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It finally dawned on Tawny that he had to have some highly sensitive information on that laptop when he was prepared to go to such lengths to protect it from the rest of the world. A knock sounded on the door and Navarre strode across the room, his tall, well-built body emanating aggressive male power, to pull it open. Tawny went pale when she saw the penthouse manager, Lesley Morgan, in the doorway.
‘Excuse me, Mr Cazier. Reception mentioned that there might be a problem—’
‘There is not a problem.’
‘Tawny?’ Lesley queried quietly. ‘I’m sure you must have work to take care of—’
‘Tawny is resigning from her job, effective immediately,’ Navarre Cazier slotted in without hesitation.
Across the room Tawny went rigid but she neither confirmed nor protested his declaration. In receipt of a wildly curious glance from the attractive brunette, Tawny flushed uncomfortably. So, she was going to be unemployed while she fulfilled his mysterious mission. It was an obvious first step. Whatever he wanted from her she could hardly continue to work a daily shift at the hotel at the same time. On the other hand, she would be virtually unemployable with a criminal record for theft hanging over her head, and, if she could emerge from the agreement with the French industrialist with her good name still intact, losing her current job would be a worthwhile sacrifice.
‘There are certain formalities to be taken care of in the case of termination of employment,’ Lesley replied with an apologetic compression of her lips.
‘Which my staff will deal with on Tawny’s behalf,’ Navarre retorted in a tone of finality.
Beneath Tawny’s bemused gaze, the penthouse manager took her leave. Navarre left Tawny hovering in the centre of the carpet while he made a brisk phone call to an employee to instruct her to organise appointments for him. A frown divided Tawny’s fine brows when she heard him mention her name. He spoke in French too fast for her to follow to a couple of other people and then finally tossed the phone down. A knock sounded on the door.
‘Answer that,’ Navarre told her.
‘Say please,’ Tawny specified, bravely challenging him. ‘You may be paying me but you can still be polite.’
Navarre stiffened in disbelief. ‘I have excellent manners.’
‘No, you don’t … I’ve seen you operating with your staff,’ Tawny countered with a suggestive wince. ‘It’s all, do this, do that … why haven’t you done it already? Please and thank you don’t figure—’
‘Open the damn door!’ Navarre raked at her, out of all patience.
‘You’re not just rude, you’re a bully,’ Tawny declared, stalking over to the door to tug it open with a twist of a slender hand.
‘Don’t answer me back like that,’ Navarre warned her as his security chief walked in and, having caught that last exchange, directed an astonished look of curiosity at his employer.
‘You’re far too tempting a target,’ Tawny warned him.
Icy green eyes caught her amused gaze and chilled her. ‘Control the temptation. If you can’t do as you’re told you’re of no use to me at all.’
‘Is that the sound of a whip cracking over my head?’ Tawny looked skyward.
‘Do you hear anyone laughing?’ Navarre derided.
‘You’ve got your staff too scared.’
‘Jacques, take Tawny to collect her belongings and bring her back up without giving her the chance to talk to anyone,’ Navarre instructed.
‘Men aren’t allowed in the female locker room,’ Tawny told him gently.
‘I will ask Elise to join us.’ Jacques unfurled his phone.
Navarre studied Tawny, far from impervious to the amusement glimmering in her pale eyes combined with the voluptuous pout of her sexy mouth. Desire, sudden and piercing as a blade, gripped him. All of a sudden as he met those eyes he was picturing her on a bed with rumpled sheets, hair fanned out in a wild colourful torrent of curls, that pale slender body displayed for his pleasure. His teeth clenched on the shot of stark hunger that evocative image released. He was consoled by the near certainty that she would give him that pleasure before their association ended, for no woman had ever denied him.
Gazing back at Navarre Cazier, Tawny momentarily felt as though someone had, without the smallest warning, dropped her off the side of a cliff. Her body felt as if it had gone into panic mode, her heartbeat thundering far too fast, her mouth suddenly dry, her nipples tight and swollen, an excited fluttering low in her belly. And just as quickly Tawny realised what was really happening to her and she tore her attention guiltily from him, colour burning over her cheekbones at her uncontrollable reaction to all that male testosterone in the air. It was desire he had awakened, not fear. Yes, he was gorgeous, but under no circumstances was she going to go there.
