A Daring Passion
A frown flickered over his countenance before he turned to cross the room and pour himself a measure of brandy. “Not nearly so productive as I had desired. Seurat seems to possess an uncanny ability to disappear.”
Her stomach churned, that ridiculous sense of guilt deepening as her gaze clung helplessly to the elegant grace of his movements.
Oh, Raine, cease this foolishness, she silently berated herself. She had made her decision, and if time proved her to be in the wrong, she at least had the comfort of knowing that she was following her heart. It was surely all that could be asked of her.
“Perhaps he has fled Paris,” she managed to mutter.
Sipping his brandy, Philippe leaned against the heavy sideboard and regarded her beneath half-lowered lids. “It is a possibility, but I think it unlikely. Paris is his home. If he leaves he will have nowhere to hide.”
She gave a nervous lift of her hands. “Yes, but he is not thinking clearly at the moment. He might bolt without concern that he will be sleeping in hedgerows.”
“Then my men will find him.” A cruel smile touched his lips. “There is no road left unguarded.”
Raine swallowed the lump in her throat, desperately hoping that he had not been quite so careful as he believed. After all, Seurat needed to be capable of sending her a message, and at some point they would have to meet.
“You appear to have thought of everything.”
He drained the brandy, and then, setting aside his glass he relentlessly paced toward her stiff form. Raine hastily backed away, coming against the wall with a sharp jolt.
His green eyes glittered with a strange fire as he stopped directly before her, his hands landing on the wall on either side of her head. Her heart hammered as she realized that she was effectively trapped. She possessed an absolute certainty that Philippe would never physically harm her, but she knew enough of the stubborn man to realize that if he suspected that she was harboring a secret he would not relent until he had forced it from her lips.
“You do not seem pleased by my thoroughness.”
“Of course I am.”
The autocratic nose flared at her strained voice. “Raine, what is troubling you?”
“Nothing is troubling me.”
He grasped her chin in a firm grip. “Do not ever attempt to lie to me, meu amor, you do not possess the skill for it. Tell me why you are behaving as if I have suddenly grown horns and a tail.”
“That is absurd.”
“Is it?” he growled, his eyes smoldering with annoyance. “Then why do you retreat from me as if you fear I might hurt you?”
“I…I suppose the thought of Seurat still manages to unsettle me.” She spoke the first words that came to her mind, unprepared when his expression abruptly softened and his fingers curled gently against her cheek.
“Raine, you have told me everything, have you not?” he rasped in obvious concern.
She blinked in bemusement. “What do you mean?”
“The bastard did not…”
“No,” she b
reathed, a blush staining her cheeks. “Philippe, I am quite unharmed. I did not mean to imply that the thought of Seurat frightened me. In fact, I feel nothing but sympathy for his madness.”
The concern disappeared as he dropped his hand and stepped back. Perversely, Raine felt a flare of disappointment as the warmth of his body was replaced by the chill in the air.
“Raine, I have attempted to indulge your tender heart, even when you blithely give away my favorite gloves, two sets of my finest boots and insist that I treat my servants as if they are my dearest acquaintances rather than my employees, but I will not allow you to waste your pity on that worthless madman,” he said sternly.
She wrapped her arms about her waist to quell the urge to shiver. “It is my pity to waste.”
“Not on this occasion.”
“Philippe, you are being ridiculous.”
“You belong to me, Raine Wimbourne.” The ingrained arrogance was etched upon every line of his countenance. “And that includes your loyalty.”