No.

Without warning he bent and scooped her up into his arms, cradling her automatically against his chest so that she could feel the muffled thunder of his heart.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded.

He thought that was maybe a question she should have asked before they’d had that highly charged and erotic encounter, but he chose not to say it. Even thinking about it was making him grow hard again. He shifted position slightly, not wanting her to sense that he had another erection—because having sex with your soon-to-be ex-wife once could be classified as a mistake. But twice? No. That would defy description.

What was done, was done—they just had to deal with the immediate fall-out before they parted again for the last time.

‘What do you think is going to happen now?’ he demanded. ‘That you are just going to stroll out of here with your messed-up hair and your smudged make-up and your rumpled dress? You don’t think that will excite some sort of comment?’

She shrugged. ‘Well, obviously—but—’

‘But what, Jenny? You don’t think that anyone with more than one brain cell will put two and two together and come up with exactly the right answer?’

‘So what’s your solution?’

‘That you act! Just act, Jenny,’ he urged, as he saw her perplexed frown. ‘Act like you’ve passed out and you’re leaning on me—act as if your life depended on it.’

And maybe it did, in a way—when she stopped to think what he’d just said. Certainly her reputation and her dignity demanded that she emerge from that lift not looking as though she had been ravaged by her unfaithful ex-husband.

The lift juddered to a halt, and it was worse than Matteo had anticipated. Outside was an excited crowd of four waiters, a couple of chefs, what looked like a maître d’ and a cleaner.

But no one from the studio. Thank God. He knew that their giant protective machinery would have whirred into action to minimise the outcome, but then it would be out of his control. And he would not let that happen. Not in this case.

He saw one of the waiters surreptitiously slide a mobile phone from his jeans and spoke in furious and rapid French to him. The chastened man shrugged and replaced the phone.

Jennifer’s ear lay against the strong pounding of his heart and she closed her eyes—Matteo’s words seemed to come at her from a great distance. His French was as fluent as his English, and she didn’t even attempt to understand what he was saying, only knew that there was an excited and jabbering response from the staff.

He bent his head and whispered in her ear. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said softly in English. ‘You’re going to be okay.’

She wished he wouldn’t talk in that masterful and protective way to her, even though he was being both those things. But it was going to make it harder, she just knew it was—so much harder to say their inevitable goodbyes.

She opened her eyes to find that they were following someone down a long and draughty corridor and then outside, through an ill-lit yard which was lined with bins and a large skip containing hundreds of empty bottles.

We must be at the back of the hotel, Jennifer thought, and pressed her head against him as an overwhelming fatigue began to wash over her. But then sex with Matteo always made her sleepy. What was that she had read once? That some hormone was released when you orgasmed, which made you want to curl up and snooze.

‘You okay?’ he asked.

‘You bring me to the nicest places,’ she mumbled, and gave a low laugh.

The sound was so delightfully inappropriate that Matteo couldn’t prevent the memory which stole over his skin as he remembered the precious gift of laughter which they had brought to each other in the early days. Ruthlessly, he blocked it.

‘It won’t be much longer,’ he said tightly. ‘They’re getting hold of a car for us.’

She had to stop herself from snuggling up to him, as if they were real lovers instead of estranged spouses who just happened to know the way to turn each other on.

‘I ought to get back to the Hedoniste,’ she said unenthusiastically.

‘That’s where you’re staying?’

‘Isn’t everyone?’

Matteo’s mouth twisted with scorn. The marble-built palace of a hotel was situated on the choicest part of the Croisette, and would be full to the brim with other actors, producers, directors, models and wannabes. ‘No,’ he said shortly. ‘It’s too much of a goldfish bowl—you can’t risk going back there in that state. I’m taking you to where I’m staying.’

He wasn’t asking her whether she’d like him to. He was telling her, in that autocratic manner which came naturally after a lifetime of having people run around after him. But Jennifer was too tired and too confused to argue—and, if the truth were known, she was glad that he had taken over.

Somehow he had managed to commandeer the use of a luxury car, and he settled her in the soft leather seat beside him, adjusting his jacket so that it modestly covered her and then barking out a terse instruction in French as the vehicle began to move away.

Dreamily, Jennifer turned her head to watch out of the window as the glittering crescent of coastline sped by in a blur of lights. They passed the cool marble splendour of the Hedoniste—and suddenly Jennifer was relieved that they weren’t going near it, with its hordes of paparazzi and heaven only knew who else.

‘Where’s your hotel?’ she questioned.

Matteo stared out of the opposite window—anything to avert his eyes from her, and from the knowledge that she was all rumpled, her dress all stained…by him… His fingertips were still sticky and warm from having been inside her, and if he drifted them close to his face her particular feminine scent pervaded his nostrils with a potency which made him hard all over again.

‘It’s not really a hotel.’ He swallowed as the car swept through wrought-iron gates, past the dark shapes of lemon trees and cypress.

In the bright moonlight she could see that the hedges were fantastically shaped, and there was an odd-looking sculpture which was emphasised by soft lights pinned into a nearby tree. It looked old and very beautiful, and Jennifer blinked at it in astonished surprise.

‘What is this place?’ she asked quietly.

‘It was once a villa belonging to one of Cannes’s most famous residents—an English aristocrat who discovered the perfect climate here, and the stunning beaches. Now it is owned by an eccentric Frenchman—who will let rooms out, but only if the mood takes him.’

He turned his head and saw her looking down at her crumpled state of undress. ‘He is very particular and very discreet,’ he added. ‘There will be no need to be seen by him, or by anyone else for that matter. One is able to bring guests to a place like this without the whole world knowing. For people in the public eye it is a godsend.’

She couldn’t stop torturing herself with images of him bringing other women here in the future. Perhaps similarly unclad, and also recipients of his remarkable brand of lovemaking.

But Jennifer knew that she couldn’t bring the subject up—certainly not now, when she was already feeling so vulnerable. The sex had been a mistake—but there was no need to compound that mistake by starting to quiz him about his future plans. That would only make her self-esteem tumble and put her in an even more vulnerable position.

Matteo had every right to do whatever he wished. Sex gave you no rights—not even if it was with the man to whom you were still legally married.

But then she remembered what he’d said about Sophia—and for the first time she was able to think about the actress without feeling sick. Had it been true what Matteo had said, about it only being the once and thinking about her all the while? Should the fine detail actually matter?

Of course it mattered. A one-off mistake—if that was really what it was—was completely different from a long-term affair which had been shrouded in secrecy and deceit.