White Lies (13 page)

And then, near the back of the house, she heard voices, and ran towards them till she found herself in a large, airy kitchen.

'Oh, thank heavens! Help me!' she cried to the startled women chopping vegetables at stainless-steel worktops. 'Help me get away!' she sobbed. She searched for some French.
'Aidez-moi! Au secours—appelez la police!
I'm in trouble. I'm being...' Her voice trailed off. Their faces were cold, contemptuous, disgusted. 'Why?' she rasped. 'Why are you looking at me like that?'

There wasn't any point in translating her words. They knew what she was saying and they didn't care. She stood there, shaking. What had he told them? What lies had he twisted into some kind of awful story that made them so hostile? She cringed under the united loathing. To her horror and dismay, each of the women deliberately turned her back and continued chopping.

With a strangled cry Mandy ran for the door to find a telephone, but she fell into Pascal's arms instead and he wrapped them around her like the coils of an iron snake.

'Let me go!' she yelled hysterically, hitting at him in blind rage. 'What you're suggesting is ridiculous! Let me go; let me go!'

Ignoring her pleas, he picked her up roughly as if she were a bundle of old clothes. Struggling and screaming, appalled that the staff were ignoring her cries, she suffered his crushing grip while he grimly climbed a grand staircase.

'Save your breath,' he said levelly over her yells. 'Or I'll stop it for you!'

'How?' she rasped.

He stopped. Stared at her, his eyes glowing. She gasped, sensing the flare of his sexual desire as she gazed up at him with limpid eyes, her lips parted from her sharply indrawn breath. Clutched to his chest, she became intensely aware of him. The way his heartbeat beneath her hand—as erratically as hers. The way time seemed to be standing still and yet, inside her body, simmered something quite unstoppable.

'Hell.' He bent his head in a sudden movement. Kissed her fiercely. Released her suddenly. And, wondering what he intended, she began to tremble visibly in his arms. 'Behave, please,' he said gruffly, kicking open a door.

A bedroom. A bed. Her eyes darted around the darkened room. What she could see was very masculine and very grand. Pascal's bedroom, without a doubt. 'No!' she whispered, seeing that Pascal was locking the door and excluding the little light that had entered from the landing. And she could say no more.

'I'll just run through one or two points of interest,' Pascal murmured. He slid her to the ground and lit tall candles in an ornate candelabra on the wide window- sill, illuminating scarlet shot silk hangings on the four- poster and pale sand walls.

Mandy gulped and fought her terror. 'Let me go!' she snapped, contradicting her apparently brave stand against him by backing away warily as he advanced to the bed.

'There are hurricane shutters on the windows here and in the bathroom,' he said briskly. 'There's no way out, Mandy. So you'll have to—'

'No! I'll yell and your staff will relent—'

'They know what I'm doing and they are fully behind me,' he replied with shocking calmness.

Astounded, she checked her cry of horror, reached for the alabaster lamp by the bedside, ripped the plug from the socket and brandished the lamp in warning. 'Come near me and I'll brain you!' she seethed.

'I can get what I want,' he said, 'merely by keeping you here. I'm going to do some work. I'll call in at dinnertime to see if you're more tractable.'

'I won't be tractable!' she stormed. 'You can't keep me here! And—and dinnertime's
hours
away!'

'You wouldn't listen to reason. I had no choice. This is for—'

'My own good?' she raged. 'It's not! It's not, Pascal! You know I'm desperate to see your father! It's a dream I'm not going to give up... Oh! Where are you
going"?'

He'd detached himself from the bedpost, shrugged indifferently and had begun to walk to the door. 'Your release is in your own hands.'

'In my own hands... Like this?' Edging towards hysteria, Mandy threw the lamp at the full-length mirror and shattered it. He paused briefly, then calmly unlocked the door and went out.

Furious, she grabbed a nearby chair as well and hurled it at the door with all her might. It thudded to the wooden floor, leaving marks on the paintwork. Pascal must have heard the crash, but he didn't appear to investigate and a moment later she heard him going down the stairs.

'Oh,
hell!
she fumed. 'Oh, hell, oh, hell, oh,
hell!'

There wasn't much else to throw. The room was, despite its grandeur, surprisingly bare. Just the bed, the chair and a heavy wardrobe that would have needed, she decided ruefully, the massed bands of the Coldstream Guards to shift it.

