Original Sin. Rosalie Ash

      CHAPTER ONE

      AT THE sound of the spit of gravel on the drive below, Emily jumped out of the bath, short strawberry-blonde curls still damp from a hasty hairwash, and went to peer curiously from the open window of her bedroom.

      The warm July air met her, redolent with the rich, sweet scent of golden broom, pine trees and some other heady, elusive fragrance, some musky blend of smells unique to summers in France. A distant flash of black wings circled in the evening sky around the mossy red pantiled roof and tall chimneys of the opposite wing of the chteau. Bats, probably, Emily decided, thinking how neatly this ancient creeper-clad building lent itself to the occupation of bats in its belfry...

      Clutching the ends of the big ivory bath-towel around herself, she shrank back behind the heavy curtain to see a sleek open-top Mercedes sports car sweeping into the courtyard, to halt outside the entrance to the chteau.

      It wasn’t really dark yet. Just dusk. The arc of yellow light from the storm light below showed a tall, broad-shouldered man springing athletically from the driver’s seat. Snatching a battered-looking briefcase or flight-bag from inside the car, he thrust his fingers through the lock of dark hair which fell over his forehead and headed, with a purposeful yet oddly preoccupied air, towards the steps. There was a loping spring in his movements which reminded Emily of a lion’s prowl...

      Could this be her new boss? Instinct told her it was, even though Lisette Duvert, taken by surprise this morning at Emily’s arrival a day earlier than expected, had predicted that Monsieur Malraux wouldn’t be getting back from his business trip until tomorrow. The new arrival had a distinctly boss-like air about him, Emily told herself, suppressing a smile. He looked as if he exuded that god-like air of indispensability. As if the universe would have quite a struggle continuing to function without him...

      She’d better get dried, dressed, and somehow find her way down to announce her presence. Lisette Duvert, the young, glamorous and rather unhelpful housekeeper, had shown her to her room, announced that tonight was her night off, and promptly departed. Emily had been left with vague directions to the nearest restaurant for an evening meal, and with the uncomfortable feeling that she might be the only member of staff of the Chteau de Mordin spending the night here. She wasn’t normally prey to nervous fantasy, but she’d seriously considered jumping back in her hired Renault 5 and driving into Saintes, to see if her old penfriend Marianne and family would put her up for the night...

      Before she could make any move towards drying and dressing, however, heavy footsteps sounded on the landing outside her door, and without warning the door was pushed open. A man around her own age, of average height and solid build, with curly brown hair, definitely not the recent arrival from the Mercedes, marched into the room, swung a rucksack on to the bed, and began to discard a short-sleeved red shirt as he strode towards the bathroom.

      ‘Hey...!’ Her indignant gasp brought the intruder to an abrupt halt, and with a muffled exclamation he reached to switch on the light, then gazed with an unrepentant leer at the sight of Emily, clutching her towel round her slender body, pale with outrage.

      ‘Well, well! Definitely all mod cons!’ The voice was English, with a slight regional accent. Hazel eyes gleamed with undisguised appreciation. ‘French, English or German?’

      ‘Whoever you are, will you please get out of my room?’

      ‘Ah, English. Lisette didn’t tell me I was sharing, but I’ve no objections if you haven’t. Greg Vernon’s the name. I’m hitching round Europe, doing a spot of casual summer work when I can. And you?’

      Emily glared at the man, longing for some object to throw.

      ‘Emily Gainsborough. I’m here to do temporary work for the summer, too. And I’m delighted to meet you, but perhaps we could continue this friendly chat some other time? This is my room!’

      Greg Vernon’s eyes were overtly curious as he examined her long, slim legs, the petite line of her hips and breasts covered by the towel, the delicate swell of her breasts above, and the damp, feathery gold curls clinging to her head.

      ‘Lisette told me third door on the right.’

      ‘Maybe counting’s not your strong point?’ she suggested cuttingly.

      ‘So what are you supposed to be doing here? Odd jobs, like me?’ Greg Vernon ignored her sarcasm, folding his arms and staring hard at the curve of her thighs.

      Humouring the man seemed the only option for the moment. She tightened her hold on the towel, and controlled her temper.

      ‘No, I’m a temporary secretary for the chteau owner. Until I take up a full-time job in the Foreign Office in September. Now would you please...?’

      ‘The Foreign Office?’

      ‘Yes. At their Paris embassy.’ Alone in this apparently deserted chteau, Emily was feeling acutely vulnerable. Even if she knew she could probably look after herself, it didn’t dispel her sense of female vulnerability. She didn’t like the way he was ogling her. If she leaned out of the window and screamed, would someone come to her aid?

      ‘Brainy as well as beautiful?’ He sounded impressed. ‘How old are you, sweetheart?’

      ‘I’m not your sweetheart. And I’m old enough to look after myself. Now will you please go and find yourself an empty room?’

      ‘You’re a sight for very sore eyes, did you know that?’ he persisted, his grin widening. ‘I’ve got a soft spot for brainy brown-eyed strawberry blondes.’

      ‘Will you just get out of here?’

      ‘Especially brown-eyed strawberry blondes with cheekbones like Kim Basinger’s, who look as if a gust of wind would blow them over,’ he mused, unaffected by the glitter of fury in her eyes. He took a few steps towards her on sturdy, muscular legs with just a hint of bravado swagger. ‘What do you say to giving my back a scrub in the bath, sweetheart? I’ll make it worth your while...’

      ‘I’m warning you,’ she hissed in a low, shaky voice. ‘If you don’t get out of my room in five seconds flat, I’ll...’

      ‘You’ll what, sweetheart?’

      The masculine goad, the insultingly confident hand reaching towards her, was the deciding factor. Fear abruptly left her. Calmly, with a reaction born of weekly practice at her local sports centre, and several competition wins at national level, she caught his upper arm in a classic