Desperate Measures (11 page)

herself without particular conviction.

Afterwards, in the salon, coffee was served, and music was

played, as a background to conversation. Philippa made sure she was

always one of a group well away from Marie-Laure's vicinity.

Although I'm being perfectly ridiculous, she told herself. By

avoiding her like this, I'm putting myself on the defensive, and giving her an advantage. I should let her see that I'm indifferent to her—and impervious to her little poisoned darts. The trouble is, I keep

remembering that woman's remark that I'm 'no match for Marie-Laure'

and believing it.

It seemed a very long evening, and she was too on edge to

really enjoy talking to the people around her, although they couldn't have been kinder. But they still wanted to hear about the attempted

robbery, and she would have preferred to forget about it. She felt suddenly oppressed by the noise of laughter and chatter,

and stifled by the cigarette smoke mingled with expensive

perfume which filled the room.

She needed to be on her own for a few moments, preferably in

fresh air. The doors on to the terrace had been closed during dinner, but one of them was slightly ajar, and Philippa slipped unobtrusively through it into the darkness beyond.

She stood perfectly still for a moment, drawing deep, grateful

breaths of the cool, flower-scented air into her lungs. She realised

almost at once that she wasn't alone. From the other end of the

terrace she glimpsed movement in the shadows and heard the mutter

of lowered voices.

With a faint grimace, she half turned to go back indoors.

'Alain.' The name came to her on a throaty, seductive whisper,

impossible to ignore or forget. Philippa's head came round sharply,

and she peered through the gloom to the far corner of the terrace

where a trellis network interwoven with climbing plants provided a

screen. Then, almost as if it had been summoned, the moon emerged

from behind a cloud and she saw them, standing locked together,

Marie-Laure's arms round his neck, her body straining passionately

against his.

'Alain, mon amour.
'

She didn't want to see any more—hear any more. Only a few

hours earlier that might have been herself, she thought, pain slashing at her, as she turned, fumbling her way blindly back into the salon. At least she'd been spared that, if nothing else.

Perhaps it wasn't just a coincidence that Marie-Laure was here

tonight. Perhaps she and Alain had planned it that way, so that they

could meet, snatch

a few illicit moments together. They'd been clever about it. She

hadn't noticed either of them leave the room, and nor, she could

swear, had anyone else. It was a pleasant evening, and a good party.

They were all too involved, too interested in their own conversations, which was what the lovers had probably relied on.

And this time, contrary to popular belief, the wife had been the

first—indeed, the only one, to find out.

Not that it was strictly true, because she'd always known. That

was why Alain had married her, for God's sake. She was—camouflage.

Only—seeing them together had made it all too real somehow. Had

fixed her with an image of desire, of passion and sheer sensual

urgency that she would never be able to forget.

A maid approached, offering more coffee, and she took a cup,

swallowing a mouthful of the powerful black brew, feeling it scald

against her aching throat.

'Philippa.' She jumped as Alain appeared suddenly at her side,

his hand closing on her arm.

His face was grim as he looked down at her. 'It was you—just

now on the terrace?' As she nodded mutely, he said harshly, half under his breath, 'I thought so.' He glanced round him. 'We need to talk, you and I. I'll find Madame le Gres and tell her that we're leaving.'

'No, thank you.' She freed herself, gently and with dignity. 'I

don't want to leave yet. I—I'm enjoying myself,' she added defiantly.

'And I have no intention of spilling another drink, or making a fool of myself in any way, so please don't worry about me.'

'Do you think I care about that?' he said harshly. 'I have to talk

to you in private—to explain.'

'You explained when we met.' Philippa stared down at her coffee

cup as if it was the most amazing and imaginative artefact known to

the world of man. 'It's all right, Alain. You're paying me very

generously to provide a cover-up, and turn a blind eye to your—

diversions. That's what I'll go on doing.' She swallowed past the lump in her throat. 'But I will not— not provide one of those diversions

myself. In future I'd like my bedroom door to be provided with a lock and a key.'

The silence between them tingled in her brain, beat on her

eardrums.

Eventually Alain said coolly and courteously,
'D'accord,

madame
. It shall be exactly as you wish.'

'And there's one more thing.' She continued to look down at her

coffee. 'I don't think anyone here noticed you were missing—but it

isn't very wise to take chances like this, particularly when Madame de Somerville-Resnais focused attention on us all once this evening

already.'

'I am grateful for your advice,
madame.
' His tone was frozen silk. 'But, under the circumstances, Madame de Somerville-Resnais,

and my relationship with her, need no longer be any concern of yours.'

'I understand,' Philippa said, and turned away.

But it wasn't true. The realisation that she didn't understand—

didn't accept—struck her with all the force of a thunderbolt. Brought her to a standstill, coffee-cup in hand.

In fact, she understood only that she wanted to burst into tears,

to scream and stamp her feet, and howl her misery to the four winds.

She wanted to hurl the remains of her coffee over Alain's immaculate

dress shirt, and scratch her nails down his face until she drew

blood.

And then she wanted to find Marie-Laure and... She drew a

shuddering breath. It was better to stop right there.

The power, the enormity of everything she was feeling almost

overwhelmed her. As did the implications of it all.

Jealousy, she thought. That's what I'm feeling. I'm jealous. But I

can't be, because that would mean that I wanted Alain for myself.

Maybe, even, that I'd fallen in love with him. And that's impossible. It can't be true.

Because if it is true, what can I do? How can I bear it?

She squared her shoulders. She thought forcefully, I won't let it

be true.

'Pardon, madame
?' The look of smiling incomprehension from

someone standing near her told her that she had inadvertently made

that last avowal aloud.

Like an automaton, Philippa laughed, apologised, let herself be

drawn into the conversation, absorbed into the group.

