PENNY JORDAN - Loves Choices

After dinner the girls were allowed a free period when they could chat, but Hope found herself strangely reluctant to announce her departure. She was intelligent enough to know how much some of the other girls pitied her, and she had no wish to let them know that after ten years her father was not coming to collect her himself, but had sent someone else.

Daddy was probably too busy, she told herself loyally.

Her father had many business interests, but the most important was his small share in Montrachet’s, the worldwide merchant bankers, whose headquarters were in Paris. Her father had often written to her about the Montrachet family; their wealth and their pride, and once again she shivered, dreading facing the outside world. How contrary she was. Only this morning she had been longing to escape the convent and now … now she was hanging back nervously, confused and alarmed by her own reactions.

It wasn’t until after breakfast that the Reverend Mother sent for Hope. Breakfast was eaten early at the convent, although this morning Hope hadn’t been able to touch hers, and she had had nothing to do for several hours afterwards, other than walk in the gardens, trying to suppress her nervousness. No doubt the Comte, who would probably be staying in Seville, the nearest town to the convent, would have breakfasted at leisure, perhaps in his room, unaware and uncaring of her growing tension. For some reason she didn’t like the Comte, which was surely ridiculous as she hadn’t met him. Deep down inside her Hope acknowledged that her resentment probably sprang from the fact that she would have preferred her father to come for her, and that she was transferring her resentment, because he had not, from her father to the Comte—but knowing this still did not change her feelings.

She was walking slowly through the gardens for the third time when Sister Teresa came hurrying towards her, breathless and hot, her brown eyes sparkling with excitement.

‘Hope, mon petit … the Reverend Mother wishes to see you.’ Sister Teresa was the youngest and friendliest of the Sisters. She taught French and often lapsed into this language, forgetting the rules. Today, by rights, was Italian day, but Hope answered her in French automatically, aware that her cheeks were suddenly burning with a colour that had nothing to do with the heat of the sun, as she followed Sister Teresa back to the cloisters.

As before, she paused and knocked outside the Reverend Mother’s door, catching the soft murmur of the Reverend Mother’s voice, and the deeper, masculine tones of her companion. When she entered the room the Reverend Mother smiled reassuringly at her. ‘Ah, Hope, my child, let me introduce you to Monsieur le Comte, who has come on behalf of your papa.’

Stubbornly, Hope refused to look in the direction of the Comte until the last moment, her eyes widening in stunned astonishment when she finally did so. This man was not at all as she had imagined a friend of her father’s to be. For one thing, he was so much younger. Thirty, or thirty-five at the most; considerably older than her, but far, far younger than her father, and for another …

Feeling like someone who has suddenly been deprived of breath, Hope forced herself to glance a second time into the face of the man watching her. Was it because she was used to seeing only softer female features that the harsh masculinity of high, sharply defined cheekbones and a dark, taut jaw had such an impact on her?

Hope’s eyes returned almost dazedly to the angles and planes of a face so totally male that she felt the shock waves of seeing it reverberating strongly through her. Green eyes, dangerous, predatory eyes, half concealed by thick black lashes, studied her coolly for several achingly long seconds, before subjecting her to an assessingly keen stare, holding her gaze deliberately until Hope felt she was drowning in emerald seas.

Tearing her gaze from the Comte’s eyes, Hope made an effort to study him as objectively as he had done her, her cheeks still hot with colour from the knowledge that he had deliberately and quite cynically stripped her of every article of clothing when he studied her—and in the Reverend Mother’s presence! She could not match his savoir-faire, but she did make a valiant attempt to study the sharply defined bone-structure of his face, wondering why it should be vaguely familiar and yet so different from what she had imagined. His mouth curled sardonically as though he was aware of her mental rejection of him, his thick, black hair brushing the collar of his shirt as he lazily flicked back his cuff to study a pale gold watch.

Taking the hint, the Reverend Mother came forward, kissing Hope gently on each cheek. ‘Remember, my dear, we are always here if you want us.’ She spoke in Italian and Hope responded in the same language, startled when the tall, dark man at her side drawled cynically in perfect Italian:

‘We must hope that life treats her too kindly for her to need a refuge, Reverend Mother,’ and then he was opening the door, one dark, long-fingered hand on Hope’s shoulder, her fragile bones feeling as though they were burning beneath his touch as he pushed her gently through the open door.

Outside in the front courtyard of the convent, a long, squat car glinted darkly in the sunlight, a fitting means of transport for this dark, almost menacing man, Hope thought, shivering a little as she recognised instinctively the power and threat of two such masculine objects.

Her case was placed in the boot, and the passenger door opened for her, dark eyebrows rising in a sardonic appraisal which hinted that he was not entirely surprised as he drawled, ‘Surely you have something else to wear? Or does the good Reverend Mother seek to remind me of what you are?’

Not entirely understanding the reason for his comment, Hope told him coolly that she had no other clothes.

‘None? Your father is not a poor man.’

‘My father … My father is not a wasteful man,’ she managed primly at last, trying not to notice the way in which the fine fabric of his dark pants stretched over his thighs as he slid into the driving seat, and her hands folded tensely in her lap.

‘You think it wasteful, to spend money on clothes? But you cannot spend the rest of your life in garments which, rather than reinforcing your schoolgirl status, draw attention to the fact that it is past time for you to change them for something a little more … womanly.’ His eyes rested meaningfully on the taut fabric stretching across her breasts and Hope blushed fiery red, hating the way he was looking at her, and yet curiously excited in some strange way.

‘You must fasten your seat-belt,’ the Comte told her coolly. ‘Like this.’ He reached across her, the dark fabric of his suited arm brushing the fullness on which his eyes had so recently rested. Something like an electric current shot through Hope making her stiffen automatically, shrinking into her seat as he secured the belt around her, apparently unaware of the effect of their momentary physical contact.

Having fastened his own belt, he started the car, the powerful roar of the engine drowning out the hurried thud of Hope’s heartbeat as she tried not to give in to the desolation gripping her as the car swept along the drive and out of the convent gates.

‘I cannot drive you all the way to France wearing those garments,’ the Comte told her when they had gone several miles. ‘I have no wish to be arrested for attempting to kidnap a child.’

‘I expect my father has forgotten that I have grown,’ Hope offered unhappily, feeling that some explanation was needed. ‘I haven’t required any other clothes as …’

‘As your father has never permitted you to leave the convent,’ her companion finished for her. ‘Yes, I am aware of that.’ His attention momentarily diverted from the road to her, and Hope felt herself flushing again under his thoughtful scrutiny. ‘However, you have left it now, and your father’s past deficiencies will soon be remedied.’