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His Perfect Partner
Laura Martin
Six years ago, Lean-Luc Manoire had walked out on Rachel Shaw without so much as a backward glance. She had never forgiven him. But now he was back and offering to help her out.She'd inherited a large, run-down house, and the only thing that could save it from ruin was a lot of money–and Jean-Luc certainly had that! With his financial aid and her business expertise they'd make the perfect team–just as long as the millionaire understood that being a sleeping partner did not give him access to her bed!
“Hello, Rachel.”
His voice was deep, smooth—not so heavily accented now, but still with the same mesmerizing quality. “How are you?”
He hadn’t expected this—that she should look virtually the same. Here she was, six years older, and she was still as fresh and young and beautiful as ever…
Rachel forced her gaze away from Jean-Luc’s face, stared at his strong, tanned fingers for a moment in a daze. “I’m…fine,” she murmured automatically. “Just fine….”
He wondered if he would be able to keep this up—to act as if the sight of her had little or no effect on him. He was a man who supposedly thrived on challenge, but this was a bigger challenge than any he had ever attempted—except maybe the one of trying to forget her…
Laura Martin lives in a small Gloucestershire village in England with her husband, two children and a lively sheepdog. Laura has a great love of interior design and, together with her husband, has recently completed the renovation of their Victorian cottage. Her hobbies include gardening, the theater, music and reading, and she finds great pleasure and inspiration from walking daily in the beautiful countryside around her home.
His Perfect Partner
Laura Martin
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE (#ud741cd48-4d2b-5f83-a335-71073a901c54)
CHAPTER TWO (#u475cd3d6-20a7-5a20-9f99-e1915a9379a6)
CHAPTER THREE (#u175d7571-913c-5470-a9ff-6ab0afa1f335)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
JEAN-LUC MANOIRE frowned. He wasn’t entirely sure that he was doing the right thing. Indecision and compulsion were unhappy bedfellows, and neither was a state of mind that he was at all comfortable with.
Too late now. They were here. He leant forward and touched his chauffeur on the shoulder, indicating that he wanted the car to slow.
Jean-Luc stared up at the tall iron gates. They told the story as well as any inanimate object ever could—rusty, they hung awkwardly from the crumbling stone wall that surrounded the estate. He inhaled a deep breath, more conscious than ever of the conflicting emotions which were churning around deep inside. ‘D’accord, Emile. Continuez!’
The car glided forward, the tyres crunching on gravel. The trees that lined the drive were just coming into bud. Lime, he remembered, looking up at the tall, statuesque framework of branches, at least one hundred years old.
The house looked empty and neglected. He hoped the enquiries he had made proved to be reliable. Time was money, and driving this far out of London on such a tightly scheduled trip, only to find her not at home, would be aggravating to say the least.
His mobile phone rang and he retrieved it from the briefcase at his side and took the call he had been expecting. He spoke into it, his comments brief and to the point as he listened to his personal assistant many miles away in Paris, confirming the fact that the final transaction on an important business deal had been completed without a hitch.
Business. That was all he had to focus on—just business. The rest…the other, more complex reasons for his involvement here had to be put to one side, or else how would he cope? He still doubted his ability to act with absolute composure. He had been dwelling on this meeting for days—ever since the situation here had first come to his attention.
A death notice in the English papers, that was all it had taken. Thoughts of her, banished for so long, had haunted him day and night. He couldn’t sleep, he could barely eat, business had lost its attraction.
Except for this deal…She would agree to it. The generosity of his offer made financial sense. Her advisers would practically force her to accept.
And if they didn’t?
She would have changed—he had prepared himself for that, counted on it. Because if she were the same how would he ever be able to get through…?
Arr?tez! How Rachel looked after all these years, her reaction on seeing him again—none of that could be dwelt on. He needed to be in control. He was over her—this was just an exercise to confirm as much. Devastation was a strong word, and it had applied to him, but that had been six years ago.
Jean-Luc cursed silently as a vision of Rachel, lying beneath him, golden hair splayed out, eyes wide with trust and love, jolted into his mind—that days later she could have disregarded what they had had together and walked away from him, from his love…
Just business. He must remember that.
‘Here you are! I wondered where you’d got to.’
Rachel turned sharply at the sound of the elderly woman’s voice. She watched as Naomi approached, forcing a smile. ‘How did you know I was here?’
‘I spotted you from one of the upstairs windows.’ Naomi folded her arms across her ample chest and sighed. ‘Your Aunt Clara was a hoarder and no mistake—there’s still a ton of junk to clear out up there.’
‘Yes, I should be doing something.’ Rachel rose to her feet. ‘Sorry, Naomi, I didn’t mean to leave you alone for so long. I just needed a breath of fresh air.’
‘Now don’t be silly, my girl, I’m not complaining. You needed the break. It’s been a week since your dear aunt’s funeral and you haven’t let up for a minute.’ The old woman placed a sympathetic arm around Rachel’s shoulders and squeezed gently. ‘I’ve come to find you because you have a visitor.’
‘Not another creditor?’ Rachel asked wearily. ‘I thought we’d had our fill of those.’
