Czytaj książkę: «Forbidden or For Bedding?»

Satisfaction ran through Guy as he surveyed the woman in front of him. Alexa Harcourt in evening attire was all that he wanted her to be.

Superbe.

As she stood before him in the rich, lustrous beauty she was finally revealing to him, anticipation speared within him for what he knew would be the delights of the evening ahead.

Not that she gave any sign yet of realising that was to happen. She was, he knew, quite unconscious of what with absolute inevitability lay ahead. It would, of course, make her seduction even more piquant—even more enticing!

And now the evening was about to begin.

‘Shall we?’ he invited.

She walked with superb grace, his appreciative eye noted, although there was the very slightest tension in her shoulders. As if she were not entirely at her ease.

Yes, she was indeed well worth his time and attention. Pleased with his choice, Guy relaxed fully into the leather seats and continued his appreciative surveillance. The evening stretched pleasurably ahead of him.

And the night—ah, the night would be exceptional…

Forbidden or For Bedding?

BY

Julia James

www.millsandboon.co.uk

About the Author

JULIA JAMES lives in England with her family. Mills & Boon^® were the first ‘grown-up’ books she read as a teenager, alongside Georgette Heyer and Daphne du Maurier, and she’s been reading them ever since. Julia adores the English and Celtic countryside, in all its seasons, and is fascinated by all things historical, from castles to cottages. She also has a special love for the Mediterranean—‘The most perfect landscape after England!’—and considers both ideal settings for romance stories. In between writing she enjoys walking, gardening, needlework, baking extremely gooey cakes and trying to stay fit!

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Prologue

MILD autumnal sunshine was filtering through the kitchen window of Alexa’s flat on the borders of Notting Hill, illuminating the pinewood table set for breakfast for two. The simple but elegant pottery creamware and silver-plated cutlery had been acquired painstakingly and piecemeal from antiques shops. Bright flowers adorned the table in a glass vase, and the aroma of freshly made ground coffee hung in the air.

So did a tension that Alexa would have had to be a block of stone not to feel.

She had had no inkling of it until this moment. Until this moment her mood had been languid—sensual, even—for making love upon waking was something that never failed to leave her with a sense of rich well-being that lasted all the day long—even on days like this when, unlike the previous night, she would go to bed alone.

But she was used to that by now. Used to going from a night of sensual overload that left her dazed, swept to shores she had once known nothing of but to which now she was a familiar, oh, so familiar traveler, to abstinance. But as she stood by the table, coffee pot in hand, her slender body concealed by nothing but a pale green silk peignoir, her long, still slightly tousled hair rippling down her back, she felt her throat give a little catch, as though her body—more than her body—remembered with absolute clarity that sense of wonder, almost disbelief, that would sweep her away on a tsunami of emotion.

Not that she ever revealed that emotion. Only the passion with which it was expressed. The emotion itself could never be acknowledged.

For a moment—an endless, empty moment—bleakness showed in her eyes. Then it was gone. She had accepted, had had to accept, that all she could have was what she had now. These brief, precious times when she would burn with an intensity that transformed her life, which carried her through the intervening days and nights of celibacy until her phone would ring and everything else became secondary, inconsequential, irrelevant. Her friends, her work, her whole life—all put aside.

And then for one night, perhaps two, perhaps—so rarely—more, when the call summoned her to a private airfield and whisked her away within an hour of the summons to some continental city or—even more rarely, even more blissfully—to some Italian villa, some Alpine ski lodge, some Monagasque penthouse, she would give herself entirely to the moment. However brief, however fleeting.

Was she rash, foolish, intemperate to be so? Of course she was! She knew it—knew it with every last ounce of sense within her. Good sense. Sense that tempered, as it must—should—that volatility of emotion which was the other half of her, that intensity of emotion that fuelled not just her life but her art. Sense that kept her outward persona cool, composed—controlled.

That was what others saw. The persona she deliberately projected. Few of her friends, especially those in the heady and passionate world of art, realised that her outward appearance of dispassionate calm in fact concealed an inner intensity of emotion—emotion that she channelled only into the art that she painted for herself, not for her profession. Others saw a tranquil beauty—a pale, silken-haired English rose—but few recognised the flame that burnt deep, deep within her.

