Forbidden or For Bedding? Read online

  And the night—ah, the night would be exceptional…

  Dim daylight was pressing at Alexa’s eyelids. Slowly, as if lifting a weight, she opened her eyes. Taking in her surroundings.

  It was a hotel bedroom. A hotel whose famous name alone was synonymous with style, exclusiveness and luxury. A hotel in which she had dined the previous evening, in a suite larger than her apartment, at a dining table resplendent with silver and napery around which had been seated half a dozen couples, all guests at the highly prestigious art gallery earlier in the evening, all of whom, so it appeared, had been invited to dine with Guy de Rochemont. Along with herself.

  Precisely how that had come about she had not quite understood—only that Guy de Rochemont had taken her elbow as the reception ended and guided her back into the chauffeured limo. They’d been disgorged a short while later into the lobby of the hotel, and then she’d been swept up with the other arriving dinner guests to the penthouse floor and into this suite.

  There had seemed to be no good opportunity to take her leave, and instead she had found herself being seated at the dinner table along with the others. At that point she had acquiesced as composedly as she could, and accepted that her presence at Guy de Rochemont’s side must be for the same reason he had taken her to the opening.

  And that could only be, Alexa had mused, trying to make sense of his extraordinary behaviour, because his preferred partner—surely the exotic Carla Crespi still?—had for whatever reason not been available, and he must have assumed that the exhibition would be of intrinsic artistic interest to her as a portraitist. Indeed it had been, despite her acute consciousness of the disturbing presence of Guy de Rochemont at her side.

  Because disturbing it most definitely was. She had done her best to ignore his presence, but Guy de Rochemont was difficult to ignore at all times, and the sleek dark sheath of a tuxedo made it completely impossible. But her mounting consciousness of him should—must! she had thought—be utterly suppressed. Whatever the reason she could not complete his portrait, whatever the reason for her quite inappropriate consciousness of him all evening, the only reaction to him she must show was none at all. She must be cool, she must be composed, she must be an unobtrusive guest and nothing more.

  Her dogged composure had held through the meal, even through the ritual of serving coffee and liqueurs in the suite’s sitting room, but as the guests had taken their leave she had found it difficult, yet again, to time the moment of announcing her own departure. So, to her consternation, as the last couple had left, she’d been left with Guy de Rochemont à deux.

  Instantly, without the social conversation of the other guests, the atmosphere had seemed to change—though she’d known it was nothing more than her own resurgent consciousness of him. Definitely time to take her leave and remove herself from what had been a very taxing evening. It had been considerate of her august client not to be annoyed at her resigning his commission, gracious of him to invite her to an exhibition she would be professionally interested in, and courteous of him to include her in his dinner party, despite her having no claim whatsoever to be there. But the dinner party had been over, and it had been time for her to go. Time for her to regain the soothing sanctuary of her flat. Time to put her brief, professionally based acquaintance—nothing more than that!—with Guy de Rochemont behind her.

  With that purpose clear, she had taken a breath, put a polite smile on her face

  ‘I really must go,’ she said, her voice admirably controlled, she was glad to note. Though she had partaken only frugally of alcohol, champagne had circulated at the exhibition and an array of wines had been poured at dinner, so she was aware that she had consumed sufficient if not for intoxication, then for a discernible weakening of her normal composure.

  She got to her feet, feeling the column of silk slide down her body as she moved. Felt it disconcertingly, as if her body had somehow become as ultra-conscious as her mind…

  ‘Of course,’ said Guy de Rochemont, getting to his feet as well.

  Involuntarily, Alexa’s eyes went to him.

  The stark austerity of his evening dress etched him against the paleness of the decor, emphasised the flawless planes of his face, the extraordinary green eyes beneath the dark winged brows, the sable hair.

  For one hapless fraction of a second she could not move her gaze. Could only remain standing there, with supreme consciousness of that arresting physical presence that drew all eyes quite helplessly. She could not drag her gaze from him. Her body seemed inert immobile, beyond her control. Then, wresting back her control with intense effort, she veiled her eyes and started to walk towards the door. Getting out of here was a priority. A necessity.