'Bathroom.'

She ran in. Nothing. Only the fixtures themselves and a couple of large white bathtowels, soap and sachets of bath oil. Not even a satisfyingly large jar of salts to hurl. And she might have to entertain herself in the semi-dark for the next eight hours or so!

'Brute!' she yelled. Feeling that she wanted to let off steam, she stormed back into the bedroom, hauled the pillows off the bed and ripped the covers, scattering feathers everywhere.

Afterwards she surveyed the mess guiltily. It wasn't like her to lose control like that and spoil perfectly decent things. 'Oh, drat it!' she moaned, rather shaken by her uncharacteristic behaviour. Since she'd met Pascal, far too much had happened inside her body and her mind for her liking. Too many emotions had erupted. And Pascal seemed hell-bent on driving her to distraction. Why?

Now she knew that he wasn't doing this for her own good. He stood to lose something if she met his father. Something very important. But she had no idea what it might be.

In an attempt to come to terms with the prospect of a few hours of boredom, she paced up and down restlessly, wondering how she could amuse herself. Prowling around, she opened the wardrobe and found some old fashion magazines. They weren't her usual sort of reading but they kept her occupied.

At one o'clock there was the sound of a key in the lock and the handle turned. Mandy warily reached for the lamp but a young woman came in with a tray, put it on the floor and walked out before Mandy could gather her wits. The woman had seen the mess, the feathers in heaps everywhere... and yet she hadn't even raised an eyebrow! A chill ran through her. It was almost as if this had happened before.

The meal looked enticing. She ate the rich chicken and the exotically arranged fresh fruit and spent the next four hours feeling terminally bored, re-reading the magazines and wishing that she had something to do- even crossing swords with Pascal.

At six there was a knock on the door—a knock!— and Pascal appeared. He wore the devastatingly flattering dinner jacket and Mandy had to work hard not to find him attractive. 'Are you all right?' he enquired, sounding almost concerned.

'I'm bored,' she said flatly, refusing to be swayed by the beautiful curve of his chiselled mouth or the drowsy regard of his deep blue eyes.

'Dinner is in one hour,' he announced. He scanned the room, briefly noting the scattered feathers as if her tantrum didn't surprise or interest him in the least. 'Amuse yourself by changing,' he suggested laconically.

She stared at her case which he'd pushed forward with his gleaming black shoe. 'You... you got that from the hotel?' she gasped.

'I had it brought over.' He gave her a faint smile and she found herself watching for the dimples, but none appeared.

'Oh, no!' she groaned. 'They'll think I'm...' Mandy couldn't bring herself to say it.

So Pascal said it for her. 'Shacking up with me,' he said crudely. 'Yes, I did think they might.'

'You said you'd make sure my reputation was cleared!' she said furiously.

'You will keep misinterpreting what I say,' he admonished. 'When you complained about being given the cold shoulder at breakfast-time in the hotel, I said I'd make sure you wouldn't have to go through that experience again. And you won't. I'll see to that—by keeping you here till you leave for England.'

'I see,' she said grimly, and blushed to think of the gossip back at the hotel, which, if Pascal had his way, she'd never hear and never have to face. He'd kept his word—but not as she'd wanted.

So where did that leave her? Stuck here. Then forced to leave the country because her time had run out. She felt her lip quiver. 'Why are you doing this to me?' she asked miserably.

'You know why. Get changed,' he said, frowning.

But there was something in his eyes that didn't match his abrupt order. And the more he gazed at her pale face and enormous, soft hazel eyes, the more she knew that he had a reason of his own. She licked her lips nervously and gulped when he drew in a ragged breath that parted his sensual lips as if he had been suddenly stricken with hunger. Her breathing became shallow and his gaze was drawn to the deep pulse in her throat and then, like a magnet, to her breasts. Which she protected with her crossed arms.

'Change? And have you walk in on me while I'm in the shower? No way,' she said shakily, appalled at the languor creeping through her body at the thought of his touch.

Pascal finished his approving contemplation of her breasts and said with an infinitely appealing huskiness, 'You're perfectly safe. There's only an hour before dinner. That isn't anywhere
near
long enough for me. I hope that calms your fears. Be ready by seven. We're eating outside and Anne-Marie's worked all afternoon to produce something special.'