Raised by parents who had led ordered, intellectual lives, Alexa knew that they had been taken aback to discover their only child was as artistically talented as soon became evident during her schooldays. They had not opposed her choice of subject—far from it—but Alexa had always recognised that they found it faintly astonishing that their daughter should have taken so to art which, to their sedate minds, was associated with stormy passions, extreme emotions and, worst of all, a tendency to lead disordered and messy lives.

Was that why—almost as a favour to her parents, perhaps—she had schooled herself to be as unlike a temperamental artist as she could? Why she enjoyed a tranquil, ordered existence, keeping her outward life calm and temperate and restraining her emotionality to her work? Yet she knew that it also came naturally to her to be reserved, dispassionate, self-contained, and once she had graduated from art school she ran her professional life as smoothly as her personal life.

As for men…Drawn by her pale beauty, they had come and gone—but mostly gone, for they had not, Alexa had known, been special to her. So she reserved herself on that score as well, enjoying the company of a select few boyfriends, with whom she mostly enjoyed going to the theatre, to concerts, to art exhibitions. Emotionally, though, she was untouched, and physically none had ever set her afire to explore the sensual promise of the body. No one had succeeded in lighting that flame hidden so deep within her.

No one but the man who stood there now, paused in the doorway, a man who, every time her eyes rested on him, made the breath catch in her throat, her pulse quicken. Every time.

As it did now.

He stood there, dominating the physical space just as he dominated her mental space, six foot of lean masculinity sheathed in an immaculately hand-made pale grey suit, with an effortless elegance about him that only served to emphasise his maleness while indicating his continental heritage. Guy de Rochement would never be taken for an Englishman, yet his French surname was only a fraction of the complex pan-European inheritance that had made the banking house of Rochement-Lorenz a byword for wealth, prestige and power.

Now, those extraordinary long-lashed eyes that could melt Alexa into quivering jelly by a single glance were resting on her. She felt, as she always did, their power, but now, for the first time, she also felt, deep within her, something different—the tension that seemed to set the air between them vibrating with a fine disturbance of the equilibrium.

She paused, waited, the coffee pot that she had been holding as he’d walked into the sunlit kitchen still in her hand. Suddenly the kitchen seemed less bright, less warmed by the sunshine. Time stretched between them, tangible, tense—it seemed to last for ever, and yet it was only the beat of a single heart.

Then he spoke.

‘I have something to tell you.’ Guy’s accent in English was almost perfect, but not quite, still holding a faint sussuration of French, Italian, German—any of the half-dozen languages he’d grown up speaking amongst his polyglot relatives. His voice was clipped, and as she heard it Alexa felt the first tremor of emotion deep within her—an emotion she would have given the world not to feel. It was an emotion she would give no name to, would deny completely, because to admit it would be to open within her a door so dangerous it might destroy her. It was a door she must never open—no matter what Guy did, what he said.

Even when it was the words he was saying now. She heard the words, but they came from very far away, from a place she’d dreaded, feared. His clipped, reserved expression told her far more than the words themselves, though each syllable was like a scalpel slicing across her bare flesh.

‘I’m getting married,’ said Guy de Rochement.

Alexa was standing very still. Almost as if she were a statue, he thought irrelevantly—for his mind was doing strange things to him, despite the self-control he was ruthlessly exerting on himself right now. A statue by one of those absurd and over-inflated contemporary artists with no more talent than an ability to mock greatness, a woman in a kitchen holding a coffee pot as if it were a Greek urn. He, too, seemed frozen. Or at least his mind did. He had walked into the kitchen knowing what he had to say, and knowing the implications of it.

Those implications were clear. Unambiguous. Unavoidable.

Completely obvious to him.

A minute frown shadowed his eyes momentarily.

Were they as obvious to her, though?

He went on studying her for the space of another heartbeat as she stood there, perfectly motionless, as if frozen in time. Nothing seemed to register in those luminous, clear-sighted eyes that had so entranced him from the very first moment he had seen her. Eyes arrestingly beautiful, set in a face that even his high standards for female allure could not fault. Her beauty was completed by possession of a figure of slender perfection that had immediately, irrevocably captured his interest—an interest that he had pursued with all his customary ruthlessness when it came to such matters.

