by Jill Jones
But in the most recent dream, the one he’d had last night, when his body had grown hard with desire and his heart cried out for Simone, he’d experienced a different kind of proscription. It had come in the form of a voice, a man’s voice, admonishing him to give up the dream visits.
“As if I had a choice,” he’d snarled back to the disembodied speaker. The voice seemed somehow familiar. Where had he heard it before? Was it merely an echo of his own?
“But you do,” it replied, with a gentleness and understanding that defused his ire. “You use the perfume to come here because you think it is the only way to be with her.”
“It is the only way.”
“No, my son. This is not the way. There is great danger in what you, and she, are doing.”
“She?”
“Your lady love visits her dreams too often as well,” the voice continued, and Nick suddenly recognized it. It had been the whisper in his ear the night he’d been with Simone, the voice that had told him those surprising secrets, directed him on how to pleasure her and bring them both to new heights of ecstasy.
“But it was you who…”
“Yes. There is no harm in learning the secrets of the ancients and discovering the sacred holiness of the joining of man and woman. Such secrets will strengthen the ties between you and your beloved. But such secrets were meant to be enjoyed on the earth. There is great harm in seeking them only in this dreamscape, for there is grave danger of becoming lost here. You must go, and not return. You must prevent your lover from entering this realm again as well. For there is a doorway that will close eventually and you will be imprisoned here, unable to return.”
Nick heard his secretary open the door to his office, and he snapped out of his reverie, realizing he’d just relived the bizarre dialog, verbatim, in a daydream.
“Tea?” Brenda said, placing on the desk a tray with a covered teapot, a cup and saucer, and a few biscuits. “Are you feeling all right, sir?”
Nick looked up into the face of concern. Brenda was older than he, and sometimes she acted like an overprotective big sister. He appreciated her thoughtfulness, though. “I’m fine, really,” he assured her, knowing that he was anything but fine.
Probably he would never be fine again.
Unless, he mused, he succeeded in losing himself in that land of dreams.
“You have what!?” Antoine Dupuis’s eyes bulged from his head.
“I have suspended my experimentation with the…uh, ‘special’ perfume.” Simone faced the Frenchman squarely. It had taken her two weeks to get up the nerve to confront him. “I have been unable to locate the ingredients I need, and my efforts to build a chemical synthetic have failed completely.”
In spite of her knowledge of its danger, Simone had continued to plug away at the console, thinking that if she somehow happened upon some successful synthetic reproduction, she could use it to replenish her rapidly diminishing supply. For against her better judgment, but seeking comfort from her chronic loneliness, every night for the past two weeks she’d used the perfume from the vial she’d stolen from Nick, dipping into its precious fluid at bedtime, seeking solace in the arms of her dream lover.
She’d sought him, but failed. She’d found her way into the indigo mist, and once or twice even into the realm of the mystical white temple. But not once had she been able to summon Nick’s presence. He had left her. In reality. And now in her dreams. For her, the perfume no longer worked. Its magic had disappeared. And she was no longer interested in continuing her pursuit of it in the laboratory.
“You are being ridiculous,” Dupuis shouted at her. “What kind of master perfumer refuses to make a perfume? I should fire you right now.”
“Then do,” she said, shrugging her shoulders, almost wishing he would. She did not like being under the authority of anyone, especially a man like Dupuis. The only thing that had prevented her from resigning two weeks ago was that she’d have no place to live, and no income to live on. Minor matters like that.
But Dupuis did not fire her. Instead, he shifted from his angry threats and took a placating, wheedling approach. “Now, ma chère, you are just distraught from working so hard. Why don’t you take a few days off to reconsider? You can put the project aside for a while. But there is no need to stop work on it all together.”
Simone was not moved. “Why do you want it so much? What is it to you?”
