French Resolution (Dances With Gazillionaires Book 2) Page 7

  No, it was the memory of Antoine that haunted her. She felt weak and stupid. Why couldn’t she get him out of her system? She kept having flashbacks to funny conversations they’d had and his cute look of confusion just before he’d get whatever joke she’d made. The glint in his eye when he’d teased her. And worse, every night her body remembered how his hands had caressed and ignited her skin and the way his enigmatic, passionate eyes had devoured her.

  She’d known she was falling for him, but how had he become so entrenched in her psyche? At the restaurant with the late lunch crowd, Helen dropped a tray of margaritas when she thought she spotted Antoine in one of the booths. When she saw the man up close, he looked nothing like Antoine. Her sense of relief was swiftly followed by overwhelming despair. Miguel had helped her clean the mess and sent her home early saying he’d get his wife, Maria to cover for her shift.

  She trudged up the Montrose Ave subway steps. The fetid odors of the dank stairwell barely registered on her senses. Should she buy a bottle of wine on the way home? No. Even the minimal human contact at the liquor store seemed unbearable. Instead she plodded the two blocks to her apartment and let herself in. The door buzzer squawked soon after she’d flopped onto the couch. Probably Sarjeet from across the street. Groan. Could she pretend she wasn’t home? No. Sarjeet would’ve seen her from the window. Helen buzzed her in and went to the door, opening it without thinking.

  She blinked in disbelief.

  “Antoine?”

  He enveloped her in a crushing embrace. She vaguely registered the door clicking shut behind Antoine then his lips met hers in a demanding kiss. His hands seemed to be everywhere, burrowing into her hair, caressing her back and pulling her hard against his body.

  For a moment she stood, frozen.

  This is wrong. He’s an uncaring, greedy, unethical jerk. Swear at him. Throw him out. Do something!

  His lips continued their sweet assault on her senses. She stared at his face, searching for the man who’d seduced her for money and mocked her. His expression was that of a man captivated by desire. How could he fake that?

  She closed her eyes and listened to his murmured endearments. His heated breath in her ear sent tremors of lust down her spine. She pressed against his hard erection, rubbing against him like a frigging cat in heat.

  No, she shouldn’t give in. And yet, it feels so right. Could she? Just one more time?

  She looped her arms around his neck. His hair still had that wonderful, silky texture. And he smelled so good, that warm hint of vanilla that made her bury her face into the crook of his neck and inhale deeply. With a sigh, she kissed his collarbone, remembering the salty, clean taste of his skin.

  What the hell. Now that I know what he is, he can’t hurt me anymore.

  Liar.

  She squelched her conscience. She was too far under his spell to stop. Her hands ran beneath his coat, pushing it off his shoulders. There was no reasoning, no thought. She needed to touch his skin, all of it. Her hands shook, as she tried to unbutton his shirt. Once again, his lips claimed hers, searing her with his need.

  “Ma petite,” Antoine murmured against her mouth.

  His hand fumbled at the back of her dress and she reached behind to undo it. Stepping out of the pool of fabric now at her feet, she led him to her couch. This was wrong, but oh God, it felt so right. She removed his shirt and swept her fingers across his familiar chest. Maybe this was another one of her fevered dreams about him—there was nothing bad about fantasizing.

  He molded her to him, his erection rock hard, promising, then lowered her onto the couch. She caressed down his stomach and started to undo his zipper. She stopped. His fingers had slid off her panties and made their way into her moistened core and she was incapable of anything other than arching toward him and urging him on. Antoine knelt between her thighs, using his lips and tongue to build the agonizing anticipation of her body on the edge of a monumental explosion.

  Then there was nothing but the heart-stopping sensation of every nerve ending in her body screaming in ecstasy. He gathered her in his arms, soothing her until her quaking body calmed.

  His hands held her breasts, caressing her hardened nipples while his mouth recaptured hers. She should stop this lunacy. She moaned, swept along by his magnetism. She slid her hand down to cup his erection and Antoine growled instantaneously. Unzipping his pants, she edged them down his hips. With a mutter, he retrieved a condom from his pocket and dropped his pants to the floor.

