Authors: Sara Craven

Desperate Measures (36 page)

BOOK: Desperate Measures

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Anguish wrenched at her as she contemplated what he was asking. In different circumstances it would be paradise, the summation of all her secret, wildest dreams. But in reality, knowing that he didn't love her—that she was just the convenient wife he was using—it would be sheer unmitigated hell.

She looked back at him and shrugged. 'I've made my plans for the future,' she said. 'And nothing you can say or do is going to change my mind, Alain. It's over.'

'You speak with great certainty,' he said. 'Yet, mignonne, for the first time in this strange marriage of ours we are together and completely alone. As the days pass—and the nights—don't you think it is possible I might—persuade you to be a little kinder to me?'

'What kindness has there ever been between us?' Sudden bitterness vibrated in her voice, and she saw him wince.

'Very little, it is true, but it does not always have to be like this. We could—try again.'

There was an odd note in his voice—wistful, almost humble, and Philippa caught her breath. At that moment all she wanted to do was cross the floor space which separated them, and go into his arms. It would be the simplest action in the world—and also the most fatal. Snatching at her control, she went on the attack.

'And what about Madame de Somerville-Resnais? Have you got her permission for this touching reconciliation?'

'Hardly,' Alain returned curtly. 'She is in seclusion.'

'Oh, I see.' Philippa got to her feet. Her moment of weakness, of yearning, was over, and she was angry again. 'How stupid of me! You can't really continue your affair while she's in mourning, so you thought you'd entertain yourself with me. What a novel twist! It isn't usually the wife who's the little bit on the side.'

'How dare you!' Alain took a step towards her, his face darkening. 'Listen to me, you little fool...'

'I've heard enough. I want you to go, Alain. Go— now. Don't you understand?'

'It's you who doesn't understand. In the name of God, Philippa I've come all this way to see you—to talk to you...'

'Then you've had a wasted journey.' He took another step towards her, and she recoiled violently, backing away up the stairs, her hands flung rigidly out in front of her as if pushing him away. 'No!' Her voice rose hysterically. 'Don't touch me—don't come near me...'

The words died into a deep silence. Alain halted, staring at her, his brows drawn into a frown of utter incredulity, horror dawning in his eyes.

'Mon Dieu,' he whispered at last. 'You're afraid of me. Do you truly find me so terrifying—so repulsive?'

She shivered. 'Just go—please.' Her voice broke.

'Very well.' His voice was quiet. 'If that is what you wish.' He picked up his damp raincoat and shrugged it on, his eyes never leaving her. Then he walked to the door.

At the doorway he turned. His lips were smiling, but his face was as bleak as winter.

'It's ironic, isn't it,' he said. 'Of all the women in the world, my wife is the one I cannot reach. Goodbye, ma belle, and good luck.'

Philippa watched the door close behind him. When she was alone, she came downstairs, feeling her way across the room to a chair as if she was blind.

Alain had gone. She had been strong enough— brave enough to send him away. And now all she had to face was the lonely consequences of that courage— every day that remained of her life.

CHAPTER NINE

She was still sitting, gazing into space, when the door was flung roughly open again a few minutes later and Alain strode in, his face like thunder.

Shocked, Philippa jumped to her feet, knocking the chair over backwards with a clatter.

He faced her grimly across the table, eyes blazing, lifting a hand to silence her as her lips parted to speak.

'Yes, I've come back, but not of my own will, I assure you, so kindly spare me the recriminations that I'm certain are forming on that vitriolic little tongue of yours.'

'It—it isn't that.' Her voice quivered. 'But you can't blame me for being surprised. I thought you were returning to Paris.'

'So did I. But it seems your would-be lover has other ideas.' He paused. 'All four tyres on my car have been slashed. I shall be going nowhere tonight.'

'Fabrice did that?' Philippa bit her lip. 'But why?'

