The Parisian Playboy. HELEN BROOKSЧитать онлайн книгу.
not an apartment, it’s a bedsit,’ said Holly after a fortifying sip of champagne. ‘There’s a big difference there, you know. And Mrs Gibson is just a dear old lady who’s marvellous for her age and a trifle eccentric. Perhaps more than a trifle.’
She slipped the wrap from her shoulders as she spoke and saw his eyes follow the movement, their light resting on the creamy skin before moving downwards to where the soft swell of her breasts were just visible above the bodice of the dress. And then he raised his eyes back to her hot face, not even trying to pretend he wasn’t looking as he said, ‘You look very beautiful, Holly.’
Perhaps it was his French accent, or the incredible lush surroundings and glittering occupants of the restaurant, or just the fact she was trying to hide how overwhelmed she felt, but Holly felt a nervous giggle escape before she could bite it back. This was so utterly, completely silver-screen material!
‘I have amused you?’ It was frosty and his expression had changed to one of chilled hauteur.
Oh, help. Holly took a deep breath. ‘Of course not.’
‘But something has.’
She stared at him across the small table covered in thick cream linen, a single white rose in a silver vase perfuming the air, and for no reason at all that she could name Holly suddenly rebelled against his autocracy. ‘It’s all this,’ she said before she had a chance to think too hard about what she was going to say. ‘It’s not real life, is it? Of course, it’s very nice…’ Her voice trailed away.
‘Oh, thank you.’ His voice dripped with sarcasm.
‘No, really, it is very lovely as a treat.’ She was making this worse, she realised helplessly. Much worse. And when all was said and done he had brought her out to this fabulous restaurant where everything was so gorgeous and special. It was just that everyone seemed to take themselves so seriously, she supposed. And she’d been fighting taking herself seriously—or anyone else for that matter—all her life. She didn’t like this last thought and so she filed it away to look at again later.
Silence had fallen. Jacques was sitting with his glass held loosely between his fingers as it rested on the table, his eyes on her flushed face.
Holly nerved herself to meet the amber gaze, which she was sure would be as coldly sarcastic as his voice, but as their eyes caught and held she felt the weird electrical current she’d sensed in the taxi. Her heartbeat went haywire, and suddenly the whole world was narrowed down to one small table and two pairs of eyes.
‘So you are not a woman who expects to be wined and dined and spoilt?’ he asked very, very softly. ‘In spite of being so beautiful. What is the matter with your English men, ma chérie?’
Holly’s eyes widened and for a full ten seconds she found herself speechless. He was flirting with her—Jacques Querruel? Jacques Querruel. And nothing in her past had prepared her for how to handle this. It had always been one of her rigid rules to keep her distance—literally—from men. To avoid their touch, their invasion into her air space. Which was why Jeff Roberts had annoyed her so much. She loathed men like him who thought they had some preordained right to make advances to any female they liked, to touch and maul and manhandle. And so it had been easier to keep the whole pack of them at arm’s length; that way no one had any excuse for getting the wrong idea.
She grabbed her glass and tossed back the last of the champagne cocktail. Its fortifying effects enabled her to say, fairly evenly, ‘Nothing is the matter with English men as far as I know,’ before following up with a bright, artificial smile.
‘But you do not have a boyfriend, a partner?’
‘The same could be said for thousands of women, surely?’
She pushed back her sleek veil of hair as she spoke and he saw her eyes were violet with defiance and something else he didn’t recognise. He had touched a nerve here. Careful not to appear anything but relaxed and casual, Jacques said easily, ‘Maybe, but not often ones with eyes the colour of your English cornflowers and hair of warm, silky chocolate. When was your last love affair, Holly?’
She moved back in her seat, an instinctive but very revealing gesture. He waited, without saying a word.
The waiter returned with two terrifyingly chic and elegant menus, placing them in their hands with almost reverent decorum before taking an order from Jacques for two more cocktails. Holly wanted to protest but she didn’t. Somehow she felt she would need the boost the alcohol gave her to survive this evening intact.
The waiter having glided off to get the drinks, Jacques peered at her over the top of his open menu. ‘The Chinese black bean and green pepper chicken is good to start with,’ he suggested smoothly, pretending not to notice as her eyes ran anxiously over the pages, which were all in French. Double Dutch to Holly. ‘And it complements the coriander salmon with mango perfectly. Trust me?’
She met his gaze. Trusting Jacques Querruel was not an option! ‘That sounds very nice,’ she said primly.
‘Oh, it is nice,’ he assured her gravely as the waiter returned with the cocktails. After he had given their order for the food and wine and they were alone again, Jacques relaxed back in his seat once more. ‘So, the last boyfriend,’ he said silkily. ‘The love of your life or just another young hopeful?’
The question hammered at her aplomb and there was a moment of silence so charged she knew he’d sensed it. She had lowered her eyes and she took a long, hidden breath before staring straight at him. ‘There hasn’t been much time for boyfriends,’ she said coolly.
His pulse quickened. What the hell did that mean? ‘No?’
‘No.’
He was damned if he was going to leave it at that. ‘Why not, Holly?’ he asked quietly.
She had been sipping at her cocktail and now plonked her glass down with an air of Oh, for goodness’ sake! Which Jacques ignored.
He wasn’t going to leave this alone until she’d spelt it out for him, was he? Holly thought tensely. She wished she could just walk out of here and go home, but that would be way, way over the top. He hadn’t insulted her or been difficult in any way; most people would class this as perfectly acceptable social intercourse.
Bright patches of colour staining the creamy skin of her cheeks, Holly said, ‘I stayed on at school until eighteen to finish my A levels and then left to get a job and somewhere to live. I worked for two years so I could put myself through university without entering into a whole load of debt with loans and such. I worked long hours; there was no time for a social life.’
‘Why did you leave home as well as school?’
‘I didn’t have a home!’ It was a snap, and Holly warned herself to take control of her voice before she said more calmly, ‘What I mean is I lived in a foster home and I didn’t get on with the rest of the family particularly well. It was better for everyone I left and, besides, I was too old to continue with them. I finished university when I was twenty-three and have had one other job besides my present one. I made up my mind to be a career girl and concentrate on my work rather than a love life.’
He didn’t buy this. He did not buy this at all. ‘Very sensible,’ he said understandingly. ‘But you enjoyed yourself at university no doubt?’
She ignored the meaning behind the words. ‘I had a great time,’ she agreed stiffly.
Jacques wanted to push some more but now was not the time. ‘Everyone does,’ he remarked drily. ‘Raging hormones and hundreds of young people let loose for the first time in their lives makes for some interesting diary reading.’ And then he completely backtracked on his earlier decision as he said, ‘Did you keep a diary, Holly?’ making sure his voice suggested amusement and nothing of the burning curiosity he was feeling.
He was watching her closely, seriously, despite the smile on his lips, and Holly had the feeling they were fencing like two duellists, one of which was hopelessly ill-equipped. She made an enormous effort and