  As he ripped open the condom package, the words in the e-mail flooded her brain. And don’t pick up any diseases while you’re slumming.

  A cold shudder wracked her body and her stomach twisted. “Excuse me.” She extricated herself and ran to the washroom.

  What the hell am I doing? And how could I be doing it with him? Pavlovian or masochistic?

  Helen washed her face then stared at herself in the mirror. How could you be so stupid? The blood and self-recriminations pounding in her ears muffled whatever Antoine was saying on the other side of the door. She turned on the tap to further block him out and brushed her teeth to kill time.

  Why was he here? Did she have more inheritance she was unaware of? Or did he want something else? She slipped on her bulky terrycloth kimono and perched on the toilet to think.

  *

  Antoine remained unmoving outside Helen’s bathroom door. His erection throbbed while his brain attempted to compute the situation. She still desired him, and yet she’d seemed angry as she’d fled the room. She could not blame him for her father’s suicide, could she? Robert Dunhill had been spiraling downward long before Antoine purchased his company. And if he hadn’t bought it, her father would have lost it anyway, without recompense.

  Perhaps she was angry he hadn’t flown to her sooner. Had she taken his silence as rejection? He shook his head in frustration. Never had he dealt with a woman like her before.

  “Mon amour?” he repeated and rapped lightly on the door. Incroyable. Having such a raw physical connection with someone and yet feeling this unsure. “May I come in?”

  There was a pause, the sound of running water again and eventually the door edged open. Helen came out covered in some towel monstrosity.

  “Ah, ma petite.” With a smile, he reached for the belt around her waist. “It is not good to hide your beauty in all this—” He stopped as she determinedly tightened the sash on her housecoat.

  “No.” Something in her eyes chilled him. “It was nice having sex with you but it will not happen again.” She started to walk past him.

  “Nice?” Antoine grabbed her arm and spun her around. “Non, ma petite, what we have is much more than ‘nice’ sex. We are meant for each other. You need me as much as I need you. You cannot deny that.”

  “I can.” Despite the tremor in her voice, her eyes were steady and determined. “You are very good at that, I admit. And now I’ve moved on. I would like you to get dressed and leave.”

  With that, she turned her back on him and strode into the bedroom. He started to follow until she closed the door and he heard the decisive click of a lock.

  Antoine dragged his hand through his hair and glared at the door. What the hell? He gathered his clothes and dressed. She could not walk away from him with no explanation. What did she mean she had moved on? Impossible. Not with how she’d responded to him a moment ago.

  He stomped back to the bedroom door and stood, pondering how to reason with her. He desired to break the door down even knowing that the emotional walls she had erected, would present him with even more of a problem. He took in a deep breath.

  “Helen? I will go now.” There was no response. His anger skyrocketing, he stormed from the apartment.

  *

  As soon as the front door banged, Helen burst into tears. How could she have been such a fool? Again? She tried to rationally consider what had just happened, but came no closer to understanding. Why was he still pursuing her? Could he actually care for her? Maybe she’d misinterpre
ted that awful e-mail.

  No. Even ignoring the American dog and disease insults, the message had referred to shares she hadn’t even known she’d owned at that time. She couldn’t hope that it was all some stupid misunderstanding.

  And she had no way of guessing what he wanted from her now. He couldn’t think she had any more money. Certainly not by his standards. He’d offered to let her use his private plane, for heaven’s sake. Unless he was bluffing…

  Helen sat down at her computer and began searching the internet. She should’ve done it long ago, but she’d assumed she was rid of the man. She tried a few different ways of spelling Antoine’s name and then, Bingo. Most of the articles were in French. Several had pictures of Antoine, always with some gorgeous, leggy woman on his arm. One exceptional blonde was featured quite frequently. Eventually a caption identified her as Laurenne Gallois and Helen’s heart dropped.

  So that’s the woman the e-mail referred to. Wow, Antoine was slumming to go from a woman like that to me.

