'Get in the car,' Luc said curtly, and she did.
An hour later, as she walked up the steps to the waiting Lear Jet, her suspicions had grown to gigantic proportions. Luc had whisked her through Gatwick airport, the Customs, and out to the plane without speaking a word, and as she entered the cabin of the aircraft and looked around her she felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.
A dark-suited man asked, 'May I take your coat?' Too stunned to protest, she untied the belt and allowed the man to slip it from her shoulders. 'Take-off is in five minutes. Please be seated.'
He led her, unprotesting, across deep, plush green carpet, past two soft leather sofas and matching armchairs and a gilt-edged coffee table, to where a row of aircraft seats were placed at the rear of the plane. She sat down, her blue eyes wide with amazement. A private plane, no less.
She looked up to find Luc towering over her. With a shrug of his broad shoulders he handed his overcoat to the waiting steward and settled his huge frame in the seat next to her.
'Who does this plane belong to?' she demanded.
"The company, of course. Now fasten your seatbelt, Parisa.' And he deftly flicked the catch on his own.
She turned her head away from his dark presence and looked out of the window. The company! Oh, my God! she thought helplessly, was that another name for the Mafia? What did she know? No casino manager, however well paid, swanned around in chauffeur-driven limousines, or used private airplanes. Luc might possibly have saved and bought the casino, but he was obviously no small-time crook. Her own bet was he was probably a member of or had connections to an organised crime syndicate! After all, what did she really know about Luc Di Maggi? She had met the man three times in ten years. What had she got herself into? she wondered fearfully.
She looked down, fumbling with her seatbelt, and a strong arm stretched in front of her, the sleeve of his sweater brushing lightly across her breasts. Instantly tense, she turned back to the window as long fingers clipped the catch firmly closed. Her fear turned to terror, and her mind went blank. She held her breath as the ground rushed away from them. Her heart racing, her hands clutched at the arm rests, knuckles white with the force of her grip.
A large, warm hand covered hers, and she clung, her nails digging into the hard flesh. She didn't care what she was revealing; she hated flying.
"The impulsive Parisa, scared of flying,' a mocking voice drawled in her ear.
'I am not,' she lied. 'I just don't like the take-off and landing, and I'm not impulsive,' she said through clenched teeth.
Luc, his dark head turned towards her, his eyes lit with unholy amusement, caught her tense gaze. 'No? You're on this plane, engaged to a man you hardly know, and no idea of your destination...' His lips curled back over perfect white teeth in a wicked grin, and she wanted to thump him. 'I would say that is pretty impulsive by anyone's standards.'
He was right, and she hated him for it. The one thing she prided herself on was being a calm, rational adult woman, but her own innate honesty forced her to admit that for the past few days she had acted recklessly, to say the least. But with Moya's happiness at stake, she had had no choice! Slowly she eased her hand from his and, looking down, unfastened her seatbelt, avoiding his laughing black eyes.
'No comeback, Parisa?' he mocked and, unclipping his seatbelt, he pushed his long legs out in front of him.
Blue eyes flashing angrily, she turned to him. 'Yes... No...' she stammered, her stomach lurching at the sight of him. He was stretching his long arms above his head like a great jungle cat, his black trousers pulled taut across his hard thighs. The soft cream and black crew- necked sweater, which moulded his muscular chest, rose up, revealing a bare tanned midriff with a teasing line of black hair. She could not seem to tear her eyes away from the patch of tanned skin. She felt the colour flood her face as the steward spoke.
'Would the lady like coffee, breakfast?'
She looked up, her face burning. 'Just coffee, please.'
Luc stood up. 'The lot for me, please, Max.' And, stooping slightly, he held out one strong hand to Parisa. 'Come along, we may as well make ourselves comfortable. We have a lot of ground to cover in the next few hours, both literally and figuratively speaking.'
She ignored his hand and rose to her feet. His sensuous mouth twisted in a cynical smile at her obvious action, but he made no comment, simply walked across to an armchair placed beside the coffee-table, and lowered his huge frame into it.
'What do you mean, figuratively?' she asked warily, moving to a sofa at the opposite side of the table. His dark eyes followed her every step of the way. Studying her, from the top of her pale blonde head, down over the proud tilt of her breasts against the smooth wool of her sweater to her narrow waist, bound by a tan leather belt, and on over her slim hips in the short straight blue and beige tweed skirt, to the soft curve of her calves, and her short boots. 'You have great legs,' he said, ignoring her question.
'My legs are no concern of yours,' she said flatly, sitting down on the sofa, and self-consciously trying to pull her skirt over her knees. 'We have a bargain, you and I: two days with your mother, and I get Moya's photographs.' She was desperate to redefine the limit of their relationship, to quell her mounting fear.
The steward arrived and placed a loaded tray on the table. In seconds a steaming cup of coffee was in front of Parisa. As for Luc, a plate of ham and eggs was placed in front of him.
He looked down at the plate as she watched, and then lifted his head, his black eyes catching hers. 'You're right, of course, Parisa. By figuratively I meant we have to appear to know each other intimately.'
She stiffened, her hand stopping on the cup, her imagination going into overdrive: a vivid image of Luc as he had been on Saturday morning, part naked, and herself enfolded in his strong arms. To know him intimately! She shivered at the thought and felt the colour rise in her cheeks.
'No, not in the biblical sense,' he drawled mockingly, easily reading her mind. 'But my mother is an intelligent and very astute woman. She will expect me to know your family, your past history, that sort of thing, Lady Parisa.' And, picking up a knife and fork, he added, 'While I eat, perhaps you will oblige, hmm?' Turning his attention to the food in front of him, he proceeded to eat.
She took a deep breath, reminding herself wryly that she was a mature woman, not a stupid teenager indulging in erotic thoughts, and Luc's request was reasonable, she supposed. 'Well, for a start I am not a Lady.'
A burst of laughter greeted her remark. 'Thank God you said that, and not some unsuspecting male. No doubt you would slap his face.' Luc grinned.
'I didn't mean it like that,' she said, flustered by his open grin. 'My father was Lord of Hardcourt Manor— the title went with the estate. When my parents died, and then my grandmother, six months later, leaving me the last of the line, I suppose some people automatically assumed I should be addressed as Lady Hardcourt- Belmont. But it doesn't really apply any more.'
'Because you live in London now,' Luc said, adding, 'How old were you when your parents died?'