She shot a surprised glance at his rugged face. 'Now?' His mother was going into Theatre, for God's sake! And her sympathy for the man vanished.
'"Business partners" was the term you used, Parisa. That is the agreement; read it and sign.'
She picked up the papers and began to read. A gasp escaped her at the size of the allowance mentioned. He had certainly been very generous, so why wasn't she ecstatic at the thought? Instead, all she felt was self-disgust. She had sunk to his level where everything had a price, and without really taking everything in. She asked stiltedly, 'Have you a pen I can borrow?'
Luc handed her an elegant gold pen, and, without a word being spoken, she signed the document and passed it back to him. Being hard and cynical was not going to be as easy as she had first thought...
They spent all afternoon and into the evening hardly exchanging a word, a nurse bringing the occasional cup of coffee the only diversion, until at eight o'clock the doctor arrived, lie operation had been a success.
Luc grasped her hand in his as the nurse led them to the intensive care unit. His mother was lying, apparently asleep, with various tubes attached to her, but her colour did look slightly better.
'She'll be fine, Luc,' Parisa murmured.
'Yes, I think she will now...' he sighed. "Thank you, Parisa.' And he let go of her hand.
After another ride across London, the driver dropped them off at the entrance to the hotel. As Luc ushered her
inside she had a brief impression of a comfortable, elegant entrance foyer, traditional in appearance with thick carpeting and velvet drapes.
Parisa stood to one side as Luc talked briefly to the receptionist and a key changed hands, then Luc turned back to her. 'The chauffeur delivered your luggage earlier. Would you like to eat dinner down here in the restaurant or in our suite?'
'I'm not really hungry,' she said without thinking, but wished she hadn't as Luc agreed and, taking her arm, led her to the lift.
They rode up to the top floor in silence. The doors slid open and Luc ushered Parisa out across a wide hall, turned the key in the lock of the door and, with a hand on her back, urged her inside. The door opened straight on to a large square sitting-room. A deep pile carpet covered the floor. An Adam-style fireplace, the coals aglow, was the focal point of one wall. Parisa guessed it was a gas effect, but it was welcoming all the same. Two comfortable settees with a low coffee-table between them were the room's main furniture, along with a television, a couple of lamp tables and a small writing-desk with a telephone on the top.
'The bedrooms are through there.' Luc gestured to a small hall. 'You can check later. Right now I need a shower and a drink. Fix me a whisky and soda, please, and order a plate of...oh, sandwiches, whatever you fancy.' And, not waiting for her response, he disappeared down the hall.
Parisa heaved a sigh of relief. He had said 'bedrooms', plural; she had nothing to fear. In fact it should not be too hard to keep out of Luc's way over the next fortnight, apart from the hospital visits. Crossing to the complimentary bar, she filled two crystal tumblers with one generous and one smaller measure of whisky, adding ice and soda.
Taking the weaker of the two, she wandered back to the middle of the room and sank down on the comfortable sofa, kicking her shoes off and undoing the buttons of her jacket to reveal the peach silk camisole beneath. Tilting her head back, she took a reviving swallow of the amber liquid. Then, placing the glass on the table, she picked up the telephone, and quickly ordered sandwiches and coffee.
Retrieving her glass, she took another sip of the spirit, and looked around the subdued elegance of the room. It would be very easy to get used to this lifestyle, she thought musingly, but then, once she had got through the next couple of weeks, she would be able to afford this lifestyle. Somehow the thought did not make her as happy as she had hoped.
Parisa had never coveted wealth. She enjoyed her work, and as long as she could make ends meet she was quite happy. So what had happened to her usual easygoing nature to make her agree to Luc's proposition? Bitterness, greed: unenviable emotions, her innate honesty forced her to acknowledge, but it was too late; she had agreed. She jerked upright, spilling a little of her drink, as Luc's voice broke into her musing.
'Mine, I presume?' He was standing in front of her, his huge body stooped to pick up the drink she had prepared for him, and the sheer size and strength of him, along with his state of undress, hit her like a punch in the solar plexus.
He was wearing a white towelling robe, belted loosely at the waist and ending halfway down his muscular thighs. His golden-tanned skin and mat of black body hair was exposed between the low lapels of the garment. Suddenly she was made aware of just what kind of intimacy she had invited by agreeing to a marriage of convenience, and she swallowed nervously, her hand tightening on her glass. God, if she wasn't careful she was going to end up an ally before long, she thought, draining her drink. Luc had an alarming ability to set every nerve in her body into a jangling mass of hyperactivity. Luckily a knock on the door heralded the arrival of the waiter with the supper.
Parisa barely touched the food; she had hardly eaten anything all day, in fact, and she felt light-headed. Deliberately she stood up, tensing as Luc also rose from the sofa opposite.
'I'm tired; it's been a long day. I think I'll go to bed now,' she managed to say firmly, but she could not meet his dark, watchful eyes. She crossed the room in her stockinged feet. Feeling small and very vulnerable, she scuttled along the hall without looking back and entered the first door. Her eyes widened in puzzlement. It wasn't a bedroom, but more like an office, with computer, fax and telephone on a huge desk. Swinging around, she walked out and tried the next door along.
It was a large room with a king-sized bed in the centre, four-posted and elegantly draped in swish gold and blue velvet. Her suitcase was standing by an ornate antique dressing-table. She heaved a sigh of relief; this must be her room.
She opened her suitcase and grimaced at the floaty white wisp of silk and lace lying on the top, a note attached. A present from Didi. She rummaged deeper, and to her disgust found her sensible nightshirt was nowhere to be found. Frowning, she quickly hung her few clothes in the capacious wardrobe, and, reluctantly picking up the froth of white and her toilet things, she walked into the adjoining bathroom. In minutes she had a shower. Drying herself quickly with a thick, fluffy towel, she slipped the offending nightdress over her head.
A brief glance in the mirror did nothing to reassure her. Tiny plaited spaghetti straps held a bodice of gossamer lace that barely covered her breasts; the skirt was a swirl of transparent silk. Poor Didi; she was such a romantic. Shrugging fatalistically—no one was going to see it—Parisa returned to the bedroom, and stopped dead...
She stood transfixed, her mouth hanging open. Sprawled across the huge bed, wearing only a tiny pair of white briefs, was Luc. His black eyes glittered fiercely as he turned his head to study her with blatant thoroughness that made her whole body blush.
'Very sexy and quite bridal,' he taunted mockingly.
'What the hell do you think you're doing? This is my room,' she cried, swallowing hard on the ball of fear that lodged in her throat. Her eyes met his and she flinched at the furious intent she saw in them.
CHAPTER NINE
'Our bedroom, Parisa.' Luc's mocking voice echoed in the silence. He swung his long legs off the bed and sauntered across the room, his intention obvious.