Count Maxime's Virgin. Susan Stephens
years ago if the Count of Ferranbeaux had left a forwarding address, or perhaps a telephone number she could call. The man had smirked as he’d told her that the Count of Ferranbeaux had checked out some time before, leaving no forwarding address, but that everything was paid for—including her, his expression had clearly stated.
She must have been the talk of the hotel, Tara thought, staring at the cruel reflection in front of her. The hotel staff must have laughed their heads off when she’d left. She only had to remember how pleasantly surprised and pleased with her Freya had been when she’d reported back to the bedsit. And no wonder—Freya must have known it was a long shot that Tara would interest Lucien.
Freya had been packing to leave with Guy, Tara remembered, and the fear and hollowness she had felt then came back to her now. Contemplating life without Freya had been dreadful. She had had no idea that one day their parting would be for good. Freya had smiled that morning and said gaily that it didn’t matter if Tara never saw Lucien again, for there were plenty more where he came from, and that at least now Tara would know what to do with them…
Even today Tara shrank with shame as she relived that moment. She had been heartbroken, and had refused to believe that what Freya had said to her could possibly be true. Surely she would see Lucien again? Life would be unbearable if she didn’t.
And now it was unbearable, because she must…
The only good thing to come out of all this was the lesson she’d learned; the life Freya had mapped out for her wasn’t what she wanted at all.
Tara stared at her reflection in despair. She could breathe in, but she couldn’t hold her breath for ever, and she couldn’t drop three dress sizes in ten minutes. Running her fingers through her mass of bright red-gold curls did little to tame her hair, but perhaps a little make-up would help…
If she had brought some with her.
She agonised, realising that high factor sun cream for infants and baby powder would hardly improve her looks. But it was all she had…
Grabbing the bottle of baby powder, she upturned it and sprinkling some on her palms, she wiped them across her burning cheeks…
Better…
Not much better…and certainly not perfect, but not so shiny, not so red…
Raking her bottom lip with her teeth, she wished it would plump out like it was supposed to do, and that she could reverse the colour of her lips and her cheeks—one so ashen and the other so red, but everything the wrong way round…
She tried hard to breathe steadily when she went to see Liz, the young nanny she’d brought with her. Liz had been trained by the same childcare college Tara had attended. Tara had paid her college fees with the blood money Lucien had left her; it had helped the shame somehow. Graduating with honours from that college had been the proudest moment of her life, and she must hang onto that now. ‘Could you look after Poppy for me while I see the Count?’ she asked Liz.
Tara had been offered a job on the staff of the college before tragedy struck, and when she had asked for leave to come and see where Poppy would be living the head of the college had been compassionate and had insisted she must bring Liz with her to Ferranbeaux. Everyone who knew Tara had read the newspaper articles condemning her and, without exception, her friends and colleagues had refused to believe a word they said. If only Lucien could be like them.
He wasn’t, and there was no point wishing she could change him. Lucien had descended on the hotel like an avenging angel and was clearly not in the mood for negotiation, and now she had to meet him.
With every part of her trembling with apprehension. Lucien frightened her. His power frightened her. Anticipating the fact that he might look at her and laugh at her frightened her most of all.
She smoothed her skirt for the umpteenth time—her cheap skirt. But at least it fitted this time; she’d made sure of it. She checked her blouse—her cheap blouse. It was so cheap the fabric was like tissue paper, but if she kept her jacket fastened you couldn’t see her bra…but then if she did that the buttons bulged…
Her breasts again…
Too big…
Everything about her was too big…
Including the big fat tears rolling down her cheeks. She hated them. They were a sign of weakness she couldn’t afford with Poppy to defend.
Dashing them away, she sniffed loudly. Working out what was for the best, she decided on fastening the middle button on her jacket and leaving the other two undone…
Better.
Passable…
Not smart, but not bulging quite so badly now.
She was ready for whatever lay ahead.
Including Lucien Maxime, the Count of Ferranbeaux.
Lucien might be the all powerful Count of Ferranbeaux and hold all the cards, but did Lucien have the skills necessary to raise a child in the warmth and security of a loving family home? She wasn’t going to let Poppy live in Ferranbeaux, cared for by strangers, just as she and Freya had been. Lucien could buy most things, but he couldn’t buy time, and his business interests took up a lot of time…
Hearing a tap on the outer door of her suite, Tara whirled around. Her stomach was in knots. ‘Come in…’ Her voice sounded small, tremulous, pathetic, even to her.
‘Ms Devenish?’
Tension seeped from her shoulders when the door opened and the hotel manager walked in. ‘Yes?’
‘Monsieur le Conte has arrived, and is waiting for you downstairs…’
Having powered through the gates in his twenty-first century equivalent of a fiery black stallion. Yes, she’d seen him.
‘Ms Devenish?’ the hotel manager prompted.
She was panic-stricken. There were too many holes in her plan. She needed more time. She had brought Poppy to Ferranbeaux because her lawyers had said she must, but whose orders were they obeying? Tara wondered now. She had seen Lucien’s contempt for her as he must have seen her feelings for him. He believed the newspaper articles; ergo he believed her unfit to care for Poppy. He had come to take Poppy away. He thought her one more conniving woman who expected to profit from his brother’s death.
As the hotel manager cleared his throat Tara swiftly refocused. Words had never come easily to her, and before the accident she had been content to remain in Freya’s shadow, but with Poppy to protect that part of her life was over now. Tipping her chin, she spoke firmly. ‘Thank you for delivering the Count’s message. Please tell him I would like a little longer—’
‘A little longer’ would never be enough. It was better to get on with it, get it over with.
The manager’s huff of surprise suggested he thought so too. But this was all just such a leap from the quiet life she had shared with Poppy since the accident. All the more reason to hold their first meeting here, rather than in a public arena where she might make a fool of herself… ‘Could you ask the Count to come to my suite in say…ten minutes?’
‘Here?’
The hotel manager seemed astounded, and Tara guessed that only years of training in the art of discretion allowed him to keep his opinions to himself.
Her relief was short-lived when he turned to go, for now the clock was counting down the seconds before she saw Lucien again—the man she adored, the man whom, the last time they’d met, had paid her off like a whore.
She listened intently to every sound, waiting for Lucien… She stilled her breathing, waiting for his footfall on the stairs. She wished she wasn’t so tense. If she’d been more skilled in womanly wiles she might have known how to soften him, or if she’d been feisty, rather than hapless, helpless and useless, she might have known how to stand up to him. Unfortunately, she was none of these convenient things. She was barely twenty, and