by Jill Jones
Even though he’d covered the container with foil, their odor filled the small compartment of the car, making him lightheaded with an inexplicable sense of joy and well-being, a euphoria that was somehow connected to Simone. Her image kept creeping into his imagination, and with it, a consciousness that regardless of what had passed between them, he was still in love with her. He wanted her, and oddly, inhaling the essence of the mahja, he illogically believed that they might possibly overcome their differences. If only she could forgive him. What could he do, what could he ever say to make her let go and forgive all that had happened in the past?
Just before dawn, he carried the crock and its precious contents into the lab at Bombay Fragrances, and like a mad scientist, began the process that would distill the essence from the trumpet-shaped blooms. He’d read in Mary Rose’s diary that she’d used enfleurage to obtain the fragrant oil, but he didn’t have time for that slow process.
Brenda found him still at it hours later when she came to work. She opened the door to the lab and smiled in surprise to find him there. Then she sniffed the air. “Ah, lovely! What is it? Our first perfume?”
Nick stood and stretched. “Could be,” he replied, not allowing his hope to override his caution. After all, he’d come close before, in his efforts to synthesize the perfume. “Get me a cup of coffee, would you please?”
At last, droplets of a rich, brandy-colored oil began to rise to the surface of the container in which the product of the distillation was collected. Nick’s heart hammered as he watched, mesmerized, as his future appeared before his very eyes. He had the perfume oil!
The droplets joined one another, forming larger drops that floated on the water base. He doubted if this limited batch of flowers would produce much of the mahja’s essential oil, unless the blooms were high in oil content. He’d had time to collect only those blossoms that had fully opened, not enough to fill the equipment to even one-third its capacity. The bushes were loaded with buds, however, and Nick planned to return to the garden tonight, with help, to collect a greater quantity.
When he felt the time was right, he drew off a few milliliters of the oil and placed it in a curved glass dish where it glowed golden warm in the morning sun.
It looked the same as Mary Rose’s oil.
Nick placed two droplets onto a mouillette, and with the flourish, brought the slender white blotter to his nose. He smiled.
It smelled the same.
He waited, expecting the sensual arousal brought on when he inhaled of the ancient perfume. At the moment, he continued to experience that inexplicable glow of happiness, that feeling of well-being that had accompanied him on the trip back from Brierley. But Nick felt not a hint of sexual stimulation. He inhaled of the essence again.
Again nothing. Not even the slightest tingle of arousal, only a pleasant, light-headed euphoria.
Euphoria. Not a bad feature for a perfume.
Sexual arousal. An even better one.
But it wasn’t here.
Exhausted and disappointed, Nick gathered the precious few drops of oil into a vial and tucked it into his pocket. There was one more experiment he must make before calling it a failure. “I’ll check in later,” he told Brenda. “Don’t forward my calls. I’m going home to try to get some sleep.”
At home, he showered and slipped into a pair of clean shorts, his mind all the while on the small pale red trumpets that dangled in orderly rows from each limb of the bushes in the garden behind the cottage. They must be the same flowers Mary Rose had used. He was certain they were identical in size and shape to the pressed flower that remained safely tucked away in his bank vault. Why hadn’t they produced the same effect?
Nick’s chemical analysis had shown Mary Rose’s substance was not a blend but a single essential oil, just as he’d distilled in his lab. Somehow, it must be slightly different in its molecular structure. He would check on that later.
In the meantime he lay down on his bed and closed his eyes. Although he was exhausted to the bone, it wasn’t sleep he sought. It was dreams. Would this essence take him into the dreams? To Simone?
With her senses as replete with the scent of the mahja as they’d ever been, Simone fully expected that she would enter the indigo mist of her dreams as soon as she fell into bed. Although she respected Esther’s beliefs that using the perfume to meet Nick in dreams could be dangerous, in her heart, she felt it was the only way she could ever transcend the sea of mutual mistakes that continued to separate them. And even though she’d been unable to meet Nick in her most recent dreams, she thought perhaps, with the fragrance of the fresh mahja blooms in her soul, she could summon her dream lover once again.
