‘Ma belle…’
He had awakened, his eyes holding hers immediately, the intimacy of his gaze at once drawing her to him. As her eyes twined with his she started to drown in their green long-lashed depths, as if there were no more air to breathe in the world.
He kissed her, their mouths mingling, and a sweetness went through her that warmed her body. As he drew away his eyes were tinged with regret. ‘Hélas—I cannot do what you must know I long to do. I cannot stay. Je suis désolé.’
With a single fluid movement he stood up out of the bed, supremely unconscious of his nakedness—and of his condition. Alexa could feel her cheeks flush as she realised.
‘Yes,’ he allowed ruefully, ‘I do not need to lie to you—I would give much, ma belle, to stay. But it cannot be. So I must ask you only to excuse my neglect.’
He turned away, walking into the en suite bathroom, and a moment later Alexa heard the rushing of water as the shower started. For one timeless moment she lay there, feeling out of nowhere a desolation that was far beyond the polite utterance he had made on his own behalf. It was only for a fraction of a second, but it was like the tip of a whip across her heart.
No!
Where the admonition came from she didn’t know. She only knew that it was essential that she administer it. Essential, too, to take instant advantage of this window of opportune solitude. She threw back the bedclothes and stood up. Again, for a moment, she felt her body was different somehow—changed—but then she thrust the moment aside, casting around to see where her clothes might be. Gathering them up, she hastily got herself dressed. It seemed absurd—more than absurd—to be putting on evening clothes again, but there was nothing else to be done. As she finished zipping up the elegant, beautifully made dress—whose price was beyond her range even at her most self-indulgent!—a sudden depression of the spirits crumpled her. She shut her eyes. Hot chagrin burned her cheeks. Suddenly the sordidness of her situation hit her.
A one-night stand—that was what she had been. A passing convenience, a handy female—good enough to fill the night hours of a man who kept company with film stars, who’d dressed her up to his standard. And now, her purpose fulfilled, she had only to cover her nakedness and remove herself.
No! It hadn’t been like that—it hadn’t! Not for her, at least. She wouldn’t let such thoughts intrude, wouldn’t let the wonder of it all warp into something sordid and regrettable. Because it hadn’t been! Yes, of course she was simply a passing fancy. How could she be anything but to a man like Guy de Rochemont? But that didn’t mean it had been tacky or repellent. Every portion of her body told her otherwise.
She took a deep breath, straightening her shoulders. The beautiful line of the gown shimmered over her body, reminding her of how she had looked last night. With swift fingers she reached into the tumbled mass of her hair and plaited her tresses into a long pigtail over one shoulder, glancing in one of the many wardrobe mirrors as she did so. Yes, that was fine. Neat, tamed. Her eyes were still smudged with make-up, but a quick wipe with a tissue from the vanity unit removed a great deal—enough until she could gain her own flat. Slipping her feet into the soft leather shoes, she reached for the evening purse that went with the gown. There—she was ready to go.
Calm and composed again.
The door of the bathroom opened and Guy de Rochemont emerged, his showered body clad now in a dazzling white hotel bathrobe. His sable hair was damp, and diamond drops dewed his long eyelashes. Alexa felt her breath catch, felt a sense of wonderment that for a few brief hours he had been hers to embrace.
Well, now it was the morning, and real life took over again. His would, clearly, an
d so must hers. ‘Cherie, there was no rush for you!’ His voice was amused, as well as rueful, as he took in her dressed state at a glance as he strode to the wardrobes and threw open the doors. Inside, Alexa caught a glimpse of serried male garments hanging up. ‘You should have stayed in bed—had breakfast. It is only I who had to make this infernal early departure—tant pis!’
‘No, that’s quite all right.’ Alexa’s voice was composed, beautifully composed, and she was proud of herself. As if there was nothing extraordinary about standing there in Guy de Rochemont’s London hotel suite as he proceeded to get dressed. ‘I must get going myself. I’ll have the dress and accessories cleaned and returned. Should they go to your London offices, or…’
He gave her a questioning look as he shrugged himself into a pristine shirt. ‘You don’t like the dress? You should have said last night—the stylist would have found another for you. But I can assure you it suits you completely—you look superbe in it.’ His voice changed a fraction. ‘Just as I knew you would.’
‘The dress doesn’t belong to me,’ she answered.
‘Don’t be absurd.’ There was a flash of something that might be hauteur or irritation in his voice.
‘Monsieur de Rochemont—’ Alexa began. She hadn’t actually intended to call him by his French name, but it had come out of her mouth automatically—out of habit.
His eyes flashed with green incredulity.
‘Monsieur?’ he echoed, his fingers stilling in the act of doing up his shirt. He stared at her. Then his mouth gave a wry smile. ‘Alexa, I know you are English, and the English are very formal, but we have reached the point of first names—je t’assure!’
His clearly deliberate use of the intimate form of speech emphasised his assurance. She gave a slightly awkward lift of her hand. ‘Well, it doesn’t really matter anyway,’ she said, ‘since we shan’t be seeing each other again. So—’
‘Comment?’ His expression froze.
Alexa’s sense of awkwardness increased. ‘I’m afraid I can’t resume your commission…’ she began, then trailed off, not actually wanting to put it into words. Just because I’ve slept with you…
He seemed to appreciate her unspoken point. Or at any rate ignore it. He gave a frown, as though something was not understood on her part. ‘N’importe pas. The matter of the portrait, cherie, we can discuss later. However, the matter of moment now is that for some reason I have yet to comprehend you seem to think we “shan’t be seeing each other again.”’ He echoed the intonation of her earlier words. ‘Dis moi,’ he said, and his intonation changed again suddenly, as did the expression in his eyes, which all at once seemed to make Alexa’s breathing stop. ‘Did you find last night not to your liking?’
His voice—and his eyes—told her he knew the question was as impossible to answer in the negative as if he had asked whether a rare vintage champagne might not be to her liking. Alexa made herself breathe.
‘That isn’t really the point,’ she began, then stopped. She seemed to be beginning a lot of sentences and then stopping, not knowing how to proceed.
But her hesitation did not trouble Guy de Rochemont. He had resumed buttoning his shirt, and Alexa found her eyes going to the strong column of his throat, the lean twist of his wrists. Found her pulse somehow more noticeable. She really had to go—she really did. But Guy de Rochemont was saying something that brought her up short. ‘Bon. Then we are agreed. Last night was exceptional, and we shall arrange matters accordingly. As I said, I am désolé that I am required to be on a pernicious flight to a tedious destination within the hour, but I shall return at the earliest moment—tonight, I hope. If not, then tomorrow at the latest. If you phone the London office my PA will give you my contact details for your convenience.’
He moved on to do up his cuffs, with swift, assured movements, then took out a tie and proceeded to knot it, continuing to talk to her as he did so. ‘I shall endeavour to keep you apprised of my movements, but I must ask you to understand—as I am sure you do will—that I have commitments it is impossible for me to ignore, however much I may wish to do so. Accordingly, it is inevitable that there will be times—hélas—when I cannot honour my undertakings to you. I must therefore request your forbearance.’