  But as she gained the door Guy de Rochemont was before her, tall, and dark and dominating her senses. With a rigid stiffening of her spine she turned, holding out her hand, the gesture determinedly final.

  ‘Thank you so much for this evening, Mr de Rochemont. I enjoyed it so much. It was extremely kind of you to invite me.’

  Her voice was cool, her tone restrained, her manner formal—as befitted the situation. She was a guest—unexpectedly so, given the vastly different world she moved in from the gilded orbit that Guy de Rochemont inhabited—thanking her host for his hospitality.

  For a moment she could see something flickering in those incredible eyes. It seemed to be amusement. But it was also something else. Something that suddenly, belatedly, sent a dart quivering along her nerve fibres. Then he was responding to her polite, formal leavetaking.

  ‘It was my pleasure,’ murmured her host. ‘And this,’ he continued, somehow closing the gap between them, ‘is an even greater pleasure…’

  His smooth, long-fingered hand slid around the nape of her neck, the other hand took hers, twining his fingers between hers to draw her to him. His mouth dipped to hers. For a fraction of a second shock, sheer and undiluted, sheeted through her. Then a completely different sensation took over….

  It was like nothing she had ever experienced! She had been kissed before, of course she had, but nothing, ever like this…

  The lightest, most velvet touch, the merest grazing of his lips on hers, the most subliminal pressure of the tip of his finger moving in the delicate fronds of her hair at that most sensitive point on her nape. She felt her body start to weaken, her pulse quicken, and her conscious mind simply dissolve.

  Slowly, very, very slowly, his kiss deepened.

  And the last dissolving vestiges of her conscious mind left her.

  And then, some completely indeterminable amount of time later, by some quite unaccountable means which she could never afterwards explain, she dimly realised that she was no longer standing by the door, but was instead—quite mysteriously—in a room that was dominated by a vast brocaded bed. Onto the broad expanse of this bed she was being effortlessly lowered, and slowly, very slowly and expertly, being made love to by Guy de Rochemont.

  And there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that she could do about it—because with every cell in her body she realised it was the most exquisite thing that had ever happened to her…

  Now, as she gazed out into the dimness of the hotel room, the night gone and day come again, her conscious mind came into residence after its extraordinary absence all through the long, dissolving night. She felt incredulity open within her.

  How had it happened? How had it possibly happened? Disbelief was still echoing through her. How could she be in bed with Guy de Rochement? It was impossible! Just impossible!

  Except that it wasn’t.

  It didn’t take the evidence of her eyes to tell her that.

  No, her whole body could bear testimony…

  Memory shimmered through her every cell. Memory of sensations so exquisite, so extraordinary that they, too, could surely not be real. Except they were…

  Hands—cool, fleeting—grazing along her bared arms. The tips of long fingers slow-running along the striations of her skin. Lips as soft as velvet playing over the contours of
her body so that her whole being became a symphony of sensations—sensations that she had not known a body could experience. Light, questing fingertips exploring every curve, every secret sensual place, and lips tasting and arousing—oh, arousing! The swell of her breasts to coral peaks, which he savoured and engorged. Then his lips brushing down over her satin flesh. He had parted her loosening thighs and with a touch like silk prepared her for his possession.

  She felt her body flush with warmth evoked by the humid, arousing memories.

  How had it been possible to feel such sensation? It was beyond imagining! Beyond everything except experience. An experience that was completely beyond her comprehension.

  I never knew! Never dreamed it could be like that—never!

