In Bed with Her Ex. Nina Harrington

not to let him suspect her weakness.

      She reckoned a suit of armour would have been useful: something made of steel to protect her from the awareness of his body so dangerously close to hers. Lacking it, she could only assume the nearest thing to a visor, a beaming, rigid smile that should have alarmed him.

      ‘I don’t think you should hold me so tightly,’ she said.

      ‘Don’t try to fool me,’ he murmured in soft rage. ‘This is exactly what you meant to happen.’

      ‘You do me an injustice. I was going to wear something more conventional but you arrived before I could change.’

      ‘Oh, please, try to think of something better.’

      ‘Why must you always judge me so harshly?’

      ‘If you don’t know the answer to that—mon dieu, you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’

      ‘That’s not fair.’

      ‘When is the truth fair? I know how your deceiving little mind works—’

      ‘How can you be so sure you know about me—a woman you met only a few days ago?’

      His face was livid and she thought for a moment he would do something violent. But he only dropped his head so that his mouth was close to her ear. ‘Ne me tourmente pas ou je vais vous faire désolé. Prenez garde pendant qu’il est encore temps….’

      She drew in her breath. He’d warned her against tormenting him, telling her to take heed while there was still time.

      ‘Don’t torment me,’ he groaned again. ‘I warn you—I warn you—’

      ‘Why?’ she challenged. ‘Whatever will happen?’ ‘Wait and see.’

      ‘Suppose I can’t wait. Suppose I’m impatient. What will you do then?’

      ‘Wait and see,’ he repeated with slow, deliberate emphasis.

      She smiled. ‘I’ll look forward to that.’

      His hand had been drifting lower until it almost rested on the satin curve of her behind. Suddenly he snatched it back, as though in fear, though whether of her or himself perhaps, neither of them could have said.

      ‘Witch!’ he breathed.

      She chuckled. ‘Anything you say. After all, you’re my employer. Your word is law. I exist only to obey.’

      Now his eyes were those of a man driven beyond endurance, and she really thought he would explode. But it lasted only a moment, then his steely control was in place again.

      ‘I’m glad you realise that,’ he said. ‘There are things I won’t tolerate.’

      ‘You must tell me what they are,’ she challenged.

      His gaze was fierce and desperate. What would he say? she wondered. Was this her moment?

      But the music was drawing to a close. The moment was over.

      ‘Later,’ he growled.

      ‘Later,’ she agreed. ‘But soon.’

      ‘Yes. Soon.’ Her eyes met his. ‘Because we’ve waited long enough.’

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      POLITELY they walked each other off the floor, slowing suddenly as they came within sight of the table. ‘Oh, no!’ Marcel groaned.

      Cassie didn’t need to ask about the newcomer. A woman in her thirties, tense, angular and furious, sat next to Henri, hectoring him as only a wife would have done.

      ‘You found another floozie fast enough. I’ve been watching you dance with her.’ Her eyes fell on the blonde bombshell approaching the table on Marcel’s arm, and an expression of contempt overtook her face. ‘And here she is.’ She rose and confronted Cassie.

      ‘Got another one, have you? Finished with my Henri, think this one’ll have more money? That’s how your kind operate, isn’t it? Find out what they’re worth and move from one to the other.’ She glared at Marcel. ‘Don’t fool yourself. When she meets a man with more cash you’ll be history. Don’t suppose you know what it’s like to be dumped, do you? Well, you’ll find out with her.’

      The air was singing about Cassie’s head. How would Marcel respond to these words that seemed to home in on his own experience with such deadly accuracy?

      His reply amazed her.

      ‘Good evening, Madame Lenoir. I am so glad you could join your husband.’

      ‘Join him? I’m going to get rid of him for good. I saw him dancing with her, and what an exhibition that was! Now she can have him.’

      ‘You are mistaken, madame,’ Marcel said coolly. ‘Mrs Henshaw danced with your husband only out of courtesy. She is with me tonight, and I would prefer it if you did not insult her.’

      ‘Oh, would you? Well, I’d prefer it if—’

      She got no further. Scenting danger, Henri started to draw her away, apologizing frantically. When they had gone there were sighs of relief. Monsieur Lenoir indicated for Cassie to sit beside him but she’d had as much as she could stand.

      ‘Forgive me,’ she said, ‘but I’m rather tired. I just want to go to bed. I’ll be at work first thing tomorrow morning. Goodnight.’

      She was backing away hastily as she spoke, giving Marcel no chance to object. Not that he wanted to, she thought. He must be glad to be rid of her.

      In her room she stripped off, showered and dressed for the night. Her pyjamas were ‘Mrs Henshaw’, plain linen, loose trousers, high buttons.

      Stick to Mrs Henshaw in future, she thought. You could argue that Cassie hadn’t been a success.

      Or you could argue that she’d been so much of a success that it had put the cat among the pigeons.

      She paced the floor, too agitated to sleep. Everything that had happened this evening had been unexpected. She’d coped with surprise after surprise, and the biggest surprise of all had been Marcel’s defence of her.

      But it hadn’t been personal, she thought with a sigh. Only what conventional courtesy demanded. If only …

      There came a sharp knock on her door.

      ‘Who is it?’ she called.

      ‘Me.’ It was Marcel. He tried the door, rattling it. ‘Open the door.’

      She did so. Instantly his hand appeared, preventing her closing it if she’d wanted to. But she didn’t want to. This moment had been too long in coming, and now she was ready for it with all guns blazing.

      He pushed in so fast that she had to back away. His eyes darted around the room.

      ‘I’m alone,’ she said ironically. ‘Henri left tamely with his wife. He didn’t come flying back to me, whatever you think.’

      ‘You’ll pardon me if I don’t take your word for that.’

      ‘No, I won’t pardon you,’ she said. ‘I’m not a liar. There’s nobody here but us.’

      He ignored her. He was opening doors, looking into the bathroom, the wardrobe. Her temper rose sharply.

      ‘Look at me,’ she said, indicating her dull attire. ‘Do you think any woman entertains a lover dressed in clothes like this?’

      ‘That depends how long she means to wear them. When she knows he’ll rip them off her as soon as possible—’

      ‘Is that what Henri wanted?’ she asked sarcastically. ‘He didn’t say.’

      ‘He