Rich, handsome men didn’t attract her. Her mother and her sisters’ experiences had taught Tawny not to crave wealth and status for the sake of it, for neither brought lasting happiness. Her father, a noted hotelier, was rich and miserable and, according to her older half-sisters, Bee and Zara, he was always pleading dissatisfaction with his life or latest business deal. Nothing was ever enough for Monty Blake. Bee and Zara might also be married to wealthy men, but they were both very much in love with their husbands. At the end of the day love was all that really mattered, Tawny reflected thoughtfully, and substituting sex for love and hoping it would bridge the gap didn’t work.
That was why Tawny didn’t sleep around. She had grown up with her mother’s bitterness over a sexual affair that had never amounted to anything more. She had also seen too many friends hurt by their efforts to found a lasting relationship on a basis of casual sex. She wanted more commitment before she risked her heart; she had always wanted and demanded more. That was the main reason why she had avoided the advances of the wealthy men introduced to her by her matchmaking sisters, both of whom had married ‘well’ in her mother’s parlance. What could she possibly have in common with such men with their flash lives in which only materialistic success truly mattered? She had no wish to end up with a vain, shallow and selfish man like her father, who was solely interested in her for her looks.
‘Are you going to tell me what this proposition entails?’ Tawny prompted in the simmering silence.
‘I want you to pretend to be my fiancée,’ Navarre spelt out grimly.
Her eyes widened to their fullest, for that had to be almost the very last thing she might have expected. ‘But why?’ she exclaimed.
‘You have no need of that information,’ Navarre fielded drily.
‘But you must know loads of women who would—’
‘Perhaps I prefer to pay. Think of yourself as a professional escort. I’ll be buying you a new wardrobe to wear while you’re with me. When this is over you get to keep the clothes, but not the jewellery,’ he specified.
No expense spared, she thought in growing bewilderment. She had read about him in the newspapers, for he made regular appearances in the gossip columns. He had a penchant for incredibly beautiful supermodels and the reputation of being a legendary lover, but none of the ladies in his life seemed to last very long. ‘Nobody’s going to believe you’re engaged to someone as ordinary as me,’ she told him baldly.
‘Ce fut le coup de foudre …’ It was love at first sight French-style, he was telling her with sardonic cool. ‘And nobody will be surprised when the relationship quickly bites the dust again.’
Well, she could certainly agree with that final forecast, but she reckoned that he had to be desperate to be considering her for such a role. How on earth would she ever be able to compare to the glamorous model types he usually had on his arm? Jacques ushered a statuesque blonde in a dark trouser suit into the room. ‘Elise will escort you down to the locker room,’ he explained.
‘So you’re a bodyguard,’ Tawny remarked in French as the two women waited in the lift.
‘I’m usually the driver,’ Elise admitted.
‘What’s Mr Cazier like to work for?’
‘Tough but fair and I get to travel,’ Elise told her with satisfaction.
Elise hovered nearby while Tawny changed out of her uniform into her own clothes and cleared her locker. The Frenchwoman’s mobile phone rang and she dug it out, glancing awkwardly at Tawny, who was busily packing a carrier bag full of belongings before moving to the other side of the room to talk in a low-pitched voice. That it was a man Elise cared about at the other end of the line was obvious, and Tawny reckoned that at that instant she could have smuggled an elephant past the Frenchwoman without attracting her attention.
‘What’s going on?’ another voice enquired tautly of Tawny.
Tawny glanced up and focused on Julie, who stood only a couple of feet away from her. ‘I’m quitting my job.’
‘I heard that but why didn’t he report you?’
Tawny shrugged non-committally. ‘You didn’t spent the night with him, did you? What’s the real story?’
‘A journalist offered me a lot of money to dig out some personal information for him. Accessing Cazier’s laptop was worth a try. I’ve got credit cards to clear,’ Julie admitted calmly, shockingly unembarrassed at having her lies exposed.
‘Mademoiselle Baxter?’ Elise queried anxiously, her attention suddenly closely trained on the two women.