  There were links about many of the companies Antoine had turned around. When she got to a couple of articles about the takeover of Dunhill Holdings it began to make sense. That’s why he’d wanted her shares, to consolidate his control. She’d been a mere obstacle in his quest for more wealth. What a jerk!

  But why was he still pursuing her? She shook her head in frustration. All she did know, based on today’s experience, was that she couldn’t trust herself to be alone with him. What was it about that man that made her so weak? She rolled her eyes. Raw, animal magnetism. She slumped back in her chair, defeated.

  *

  Aggravated by his inability to focus, Antoine paced his office. The bright sunlight shining off the store windows on the Champs Élysées seemed incongruous with his black mood. He had work to do, and yet was unable to concentrate on any of the financial reports covering his desk. Laurenne silently brought in a legal document, deposited it on top of the clutter, and left the same way. Her anger was palpable. Antoine did not care.

  He had hoped by returning to Laurenne’s bed he would be able to banish Helen from his thoughts. Then last night, he’d been bored listening to Laurenne prattle on through dinner. Afterwards, when they retired to her place afterwards, he was equally unmoved by her sexual antics.

  She had made some crude remarks about men losing the ability as they aged, but later, the mere thought of Helen had made him stiffen painfully. It was galling to desire someone who had thrown him over. That was a first. He always severed the ties, often with jewelry, and then watched them walk away in tears, himself feeling only relief. His thoughts were interrupted by a rap on his door.

  “Oui.” Laurenne must have stepped outside, again. Yet another reason not to conduct affairs with your staff. Although they had enjoyed an open relationship, for some reason Laurenne was singularly upset about his affair with Helen.

  A small, nondescript man in a shiny brown suit poked his head around the door. “Mr. Christoff? I have your report.”

  “Ah, yes?”

  The man closed the door behind him and pulled a file out of his briefcase. He cleared his throat. “The subject doesn’t appear to be seeing anyone in particular. She had coffee with a male, Miguel Sanchez, on two occasions. No physical displays of affection. No male visitors to her apartment. She works at the Feed the Children Charity office in Manhattan most mornings, answering phones and typing on a computer. Afternoons, she either serves at Mariachis, a Mexican restaurant owned by Mr. Sanchez, or goes home. Twice she dropped off groceries for an elderly Asian lady, Sarjeet Aslan, across the street from her apartment.” He closed his file, and handed it to Antoine. “Here is a complete listing of her movements with times and photos. Do you want me to continue?”

  “Thank you. No. That will be all.” Antoine watched the man slink out of his office. Hmm, Helen was not seeing anyone else.

  His relief was soon replaced by anger. Why had she pushed him away? Was it a game? She hadn’t seemed that calculating. She had still wanted him. That had been obvious enough. He needed to get her somewhere that she couldn’t run away from him, where she would have to talk to him. With a slow-building smile, he picked up the charity proposal Helen had sent to her father’s company.

  CHAPTER 9

  That’s not Antoine, Helen reassured herself for what must’ve been the seventh time that week. Most likely he was back in Paris or gallivanting about the world screwing other naïve heiresses for business reasons.

  Still, every time she saw a man of about the same height with wavy brown hair, her stomach would knot and her mouth would go dry. At night, she dreamt of him and in the morning, she’d hate herself. She threw herself into her charity work; she might be heartbroken, but at least she wasn’t going hungry.

  The fundraising efforts escalated the last week before Christmas. After the holidays, donations always plummeted so they needed to tap donors’ resources before they saw their January credit bills. She’d just returned from visiting a local children’s project to help out on site when she was summoned by the events coordinator. Straightening her dress, she walked into the older woman’s office.

  “Hi Jan. What’s up?”

  “Oh good, Helen. You’re here.” Jan frowned at a couple of papers she retrieved from the middle of a leaning pile on her desk. “Just a sec. Ah. Here it is.” She absentmindedly clipped a paperclip to the sleeve of her voluminous fuzzy sweater. “That Bahamas fundraiser you proposed back in October, I think it was. It seems to be going through. Are you available in two weeks to fly to Nassau to give a speech and pick up the check?”

