Kitabı oku: «From Paris With Love Collection», sayfa 32
“Jesus! Back off, I said!”
“Not until you let Gina go.”
“The hell I will! She’s got some explaining to do, and I’m not letting her out of my sight until...”
He broke off, as startled as Sarah when she was thrust aside by 180 pounds of savage male.
“What the...?”
That was all Mason got out before a fist slammed into his jaw. He stumbled back a few steps, dragging Gina with him, then took a vicious blow to the midsection that sent him to his knees.
Still, he wouldn’t release Gina’s wrist. But instead of fighting and twisting, she was now on her knees beside him and waving her free hand frantically.
“Dev! Stop!”
Sarah was terrified her sister might be hurt in the melee. Or the baby. Dear God, the baby. She leaped forward and hung like a monkey from Dev’s arm.
“For God’s sake, be careful! She’s pregnant!”
The frantic shout backed Dev off but produced the opposite reaction in Mason. His brown eyes blazing, he wrenched Gina around to face him.
“Pregnant? What the hell is this? When you called me last night, all weepy and hysterical, you said you’d just come back from the clinic.”
“I had just come back from the clinic!”
“Then what...?” His glance shot to her stomach, ripped back to her face. “You didn’t do it?”
“I...I couldn’t.”
“But you couldn’t be bothered to mention that little fact before I walked out on a critical floor vote, jumped a plane and flew all night to help you through a crisis you also didn’t bother to tell me about until last night.”
“So I didn’t choose my words well,” Gina threw back. “I was upset.”
“Upset? You were damned near incoherent.”
“And you were your usual arrogant self. Let me go, dammit.”
She wrenched her wrist free and scrambled to her feet. Mason followed her up, his angry glance going from her to their small but intensely interested audience. His eyes narrowed on Sarah.
“You must be the sister.”
“I... Yes.”
His jaw working, he shifted to Dev. “Who the hell are you?”
“The sister’s fiancé.”
“What!” Gina’s shriek ricocheted off the walls. “Since when?”
“It’s a long story,” Sarah said weakly. “Why don’t we, uh, go someplace a little more private and I’ll explain.”
“Let’s go.” Gina hooked an arm through Sarah’s, then whirled to glare at the two men. “Not you. Not either of you. This is between me and my sister.”
It wasn’t, but Dev yielded ground. Mason was forced to follow suit, although he had to vent his feelings first.
“You, Eugenia Amalia Therése St. Sebastian, are the most irresponsible, irritating, thickheaded female I’ve ever met.”
Her nostrils flaring, Gina tilted her chin in a way that would have made the duchess proud. “Then aren’t you fortunate, Ambassador, that I refused to marry you.”
* * *
Her regal hauteur carried her as far as the stairwell. Abandoning it on the first step, she yanked on Sarah’s arm to hurry her up to their room. Once inside, she let the door slam and thrust her sister toward the sofa wedged into the turret sitting room.
“Sit.” She pointed a stern finger. “Talk. Now.”
Sarah sat, but talking didn’t come easy. “It’s a little difficult to explain.”
“No, it’s not. Start at the beginning. When and where did you meet Dev?”
“In New York. At my office. When he came to show me the surveillance video of you lifting his Byzantine medallion.”
Gina’s jaw sagged. “What Byzantine...? Oh! Wait! Do you mean that little gold-and-blue thingy?”
“That little gold-and-blue thingy is worth more than a hundred thousand pounds.”
“You’re kidding!”
“I wish I was. What did you do with it, Gina?”
“I didn’t do anything with it.”
“Dev’s surveillance video shows the medallion sitting on its stand when you sashay up to the display shelves. When you sashay away, the medallion’s gone.”
“Good grief, Sarah, you don’t think I stole it, do you?”
“No, and that’s what I told him from day one.”
“He thinks I stole it?”
The fury that flashed in her eyes didn’t bode well for Devon Hunter.
“It doesn’t matter what he thinks,” Sarah lied. “What matters is that the medallion’s missing. Think, sweetie, think. Did you lift it off its stand? Or knock it off by accident, so it fell behind the shelves, maybe?”
