Читать книгу Just For Her - Katherine O' Neal - Страница 11

Monsieur Jarot, the manager of the Nice Banque de Marchés, pulled out the oversize safety deposit box and, with some effort, walked it across the floor of the vault to a table where Jules waited with Hudson standing behind her.

At her nod, Hudson lifted the metal lid as three eager faces crowded around to gawk, then retrieved the various sized deep blue velvet boxes, laying them on the table.

Jules could feel the nearby reporters holding their breaths. Pausing momentarily to build the suspense, she opened the lids one by one, displaying a dazzling array of gems. It was a small collection—a mere portion of the pieces that had been passed down through the Habsburg family for generations—just four matched sets of necklace, bracelet, and earrings. But they were crafted by some of the most celebrated eighteenth and nineteenth century jewelers in Europe, and the stones were some of the finest their audience had ever seen, gleaming seductively, even in the harsh overhead light.

The gasps of the audience were audible. Only Hudson kept an impassive face. He was well acquainted with the gems.

Jacques Ronin from the Cannes Soir asked, “Which of these magnificent pieces belonged to Marie Antoinette?”

“These.” Jules held to her throat a string of massive creamy pearls. The clasp was fashioned from a large emerald surrounded by sixteen diamonds. “As you may know, Antoinette was exceptionally fond of pearls. This necklace was one of her favorites.”

“May we take a picture of you with them on?”

“Of course.” It was exactly what she wanted. Hudson quickly fastened the clasp, brushing aside the chic new bob that framed her face in soft golden curls. She’d worn an unadorned platinum dress, something that would offset, but not contrast with, the jewels. When she was ready, the photographers came forward from the rear of the immense vault. Several bursts of flash powder blinded the spectators and sulfur smoke tinged the air.

“Exactly what relation do you bear to the tragic queen?” asked the reporter from Nice-Matin.

“She would be my aunt, four generations removed. After the Revolution, the pearls were saved from the mob by her daughter and eventually returned to the family. My father gave them to my mother as a wedding present.”

“I understand, Madame DeRohan, that the Austrian State confiscated all your family’s property. How then did you get these jewels out of the country?”

“My mother sewed them into our corsets.”

She was about to change the subject when another reporter asked, “Your mother was killed trying to leave Vienna, is that not correct?”

“Yes, that’s correct. Perhaps you’d like to see—”

“Stoned to death, they said. Is there any truth to the story?”

“Unfortunately, it’s true.”

“Could you tell us how it happened?”

“I really don’t see—”

Hudson stepped in. “Gentlemen, surely this has nothing to do with the subject at hand. These memories are quite painful for Madame DeRohan. I feel certain you wouldn’t wish to cause her undue pain.”

“It seems to me that the story of the smuggling of the jewelry out of Vienna gives them the element of tragedy and romance an eager public would greedily gobble up. If you wish to call attention to the pieces, as you so clearly do, what better way than to break the public’s heart with the glamorous tale?”

Hudson was about to argue, but Jules put her hand on his sleeve and said quietly, “It’s quite all right. I shall tell these kind gentlemen what they wish to know.” It wasn’t something she cared to talk about, but if it was the only way to get them to print the story, she was resolute enough to do even that. She began softly, “After the war, all the members of my family were given the option of either renouncing any claim to the throne or going into exile. Some of my relatives decided to stay and sign away their claim, but my father chose to go. We were the last to leave. We were being watched by the authorities, but my mother had known this was coming and secretly hid what jewels she could and sewed them into the linings of our corsets a little at a time. The public had turned against the family. They blamed us for the war…for so many things. There had been riots all day long, so we’d decided to wait and leave late at night. But some of the mob had been watching for us. As we came out, they began to throw rocks, yelling obscenities. My father hurried me to the auto to shield me, but as he did so, the crowd closed in on Mother, hurling more and more rocks at her. We were able to get her into the car and speed away, but she died that very night.”

A silence followed. Each of the men stared at her, moved by the quiet dignity with which she’d told her tale.

“And these jewels are all you have left of her,” one of them said at last.

“That and my house. And my memories.”

“One could say that your mother died saving the jewels.”

“Yes,” Jules said. It was what her father had told her numerous times.