He shrugged curtly. 'Spite, I imagine. A futile act of revenge because I'd found him out—spoiled his little game with you.' He gave her an icy smile. 'Perhaps I've misjudged him, ma femme. Perhaps it wasn't simply the money my uncle was paying him. Maybe he really wanted you for himself.'

'I hope you don't expect me to feel flattered,' Philippa flung back at him. 'I'm sorry about your car, but it isn't the end of the world. There's a garage in Montascaux. They'll supply you with more tyres.'

'I'm sure they will,' he said. 'Tomorrow.'

He let the word sink in, nodding sardonically at the transparent look of dismay on her face. 'No, cherie, I do not propose to walk in this rain all the way to the village to a garage that will undoubtedly be shut by now.'

'It may not be...' she began.

'But I am not prepared to prove it, one way or the other, tonight,' Alain said silkily. 'Much as we may both regret the necessity, I am about to become your overnight guest.'

'Oh, but you can't!' Her hands twisted together in distress. 'Surely you could spend the night in your car—or there's an auberge further up the valley.'

'I hope its business flourishes,' said Alain, too courteously. 'It will not, however, be receiving my custom. Nor will I be risking cramp and pneumonia in the car. You are not very hospitable, ma chere.'

She flushed. 'You can hardly expect it.'

'And neither,' Alain went on with a trace of acid, 'can you expect me to force my attentions on a girl who has spent the last half-hour cowering from me. I had enough of that on our wedding night, if you remember. And since.' He paused deliberately, his brows lifting sardonically as she flinched. 'So please stop looking at me as if you were a mouse, and I were a hungry cat, and let us try and behave like civilised human beings for what remains of the evening.'

'You could have slashed your own tyres,' Philippa said mutinously.

He sighed. 'Yes, and I could also have arranged the rain, and the lateness of the hour, all for the pleasure of a few more enforced hours in your company, my little shrew. However, I did none of these things.' He

walked round the table and picked up the fallen chair. 'So please be less nervous.' He nodded towards the stove. 'Are we going to eat that food, or let it burn?'

Philippa shrugged defeatedly. 'I suppose we're going to have supper.'

'Well, we have eaten together many times before. It won't be such an ordeal,' he said drily. 'The difference is there'll be no Henriette to wait on us.'

'No,' she said. She was remembering what he'd "said—that for the first time in their marriage they were together and completely alone, and the prospect terrified her.

He thinks I'm afraid of him, she thought. But he's so wrong. I'm frightened of myself—scared of betraying everything I feel for him. Because if he knew, then I'd be in his power forever, and I couldn't endure that. I'm not going to be a complaisant wife pretending that every time he doesn't come home, he's working late at the office. I'd rather live apart from him than put up with that kind of lie.

She found place mats and cutlery, and laid the table. Alain cut up the baguette which Madame Bethune had supplied in the box of provisions, and opened a bottle of red wine.

The sheer easy domesticity of it caught her by the throat. She found herself thinking, If only...and thrust the thought away before it could become concrete in her mind. This was what she'd dreaded, she thought. The ordinary intimacy of preparing for a meal together. This was what real marriages were about. This was danger.

The cassoulet was thick and rich with preserved goose, just as Philippa remembered. In spite of her inner turmoil, she ate well. Apart from a few appre-

dative comments about the food, Alain made no attempt to engage her in conversation, and she was grateful for that. They finished the meal with cheese and fruit and the rest of the bread.

'Coffee?' Alain pushed back his chair and reached for the jug and filter unit.

'Do you know how to make it?' Philippa couldn't keep the astonishment out of her voice.

'Of course,' he said with asperity. 'It may also surprise you to know, ma femme, that I can cook. When I was a boy I used to go on hunting trips with my father. He believed in being self-sufficient.'

'Goodness,' she said. 'Did your mother go along as well?'

He laughed. 'Oh, no. She was like you, cherie. She was interested in painting—in watercolours. It was just a pastime with her, and I suspect her work had more charm than talent, but my father thought it was wonderful. He had a whole collection of her work framed and hung in our house at Fontainebleau.'

