A little frisson went through her. She might be playing with fire, but it was enticing all the same...
She turned back to Celine, who was fussing over her coffee. ‘Marc’s just sulking because he doesn’t want to go house-hunting,’ she said lightly. ‘Men hate that sort of thing—let’s leave him behind and do it ourselves!’
But Celine was having none of this. ‘You know nothing about the area,’ she said dismissively. ‘I need Marc’s expertise. Of course ideally,’ she went on, ‘we’d love to buy here, on Cap Pierre—it’s so exclusive.’
‘So much so that there is nothing changing hands,’ was Marc’s dampening reply.
Dieu, the last thing he wanted was Celine Neuberger anywhere on the Cap. And the next last thing he wanted, he thought, his mood darkening even more, was Tara’s hand on his thigh.
It was taking all his resolve to ignore it. To ignore her, as he had been trying to do ever since his eyes had gone to her, descending the staircase with show-stopping impact, and he’d caught his breath at her beauty, completely unable to drag his eyes away from her.
All his adjurations to himself that Tara Mackenzie was out of bounds to him had vanished in an instant, and he’d spent the rest of the evening striving to remember them. But with every invasion by her of his personal space it had proved impossible to do so. As for her hissing at him like that just now—did she not realise how hard it was for him to have to remember this was only a part he was playing? And then, dear God, she had placed a hand on his thigh...
How the hell am I going to get through this week? Was I insane to bring her here?
But it didn’t matter whether he had been insane or not—he was stuck with this now. And, tormenting or not, she was right. He had to behave as if he were, indeed, in the throes of a torrid affair with her—or else what was the point of her being here at all?
So, now, trying to make the gesture casual, he placed his free hand over hers. Was it her turn to tense suddenly? Well, tough.
To take his mind off the feel of her slender fingers beneath the square palm of his hand, he said, making his voice a tad more amenable, ‘I’m sure you and Hans will find what you’re looking for, though, Celine. How about higher on the coastline, with a view?’
Pleased at being addressed directly, even if did cast a sour look at him all but holding hands with Tara, Celine smiled engagingly.
‘A view would be essential!’ she stipulated, and then she was away, waxing lyrical about various houses she had details for, animatedly wanting to discuss them.
Marc let her run on, saying what was necessary when he had to, aware that the focus of his consciousness was actually the fact that his fingers had—of their own accord, it seemed—wound their way into Tara’s... His thumb was idly stroking the back of her hand, which felt very pleasant to him, and her palm seemed be hot on his leg, which felt more than merely pleasant...
He could feel himself starting to wish Celine to perdition—and not for the reason that he had no interest whatsoever in a spot of adultery with his friend’s wife...
Because he wanted Tara to himself...
He could feel his pulse quicken, arousal beckon...
Maybe the cocktail he’d imbibed, the wine he’d drunk over dinner, the brandy now swirling slowly in his glass, had loosened his inhibitions, faded the reminder he’d been imposing on himself all evening that he had not brought Tara here for any purpose other than to shield him from Hans’s wife.
But what if I had?
The thought played in his mind, tantalising...tempting.
Then, with a douche of cold water, he hauled his thoughts away. He lifted his hand away too, restoring Tara’s hand to her own lap with a casual-seeming move. He got to his feet. He needed to get out of here.
‘Celine, forgive me. I have a call booked to a client in the Far East.’ He hadn’t, but he had to call time on this.
Celine looked put out, but he couldn’t care less. Tara was looking up at him questioningly. Then she took the cue he was signalling. He saw her give a little yawn.
‘We’d probably both better call it day,’ she announced to Celine. ‘I’m sure you’re tired after your journey.’
She was making it impossible for Celine to linger, and Marc ushered them both from the room, bidding his unwanted guest goodnight.
Then he turned to the woman who was not his guest, but his temporary employee, however hard she was making it to remember that.
‘I’ll be about half an hour, mon ange,’ he murmured, knowing he had to give just the right impression to Celine. Knowing, with a part of his mind to which he was not going to pay any attention, that, however much of a siren call it was, he did not want it to be a mere ‘impression’ at all...
He silenced his mind ruthlessly, by force of will, turning on his heel and heading for his office, where he was not about to make phone call to the Far East, but another, far more urgently needed communication.
The whole evening had been nothing but a gruelling ordeal—and not just for the reasons he’d thought it would be. Not just because of Celine.
Because of Tara.