Seized by Love (40 page)

Pasha found her thus when
he returned, on her knees, opening one of the compartments under the seat.
"Could I help?" he pleasantly inquired, not overly surprised by the
lady's behavior. Any mistress of Langelier would be duplicitous.

"I was looking for a
wrap against the evening's chill," Beatrix dissembled.

"Allow me," Pasha
offered, shrugging out of his coat and handing it to her.

Reseating herself as
gracefully as possible under the awkward circumstances, Beatrix settled the
silk-lined coat over her shoulders and a moment later, felt the added warmth of
his body as he seated himself beside her. She had no room to move within the
narrow confines of the carriage. His muscular thigh rested against hers, his
silk-shirted arm pressed into hers, his masculinity overwhelming; he was a very
large man. And when his father—the resemblance was clear—took his seat opposite
them, the dimensions of the interior seemed to shrink further, the sense of
male power intense.

"I hope Dilly isn't
too upset." Pasha spoke to his father cryptically as the carriage began to
move.

"I'll talk to Berri
about having some of her work published. A diversion as it were."

"She likes
Berri."

"And he's more
suitable than…" Duras's mouth turned down in a transient grimace.
"Although that's no longer our concern. Are you going—"

"To my apartment.
Mansel knows."

The driver had already been
given orders and as the men spoke to each other in undertones Beatrix surveyed
the streets they traversed, careful to take note of her surroundings. If she
were successful in securing her passage money, she might have to leave
precipitously and she needed to know her whereabouts.

After crossing the Seine
near Notre Dame, they traveled west along the left bank for only a short
distance before coming to a gated terrace overlooking the river.

Pasha had his hand on the
door latch before the carriage had completely come to rest. "You should be
safe from inquiries here," he cordially said to Beatrix, opening the door.
Jumping down, he turned to offer her his hand and after a polite
au revoir
to his father, he helped her descend from the carriage.

The driver carried
Beatrix's valise up the flagstone path to the front entrance and placed it near
the door. The scent of lilac perfumed the air as Pasha escorted her through the
informal garden fronting the river. How wonderful they smelled, she wanted to
say, but more serious matters distracted her from such trivial pronouncements.
Alert to every possibility, she was waiting to see what opportunities might
arise.

Pasha on the other hand was
considering only what pleasant diversions this lush beauty would offer him
tonight. Since she was obviously making her own way in the world, he was more
than willing to reward her for entertaining him instead of Langelier for a day
or two.

Her reserve intrigued him;
she'd barely spoken since they left Langelier's apartment. He was equally
intrigued by her modest appearance; her voluptuous form was disguised by the
plainness of her gown. But he knew what lay hidden beneath the tailored gray
silk and he was looking forward to seeing that glorious body unveiled.

As they approached the
entrance, a servant opened the door and candlelight spilled out into the spring
night.

A gracious host, Pasha
turned to her. "Would you like something to eat?"

Yes, ten courses and
champagne, Beatrix thought; the derelict state of Langelier's pantry had
offered scant sustenance. But she didn't intend to stay long enough to eat so
she said instead, "No thank you. I recently dined."

"We won't be requiring
anything, Hippolyte," Pasha said to the servant. "Take the lady's
valise to my apartments."

The servant complied
without expression. Apparently this young man had brought women to his home
before, Beatrix decided, surveying the splendid entrance hall.

"Do you like
Richelieu's taste?"

She turned to find Pasha
watching her, a half-smile on his lips. "It's very grand."

"It should be. He
spent a fortune."

"And with good
results. Do I detect Vianne's hand in the stuccoes?"

"Very astute." He
surveyed her with curiosity. How many courtesans knew of Vianne's work?
"Where did Lan-gelier find you?" he mildly asked.

"At a barrister's
office."

His brow's rose.
"Doing what?"

"Conducting
business."

His smile appeared.
"Ah."

She didn't bother to
disabuse him of his interpretation; the less he knew of her the better. More
important, anyone living in this magnificent home surely had money lying about.
Now to find it—and quickly. "Could I refresh myself somewhere?" she
politely inquired, "and change into something more comfortable?"

"Certainly. Hippolyte
took your valise to my suite. Make yourself at home and I'll see to a bottle or
two of champagne."

"How kind of
you," she graciously replied as though they were discussing the
possibility of meeting for tea.

The conversation turned on
details of interest in the interior decor as they ascended a long flight of
marble stairs and traversed a lengthy hall carpeted in Aubusson and draped in
Gobelins. At the end of the corridor, she was escorted into a suite of rooms
opulent enough for a prince of the blood. "My dressing room is right
through that door," Pasha noted, gesturing toward an inlaid door across
the huge room. "Take your time."

"Thank you so
much…" She hesitated, not knowing his name.

"Pasha Duras," he
offered with a bow.

Even in her short sojourn
in Paris, she'd heard the name. He was a very wealthy young man from a
prominent family. Although these surroundings certainly gave one a clue as
well.

"Does mademoiselle
have a name?" he gently prompted.

Her gaze didn't meet his
for a moment and then she said, "Simone Croy."

She spoke French with a
faint English accent; she was no more Simone Croy then he was king of the
gypsies. But he smiled and said, "I'm very pleased to meet you, my dear
Simone."

