Authors: Sara Wood
She drew in her breath. Their eyes met, glacial blue and startled brown. 'The message is crystal-clear,' she said with icy dignity. 'When your father recovers—'
'Maybe he won't,' Pascal said with soft savagery, as if he wasn't particularly concerned.
He carried his hatred like a spear, thrusting it at anyone who was associated with his despised father. Pascal's hostility was worrying her. The bitterness between him and his father ran very, very deep. There was an anger in Pascal that was greater than anything she'd known before. And she wondered what had happened between the two men to make them such implacable enemies.
A feeling of dread crept over her. Pascal saw her as an ally of his father's. Not only would Pascal refuse to co-operate, but she'd bet her bottom dollar that he'd do his, best to stop her mission out of pure spite.
'You can't take your anger out on me—it's unreasonable!' she complained. But nothing moved in his face. No pity, no softening of that twisted, stony mouth. 'I'm sorry you think of your father as your enemy. It's terrible.' And it was a dreadful waste. She'd have given anything to have a father. 'But what's the point of revenge? It will only hurt you both,' she argued.
'I'm not looking for revenge,' he said tightly. 'I'm looking for justice. Don't interfere in my life. Don't offer advice and smother me with your sweet, sentimental idea of close family ties! You know nothing of what's going on!'
'No, I don't. It's obviously something immensely important to you. I'm sorry,' she conceded with contrition.
Pascal looked strained. 'Yes. You should be. Now you know the score. Enjoy your holiday and then go home.'
'I can't do that,' she said quietly. 'I'm sorry you won't help me but it doesn't make any difference to my decision. I have to see him.' And she set her mouth in firm lines.
'I'll stop you. Come hell or high water, I'll keep you two apart.'
His voice was quiet but utterly determined and Mandy felt a quiver of alarm run through her body. The circumstances which had put father and son at loggerheads must be more serious and far-reaching than she could imagine. Something terrible had happened between them that caused the bleakness in Pascal s cold blue eyes and the tensing of every muscle in his body to straining point whenever he referred to his father.
'There's more to this than I know, isn't there?' she said.
Pascal nodded. 'Much more. You don't want to get caught up in it. Do the sensible thing. It's in your own interest not to stay.'
Feeling defeated, Mandy miserably picked up her shoes and stood up in a liquid flow of limbs and body. 'I'm sorry you're both so unhappy,' she said, feeling sad for Pascal and his father, and he gave her an odd, suspicious look. 'I'll make my own enquiries. People here will know where your father is—'
'They don't,' he said coldly. 'He's in a private hospital. Strictly no visitors. No calls.'
She heaved a sigh. 'Then I won't disturb him. You said he didn't have an office but he must have a colleague who can help me—'
'A colleague?' Pascal said scathingly. 'He doesn't have one.'
Mandy drew in an exasperated breath. 'Then I'll ring the solicitor in London,' she said, beginning to lose patience. 'Mr Lacey will give me a contact address—'
'Don't waste your time asking,' said Pascal. 'He's had strict instructions not to reveal any information whatsoever. Only to give you the airline tickets and the accommodation voucher.'
'How do you know?' she asked suspiciously.
He gave a small smile of triumph. 'I saw the instructions to Lacey when I was sorting through my father's papers.'
'I see. Well, it doesn't matter,' she said, bravely stopping her lower lip from wobbling. Somehow she needed to see those papers. Pascal wouldn't help, but maybe someone else would. 'I've come so far, I can't give up now! I can still ask around. People are always willing to talk to me. I'll find out. I've spent half my life battling against the odds. Finding your father won't be any problem for me, and I'm sure he'll see me when he feels a bit better. I can be very persuasive.'
'With a body like that, I'm sure you can,' he commented insolently.
Her eyes flared in astonished affront but she forced herself not to dignify his insult with a reaction. Furious with, him, she turned haughtily on her heel and walked to the shoreline, determined to prove that she felt so full of confidence that a mid-afternoon paddle was the only thing uppermost in her mind now.
Intact, she needed time to think. Tired from travelling all day, shaky from Pascal's awful reception, she was finding it hard to pull her woozy brain together. The earlier elation had vanished, leaving a heavy depression, and she'd need to overcome that if she was to make any headway with her plans.
