LITMIR.BIZ

      Margot Grant stared at herself in the Venetian mirror, viewing her image appraisingly. Satisfied that she was looking her very best tonight she walked away, went and sat down on the big, plump sofa in front of the fire. Leaning back against the many soft cushions, she willed herself to relax at last.

      After a moment or two her eyes roamed around her small and intimate private sitting room in the grand house on Upper Grosvenor Street where she lived with Henry Grant—when he was not away on retreat.

      The room this evening was just as perfect as she herself was. She had set out to create an enticing roseate glow in this most intimate place in the house, and she realized how well she had succeeded.

      The walls were covered in a pale-pink watered silk, while a deeper rose-coloured ribbed silk upholstered this big sofa, several chairs, and a small loveseat set against the back wall. The tied-back draperies at two tall windows were the same rose colour as the sofa and chairs but were made of light, floating taffeta. Beautiful landscapes by French masters hung on the walls, and a number of priceless French objets d’art were scattered around.

      The lighting was soft. The pink silk shades on the pink alabaster lamps added to the rosy feeling, as did the blazing fire. Margot sighed. It was a room designed by her for seduction and she hoped it would work wonders tonight.

      She smiled inwardly. Jack Beaufield, her latest flirtation, had called it the honey trap, and what a fitting name that was. He had added that it was feminine, sexual and with her at the centre even more exciting. But she had made it clear to him that she was unavailable.

      There was a faint smell of roses in the air, and she wore the same Attar of Roses perfume. John Summers’ favourite. He was her favourite. She must win him back, she needed him by her side. How foolish she had been to antagonize him. He had always been her champion; she thought of him as her knight in shining armour, and of herself as his queen.

      Despite his genuine adoration of her she had never claimed him in her bed, made him hers as she had his father years ago when she had been only a young girl. But she must do it. Tonight. She could not wait for him any longer. Her whole body raged for him. She lusted after him. Had to have him. It was imperative that she owned him sexually, not only to satisfy her rampant desires but to bind him to her forever.

      Margot closed her eyes, thinking of him. He was a man she had wanted for a long time now, the perfect man for her, and she knew he would be a passionate lover, knew it in her bones. She needed a man she knew she could trust, who would meet her voracious sexual appetite with a raging yearning of his own. How she had yearned for him. For so long.

      In all of her life, she had never believed she would end up married to a man like Henry Grant. They were total opposites.

      She prided herself on her vivid intelligence, her education, her many talents—she played the piano like a true artist, could paint and embroider, and had a knowledge of gourmet food and the great wines of France. Her grandmother had trained her in etiquette and manners; she had taught her how to run great houses and manage country estates. Her father and grandmother had made sure she was a great lady, as was befitting the daughter of a French industrialist such as her father was.

      The marriage to Henry Grant had been arranged, was a marriage of convenience. Henry had bestowed on her a famous name, she had brought him a grand dowry. And her father’s business holdings and land in Anjou would be his one day, through her.

      Proud, spirited and undeniably the most beautiful of women, she had come to England full of anticipation and expectations. She had come to marry Henry, the head of Deravenels, the most famous trading company in the world, and she was excited about the union arranged by her father.

      At fifteen she had expected a dashing Englishman. He was twenty-four and she had imagined a vigorous and experienced lover, a man of charm and elegance. She discovered instead that she was marrying…a monk. More or less. Mon Dieu! And a monk who was daft in the head.

      She had been married to him for fifteen years, and now, at thirty, she was in full bloom. Frustrated in every way. What she longed for at this moment was a man in her life and in her bed. But not just any man. A particular man, one who was already deep in her heart. And that man was John Summers. Her own female longings aside, he was the man who was actually running Deravenels, and she wanted to be by his side, learning from him for her son’s sake.

      Looking at the antique ormolu clock on the mantelpiece, Margot suddenly rose and went to the window, stood looking out, hoping he would come soon. She did not have long to wait. Within a few minutes the carriage arrived; he alighted, and she turned, sped across the room and out into the black marble entrance foyer. Before he could lift the knocker she had opened the door.

      He appeared startled to see her on the front steps.

      ‘Chéri,’ she murmured in her low breathy way. ‘Come in, come in.’

      ‘Good evening,’ he said in his cultured voice, and smiled at her.

      Smiling in return, she took his overcoat and placed it on the wooden hall bench, then ushered him into the small private sitting room.

      He glanced around, then turned to her and kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘It’s

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