Читать книгу By Request Collection April-June 2016 - Оливия Гейтс - Страница 45

BUT the world as Shari knew it jolted off its axis. It was Rémy she never saw again.

Soon after dawn one morning in the autumn, Neil came hammering on her door with the shattering news. Rémy had been driving too fast on a foggy Colorado mountain road, misjudged a corner, and skidded over a cliff.

The shock was so immense, Shari was overcome with nausea and had to run to the bathroom to throw up. The details were sketchy, but it was clear Rémy hadn’t been alone in the car.

What a surprise.

In the hours that followed, once Shari had begun to assimilate the news, she wished she could cry. At least poor Emilie had that release. Em was so distraught, so overcome with grief, Neil was beside himself with anxiety for her health and that of their soon-to-be-born twins.

The best Shari could do was to change into her old track pants and run for miles, thanking heaven Luc Valentin wasn’t there to see her in her running clothes. Her emotions were a mess, not improved by an even more than usually massive dose of PMT.

She tried not to speculate about what Luc would be thinking about Rémy’s loss, and concentrated on feeling sad. Of course she must be, deep down. She must be torn with sadness, though the main feeling she was aware of was her sympathy for Em. Overcome as she was, as they all were, she refused to delude herself about Rémy.

His death didn’t change the cruel things he’d done. Some of the wounds he’d inflicted had had a bitter afterlife.

All right, maybe her plunge into adventure with Luc had been a bit soon after the end of the engagement, but officially—technically—despite the things Luc had said to her, she had done nothing wrong. Impulsive maybe, to share pleasure with a man who couldn’t appreciate a woman’s generosity in the best spirit, but not wrong.

She’d stick to that even as Luc Valentin tied her to the stake and applied the flaming torch.

No. If she did feel any guilt, the real reason, the one she could never admit to Em, was that, where Rémy was concerned, the worst she could feel was this terrible, awful hollowness. On the other hand, where Luc was concerned, she felt—

Raw.

The shock shook some Parisian quarters as well. In his executive office high above the Place de l’Ellipse, Luc Valentin was riveted to the police report, his pulse quickening by the second.

The loss of a young life was a tragedy, of course, though his cousin hadn’t exactly endeared himself to many of his relatives. Luc guessed poor Emilie would be the one who suffered most. The only surprise was that it had been an accident. Despite Rémy’s oily ability to slip out of tight situations, the chances had always been that eventually someone would murder him.

Someone like himself.

He’d considered it a few times after his tumultuous encounter in Sydney.

All at once finding his office suffocating, he took the lift down to the ground.

He strode block after block, seeing nothing of the busy pavements as the vision that haunted his nights invaded his being. Shari Lacey, powerful, vivid, as searing as a flame. Shari, her emerald eyes glowing with the sincerity of her denials. Shari …

Her very name was a sigh that plucked at his heartstrings. No, he mused wryly, wrenched them. If only Australia hadn’t been so far away. If he could talk to her. Hear her voice …

In the midnight hours he’d once or twice considered taking a month’s vacation and taking the long flight back. Just to—catch up. See if she needed protecting.

Those last bitter moments at her house stayed with him. We are strangers still rang in his ears. In English the words sounded even harsher than they did in French. That cold click of her locking her door, locking him out, had reverberated through him with a chill familiarity.

He grimaced at himself. Suddenly women were rejecting him on both sides of the world. Why? He’d never been a guy to pursue an unwilling woman. Vraiment, until Manon’s sudden betrayal he doubted he’d ever before experienced one. All his life, he’d taken for granted his ease at acquiring any woman he desired.

But first Manon, and now Shari … Somewhere on the journey, he’d lost his way.

Maybe he should have stayed in Australia and persevered. If it hadn’t been for that crucial directors’ meeting he might have stayed and … What?

Remonstrated with her? Sweet-talked her? Tried to make her forget Rémy? But how could he have? What man would dream of trying to impose his will on a woman who was already wearing the evidence of brute masculine force?

His fists, his entire being clenched whenever he thought of it. If he ever came across the canaille who’d done that to her …

He felt certain it had been Rémy. No wonder she’d been weeping when he’d gone to the apartment in search of him. How could such a woman have been sucked in by the guy?

He threw up his hands in bafflement.

Was that why Shari had insisted her wound had been an accident? She was still in love with her fiancé, ex-fiancé, whatever he’d been?

One thing was certain, whatever her status that night, she wasn’t engaged now.

Nom de Dieu. This impulse to contact a woman on the other side of the world, make some sort of approach, remind her he was alive, was ludicrous.

His feet slowed at the place where the red-curtained windows of a bar spilled an inviting glow into the grey afternoon.

