Chapter 8

Her throat was parched. She fought for her vanished poise. 'Why not?'

Her palms smoothed nervously down over her skirt, rearranging the folds. Her skin prickled at his proximity as he bent forward to press open the built-in bar. For the longest moment of her existence, the black springy depths of his hair were within reach of her fingers. The mingled aroma of some elusive lotion and that indefinable but oh, so familiar scent that was purely him assailed her defensively flared nostrils. As he straightened again, she was disturbingly conscious of the clean movement of rippling muscles beneath the expensive fabric that sheathed his broad shoulders. And an ache and an agony were reborn treacherously within her.

Her hands laced tightly together. In the unrelenting silence, she believed she could hear her own heartbeat, speeding and pounding out the evidence of her own betrayal. She was horrified by the sensual imagery that had briefly driven every other thought from her mind. If her memory was playing tricks on her, her body was no less eager to follow suit.

Luc extended her glass, retaining hold of it long enough to force her to look at him. It was a power-play, a very minor one on Luc's terms but it made her feel controlled. She took several fast swallows of her drink. It hurt her tight throat and she hated the taste, but once she had been na;auive enough to drink something she detested because she believed that was sophistication.

'Feel better now?' Luc enquired lazily, lounging back with his brandy in an intrinsically graceful movement. 'Do you live in London?'

'No,' she said hurriedly. 'I'm only here for the day. I live in…in Peterborough.'

'And you're married. That must be a source of great satisfaction to you.'

The ring on her wedding finger began to feel like a rope tightening round her vocal chords. She decided to overlook the sarcasm.

'When did you get married?'

'About four years ago.' She took another slug of her drink to fortify herself for the next round of whoppers.

'Shortly after—'

Her brain had already registered her error. 'It was a whirlwind romance,' she proffered in a rush.

'It must have been,' he drawled. 'Tell me about him.'

'It's all very pedestrian,' she muttered. 'I'm sure you can't really be interested.'

'On the contrary,' Luc contradicted softly. 'I am fascinated. Does your husband have a name?'

'Luc, I—'

'So, you remember mine? An unsought compliment…'

She stared down into her glass. 'Paul. He's called Paul.' Fighting the rigid tension threatening her, she managed a small laugh. 'Honestly, you can't want to hear all this!'

'Indulge me,' Luc advised. 'Are you happy living in…where was it? Peterhaven?'

'Yes, of course I am.'

'You don't look very happy.'

'It doesn't always show,' she retorted in desperation.

'Children?' he prompted casually.

Catherine froze, icicles sliding down her spine, and she could not prevent a sudden, darting, upward glance. 'No, not yet.'

Luc was very still. Even in the grip of her own turmoil, she noticed that. And then without warning he smiled. 'What were you doing with Huntingdon?'

The question thrown at her out of context shook her. 'I…I ran into him while I was shopping,' she hesitated and, with a stroke of what seemed to her absolute brilliance, added, 'My husband works for him.'

'You do seem to have enjoyed a day excessively full of coincidences.' Stunning golden eyes whipped over her flushed, heart-shaped face. 'The unexpected is invariably the most entertaining, isn't it?'

She set down her glass. 'I r…really have to be going. It's been…lovely meeting you again.'

'I'm flattered you should think so,' Luc murmured expressionlessly. 'What are you afraid of?'

'Afraid of?' she echoed unsteadily. 'I'm not afraid of anything!' She took a deep, shuddering breath. 'We have nothing to talk about.'