darling.’
‘You mean he’s been vanquished by Françoise’s boeuf bourgignon . And don’t you really fancy him yourself?’
The baroness laughed loudly and the conversation shifted to less dangerous topics, but when Miles and Yves returned, the warm smile the Englishman gave Corinne produced a provoking ‘What did I tell you?’ look from Marie-Christine. Corinne wasn’t so put out as she would have been over anyone else. Somehow during the past few hours the entire dynamic of her relationship with Miles had changed. No longer the priggish banker she had been determined to dislike, but an interesting man she wanted to know better. In fact he was beginning to feel like an old friend, and as they all said goodbye outside an hour later, she wasn’t surprised when he kissed her.
‘I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed this afternoon,’ he said, holding her for a fraction longer than was polite. ‘Perhaps I could reciprocate in Paris?’
‘I won’t be back until September.’
‘That’s a date, then.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll call you. Goodbye, Corinne.’
‘Goodbye, Miles.’
She watched him climb into his car and waved until he was out of sight. Of course he wouldn’t ask her out on a date. In Paris they would be constrained by their business relationship and it would be impossible. It had been a very pleasant afternoon, all the same. But Corinne didn’t expect to see Miles Corsley in anything other than a professional capacity again, and the thought mildly depressed her.
Miles took his time getting back to the Lebrun farmhouse. He needed it to cool off, to forget how she had felt in his arms, and how instead of politely brushing his lips against her cheeks he had had to exercise all his self-control not to taste her mouth, drag her off somewhere and ravish her. The woman was trouble. He’d known it the second he set eyes on her. But she was in his system, and he was going to have to deal with it. It would, he decided, be interesting to find out whether the ice queen or the warm and lively Corinne Marchand he had met at St Xavier would be the one he eventually got into his bed.
‘What did she say about Yolande?’ Yves asked his mother as they sped off through the village.
‘She’s in England with that actor. Darling, I’m sorry, but I really think it’s hopeless.’
His jammed his foot down on the accelerator.
‘Yves, for God’s sake, do you want to kill us both? I may be half-crippled, but I’d like to try to enjoy the years I have left.’
He slowed down at once. ‘Sorry.’
She sighed, hating feeling so powerless. She could do nothing to help, and even commiseration upset him. When they reached the château, Yves left her to read a book while he went for a swim in their pool. But no amount of energetic front crawl could ease the torture. Yolande was gone. She didn’t love him. The more he thought about it, the more he felt he had only himself to blame. He had handled everything the wrong way – put her on a pedestal and worshipped her as a goddess, and not let her know how much he loved her and needed her as a woman. Her absence was like a physical wound, gnawing away at him from the inside. But it was too late. She was in England with Patrick Dubuisson, being screwed out of her innocence and her money. It was driving him mad. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
Chapter Four
Just after 6 a.m. Half-asleep, Patrick leaned across Yolande to pick up the telephone, bleeping shrilly and insistently on the floor beside the bed. She stirred and snuggled against him as he groped for the receiver.
‘Allo?’
‘Is that Patrick Dubuisson?’
An American voice, female, just audible on an echoing line. It took him a while to register the words.
‘Speaking,’ he replied, summoning up all Yolande’s lessons on answering the phone in English. ‘Who is it, please?’
‘Well, I don’t know if you’ll remember me. It’s Althea Pedersen …’ the echo was louder.
‘You mean he’s been vanquished by Françoise’s boeuf bourgignon . And don’t you really fancy him yourself?’
The baroness laughed loudly and the conversation shifted to less dangerous topics, but when Miles and Yves returned, the warm smile the Englishman gave Corinne produced a provoking ‘What did I tell you?’ look from Marie-Christine. Corinne wasn’t so put out as she would have been over anyone else. Somehow during the past few hours the entire dynamic of her relationship with Miles had changed. No longer the priggish banker she had been determined to dislike, but an interesting man she wanted to know better. In fact he was beginning to feel like an old friend, and as they all said goodbye outside an hour later, she wasn’t surprised when he kissed her.
‘I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed this afternoon,’ he said, holding her for a fraction longer than was polite. ‘Perhaps I could reciprocate in Paris?’
‘I won’t be back until September.’
‘That’s a date, then.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll call you. Goodbye, Corinne.’
‘Goodbye, Miles.’
She watched him climb into his car and waved until he was out of sight. Of course he wouldn’t ask her out on a date. In Paris they would be constrained by their business relationship and it would be impossible. It had been a very pleasant afternoon, all the same. But Corinne didn’t expect to see Miles Corsley in anything other than a professional capacity again, and the thought mildly depressed her.
Miles took his time getting back to the Lebrun farmhouse. He needed it to cool off, to forget how she had felt in his arms, and how instead of politely brushing his lips against her cheeks he had had to exercise all his self-control not to taste her mouth, drag her off somewhere and ravish her. The woman was trouble. He’d known it the second he set eyes on her. But she was in his system, and he was going to have to deal with it. It would, he decided, be interesting to find out whether the ice queen or the warm and lively Corinne Marchand he had met at St Xavier would be the one he eventually got into his bed.
‘What did she say about Yolande?’ Yves asked his mother as they sped off through the village.
‘She’s in England with that actor. Darling, I’m sorry, but I really think it’s hopeless.’
His jammed his foot down on the accelerator.
‘Yves, for God’s sake, do you want to kill us both? I may be half-crippled, but I’d like to try to enjoy the years I have left.’
He slowed down at once. ‘Sorry.’
She sighed, hating feeling so powerless. She could do nothing to help, and even commiseration upset him. When they reached the château, Yves left her to read a book while he went for a swim in their pool. But no amount of energetic front crawl could ease the torture. Yolande was gone. She didn’t love him. The more he thought about it, the more he felt he had only himself to blame. He had handled everything the wrong way – put her on a pedestal and worshipped her as a goddess, and not let her know how much he loved her and needed her as a woman. Her absence was like a physical wound, gnawing away at him from the inside. But it was too late. She was in England with Patrick Dubuisson, being screwed out of her innocence and her money. It was driving him mad. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
Chapter Four
Just after 6 a.m. Half-asleep, Patrick leaned across Yolande to pick up the telephone, bleeping shrilly and insistently on the floor beside the bed. She stirred and snuggled against him as he groped for the receiver.
‘Allo?’
‘Is that Patrick Dubuisson?’
An American voice, female, just audible on an echoing line. It took him a while to register the words.
‘Speaking,’ he replied, summoning up all Yolande’s lessons on answering the phone in English. ‘Who is it, please?’
‘Well, I don’t know if you’ll remember me. It’s Althea Pedersen …’ the echo was louder.
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