Читать книгу Runaway Fiancee - Sally Wentworth, Sally Wentworth - Страница 7
ОглавлениеCHAPTER TWO
FOR a moment there was silence, followed by a buzz like that of a swarm of bees as everyone began to question their neighbour in hissing undertones, wanting more information but eager to hear what would happen next, not wanting to miss a word of a possible scandal.
It was Jean-Louis who spoke first. With a suspicious frown he said, ‘Who are you? I don’t know you.’
‘My name is Milo Caine. I’m British.’
‘Do you know him? Is what he says true?’
Jean-Louis had turned to Angélique, and the Englishman also had his eyes on her, his gaze intent, penetrating, as if he was trying to see into her soul.
She gave a small, amused laugh. ‘Of course not. I’ve never seen him before in my life. He’s probably a crank. And he’s definitely a gatecrasher. Why don’t you have him thrown out?’ Taking hold of her fiancé’s arm, she smiled up at him. ‘Everyone’s waiting; let’s cut the cake.’
‘Of course. Of course.’ Turning his back on the man who called himself Milo Caine, he plunged the knife into the gaudy cake. The people nearby cheered and clapped, but with a disappointed air; they felt cheated of a scandal, of some excitement.
After cutting the first slice, he dipped his finger into the icing then playfully lifted it to Angélique’s mouth. She laughed again and, taking hold of his finger, went to lick it off, her eyes on his, teasing, flirtatious.
‘Maybe you ought to look at this.’
It was the Englishman again. Growing angry, Jean-Louis turned to gesture to the waiters to get rid of him, but then came to an abrupt stop as he saw the photograph held out towards him. It was an enlarged shot, in black and white, perhaps a studio portrait, showing two people, a man and a woman. The man had his arm round the woman’s waist and was looking down at her with what appeared to be possessive pride, and the woman was looking towards the camera, smiling, but not with any great happiness; instead there seemed to be nervousness behind the smile. The man was Milo Caine—and the woman was unmistakably Angélique.
‘And then there’s this.’ Before either of them could react Milo Caine showed them a newspaper cutting, again with a photograph. When Jean-Louis didn’t take them, Caine let them drop and they fell on the cake. Then he started to take more photographs from his pocket, ordinary snapshots in colour this time, always of himself and Angélique. He kept dropping them onto the cake, covering its surface.
With a sudden snarl of anger Jean-Louis lifted the knife and stabbed it down hard into the black and white photograph, jabbing cleanly through it into the depth of the cake, and leaving the knife quivering there. ‘What is this?’ he demanded of Angélique.
‘Maybe we could go somewhere more private and discuss it,’ Caine said quickly, before she could answer.
Suddenly becoming very French, Jean-Louis threw his hands wide and said in a low, menacing voice, ‘How dare you come here and say these things at such a time? Do you think I care that Angélique knew you once? She is my fiancée now. You are nothing! Forgotten. It is me that she is to marry. Angélique is—’
‘She is not.’ Caine’s voice, cold and sharp, cut through his anger, momentarily silencing him. ‘She is not Angelique Castet. She is not even entirely French. Her mother is English,’ he said, his grey eyes watching her, ‘and her real name is Paige Chandos.’
Both men had turned towards her, but Angélique was unaware of their gaze. She was staring down at the photographs, a stunned look on her face. Slowly she reached out to pick one up, to look at it more closely. It appeared to have been taken some time ago because her face had a youthful, innocent look, and must have been taken at a classy party because she was wearing a lacy evening dress. Beside her, but not touching her, stood Milo Caine in a dark evening suit. He was smiling easily, completely relaxed, but again she seemed tense.
Suddenly Angélique dropped the photo as if it were red-hot. ‘Jean-Louis!’ She clung to him and, her voice filling with distress, said, ‘I don’t understand. How were those photos taken? I don’t know this man.’
He looked at her, half puzzled, half disbelieving. ‘But you must know him.’
