The Virgin's Debt To Pay. Louise FullerЧитать онлайн книгу.
say that you’d be my type. Apparently she was.
Yet she wasn’t testing him by using their chemistry to try and leverage any advantage. He didn’t think a woman existed who wouldn’t. Unless she was playing some game. That was far more probable.
He stood at his window now, the view encompassing the gallops in the distance where his thoroughbreds were being exercised, and the stud farm just out of sight on the other side.
He had both sides of the industry here—racing and breeding. It gave him immense satisfaction to see it all laid out before him, except today, for the first time, there was a slight dilution of that satisfaction. As if something had taken the sheen off it. As if something was reminding him that he hadn’t made it yet. Not really.
Luc scowled. He knew he hadn’t made it yet, not completely. No matter how many winners he had or sired with his stallions.
He wouldn’t have made it until he was respected by his peers, and not looked at with varying degrees of suspicion.
It was the only fulfilment he wanted. He had no desire for the things most normal people wanted—family, security, love. What was love anyway? It was a foreign concept to Luc that came far too close to believing in trust, and such notions as fate and chance.
He couldn’t understand Nessa’s blind defence of her brother—unless she was getting something out of it too. It was inconceivable she was doing it out of pure affection or loyalty.
All that existed for him were the solid successes he’d manifested out of sweat and dogged ambition. The legacy he would leave behind would tell a different story from the one he’d been handed at birth. His name would endure as a gold standard in racing.
And yet now, for the first time, he had the disquieting suspicion that even if every one of his peers were to look him in the eye with the utmost respect, he’d still feel less than them.
A movement to the far right in the stud stableyard area caught Luc’s eye and he welcomed the distraction. He turned his head just in time to catch a flash of dark red hair coiling down a slim back before Nessa disappeared around a corner. His reaction was instant and intense, making him scowl even harder at his body’s lack of control.
His body pulsed with need. He should be pushing this woman further away, leaving it to his staff to keep her in check. But instead he was bringing her closer.
He was experiencing a kind of hunger he’d only felt once before, when he’d had his first taste of the wider world outside the gloomy Parisian suburbs and had made the vow to never end up back there again. He’d taken that hunger, and used it.
This hunger, however, would be crushed. Because it could do nothing to enhance his success, or his life. Resisting her would be a test of his will to not demean himself.
* * *
‘Here—last job of the day, love, go up and do the boss’s private suite. He’s due back from Paris later this evening and I never had a chance to get around to it, what with the preparations for the party this weekend.’
Nessa took the basket containing cleaning products from Mrs Owens and hated that her skin got hot just at the mention of the boss and that he was returning soon. He’d been at his Paris stables for the past three days, which hadn’t felt as much of a respite as Nessa had thought it would.
Angry with herself for still being so aware of him when he wasn’t even here, she focused on feeling relieved that the day was nearly over. There was something particularly soul-sucking about doing housework all day, every day, and as Nessa had polished the silver earlier she’d revised her opinion that Luc Barbier wasn’t petty.
They’d also been busy preparing for a huge party that was being thrown at the house that weekend, to launch the most prestigious racing event in the Irish season.
Just as the homely housekeeper was turning away she stopped and said, ‘I’ve left fresh bedlinen in his room, so just strip the bed and remake it. Once you’re done with that you’re off for the evening.’
Nessa went upstairs to the second floor of the villa-style country house, still marvelling at the opulence. It was about two hundred years old. All the bedroom suites were on the second floor. The first floor was taken up with Barbier’s—Luc’s—office and a gym. There was also a vast media room with a private cinema and informal meetings rooms.
The ground floor held the grand ballroom—prepared for the party now—with French doors opening out onto exquisite manicured gardens. It also had the main, and less formal, dining rooms and reception rooms.
The basement was where the vast kitchen and staff quarters were laid out. All in all a very grand affair. It certainly put Nessa’s family farmhouse to shame, even though it too had been refurbished to a high standard since Iseult had married Nadim. It was a far more modestly sized house, though.
Nessa reached the second floor, and walked to the end of the corridor past all the guest rooms to where Luc’s rooms were based. He had one entire wing, and she found she was holding her breath slightly as she opened the door.
His scent hit her instantly. Woody and musky. It curled through her nose and deep into the pit of her belly. Cursing herself for her reaction, she strode into the main reception room, dumping the basket of cleaning supplies and resolutely opening the sash windows to let some air in. She told herself the room was musty, not musky and provocative.
Still, she couldn’t help but look around. The room was huge and open plan, with soft grey furnishings in muted tones. The same stunning modern art that she’d seen in his office was dotted around the walls, along with sculptures, huge coffee-table books on photography, art, and movies. More books than she’d ever seen in her life, ranging from thrillers to the classics.
The decor and objects reflected a far more cerebral man than Nessa would have guessed existed under Barbier’s brooding, sexy exterior.
She had to force herself to remember why she was here and not give into the impulse to pluck out a book from the shelves and curl up on one of the sumptuous couches to read. She realised that she was more weary than she’d realised—the stress of the situation and hard work, mixed with nights of fitful sleep, wasn’t a good combination. But she wasn’t a wilting lily, and normally worked harder than most, so it annoyed her to find herself feeling tired now.
She scooped up the cleaning supplies and set to work dusting and cleaning. Eventually, as if she’d been putting it off, she went into the bedroom area. She opened the doors and the first thing that hit her eyeline was the bed. It was massive, dominating the room. Much like the man.
It was a modern bed with a dark grey headboard that reminded her ridiculously of his eyes and how they could turn dark silver. A detail she shouldn’t even be aware of.
Apart from the bed there were some built-in wardrobes, a sleek chest of drawers and bedside tables. What was striking was the absence of anything of particularly personal value. No photos. No stuff. Just some clothes draped on one of the chairs and the rumpled bedsheets, which she avoided looking at.
Then she spied two more doors that revealed a walk-in closet and a luxurious bathroom complete with wetroom shower and a tub that looked big enough to take a football team.
Nessa set about cleaning the bathroom, trying not to breathe in his scent, which was everywhere. She picked up a bottle of cologne and guiltily sniffed it before putting it down again hastily.
Disgusted with herself, she finished cleaning and went back into the bedroom, pulling off the crumpled sheets and trying not to imagine that they were still warm from his body. Would he sleep naked? He seems like the kind of man who would...
Nessa stopped dead for a moment, shocked at the vivid turn of her imagination, and at the way she suddenly hungered to know what he would look like—imagining the sexy naked sprawl of that big bronzed body all too easily, and knowing her imagination probably fell far short of reality. Her pulse became slow and hot.
She had to face the unpalatable fact