Midnight Temptation

by Nancy Gideon

  “I don’t understand her, Louis. Why would she run away?”

  “Why?” He gave her a soft, humorless laugh. “She has just found herself to be the offspring of a devil. I would say she acted quite appropriately. We should have expected her to flee and been better prepared.”

  Arabella blanched. “If I had known she would attempt such a thing, I would not have left her side!”

  “I know, my love.” He touched her tenderly then, his palms soothing down her forearms until their hands clasped together. His were yet cool from below. Cool because he’d been interrupted in his search for inner fire the night before. She clung to him for a moment, then pulled away in agitation.

  “After all the love between you, I would have thought she’d stay to hear you out.” Arabella paced beyond him to the window, looking out into the darkness, trying not to imagine her child lost somewhere within it. She wasn’t sure which emotion to act upon, her worry for Nicole’s safety or her anger over the girl’s ill-advised flight. She couldn’t believe their child had fled out of fear for her own safety. More like a matter of pride. Foolish, dangerous pride in this particular instance. Had she absorbed none of their ceaseless cautionings? Had she taken none of their warnings to heart? But then, Nicole didn’t know the true danger. And Arabella prayed she would not find out.

  “I don’t believe she’d be much interested in anything I have to tell her at the moment. I believe it comes ten years too late. We should have trusted her with the truth long ago, Bella. Now she feels we have betrayed her.”

  “Hindsight is a marvelous torment. What will we do now?” She struggled not to give way to a wild panic. She was a scientist’s daughter, after all. Such a display would do no good. What was needed were clear heads and immediate plans. Still, she could not retain a small sob of anxiousness from escaping when she thought of all that was at stake. Why hadn’t she watched the girl more carefully in this most important instance?

  Louis came up behind her, his palms gliding over her tense shoulders, kneading them into a state of relaxation. “We’ll find her. We’ll bring her home.”

  He made it sound so simple, and she needed that assurance. It helped her get her emotions under control. “Expect a struggle, my love. She is a headstrong girl.”

  He chuckled and eased a kiss along her temple. “She comes by that quite honestly, I believe.”

  “Well, it would seem she inherited none of my common sense. What could she be thinking? She is scarcely prepared to meet the world and all its dangers.” A shudder shook through her as she imagined the worst, and Louis’s arms banded tight, molding her back against him. As always, she took comfort there.

  “We’ll find her. And we’ll make her listen. Then she can make up her own mind. I will not force her to remain here. I cannot demand that she love what I am when I cannot manage that feat myself.”

  Moved to think beyond her own fears, Arabella revolved in his embrace, her calm grey eyes lit with concern, a concern with maintaining the close bond of family. That’s all she had ever wanted. “Louis, she will come to her senses. She loves you too much not to see the man you are beyond the half-life that you’re forced to lead.”

  “Perhaps.” But he looked so uncertain and melancholy. “Right now, she sees only that thing in the woods and she feels she can no longer trust us. It will be hard for her to come back to us. She was raised to believe she was safe here.”

  “She was safe. Were we wrong in thinking we could protect her forever? Oh, Louis, if anything should happen—”

  He kissed her furrowed brow gently. “Nothing will. I’ll send Mrs. Kampford down to speak to those artists she is so fond of. Someone must have seen her and can tell us her direction. She can’t have gotten far. She hasn’t the means or the experience to outrun us for long. Perhaps one of them is sheltering her even now. Please do not fret, my love. We will have her back with us and you may delight in scolding her.”

  Arabella didn’t smile at his mild teasing. Her thoughts were much too dark to be shaken loose by light words and a loving assurance.

  “She doesn’t understand the danger. She doesn’t know all that can hurt her. We should have prepared her, Louis. We should have warned her what to watch for. What if others find her first?”

