But she wanted to go there with a part of her that she could not resist. She heard words frame themselves in her mind. Knew them to be true.
It’s too late to say no to this—way too late.
As he’d said—no more role-play, no more acting. No more ‘confusion’. Just her and Marc...seeing what happened...
And if ‘what happened’ was her yielding to that oh-so-powerful, never before experienced desire for him, would that really be so bad?
She glanced about her at this beautiful place, at the devastating man sitting there, drawing her so ineluctably. Would it be so bad to experience all that she might with this man? Whatever it brought her?
I’ve never known a man like this—a man who makes me feel this way. So why should I say no to it? Why not say yes instead...?
She could feel the answer forming in her head, knowing it was the answer she would give him now. A tremor seemed to go through her as slowly she nodded her head.
She saw him smile a smile of satisfaction. Pleased...
His smile widened and he pushed a bowl of pastries towards her. ‘Have a croissant,’ he invited. ‘While we plan our day.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘SO, WHAT DO you think?’
Marc slewed the car to a juddering halt at the viewpoint and killed the engine. This was the car he liked to drive when he was at the villa—a low-slung, high-powered beast that snaked up the corniches, ate up the road as they gained elevation way up here in the foothills of the Alpes-Maritimes.
He turned to look at the woman sitting beside him in the deep bucket passenger seat as the engine died. Satisfaction filled him. Yes, he had made the right decision. He knew he had—he was definite about it.
The discovery from a clearly upset Hans that morning that he had accepted his marriage was over, and that Celine was not happy with him, had been like a release from prison for Marc. He’d said what needed to be said, organised Hans’s flight, then seen him off with a warm handshake.
Celine’s departure he had left to his staff while he himself had gone off to phone a jubilant Bernhardt.
And after that there’d only been himself to think about. Basking in heartfelt relief, he’d gone to breakfast in peace, his glance automatically going to the upper balcony. To Tara’s bedroom.
Tara.
He had known a decision had to be made.
What am I going to do? Pack her off back to London or...?
Even as he’d framed the question he’d felt the answer blazing in his head. For days now she’d haunted him...that amazing beauty of hers taunting him. His but only in illusion. His only reality, punching through every moment of his time with her, was that he wanted to say to hell with the role he’d hired her to play. He wanted more.
And when she’d walked out onto the terrace he’d taken one look at her and made his decision.
No, she wasn’t from his world. And, had it not been for the insufferable Celine and his need to keep her away from him, he’d never have let Tara get anywhere near him. Yes, he was breaking all his rules never to get involved with someone like her.
And he just did not care.
Not any more.
I want her—and for whatever time we have together it will be good. I know that for absolute sure—
It was good already. Good to have had that relaxed, leisurely breakfast, deciding how to spend their day—a day to themselves, a day to enjoy. Good to have her sitting beside him now, her sandaled feet stretched out in the capacious footwell, wearing a casual top and skinny cotton leggings that hugged those fantastic legs of hers. Her hair was caught back with a barrette and her make-up was minimal. But her beauty didn’t need make-up.
His eyes rested on her now, drinking her in.
‘The view is fabulous,’ she was exclaiming. Then she frowned. ‘It’s just a pity it’s so built up all along the coastline.’
Marc nodded. ‘Yes, it’s a victim of overdevelopment. Which is why I like being out on the Cap—it’s more like the Riviera was before the war, when the villa was built.’
He gunned the engine again, to start their descent, telling her how the villa had been party central in the days of his great-grandfather.