Darkest Longings (37 page)

pearly-white basque and gartered stockings. Her wonderful

golden hair was loose and curling around her shoulders; her

pale, luscious skin glowed in the amber half-light, and her

ripe lips glimmered a delicate peach-colour. She knew it

was the way he would want to find her, she knew too that

tonight after such a long absence, he would simply take her, with no thought for her pleasure or care for his own savagery. But the Very fact that his body craved such a

release was enough to inflame the desire in her own, even if

she must wait until the following morning for total satisfaction.

He

arrived just after midnight. Hearing his key in the

lock, she rose to her feet and, checking herself quickly in the

mirror, turned to watch him walk in. The instant she saw his

face, her heart contracted so painfully that it was all she

could do to stop herself running to him. She had tried so

hard to pretend she hadn’t missed him; that she wasn’t

afraid he was angry with her because of what she’d told him

about his wife; that she wasn’t terrified she might be losing

him. But she had been all of those things - and more. It was

impossible for her to forget how much she loved him, or

how vulnerable that love made her.

But what she did sometimes forget was the way the air,

the light, even the temperature, suddenly seemed to change

when he walked into a room, and though outwardly she gave

no sign of it, inside she was already melting under the

burning heat of his eyes. He didn’t have to touch her for her

to feel him, he didn’t have to speak for her to know what he

wanted.

Her hand trembled slightly as she poured him a brandy

but her voice was steady as she said, ‘It is good to see you.’

He nodded, then reaching inside his coat, he took out a

Mauboussin box and put it on the table. She eyed it greedily

knowing that whatever trinket lay insult would be

exquisitely expensive.

‘The child is mine,’ he said.

Startled, she looked up - she hadn’t expected him to mention it so soon after arriving. They held one another’s eyes, and in the dim golden light she looked more like a mythical goddess than ever, and he more like a demon,

Slowly her lips curled into a derisive smile. ‘That’s what she

told you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you believe her?’

‘Yes.”

She handed him the brandy, then sauntered across to the

sofa but didn’t sit down. ‘Francois de Lorvoire, the cuckold,’

she jeered in her deep, throaty voice. She turned to face him

He was watching her, his eyes as inscrutable -as ever and his

lips wet from the brandy. ‘That is what you arc, you know?’

He inclined his head, then put his glass cm the mantleshelf

beside him.

‘You’re going to let her get away with it?’

‘With having my baby? Of course.’

if it is your baby. And what about St Jacques?’

‘What about him?’

A quick temper flashed in her eyes. ‘He is her lover,’ she

snapped.

‘Is he? And just how would you know something like that,

Elise?’

He appeared unruffled, but she hadn’t missed the

dangerous edge in his voice. But it was a question she was

prepared for, and was amazed he hadn’t asked it before.

‘Because it’s the talk of the countryside,’ she answered

disdainfully, ‘and fast becoming the talk of Paris. Celine has

visitors down there at Montvisse, they’re not blind to what

goes on under their noses.’

‘I should have thought you were above idle gossip, Elise,’

he remarked equably. ‘However, there is a little truth in the

rumours. My wife is in love with St Jacques - or so she tells

me.’

‘And knowing that, you’re prepared to accept that the

child isn’t his? You’re a fool, Francois.’

All the time they had been speaking, he had been moving

towards her. Now he took his hand out of his pocket and

pushed her peignoir down over one shoulder. ‘Do you think

so?’ he murmured, feeding his eyes on the ample softness of

her skin.

‘Do you care what I think?’

‘The only thing I care about, Elise, is that the child is

mine.’ And peeling the peignoir from her other shoulder,

he watched it drop to the floor. She looked down at his

hand as he trailed it gently over the fine lace of her basque,

then watched as he hooked his fingers into a cup of the

brassiere and eased it down over her plump breast to

expose the achingly distended nipple. She took a breath to

speak, but his fingers closed over the nipple, and with his

other hand he grabbed her hair and tilted her face back to

look at him. For a fleeting moment he saw Claudine’s lips

before him, red and full and trembling, and as his mouth

closed angrily over Elise’s he released her nipple and

started to unbutton his fly.

He took her there on the sofa, so urgently and so swiftly

that he didn’t even bother to take off his coat. The second

time he pushed her over the dining table and took her from

behind. Then he led her into the bedroom where he finally removed his clothes and lay down on the bed.

For a while they talked about what he had been doing

while he was away, then he flicked back the bedclothes and

pulled her on top of him. She rode him with a mounting

frenzy while he looked up at her, his hands clasped behind

his head, his face expressionless. His climax took longer to

achieve that time, but when finally his eyes closed and she

saw the muscles in his neck start to tense, she reached

behind her and pushed her hand between his legs. His hips

suddenly jerked from the bed, and as the semen started to

shoot from him, he circled her waist with his hands and

slammed into her so hard that she screamed for mercy.

When he had finished he let her go, and within minutes he

was asleep.

When Elise awoke the following morning she found

herself wrapped in his arms, her back pressed against his

chest, her bottom resting on his thighs and her head nestling

against his shoulder. She lay quietly for some time, listening

to his breathing and feeling the warmth of his skin on hers.

She knew it was unlikely they would leave the room much

before lunch, and for her, lying here like this was the first

part of the lovemaking that would keep them there. This

morning he would devote himself to her pleasure, just as last

night she had given herself to his.