“I did lift it, but I just wanted to feel the surface. You know, rub a thumb over that deep blue enamel.” Her forehead creased in concentration. “Then I heard someone coming and... Oh, damn! I must have slipped it into my pocket. It’s probably still there.”
“Gina!” The two syllables came out on a screech. “How could you not remember slipping a twelfth-century Byzantine medallion in your pocket?”
“Hey, I didn’t know it was a twelfth-century anything. And I’d just taken the pregnancy test that morning, okay? I was a little rattled. I’m surprised I made it to work that evening, much less managed to smile and orchestrate Hunter’s damned dinner.”
She whirled and headed for the door. Sarah jumped up to follow.
“I’m going to rip him a new one,” Gina fumed. “How dare he accuse me of...” She yanked open the door and instantly switched pronouns. “How dare you accuse me of stealing?”
The two men in the hall returned distinctly different frowns. Jack Mason’s was quick and confused. Dev’s was slower and more puzzled.
“You didn’t take it?”
“No, Mr. High-and-Mighty Hunter, I didn’t.”
“Take what?” Mason wanted to know.
“Then where is it?”
“I’m guessing it’s in the pocket of the jacket I wore that evening.”
“So you did take it?”
“Take what?”
Sarah cut in. “Gina was just running a hand over the surface when she heard footsteps. She didn’t want to be caught fingering it, so she slipped it into her pocket.”
“Dammit!” the ambassador exploded. “What the hell are you three talking about it?”
“Nothing that concerns you,” Gina returned icily. “Why are you in my room, anyway? I have nothing more to say to you.”
“Tough. I’ve still got plenty to say to you.”
Sarah had had enough. A night of gut-wrenching worry, little sleep, no breakfast and now all this shouting was giving her a world-class headache. Before she could tell everyone to please shut up, Dev hooked her elbow and edged her out the door. With his other hand, he pushed Mason inside.
“You take care of your woman. I’ll take care of mine.”
“Wait a minute!” Thoroughly frustrated, Gina stamped a foot. “I still don’t know how or when or why you two got engaged. You can’t just...”
Dev closed the door in her face.
“Ooh,” Sarah breathed. “She’ll make you pay for that.”
He braced both hands against the wall, caging her in. “Do I look worried?”
What he looked was unshaven, red-eyed and pissed.
“What are you doing here?” she asked a little breathlessly. “When I called the Hôtel Verneuil a while ago, they told me you had some kind of crisis in your business and had to fly home.”
“I had a crisis, all right, but it was here. We need to get something straight, Lady Sarah. From now on, it’s not my sister or your business. We’re in this together. Forever. Or at least until we deliver on that promise to give kid number four a cruise on the Seine.”
Sixteen
The prewedding dinner was held on the evening of May 3 at Avery’s, where Dev had first “proposed” to Sarah. He reserved the entire restaurant for the event. The wedding ceremony and reception took place at the Plaza the following evening.
Gina, who’d emerged from a private session with the duchess white-faced and shaking, had regained both her composure and some of her effervescence. She then proceeded to astonish both her sister and her grandmother by taking charge of the dinner, the wedding ceremony and the reception.
To pull them off, she’d enlisted the assistance of Andrew at the Plaza, who’d aged with immense dignity since that long-ago day he’d discreetly taken care of an inebriated presidential aide during Grandmama’s soirée for the Sultan of Oman. Gina also formed a close alliance with Patrick Donovan, Dev’s incredibly capable and supremely confident executive assistant.
All Sarah had to do was draw up her guest list and select her dress. She kept the list small. She wanted to enjoy her wedding, not feel as though she was participating in a carefully scripted media event. Besides, she didn’t have any family other than Grandmama, Gina and Maria.
She did invite a number of close friends and coworkers—including Alexis. Beguile’s executive editor had admitted the Paris thing was a mistake of epic proportions, but swore she’d never intended to publish a single photo without Sarah’s permission. As a peace offering/wedding present, she’d had the photos printed and inserted into a beautifully inscribed, gilt-edged scrapbook. Just to be safe, Sarah had also had her hand over the disk with the complete set of JPEGs.
Dev’s guest list was considerably longer than his bride’s. His parents, sisters, their spouses and various offspring had flown to New York four days before the wedding. Dev had arranged a whirlwind trip to New Mexico so Sarah could meet most of them. She’d gotten to know them better while playing Big Apple tour guide. She’d also gained more insight into her complex, fascinating, handsome fiancé as more of his friends and associates arrived, some from his Air Force days, some from the years afterward.
Elise and Jean-Jacques Girault had flown in from Paris the afternoon before the wedding, just in time for dinner at the Avery. Sarah wasn’t surprised that Elise and Alexis formed an instant bond, but the sight of Madame Girault snuggled against one of Dev’s friends during predinner cocktails made her a tad nervous.
“Uh-oh,” she murmured to Dev. “Do you think she’s trying to seduce him?”
“Probably.”
She searched the crowded restaurant, spotted Monsieur Girault happily chatting with Gina and relaxed.
* * *
Her wedding day dawned sunny and bright. Gina once again assumed charge. She’d accepted Dev’s offer of payment without a qualm and arranged a full day at a spa for the women in the wedding party. She, Sarah, the duchess, Maria, Dev’s mother and sisters and the two little nieces who would serve as flower girls all got the works. The adults indulged in massages, facials, manicures, pedicures and hair treatments. The giggling little girls had their hair done and their fingernails and toenails painted pale lavender.
Sarah had enjoyed every moment of it, but especially treasured the half hour lying next to her sister on side-by-side massage tables while their facial masks cleaned and tightened their pores. According to the attendant, the masks were made of New Zealand Manuka honey, lavender oils and shea butter, with the additive of bee venom, which reputedly gave Kate Middleton her glowing complexion.
“At fifty-five thousand dollars per bottle, the venom better produce results,” Gina muttered.
Only the fact that their masks contained a single drop of venom each, thus reducing the treatment price to just a little over a hundred dollars, kept Sarah from having a heart attack. Reaching across the space between the tables, she took Gina’s hand.
“Thanks for doing all this.”
“You’re welcome.” Her sister’s mouth turned up in one of her irrepressible grins. “It’s easy to throw great parties when you’re spending someone else’s money.”
“You’re good at it.”
“Yes,” she said smugly, “I am.”
Her grin slowly faded and her fingers tightened around Sarah’s.
“It’s one of the few things I am good at. I’m going to get serious about it, Sarah. I intend to learn everything I can about the event-planning business before the baby’s born. That way, I can support us both.”
“What about Jack Mason? How does he figure in this plan?”
“He doesn’t.”
“It’s his child, too, Gina.”
“He’ll have as much involvement in the baby’s life as he wants,” she said stubbornly, “but not mine. It’s time—past time—I took responsibility for myself.”
Sarah couldn’t argue with that, but she had to suppress a few doubts as she squeezed Gina’s hand. “You know I’ll help you any way I can. Dev, too.”
“I know, but I’ve got to do this on my own. And you’re going to have your hands full figuring how to meld your life with his. Have you decided yet where you’re going to live?”
“In L.A., if we can convince Grandmama to move out there with us. Maria, too.”
“They’ll hate leaving New York.”
“I know.”
Sarah’s joy in her special day dimmed. She’d had several conversations with the duchess about a possible move. None of them had ended satisfactorily. As an alternative, Dev had offered to temporarily move his base of operations to New York and commute to L.A.
“I just can’t bear to think of Grandmama alone in that huge apartment.”
“Well...” Gina hesitated, indecision written all over her face. “I know I just made a big speech about standing on my own two feet, but I hate the thought of her being alone, too. I could...I could move in with her until I land a job. Or maybe until the baby’s born. If she’ll have me, that is, which isn’t a sure thing after the scathing lecture she delivered when I got back from Switzerland.”
“Oh, Gina, she’ll have you! You know she will. She loves you.” Sarah’s eyes misted. “Almost as much as I do.”
“Stop,” Gina pleaded, her own tears spouting. “You can’t walk down the aisle with your eyes all swollen and red. Dev’ll strangle me.”
* * *
As Dev took his place under the arch of gauzy netting lit by a thousand tiny, sparkling lights, strangling his soon-to-be sister-in-law was the furthest thing from his mind. He was as surprised as Sarah and the duchess at the way Gina had pulled everything together. So when the maid of honor followed two giggling flower girls down the aisle, he gave Gina a warm smile.
She returned it, but Dev could tell the sight of the unexpected, uninvited guest at the back of the room had shaken her. Mason stood with his arms folded and an expression on his face that suggested he didn’t intend to return to Washington until he’d sorted some things out with the mother of his child.
Then the music swelled and Dev’s gaze locked on the two women coming down the aisle arm in arm. Sarah matched her step to that of the duchess, who’d stated bluntly she did not require a cane to walk a few yards and give her granddaughter away. Spine straight, chin high, eyes glowing with pride, she did just that.
“I hope you understand what a gift I’m giving you, Devon.”
“Yes, ma’am, I do.”
With a small harrumph, the duchess kissed her granddaughter’s cheek and took her seat. Then Sarah turned to Dev, and he felt himself fall into her smile. She was so luminous, so elegant. So gut-wrenchingly beautiful.
He still couldn’t claim to know anything about haute couture, but she’d told him she would be wearing a Dior gown her grandmother had bought in Paris in the ’60s. The body-clinging sheath of cream-colored satin gave Dev a whole new appreciation of what Sarah termed vintage. The neckline fell in a soft drape and was caught at each shoulder by a clasp adorned with soft, floating feathers. The same downy feathers circled her tiny pillbox cap with its short veil.
Taking the hand she held out to him, he tucked it close to his heart and grinned down at her.
“Are you ready for phase three, Lady Sarah?”
“I am,” she laughed. “So very, very ready.”
Epilogue
I must admit I approve of Sarah’s choice of husband. I should, since I decided Devon Hunter was right for her even before he blackmailed her into posing as his fiancée. How absurd that they still think I don’t know about the deception.
Almost as absurd as Eugenia’s stubborn refusal to marry the father of her child. I would respect her decision except, to borrow the Bard’s immortal words, the lady doth protest too much. I do so dislike the sordid, steaming cauldron of modern politics, but I shall have to learn more about this Jack Mason. In the meantime, I’ll have the inestimable joy of watching Eugenia mature into motherhood—hopefully!
From the diary of Charlotte,
Grand Duchess of Karlenburgh
* * * * *
From Venice with Love
Secrets of Castillo del Arco
Trish Morey
From Venice with Love
Alison Roberts
Pregnant by Morning
Kat Cantrell
Secrets of Castillo del Arco
Trish Morey
He appeared out of the fog, tall, broad and dark as night as he moved stealthily between the funeral sculptures, and a shiver of recognition washed through her.
Raoul.
She had seen him at the service, and her heart had lifted at the prospect of seeing him again after so many years.
Raoul who, with his intense black eyes and passionate mouth, had been her every adolescent fantasy. Dark fantasies she’d had no right to imagine. Wicked fantasies that brought a blush to her cheeks just thinking about them.
And the air shifted and parted before him, and then he was there, standing before her, so tall that she had to tilt her head back to look up at him. He didn’t smile. She didn’t expect him to—not really, not this day.
‘Gabriella,’ he said, in a way that seemed to cherish every syllable.
And then he leaned down to kiss first one cheek and then the other. She breathed him in, taken by the way he smelled so familiar, and yet there was so much more besides—as if what she’d remembered had been but a shadow of his essence.
TRISH MOREY always fancied herself a writer—so why she became a chartered accountant is anyone’s guess! But once she’d found her true calling there was no turning back. Mother of four budding heroines and wife to one true-life hero, Trish lives in an idyllic region of South Australia. Is it any wonder she believes in happy-ever-afters?
Find her at www.trishmorey.com or https://www.facebook.com/trish.morey
With grateful thanks to Ellen, Charlie and Claire for being my captive carpool brainstormers. Thank you so much for your interest and your input and energy and most of all thank you for Venice. You guys rock!
And with thanks, as ever, to my fabulous Maytoners, for Coogee Beach and fish and chips, for making me laugh and cry and commiserate and celebrate, but with thanks, most of all, for once again making magic happen in the shape of words.
For it must be a kind of magic.
Thank you!
TrishXxx
PROLOGUE
Paris
‘PROMISE ME something, Raoul. Grant a dying man one last wish.’
The old man’s voice was thready and thin, little more than a whistle on his breath and no contest for the battery of machines beeping their presence around the bed. Raoul leaned closer. ‘You mustn’t talk that way, Umberto.’ Raoul placed his hand over the old man’s, trying not to damage the papery skin or nudge the needle projecting from the back of his claw-like hand; trying to pretend it was nowhere near as bad as it was. ‘You are as strong as an ox,’ he lied, wishing it were true. ‘The doctor said—’
‘The doctor is a fool!’ the old man interjected, dissolving into a fit of coughing that left him wheezing in its wake. ‘I am not afraid of death. I know my time has come.’
Wiry fingers clumsily overturned those of his visitor’s, squeezing down as if to emphasise the urgency of his words, even though his once-legendary strength was gone, his fingers grown weak. ‘But I fear what might happen once I am gone. Which is why I summoned you. You must promise me now, Raoul, before it is too late …’
The old man sagged against the pillows, his eyes closed in an ashen, sunken face, his sudden outburst taking its toll. For the first time Raoul was struck with the realisation that there would be no coming back: this time his oldest friend, his mentor—and the closest thing to family he had known for more than a decade—was dying. He had to force himself to stay and not flee from the room and the heavy knot tightening in his gut.
‘You know I would do anything for you, Umberto,’ he uttered in a voice that felt like gravel in his throat. ‘You have my word. Ask, and it shall be.’
An eternity passed, an eternity filled with beeping machines that were the only sign Raoul had that his old friend had not already passed, until with a sigh his eyes fluttered open, watery and dim, his voice tinged with affection. ‘Look after Gabriella for me. When I die, she will be vulnerable. I will not rest unless she is safe.’
He touched his free hand to the old man’s shoulder to reassure him, his fingers encountering little more than bone. ‘Then rest easy, old friend. Nothing will happen to her. I would be honoured to act as her guardian.’
The old man surprised him, snorting a protest instead of uttering the thanks he’d half-anticipated. Raoul was halfway to celebrating this spark of life, a glimpse of the Umberto that once was, until the words his old friend had said in response registered in his mind—impossible words, words that made the blood roar in his ears, sending thoughts of celebration tumbling and smashing like debris caught up in the first destructive wave of a tsunami.
He stood, unable to sit while the roar of the wave churned through him, and turned away from the bed, raking a damp hand through his hair and tugging at his tie, looking ceiling-ward for the air-conditioning vents. God, but it was hot in here.
‘Raoul, did you hear me?’ The thread of Umberto’s frail words came on a thin wire that dug its way into him, slowing his retreat.
‘I heard you,’ he said—every last word—but that didn’t stop Umberto from repeating them now, driving that sharp wire deeper and deeper into his psyche where it twisted and grew poisoned barbs.
‘You must marry her, Raoul! Promise me you will marry Gabriella.’
Madness! He dragged in air tainted with the smell of impending death, disinfectant and the chemical sprays designed to disguise them all yet failing miserably, and threw his head back, hating what was happening—hating even more what he was hearing. Wasn’t it bad enough that his old friend was dying? It had to be some kind of madness, he decided, for his friend to propose such insanity. ‘You know that is not possible. Besides,’ he added, remembering the last time he’d seen the girl, ‘Even if I was crazy enough to marry again, surely Gabriella is too young?’
