Desperate Measures

by Sara Craven

  At the conclusion of dinner, the whole party adjourned to the salon. Conversation was desultory. Everyone seemed to have accepted that the promised sensation was not going to take place after all. The Baron and his wife were the first to leave, and not long after that Alain announced that he and Philippa were also departing.

  ‘So soon?’ his uncle queried. ‘We are desolate.’

  ‘And my wife and I are on our honeymoon,’ Alain returned evenly. ‘I am sure the company will understand, and forgive us.’

  They were in the limousine, travelling back towards the apartment, before Philippa could begin to relax.

  ‘That,’ she said with feeling, ‘was a truly ghastly evening.’

  ‘Which you handled with great aplomb. Please accept my thanks.’ Alain paused. ‘You understood at once, of course, why my uncle invited us there tonight?’

  ‘It was fairly obvious.’ Philippa drew a breath which ached in her chest. ‘She’s very beautiful—Madame de Somerville-Resnais.’

  ‘Yes.’ The flat monosyllable told her nothing, and it was too dark in the car for her to read his expression with any accuracy. He volunteered no other comment, and after a moment or two Philippa sighed soundlessly and settled back in her seat, resigning herself to a silent journey.

  When they reached the apartment, Alain excused himself with abstracted politeness and went to speak to the Giscards. Philippa made straight for her room. The tensions of the evening had given her a slight headache, which the journey home had done little to alleviate.

  Alain obviously had a great deal on his mind, she acknowledged, as she took off the jade green top and skirt, and began to remove her make-up. It must have been traumatic for him to be suddenly confronted by his mistress and her husband, quite apart from the possibility of an ugly scene. The sight of her must have revived all kinds of memories for him too, and made their enforced separation doubly bitter.

  As far as she was aware, Alain and the lovely Baronne had not exchanged as much as a private glance, let alone a word, unless they communicated in some secret lovers’ code. But presumably they both intended the affair to continue at some time in the future.

  But Alain would have to be careful, she thought. The Baron was clearly a jealous and suspicious man, who would not hesitate, if provoked, to revenge himself in a very public way. And next time she might not be there to retrieve the situation.

  She gave a mental shrug. From now on that was Alain’s problem, and he would have to deal with it. All she wanted to was lie down and sleep for eternity. Her siesta that afternoon had been little more than a restless doze punctuated by some frankly disturbing dreams. Try as she might, she had not been able to prevent memories—images from the previous night filtering into her consciousness. Or maybe she hadn’t really wanted to forget …

  Her heart missed a sudden, startled beat and she swallowed, strangling the traitorous thought at birth. Of course it couldn’t be that, she chided herself, as she unfastened her suspenders. She was just too tired to think rationally, that was all.

  She was standing in her ivory silk teddy, with one foot perched on the dressing stool, as she tried to slide off a gossamer stocking, when there was a brief tap at her door, and Alain walked in.

  He halted at once, his brows lifting in surprise, touched by amusement, as he assimilated her state of undress.

  ‘Mille pardons,’ he murmured, his mouth curving with a totally sensual awareness as he regarded the unknowing provocation of her pose.

  Blushing to the roots of her hair, Philippa hurriedly regained her balance, snatching up a robe in pale lemon shirred cotton and fastening it round her.

  ‘Do you have to barge in like that?’ she asked resentfully.

  He shrugged. ‘I did not think you would have begun to undress so soon. And I wish to talk to you. Do you question my right to do so?’

  ‘No,’ she said in a low voice. ‘But can’t it wait until morning? I’m rather tired. I found the evening a strain …’

  ‘I can only apologise for my uncle.’ His voice was grim. ‘He will go to any lengths, it seems, to embarrass and discredit me. Only this time, thanks to you, his scheme did not work.’

  ‘But it might next time.’ Philippa picked up a brush and began to stroke it over her hair. She did not look at Alain. ‘We—we haven’t fooled anyone, you know. They don’t believe in our marriage. Everyone knows that your affair with the Baronne is still going on.’

