Читать книгу: «Master Of Seduction»

CHAPTER ONE

THE white Citroën taxi drew up on the quai of St Tropez. A row of glittering white yachts bobbed gently in the warm harbour waters, while opposite them sat hundreds of people at the jaunty cafés lining the street, sipping Perrier and watching the rich go by.

Emma stepped out of the car, scarlet sundress fluttering in the hot breeze, drawing attention to her long, slim legs. Her hair was black as night, long and curvy, framing a beautiful, classical face with cat-green eyes and a full, firm mouth.

‘I’ll pay the fare,’ Liz said with a bright smile. ‘You go to the yacht and ask for some help with the cases.’

Emma stared blankly at the row of luxury yachts. ‘Which one is it?’

‘Oh—sorry. The big one in the middle. It’s called Sea Witch.’

Turning, Emma walked quickly along the hot stone quai, looking up at the yachts with a bemused smile.

All this reminded her of her childhood, when her rich father would pamper and parade her to all his rich friends, and she would play the beloved daughter for his benefit. The only trouble was, she had been very far from beloved. She had been more of a pretty little doll for him to dress in expensive clothes, and the artifice of that world was akin to the glittering artifice of these magnificent yachts. It was an artifice she had rejected when her father died, and one she did not wish to return to.

It therefore seemed ironic to walk along the quai looking for the yacht she would be cruising on for the next two weeks with Liz’s elder brother, Patrick.

Liz was her best friend and also, currently, her employer. Liz wrote romantic novels. Emma detested them. But she also detested an unproductive life, and when her previous job as a secretary had come to a conclusion in January Liz’s secretary had resigned. It had seemed the perfect solution for Emma to begin working for Liz.

She had been working for Liz for six months now, and, while she found the general soppiness of romantic novels absurd, she loved spending every day with her friend.

When Liz’s elder brother had telephoned from America last week to invite Liz on this cruise, Liz had invited Emma. Emma had been delighted to accept, thinking the yacht would be a small and unpretentious craft.

But now she felt swamped by waves of nasty déjà vu as she strolled along the quayside looking for the glittering white multi-million dollar palace of a yacht called Sea Witch.

Suddenly, she was in front of it.

Two people, a man and a woman, sat on white chairs on the deck drinking cocktails. The man was bare-chested with dark hair, and the woman was a glamorous brunette with red lips. They both wore sunglasses.

Emma cleared her throat. ‘Excuse me—I’m Emma Baccarat, Liz Kinsella’s secretary, and——’

‘About bloody time,’ drawled the brunette. ‘We’ve been waiting around all day. It’s gone four and we were supposed to sail at three!’

Emma steeled herself to be polite. ‘Perhaps you should take that up with the airline. It was hardly my fault the flight was delayed. In the meantime, we need some help with our cases. Could anyone lend us a hand?’

‘Yes, I’ll come and help.’ The man got to his feet, revealing himself to be an astonishingly handsome giant, at least six feet six, as he strode, rippling with solid muscle, down the wooden gangplank.

Emma stared at him from behind her dark glasses.

He was the best-looking man she had ever seen. A living archetype of powerful masculinity, with that body, that tough face and that height. Suntan oil sheened his bare, bronzed chest, gleaming on black hairs and solid muscle, down to the flat brown stomach above his faded jeans.

He stopped in front of her, towering over her with a cool, condescending smile. ‘I’m Patrick Kinsella.’

This arrogant giant was Liz’s brother? Emma just stared at him, stupefied, and racked her brains to try to remember everything she had ever heard or read about him.

Meanwhile, Patrick smiled cynically, obviously taking her silence for swooning over his extraordinary looks. ‘Patrick Kinsella,’ he drawled again, clearly pleased by the sound of his own name, and extended a huge hand, adding, ‘Delighted to meet you—welcome aboard.’

‘Thank you.’ Emma shook his hand irritably, deciding he was not only loathsome, but devoid of any moral values, if he was involved with that appalling woman who had just been so rude to her. ‘It was kind of you to invite me on your yacht, Mr Kinsella.’

‘Call me Patrick.’

‘Patrick.’ She smiled coldly as she dropped his vast hand. His name was about all he had going for him, as far as she was concerned. Emma’s mother had been Irish, and Emma had long felt a deep connection with Ireland, something that would have bordered on romanticism, if she had ever felt the slightest bit romantic. Still, at least his accent wasn’t Irish—it was pure upper-class English, and therefore had not the slightest effect on her.

