Leonie (19 page)

His eyes met hers and he smiled lazily. “But why ever not, Léonie?”

“It’s too much … it’s … well, it’s not the kind of gift a girl should accept from a man.”

“It was my indulgence to give it to you, it’s of little value, just an old inn.”

“But you knew it was more than that to me.”

“Yes. Your name is on the title deeds. It belongs to you. It was your dream.”

She moved closer to him, holding out the deeds. “Please,” she said, offering them.

“There are no strings attached, Léonie,” he said, breathing in the scent of her hair. It smelled as he knew it would, of fresh air and sunshine and the sea.

“There aren’t?” she asked uncertainly. Did a man give a woman a gift like that without expecting anything in return? “I insist,” she said firmly, pushing the papers into his hands.

“You mean that you expected me to make love to you in return for the inn?” He put his hands on her shoulders, gazing into her eyes. “I didn’t have to give you the inn to do that, Léonie. I could have made love to you any time.”

His touch on her shoulders was light, she could have turned her head, moved away, run off the boat—but she didn’t. She waited for him to kiss her and when his mouth was on hers she accepted it willingly, as if this were the true reason she had come here. She wanted him to make love to her.

He pulled her closer, holding her body tightly against his as he
explored her mouth, tasting its sweetness, touching her little pink tongue, running his hands down the elegant length of her back, feeling the gentle hollow at the base of her spine and the cushioned swell of her buttocks. He tilted back her head, kissing her neck; he wanted to bite her ears, to grip her hair and force her head back, he wanted to take her violently, passionately—and right now. He thrust himself against her, holding her tighter so that he could feel the curve of her belly through the thin summer skirt and he knew she could feel him, his hardness, his excitement. He lifted her, carrying her to the sofa. Léonie gasped, clutching her arms around his neck, moaning in his ear with soft sighs of passion. He knew what she wanted, he’d known she was wild—all she needed was to be shown how. Oh, God, but she was lovely. He unfastened the blouse, watching as she slid the chemise over her head, stopping her, holding up her arms to gaze at the twin curves, so round, so golden, the nipples large and erect, waiting for him. She stroked his hair as his mouth closed on her breast, holding him tighter, wanting him to do it, to do anything to her … marvelous things. He knelt between her legs, lost in the ecstasy of tasting her breasts, stroking her smooth back, gripping a soft curve as she trembled and moaned. He stood up quickly and unfastened her skirt, sliding it over her slender rounded hips, running his hand down the slope of her thigh as he undressed her, until she sat naked before him, waiting. Her eyes fastened on him as he stripped, and leaning forward, she took him in a trembling hand as he moved toward her, caressing him. Gilles pushed her away, thrusting her back violently against the pillows and she stared at him, her eyes dark gold with excitement as his hands found her, opened up her secret places, stroked her and cajoled her, tantalized her until the juices flowed and he licked them up and made her scream with ecstasy. And then he made love to her. Not gently, but powerfully; not tenderly, but with a driving force; and not quietly, but with shouts of triumph as they rolled in shuddering union on the sofa.

She lay back in the big black onyx tub in his bathroom examining the marks of love on her body, the faint bruises, the small bite on her breast, the skin still pink from the pressure of his body and the tender swollen area between her legs. Her body felt wonderful, relaxed, confident in its ability to please and take pleasure. But she was thinking of Rupert. How could she have done this when she
loved Rupert? How could she betray her love? But it had never been like this with Rupert, it had been different—warm and loving and gentle, though she’d imagined it was passion. Was it
she
who had changed? Or was it Monsieur who had changed her? She had liked it when Rupert made love to her, she had lain in his arms loving him, holding him, enjoying his body and their closeness, but she had never wanted to do what she had done with Monsieur—she’d never felt that wildness. It was a need, an urgency, that she hadn’t known she possessed. She sat up guiltily in a swirl of water as Monsieur came through the door. She shouldn’t have done it. Not only had she betrayed Rupert’s memory, but she’d put herself in a bad position. She must make him take back the deeds.

He held out the soft robe for her. “Come into my bedroom, I’ve got something to show you.”

