Читать книгу Three Weeks in Paris - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 9

Alexandra awakened with a start, and after a moment she sat up, blinking, adjusting her eyes in the darkness. The room was quiet, bathed in silence, but for a long moment she felt a presence, as if someone stood nearby, hovered close to the bed.

She remained still, breathing deeply, pushing the feeling away, knowing this was all it was…just a feeling, the sensation that he was with her in the room because her dream had been so very real.

But then it always was, whenever she dreamed it. Everything that happened had a validity to it, was vivid, lifelike; even now, as she rested against the pillows, she could smell him, smell his body, his hair, the cologne he used. Jicky by Guerlain. It seemed to her that even the taste of him lingered on her mouth, as if he had kissed her deeply.

Except that he had not been here tonight…only in the dream, one so extraordinarily alive in her mind that after awakening she had believed he truly was in the bedroom. But, of course, she was alone.

Suddenly knowing that sleep would be elusive, at least for the moment, Alexa sat up, switched on the bedside lamp and slid her long legs out of bed. As she glided across the floor, she realized she was bathed in sweat, as she usually was after this recurring dream.

Wrapping herself in her pale blue woollen dressing gown, she hurried through the small front foyer and went into the kitchen, snapping on lights as she did.

What she needed was a cup of tea. Camomile tea. It would soothe her, encourage sleep. After filling the kettle with water and putting it on the gas ring, she sat down on the stool, contemplating the dream which she had with such regularity.

The odd thing was, the dream was always exactly the same. Nothing ever changed. He was suddenly there with her, either coming through the door or standing by the bed looking down at her. And inevitably he slid into bed, made love to her, cradling her in his arms, telling her he missed her, wanted her, needed her. And always he reminded her that she was the love of his life. His one true love.

And the dream was rooted in such uncanny reality she was invariably shaken; even her body felt as if it had been invaded by a sensual and virile man. It was, she muttered under her breath, filling the mug with boiling hot water. At least it was this afternoon. Jack Wilton made love to me when he arrived here today…in the gloaming he loved me well.

Yes, a small voice said in her head, but in the dream you just had it was Tom Conners loving you. It’s never anybody else but Tom Conners in the dream, and that’s your basic problem.

Sighing to herself, Alexa turned on a lamp and sat down in the comfortable, overstuffed chair near the fireplace, sipping the camomile tea, staring into the dying embers of the log fire.

What was wrong with her? The question hovered over her like a black cloud.

She had made love with Jack and enjoyed every moment of it, and there had been this unexpected and wonderful renewal of passion between them, a passion sadly absent for months. To excuse this she had blamed tiredness, work, the pressure and stress of designing sets at top speed for the new play. But in all truthfulness, something else had been at play. Exactly what that was she wasn’t sure. She had pulled away from having sex with Jack, had avoided it. There had been a strange reluctance in her to be intimate with him, and she had mentally recoiled. But why? He was appealing, attractive, good-looking in a quiet way, and had a very endearing personality. He was even funny, made her laugh.

So many images invaded her, bounced around in her head, and conflicting thoughts jostled for prominence in her mind. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to sort them out. Suddenly she sat up straighter, and thought: My God, I agreed to marry Jack! In effect, I’m engaged to him!

This was no joke as far as he was concerned. He was very serious. He had gone on talking about getting married over dinner, constantly touching his glass of red wine to hers, and they had laughed together, flirted, been in tune on all levels.

Whilst they hadn’t exactly settled on a date, she had sort of acquiesced when he had talked about a winter wedding at the end of the year. ‘In New York. A proper wedding,’ he had insisted. ‘With your family and mine, and all the trimmings. That’s what I want, Lexi.’ And she had nodded in agreement.

Once dinner was over, he had helped her stack the dishwasher, and then they had gone to bed. But he had left at five, kissing her cheek and whispering that he wanted to get an early start on a large canvas for his upcoming show.

As for her, she had dreamed about another man, and in the most intimate way possible at that. Was there something wrong with her? This wasn’t normal, was it?

Despite the camomile tea and its so-called soothing properties, she was suddenly wide awake. Glancing at the small brass carriage clock on the mantelpiece she saw that it was already ten past six in the morning.

Ten past twelve in Paris.

On an impulse, before she could change her mind and stop herself, she lifted the phone on the side table and dialled his office number, his direct line. Within a split second the number in Paris was ringing.

And then he answered. ‘Allo.’

She clutched the phone tighter. She couldn’t speak. She could barely breathe. She heard an impatient sound from him, and then he spoke again.

‘Tom Conners ici.’ Then again, this time in English, he said, ‘Hello? This is Tom Conners. Who is this?’

Very carefully she replaced the receiver. Her hands were damp and shaking, and her heart was thudding unreasonably in her chest. What a fool she was to do this to herself. She took several deep breaths, leaned against the cushions in the chair, staring off into space.

He was there. In his office. He was still in Paris. He was alive and well.

And if she went to Paris, to Anya Sedgwick’s birthday party, she would do exactly what she had just done now. She wouldn’t be able to resist. She would call him, and he would say let’s have a drink, because he was like that, and she would say yes, that’s great, and she would go and have a drink with him. And in consequence of that she would be genuinely lost. Floundering about once more. Yes, a lost soul.

Because to her Tom Conners was devastatingly irresistible, a man so potent, so compelling he lived with her in her thoughts, and in her heart and mind–if not all the time, for a good part of it.

Even though they had stopped seeing each other three years ago, and he had been the one to break it off, she knew that if she spoke to him he would want to see her.

But she couldn’t see him. Because she was afraid of him. Afraid of what would happen to her if she fell under his mesmeric spell once again.

You’re such an idiot, she chastised herself. Anger flooded her. It was an anger at herself and her lingering emotional involvement with Tom Conners. And she knew it had been foolish to make that call, even though she hadn’t spoken to him. Just hearing that arresting, mellifluous voice of his had truly unnerved her.

Alexa now forced herself to focus on Jack Wilton. He loved her, wanted to make her his wife, and she had actually accepted his proposal. All that aside, he was a truly decent human being, a good man, honourable, kind, loving, and generous to a fault sometimes. His success had not spoiled him, and he was very down-to-earth in that humorous English way of his, not taking either himself or life too seriously. ‘Only my work must be taken seriously,’ he was forever telling her, and she understood exactly what he meant by that.

She knew he adored her, admired her talent as a designer, applauded her dedication and discipline. He encouraged her, comforted her when she needed comforting, and he was always there for her. And the truth was he had stayed in the relationship and had been exceedingly patient with her even when she had been cool towards him physically these last few months.

What’s more her parents liked him. A good sign, since they’d always been very critical when it came to her boyfriends. Not picky about Tom Conners, because he’d charmed them without trying. But then again, they had never really known him, nor had they actually understood the extent of her involvement with him, because their relationship had evolved after she had left Anya’s school in Paris.

Jack would make a wonderful husband, she decided. He loved her, and she loved him. In her own way.

Alexandra pushed herself up out of the chair very purposefully, and, turning off the lamp, she went back to bed. Jack Wilton was going to be her husband and that was that.

Sadly, she would have to forgo Anya’s eighty-fifth birthday party. For her own self-protection.