Susan Stephens Selection: The French Count's Mistress / The Spaniard's Revenge / Virgin for Sale / Bedded by the Desert King. Susan StephensЧитать онлайн книгу.
acting honourably.
‘Certainement,’ he confirmed.
‘So, no one has any rights except you?’ Her emotional self took another battering as he answered her heated question with just a slight lift of his shoulders.
‘Who else did you imagine owned the land on which all the estate cottages stand, Kate?’
‘You—’ She found herself flailing about mentally, wondering why on earth she hadn’t confronted this obvious fact before. Why had she chosen to ignore the reality of Guy de Villeneuve as a neighbour? And now it seemed as landlord too!
‘That is correct,’ he said, making a bridge of his fingers on which to rest his chin.
She knew he was waiting to see what her response would be now she knew he held all the cards. Well, that look might have weakened other women— ‘I have found no record of my aunt ever making a payment for ground rent,’ she said, confronting the gaze he was levelling at her with an unwavering stare. ‘And I have checked through every one of her documents thoroughly—’
‘All except the deeds for the cottage, I presume,’ he observed, keeping his eyes trained on her face.
As she watched them darken from silver-grey to steel and then grow blacker still she raced to gather her wits while she still had some left. ‘Well, yes,’ she admitted. ‘I left that to my solicitor. And he said…’ Her voice tailed away.
Mr Jones had been at pains to explain that property law pertaining to ancient estates in France could be quite a minefield. He had asked her to make an appointment so that they could have a proper discussion regarding his many concerns. But she had been too busy to meet him—too busy making plans for this, her new venture.
As if scenting victory, the Count had grown very still like a jungle cat about to pounce. ‘It was remiss of your solicitor not to mention—’
‘No,’ Kate admitted reluctantly. ‘I am the one to blame. My solicitor wanted to go through everything with me in detail. I just haven’t had time—’
‘Ah,’ the Count said as if to imply that she might have done better to slow down and prioritise. ‘Is there something else?’ he added shrewdly.
‘Yes,’ Kate said, feeling she was on to something. ‘You still haven’t explained why there are no records of Aunt Alice ever making payment for a lease—’
‘Madame Broadbent was never asked for money,’ the Count revealed quietly. ‘As one of my mother’s closest friends it would have been highly inappropriate to exact any form of payment from her.’
‘You seemed to have no trouble accepting mine,’ Kate said, feeling unaccountably stung by this revelation.
‘All your payments will be returned with interest.’
‘But I don’t want them returned. I want the money spent on the cottage,’ she insisted again.
‘C’est impossible,’ he said with finality. ‘There will no longer be any independent cottages on my estate.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Unfolding his impressive frame, the Count got to his feet. ‘You will find my offer more than generous,’ he said in a voice that suggested their meeting was over. ‘I can assure you that everyone else has been more than satisfied—’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Oui, vraiment.’ His voice was clipped and dry, but abruptly his steely gaze softened. ‘Come on, Katie,’ he urged. ‘What do you need a second home in France for if you are so busy—?’
‘My name is Kate!’ Kate flared, horrified to hear the break in her voice.
‘Kate,’ he amended easily. ‘But, however you like to be called, you still haven’t answered my question.’
From cool and collected businesswoman, Kate suddenly found herself plunged into an emotional maelstrom she couldn’t contain. ‘Well, here’s one for you,’ she said hotly as she sprang up to confront him. ‘Are you trying to tell me that everyone—absolutely everyone else has accepted this deal?’ The way she stressed the last word turned it into an accusation.
‘I’m not trying to tell you anything, Kate,’ the Count countered calmly. ‘It’s a fact. And I’m not offering anyone a deal. I’m making them a fair offer.’
Kate couldn’t speak for a moment as she stood mashing her lips together in total impotence while fractured images of blissful childhood holidays flashed behind her eyes—holidays she had naïvely imagined she could recreate. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said stubbornly.
‘Believe it,’ he returned steadily. ‘The days when holiday homes were an integral part of the Villeneuve estates are in the past.’
‘But what about all the other tenants—their relatives—friends?’ Kate said heatedly as the eclectic group of characters that used to holiday on the estate each year gathered in her mind. ‘Don’t you care about them at all?’
‘The people to whom I presume you are referring used the cottages as second homes—holiday homes,’ he said patiently. ‘And without a single exception they were all delighted to accept my offer.’
‘Well, I’m not,’ Kate said, clenching her fists into balls of frustration.
‘You haven’t heard what’s on offer yet,’ he pointed out.
‘And I don’t need to,’ Kate assured him as her heart struggled to accept the fact that she could not hold on to the past by sheer force of will.
‘Ca suffit maintenant! You must listen to what I have to say, Kate,’ he insisted firmly. ‘This is a working estate now, not a holiday camp.’
‘It never was a holiday camp,’ she fired back at him. ‘And I seem to remember a time when your family welcomed visitors.’ But the heat was seeping out of her attack. He had made it quite clear that there was no crusade for her to embark on—it was far too late for that.
‘That may have been true when my father was alive,’ he conceded gently. ‘But the Villeneuve estates are destined to make a great deal of money now. These vineyards will eventually become some of the most profitable in the world—’
‘Money!’ Kate muttered angrily as she turned away to lash her arms around her body in a defensive hug. ‘Is profit and loss all you care about now?’ She swung round to confront him again.
She had always known that once Guy de Villeneuve took over the running of the estates he would make a success of it…of his life…of everything. She pulled her gaze away when she saw that the corners of his mouth were slipping down in a rueful smile.
‘I’m sorry you feel like that, Kate,’ he said evenly. ‘I know money isn’t everything. But would you rather the estate went bankrupt…that families who have lived in the village for generations were scattered to the four winds? Because that’s where harsh reality was leading. I haven’t enjoyed every part of this revival, despite what you think. Yes, sacrifices have had to be made. But something had to give and I was determined it wouldn’t be those people who depend on me for their livelihoods.’ And, when she didn’t reply and only hugged herself closer in the full knowledge that what he was saying made sense, he added softly, ‘Think what you will of me, Kate. But the fact remains that times have changed and so have I. And so must you—’
‘No!’ she flared passionately, suddenly overcome with a great dread of leaving France—of abandoning her hopes, her dreams. The very idea was insupportable. ‘Take your wretched ground rent! Ten years in advance if you must! I own the lease on the cottage now and I have no intention of selling it back to you. You’ll just have to conduct your business around me.’
‘That can be arranged,’ he agreed thoughtfully.
Too thoughtfully, Kate realised,