  Wonder soared through her, increasing her bemusement, her incomprehension of how this had come to be, her presence here. She knew with a frail, wavering fragment of her normal self that what she had done had been not only inexplicable, but total and complete folly—to have fallen into bed with Guy de Rochemont could be nothing else! Yet right now, as she lay cocooned at his side, there was nothing more she could do, than acknowledge these truths. She knew that if she had any vestige of sanity left she should leap from the bed, bundle herself into her clothes—his clothes—the clothes that he had first dressed her in then taken off her—and rush out of the hotel as fast as decorum could take her. Yet she could not do so. Not because it wasn’t the sane thing to do, but because her body seemed so strangely, uncommonly inert…languorous…

  That sense of wonder, mixed now with a strange new sense of extraordinary well-being, suffused her body and her mind, making her feel slumberous, supine. And now something else came over her—an overwhelming urge to turn her head, to see the man who had accomplished her presence at his side.

  Slowly she tilted her head, and as her eyes lit upon his face she felt something very strange lift inside her—just the slightest ripple, as if a light breeze had moved across still, untouched water, setting in motion something she did not know. She could not tell what it might be—some ineffable current that might take her she knew not where? As her eyes came to rest on the face of the man lying beside her she felt again wonder and bemusement—and more.

  She felt her breath catch. Dear God, the man was perfection! That face that she had drawn so often, sketching over and over again to try and capture its essence, that she had tried frustratingly, so frustratingly, to translate into paint on canvas, riveted her gaze.

  She had never been so close to it—to him. The sense of intimacy overwhelmed her—that she should be centimetres away from him, their limbs still half entwined. His face was so close that all she had to do was lift her hand, as she found herself now doing without conscious volition, and brush with the lightest touch the lock of satin hair across his forehead. She gazed at the long lashes of his eyes, swept down over the sculpted plane of his cheek.

  He was deeply asleep—she could see the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, see the pulse at his throat, feel the warmth of his breath on her hand. As she touched him he did not stir, and she was glad—for she wanted only this moment now, gazing at the extraordinary perfection of his face, a homage to male beauty that for this one night had out of nowhere been a gift of fortune to her.

  And that was what it had been, she knew. Whatever the reason Guy de Rochemont had chosen not to send her home but to take her here instead, she knew it was no more than a passing appetite, no more than filling an empty night with someone who, for a night at least, was worthy of his possession however fleeting his desire for her. Yet it felt like a gift. She felt it with every sensuous memory still warming her body, flushed with the heat of their congress.

  I was mad to let it happen! But it did, and I cannot regret it—not now, not here. I can regret it later, tomorrow—all those tomorrows—and think how weak and foolish I was. But for now, for this day, I cannot regret it.

  A smile played at her mouth. Yes, she had been foolish beyond belief, foolish and weak, but what had happened she could not regret—not with her body whispering to her in every cell just how transformed she was. Her eyes softened as her gaze stayed upon that perfect face, displayed for her in deep repose.

  Cliché it might be, but any woman chosen by Guy de Rochemont must surely take away from the encounter only her appreciation

  ‘Ma belle…’

  He had awakened, his eyes holding hers immediately, the intimacy of his gaze at once drawing her to him. As her eyes twined with his she started to drown in their green long-lashed depths, as if there were no more air to breathe in the world.

  He kissed her, their mouths mingling, and a sweetness went through her that warmed her body. As he drew away his eyes were tinged with regret. ‘Hélas—I cannot do what you must know I long to do. I cannot stay. Je suis désolé.’

  With a single fluid movement he stood up out of the bed, supremely unconscious of his nakedness—and of his condition. Alexa could feel her cheeks flush as she realised.

  ‘Yes,’ he allowed ruefully, ‘I do not need to lie to you—I would give much, ma belle, to stay. But it cannot be. So I must ask you only to excuse my neglect.’

  He turned away, walking into the en suite bathroom, and a moment later Alexa heard the rushing of water as the shower started. For one timeless moment she lay there, feeling out of nowhere a desolation that was far beyond the polite utterance he had made on his own behalf. It was only for a fraction of a second, but it was like the tip of a whip across her heart.

  No!

