Dare to Love

by Jennifer Wilde

  “Is—is it that bad?” Millie asked nervously.

  “It’s abominable!”

  “I wonder who wrote it?”

  “There’s only one person who could have written it! I intend to find him, and when I do—”

  I marched upstairs, sat down at the dressing table and put my hair up in the old style. I applied stage make-up: dark mascara, blue-gray shadow, rouge, vivid red lip rouge, and then I took down one of my boldest gowns, a vivid crimson brocade. Elena Lopez was going to make a call, and no one was going to doubt my identity. I only wished I had a horse whip to carry with me.

  “Elena!” Millie exclaimed as I came downstairs. “Surely you’re not going out like that? It’s not even noon!”

  “I don’t know when I’ll be back!” I informed her. “I may not even be back. Before the day is over I may be behind bars, waiting sentence for cold-blooded murder!”

  Millie looked aghast, but there was a twinkle of amusement in her eyes just the same.

  “Do take care,” she cautioned gaily.

  I hurried out of the house, hailed a passing cab and gave the driver the address of the publishing house that I had carefully noted earlier. I couldn’t remember ever having been so angry in my whole life. I was absolutely consumed with rage, and it seemed to grow as the cab made its way across the city, finally reaching a dingy, run-down district of gray brick buildings. The driver stopped in front of a tall, narrow building festooned with ornate plaster work crumbling sadly under the grime. The front door was painted blue. I asked the driver to wait.

  The office I wanted was on the third floor. My heels rang loudly as I climbed the stairs. The door to the office was closed, but I didn’t bother to knock. Monsieur Hulot was sitting behind his desk, eating his lunch from a brown paper bag. There were bundles of books all over the floor, piles of manuscript all over the battered desk. He looked up in dismay as I entered and scrambled hastily to his feet, knocking over a stack of papers as he did so.

  “Miss Lopez!” he exclaimed. “What—what a surprise!”

  “Who?” I demanded, holding up the book.

  “Uh—I don’t know what—Miss Lopez, I—uh—I trust there’s been no misunderstanding. He told me he’d written the book with your full approval. He said—”

  “I want a name. I want an address. I want them now!”

  Hulot supplied them promptly, and twenty minutes later I found myself in an even dingier district on the other side of the Seine. This was the Paris of struggling painters and writers, the true Bohemia, a labyrinth of narrow, twisting streets with tall, crowded buildings and cheap cafes. No trees and flowers relieved the gloom. Windows were unwashed. Very little sunlight found its way there, yet a curious atmosphere of hope prevailed. The young people I saw on the streets seemed unusually carefree, immersed in dreams of a glorious future.

  Dismissing the driver, I looked up at the building. It certainly wasn’t what he had been accustomed to. I frowned, trying to hold on to my anger, but it was ebbing—much too rapidly. There was no concierge inside, and although the lobby was thankfully dim, I still caught glimpses of the hideous wallpaper and dusty potted plants. I climbed more stairs, six steep flights this time, the last two bare of carpet. I could smell dust and flaking plaster and cheap wine as I reached the top floor and banged on the bare wooden door.

  “Just a minute!” he called.

  I could hear him moving around inside, and then he threw the door open with jaunty aplomb and smiled. The smile vanished immediately. He had obviously been expecting someone else, someone female judging from the enthusiastic way he had opened the door. Anthony stepped back, at a loss for words for perhaps the first time in his life. I swept past him into the cluttered garret apartment, gazing around with cool disdain. Stacks of newspapers and magazines covered the floor. A table littered with empty wine bottles stood in front of a lumpy sofa that clearly served as a bed.

  “You’ve come down in the world,” I observed.

  “Oh, these are just temporary lodgings,” he assured me. “I’ll be moving out any day now, as soon as Hulot sends the first check. You—uh—you look smashing, luv. Always did have a sense of style. That dress is certainly red, but then red is your color.”