Tawny lifted her laden bags and walked away without another word or look. So much for friendship! She was furious but also very hurt by her former friend’s treachery. She had liked Julie, she had automatically trusted her, but she could now see her whole relationship with the other woman in quite a different light. It was likely that Julie had deliberately targeted her once she realised that Tawny would be the new maid in charge of Navarre Cazier’s usual suite. Having befriended Tawny and put her under obligation by helping her to move into her bedsit, Julie had then conned the younger woman into trying to take Navarre’s laptop. What a stupid, trusting fool Tawny now felt like! How could she have been dumb enough to swallow that improbable tale of sex and compromising photos? Julie had known exactly which buttons to press to engage Tawny’s sympathies and it would have worked a treat had Navarre Cazier not returned unexpectedly to catch her in the act.
‘You have an appointment with a stylist,’ Navarre informed Tawny when she reappeared in his suite and set down her bags.
‘Where?’
He named a famous department store. He scanned the jeans and checked shirt she wore with faded blue plimsolls and his wide sensual mouth twisted, for in such casual clothing she looked little older than a teenager. ‘What age are you?’
‘Twenty-three … you?’
‘Thirty.’
‘Speak French,’ he urged.
‘I’m a little rusty. I only get to see my grandmother about once a month now,’ Tawny told him.
‘Give me your mobile phone,’ he instructed.
‘My phone?’ Tawny exclaimed in dismay.
‘I can’t trust you with access to a phone when I need to ensure that you don’t pass information to anyone,’ he retorted levelly and extended a slim brown hand. ‘Your phone, please …’
The silence simmered. Tawny worried at her lower lip, reckoned that she could not fault his reasoning and reluctantly dug her phone out of her pocket. ‘You’re not allowed to go through it. There’s private stuff on there.’
‘Just like my laptop,’ Navarre quipped with a hard look, watching her redden and marvelling that she could still blush so easily.
He ushered her out of the suite and into the lift. She leant back against the wall.
‘Don’t slouch,’ he told her immediately.
With an exaggerated sigh, Tawny straightened. ‘We mix like oil and water.’
‘We only have to impress as a couple in company. Practise looking adoring,’ Navarre advised witheringly.
Tawny wrinkled her nose. ‘That’s not really my style—’
‘Try,’ he told her.
She preceded him out into the foyer, striving not to notice the heads craning at the reception desk to follow their progress out of the hotel. A limousine was waiting by the kerb and she climbed in, noting Elise’s neat blonde head behind the steering wheel.
‘Tell me about yourself … a potted history,’ Navarre instructed.
‘I’m an only child although I have two half-sisters through my father’s two marriages. He didn’t marry my mother, though, and he has never been involved in my life. I got my degree at art college and for a couple of years managed to make a living designing greeting cards. Unfortunately that wasn’t lucrative enough to pay the bills and I signed up as a maid so that I would have a regular wage coming in,’ she told him grudgingly. ‘I want to be a cartoonist but so far I haven’t managed to sell a single cartoon.’
‘A cartoonist,’ Navarre repeated, his interest caught by that unexpected ambition.
‘What about you? Were you born rich?’
‘No. I grew up in the back streets of Paris but I acquired a first-class degree at the Sorbonne. I was an investment banker until I became interested in telecommunications and set up my first business.’
‘Parents?’ she pressed.
His face tensed. ‘I was a foster child and lived in many homes. I have no relatives that I acknowledge.’
‘I know how we can tell people we met,’ Tawny said with a playful light in her eyes. ‘I was changing your bed when—’
Navarre was not amused by the suggestion but his attention lingered on her astonishingly vivid little face in which every expression was easily read. ‘I don’t think we need to admit that you were working as a hotel maid.’
‘Honesty is always the best policy.’
‘Says the woman whom I caught thieving.’
Her face froze as though he had slapped her, reality biting again. ‘I wasn’t thieving,’ she muttered tightly.
‘It really doesn’t matter as long as you keep your light fingers strictly to your own belongings while you’re with me,’ Navarre responded drily. ‘I hope the desire to steal is an impulse that you can resist as we will be mingling with some very wealthy people.’
Mortified by the comment, Tawny bent her bright head. ‘Yes, you don’t have to worry on that score.’
While Navarre took a comfortable seat in a private room in the store, Tawny was ushered off to try on evening gowns, and each one seemed more elaborate than the last. When the selection had been reduced to two she was propelled out to the waiting area, where Navarre was perusing the financial papers, for a second opinion.
