Count Maxime's Virgin

Her lips…her full, trembling lips…tempted him. He leaned his weight against her and felt her body respond. Was that only to him? He pulled back again and stared down at her. She met his gaze levelly, and this time there were no tears.

‘I want you,’ she murmured, and her eyes had grown dark and slumberous. Brushing her hair back from her brow, as if he would find something to steal his trust away beneath its silky weight, he dipped his head and kissed her.

It felt like coming home.

He had to remind himself he had many homes and didn’t stay long in any of them.

Susan Stephens was a professional singer before meeting her husband on the tiny Mediterranean island of Malta. In true Modern™ Romance style they met on Monday, became engaged on Friday and were married three months after that. Almost thirty years and three children later, they are still in love. (Susan does not advise her children to return home one day with a similar story, as she may not take the news with the same fortitude as her own mother!)

Susan had written several non-fiction books when fate took a hand. At a charity costume ball there was an after-dinner auction. One of the lots, ‘Spend a Day with an Author’, had been donated by Mills & Boon® author Penny Jordan. Susan’s husband bought this lot, and Penny was to become not just a great friend but a wonderful mentor, who encouraged Susan to write romance.

Susan loves her family, her pets, her friends and her writing. She enjoys entertaining, travel and going to the theatre. She reads, cooks, and plays the piano to relax, and can occasionally be found throwing herself off mountains on a pair of skis or galloping through the countryside. Visit Susan’s website: www.susanstephens.net—she loves to hear from her readers all around the world!

Recent books by the same author:

Modern™ Romance DESERT KING, PREGNANT MISTRESS BOUGHT: ONE ISLAND, ONE BRIDE ONE-NIGHT BABY BEDDED BY THE DESERT KING

The Royal House of Niroli EXPECTING HIS ROYAL BABY—Book 5

Modern Heat™ HOUSEKEEPER AT HIS BECK AND CALL LAYING DOWN THE LAW DIRTY WEEKEND

COUNT MAXIME’S VIRGIN

BY

SUSAN STEPHENS

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For my friends, Danielle and Cathy, and of course for la belle France.

CHAPTER ONE

THE men in the bar of the fancy London hotel had laughingly agreed that Tara should get out more. The better-looking of the two, a tall, powerfully built man called Lucien, with striking dark looks and thick nut-brown hair, argued with Tara’s older sister, Freya, that there was no such thing as ‘too quiet’, and if Tara didn’t want to party hard, why should she? Having flashed him a grateful glance, Tara sank back into the shadows with relief.

To get close to her sister was all eighteen-year-old Tara had ever wanted, but she was beginning to wonder if it was possible to get close to a flame that burned as bright as Freya. Maybe this was the way, Tara reflected later as she squeezed into some of her sister’s clothes. The two girls had returned to their bedsit alone and were preparing to go out with the men they’d met earlier. Freya was always encouraging Tara to socialise, and tonight Tara felt it was a chance for her to prove she would do pretty much anything to win Freya’s approval.

But not that, Tara thought, as the face of the man who had defended her earlier swam into her mind. Lucien’s dark chocolate voice and black amused gaze had made her feel so nervous. He belonged to that other, more exciting world, the world Freya yearned to inhabit, the world in which Tara knew she didn’t fit.

Freya thought nothing of talking to men they didn’t know, but it was agony for Tara, who had hardly raised her eyes during the whole embarrassing encounter. She had felt so tongue-tied and gauche, so fat and so plain in her charity shop clothes, perched next to a glamorous older sister who drew attention wherever she went. She had wanted to disappear, and had only looked up once more when she’d been forced to answer the Lucien’s direct question: ‘Shouldn’t you be studying?’

Instead of picking up men in a bar, she had presumed he meant. She had told him she did study, but by then, of course, Freya had moved the conversation on, wanting nothing to detract from the flirtatious tone she’d set. When Tara mentioned the remark later, Freya had laughed it off, saying Tara mustn’t let it get to her, and that she had the rest of her life to study, and must use her youth to snare a man…

Tara’s face was burning with humiliation as she thought about this now, though in fairness Freya had been partly right, for whatever he’d said about studying, Lucien, with the exotic accent, whose knowing gaze had sent flames of heat pulsing through her secret places, had asked Freya to make sure her little sister accompanied her to the party tonight.

