooded through her like a sob and gave her back her speech. ‘Do you know what time it is? Phoning in the middle of the night and speaking French … Are you trying to terrify me? And d-d-did you think I would want to speak to you ever again in my life? How did you get this number, anyway?’

‘From Neil.’ His voice dried. ‘Forgive me. I see this was a mistake.’

‘Another mis—’ she started to say, but Luc Valentin, the man who felt disdain for her, the man who knew her shame, disconnected before she could finish.

She lay awake until dawn, staring into the dark, alternately regretting her anger, then burning with it all over again. If only he hadn’t surprised her that night without her make-up. If only he’d left her some shred of dignity, she might not have had to feel so angry with him. She might have been able to hear his voice without all this agony.

It seemed her agony was never-ending. The excruciating reports of the efforts to reclaim Rémy went on for days before he was recovered. Messages flew thick and fast between Sydney and Paris. Luc’s name came up so often in Neil’s conversation, Shari wanted to cover her ears.

It was hard enough trying to squash down her memories of the party night. Shari didn’t care if Neil thought Luc was a great guy. But she couldn’t say so. She just had to grin and bear it all. And of course, poor Emilie needed to reminisce and talk about Rémy and her other family members. The least Shari could do for her grieving sister-in-law was to listen.

Emilie produced some photos of a visit she and Neil had made to France as newly-weds, before Rémy emigrated. One in particular smote Shari’s eye. It was of a foursome, leaning against a ramshackle fence in some rural setting. Rémy and Emi were linking arms with Luc and a spectacular-looking brunette with cheekbones and long, straight, shampoo-model’s hair.

‘See, Shari? Here’s Luc and Manon. This was the day we visited Tante Laraine’s farm. Do you remember, Neil? How happy we all were?’ Her eyes filled with tears.

‘Oh, Em.’ Shari put her arms around her and stroked Em’s hair. Naturally, anyone in tears always brought hers on as well.

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