  He had overcome his surprise and seemed quite at ease now. He wore snug blue and gray checked breeches and a white linen shirt open at the throat, the sleeves rolled up. His rich, wavy brown hair was as unruly as ever, and the merry blue eyes sparkled with mischief. With his slightly twisted nose and wide, engaging grin he was as devilishly handsome as I remembered. I steeled myself against the flood of memories.

  “I guess you’ve read the book?” he said.

  “I read it.”

  “Terrific, isn’t it? I thought I did a super job.”

  “There is an awful lot about you in it.”

  “Best part of the book,” he said brightly. “I wrote it in English, of course. A friend of mine translated it into French chapter by chapter. The English version will come out in London next month, and there’s going to be an American edition as well.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  Anthony arched a brow, tilting his head to one side. “Hey, you’re not angry, are you?”

  “Angry? Angry! The whole book is a pack of lies! It’s outrageously sensational. Pure fabrication from first page to last! Those chapters about my affair with Franz! That section about my stay in Barivna! How dare you? How dare you!”

  “Guess you are a bit miffed after all,” he observed.

  “I intend to have every copy recalled from the stores! I intend to sue you for libel! I intend to—to—”

  Too angry to continue, I glared at him with blazing eyes. He sighed and shook his head, and then he grinned again. That was the last straw. I raised the book I was still holding and hurled it at him. Ducking nimbly, he flung his arms up to protect his face. I then reached for one of the empty wine bottles and let it fly. Then another … and another … Anthony leaping out of the way of each burst and pleading with me to listen to reason. I continued my barrage, blind with fury, until I finally ran out of bottles. As I searched for something else to throw, he dashed across the room and grabbed me.

  “Get your hands off me!”

  “Easy, Elena. Easy. Ouch!”

  “Let go of me!”

  “Still a wildcat, I see. Still full of spirit.”

  “I said let go!”

  “Can’t, luv. Afraid to.”

  I kicked his shin and pounded on his chest with my fists. As he tried to restrain me, grinning broadly, I saw that he was enjoying himself immensely, and that merely spurred me on. I fought viciously. Anthony chuckled and finally managed to get his arms around my waist, holding me in a tight grip with my arms trapped at my sides. I struggled for several more minutes, and then, energy spent, I finally stopped resisting. Cautiously, he loosened his grip, afraid to let go entirely.

  “Feel better now?” he asked.

  “I detest you, Anthony.”

  “I seriously doubt that, luv.”

  His arms held me loosely, ready to tighten again at the least sign of struggle. I could feel his strength, the power in his tall, hard body. I could smell his skin, his hair, the tangy shaving lotion he still used. I remembered other times, other fights and the rowdy, passionate reconciliations that invariably followed. I tried to put those rousing bouts out of my mind, but the memories were too strong. Anthony Duke was a rogue through and through, but he had been a magnificent lover.

  He seemed to be reading my mind.

  “Missed me?” he inquired.

  “The day you walked out on me was the happiest day of my life.”

  “The saddest day in mine, luv. I didn’t want to do it, you know. I hated myself for losing all your money to those swindlers with their phony bonds. I couldn’t face you, couldn’t bear to tell you what happened.”

  “So you skipped.”

  “I left a letter,” he protested. “Surely you got it?”

  “I got
it.”

  “Hardest letter I ever had to write.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “You did all right for yourself.”

  “Indeed I did. I proved to myself I didn’t need you.”

  “You need me, Elena. You still need me. I’ve got plans.”

  “Let go of me, Anthony.”

  “I’ve got big plans. We’re going to—”

  There was a knock on the door. Anthony hesitated a moment and then released me. He frowned and glanced at the door. There was another knock and another, much louder. Sighing, he looked at me with indecision but still reluctant to open the door. I gazed at him coolly. Finally, he shrugged and stepped over to open the door. The girl was blonde and voluptuous, a gaudy coquette with a friendly smile and far too much makeup. Anthony said something I couldn’t hear, and the girl peered over his shoulder. When she saw me she bristled and opened her mouth to protest, but he quickly gagged her with his hand and shoved her out onto the landing, closing the door behind them. I heard shrill, angry cries and then the sound of high heels clattering down the stairs. Anthony wore a sheepish grin as he came back in.

