Original Sin. Rosalie Ash
driven with him before, had known him before, as if he was someone important in her life, someone with a deep connection on another, subconscious level.
Since his saturnine appearance at her bedroom door, he’d swapped the grey suit for stone-coloured fine gabardine trousers, a black cotton mesh collarless shirt, and a loose, unstructured stone cotton jacket. He looked expensively casual, European designer-style. And heart-stoppingly attractive. Privately she decided Christian Malraux could probably manage to dress in a frilly pink sundress and still set every female heart within a two-mile radius thudding in ecstasy.
‘My meetings finished earlier than expected,’ he informed her harshly. ‘Which, from what I saw tonight, is just as well.’
‘If you’re referring to Greg Vernon, I was quite capable of dealing with him myself!’
‘So I saw. But I suspect you had an element of luck on your side, Mademoiselle Gainsborough. Never underestimate your adversary. Once that initial element of surprise is gone, you would do well to remember that.’
‘I happen to possess a brown belt in judo,’ she told him with calm pride. ‘A friend’s father is an instructor. I’ve fought in national competitions.’
‘Impressive.’ He didn’t sound particularly impressed. The dark face turned briefly in her direction again, and she sensed a mocking smile. ‘I know something of the martial arts myself. Your performance was certainly entertaining. But your linguistic and secretarial qualifications will be of more use to me.’
‘Oh, I’m definitely versatile!’
His glance was sardonic. Instantly she wished she hadn’t bothered with the flippant response. Her face was burning again in the darkness as she briefly relived the scene in her bedroom. She sought quickly to change the subject on to something less personal.
‘Did I get the impression you’d recently taken over the chteau, Monsieur Malraux?’
‘Three months ago.’ He nodded in the darkness. They were approaching some lights on the left now, pulling off the road beside a restaurant which looked as if it had been converted from an old mill.
‘You bought it from the previous owner?’
He shook his head briefly. ‘Years ago I lived at the chteau, with my uncle and aunt. But I chose another career, which took me abroad. I had not been back to Chteau de Mordin for five years. Until my uncle was taken ill and then died.’
Emily had the strong impression that Christian Malraux was far from delighted to be back at the chteau now. There was a cool cynicism underlying his words.
The cynicism she found hard to relate to. Casting embarrassment aside, her own emotions felt heightened. She found it hard to explain how she was feeling, even to herself. All she knew was that from the moment he’d appeared in her bedroom doorway she’d felt as if some obscure inner organ of her body had gone into slow meltdown. Combined with embarrassment at the scene he’d interrupted, and resentment at his authoritarian manner, this was a bewildering reaction. She was feeling slightly breathless, and shivery, and decidedly dithery...
With such a sharp focus on her own emotions it simply wasn’t fair to sense that Christian Malraux was offhandedly doing his duty, escorting his new secretary out for a meal on her first night, with his thoughts and his heart far away on some other, more enthralling life he’d been forced to abandon...
She caught herself up sharply. What idiotic fantasies were these? How could she be allowing her brain to run riot with such adolescent melodrama? She was twenty-two, a languages graduate filling in the summer before taking up a responsible job at an embassy. To date she’d had countless casual boyfriends—enjoyed lots of platonic friendships with the opposite sex, too. How could she be feeling this...this illogical kaleidoscope of emotion half an hour after meeting Christian Malraux?
She resolved to take a stern grip on herself.
But inside the restaurant, seated opposite her new employer at a check-clothed table, she met the smoky, sleepy, slightly bored blue gaze across the menu and felt the breath knocked out of her lungs again.
‘Seafood of all kinds is excellent in Charente Maritime,’ he told her coolly, assessing the slight involuntary flush of her cheeks with an air of detachment. ‘Just about every kind of fish that swims in the sea is caught and cooked and coated in some cunning sauce.’
‘Yes...I already know the area. That’s the main reason I chose this particular job. I have a penfriend fairly close by. I used to spend summers with her and her family.’
‘Where do they live?’ The query was perfunctory.
‘Saintes.’
‘A beautiful town. The Roman amphitheatre is extraordinary.’
‘Yes...’ She studied the menu unseeingly. This cool small talk was somehow infinitely disturbing. ‘I...I think I’ll have the raie.’
‘Would you like some wine?’
She nodded. ‘Chteau de Mordin produce a Sauvignon, don’t they?’
A slow smile altered the brooding darkness of the face opposite her. He thrust long, spatulate fingers through the persistent fall of dark hair on his forehead, and narrowed his blue eyes speculatively.
‘You have already done your homework, mademoiselle?’
‘I’m a naturally inquisitive person. Chteau de Mordin houses a co-operative of a hundred and forty-five vine growers, covering seven hundred hectares. You primarily make pineau cognac, which is one part cognac to three parts grape juice, with wines a secondary product. You produce three white wines, including a cuvée spéciale, plus a ros and a red.’
He laughed, completely demolishing her fragile composure. Christian Malraux had a deep, husky, infectious laugh and excellent, even white teeth. The slash of brilliance against the dusky tan of his skin make her think, irrationally, of pirates.
‘Little Miss Efficiency. My friend at your college was right when he said I’d be sorry to lose you.’
Emily was appalled to find herself blushing. Even more mortified when she realised that Christian Malraux was aware of her hot cheeks.
‘What an intriguing mixture you are, mademoiselle...’
‘Please, call me Emily!’ she snapped, pressing her hands together in the soft silk of her lap, willing herself to be cool and collected.
‘Emily.’ He said it consideringly, rolling the syllables deliberately, teasing around his tongue, his accent more in evidence. ‘Oui, d’accord. Emily. You must call me Christian.’
There was a momentary pause. Lost in the sleepy black-fringed blue eyes, Emily found she was holding her breath.
‘Yes. Thank you...Christian.’ She’d only spoken the man’s first name, for heaven’s sake. She felt as tense as if she’d just confessed some intimate secret...
The waiter came. Christian dispatched their order, then turned his attention back to her still-flushed face.
‘As I was saying,’ he continued softly, as if there’d been no interruption, ‘you are an intriguing mixture, Emily. Cool enough to use judo successfully against a man, to defend yourself. Professional enough to carry out detailed background research for what is merely a temporary job. Yet you look so fragile, as if a man could crush you if he held you too tightly.’
‘I...’
‘And shy enough to blush like a schoolgirl when you are paid a compliment.’
‘I don’t normally blush!’ she protested with a soft vehemence which clearly amused him even more. ‘You’ll have to excuse me. I’m feeling a little...off balance tonight. For obvious reasons!’
‘Ah. You mean your enchanting...nudity...on our first meeting?’ he goaded, equally soft. The smile sent her into a helpless inner tailspin.