She raised a strained face to his. ‘I don’t, I tell you. It’s some trick. Make him go away. Get rid of him.’
Jean-Louis turned, his chivalry aroused, and prepared to do battle. But the Englishman drew himself up, squaring his shoulders. He was taller, his shoulders broader, and there was a look in his eyes that would have given anyone pause. Suddenly Jean-Louis recollected that there were several reporters present, as well as rich and influential people that he needed in his career. It would hardly do for him to be involved in a brawl in such a public place. Especially if there was any truth in Caine’s claim—and even more especially if he lost the fight and was made to look a fool.
‘Shall we go somewhere more private?’ Caine suggested again. ‘The restaurant manager’s office, perhaps?’
He gestured with his arm and, agog with curiosity, those around them stood back to give them a corridor in which to walk. With an angry gesture, Jean-Louis took hold of Angelique’s hand and began to stride along. Milo Caine followed them, first stopping to pick up all the photographs.
The manager began to protest but then saw the strained looks on their faces, gave a shrug, and left the three of them alone. He didn’t shut the door properly. Caine gave a small smile, closed it and leaned against it for a moment.
‘What is this?’ Jean-Louis demanded angrily. ‘What do you want?’
Caine straightened. ‘I want Paige to admit that we were engaged.’ He shoved his hands in his pockets, his face becoming set and grim as he looked at Angélique. His voice terse, menacing, he said, ‘And I want an explanation. I want to know just why she disappeared. Why she took it into her head to walk out on her family and friends—and on me.’ It was the first time he had betrayed any emotion, and even now he hadn’t raised his voice, but Angélique was aware of deep, implacable rage that seethed beneath the cool hardness of his face.
‘You’re mistaken,’ she said forcefully. ‘I don’t know you. You’re mixing me up with someone else, someone who looks like me.’
Taking a step towards her, Caine said shortly, ‘Anyone who has seen those photographs can be in no doubt that you are one and the same.’
‘No, you’re wrong! That girl is young, much younger than me.’
‘They were taken some time ago, before you ran away. Why did you? Why did you go?’
He had come close to her, his face taut, his jaw thrust forward, and she could see that the hands in his pockets had closed into fists.
The menace in his eyes frightened her and she stepped back. ‘I tell you, you’re wrong. My name is Angélique Castet and I’m French. Ask Jean-Louis; he’ll tell you.’
But her fiancé might just as well not have been in the room because Caine completely ignored him, instead reaching out to catch hold of her arm. ‘Well, it will be easy to prove, one way or another.’
‘What do you mean? How can you prove it?’ Jean-Louis demanded.
‘Paige Chandos had a distinctive scar, the result of a bicycling accident when she was a child. It’s in the shape of a hollow circle about an inch across, on her left shoulder—like this...’ With a sudden jerk he pulled her against him and held her as he tugged down the sleeve of her dress.
Angé1ique gave an outraged cry and Jean-Louis instinctively caught hold of Caine to pull him away from her, but then stopped as they both looked at her shoulder. It was Milo Caine who recovered first; he gave a harsh laugh. ‘Well, well. How—convenient.’ His scathing grey eyes came up to meet hers. ‘A ladybird. A nice fat round ladybird. Now, I wonder when you had that tattoo done?’
It was Jean-Louis who answered. ‘She has always had it. As long as I’ve known her.’
‘And just how long is that?’
‘Several months.’
‘Paige Chandos disappeared just over a year ago.’
Snatching her arm free, Angelique pulled up her sleeve and said vehemently, ‘I am not this woman you knew. You must be mad to think so. I keep telling you that I don’t know you, that I’ve never met you before.’ She swung petulantly away. ‘Why don’t you go away, leave us alone?’
‘Do you deny that you’re Paige Chandos?’ Angélique threw up her arms in exasperation. ‘Haven’t I already said so a dozen times? I’ve told you who I am.’
‘In that case you won’t mind having your fingerprints checked, then, will you?’ Caine said smoothly.
