Parisa moved uncomfortably in the bed. Ten years on she could still remember every word he had spoken, every touch, and her body flooded with heat as she replayed the scene in her mind.
'Diol But you're beautiful,' Luc had whispered, holding her slightly away from him. Parisa had thought Luc would be furious, but surprisingly he was not. In the gloom she'd seen the smile on his face as he'd murmured, 'I couldn't have planned it better myself,' and kissed her again.
She had not known what was happening. His tongue had pushed between her teeth; his hands had roamed caressingly up and down her spine. Then one hand had slipped up and over her high, pert breast, his fingers sliding down the front of her blouse. She was drowning in a million sensations. Her hands had fluttered to his shoulders and clung. Her heart had pounded, with fear mingled with an aching excitement.
His other hand had eased up the hem of her skirt, and when she felt the touch of his long fingers on her naked thigh she had begun to tremble. It was only when he'd murmured huskily against her ear, 'Let's lie down- it's much better that way,' that she finally came to her senses and began to struggle.
Even now she could still recall how frightened and humiliated she had felt, Parisa thought wryly. She had kissed a few men since then, but none had created the same devastating effect as her first kiss. She thought she had forgotten, but seeing Luc tonight had brought it all back.
She had cried, 'No!' and tried to push him away. But he had held her tightly to him and angrily told her exactly what he thought of her.
'No! You dare to say that, after the way you have behaved all afternoon—flirting, asking for it. Feel what you've done to me.' And for the first time in her life she had felt the force of a hard, aroused male body against her slender form. She had panicked and managed to break free, and, to her utter humiliation, burst into tears.
At that point the boat-house door had swung open, and to Parisa's horror the sports mistress had walked in. Miss Shipley had taken one look at the couple and demanded to know what was going on.
Luc Di Maggi, totally in control, had charmingly explained that he was Tina's cousin and visiting for the day. Parisa had offered to show him the boats and somehow the door had locked behind them. The reason for Parisa's tears was that she was frightened of the dark.
Miss Shipley had demanded of Parisa, 'Is this true, girl?' and she had quietly agreed. 'Well, no harm done, I suppose, and you are a foreigner,' she had added as if to say Luc knew no better. 'But a man of your age should have more sense than to wander around with a fourteen- year-old child. You should have asked your cousin Tina, instead of bothering Lady Parisa Hardcourt-Belmont.' The scorn in Miss Shipley's voice had been harsh and obvious.
Luc Di Maggi had exclaimed, 'Fourteen!' His handsome face had paled beneath his tan, his dark eyes flashing incredulously to the tall, shapely Parisa.
Even now, Parisa thought, turning restlessly in her bed, she was not sure if Miss Shipley had glossed over the matter to save a young girl embarrassment, or, more realistically, had not punished her because the following day was the start of inter-school rowing championship week, and Parisa was her star performer.
She yawned widely and pulled the blankets around her chin. The past was over and not worth worrying about, but she wasn't surprised Luc had ended up a crook. He had lingered in her mind as a ruthless man.
Then she heard it... The soft but unmistakable sound of Moya sobbing in the room next door. As she listened to the pitiful sound, she knew she had no choice. She would have to go with Luc to Italy. There was no way she could let herself be responsible for the destruction of Moya's happiness, when it was within her power to prevent it.
Would it really be so terrible? A couple of days in Italy with Luc Di Maggi? she asked herself. She was no longer a scared young girl, but a mature woman of twenty-four, with a responsible job. As for Di Maggi, he was hardly likely to leap on her in his mother's house, and why would he want to? He had a very beautiful mistress—Margot Mey.
* * *
Sitting at the kitchen table the next morning, cradling a cup of strong coffee in her slender hands, Parisa studied her friend's swollen face and red-rimmed eyes. 'OK, Moya. I'll do it. Give me the man's telephone number and I'll call him.' She was almost suffocated in a bear- hug as soon as she spoke.
'You darling. I knew I could count on you,' Moya proclaimed, a watery smile lighting her wan face.
Extracting herself from Moya's arms, Parisa stood up and demanded, 'Give me the number, hmm?'
'I don't have the number, but it doesn't matter. Simon will be here soon.' Her eyes lit with love. 'We are going to buy the wedding rings. It will be no trouble to drop you off at Mayfair. We can tell Simon you're calling on a girlfriend. Then you can speak to the man, in person.' Her expression deadly serious, she added, 'And thank you, Parisa, you've saved my life. I couldn't bear to lose Simon; I love him so much.'
Parisa hated the idea, but in the face of her friend's obvious relief she had not the heart to argue, and by nine-thirty a.m. was standing outside the entrance door of a familiar building.
With an unsteady hand she nervously jabbed at the bell marking the third-floor apartment, wishing she was anywhere in the world but here.
'Yes? Who is it?' a snarling voice demanded on the intercom.
Parisa zipped the jacket of her cream leather blouson tight to her throat, and, smoothing the soft hide of the matching, softly flared skirt with a shaking hand, she responded. 'Miss Belmont, Mr Di Maggi.'
'Parisa...' Her name was a bellow. 'Don't move... No. Come straight up.'
Tentatively she pushed the door and it swung open. She walked into the brightly lit hall and slowly began ascending the stairs. She had barely reached the first landing when Luc Di Maggi appeared. She stopped dead as the full force of his virile masculinity hit her like a punch in the stomach.
He looked as though he had just got out of bed: a dark stubble covered his square jaw, a soft cotton shirt flung across his broad shoulders was not yet fastened, revealing a broad, muscular chest liberally covered in black curling hair that narrowed to a single line over his stomach and down to where a pair of well-washed jeans hung low on narrow hips, the top snap unfastened. He was barely decent... She swallowed hard, and before she could speak he grabbed her arm in a grip of steel.
'What the hell did you think you were doing, Parisa? Are you completely crazy? Climbing out of a window and down a fire ladder in the middle of the night. You could have broken
your beautiful neck, you idiot...'
He was furiously angry; his black eyes bore down into her surprised blue ones with an intensity that made her shiver. He looked as if murder was not far from his mind. 'I'm perfectly all right. What's the matter, Luc, scared you might have been arrested for murder, instead of blackmail?' she sneered, determined he should know from the beginning just what kind of low-life she considered him.