Original Sin. Rosalie Ash
Christian came back and caught you in an embarrassing situation, and you threw the blame on Greg?’
This was so close to Christian’s cynical conjecturing last night that Emily felt a sick tightening in her stomach.
‘That’s simply not true—’ she began furiously.
‘On the contrary...’ It was Christian’s husky, cuttingly amused voice from the door, making both of them swing round. ‘Emily did not throw the blame on Greg, she threw Greg. Over her shoulder.’
His dark face was sardonic as he assessed Lisette’s dismayed reaction to his sudden appearance. ‘Emily is a judo expert, Lisette. We shall all need to tiptoe carefully around her while she is working here.’
With a toss of her black head, Lisette gave Christian a slow, provocative smile, then cast a withering glance back at Emily.
‘Judo?’ she sneered disbelievingly. ‘Greg is a friend of mine. I do not need to use judo against him! This girl was obviously leading him on!’
‘Ça suffit, Lisette.’ Christian’s voice contained a razor-edge which Emily was beginning to recognise. ‘If you wish to continue working for me, I advise you to occupy yourself only with matters which concern you.’
The put-down was cool and devastating. The French girl gave an angry shrug, glaring at Christian with such simmering reproach that Emily had to suppress a smile. After a fraught silence, she spun on her heel and marched from the room.
How to make an enemy in ten seconds flat, Emily reflected dubiously, left facing Christian with mixed emotions. Under that intense appraisal she felt agitated, horribly self-conscious. Abruptly she had no idea what to do with her hands. The T-shirt felt transparent...
‘You don’t go in for finesse in your relationships with your employees, do you?’ She couldn’t help it, the accusation tripped off her tongue.
Christian’s face darkened. ‘Lisette is a hang-over from my uncle Thierry’s occupancy. As housekeepers go, she leaves much to be desired.’
‘What do you mean, a “hang-over”?’ Clasping her hands behind her back didn’t help. It only served to emphasise the thrust of her breasts against the fine jersey material. She settled for a defensively aggressive position, arms folded across her chest.
‘I mean that I did not appoint her. And that, if I stay long enough, I may well have to replace her.’
Through the receding haze of sleep, and the distracting effect of Christian’s presence, Emily felt she understood the situation even less than she had last night. Was Christian Malraux here against his will, as a reluctant caretaker of his family business, because of his uncle’s death?
And yet last night he’d talked of his need to find an alternative career, to find something which literally ‘brought him back down to earth’. What could be more ideal than growing grapes, producing wine? What could be more creative, more satisfying? So why was he so stubbornly unenthusiastic about his current role? She was intrigued to find out. He didn’t strike her as the kind of person who did things half-heartedly. If he appeared to show little enthusiasm for his current situation, Emily decided there had to be a reason why...
‘Eat your breakfast. I doubt if Lisette has poisoned it,’ Christian advised, a mocking note in his husky voice.
She levelled a calm gaze at him, taking in his cool, muscular appearance in suede boots, denims and loose white sweatshirt.
‘I may be fresh from secretarial college,’ she told him succinctly, ‘but I hope I don’t have many jobs with quite such a bizarre beginning as this one.’
‘Things can only get better,’ he agreed laconically, turning away with a glitter of laughter in his eyes. ‘I’ll see you down in the office in half an hour. D’accord?’
‘I’ll be there.’
When she’d consumed the strong chicory-scented coffee and warm buttery croissants, showered and dressed, and gone in search of her employer, she was struck once again by the potential for tourist trade here. The old chteau seemed sadly neglected. Most of it seemed unused. There were endless possibilities, she decided, her brain whirring as she took in the dilapidated reception area, the unvisited cellars, the lack of wine tastings. Yes, there were plenty of improvements she could suggest, just waiting to be put into effect...
The office, however, when she finally found it, wasn’t the dusty cell she’d half expected. It looked surprisingly well equipped. There was some highly polished antique furniture, but the contrast of ultra-modern computers. The room was full of sun, with windows overlooking the rear lawns.
Christian was propped against one of the desks, ankles crossed, talking in quick-fire French on the telephone.
‘Ah, Emily...’ He cradled the receiver momentarily, his gaze intent on her appearance. ‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’
She hesitated, then went to sit behind the other desk, studying the brand new word processor with interest, assessing her ability to instantly master its intricacies.
The receiver clicked back in place. She jerked up her head to find the lidded blue gaze trained exclusively on her. Her skin prickled in reaction. Immediately she became body-conscious. The nutmeg silk suit she was wearing, short-skirted, chic and businesslike, somehow felt insufficient covering.
‘Well?’ he enquired flatly, watching as she lowered her eyes and made a show of examining the keyboard of the computer. ‘Do you think you will be happy working here?’
‘Happy?’ She blinked involuntarily, then nodded hastily. ‘Happy’ wasn’t a word she’d use to describe her tangled emotions so far, but it really was high time she pulled herself together.
‘Yes. I’m sure I shall be quite happy,’ she confirmed evenly. ‘This office is far more up-to-date than I expected...’
‘You were expecting some airless cellar surrounded by cobwebs and bats?’
‘More or less.’ She felt a smile tug at her mouth, but if she’d expected a similar flash of warmth from Christian it wasn’t forthcoming. Whether it was the telephone call or some other reason, he seemed even more tense and preoccupied than usual. The relaxed if cynical escort of last night’s meal seemed to have vanished into thin air. The tyrant seemed to have the upper hand at the moment.
‘My three months here have not been entirely wasted,’ he said abruptly, ‘although my uncle’s illness meant the place was neglected for longer than it should have been.’
‘I...I’m sorry about your uncle...’
‘So am I. He was my last living relative!’ There was a bleak flippancy in Christian’s voice which idiotically made Emily want to reach out and lay a hand on his shoulder, comfort him. She controlled the urge. Last night’s unnerving eruption had arisen from an innocent act of sympathy, or comfort, hadn’t it? Being in this man’s vicinity felt like walking on eggs.
She caught her breath in frustration. She wouldn’t be intimidated by him, overawed, like a shy child...
‘You said you lived with your uncle and aunt as a child? What happened to your own parents?’
‘They died,’ Christian supplied briefly.
‘When? How?’ she persevered gently, secretly aghast at her forwardness.
‘Together. From smoke asphyxiation. They’d gone for a touring holiday in India. There was a fire in one of the hotels.’
‘How old were you?’ Emily found she simply couldn’t help herself. The questions just tumbled now, irresistibly, off her tongue.
He shot her a look of barely suppressed impatience. ‘Seven. They’d sent me to stay at Chteau de Mordin while they made their trip. So instead of going back to my own home in Avenue Foch in Paris I just stayed on with my uncle and aunt. And now, Emily,’ Christian’s smile