‘And so did I, but these things are best faced. He gave me this card.’ She held out a gilt-edged business card to Rachel. ‘From some corporation or some such,’ she added. ‘I’d tell you what it says, but I’m blind without my reading glasses. Important, though—if the look of him and his car are anything to go by. Wealthy,’ she added, with an approving nod.
Rachel shrugged as she read the name. ‘JSJ Corporation. Means nothing to me, but, then…’ she sighed ‘…neither did the hundred and one other names that were thrust under my nose by the accountant.’ She stood up, stretching her arms high above her head. ‘OK, let’s go back. I may as well see what this man wants and get it over with. Tomorrow is crunch day, anyway. I have to face the bank manager to discover exactly how deep the estate is in trouble, and decide—or rather be told—what has to be done.’
‘These are difficult times, my dear. If only I’d understood what was going on maybe you wouldn’t be in this mess.’
‘It’s not your fault.’ Rachel’s voice was kind. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself. Aunt Clara was…’ Rachel smiled. ‘Well, she was what she was—a strong-willed woman. She wouldn’t have been advised by anyone. When she decided on a course of action she stuck to her guns, no matter what anyone else said or did. There’s nothing any of us could have done, even if we had realised what was going on. You know that as well as I do.’
‘Yes…’ Naomi’s already creased forehead became even more lined. ‘That is so true.’ The old woman was silent for a moment, then she added in more upbeat tones, ‘Shaun phoned again—did I tell you?’
‘Yes.’ Rachel heaved a breath. ‘Yes, you did. Naomi…it is over between us. I know you’re fond of him, but—’
‘But the two of you are perfect for each other! I believe it, and I know Shaun does, too.’
‘No.’ Rachel shook her head. ‘Naomi, I don’t want to disappoint you because I know Shaun’s your nephew—’
‘Great-nephew,’ Naomi corrected. ‘His mother is my sister’s daughter.’
‘He’s a relation,’ Rachel continued. ‘I like him, I like him a lot, but…it just wasn’t working out between us.’
‘You need someone.’ Naomi’s voice was firm. ‘Like Shaun.’
Rachel didn’t bother to argue any further. In many respects Naomi was like her Aunt Clara had been—stubborn, sure of her own point of view. Indeed, the two woman had virtually grown up together, albeit one as the mistress and the other as the maid.
They walked in silence towards the back of the house, both women, so varied in age and appearance, deep in their own thoughts.
‘I’ve shown him into the drawing room,’ Naomi announced, as they reached the kitchen door. ‘Do you want to spruce yourself up a bit before you go in?’
Rachel paused, glancing at her reflection in the pantry window. Her long blonde hair was shiny and clean, if a little ruffled. She lifted her hands and resecured the ribbon , which was hanging loosely down her back. ‘I don’t look that bad, do I?’ she asked.
‘Your clothes aren’t very smart,’ Naomi informed her with her customary bluntness. ‘It’s as well to give a good impression.’
Rachel looked down at her clean, if rather tatty denims and comfortable violet jumper. ‘Oh, well, it can’t be helped,’ she replied. ‘I don’t suppose my appearance will make much of a difference to things. Besides, it’s not worth changing. I want to get back and continue going through Aunt Clara’s things afterwards.’ Rachel threw Naomi a self-deprecating smile.
‘I’m still foolishly hoping that I’ll discover some hidden treasure that will get us out of this financial nightmare—a forgotten Constable, or a rare first edition, something of that sort.’
‘From what I’ve seen you’ve got as much chance of that as of me winning the lottery!’ Naomi announced with a snort.
‘But you never buy a ticket for the lottery,’ Rachel replied, her thoughts elsewhere, most particularly with the ordeal of having to face another creditor.
Naomi’s face curved into a grim smile. ‘Exactly!’ she retorted.
Rachel paused, before entering the drawing room. She felt so tired. Nothing could have prepared her for the shock of the last few days. Her aunt’s sudden death had been bad enough, but to discover that her finances were in the mess they were had only served to drag Rachel’s emotions down further.
Still, she was determined to get through this one way or another—to see the whole sorry episode through to the end. She felt it was her keen duty to do all she could to protect the Grange as far as was humanly possible. It had been in her family for generations, and although she took it for granted, hating the miles of draughty corridors and high-ceilinged rooms, she didn’t want to see it lost to the bank.
Sonia, one of the women from the village who had been working at the Grange for as long as Rachel could remember, smiled sympathetically at her as she descended the stairway, carrying yet another sackful of rubbish from her Aunt Clara’s chambers. ‘Looking better up there,’ she commented. ‘You’ll soon have this all sorted out, don’t you worry.’
Rachel returned her smile, preparing to open the drawing-room door, and wished she shared the woman’s confidence.
‘Sorry to have kept you,’ she began briskly, as she walked into the drawing room. ‘Only, as you can imagine, it’s a bit hectic around here at the moment.’
The man, who was standing at the far end of the room before the fireplace, turned as she spoke, and the first stab of recognition felt like a knife, twisting deep in her stomach.