Some women, when he had shown an initial speculative interest, had sought to intrigue him further by playing pointless games—which, he assumed, they believed would entice him the more, encourage his pursuit or, even more presumptuously, serve as a means to exert control over him. But Alexa had, to his satisfaction, shown no such predilection for futile attempts to manipulate him. From the first she had shown no disingenuous reluctance, coyness or coquetry, and even when seduction had been accomplished, and he had begun his affair with her, she had recognised implicitly the terms under which it was to be conducted, and complied with them without demur.

Complied without demur with everything he wanted. Right from their very first night together…that unforgettable night…

In his mind, memory flickered like a flame in dry undergrowth. He sluiced it instantly. That fire must be put out—permanently. With all the discipline he habitually exerted he doused the flickering memory. This was not a time for memory—it was a time for clarity.

Brutal clarity if need be.

He needed to say it. Not just for her, but for himself as well. To make it crystal-clear…

She was standing immobile still, and something in her very stillness made the tension pull at him. Tension he did not want to feel.

Time to make things clear.

Cool and terse, the words fell into the space between them.

‘I shan’t be seeing you again, Alexa.’

For the space of another heartbeat time held still. An eternity of time in the briefest span. Then, like a film starting to play again, her body unfroze. With her customary graceful movements she lowered the coffee pot to its slate mat on the table and started to depress the plunger, letting the dark pungent liquid settle, then pouring it carefully out into one of the creamware cups. Gracefully she lifted the cup and saucer, proffering it to the man standing such a short space away from her.

Such an infinite distance now.

‘Of course,’ she answered. Her voice was serene, untroubled. ‘C’est bien entendue—that’s the correct French, isn’t it?’ Her tone was conversational, unexceptional. ‘Are you having coffee before you go?’

There was no emotion in her face as she spoke.

She would permit none.

In her hand, the coffee cup she was rock-steady. Not a tremor. She caught the scent of coffee coiling into the air, the molecules wafting upwards. Her eyes were resting on his face, limpid, untroubled. As if he had merely uttered a pleasantry of no consequence or significance.

He did not take the cup. His face remained closed, unreadable. But then she did not seek to read it. Sought only to hold the cup as steady as a rock, to hold her gaze as steady. It was as though a section of her brain had dissociated itself from the rest of her and was operating in a space all of its own.

For one last heartbeat she held the cup, then slowly—infinitely slowly—lowered it to the table. Her regard went back to him, still showing nothing in her eyes except politeness.

‘I hope you will permit me to wish you every happiness in your forthcoming marriage,’ she said, her voice as untroubled as her regard.

Smoothly, she moved towards the door, indicating thereby that she recognised he would take his leave now—coffee untouched, affair disposed of. She did not pause to see if he was following her, merely headed unhurriedly, gracefully, the silken length of her peignoir brushing against her bare legs, across the narrow entrance hall of her flat to the front door.

She heard rather than saw him follow her. She slid back the security bolts that were inevitable in London, even on a quiet, tree-lined road such as the one she lived on. She stepped back, holding open the door for him. He came forward, halted one moment, looked at her one moment. His face was still closed, unreadable.

Then…‘Thank you,’ he said.

He might have been thanking her for her felicitations, but Alexa knew that he was not. Knew that he was thanking her for something he appreciated far more. Her acceptance.

His eyes still held hers. ‘It has been good, non?’

Laconic to the last. She, too.

‘Yes, it has.’

Briefly, like swansdown, she leant forward to brush with the lightest touch his cheek.

‘I wish you well.’

Then she stood back.

‘Goodbye, Guy,’ she said.

For one last time her eyes held him. Then, with the merest nod of acknowledgement of her farewell, he walked out.

Out of her life.

She did not watch him go. Instead she shut the door. Slowly—very slowly. As if it weighed more than she could bear. Then slowly—very slowly—she leant back against it, staring expressionlessly across the hallway. There was no sound. Not even his footsteps descending the flight of steps.

Guy was gone. The affair was over.

Slowly—very slowly—her fingers curved into the palms of her hand.

Gouging deep.

