Count Maxime's Virgin

Even now it was all he could do to contain his anger. He shut that anger out, only to have another and even more disturbing image intrude on his thoughts—Tara, as she had looked in his bed.

He still wanted her.

That was the true torment.

As the minutes ticked by and there was still no sign of Tara, Lucien’s expression darkened. She knew he was waiting for her to come down. At the very least, good manners demanded she should be on time for this appointment. Two years ago he had been prepared to indulge her, but no longer. Two minutes more and then he would go upstairs and bring her downstairs. An English court might have awarded Tara Devenish temporary custody of their niece, but both baby and Tara were under his jurisdiction now.

Seeing Lucien again was like a miracle—a miracle that made every part of her feel alive. She had forgotten how beautiful he was and felt a shy embarrassment remembering how well they knew each other. When he quit the car and the wind caught his hair, her body reacted powerfully. When he straightened up all she could think was how safe she had felt in his arms. But when he looked at her and she saw the cold disappointment in his eyes her dreams collided with reality and she rushed to shut that cruel look out.

She was too naïve for her own good, Tara reasoned, walking across the room to put her sleeping niece down to sleep. She could talk herself into believing anything: that he had missed her; that he was coming to sweep her up in his arms; that he was as eager to see her as she was to see him…

That he had forgiven her never even came into her thinking, because surely he must know the lies that had been told about her couldn’t be true…

Get real, Tara, she told herself impatiently. The sordid facts were these: the first time she’d seen Lucien in daylight was ten minutes ago. They’d met in a supper club and had moved on to Lucien’s hotel room, where they’d had sex. At least, that was how he would see it. She had woken to find him gone and in his place a wad of money, along with the telephone number of a local taxi company. Lucien had bought her services and, in fairness to him, considering her lack of experience, he had rewarded her well.

How red was her face now? Staring at herself in the mirror, she patted her chipmunk cheeks, remembering how, in her innocence, she had asked the man behind the hotel reception desk on that night two years ago if the Count of Ferranbeaux had left a forwarding address, or perhaps a telephone number she could call. The man had smirked as he’d told her that the Count of Ferranbeaux had checked out some time before, leaving no forwarding address, but that everything was paid for—including her, his expression had clearly stated.

She must have been the talk of the hotel, Tara thought, staring at the cruel reflection in front of her. The hotel staff must have laughed their heads off when she’d left. She only had to remember how pleasantly surprised and pleased with her Freya had been when she’d reported back to the bedsit. And no wonder—Freya must have known it was a long shot that Tara would interest Lucien.

Freya had been packing to leave with Guy, Tara remembered, and the fear and hollowness she had felt then came back to her now. Contemplating life without Freya had been dreadful. She had had no idea that one day their parting would be for good. Freya had smiled that morning and said gaily that it didn’t matter if Tara never saw Lucien again, for there were plenty more where he came from, and that at least now Tara would know what to do with them…

Even today Tara shrank with shame as she relived that moment. She had been heartbroken, and had refused to believe that what Freya had said to her could possibly be true. Surely she would see Lucien again? Life would be unbearable if she didn’t.

And now it was unbearable, because she must…

The only good thing to come out of all this was the lesson she’d learned; the life Freya had mapped out for her wasn’t what she wanted at all.

Tara stared at her reflection in despair. She could breathe in, but she couldn’t hold her breath for ever, and she couldn’t drop three dress sizes in ten minutes. Running her fingers through her mass of bright red-gold curls did little to tame her hair, but perhaps a little make-up would help…

If she had brought some with her.

She agonised, realising that high factor sun cream for infants and baby powder would hardly improve her looks. But it was all she had…

Grabbing the bottle of baby powder, she upturned it and sprinkling some on her palms, she wiped them across her burning cheeks…

Better…

Not much better…and certainly not perfect, but not so shiny, not so red…

Raking her bottom lip with her teeth, she wished it would plump out like it was supposed to do, and that she could reverse the colour of her lips and her cheeks—one so ashen and the other so red, but everything the wrong way round…

She tried hard to breathe steadily when she went to see Liz, the young nanny she’d brought with her. Liz had been trained by the same childcare college Tara had attended. Tara had paid her college fees with the blood money Lucien had left her; it had helped the shame somehow. Graduating with honours from that college had been the proudest moment of her life, and she must hang onto that now. ‘Could you look after Poppy for me while I see the Count?’ she asked Liz.

Tara had been offered a job on the staff of the college before tragedy struck, and when she had asked for leave to come and see where Poppy would be living the head of the college had been compassionate and had insisted she must bring Liz with her to Ferranbeaux. Everyone who knew Tara had read the newspaper articles condemning her and, without exception, her friends and colleagues had refused to believe a word they said. If only Lucien could be like them.

He wasn’t, and there was no point wishing she could change him. Lucien had descended on the hotel like an avenging angel and was clearly not in the mood for negotiation, and now she had to meet him.

With every part of her trembling with apprehension. Lucien frightened her. His power frightened her. Anticipating the fact that he might look at her and laugh at her frightened her most of all.

She smoothed her skirt for the umpteenth time—her cheap skirt. But at least it fitted this time; she’d made sure of it. She checked her blouse—her cheap blouse. It was so cheap the fabric was like tissue paper, but if she kept her jacket fastened you couldn’t see her bra…but then if she did that the buttons bulged…

Her breasts again…

Too big…

Everything about her was too big…

Including the big fat tears rolling down her cheeks. She hated them. They were a sign of weakness she couldn’t afford with Poppy to defend.

Dashing them away, she sniffed loudly. Working out what was for the best, she decided on fastening the middle button on her jacket and leaving the other two undone…

Better.

Passable…

Not smart, but not bulging quite so badly now.

