Guarding His Body Page 6

  “There are prickles,” he said softly, and his voice was like a physical caress. To her intense embarrassment, Helen felt herself get wet just listening to the words. Oh God, how she wanted to throw herself into his arms and feel his hands stroke her the way his words seemed to. This is not the way to behave, she told herself, but her body wasn’t listening. His gaze was enough to send her nipples puckering into small, hard nubs.

  “But underneath,” he continued, “there is passion, I think. Much passion.”

  She didn’t even know that she’d taken a step forward. Once again, her body was acting independently of her cautious mind. It was as though he had cast a spell over her. But if she thought she was the only one affected, a small part of her was relieved to note that he seemed equally caught in the snare of attraction that sizzled between them. He angled his head, his lips met hers, and Helen combusted.

  Oh, this is so wrong, she thought in despair, even as she succumbed to his embrace. It was only her first day on assignment, and already she had fallen for her employer’s assistant. At least, it wasn’t her employer—heaven knew how she would ever justify that to herself—but it was still wrong.

  She tried pulling away, but his hands around her were like bands of steel, holding her tight. It appeared that whatever affliction affected her was affecting him as well. Their kiss, partner to the embrace, heated Helen’s blood, making her push her body against his hard planes and mould her curves around the shaft of hard flesh she felt against her belly. He groaned deep in his throat, ravishing her mouth, teasing her tongue before reluctantly drawing away. But he didn’t have the control he wished. Helen could tell from his ragged breathing and the dilation of his eyes—not to mention the evidence that had pressed against her belly only moments ago—that he was still a hairsbreadth from losing control completely.

  “D’accord,” he finally murmured, after clearing his throat. “Seven it is. I shall see you then.”

  And he walked out of the room before she could say a word.

  Chapter Four

  It shouldn’t be this difficult.

  Helen frowned as she regarded the small selection of clothes in her new wardrobe. For one, she was angry. After the big rush to get her moved into a suite at Heritage House, suddenly she found she literally had hours on her hands. As promised, a small buffet lunch had been laid out in the garden, but, after grabbing mounded plates of food, both Yves and Mr. Aubrac had disappeared into the house again, leaving Helen to work her way through a solitary meal. Not that she didn’t enjoy it. The food was wonderful, the weather was warm and breezy, and the view was superb. But, damn it all, couldn’t they have just had that meeting with her straight after the interview, told her about lunch, then let her go back to her apartment to pack in peace?

  For two, there was also Yves’ unbelievable high-handedness. Helen could have told him that such arrogance did not impress her. She had met many men who somehow thought it was their God-given right to dictate a woman’s actions, and the schedule for those actions. But…

  But, but, but.

  There was something else about Yves Nerin. Something playful amidst the sternness, something charming despite the hauteur. Something—she didn’t know how to describe it exactly—that set him apart. She had seen handsome men before, so it wasn’t as though only his exotically dark looks turned her head. Maybe it was the way he had come to ask if he could help her with her case, even though she had just nearly wiped the floor with him. Most men of her past acquaintance would have left her to it, with a pithy comment about women’s rights. But not Yves. He was charming and courteous with a surprising sense of humour.

  And that was even before she considered that kiss. It overshadowed everything else. But what did it mean, especially when he seemed to accord her no more than a casual glance over the lunch table? Had she imagined the unmistakable sign of his arousal? Or maybe he didn’t want to show any sign of his desire in front of his employer. That made sense. Although Yves Nerin seemed the sort who never paid any heed to what anyone else thought of him.

  Helen shook her head. Somehow, she couldn’t seem to get a proper handle on the tall Frenchman and, between scouring through her wardrobe, and remembering their kiss, fifteen minutes had flown by. If she was honest with herself, she’d admit to being secretly thrilled to be having dinner with such an attractive man. Especially one who made her seem so desirable, regardless of her profession. A man who wasn’t intimidated by her. It was a unique experience, even heady.

