But then he’d seen her and it had all changed.
Walking into the fine medieval hall at Cardiff Castle had been an experience in itself. He’d been chauffeured to the event, though he could easily have walked it from the Hilton. The chauffeur had told him that Liam H. Clarkson would meet him at the entrance. The agent must have been late, which hadn’t troubled Henri at all. He didn’t need someone to hold his hand, so he’d entered the historic building alone and the atmosphere had been an absolute delight.
Long, narrow corridors weaved like labyrinths, their cold stone walls illuminated by heavy candelabra. Every so often a corridor widened out into a small chamber which was adorned with faded tapestries and suits of armour. He had to force his mouth shut to prevent himself from gawking like a schoolboy in a sweetshop.
When he’d arrived at the largest chamber so far, he was lulled by the mellow Celtic tunes plucked from a harp and the heady aroma of the expensive spicy perfumes and citrus colognes of the hundred or so people milling around. The air was filled with animated chatter which rose above the mournful melody and bounced off the curved stone ceiling.
Though he’d grown up in France, he’d visited Wales on several occasions but never made it to the castle. That evening he had wondered why. He felt something there, a connection deep in his soul, like a part of him belonged to this ancient, beautiful and rugged country.
He had accepted a glass of champagne from a pretty young woman dressed as a medieval servant and taken a big gulp. Then he’d seen her. She reminded him of a mermaid with her slim figure and white blonde hair which fell like a satin waterfall to her waist. Her grey-blue eyes sparkled like sapphires in the candlelight and her skin seemed to glow, making her appear ethereal. If it hadn’t been for her modern attire, he’d have been convinced that she was a spirit trapped within the castle walls, luminescent with paranormal energy. A hundred cheesy chatup lines had run through his head but he’d been so overwhelmed that he couldn’t pick one out. They just merged together like a giant melting pot of lust and nerves.
His breath caught in his throat as she’d moved across the room. Her elegant frame was swathed in the sheerest black fabric which clung to every curve. He could tell that she wasn’t wearing a bra and his cock had twitched with desire at the high, round breasts. He wondered if she was aware that the material of her dress was so sheer but then of course she was, she was probably a model or actress and used to displaying her wares. It was all about attracting attention with these types of women. The hem of her dress stopped just below her knee – not too slutty, not too formal – and it drew attention to slim calves and killer black heels.
“Henri!” Ahand clapped him on the shoulder and he turned, reluctant to look away from the flaxen-haired vision.
He raised a questioning eyebrow.
“I’m Liam Clarkson.” The man held out a manicured hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
“How did you know who I was?” Henri asked the rhetorical question. He knew that his height and build made him stand out in the crowd and with his dark hair and rugby scars, it didn’t take a genius to work it out.
“Ha! Ha!” The slim man, who Henri quickly decided was in his forties, swigged his own champagne. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” With that he waved a hand and caught the attention of the beautiful blonde. She nodded and walked towards them.
Henri’s mouth suddenly became so dry that he wondered if he’d be able to talk. As she approached, he couldn’t take his eyes off her form, the way the material caressed her breasts, the gentle curve of her stomach, her hips. If he did nothing else in his whole life, he felt in that moment that he had to have her. His common sense called out, telling him that she’d be another disappointment, a wannabe out to snare him for a tabloid tale or a wag desperate to ride on his rugby successes. But his desire growled with hunger and his heart pounded with need.
The chatter around them seemed to dissipate, fading like a passing car. The harp’s gentle melody moved in tune with her body as if it played only for her. His body throbbed with every step she took and he had to press his free hand into his pocket for fear that he would reach out and pull her to him.
When she arrived at his side, she held out a small white hand and he stared at it mutely.
“Henri Chevallier,” Liam announced, “I would like you to meet Catrin Owens. My intern, assistant and…yes, I guess I can call her my protégée.”
Henri noticed a flicker of something pass over the young woman’s face but she quickly masked it with a dazzling smile.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, taking her hand and bowing over it.
“Oh, Monsieur Chevallier.” Her cheeks coloured. “It is true what they say about the French having manners.”
He smiled in reply.
“Yes, yes!” the agent at his side fanned himself with a napkin. “I daresay they do. But Monsieur Chevallier is here to demonstrate his prowess on the rugby field and to draw in some British sponsorship, not to display manners that put us other men to shame.”
Henri glanced at the man, sensing that he was perhaps intimidated by the presence of a younger and fitter model but then it could just be impatience with propriety. The whole agency game was a bit of an act at times and Henri bet that Liam, like anyone, got tired too.
But he wasn’t really interested in Liam. His attention was glued to the young woman. She was not, as he had first thought, a model or actress but an assistant in training to be an agent herself. So her looks were the façade that hid something, he hoped, even more interesting. He was so used to being surrounded by clones with their fake hair, fake tans and fake tits, that to find natural beauty (which he hoped might be unfettered by a desire to use him to climb the celebrity ladder) was a novelty. And a challenge.
He wanted her even more.
The evening had passed in a haze of introductions, fine wines, mead and medieval food. Liam H. Clarkson had sat at Henri’s left and placed Catrin to his right so that Henri had been flanked by the agency. They had spoken of contracts and promotions, events and meetings until Henri’s head had spun and he didn’t know if it was the wine or their chatter. Catrin’s appearance belied the focused career woman beneath the attractive, elegant exterior and he was fascinated by her knowledge and determination. A lesser man, one lacking in self-confidence, might well have found her intimidating but Henri found her refreshing. She was different. It was clear that this woman did not need a man to define who she was. That could deter many possible suitors but it intrigued him and he wanted to find out what made her tick, where she had come from and where she was headed.
At the end of the evening, Liam whispered into Catrin’s ear and she nodded then turned to Henri.
“Liam has asked me to accompany you back to your hotel.”
“I’m sure I can find my own way there, Miss Owens.” He was just being polite. He hoped that she’d insist.
“It’s all part of the service.” She flashed him a dazzling smile. “And please, call me Catrin!”
“Yes, Catrin.” He smiled in return, then held out his arm and they made their way through the winding corridors and out into the damp July air.
Thinking about how the evening had ended made heat run through his blood. He wasn’t sure if it was the wine, the heady atmosphere of the medieval castle, being in a different country or just Catrin’s overwhelming beauty but they’d ended up having fast and furious sex as soon as they crossed the threshold of his hotel room. Initially, as they travelled back in the limo, she’d told him she’d see him to the hotel lobby, then it had been the door to his room and finally she’d said