She was ready for whatever lay ahead.

Including Lucien Maxime, the Count of Ferranbeaux.

Lucien might be the all powerful Count of Ferranbeaux and hold all the cards, but did Lucien have the skills necessary to raise a child in the warmth and security of a loving family home? She wasn’t going to let Poppy live in Ferranbeaux, cared for by strangers, just as she and Freya had been. Lucien could buy most things, but he couldn’t buy time, and his business interests took up a lot of time…

Hearing a tap on the outer door of her suite, Tara whirled around. Her stomach was in knots. ‘Come in…’ Her voice sounded small, tremulous, pathetic, even to her.

‘Ms Devenish?’

Tension seeped from her shoulders when the door opened and the hotel manager walked in. ‘Yes?’

‘Monsieur le Conte has arrived, and is waiting for you downstairs…’

Having powered through the gates in his twenty-first century equivalent of a fiery black stallion. Yes, she’d seen him.

‘Ms Devenish?’ the hotel manager prompted.

She was panic-stricken. There were too many holes in her plan. She needed more time. She had brought Poppy to Ferranbeaux because her lawyers had said she must, but whose orders were they obeying? Tara wondered now. She had seen Lucien’s contempt for her as he must have seen her feelings for him. He believed the newspaper articles; ergo he believed her unfit to care for Poppy. He had come to take Poppy away. He thought her one more conniving woman who expected to profit from his brother’s death.

As the hotel manager cleared his throat Tara swiftly refocused. Words had never come easily to her, and before the accident she had been content to remain in Freya’s shadow, but with Poppy to protect that part of her life was over now. Tipping her chin, she spoke firmly. ‘Thank you for delivering the Count’s message. Please tell him I would like a little longer—’

‘A little longer’ would never be enough. It was better to get on with it, get it over with.

The manager’s huff of surprise suggested he thought so too. But this was all just such a leap from the quiet life she had shared with Poppy since the accident. All the more reason to hold their first meeting here, rather than in a public arena where she might make a fool of herself… ‘Could you ask the Count to come to my suite in say…ten minutes?’

‘Here?’

The hotel manager seemed astounded, and Tara guessed that only years of training in the art of discretion allowed him to keep his opinions to himself.

Her relief was short-lived when he turned to go, for now the clock was counting down the seconds before she saw Lucien again—the man she adored, the man whom, the last time they’d met, had paid her off like a whore.

She listened intently to every sound, waiting for Lucien… She stilled her breathing, waiting for his footfall on the stairs. She wished she wasn’t so tense. If she’d been more skilled in womanly wiles she might have known how to soften him, or if she’d been feisty, rather than hapless, helpless and useless, she might have known how to stand up to him. Unfortunately, she was none of these convenient things. She was barely twenty, and pretty clueless when it came to men. She was also plump, plain and poor and even her own sister had called her boring. Finding the right words was the least of her worries when she couldn’t launch a good argument to save her life. And when it came to clothes and social graces…

By this point Tara’s teeth were chattering with fear, which was no help when her body was thrumming with awareness at the thought of Lucien just a few strides away. She knew he wouldn’t have been idle while he’d been waiting. He would have been using this time to finesse his plan to eject her from Poppy’s life.

She must blank her mind of fear if she was going to get through this. It was no good talking herself into meltdown; she must think things through clearly.

But, try as she might, the only thought Tara could come up with was that if Poppy had been old enough to pick a champion, her Aunty Tara should be last pick.

But who else was there to champion Poppy’s cause? Lucien?

He’d make a far better job of it than she could, Tara reasoned, though he’d do it remotely through his servants.

Crossing to the window, she flung it open and inhaled deeply, hoping for a miracle. But there were no miracles—there was just Tara, an orphaned baby, and the Count of Ferranbeaux. That was the cast and it was up to her to decide whether she was content to play a role, or whether she would write the play. It was certainly time to get a grip. She wasn’t the girl of two years ago; she was trained in childcare now and where Poppy’s happiness was concerned she would fight tooth and nail to preserve it. It helped remembering a tutor at the college telling her she possessed a natural air of authority, and that it would raise her tiny stature in the eyes of a child. Would it work on the Count of Ferranbeaux? Somehow, she doubted it.

Lucien paced the room. Servants hovered, anxious to cater for his every whim. He waved them away. He wanted one thing, and one thing only, which was to have this meeting over with. Only then could he take his niece to a place of safety. At least, that was what he had been telling himself for the past half an hour, but the truth was more complicated. He wanted Poppy safe, that was a given, but Tara had dug her neat clean fingernails into some hidden part of him, and he was impatient to pluck them out.

He glanced at his watch again. How dared she keep him waiting? Didn’t she think this meeting important enough to be on time? He had imagined she would be keen to get to work on him. Perhaps she was too busy luxuriating in the suite of rooms he had provided to remember her manners…

He stopped pacing to rake his hair. Even he was prepared to admit that last thought didn’t reflect the Tara he knew. She might be cleaning the suite. He still remembered her surreptitiously picking up the napkin Freya had carelessly dropped on the floor, and then mopping up a pool of wine Freya had spilled on the table in the same graceful sweep. That Tara certainly didn’t live up the sluttish image the media and her sister had painted.

He’d only just reassured himself with this thought when the old newspaper headline bounced into his head: The Unexpected Mistress. And the images of Tara in Guy’s arms that conjured up made him physically sick. Lucien thought back to his own night with Tara; when she had thought he was sleeping she had whispered that there would be no other lovers.

So much for such adoration and innocence!

What was keeping the hotel manager? Lucien’s eyes narrowed with suspicion as he stared through the open door towards the stairs. It was time to remember that Tara shared Freya’s tainted blood. It was time to confront her.

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