probably been just a passing fancy—an impulse of the moment. Why should she have been anything else?
She told herself that in all probability Xavier Lauran, after accepting she would not spend the night with him, had simply returned to Paris and never given her another thought. For a man like him, with looks like his, there would be a queue around the block of women—all those beautiful, elegant, chic Parisiennes he was surrounded by—lining up to try and tempt him.
Yet a temptation of her own circled endlessly in her mind. What if he did still want her? And if he did, then now—now she had a golden opportunity. So, did she dare—did she really dare—get in touch with him?
Her stomach churned. It was not just a question of whether Xavier Lauran wanted her still. It was also a question of whether she really should go ahead and do this. Have an affair—a fling— call it what she would—with Xavier Lauran. But even as the doubt voiced itself, a protesting cry seemed to come from deep within her. There would never, she knew, be another man like Xavier Lauran in her life! A man who could stop the breath in her body. Who turned her knees to jelly and set the blood racing in her veins. No, there would never be another man like him. Nor would an opportunity like this ever come again. This chance to have, even for a brief time, something she would remember all her life would never come twice. It was now or never.
She couldn’t bear it to be never. She could tell herself all she liked that all she could have was a brief affair—a passing fling. Maybe only a single night. If that. But to let it go just for want of being brave enough to dare—she could not do that. Would not.
For another sleepless night she tossed and turned on it, wanting it so much, yet not daring to dare. All morning, as she did her work at the insurance company, she brooded on the number for the London branch of XeL she’d looked up. But did she dare, did she really dare, to phone him?
By the time she took her lunchbreak she was a bag of nerves. She took her mobile phone and went to the Ladies, forcing herself to key in the number.
How can I do this—phone him up and tell him … Tell him I’m available …?
She almost cut the call—and then it was answered.
‘XeL International, may I help you?’
For a moment Lissa’s voice froze, then she made herself speak.
‘Er—I’m trying to get in touch with Xavier Lauran.’ Her heart was thumping like a hammer.
‘Putting you through.’ There was a pause, then another ring tone, sounding foreign. A woman answered, speaking French. Lissa completely failed to catch what she said. So she simply repeated what she’d said to the UK switchboard, sticking to English. There was a pause. An audible one. Then the woman spoke again, in English.
‘What name, please?’
‘Er—Lissa Stephens.’ Lissa’s voice was breathless with nerves.
There was another pause. Then the woman spoke again. Smoothly and fluently.
‘Monsieur Lauran is in conference. I’m so sorry.’
Lissa swallowed. ‘Um—can I leave a message for him?’
‘Of course.’ The French-accented voice was as smooth as cream, but Lissa suddenly realised that she was simply being treated as someone to get off the line as soon as possible. Was Xavier really ‘in conference’ or just not available to women who phoned him out of the blue? But she wasn’t going to hang up without at least doing what she’d been nerving herself to do all night and all morning.
‘Thank you.’ Her voice sounded strangulated, but she made herself go on. Because it was, after all, now or never, and she would never be able to summon the nerve to do this again. ‘Could you just tell him, please, that Lissa says …’ she took another breath ‘… things have changed … completely … at my end. Something very unexpected…. my former commitments are, um, finished … I’m no longer. So, if he wanted….’ Her voice trailed off into nervestruck incoherence.
She rang off, unable to complete the call in any rational manner. She screwed her eyes shut in mortification. Oh, God, she’d sounded like a demented halfwit. She’d wanted to come across as cool—sophisticated, even—the kind of woman who could phone up a man like Xavier Lauran and suggest an affair.
Her cheeks burned. There was no one to witness her embarrassment, but that didn’t make it any easier.
Perhaps the secretary in Paris won’t pass the message on—perhaps she’ll just think it so stupid she’ll bin it, or not even have written it down.
She hoped it were so—the very thought of Xavier being solemnly handed her incoherent stutterings was too humiliating to contemplate.
Her expression tightened. Well, it was probably for the best. It had been self-indulgence, stupid and fantastical self-indulgence, to think that she could turn the clock back. She’d had her chance with Xavier Lauran, that solitary, magical evening, and she’d had to turn it down—turn him down. Men like him didn’t give second chances—and now that she’d gone and displayed herself as some kind of gibbering moron with that demented message, if he was given it by his secretary, the only thing he’d feel would be relief that he hadn’t taken her to bed that night after all.
Forcibly, she made herself turn away and walk back to her desk. As she sat down at her PC again, a wave of flattening despair crushed down on her. Xavier Lauran would not be walking back into her life again. He had gone, and he would stay gone.
Once more the world seemed drained of colour.
After Armand’s whirlwind descent, the flat seemed even more dreary than usual. And so very quiet. Even though Lissa could only rejoice at the reason, her spirits that evening were made even lower by the quiet. At least, blessedly, the evenings were her own now. That nightmare job at the casino had been the first to go after Armand’s miraculous reappearance.
That was what she should focus on. Everything was wonderful now—thanks to Armand. And she had no business wanting even more.
She should never have tried to get in touch with Xavier Lauran. It had been greed, nothing more—and self-indulgence, wanting yet more good fortune on top of all that had been showered down on her.
It was not to be. She must accept that and let it go. She’d forget him soon—he was just a fantasy. A daydream. Nothing more than that.
It was easy to say, however—far less easy to heed her own advice.
She must think of Armand instead—of the miracle he had wrought, and all that was happening now in America. She longed to phone him—but she had promised to wait for news.
Please let it be good news.
He would phone her, he had promised, when there was something to tell—but until then she must be patient. He would take care of everything and take care especially of—
The piercing shrill of the doorbell shattered her thoughts in that direction.
Who on earth?
Anxiety bit at her suddenly. Surely it was not Armand? It couldn’t be—it mustn’t be.
The doorbell rang again. Urgent and imperative. On suddenly trembling legs she hurried to the door and unhooked the entryphone. There was no way she was opening the front door to the street without checking first to find out who was there.
‘Hello?’ She made her voice sound brisk and businesslike. Not like a home alone female.
The voice at the other end was distorted, but as it penetrated her ear, faintness drummed through her.
It was Xavier Lauran.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THERE WAS SILENCE, complete silence, through the rusting grille of the entryphone system. Xavier stood, every muscle tensed.
Emotion