Signalling the bartender for cognac, he took a table by the window. A couple of women came in and sat down. One of them had fair hair, not unlike Shari’s.

He drew the accident report from his pocket and re-examined it. Had they told Shari about the other woman in the car? Maybe she was in despair, grieving for the coquin.

He took out his mobile, calculated the time in Australia, then with a gesture of impatience slid the phone back into his pocket.

A blonde woman at the other table turned his way.

He dropped his glance, conscious of disappointment. There wasn’t the slightest resemblance.

Jolted from sleep, Shari dragged her eyelids apart as her phone vibrated with maddening persistence. She stretched out her hand for the bedside table.

‘Hello,’ she croaked.

‘Shari. Ça va?’

The masculine voice slammed Shari with a sickening shock. Her heart froze.

‘Rémy?’

There was a nightmare instant of suspense, then the voice, contrite, apologetic, said, ‘Shari, c’est moi. Luc. I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you.’

‘Sorry? You’re sorry?’ The relief, the warm, weakening relief flooded through her like a sob and gave her back her speech. ‘Do you know what time it is? Phoning in the middle of the night and speaking French … Are you trying to terrify me? And d-d-did you think I would want to speak to you ever again in my life? How did you get this number, anyway?’

‘From Neil.’ His voice dried. ‘Forgive me. I see this was a mistake.’

‘Another mis—’ she started to say, but Luc Valentin, the man who felt disdain for her, the man who knew her shame, disconnected before she could finish.

She lay awake until dawn, staring into the dark, alternately regretting her anger, then burning with it all over again. If only he hadn’t surprised her that night without her make-up. If only he’d left her some shred of dignity, she might not have had to feel so angry with him. She might have been able to hear his voice without all this agony.

It seemed her agony was never-ending. The excruciating reports of the efforts to reclaim Rémy went on for days before he was recovered. Messages flew thick and fast between Sydney and Paris. Luc’s name came up so often in Neil’s conversation, Shari wanted to cover her ears.

It was hard enough trying to squash down her memories of the party night. Shari didn’t care if Neil thought Luc was a great guy. But she couldn’t say so. She just had to grin and bear it all. And of course, poor Emilie needed to reminisce and talk about Rémy and her other family members. The least Shari could do for her grieving sister-in-law was to listen.

Emilie produced some photos of a visit she and Neil had made to France as newly-weds, before Rémy emigrated. One in particular smote Shari’s eye. It was of a foursome, leaning against a ramshackle fence in some rural setting. Rémy and Emi were linking arms with Luc and a spectacular-looking brunette with cheekbones and long, straight, shampoo-model’s hair.

‘See, Shari? Here’s Luc and Manon. This was the day we visited Tante Laraine’s farm. Do you remember, Neil? How happy we all were?’ Her eyes filled with tears.

‘Oh, Em.’ Shari put her arms around her and stroked Em’s hair. Naturally, anyone in tears always brought hers on as well.

When they’d all mopped up, Shari glanced again at the picture, once or twice. Manon was beautiful, no doubt about it. Some would say she and Luc looked good together. Right together, both being so tall and good-looking. Though Shari was not one of those people. How people looked was hardly the point.

She tried to persuade herself Luc didn’t appear all that happy in the picture. He wasn’t exactly grinning like the others, just smiling a little at Manon in that amused sort of way that made his eyes warm.

It scraped her heart. She turned away from it. Family photos had never interested her, anyway.

As it happened, she knew enough about Manon, since naturally, after the Luc debacle, she’d come across a few things on the Internet about Manon and her sensational affair with Jackson Kerr. Not that she was all that interested in Kerr and Manon at Cannes, or Kerr and Manon in LA. There’d been a million articles about Kerr’s discarded actress wife, with the usual wild gossip over the trashing of the marriage.

The tabloids had been pumped with it all when the affair was fresh, though now after all this time it had gone off the boil.

Luc hardly came in for a mention, except she saw his name mentioned in a couple of French newspaper articles about business. Who cared, anyway?

She buried herself in work. Anything to blot out reality.

She was involved in mapping out paintings one morning for her owl story when a magnificent bouquet of flowers was delivered to her door. Wow. It must have been ruinously expensive. Carrying the fragrant mass in to join her accumulating hothouse, she opened the card.

And felt a rapid pounding in her temples.

To Shari. Sincere condolences for your tragic loss from my heart. Luc Valentin.

She sat at her kitchen table, staring at the card, smarting. What did he mean by it? He knew enough about Rémy. He’d seen her bruise. Was he using this occasion to needle her?