  Where the admonition came from she didn’t know. She only knew that it was essential that she administer it. Essential, too, to take instant advantage of this window of opportune solitude. She threw back the bedclothes and stood up. Again, for a moment, she felt her body was different somehow—changed—but then she thrust the moment aside, casting around to see where her clothes might be. Gathering them up, she hastily got herself dressed. It seemed absurd—more than absurd—to be putting on evening clothes again, but there was nothing else to be done. As she finished zipping up the elegant, beautifully made dress—whose price was beyond her range even at her most self-indulgent!—a sudden depression of the spirits crumpled her. She shut her eyes. Hot chagrin burned her cheeks. Suddenly the sordidness of her situation hit her.

  A one-night stand—that was what she had been. A passing convenience, a handy female—good enough to fill the night hours of a man who kept company with film stars, who’d dressed her up to his standard. And now, her purpose fulfilled, she had only to cover her nakedness and remove herself.

  No! It hadn’t been like that—it hadn’t! Not for her, at least. She wouldn’t let such thoughts intrude, wouldn’t let the wonder of it all warp into something sordid and regrettable. Because it hadn’t been! Yes, of course she was simply a passing fancy. How could she be anything but to a man like Guy de Rochemont? But that didn’t mean it had been tacky or repellent. Every portion of her body told her otherwise.

  She took a deep breath, straightening her shoulders. The beautiful line of the gown shimmered over her body, reminding her of how she had looked last night. With swift fingers she reached into the tumbled mass of her hair and plaited her tresses into a long pigtail over one shoulder, glancing in one of the many wardrobe mirrors as she did so. Yes, that was fine. Neat, tamed. Her eyes were still smudged with make-up, but a quick wipe with a tissue from the vanity unit removed a great deal—enough until she could gain her own flat. Slipping her feet into the soft leather shoes, she reached for the evening purse that went with the gown. There—she was ready to go.

  Calm and composed again.

  The door of the bathroom opened and Guy de Rochemont emerged, his showered body clad now in a dazzling white hotel bathrobe. His sable hair was damp, and diamond drops dewed his long eyelashes. Alexa felt her breath catch, felt a sense of wonderment that for a few brief hours he had been hers to embrace.

  Well, now it was the morning, and real life took over again. His would, clearly, an
d so must hers. ‘Cherie, there was no rush for you!’ His voice was amused, as well as rueful, as he took in her dressed state at a glance as he strode to the wardrobes and threw open the doors. Inside, Alexa caught a glimpse of serried male garments hanging up. ‘You should have stayed in bed—had breakfast. It is only I who had to make this infernal early departure—tant pis!’

  ‘No, that’s quite all right.’ Alexa’s voice was composed, beautifully composed, and she was proud of herself. As if there was nothing extraordinary about standing there in Guy de Rochemont’s London hotel suite as he proceeded to get dressed. ‘I must get going myself. I’ll have the dress and accessories cleaned and returned. Should they go to your London offices, or…’

  He gave her a questioning look as he shrugged himself into a pristine shirt. ‘You don’t like the dress? You should have said last night—the stylist would have found another for you. But I can assure you it suits you completely—you look superbe in it.’ His voice changed a fraction. ‘Just as I knew you would.’

  ‘The dress doesn’t belong to me,’ she answered.

  ‘Don’t be absurd.’ There was a flash of something that might be hauteur or irritation in his voice.

  ‘Monsieur de Rochemont—’ Alexa began. She hadn’t actually intended to call him by his French name, but it had come out of her mouth automatically—out of habit.

  His eyes flashed with green incredulity.

  ‘Monsieur?’ he echoed, his fingers stilling in the act of doing up his shirt. He stared at her. Then his mouth gave a wry smile. ‘Alexa, I know you are English, and the English are very formal, but we have reached the point of first names—je t’assure!’

  His clearly deliberate use of the intimate form of speech emphasised his assurance. She gave a slightly awkward lift of her hand. ‘Well, it doesn’t really matter anyway,’ she said, ‘since we shan’t be seeing each other again. So—’