Hudson picked up one of the velvet boxes and passed the sapphire and yellow diamond necklace before them. “But you gentlemen haven’t even seen the rest…”

So effortlessly they didn’t seem to notice, he steered their attention away from Jules and back to the gems, detailing each of the pieces, telling them the carat weight of the rubies, informing them that the emeralds had once belonged to the Maharaja of Rajasthan. Holding up a thirty-six inch strand of three-carat diamonds strung together like pearls, Jules felt a rush of gratitude. She could always count on Hudson.

As the photographers took their pictures, a reporter said, “There has been such interest in these pieces, and yet this is the first time you have ever cooperated with the press to show them. Why now?”

“As you know, the Clews are holding a charity masked ball tomorrow night at the Chateau de la Napoule to benefit wounded war veterans who have been forgotten. The public isn’t invited, but donations would be most appreciated. It’s my intention to raise interest in such a worthy cause by wearing some of the jewels publicly for the first time.”

“Which will you wear?”

She considered. “You have a picture of me in the pearls, so perhaps I’ll wear them.”

“But Madame DeRohan, are you not apprehensive to put these irreplaceable stones at risk when this Panther criminal is plundering the villas of the coast?”

“Oui, oui, the Panther. Do you not quake to wear them while the beast still prowls?”

Jules waved a dismissive hand. “The Panther, from all accounts, sneaks into homes when all are asleep and there’s virtually no chance of detection. I daresay a man as cautious of his liberty would hardly be so foolhardy as to risk exposure in such a public setting. No, gentlemen, for all his reported bravado, I wager this Panther is in reality a cowardly creature of the night. He’s not going to come anywhere near my pearls.”

One of the reporters gulped. “May we quote you?”

Jules lowered her lashes so they couldn’t read the triumphant gleam in her eyes. “By all means.”

With Hudson at the wheel, the white Rolls Royce convertible eased through the gothic arched stone entry of the front wall of the Chateau de la Napoule, an estate that had once served as a fortress in the fourteenth century. An eccentric American couple, Henry and Marie Clews, had rescued the crumbling edifice destroyed during the French Revolution, and had lovingly restored it to its original medieval splendor, complete with turrets and towers, creating a fantasy world of their own where peacocks, swans, ibis, and cranes pecked freely about the grounds. To visit the chateau was to take a journey back to the time of Sir Walter Scott, where troubadours sang and knights jousted to impress the ladies of the court.

The perfect setting for a masquerade ball.

As they pulled up to the front courtyard with its cloistered façade, Jules took a gulp for courage. She’d decided to dress as Marie Antoinette with a heavy white powdered wig. But instead of costuming herself as the queen holding court, she’d chosen instead to replicate her ancestor’s more playful disposition by wearing the flouncy eighteenth-century shepherdess attire the queen had favored while cavorting at Versailles. The white dress had a voluminous skirt with a low décolletage and frilly peasant sleeves that bared her chest and shoulders and afforded a blank canvas for the showcasing of the Antoinette pearls.

“It’s peculiar, Hudson,” she said, putting her hand over her pounding heart. “We’ve played our game so many times, imagining all sorts of adventures where I was a woman of intrigue, much bolder and more courageous than I could ever really be. Harmless stuff and fancy. Yet here we are, about to embark on an adventure that has the potential to be far more daring than anything we ever concocted. Never once in all our imaginings did I foresee how nervous I would be. I swear my heart is about to take flight.”

“We could always call it off, Highness.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that. It’s my only chance of contacting the man. I think I’m more nervous for him than I am for myself. It’s only just occurred to me the risk I’ve asked him to take. Of course, there’s no guarantee that he’s even seen my challenge, or that he’ll take the bait if he has, but if he should come, and should be caught because of me—”

“I hope Her Highness knows what she’s doing. It’s not my place to approve or disapprove, but I can’t help worrying that—”

“Please don’t try to talk me out of it. I’m doing what I must. He’s the only man I can think of who is capable of standing up to DeRohan. I have to take the chance.”

“Very well. Your Highness knows best.”

She didn’t notice the tautness in his voice as he pulled to a stop. She was already gathering her skirts as the doorman opened the car door. She looked up at the façade of the castle, wondering again if the Panther would dare brave such a risky venture. It was thrilling to think of him finding a clever way to sneak—costumed—into this private party and cheekily mingle with the people he was bent on robbing.

