Читать книгу Diva - Carrie Duffy - Страница 12

‘Everything’s under control, sir. No problems to report.’

‘Glad to hear it.’ Philippe Rochefort nodded curtly at Alain Lefèvre, his immaculately presented head of security, who was prowling round his sumptuous office. The man was six feet four inches of burly muscularity encased in a black Hugo Boss suit, and he was the kind of guy you didn’t fuck around with.

‘The club’s filling up nicely, sir,’ he commented, glancing at the bank of monitor screens.

‘Yes, business has been extremely good since we opened.’ Philippe allowed himself a smile. ‘And I intend to keep it that way.’

He glanced at the Georg Jensen clock on the wall. It was just after midnight, the time when the beautiful people of Paris started to drift away from the early night bars and move on to their main clubbing venue. Since Bijou had opened three months ago, it had quickly become one of the most popular venues on the branché circuit, the well-heeled and well-connected loving its heady mix of funky interior, international DJs and gorgeous people.

‘Do we have any VIPs due tonight?’ Philippe asked, scanning the guest list.

Alain didn’t miss a beat. ‘Ophélie Winter is here already with a group of friends. Christophe Benoit and Nicolas Duchamp rang ahead to make sure their usual tables would be reserved for them,’ Alain informed him, naming some of Philippe’s business contacts. ‘And there’s a rumour that Leonardo DiCaprio’s in town, so I’ve warned my people to keep alert for that.’

‘Very good. Excellent.’ Philippe stood up, pulling on his jacket. He was dressed in a business-casual combination of stone-coloured trousers and a pale-blue Roland Mouret shirt, a relaxed, trademark style that came from spending much of his time in the South of France. ‘I’d better go down and make sure my guests are happy.’

Respectfully Alain stood aside, holding open the door as Philippe passed through, before speaking rapidly into his walkie-talkie to tell the rest of his team that Monsieur Rochefort was on his way to the main floor.

Philippe jogged steadily down the stairs. He was thirty-eight years old and in excellent shape. Three times a week – schedule permitting – he worked out at the gym with a personal trainer and kept a careful eye on what he ate. Since his father died of a heart attack in his early fifties, Philippe had tried to calm things down a little. Hitting thirty had been a turning point – he’d spent his twenties living the life of the idle playboy, taking full advantage of the fact that, thanks to a thriving champagne empire, his father was one of France’s wealthiest men.

Yes, it had been a decade of debauchery and excess, Philippe reflected fondly. Ten years of clubs and yachts, models and cocaine, of gambling and recklessness with no thought to the future. Then, one morning, following a high stakes game of poker, Philippe woke up with a pounding head, a set of keys clutched in his hand and the vague recollection that he had won a nightclub called La Boîte. After some deliberation he had decided to keep it, more with the notion that it would be a great place to entertain his friends after hours than with any coherent business plan in mind.

But to his surprise he’d found that he enjoyed running the club. Benefiting from his natural sense of showmanship and self-promotion, La Boîte was soon rivalling Les Caves du Roy as the hottest spot on the French Riviera. Other nightspots soon followed, including the addition of a chain of high-class strip joints, La Mauvaise Pomme.

Bijou was the latest addition to Rochefort Enterprises, his first nightclub in the French capital, and looked set to be just as lucrative as his other ventures. But Philippe didn’t take his achievements for granted. Initially somewhat surprised to find he had stepped out of the shadow of his father and was now a successful entrepreneur in his own right, he dedicated himself to his business, living out the maxim of working hard and playing hard. He had fantastic instincts when it came to striking a deal, and was proud of his ‘hands-on’ approach to running Rochefort Enterprises.

He was twenty-nine when his father died suddenly, making him the largest shareholder in the family company, Rochefort Champagne. It was worth at least twenty times more than his own fledgling business, but he was happy to appoint a CEO from the experienced board and leave the day-to-day running to his father’s associates, popping in occasionally to glance over the books or inspect the vineyards.

Rochefort Enterprises was his own baby, the one he had tended and nurtured. This was where he had made his name, and it was what he enjoyed, allowing him to successfully combine business with pleasure. Handsome, charming and suave, he was a popular figure amongst his patrons – less so amongst his rivals, who saw him as a ruthless, controlling character.

They reached the door separating the nightclub from the private offices upstairs. Alain held it open and stepped aside to allow Monsieur Rochefort through.

It was time for Philippe to meet his public.

‘Bonsoir, good to see you, have a great evening …’ Heads turned as soon as he walked in, and Philippe worked the room like the professional he was, effortlessly circulating and chatting, complimenting and charming. He’d been doing this for so long that he could make it through the night on autopilot – which was fortunate, as Philippe’s mind was elsewhere this evening.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the girl he’d met yesterday. Alyson, she’d said her name was. He didn’t even know her surname.

It was crazy, but he couldn’t get her out of his head.

Yesterday morning he’d been working in his office in Bijou, trying to finalize the details of his American business plan. He was planning to expand to the US and was flying out on business for a few days, first to New York and then on to Las Vegas, where he would meet with realtors and view potential venues. While working through the proposals, he’d come up against some particularly complex contractual clauses and had decided he needed to get some air and clear his head.