But Simone slept soundly, her slumber uninterrupted by dreams of any sort, and she awoke just after dawn, feeling empty and depressed. The tears of the night before, shed as she unburdened her heart to Esther, threatened to resurface, and she tossed on the bed, hugging her pillow tightly.
What good is it, she thought bitterly, to have a prestigious job, to create perfumes that would make her father proud when her father would never know about them? What value was there in a life driven only by a desire for revenge? Even more depressing, what good was a life in which she could never be with the man she loved, not in reality, and now it seemed, not even in her dreams?
Her mood when she dressed and went down into the garden was as forlorn as the steely gray skies overhead. Perhaps it would rain today. The land wanted the relief of rain. It had been the hottest, driest summer on record. Simone wanted some relief as well from the parched feeling of loneliness that had settled somewhere around her heart.
By daylight, the mahja plants were nothing spectacular, rather weedy looking bushes, except for the symmetry of the row of buds along some of the stems that tonight would open into their signature trumpet shape. Other than in photos, she’d never seen either a datura or a brugmansia, and she wasn’t sure just how much this resembled its supposed cousins. Of course, if these innocuous looking little flowers were hallucinogenic in nature, no one should ever use them to create a perfume for distribution to the mass market. She probably shouldn’t even use the stuff to make Shamir’s concoction, but she’d already decided she would. She doubted if the tall Indian man would turn her in to the authorities, and she suspected that it was the hallucinogenic effects that he was after. She would make his perfume, but she’d return the formula to him and tell him not to come back for more.
After checking each bush in turn, Simone was certain that they would not bloom again until dark. There was time for her to complete an errand she needed to do in London and return to help Esther repeat the enfleurage process they’d started last night. Allowing the scent to be absorbed by the fat was only the first part of the process. To finish it, she needed ethyl alcohol, a commodity not readily available since it was the same ingestible alcohol found in liquor and therefore a controlled substance.
But Simone knew where there was plenty of it, for her needs at least. The perfumery at the House of Rutledge. She was nervous about going back there. She hoped she wouldn’t run into Dupuis. Regardless, she would take the opportunity to collect her personal belongings and turn in a letter of resignation. Later, if she had time, she’d take a specimen of the mahja plant to Dr. Wheatley and have him determine once and for all whether or not the essence of the mahja was dangerous. She clipped the end off one stem and returned to the house to tell Esther her plans.
“Aren’t you afraid of your boss?” she asked.
“Ex-boss,” Simone corrected her. “And I’m not afraid, although I’d just as soon avoid him. I don’t want to give him the chance to try to manipulate me into doing what he wants.”
“Which is…?”
Simone shrugged. No use lying to Esther. “When Dupuis first got a whiff of Mary Rose’s perfume, then started using it himself, he…well, sort of became obsessed with my developing it into a fine perfume for the House of Rutledge.”
Esther blanched. “But you see what it
did to him!” she fussed, wringing her hands. “Surely now you can understand the danger. Simone, you must not make that perfume.”
“I’m not going to. I told you, I’m resigning from the job. I have to go back to the lab, though. I have my personal belongings to collect, and I’m going to give myself a little bonus,” she added with a wink. “I’ll get the solvent we need for our project here.”
Later that morning, Simone entered the corporate flat in London, fully expecting the rest of her belongings to have been removed, evicting her from the place. But everything was just as she’d left it. She let out a sigh of relief and called Sarah Addington at the House of Rutledge to tell her she wouldn’t be in today and see which way the wind was blowing with Dupuis.
“Mr. Dupuis has taken the day off,” the woman told her. “He said he wasn’t feeling well.”