The shades were drawn against the heat and the narrow bed was covered by a throw of plain blue cotton. There was no luxury in here and Léonie was surprised—she thought that such a sensual man would have had deep carpets and glowing colors, silver lamps and velvet hangings. If it were not that everything were of the very best quality this room would have been spartan.

“I have a gift for you.” He held out the box.

“A gift?” Had he expected to see her then? She stared suspiciously at the box in her hands.

“Open it,” he said, enjoying his power, “it’s for you.”

The smooth suede box clicked open easily, revealing its velvet blue interior. A thin rope of diamonds sparkled prettily, throwing off rainbow lights, the enormous pear-shaped pendant gleaming with a stab of metallic blue. The stone was enormous—smooth and cold under her fingers, as big and as round as the stopper on a crystal decanter. It was a jewel fit for a kept woman, the kind of bauble that proclaimed that you had been bought, that a man had paid for you. Léonie felt the rage rising in her. “Damn you, Monsieur,” she yelled, throwing back her head, stalking the floor like a wild animal. “You can keep your jewels—give them to your other women.” She tossed the pendant onto the wooden boards. “You don’t have to pay for the services rendered; you got them for nothing! And here”—she threw the title deeds after the pendant—“take these, too. You haven’t bought me, Monsieur. You don’t own me and you never will.”

Gilles laughed. “But I haven’t paid for you, my dear, that was
merely an advance on my account. Come and live with me, Léonie, you’ll have a house in Paris, you can have whatever you want … name it and you shall have it. You’ll be my Léonie, my creation. We’ll dress you in silk and jewels, you’ll have only the best. You will always be beautiful.”

She stared at him in horror. What was he saying? He wanted her to live with him, to be his woman—for as long as he wanted her, and then he’d discard her. She thought of the nights waiting for the cab to come, just like a mistress even then. She would have none of it; she would not be owned by any man, be at his beck and call, be there when he wanted her and deserted when he didn’t.

He caught her in his arms. “Come on, Léonie”—he smiled confidently—“you know you want me, remember, you told me so, just a short while ago. Of course, I have my private life in Paris, but you’ll be well taken care of.”

She tore herself away from him and began throwing on her clothes rapidly. “Never,” she stormed, “I’ll never be your kept woman.”

He watched her with lazy, confident eyes. “Think it over,” he suggested, amused by her anger, “but take these with you.” He picked up the deeds and handed them to her with a smile. “Remember, these were given without strings attached … they weren’t for services rendered.”

Léonie took a deep breath, then snatched them from his hand. “Damn you, I will keep them,” she shouted. “You got what you wanted.”

He laughed as she ran from the room and across the deck, hearing her footsteps on the gangway as she hurried from the boat. “You’ll be back,” he murmured.

Léonie had no money—she had spent the last of it getting to Monte Carlo that morning—and she began the long walk back to Cap Ferrat. The sun was already low in the sky and thank God it wasn’t as hot, but her knees felt weak and she was still burning with anger. After a mile or two she hitched a ride in a farm cart on its way back from the market and sat in sullen silence, thinking over the afternoon and her dilemma.

There was no doubt that she had adored his lovemaking, even now her body reminded her of the excitement. She wriggled uncomfortably. But he hadn’t said he loved her; he said she was beautiful, wonderful, the smoothest, the most glorious woman,
and lots of other things, too; words she repeated as he thrust himself into her. She blushed with shame. Oh, Rupert, why did you ever leave me? This would never have happened! But now it had—and she was different. The cart bumped uncomfortably over the rutted lane and she remembered riding along the road from Masarde to the cottage she had called home. Face it, Léonie, she said to herself, you’re right back where you started—riding home in a farm cart, with no money and no job—and no one who cares about you. Wait, though—one thing was different. She stared at the title deeds in her hand, in the name of Léonie Bahri. She did have a home! She began to laugh, laughing until the farmer joined in, wondering what the joke might be.

