Эбби Грин – Summer Sins: Bedded, or Wedded? / Willingly Bedded, Forcibly Wedded / The Mediterranean Billionaire's Blackmail Bargain (страница 22)

He blocked it out. It didn’t matter what had happened between them—all that mattered was that Lissa was not bound to his brother anymore, and was free to come away with him instead. After all, hadn’t Armand asked him not to interfere in his affairs of the heart? And hadn’t he learned—almost at a cost that chilled him to contemplate—that it would have been wiser by far to have done just that? Instead he had blundered in, intent on doing his best for his brother, guarding him from making a mistake that would cost him dear. No, this time around he would do nothing. Armand’s life was his own—whatever had happened between him and Lissa was not his concern. All that was his concern was that the woman he had so catastrophically desired when she was his brother’s intended wife had now, wonderfully, been set free for him to claim.

Had Lissa been in love with Armand? No, that was impossible. There was not the slightest vestige of a broken heart, or any such thing. If he had not known what Armand had been to her, he might never have guessed at the recent presence in her life of any other man.

For a brief moment a flicker of, not unease, but perhaps uncertainty glimmered in his mind. He blocked it out. Appearances had been deceptive when it came to Lissa—none knew that better than he. His first sight of her had made him think her a cheap putain. How wrong he had been. It had been a mask, that cheap, tacky appearance—a costume necessary for her job. And though he naturally would have preferred that she had never worked at the casino, that was all over now anyway. Besides, she had been prepared to lose her job rather than compromise herself morally. So that, again, was another mark in her favour.

And she had turned him down because of her commitment to Armand.

That was what had convinced him about her. She had resisted him because of her brother.

Memory flickered in his mind again.

Someone very important to me …

That was how Lissa had described Armand to him—not knowing that she was talking about his own brother.

Was Armand still important to her?

No—he could not be. Certainly not emotionally—he had established that already, and her very presence in his bed confirmed it. Financially, then? Perhaps—he had to consider the possibility. Seeing inside the grim place she lived had brought home even more forcibly just how impoverished her life was. He could understand Armand, with his wealth and social position, being a temptation to her. And while—as was obvious—she had not loved Armand as a wife should love her husband, still that did not mean she had not held him in regard. Certainly enough to turn down another man. Even when she had responded to his desire for her she had still said no.

Besides, Armand’s e-mail had said he hadn’t yet proposed to her. She might not even have realised he was in love with her, wanted to marry her—yet she had still turned him down that night because of Armand’s presence in her life.

Whatever had changed Armand’s mind about her—or even hers about him—there was only one thing of importance now. Whatever Armand might have wanted—might still want—it was too late.

She is with me—that is all I care about. She is free to come to me. I have claimed her, and she is mine.

He would think no more than that.

‘Xavier, no! I can’t accept—I really can’t.’

For answer he waved an impatient hand. ‘I insist,’ he said.

Her mouth looked mutinous for a moment. ‘I won’t let you buy me clothes.’

Xavier took her hands in the middle of the formidably chic salon of one of the top French couture houses, where he had taken her after breakfast the morning they were due to leave Paris.

‘Do it for me, cherie. To keep me happy. I want to see your beauty set off to perfection.’

She bit her lip. ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘It isn’t right.’

He gave a Gallic shrug. ‘Then why not regard them as a loan—nothing more—as you did the dress at the hotel?’

She frowned a moment. ‘What did you do with it, anyway? That dress?’

He shrugged again. ‘I believe I gave it to the maid. She was very grateful.’

Lissa’s eyes widened. ‘That was very generous—it cost a fortune. But not—’ she grimaced, looking about her in this bastion of high fashion ‘—as much as anything here will cost.’ She looked at him straight. ‘Xavier, it’s not just that I can’t accept you buying clothes for me, but it’s because I don’t want you spending your salary like this. I’m not sure how senior you are at XeL, but even so—’

There was the very slightest cough from the stick-thin, scarily chic vendeuse, hovering at a discreet distance. At least, it might have been a cough, or possibly more like a smothered choke. It certainly drew a forbidding glance from Xavier. Then he looked back at Lissa.