Meantime, Neil continued to pour information into her unwilling ears. While Rémy had recently made his home in Australia, he’d still kept his French citizenship. His true heart had always been in Paris, according to the family. He must be transported there and buried in the family tomb.

‘Emilie’s devastated that she can’t go, Shari,’ Neil’s voice issued down the phone. ‘Not with the twins so close.’

‘Oh, of course. I know. It’s such a shame.’ Shari felt so sad for poor Emilie, and helpless. ‘Poor Em. It’s a horrible tragedy. But what can she do?’

‘She thinks someone must go in her place.’ Neil’s voice faltered a little. ‘We er … we know you’ll want to be there, Shari. So we’re—counting on you.’

Shari blenched to the soles of her feet. ‘What?’

The image of Luc Valentin, backed by a phalanx of hostile aunts, turned her hoarse. ‘Neil, no. Rémy and I didn’t even part as friends. Far from it. He wouldn’t— They wouldn’t want me there. I don’t even know Paris. I—I—I … Neil. You know I can’t afford it.’

‘Don’t worry, lovie,’ Neil said with surprising gentleness for a brother who was usually fairly brisk. ‘We’ll buy your ticket. We insist. It’s the least we can do for you.’

‘But … Please, Neil, tell Em I’d love to represent her, but I can’t. You of all people know I’m no good with funerals. And I’m too … Lately I’ve just been so tired. And I haven’t a thing to wear. Anyway, I hardly know a word of French. Neil, Neil—I couldn’t bear that long flight.’

There was a long silence. Then Neil’s voice came through again. Serious this time. Kindly. ‘Sis … Listen to yourself. You need to do this. Em and I have seen how down you’ve been these past weeks. You’re not yourself.’

‘What do you mean?’ Though she knew as soon as she said it she’d probably been tetchy and miserable. How could she have been anything else? Rémy had died, for goodness’ sake. She’d never been able to handle death.

As well, she’d been shamed by a man she’d offered herself to, she was struggling to create a book, and if all that weren’t bad enough her PMT crisis had gone on for so long her boobs were exploding out of her bras.

‘Emilie and I have talked it over. You’re in denial, we think.’

‘Neil.’ She laughed hollowly. ‘Don’t be silly.’

Typical of her brother to come up with some pop psychology. If only it were possible to explain to a man without him immediately leaping onto the bandwagon of sexist propaganda about hormones affecting women’s intelligence.

The truth was, stress had always given her menstrual problems, right back to her high-school days. Crushes, exams, falling in passionate love with her English teacher … The pangs of adolescence had thrown her querulous body clock out of whack every time.

She knew from experience that once her period started, she’d feel better in every way and be able to cope properly and be a decent, loving support to her sister-in-law.

‘Come on, Shar. The truth is you’ve been grieving over Rémy and the engagement a long, long time. We think you need to make this pilgrimage to properly close this episode in your life.’

Oh, right. Where did they get their psychiatric expertise from? Doctor Phil?

A few retorts jostled on her tongue, but most of them would only add fuel to Neil’s assertion that she wasn’t being herself. Her mousy, frumpy, slutty, hormonal self.

‘We absolutely insist on sending you first class,’ Neil persisted, enthusiastic since it didn’t have to be him. ‘See? You can sleep all the way. It’ll be a rest. And don’t worry about Paris. The family will look after you. Look how well you got on with Luc.’

Visions of the boathouse, their hot, panting urgency, Luc’s hard length filling her up, making her cry out, making her wild, making her yearn every night since, sent Shari’s knees weak. ‘No,’ she said faintly. ‘You’re wrong about that. We detested each other.’

‘Are you sure? It hardly seems like a week since you were here fluttering your lashes at him.’

Shari wanted to shout Stop. If only he knew what he was saying. Every word was a spike in her heart. Considering that Luc Valentin was the only person now living who knew the shame of her battered woman status …

Considering she’d actually had sex with him …

Considering he thought her the lowest, most pathetic creature he’d ever laid his aristocratic eyes on …

And how recently she’d snarled at him on the phone like a wild animal.

She shuddered to the core. She could never face him again.

‘Come on, Shar. Please. If not for yourself, do it for Emilie. Em wants to ask you herself, but she’s afraid you’ll think she’s imposing on your generous nature.’

Right. Fine. The Big One. The Emilie card.

Emilie was fragile, Neil reminded her. The twins could be distressed. Any further disturbance could bring on a premature birth situation. They could lose the twins. They could lose Emilie.

Shari’s conscience twinged. She loved Em as much as she loved Neil. With sinking resignation it dawned on her she didn’t have a chance of wriggling out of it unless she wanted to feel shame and self-reproach for all time.