‘My fingerprints?’ Angélique was taken aback.
‘Yes. They can’t be disguised—or covered up.’ Before she could speak there was a knock on the door and the owner of the art gallery came in. His voice impatient, he said, ‘Jean-Louis, the American millionairess is looking for you. She’s decided she wants her portrait painted, but only if you will do it immediately, before she goes back to the States.’
‘Mon Dieu!’ Jean-Louis smote his forehead in annoyance. ‘Tonight of all nights we have to have this problem.’ He swung round on Angelique. ‘Sort this out. I don’t care if you knew him in the past or not. Just settle this.’
He strode towards the door but Angélique grabbed his arm. ‘Wait! You can’t leave me here alone with him.’
He shook her off, impatient himself now. ‘There are over two hundred people on the other side of the door; just scream if you need help.’
‘No, I’m coming with you.’
She went to follow him but Caine took hold of her arm in a grip that was as strong as a vice, as strong as the embrace of a lover. ‘I think not. You still have a lot of explaining to do.’
He pushed the door shut and then leaned against it before he let her go. Angélique rubbed her wrist, looking at him in wary defiance. ‘What game is it you play?’ she demanded.
Caine’s eyebrows rose. ‘Now that we’re alone, I was going to ask you the same question. Just what game are you playing, Paige?’
‘Don’t call me that! It’s not my name.’
He was suddenly angry again, and stepped towards her. ‘Stop this! You know damn well who you are. And you know damn well that you had promised to marry me.’ His voice harsh, he snarled, ‘Why did you do it? Why?’ Angélique lifted her hands to put them over her ears, to shut out his questions, but he caught her wrists and pulled them down. ‘Don’t you know what anguish you caused? To disappear without a word to anyone—and just a week before the wedding! We scoured the country looking for you. But all we found was your car, abandoned. I thought you were—’
‘Stop it!’ Angélique cried out. ‘Don’t shout at me. You’re making my head hurt. My head always hurts when people shout at me.’
He let her go and she put her hands up to her head again, covering her temples, her eyes tightly closed, and leaned back against the wall. Grudgingly, after a few moments, Caine said, ‘Are you all right? Do you want some water?’
‘No. No, thank you. It will go if I’m quiet.’
He was watching her, gazing frowningly at her bent head. ‘Do you often get headaches?’
‘Not so much now. Not during the day, but sometimes at night—’ She broke off, becoming aware that she was confiding in this stranger.
But, “‘Sometimes at night”?’ he prompted. ‘You get them then?’
‘It’s nothing,’ she said stiffly. ‘Just bad dreams.’
He leaned forward, his face intent. ‘What do you dream about?’
She stared at him, then straightened up and gave a scornful laugh. ‘You ask me what I dream about? You are mad, Englishman.’
‘Am I? Perhaps.’ He suddenly switched to English. ‘I have your passport here; do you want to see it?’
Her eyes flicked to his, then away again. ‘I don’t understand you.’
‘Oh, but I think you do.’ Taking a red-backed passport from his pocket, he opened it and showed her the photograph inside. ‘This was taken only a few weeks before you disappeared. You needed it for the honeymoon we planned in America.’
He still spoke in English but she didn’t react to it until he thrust the passport at her. Slowly Angélique took it and looked down at the photo. The girl it portrayed had made no attempt to smile, but seemed to be looking at the camera with some reluctance.
‘You’ll notice that the description fits you exactly—even down to the scar on your shoulder.’
‘I can’t read English.’
‘Rubbish! Damn you, Paige, stop this idiotic pretence.’
He went to catch hold of her but she dropped the passport and backed away. ‘No! Please! I don’t know you. I don’t know you. I’m sorry, but I don’t.’ She held her hands up to ward him off. ‘Please. Please, leave me alone.’
He stopped, holding his anger under control at her obvious distress. His jaw tightening, Caine reverted to French as he said, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. But you must stop lying to me, Paige.’