When he'd gone she stared at the panelled mahogany door in confusion, her heart beating so fast that she pressed her hand over it as if to hold it still. She'd been scared. That was what he'd intended. What she'd interpreted as her own arousal was only a surge of fear. She ought to be relieved that he wasn't going to make a pass. Yet she knew that her overwhelming feeling was one of rejection. Her mouth tipped up wryly. She had a strong, physical attraction to Pascal; that she couldn't deny. She wanted him to find her irresistible—and yet to resist her! Stupid!

In an hour they'd be eating dinner. She had to cling to the hope that she'd be able to persuade him to let her go—although it was clear she'd have to spend a night here. No boat would take her out now. And if she couldn't persuade him? It didn't bear thinking about.

So she tried to think positively. He had a kind heart, she was sure of that. She'd try to reach it. Over dinner she'd tell him her story, leaving nothing out. And he'd understand.

At seven she waited impatiently for Pascal, stalking up and down the room like a caged jungle cat. Her hands checked the brutally prim bun at the nape of her neck with satisfaction, knowing that the style was neither sweetly innocent nor accidentally seductive on this occasion; her thick mane of hair gleamed as if it were polished wood, shaping to her skull like a smooth cap.

There was nothing overtly sensual about her pale aqua cotton dress either. It flowed politely over her body, revealing nothing of its contours, and the only make-up she wore was soft pink lipstick.

But vanity had made her ditch the flat pumps to try on a pair of frivolous high heels and the minute she teetered uncertainly on them she knew that they made a difference to her little-Miss-Prim appearance. Walking could only be accomplished smoothly by a hip-swinging stride that swished the material hungrily around her breasts, her hips and her alarmingly exposed legs.

'You look absolutely stunning,' Pascal said softly when he walked in at that moment.

Mandy frowned at herself in the mirror. She could keep still all evening or walk like a robot... 'I wasn't supposed to.'

Pascal laughed. 'You'd find it difficult to be ugly,' he murmured with deep appreciation. 'Yes. You're very beautiful tonight. Far too beautiful for a man's peace of mind. Coming?'

Lowering her lashes hastily, she followed, resisting the voice of wisdom that told her to put the pumps back on again. She had to hide her expression because she felt insanely pleased by the compliment and wanted to grin smugly in self-satisfaction.

Mandy groaned inwardly. Pascal made her feel more female, more sexually aware of herself and more beautiful than she had with any other man... She bit her lip. Even Dave. Her teeth clenched and she tried to call Dave's beloved face back to mind. Yet Pascal's intense charisma overwhelmed her memories. He was here, and now, right beside her, alive and vibrant with life. And she was betraying the man she'd .loved even by feeling flattered that Pascal liked the way she looked.

He held out his hand and before she knew it she'd taken it and he was leading her down the stairs. The beautiful hall, the highly polished antiques, the glorious flower displays and old oil paintings gave her a sense of elegance and she became caught up in the dream, imagining, herself in the role of a fashionable lady.

It was nice to dream. Nice to imagine.

When they came through the jalousied doors to the terrace, Mandy gave an involuntary gasp of pleasure and clasped her hands in delight. 'Flares! Lighting the garden! What a lovely idea!'

He smiled warmly, releasing his deep dimples. 'Thank you. We're eating by the water—my favourite place.'

'Very romantic,' she said drily.

He shrugged. 'We could eat in your room if you prefer.'

'Bit feathery,' she countered.

He grinned. 'The water it is, then.'

Mandy nodded and let him tuck her hand over his arm. It didn't matter that she was enjoying the walk between the blazing torches that were stuck into the soil on either side of the path, or that the perfumes of the garden were intoxicating her senses. She would adore the black warmth of the night and the crystal-sharp stars without compromising her position.

If Pascal thought he'd coax her into leaving—or into his bed—by soft lights and the music of a million tree frogs, he was mistaken. She'd admire his garden, eat his meal and remain obdurate. She would win him over to her way of thinking. She knew she would. And she must.

'Roston has laid a table below the garden terraces,' explained Pascal, leading her to the head of a zigzagging path. 'It's not far—you won't spoil your shoes. It's a fairly civilised walk.'