She reached for a croissant, revelling in its yeasty temptation, in yielding to all temptations. ‘That sounds fun.’ She smiled. ‘I didn’t see a boat moored at the jetty, though.’
‘It’s kept at the dock in Pierre-les-Pins, at the head of the bay. I’m having it sailed to the jetty now.’
He said it casually, but the remark lingered in Tara’s head as she busied herself with her breakfast. It was another reminder of just how hugely wealthy he was. Just as much as this villa was a reminder, with its manicured lawn and pool, and its complement of attentive staff, and the top-marque car he’d driven her about in yesterday, and the chauffeur-driven limo, the gourmet restaurants, and the designer wardrobe he’d snapped his fingers for, and every other element of his life.
Unease filtered through her. Before, while she’d been working for him, it hadn’t bothered her, his vast wealth. But now... Was she wise to get personally involved with him in any way? Even for what must inevitably be only a brief time, in this mutually self-indulgent ‘reward’ for their torturous past week? With a man from a world so entirely different from her own?
It was difficult to remember that—to believe in all that fabulous wealth of his, in the bank that bore his name and was the source of all that wealth—when she was skimming over the azure waters of the Mediterranean, the breeze filling the billowing sails.
But the huge disparity in their wealth was harder to ignore that evening when, gowned once more in one of the fabulous couture evening dresses supplied for her by him for the role that was no longer a role, but real, for whatever short duration it would prove, he whisked her off in the sleek, chauffeured car, to dine out in another fearsomely expensive Michelin-starred restaurant, where every dish cost a fortune and the wines ten times as much.
She put it aside. For this evening, this time they would have together, it was just the two of them, lovers for real now. She felt a little shimmer of wonder at the transformation. She could actually enjoy it. She had Marc to herself, and it was ‘new Marc’—Marc with his ready smile, his air of absolute relaxation, total well-being.
He raised his glass to her and she did likewise, taking a sip of the formidably pricey vintage wine, savouring it even as she savoured all the wonderful delicacies on offer from the menu.
‘This is beyond heaven!’ She sighed blissfully as whatever concoction he’d ordered for her slipped down her throat. ‘I could really get used to this! How on earth am I going to go back to my usual humble fare after this?’
She expected to hear his low laugh, which she was getting used to hearing now, but it didn’t come. Instead there was a flickering in his eyes, as if his thoughts were suddenly elsewhere. And in a place he did not care for.
She wondered at it, then set it aside. Nothing was going to spoil this evening. She gazed around the restaurant, taking it in, knowing that this was an experience she must make the most of. Once she was in her little cottage in Dorset, places like this would be a distant memory only.
A little pang
went through her and her eyes moved back to the man sitting opposite her. He, too, one day, would be only a distant memory...
There was a tiny catch in her throat and she reached for her wine glass, made some deliberately light remark, to which Marc responded this time—as if he, too, had set aside something there was no point thinking about. Not now...not tonight. Not with the night ahead of them...
Anticipation thrummed through her, and a sudden sensual awareness. Her eyes went to him across the table, caught his, saw in them what she knew was in hers... What remained in them all through their long, leisurely and exquisite meal, as conversation flowed between them—easy now, when it had been impossible before.
It was nearly midnight before they left—but when they returned to the villa Tara discovered that the night was still young...
Their night lasted till dawn crept over the edge of the world, and brought with its first light the sleep her body was too exhausted to deny... The sleep that overtook their bodies, all passion finally spent, folded around each other as if parting could never come.
It was a false illusion...
* * *
Marc was in his office, attempting to catch up with work. But his mind wasn’t on it. He gave a rueful grimace. Where his mind was right now was out by the pool—the pool beside which Tara would be sunning herself, turning her silken skin a deeper shade of delectable gold, all the more enticing to caress...
With a groan, he tore the seductive vision from his head and focussed on the computer screen, on the myriad complexities of his normal working life making their usual round-the-clock demands on him. Demands that he had no inclination to meet at the moment but that were piling up nevertheless.
He knew he could not postpone them indefinitely. That at some point he’d have to knuckle down and deal with them. The truth was, he wasn’t used to taking so much time out from work.
Work had dominated his life ever since he’d had to shoulder all the responsibilities of his inheritance at a painfully early age. Even when he set aside his workload for social engagements, or for his carefully considered forays into highly selective affairs, as was his habit, they never interfered with his primary task in life—to see Banc Derenz through to the next era of its survival in an ever-changing financial landscape. So why, he pondered now frowningly, the figures on the screen ignored still, was he being so careless of his responsibilities at this time?
At first he’d put his indulgence at giving in to his inconveniently overpowering attraction to Tara simply as relief at getting the wretched Celine off his case once and for all. But that had been two weeks ago—two weeks of pure self-indulgence, as he was well aware. Of indulging himself with Tara—giving himself to a sensual feast and to a time out of his customary highly disciplined and demanding lifestyle to simply...simply what?
To have a holiday.
That was what he was doing. Simply having a holiday with this irresistible woman! A holiday that was an endless drift of golden days here in the balmy weather of the Riviera. Lounging by the pool, taking out the sailboat, driving along the coast or up into the hills, making a foray across the border into Italy one day to explore San Remo, strolling around the perfumeries of Grasse another day, heading further still to St Raphael, with its ochre-red cliffs, and then St Tropez, with all the nostalgia of its fashionable heyday in the sixties. They had explored the villages and landscapes that had so beguiled the Impressionists, wandered around the narrow streets of the old town in Nice, strolled along the seafront in Cannes, lunched on one of the many private beaches, or out on the jetty over the water...
A procession of easy-going days, relaxed and carefree, before returning home to the villa...and all the sensual delights of the nights they shared.
He shifted in his seat. When would he tire of Tara? When would her allure grow stale? When would he not want to trouble himself with making conversation with her, engaging in repartee as she presumed to tease him and he returned as good as he got, volleying with her until they both were laughing...or kissing...
I must tire of her soon. Surely I must?
She wasn’t from his world, so how could he think of her as anything other than a passing amour? Oh, she’d adapted to it easily enough—but then, what woman wouldn’t find it easy to adapt to the wealthy ease of his highly privileged life.