“Why, it is the most spectacular parfum this nose has ever smelled,” he said, coming closer. Simone cringed visibly and took a step backward. She knew why he wanted the perfume. Why he kept it locked in his private closet. Why each time she checked it out from him to work on, there was more missing than what she’d turned in after her lab experimentation the day before.
Its magic still worked for him.
The wretched little bastard was using it to indulge his sexual fantasies, and she could only imagine what kind of lurid episodes those might be.
But wasn’t that exactly what she had been doing? Seeking in the perfume-induced dreams the love and sexual intimacy that was missing in her life?
Somehow, her use of it seemed less licentious. Her use of it night after night had been, at least in justification, in the name of research.
“There are other, even more fantastique perfumes to be developed, Monsieur Dupuis,” she told him. “Perfumes I can create quickly. And much more profitably.” She stood her ground. “I wish to work in a new direction.”
Simone was not prepared for what happened next. Antoine Dupuis pushed her against the wall and pressed his body against hers. She could smell the oil in his hair and the slightly acidic tone of his body odor.
“You will continue to work in this direction,” he said, forcing his erection against her. “I am almost out of the perfume, and I must have it.”
“Get away from me,” Simone cried, shocked and frightened, realizing suddenly he’d come into the perfume lab after closing time, when no one else was around.
“You bitch,” he snarled at her, pinning her wrists against the wall with surprisingly strong hands. “You think you are too good for me, don’t you?”
“Don’t do this,” she implored, attempting to loosen his grip.
He let her go, but his hands moved like lightning to the neck of her silk blouse, and he tore it open viciously, popping the tiny buttons onto the floor.
“Stop it!” she screamed, and brought her knee upward and directly into his groin. He fell away in stunned agony, and Simone picked up her purse and raced from the room, covering her bare bosom with her white lab coat.
The man had gone mad. And she didn’t plan to be around when he recovered his senses.
She ran out the door and into the street, aware of the stares of passersby and not caring. She turned in the direction of the corporate flat and walked rapidly, glancing occasionally over her shoulder. Would Dupuis follow her home? Was he going to rape her?
She tried to calm her panic, to think through what had just happened, to find a logical reason for his behavior. She hadn’t known Antoine Dupuis long, but as far as she could recall, he had always been the epitome of control. In fact, there had been a few times, particularly in staff meetings, where he’d seemed to delight in manipulating and controlling his inferiors.
What could explain this sudden loss of control, except his use of the perfume? The very thought sickened her.
I am almost out of the perfume, and I must have it.
Until that moment, Simone had thought the potion evocative, but even in spite of its hallucinogenic potential, not really dangerous. Now, Esther’s warning rang like thunder in her ears. It must not get into the wrong hands.
Simone was taking no chances. She had little doubt that Antoine Dupuis was irrational, angry, and capable of following her back to the corporate apartment and attempting to finish what he’d started. She entered the flat and slammed the door behind her, wishing it had a deadbolt. Instead, she wedged a chair beneath the knob, as if that could stop a madman. Still ru
nning on adrenaline, she went to the bathroom and surveyed the damage to her new silk blouse in the mirror.
Totaled. The buttons were missing, their embroidered holes ripped apart, the lapels in shreds.
The sight of it heightened her nausea. Simone’s knees grew weak, and she leaned against the bathroom wall, crying in both fury and relief. What would have happened if she hadn’t been able to escape? She sat on the edge of the tub, hysterical sobs heaving from deep within.
“Well, Mademoiselle, you wanted to leave the House of Rutledge?” she said, regaining control at last and talking to herself in the mirror. “I’ll bet you just got fired.” She forced a bitter laugh to cover her distress. Knowing she’d lost her job filled her with a combination of anxiety and relief. She had little money, soon would have no place to live. But she would never have to put up with the loathsome little Frenchman again.
The thought lifted her spirits in spite of the trauma of his assault. She removed the blouse and examined her throat and breasts in the mirror. If Dupuis had physically hurt her, she would file suit against him. In her opinion, men who beat women were the lowest of creatures, and she felt morally compelled to fight back. But to her immense relief, she didn’t see any bruising on her skin. She wasn’t into lawsuits either. She would, however, send him the ruined blouse, and a bill for its replacement.