Now that it was upon her, she began to feel all shivery inside at the thought of seeing him again.

The Clews met her at the front door over which was carved the phrase “Once Upon a Time…” They were dressed as usual in rich medieval velvets, Marie attempting to resemble the Virgin Saint. A steady stream of costumed guests flowed into the house and mingled with drinks in hand in the cold stone rooms that, with their vaulted ceilings, beehive fireplaces, stained glass windows, and heavy carved doors from Spain, resembled the interior of an antiquated church more than it did a home.

She followed the sounds of music into the long hall with its high arched windows and red stone floor that tonight served as a ballroom. As she roamed through the crowd, some dancing, some conversing in small groups about the perimeter, she noted the eclectic mix of the guests. It seemed that the entire history of the region was represented here tonight.

The Côte d’Azur—Blue Coast—had once been a sleepy, barren stretch along the Mediterranean inhabited by a few local fishermen. All that had changed when Lord Brougham, former Lord High Chancellor of Great Britain, had been stranded in Cannes in 1834, and had fallen under its spell of unspoiled beauty and luminous climate. His wealthy English friends quickly followed, building fabulous villas and chateaux in the hills that resembled their palaces back home, or fanciful replicas of structures they’d seen on their travels to exotic corners of the globe. They transported plants and flowers and transformed the rocky shores into lush green gardens. The Russian aristocracy turned up in their wake, and soon all the crowned heads of Europe had brought their great fortunes and settled the area. Emperors, tsarinas, kings, queens, princes, grand dukes, lords, and wealthy bourgeoisie all flocked to the Côte in winter months to take advantage of the sunshine beneath their parasols and partake of the festival atmosphere of parties, dances, and casinos. But they’d always left in April, when the sun grew blinding and the heat became oppressive to their Victorian sensibilities.

All that changed in 1922 when Erich von Stroheim directed the first million dollar moving picture and set it in Monte Carlo. Foolish Wives created the legend of the reckless decadence of the moneyed classes, idling away their days amidst the palms and sunshine of a golden coast, gambling with abandon through the long, sultry nights. Americans began drifting into the area, lured by their fascination with the film, a favorable exchange rate that allowed them to live beyond their means, and the refreshing absence of Prohibition. With that, the summer season was invented. They called the area “the Riviera,” and brought with them a new fresh informality, introducing such novelties as cocktails, jazz phonograph records, and corn on the cob. Since then, increasing numbers of bored American millionaires, frustrated artists and writers, and glamorous sirens and swashbucklers of the Hollywood silver screen were baking themselves on the beaches and showing off their tans in colorful summer dresses, revealing bathing suits, and shorts worn with sailor caps and sweaters. A new era had arrived, and the old guard aristocracy, though they now stayed through the summer, still weren’t certain what to think of this uninhibited new generation of hooligans who were gradually overtaking their hallowed coast.

Tonight they mingled warily, the Americans drinking heavily on one side, the British, French, and Italians more discretely on another, the titled Russians—mostly impoverished since the overthrow of their Romanov tsar and living off the charity of their friends—huddled together in a less conspicuous corner, as if embarrassed by their humbled circumstances. The hum of various languages and accents competed with the orchestra.

Nodding greetings to people she knew, Jules wandered through the room, surveying the crowd. The colorful costumes were expensive and elaborate, spanning the centuries. The women she dismissed, concentrating instead on the men. Kings, courtiers, jesters, clowns, cardinals, musketeers…So many of them wore masks that she felt a moment of discouragement. If the Panther had dared to show up, how could she possibly guess who he might be? He could be any one of them.

She took a breath, trying to calm herself.

What do I look for?

She’d caught only glimpses of him in the moonlight. She didn’t know what color his hair was—the bandana had covered it completely. But he was tall—six feet, perhaps more—broad shouldered, leanly muscular. Athletic, certainly, which meant he couldn’t be more than thirty-five at most. That would rule out anyone short or portly or old. He was clean shaven, which would discount anyone with facial hair, unless he used a false beard or mustache tonight as a disguise. She remembered her first glimpse of him in her study, how he’d moved with such masculine grace, something that would be difficult to conceal.

So that narrowed her choices considerably.

