A Heartless Marriage. HELEN BROOKSЧитать онлайн книгу.

       CHAPTER ONE

      ‘IT’S been a long time, Leigh.’

      As the deeply caressing, velvet-smooth voice with its faint tinge of a French accent spoke just behind her Leigh’s blood froze. She had known this would happen one day but had been unable to prepare herself for it, in the same way that she couldn’t control the snaking shiver that crept down her spine as the unmistakable voice touched a spot deep inside her.

      ‘Hello, Raoul.’ She turned slowly as her mind raced, without attempting to smile, to meet the full force of that piercing ice-blue gaze that had once had the power to take her to heaven or hell. ‘Five years, in fact.’

      ‘And two months?’ He looked devastatingly handsome, more so, if possible, than the last time she had seen him. He was just the same and yet. different. The intervening time-span had carved a few lines around his eyes and mouth but they merely added to the tanned perfection of a face that was stunningly beautiful in its complete maleness.

      The strong straight nose, aristocratic chin and warm, sensual mouth would have been a masterpiece if captured in oils, and the wild shock of thick black curly hair that she recalled had been groomed into a more sedate style that added extra emphasis to the darkly lashed, wicked blue eyes.

      ‘You see, I remember.’ He, too, was making no attempt to smile or lighten the situation, and a sudden little dart of resentful anger at his cool selfpossession turned the soft brown of her eyes slatehard. He was just the same after all! Just as arrogantly cold, just as casually cruel, just as’You are well?’ Now the dazzling white teeth flashed in acknowledgement of her nod. ‘That is good.’

      ‘And you?’ This was ridiculous, she thought helplessly, to stand and talk in polite cliches as though they were distant acquaintances renewing some tenuous connection, when really—

      ‘I too am well.’ The vivid blue eyes wandered lazily over her flushed face, lingering for a moment on the tremulous, soft mouth before travelling to the rich dark brown hair that hung down below her shoulders. ‘You have grown your hair. I like it this way.’ The touch of hauteur caused her chin to rise a fraction.

      ‘Thank you.’ I shall scream in a minute, Leigh thought desperately as she felt the blood begin to sing in her ears. She hadn’t felt so exposed, so vulnerable, in years. Five years, in fact. She knew her hands were clamped together as though in a vice, the knuckles white with tension, but she couldn’t have unwound them to save her life. She steeled herself to meet those piercing eyes again and forced a polite smile to her lips. ‘Are you in England on business?’ she asked coolly.

      ‘In a way,’ he smiled easily, obviously totally unaffected by her presence anyway, Leigh thought bitterly. ‘I suppose you could call it that.’

      ‘Oh…’ She couldn’t think of another thing to say; her mind had suddenly gone blank. ‘Well.’ She glanced round helplessly as she took a small step backwards. ‘I’d better be—’

      ‘I hear you are doing very well at your painting now, Leigh.’ As her eyes snapped back up to his she searched his face for mockery and found none. Instead she found interest, and something else. Something that made her breath catch in her throat and her head swim. He had no right to look at her like that! No right at all. ‘You are just as beautiful as I remember.’ His voice was husky and for a moment the memories flooded in in vivid painfulness. How many times had she woken from a night spent in his arms to hear him say she was beautiful? That she was his treasure? That he would never let her go?

      ‘I’ve never been beautiful, Raoul,’ she said coldly as she forced the hurt from her voice.

      ‘You have, to me, always.’ She really couldn’t take much more, she thought wildly. She had looked forward to this occasion for weeks, knowing that there would be many prestigious artists among the throng of idle rich that always attended Nigel Blake’s little ‘gatherings’ as he liked to call them. Nigel prided himself on getting just the right mixture of up and coming artists and wealthy influential titles to make his parties the talk of London. There had been more than one struggling artist who had been set on the road to fabulous wealth by a commission at one of Nigel’s ‘do’s.

      ‘I need to talk to you, Leigh.’ As Raoul placed his hand on her arm she actually jolted with the shock of it. An electric current more dangerous than anything harnessed by man shot through her body and she took a step backwards, her eyes enormous.

      ‘I’m sorry, Raoul,’ she said