Desperate Measures. Sara Craven

      He drank some champagne, watching her meditatively over the rim of the glass. ‘But how much time, my reluctant bride? This year, next year, some time—or never, perhaps?’

      Philippa flicked her tongue round her dry lips. The small nervous movement was not lost on him, she realised, her nerves grating. ‘I’ll keep my word—when it becomes necessary. But not yet.’

      ‘And if I told you that it is necessary now—tonight?’

      ‘Then I wouldn’t believe you.’ Still holding her untouched glass, she took a step backwards. ‘Please stop saying these things, and leave me in peace as you promised.’ She paused, gathering her courage. ‘Besides, you’re obviously expected elsewhere.’

      His dark brows snapped together. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

      ‘It means I’d be grateful if you’d ask your mistresses not to telephone you here.’ Philippa lifted her chin. ‘Perhaps you should have warned the lady in question that you’re now, nominally, a married man. Get her to ring you at your offices from now on. I’m sure your secretary is used to dealing with such calls.’

      There was a long and ominous silence. When he spoke, his voice was like ice. ‘How dare you speak to me like that?’

      ‘And how dare you expect me to act as go-between with your women?’ Philippa spoke defiantly, but she felt frightened suddenly, wishing she hadn’t mentioned it quite so precipitately. But she couldn’t retract what she’d said now. ‘Anyway, she’s clearly waiting for you, so I wouldn’t waste any more time.’

      ‘When I want your advice on how to conduct my personal life, ma femme, I will ask for it.’ There was a tiny muscle jumping beside his grim mouth. ‘However, I have no intention of spending the night anywhere but here.’

      There was another profound silence. Philippa swallowed. ‘When you say “here”,’ she began. ‘I hope you don’t mean …’

      He gave her a brief hard smile. ‘I mean exactly what you think, ma belle.’

      ‘No—oh, no!’ She took another dismayed step away from him. ‘You promised me …’

      ‘Listen to me,’ he said harshly. ‘My first task when I left you earlier was to inform my uncle of our marriage. When he had managed to overcome his chagrin a little, he insisted that we dine with him tomorrow evening—so that he and his family may meet you, Philippa.’ He shrugged. ‘I could hardly refuse.’

      ‘But he can’t do that!’ She gave him an imploring look. ‘Please—you’ve got to put him off. It’s too soon—I’m not ready to face anyone yet.’

      ‘Exactly the point I am trying to make,’ Alain drawled. ‘They are expecting, my uncle, my aunt and my cousin Sidonie, to meet my loving and loved wife, not some frightened shrinking virgin. So we will need to present them with a normal marriage, not a pretence a child could see through. You begin now to see the necessity, perhaps?’

      ‘No,’ she said hoarsely. ‘No, I don’t. I can’t meet them yet. You’ll have to think of some excuse.’

      ‘Au contraire,’ Alain said quite gently, and put down his glass. The green eyes swept over her, making her feel, terrifyingly, as if the concealing satin no longer existed. ‘I think I shall have to see what I can do to—persuade you.’

      ‘Get out of my room.’ Her voice cracked. ‘Don’t come near me—or I’ll scream the place down!’

      ‘Vraiment?’ His brows lifted mockingly. ‘And who do you imagine will hear you—or care? The Giscards are far too well trained to interfere.’

      ‘You—bastard!’

      ‘Calling me names will change nothing. We have a bargain, you and I. On my side at least it has been generously fulfilled, and will continue to be so, as long as I receive equal—generosity from you, ma chère.’ He beckoned. ‘Now, come here to me.’

      ‘I’ll see you in hell first! You gave your word—and you lied to me.’ Panic was pounding in her chest, almost closing her throat. ‘You can’t do this! You don’t even want me …’

      ‘What,’ Alain said softly, ‘do you know of desire, petite innocente?’

      ‘I know I don’t want you.’

      The words hung in the air between them. He gave her a long, considering look, then, without haste shrugged off his waistcoat and let it drop to the floor before beginning to unfasten the buttons of his shirt.

      His lithe, muscular body was deeply tanned, his chest darkly shadowed with hair. Philippa watched him, petrified, hardly able to breathe as he began to unbuckle his belt. She’d seen men naked before in the life classes at art school, but Alain—this stranger she’d married—stripping in front of her like this was shockingly different.

      He looked deep into the confusion in her hazel eyes. He said gently, almost mockingly, ‘Shall I make you beg me to take you?’

      She gave a cry like a small hunted animal, and threw the wine she was holding straight in his face.

      He was very still for a moment, then he picked up his discarded shirt and dried the moisture from his face and chest, his eyes never leaving hers.

      He said quietly, ‘You should have more respect for good wine, ma belle. And more respect for me, also. I see I shall have to teach you.’

      The glass dropped from her shaking hand and rolled away on the thick carpet as he came towards her. He took her by the shoulders and pulled her towards him, his fingers hard on her flesh, brooking no resistance. Then his mouth closed ruthlessly on hers.

      When he’d kissed her before, he had been gentle. There’d been nothing to prepare her for this—onslaught. She tried to move her head, to escape from the suffocating pressure, but he would not allow that. One lean hand lifted to tangle in her hair and hold her still, while his kiss deepened, inevitably, inexorably.

      He parted her lips with his, allowing his tongue to invade her mouth with devastating sensuality, plundering her warmth and sweetness with insolent mastery.

      There was no point in fighting him—in struggling, Philippa realised from some whirling, fainting corner of her mind. He was too experienced, and more significantly, too determined. She was made aware once more of his physical power, the sheer muscularity of his body.

      And her shocked consciousness told her that in these first brief moments, he was demonstrating to her with swift and frightening emphasis what passion could mean, and what other demands might be made of her before the night was over.

      The heat of his hard body scorched through her thin nightgown, and even as she stiffened in helpless outrage she felt his other hand stroke down her body from the point of one shoulder to the curve of her hip, lingering on the way to shape her small, pointed breast in his palm.

      She was not prepared for that, or for her body’s shaken, helpless reaction to the first intimate caress it had ever received. She might hate him for what he was doing to her, but she couldn’t control the hardening of her nipple under the subtle play of his fingers, or the swift onrush of moist heat through her whole body.

      Then, his mouth still locked to hers, he lifted her and carried her to the bed. He placed her on the cool linen sheet and lay beside her. He stroked her cheek, turning her to face him so that he could kiss her again, slowly and explicitly, his hand travelling unhurriedly from her excited, tumescent breasts to explore with tantalising precision the exposed length of her silken thigh through the deep side-slit of her gown.

      When he lifted himself away from her, she thought for one moment of agonised hope that he had relented, only to realise in the next second that he was simply removing the rest of his clothing. She turned away with a gasp to bury her heated face in the pillow.

      She felt the slight dip of the mattress as he came to lie beside