With a cold, polite smile she said, ‘I’m very much looking forward to the cruise. I understand we’ll be stopping in Morocco?’

‘Among other places.’ He gave a cool nod, then lifted his dark head. ‘Is that my sister over there with ten million suitcases?’

‘Yes.’ Emma turned to look at Liz perched like a pixie on a pile of suitcases, her short dark bobbed hair flickering around her gamine face, waving cheerfully at her brother.

They walked over to her together; or rather Emma swayed and Patrick strode like some unidentified species of jungle cat, his powerful body so packed with hard muscle that Emma regarded him through her dark glasses with the same cool detachment with which one might study an animal in a zoo.

‘Hi, Liz!’ Bending a long, long distance, Patrick dropped a kiss on his sister’s cheek. ‘You’re looking very well. Must be all that romantic nonsense you spend your time dreaming about.’

‘Don’t be horrid.’ Liz leapt up from the cases, laughing. ‘Anyway, you wait. One day you’ll fall in love when you’re least expecting it, and then you won’t be quite so pleased with yourself. Have you met Emma?’

‘Yes, we just introduced ourselves,’ Patrick said, without glancing at Emma. ‘I’ve postponed sailing till midnight tonight because I wasn’t sure what time you’d get here. Meanwhile, Charles and Toby have gone up to the old fort for the afternoon. Natasha’s the only one on board.’

Liz made a face. ‘Lord save us all from Natasha! Is she being vile, or just mildly unspeakable?’

‘Mildly unspeakable,’ Patrick said, then looked down at her cases. ‘Is this the lot? If I take four can you two manage the rest?’

They agreed that they could, and Patrick picked up four cases in huge hands, striding away easily with them. Liz and Emma followed at a leisurely pace.

It was quite a relief to Emma to realise that the appalling brunette called Natasha was renowned for vile behaviour. She wondered why Patrick Kinsella was going out with her if he disliked her so much, and decided he was probably the kind of man who liked love-hate relationships with bitchy women. Good luck to him, she thought with an indifferent shrug.

At twenty-six years old, Emma was rather jaded in terms of love relationships. She didn’t believe in romance, nor did she believe in ever finding true love.

Oh, she had a secret ideal man, but she kept him to herself, not telling anyone because she was sure he did not exist and that she would never meet him. She had no idea what he would look like: she wasn’t interested in looks, she was only interested in the mind.

But most men were only interested in sex and showpiece women they could boast about to their friends. She hated artifice—she had, after all, spent most of her early life playing roles, first for her father, then for her late husband. No more role-playing for Emma—she wanted honesty or nothing.

They approached the yacht and walked up the gangplank, watched with interest by the people at the cafés, and as they reached the deck three men in white uniform suddenly appeared.

‘Take these cases down to my sister’s cabin.’ Patrick deposited them on the deck. ‘And the rest to Miss Baccarat’s.’

The men nodded silently, no doubt used to being serfs for Mr Kinsella the incredible hulk, and disappeared with the cases down the long polished wood deck to a slim white door on the right-hand side.

‘Would either of you like to go down to your cabins to freshen up or settle in?’ Patrick studied them both from behind dark glasses.

‘I’d like a drink first,’ Liz told her brother. ‘That journey was hell on two legs, and I see a nice magnum of champagne over there with my name on it!’

Patrick laughed, strolled coolly to the bottle, took two glasses and handed one to Liz, one to Emma. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘this is Natasha de Courcey. Natasha— this is Emma Baccarat.’

‘Ah, yes, Miss Baccarat,’ drawled Natasha. ‘I suppose I ought to shake hands and say how do you do, but I frankly can’t be bothered.’

‘That’s quite all right, Natasha.’ Patrick poured champagne into Emma’s glass. ‘We’re all used to your bad manners. Emma may as well get used to them too.’

Natasha sipped her drink, tapping one foot. ‘I’m just bad-tempered because we’re stuck in St Tropez for hours on end. The only thing to do here is shop, and one gets so bored spending one’s husband’s money.’