Simone grinned as she rang off. She’d bet he wasn’t feeling well, especially in a certain place in the groin. Perfect. She could get in and out of the perfume lab quickly, and leave her note of resignation under the door to his office. She shuffled through her desk drawer and came up with a relatively presentable piece of white paper, dug in her purse for a pen, and composed a short, polite note to Mr. Antoine Dupuis.
“I herewith proffer my resignation as master perfumer at the House of Rutledge, effective immediately.”
Nick awoke before noon, groggy from the heavy but dream-free sleep. He splashed cold water on his face and went downstairs for something to eat. There on the counter, where it had remained after he’d retrieved it from his front drive, was Simone’s red slipper. The sight of it drew a ragged breath from him.
He picked it up and dangled it from his finger. So fashionable. So sexy. So Simone. Suddenly, his hunger for food vanished, replaced by a deeper hunger—for the woman he loved and had betrayed. He didn’t care that she’d fallen under the influence of Antoine Dupuis. He’d done so himself. Nor did he blame her that she’d returned his betrayal in kind. And he did not for one moment believe that Simone had become the Frenchman’s lover. She had too much class for that.
Nick’s body felt the fire of arousal as if he’d succeeded with the perfume. But it had been hours since he’d inhaled it. No, this was not an illusory arousal. It was real, visceral, and raw. He wanted Simone, more than anything he’d ever wanted anything in his life. Success. Honor. Even his Rutledge name.
Because, without her, all the rest had no meaning.
He must find a way…
Placing the shoe on the top of his desk in the study, he could think of only one thing. He picked up pen and paper.
My dearest Simone,…
A short time later, he folded the paper, inserted it in an envelope, and considered what to do next. It was mid-day. She would be at work. He decided to take it to the flat and leave it at her door. He’d rather not be present when she read his words anyway. What if the letter didn’t work?
Nick dressed hastily, shoved the red shoe into his coat pocket, and drove swiftly to the lab at Bombay Fragrances. Leaving the car’s motor running, he dashed in, found the specimen he sought, and left again, aware that Brenda was watching him in bemusement. He didn’t care what Brenda thought of his madness. This might, just might, convince Simone of his sincerity.
He wove through the noonday traffic until he made his way to the high-rise tower in which the House of Rutledge had purchased a flat. Ostensibly, it had been meant for use as a hospitality suite when the company executives entertained business associates, but Nick knew that Dupuis had also used it to entertain the bevy of models from which he was able to purchase favors from time to time. The man was disgusting. He hoped he hadn’t made any passes at Simone.
He greeted the doorman, who recognized him and didn’t question his presence there. Nick took the elevator to the fourth floor, and only as he approached the door to the flat did he question what he was about to do. He could still change his mind. But he shook himself resolutely. Whatever the outcome, he must give it a try.
He knelt and took the red shoe from his pocket and placed it on the carpet in front of the door. He slipped the note beneath it, and then, as if adding an exotic decoration, he lay the single trumpet-shaped flower he’d picked up at the lab on the wide satin strap of the shoe.
Then he turned away and left the building quickly. It had to work. It just had to.
Antoine Dupuis lay in bed until noon, nursing his black-and-blue private parts and his equally injured vanity. But what had happened had been his own fault, he reminded himself. He’d lost control. In fact, he was appalled at what he’d done to Simone, and knew he must act quickly to make amends, or he would lose her.
Even though she had not yet produced anything dramatic in the way of a fine fragrance for the House of Rutledge, he knew she had the talent they needed. Her lack of productivity was also partly his fault, for he’d insisted she work exclusively on the perfume that had become his obsession. He’d never thought it would be so difficult to recreate the potion.
He glanced at the small bottle of the essence that beckoned to him from his nightstand. His nightly use of it had dwindled his supply to a dangerously low level. He could, of course, live without it. But he didn’t want to. The magic of the perfume took him in his dreams to pinnacles of pleasure he could never know in his waking hours. There, he became a king, or rather a sultan, with a harem of beautiful women to attend his every want and need. There, he had a full head of hair and always a virile erection.
