Rosalie Ash - Original Sin

His words hung between them, like a teasing challenge. Had he intended any double meaning?

‘Yes...’ If her cheeks had been hot before, now she felt flames consuming her.

The night air was warm and scented, but it cooled her burning cheeks during the drive back in the open car.

‘You will move into a room nearer to mine tonight.’

Christian’s cool, flat announcement made her jerk her head round in alarm. They’d crunched to a halt in the pebbled courtyard, stepped out of the Mercedes, and were standing in the lamplit darkness.

‘Whatever for?’

‘For your safety, Emily.’

‘Oh...!’ Thrown into confusion, she searched her shattered thoughts. ‘You think Greg Vernon might come creeping back to finish what he tried to start?’ She was half joking, but somehow the words came out with a more serious ring than she’d intended.

‘It is possible.’ Christian’s voice was hard as steel.

‘Oh, I really don’t think he was serious ...’ She stopped, suddenly feeling cold inside.

She stared up at the dark bulk of the building. A faint frisson of apprehension slithered down her spine. The Chteau de Mordin was an old, two-storeyed mansion built around three sides of a wide shingled courtyard. Its walls—what could be seen of them beneath dense green creeper, and between endless rows of tall, arched windows with wooden shutters—were smooth-rendered and white-washed. The shrill of the cicadas was the only sound.

For her own peace of mind she’d played down the whole Greg Vernon episode. Now, standing here in the eerie silence of the night, she felt her imagination fire into overdrive. An owl hooted from the vicinity of one of the massive cedars nearby and she jumped involuntarily.

Had Greg Vernon been seriously about to molest her? If she hadn’t turned her hand to her bit of surprise judo, if Christian hadn’t appeared when he did, would things have got unpleasantly or even dangerously out of control...?

At the time she’d put the Englishman down as a relatively harmless flirt, with delusions about his own sex appeal. Now, delayed reaction was setting in.

Christian had turned to gaze around the courtyard. He stood with his back to her, his hands thrust into his jacket pockets, and she stared at him unwillingly. Tall, over six feet, and broad-shouldered, he had the smooth-muscled physique of an athlete. In profile his features had a brooding, hooded power. The trouble was, Emily acknowledged ruefully, that Christian Malraux exuded far greater danger than Greg Vernon ever could...

‘I’ll be fine, honestly,’ she countered hurriedly. ‘I’ll lock my door. Don’t worry...’

‘You will move across to the room next to mine. Tonight.’ Christian turned to gaze down at her, his expression harder. ‘I have no wish to lie awake half the night worried that rape and pillage may be taking place across there.’

‘For heavens’ sake, there’s no need for any fuss. I’ll be perfectly safe! And I can take care of myself!’

‘You will do as I say.’ The deep voice held an implacable note, raising her hackles. Christian Malraux could be charming when he wished, but he had a nasty tyrannical streak, Emily decided crossly. She recalled his icy dismissal of Greg Vernon. Here was a man used to being obeyed.

‘I’d rather stay where I am now!’

‘Indeed?’ One dark eyebrow angled scathingly as he studied her mutinous face. ‘Perhaps I misjudged the situation? Perhaps, if I had not intervened, the outcome would have been very different?’

She stared at him in silence.

‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘Things are not always what they appear,’ he murmured thoughtfully. ‘Is it possible perhaps that you were enjoying your rough session with Greg Vernon, Emily? And my appearance spoiled things for you?’

Anger gripped her. ‘If you mean what I think you mean, that’s a...a disgusting suggestion!’

‘Is it?’ Christian sounded unperturbed by her pent-up outrage. ‘In that case, you will be happier sleeping in another room. Come, we’ll fetch your things.’

There was little option, Emily decided furiously, but to follow orders, for the time being. And humouring her new boss seemed diplomatic, when she’d controlled her temper enough to take a calm view of the situation.

‘Is the chteau always this deserted?’ In a valiant effort to somehow retrieve the deteriorating atmosphere between them, Emily’s query was made with elaborate politeness as they returned across the shadowy courtyard with her repacked cases. ‘It gives me the distinct impression that it was built to house more than two people!’

She’d endured his patronising supervision while she collected her belongings. Now she felt a fresh stab of annoyance at his humourless smile.

‘Before my aunt died, the place was usually packed with staff, guests, weekend parties. I imagine that social life tailed off these last few years. The village “fte champtre ” is traditionally celebrated here. There is a floodlit grand bal here in two weeks’ time. That should bring a little more life to the place...depending on the numbers attending.’

There was that dry cynicism again in his voice, which seemed to intrude whenever the chteau was mentioned...

‘But the business side of things—surely there are more live-in staff than your housekeeper, Lisette Duvert, and the occasional casual odd-job man like Greg Vernon?’

‘This is as my uncle left it. I’ve been working on building up the sales side, but I haven’t been able to give the place my undivided attention. Too many loose ends from my former profession. And I have not yet fully decided on the future of the Chteau de Mordin.’

Emily stopped in the doorway of the bedroom he’d shown her into, staring up at him in surprise. ‘You mean you might sell?’

He shrugged. ‘It’s possible. I have not decided. Six years ago, I had no wish to vegetate in provincial France in the family business. I am not sure if anything has really changed on that score.’

For some reason, she felt shocked. She took care not to show it. She hardly knew this man. It wasn’t for her to show surprise at his lack of enthusiasm for what seemed to her an idyllic goldmine of a place...

‘This place has enormous potential,’ she began idly. ‘I thought that the moment I saw it...’

‘Indeed? I’d be interested to hear your views on it.’ His tone was wry, far from sincere, she thought resentfully.

‘Sure. Any time.’ Suddenly overwhelmingly tired, she pressed a hand to her forehead, shivering.

‘Are you all right, Emily?’ Behind the implacable shutters of his expression, the smoky blue gaze held a hint of concern.

‘I’m fine. It’s been a long day...’

This was true. She’d been up with the lark at her home in Gloucestershire, flown from Birmingham to Bordeaux, then driven up here on congested French roads in the hectic July holiday traffic. The sight of the big, square bedroom just along the landing from Christian’s suite, freshly welcoming in shades of blue and gold, with a door ajar into a matching shower-room, was enticing.

Emily suddenly realised that this window looked straight across the courtyard into the window of the bedroom she’d been given by Lisette. No wonder Christian had detected trouble and arrived on the scene when he had—once Greg Vernon had snapped on the light, the scenario in the bedroom would have been floodlit for all to see...

‘You’ve gone very pale.’

‘I think it’s delayed reaction to that ridiculous episode earlier...’ The brief smile she gave him was tight with suppressed emotion. It had only just sunk in how close she might have come to a vicious assault earlier in her room. And this arrogant individual had the nerve to suggest she’d been enjoying herself...