‘I am not lying to you.’
Anger flashed in his grey eyes again, but with an effort he said, ‘All right. So suppose you tell me just who you are.’
‘I already have. You know who I am.’
‘I know the name you’ve given me, yes. But I want you to tell me about your background. Where you were born. How old you are. About your family, your work. Everything.’
She frowned. ‘No, why should I?’
‘To convince me once and for all that I’m wrong.’
‘Why should I have to convince you?’ She flared up. ‘It’s you that is making all these stupid accusations.’ Her mouth set obstinately. ‘I won’t do it. Why should I?’
‘Because if you don’t I shall keep on hounding you, following you everywhere, giving you no peace, until you finally admit that you are Paige Chandos.’
Caine had spoken evenly but there was a distinct threat in his tone. Angélique glared at him for a long moment, then shrugged. ‘Oh, very well. I am twenty-three years old and I am from Normandy.’
‘Oh, really? What part?’
‘Lisieux.’
‘I know it well. Whereabouts do you live?’
‘I don’t live there any more; it’s where I was born.’
‘But you must know it. Where did you live? Near the cathedral?’
He asked the question casually enough but was watching her so intently that she was suspicious of it. But Angélique shook her head. ‘I don’t know. We must have left there when I was very young. I don’t remember it.’
‘You haven’t been back there?’
‘No.’
‘So who do you mean when you say “we”?’
She frowned. ‘My family, I suppose.’
‘You suppose? Don’t you know?’
‘Yes, of course.’ She spoke irritably. ‘My family. My parents.’
‘And where are your parents now?’
A hunted look came into her extraordinary eyes. ‘They are dead. Yes, they are dead.’
‘And do you have any other family? Brothers or sisters? Aunts? Uncles?’
Slowly she shook her head. ‘No, there is no one. I can’t remem—’ She broke off, her head rising. ‘There is Jean-Louis. I am going to marry him.’
‘As you say.’ Caine was watching her, his brows drawn into a frown. ‘Where did you go to school?’
A blank look came into her face. ‘Here and there. I live in Paris now.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘With Jean-Louis?’
‘No. I have a room of my own,’ she said with cool dignity.
His shoulders relaxed a little. ‘Did you go to school here in Paris?’
She seemed to grasp at the suggestion. ‘Yes. Yes, I went to school here.’
‘Which school? Which district?’
‘Different schools.’ She began to move agitatedly about the room.
‘Tell me their names.’
‘I can’t remember the names.’ She turned on him angrily. ‘Get out of the way; I’m going back to the party.’
But he didn’t move from the door. ‘You must remember the names of the schools you went to.’
‘No, I don’t!’ Her voice rose, and Angélique put a hand up to her head again.
‘All right. Tell me about your work, then. What do you do?’
Now there was no hesitation. ‘I work at Le Martin Pêcheur.’
‘What is that?’
‘It’s a big restaurant where you can eat and dance, on the Quai Victor Hugo.’
His face set. ‘You are a dance hostess?’ Angélique looked surprised. ‘No, I’m a waitress. That’s where I met Jean-Louis. He came there to paint.’
‘I see. How long have you worked there?’
She gave a small shrug. ‘Ten—eleven months.’
‘What did you do before that?’
Speaking with less confidence, she said, ‘I was looking for work.’
‘How long for?’
‘I—I’m not sure. Several weeks. After...’ Her voice faded.
‘Yes? After? After what?’
‘After I was ill,’ Angélique said slowly, her hand to her head again.
His voice soft, not much above a whisper, Milo Caine said, ‘You were ill?’
‘Yes. There was—they said there was an accident.’
‘Who said so?’
‘The people at the hospital.’
‘Don’t you remember?’
‘No. No, I don’t remember.’ She suddenly straightened up, said irritably, There, I’ve told you all you wanted to know. Now leave me alone. You have ruined the party for me.’