Rachel stared, her blue eyes wide with shocked surprise. She clutched her chest involuntarily as a kind of protection for her heart, which had jolted painfully at the first sight of him and was now pounding away like a steam engine out of control. She shook her head, a slow, disbelieving movement that felt as strange and as awkward as the situation that now presented itself.
It was…No. No! She forgot to breathe. Yes, yes! It was him. Her mind wasn’t playing tricks on her; grief and stress and a too-vivid imagination hadn’t made her lose her sense. He was here, in this bright, sunny drawing room with its faded chintz and eclectic assortment of flowers and books and china ornaments, looking even more out of place than he had done all those years ago.
Rachel stared at the dark, silky hair, tamed and cut now into a short, almost severe style, at the strong jaw and finely moulded mouth, and felt a wave of dizziness overcome her. Jean-Luc! She reached out trembling hands and gripped the back of a nearby chair for support.
‘Hello, Rachel.’ His voice was deep, smooth—not so heavily accented now, but still with the same mesmeric quality. ‘How are you?’
He hesitated for a moment, then crossed the room towards her, holding out his hand in formal greeting—as if, she thought, to greet her thus was the most natural thing in the world.
He hadn’t expected this—that she should look virtually the same. He had learned of her rise up the career ladder, and had convinced himself that she would look altogether more sophisticated, more a woman of the world, more, in fact, like many of the women he now dated. But she didn’t. Here she was, six years older, and she was still as fresh and young and as beautiful as ever…
Rachel forced her gaze away from Jean-Luc’s face, stared at his strong, tanned fingers for a moment in a daze and then found herself shaking his hand. ‘I’m…fine,’ she murmured automatically. ‘Just fine…’
‘I’ve come at a difficult time.’
‘Yes.’ She couldn’t think straight, hardly knew what to think. He looked older, more sensationally attractive, if that were possible, but different. Sharper, groomed, more…polished and refined, not like the Jean-Luc Manoire she had known and loved. Not at all.
‘I was sorry to hear about the death of your aunt.’
‘Were you?’ Now that the horrendous initial shock was over, Rachel could begin to think a little more clearly. ‘I don’t see why,’ she added stiltedly. ‘You always disliked her.’
‘And that translates to wanting to see her dead, does it?’ His voice was mild, but there was the hint of steel at the edge of each perfectly spoken syllable.
Rachel released a taut breath. It had been a foolish remark, born out of shock and sheer nervousness. He wasn’t the sort of man you could treat casually—she should have remembered that.
She glanced down at the faded carpet, desperately trying to compose herself, and said, ‘No, of course it doesn’t.’
‘You sound weary. You look—’
‘I know how I look!’ Rachel’s voice was tinged with anger. She pursed her lips, determined to save him the trouble of lying. ‘I look a mess!’ She cleared her throat, conscious of her trembling voice. She usually looked immaculate—her position as manager of a small prestigious hotel in the Cotswolds demanded it. Typical, she thought, that he should see me this way—so ragged and ill at ease.
‘Let’s forget the formalities, shall we?’ she continued. ‘I think I’d just prefer it if you told me what it is you’re doing here!’
Her words set the tone. She watched his expression. Not a flicker of expression marked Jean-Luc’s angular face—just the slightest tightening of the jaw, maybe a hardening of the ebony eyes. He knew how she felt, how she wanted things to be, how things had to be.
‘Very little has changed here,’ Jean-Luc commented, glancing around the room that looked as if it had been locked in a time warp for the past fifty years. His dark eyes came to rest on Rachel’s pale face. ‘Except maybe you.’
‘I’m older!’ she responded flatly. But not wiser, she thought despondently, aware of the agony of her thudding heart. Definitely not that.
‘And poorer, I understand.’ Jean-Luc’s glance was cool, controlled. Almost cruel in its ability to calmly survey her face.
He wondered if he would be able to keep this up—to act as if the sight of her had little or no effect on him. He was a man who supposedly thrived on challenge, but this was a bigger challenge than any he had ever attempted—except maybe the one of trying to forget her, of course.
Rachel met the uncaring gaze with a cold expression, marvelling in some far-off corner of her mind at her capacity to even begin to cope with this conversation. ‘Yes, quite poor.’ Her voice was like ice.
‘A shock, I should think,’ Jean-Luc continued. ‘Your aunt always gave such a good impression of being a wealthy woman.’
‘She was a wealthy woman,’ Rachel responded swiftly. ‘She just made some wrong choices, invested badly…’ Her voice trailed away. ‘Am I to presume, then, that you’ve come all the way here to offer your condolences?’ she asked, after a slight but telling pause. ‘You’re a little late. The funeral was early last week and, as you can undoubtedly see,’ she added, glancing at the muddled room, ‘I am still in the middle of sorting through and clearing everything out. So, if you’ll excuse me—’
‘You misunderstand, Rachel,’ Jean-Luc replied crisply, forestalling her retreat towards the door. ‘This isn’t a social call.’
‘No?’
‘Naomi gave you my card, I presume?’