‘A woman now.’ Umberto blinked away tears, his voice breaking with emotion. ‘Twenty-four years of age.’
Raoul was shocked by the invisible slide of time; cursed the years he had lost in the mire of another age. Had it really been that long? Then again, maybe this made it better, easier. ‘Then surely she is old enough to choose her own husband?’
‘And if she chooses Consuelo Garbas?’
‘Manuel’s brother?’ Raoul lifted disbelieving hands to his temples, driving fingertips deep into the veins that pounded like drums. God, but could this nightmare get any worse?
The name Garbas was seared on his soul, the letters burned deep, so deep that his bones ached at its mention. It was a name he’d hoped he’d heard for the last time a long, bleak time ago.
Yet he should have known that ridding himself of this curse would never be that easy. The Garbas family was like a black hole, sucking life from the world around, devouring anyone and anything in its path. He turned back, moved closer to the bed, needing to know despite himself. ‘What does he want with Gabriella?’
‘He’s been sniffing around her like a hyena waiting for a carcass, waiting for her to turn twenty-five when she can claim her inheritance.’ The old man paused, catching his breath, although the rise and fall of the covers over his chest was barely discernible. ‘He knows I would never permit her to marry him. So now he waits for me to die before he makes his move.’
Raoul nodded. ‘Hyena’ was right. It was the way his kind operated: scavengers; scum, the lot of them. Only their massive wealth gave them entree into high society, lending them a veneer of respectability so brittle it was a wonder it didn’t shatter every time they drew breath. And now one of them was after Gabriella? ‘She doesn’t know?’
Umberto scoffed. ‘He would hardly tell her the truth. She knows only that his brother died in tragic circumstances. She thinks that gives them something in common.’ The old man sighed and gave a hint of a wistful smile as he shook his head. ‘I have tried to warn her but Gabriella sees only the good in everyone—even the likes of him. And all the time he plays her like a fish on a line, knowing he has the advantage of time. So, you see, I have no one to turn to but you. You must marry her, Raoul,’ he said, lifting his head shakily from the pillow in a supreme effort that saw the cords in his neck stand out tight, his watery eyes turn glassy in their intensity. ‘You must keep her safe. You must!’
He collapsed back into the pillows to catch his breath, the rapid beep of machines filling the void, while Raoul sat down by his side and bowed his head, his thoughts in turmoil, conflicted beyond measure.
Damned if he would let a Garbas worm his way into Umberto’s granddaughter’s fortune. Damned if he would ever let that happen after what he had suffered. But Raoul was the last person who could keep her safe.
Besides, did Umberto really think it would be such a simple matter to get a twenty four year old woman—any woman, for that matter—to agree to marry him? Why should she give him a second glance when he could give her nothing in return? She would be some kind of fool if she did.
He took his friend’s hand again, half-wondering, half-knowing that this would be the last time they met. ‘Umberto, old friend—my friend—I love you with my life, but this makes no sense. There must be a better way to keep Gabriella safe and I will find it. But I would be no kind of husband for your granddaughter.’
‘I’m not asking you to love her!’ he blustered from the bed, the machines beside him going into overdrive. ‘Just marry her. Keep her safe!’ The door burst open, a nurse rushing through, pushing the visitor aside as she checked her patient.
‘Visit’s over,’ she snapped out without looking over her shoulder. ‘You’re upsetting my patient.’
Raoul raised his face to the ceiling in supplication and frustration. When he looked back at the bed where the nurse fussed, checked and adjusted drips and machines, his old friend looked so forlorn and desperate and beyond tired, a shadow of a man who had once been great. It struck Raoul that his last moments, his last days, should not be wasted in worry such as this, even if it meant promising the impossible so that he might at least die in peace. Umberto deserved that at least.
‘I’ll marry her, old friend, if that is what you ask,’ he said, ignoring the warning scowl he earned in reward from the nurse, grinding the words out between his teeth as the wire in his gut pulled inexorably tighter and trying desperately not to think of the cost to them both. ‘I’ll marry her.’
