The Virgin's Debt to Pay

Still, she couldn’t help but look around. The room was huge and open plan, with soft grey furnishings in muted tones. The same stunning modern art that she’d seen in his office was dotted around the walls, along with sculptures, huge coffee-table books on photography, art, and movies. More books than she’d ever seen in her life, ranging from thrillers to the classics.

The decor and objects reflected a far more cerebral man than Nessa would have guessed existed under Barbier’s brooding, sexy exterior.

She had to force herself to remember why she was here and not give into the impulse to pluck out a book from the shelves and curl up on one of the sumptuous couches to read. She realised that she was more weary than she’d realised—the stress of the situation and hard work, mixed with nights of fitful sleep, wasn’t a good combination. But she wasn’t a wilting lily, and normally worked harder than most, so it annoyed her to find herself feeling tired now.

She scooped up the cleaning supplies and set to work dusting and cleaning. Eventually, as if she’d been putting it off, she went into the bedroom area. She opened the doors and the first thing that hit her eyeline was the bed. It was massive, dominating the room. Much like the man.

It was a modern bed with a dark grey headboard that reminded her ridiculously of his eyes and how they could turn dark silver. A detail she shouldn’t even be aware of.

Apart from the bed there were some built-in wardrobes, a sleek chest of drawers and bedside tables. What was striking was the absence of anything of particularly personal value. No photos. No stuff. Just some clothes draped on one of the chairs and the rumpled bedsheets, which she avoided looking at.

Then she spied two more doors that revealed a walk-in closet and a luxurious bathroom complete with wetroom shower and a tub that looked big enough to take a football team.

Nessa set about cleaning the bathroom, trying not to breathe in his scent, which was everywhere. She picked up a bottle of cologne and guiltily sniffed it before putting it down again hastily.

Disgusted with herself, she finished cleaning and went back into the bedroom, pulling off the crumpled sheets and trying not to imagine that they were still warm from his body. Would he sleep naked? He seems like the kind of man who would...

Nessa stopped dead for a moment, shocked at the vivid turn of her imagination, and at the way she suddenly hungered to know what he would look like—imagining the sexy naked sprawl of that big bronzed body all too easily, and knowing her imagination probably fell far short of reality. Her pulse became slow and hot.

She had to face the unpalatable fact that Luc Barbier had succeeded where no other man had. He’d awoken her hormones from their dormant state. Their virginal state. And it was beyond humiliating that the first man she should feel lust for was the last man who would ever look at her like that.

She’d often wondered why she’d never felt particularly roused by other boys’ kisses at university, and her lack of response had earned her a reputation of being standoffish. She’d closed inwards after that, choosing to avoid exposing herself and risk being mocked.

Nessa made the bed as clinically as she could, ignoring the faint dent near the centre that indicated where he slept. When she was done she made one more sweep of the rooms to make sure she hadn’t missed anything and collected all the cleaning materials. She stepped inside the bedroom one last time to run her eye over the now-pristine bed and was about to step back out and shut the door when something caught her eye outside.

She went over to the window, putting the basket down for a moment. The view took her breath away; the sun was setting over the gallops, bathing everything in a lush golden light. There were no horses being exercised now, bu

t Nessa could remember how it felt to harness a thoroughbred’s power as it surged powerfully beneath her. There was a wide window seat and Nessa sat down, curling her legs underneath her, enjoying the view for an illicit moment.

Nessa suspected that she knew exactly why she had avoided physical intimacy until now. Their mother’s death had profoundly affected everyone in her family: Iseult had grown up overnight to become their mother and much more, and the boys had gone off the rails in their own ways but had always turned to each other. Even though Nessa was a twin to Eoin, they’d never had that bond people spoke of.

Their father had gone to pieces.

But Nessa had been too young to do much but internalise all of her own pain and grief, too acutely aware of everyone else’s struggles to let it out. She’d always been terrified of what might come out of her if she did. It had been easier to retreat emotionally, and concentrate on her dreams of being a great jockey.

But sometimes the pain in her chest—her unexpressed grief—took her breath away. And sometimes, when she looked at her sister Iseult with her husband and she saw their incredibly intimate bond, she felt envious of that relationship, even as it made her heart palpitate with fear. She couldn’t imagine ever allowing herself to love someone that much, for fear of losing them. For fear of the devastation the loss would cause.

Up until now she’d avoided sex because getting close to someone had seemed like too high a price. And yet, when she thought of Luc Barbier, the last thing on her mind was the emotional price.

* * *

Luc was tired and frustrated. He’d spent the last three days working intensively with one of his brightest hopes, a horse called Sur La Mer. He was due to race in a few weeks in France but none of his jockeys seemed capable of getting the horse to perform to his maximum ability. Luc would ride the horse himself if he weren’t six feet four and two hundred pounds.

Luc was also frustrated in a far more difficult area—sexually. It was not a state he was used to. He didn’t do sexual frustration. He desired a woman, he had her and he moved on.

But only one woman had dominated his thoughts in France. Nessa O’Sullivan. He’d gone to a glitzy charity auction in Paris that was abounding with beautiful women. Not one had piqued his interest. Instead he’d found himself wondering what Nessa would look like out of those jeans that seemed to be shrink-wrapped to her taut thighs. Or the series of worn T-shirts that did little to conceal her lithe body and firm breasts. Or what her hair would look like teased into luxurious waves, rippling down a bare back.

Dieu. He cursed himself as he strode down the corridor to his bedroom, relishing the prospect of a cold shower and bed.

But when Luc opened the door to his bedroom all of his instincts snapped onto high alert. An old habit from when his environment had spelled danger from sunrise to sunset.

He saw the basket of cleaning supplies first, on a table near the door. And then he saw her and his breath stopped in his chest. He wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t hallucinating.

She was curled up on the wide window seat, fast asleep. Her knees were leaning to one side, and her head was leaning against the window as if she’d been looking at the view of the gallops.

He moved closer and his hungry gaze tracked down over her body—he was disappointed that she wasn’t wearing the jeans and T-shirt combination that had enflamed his imagination. She was wearing the plain black trousers and black shirt that all his household staff wore. Flat, functional sneakers.

The shirt had untucked from her trousers, and he could see the tiniest bare patch of her waist and her paler than pale skin. Blood roared to his head and groin in a simultaneous rush.