A Forbidden Night with the Housekeeper Page 7

  Marcel finished with a flourish, his hazelnut-brown eyes full of fighting spirit.

  Cara’s knees gave way and the coffee cup dropped to the floor, but the crash of breaking porcelain was muffled by the deafening punches of her heartbeat.

  The harsh reality of what Maxim had done began to seep into her bones like a virus, both debilitating and unbearably painful. This was all her own fault, for thinking she could take on a wolf, and survive.

  She hadn’t just been foolish and naïve, she’d been a fantasist. She’d realised last night how much Maxim hated his father, but she hadn’t believed he would be this cruel, this callous. That he would be prepared to destroy her reputation as well as her home, simply to exact his revenge.

  She sniffed as the tears she’d refused to shed last night slipped over her lids.

  ‘Madame, do not despair,’ Marcel said, sitting next to her and resting a paternal hand over hers on the table. ‘We will dispute his claims. In truth, he may have given us a tactical advantage; telling such lies means we can make a counterclaim for defamation.’

  ‘But we can’t,’ she murmured, scrubbing the pointless tears off her cheeks and forcing herself to meet the lawyer’s trusting gaze. ‘Because everything he said is true.’

  * * *

  ‘Maxim, is that your communications guy?’ Victor Dupont, Maxim’s estate manager, said in French, clearly amused. ‘What is he doing here, where the real work takes place?’

  Maxim glanced up from tying off the twine on the new vines he and Victor had been inspecting all day—well used to Victor’s scathing opinion of the marketing end of winemaking.

  He squinted into the sun, wiping the sweat off his forehead. ‘I think so,’ he murmured. Victor was right to be amused, Rick Carson looked incongruous in his designer suit, picking his way through the rows of vines.

  Spending the day out in the fields had seemed like a good way to sweat away his concerns over the Cara Evans situation—and the lingering desire that would not die—not to mention his discomfort at the move he’d been forced to make this morning.

  He’d rung his legal team early, after spending the night figuring out a solution to Cara’s stubborn refusal to even consider his offer.

  The affidavit he’d signed about their night together had made him uncomfortable; it was ruthless, but he’d done ruthless things before to get what he wanted, and she had left him with no choice. He needed to break her misguided loyalty to de la Mare. And because of the problem of a possible pregnancy, he did not have time to do this gently. He wanted her safely installed at Château Durand and the purchase of de la Mare’s estate set in motion before he left France next week for his vineyards in California. By the time he returned, she would be over her stubbornness and ready to see the benefits of becoming his mistress.

  The truth was he had lost his temper last night when she had mentioned his father. Blindsided by a surge of possessiveness... And, yes, dammit, jealousy. Which didn’t make a lot of sense. But then very little about his reactions to Cara made sense.

  After spending a sleepless night thinking about the way she had come apart in his arms, he had come to several important conclusions, however. He had no need to be jealous of his father. Not only was the man dead, but Cara had never given herself to him, only to Maxim. Perhaps he had also been too hasty insisting that La Maison be demolished. He had made that threat to de la Mare because he had been furious when the man had dared to ask him for his help, attempting to play on Maxim’s sentiment for a place he had never been allowed to even step inside. But his goal when returning to Burgundy had always been to create his own legacy and make wines that were better than de la Mare’s had ever been. Owning the vines he had sweated over as a child was enough. If Cara was willing to come and live at Château Durand, perhaps he could be magnanimous about the house?

  By the time Carson reached him and Victor, he was sweating profusely. ‘Maxim, why don’t you ever answer your cell phone?’ he said in his broad Californian accent.

  Maxim shrugged. ‘I don’t have it with me,’ he replied. He’d left his phone in the car. The whole purpose had been to get back to basics today. And get away from the endless thoughts of Cara.

  ‘What is the problem?’ he asked, because there was obviously a problem or Carson wouldn’t have risked ruining his two-thousand-dollar shoes.

  ‘We need you back at headquarters. The internet has blown up. We’ve got local news reporters doorstepping the office and the story’s threatening to spread to the nationals.’

  ‘What story?’ Maxim snapped, annoyed now as well as confused. He did not appreciate getting dressed down by a subordinate.

  ‘The one your legal team broke at nine thirty this morning...’ Carson paused to take a breath. ‘The one in which you question the validity of Pierre de la Mare’s recent marriage, thanks to your seduction of Madame de la Mare last night.’

  ‘C’est quoi ça?’ Maxim’s shout rang across the fields, the trickle of irritation turning into a flood of volcanic rage. ‘I never sanctioned such a thing.’

  Someone at Brocard et Fils, his solicitors, had released the details of the affidavit he’d signed this morning to the press? The lava rose up his chest like a fire-breathing dragon, threatening to blow his head off. He threw the last of the twine to Victor, who caught it one-handed. ‘Finish this, Victor. I must go.’

  The estate manager nodded.

  Maxim stalked across the fields towards his vehicle, his fury building with every step.