  ‘How clever of them,’ Alain said bitingly. ‘Then you and I, mignonne, will have to find a way to convince them that they are in error.’ The words hung in a loaded silence. Then he said abruptly. ‘What did you mean about resuming your art studies?’

  ‘Exactly what I said.’ She decided not to tell him that she had thought of it on the spur of the moment. Let him think it was a considered decision. ‘My father always wanted me to study with Zak Gordano.’

  ‘And what about my wishes in all this? Have you considered them at all?’

  ‘Why should it bother you if I start painting again?’ Philippa stared at him, her hand stilling.

  ‘It might be better to—postpone your plans for a while. To concentrate your energies instead on learning to be my wife, perhaps?’

  Sudden colour flared in Philippa’s face. She hurried into words. ‘That’s hardly going to fill my days. Your apartment is run like clockwork, and your other houses, I expect. I can’t imagine the Giscards want my interference.’

  ‘That is not precisely what I meant. There are other elements to our relationship, after all, besides housekeeping.’

  Philippa was silent for a moment, then she said quietly, ‘I thought I’d learned all I need to know about—that too.’

  ‘Oh, no, chérie.’ Alain’s voice was silky. ‘You are not that naïve.’ He walked to her side and took the brush from her nerveless fingers, tossing it on to the dressing-table. His hand closed round hers, his thumb rubbing lightly, cajolingly over the inside of her wrist. ‘Lovemaking is also an art, my wife, and your lessons in love are only just beginning.’

  Her pulses were going mad suddenly, fluttering, throbbing unevenly, and she was aware of each and every one of them.

  She snatched her hand away. ‘I think you’re confusing love with sex, monsieur,’ she said huskily. ‘And may I also remind you that you promised to leave me in peace tonight?’

  There was a smile in his voice. ‘You did me a great service, Philippa, when you persuaded Henri to stay at the party. Am I not even allowed to thank you with a kiss?’

  She shook her head. ‘We made a bargain,’ she said stiltedly. ‘I was just—keeping my side of it, that’s all.’

  There was the barest pause, then he said, ‘Just as you wish. I hope, however, that you will seriously reconsider your plans to start painting again.’

  ‘No.’ She lifted her chin. ‘My mind is made up. I need something—some kind of life for myself. After all, I’m not your prisoner.’

  ‘I cannot imagine a cage that would hold you,’ he said with faint acid. ‘You mean, then, to defy my wishes?’

  ‘When they’re as unreasonable as that—certainly.’ She paused. ‘I don’t interfere with your—hobbies. I think you should allow me the same courtesy.’

  There was another taut silence.

  ‘I think,’ Alain said slowly, at last, ‘that I should have had a vow of obedience included in our marriage ceremony.’

  ‘Which I would have refused to take,’ Philippa retorted crisply.

  ‘Then it’s impasse.’ He shrugged, sounding amused. ‘Very well, ma femme. Join your art class, if that’s what you want, but do not allow your painting to interfere with your social duties. I shall be entertaining various members of the board of De Courcy International over the next week or two, and I expect you at my side, my devoted and docile wife,’ he added with irony. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘As crystal,’ she nodded. ‘I won’t let you down.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘You will not. Our marriage must conv
ince everyone.’ His voice was thoughtful, and the green eyes travelled over her from head to foot in a devastatingly sensuous assessment. He lifted a hand and very gently traced the outline of her cheek, pushing back the soft strands of hair as he did so. He said quietly, ‘Are you sure, mignonne—quite sure that you wish to spend the night alone after all?’

  She tried to speak, but her mind suddenly seemed to have stopped functioning. He was standing too close to her, she thought dizzily. His voice alone was a seduction, quite apart from the way he was looking at her—the smile in his eyes …

  She was aware of a hot, unfamiliar excitement, drying her mouth, and sending a wild, secret trembling through her body. She found herself wondering crazily what it would be like to go into his arms of her own free will—to give without restraint all he might ask of her. And in return to know everything …

  As Marie-Laure already knew …

  The thought invaded her consciousness like an icy deluge, shattering the spell which held her enclosed, and sending her reeling back to a kind of sanity, as the exact events of the past twenty-four hours came relentlessly into focus.

