Page 56 of Ravishing Camille
He could have shouted in success. “Five.”
“Where?”
“I haven’t a clue. Yet.”
The smile that graced her lips set her whole lovely face aglow with delight. Alarm replaced it. “You won’t change your mind?”
“Never.”
“And at the end, if you decide you don’t…love me, I promise never to reveal it. Not to anyone.”
“Nor will I.”
“My mother and your father will never know.”
He nodded. “Never.”
She regarded him with a winsome glint in her dark eyes. “How good an actor are you?”
“For you? For this? For our family?” He would promise this so easily. “Very good.”
“We begin that now, don’t we?” Sorrow swamped her features.
“It’s wise.” He squeezed her hand. “Though I’d much rather kiss you until you cannot breathe.”
She swayed against him for one blithe moment. “And go home to retire to your bedroom.”
He clamped shut his eyes. “Camille. Don’t.”
She gulped. “No. I’ll be good. I promise. I—I must go to see Mama’s manager once more and later to my publisher. He has a new idea for me and I must think of that. And send a telegram to Paris to make an appointment at Worth’s and Madame Villette’s.”
“Ah, a fine idea.” He turned to retrieve his bicycle and walk away from the temptation to pull her down into the lush green grass. “A new gown.”
“And new lingerie.” Her large dark eyes danced in utter devilry.
He set his teeth. “You try me, Miss Bereston.”
“Oh, Mister Hanniford, you cannot imagine how I want to.”
“Home!” he cried. “Now!”
And off she pedaled, laughing.
* * *
At peace, he worked the rest of the day on finishing the proposal for the Chinese railroad. He had to calculate the tons needed because something about his first estimate was wrong. He had promised to send the costs via cable to the Shanghai office and his preoccupation with Camille had him day-dreaming.
But he also outlined another project that he wanted to present to a group of French steel manufacturers. He’d invested in the French syndicate years ago and with their contract to supply the French navy, the company’s repute was now worldwide. But he abhorred using his product for an item of war. He wished to sell his shares in this company and had to find a way to break the news to many who relied on his strong American dollars.
But his outline for the syndicate and his calculations for the railroad suffered from a more compelling distraction. Camille’s smiling face appeared in his mind’s eye, and his proposals remained half formed. Luckily when Lee Macfarlane arrived to discuss their project, Lee was preoccupied with his own problems and did not press him on the finances of the railroad.
As she had pedaled off from Hyde Park, Camille had stepped into her role as his friend. An hour later, she’d gone off to dress for her appointments for her mother and at her publishers. She’d returned only at four. At seven, she joined him in the drawing room for sherry. Attired in a low cut dinner dress of pink organza, she was a delicious treat for his covetous eyes. But he was acting friendly. Wasn’t he?
Dinner was full of the news of the day.
“My publisher,” she said over the fish, “told me today that I have an offer of French editions of my older novels. I’m to call on him in Paris.” Camille sat at the other end of the long mahogany table in the formal dining room. Far away from any temptation to brush his fingers over her arms or her throat or…
He raised his glass in a toast. “Always a good idea to operate in more than one country. Congratulations.” He’d almost called her ‘my darling’, but that would wait a week. Then he could call her that and more.
