Kitabı oku: «In Bed with Her Ex», sayfa 3

CHAPTER THREE

SHE awoke suddenly in the dark. Listening intently, she could make out the sound of footsteps nearing her room. Marcel. She slid further down the bed, pulling the duvet over her, not sure that she wanted to see him.

The door opened, someone came in and stood looking down at her. Her heart was thundering as the moment of truth neared. Last night he’d seemed not to know her, but then she’d heard her name whispering past. Surely that had come from him and now everything was different. What would he say to her? What could she say to him?

She gasped as a hand touched her.

‘It’s only me,’ said Freya. ‘I’m sorry, did I wake you?’

‘No, no, I … I’m all right.’ She didn’t know what she was saying. Everything was spinning in chaos.

Freya switched on the lamp and sat down on the bed, placing a cup on the sidetable.

‘I’m going now, but I brought you a cup of tea first.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Jane—do you mind if I call you Jane? Or should it be Mrs Henshaw?’

‘Oh, please, no.’ She shuddered. ‘I’ve had enough of Mrs Henshaw.’ ‘Jane, then?’

‘Yes, Jane. Although I think I’ve had enough of Jane too.’

‘Goodness, what does that mean?’ Freya’s friendliness was charming.

‘Suddenly I seem to be a lot of different people and none of them is really me. Does that sound crazy?’

‘Not in this family,’ Freya said wryly. ‘You have to be a bit crazy to get your head around the way they all live. Sometimes I worry for my mother. She’s Amos’s third wife and he wasn’t faithful to either of the others.’

‘Where does Marcel come in the picture?’ Jane Henshaw asked, careful to drink her tea at once to hide her face.

‘When Amos was married to Elaine, Darius’s mother, he travelled abroad a lot, and while he was doing business in France he met Laura, set up home with her and they had Marcel.’

‘While he was still married to Elaine?’

‘While he was still actually living with her in England. He divided his time between London and Paris, and even had another son by his wife. That’s Jackson. A couple of years later Elaine found out about his infidelity and left him. He brought Laura and Marcel over to England and married her as soon as his divorce was through.’

‘So Marcel grew up in England?’ Jane said slowly.

‘I think he was about eleven when he moved here. Of course it didn’t last. When he was fifteen Laura discovered that Amos had been “at it” again, and she returned to Paris, taking Marcel with her. He came back seven years later, but not to Amos. He resented the way his mother had been treated, and he even stopped using the name Falcon and went back to using Laura’s name, Degrande.

‘He had a rebellious streak and set up home with some other lads, living from day to day, doing any job they could get. He enjoyed it for a couple of years, then went back to France. Eventually he and Amos were reconciled, and he returned to England and became a Falcon again. Actually I think that was bound to happen. In his heart he was always a chip off the old block. Those two years being free and easy were fun, but it was never going to last.’

‘They might have done. Perhaps something happened to send that side of him into hiding.’

‘Kill it off for good, more like,’ Freya said robustly. ‘Marcel is Amos’s son through and through—hard, implacable, money-minded. Will it pay? What will I get out of it, and how can I squeeze more? That’s how his mind works.’

‘You don’t like him, do you?’

‘He’s all right, always pleasant to me, but Amos can forget about me marrying him. I’d sooner marry the devil.’

‘I’m surprised he isn’t married already. Rich men don’t tend to be short of women.’

‘Oh, he’s never been short of women,’ Freya agreed. ‘Just not the kind he’s likely to marry, if you see what I mean. They serve their purpose, he pays them off. I believe his ‘leaving tips’ are quite generous. But he doesn’t fall in love.’ She gave a brief laugh. ‘Don’t take me too seriously. I’m only warning you that he’ll be tough to work for. After all, you’re not likely to want to marry him, are you?’

‘Not if I’ve got any sense,’ she said lightly.

‘Right, I must be going, but first I need to take some of Marcel’s clothes from the wardrobe. He’s sleeping out there on the sofa and he says don’t worry, he won’t trouble you.’

‘He’s very kind.’

‘He can be. Not always. Now I’m off.’ ‘Goodbye. And thank you.’ Freya slipped out of the door.

Cassie lay in silence, trying to come to terms with the storm of feeling inside her. It had started when she’d glimpsed him tonight, but now it had a new aspect. The woman who now convulsively clenched and unclenched her hands was no longer lovelorn and yearning, but possessed by a bitter anger.

