Susan Stephens Selection. Susan Stephens

Chapter Four

       Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

       Copyright

       The French Count’s Mistress

       Susan Stephens

      SUSAN STEPHENS was a professional singer who now loves nothing more than reading and writing romance. She lives in cosy chaos in a converted blacksmith’s cottage in Cheshire surrounded by cats, dogs, guinea pigs, children and a very understanding husband. She loves playing the piano and singing, as well as riding and cooking and gardening and travel. When she isn’t writing she’s usually daydreaming about her next hero!

      Don’t miss Susan Stephen’s exciting new novel, The Ruthless Billionaire’s Virgin, available in May 2009 from Mills & Boon^® Modern™.

       CHAPTER ONE

      ‘BUT, mademoiselle… Monsieur le Comte is in a meeting. He is not receiving anyone.’

      ‘He will see me,’ Kate Foster said confidently, sweeping past the liveried servant into a vast room that seemed little changed over the years.

      But she had changed, Kate thought in the split second between taking in her surroundings and identifying her quarry. She was not intimidated, as she had been as a child, maybe because success allowed her to weigh material possessions on a very different set of scales. A group of men seated around an oval table in the centre of the room turned to stare as she approached, then they got to their feet, but only one held her interest.

      ‘Kate?’ he exclaimed softly.

      The commanding voice connected with something so deep she had to fight to keep her eye-line steady. She had forgotten how tall he was…how striking… Guy de Villeneuve wasn’t just handsome; he seemed to have been formed from exclusive constituents. His tanned skin appeared more luminous, his ebony hair lusher, his lashes longer, his sable brows more expressive and his lips—she looked away quickly, conscious that she too was being appraised, and those piercing steel-grey eyes were a vivid reminder of what awaited anyone foolish enough to be swept away by the Count de Villeneuve’s dazzling good looks. No, Kate reminded herself, the Count’s strongest suit had always been his iron will and fierce intelligence, gifts he cloaked behind the deceptive guise of inborn elegance, and… Her cheeks flamed when she recognised another, more elusive quality to be smouldering sensuality.

      Pretending interest in several seascapes hanging on the wall, she allowed her gaze to diffuse and seek multiple targets rather than the one devastating individual waiting across the room. Even if courtesy had forced him to accept her intrusion, Kate knew that very different emotions would be brewing behind his hawkish stare.

      ‘Count Guy de Villeneuve,’ she said as she reached him, keeping the greeting intentionally cool.

      His sardonic query at the formal style of address showed briefly in his eyes, but as far as Kate was concerned it was ten years since they had last met and this was not a social visit. She had followed Guy de Villeneuve’s career closely enough to know that charm and beauty were common currency in his world. Anyone foolish enough to imagine that feminine wiles could possibly influence him where business was concerned would soon discover their mistake. She could almost see the cogs flying round in his mind. Reading her mood had always been easy for him, she remembered, watching his steel-grey eyes narrow with conjecture. Now she was back in a familiar game—one in which he was used to taking the lead. A game where provoking the short-fused, Titian-haired visitor to his family’s vast estate had been an annual amusement for the young Count. But ten years had intervened since their last spat. Ten years in which she had built up and lost one career and was currently riding the crest of another. Ten years in which she had learned to deal with men like—

      ‘So, Kate,’ he said, cutting into her thoughts. ‘It’s been a long time. How can I help you?’

      Halting a safe distance away, Kate flicked back her glossy tumble of hair, thankful that she knew the rules of his game now. But today she was seeking a very different outcome from Guy, Count de Villeneuve. And she needed to move things along fast.

      ‘Kate?’

      The warmth had spilt from his eyes, leaving something hard to pin down but troubling, and for a split second she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to him direct. The deep, lightly accented voice was seductive and disarming and it was hard to ignore the fact that ten years had only honed his lean athletic frame into an even higher state of perfection. Dragging her gaze away, Kate inclined her head just a little to acknowledge the slight dip of his head. ‘I apologise for the intrusion, Monsieur le Comte, but I really must speak to you.’

      ‘About what, exactly?’

      He was a good head taller than the men around him, with a face that might have graced a movie screen had the expression in his eyes been more calculated to disarm, Kate thought, watching as he made a gesture to suggest that his colleagues should be seated. Lifting her chin, she took a few steps towards him. ‘It’s a matter I should like to discuss with you in private.’

      ‘As you can see, I am in a meeting. My secretary—’

      ‘This won’t wait.’ She was pleased to hear her voice so steady as she drew herself up to confront him. But it was impossible not to notice the speculation behind his faintly amused gaze and she was relieved when he turned away briefly to study some documents on the table in front of him.

      ‘An appointment would have made everything possible,’ he said evenly, but when he glanced up a flash of something hot in his eyes belied the reasonable tone of voice.

      The implied challenge only fanned Kate’s determination and the characteristic glow in her emerald eyes dwindled then froze into shards of green ice. ‘I telephoned your secretary before I left England, asking for an appointment, but she said your diary was full for the rest of this month.’

      The Count brought his head up slowly to confront her. ‘Did you leave your name, mademoiselle?’ His stress on the last word was intentional—calculated to provoke. It did its job.

      ‘Yes, of course,’ Kate retorted in a clipped tone that suggested he should know her better than to imagine she was so inept. But how could he know anything about her? she realised with a jolt, stopping short of slipping into the combative argot of her youth. Guy de Villeneuve only knew the child she had been and not the woman she had become. ‘I asked your secretary most specifically to inform you that Kate Foster had called.’ She was pleased to hear the change in her voice—and to see a shadow briefly darken the Count’s face as he realised that a member of his staff was to blame for the oversight. But she also knew he was