Free Dawn Song by Sara Craven Page B

Because now we both know better.' He paused, his eyes raking
    her flushed, aroused face. 'Don't we, ma poule?'
    He turned, and strode to the door. Meg watched dazedly as he took the key
    from the lock, tossing it almost reflectively in his hand, as he glanced back at
    her. He said, half to himself, 'I think this will be safer with me,' and walked
    out of the room, leaving-her there, bereft, one hand pressed to her bruised
    and quivering mouth.
    It took all Meg's courage to go downstairs again. She was desperately
    tempted to cry off from lunch— to plead a headache, or some other excuse.
    But to do that would be tantamount to admitting he'd achieved some kind of
    victory, and that would be fatal.
    She went into the bathroom, splashing cool water on her flushed face, then
    got to work with the modest supply of cosmetics she'd brought with her,
    trying to disguise with colour the swollen contours of her mouth, and
    shadow the almost drugged intensity of her eyes. But there was little she
    could do to control the unruly throb of her pulses, or the aching torment of
    need he'd awoken in her yet again.
    In fact, he'd hardly had to try, she thought with a kind of icy despair
    commingled with shame. Now she had to face him—to pretend that nothing
    had happened. But then, on the face of it, very little had. He'd kissed her, that
    was all. A justification of his male ego, which she'd wounded. A mistake she

    would not make again, she thought flatly. She'd come here to be Madame de
    Brissot's companion, and only that. From now on she'd become her devoted
    shadow, never willingly prised from her side, she thought grimly.
    And, in spite of his lethal attraction, there'd be little Jerome Moncourt could
    do about that. And, sooner or later, he'd get tired of his sterile pursuit of her,
    and devote himself to the lady on the telephone—or someone else on his list,
    leaving her free to go home at the end of the month, and forget him.If she
    could.
    Meg stared at her reflection, observing almost clinically the wide, troubled
    eyes, the tautness along her cheekbones, and the quiver of her bruised lips,
    felt the desolate pang of yearning vibrate deep within her, turning her whole
    body into a silent sigh of longing.
    She thought with a kind of anguish, Oh, please God, don't let it be too late.
    Don't—don't let me be in love with him.

    Head held high, she eventually descended the stairs, pausing at their foot to
    brace herself as she heard voices from the salon. Then quietly, she pushed
    open the door and walked into the room. Madame was occupying her former
    seat, a hand pressed rather wearily to her forehead, while Jerome was
    standing at the window, holding a sheaf of papers.
    'If you think the work is necessary, then, of course, it must be done,' madame
    was saying as Meg entered.
    He nodded, putting the papers into his briefcase. 'I will work out some
    figures and include them in my report,' he said. He frowned slightly. 'But I
    shan't be able to get it typed until Marie-Claude returns from her own leave,
    and the delay is a nuisance.'
    'In that case, perhaps Margot could help you,' madame suggested suddenly.
    'She works as a secretary to an English politician, I understand. She turned
    towards Meg. 'You would be happy to deputise for Marie-Claude, I'm sure,
    ma chere?'

    Meg felt as if she'd been turned to stone. This was a snag neither she nor
    Margot had foreseen, she thought, a bubble of hysteria welling up inside her.
    'Margot. You don't answer.' Madame' s tone held a hint of reproof, and Meg
    recovered herself.
    She said coolly, 'I doubt if I can help. You see, I'm not really a typist—more
    of a personal assistant. Maybe my practical skills won't be up to Monsieur
    Moncourt's standard.'
    For a moment, she seemed to encounter that strange, frozen anger again,
    then his smile slanted, and he shrugged. 'I will be happy to make use of
    whatever skills you have,' he said softly.
    'Then that is settled,' Madame de Brissot approved.