  “Sorry, luv. Business.”

  “One of your protégées, no doubt. You shouldn’t have sent her away. I’m leaving.”

  He pretended to look crestfallen. “Leaving?”

  “You haven’t changed a bit!” I snapped. “You’re still the most outrageous, the—the most infuriating man I’ve had the misfortune to meet!”

  “You still care. I knew it.”

  “Get out of my way!”

  “You’re really leaving? So soon? I thought we might have lunch together and then have a real reunion. Hey, wait a minute! Let me get my vest and jacket. I’ll take you home.”

  “No, thank you!”

  “Hold on! You don’t know the neighborhood. There’re never any cabs. You’ll get lost. Can’t have you wandering about the streets in an outfit like that.”

  I started toward the door, but he grabbed my wrist and yanked me back and down into a chair. When I tried to get up he raised his hand back as though to slap me, a gesture that was only half playful. I didn’t want another fight, so I sat there resigned and maintained an icy, aloof silence while he scrambled into his dark blue vest and blue-and-gray checked jacket. His manner was jaunty as he stepped to the badly cracked mirror to adjust his gray silk neckcloth.

  “There!” he announced. “Dashing as ever.”

  I continued my silence as we went downstairs and outside, but Anthony was not at all perturbed. His old charm was working full force, and I was furious with myself for letting it get to me. He was so damnably engaging. It was impossible to stay angry with him, impossible not to forgive him. I wasn’t going to do anything about the spurious autobiography. I knew that already. He clearly needed the money. His suit was beginning to look threadbare, and I suspected it was the best he owned. The garret apartment was frightful, probably freezing cold in winter.

  Damn him, I thought ruefully. I came here intending to inflict mortal wounds, and now I’m actually beginning to feel sorry for him.

  “We’ll have to walk a spell,” he said chattily. “There’s sure to be a cab down near the river. Lovely weather, isn’t it? You really look sensational, Elena. The past three years have been good to you. Glad you came to see me. Would you believe I was planning to call on you any day now? I have a terrific proposition—”

  “I’m not interested in any of your propositions.”

  “America, luv. I spent two years in America after you and I separated, and the country’s fabulous—rough and rowdy and exuberant and wealthy beyond your wildest imagination. There are towns out West you wouldn’t believe—endless plains with real live Indians—I saw ’em with my own eyes. And California! They’ve discovered gold out there, you know. It’s the most incredible spot on earth, and they’re starving for entertainment—”

  “Here’s the river. I don’t see a cab.”

  “I made connections while I was over there, Elena. I was in charge of a theatrical troupe. We traveled all over. I met a lot of people, and all of them asked me about you. You’re famous over there, too, and when the book comes out—”

  “I told you I’m not interested.”

  “I’ve already started making arrangements,” he continued. “When you hear what I’ve got in mind you’ll jump at the chance.”

  “You don’t give up, do you?”

  “We’ll make a bloody fortune,” he assured me.

  “Dream on,” I said dryly.

  “Oh, I know you’re put out with me,” he admitted, “but you’re not one to hold a grudge. It’s going to be you and me, luv, just like it used to be.”

  I gave him a look. He ignored it, thrusting his hands into his pockets and sauntering along as though he owned the world. We passed a weathered gray bookstall heaped with yellowing pamphlets and tattered prints and hundreds of used books. Students browsed leisurely, searching for treasures. A young man in splattered blue smock sat at his easel, painting one of the arching stone bridges, and two weary prostitutes strolled by, their make-up and garish attire somehow pathetic in the bright daylight. Spotting a cab in the distance, I stepped to the edge of the pavement and waved.

  “We need to get together,” Anthony said. “We need to talk.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Don’t be that way, luv.”

  “We have nothing to discuss, Anthony.”