‘There’s just one thing more.’ He took the newspaper clipping from his pocket. ‘I’d like you to read this.’
Reluctantly Angélique took it from him, glanced at it, then immediately handed it back. ‘It’s in English.’
He made no comment, but took it back and said, ‘Then I’ll translate it for you.’ But he didn’t even glance at the cutting as he went on, ‘Basically it is a report of our engagement. It states that our marriage will set the seal on a business partnership between our two families that has existed for over two centuries. The company of Caine and Chandos has recently been run by Milo Caine, the direct descendant of one of the original founders.’ He glanced at her to make sure she knew he was referring to himself. Her expression was one of wooden boredom, but he seemed satisfied and went on, ‘Half of the business, though, is still owned by the Chandos family, but their shares have passed through the female line since the death of George Chandos in 1983. His daughter married a Frenchman but the marriage was eventually dissolved and the entire shares for the family’s half of the company are now owned by his granddaughter, Miss Paige Chandos.’
Folding the clipping, he looked at her expectantly, but Angélique merely made a moue of disinterest. ‘Why do you tell me this? It seems a strange way to announce an engagement. Your English society pages must be very boring.’
‘It wasn’t in the society pages, it was in the business supplement.’
She laughed and gave him a pitying look. ‘So that was what your engagement was—a business arrangement But that I can understand. They still have those kind of marriages among the wealthy classes here in France.’ Her eyes disparaged him and her voice was taunting. ‘No wonder you are eager to find your fiancée; how annoyed you must be not to have all those shares under your control, the entire power under your command.’
‘Is that what you think?’ he asked, watching her closely.
She gave an eloquent shrug. ‘Why should you care what I think? I am nothing to you.’
‘On the contrary. You mean a great deal to me.’ His voice was warm, forceful.
With a small laugh, Angélique said, ‘How can I when you have never seen me before?’
But Caine ignored her and went on, ‘Is that why you ran away? Did you think that I didn’t care about you, was only interested in the company? You couldn’t be more wrong, Paige. I care about you very deeply.’
Slowly she raised her eyes to look into his, then gave a mocking smile. ‘I always understood that Englishmen were cold fish—now I know why.’
His mouth thinned. ‘I hardly think that the punishment you inflicted fits the crime, especially when the crime existed only in your imagination, Paige.’
Her eyes shadowed. ‘Don’t call me that. You’re wasting your time. I am not the woman you’re looking for. You’ve made a mistake. How many times do I have to tell you?’
Jean-Louis walked into the room. ‘Are you still arguing?’ he demanded exasperatedly.
‘Do you read English, Monsieur Lenée?’ Caine asked, and when he got a nod in reply handed him the cutting.
His eyes widening as he read it, Jean-Louis said, ‘Are you saying that this woman is Angélique?’
‘I’m sure of it.’
‘If what he is saying is true then you could be rich, chérie. Is she rich, this—’ he glanced at the clipping ‘—Paige Chandos?’
‘Very.’
They both watched him as he stood silently, thinking it through, then Jean-Louis said, ‘Is it really possible that you could be this woman, Angélique?’
‘No,’ she said positively.
‘I’ve asked her about her background,’ Caine interrupted, ignoring her denial, ‘but she seems very confused. She said that she was in an accident and she doesn’t seem to remember much that happened before that.’
‘That’s true,’ Jean-Louis agreed at once. ‘She has never told me anything about her past, her family. And I have never met anyone who knew her before I met her.’ Going to Angélique, he said in a persuasive tone, ‘If you are this woman, then it is only right that you should claim your inheritance, chérie.’
Her green eyes grew cold. ‘What are you saying?’
He spread his hands. ‘You may be right, he may have made a mistake, but—’
‘He has,’ she interrupted fiercely.
Jean-Louis frowned, then turned to Caine. ‘Please, I wish to speak to my fiancée in private.’
For a moment the Englishman hesitated, but then nodded. ‘Very well.’
