Anne Mather - Castles Of Sand

Ashley quivered. ‘He only knows that—that Andrew is my son—–’

‘Only!’ Alain swore angrily. ‘Nom de Dieu! The situation gets worse. You had no right to betray such information.’

‘Betray?’ Ashley gazed up at him, noticing almost inconsequently the erratic flutter of the pulse that marked his jawline. ‘Alain, you can’t deny me the right to acknowledge my son. Besides,’ she moistened her lips, ‘how else could I have resigned at the beginning of term? What excuse could I give? Malcolm would have suspected—–’

‘Malcolm! Malcolm! I begin to grow tired of this man’s name,’ declared Alain violently, his blue eyes searching her face with angry intensity. ‘So—it is over. It is finished. I will take Hussein back to Khadesh!’

‘No—–’

Ashley’s involuntary plea was accompanied by her hand on his arm, gripping the taut muscle she could feel through the expensive cloth of his sleeve. It was more than seven years since she had touched Alain, more than seven years since he had arrived at the hospital in Paddington and taken away the only tangible proof of her brief, but brutal, association with the Gauthier family. But she was appealing to him now, raising herself on her toes to bring her face nearer to his, unconsciously by her actions drawing his attention to the agitated swell of her breasts, outlined against the thin material of her smock.

‘Ashley!’ he grated, and when he spoke, his voice was deepened by some savage emotion he was trying hard to contain. ‘In the name of all the saints, Ashley, get away from me, before I am compelled to deliver the punishment I should have administered years ago!’

‘What punishment?’ Ashley’s lips parted, but she did not move away from him. It was a curious anomaly, but suddenly she sensed that for all his anger and his threats of violence, he was not as indifferent to her as he would like her to believe. Was it possible? she asked herself incredulously. After all these years, was it conceivable that he had some regrets for the pain and misunderstandings of the past? But no! That was not like Alain. He had always been so controlled, so positive, so remote from the weaknesses of the flesh. Except when he had been in her arms , a small voice reminded her wickedly, and an insane desire to find out if she was right gripped her. With a fast-beating heart she allowed her other hand to rest against his chest, in the hollow of the vee where the fastening of his waistcoat began, and deliberately spread her fingers against the fine silk of his shirt.

‘Ashley!’ His free hand caught her tormenting fingers, crushing them within the strength of his as he impaled her with an impassioned glare. ‘Do not try your feminine wiles on me! That was over long ago, and you would do well to remember that you are my brother’s widow!’

‘I haven’t forgotten it,’ she protested huskily, aware of the convulsive shudder that had passed through him before he captured her fingers in his. ‘Perhaps—perhaps it is yourself you have to convince!’

‘No!’ His jaws were clamped together, and he spoke through his teeth, but Ashley had aroused him, and she was not prepared to lose her advantage.

‘He’s my son, Alain,’ she breathed, moving closer to him, so that the pointed tips of her breasts actually brushed against the hand imprisoning hers. ‘Don’t take him away again— please ! I promise I won’t tell him who I am. I only want to see him again, to look at him, maybe speak with him—–’

‘It is not possible!’

The words were torn from him, and looking up into his dark face, Ashley knew a moment’s fear for what she was provoking. She had loved this man, she remembered painfully, she had cared for him with every fibre of her being. Even after all that had happened, could she be sure she could control her feelings, and use them to defeat him?

Her breath fanned his chin, warm and sweet, mingling with the scent of her body. Her agitation had brought a film of perspiration over her skin, and its odour was musky and sensual. The smock was loose and revealing, something casual, to be worn around the flat, and the baggy pants hinted at the swell of her hips and the long slender length of her legs. She knew Alain was looking at her, absorbing her body’s freedom, and after the enveloping garments worn by the women in his own country she must seem the epitome of liberated womanhood.

‘This has got to stop!’ he ordered vehemently, but his intention to push her away from him was foiled by Ashley slipping her arms around his neck. It brought her close against him, her forehead on a level with his lips, and she looked up at him through her lashes, her green eyes soft and appealing.

‘Alain,’ she breathed, and his control snapped. His hands at her waist were hard and ungentle, jerking her against him with urgent compulsion. His mouth too was hot and aggressive, searing her lips with a brutal tempestuous possession that had nothing of love in it.

‘Is this what you want, Ashley?’ he demanded, against her mouth, almost suffocating her with the burning heat of his breath. ‘Do you want to be treated the way my father’s ancestors treated their women? Without honour or respect?’ Yet, in spite of his anger, she sensed the desperation in his voice and the hungry passion beneath his cruel strength.

‘Is that what you want, Alain?’ she asked, turning his words back on him, as his teeth fastened on the tender lobe of her ear, and he bit it viciously. She winced, but she did not draw away, as she added unevenly: ‘Do you enjoy inflicting pain?’

‘Yes,’ he told her, in a raw anguished tone, and then again: ‘No! Damn you, no!’ as her hands turned his face to hers, and she put her mouth next to his. His lips parted almost involuntarily, and her mouth opened to accommodate his. She welcomed his intimate invasion, the sensuous brush of passion, that was so much more devastating than brute force. With a little moan of pleasure, that was by no means contrived, she moulded herself against him, and his hands probed beneath the smock to find the smooth skin of her back.

It was strange how time rolled back under the hungry pressure of his lips. Without her being aware of it, her response changed from the controlled reaction to a planned set of circumstances, to an eager and willing consummation of his possession. She pressed herself against him, uncaring when her fingernails raked the hair at the nape of his neck.

‘Ashley!’ Alain’s strangled voice came to her as if from a distance, and at first she didn’t want to pay any attention to it. But when he dragged his mouth from hers and lifted his head, she was forced to acknowledge that the situation was rapidly slipping from her grasp. With a little shiver she lowered her toes to the floor, and forced herself to look up at him questioningly as he strove for his own sanity. ‘Ashley—for God’s sake—–’

‘You wanted to touch me,’ she said simply, and his hands dropped abruptly to his sides.

‘You are a madness—and a temptation,’ he retorted, in a shaken tone. ‘Are you wearing anything under—under that outfit?’

‘Not much,’ she conceded huskily, realising she had little time left to make any headway. ‘Do you want to see?’

‘No!’ Alain turned aside from her, combing somewhat unsteady fingers through his thick dark hair. ‘I have to go. There—are things I have to do.’

‘Will I see you again?’ she enquired softly, and he gave her a brooding stare.

‘It is unlikely. I intend to return to Khadesh at the end of the week.’ He paused. ‘I shall be taking Hussein with me.’

It was a bitter blow, but not unexpected. Nevertheless, she still had one more card to play, a card which had only just occurred to her.