And if a warning voice in her mind murmured that this was a situation fraught with potential pitfalls, she chose to ignore it. And if Alain disapproved of her new acquaintance, what did it matter? she asked herself defiantly. He was hardly in any position to criticise, after what she had seen on the terrace the night before. She was simply having an innocent cup of coffee at a pavement cafe, so what did he have to complain about? She wasn't embarking on a love affair. All the same, the glow of admiration in Fabrice's eyes, the way he leaned towards her, and almost touched her hand, yet didn't quite—these things were balm to the inner wounds which Alain had inflicted. It humiliated her to remember how she'd clung to him—how she'd allowed him to kiss her—touch her. The way she'd almost forgotten that he was only playing some cynical game with her, amusing himself for a few hours, even though his heart, mind and body belonged to another woman. She sighed inwardly when she thought of Marie-Laure.