Why had he done that? Tara wondered, going hot and cold as she thought about it. She already felt ridiculous, sitting here in their draughty bedsit, drenched in Freya’s French perfume and wearing a body control underskirt Freya had said she must to create the right first impression. The second impression didn’t bear thinking about. She’d have to be cut out of this top, just for starters.

‘Stop fiddling with that top, Tara,’ Freya insisted, breaking off from skilfully applying false eyelashes to admonish her. ‘It cost a fortune—’

‘Sorry…’ Freya had insisted she must wear something glamorous tonight, and had pushed the spangled top into her hands. She was about to stop fiddling as instructed when Freya snatched it back.

‘I’ve decided to wear it. You can have this one—’

‘Thank you…’ It was such a relief to exchange the glittery top Freya had picked out for her to wear, for an older, duller boob tube with a much more modest neckline.

‘I hope you know your man’s a count?’ Freya pouted in the mirror as she applied her lip gloss.

‘A count?’ Tara’s heart rate doubled. ‘Really?’ No wonder Lucien, the man who made her pulse race, was so confident and commanding. But since when was he her man? And if he was her man, what on earth was she supposed to do with him, never mind the fact that he was a count! She would never think of a thing to say to interest a man like that.

‘You’re a very lucky girl. It’s up to you to make the most of tonight. Who knows…?’

Who knew what? Tara wondered, struggling to heave the Freya-sized Lycra top over her head. She raised a hesitant smile to please her sister. One thing was sure, she didn’t know anything about that stuff, although her determination to better herself was no less than Freya’s. There might not be room for a desk in their tiny room, but the books she was studying were kept safely under the bed.

‘Here, put this wrap on—’ Freya tossed what looked like a fabulous genuine fur in her direction.

‘I’d rather not—’ Tara shrank from the deep white pelt. In her imagination it still carried the faint scent of fresh air and freedom.

‘Why ever not?’ Freya demanded impatiently.

‘I might spill something on it—’ She hoped Freya was convinced by her excuse.

‘Oh, all right then.’ Freya pulled a face as she sorted through the tumble of clothes on her side of the bed. ‘Take this shawl instead.’

Tara thought the pale blue shawl much prettier than the fur. Stroking it appreciatively, she thought about Freya’s explanation for this fabulous collection of expensive things. ‘Men like to buy me presents,’ Freya had said, ‘and what’s wrong with that?’ Nothing, Tara thought now, smiling fondly at her beautiful sister. Who wouldn’t want to buy Freya gifts? When you lived like this and looked like Freya, no wonder her poor sister yearned for something better.

‘What’s that sigh for?’ Freya demanded suspiciously as Tara started clearing up Freya’s discarded tissues.

‘Nothing…’ Realising Freya had thought her sigh a complaint, Tara rushed to lay out her sister’s coat and bag.

‘See to yourself,’ Freya snapped. ‘I left that skirt out for you specially. Come on, Tara,’ she chivvied as Tara viewed the tight skirt dubiously, ‘we mustn’t be late. And you can leave those cushions,’ Freya snapped, bringing Tara to a standstill. ‘They don’t need plumping. I don’t know why you bought them in the first place. No one’s going to see them. For goodness’ sake, stop tidying the room. You’ll get all hot and bothered and we don’t want that.’

What Freya did want from tonight made Tara very nervous. She knew she was destined to be a failure, because Lucien wasn’t interested in her, and anything nice he’d said was just him being kind. That hadn’t stopped her daydreams, which had a very dark edge to them, for they contained a lot of kissing and touching, which she knew was wrong.

She wasted some precious time fighting with the back zip on the skirt Freya had lent her, which was at least two sizes too small. In the end, she was forced to give up. Flashing a guilty glance at Freya, who thankfully hadn’t noticed, she left the skirt open an inch or two at the top and folded the fabric over.