All at once, someone swooped down on her, took her in his arms, and proceeded to Foxtrot her around the floor. He was dressed as a Jacobean revolutionary with a tricolor emblem on his hat. His eyes glared at her through the mask holes with a dazed wildness.

Could it be…?

“How do you like my getup? I’m Danton, or maybe Robespierre. One of those guys anyway.” The voice was distinctly American.

“Scott.” She couldn’t disguise her disappointment.

He was gawking at her necklace. “So those are the famous goose eggs. I saw your picture in the papers. Lucky girl. Must be nice to be rich!”

She could see he was already well in his cups.

F. Scott Fitzgerald was a young American author who’d been a fixture of the American colony on the Riviera for the last few years, most of whom were free-thinking writers who’d come to France to escape what they called the commercialization of America and the killjoy aspect of Prohibition.

She was looking for an avenue of escape when Booth Devlin tapped Scott on the shoulder and cut in. He, too, was an American writer, though without the sort of success Fitzgerald had. He’d published a crime novel two years ago which had never sold well, but that was before Jules had met him, and she’d never read it. A tall man with short brown hair, he wasn’t classically handsome, but he had a craggy face that was full of character and interesting to watch. And he had wordly grey-green eyes that often hinted at some hidden sadness she found intriguing.

“I thought you might need rescuing,” he told her.

“Don’t we all need rescuing when Scott’s around?”

But she wasn’t really paying attention. She was scanning the room for likely candidates. She spotted a man sitting down, dressed as a musketeer. The breadth of his shoulders looked likely, and he was masked and clean shaven. She tiptoed, peering over her partner’s shoulder. But when the musketeer stood, she saw that he wasn’t nearly tall enough.

“You seem far away,” Devlin commented. “I’m not sure my ego can take the rejection. Looking for someone special?”

She vaguely caught the teasing tone and glanced at him apologetically. “Forgive me, Dev. I promised to speak with Nikki. Will you excuse me?”

“Sure. Go ahead. Break my heart.”

Just then, Fitzgerald’s wife Zelda came floating up, asking, in her Southern drawl, “Have either of you dahlin’ chickadees seen Scott? I checked the bar where, by all rights, he should be. But nary a trace. My heavens, Jules, what is that necklace you’re wearin’? I’ve never seen pearls like those in all my days!”

“Let’s go find Scott,” Dev said, steering Zelda off and giving Jules a wink.

Jules headed in the direction of Nikki Romanov, a childhood friend, in case Dev should happen to glance her way. But as she went, she continued to search the crowd. She passed Father Siffredi, an Italian priest and one of the organizers of tonight’s event. She didn’t know him personally, but it was well known that he loathed her husband and denounced him at every turn. She thought fleetingly that they had a great deal in common, except that the priest didn’t know it. But it wasn’t the priest himself who was the focus of her attention. He was talking to a tall man dressed as Cardinal Richelieu. Could that be the man she was looking for? Surely he wouldn’t be so bold as to be speaking to a priest!

As she came around the front of him, however, she saw that he had a massive stomach beneath his long red robes. And he wasn’t masked.

But even as she searched for the Panther, she realized it was just as crucial that he see her. She’d purposely not worn a mask so he’d recognize her, but now she pushed her way into the center of the party where the band was playing, greeting people she knew, laughing, letting herself be seen. She wondered if he was watching even now from some shadowed corner. She could almost feel his eyes on her.

She didn’t stay with one group long, but greeted and moved on, covering as much ground as she could. As always, she received offers she’d turned down a dozen times before. Rex Ingram, the movie director who had his studio on the coast, called to her, “I still want to make that movie about you—Norma Talmadge wants to play the role.”

She laughed him off. “You never give up, do you?”

“Think of it! The Last Habsburg! The audience will eat it up with a spoon!”

The Spanish painter, Picasso, overheard and said, “Forget the cinema, mon petit chou! Let me paint you. Only my canvas can do you justice.”

She shook her head. “You want to paint me with three eyes.”

“I want to show the real you.”

She pushed on.

The mayor of Nice blocked her path, saying, “Madame DeRohan, I really do wish you’d reconsider and make an appearance at the Great War Memorial dedication. It would mean so much—”

“Forgive me, Mayor Clément, but I’m really not good at such things. Will you excuse me, please?”

More people were dancing now, although the older guests sat around the ballroom in Spanish leather chairs.