The fact that he believed Claudine’s child was his still

rankled with her, but she knew better than to broach the

subject again. She would decide later how best to handle

Claudine’s pregnancy - she had only refrained from

interfering until now because she had fully expected

Francois to believe that St Jacques was the father. If he had

believed that, she was certain that in one way or another he

would have ended his marriage.

For her part, she had no idea whether St Jacques was the

father or not. All she knew was that The Bitch was stealing

the hearts of everyone she met, and though there were times

when Elise doubted if Francois had a heart to steal, she had

only to feel the way he was holding her now to know that, if

he chose, he was as capable of love as any man. She also

knew that if The Bitch gave birth to an heir, her hopes and

dreams of one day becoming the Comtesse de Rassey de

Lorvoire, and the mother of the future comte, would be

destroyed.

Deciding it was time to wake him she looked at his arm,

stretched out across the pillow, and slipping her fingers

between his she pushed back against him, gently wriggling

her hips. After a moment she did it again, and this time she

knew she had woken him.

She turned to face him, and taking his bottom lip between

her own, she sucked at it gently. Eventually she pulled away

and looked into his eyes. She saw his sardonic smile as she

threw off the blankets, then pushed him onto his back so

that she could watch him come to full erection. Already his

penis was hard, but she waited until it was straining to his

navel before lifting her eyes to his. For a while they simply

looked at one another, until he lifted a hand and pulled her

to him, moulding his lips around hers. It was a long,

succulent kiss which seemed to last forever. He drew her

body closer so that she could feel the strength of his desire,

before, keeping his lips on hers, he rolled her onto her back.

It was as he lowered his mouth to her breasts that the

telephone started to ring, Elise groaned and started to sit

up, but he pushed her back against the pillows. Smiling

salaciously, she relaxed again, and allowed her legs to fall

open as his fingers stroked her thighs. Any moment now it

would be as if she had left her body, as if there was no

room for anything but the overpowering sensation of his

touch. But as her eyes fluttered closed, there was a knock

at the door. Again she groaned, but this time in anger as

her maid called, ‘Monsieur de Lorvoire! It is the telephone

for you, monsieur. Your father wishes to speak to you.’

Francois had been on the point of telling her to go away,

but hearing that it was his father, he pushed himself quickly

from the bed and unhooked the robe he kept on the back of

the door.

He was back within minutes. Elise was sitting up in bed,

the blankets covering her to the waist, her beautiful yellow

hair tumbling over her breasts. She smiled as he came in,

but as she saw his thunderous expression her face froze.

‘What is it?’ she breathed.

Ignoring her, he started to pull on his clothes.

‘Francois! What is it? What’s happened?’

He didn’t answer until he was fully dressed, then he

rounded on her with a fierceness that struck terror to her

heart. ‘My wife has had a fall,’ he snarled. ‘The footman

dropped a breakfast tray, slipped and collided with her on

the stairs.’

‘What? But… Is she all right?’

‘I don’t know. The doctor’s with her now. But you, Elise,

had better start praying that she is.’

‘Francois! What do you mean? Where are you going?’

He stopped at the door, then swung round to face her. ‘I

don’t know how much you know about this, Elise, but I’m

warning you, have that man out of my home before I arrive

there, or so help me, I’ll kill you both.’

The door slammed behind him and she was left kneeling

on the bed, her exquisite face ashen and her wide green eyes

leaden with fear.

There were four of them: General Rudolf von Liebermann,

Max Helber, Walter Bruning and Ernst Grundhausen.

They were at a secret address in Berlin, in the sleazy,

garbage-strewn backstreets of the city’s red light district.

Apart from the chairs they were sitting on, there was no

furniture in the room, and the two sash-windows which

overlooked the striptease clubs, the shady bars and the

rancid market stalls four floors below, were smeared with

the filth and slime of several years.

Von Liebermann, the eldest and heaviest of them, and

also the most senior in rank, waited for the others to

complete their perusal of the documents he had handed

them on their arrival. It was his way to present his Komitee with a chronicle of recently acquired intelligence at the start of each meeting, which they were required to read, without

comment, from beginning to end. Then, when they had

finished, he would address them. On this occasion, however,

he had information over and above what was contained

in the documents, and as he sat waiting patiently for his men

to finish reading there was a hint of a smile on his pale lips.

How convenient that a meeting had been arranged for today

- it had saved him the trouble of locating the men in order to

pass on the news which had reached him in the early hours

of that morning.

At last it was time for him to speak. Lifting a hand to his

mouth, he cleared his throat, and with no reference to

anything they had read, he said, ‘The Wine Supplier’s wife

has had a fall.’

The three faces staring back at him remained bland, and

he experienced a quick thrill of satisfaction that he had

chosen his men so well. Then he raised his brows, an

indication that they were now permitted to speak.

‘Did the child perish?’ Grundhausen enquired.

‘Possibly,’ von Liebermann answered.

‘Possibly?’ repeated Max Helber, the man sitting to his

right.

Looking at Helber’s youthful face and thick, full-blooded

lips, von Liebermann felt a gentle stirring in his loins. He

ignored it, and said, ‘For the moment, all I know is that his

wife took a fall on the stairs at the Touraine chateau

yesterday morning.’

‘Was it an accident?’ Helber asked.

‘If one were to take into account the fact that Philippe

Mauclair has sustained a broken leg and dislocated his

shoulder, then yes, one could refer to it as an accident.’

‘Clumsy of him,’ Helber remarked. ‘Where is he now?’

‘He has been removed from the chateau to a nearby