‘That’s too old for her,’ he commented of the purple ball gown that she felt would not have looked out of place on Marie Antoinette.
When she walked out in the grey lace that fitted like a glove to below hip line before flaring out in a romantic arc of fullness round her knees, he actually set his newspaper down, the better to view her slender, shapely figure. ‘Sensationnel,’ he declared with crowd-pleasing enthusiasm while his shrewd green eyes scanned her with as much emotion as a wooden clothes horse might have inspired.
Yet for all that lack of feeling they were such unexpectedly beautiful eyes, she reflected helplessly, as cool and mysterious as the depths of the sea, set in that strong handsome face. Bemused by the unusually fanciful thought, Tawny was whisked back into the spacious changing room where two assistants were hanging up outfits for the stylist to choose from. There were trousers, skirts, dresses, tops and jackets as well as lingerie and a large selection of shoes and accessories. Every item was designer and classic and nothing was colourful enough or edgy enough to appeal to her personal taste. She would only be in the role of fake fiancée for a maximum of two weeks, she reminded herself with relief. Could such a vast number of garments really be necessary or was the stylist taking advantage of a buyer with famously deep pockets? She wondered what event the French industrialist was taking her to that required the over-the-top evening gown. She was not required to model any other clothing for his inspection. That was a relief for, stripped of her usual image and denied her streetwise fashion, she felt strangely naked and vulnerable clad in items that did not belong to her.
Navarre was on the phone talking in English when she returned to his side. As they walked back through the store he continued the conversation, his deep drawl a low-pitched sexy purr, and she guessed that he was chatting to a woman. They returned to the hotel in silence. She wanted to go home and collect some of her own things but was trying to pick the right moment in which to make that request. Navarre vanished into the bedroom, reappearing in a light grey suit ten minutes later and walking past her.
‘I’m going out. I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he told her silkily.
Her smooth brow furrowed. ‘Do I have to stay here?’
‘That’s the deal,’ he confirmed with a dismissive lack of interest that set her teeth on edge.
It was after midnight when Navarre came back to his suite with Jacques still at his heels. He had forgotten about Tawny so it was a surprise to walk in and see the lounge softly lit. Three heads turned from the table between them to glance at him, three of the individuals, members of his security team, instantly rising upright to greet him with an air of discomfiture beneath Jacques’s censorious appraisal. From the debris it was clear there had been takeout food eaten, and from the cards and small heaps of coins visible several games of poker. Tawny didn’t stand up. She stayed where she was curled up barefoot on the sofa.
Navarre shifted a hand in dismissal of his guards. Tawny had yet to break into her new wardrobe, for she wore faded skinny jeans with slits over the knee and a tee with a skeleton motif. Her hair fell in a torrent of spiralling curls halfway down her back, much longer than he had appreciated and providing a frame for her youthful piquant face that gave her an almost fey quality.
‘Where did you get those clothes from?’ he asked bluntly.
‘I gave Elise a list of things that I needed along with my keys and she was kind enough to go and pack a bag for me. I didn’t think that what I wore behind closed doors would matter.’ Tawny gazed back at him in silent challenge, striving not to react in any way to the fact that he was drop-dead gorgeous, particularly with that dark shadow of stubble roughening his masculine jawline and accentuating the sensual curve of his beautifully shaped mouth.
Navarre bent to lift the open sketch pad resting on the arm of the sofa. It was an amusing caricature of Elise and instantly recognisable as such. He flicked it back and found another, registering that she had drawn each of her companions. ‘You did these? They’re good.’
Tawny shifted a narrow shoulder in dismissal. ‘Not good enough to pay the bills,’ she said wryly, thinking of how often her mother had criticised her for choosing to study art rather than a subject that the older woman had deemed to be of more practical use.
‘A talent nonetheless.’
‘Where am I supposed to sleep tonight?’ Tawny asked flatly, in no mood to debate the topic.
‘You can sleep on the sofa,’ Navarre told her without hesitation, irritated that he had not thought of her requirements soon enough to ask for a suite with an extra bedroom. ‘It will only be for two nights and then we’ll be leaving London.’
‘To go where?’