  “I’ve never been able to forgive myself for what I did to you. I want to make amends. I mean that. I want to—”

  The cab pulled over. The driver tipped his hat, and I opened the door and climbed inside. Anthony, looking genuinely worried, reminded me of a forlorn little boy whose sand castles were about to be destroyed. The old feelings rose up inside me, and there was a moment of dangerous weakness as I looked into his eyes. He stood there in front of the bookstall in his near-threadbare suit, valiantly striving to maintain an air of confidence, and my heart went out to him. It took great effort to resist the impulse to reach out to him.

  “Be reasonable, luv,” he pleaded.

  Giving the driver instructions, I closed the door of the cab and said, “Goodbye, Anthony.”

  He looked crestfallen. As the cab drove back through the city I was filled with remorse. I thought about the past, reminding myself of Anthony’s bullying manner, his outbursts of temper, the infuriating way he had taken me for granted. But as I listed all his faults, I kept remembering his faith in me, his engaging grin, his enthusiasm and high spirits and that incredible charm. In some ways those days when we were together seemed to be the happiest days of my life.

  I steeled myself against the memories, and by the time the cab finally stopped in front of the house I had them under control and was irritated at myself for being so vulnerable where Anthony Duke was concerned. Millie was waiting for me inside, wearing a deeply concerned expression in place of the lively curiosity I expected.

  “You needn’t look so grave,” I said wryly. “It was Anthony, of course. I got his address from the publisher. I threw a few things, but there was no actual bloodshed. He hasn’t changed at all! He had the temerity to suggest a tour of America. Can you believe it? He spent two years over there and—”

  I cut myself short. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. I could sense it. Millie wasn’t herself at all, and she hadn’t paid the least bit of attention to what I was saying.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “A messenger came while you were gone, Elena. He—he brought a letter from Touraine, from—Phillipe’s father. I didn’t open it, of course, but the messenger was a Du Gard servant and he told me—”

  She took both my hands in hers and squeezed them tightly.

  “There—there’s been an accident.… Phillipe went out with his shotgun to hunt rabbits and apparently he tripped over a log and—I’m sure the letter will provide all the—”

  I heard the words, but none of them registered because none of it
was real.

  “It was an accident.… One of those crazy freak accidents—”

  Millie’s voice seemed to grow fainter and fainter and then I saw her lips moving but there was no sound, only the buzzing noise inside my head. We were in the sitting room and it began to revolve and colors blurred together, the blue sofa a smear of blue, the violet drapes shimmering violet that melted into the ivory walls, blurring, the room spinning now.

  “No,” I whispered. “No—”

  Millie took hold of my arms, gripping them tightly, and gradually the room stopped spinning and the colors grew still, took shape and texture and became sofa, drapes, wall, but a terrible hollow feeling inside of me seemed to expand, emptying me of all thought, all emotion, annihilating me. I looked at Millie and I could no longer see her.

  “It—it happened three days ago,” she said. Her voice seemed to come from out of a void. “His father wanted you to know. He knew how much Phillipe loved you and—”

  “He isn’t dead. He isn’t. It’s not true.”

  “Elena—”

  “It’s not true.”

  She gripped my arms, holding me firmly. “Elena, you’ve got to be strong—”

  XXXVIII

  Paris had tost all its charm for me. The majestic old buildings, the elegant parks, the gardens, the festive cafes—all of them reminded me of Phillipe. As long as I remained the grief and the guilt would be constant. It was three weeks since I had received Monsieur Du Gard’s letter, but the feeling of emptiness was as strong as it had been when Millie first broke the news. I had gone through day after day in a kind of trance, and Millie had stayed by me constantly, fending off the journalists, screening my callers, being as protective as a-feisty mother hen.

  I had seen no one but George and Theophile Gautier and my three young cavaliers who had come to call to express their sympathy quietly, their manner touchingly subdued. Today was the first day I had dared venture out alone. Ever since they had learned of Phillipe’s death, the journalists had been like a pack of bloodhounds. Millie literally had to fight them away from the door, and dozens of them had camped out in front of the house, hoping to get an interview. They had managed to get to Phillipe’s father, and even though he had insisted that his son’s death was an accident, it hadn’t stopped them from printing wildly sensational stories of his suicide.