  That was the terror that undermined their happy years, the fear that all could be brought to a tragic end. Not at the hands of ignorant and superstitious townspeople, but of Louis’s own kind. They’d left their London home and prestigious title to sink into the anonymity of the French countryside under an assumed name where Nicole could be raised to a quiet, sheltered life and where, hopefully, Louis’s past could not find them. Perhaps those were the naive dreams of two desperate people who were in love and longing to live together in a near to normal existence. But little was normal about Louis Radman other than his devotion to his family. And for seventeen years, they had stood guard over their precious child, protecting her from outside pain, watchful of any signs that would suggest she was following her father’s path of the damned.

  “If she is your daughter, she will be smart enough to come home.” His fingertips soothed over Arabella’s worried features. Then his mood deepened into grim reflection. “If she is my daughter, she will be able to take care of herself.”

  Chapter Three

  SHE SPENT HER first night in Paris huddled in a doorway.

  “Here now! Get up from there!”

  The firm swat of a stiff-bristled broom sent Nicole rolling off the stone stoop onto the walk.

  “Be on your way,” shouted the indignant shopkeeper, who brandished the broom like a sword. “The likes of you is bad for business. Go on now. Get, before I call the gendarmes!” He gave her another prod to show he was sincere before retreating back into his nice warm building.

  She wasn’t sure which was harder, forcing her aching muscles to support her after the miserably cramped rest or enduring the fact that she was thought to be a common prostitute. Not certain where she’d go, but knowing she could not remain where she was, Nicole wobbled to her feet to return to the cold city streets and a day even more bleak than the former. Grim clouds scudded close to foretell of incoming weather, tinging the Seine the same dreary grey. Pulling her cloak tighter, Nicole tucked her painting beneath her arm and set out at an aimless shuffle. Flavorful scents from the abundant cafés quickened an earnest rumbling, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten for an entire day. But food was the least of her worries. Shelter was her immediate concern.

  She had few options. If she went to the police to report the robbery, she would be returned home, and that would not do. She wouldn’t go back there, regardless of her situation. Her memories of a loving home and caring parents were illusions, lies. She wouldn’t think of her palatial rooms and cosseted existence. She wouldn’t dwell upon the fact that even now, Mrs. Kampford would have been bringing her a cup of hot chocolate in bed, and that a sumptuous feast would be waiting on the buffet below. Because below rested a nightmare she’d just been wakened to. Since she could not go back, she would go forward. And her first forward move was to find someplace to stay.

  Shivering with the night’s chill and pinched with hunger, Nicole was less intrigued with Paris as she had been the previous day. Afoot and adrift, she saw different sights than the grand attractions noted from the comfort of a carriage. She saw the tattered appearance of the populace pushing by her and the cheerless desperation in their faces. She found herself among a network of stinking alleys, muddy lanes and airless cul-de-sacs where poverty packed in tight amid the monuments of the elite. And it was a scary, unfriendly place to be.

  Clutching her painting as she was jostled by the hurrying mass, Nicole had a thought—an inspiration. Camille. He’d said to call on him if she needed anything, and at the moment she was very needy. Perhaps he’d be willing to put her up for a few nights and share some bread and a little much-desired warmth
of mood. She’d have to concoct some tale as to what had happened to her supposed friend and why she couldn’t return home, but she could work up that story while she crossed the Seine and entered the bohemian world of the Latin Quarter.

  Camille had told tales about the colony of artists and students among which he lived. He spoke grandly of la vie de bohème, whose borders were poverty and hope, art and illusion, where creativity expressed itself as freedom from responsibility, where odd dress, long hair, living for the moment, radical political enthusiasms, loose sexual mores and an addiction to nightlife ruled. It had sounded wildly romantic to a sheltered girl on the banks of the river Loing. But as that same young woman crossed the Seine to traverse the Boulevard du Monteparnasse, she found, not the quaint home of idealism, but the glare of ugliness and discontent. Surely there must be more than met the eye or there wouldn’t be so many eager to flock to the cold, dirty streets.