As she walked through the cooling water with her head held high to catch the light breeze on her hot face, she wanted to cry because she felt quite weak with disappointment. This had begun with such promise!
She was tired of struggling. She wanted Dave back. Strong arms to hold her. Someone who cared, who'd give her support and encouragement. The world was a lonely place when you had no one, and she'd been alone for too long.
The tears threatened to spill out and she blinked rapidly in case Pascal could see her face and would think that she was upset because of him. She didn't want to give him that satisfaction. What a brute he was!
She'd almost reached the rocks at the end of the beach when a hand gripped her shoulder. And she flinched because it was so similar to Dave's—similar but different. Harder. Less loving, less gentle, more masterful and compelling. Pascal.
'Oh, why are you following me?' she asked in despair.
'You need persuading,' he said curtly.
'I
won't
be persuaded! Get lost!' she snapped over her shoulder, almost at the end of her tether.
Abruptly, she found herself being pivoted around like a doll. They stood very close in the rolling surf and the drag of the water was so strong that she kept losing her balance as the sand was sucked from under her feet.
'Careful.'
Pascal steadied her, his hands sliding to her arms. Irrationally, she longed for him to hold her closer and say sorry, he'd help. And then she'd cry the tears she'd been holding back in sheer relief.
'I don't need you!' she muttered, more for her own benefit than his.
'You will always need men,' he observed, a husky warmth threading his voice. 'Need them, want them, encourage them.'
She blinked in surprise and turned her head away to gather her composure. He was horribly right—not about the encouragement, but yes, to be totally honest, she did need them, want them.
Dave's death had rendered the thought of loving another man inconceivable. But certain things—lovers kissing in a bus shelter, passionate scenes on the television, and personal memories of making love on a warm, moonlit night with the curtains fluttering in the soft breeze—all these and more had repeatedly jolted her deep sexuality into life again, driving her crazy with the torment, brutally reminding her how wonderful married love could be. And she hungered for something she could no longer have, because she'd never fall in love again and sex without love—without marriage—was unthinkable.
She missed being hugged by her beloved husband. She missed the joy of sex. And the bliss afterwards.
Slowly her limpid gaze came back to focus on his. 'Spoken like a true chauvinist,' she said resentfully. Yet the memories had roughened her voice and she sounded horribly husky and inviting.
'You need men... and I need women. There's something terrible about the sex urge, isn't there, Mandy?'
Taking advantage of her astonished silence, he slowly displayed his masculine approval by openly studying her body. Mandy squirmed uncomfortably, aware that her sweat was holding her thin dress against her damp skin and that he must be learning more about her figure than he should.
'Don't!' she husked, reeling from his intense sexuality. It was making her body throb... It was such a long time since a man had been so bold and poured desire from the depths of his eyes! Her mouth trembled and pouted. 'Don't!'
'Invitation and rebuke. Little-girl sweetness, womanly sensuality. Demure and innocent, yet offering the promise of curves that will fire an old man's loins. What a joy you must be to lustful old satyrs,' mused Pascal with breathtaking insolence.
'What?'
she gasped.
'Easy arousal is vitally important when you're dealing with lowered libido,' he drawled.
'Is that an observation from personal experience?' she snapped waspishly.
He smiled with the confidence of a man who knew he couldn't ever give the impression that he might be less than one hundred per cent pure male. 'I have a very high libido. It's a problem sometimes,' he murmured. 'Particularly when faced with temptation.'
Her chin jerked down, following the direction of his fascinated and mocking gaze. The freshening breeze— or
something
—had teased each dark centre of her breasts into a firm peak which thrust at the cloth assertively in an unspoken invitation. No wonder Pascal's mouth was looking sultrier by the minute! Hastily, she covered their come-and-get-me appeal with defensively folded arms.
'Don't flatter yourself that that's anything to do with you!' she snapped. 'Get your libido back in line. I'm not interested in you—'
'What about money?' he suggested.
'All I'm interested in at present is your father—'
'They amount to the same thing. He represents money for you.'
'He represents my dreams,' she corrected.