Simone felt dirty. She ran a hot shower and tried to wash away the stink of the incident, all the while remaining nervously alert for the crash of Antoine Dupuis’s body against her front door. Fortunately, the crazed animal didn’t come knocking.
Still driven by urgency, Simone dressed hastily and gathered enough clothing into a duffel to last her for a few days. She also tucked in the Book of Shadows, the “Project X” folder, the photocopy of the mahja blossom, and the bottle of perfume she’d stolen from Nick. Then she picked up the phone.
“Hello, Esther, this is Simone. Is my room available?”
“Yes. Are you coming today?” Her voice sounded startled. “It’s the middle of the week.”
“I…uh, lost my job. Are your mid-week rates lower?”
“Never mind about rates. I’m just glad you’re coming. I was going to call you tonight. The plants,” the elderly woman huffed into the phone with unveiled excitement. “One of the plants bloomed last night.”
“Night blooming?” Simone suddenly forgot all about Antoine Dupuis. A night-blooming plant, such as the cereus, often had the most prized scent used in fragrance.
“Yes. And delicate. By the time I discovered it, the blossoms had already dropped. There are more buds, but we must work quickly.”
“I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”
Simone straightened the small apartment and made sure she had anything of real value with her. She suspected that out of vengeance, Dupuis might enter it with his key and remove anything that belonged to her, daring her to demand him to return them. It would be a control freak’s sort of revenge.
Two and a half hours later she disembarked at Redford Station. The sun had gone down and twilight washed the small village in hues of blue and silver. Simone inhaled deeply of the country summer night, glad to be rid of the city, of Antoine Dupuis, and the House of Rutledge. She guessed she was just a peasant at heart.
Esther greeted her with a warm hug and a plate of supper, and Simone ate ravenously as she related the whole story to the horrified woman.
“Don’t you go back there,” she scolded. “I told you th’ perfume was dangerous in the wrong hands. Now you’ve seen it for yourself.”
Simone gave the woman a long, perplexed look. “I believe you sincerely. But how can a perfume be dangerous? Je ne comprends pas. I don’t understand.”
“I don’t understand either, but it’s not important t’ understand. It’s just important t’ know that overuse of whatever Mary Rose concocted can drive a person mad, like this Antoine Dupuis. Or,” she paused, “it could kill them. Like it did John Rutledge and Mary Rose Hatcher.”
“Oh, Esther, you don’t know that.”
The witch sniffed. “I know.”
Simone smiled, unwilling to further the argument. “On the other hand, I know you are anxious for me to make more of it, because you claim it can also be beneficial. How do you know what’s safe and what’s dangerous?”
“Medicine and poison are often derived from th’ same source,” Esther explained. “The only difference is in th’ amount ingested. I think it’s much th’ same with th’ perfume. In limited quantities, used only occasionally, it can enhance a woman’s sense of feminine well-being. Maybe it can work in a similar manner for men. But abused, I’m convinced there is no estimating th’ mental and emotional destruction it could cause.”
Simone’s cheeks burned, and she was suddenly uncomfortable talking about overuse of the perfume with Esther. Even though she’d rationalized her nightly use of it as being experimental, she knew that wasn’t quite the truth. She’d used it to be with Nick in her dreams. However, Esther didn’t need to know that, or worry that she would continue using it. In the dreams, Nick was obviously through with Simone. And Simone was through with the perfume.
Maybe she was through with all perfumes, she thought glumly. It seemed that they’d brought nothing but misery into her life for the past ten years. Maybe she should return to the States and find a good, steady, safe job creating fragrance for baby diapers and soap.
