In The Millionaire's Possession. Sara Craven

      Helen was rigid, staring at him with widening eyes. When she could speak, she said hoarsely, ‘I think you must have taken leave of your senses.’

      ‘Not yet,’ he drawled. His eyes went over her body in lingering, sensuous assessment. ‘For that I shall have to wait a little, I think.’

      She pressed her hands to the sudden flare of hot blood in her face.

      ‘How dare you speak to me like this?’ she whispered jerkily. ‘Insult me in this way?’

      ‘Where is the insult? I am telling you that I desire you, and have done since the first moment I saw you. And please do not insult me by pretending you did not know,’ he added silkily, ‘because I did not hide it.’

      It seemed altogether wiser to ignore that. Helen struggled to control her breathing. ‘You—you seem to have forgotten that I’m about to marry another man.’

      ‘He is the one who has forgotten, ma belle,’ he said, a touch of grimness in his voice.

      ‘And you imagined that because he’s not here I would turn to you for—consolation?’ Her voice rose. ‘Oh, God—how dare you? What do you take me for? I love Nigel, and I intend to belong to him and no one else. And I’ll wait for him for ever if necessary. Not that someone like you could ever understand that,’ she added, her voice ringing with contempt.

      There was an odd silence as he studied her, eyes narrowed. Then, ‘You are wrong, ma mie,’ he said softly. ‘Parce que, enfin, je comprends tout.’ He gave a brief, harsh sigh. ‘I see I shall have to be patient with you, Hélène, but my ultimate reward will make it worthwhile.’

      ‘Damn you,’ she said violently. ‘Can’t you see I’d die rather than let you touch me again?’

      He reached her almost before she had finished speaking, and pulled her against him, crushing the breath from her as his lips descended on hers.

      Nothing in her life had prepared her for the heated relentlessness of his kiss, and he took all the time he needed, exploring deeply, draining every drop of sweetness from her startled mouth.

      Tiny fires were dancing in the dark eyes when, at last, he released her.

      ‘You see,’ he told her ironically, ‘you still live. So learn from this, and do not issue ridiculous challenges that you cannot hope to win.’ He took her hand and raised it to his mouth, palm uppermost, and she cried out in shock as his teeth grazed the soft mound beneath her thumb.

      ‘Au revoir, ma belle,’ he said softly. ‘And remember this—on my next visit I shall expect to spend the night.’

      And he left her standing there, mute and shaken as she stared after him, her tingling hand pressed to her startled, throbbing mouth.

      A lot of those weeds you’re pulling out are plants, Miss Helen,’ George told her reproachfully.

      Helen jumped guiltily, looking at the wilted greenery in her trug. ‘Oh, Lord,’ she said dismally. ‘I’m sorry.’

      She’d hoped that some intensive gardening would calm her down and restore her equilibrium, but it wasn’t working out like that.

      The thought of Marc Delaroche was interfering with her concentration at every level, and this infuriated her.

      She had tried to call Nigel and beg him to come down, even if it was only for a couple of hours, so she could talk to him. But his mobile phone was permanently switched off, it seemed.

      And even if she had managed to contact him, what could she have said? That she needed him to hold her and kiss her and take away the taste of another man’s mouth?

      The only other man, in fact, who had ever kissed her in passion.

      Her mouth still seemed swollen and faintly tingling from the encounter, but maybe she was just being paranoid. Someone had made a pass at her, that was all. The sort of thing that she should have been able to take in her stride if she’d possessed an ounce of sophistication. She could even have laughed about it, telling Nigel, You’d better stake your claim, darling, because I’m being seriously fancied by someone else.

      And he would have laughed too, because he knew she’d never looked at anyone but him since she was thirteen, and that they belonged together.

      Anyway, her best plan would be to put the whole thing out of her mind. Marc Delaroche had simply been amusing himself, she thought, and he probably had his next target already lined up. Quite apart from his admittedly diabolical attraction, he was rich enough to ensure that he didn’t get many refusals. And he wouldn’t waste time repining over any of the few women who resisted him. Or risk another rejection by returning.

      He’d called her ‘ma belle’, but that had to be just a seduction ploy, because she wasn’t beautiful at all. Moderately attractive was the best she could honestly claim, and he knew it. He’d probably thought she would fall into his arms through sheer gratitude, she told herself, viciously slicing her trowel through a dandelion root.

      All the same, she wished desperately that he hadn’t sought her out and forced this confrontation on her.

      She might not like him, and she certainly didn’t trust him, but she could have done with him on her side when the committee came to make their decision.

      No chance of that now, of course. And she still couldn’t understand what had possessed him. Yes, she’d been aware of him too, she admitted defensively, but only because she’d had no choice. During the interview he’d hardly taken his eyes off her. But she certainly hadn’t offered him any encouragement to—pursue her like this. Quite the opposite, in fact.

      At the same time she felt oddly depressed. She absolutely didn’t want him as a lover. She probably wouldn’t choose him as a friend, but she surely didn’t need him as an enemy either, she thought, and sighed without quite knowing why.

      The sun went down that evening behind a bank of cloud, and the following day brought grey skies and drizzle and the temperature dropping like a stone.

      Outside work had to be halted, and if the miserable conditions persisted to the weekend, the tourists would stay away too, Helen fretted.

      She caught up on the household accounts—a depressing task at the best of times—helped Daisy bake for the freezer, and waited feverishly for the mail van to call each day. The committee chairman had said she would hear before the end of the month, and that was fast approaching. All she could hope was that no news might be good news.

      Thankfully, Marc Delaroche had made no attempt to contact her again. Maybe he’d decided to cut his losses and retire from the fray after all. But the thought of him still made her uneasy, and her attempts to blot him from her memory did not appear to be working too well.

      It would have made things so much easier if she’d been able to talk to Nigel, she acknowledged unhappily. But there’d been no reply from his flat after the weekend, so she’d gritted her teeth and made the unpopular move of phoning him at work—only to be told that he was working in Luxembourg all week. And when she’d asked for the name of his hotel, she’d been told briskly that the bank did not give out that sort of information.