  After asking for nearly an hour, she found an old woman willing to direct her to Camille Viotti’s flat. As she climbed the rickety outside stairs, his painting clutched tight for safety, she tried not to wonder how the bon vivant Camille had survived in such a slum. And she refused to look down to see what squished and slid beneath her feet as she continued to ascend. Wishing she had some other alternative but knowing she did not, Nicole knocked upon the partially opened door at the top of the steps.

  “Allo? Camille?” she called as the door swung inward upon a large shadowed room. She saw movement amid the darkness and a figure started forward in answer to her call. A man, but not Camille. Where the artist was long limbed and reed slender, this man was built sturdy and strong. He was only half dressed, with some sort of military jacket thrown on over a broad, bare chest. That expanse of bronzed musculature was somewhat threatening to the cloistered Nicole. She stood poised to flee, while her uncertain gaze was riveted by that bold strip of manly physique. He paused where dimness cloaked his features. Silence stretched out to an uncomfortable tension, then he asked in a gravelly voice, “What do you want?”

  The unwelcoming growl made her take a step back but, remembering her plight, Nicole said steadily, “I’m a friend of Camille Viotti. I was told he lives here.”

  “He did. He’s gone.”

  The curt reply startled her into arguing. “But he can’t be gone. I just came into the city with him yesterday.”

  “Then you just missed him.”

  His tone was warped by a searing humor she didn’t understand. The quality of it spoke plainly of something very wrong. Alarmed, but still insistent, she asked, “Can you tell me where he’s gone?”

  He laughed, a raw sound without real amusement. “I’m afraid I’m not privy to that information, mademoiselle.” He came into the grey-filtered light then. His stride was slightly reeling and the strong scent of drink made the cause apparent. Her first impression was of a brooding face, probably quite handsome when shaven and unmarked by too much drink and the heavy lines of private sorrow. Quietly, with a clarity that was almost cruel, he told her, “Camille is dead. They found his body in Faubourg St. Antoine this morning.”

  “No,” was all she could think to utter. How could that be? Camille with his love of life and carefree philosophies . . . gone. “How?”

  “I haven’t heard the particulars. I’m not sure I want to.” It was then his bleary gaze fastened upon the landscape she held. He recognized the style, but not the work. When he stepped closer, she hugged the painting to her as if fearing he would snatch it away. She was obviously what she said; a friend of Camille’s, and just as obviously devastated by the news of his demise. He tried to pull together the rudimentary manners the situation called for, but he was too drunk, too stunned by the facts, himself, to do much more than mutter, “Forgive me my rudeness, mademoiselle. I don’t know what else I can tell you. If you’d like to wait—”

  But she was retreating down the stairs, her movements slow, dazed then brisk with denial. From the doorway, he watched her race down the steps, the canvas banging against her knees, then she disappeared down one of the street’s many twists and turns. He leaned back against the weathered frame and closed weary eyes. Just as well she was gone before Bebe returned. The grieving beauty would not be thrilled by the presence of one of Camille’s other interests. She would not want to be upstaged in this time of dramatic mourning.

  The events had shaken them all, badly. Violence was nothing new to any of them but it had never struck so personally or taken one so undeserving. Camille had been an innocent soul. He’d never harmed anyone. He’d lived for his art and it seemed he died for nothing. No one could have mistaken him for someone who had anything worth stealing. It was the randomness of the vicious act that shocked his friends. And it was the fact that it could just as easily have been him going down to identify his brother, Frederic, as Frederic going down to identify Camille, that had him halfway down a bottle before breakfast.

  He opened his eyes and stared down the street in the direction the young woman had taken. She’d been a pretty little thing, with her big frightened eyes and lush lips. Probably some grisette Camille met while in the country, who’d hoped to secure his patronage in exchange for favors. He wondered where she would go now. She’d had a hungry, fearful look about her as if lost. But Paris was full of lost souls. Perhaps she would go home where she belonged. Perhaps on to some other lonely, self-centered bourgeois student looking for an unencumbered liaison. She wasn’t his concern. He had enough to do to care for those within these four walls.

  He hadn’t done a very good job with Camille, had he?