‘One wouldn’t know,’ Liz drawled. ‘One doesn’t have a husband. Put a little more champagne in my glass, Patrick…’

‘Well, we all know about your famous single status, Liz, going around dreaming of romance but never finding it. But are you married, Miss Baccarat?’ Natasha arched one silver brow at Emma.

‘No,’ Emma said coolly, ‘I’m a widow.’

‘A widow!’ Natasha smiled slowly, red lips curving like a nasty little pussycat’s. ‘Oh, how very unusual for a girl of your age! How long have you been widowed?’

‘Five years.’ Emma sipped her champagne, face tranquil.

Natasha de Courcey pushed her dark glasses up to reveal a pair of heavy-lidded dark eyes with malice in their depths. ‘How did he die?’

‘A boating accident.’

‘How tragic!’ Natasha said with horrible insincerity. ‘What was he like?’

Emma’s face was expressionless. ‘He was good-looking, adventurous and he loved danger. That’s why he died so young.’

‘I adore men like that. Men who are mad, bad and dangerous to know. Men like Patrick…!’

Patrick gave a hard, dangerous, cynical smile, strolled to the drinks table, put the bottle of champagne down, and watched them all from behind his dark glasses in sexually menacing silence.

‘Well, Miss Baccarat.’ Natasha turned back to her with a nasty smile. ‘Do you think you’ll enjoy this cruise? I mean, you realise there’s a single young man of your age on board? My brother-in-law, Toby.’

‘Your brother-in-law?’ Emma’s brows rose and she looked at Liz. ‘I thought you only had one brother?’

‘I do,’ Liz said, frowning, then realised what Emma had been thinking and started to laugh. ‘Oh, God, what a hoot! You thought Natasha was married to Patrick? I don’t believe it!’

Emma shrugged. ‘Well, I naturally assumed——’

‘That we were together?’ Natasha laughed. ‘Chance would be a fine thing! No, I’m married to Patrick and Liz’s cousin Charles. His little brother is Toby, and I’m sure this is all very fated, Miss Baccarat. After all, he’s single, so are you, and you’re both stuck together for a fortnight on this yacht…’

Liz laughed, sipping champagne. ‘I shouldn’t hold out any hope for a shipboard romance between Emma and anyone. She’s completely cynical, I’m afraid, and doesn’t believe in love.’

‘Doesn’t believe in love!’ Natasha was shocked. ‘But how can you possibly justify that, Miss Baccarat, when you’re working for a romantic novelist?’

‘I initially became Liz’s secretary to lend a helping hand,’ Emma said, practised now in the art of explaining the conflict between her personal beliefs and her work. ‘It was just going to be a temporary thing, but we work so well together that it’s kind of dragged on longer than we expected.’

‘Dragged on!’ Liz’s laughter was as bubbly as the champagne. ‘You see how much she hates romance?’

‘I don’t hate romance,’ Emma amended quickly. ‘And you know I love working for you. I just don’t believe in the books you write, that’s all, Liz. You know what a cynic I am.’

Out of the corner of her eye, she suddenly noticed Patrick studying her with a smile on his tough mouth. Prickling, she gave him a cold, haughty look. He was the kind of man she could read like a book, and she knew precisely what that cynical smile of his meant. He thought all cynical women were available for sex without strings attached. Playboys always thought like that. Well, he could just go and playboy himself to death, if he thought she was that kind of woman.

Emma might have been cynical, but that didn’t mean she was cheap. Far from it. She wanted truth, honesty, integrity. Real emotions, real thoughts, no pretence, no lies…

What was wrong with romantic love was that it wasn’t the truth—any more than money, social position and material success were the truth. There was only one truth worth bothering with in life, and that was the fact that everyone was going to die.

Emma’s eyes glided contemptuously over the handsome playboy, Patrick Kinsella, glided on past him, flickered out to the sea and sky, which were hers as long as she was alive, and far more precious than all the material success or romantic delusion in the world.

The spirit, she thought with a slow, philosophical smile, is something which cannot be bought, and which lives on after death, like a soft sea breeze on that halcyon sky. Now that’s the only romance I’m prepared to believe in.

‘You’re not interested in romance at all?’ Natasha seemed to read her mind. ‘Or gorgeous, sexy men?’