  “What? No!” Helen’s eyes widened in alarm. “My gala idea never got off the ground.” She desperately hoped the charity hadn’t already counted on the money. “All I did was send the proposal to my dad’s company. I never got to talk to him. He, um, died, before we made any sort of arrangements for the gala. I’m sorry. I assumed you knew.”

  “That’s odd.” Jan frowned again as she rifled through a few more papers. “I received a letter from Dunhill Holdings today, saying that the Robert Dunhill Memorial Ball would be held January 14th with all proceeds to us. I’m sorry I hadn’t realized it was your father who passed.” She pushed her pink floral reading glasses up on her nose and reread the letter. “It seems to be the same idea we’d discussed. His widow—I take it that’s not your mother—will be hosting the event on your father’s estate.”

  “My dad wasn’t married when he died.” Helen took the letter and scanned it. “It’s his girlfriend, Camille. I guess she promoted herself to his widow. Weird. I’m pretty sure someone else owns Dad’s assets now.”

  Could Antoine have gotten the assets along with the company? No. And even if he had, as a corporate raider he would’ve broken up and sold everything. And you don’t hold a memorial for someone you destroyed. So how could Camille have pulled this off, and why? It was hard to imagine her caring about a charity other than herself. “This might be a scam. I don’t trust Camille.”

  “It seems legit. Don’t worry. I’ll have legal look into it. In the meantime, if it does go through, can you fly down to Nassau for us? The company will provide accommodations and airfare, but because it is a memorial affair, it would look better if you personally attended.”

  “Yeah, sure. I guess. Will I need to organize anything?” God, that sure sounds professional. But even just the fleeting thought of Antoine had muddled her brain. Jan didn’t seem to notice her distraction.

  “No. They just want you as a representative. Dunhill Holdings has its own charity department.” She tapped the second page of the letter. “They’re planning a silent auction plus some fairly steep ticket prices to raise money. Your job will be to dress nicely and give a speech about Feed the Child. I’ll get Rita to e-mail you some child poverty stats. Just add some of your own experiences and that should suffice.”

  “Okay. Great.” Helen forced a smile and tried to look confident. Facing the Nassau elite without her father would be hell. And she’d be up ag
ainst the ever-present memories of her humiliating affair with Antoine. Still it might not happen. “Be sure to check with Legal, though. Camille is a little strange. If they clear it, then let me know dates and times.”

  “Wonderful. I’m sure it’s fine. And I’m really proud of you for getting the ball rolling on this one. I’m sure your father would’ve been too.”

  “Thanks.” A tear dampened the corner of her eye and she hurried out of the office. It was hard to know how her father would’ve felt, but it was a nice sentiment.

  *

  The final week of planning before her flight to the Bahamas had been crazy. Helen was certain there’d been a mistake and it’d be called off. But she’d even received a terse note from Camille stating the memorial gala on January 14th would serve as her father’s funeral. And she would like a chance to say goodbye to her father and his adopted home. When she’d left she’d been so consumed with anger and her feeling of abandonment, she’d never properly grieved.

  Now here she was again, listening to the flight attendants doing the obligatory announcements before they landed. A small muscle below her eye twitched as she anticipated returning to her father’s house. She dreaded being there knowing she’d never see him again.

  Dunhill Holdings was putting her up at the Wyndham Resort Hotel for five days. Helen had asked Jan if that seemed a little extravagant, given that she was just required for the day of the event. Jan had shrugged and said every company was different. Maybe the executives of this one wanted to stay longer and had included her bookings in the same time frame. Or they might be planning several photo ops. God, she hoped not.

  Jan offered to loan Helen a few dresses in case. Due to Jan being significantly larger, Helen had assured her it wouldn’t be necessary. With a strange sense of déja vu, she’d packed many of the same clothes she had unpacked and cleaned five weeks ago. She added a long, shiny, silver shawl to go with the black dress hoping it made it fancier. If the affair was ultra-formal, maybe she could borrow something from Jordana’s little sister. With any luck at all, Taylor might still be short. Or, in a pinch, she could buy a gown in Nassau.