He watched her with a kind
of distracted attention as she moved toward his dressing room, his gaze taking
in her graceful form, his mind questioning the oddities in her behavior. She
had a refined air about her that set her apart from the ladies of the
demimonde, although he couldn't quite decide what it was that gave him pause.
Her slight accent of course, but it was more than that. Her natural restraint
perhaps, not generally a quality in the ladies of her class. Or maybe it was
her brief pause before lying to him about her name. Most courtesans were more
sophisticated in the art of deception.

Was she new at her trade?

And genuinely shy?

He asked himself that same
question a short time later when she'd not yet emerged from the dressing room.
He wouldn't have expected shyness in Langelier's mistress. Nor was she shy, he
discovered brief moments later when he opened his dressing room door to find
the chamber empty. A swift survey of the room revealed the lady's true
occupation.

The small money box he kept
for petty cash in his bureau was empty on a chair. And the pretty, self-styled
Si-mone had disappeared along with her portmanteau.

She wouldn't know the
second-floor corridors as well as he, he calmly thought, striding back through
his sitting room, nor would she find the latch on the front gate a simple
device to operate. A remnant of Richelieu's penchant for mechanical
contrivances, he'd kept it as a conversation piece. The back entrance was
relatively inaccessible so he needn't worry about her finding that. But he ran
down the corridor, took the stairs in leaping bounds and exited the house
through the library doors, well-shielded by shrubbery. His view of the front
gate brought a feint smile to his lips.

Moments later, he softly
said, "That's a tricky latch."

She twirled around at the
sound of his voice and stood rigid against the twined metal, her hands clenched
at her sides. "It's not what you think."

"You're a clever
little baggage," Pasha drawled. "Did Langelier teach you that
ploy?"

"I despised him."

Pasha's brows rose faintly.
"Now I'm wondering if you killed him… but you were too pristine in all
that blood. Perhaps you
had him
killed."

"I most certainly did
not."

Her vehemence was well
done, he thought. She was an accomplished little actress. "And I'm
supposed to believe you?" he lazily inquired.

"It's the truth."
Each word was clipped.

"As is the ten
thousand francs you stole from me." His temper showed for a moment.

She had the grace or more
likely the intelligence to look remorseful. "I can explain."

"Why don't you explain
to me inside," he said, a quiet restraint in his voice.

"No."

His dark eyes widened
briefly. "What makes you think you have a choice?"

"I'll scream for
help," she replied, a small defiance in her posture and stance.

"And should someone
come," he softly said, "I'll tell them that you just stole ten
thousand francs from me."

"I didn't know I'd
taken so much," she quickly replied, not in atonement but in vindication.
"All I need is a thousand."

"You should have
waited. In the morning I would have given you
five
thousand."

"No… I couldn't. I
mean— You don't understand."

"You can explain it to
me later," he coolly said. She wasn't apologetic about taking his money;
he was mildly intrigued at such brazenness. But he was more intent on having
the beautiful mademoiselle in his bed tonight and that took precedence over any
degree of curiosity. He reached down to pick up her valise.

Kicking his hand away, she
snatched up her belongings.

Nursing his smarting
fingers, he gazed at her with a cool regard. "And there I was looking
forward to a quiet evening at home," he murmured with a sardonic smile.
"Now I'm going to have to exert myself."

"Don't touch me,"
she warned.

He gave her marks for rash
courage. "But I want to."

"You can't."

"No one's said that to
me in a very long time," he observed in almost a whisper, advancing on
her.

"I'll bargain with
you," she blurted out, alarmed by his nearness.

"We'll bargain with
each other," he murmured, grasping the ornate ironwork on either side of
her head and leaning into her body.

"No, no, I didn't mean
that," she cried, pressing her palms against his chest, pushing, trying to
hold him back.

But a second later she felt
his powerful body hard against hers.

"Now you tell me what
you want," he murmured, "and I'll tell you what / want."

"No… please. You're
wrong about this."

"Au contraire,
this feels very
right," he whispered, moving his lower body in a slow, tantalizing rhythm.

His erection was enormous,
rigid, long, hot against her body. She should feel affront or rage at the
indignity, at the disrespect, but she felt instead an unwelcome, provocative
flutter deep in the pit of her stomach and as he leaned down to touch her lips
with his, she struggled to dismiss the sudden flare of pleasure streaking
through her senses. Pummelling his chest, she cried, "No," into the
soft warmth of his mouth.

His hands shifted to clasp
hers, to still their movement, and she fought to resist the intoxicating
sensations she hadn't experienced for years. This was impossible, this couldn't
be happening to her, she thought, horrified and appalled and in an urgent rush
of guilt and self-pity, she thrust her entire weight against Pasha, kicking out
violently.

He swung away at the
stinging pain, standing beyond the range of her feet. "You're going to
leave bruises, darling," he softly said.

"I'm not your
darling." But her breathing had altered; she was flushed, trembling.

Pasha recognized female
arousal after years of standing stud to all the Parisian belles, and the
mademoiselle's body was available, he knew, whether she cared to admit it or
not. He lifted his hands in a calming gesture. "I have no intention of
hurting you."

"This is very
disturbing," she whispered.

She was huddled against his
garden gate like some lost urchin and suddenly struck by her vulnerability, he
said as one would to a frightened child, "Would you like to come inside
where it's warm and have something to eat?"

When she looked up at him,
the moon suddenly framed her golden hair in a radiant nimbus, drenching her in
a startling innocence. Her eyes were huge in the light, all her uncertainties
mirrored in their depths. She didn't answer for a very long time and then she
said very low, "I am hungry."