But even then Luc hadn’t been predictable. When he had reduced her to the clinging, mindless state in his arms after dinner, he had set her back from him with a pronounced attitude of pious self-denial. ‘I’m spending Christmas in Switzerland. Come with me,’ he had urged lazily as though he were inviting her to merely cross the road.
She had been staggered, embarrassed, uncertain, but she had always been hopelessly sentimental about the festive season. Initially she had said no, uneasy about the prospect of letting Luc pay her way abroad.
‘I don’t know when I’ll be back in London again.’ A lie, though she hadn’t known it then, as carefully processed as she had been by the preparation of two-month absences between meetings. What Luc didn’t know about giving a woman withdrawal symptoms hadn’t yet been written.
Convinced that she might lose him forever by letting old-fashioned principles come between them, she had caved in. She had been so dumb that she had expected them to be staying in a hotel in separate rooms. Even in the grip of the belief that she would walk off the edge of the world if he asked her to, she hadn’t felt that she had known him long enough for anything else. He had returned to New York. Elaine Gould had been stunned to see a photo of her with Luc in a newspaper the next day. Elaine had tried to reason with her in a curt, well-meaning way. Even her landlady, breathlessly hung on the latest instalment of her romance, had given the thumbs-down to Switzerland. But she had been beyond the reach of sensible advice.
Six hours in an isolated Alpine chalet had been enough to separate her from a lifetime of principles. No seduction had ever been carried out more smoothly. No bride could have been brought to the marital bed with greater skill and consideration than Luc had employed. And, once Luc had taken her virginity, he had possessed her body and soul. She hadn’t faced the fact that she knew about as much about having an affair as Luc knew about having a conscience. The towering passion had been there, the man of her dreams had been there, but the wedding had been nowhere on the horizon. She had given up everything for love…oh, you foolish, reckless woman, where were your wits?
‘Catherine.’ As she sank back to the present, she shivered. That accent still did something precarious to her knees.
‘What were you thinking about?’
Blinking rapidly against the sting of tears, she breathed unsteadily, ‘You don’t want to know.’
‘If you come back to me,’ Luc murmured expressionlessly, ‘I’ll let Huntingdon have the contract.’
‘Dear God, you can’t bargain with a man’s livelihood!’ she gasped in horror.
‘I can and I will.’
‘I hate you! I’d be violently ill if you laid a finger on me!’ she swore. Her legs were wobbling and she couldn’t drag her eyes from his dark, unyielding features.
Unexpectedly, a smile curved his sensual mouth. ‘I’ll believe that when it happens.’
‘Luc, please.’ When it came down to it, she wasn’t too proud to beg. She could not stand back and allow Drew to suffer by association with her. She could not disclaim responsibility and still live with herself. Luc did not utter idle threats. ‘Please think of what you’re doing. This is an ego-trip for you…’
A dark brow quirked. ‘I’ve seldom enjoyed a less ego-boosting experience.’
‘I can’t come back to you, Luc…I just can’t. Please go away and forget you ever saw me.’ The wobble in her legs had spread dismayingly to her voice.
He drew closer. ‘If I could forget you, I wouldn’t be here, cara.’
Catherine took a hasty step backward. ‘Don’t you remember all those things I used to do that annoyed you?’ she exclaimed in desperation.
‘They became endearing when I was deprived of them.’
‘Stay away from me!’ Hysteria was creeping up on her by speedy degrees as he advanced. ‘I’ll die if you touch me!’
‘And I’ll die if I don’t. I ought to remind you that I’m a survivor,’ Luc drawled almost playfully, reaching for her, golden eyes burning over her small figure in a blaze of hunger. ‘You won’t remember his name by tomorrow.’
She lunged out of his reach and one of her stiletto heels caught in the fringe of the rug, throwing her right off balance. Her feet went out from under her and she fell, her head bouncing painfully off the edge of something hard. As she cried out, darkness folded in like a curtain falling and she knew no more.
* * *
‘You can see the area I’m referring to here.’ The consultant indicated the shading on the X-ray. ‘A previous injury that required quite major surgery. At this stage, however, I have no reason to suspect that she’s suffering from anything more than concussion, but naturally she should stay in overnight so that we can keep an eye on her.’
‘She’s taking a hell of a long time to come round properly.’
‘She’s had a hell of a nasty bump.’ Meeting that narrowed, fierce stare, utterly empty of amusement, the older man mentally matched his facetious response to a lead balloon.
The voices didn’t make any sense to Catherine, but she recognised Luc’s and was instantly soothed by that recognition. A shard of cut-glass pain throbbed horribly at the base of her skull and, as she shifted her head in a pointless attempt to deaden it, she groaned, her eyes opening on bright light.
Luc swam into focus and she smiled. ‘You’re all fuzzy,’ she mumbled.
A grey-haired man appeared at the other side of the bed and tested her co-ordination. Then he asked her what day it was. She shut her eyes again and thought hard. Her brain felt like so much floating cotton wool. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday…take your pick. She hadn’t a clue what day it was. Come to think of it, she didn’t even know what she was doing in hospital.
The question was repeated.