Emma laughed cynically. ‘Gorgeous, sexy men are always a pleasure to look at, but usually inside they’re weak, selfish, vain, conceited and arrogant.’ Her smile flashed contempt at Patrick Kinsella. ‘I’m not interested in packaging. Only in what’s inside.’

‘Worthy sentiments,’ drawled Natasha, ‘but isn’t your life a little dull without romance?’

‘Hardly! I have a wonderful job, a lot of friends, opportunities for travel, and a very interesting future. What more could I ask for?’

‘A man.’ Natasha toyed with her glass in one redtaloned hand.

Emma smiled at her expression. Women like this little man-eater always tried to throw darts at Emma’s confidence in herself, presumably because it rattled them to think that a woman could be quite happy without being obsessed by men, flirtation, romance.

‘Every woman needs a man.’

‘Needs?’ Emma said. ‘I need to eat, I need to breathe, I need to sleep—but need a man? No, I don’t think that’s a statement I can agree with. After all, I’m going to die one day, and I can’t take him with me any more than I can take money or possessions or achievements.’

‘All right, then!’ Natasha’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’d like a man! Someone to love, to kiss, to flirt with.’

‘Well, that’s definitely debatable.’ Emma arched cool dark brows with amusement. ‘If I don’t want to kiss someone, I won’t, and there’s an end to it.’

‘And if you do want to kiss someone?’ Patrick Kinsella suddenly stepped forward, pushed his dark glasses up on to his head, and she saw his eyes. She was so struck by them that she just stared at him in silence for a split-second.

Those eyes were blue—dazzling blue, steely blue, Van Gogh sky-blue, and they seemed to fill the whole deck of the yacht, the whole town of St Tropez. She could no longer see his face or the colour of his hair or even his height or bare chest.

All she could see were those eyes, blazing at her like the brightest lights she had ever seen.

They were so at odds with her initial opinion of him— a handsome, cynical, sex-obsessed playboy—that for a second she was too knocked off balance to speak.

‘Cat got your tongue, Miss Baccarat?’ Patrick drawled.

She quickly pulled her shattered wits together. ‘If I wanted to kiss someone, I would do just that—kiss them!’

He laughed. ‘Are you telling me you’ve never wanted to? How old are you? Twelve?’

‘Well, of course I’ve wanted to!’ she snapped, flushing hotly. ‘But only when I was younger, more naïve, and believed in romance the way every teenager does.’

He was unfazed by her anger. ‘Which do you hate most? Romance or sexual attraction?’

‘What an impertinent question!’

‘Why is it impertinent?’

‘I would have thought that was perfectly obvious!’

‘Because I mentioned sex? Very interesting. I think you’ve answered my question.’

Her face flamed. ‘That’s just the kind of stupid, sexist remark I’d expect from an arrogant playboy!’

‘Resorting to personal insults already?’ He laughed softly. ‘Well, well, well. So it is sex that bothers you.’

‘Don’t you try to Freudian-analyse me, Mr Kinsella!’ Her green eyes flared with temper as she pushed her dark glasses up on to her head, glaring at him. ‘The truth is that I don’t hate either romance or sexual attraction! I just see through them.’

‘How do you do that?’

‘What do you mean—how do I do that?’ She was livid because her anger hadn’t stopped him pushing at her. ‘It must be perfectly obvious!’

‘Not to me.’

‘Then you must be even younger than the twelve you accused me of being!’

He laughed, enjoying her rage. ‘That annoyed you, did it?’

‘Of course it did!’ She was determined to remain lucid and intelligent, not to lose her cool again. ‘And I’m surprised at a man of your obvious experience saying you don’t see through either romance or sexual attraction. I should think you’ve had more than your fair share of relationships based on nothing but plain lust!’

He arched cool dark brows, revealing respect in his blue eyes at the direct honesty of her words. ‘Clearly— so have you.’

‘Of course I have.’ She remained blindingly honest. ‘I’m a young woman, I’m reasonably attractive, and I’ve had more than my fair share of men trying to seduce me.’

‘Trying to?’

‘Yes—trying to!’

‘Obviously you never let them succeed.’

‘Why should I?’ Her face flushed unexpectedly. She felt defensive, lifting her chin. ‘I have no intention of being hoodwinked by romantic delusion in order to let a man get the better of me sexually. That’s what the game is, isn’t it? That’s how playboys reach their goal!’