Guy’s car was waiting for him at the kerb. He’d phoned for it as he dressed, knowing that he would want it there for as soon as he’d told Alexa what he must. He had put it off for as long as it was possible. Until it was no longer possible to stay silent. As he walked down the stone steps from the front door of the terraced house of which Alexa’s apartment occupied the top floor, his driver got out and came round to open the rear passenger door for him. He got in, barely acknowledging the gesture.

As he sank back into the soft leather seat his face remained expressionless.

Well, it was done. Alexa was out of his life. And she wouldn’t be coming back.

Guy reached for the neatly folded copy of the Financial Times his driver had placed carefully beside him, and started to read.

There was no expression in his face. His eyes.

He would permit none.

Alexa was cleaning the bathroom. She should have been working, but she couldn’t. She’d tried. She’d mixed colours, got herself ready, put up a brand new canvas, dipped her brush in the colours, lifted it to the canvas.

But nothing had happened. She’d hung, frozen, like an aborted computer program, unable to continue.

Jerkily she’d lowered the brush, eased off the surplus paint, and stuck it into turps. Then she’d blinked a few times, stared blankly ahead for a moment, before turning on her heel and walking out of her studio.

She’d walked into the kitchen and put the kettle on. But for some reason she hadn’t been able to make a cup of tea. Or coffee. Or even run the tap for a glass of water. After a little while she’d gone into the bathroom.

She’d seen the bath could do with a clean, so she’d set to. That had seemed to work. Then she’d moved on to the basin, then the toilet pedestal, then the rest of the surfaces and walls. She rubbed hard, using elbow grease and a lot of household cleaner foaming on the sponge. It seemed to take a lot of cleaning, and she rubbed hard.

Harder and harder.

And as she rubbed and scrubbed her brain darted, like dragonflies scything across a pond with sharp, knifing movements. She wondered what the dragonflies in her brain were. Then she knew. Knew by their iridescent wings, their flash as they caught the light.

They were memories.

So many memories.

Stabbing and darting through her head. Memory after memory.

As sharp as knives.

Working backwards through time, taking her back, and back, and back.

Chapter One

Six months earlier.…

‘DARLING! You’ll never believe who I’ve bagged for you!’

Imogen’s voice came gushing down the line. Alexa, the receiver crooked under her ear, concentrated on catching the sheen on a petal that was proving tricky.

‘Alexa? Are you there? Did you hear what I said? You’ll never believe who—’

Alexa, who knew that Imogen could no more be halted in full flight than she herself could be dragged to the phone when she was painting by anyone other than her friend and business manager, interrupted.

‘Who?’ She knew Imogen was dying to be asked, so she could give the dramatic answer she was clearly bursting to give.

‘He’s absolutely devastating!’ gushed Imogen. ‘A million, zillion miles from any of the usual boring old suits.’

An extravagant sigh wafted down the line. Alexa wondered what Imogen was on about, then went back to working on the petal. She was dimly aware that Imogen was still in full flow, but didn’t pay attention. Imogen loved to gush, and Alexa let her get on with it while she focussed on what was important at the moment.

Finally there was silence on the line.

‘So?’ came Imogen’s prompt a moment later. ‘Are you over the moon or what?’

Alexa frowned absently. ‘What?’

An exasperated sign came into her ear. ‘Darling, do pay attention! Put the paintbrush down and listen for two minutes. Even you are going to be impressed, I promise. Guy de Rochement phoned. Well,’ Imogen temporised, ‘not him personally, of course, but his London PA.’ She paused. ‘So, tell me you’re impressed. Tell me—’ her voice changed and adopted a husky timbre ‘—you’re quivering all down your insides.’

Alexa, her paintbrush reduced to hovering over the canvas, intensified her slight frown.

‘Quivering?’ she echoed. ‘What for?’

The exasperated sigh came again. ‘Oh, really, Alexa, don’t do that Little Miss Supercool with me! I’m not a bloke. And don’t even think you’ll be able to get away with it with Guy de Rochement. Not even you could do that. He’ll have you swooning just like the rest of the female population.’

Alexa’s brow furrowed. ‘Am I supposed to know who this guy is?’

Imogen gave a trill of laughter. ‘Darling—a pun! His name is Guy in English, but of course he’s French—well, mostly—so it’s pronounced with a long “ee”. Guy.’ She gave it a Gallic slant. ‘Sounds so much sexier…’ She gave another gusty sigh.