She nearly said, 'I wish I could seem them,' and stopped herself just in time.

She'd wondered about the Fontainebleau estate, and Alain's other homes too. He'd never suggested they should visit any of them, she thought, which helped emphasise how very much on the margin of his life she lived.

Instead, she said neutrally, 'Did your parents live at Fontainebleau?'

He nodded. 'All their lives together. It was always our family home.' There was a nostalgic, almost tender note in his voice as if he was recalling good memories she thought with a slight pang.

Philippa said stiltedly, 'It sounds as if they were very happy together.'

'Yes, I think they were, in spite of everything.' He encountered her questioning look, and shrugged. 'Theirs was an arranged marriage too. In the early days they had problems, but then who does not?' he added with irony.

'Yes,' she said, and pushed back her own chair. 'I—I don't think I'll bother with coffee. It might keep me awake, and I have to start work tomorrow.'

'Such industry,' Alain said softly. 'But you've forgotten one thing. You've still to show me where I'm to sleep.'

'Oh—yes.' She bit her lip. 'There are two rooms, but I'm afraid only one of them has been prepared. Madame Bethune brings the sheets and things from the farm, you see and...'

'Only one room.' Alain's lips twisted. lLe pauvre Fabrice! I can understand his disappointment, his desire for revenge on me.'

'Well, he was making a big mistake, and so are you,' Philippa said shortly. 'I never had the slightest intention of sleeping with him.'

'I think in this isolated spot, ma chere, it might have been wiser to examine Fabrice's intentions.' Alain's voice bit. 'Didn't it occur to you that you might be getting into a situation you couldn't handle?'

She flushed defensively. 'But I'd made the position clear to him. And he'd always seemed so—decent,' she added lamely.

'A paid seducer who slashes tyres.' Alain's smile was grim. 'You wouldn't have had a prayer, you little fool.'

She lifted her chin. 'I was desperate,' she said. 'And when I get desperate I tend to do foolish things—as you should know.'

'Our marriage being an example of prime idiocy on the part of us both.' The sudden bitterness in his voice shocked her. 'Well, show me this room, madame. There's a rug in the car. I can manage for one night.'

She nodded silently and led the way upstairs. The door of her own room was standing open, and she saw Alain's glance flick sideways, absorbing the big snowy bed, but he made no comment.

She found herself wondering suddenly, crazily, how she would act, what she would do if Alain took her into his arms, drew her into that room, down on to the yielding softness of that bed...

She said with a little gasp, as she threw open the door of the smaller room, 'Well, this is where you'll sleep, and the bathroom is at the end of the passage. I—I hope you'll be comfortable.'

'That,' he said cuttingly, 'is hardly likely. Bonsoir, Philippa.'

She muttered her own hasty goodnight and fled into her room. She was tempted to turn the key in the lock, but it was clearly rusty, and, anyway, she didn't want to overreact.

She heard Alain go downstairs, and return a short while later, presumably with his overnight things and the rug. She heard his footsteps descend the stairs again, and then everything went quiet. She undressed hurriedly, used the bathroom, and crept under the duvet.

But sleep eluded her. It was not going to be easy, she thought, staring into the darkness, to go on pretending that she didn't care—that their marriage

was a mistake she was eager to put behind her. Yet somehow it had to be done.

Because the last thing she wanted was to give herself away somehow, and let Alain see that she loved him.

A clean break, she thought. That was what she needed. Something that would heal—eventually.

Only a few more hours, she thought. Only a few more. She kept repeating the words in her head over and over again like some private litany of pain, until at last she fell asleep.

The sun was filtering through the curtains when she opened her eyes the next morning. She glanced at her watch and sat up with a start. It was nearly ten o'clock.

She flung on her clothes and headed for the stairs, pausing to glance into Alain's room. There was no sign of him. Perhaps he'd already left, she thought, her step faltering slightly.

The room downstairs was empty too, but there was a lingering fragrance of coffee in the air, and a bowl and plate washed neatly by the sink, so presumably he'd breakfasted.

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