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Authors: Sara Craven

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BOOK: Desperate Measures
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  • Philippa surveyed it wryly. It really was enormous— far too big for single occupation—and, together with the armoire, it took up nearly all the available space.
  • Shrugging, she put her bag down in the corner and went across the landing to check on the other room. She pushed open the door and paused, her lips tightening. The single bed was stripped to the bare mattress.
  • And yet she had told Fabrice quite plainly to ask Madame to prepare both rooms. There could, of course, have been a simple breakdown in communication.
  • On the other hand, Fabrice, in spite of all his chivalrous protestations, could be trying to force some kind of showdown. To undermine her resistance by presenting her with a fait accompli. Well, he could just think again!
  • The drumming of the rain on the roof sounded very loud, suddenly, and very forlorn.
  • It occurred to her, not for the first time, that she had been stupidly reckless to come to such an isolated spot with a man about whom she knew so little. Her desperate need to escape from Paris, to salvage her pride by taking the initiative, by leaving Alain before he could tell her to go, had clouded her judgement badly.
  • The last thing in the world she wanted, she realised ruefully, was to spend even one night under the same
  • roof as Fabrice. She was grateful for his help, but that was as far as it went, or ever would go.
  • She sighed. She would have to offer Fabrice a meal, she supposed, and then she would ask him bluntly to go—to find himself a room for the night in Montascaux, even if she had to dip into her small hoard of money to pay for it.
  • She hoped, without much conviction, that he'd go quietly, without a scene. She'd promised nothing, of course, but by coming away with him like this she had placed herself in a hopelessly compromising position.
  • She heard the door downstairs close, and squared her shoulders. She would go down and face him, rather than let him come upstairs and find her, she decided without enthusiasm.
  • She took a deep breath and descended the stairs, mentally rehearsing what to say. He was standing with his back to her, shaking the water from his raincoat. Now that she was alone with him here, he seemed taller, broader—altogether more formidable in these cramped and homely surroundings, or was that simply a delusion produced by her private fears?
  • She swallowed. 'Fabrice ' Even in her own ears,
  • her voice sounded thin and strained. 'Fabrice, I've been thinking...'
  • The words broke off in her throat, as he turned without haste to face her. Her hand reached for the banister rail, clutched it until the knuckles turned white. The sound of the rain was extinguished by the terrified throbbing of her pulses, as she stared at him. Not a figment of her imagination, she thought wildly, but there standing in front of her, flesh, blood, bone and sinew. Dear God—Alain!
  • He said softly, unsmilingly, 'You have been thinking, madamel Well, I imagine you have plenty of food for thought.'
  • 'You!' Philippa's voice cracked. 'What are you doing here?'
  • 'Where else should a husband be but at his wife's side?' He draped the discarded raincoat over a chair, and took a step towards her.
  • Philippa recoiled. 'Don't come near me,' she said hoarsely. 'Where is Fabrice?'
  • Alain shrugged. 'On the first stage of his journey back to Paris, I presume. You find that a matter for regret, perhaps.' His lips twisted mockingly. 'I am sorry, ma femme. I shall have to make sure I provide— adequate consolation.'
  • The words seemed to hang in the air between them. Suddenly the thin wooden rail beneath her fingers seemed the only touch of stability in a reeling world.
  • She flung her head back. 'I don't need consoling. I want nothing from you, Alain, but my freedom. Our divorce can be as quick and painless as you wish. You've given my father back to me, and I won't ask for anything else, I swear. Just a clean break.'
  • 'How simple you make it sound,' he said softly. 'But perhaps I'm not quite so ready to give you up. You may want nothing more from me, but I want a great deal from you.'
  • 'You must be mad!' The beat of her heart was suddenly unsteady. 'What can I say to convince you that this—farce we've been playing is over? I've left you, Alain. I'm starting a new life. I—I don't know how you found me...'
  • 'Oh, that is quite simple,' he said coolly. 'Ever since that curious attempt at a robbery, I've been having you and your gallant rescuer watched.'
  • 'You've done what?' Her voice rose. 'Oh, I don't believe it!'
  • 'Why not? Did you really think I would take no steps to protect my interests—that I would just relinquish you?' His voice was sardonic. 'It has all been most instructive, believe me, especially my interview late last night with your supposed lover. You really must learn to be less trusting, ma cherie. A young man so easily bought is not worthy of you.'
  • 'Bought?' Her lips framed the word incredulously. 'I don't understand.'
  • 'That is obvious,' he said drily. 'I hope you did not care for him too much, Philippa. Not when he was being paid by my uncle to seduce you.'
  • She cried out, and sank down on the stairs. She said hoarsely, 'You're lying.'
  • 'If I am, then why isn't he here, fighting for you? Telling me to get to hell out of your life?' Alain sounded very tired suddenly. 'No, your account of the robbery aroused my suspicions. It was all—too convenient, too pat. So I had enquiries made, and I discovered that your Fabrice was being employed by Uncle Louis—was visiting him daily, presumably to report on his progress in your affections.'
  • 'I don't believe it!' Philippa beat one fist against another. 'Why should your uncle do such a thing? It makes no sense.'
  • 'To him, it makes a great deal of sense,' Alain said with a shrug. 'He wishes to see our marriage destroyed. It seems he has been telling everyone that my infidelities are making you wretched, that you are
  • near to breaking point. He speaks of you with concern and compassion—the innocent betrayed bride of his womanising nephew. He says that you are desolate, near to breaking point—that you would be totally justified if you left me. Then—voila—you run away, and my uncle has just the scandal he is hoping for. Once again he can attack, leaving my reputation in shreds, holding me up as morally unfit to be in charge of De Courcy International. And those who listened to him last time will listen again, this time, perhaps, with more attention.'
  • Philippa drew a harsh breath. 'No one—no one could be that devious. I won't believe a word of it.'
  • 'I thought you might say that.' Alain drew an envelope from his inside coat pocket. 'So I took the precaution of having your boyfriend make a sworn statement in writing about his part in the affair. He was completely frank. Do you want to read it?'
  • Philippa shuddered. 'No.'
  • 'Don't be too disillusioned, cherie. He seems to have genuinely enjoyed the pleasure of your company.' He paused. 'I hope you did not make his task too easy for him.' He smiled as he spoke, but the green eyes were emerald-hard.
  • Philippa bent her head. 'If you were having me watched, and you've read his statement, then you already know the answer to that.'
  • 'Nevertheless, I would like your personal reassurance.' His voice was implacable. 'Tell me, ma femme, did you, in fact, give this—Fabrice your body?'
  • 'No,' she said dully.
  • 'Ah, then this would have been your first time together. Ma pauvre petite, have I ruined your idyll?'
  • His tone mocked her. 'In that case, the least I can do, having deprived you of your lover, is to provide a replacement.'
  • 'What do you mean?' Philippa's mouth was suddenly dry.
  • 'I mean that I do not accept that our marriage is over. Au contraire, it is about to begin.' Alain gave the room a measuring look. 'This is not, perhaps, the place I would have chosen for our honeymoon, but it will serve.'
  • 'Honeymoon?' Philippa's voice rose in outrage. She got jerkily to her feet. 'What game are you playing now, Alain?'
  • 'No game at all. You are my wife, and while you remain so you will belong to no other man. It is time, I think, that I made that clear to you.'
  • 'And it's time I made something clear as well,' Philippa said furiously. 'I came here to start a new life for myself—to paint—to try and make a home for my father when he comes back from the States. There's no place for you here.'
  • 'Yet there was a place for Fabrice de Thiery,' he said silkily.
  • 'Not in the way that you think.' She glared at him. 'And who are you to play dog in the manger anyway, after the way you—you...' She stopped, and took a breath. 'I needed a car ride down here, and Fabrice was going to—keep house and model for me. That's all.'
  • 'Ah, no, ma belle. You are not that naive. And nor am I.'
  • 'Think what you like,' she told him defiantly, banishing the memory of her own misgivings to the back of her mind. 'But please don't judge me by your
  • own low standards. I don't want a lover. I came here to work. To re-start my life.'
  • 'And what about our life together?' His voice was quiet.