‘Let’s just say I buy clothes here at cost.’ He paused minutely. ‘XeL has a cross-holding with this particular design house which allows that. I get a discount.’

Lissa looked at him suspiciously. ‘How much of a discount?’

‘A substantial one,’ he answered smoothly.

It seemed to do the trick, and she gave in, contenting herself with merely stipulating that she would let him buy her—loan her—no more than three garments. As she selected them and went to try them on Xavier pondered whether to tell her that not only was XeL a co-owner of this couturier, but that his salary was that of chief executive and majority shareholder.

He decided against it. She had shown little interest in his work, or XeL—her initial description of XeL as a posh luggage company still rankled slightly—and so far as he was concerned that was all to the good. But he still wanted to see her in decent clothes.

Even though they would be for his eyes only. Where he was taking her would not be in the public eye.

Was it deliberate? Keeping her away from the world he moved in? It could well be, he acknowledged. Was it the last streak of caution or suspicion in his ultra-rational French soul? Not letting her see just how glittering his lifestyle could be? Or was it that he wanted her attention exclusively on himself—and his on her? That was more plausible.

Or was it even, he mused, that Lissa Stephens did not seem to be a woman impressed by displays of wealth? She really had seemed averse to his buying that dress for her in London, and now her objections here, where he’d actually had to trot out some rigmarole about getting a discount—clearly to the amusement of the vendeuse, who knew exactly who he was, of course, and had all but choked when Lissa had worried about whether he could afford such largesse.

Speaking of which …

A few short instructions to the vendeuse sorted the matter. Lissa might think she was only setting out with three paltry outfits, but Xavier had other plans. Now that the vendeuse had her measurements, she could easily provide the rest of her wardrobe. True, where they was going she would not require a large range of formal attire, but she would still need a lot more than the three outfits she was letting him buy. Satisfied, he then dedicated his attention to viewing the first outfit Lissa had emerged to model for him.

Half an hour later everything was complete. Lissa was wearing not the chainstore skirt and blouse she had arrived in, but an impeccably cut dress and jacket that finally did justice to her beauty.

Tucking Lissa’s hand proprietarily into his arm, leaving the salon staff to load the boot of his car waiting outside, he made his exit. The airport was their next stop, and then Nice. But not to the fleshpots of the Côte d’Azur. To somewhere far more private—where he and Lissa could be quite alone together.

Xavier lounged back in a padded chair on the small stone terrace, and let himself be diverted from the market report he was skimming through more out of a sense of duty than any real interest. Though he had, perforce, brought work with him, it was not holding his attention.

But then, nothing during the last two weeks had held his attention—except Lissa.

She fitted in perfectly here. What doubts he might have had had been dispelled the moment he’d helped her into the launch waiting for them at the marina after their flight from Paris had landed at Nice.

‘Where are we going?’ she’d asked, eyes wide.

‘I have a villa,’ he’d told her. ‘But it is not on the mainland. Have you heard of the Îles de Lérins?’

She’d shaken her head.

‘They are a short distance from the coast, near Cannes. In the high season the two main ones, the Île St Honorat and the Île Ste Marguerite, are popular for daytrippers, but this early in the year less so. Besides, my villa is on the smallest of the islands, Île Ste Marie—barely more than an islet.’ He’d smiled down into her eyes. ‘I hope you will like it.’

She had loved it.

As she had exclaimed with pleasure at the simple stone-built villa, hidden beneath fragrant pine trees on a secluded promontory of the tiny island, facing the setting sun, Xavier had felt a last knot inside him dissolve. He had bought this place on impulse, several years ago. He already owned an apartment in Monte Carlo, but that was for entertaining only—for occasions when he had to be on show as the head of XeL, at fashionable events such as the Monaco Grand Prix. This small villa could not have been more of a contrast from the modern, opulent duplex in Monte Carlo, with its panoramic views over the harbour. Though he seldom had time to come here, whenever he did he always wished he could stay longer. Though only ten minutes by fast launch from the mainland, it was a world away on these unspoilt, rural islands.