Succumbing to the intense and excruciating pressure by painful degrees over days, she accepted that this was what family members did for each other. For once in her life she must put aside her personal fears and phobias and do something for someone else. Regardless of what Luc Valentin thought, she did have courage and self-respect, and she could behave honourably, and like an adult.

She could go there and meet him on his home turf with cool composure.

Though she did lay down some stipulations. She would only go briefly. And she would arrange it all herself. She wanted no interference.

There would be no advance warnings given. She made Neil solemnly promise on his honour as a brother and a stockbroker. No jolly welcoming committee at the airport. No feather bed tucked under the charming rafters of Tante Laraine’s rustic roof.

Emilie was shocked and wounded at this—Tante Laraine was her mother’s beloved cousin, and the mother of Luc—but Shari insisted. She would rather stay in a hotel.

She would rather stay in a drain.

All right, she could admit to herself she was scared. Call her a coward, but everyone knew the French loathed strangers. Especially if they couldn’t speak the language creditably. Rémy had always found her attempts to use her high school French hilarious.

Naturally, the last thing she wanted was to stay in a household where her name was a byword. One of her deepest fears was that Luc would have informed his entire family about the whore of Babylon Rémy had engaged himself to. It wasn’t as if she’d be able to defend herself there by telling them the truth about their golden boy.

Boys.

And as if everything else weren’t enough, the truth was, as Neil very well knew, she’d been severely traumatised by funerals ever since her mother’s. If Neil hadn’t been there to put his arms around her quivering ten-year-old self in the bad days and nights that had followed she’d probably have had to be sectioned.

Dragging herself to the task, she booked a room in a hotel near the Louvre. At least it didn’t sound too bad. There was something solid about an Hôtel du Louvre. If her nerve failed her when it came time to attend the ceremony, she could always sneak to the museum and hide among the Egyptian antiquities.

The flight she booked was transferable, just in case anything came up where she was required to stay longer. If Luc Valentin got over his disgust at the way she’d spoken to him on the phone, he might feel forced to take her to dinner, or something. She should probably accept, for the family’s sake, although she’d be reserved, even rather chilling.

She took steps to ensure she had something decent to wear to the ceremony. Luc might have a low opinion of her morals and her self-regard, but she would give him no opportunity to sneer at her clothes. Rémy had often declared that a Frenchmen could only ever feel distaste for the woman who was careless of projecting her beauty.

It had never been any use explaining to him how easy it was for an author/artist to forget to change out of her pyjamas for twenty-four hours when in the grip of her muse. Even Emilie had wrinkled her nose when she found out her guilty secret. Shari doubted Luc would be any different.

Just as well she wouldn’t be there long enough to get found out. She would establish a lasting impression of herself there as a woman of faultless grace and dignity.

Taking Emilie’s advice, Shari stuffed the corners of her suitcase with scarves. A woman could get away with much in Paris, Em promised, so long as she wore a scarf. Along with the scarves Shari included a massive pack of tampons. When her period finally, blessedly, did eventuate, it was bound to be Niagara Falls.

The moment arrived when, braced for every kind of horror, she boarded the flight.

By the time she disembarked at Charles de Gaulle mid-evening twenty-five hours later, among other things she was feeling rather wan. An hour before landing, a minor bout of turbulence had made her lose her dinner. Fear, no doubt, combined with motion sickness.

She cleaned herself up as best she could, scrubbed her teeth and sponged her neck, but her hair was lank, her clothes wrinkled and her breasts felt tender and vulnerable.

At least no unwelcome man loomed up in Arrivals to witness her failure to project her beauty at the airport. One thing she never wanted to give Luc Valentin the chance to see was Shari Lacey in transit. He’d seen more than enough.

Soon she was in a taxi being whisked incognito through the streets of the City of Light.

Though it was officially spring, Luc’s home turf must have been suffering a cold snap. A drizzly rain obscured its fabled beauty and chilled Shari to her soul. When she alighted from the cab, her teeth chattered.

She glanced around her, pursing her lips. So this was Paris.

Drawing her thin trench coat around her, she regarded the hotel with grim misgiving. Its façade was imposing, in keeping with the surrounding palaces on the grand boulevards.

But a smiling porter strolled out to take her bag and usher her through the revolving doors, and inside, thank the Lord, the lobby was warm, the people surprisingly welcoming.

Feeling empty after her mishap during the flight, Shari planned to order a snack from the restaurant. But once settled in her airy room with its long, graceful drapes at the windows, all she had energy for was the hot shower she’d craved the last five thousand miles. Then, clean, warm and comforted, she slipped between the sheets.