Maybe if he gave Simone a break, took her off the project for a while and let her work in another direction, as she’d asked, she would soon be willing to return to her search for its magic.
Only one thing bothered him about that. Simone knew about the “special effects” of this perfume. Even though he trusted her, Dupuis would not rest easy until the House of Rutledge had a patented formula for it. He knew the fragrance held more for him than sensual dreams. It held wealth. Once developed and properly marketed, it would change the way the world looked at fragrance. He did not want, accidentally or on purpose, for it to fall into the wrong hands.
Dupuis frowned. Simone wouldn’t do anything like that, would she? Even though it was taking her an inordinately long time to come up with the formula, he didn’t think she was holding back on him or would sell it behind his back to another bidder. Still…
He decided to keep an even closer eye on her. But first he had to get back into her good graces. He’d have to find a way to apologize for his animalistic behavior. Mon Dieu! Had he gone completely crazy?
After making a checklist of things he thought might resolve the untenable situation, he looked up the number of his favorite florist in his appointment book and ordered two dozen long-stemmed red roses. “No, don’t deliver them. I’ll pick them up later this afternoon. I want to hand-carry them to the young lady.”
Flowers. Check.
Next he made a call to a friend who was a fine jeweler. “A tennis bracelet? Yes, that should do the trick,” he decided, but winced at the price his friend quoted to him over the phone. “Don’t you have one with some smaller diamonds?”
Jewelry. Check.
A third call secured him the best table in the one of London’s most expensive restaurants for dinner at eight.
An elegant evening on the town. Check.
Then he called his secretary, who informed him that Simone had not shown up for work yet. “She has been under tremendous strain,” Dupuis told her. “I suggested she take the day off.” He hung up, a crooked smile crossing his lips. He knew how his secretary’s mind worked, and that she likely suspected that since both he and Simone had taken a day off, that they were spending it together. He liked the idea.
But it troubled him that she hadn’t come in to work, even if it didn’t surprise him. Had he frightened her so badly that she’d run, and he’d never see her again? His fingers picked up the phone again and dialed the number of the corporate flat. After ten rings, he hung up. Where could she be?
Chap
ter Twenty-Five
Dupuis showered and dressed in a light summer suit with a natty pin-striped shirt and blue tie. He wore Italian loafers rather than the dressier shoes of an important executive. He was, after all, on his day off. He stopped in at the jeweler’s and decided the bracelet was just the thing, despite the cost. Then he drove to the florist. The roses were magnifique, he assured the henna-haired woman who had arranged them. Indeed, they were splendid.
Dupuis looked at his watch. It was only two-thirty. Too early to begin the evening he had planned with Simone, a rendezvous that had become enticingly romantic as he fantasized over every minute of it. Or was it too early? Maybe he should call on her first, surprise her with the roses. Get on his knees and beg her to forgive him. Who knows? Perhaps she’d invite him in…
The doorman at the tower greeted Antoine Dupuis with a formal nod. “Good afternoon, Monsieur.”
“Good afternoon, Alfred.” He handed the man the keys to the Mercedes that was parked squarely in the middle of the only access to the parking garage. “Take care of the car, will you?” His request was accompanied by a ten pound note.
“Certainly, sir.”
The doorman went to park the car, and Dupuis headed for the elevator, the vase of roses sloshing onto the carpeted hallway. He reached the door to the flat and noticed something on the floor. It looked to be a ladies’ slipper.
A slipper. On top of a note of some kind.
Without knocking on the door, Dupuis knelt and set the vase to one side of the doorsill. He picked up the shoe, sending a small red flower unnoticed from the shoe to the floor, where its color and shape blended with the floral decorations on the carpet. Deciding it would be a pleasure to place it on her foot later, he stuffed the shoe into his pocket. Then, with no compunction whatsoever about reading someone else’s correspondence, he opened the envelope, and as he read its contents, his blood pressure skyrocketed:
