‘What do you mean? He’s far too young. He couldn’t possibly understand.’
‘You are the one who must understand,’ he said, and his voice chilled her to the bone. ‘Thomas is my son, madame, and I want him. And this English estate and its money, and the title, can all go to hell. Because the lying stops now.’
The blue eyes burned into her. ‘Our child will stay here, Alys. With me. Where he belongs.’
There was a stunned silence, then she said hoarsely, ‘No, Remy. You don’t mean that. You—you can’t…’
‘And who will stop me?’
‘I shall,’ she said. ‘And Lady Marchington. Do you really think she’ll let her grandchild go? She’ll fight you every step of the way—and she can afford it, even if it goes to court. Because that’s what it will mean. Down to the wire.’
He looked at her scornfully. ‘You think I cannot match her? You are wrong, Alys. My mother was her father’s only child, and he was a very rich man. Through her, his money has now come to me. I work in medicine because I wish, not because I must.
‘But it will never come to court,’ he added. ‘The simplest DNA test will prove my son’s paternity. This lady will not proceed, because she will not wish the truth to be known. And nor, I think, will you.’
‘But what about you?’ She spread impassioned hands in a pleading gesture. ‘I admit—I never meant you to know. Because—yes—I was afraid of what you might do. But also I couldn’t see what good it could possibly achieve.’
‘Are you quite mad?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m trying to be sane—for both of us.’ She paused. ‘Oh, Remy—think. What will people say—how will they react—your family—your patients—when they discover you have an illegitimate son? The—the wife you may take in the future. What about her? Will—will she want to take on the responsibility of another woman’s child?’
Solange—Solange would not even be kind. Instinct told her that.
She tried again. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to leave things as they are? I’ll be leaving soon. Can’t we please stop hurting each other and get on with our lives?’
‘It is kind of you to concern yourself with my reputation, madame,’ Remy said coldly. ‘But I find the well-being of my son infinitely more important than any local gossip. And, for the moment, I have no wife.’
She took a step forward. ‘Remy, If you take Tom, then I’ll have nothing left in the world.’
‘Then you too will know what that is like.’ His tone was bleak. ‘How it was for me, out in that stinking rainforest, lying awake at night, not knowing whether I would ever see another day’s dawn, and realising I did not care. Because I had nothing left either, Alys. You took it all.
‘And when I returned I heard that you had had a child—that you had carried another man’s seed inside you. I thought that was bad, but now I know the truth—and that, believe me, is so much worse.’
He added quietly, ‘So this time, Alys, it is I who will take everything—from you.’
‘What do you want me to do,’ she asked tonelessly. ‘Go down on my knees and beg?’
‘And after that—what?’ His brows lifted. ‘The offer of your body, perhaps? After all, it would not be the first time—in this garden you have given yourself to me. It might even be here that Thomas was made. That would have a certain irony, I think.’
He saw the colour rush into her pale face, the uncertainty in her eyes, and his smile was mocking.
‘Alors, ma belle, what do you say?’
‘Is—is that what you want?’ She stared down at the grass.
He gave a slight shrug. ‘I could, perhaps, be tempted.’
Her hands went slowly to her sash, fumbling with the knot until it was loose. She shrugged the robe off her shoulders and let it fall.
Not the first time, no. But always before it was part of the dream. Whereas everything had changed now. They were different people. And this—this was brutal, mind-numbing reality.
The silence around them seemed suddenly heavy—pulsating.
Allie unhooked the top of her bikini. Removed it.
It occurred to her that she’d never had to do this before. Not stand in front of him and—simply strip. Being undressed by him—kissed and caressed out of her clothes—had always been part of the pleasure. She realised that even now she was expecting him to move—to come to her and take her in his arms. Complete the task for her…
Only he didn’t. And somehow she found she dared not even look at him.
Awkwardly, she slid down the tiny briefs and stepped out of them.
Stood, arms at her sides. Waited.
He’d seen her naked often, yet here, at this moment, she felt sick with self-consciousness, wanting to cover herself with her hands.
She found herself wondering how, in this blaze of sunlight, she could feel so cold.
His hand moved, gesturing her courteously towards the rug. She walked over and sat down, trying not to curl too obviously into a ball.
The red and white horse was lying beside her, wheels in the air. She picked it up and placed it carefully at a distance. Oh, Tom…
She saw Remy reach into the back pocket of his jeans and extract his wallet. For one dreadful moment she thought he was going to offer her money, and braced herself for the shame of it. Then she saw the tiny packet in his hand and realised.
He must have heard her slight indrawn breath, because he looked at her, his mouth twisting. ‘This time you have no husband to act as fall-guy,’ he told her unsmilingly. ‘So we must put safety before passion, hmm?’
Passion? Her dazed brain repeated the word. Is that what this is?
He walked across and knelt beside her. His hand brushed her body, passing lightly from her shoulder, over the tip of one pointed breast and down to her belly. He parted her slender thighs, his fingers questing almost insolently to ascertain her readiness.
He said, with a faint inflection of surprise, ‘So, in spite of everything, you want me. Alors…’
He did not attempt to undress, merely unzipping his jeans. Then she was under him, aware that he was adjusting the condom before he entered her without preliminaries—just one swift, deep thrust.
She realised he was not even looking at her as he drove into her, his body moving in its usual easy, fluid rhythm. And she closed her eyes so that she would not have to see him—endure the hurt of him not looking at her.
Not looking, not smiling, not murmuring. Not loving…
Nor did he prolong the encounter, his body swiftly almost clinically attaining its climax.
‘Merci.’ His voice was cool as he lifted himself away from her. ‘Your body is still an exquisite adventure, Alys. One would never think you had given birth to a child.’
She sat up slowly, numbly, reaching for her robe. Almost unable to comprehend what had just transpired between them. Feeling as if the strong inner core of her had crumbled.
‘But I regret that you have humbled yourself in vain,’ he went on. ‘Your charming acquiescence has made no difference to my plans. I will have my son.’
He got to his feet, refastening his jeans, while she huddled the robe round her, aware that her teeth were chattering. As he turned away she scrambled upright too, and ran to him, catching his arm.
‘Remy—please.’ There was anguish in her voice. ‘Oh, God, if you ever loved me…’
He took her hand, detaching it from his sleeve with a kind of terrible finality.
‘And what love,’ he said softly, ‘could possibly survive what you have done to me? Tell me that—if you can.’
He paused, adding flatly, ‘My lawyers will contact you, madame.’
Standing silent and bereft, she watched him walk away.
Knowing that, this time, it would be for ever.
And unable even to cry.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ALLIEpoured shower gel into her cupped hand and began to work it into her skin, wondering as she did so if she would ever feel loved again.
She’d been used, but not abused, and whatever violation there’d been was of her heart, not her body.
He’d taken her quickly and casually, as if demonstrating that although she might still appeal to him physically she had no hold over his emotions.
But what else could she expect? Had she really believed that offering herself sexually might change Remy’s mind, or soften his attitude towards her?
If so, she’d made a desperate mistake. All that she’d done was make him despise her even more. And, once again, she had no one to blame but herself, she thought wearily.
Except—except that the hand asserting its dominant sweep down her body had seemed to tremble a little. Or was that simply a forlorn hope?
It certainly did nothing to alleviate her sense of shame. Of failure. Or the agony of regret that clawed at her even now. The realisation of all she had lost.
‘I should hate him,’ she whispered to herself. ‘I have every reason in the world to do so. But I can’t—I can’t…And, God help me, I never shall.’
She rinsed the gel from her body, and the shampoo from her hair, then towelled herself dry, trying to get her thoughts under control. To make some kind of coherent plan for the immediate future.
She could not, of course, tell Tante any of it. She could not distress her like that. Although if Remy carried out his threat to fight for Tom’s custody then her great-aunt would have to know, and sooner rather than later.
She sighed unhappily. Well, she thought, sufficient unto the day and all that…
In the meantime, everything had to appear as normal as she could make it. Just as if she’d actually spent a peaceful afternoon playing with Tom without a care in the world.
She put on a pretty blue and white floral skirt in floating georgette, adding a scoop-neck white top. She combed back her still-damp hair, and tucked it behind her ears.
Leaving Tom still asleep, she went down to the garden and collected up the rug and her bikini, bundling it all, together with her robe, into the washing machine housed in an outbuilding. Then she went back for Tom’s hat, the sun lotion and the wooden toys. She found the cow and the duck readily enough, but there was no sign of the red and white horse.
It’s probably up in his cot, she thought with a shrug as she walked back into the kitchen. And found herself stopping dead.
Solange Geran was standing in the middle of the room, arms folded across her body, the pretty face distorted by sullen anger.