The anger and the elation left her as soon as she was back in the security of the inn. It was going into
their
room that did it, seeing the bed, its white sheet spread smooth across its width and the pillows plump and unruffled, waiting for the imprint of their blond heads. But she was no longer Rupert’s girl, the blond head that had lain there next to him was an innocent one and loving, not this wanton creature who had begged for more, who had sold herself for this place. For wasn’t that what she had done? When he’d said there were no strings, had she really believed him? It was all so bewildering. Was she in love with him? Was she in love with Rupert? She felt defeated by her own body, thinking about Gilles in spite of herself—no, she still couldn’t call him Gilles, even now. He was Monsieur le Duc de Courmont. Monsieur.

She cuddled the little cat in her arms, rubbing her cheek against the fur. “What are we to do now, Bébé?” she wondered.

–
• 14 •

Gilles had left for Paris the next day, confident that she wouldn’t be back for a day or two. There had been urgent business to take care of, but he would return within two days. He estimated that that was about the length of time it would take her to arrive at the right conclusion: that she did want to be with him, that she couldn’t live without him and what he offered. He’d led her into it subtly, not overwhelming her with flowers and presents, just allowing her to sink gently into the luxurious ease of life when she was with him, entertaining her, sympathizing with her so that she no longer felt lonely and unwanted, allowing her to feel that she was pretty after all, despite Rupert’s rejection. He had watched her blossom with new confidence, and then he’d taken it away from her, left her for a week racked with insecurity and rejection, only to lift her up again, to take her back into his world, to offer it all. How could she resist? But now he’d been back for more than a week and it seemed Léonie
was
resisting!

He paced the deck of the yacht while the bored crew waited for a command to head out to sea that never came. He was afraid to leave the harbor in case Léonie arrived, worried that she’d think he’d stopped waiting for her and had left Monte Carlo. He stared gloomily over the side of the boat, watching without seeing the bustle of activity on the little harbor front. Had he misjudged her? He thought not. No woman who had responded as she had could feel indifferent now. Even thinking about her excited him, he could sense the texture of her skin, smell the light scent of her body, taste her. The thought of the gleam of her flesh as she leaned over him was driving him crazy, he wanted her and nothing was going to stop him now.

He paced the little study where they had made love, trying to
decide what to do. For the first time in his life he was incapable of making an immediate and decisive decision.

Monsieur and Madame Frenard were delighted to find that Léonie was the new owner of the inn. When they’d heard the inn had been sold, they’d been afraid that the new owners might want to run the place themselves and they would have to leave. “But now, we must pay our rent to you instead of you paying us.” He laughed appreciatively at the twist in fortunes.

“There is no rent,” said Léonie. “You’ve both given me so much already. As long as I have my room I shall be happy, and I’ll still help in the kitchen, Madame Frenard, in return for my food.”

Madame Frenard bustled about the room preparing lunch. “You should do something better than work in my kitchen. There’s more to life than this for a girl like you.”

“What? What is there, Madame Frenard?”

“I’m not sure.” She wiped the floury pastry from her hands. “But you’re different, Léonie, different from the girls of families like ours. There will be a lot more to your life than just being a waitress—I’m certain of it.”

“Do you think there’ll be happiness, Madame Frenard?” Léonie’s voice was wistful.

“I expect so, my dear, there usually is, somewhere around the corner. Of course, you have to grasp your opportunities. It takes a lot to climb from this level. But you’ve already started. You’re a woman of property already, and only seventeen.”

Léonie thought over what Madame Frenard had said. Yes, she was a woman of property now—a landowner. Those olive trees and that patch of hillside were hers. The land was solid, secure, the only security she had ever known. She’d like to expand it, to own all the hillside, to put fences round it, to plant and grow things. And no one would ever take it away from her. She wasn’t destined to find some nice young husband who’d love her and give her children. She was already cast in the role of mistress, the other woman. Women like Puschi and Marie-France were so secure in their charmed lives, they would never be abandoned. The Ruperts and de Courmonts of this world never left their wives, and if they dallied a little, well, how could anyone as insignificant as she dent the smooth surface of their lives, even just a little? But she wanted security, too, absolute security so that no one could play games with her. Security enough so that if the man she loved abandoned
her, she wouldn’t be defenseless. A home—her own property—land. They would be her security.