  And that would torment him for nights to come. There wasn’t enough drink in the world to wash that guilt away.

  No, let her be someone else’s responsibility. He had no room in his battered heart for another complication.

  IT BEGAN TO RAIN.

  Nothing could have been more complimentary to Nicole’s mood. By midday, it was dark enough to be twilight. The entire heavens seemed to weep with her over the unfairness of a young artist’s death. She wandered the tangle of streets, paying no attention to time or direction. What did it matter, after all? Camille had been her only friend, her only hope. What else was there?

  Her drifting indifference was broken by her stomach’s demand for food and her body’s need for shelter from the pelting cold. She dodged, dripping and shivering, into a small café, where fragrant odors and the warmth of the ovens created an inviting ambiance.

  But not so the surly proprietor. He watched her bend down over the display cases, touching the glass with a poignant longing, knowing the look because half of Paris was hungry. If he gave them all handouts, he couldn’t afford to stay in business.

  “If you cannot pay be off with you!”

  She glanced up with those hopeful, beseeching eyes and he had to harden his heart. That desperate gaze said it all. Please be generous. I have no money. She was wet and trembling, but not yet as gaunt as an alleycat. Soon she would be. However, that was not his problem.

  “Go on with you. I don’t tolerate beggars here.”

  “I’m no beggar, m’sieur.” She announced that with an admirable hauteur.

  “Then you have the means to pay?”

  She stared at him through thoughtful green eyes. Alleycat eyes.

  “I have no money, but I have this painting.” Reluctantly, she held out the canvas. Her chin was quivering. “It was done by a friend of mine, a very gifted artist, and it is worth—”

  “Nothing. Paris is full of such insipid works. Peddle it elsewhere or try peddling something of real value.” As his gaze assessed the way her damp gown clung to the contour of her bosom, she took his meaning. And she became a cat with claws.

  “That is not for sale, and I find I am no longer hungry for your pastries. Most likely they are stale anyway.” And with that, she stomped back out into the full-blown storm, slender shoulders braced ag
ainst the chill of the rain and the cut of insult.

  Behind the counter, the café owner shook his head and chuckled. Her indignation would not feed her. She would come to realize the truth of his suggestion soon enough.

  And perhaps she would be back.

  NICOLE QUICKLY realized pride was a poor umbrella, but she didn’t regret her decision. Surely there must be a kind heart somewhere in all of Paris! Somewhere, but obviously nowhere nearby. Shutters closed her out and glowering shopkeepers chased her away from the promising haven of their stores. All seemed to class her as a virtueless creature undeserving of shelter from the elements. Eventually, she took to using Camille’s canvas as a buffer. It was a poor tribute to his last work but she was certain he’d understand her dilemma. Even partly shielded from the merciless downpour, her feet and stockings were sodden and her cloak was an ineffective insulator from the bite of the wind.

  Hoping to escape some of the punishing onslaught, Nicole ducked into an alleyway where ancient buildings towered to cut off the slicing blow and much of the light. She tried not to notice the stink of rotting vegetables or look too closely where she put her feet. Delicacy was a luxury she could not afford.

  A whisper of movement distracted her. Immediately, she was alert in every sense. She heard furtive footfalls enter the alley behind her and the pull of rapid breaths. Several men, she determined from what she could hear. Her hope to blend into the shadows and obscurity was a fleeting prayer. She could tell by the way the others closed in with a purpose that she was their prey. Three menacing shapes became unsavory men and there was no misconstruing their intent. Their eyes said it plain.

  With a fierce cry, she swung Camille’s painting at the man closest to her. The stretcher bars cracked against his thick skull but didn’t have the slowing effect she’d desired. She turned to run.

  Within three strides, rough hands caught at her skirts, yanking her up and nearly costing her her footing on the slippery cobbles. Instead of struggling to escape, she whirled to confront them with a fiery fury. One of them began to chuckle at her audacity and she knocked the sound down his throat along with several of his front teeth. He gave a wail, staggering back to gurgle, “She broke my jaw!”