  ‘But if you didn’t sanction it, who did?’ Carson asked, running to keep up with his long strides.

  ‘I don’t know but I will find out,’ he snarled through gritted teeth.

  Reaching the SUV, he jumped into the driver’s side, the fury firing through his veins at the imbecile who had done this—but right behind it was the dread making his stomach heave towards his throat.

  Cara.

  As uncomfortable as he had been taking the nuclear option to make her see the reality of her position, and his, he had never intended to publicly humiliate her. And having the details of their first night together—details he had given in confidence to his attorney—become the subject of a media storm would do exactly that.

  He had seen the shame in her eyes last night as she sat in the bathroom. Shame which made no sense. She had been innocent. In fact, the chemistry between them had been so strong, neither one of them would have been able to deny it for long. What had happened was inevitable. And it had been good, for both of them. Very good, despite her inexperience. So good he hadn’t been able to stop thinking of having her in his bed again.

  His fingers flexed on the steering wheel.

  Was that the real reason he had taken action this morning to force her hand? Not because he wanted to ensure no pregnancy occurred from their night together, but because he wanted her?

  He shook off the thought as he hunted for the car keys in the glovebox.

  No, that was madness. However much he might want her, it was only sexual desire. And sexual desire always died.

  But as he jammed his keys into the SUV’s transmission, the memory of Cara’s wary expression the night before clouded his vision. He could picture her now, her hands clasped in her lap while he washed her as gently as he could, and examined the red skin where he had bruised her during their furious coupling. And for the first time in a long time his stomach dropped, and his heart rammed his throat.

  He recognised the feeling as the same one that had pursued him for years after he’d left Burgundy. Guilt.

  He turned on the ignition, swung his head round to start backing down the track, and hit the gas.

  Carson jumped back as the dirt sprayed his suit and the SUV lurched into reverse.

  Maxim swung the vehicle round and sped down the track, heading for the back road that led through his property towards de la Mare’s estate.

 
Towards La Maison de la Lune.

  And mentally prepared himself to do something he hadn’t done since the morning he had told his mother he was leaving Burgundy...

  Apologise to a woman.

  * * *

  He arrived at La Maison ten minutes later, to find a local news crew outside that looked to be in the process of packing up their equipment.

  As soon as he stepped out of the car, the reporter rushed towards him with a microphone in her fist, the cameraman not far behind. She shoved the microphone in his face, firing a string of questions at him about his scandalous ‘tryst’ with Madame de la Mare.

  ‘Sans commentaires,’ he snapped, brushing them aside before pounding on the door of the farmhouse. ‘Cara, open the door. I need to speak to you.’

  After five agonising minutes the door opened, and Marcel Caron glared at him.

  ‘You? What are you doing here? Haven’t you caused enough...’

  ‘Tais-toi!’ He cut the lawyer’s diatribe off, then barged past him to slam the door shut. ‘I have no wish to give those parasites more to talk about,’ he continued in English, just in case the bastards could record them through the door.

  ‘I find your sudden discretion hard to believe,’ the lawyer sneered back, keeping the conversation in English. ‘Given the damage you have already...’

  ‘Where’s Cara?’ he demanded as he stalked past the lawyer. He didn’t have time for the guy’s micro-aggressions.

  He reached the reception room and was immediately struck by the sense of emptiness which lingered over the room that hadn’t been there the night before. Where was the warmth, the touches of personality and hospitality he had noticed yesterday when he had walked in here? The spray of wild flowers in a glass jar on the mantel? The scent of rosemary and lavender? The erotic aroma of Cara herself which had invaded his senses and driven him wild?

  ‘Cara?’ he shouted again, the hollow ache tangling with the heavy weight of foreboding which sat in his stomach. ‘Stop hiding, we need to talk.’

  ‘She is gone,’ the lawyer interrupted softly, the bitter accusation in his voice replaced with weariness. ‘She left this morning before the media hounds arrived, thank God.’

  Maxim swung round. ‘Where did she go?’

  ‘I do not know,’ the man said, then lifted a sheaf of official-looking papers from the briefcase he had open on the table. ‘But she left you these.’

  Maxim frowned down at the papers and shoved his hands into his pockets. He didn’t want to take them, whatever they were.

  Cara had left? Without contacting him? Without giving him a chance to explain?

  ‘Take them,’ Marcel said, the edge of accusation returning. ‘It’s what you wanted.’

  The harsh stab of regret dug into Maxim’s stomach. Whatever those papers contained, this was not the outcome he had planned.

  What if he could never hold her again? Hear her sighs? Her sobs? Feel her body close around his?

  What surprised him, though, was the realisation that it wasn’t just the chance to have her back in his bed that he regretted the most.

  What if he never saw her face again? So open, so trusting, the flags of colour on her cheeks when she was aroused? What if he never heard her voice again either? Crisp and smoky, arousing him and antagonising him at one and the same time...