So Philippe had set off walking. Bijou was in the 4th arrondissement, on the Right Bank, and he’d made his way aimlessly across the Ile de la Cité, over the Seine into the 5th, enjoying the freedom, the sense of clarity that being away from the office gave him. Then the heavens had opened, the rain had come down, and Philippe had stepped into the first bar he’d come across. It was the kind of place he’d usually avoid like the plague – a tourist trap, tacky and downmarket. But he hadn’t cared. He needed alcohol and he needed to be anonymous.

Philippe didn’t notice her at first. It was only when the customers began to thin out and he looked round properly at his surroundings that he saw her. He felt as though he’d had the breath knocked out of him, sure that his heart must be beating loud enough to attract the attention of the other customers. It was what the romantics might call a coup de foudre – love at first sight.

She was absolutely stunning, beautiful in a completely natural way. She wore no make-up, her undyed hair scraped back in a ponytail, her nails short and functional. She was the polar opposite of the girls who came to his club, the ones who were overstyled and over-made-up, their faces taut and frozen from too much plastic surgery. This girl looked human, she looked real. Even the shapeless black trousers and an unflattering T-shirt couldn’t hide that amazing figure, all long limbs and slim curves.

She was clearly under pressure as she dashed from one table to the next, her cheeks flushed with colour. But she still took time to be polite and courteous to everyone, even the two awkward German customers who insisted on sampling a little of each beer before they finally ordered. Philippe was impressed – no, ‘captivated’ would have been a better word. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was obviously very young – far younger than him, he realized with a pang – but that only added to the wholesome, naïve quality she exuded. For someone like Philippe, who had seen some of the most sordid parts of human nature, that innocence was enchanting. He would have put money on the fact that she was still a virgin.

And then he, the great Philippe Rochefort, the notorious lady-killer and epitome of Gallic charm, had been too nervous to speak to her. He hadn’t known what to say; he’d been afraid to shatter the illusion he had already built up in his head. What if she turned out to be rude and unpleasant, cold and uninterested in him? Or if she already had a boyfriend? Philippe wanted to break his neck, whoever he was. Perhaps it was the guy she worked with, the one behind the bar. He certainly paid her enough attention, making little jokes and glancing at her when he thought she wasn’t looking.

The guy disappeared into the back and the girl was left alone, looking vulnerable and beautiful and, before he could stop himself, Philippe had spoken to her, some crap about how busy it was. Hell, he was really losing his touch. But she had been wonderfully gracious and given him the most radiant smile. He was aware that he’d been selective about what he told her, saying that he was a businessman but leaving out the specifics. He watched her carefully for any flicker of recognition, any suggestion that she might have realized who he was, that she’d seen him in the pages of one of the glossy lifestyle magazines he often featured in, a glamorous woman on each arm. But he saw nothing. She clearly wasn’t one of these girls obsessed with gossip magazines, scouring the pages for rich men they could target.

Then that idiot of a manager had come back and ruined the moment. Philippe had left hastily, before his temper overwhelmed him, and returned to his office more confused than ever. The walk that had been meant to clear his head had done nothing of the sort. He couldn’t stop thinking about Alyson. She was in his head, under his skin, impossible to get rid of.

Earlier today he’d gone back to Chez Paddy. He’d told himself that he needed to see her just once, to set his mind at rest. She was probably nothing special – he’d exaggerated it in his mind, placed too much significance on a trivial meeting. But, even as he had the thought, Philippe knew that he was lying to himself. He remembered Alyson’s smile, the way she moved, the way she had looked up coyly from underneath her wispy fringe, and he knew he had to see her again. He was helpless, drawn like a moth to a candle.

But she hadn’t been there, and her jumped-up little boss had taken great delight in telling him she wasn’t working that day.

‘Tell her I passed by,’ Philippe said.

Aidan had merely raised his eyebrows, with no intention of doing anything of the sort.

And tomorrow Philippe was leaving. He would be in the States for over a week and it was an important trip. He needed to concentrate, to ensure he was focused. He needed to forget about Alyson. He was Philippe Rochefort, internationally respected business magnate and legendary womanizer, not some love-struck adolescent.

‘Philippe!’

Now, some woman was screeching at him from across the club. He vaguely recognized her, but she could have been any one of that identikit breed. Her surgically enhanced cleavage was poured into a clinging animal-print minidress, her bleached blonde hair dry and brittle. She came at him with unnaturally large Botoxed lips as she kissed the air at the side of his ears, once, twice and then an overfriendly third time.

He hated her for not being Alyson. He hated everything she stood for, all the superficiality, the falseness. He could almost see the euro signs in her eyes as she smiled at him, mentally calculating his bank balance.

The truth was that Philippe was tiring of this lifestyle. He had a yearning for something different – something more real, more fulfilling than the way he’d been living until now.

Resignedly, he pasted a smile on his face. ‘Chérie! Ah, how good to see you!’ he lied, as he kissed her hand and the woman simpered like a little girl.

This was the only life he knew, and he had to get on with it.