Alexa cut to the chase. She hadn’t a clue what was going on, and didn’t want any more of her time wasted.

‘Imogen—who is he, why are you being so loopy about it, and what are you trying to tell me anyway?’

Imogen sounded more disbelieving than indignant. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Guy de Rochement? He’s just all over the celeb mags! Only the posh ones, mind you! He’s a triple-A-lister. Total class!’

‘I don’t read magazines like that,’ replied Alexa. ‘They’re all rubbish.’

‘Ooh, look at you. Hoity-toity!’ shot back Imogen in mock admonition. ‘Well, if you did sully your pure artistic soul with such guff you’d know who I was talking about—and why. Listen, even at your elevated heights I take it you’ve heard of Rochement-Lorenz?’

Recognition—not strong, but there all the same—was dredged into Alexa’s forebrain. ‘Mega-rich bankers all over the place and going way back into history?’

‘That’s them!’ Imogen trilled. ‘One of the über-dynasties across the Channel. Utterly rolling in it. Made pots of money in every country in Europe for the last two hundred years,’ she reeled off. ‘Just about financed the Industrial Revolution and bankrolled merchant fleets to every farflung colony. They’re so seriously into money and survival they even made it pretty much intact through the last century—both the World Wars, not to mention the Cold War—probably because they had family on every side going. And now they are riding higher than ever, despite the recession. And a lot of that is due to Guy de Rochement. He’s the whiz-kid that’s propelled the bank into the twenty-first century, and the whole vast clan just slobbers all over him because he’s raking in the loot for them.

Her voice changed, adopting that husky tone again. ‘Mind you, I’d take a punt it’s the females in the family that do the most slobbering. Just like the females outside the family! I was practically salivating down the phone, and I was only speaking to his PA.’

Alexa cut to the chase again. Imogen was clearly bowled over by this Guy guy, whoever he was, and Alexa had certainly never heard of him.

‘So what’s the deal, Immie?’ she asked.

‘The deal, darling, is that he’s interested in being painted by you!’ cooed Imogen dramatically. ‘And if he goes for it you’ll be made, my sweet. No more dull old suits and cigars. You’ll be able to take your pick of the A-listers—the really fab ones, up in the stratosphere. They’re all as vain as peacocks, and they’ll just snap you up. You’ll be rolling in it!’

Alexa made a wry little face to herself. The whole portraiture kick had been Imogen’s idea. When they’d both emerged from art college several years ago, her fellow student and friend had announced straight away that she was never going to be good enough to make anything out of art, and she was going to go into commercial management.

‘And you’ll be first on my books!’ she’d informed Alexa gaily. ‘I’ll make you pots of money, see if I don’t. No starving in garrets eating the acrylics for you, I promise!’

‘I’m not really very interested in making money out of art,’ Alexa had temporised.

‘Yes, well,’ Imogen had retorted, and Alexa knew there had been a touch of condemnation in her voice, ‘not all of us can afford to be so high-minded.’

Then, immediately seeing the flash of pain in Alexa’s eyes, she’d backtracked, hugging her friend.

‘I’m sorry. My mouth sometimes…Forgive me?’

She’d been contrite, honestly so, and Alexa had nodded, hugging her back.

Imogen’s family—large and rambling and open-hearted—had taken Alexa in, literally, during that first terrible term at art school, when Alexa’s parents had been killed in a plane crash while coming back from holiday. Imogen and her family had got her through that nightmare time, giving her a refuge in her stricken grief, as well as helping her with all the practical fall-out from their deaths, which had included sorting out the best thing to do with what she had inherited. It was not vast riches by any means, but prudently invested it had provided Alexa with enough to buy a flat, pay her student fees and living expenses, and yield a small but sufficient income that meant she would have the luxury of not having to rely exclusively on her artistic career to live.

Even so, Imogen was dead set on turning her friend into a high-flyer in the art world.

‘With your fantastic looks it’s a dead cert!’ she’d enthused.

‘I thought it was whether I was any good or not,’ Alexa had replied dryly.

‘Yeah, right. That as well, OK. But come on—we know what makes the world go round, and good-looks definitely make it spin in your direction. You’re a PR dream!’