Marcel had known all the time that he was Amos Falcon’s son. And he’d deceived her, pretending to be poor as a joke, because it boosted his pride to think she’d chosen him over rich men. It might have started as an innocent game, but the result had been catastrophic.

If I’d known you had a wealthy, powerful father, I wouldn’t have given in to Jake. I’d have gone to Amos Falcon, seeking his protection for you. He could have punished Jake, scared him off, and we’d have been safe. We could have been together all these years, and we lost everything because you had to play silly games with the truth. You stupid … stupid …

She pounded the pillow as though trying to release all the fury in her heart, until at last she lay still, exhausted, shocked by the discovery that she could hate him, while the tears poured down her face.

Finally she slept again, and only then did the door open and a figure stand there in silence, watching the faint light that fell from the hallway onto the bed, just touching the blonde hair that streamed across the pillow.

He moved closer to the bed, where he could see her face, relaxed in sleep and more like the face he had once known. In the first moments of their meeting he’d denied the truth to himself, refusing to admit that the evil witch who’d wrecked his life could possibly have returned.

But a witch didn’t die. She rose again to laugh over the destruction she had wrought. With every blank word and silent laugh, every look from her beautiful dead eyes, she taunted him.

A wise man would have refused to recognise her, but he’d never been wise where this woman was concerned. Fate had returned her to him, freeing him to make her suffer as he had suffered. And the man whose motto, learned from a powerful, ruthless father, was ‘seize every chance, turn everything to your advantage’ would not turn away from this opportunity until he’d made the most of it.

Suddenly the figure on the bed before him changed, becoming not her but himself, long ago, shattered with the pain of broken ribs, half blinded by his own blood, but even more by his own tears, longing every moment to see her approach and comfort him, finally realising that she would never do so.

That was when his heart had died. He’d been glad of it ever since. Life was easier without feelings. The women who could be bought were no trouble. They knew their place, did their duty, counted their reward and departed smiling. In time he might choose a wife by the same set of rules. Friends too tended to be business acquaintances. There were plenty of both men and women, there whenever he wanted them. His life was full.

His life was empty. His heart was empty. Safer that way.

He kept quite still for several long minutes, hardly daring to breathe, before closing the door and retreating, careful that she should never know he’d been there.

She awoke to the knowledge that everything had changed. As she’d told Freya, she seemed to have been several people in the last few hours, without knowing which one was really her. But now she knew. Cassie.

Somewhere in the depths of sleep the decision had been made. She was Cassie, but a different Cassie, angry, defiant, possessed by only one thought.

Make him pay.

He’d treated her with contempt, concealing his true identity because that had been his idea of fun. He hadn’t meant any harm, but his silly joke had resulted in years of pain and suffering for her. Perhaps also for him, but she was in no mood to sympathise.

Freya knocked and entered. ‘Just came to say goodbye,’ she said. ‘Marcel is waiting for you to have breakfast with him.’

She dressed hurriedly, twisted her hair into its usual bun and followed Freya out into the main room. Marcel was standing by the window with another man of about seventy, who turned and regarded her with interest.

‘Good morning, Mrs Henshaw,’ Marcel said politely. ‘I’m glad to see you looking well again. This is my father, Amos Falcon.’

‘Glad to meet you,’ the old man said, shaking her hand while giving her the searching look she guessed was automatic with him. ‘Marcel always chooses the best, so I expect great things of you.’

‘Father—’ Marcel said quickly.

‘He’s told me that your expertise is unrivalled,’ Amos went on. ‘So is your local knowledge, which he’ll need.’

Since Cassie had refused the job this might have been expected to annoy her, but things were different now. In the last few hours she’d moved to a level so different that it was like being a new person. So she merely smiled and shook Amos Falcon’s hand, replying smoothly, ‘I hope he finds that I live up to his expectations.’

A slight frisson in the air told her that she’d taken Marcel by surprise. Whatever he’d expected from her, it wasn’t this.

‘If you’d care to go and sit at the table,’ he said, ‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’

A maid served her at the table in the large window bay. She drank her coffee absent-mindedly, her attention on Marcel, who was bidding farewell to his father and Freya.

Now she had a better view of him than the night before. The lanky boy had turned into a fine man, not only handsome but with an air of confidence, almost haughtiness, that was to be expected from a member of the great Falcon dynasty.