‘Ready?’ Freya demanded, snatching up her smart new red patent bag.

Ready to try not to show Freya up, Tara thought anxiously, straightening her tights. She hoped she could manage that much.

‘Damn, it’s so cold in here,’ Freya said, rubbing her arms briskly. ‘Come on, it’s probably several degrees warmer outside.’

‘If your fingers weren’t half frozen you’d have been ready ages ago,’ Tara said, laughing nervously in an attempt to cheer up her sister. She so loved to see Freya smile, but Freya was tense tonight, and Tara didn’t need her sister to tell her that a lot hung on the outcome of their meeting with the two men.

Freya soon confirmed these thoughts. ‘Don’t worry, little sister; I don’t plan to be living here much longer.’

Tara blinked at the horror of being separated from Freya. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean there’s a big, wide world out there with a lot of wealthy men inhabiting it, men who want a woman just like me.’

‘Oh…’ Tara bit her bottom lip nervously. Of course Freya deserved a better future, but as her own future rose like an empty canvas in front of her Tara wondered if she would ever get over being separated from her sister. They were orphans and Freya was the only family she had.

‘You can always stay on here,’ Freya said, continuing to touch up her hair as she spoke. ‘Well, it’s a start for you, isn’t it?’ she added, glancing at Tara. ‘I’ll sign the lease over to you before I go, as, most likely, I’ll be living in the south of France—’

Tara knew it was the life her beautiful sister deserved, even if it left her feeling hollow inside. She brushed these selfish thoughts away. ‘You always think of me.’ She smiled, getting off the bed to give Freya a hug.

‘Mind my make up,’ Freya warned, backing away hastily. ‘Now, listen to me,’ she began firmly. ‘You must make sure that count of yours takes you to his place tonight. He mustn’t see this dump—’

‘He isn’t my Count,’ Tara ventured, ‘and I definitely won’t be going home with him—’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that.’ Freya turned and studied Tara keenly. ‘You might be overweight, but you clean up well…’

‘Not as well as you…’

‘Ah, well…’ Freya sighed with satisfaction as she took one last look at herself in the mirror. ‘Hurry, hurry, hurry,’ she exclaimed, spinning on her five-inch heels. ‘We can’t risk anyone poaching our men…’

He was restless as he waited for the two girls to arrive. This outing was a first for him. He never accompanied his brother, Guy, on his hunting expeditions, and yet here he was in a high-class pick-up joint, which his brother had persuaded him was the ‘in’place that season.

After the encounter with the two women that afternoon he hadn’t been able to shake the image of a timid young girl who had wanted to disappear into the shadows. And would have done if he hadn’t coaxed her out of them, he remembered, flashing a glance at his watch, wondering what was keeping Tara. An occasion he had been so sure would bore him had acquired piquancy, thanks to her. Tara Devenish must be at least ten years younger than he was, Lucien reflected, though her sister’s colourful reputation suggested Tara was no innocent. His body warmed at that thought, and right on cue the door of the exclusive supper club opened and in she walked.

The Count of Ferranbeaux drew the attention of the whole room as he rose to his feet. People sensed the dangerous edge to Lucien’s mature elegance and it stopped conversation dead. Lucien was accepting of his physical needs, and after a week of non-stop business meetings even he would have admitted that his libido was in the danger zone, though he could not know that the miasma of testosterone cloaking his muscular frame was almost palpable.

Lucien made a silent note to add a London home to his ever-growing property portfolio. Entertaining in nightclubs wasn’t for him, especially not on an evening like this. Tara was even lovelier than he remembered. She was quirkier and a good deal more outlandishly dressed too. Her pencil skirt had clearly been borrowed from her much slimmer sister, and the way she’d been forced to hitch it up had left it a good four inches short of respectable. Her ample breasts were stuffed for the occasion into a tight boob tube that revealed some tempting pale flesh, which for some reason she was trying to cover with a pale blue shawl. Surely, his cynical self calculated, shouldn’t she be putting her wares on view rather than hiding them away?