She’d been so busy looking around that she literally bumped into Nikki Romanov—a tall, dark, attractive but indolent looking young man who carried himself like the prince he was. Realizing that she was on the verge of becoming conspicuous, she asked him to dance. They were playing a waltz and Nikki guided her gracefully about the floor. He was a grand duke of the exiled Romanov family—a cousin to the overthrown tsar—and understood, more than any other friend, her sense of exile. She’d known him since she was a little girl—before the war, their families had both wintered here—and he was more like a brother to her than anything else. With him, she didn’t have to put on an act. She could use him as a screen to view the incoming guests.

He let her dance in silence for a time, then said in her ear, “This waltz reminds me of the old days. Remember, Juli, how we used to dance?”

“It’s best not to think about the old days,” she said distractedly. His hand on hers tightened and she felt something press into her, hurting her. Looking to see what it was, she spotted a ring on his pinky finger with a magnificent star sapphire. She’d never seen it before.

“That’s a bit out of your price range, isn’t it?”

Nikki, like most of the Russians, had escaped without any money of his own. He’d actually been on the verge of humbling himself by pleading for employment and a place to live when a friend had inquired about his villa.

“What villa?” Nikki had asked.

To which the friend had cried in astonishment, “Why, your villa above Cannes!”

Nikki had bought it on a whim before the war, and had forgotten all about it.

He lived there now, but without any source of income that anyone could discern. He never said how it was that he still managed to live the privileged life he did.

He smiled at her slyly now. “Don’t think, little Juli, that you’re the only one with admirers.” He fingered her pearls. “Ah, but my ring is a mere trinket compared to these. They really are spectacular. My grandmother had some similar, though smaller. Do you recall? I used to pull on them as a child. But she never scolded me. She told me they’d be mine someday, to give to my wife.”

She caught the grief in his eyes. “Poor Nikki. If I thought they could bring back the past for you, I’d almost give them to you.”

He chuckled, dispelling the gloomy mood. “Don’t tempt me. I’m cad enough to take them.”

Jules was discouraged. Hours had passed and still there was no sign of the Panther. No masked man had contrived to get her alone. She hadn’t even seen a likely candidate. She’d even stood outside on the terrace, hoping he might slip away and come to her.

Nothing.

The entire evening had been a waste of time. It was madness to think he’d show up here. Once again, she’d retreated into a world of fantasy that had no bearing with reality.

Feeling hot and tired, she wandered down the terrace stairs, to walk around the side of the house and into the gardens. As she meandered along the curved paths, she found herself in a secluded half-circular alcove. It was dark and she could barely make out the shapes of the two Roman columns that led to a stone wall where a double-arched Gothic window overlooked the rocks and sea below.

She went to the window and leaned her head on the wrought iron railing in front of it, listening to the thrash of the surf against the rocks. The night was cool, as usual, a welcome relief after the cloying heat of the ballroom. In the moonlight, the Mediterranean shimmered with shifting facets, as if sprinkled with diamonds.

She took a deep breath, trying to squelch her disappointment. What was she going to do now that he’d ignored her call? What else could she do to attract his attention? She’d been so certain the Antoinette pearls would lure him out of hiding.

If not that, what?

What an idiot she’d been to think of something so desperate. But what else could she do? DeRohan would return in two days. The thought of that reptilian ogre taking charge of her house, sleeping in her linens, forcing her to serve his imperialistic interests…it was enough to make her flesh crawl.

Realizing that her last futile grasp at a straw of escape had failed, a curtain of despair began to crush in on her.

But all of a sudden, she felt a presence behind her. Before the realization could register, a hand came round to cover her mouth. It was large and strong, muffling any startled sound that might be tempted to escape her lips.

“Cowardly creature of the night, am I?”

The voice in her ear was once more a sultry whisper, as if he were attempting to disguise his true inflection. Again, he spoke in Italian.

She squirmed, trying to disengage his hand and turn to him as her heart swelled. He’d come after all! But his hand on her mouth tightened while the other came up to her shoulder, securing her. “Don’t turn around,” he commanded. “Don’t cry out. Can I trust you?”

She nodded. When he took his hand from her mouth, she made a movement toward him in eagerness, but he gripped her other shoulder, keeping her with her back solidly to him. She accepted the condition and said, “I have to talk to you.”

