From the perspective of maturity she could laugh. Strangely enough, it no longer hurt to remember. 'No, definitely not a Casanova...he wanted commitment but with someone less—er—physically exuberant...'
Realisation kindled in the silver eyes. They glowed with a savage condemnation—but not of her.
'Ah....now I see... So he was the one responsible for this excruciating self-consciousness about your body. You were too much a woman, even as a girl, for him to handle. So to salve his wounded ego he made you feel uncomfortable with your sexuality, made you doubt the honesty of your emotions? And you believed this?'
She stirred uneasily. He made it all sound so simple, but it wasn’t. ‘I was rather embarrassingly intense at that age—'
'But surely your other lovers—'
'Not everyone bounces from bed to bed as light-heartedly as you do!' she cut him off furiously.
There was a tiny silence as he digested the implications of her remark. Then, 'Light-hearted? Now you use the wrong word, I think. Jealous, chérie?'
She glared at him. 'Yes.'
For a moment he was taken aback by her reckless honesty. Then his shock melted into a creamy satisfaction. 'You have no need to be. I'm not my brother. I enjoy sex but I have never been indiscriminate, and pain and betrayal evidently have an extremely depressive effect on my libido because last night was my first with a woman for a long time...'
He took a step towards her and Elizabeth backed away, so he stopped. ‘I don’t want to talk about last night,' she choked.
‘I rather gathered that,' he murmured wryly, referring to the aloofness with which she had greeted him that morning. 'But some time soon we must settle this thing between us. Just let me say this: I am very proud to be your lover. I have never in my life so thoroughly enjoyed making love to a woman as much as I did last night, with you.
'Now...' He strode briskly to the door, as if he hadn’t just pierced her heart with the most graceful and erotic compliment she had ever received. Even if it wasn’t true, he made her believe that he believed it so...
'Why don’t I show you around some of the upstairs galleries?' he continued. ‘If you're interested in French Impressionists we have quite an array—'
‘I haven’t had a chance to really look around here yet...' Elizabeth faltered, hanging back.
He held the door open, giving her a hard stare that transferred itself around the room. 'What is it you want to see?'
'Nothing special,' she said, joining him hurriedly. ‘I just thought I'd browse. Perhaps I can come back by myself while you're having lunch, now that I know the way...'
'We're having lunch on the north terrace after I've shown you upstairs and then, if you've brought your suit as I suggested, we can have a swim...'
'Are—am I joining you and your grandfather for lunch, then?' Elizabeth murmured faintly, as he ushered her away from the library's myriad temptations. 'How is he? You didn’t say...'
'Didn’t I? Not well, I'm afraid. He won’t be able to lunch with me after all.'
'Oh, I'm sorry. I hope he'll be all right,' said Elizabeth anxiously, her concern more for the man striding up the stairs beside her than for her own dilemma. Every time he mentioned his grandfather it was with a respect that was touchingly reverent in such a tough, cynical man.
He explained why during their leisurely lunch on the terrace overlooking the sea, having taken an almost boyish delight in impressing her with the breathtaking splendour of his home.
Alain St Clair had been a member of the French Resistance and had been captured and tortured by the Gestapo. Although there had been no outward scarring, the long-term effects had been debilitating, his weakened heart curtailing the drive and determination with which he had reconstructed his heritage. His young son having died in a concentration camp along with his mother, Alain had pinned his hopes for a new dynasty on his only son-in-law, Jack's father, who had proved not only a supremely successful businessman, but also a successful breeder of sons. Jack freely admitted that he was glad to be the second son. Although as a youth he had been somewhat jealous of the attention showered on Jean-Jules, as an adult he had deeply appreciated the freedom to forge his own life.
At the information that his grandfather had a weak heart Elizabeth's own sank miserably, weighed down by the guilty millstone around her neck. No wonder Jack was so protective. Even if she did manage to escape his vigilant attention long enough to see Alain St Clair alone, what if the shock was too great for the old man's frail constitution?
She pushed away a delicious concoction of tropical f
ruits chilled in liqueur that an unobtrusive servant had placed in front of her and picked up her cup of coffee, staring into its black and bitter depths.
What was she to do?
She knew what she should do.
Tell him. Trust him. Take the risk that Jack's sense of fairness would override his fury and disgust. Hope that he had meant what he said about last night, and that the memory would soften any thoughts of punishment or revenge. Surely by now he must know her well enough to realise that she was innocent of malicious intent.
How? She had lied to him, actively and by omission, again and again.
The only time she had told him the truth was when she had run out of lies to serve her purpose. And she had seduced him. Deliberately. And pretended to herself that it was in the line of duty. Another lie. She had fallen in love with him, but he wouldn’t believe that either. Not now.