Blackmailed by the Rich Man. Julia James

it almost possible, she realised with a sense of shock, for her to believe that she was there with him because she wished it, and not as a matter of expedience.

      But she had to convince him of her enthusiasm, and her will to work, she thought, if she was to persuade him to lend her the money for the guest house scheme.

      If only Nigel hadn’t been there she’d have been able to outline her plan by now—have a proper business discussion, she thought with vexation. As it was, her companion had taken advantage of the delay while they waited for the soufflés, and taken her hand again, and was now playing gently with her fingers.

      She glanced up, a muted protest already forming on her lips, but as their eyes met, and she saw the frank desire that smoked his gaze, she forgot completely what she was going to say.

      She looked away swiftly, hating the involuntary colour that warmed her cheeks, trying unavailingly to release her hand from the caress of his long fingers.

      She said haltingly, ‘I—I don’t know how you can—pretend like this.’

      His faint smile was crooked. ‘But I am not pretending, cherie,’ he told her quietly. ‘I want you. I have made no secret of it.’

      She stared down at the tablecloth. ‘Then you’re due for a serious disappointment, Monsieur Delaroche. Even if I was in the market for an affair—which I’m not—you’d be the last person on earth I’d choose.’

      ‘Then at least we agree on something,’ Marc drawled. ‘Because I do not want an affaire either. Au contraire, I wish you to become my wife.’

      Helen was very still suddenly. She could feel her throat muscles tightening in shock. The blood drumming crazily in her ears.

      ‘If—this is some kind of joke,’ she managed hoarsely, ‘then it’s in very poor taste.’

      ‘There is no joke,’ he said. ‘I am asking you to marry me, ma belle, and I am completely serious.’

      She said, ‘But you don’t know anything about me. We’ve met three times at most.’ She shook her head. ‘We’re strangers, for heaven’s sake. You must be mad even to think of such a thing.’

      ‘I do not suggest that the ceremony should take place next week.’ He smiled at her. ‘I intend to court you, Hélène. Give you some time to accustom yourself to the idea.’ He paused. ‘To all kinds of ideas,’ he added drily.

      He meant sleeping with him, she realised dazedly. She would have to face the prospect of him making love to her. With a sense of shock she found herself remembering their last encounter—the hard strength of his arms and the relentless heated urgency of his mouth on hers. Even though they’d both been fully dressed, she’d still been aware of every inch of his lean body against hers. And the thought of being held—touched—without the barrier of clothing, sent her mouth dry with panic.

      He wanted her. He’d said so. Therefore he would not expect to be fended off—kept waiting until after the wedding.

      Except there would be no wedding, she told herself with sudden fierceness. So why was she treating his outrageous proposal as if it was all cut and dried?

      She said, ‘You’re wasting your time, monsieur. Did you think I’d be so terrified of being a spinster that you could catch me on the rebound?’ She shook her head. ‘You’re wrong. Nothing on earth could persuade me to marry you.’

      ‘Not even Monteagle?’ he challenged. ‘You wish it to become a home again. You said so.’ He shrugged. ‘Moi aussi. Become my wife, and I will make funds available for the whole house to be restored in the way that you want.’

      ‘No,’ she said huskily. ‘That’s impossible. I couldn’t—I can’t.’

      ‘Yet you said at the interview that you would do anything to save it.’ He sat back in his chair, watching her from under half-closed lids. ‘Clearly your devotion to your house is not as profound as you claim.’

      ‘When I said that I was desperate.’ Helen lifted her chin. ‘But now I have a plan.’

      ‘D’accord,’ he said. ‘A plan that you wish to share with me. But after we have finished our desserts,’ he added calmly, apparently unfazed by her refusal, just as a waiter bore down on them with the soufflés, tall as chefs’ hats, in their porcelain dishes.

      She said unsteadily, ‘You think I could eat anything else—after that bombshell?’

      ‘Mais, j’insiste. One spoonful at least. To calm you,’ he added, his mouth twisting wryly.

      Unwilling, totally unnerved, she obeyed. The delicate flavour and texture melted deliciously on her tongue, and was impossible, she discovered, to resist.

      So,’ Marc said at last, putting down his spoon, ‘what is this plan, and how will it save Monteagle?’

      Helen took a breath. ‘I want to restore and refurbish all the bedrooms so that I can offer bed and breakfast to tourists,’ she said baldly.

      His face gave nothing away. ‘And you have costed this scheme? You have taken into your calculations the price of supplying each room with a bathroom en suite? Also refurbishing the dining room so that your guests have somewhere to eat this petit dejeuner without the ceiling falling on their heads? And, of course, there will be the updating of the kitchen to be considered, so that it meets the demands of Health and Safety regulations.’

      ‘Well, no,’ Helen admitted, disconcerted. ‘Not entirely. Because I’ve only just thought of it. But I’ll get proper estimates for all the work for you to approve first.’

      ‘For me?’ he queried, brows lifted. ‘How does this concern me?’

      She bit her lip, suddenly wishing that her earlier rejection of his proposal had been a little less forceful. ‘I was hoping that—you would lend me the money.’

      There was a silence. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘But you have forgotten that there is an offer already on the table, where I give you all the money you need and you become my wife.’

      She said breathlessly, ‘But if you gave me a loan we wouldn’t need to be married. And I’d have thought you were the last man on earth in the market for a wife.’

      The dark eyes glinted at her. ‘It does not occur to you, ma mie, that, much like yourself, I might be deeply and irresistibly in love?’

      Helen felt as if all the breath had suddenly been choked out of her lungs. She stared at him, her eyes widening endlessly.

      She said in a small, cracked voice, ‘I don’t—understand…’

      ‘No? But you have only yourself to blame, ma chère. If you had not written and spoken about Monteagle with such passion, then I would not have been tempted to come and see it for myself. Et voilà. The rest, as they say, is history.’

      She clutched at her reeling senses. She said huskily, ‘You—mean that what you really want—is Monteagle. Monteagle? That’s what you’re saying?’ She shook her head. ‘Oh, I don’t believe it. It’s impossible, besides being ridiculous—ludicrous. You can’t…’

      His brows lifted. ‘Pourquoi pas? Why not? Along with my lack of humanity, do you also claim that I have no feeling for history—or appreciation of beauty?’

      ‘How do I know,’ she said stormily, ‘what you think—what you feel about anything? You’re a complete stranger, and as far as I’m concerned you always will be.’ She looked at him, her eyes flashing. ‘But you’re talking about my home. Mine.’

      ‘At the moment, yes.’ He shrugged. ‘But for how much longer without serious investment? You say you will not consider the offer of Monsieur Newson, so I offer an alternative. One of its advantages is that you will be able to go on living in the house