He noticed nothing other than Tara as she walked towards him. He felt her aura of innocence, fear and excitement sweep over him, and when she stopped in front of him and gazed up tremulously he reached for her hand. Bowing over it, he raised it to his lips and, as her gaze sought his face, he felt her tremble.

The evening passed in a blur. The Count was at least ten times more attractive and a good deal more worldly-wise than Tara had remembered. Dressed in an impeccable dinner suit with a crisp white shirt, highly polished shoes and fine black socks, he looked like a film star and couldn’t have attracted more attention from all the ladies present had he tried.

Which he didn’t, and that was one of the nicest things about him. Even nicer than that was the way he looked after her. It was a little unnerving to begin with, because he was so much older than she was and her imagination insisted on working overtime, conjuring up all sorts of forbidden possibilities, but somehow he managed to make her relax. Then it was like a fairy tale. In her dreams she had always favoured the dark, flashing Latin looks of a Mediterranean hero, and Lucien Maxime, the Count of Ferranbeaux, or Lucien, as he had insisted she must call him, took Latin to the extreme.

As he turned to order another bottle of champagne, she stole a proper look at him. Lucien was very tall and very tanned, with hair the colour of roast chestnuts. It was thick and wavy, glossy hair, which he wore a little long, and as the evening progressed Tara decided that with the rough black stubble on Lucien’s face, combined with those dark flashing eyes, he looked like a dangerous pirate. A pirate dressed by Savile Row, of course.

‘Are you all right?’ Lucien enquired, sensing her interest.

Better than all right. But as the keen black stare remained fixed on her face she went all wobbly inside and quickly folded her hands primly in her lap. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she replied politely.

Her simple remark prompted the wickedest look, as if Lucien knew her innocent pose covered some very naughty undercurrents and she gasped as his hand covered hers, though it was barely there for a moment. When he took his hand away she gazed down, certain his print would be branded there. She remained quite still after that, hardly able to believe the Count of Ferranbeaux had actually touched her. Then Freya said something and the spell was broken as Lucien turned away to take part in Guy and Freya’s far livelier conversation, leaving her to watch his sensual lips move as he spoke, and dream more dreams as she inhaled his fabulous cologne.

How was she to guess he would turn so quickly and catch her looking at him? It was a relief when he said nothing to embarrass her, but, as one of his ebony brows peaked, she guessed he knew exactly what she’d been thinking.

Turning away to hide her burning face, Tara retreated into her thoughts, where she could have the luxury of the most frenzied fantasies. The conversation buzzed around her, but she was oblivious to it. She was too busy revelling in a fantasy world where a much older man was about to introduce a young, untried girl to a range of forbidden pleasures.

Freya’s voice jerked her rudely out of this happy state. ‘Come on, Tara, drink up,’ she insisted impatiently.

Tara’s cheeks flamed red as everyone turned to look at her. She had been trying so hard to keep up with Freya’s drinking, for fear of being ridiculed, but had failed miserably. She had resorted to pouring her champagne into a conveniently placed plant pot when no one was looking, but now had no alternative other than to drain her glass.

Taking her by surprise, Lucien lifted it from her hand. ‘We shouldn’t kill too many plants,’ he murmured discreetly, drinking it down, ‘or they might not let us come here again—’

‘Would that upset you?’ Tara exclaimed, instantly concerned that she had offended him.

‘Not a bit,’ he confided, leaning close so that her face tingled with his warmth.

Of course he pulled away again, but not before she had felt a glow of happiness at sharing this private moment with him. She knew it was going nowhere, but made an extra effort to look good when he turned away. She smoothed her skirt and tried to tug it down to appear respectable, but it was Freya’s and Freya liked to wear her skirts short. Adjusting her position on the banquette, Tara tried again. It was suddenly very important to her that Lucien shouldn’t be ashamed of being seen with her. He was so elegant and she already liked him far too much to show him up.

She mustn’t let these daydreams get out of hand, Tara’s sensible inner voice warned. It was clear to everyone that Lucien Maxime was only trying to make her feel at ease and would barely register her existence by tomorrow.

Realising her restlessness had caused a pause in the conversation, Tara listened to her own good advice and remained very still. It would suit her best to be invisible for the rest of the evening, she decided.