  She finally decided on a twenties style flapper dress, one of three evening dresses she had brought with her. It was a simple sheath of peacock blue that ended above her knees, embellished with rows of beaded strands over the body and topped by spaghetti straps. She laughed when she pulled it out of the closet. It looked so dainty. But the hem didn’t restrict her movement if she needed to run or kick someone. And the dress came with a matching narrow shawl that could, in a pinch, be used to strangle or trap an attacker. If only Yves knew what he was up against!

  With the decision made, Helen had a quick shower in a bathroom that was as luxurious as she’d known it would be. The floor, counter and ledges were made of deep pink, polished marble against which the solid brass fittings gleamed. Fluffy white towels waited in a welcoming tower next to a timber bench, and there was every kind of toiletry Helen could possibly want, from body lotion to make-up remover.

  Fluffing her hair, she dried it with the supplied hair-dryer then brushed it until it was silky and shiny. There was nothing she could do to completely tame her riotous locks, except restrain them with some heavy-duty clips, but she wasn’t prepared to go that far. She wanted to enjoy the dinner, and relax for a change. With that in mind, she tucked her hair behind her ears and quickly did her make-up, giving her face a very light powder followed by strokes of blush, and accentuating her eyes with soft grey eyeliner. For lipstick, she used one of her stay-on peach-coloured standbys and added a thin film of clear gloss to give some shine.

  Walking to the bedroom, she stepped into the dress, zipped it up, then stood back and performed a practice twirl in front of the full-length mirror. She might not be catwalk model material, but she didn’t think she looked half bad. With a quick spray of perfume, she was done, and only just in time because a soft chime sounded through her suite. She grabbed her evening bag and slipped into a pair of dark strappy sandals, pulling at them with her fingers until her feet were comfortable then opened the door…and took a deep breath.

  Helen had already seen Yves in casual business clothes, and he looked handsome enough. But he was nothing short of drop-dead gorgeous now. The lines of his Italian suit fit him like a glove—it must have been made to measure—the unbuttoned jacket revealed a snow-white shirt underneath, and the trousers tapered down, following the long lines of his legs. What surprised Helen was that he had not gone for a totally formal look. Not only the jacket but the top button of his shirt was undone. He exuded danger, forbidden pleasures, an invitation to hell. An Yves, coolly formal and aloof in proper business fashion, was someone she could handle. But an Yves who looked like he was winding down from a day’s work, relaxed and a bit ruffled, was lethal.

  Suddenly, Helen wasn’t sure that having dinner with this disturbingly sensual man was such a good idea after all.

  “I don’t know that we should do this,” she said with a suddenly dry throat.

  He quirked his lips. “I wasn’t aware that we had done anything. Yet.”

  Just that one word was enough to send riotous, x-rated images tumbling through her mind. It didn’t help that he kept watching her with a lazy, yet intense, gaze. She had to get hold of herself. And fast.

  “I mean, going out to dinner. We’ll be leaving Mr. Aubrac alone and, while the staff here are unbelievably efficient, I doubt any of them have much experience at protecting a guest.”

  “You think he may be attacked?”

  “It’s a possibility.” She took a breath and stood straighter. “I think it would be better
to either stay in this evening,” and every other evening for that matter, “or invite Mr. Aubrac along with us.”

  “Where you can keep those beautiful tourmaline eyes of yours on him?”

  “Exactly.” She tried to ignore the explicit compliment in his question. She had to think of the job. She had to think of the money.

  “And what if I told you Mr. Aubrac is quite content to dine by himself and stay indoors tonight? I believe he told me he had much reading to catch up on. The financial markets in Europe are still open at this time.”

  She pitied him, if that was the case—a young, attractive man forced to spend traditional relaxation time poring over dull reports and analyst briefings. Did his family feel neglected as a result of his work? Did he even have a family?

  “Is Mr. Aubrac married?” she asked without thinking.

