The Parisian Playboy

скачать книгу бесплатно


‘But you do not have a boyfriend, a partner?’

‘The same could be said for thousands of women, surely?’

She pushed back her sleek veil of hair as she spoke and he saw her eyes were violet with defiance and something else he didn’t recognise. He had touched a nerve here. Careful not to appear anything but relaxed and casual, Jacques said easily, ‘Maybe, but not often ones with eyes the colour of your English cornflowers and hair of warm, silky chocolate. When was your last love affair, Holly?’

She moved back in her seat, an instinctive but very revealing gesture. He waited, without saying a word.

The waiter returned with two terrifyingly chic and elegant menus, placing them in their hands with almost reverent decorum before taking an order from Jacques for two more cocktails. Holly wanted to protest but she didn’t. Somehow she felt she would need the boost the alcohol gave her to survive this evening intact.

The waiter having glided off to get the drinks, Jacques peered at her over the top of his open menu. ‘The Chinese black bean and green pepper chicken is good to start with,’ he suggested smoothly, pretending not to notice as her eyes ran anxiously over the pages, which were all in French. Double Dutch to Holly. ‘And it complements the coriander salmon with mango perfectly. Trust me?’

She met his gaze. Trusting Jacques Querruel was not an option! ‘That sounds very nice,’ she said primly.

‘Oh, it is nice,’ he assured her gravely as the waiter returned with the cocktails. After he had given their order for the food and wine and they were alone again, Jacques relaxed back in his seat once more. ‘So, the last boyfriend,’ he said silkily. ‘The love of your life or just another young hopeful?’

The question hammered at her aplomb and there was a moment of silence so charged she knew he’d sensed it. She had lowered her eyes and she took a long, hidden breath before staring straight at him. ‘There hasn’t been much time for boyfriends,’ she said coolly.

His pulse quickened. What the hell did that mean? ‘No?’

‘No.’

He was damned if he was going to leave it at that. ‘Why not, Holly?’ he asked quietly.

She had been sipping at her cocktail and now plonked her glass down with an air of Oh, for goodness’ sake! Which Jacques ignored.

He wasn’t going to leave this alone until she’d spelt it out for him, was he? Holly thought tensely. She wished she could just walk out of here and go home, but that would be way, way over the top. He hadn’t insulted her or been difficult in any way; most people would class this as perfectly acceptable social intercourse.

Bright patches of colour staining the creamy skin of her cheeks, Holly said, ‘I stayed on at school until eighteen to finish my A levels and then left to get a job and somewhere to live. I worked for two years so I could put myself through university without entering into a whole load of debt with loans and such. I worked long hours; there was no time for a social life.’

‘Why did you leave home as well as school?’

‘I didn’t have a home!’ It was a snap, and Holly warned herself to take control of her voice before she said more calmly, ‘What I mean is I lived in a foster home and I didn’t get on with the rest of the family particularly well. It was better for everyone I left and, besides, I was too old to continue with them. I finished university when I was twenty-three and have had one other job besides my present one. I made up my mind to be a career girl and concentrate on my work rather than a love life.’

He didn’t buy this. He did not buy this at all. ‘Very sensible,’ he said understandingly. ‘But you enjoyed yourself at university no doubt?’

She ignored the meaning behind the words. ‘I had a great time,’ she agreed stiffly.

Jacques wanted to push some more but now was not the time. ‘Everyone does,’ he remarked drily. ‘Raging hormones and hundreds of young people let loose for the first time in their lives makes for some interesting diary reading.’ And then he completely backtracked on his earlier decision as he said, ‘Did you keep a diary, Holly?’ making sure his voice suggested amusement and nothing of the burning curiosity he was feeling.

He was watching her closely, seriously, despite the smile on his lips, and Holly had the feeling they were fencing like two duellists, one of which was hopelessly ill-equipped. She made an enormous effort and said lightly, ‘I prefer reading to writing.’