'You're determined to stay on, aren't you?' he murmured. 'So.. .we'll have to get along together after all.' His mouth twisted at her wide-eyed hope. 'Would you like to spend an hour or two on my boat?' he suggested casually. Although he was smiling at her innocently, she couldn't mistake the sinfully arched eyebrow and the undercurrent of male desire in his deep blue eyes.
'No. I wouldn't. And I know what you're suggesting and you're no gentleman—'
'True,' he admitted. 'I'm the local rogue.' And he flashed his dazzling, tigerish grin.
She was beginning to get his measure. A playboy. Rolling in his father's hard-earned wealth.
Perhaps, she thought, elaborating on the theme, the antipathy between father and son came from Monsieur St Honore's resentment at having built up a thriving legal practice only to have his son lounge about on beaches, chat up women and spend his money.
'You've made that perfectly clear by your clumsy invitation,' she said coldly, deciding to scramble over the rocks to the next bay and escape his unwanted attentions.
'Good. Because I don't want you to think I'd ever play fair,' he told her silkily, and she paused, wondering what he meant. Her hesitation gave him the opportunity to capture her wrists in his vice-like hands. 'You and your kind are like parasites. And, for your information, I invited you to my boat on the off chance that I could keep you there till you promised to get the hell off the island,' he added, with no shame at all for his attempt to manipulate her.
'If you don't take your hands off me,' she said coldly, 'I'm going to scream. And I can scream for England, I promise you.'
'Surely you don't want any publicity?' he murmured. 'Not the kind of woman you are.'
She tried to speak, but her throat was filled by a hard, dry lump. What kind of woman did he mean? she wanted to ask, horrified to be thought anything but hardworking, moral and conscientious. But the curl of Pascal's lip, the flinty scorn in his piercing eyes and the intensely physical threat of his muscular body made her feel as if she'd committed an indecent act and ought to be hiding herself in shame.
Dawning on her slowly was the realisation that he knew something about her background—something so dreadful that any decent person would be justified in despising her and her kind. What kind? Who
was
she?
Mandy's sharp, shuddering intake of breath sucked in his warmth, the scent of his powerful male body. A shiver skimmed down her back. If she was right, she didn't want to hear the truth from this unsympathetic brute. The revelation should come in private, from someone who might care about her feelings. The shock that there might be awful secrets in her family past had shaken her to the core. She wanted to know
now.
Or she'd have a sleepless night filled with the sound of her own sobbing.
Sound suddenly forced its way through her white, trembling lips. 'Pascal,' she said rawly, 'I pray that somewhere inside that steel skin of yours is a heart. Because I need to find it.' Her hand reached out in an urgent plea because she knew she had nothing to lose. 'I beg you, take pity on me—'
'Go home. Staying here will destroy you,' he said grimly.
She winced. 'I
have
to stay! You
know
why I'm here!' she cried, looking up at him through swimming eyes. 'Don't you feel any compassion for me?'
'Not a scrap.'
'Forget your bitterness!' she begged. 'Forget whatever vendetta lies between you and your father! I
badly
need to see him; you must realise that! I can, I
will
do it the hard way if I have to, but you can make it a lot easier and save me time. Whatever your feelings, please, in the name of humanity, arrange a meeting for me as soon as he's better! I've come all this way, my hopes raised...'
Her voice trailed into silence. He had moved even closer, so that her fingers touched his chest. Blinking, she registered the firm, moulded muscle, the warmth and „ the flawless texture of his skin that cried out to be stroked. Beautiful, she thought, much to her own surprise, and had to fight against the foolish, knee-jerk urge to slide each palm up to his gleaming brown shoulders and hold him close, because the lure of that warm body was overwhelming.
She pulled herself together. 'Please,' she repeated, her hazel eyes huge with anxiety and her whole heart in her long, pleading look.
'You were right. You can be very persuasive,' he said huskily.
'Oh!' she breathed, filled with hope. 'Pascal...' Her voice dried up.
Serious and unnervingly determined, he slowly reached out with his forefinger, and Mandy watched it come closer to her mouth, knowing that her lips were parting and that her breath was rushing from her lungs in a long, low sigh. Hunger. Hunger for a man's touch!