  Yves’ gaze sharpened immediately. “Why? Are you interested in taming him, cherie? I admit, he’s a very wealthy man.”

  Helen flushed, indignant. “Of course not. I just felt sorry for him and for his family. How much time could they have with him if he works every hour of the day?”

  “You can make time for those things if you’re sufficiently disciplined,” he replied and put a hand on her elbow, drawing her forward. “Come, our dinner reservation is waiting.”

  “But I don’t—”

  “All we have is a little time before chaos descends on us, Helen. Within a few days, news will no doubt spread that a European company is seeking a partnership with an Australian firm. And, when that happens, attention may well fall on our little party, and you may be forced to earn every euro of that paycheque we’ve given you, hmm? But until then, we’re in a small universe of peace and anonymity. Don’t you think we should take advantage of that?”

  Peace and anonymity. The way he phrased it sounded so seductive. He knew her line of work, and it didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. In fact, on some level, she thought it excited him. And, beneath the words, was another conversation completely—a carnal promise of hours of pleasure. Could she, she wondered, forget what she was and just accept some time together with a man? Without wondering if she was scaring him off or stepping on his masculinity?

  In two weeks he’ll be gone, a small voice whispered inside her. Why not take the chance to just be a woman for a change?

  Two weeks of pleasure. Was it too much to ask for, especially after the torment of the past few months? As long as she made sure her dalliance with the delicious Yves Nerin didn’t interfere with guarding Guy Aubrac, Helen couldn’t see the problem with grabbing what pleasure she could while it lasted.

  She smiled at him and her eyes twinkled. “That sounds like a good plan.”

  * * * *

  It really shouldn’t have been that difficult.

  In the past, Yves would have directed Guy to make a booking in a particular town or city for a particular time, and that would have been the end of it. His assistant knew his preferences well enough to know what restaurants he should approach, and which he should avoid. But, here in Australia…!

  He didn’t know the country well. He could have asked the staff at Heritage House, of course, but he had the strange desire to make the choice himself. So strange, he didn’t even task Guy with the job, but instead trawled through both print and online street directories, searching for recommendations. He was used to eating late, but that was a distinctly continental thing. Australians and Americans preferred to eat earlier as a general rule, he knew. So, eight o’clock was too late, but was seven o’clock fine? By the time Yves factored in a couple of pre-dinner cocktails and some light conversation, they would end up eating at eight anyway, so did it make that much of a difference?

  And what kind of food did she prefer? Would she think it too parochial if he chose a French restaurant? Or would he be better off with Australian cuisine? But perhaps, she wanted a change, in which case he was back to French again.

  Finally, he decided on a restaurant that was part of a five-star hotel built on a hill on the outskirts of the city centre. The restaurant served international cuisine, which he thought would cater for all tastes, and was situated at the very top of the building, so it had magnificent views of the surrounding landscape. Hopefully, the twinkling night lights of the city would help calm his prickly little bodyguard.

  Was that why he was taking such unusual, inordinate, care with the evening’s arrangements? Was it because of the vulnerability she tried so very hard to hide, but which peeked out from under those long, smoky lashes at him? Or was it the novelty of meeting a woman who didn’t go around asking for help in every situation? Yves thought back to his previous mistresses—most of them thought he liked it if they pretended to be helpless about everything and, up till this moment, he thought he liked it, too. It came naturally to him to help out a female companion with choosing a new car or a new wardrobe. Truth be told, it gave his ego a boost to be fawned over and listened to by so many women. But now that he met this feisty, blonde Australian, he wondered if he was selling himself and his previous companions short. Instead of a lift to his ego, he felt an undeserved stab of pride when he thought back to his encounter with Helen in the meeting room. She was efficient and professional, yet she was also courteous and warm. And it didn’t hurt that she had a dynamite body, toned muscles under smooth creamy skin, and long legs that he ached to have wrapped around his own hips.

  She was sparkling and humorous and intelligent. And exactly what he needed.