They moved on to a restaurant, where Tara watched closely to make sure she was using the correct cutlery for each course. Lucien was kind again, arranging her napkin and spreading paté on her toast when she had been about to attack it with a knife and fork. She reached for some more bread, but quickly withdrew her hand when Freya gave her a warning look. They had agreed that Tara mustn’t put on any more weight.

‘You haven’t finished your meal, I hope?’ Lucien smiled at her as she scrunched her napkin anxiously. ‘Here, try this… No…? A spear of asparagus won’t hurt you.’

Asparagus with butter dripping from it? Tara shook her head a second time, but Lucien insisted on feeding the succulent spear to her himself, even mopping her chin with his own napkin when butter smeared her lips. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, he blotted some of the juice with his thumb sucking it whilst holding her gaze. This had an alarming effect on her, coaxing endless little pleasure pulses out of those secret places she wanted him to touch. Deciding a man like Lucien would surely know that made her cheeks fire up again. If there was a more sensual message a man could deliver to a woman, Tara couldn’t imagine what it might be. But how she was supposed to respond to such advances remained a mystery to her.

She must be joined to Lucien by some invisible chain, Tara decided as her gaze kept wandering to him. Perhaps she was bewitched by him for, rather than wishing the evening could be over with, or that she could be invisible, she wanted the night to last for ever.

Freya soon put a stop to that, announcing that it was time to move on to an all night jazz club.

‘Don’t look so worried,’ Lucien reassured Tara, seeing how concerned she was. ‘You’re coming home with me…’

Tara’s face lit up. She was so grateful to Lucien. An early night, safe and alone with her dreams, was exactly what she wanted.

CHAPTER TWO

TARA was so relieved to hear that Lucien was taking her home she relaxed immediately and threw him a grateful glance. Then she saw how delighted Freya was and realised she’d missed the meaning behind Lucien’s message. Going home with him meant going back to his hotel room.

She felt such a fool when they arrived outside the grand entrance to Lucien’s magnificent penthouse suite, and only fear of upsetting Freya prompted her to follow him inside. Freya’s insistent whispering before they’d parted—that everything was going so well for her and Guy that Tara mustn’t screw things up now—was ringing in her head. Her fate was sealed, Tara realised the moment Lucien closed the door, for if there was an eighteen-year-old who could resist the Count of Ferranbeaux’s brutally masculine charm it wasn’t her.

She stepped cautiously across a cream-coloured carpet with pile so deep it felt like a mattress and gazed in awe at antique mirrors framed in gold, and at grand vases in matching pairs as tall as she was. The furniture was antique and both fabrics and walls were decorated in ivory and cream, as if dirt wouldn’t dare to intrude here. The ceilings were high and decorated with gilt and plasterwork, and there was a heady fragrance in the air which she couldn’t place at first, and then she realised it was wealth.

She was so entranced that Lucien had to take her by the elbow and lead her into the next room. This room was equally ornate, with arched windows dressed in heavy soft gold silk and a fire burning silently behind a glass screen.

‘It’s fake,’ Lucien murmured, seeing her staring at the fire.

Of course she knew that, Tara pretended, reddening as she gave a little self-conscious laugh. It was a gas flame fire; she could see that now. She turned away quickly, though how she was supposed to act nonchalant amidst all this luxury, she had had no idea. She was standing in the middle of an intimate sitting room of a type she had no idea existed in hotels. It was a home away from home for the super-rich, she surmised, with magazines on the table, books on the shelves and an assortment of fruit that looked as if it had been picked that very morning. There were pictures on the walls that might have been original works of art and, instead of wallpaper, fabric—silk—glowing softly in tones of rich bronze and…

‘Come over here and sit down before you fall over,’ Lucien prompted.

She turned to see him smiling at her. What a country bumpkin he must think her. She pulled herself together quickly and crossed the room, trying to look confident, but there were so many lamps and tables she hardly knew where to tread and, in her usual clumsy way, she managed to stumble over a chair leg. Gasping with alarm, she reached out, only to feel strong arms catching her.