Just For Her. Katherine O' NealЧитать онлайн книгу.
She didn’t even know what he looked like.
Not that it mattered. She’d never see him again. But she’d always treasure the memory of the gift he’d given her. For showing her that the life she’d been living, the persona she’d adopted, had been a lie. He’d made her feel there was more to her than what her battered ego had supposed.
Someday when I’m an old woman, I can look back on that one moment of insane rebellion against everything I am, and it will give me some strange comfort.
But while she felt changed inside, her circumstances hadn’t altered. Unwanted, the words of DeRohan’s telegram ran through her mind. Arriving Cap Ferrat last week of June to discuss our future…
The last week of June. Just a few more days of freedom.
She shuddered, cursing him for intruding on her happy mood. Well, he’d find a more formidable opponent this time around. She’d see what he wanted, inform him that she had no intention of falling in line, and send him packing, leaving her in peace once again.
It struck her then how odd it was that the Panther’s domination of her had thrilled her so, while her husband’s left her feeling abused. But then, the Panther had sought to give her pleasure, when all DeRohan wanted was to crush her spirit.
Before she realized it, the sun was high in the sky. The faint growl of her stomach made her realize she’d had no breakfast and it was nearing noon. She left reluctantly, taking the path down the steps, but when she reached the bottom, she saw the garden staff rushing about the grounds, gathering armfuls of cut flowers with uncharacteristic haste.
What was going on?
As she crossed the lawn alongside the long pool, she saw Mimi, one of the housemaids, rushing toward her, flapping her hands in agitation. “Madame, Madame…” She stopped before her, wheezing.
“What is it, Mimi?”
The maid struggled to catch her breath, then gasped out in French, “Monsieur has arrived.”
“Which monsieur?”
“Why, the master, Madame. Your husband. Monsieur DeRohan.”
Jules looked up at the villa, her happy mood vanished.
Mimi rushed on, “He arrived half an hour ago. We did not expect him so soon. And even then, we were told his visit would be brief. But Madame, he has come with many, many trunks. He has been moving in since he arrived, ordering us about, taking over the house. The staff is in a tumult, Madame. We did not know what you would want, so naturally we’ve done as he instructed—”
Moving in…
Taking over the house…
Her house.
She’d just see about that.
Chapter 5
She retraced her steps back into the house feeling heavy with dread, as if she were climbing into a pit she knew to be full of snakes. She tried to remind herself that she was stronger than when she’d seen him last, when he’d lacerated her with the announcement that he’d just killed her lover—coldly, unfeelingly, ever in control. Taking a malicious pleasure in being the bearer of this news.
Just speak to him calmly and find out what he wants. Don’t let him goad you into losing your temper.
But what of his temper?
Inside, she was greeted by pandemonium. Servants scurried to and fro, carrying suits to be pressed and shoes to be polished, carting trunks up and down the stairs. They bobbed hasty curtseys to her when they saw her, then dashed off with the harried look of subordinates who’d just had the whip cracked over their heads.
It helped to anchor Jules, to solidify her resolve. She wasn’t about to behave like one of DeRohan’s hired help, cowering at the sight of him.
She crossed the reception hall beneath the towering gothic arches and took the stairs up to the second floor of the east wing. There, in the sitting room of the guest apartment, she saw her husband, conferring with Hudson as several maids unpacked the trunks that cluttered the tapestried Louis XVI room.
Dominic DeRohan had always been an imposing man. Well over six feet in height, he was nothing like the aristocrats of her acquaintance: soft, well-mannered, schooled in the art of dance and social graces. She hadn’t actually known him before their marriage, but he owned the Carlton Hotel and was a frequent presence on the Côte, so she’d inevitably caught the snippets of gossip that followed in his wake: How he’d grown up poor in the streets of London, but through ruthless determination, an inexhaustible capacity for work, and an unflinching readiness to bully his competitors, he’d built a business empire from nothing and amassed a fortune that put most of his contemporaries to shame; how he’d been a decorated pilot in the war, gunning down enemy planes with the same pitiless relish with which he destroyed his business rivals; how this combination of war hero and cold-blooded raider made him a source of dark fascination to the women who brazenly solicited invitations to his bed. But Jules knew these two seemingly contradictory aspects of his character were one and the same—fueled by his need to crush anything in his path.
He was dressed as always in a dark suit, even in the heat of the season, but despite the expert tailoring and unmistakable aura of wealth, there was something craggy and rugged and raw about his appearance. He reminded her of a Scottish warrior accustomed to roaming the Highlands who’d stuffed himself into a Saville Row suit and was passing himself off as a gentleman.
When he sensed her presence and turned to look at her, she nearly flinched at the stark look in his fierce eyes. She’d forgotten that intimidating, penetrating stare, how, with a furrow of his heavy brows, he could make even the most hardened negotiator squirm in his seat. She could feel his daunting energy from across the room, a force that allowed him, without seeming to try, to beat people down until they acquiesced to his demands.
He stared at her long enough that she was able to note the changes since she’d seen him last. He was thicker about the middle—the result, no doubt, of too many business dinners, unless his mistresses had been spoiling him in his wife’s absence. The beard and mustache he wore, dark like his hair, were closer cropped than she remembered. But there was no mistaking the possessive cruelty that came to his eyes as he took in her appearance.
He waved an imperious hand at the servants. “Out. All of you,” he ordered.
The maids scampered away as though shot from a cannon. Hudson followed more slowly, but Jules put her hand on his sleeve as he passed, saying in a gentle voice, “It was good of you, Hudson, to offer your assistance to Mr. DeRohan, but in future I should be grateful if you remember that you answer to me.”
Hudson cast a quick glance at DeRohan, who didn’t bother to look at him, then said, “As you wish, Highness,” and left the room.
DeRohan raised a brow and addressed her. “I begin to understand the charms of the South.” His English accent was properly aloof, but the guttural undertones of his voice hinted at the pains he’d taken to banish a rougher form of speech. “It seems it isn’t the sunshine that keeps my wife a fugitive, but a butler much too eye-catching for his own good. Is he even a butler? Or is this merely a clever way of camouflaging your latest paramour?”
Twenty-four hours ago, Jules would have been outraged by such a suggestion. But today she flushed with the knowledge of what she’d done the night before. She must handle him carefully, but not too meekly. If she backed down without demur, he might suspect his accusation was warranted, albeit with another man.
“I’d expect that from someone who sees the worst in human nature. But I won’t have you maligning Hudson with your indecent suppositions.”
“My indecent suppositions have proved only too accurate, as I recall. Why should I suppose otherwise when you so clearly want him for yourself and hasten to defend his honor before even bothering to greet your long-lost husband?”
“You must take my word for it.”
“You’ll