When they were alone, Jean-Louis took her hand. ‘I have agreed to paint the American woman’s portrait immediately. Tomorrow I am to go to the château near Montpellier where she is to visit friends and do the painting there. It will take me at least three weeks, probably longer, and I cannot take you with me.’
‘So?’
‘Angélique, it could be that you are not this woman the Englishman is looking for, so then, OK, you have lost nothing. But you have always refused to talk about your childhood, your past before you came to Paris. I’ve often asked you but you’ve never told me anything, except that you were in an accident. So maybe you are this English girl.’ He paused, then said, ‘Caine seems very sure that you are, but even if you are not, what harm would it do to take this fortune he’s offering you?’
‘I don’t want money. I don’t want to be rich. I just want to be your wife, your model.’
‘You will still be that, of course. But it’s better to be rich than poor. And think what we could do with the money; we could pay off the loan from the gallery. I would be free to exhibit my paintings wherever I liked. I could paint what pictures I wanted all the time instead of having to take commissions. And I could—’
Her green eyes glacial, Angélique said acidly, ‘And you could wear Armani suits all the time, and go to parties, and drink champagne all day long. You could have a house in Tahiti and an apartment in New York. You could travel and mix with all these beautiful, rich people you so admire.’
‘And what is wrong with that?’ Jean-Louis demanded, incensed. ‘A great talent should be nurtured. You should be pleased that you could make me free to do the work I want.’
‘Pleased?’ she said derisively. ‘Pleased that you could toss off a painting every now and again just so that the women keep fawning over you?’
He laughed and pulled her to him. ‘Ah, I see what it is, chérie; you are jealous. You think that if we were rich I would flirt with other women. But you know that there has never been anyone but you since the first moment I met you. It was love at first sight, was it not? I am your slave; I am the ground under your pretty feet.’ He was kissing her neck, the corners of her mouth, her eyes. ‘You know I adore you, that I would give my life for you. How could I even look at another woman when I am blinded by your beauty? Every moment away from you will be a lifetime. I hate this American woman for taking me away from you, but I have to do it. I can’t afford not to. You know that.’ He sighed against her lips. ‘But if we had money of our own then I would never have to leave you.’
Angélique had her eyes closed, was listening to his insinuating compliments and comparing them with the Englishman’s quiet ‘I care about you very deeply’. Two such different men—one cold and aloof, holding his emotions under iron control, the other colourful, not afraid to speak or show his feelings. Or to use his charm to make her do what he wanted. Pushing herself away from him, she looked at Jean-Louis’s earnest face and said, ‘To be a great painter you need to work hard.’
‘Have I not been working hard for the last ten years?’ he exclaimed heatedly.
‘Yes, and you’ve found fame at last. On your own. You don’t need someone else’s fortune. You can get everything you want on your own merit. Surely it’s far more satisfying to do it that way?’
He grew angry. ‘It would take me at least five years, maybe more, to get the artistic freedom I want. If you can get this woman’s money I could have it now, at once. Are you so selfish that you would deny me that, deny the world my talent?’
‘I was happy as we were,’ she said bitterly.
‘Having money will only make us happier.’
‘No, it won’t; money only brings trouble. I don’t want to do this, Jean-Louis.’
But he had seen a rosy vision of the future, and having seen, wanted it, the freedom it promised shutting out everything else. ‘If you love me,’ he said forcefully, ‘you will go with Caine and try to get this money for us.’
‘Let me understand you. You want me to take this money if it’s offered to me, even though I know I’m not the person he thinks I am?’
Jean-Louis gave an airy gesture. ‘Why not? If he is so eager to give away a fortune, why not take it?’
Staring at him, her eyes glacial, Angélique said, ‘You are just like all the others, Jean-Louis. I thought you were different, but you’re not. I thought you had integrity, to your art, at least, but you don’t even have that.’
He gave an impatient gesture. ‘You’re being stupid, Angélique. It’s because I want to devote my life to my work that I need this money. Can’t you see that?’