She had only one remaining obligation, and then she would be free to plan her next move. For the honor of her father, she must attempt to make Shamir’s perfume, if the flowers that bloomed in Esther’s garden did indeed provide the missing ingredient. She’d brought along the formula, hoping she could create the blend right here in Esther’s kitchen, somehow summon the tall strange man to come for it, and be done with him for good.
“What time do you think the plants will bloom tonight?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Nick lowered the convertible top on the Triumph, looking forward to the evening drive into the countryside. That feature of the car was useless much of the time in England’s dreary climate, but presently there was not a cloud in the sky, and a full moon was to rise later.
He needed to get away from Bombay Fragrances, Ltd. and out of London to clear his thoughts and decide what to do next. The perfume experiment was still unsuccessful, and the clock was ticking. He must decide whether to continue to pursue it, or use his time in another direction. His original business strategy had been to take Bombay Fragrances straight into the high end of the fragrance business—fine perfumes. But when he’d learned of Simone’s plan to develop les grands parfums, as she called them, for the House of Rutledge, he’d been forced to rethink his ideas, especially when Mary Rose’s erotic perfume refused to give up its secrets to him.
Nick accelerated and entered the motorway, his dark hair whipping over his forehead and his skin tingling from the rush of fresh air in his face. He urged the powerful engine forward, feeling the speed ease the deep melancholy that had suffused his spirit since his night with Simone. He’d nursed the deep hurt of her actions into a dark anger, trying to convince himself that now that she’d gotten even, he could live at last without guilt over what he’d done to her. But it seemed instead that his life had returned to rock bottom, and at times over the past few weeks he wondered if he cared enough about anything to carry on.
But as he left London behind and drove into the countryside, his spirits brightened, and he forced himself to argue the positive side of things. So he’d lost a couple of rounds. There was always another set, as Scotty, his tennis coach, had so often kindly pointed out after demolishing Nick on the courts. But what would his next round be?
Nick could continue with his original plan and create a perfume other than Mary Rose’s to launch Bombay Fragrances. Maybe something decidedly Oriental, spicy, exotic, to match the name of the company. Maybe he could have the designers come up with a package that would look like the old trunk found in the basement in Bombay, and they co
uld nestle the bottle inside. It could even contain a note, evoking a forbidden love affair. Nick allowed a grin onto his lips. If he couldn’t recreate the perfume, he could at least recreate the mystique.
It was a good idea, evoking the mysterious, the forbidden. And it was highly marketable.
Marketing, Nick acknowledged to himself, is what he did best. As a perfumer, he had a better-than-average nose. But as a businessman, he had a brilliant sense of what the consumer would buy. Often it was the concept and packaging that attracted the customer, not the perfume itself. They would buy the promise of excitement, adventure, and intrigue offered by the package, and take whatever scent that happened to be inside, providing it did not offend their sense of smell.
But was it smart to enter the field of fine fragrances at the moment, knowing that Simone and the House of Rutledge were primed to make the same market entry? Another option was to go with a lower end product line, such as aromatherapy oils, bath and body scents, much as he’d developed for the House of Rutledge. They were far less glamorous, but also very lucrative.
Either way, it seemed he was destined to run up against his former financial backer…and Simone. He recalled Dupuis’s innuendo, that he and Simone were “friendly.” Was it true? The thought revolted him, but it was possible. It would explain why she’d called asking to talk to him. That had the mark of Antoine Dupuis all over it. Smooth talk. Followed by seduction. Nick knew that formula.
It was almost dark when Nick at last arrived in the village of Redford. He wondered as he drove down the narrow winding streets which inn Simone had stayed in after she’d left the cottage.
Simone. There she was again. Damn it! He had to find a way to get her off his mind. She was stuck there, in his thoughts and feelings, almost as if she had become a part of him.
He stopped for a drink and a meal in a pub in town, then headed toward Brierley Hall. He passed the lane that turned off to the old servants’ cottage, and the image of Simone answering his knock wearing nothing but the scarlet robe assailed him from out of nowhere.