  It was Marie-Laure he wanted, of course. He’d had the torment that evening of seeing his mistress, but knowing that she was denied to him, so now he was turning instead to the girl he had made his partner in the most cynical marriage bargain of all time. Because she was female, after all, and available, and he could use her for an hour to two to find a temporary sexual oblivion. Because that was the most it could ever be, and she needed to remember it.

  And I, Philippa thought shakily, I might have allowed that. I might have let my curiosity lead me into a complete betrayal of myself and my principles. Because for me it might not have ended there. It might instead have been a beginning …

  Her mind closed, in rejection and fear.

  She heard herself saying softly and stonily, ‘I wish to be left in peace, as you promised. I’m not a substitute for your mistress, Alain.’

  He was very still suddenly, looking at her, the laughter, the beguiling tenderness dying from his face.

  ‘I need no such reminder,’ he said bleakly, at last. ‘You hardly resemble her, after all.’

  She supposed the gibe was deserved, but pain lanced through her just the same. Last night, he had seemed to find her desirable, but compared with Marie-Laure’s sensual, voluptuous beauty, she could see she had very little to offer, except perhaps a certain novelty value.

  ‘Before I leave you to your precious peace, my dear wife,’ his voice stung, ‘I should tell you the main reason I came here tonight was to inform you that I have telephoned the clinic, and your father’s condition is stable. It is too soon to know whether the treatment is having any effect, but his doctors wish you to know they are optimistic.’

  Philippa stared down at the carpet, her eyes blurring. She told herself it was a relief. ‘Thank you.’ Her tone was subdued.

  ‘Pas du tout,’ Alain said too politely. ‘It is useful, perhaps, to remember precisely why we are together at this moment. And also why it would be foolish to expect any more from each other than the terms of our agreement.’

  ‘Very foolish.’ It was an effort to keep her voice steady.

  ‘So now we both know where we stand, madame.’ His voice sent a shiver along the length of her spine. ‘But understand this. Our bargain will be kept, and you will take care how you challenge me in future. I do not need any spoken vow to make you obey me, and I shall not hesitate to enforce your obedience, in the privacy of this room as well as in public, if I think it necessary. There is too much at stake.’

  Philippa leaned back against the dressing-table, her fingers gripping the carved edge, her heart slamming against her rib cage.

  She said thickly, ‘I won’t forget.’

  Alain sent her a swift, hard smile. ‘Good. Then I wish you a pleasant night.’

  She watched him walk away from her across the room. Heard the door close behind him.

  No, she thought, she would not forget. She would never forget. She had been granted a temporary reprieve, that was all. Because there was no escape clause in the contract she’d made with Alain de Courcy. And she would have to live with the consequences. All of them.

  She stared across the room at the bed, and her whole body began to tremble.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ZAK GORDANO STOOD BACK, hands on hips, head on one side. For a long moment he said nothing, and Philippa held her breath. Then he nodded.

  ‘That’s not bad,’ he said. ‘It’s not good either, but it’s an improvement on anything you’ve produced so far.’

  Philippa’s grin lit up the world. ‘That,’ she said, ‘is the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.’

  Zak raised bushy eyebrows. ‘And you only married—what is it—a month ago?’

  ‘Six weeks,’ Philippa corrected, her expression suddenly wooden.

  ‘So long?’ Zak mocked. ‘My God, no wonder the honeymoon’s over and the pretty speeches are finished!’

  She had to smile in spite of herself. ‘Yes—well, do you really think my work’s getting better?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Zak paused, fingering his beard, his dark eyes studying her closely. ‘The thing I keep asking myself is—why do you want to do this? God knows you don’t need to paint. You’re married to a millionaire. No question about where your next meal is coming from.’

  Philippa’s eyes went frowningly to the canvas on the easel. ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘There’s certainly something,’ Zak spread his hands. ‘What can I say? You’re too locked up in yourself—too inhibited to paint as you should be doing. You’re still feeling your way, instead of going for broke. Holding back all the time. So I ask again—why bother?’

  She looked troubled. ‘Am I wasting my time—and yours too? Is this what you’re trying to tell me?’

  ‘Hell, no. If I thought that, I’d have said so on day one.’

  Philippa was silent for a moment, then she said slowly, ‘I suppose there could be several reasons why I’m doing this. I need to establish an identity for myself—to prove that I exist as a person in my own right, not just as a well-dressed adjunct to Alain. That’s—not always easy to remember.’

  She paused. ‘And there’s Dad, of course. He always wanted me to paint. I feel I’m keeping faith with him somehow. That when I’m struggling to get the paint on the canvas here in Paris, I’m helping him fight for his health over in New York. Does that sound utterly ridiculous?’

  ‘It doesn’t sound ridiculous at all,’ Zak told her gently. He paused again. ‘What’s the latest news on Gavin, anyway?’

  She grimaced. ‘Slow. I call the clinic every other day. They tell me it’s still too early for any definite prognosis, but that everything’s going to plan. I just keep hoping.’

  ‘That’s as much as any of us can do.’ Soberly Zak patted her shoulder. ‘Tell me, Madame de Courcy, what does Gavin think of his son-in-law?’

  Philippa swallowed. ‘Well, they don’t really know each other very well as yet,’ she evaded.

  Zak nodded. ‘One of these days I’d be real interested to hear the history of this marriage of yours, and so would Sylvie. She says you haven’t got the look in your eyes which means happiness for a woman. Yet your husband’s a good-looking guy, and definitely no slouch when it comes to women, or so Sylvie says.’

  Philippa shrugged. ‘I think most marriages have to go through a period of adjustment,’ she countered.

  ‘And that’s what yours is doing?’

  ‘I think so. Tell Sylvie to stop worrying about me.’

  ‘I will. At the same time, I’ll tell the sun not to rise tomorrow.’ Zak paused again. ‘Speaking of my wife, she’s making bouillabaisse tonight. Says there’s enough for you too.’

  ‘Oh, Zak, I can’t.’ Regretfully Philippa shook her head. ‘I have another dinner party to go to—a business affair. I’d much rather be staying for Sylvie’s bouillabaisse.’

  ‘Some other time, then,�
�� said Zak. ‘See you tomorrow, honey.’

  Philippa was thoughtful as she walked slowly down the narrow staircase that led from the studio to street level. Even she could see that her work was still too tentative. She wondered if it was Alain’s attitude that was colouring her approach. His disapproval of her decision to resume her studies was still patent, if unvoiced.

  Yet he had nothing to complain about, she told herself defensively. She was keeping her side of the bargain to the letter. Whenever he required her to be at his side, she was there, groomed and smiling. She was beginning to be less shy too, and could hold her own in conversation. And Alain played his part too—she could not deny that. He was attentive and affectionate, every word, every gesture expressing his pride in her, and his satisfaction with her as a wife.

  She was becoming used to hearing herself described as ‘charmante’, and no one, to her knowledge, had drawn any more unfavourable comparisons with any other woman. So in that way, at least, he had reason to be pleased with her.

  She bit her lip. But that, of course, wasn’t all. If their marriage could have been lived totally in public, it might have counted as a success. It was when they were alone together that it all went wrong. Oh, they didn’t quarrel, or anything like that, she acknowledged glumly. It might almost have been preferable if there had been a few rows. In fact there were times when she found herself deliberately provoking Alain—trying to get a reaction. But all to no avail.

  No, Alain was invariably courteous to her, even charming in an aloof way, and his behaviour didn’t alter one iota on the rare occasions he came to her bedroom.

  She felt her face warm. She didn’t really want to contemplate those brief, embarrassing encounters in the darkness. Those swift, almost clinical couplings which were all she was called on to endure.

  She supposed she should be thankful for the consideration he invariably showed her. At least there were no more troublous attempts to seduce her. But gratitude, she had discovered, was not always the uppermost emotion in her mind, as she lay, tense and trembling, in his arms. She was aware of a strange restiveness when he left her, an aching void deep inside her.