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‘I’ll never move again,’ she whispered limply in the aftermath.
‘I’ll move you,’ Bastien husked, turning her round in the circle of his arms, his breath fanning her cheek, his body hot and damp against hers.
The scent of his skin enveloped her and she smiled up at him.
‘I do hope you appreciate that you’re not getting out of this bed for the rest of the day?’ Bastien purred. ‘But I’ll make up for it tomorrow. I’m taking the rest of the week off. You will have my full attention, kardoula mou.’
Lilah rubbed her face against a broad brown shoulder, gloriously relaxed and feeling amazingly happy. She loved him, and he was with her, and his entire attention was on her. For the moment that was enough. And for the first time she didn’t feel like Bastien’s mistress—she felt like his wife, and it felt good.
* * *
A week after their wedding day Lilah woke suddenly during the night to register that Bastien had got out of bed and was pacing naked while he spoke Greek into his phone, his lean strong features stressed and taut. He waved a hand to silence her when she mouthed a query and she had to be patient, even though she didn’t feel patient, lying back against the pillows and wondering what had happened to put that look of concern on his beautiful face.
So much had changed between them in the course of a week. Bastien had let down some of his barriers and was sharing a bed with her every night. Only once had he had another bad dream, and wakening to find her leaning over him had put more exciting pursuits into his mind, she recalled, her body heating at that wickedly erotic memory.
By day they had explored the chateau grounds before ranging further afield. They had gone to a jazz concert in the vineyards near Vaison-Ventoux-en-Provence. They had strolled round vibrant markets, walked through narrow cobbled streets to enjoy coffee in shaded squares with softly flowing fountains. The hilltop villages were wonderfully picturesque, and the views spectacular.
He had bought her a gorgeous leather handbag in a workshop, and laughed heartily at the colourful pottery hen she had bought for Vickie, questioning that she could really like her stepmother and still buy her such a thing.
On several evenings they had dined out in local restaurants, although truthfully they had yet to eat anywhere that could compete with the superb food Marie served at the chateau. Some nights they made love until dawn...some afternoons they didn’t get out of bed until the need to eat drove them out. His insatiable hunger for her was mercifully matched by hers for him, and with his encouragement Lilah had become more adventurous.
The only little niggle at the back of her mind, that had prevented her from totally relaxing, was the question of how Bastien was likely to react if she didn’t prove to be pregnant. After all, was it really her he wanted, or was he merely giving way to a long-suppressed desire to become a father?
He could become a father with almost any woman, couldn’t he? Lilah didn’t like to think that her being in the right place at the right time was all that had prompted Bastien to seek a more lasting relationship with her. In any case, in another few days she would know whether or not she had conceived. And even if she had it was perfectly possible that she would still never tell Bastien that she loved him for fear of making him feel trapped, she thought ruefully.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked as Bastien cast aside his phone and paced restively back across the room.
‘That was my brother, Leo,’ he explained grimly. ‘My father’s in hospital in Athens with a suspected heart attack. Leo says there’s no need for me to go, because he’ll keep me posted, but...’
‘Naturally you want to be there,’ Lilah slotted in.
‘But equally naturally Leo and his mother don’t want me there.’
‘How is that natural?’ Lilah pressed, immediately defensive on Bastien’s behalf. ‘Anatole is as much your father as your brother’s.’
‘I may have lived with my father’s family for years, but I was never part of that family,’ Bastien pointed out drily. ‘I’m never a welcome visitor. Leo’s mother Cleta—my father’s wife—hates me.’