And all the time, pounding in her head like a steam hammer,

came the silent despairing plea, Dear God, don't let it be true. Don't let me love Alain. Please don't let me love him.

She could only hope, forlornly, that her prayer would be

answered.

'What the hell's the matter with you today?' Zak demanded in

exasperation. He pointed at Philippa's drawing board. 'The assignment was meant to be a

simple one. I wanted you to draw the lady on the dais—just a

representation of the nude human form. Since when have you decided

to go in for Cubism?'

Philippa flushed. 'I haven't. It's just—well, life-drawing has never

been my strong point.'

'You can say that again!' Zak stared at her drawing and groaned.

'According to this, Jeannine looks as if she has about ten major bone deformities. It's probably actionable.' He turned to the model who was stretching cramped muscles and reaching for her wrap. 'You don't want to see this,
cherie
. It will only upset you.'

Jeannine smiled placidly, and went away to change with a wave

of her hand.

Zak gave Philippa a measuring look. 'So what's the problem?

Yesterday's wallet hijack? They say lightning never strikes twice in the same place.'

Philippa smiled stiltedly. 'I hope not. No, I just have things on my

mind.'

'Gavin, I suppose. Honey, what can I say? You've just got to trust

the doctors. You won't improve his condition in New York by fretting

over it in Paris.'

'I know.' Philippa was guiltily, miserably aware that she hadn't

given her father a thought in twenty-four hours. 'I'm sorry, Zak.

Today's been rather a waste of time, hasn't it?'

'You've had better.' Zak took the drawing board and put it down

somewhere else. 'Go home, Philippa. Try and relax. Get that good-

looking husband of yours to take you out to dinner.' He leered at her.

'Just for starters, that is.'

Philippa flushed. 'He's probably—busy.'

'Then tell him to relax as well,' Zak said largely. 'I want you here

tomorrow ready to do some real work.'

Easier said than done, Philippa thought gloomily as she walked

downstairs. The previous evening she had driven home with Alain in a

frozen silence. He had wished her a curt goodnight and gone to his

room, leaving her to tell herself over and over again that was exactly—

precisely what she'd wanted.

She went on saying it at intervals during a long and restless

night. At some time before dawn, she had conceded defeat, got up,

and crept barefoot to Alain's room. It was empty, the bed unruffled

and unslept in. She'd stared at it for a long time, then returned

soundlessly to her own room, and wept.

The locksmith had arrived to attend to her bedroom door almost

before she had finished breakfast that morning. Madame Giscard had

worn an expression of outrage as she supervised his endeavours.

Philippa was not sure she blamed her.

The housekeeper had also informed her glacially that Marcel

would be available to drive her to and from her art class. The orders were from Monsieur Alain.

She came out into the street and looked for the car, but it wasn't

waiting for her. Small wonder, she thought, glancing at her watch. She was a good hour earlier than usual.

'Madame de Courcy.' She turned, alarmed, in time to see Fabrice

de Thiery loping towards her across the road.

'I hope you didn't think I was another thief.' His smile warmed

her. 'I wanted to see you to return these.' He produced her key ring

from his pocket and held it out to her. 'I must have picked it up by

mistake yesterday.'

'Oh, thank you. What a relief! I hadn't dared confess I'd lost

them.'

'Your husband is such a monster?' He sounded amused, but his

eyes were serious.

'No—no, on the contrary,' Philippa said hastily. There was a

pause.

Then, 'You are early today,' he remarked. 'I was lucky to catch

you.'

'Not really.' Philippa sighed. 'I have to wait in future to be driven home.'

'Well, that is the sensible course.'

'Yes, but it isn't what I wanted.'

He looked at his watch. 'You have time, perhaps, for another

coffee?'

Philippa hesitated. The sensible course in this instance would be

to decline gracefully, and she knew it.

'You're going to refuse, aren't you?' Fabrice de Thiery said

ruefully. 'Well, I don't blame you. Your husband is a formidable man, after all. He would not wish you to make a friend of someone of such

little importance as myself.'

Philippa stared at him. 'Is that what you really think?'

'But of course.' He looked slightly embarrassed. 'After I left you, I made some enquiries. If it had not been for the keys, I don't think I would have dared approach you again.'

Philippa lifted her chin. 'Monsieur de Thiery, I would be delighted

to have coffee with you.'

She learned a considerable amount about him in the half-hour

that followed. She discovered that his parents lived in Rouen, where

his father had a printing business, and that he was an only child.

Fabrice was

working in Paris, completing his training in accountancy with an

international firm. In the winter he played rugby, and he enjoyed

Japanese films. The information poured out of him.

It was very pleasant, Philippa realised, to sit in the sunlight with

someone who so obviously found her attractive. And if a warning voice in her mind murmured that this was a situation fraught with potential pitfalls, she chose to ignore it. And if Alain disapproved of her new acquaintance, what did it matter? she asked herself defiantly. He was hardly in any position to criticise, after what she had seen on the

terrace the night before. She was simply having an innocent cup of

coffee at a pavement cafe, so what did he have to complain about?

She wasn't embarking on a love affair.

All the same, the glow of admiration in Fabrice's eyes, the way

he leaned towards her, and almost touched her hand, yet didn't quite

—these things were balm to the inner wounds which Alain had

inflicted. It humiliated her to remember how she'd clung to him—how

she'd allowed him to kiss her—touch her. The way she'd almost

forgotten that he was only playing some cynical game with her,

amusing himself for a few hours, even though his heart, mind and body belonged to another woman.

She sighed inwardly when she thought of Marie-Laure. Yes, she

was beautiful, with a body that would be any man's fantasy. But

Philippa found herself wishing that she liked her more, or thought she was worthy of Alain's obsession with her. Was he so besotted that he