The Frenchman's Captive Wife. Chantelle Shaw
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With a sigh she turned to find Luc watching Jean-Claude. He seemed utterly absorbed, as though he could not drag his gaze from his son, but he must have felt her scrutiny and she blushed as he lifted his head and subjected her to a hard stare. Pride dictated that she should turn away but she was trapped by the brooding sensuality that emanated from him, her eyes focused on his mouth, remembering the taste of him, the feel of his lips on hers. Suddenly she was too hot. The air inside the car seemed stifling despite the air-conditioning, and tiny beads of sweat formed above her top lip. She wanted to wipe them away but her hands were trembling and she shoved them into her lap, her tongue darting out to capture the salty pearls on its tip.
Luc’s eyes narrowed as he watched the nervous foray of her tongue and she knew with humiliating certainty that he was aware of her thoughts. What was the matter with her? she asked herself impatiently. He despised her, his contempt clearly visible in the cool grey gaze that speared her. He only tolerated her presence for the sake of his son so why was she consumed with this wild longing to feel his mouth on hers? She hated him, her mind totally rejected his ruthless power, but it seemed that her body had a will of its own and it recognised its master.
With a barely suppressed gasp she tore her gaze from his, biting down hard on her lip until she tasted blood. Luc was a cheat and a liar and he had broken her heart. For the sake of her self-preservation it was crucial that she remembered that fact.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she demanded, seeking refuge in her anger. ‘You lost the right to look at me like you own me when you increased your personal assistant’s duties.’
‘You’re still blinded by your ridiculous insecurities, I see,’ Luc murmured coolly, and her cheeks flooded with colour as his jibe hit home. She had always been so unsure of herself, especially where he was concerned, and she hated the fact that he had been aware of her vulnerability.
With her head turned determinedly away from him, Luc was left with the view of Emily’s taut shoulders and his eyes rested on the curve of her cheek and one small, pink ear, her long, dangly earring emphasising the slender column of her neck. She looked heartbreakingly young with her glorious chestnut hair caught up on top of her head. A few tendrils had escaped to curl around her cheek and he fought the urge to reach across and brush them back behind her ear, to cup her chin in his hand and turn her face to his.
What was he thinking? he berated himself furiously. This woman, his wife, had walked out on him without a backward glance. Not only that, but she had disappeared so conclusively that gossip and speculation among London’s society had been rife. He had been terrified for her safety, not knowing if she was alive or dead, but for all those long months she had been living quite comfortable in her Spanish hide-away.
Her accusation that he hadn’t wanted their child was ridiculous. His longing for their baby had shaken him with its intensity, but alongside hope had been fear. His secret terror that history would repeat itself had made him appear distant and his perceived disinterest had cost him dear.
He inhaled sharply and forced himself to drop his gaze to the baby who was sitting quietly in his child seat. Jean-Claude, his son. It still seemed incredible that this beautiful, wide-eyed baby was his own flesh and blood, yet there was no mistaking the likeness between them and his heart clenched in primitive recognition. Wonderingly he touched the baby’s satiny curls, which were as black as his own hair, and when Jean-Claude lifted his long lashes to survey him solemnly with huge, grey eyes, it was like looking into a mirror. His son, the child he’d feared he would never see. He loved him instantly, a huge wave of adoration sweeping through him, and he vowed that nothing would ever separate him from his child again.
‘He looks like you,’ Emily said grudgingly as she watched Jean-Claude smile at his father. From the moment her son had first opened his eyes and focused on her, she’d been taken aback by his likeness to Luc. It was as if fate itself was on Luc’s side, determined that he would not be forgotten, but seeing them together brought home to her that her baby was all Vaillon, truly his father’s son.
Jean-Claude regarded the stranger solemnly. At almost a year old, he knew his own mind, knew whom he liked and whom he didn’t, and Emily felt a sharp stab of jealousy when he stretched out his chubby arms to Luc. Would all Vaillon men betray her? she wondered bitterly. And then dismissed the shabby thought. She wanted Jean-Claude to have a good relationship with his father and incredibly it now seemed that Luc shared that desire. Perhaps, once he had calmed down, she could broach the idea of divorce once more. She was certain he did not really want her as his wife and if she assured him of her willingness to share custody of Jean-Claude, their parting could at least be amicable.
‘Jean-Claude and I are booked on an evening flight to London,’ she murmured. ‘It seems silly to waste the tickets but I’ll meet you as soon as possible, tomorrow if you insist,’ she added when Luc made no reply and simply surveyed her with his cool grey stare.
‘I’m not taking him to London,’ he replied at last, and she stared at him in confusion.
‘Then where are you going?’ She had hated Luc’s Chelsea penthouse, which had all the appeal of a dentist’s waiting room and had never felt like her home, but Luc had seemed perfectly at ease there and she assumed it was still his London base.
‘To France, of course. Jean-Claude is a Vaillon, my son and heir. Naturally he will be brought up in my homeland,’ he informed her, his brows raised in surprise that there could be any doubt.
‘Naturally,’ Emily snapped sarcastically, ‘but what about my homeland? Hasn’t it occurred to you that I’d like to bring him up in England?
‘But you weren’t, were you?’ he pointed out silkily. ‘For some peculiar reason you decided that an artists’ commune in the middle of the Spanish wilderness was the best place for our son to live. But no longer. From now on Jean-Claude will enjoy all the benefits of his heritage at my château in the Loire Valley. The Vaillons are an old French family. Surely you would not want to deprive him of his birthright?’
‘I didn’t even know you owned a château. Something else you failed to mention. But what of Jean-Claude’s British heritage?’ Emily argued, panic assailing her once more at Luc’s resolute expression. ‘The Dyers are an old family, too. Heston Grange was their ancestral seat for over four hundred years, until you bought it,’ she finished bleakly. ‘Tell me,’ she demanded with a hollow laugh, ‘did you know from the beginning that my parents hoped you would marry one of their daughters so that the Dyers would retain some link with the family’s heritage? Did they offer you Heston at a fraction of its value as long as you agreed to marry one of us? And if that’s true, Luc, why on earth did you pick me? I was the plain one, the drab Dyer, more at home with horses than people. My sisters are beautiful, clever and sophisticated, any one of them would have made you a far more suitable wife, but I suppose you thought I would be the easiest to manipulate, the one least likely to make a fuss when you resumed your relationship with your mistress.’
At twenty she had been shy and severely lacking in confidence, unable to disguise her massive crush on the handsome, enigmatic Frenchman who had turned all their lives upside down, but to him she must have seemed a pushover. She had been a pawn in a far more serious game.
‘You always did seriously undervalue yourself,’ Luc murmured dryly, as his eyes skimmed her flushed face and huge navy blue eyes. ‘I admit there were a number of reasons why you were suitable…’
‘All to do with money and prestige, and none to do with love,’ Emily finished for him. She didn’t want to hear every cold, calculated detail of why he had decided to marry her. She already knew it was because her parents had offered him Heston Grange at a massively reduced price if he married one of the Dyer daughters, thereby retaining the family’s link with their heritage. It was archaic, she thought bitterly. She felt like a brood mare, sold off with a suitable dowry, but Luc hadn’t even wanted her for her childbearing ability. He hadn’t wanted children at all, which made his sudden determination to gain custody of their son all the more shocking.
‘Jean-Claude is a Vaillon,’ Luc repeated stubbornly, ‘and from now on the Château Montiard will be his home, not