But Alexa had been adamant. Something flash and showy and insubstantial in artistic terms was not what she was after. What it was exactly that she wanted, though, she was less sure. She enjoyed most media, most styles, was eclectic in her approach, and got completely absorbed in whatever she was doing. But then she got equally absorbed even if her next project was quite different. There was no clear artistic way forward for her.

Which was why, she knew, she had let Imogen have her head when she’d told her that she had a clear flair for portraiture—Alexa had painted Imogen’s family to say thank-you for their kindness to her—and it would be a criminal shame to waste it. So when, out of her myriad contacts, Imogen had wangled a couple of commissions, Alexa had gone along with her friend’s ambitions for her. And now, four years later, it had paid off handsomely—at least in financial terms.

It seemed she did indeed have a flair for portraiture, for she had a generosity of spirit that enabled her to depict her sitters in ways that, whilst truthful, tended to show them in their best light. Considering that as Imogen moved her remorselessly up the fee scale her sitters became increasingly corpulent and middle-aged, that was no mean achievement. Yet, whatever her clients’ unprepossessing exterior, Alexa found she enjoyed depicting the incisive intelligence, shrewdness, or sheer force of character that had got them where they were: to the upper reaches of the corporate ladder.

Which was why she was less than impressed at the prospect of having Guy de Rochement as a sitter. From what Imogen said he sounded no better than some kind of flash celebrity playboy, inheriting bucketloads and now merely swanning around the world making yet more. He would, she darkly surmised, be spoilt, conceited and full of himself—just because he was the scion of such a famous banking house.

Her thoughts darkened even more, recalling Imogen’s drooling. And just because he happened to have a reputation for being sexy.

Alexa’s mouth tightened. Rich, conceited and sexy. Great. He sounded like a royal pain in the proverbial.

Her opinion to that effect was only strengthened some days later when, Imogen having beavered away like crazy to set it up, Alexa’s initial appointment with the fabled Guy de Rochemont was cancelled by phone at the last moment. The glacially indifferent PA’s dismissive tone clearly told Alexa she was considered something little better than a minion—doubtless one of hundreds who waited on Guy de Rochemont’s plutocratic convenience.

Automatically Alexa felt her hackles rise. So, when Imogen phoned her two hours later to ask breathlessly, ‘Well, how did it go? Is he even more gorgeous in the flesh than in photos?’ Alexa was icy.

‘I have no idea. I was cancelled,’ she said simply.

Imogen’s reaction was immediately to temporise. ‘Oh, darling, he’s terribly, terribly busy—always flying off at the drop of a hat. And his PA’s a cow anyway. So when have you rearranged for?’

‘I neither know nor care,’ was Alexa’s terse reply.

Imogen wailed. ‘Honestly, if you just knew how hard I’d worked to get you set up there! Hey-ho—I’ll just have to suck up to the bovine PA and get another meeting sorted.’

She was back ten minutes later, cock-a-hoop. ‘Jackpot! He’s dining at Le Mireille tomorrow evening, and has agreed to meet you in the bar at seven forty-five before-hand.’ She gave a trill of glee. ‘Ooh, it’s almost like a date!’ she gushed. ‘I wonder if he’ll fall for your gorgeous English rose looks and be smitten in a coup de foudre? You must make sure you’re looking absolutely stunning!’

Fortunately for her friend’s blood pressure, Alexa made sure Imogen did not see her before she set off, with deep reluctance, to the ultra-fashionable watering hole the next evening. The moment she walked in she was extremely glad she had chosen to wear what she had. Every female there was in a number that screamed Look at me! By contrast, Alexa knew that her grey blouse and grey pencil skirt, with grey low-heeled shoes and matching bag, together with no make-up and hair repressed into a tight, businesslike bun, was designed to minimise her looks.

She gave her name—and that of the man she was due to meet—to the snooty-looking greeter inside the entrance. The woman’s eyebrows lifted palpably as Alexa said Guy de Rochemont’s name, and cast a sceptical glance over her unassuming appearance. Nevertheless she despatched a minion into the hallowed interior of the premises, where only the select few were permitted. The look of scepticism increased when the minion returned with a nod to indicate that, unlikely as it was, someone as dull looking as Alexa was of the slightest interest to such a man as Guy de Rochemont.