Blackmailed by the Rich Man: In the Millionaire's Possession / Blackmailed Into Marriage / Bedded by Blackmail. Julia James
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knows?’ He shrugged. ‘But, anyway, let us drink to Monteagle—and its future.’
‘Actually,’ Helen began, ‘I’ve been giving that some thought and—’
He lifted a silencing hand. ‘Later, cherie,’ he told her softly. ‘You must learn how the game is played. And also accept that a man rarely grants favours on an empty stomach,’ he added drily.
‘But it’s not a game,’ she protested. ‘Not to me.’
‘Quand même,’ he said. ‘We will eat first.’
His rules, Helen thought resentfully, transferring her attention back to the list of food. A man who likes his own way. And just how far is he prepared to go in order to achieve it? she wondered, and shivered slightly.
But in the meantime she might as well enjoy the food, as this would probably be her first and last visit. She chose potted shrimps for her first course, following them with a rack of lamb, roasted pink, with grilled vegetables.
Marc ordered tournedos of beef, with foie gras and dark-gilled mushrooms, served with a Madeira sauce.
The Burgundy he picked to accompany the meal seemed to caress her throat like velvet.
‘Will you tell me something?’ Helen said, once they’d been served and the waiters had departed.
‘If I can.’
‘Why did the committee bother to hear me if they meant to turn me down?’
‘We interview every applicant, or those that represent them. Mainly we concentrate on projects that will revive the tourist industry in former trouble spots, or attract it to areas entirely off the beaten track.’ He shrugged. ‘Your application was thought to be interesting, but not particularly deserving. Unluckily for you, cherie, you do not have to walk ten miles to find water each day, and your home is lit by the flick of a switch,’ he added drily.
‘Only,’ she said, ‘if I can afford to pay the bill.’
They ate in silence for a moment or two, and she was just nerving herself to mention the bed and breakfast idea when he said, ‘Hélène—in an ideal world, what would you wish for Monteagle?’
‘That’s simple. I’d like it to be my home again, but with the money to maintain it properly, of course.’ She sighed. ‘No tour parties, no cream teas. Just peace, comfort and privacy. The way it once was. And the way a home should be, don’t you think?’
‘I would not know,’ he told her drily. ‘I have an apartment in Paris and a hotel suite in London. When I was a child my father never settled in any place for very long,’ he added with a faint shrug. ‘Only when he retired did he find somewhere—a vineyard in Burgundy with a small dilapidated château, close to the village where he was born. He planned to live there and make wine, but he died very suddenly before it was even habitable.’
‘What happened to it?’ she asked.
‘I sold it to an English family in search of la vie douce.’ He smiled faintly. ‘Only God knows if they ever found it.’
‘You weren’t tempted to live there yourself?’
‘And tend my vines in the sun?’ He shook his head. ‘I have factories to produce, and a world to travel in order to sell them.’
As he spoke he looked past her, and Helen saw him stiffen slightly, the dark brows snapping together. ‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘C’est complet. The last table is now occupied—and by people you know, ma belle.’
She said, bewildered, ‘People…?’ And then stopped, staring at him, appalled.
‘Oh, God,’ she said unevenly. ‘It’s Nigel, isn’t it? And his new lady?’
‘And an older couple—ses parents, sans doute,’ Marc drawled. Then, as Helen began to push her plate away, he reached across the table and captured her hands in his, holding them firmly. ‘Doucement, cherie,’ he ordered softly. ‘You are going nowhere.’
‘But I must,’ she whispered frantically. ‘I can’t stay here and see them together. I can’t…’
‘But you do not have to,’ he said. ‘It is all quite simple. You just look at me instead.’ He lifted her hands to his lips, brushing light kisses across her white knuckles, nibbling gently at the tips of her trembling fingers, while she sat as if mesmerised allowing it to happen.
His eyes smiled into hers. ‘Think, Hélène,’ he urged quietly. ‘If you run away, then they will know they have the power to make you suffer—and so they win. Better that you remain here—with me—and we finish our meal, hein?’
He released her hands and refilled her glass, wincing slightly as she took an unguarded panicky gulp of the precious wine.
She said huskily, ‘Have they seen me?’
‘I notice a certain chagrin, yes.’ His mouth twisted. ‘La mère, I think, wishes to go, but her husband—c’est un homme inflexible, and he will get his way.’
‘And Nigel?’ She swallowed. ‘How—how does he look?’
He shrugged. ‘He seems to have survived his wetting in the lake.’
‘Oh, God,’ she said miserably. ‘He’ll never forgive me for that.’
‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But that can no longer be allowed to matter to you.’ He paused to let that sink in, then nodded at her plate. ‘Now eat, ma mie, and take your time. After all, we still have the dessert to come. The apricot soufflés, I think, which have to be cooked to order, and will prove, therefore, that we are in no particular hurry.’
He cut off a sliver of beef and proffered it to her on his fork. ‘In the meantime, try this, and—smile at me a little.’
‘It’s all right for you.’ Unwillingly she did as she was told. The fact that he was talking sense made his advice no more palatable. ‘You’re not the one whose heart is being broken.’
He gave her a sardonic look. ‘And nor are you, cherie, although you may not believe it at this moment.’
‘How can you say that? How can someone like you possibly understand?’ Helen asked passionately.
His brows lifted. ‘You speak as if I was something less than human. Yet, je t’assure, I share all the normal emotions.’ He smiled at her coolly. ‘You wish me to demonstrate?’
‘No!’ Her face warmed. ‘I meant that you’ve obviously never loved someone all your life as I’ve loved Nigel.’ She shook her head. ‘Why, I’ve never even looked at another man.’
‘Perhaps because you have never had the chance to do so,’ he said, unmoved. ‘And your life is far from over. Now, eat something, ma belle, before your lack of appetite is noticed.’
Helen shot him a mutinous look from under her lashes, then reluctantly complied.
As they ate, Marc chatted to her lightly, asking mainly questions about the history of Monteagle, encouraging her to expand her monosyllabic replies into real animation as she warmed to her subject.
Making it almost possible, she realised with a sense of shock, for her to believe that she was there with him because she wished it, and not as a matter of expedience.
But she had to convince him of her enthusiasm, and her will to work, she thought, if she was to persuade him to lend her the money for the guest house scheme.
If only Nigel hadn’t been there she’d have been able to outline her plan by now—have a proper business discussion, she thought with vexation. As it was, her companion had taken advantage of the delay while they waited for the soufflés, and taken her hand again, and was now playing