She felt his breath on her ear. “Talk? You mean the way we—talked the other night?” He began to nibble her ear. “As I recall, you’re a most scintillating conversationalist.”

“Let’s go somewhere where we can sit down…”

He tightened his hands on her. “I said don’t move.” He sucked her earlobe into his mouth, causing a jolt of desire to shoot through her. As she squirmed, trying to move away, his mouth moved lower, kissing the long column of her neck.

“I didn’t summon you for this,” she protested.

“Oh, did you summon me?”

His fingertips were trailing her bare shoulders, one hand playing with her shoulder blade, the other tracing a tempting path down her front, dipping toward the ruffled décolleté of her shepardess gown, causing her to quiver.

“Of course I did. What did you think those newspaper stories were for?”

Distantly, she noted the breathiness of her tone.

Once again he was nibbling at her ear, exploring it with his tongue in a way that made her feel as if she were beginning to melt into a puddle at his feet. “I don’t read the papers,” he told her. “Except for my own notices.”

His hand came up to cup her breast. It felt so good, so treacherously welcome. Against her will, she felt herself leaning back into him, feeling his erection against her derriere. “Please,” she sighed, “I’m drowning.” It was all she could do to get out the words. His touch was playing havoc with her designs. “You must listen to me. Please. I beg you.”

She felt him pulling up the back of her skirts. “Very well,” he said. “Tell me.”

“DeRohan has come back early. He’s moving in. I’ve had a few nights reprieve, but he’ll return the day after tomorrow. He’s taking over my house and my life. I just don’t know how I can bear it. I can’t—”

All at once she stopped. She had no idea how he’d accomplished it, but somehow, as she’d been trying to concentrate on what she was saying, he’d managed to slide her panties down. Now his fingers were playing with her clit in a most deliciously wicked way, chasing the words from her head.

“Are you sure that’s why you summoned me? It couldn’t be that you wanted more of this?”

He shot into her from behind. He was so big, his entry so unexpected, that she gasped aloud. Once again, his hand came round and clamped itself on her mouth.

He plunged into her, thrusting hard, pulling her back against his cast-iron chest to anchor her. His mouth nuzzling her ear, making her head spin.

She reached up and ripped his hand from her mouth. “You’re insane! Someone could come upon us at any time.”

“Now you know what it feels like to steal into houses in the dead of night. The danger…the risk of discovery…the thrill of getting away with something daring and forbidden. It’s the danger that gives it the spice.”

And all the while, he drove himself into her, his fingers playing with her in front, wracking her with shudders of reckless lust, propelling every thought from her brain. Her body on fire, hurled to the brink of madness by the astonishing force of his seduction, thoroughly swept away.

“Once in your life, you should taste the thrill of danger,” he told her. “It electrifies the senses like nothing else. Do you feel it? Give yourself up to it. Feel the cock of a wanted criminal who’s crashed the party beneath the very noses of those who most want him caught. Because that’s what you really wanted, wasn’t it?” He shook her roughly. “Wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” she cried, the agony too much, the pleasure too intense. She could no longer think, she could only feel his stiff erection pumping inside, his hands on her, cupping, grasping, causing her hunger to spin out of control. His lips mouthing words that fired her imagination, while tasting her flesh and whipping her into a frenzy.

It was too much. She exploded in a vortex of sensation, leaning back into him, giving herself to him completely. Spinning defenselessly in his hands, trusting him to keep her from tumbling from her dizzying height.

She was so befuddled with pleasure that she fell forward against the window when he pulled out of her, gasping for air. Her skirts fell back to graze the brick walk at her feet. She still felt as if she were soaring, her body throbbing in a way that made her feel lusciously fulfilled. And slowly, a dazed sort of somnolence began to steal upon her. It was as if she were a part of the sky and the sea and the very night.

But slowly, the silence changed. It was too quiet. There was no sound, no movement behind her. She reached her hand back, seeking him. When she felt nothing, she swiveled around.

She was alone.

She put her hand to her heart. Once again, he’d vanished into the night. She recalled, as if from a dream, all the things she’d wanted to say.

But then…slowly…she became aware of a sense of lack…of a weight that wasn’t there…of something missing. Gradually, her hand moved up her chest to her collarbone. With rising horror, she realized her neck was bare.

The Antoinette pearls were gone.