He smiled, studying her assessingly. ‘True, but not all men are playboys. You must have met at least one decent man since your husband died—surely? Or are you like most women, and find decent men boring?’

‘They’re certainly not as boring and predictable as playboys or fortune-hunters!’

‘Fortune-hunters? A rich woman as well as a cynic, then?’

‘Money and cynicism go hand in hand when everyone you meet just wants to relieve you of both your money and your virtue. And in truth I’d give all my money away to find one honest, decent, trustworthy man!’

‘Then you do believe in love, after all.’

Her face flamed scarlet. ‘No, I do not, and what is this anyway? Twenty questions? My private life is none of your damned business! Get off my back or I’ll leave this yacht immediately!’

‘OK.’ He shrugged coolly, astonishing her while she stood there, bristling, poised for further fury, staring at him, a string of insults on the tip of her tongue—only to be completely outmanoeuvred because he strode mildly past them all, saying over one enormous bare, hard-muscled shoulder, ‘I’m going into town for an hour or so. I’ll see you all tonight. Seven-thirty on deck for cocktails…’

Speechless, furious, Emma stared after him as he picked up a nearby shirt, pulled it on lazily as he strode down the gangplank, and disappeared into the glamorous mêlée of people on the quai of St Tropez.

‘That was Patrick doing the Spanish Inquisition, wasn’t it?’ Liz said as she too stared after Patrick. ‘I wonder why?’

‘He was probably just bored,’ Emma said tersely, loathing him even more, and feeling shaken by the conversation. She decided she detested Patrick Kinsella, and would avoid him like the plague from now on. She turned to Liz, saying, ‘I think I’d like to go down to my cabin now—take a shower, unpack, settle in. Would that be all right?’

‘Yes, of course!’ Liz put her drink down. ‘See you later, Natasha.’

Natasha smiled acidly, said something spiteful, and refilled her glass while Liz led Emma along the hot wooden deck towards the white door which opened on to a long narrow staircase.

As they went down the stairs, Emma said tautly, ‘Sorry about that row with your brother. I felt pinned down by all those questions, and the conversation was getting much too personal.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about it.’ Liz waved an airy hand. ‘He was obviously just intrigued to find a woman as cynical as he is.’

‘Yes,’ she said, eyes narrowing, ‘I noticed his mad, bad and dangerous sex appeal before Natasha pointed it out. No doubt he’s used to women falling at his feet in a romantic daydream.’

‘Precisely,’ Liz agreed. ‘He stopped believing in love so long ago that I can’t really remember a time when he wasn’t a cynical swine.’ She laughed, leading the way along a luxurious corridor. ‘Not like me, of course, always rattling on about hearts and flowers.’

Emma smiled, following her past a series of doors. She liked Liz’s preoccupation with romance, found it rather sweet, especially in the way it was expressed in her books—all that passion, faith in love, a belief in the goodness of people, not the bad.

It was a shame she had never married, but then she had had a ten-year blazing love-affair with a man who was married to an insane woman and felt unable to divorce her. ‘All very Jane Eyre and Mr Rochester,’ Liz often remarked with a sigh, but it had ended in tragedy when the man had died in a plane crash, leaving Liz alone in a world with no love but the romance in her beloved novels.

Liz opened the door of Emma’s cabin, and smiled as she heard Emma’s rapid intake of breath.

‘My God, it’s beautiful…!’

‘Yes, my brother’s very stylish in everything he does.’

Emma hated Patrick for being very stylish, but couldn’t deny that he was, because this room was ravishing. It was vast, sunlight pouring in through two long windows, illuminating the sprawling silk-covered double bed, the deep-pile sea-green carpet, the expensive sofas and armchairs, the long low polished mahogany coffee-table, the antique writing-desk, and the exquisite paintings hanging on the silk-wallpapered walls.

‘I’ll leave you to get on with it, then,’ said Liz with a cheery smile. ‘See you at seven-thirty on deck for predinner cocktails.’

As soon as the door was closed, Emma started to unpack, hanging all her clothes in the wardrobe, piling lingerie, T-shirts and jeans into the chest of drawers, and arranging her various shoes neatly.

Then she laid out her cosmetics, perfume and hairstyling appliances on the beautiful dressing-table, enjoying the reflection of that stylish bottle of Ralph Lauren’s Safari in the three-tiered mirror.