  What he wanted in a woman, he realised with a jolt, was not a sycophant but an equal. Was Helen Collier such a woman? He pondered the thought right up ‘til the moment he rang the bell on her suite.

  If he thought her legs were slim and long in the trousers she had worn earlier in the day, they seemed to go on forever in the number she greeted him with. The strappy dress looked wonderful on her, the beads shimmering with each movement she made. With a matching shawl slung casually around her neck, and a mischievous look in her eyes, she was everything he could have wished for, and he was glad he had taken the initiative that afternoon and more or less ordered her to dinner with him. But the longer he looked at her, the more reluctant he was to go out in public. Instead, he wanted to lead her back into her suite and spend the night exploring every inch of that taut, toned body, to lose himself in her honeyed curls. And that unnerved him. Yves considered his self-control to be one of his most formidable traits. To realise that a pair of blue-grey eyes were enough to undermine it was not a comfortable thought. With a little more abruptness than was necessary, he sketched Helen a brief nod and ushered her to the front door.

  The private car was waiting, as expected, when they stepped out of Heritage House, and they travelled in plush, air-conditioned comfort to the hotel’s grand portico. Yves was a bit more relaxed when they arrived, and he helped her out with a courteous hand, feeling a little smug—truth be known—at the masculine glances that were cast his way. Helen was too much woman for any of them to handle, he thought to himself. Any of them…but him.

  He had never visited the restaurant before, but the staff were deferential. He asked Helen if she would prefer an aperitif before dinner and was happy when she agreed. With a quiet word to the maitre’d, they moved to the long bar, picking two high bar-chairs at one end to give them a degree of privacy.

  “You know,” she murmured, “I’ve lived in Brisbane all my life, yet I’ve never been in this restaurant.”

  “Does it meet with your approval?” he asked casually.

  “Oh yes. The view from here is breathtaking.”

  That is not the only thing that is, he thought to himself. When the bartender sidled over with their drinks—a dry sherry for her, and a vodka martini for him—Yves deliberately leant over a little farther than necessary when placing the slender glass close to her, taking a deep breath of her hair and skin as he did so. She smelt of lemons and flowers and an underlying musk that told him she was as captured by him as he was with her. The problems of Leonid Al
exandrov and the interrupted matters he left behind in France faded into the distance.

  “That’s Mt. Coot-tha,” she told him, pointing out a peak, dark but for a smattering of lights at its crown. “It’s the tallest point in Brisbane.”

  “Do people live on its summit?” he asked, not so much because he was interested in her answer, but just to hear the energy and enthusiasm in her voice.

  “Oh no,” she laughed. “Not right at the top. There’s a lookout there and a nice restaurant. The views are quite spectacular.”

  “Perhaps we could go there sometime this week?” He watched her animated profile, letting a promise of illicit pleasure light his eyes as he willed her to turn to him.

  “Yes.” She swung towards him and shuddered to a halt as she stared him full in the face. Suddenly, those eyes of hers were huge, dark with pupils that were almost fully dilated. He heard a breath catch in her throat, and saw the answer written plainly on her face, even if she didn’t know it herself.

  Bien. It took immense will power to casually reach for his glass and take a sip of his astringent drink.

  “I’d like that very much,” he said, slipping back into his role of agreeable visitor. “To see a bit of this city before I go back to France.”

  Her eyes narrowed and Yves saw the woman of the previous moment disappear, to be replaced by the professional. “Oh. Isn’t Mr. Aubrac going back with you?”

  Merde! He kept on tripping himself up with this childish subterfuge of his, which was not a clever thing to do in front of a woman who was keeping him on his toes so successfully.

  “Of course I’m hoping Mr. Aubrac and I will be returning together,” he told her smoothly. “But it’s not uncommon for a sudden matter to crop up that demands his urgent attention.” He drained his drink and got to his feet, noticing that she had barely touched her sherry. “Come, let us have some dinner. I’ll ask the waiter to bring your glass to the table.”