Original Sin. Rosalie Ash
wine arrived. ‘You know, I came here this summer to brush up my business French,’ she went on hurriedly, desperate to switch the persistent spotlight off herself and her emotions, ‘yet we’ve done nothing but speak English.’
‘We are not talking business, Emily.’ Wretched man. He was enjoying watching her squirm!
‘No...’
‘Shall we agree to speak French in the vineyard office?’
‘I suppose so.’
He was humouring her, she recognised frustratedly. Her new employer was obviously finding her intensely amusing. She took a long mouthful of the cool white wine. It tasted faintly of apricots and wild herbs, with a crisp refreshing bite to it. A basket of aromatic fresh bread had been placed on the table. She realised how hungry she was. Tension or no tension, with or without Christian Malraux’s extremely unchivalrous taunts, she was going to enjoy this meal.
To distract herself from the mocking blue eyes she inspected her surroundings in greater detail. The restaurant was busy, buzzing with talk and laughter. Several French families were eating, plus a sprinkling of Germans, and English. Behind her she could hear voices in her native tongue busily deciphering the intricacies of the fish menu with the aid of a dictionary.
‘This is an attractive restaurant,’ she murmured politely, switching into French deliberately. ‘Is there still a mill-wheel?’
‘Yes. If we’d wanted to we could have sat outside on the grass, near the mill-stream,’ Christian confirmed coolly, also switching to French. ‘But the mosquitoes can be unpleasant.’
‘Another time I’ll wear repellent. I love eating out of doors. It’s such a luxury in England.’
‘Tomorrow night I will bring you here, and you may cover yourself in insect repellent and sit by the mill-stream, Emily.’
‘Oh, I wasn’t suggesting that you bring me here again...’
‘Do not begin blushing again,’ he advised her, with a lazy, speculative grin.
‘I wasn’t!’
But she felt on fire all over as his casual gaze moved slowly, assessingly, from the top of her copper-blonde head, down over her wide brown eyes to the petite curves of her breasts under the silk camisole. Braless, she felt, to her acute chagrin, the tips of her breasts begin to tighten involuntarily in response to that challenging appraisal.
‘Your French is excellent, Emily,’ he praised quietly, leaning nonchalently back in his chair and sliding his hands into his jacket pockets. ‘Is your Spanish also as good?’
‘Reasonable. I suspect my French is better, because I’ve spent more time in France. With my penfriend’s family. In my teens. So...’ she sought, once again, to switch the subject, to shrink back from the spotlight ‘...what was the career which took you abroad so much?’
‘Journalism.’
Did she imagine the slight hardening of the lines around Christian’s mouth? The slight withdrawal?
‘What sort of journalism?’
‘I was a foreign correspondent on a national newspaper. Then I reported foreign news for television.’
‘I see.’ She stared at him in mounting curiosity. Their first course had arrived, a platter of fresh langoustines, and she picked thoughtfully at one of the rigid shells with her fingers, finding herself staring at the beady little eyes of the shellfish with an abrupt shudder of sympathy.
Was this why Christian Malraux had an air of embittered cynicism? Foreign news reporting was an unremitting diet of wars, famine and atrocities, wasn’t it?
‘Did you throw it all in because your uncle was taken ill?’
‘Not entirely. I’d been contemplating making a change, finding a way to get back down to earth, literally as well as metaphorically. TV news reporting can become dangerously addictive. All the flying bullets and front-line bulletins...’
She found herself staring at the scar on his cheek, imagining some hair-raising incident with guerrillas and machine guns. She winced involuntarily, and he saw her reaction, touching the scar with a grim smile.
‘This disfigurement has no connection with my TV journalism. But does it disgust you, Emily?’ He sounded bleakly amused.
‘No!’ She shook her head with some force. ‘No, it most certainly does not disgust me! What a ridiculous suggestion!’
Christian’s gaze had narrowed at her vehement denial. There was a brief silence, then he shrugged, with a slight smile.
‘You do not need to burst with righteous indignation, Emily. I believe you.’
A longer pause stretched out between them, and then with thoughtful deliberation Christian reached across the table, and took her left hand in his, lightly, turning it over to inspect the narrow palm, the long, slim, ringless fingers.
The clasp was impersonal, exploratory. His skin felt warm and dry, his fingers lean and powerful, as if his strength was a latent threat, held in careful reserve.
Emily could hardly breathe. She felt as if something was constricting her windpipe. She stared down at their joined hands, at the strong, dark, hair-roughened back of Christian’s right hand encompassing hers. How could something as simple and innocent as a touching of hands feel so intensely intimate...so annihilating to her senses?
Her heart was thudding painfully hard against her breastbone. She tried to shrug off this overwhelming emotion, this warm, shimmering sensation mysteriously forcing up her blood-pressure, speeding up her pulse-rate, but failed spectacularly.
‘No rings?’ Christian sounded dismissive, releasing her hand with a composure she yearned to emulate.
‘No...’ Resisting the urge to snatch her hand defensively into her lap, she transferred it slowly to her wine glass, proud of her precision control. She took a careful sip of wine.
‘No ties, no commitments?’ He persisted coolly.
‘None. That’s the way I intend things to stay.’
‘Hence the high-powered Foreign Office job in September?’
She nodded, warming to her impressive display of indifference. Her stomach was in knots. Her heart was racing at twice its normal speed.
‘Too many of my friends finished higher education only to throw it all away to get married! I have a very clear-cut vision of where I’m heading for, and its not the altar!’
Even as she heard herself say it, she was mentally floundering in a warm dark whirlpool of reaction to his touch, his voice, everything about him...
‘Wise girl,’ he approved softly. ‘Stick to your career. Don’t be side-tracked. Love is a destructive emotion.’
With a smiling nod, she stared at him in silence. Her throat felt curiously tight. He’d caught her on the raw again. As if he’d aimed a sharp punch to her solar plexus.
Their food arrived, a welcome diversion. She tackled the delicious skate in caper sauce, absently sliding the white fish off the smooth webbed bone with her fork.
‘Love is a destructive emotion? That’s going a bit far, surely?’ she teased lightly, glancing up when she felt sure she had her emotions under tight control. ‘You sound deeply embittered!’
Christian had opted for a rare filet mignon, oozing pink juices and exuding a rich, savoury aroma. He was eating it with the kind of uninhibited relish Emily decided might be a national characteristic.
‘Life has taught me the value of independence. Take my advice: keep your heart to yourself, Emily.’
The flat words were unemotional. She felt herself go very still, staring warily into the deep-set gaze.
Abruptly, totally without