She didn’t answer, just held his eyes with her own. He looked away first, swinging round to go to the door. Opening it, he called, ‘Caine?’ and the Englishman came back into the room.
‘Yes?’
‘We have come to a decision. Angélique has told me that she can remember nothing before her accident, so maybe she is this woman you’re looking for.’
Caine looked at them both for a moment, then said, ‘I would need her to come back to England with me.’
‘Very well, she will go.’
Looking directly at her, Caine said, ‘Are you willing to go?’
She hesitated for a moment, then nodded, her face set. ‘Yes.’
‘Having seen your old life, it may be that you will wish to return to it,’ he said carefully.
Her eyes flashed fire. ‘Be engaged to you, do you mean?’
Jean-Louis laughed. ‘Just as soon as the matter is decided Angélique will come back to France to be with me.’ And he put a possessive arm round her shoulders, then bent to nuzzle her neck in a gesture that was all confident defiance. Angélique stiffened a little but she didn’t move away.
Caine’s expression didn’t change. He said, ‘Very well—just so long as you are aware of the possibility. And, naturally, if she did decide to stay you would raise no objection; you would give Paige her freedom.’
With a cool smile Jean-Louis said, ‘Paige can do what she likes, but I assure you that Angélique will hurry back to me.’
It was a definite challenge, a glove being thrown down. Without any effort Caine accepted the challenge with a smooth, ‘We’ll see, won’t we?’ He turned to Angélique. ‘Where do you live?’
She told him and he didn’t bother to write it down. ‘I’ll collect you at ten tomorrow morning. Please be ready to leave for England.’ Then, with a brief nod, he left the room.
Pulling her against him, Jean-Louis gave her an exuberant hug. ‘We’re going to be rich, chérie. And we still have tonight, just as we planned.’
Putting all her strength behind it, Angélique punched him in his midriff. He doubled up with a groan as she said, ‘If you think I’m going to bed with you tonight after this, then you’re crazy!’ And she, too, marched out of the office.
A long, sleek car with British plates drew up outside her door at exactly ten the following morning, having to double-park in the narrow road. When Milo Caine rang the bell Angélique kept him waiting as long as possible, hoping the blue-capped dragon of a traffic warden who patrolled the area would catch him, but when he rang the bell for the third time she had to open the door.
He gave her a wry look but made no comment on her tardiness, merely saying, ‘Are you ready?’
She nodded ungraciously.
‘You have only the one case?’
‘Yes. I don’t intend to be away for long,’ she told him coldly.
He was driving the car himself; she had half expected a chauffeur. Opening the front passenger door for her, he said, ‘Would you like to take off your coat?’
‘All right.’ She shrugged out of the ankle-length coat and handed it to him. Under it she was wearing a sleeveless knitted top that hugged her breasts and a very short skirt. Her legs, long and tanned, were bare. His eyes ran over her and although his expression didn’t change she could sense his disapproval. Giving him a provocative look, she deliberately crossed her legs, lifting the skirt even higher. Caine’s mouth tightened for a moment but he still didn’t speak, instead closing her door and going round to his own side of the car.
Angélique laughed. ‘How stern you look, Englishman. Don’t you like my legs?’
‘You never used to wear clothes like that,’ he commented evenly.
‘It’s not too late,’ she pointed out mockingly. ‘If you disapprove of me so much you can forget all these crazy ideas you have. Forget me. Go and look somewhere else for the woman who ditched you.’
A slight stiffening of Caine’s jaw was the only sign that her jibe had gone home, and his voice was quite unemotional as he said, ‘On the contrary, I’m quite sure you’re the woman I want. And, now that I’ve found you, I don’t intend to let you go.’
Huffily, she turned away and yawned.
‘You’re tired?’
She gave him a sideways glance. ‘Very. I had to say goodbye to Jean-Louis last night. Remember? So, naturally, I am extremely exhausted.’