  • 'We don't have a life.' Philippa bit her lip. 'I'm not your wife, Alain. I never have been. The best thing we can do is let each other go. Then you can be free to marry your—your lady.'
  • 'It's good to know I have your permission,' Alain said slowly. 'But are you so sure she'll want to marry me? After all, she's now a wealthy widow.'
  • Philippa looked down at the floor, an unwelcome image of Marie-Laure locked in Alain's arms on that moonlit terrace looming uncomfortably large in her mind. 'That's entirely your own business,' she said in a low voice.
  • 'That is true,' he said. 'But you and I also have some business—some unfinished business—to discuss, ma femme.'
  • 'I can't think what,' she flung at him. 'I should have thought you'd be glad—grateful that I've taken myself out of your life. You can be happy now— there's nothing and no one to prevent you any longer. And your uncle won't dare make another scandal once you and the Baronne are safely married.'
  • Alain raised his eyebrows. 'You have it all worked out, it seems.'
  • 'I've had a lot of time to think about it—to consider the best thing to do.'
  • Alain gestured around him. 'And this is it?'
  • 'I think so.' She lifted her chin. 'It isn't your kind of environment, of course, but then you weren't invited to come here.'
  • 'I need no reminder of that,' Alain said with a touch of grimness. 'May I remind you of the terms of our original agreement?'
  • Philippa folded her arms defensively across her body. 'I'm not going to go back to Paris and just wait to be divorced,' she said. 'There's nothing to keep us together any more. Gavin is better now, and for that I—I'm grateful, and I always will be. I've done my best to play the part you wanted, and I'm sorry if you don't feel you've had your money's worth in return. Because that's all there is. Frankly, I can't take any more.'
  • 'I was not thinking in terms of value,' he said slowly. 'You seem to have forgotten that when I first proposed marriage to you, I told you that one day I would ask you to give me a child.'
  • The breath caught in her throat as she stared at him incredulously. 'No—no, I hadn't forgotten, but naturally, under the circumstances, that doesn't apply any more. You can't expect me...'
  • 'Why not?' His voice was gentle, but the green eyes were cool, unwavering.
  • She tried to laugh. 'Why, because you have a whole new life ahead of you. When you marry again, you can start a family.'
  • 'Perhaps the bride in question has other ideas,' Alain said drily. 'Henri was desperate for an heir all the time they were married, but he died childless in the end.'
  • So he wasn't blindly besotted after all, Philippa thought with a swift pang of desolation. He knew Marie-Laure for what she was, yet he wanted her just the same. She thrust the thought away.
  • 'That's something you'll need to discuss with her,' she said stiffly. 'It can't concern me.'
  • 'But it concerns you very deeply, ma chere.' Alain leaned against the kitchen table, very much at his ease, a faint smile playing about his lips. 'You speak as if our divorce and my remarriage was a certainty—a fait accompli. Yet it is nothing of the kind. Perhaps I am content with what I have, and do not wish to change. Have you thought of that?'
  • She said jerkily, 'But that can't be right. You can't want things to stay as they are—no one could. You must want to be happy—to have a real marriage with the woman you love.'
  • 'Of course,' he agreed. 'But if that is not possible, I would not be the first man to settle for second best.'
  • 'But perhaps I'm not prepared to settle for that.' Philippa gave him a stormy look. 'Maybe I don't want to be the meek little wife, dutifully turning a blind eye to her husband's liaisons. Have you thought of that?'
  • 'Meek,' Alain murmured, 'is hardly a word to describe you, mon amour'
  • 'I'm glad you appreciate that,' she said. 'And I'm certainly not going to allow myself to be—used as a— vehicle for childbearing ...'
  • 'How mechanical you make it sound!' He had the audacity to laugh out loud.
  • 'Obscene is the word I would use.' Her voice shook. 'How many times must I say it? I've left you, Alain. I should never have agreed to this marriage in the first place. You must see what a terrible mistake it's been.'
  • 'Oh, yes.' He nodded. 'But it is a mistake we must continue to endure for a while.' He paused. 'At least until I have my son.' The green eyes slid slowly,
  • appraisingly down her body and she felt every inch of skin warm under his glance. 'Would it really be such a hardship to give him life?'
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