Going into the bathroom with her toiletries, she gasped anew at the beauty, luxury and understated style of the room.

Patrick Kinsella really did have exceptional taste.

Taste meant a lot to Emma. Her late husband had had appalling taste, and living with it for the two years of their brief marriage had been very unpleasant. Another symptom of artifice and role-playing: Emma had let Simon indoctrinate her in everything he liked, as though she simply ‘became’ him, and pretended to like all his friends, his hobbies, his bad taste, his selfishness…

She had also, along the way, pretended to forgive him his brutality, violence, infidelity, deceit and vicious spite. All those qualities had only surfaced after the wedding— but then that was what you got, thought Emma, for pretending instead of telling the truth.

She wasn’t bitter about the past, or about her bad marriage, or about the fact that she had been forced to role-play for so many years. She had dealt with it all long ago, accepting it and moving forward to a new life and a new way of dealing with the world.

What was there to do but forgive and, in doing so, forgive herself for the part she had played in her own unhappiness? Her parents had not loved her properly— but they had loved her, and she had loved them. It hadn’t been their fault that they were so incapable of seeing her as she really was, it had simply been a product of their own unhappy childhoods, when their parents had not loved them properly.

As for Simon—well, he fell into the same category. Treated badly as a boy, he had grown up thinking that love meant treating other people badly, and his violence had been a product of long-buried rage.

Horrors.

What a minefield relationships were.

Now she was free of it all, content with her life, and looking back on the past was like looking back on another person. It would have been romantic of her to use the word ‘rebirth’ to describe her new life and, although she detested romance, she rather liked the word ‘rebirth’.

Stripping her clothes off, she stepped into the luxurious shower, and proceeded to luxuriate under the warm needles of water, washing the grime of her long journey from her slender body.

To think she had left her London home at six o’clock this morning! God, that delay at London Heathrow had been a nightmare!

When she had dried herself, styled her hair, and pulled on a pair of pale blue jeans, she slipped a white silk top on, then decided it would be a shame to waste St Tropez if they were sailing out tonight, so she went up on deck with her sunglasses and handbag, and pootled down the gangplank into town.

Hot sunlight assailed her from all angles. Artists stood on the quai in front of their easels, palettes in hand as they stroked hot oil paints on to the canvases, and seagulls cried sharply among the bobbing boats, the glittering blue waters, the freedom-filled glamour of the town.

Emma walked lazily up bleached, winding, ancient streets, until she came to the main square, where old French men played boules among the trees and the dust, watched by glamorous tourists in pretty canopied cafés.

Sitting on a canvas chair, Emma watched the men, and ordered a coffee. Then suddenly, across the square, she saw a pair of blazing blue eyes watching her.

Dazzling blue, she thought again as she stared unsmilingly straight at Patrick Kinsella.

He just stood still, watching her, staring directly at her, and even though he was a long way away she felt the power of that stare, felt it very deeply, like a mirror turned in sudden blazing recognition.

She did not smile either. Nor make any attempt to wave or signal that she had seen him. Flicking her gaze expressionlessly from his, she glanced at the tree beside her as the warm breeze ruffled through its green leaves, and thought, Who the hell does he think he is?

When she glanced back with a cool expression, Patrick had gone. Frowning, she looked to see where he had disappeared to, but there was nothing there save the men playing boules, the trees, the dust, the cafés, and the sudden buzz of a motorbike driving along in the hot afternoon.

Oh, well. She shrugged philosophically, but it was irksome to have been stared at like that by her host, her employer’s brother, as though he had no need to smile or wave or even acknowledge her.

What a sauce, she thought irritably. And after the way he spoke to me, asking me such rapid, personal questions. I may not be the best person he’s ever invited aboard his yacht, but there’s no need to completely ignore me in public, as though we’ve never met.

A second later, Liz appeared on the same side of the square as Emma.

‘Hi!’ Emma waved to her, and Liz waved back, looking hilarious in multi-stripe leggings, a long T-shirt and a bright orange baseball cap perched on her pixieish head.

‘Hello there!’ Liz raced over to her table, sank down in a chair and put her shopping down with a thud. ‘Phew! This shopping is thirsty work! I must have a huge glass of Perrier.’

Emma signalled the waiter and ordered it for her.

‘Settled in all right?’ Liz asked.