He made a point of lifting the bread and cheese back to his lips, taking a bite and swallowing, then licking his fingers. But she could see the hunger in his eyes because it compelled her too.
She dragged her gaze away from his sensual lips and stared down at the grape in her hand. ‘I don’t pity you,’ she said.
She doubted anyone had ever pitied him, despite the horrors he had let slip about his childhood. He didn’t strike her as a man who would ever inspire anyone’s pity; he was far too forceful, far too commanding, far too controlled.
Except...
He hadn’t been able to disguise his response to her any more than she had been able to disguise her response to him. Why did that seem so significant? Why was the thought making her feel so giddy, so light-headed?
She forced the grape she’d been fidgeting with past her dry lips, made herself swallow it, to buy herself time to think—something that was next to impossible with his dark gaze fixed on her.
Maxim Durand was Pierre’s illegitimate son. And he’d once worked in the fields here. No wonder he wanted the vines. And Pierre had rejected him in the cruellest way possible when he was still a boy. And for the cruellest of reasons, because he was poor and illegitimate.
The fruity sweetness of the grape burst on her tongue.
As charming as Pierre had been to her, and however much she had come to care for him, she knew he could be ruthless when it came to his business. And after what he had done in his will it was hard to ignore the fact that his suggestion of marriage—and the legacy he had left her—had been a means of hurting his son, again, rather than of helping her.
Perhaps she should give Durand the vines? After everything he’d suffered, did she really have a right to keep them from him?
‘How much?’
She jerked her head up and found herself trapped in Durand’s intense golden-brown gaze again. ‘Excuse me?’
‘How much do you want to disappear? I am a rich man and I can be generous. You’re clearly a woman who appreciates the value of money and I respect that...’ His gaze dropped to her breasts, and lingered, before rising back to her face. The contempt in his gaze was so clear—and so brutal—it shocked her.
Her back straightened, even as her nipples squeezed into tight points of need.
‘I don’t want your money,’ she said as she wrapped her shirt around herself, attempting to hide her physical response to him.
‘Really?’ His sensual lips lifted into a cynical smile and she felt like Little Red again, being baited by the wolf. ‘Even if I offered you half a million euros to disappear, which is considerably more than the property is worth?’
‘Yes,’ she said, releasing the breath held hostage in her lungs.
She didn’t want his money. Only moments ago she had been considering giving him the vines. But she wanted to be able to stay at La Maison de la Lune.
She didn’t want to have to disappear. Again.
How many times had she been forced to do that in the past? Because of the whims of others. Whatever his motives, Pierre had given her the house she had come to love. And she had earned this chance. ‘I want to stay living here, as Pierre planned. But I’d be more than happy to lease the vines to you, as Marcel suggested.’
His smile flatlined. ‘I don’t wish to lease them; I wish to own them. And you can’t remain here, as I intend to demolish this place.’
‘But... What? Why?’ She jumped from her seat, distressed not just by the suggestion but the chilling conviction in his tone. ‘Why would you do that?’
He stood too, the cynicism replaced by a thunderous frown. ‘I do not have to explain my reasons to you.’
She crossed her arms over her chest to try to stop the trembling in her limbs—and to disguise the ache in her treacherous nipples. ‘Well, you can’t demolish La Maison de la Lune because it belongs to me.’
‘And once I have challenged the will, it will belong to me.’
He was actually serious. She stared, trying to gauge why he would do such a thing. Pierre had treated him appallingly, she understood that. But he’d said himself he wasn’t that rejected boy any more. And what was the point of obliterating the legacy of a dead man?
‘But you can’t,’ she pleaded again. ‘La Maison is beautiful...’ She let her gaze roam over the old furniture, the worn armchairs and sturdy table, the beautiful vista beyond—not just of the old vineyard, but the ancient forest that rimmed the property, the small stream that bisected the land, gilded now by the full moon. ‘It deserves to be here for generations to come.’
‘No, it doesn’t. The only thing that matters are the vines.’
He walked around the table, bearing down on her, making her more aware of his strength, his size. But, instead of feeling intimida
ted, she felt energised, exhilarated, mesmerised by the fierce passion in his eyes.