But then haughtiness fell away and he smiled at Freya, bidding her goodbye and taking her into a friendly hug. Cassie noticed that, despite her avowed disdain for him, Freya embraced him cheerfully, while Amos stood back and regarded them with the air of a man calculating the odds.

So it was true what Freya had said. If Amos couldn’t marry her to his eldest son, then Marcel was next in line. Doubtless she would bring a substantial dowry for which he could find good use.

Then it was over, they were gone and he was turning back into the room, joining her at the table.

‘I owe you my thanks,’ he said, ‘for not making a fool of me before my father. If you’d told him of your intention to refuse the job I offered I would have looked absurd. I’m grateful to you for your restraint.’

‘I doubt it’s in my power to make you look absurd,’ she said lightly. ‘I’m sure you’re well armoured against anything I could dream up.’

‘Now you’re making fun of me. Very well, perhaps I’ve earned it.’

‘You must admit you left yourself rather exposed by allowing your father to think I’d already agreed. Still, I dare say that’s a useful method of—shall we say—proceeding without hindrance?’

‘It’s worked in the past,’ he conceded. ‘But you’re right, it can leave me vulnerable if someone decides to be difficult.’ He saw her lips twitching. ‘Have I said something funny?’

‘How would you define “difficult”? No, on second thoughts don’t say. I think I can guess. Someone who dares to hold onto their own opinion instead of meekly obeying you.’ She struck an attitude. ‘I wonder how I knew that.’

‘Possibly because you’re much the same?’ he suggested.

‘Certainly not. I’m far more subtle. But I don’t suppose you need to bother with subtlety.’

‘Not often,’ he agreed, ‘although I flatter myself I can manage it when the occasion demands.’

‘Well, there’s no demand for it now. Plain speaking will suit us both better, so I’ll say straight out that I’ve decided it would suit me to work for you, on certain conditions.’

‘The conditions being?’

‘Double the salary I’m earning now, as we discussed.’ ‘And how much is that?’

She gave him the figure. It was a high one, but he seemed untroubled.

‘It’s a deal. Shake.’

She took the hand he held out to her, bracing herself for the feel of his flesh against hers. Even so, it took all her control not to react to the warmth of his skin. So much had changed, but not this. After ten years it was still the hand that had touched her reverently, then skilfully and with fierce joy. The sensation was so intense that she almost cried out.

From him there was no reaction.

‘I’m glad we’re agreed on that,’ he said calmly. ‘Now you can go and give in your notice. Be back here as soon as possible. Before you leave, we’d better exchange information. Email, cellphones.’

She gave him her cellphone number, but he said, ‘And the other one.’

‘What other one?’

‘You’ve given me the number you give to everyone. Now I want the one you give to only a privileged few.’ ‘And what about your “privileged” number?’ He wrote it down and handed it to her. ‘Now yours.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t have one.’ ‘Mrs Henshaw—’

‘It’s the truth. I only need one number.’

Now, she realised, he could guess at the emptiness of her life, with no need for a ‘privileged’ number because there was nobody to give it to. But all he said was, ‘You might have told me that before I gave you mine.’

‘Then you wouldn’t have given it to me. But if you object, here—take it back.’

She held out the paper but he shook his head.

‘No point. You could have memorised it by now. Very clever, Mrs Henshaw. I can see I shall have to be careful.’

‘If you’re having doubts you can always refuse to employ me.’

His eyes met hers and she drew a sharp breath, for there was a gleam in their depths that she hadn’t seen before—not for many years. It teased and enticed, challenged, lured her on to danger.

‘I’m not going to accept that offer,’ he said softly.

She nodded, but before she could speak he added significantly, ‘And you know I’m not.’

It could have been no more than courtesy but there was a new note in his voice, an odd note, that made her tense. She was at a crossroads. If she admitted that she did actually know what he meant, the road ahead was a wilderness of confusion.

Ignore the challenge, said the warning voice in her head. Escape while you can.

‘How could I know that?’ she murmured. ‘I don’t know you.’

‘I think we both know—all that we need to know. The decision has been taken.’

She wanted to cry out. He seemed to be saying that he really had recognised her, that the two of them still lived in a world that excluded the rest of the universe and only they understood the language they spoke.

But no! She wouldn’t let herself believe it. She must not believe it, lest she go crazy.

Crazier than she’d been for the last ten years? Or was she already beyond hope? She drew a deep breath.

But then, while she was still spinning, he returned to earth with devastating suddenness.

‘Now that we’ve settled that, tell me how you got here last night,’ he said.

His voice sounded normal again. They were back to practical matters.

‘In a taxi,’ she said.

‘I’m glad. It’s better if you don’t drive for a while after what happened.’

‘My head’s fine. It was only a tiny bump. But I’ll take a taxi to the office.’

‘Good. I’ll call you later. Now I must go. I have an appointment with the bank. We’ll meet tomorrow.’

He was gone.

At the office Mr Smith greeted her news with pleasure. When she’d cleared her desk he took her for a final lunch. Over the wine he became expansive.

‘It can be a good job as long as you know to be careful. Men like him resemble lions hovering for the kill. Just be sure you’re not the prey. Remember that however well he seems to treat you now, all he cares about is making the best use of you. When your usefulness is over you’ll be out on your ear. So get what you can out of him before he dumps you.’

‘Perhaps he won’t,’ she said, trying to speak lightly.

‘He always does. People serve their purpose, then they’re out in the cold. He’s known for it.’

‘Perhaps there’s a reason,’ she said quietly. ‘Maybe someone deserted him.’

‘Don’t make me laugh! Dump him? Nobody would dare.’

‘Not now perhaps, but in the past, maybe when he was vulnerable—’

Mr Smith’s response was a guffaw. ‘Him? Vulnerable?

Never. Amos Falcon’s son was born fully formed and the image of his father. Hard. Armoured. Unfeeling. Oh, it’s not how he comes across at first. He’s good with the French fantasy lover stuff. Or so I’ve heard from some lady friends who were taken in when they should have known better. But don’t believe it. It’s all on the outside. Inside—nothing!’

‘Thanks for the lunch,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I must be going.’

‘Yes, you belong to him now, don’t you?’

‘My time belongs to him,’ she corrected. ‘Only my time.’

She fled, desperate to get away from the picture he showed her of Marcel—a man damaged beyond hope. Hearing him condemned so glibly made her want to scream.

You don’t know him, don’t know what he suffered. I knew him when he was generous and loving, with a heart that overflowed, to me at least. He was young and defenceless then, whatever you think.

Only a few hours ago her anger had been directed at Marcel, but now she knew a surge of protective fury that made her want to stand between him and the world. What did any of them understand when nobody knew him as she did?

She checked that her cellphone was switched on and waited for his call. It didn’t come. She tried not to feel disappointed, guessing that the bank would occupy him for a long time. And she had something else in mind, for which she would need time to herself.

When she reached home she locked the front door behind her. For the next few hours nothing and nobody must disturb her.

Switching on her computer, she went online and settled down to an evening of research.

She forced herself to be patient, first studying Amos Falcon, which was easy because there were a dozen sites devoted to him. An online encyclopaedia described his life and career—the rise from poverty, the enormous gains in power and money. There was less detail about his private life beyond the fact that he’d had three wives and five sons.

As well as Darius and Marcel there was Jackson Falcon, a minor celebrity in nature broadcasting. Finding his picture, she realised that she’d seen him in several television programmes. Even better known was Travis Falcon, a television actor in America, star of a series just beginning to be shown in England. The last son was Leonid, born and raised in Russia and still living there. About him the encyclopaedia had little information, not even a picture.

There were various business sites analysing Amos’s importance in the financial world, and a few ill-natured ones written in a spirit of ‘set the record straight’. He was too successful to be popular, and his enemies vented their feelings while being careful to stay just the right side of libel.

The information about Marcel told her little that she hadn’t already learned from Freya, but there was much about La Couronne, his hotel in Paris. From here she went to the hotel’s own site, then several sites that gave customers’ opinions. Mrs Henshaw studied these closely, making detailed notes.

Then Cassie took over, calling up photographs of Marcel that went back several years. Few of them were close-ups. Most had been taken at a distance, as though he was a reluctant subject who could only be caught by chance.

But then she came across a picture that made her grow tense. The date showed that it had been taken nine years ago, yet the change in him was already there. Shocked, she realised that the sternness in his face, the heaviness in his attitude, had settled over him within a year of their separation. This was what misery had done to him.

She reached out and touched the screen as though trying to reach him, turn time back and restore him to the vibrant, loving boy he’d once been. But that could never happen. She snatched her hand back, reminding herself how much of the tragedy was his own fault for concealing the truth. She must cling to that thought or go mad.

She came offline. But, as if driven by some will of their own, her fingers lingered over the keys, bringing up another picture, kept in a secret file. There they were, Cassie and Marcel, locked in each other’s embrace. She had many such shots, taken on a delayed release camera borrowed from a photographer friend.

‘I want lots of pictures,’ she’d told Marcel, ‘then we’ll always have them to remember this time when we were so happy.’

‘I won’t need help to remember you,’ he’d told her fervently. ‘You’ll always live in my heart and my memory as you are now, my beautiful Cassie. When I’m old and grey you’ll still be there with me, always—always—’

Gently he’d removed her clothes.

‘This is my one chance to have a picture of you naked, because I couldn’t bear to have any other photographer take them. Nobody else must ever see you like this—only me. Promise me.’

‘I promise.’

‘Swear it. Swear by Cupid and his bow.’

‘I swear by Cupid, his bow and all his arrows.’

As she spoke she was undressing him until they were both naked, and he took her into his arms, turning her towards the clicking camera so that her magnificent breasts could be seen in all their glory.

‘This is how I’ll always see you,’ he murmured. ‘When we’re old and grey, I’ll show you these to remind you that in my heart this is what you really look like.’

‘You’ll have forgotten me by then,’ she teased.

To her surprise, he’d made a sound of anger. ‘Why do you say things like that? Don’t you know that we must always be together because I will never let you go?’

‘I don’t want you to let me go.’

But he hardly seemed to hear her.

‘Why can’t you understand how serious I am? There is only you. There will only ever be you. I’ll never let you go, Cassie. Even if there were miles between us I would still be there, holding onto you, refusing to let you forget me. You might try to escape but you won’t be able to.’

What mysterious insight had made him utter those words, so strangely prophetic of what was to come? Miles and years had stretched between them, yet always he’d been there as he’d promised—or was it threatened?—always on the edge of her consciousness until the day he’d appeared again to reclaim her.

There it was again, the tormenting question. Had he recognised her, or had she only imagined that he’d called her Cassie?

And his remark that the decision had already been taken, had she not simply read too much into it? Was she hearing what she wanted to hear?

But there was more. Just before she’d left him that morning there had been another clue, if only she could remember what it was. She’d barely noticed at the time, but now she realised that his words had been significant. If only—

Frantically she wracked her memory. It was connected with the cellphone number—something he’d said—something—something—

‘What?’ she cried out. ‘What was it?’

She dropped her head, resting it on one hand while she slammed the other hand on the table again and again with increasing desperation.

A few miles away someone else was conjuring up pictures online. The one word, ‘Cassie’ brought her before him in a website that analysed the careers of models who were no longer around.

For two years she rode high and could have ridden higher still, but suddenly she gave up modelling and disappeared from sight. After that she was occasionally seen in luxurious surroundings, places where only rich men gather. And always she seemed weighed down with diamonds.

Why hadn’t he seen it happening? Her choice of himself over wealthy admirers had made him love her a million times more, but it had always been too good to be true. It was a game she’d played, until she’d succumbed to the lure of serious money. While he’d thought he was her true love, he’d been no more than her plaything.

He should have known when she’d failed to visit him in the hospital. He’d lain there in pain and anguish, certain that she would be here at any moment. Every time the door opened he’d tensed with longing, which was always crushed.

He’d clung to the fragile hope that she didn’t know what had happened to him. If only he could reach her, all would be well. But her cellphone was switched off. When he’d called her apartment the phone rang and rang, but was never answered.

He’d known then, known with such certainty that he’d torn up the letter she’d sent him without even opening it. Who needed to read her miserable excuses?

He’d seen her just once more, the day he’d left for Paris. There she’d been at the airport with her new lover, as he went into the departure lounge.

‘You!’ he’d spat. ‘The last person I ever want to see.’

She’d held out her arms, crying frantically, ‘Marcel, you don’t understand—please—please—’

‘I loved you,’ he raged. ‘I trusted you—now I can’t bear the sight of you!’

‘Marcel—’

‘Get out of my sight! Whore!’

He’d turned and ran from her. He remembered that afterwards with self-disgust. It was he who had run, not her. But there would be no running now. The time had come.