Count Maxime's Virgin. Susan Stephens
which was no help when her body was thrumming with awareness at the thought of Lucien just a few strides away. She knew he wouldn’t have been idle while he’d been waiting. He would have been using this time to finesse his plan to eject her from Poppy’s life.
She must blank her mind of fear if she was going to get through this. It was no good talking herself into meltdown; she must think things through clearly.
But, try as she might, the only thought Tara could come up with was that if Poppy had been old enough to pick a champion, her Aunty Tara should be last pick.
But who else was there to champion Poppy’s cause? Lucien?
He’d make a far better job of it than she could, Tara reasoned, though he’d do it remotely through his servants.
Crossing to the window, she flung it open and inhaled deeply, hoping for a miracle. But there were no miracles—there was just Tara, an orphaned baby, and the Count of Ferranbeaux. That was the cast and it was up to her to decide whether she was content to play a role, or whether she would write the play. It was certainly time to get a grip. She wasn’t the girl of two years ago; she was trained in childcare now and where Poppy’s happiness was concerned she would fight tooth and nail to preserve it. It helped remembering a tutor at the college telling her she possessed a natural air of authority, and that it would raise her tiny stature in the eyes of a child. Would it work on the Count of Ferranbeaux? Somehow, she doubted it.
Lucien paced the room. Servants hovered, anxious to cater for his every whim. He waved them away. He wanted one thing, and one thing only, which was to have this meeting over with. Only then could he take his niece to a place of safety. At least, that was what he had been telling himself for the past half an hour, but the truth was more complicated. He wanted Poppy safe, that was a given, but Tara had dug her neat clean fingernails into some hidden part of him, and he was impatient to pluck them out.
He glanced at his watch again. How dared she keep him waiting? Didn’t she think this meeting important enough to be on time? He had imagined she would be keen to get to work on him. Perhaps she was too busy luxuriating in the suite of rooms he had provided to remember her manners…
He stopped pacing to rake his hair. Even he was prepared to admit that last thought didn’t reflect the Tara he knew. She might be cleaning the suite. He still remembered her surreptitiously picking up the napkin Freya had carelessly dropped on the floor, and then mopping up a pool of wine Freya had spilled on the table in the same graceful sweep. That Tara certainly didn’t live up the sluttish image the media and her sister had painted.
He’d only just reassured himself with this thought when the old newspaper headline bounced into his head: The Unexpected Mistress. And the images of Tara in Guy’s arms that conjured up made him physically sick. Lucien thought back to his own night with Tara; when she had thought he was sleeping she had whispered that there would be no other lovers.
So much for such adoration and innocence!
What was keeping the hotel manager? Lucien’s eyes narrowed with suspicion as he stared through the open door towards the stairs. It was time to remember that Tara shared Freya’s tainted blood. It was time to confront her.
CHAPTER FOUR
IT WASN’T just the aura of danger surrounding Lucien Maxime that drew attention as he crossed the hall. Tanned by the sun, and hardened by experience, Lucien married menace with style, which was a compelling combination. His tailoring was the best, and his only adornment a wrist-watch and a pair of gold cuff-links engraved discreetly with his crest. A man whose estates encompassed thousands of squares miles either side of the French and Spanish borders felt no need for the show other men considered necessary to boost their status.
Halting at the foot of the stairs, Lucien saw the hotel manager hurrying towards him. ‘Where is she?’ he demanded.
‘Ms Devenish will not be coming downstairs, Monsieur le Conte—’
A spear of concern pierced him. ‘My niece—’
‘Is quite well, as far as I can determine, monsieur.’
Relief coursed through him, but his thoughts switched immediately to Tara. ‘Then why does Ms Devenish choose to remain in her room?’
‘Mademoiselle Devenish asked me to inform you that she will be happy to receive you in her suite in ten minutes.’
She will be happy? She will be happy?
Anger flared inside him. Not only had Tara defied his explicit instruction, she had dared to issue one of her own. It was time to call her bluff. How much could she have changed? Was she cowering in her suite? Or exulting in it at the thought that her pay cheque was only a few steps away? Whatever her motive, his niece would be raised in the security and stability of his family home and would not be left to the careless affections of some woman on the make. ‘No matter,’ he rapped in a tone that caused the unfortunate manager to press back against the wall. ‘I will go to her.’
‘Yes, Monsieur le Conte…’
As he mounted the stairs he fingered the cheque in the breast pocket of his jacket. If he had learned one thing from his father, it was that life had a universal currency. Tara would have her price. He would pay her off and then forget her. He stopped at the half landing and turned to see the manager still hovering and eager to be of service. ‘I take it Ms Devenish is alone?’
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