  Caron dumped the papers onto the table. The thud yanked Maxim out of the unfamiliar reverie. The lawyer let out a hefty sigh. ‘She has relinquished any claim on the de la Mare estate and this property. I will file the papers with the court tomorrow morning and the estate will be put up for auction to pay the debts very soon.’ The lawyer’s gaze met his, the accusation back full force. ‘I realise you are a ruthless man, but I never realised you were this ruthless.’

  He could refute the man’s claims. He hadn’t intended for the affidavit to become public, certainly hadn’t planned for it to be leaked to the press. And he hadn’t seduced Cara with any ulterior motive. But he didn’t really care what Marcel Caron thought of him. The threat of public or private censure had never stopped him from doing what he had to do to grow his business, and destroy his rivals, before now.

  Which only made the numbness spreading through his body all the more confusing, and unexplainable. How was it that he found he did care what Cara thought of him?

  ‘Here—’ the lawyer lifted a sealed envelope with his name written on it in neat black lettering ‘—she left you this too.’

  He snatched the envelope from the man’s hand and ripped it open.

  Maxim,

  I realise what happened last night was simply a means to an end for you—and it was naïve of me to think it was anything else.

  I hope you can be at peace with your father now.

  Goodbye,

  Cara Evans

  He let the paper drop, then thrust his fingers through his hair. His guts churned as the numbness was replaced with anger. Not just with himself, but with Cara.

  Did she think he’d planned this? That he’d seduced her to get hold of the estate? That he would stoop so low as to use his body to further his business ambitions? Did she think what had happened between them hadn’t been as spontaneous for him as it had been for her?

  She’d run without listening to his side, without giving him a chance to explain, but, worse than that, she had folded her hand because of what? A few press enquiries?

  Yes, his legal team had made a catastrophic error, and heads would soon be rolling because of it, but why hadn’t she stayed to fight this thing? Why had she given up so easily?

  And that nonsense at the end of the letter about his father. He didn’t give a damn about that old bastard. He’d moved on from that rejection a long time ago. Why hadn’t she believed him?

  ‘You need to tell me where she’s gone,’ he demanded, focusing his rising fury on the only person there. He needed to find her, to get her back. To get rid of this growing emptiness inside.

  ‘I told you, I have no idea,’ Marcel said.

  Although Maxim suspected the other man wouldn’t have told him where she’d gone even if he knew, he also suspected he wasn’t lying.

  ‘I’m not even sure she knew,’ Caron added wearily. ‘It took all of my powers of persuasion to get her to take a few hundred euros so she could buy a train ticket and survive until she finds a new job.’

  ‘She has no money?’ Maxim asked, his fury building. ‘How can she have no money? Was she not working for de la Mare? Surely she must have saved something?’ From what he could see of La Maison, for all the homely charms she had added to the place, she and de la Mare had been living very frugally.

  ‘Pierre hadn’t paid her for months,’ Marcel announced, and Maxim’s temper shot into the stratosphere. ‘That’s how he persuaded her to marry him,’ Marcel added. ‘Apparently he told her he would be able to leave her the money he owed her in his will from his pension, if she were his widow. If I had known this before now I would have told her: there was no pension.’

  ‘That bastard.’ Maxim stalked back towards the farmhouse entrance. The surge of guilt wasn’t helping to contain his rising fury at Cara’s foolish actions.

  His father had always been a bastard. So it was no surprise the conniving cheapskate had found a way to cheat his housekeeper out of her wages before he died. And trick her into marriage in a pathetic last-ditch attempt to stop Maxim owning the de la Mare legacy.

  But if Cara was destitute, why hadn’t she accepted Maxim’s offer? And why had she capitulated so easily over the will? Surely this was madness.

  He understood pride, but you couldn’t eat pride, and it didn’t put a roof over your head. Was the thought of becoming his mistress really so repugnant that she would rather starve?

  He shoved past the waiting reporters, ignoring the lights flashing in his face and the probing questions being shouted at him. Not to mention
the hit to his ego at Cara’s foolish decision to run, rather than accept his help.

  He tugged his cell phone out of his pocket and started dialling. Once he’d climbed into the SUV, he stuck the phone on hands-free and began issuing orders while he reversed out of the yard.

  He needed Cara Evans found.

  The guilt stabbed into his gut as he drove off the de la Mare property. But more than that was the crippling feeling of loss—that he did not fully understand—and the terrifying sense of déjà vu.

  His mother’s voice echoed in his head... A voice which had haunted his dreams for so many years after her death, a voice he hadn’t heard for years.

  ‘Maxim, ne t’en vas pas. Je ne peux pas vivre sans toi.’

  Maxim, do not leave. I cannot live without you.

  As he accelerated along the country road, he allowed his fury to overwhelm the memories. He would bring Cara back. And make her see reason.

  He took the turning to the local train station.

  She only had a few hours’ start on him—she wouldn’t be that hard to find. Especially not with the resources he had at his disposal.

  This wasn’t over. It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t let it be. Not like this.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Five months later