Tante Marise for one was warmly insistent that Shari should go home with her and try a little bouillon and an egg.
Luc frowned at that and shook his head, instantly quashing the idea. The uncle bounded forward with an offer, but at a cool steel glance from Luc the words died on the old boy’s lips and he retreated.
Then Tante Laraine intervened. Shari thought she could detect her resemblance to her son. While austerely gracious, this Laraine exuded a certain authority. Shari gathered the matriarch was strongly in favour of whisking her chez Laraine and feeding her some energising chocolat.
Luc, however, seemed even less keen on his mother having first shot at Shari. ‘Non,’ he said ruthlessly. ‘Pas du chocolat.’ He murmured something to hold them all at bay, then put his arm around Shari and held her close against his lean, powerful body.
‘Come. You are shivering. We need to get you out of here.’
‘Oh, but …’ she quavered, regretting the chocolat. Even the bouillon. Now that her nausea had passed she really was quite cavernously empty. The egg would have been heaven. And if it had come with some hot buttered toast … ‘I—I—I haven’t properly expressed my condolences.’
He gave her a sardonic glance. ‘I believe you have made your feelings perfectly clear. Parfaitement.’
It was glaringly apparent from his tone that the French despised a show of excess emotion. Shari cursed herself for her weakness. On top of everything else he thought was wrong with her, she had to keep giving into this crass emotionalism. It just had to stop.
Unexpectedly, a ray of watery sun pierced the grey world and lit the amber depths of his dark eyes, their glow sizzling through her bloodstream.
Luc steered her across to the first of several long, sleek limos that had silently drawn up in the last few minutes, and she went without resistance. Waving the driver back to the wheel, he opened the rear door for her himself and urged her inside. Shari sank into the warmth, grateful for the comfort.
She waited until he’d given his instructions to the driver and was settled at the other end of the wide seat before impressing him with her serene dignity.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said stiffly. ‘I don’t usually make such a spectacle of myself. I don’t know what got into me. I feel—mortified to have embarrassed everyone.’
‘No need to apologise.’ A tinge of amusement momentarily relieved the saturnine severity of his expression. ‘They loved it. They’ll talk about it for months.’
She flushed. Though she kept her voice low, it still sounded fraught and emotional. She couldn’t seem to control that. ‘Heaven only knows what they think of me. I’m surprised they were so kind.’
His voice, on the contrary, was silky smooth. ‘Why wouldn’t they be kind? It is clear you are the very model of a grieving fiancée.’
She drew in a breath. Her voice grew all throaty and she was dangerously close to another bout of the waterworks. ‘You know very well—I told you—I’m not a fiancée. Rémy and I broke up. I didn’t even like him in the end. I despised him. Why must you taunt me? Are you always so cold and judgemental towards women?’
He flushed darkly. A muscle moved in his lean cheek. ‘I don’t believe so. That is not how I feel when I think of you. Far from it. But I’m naturally—surprised. You despised him, yet you have made this very long journey to say goodbye to him. And now to show such—emotion.’
‘Well, but it was all so overwhelming, I just … Wouldn’t you feel sad to say goodbye to someone you once loved?’ She turned to look at him.
Through the smudged mascara her aquamarine gaze pierced Luc. An unpleasant knowledge solidified in his brain and skewered him straight through his gut. It hadn’t mattered whether or not she’d liked the bastard. She’d loved him.
He said tightly, ‘I can’t imagine being sad about someone who—violated the rules of civility. But I believe there are women who love certain men—whatever they do.’
A flicker of pain disturbed the cool green sea of her irises. She made a small, defensive gesture that sent a pang through Luc. The moment they’d shared at her front door flooded back to him with sharp immediacy. What an insensitive fool he was to bring that up now. He was handling this so badly. Dieu, was he jealous of a dead man?
‘I doubt they do,’ she said quietly. ‘I think that’s a myth.’ The pride and earnestness in her voice touched him in some susceptible spot. ‘Women fall in love then out of it, but some remain trapped by circumstances. That has never applied to me. It could never.’ He watched her slim hands twist. The hat brim prevented him from seeing more than a section of cheek, an exquisite curve of chin.
His blood stirred with a sharp and bittersweet desire. He closed his eyes. She was here now, overwhelmingly present. Not a dream, not a fantasy. Whether he wanted it or not, yearning had him in its grip.
He sought for something to say to soften his former harshness. ‘Très bon. Men too can find themselves trapped. Passion is a dangerous thing. It can—drag you in.’ She lanced him with her clear green gaze and he caught his breath. ‘Not recommended for ones’ health.’
‘No,’ she agreed, lowering her lashes. ‘If only it were possible to consider your health at the time, no one would ever take the risk.’ She hesitated. ‘I—I … I’m sorry about the night you phoned. I know you meant to be kind.’
‘I woke you from your sleep?’ She nodded. He studied her face. ‘You were angry.’
‘Yes, well … It was a difficult time. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise. I phoned because I longed to hear your voice.’
Shari looked sharply at him, her heart revving up. His eyes were scorching hot and were having quite a dizzying effect. Could he really talk as if nothing had happened?
This was no time for desire an hour after she’d farewelled Rémy. And hadn’t Luc made it clear what he thought of her? Did he assume she was ready to ride that thorny road with him again? Had he forgotten what had happened after their boathouse tryst?
She started unsteadily, ‘I don’t know why you think I came all this way, Luc …’
‘Then tell me. Why did you?’ His dark eyes were compelling, alert, and at the same time so searingly sensual.
‘For Emilie, of course. To—honour her loss. Pay our family’s respects. And to—to acknowledge the love I once had for Rémy. Naturally.’
His gaze flickered over her, searching, intent. Then he lifted his shoulders in a gentle gesture. ‘I always wonder when someone gives many reasons for doing something grande if they only really have the one. The one they wish to conceal from themselves.’
Her heart made a maniacal skitter. What? Did he think it had to do with him? Did the guy think one little encounter had affected her that deeply?
‘And what do you suppose it to be?’ She smiled in mocking disbelief. ‘The one I need to conceal?’
His dark gaze was mercilessly direct. ‘Bien sûr, you came to see me.’
She gasped. Before she could deny it he curled his fingers under her chin and took her mouth in a fierce, highly sexual kiss. After the initial paralysed instant, her body sprang into tingling life. An erotic charge electrified her blood, her nerve fibres, her tender intimate tissues, as if this and this alone were her raison d’être.
Who said she couldn’t communicate adequately in French? It was clear now all she’d ever needed was the inspiration. Luc Valentin’s hand merely had to caress her kneecap and slide up under her skirt and she burst into flame.
All right, she was bad. Bad in every way,