He probably didn’t know it, but the tightening of his features gave away his inner anger, and she laughed again in ironical amusement.
The Paris traffic was heavy and required his entire concentration so they didn’t speak again until the car was safely stowed on Le Shuttle and the train was carrying them at immense speed across France towards the Channel Tunnel and England. They sat in the passenger compartment in seats across from one another, the only other travellers were at the far end of the carriage, out of earshot.
‘You said that you were involved in an accident,’ he reminded Angélique. ‘What kind of accident?’
Her eyes shadowed. ‘I don’t remember it. I only know what I was told.’
‘And what was that?’
She hesitated, then said slowly, ‘They told me I was on a bus. It was travelling along the Périphérique in a storm when a container truck jackknifed in front of it and they collided. Most of the passengers were rescued but then the bus caught fire and was destroyed. Two people were killed.’ Her voice faltered a little on the last sentence, and then Angélique said, ‘That’s what they told me when I woke up at the hospital.’
‘Were you badly hurt?’
‘No. Just a bruised shoulder and a bad bump on the head.’
‘How did they know your name?’
“There was a piece of paper in my pocket. It gave my name. It said “Angélique Castet. Born Lisieux.” And it gave the date of my birth.’
‘Nothing else?’
She shrugged. ‘A few scribbled numbers and words that didn’t mean anything to me.’
‘Do you still have the paper?’
‘Perhaps. Somewhere.’
‘You didn’t bring it with you?’
‘No. Why should I?’
Leaning forward and looking at her intently, Caine said, ‘Can you remember anything from before you had the accident?’
Her eyes grew troubled. ‘Sometimes at night—when I dream, I see places that I feel I know, but in the morning...’ She threw open her hands and made a blowing shape with her lips ‘...poof! They’re gone.’
‘Never people?’
Her mouth creased in amusement. ‘No, Englishman,’ she said in open mockery. ‘I have never dreamt of you.’
He wasn’t put out, instead smiling rather wryly. ‘I left myself wide open to that one, didn’t I?’ She didn’t return the smile, and after a moment he said, ‘Look, we’re going to see a lot of each other in the near future. I know you’re angry with me and you don’t want to do this, but couldn’t we try to be civil to one another?’
‘You are being civil to me.’
Again his lips twitched. ‘All right, do you think that you could please be civil to me, then?’
‘How?’
‘You could start by calling me by my name instead of “Englishman”,’ he suggested.
‘Very well, Monsieur Caine.’
‘My name is Milo,’ he reminded her.
Tilting her head, she considered the idea. ‘I don’t think I like it.’
‘Nor do I, but I’m afraid I’m stuck with it, and it would upset my mother if I tried to change it.’
‘You have a mother?’
‘Most people do.’
Her face tightened. ‘Do they?’
Reaching across, he took her hand. ‘Sorry. Would you like me to tell you about your family? You do have one, you know, Paige.’
So he was convinced that she was his girlfriend, and seemed convinced, too, that she had lost her memory. With a sigh, she said, ‘Are you always going to call me that?’
‘It’s your name.’
‘And you want me to be civil to you and use yours?’
‘Yes.’
She was suddenly angry. ‘Why should I be civil to someone who has turned my life upside down, who ruined my engagement party, who has taken me away from my fiancé’s side? You’re a fool if you think—’
But he interrupted by saying, ‘No, I’m giving you back the life you had. Filling in your past. You have the right to that. Even if you choose to reject it, you should at least have the right to choose.’
His words took her aback and she stared at him for a long moment before she realised that in his vehemence he had spoken in English.
Milo realised at the same moment and his eyes widened. ‘You understood, didn’t you? Didn’t you?’
Paige didn’t answer directly, but said, in perfect English, ‘How did you know where to look for me?’
‘It was the portrait. It was reproduced in an art magazine that I take. And it even gave the details of your engagement party.’ Sitting back, his eyes on her face, he said, ‘I would have known your eyes anywhere.’
