by Andrea Barry
"Come on, take a quick hot shower." Annie shut the door behind Patricia. "I'll make a pot of mint tea with lunch."
By the time Patricia had showered and changed into a fleecy flannel robe, Annie was ready with some sandwiches, as well as a pot of steaming herb tea. She also brought out a plate of chocolate brownies. Unlike Patricia, Annie had a sweet tooth and since her fiancé Bert liked her just as she was, Annie didn't worry much about her figure.
"Tell me about your meeting at the bank," Annie asked. "Is it really true—the telegram? It wasn't a joke of some sort, was it? You really will be going to Kenya? It's so exotic!" She babbled happily without giving Patricia a chance to speak.
Patricia could do no more than nod as Annie continued. "Wouldn't it be exciting if you met an attractive man who would sweep you off your feet and…"
"Annie, Annie, you and your 'Prince Charming' ideas," interrupted Patricia. "You're so romantic. Just because you're getting married, you think I should. You know I'm really not interested in marriage. It could never even begin to compete with my dancing."
"I don't see why you shouldn't continue your work as a dance therapist even if you did marry. The right man would admire and respect your career."
"Perhaps it's just that I don't wish to spend my life pleasing a man," Patricia said with finality.
She glanced at the magazine Annie had thrown on the coffee table with the centerfold open. Among the several smiling faces adorning the pages, one seemed very familiar—a smiling face of a man looking very sure of himself, defiant. The man who only a half hour ago almost ran her over with his white Rolls-Royce. "Count Armand de Vincent, one of the world's most eligible bachelors," said the caption under the picture.
What did she care? The emotional chaos he caused her was the last thing she needed. She hoped she would never see him again. Perhaps he now lived in New York. She was tempted to ask Annie if she knew anything else about this disturbing man. Her roommate was always reading gossip columns and glamour magazines.
Patricia picked up the magazine, her glance arrested by the face of Armand de Vincent, and Annie looked over her shoulder. "That's a picture of the French Count Armand de Vincent," she said. "Let me see…" She reached for the magazine and leafed to another page. "Here, that's him also, with Brigitte Duval, the French actress who just made a picture in Hollywood. He's in New York for the opening of Brigitte's latest film, A Woman and Her Man."
Patricia was burning with curiosity, but she didn't want to give herself away. She put the magazine down. But Annie offered more details without needing to be asked. "The columnists say that she is definitely not his type, Brigitte Duval, I mean. It seems he is much too serious for such a flighty woman and the only reason he sees her is because the proceeds from her movie premiere will be donated to one of his pet charities."
A likely story indeed, thought Patricia. Serious! The man is an arrogant playboy, a skirt-chasing cad who tries to pick women up on the street. A man who thinks any female will do his bidding. As open and candid as they had always been with each other in the past, Patricia couldn't bring herself to discuss this man who had disturbed her as no other had. She sipped her tea in silence.
"Well, now," Annie broke the silence. "What about your trip to Africa? You haven't said a word."
Patricia laughed at her roommate who, in her enthusiasm, hadn't let Patricia tell what had transpired earlier at the bank. "I saw Mr. Lowery, my aunt's banker," she explained. "He was a very nice man, I thought. And, yes, you needn't worry, my aunt does exist and she wants me to visit her in Kenya; just as she said in her telegram."
"When will you go, Patricia?" Annie was all aglow with anticipation.
"I guess as soon as it can be arranged. I'll have to speak with the director at the Institute, and make sure someone can take over my classes."
"I'm sure that won't be difficult," Annie said. "Oh, dear," she added, looking at her watch. "My lunch hour's just about up. I'd better get back to work." She took another brownie and picked up her coat. "See you later," she said at the door.
The moment Patricia was alone, thoughts of the man she had just met invaded her mind. His violet-blue eyes shone before her; the touch of his fingers and even his fragrance seemed an overwhelming presence. She picked up the magazine once more and opened it to the centerfold to stare at photographs of Count Armand de Vincent and Brigitte Duval. In one of the pictures he was tenderly kissing her hand. Accompanying the photographs were lengthy comments by a gossip columnist.
"Seen around Hollywood, and now in our fair city of New York, French, tall, and handsome, and also very rich, Count Armand de Vincent, attentive as always, is escorting movie star Brigitte Duval. Considered one of the most sought-after bachelors on the international scene, with homes in France and Africa, the Count will, we venture to predict, be sticking around the Big Apple now that Brigitte is back. Her newest film, A Woman and Her Man, opens this week. She is also rehearsing for a Broadway play. Rumor has it the young Count is financing her Broadway venture which is, as yet, untitled."
I simply must put this dreadful man out of my mind once and for all, Patricia decided, throwing the magazine in the trash.
She gathered up the lunch dishes and took them into the small kitchen. She remembered it was her turn to prepare dinner, a task she enjoyed. She had already shopped for the ingredients of her favorite chicken-vegetable dish.
She busied herself chopping up the fresh zucchinis, mushrooms, and bean sprouts that she would later cook quickly together with small pieces of chicken. A salad of fresh greens, topped with sesame seeds, would complete the meal. Annie, she knew, would bring some cookies or pastry. The meal was prepared and stored in a Tupperware dish in the refrigerator, ready to be stir-fried in the wok when the other girl returned from work.
This was Patricia's afternoon off from her classes at the Institute, a time she always devoted to planning new exercises and dance routines for the coming week. She opened her leather-bound notebook, where she kept detailed comments on the progress of each of her pupils, and sitting crosslegged on the floor she began making notes. But thoughts of the handsome Count kept invading her mind.
She turned her thoughts to the aunt she had never met, yet had a feeling she would like very much. She was anxious to be there soon, to help her in her illness. She would do her best to go to Africa right away.
Chapter Two
Early Monday morning Patricia asked for an appointment with the director of the Dance Therapy Institute.
"By all means, take a vacation," said Mrs. Pryor. "Your job will be waiting for you. We're very pleased with your work. As a matter of fact, you've worked so hard without taking any time off, I was about to suggest you take a holiday, Patricia. Your three-week vacation is way past due."
"Thank you, Mrs. Pryor. So much has happened in the past few days." Patricia explained. "I've received a telegram from an aunt of mine who is ill and wants me to visit her in Nairobi in East Africa. I have no idea how long I might be gone."
"Oh, my dear, I wouldn't worry about it. If you're concerned about the children's classes you're teaching, I shall take them over myself." The older woman raised a finger playfully and shook it at Patricia. "You just go ahead and have a lovely visit, my dear. Take as much time as you need. You certainly deserve it."
Patricia felt very happy when she left the Institute. She returned home to phone Mr. Lowery and was immediately connected on the banker's private line.
"Ah, Miss Wells." Mr. Lowery's tone was warm. "How nice to hear from you so soon."
"I spoke to my superior at the Dance Therapy Institute," Patricia said. "I'm free to take a vacation any time I like."
"Good," answered Mr. Lowery. "Have you any idea when you might want to leave?" he asked.
"As soon as you think it feasible, Mr. Lowery."
"Splendid, Miss Wells, splendid. It should take no more than a week to arrange for your passport and visas. I'd like you to stop at the bank, at your convenience, to sign some papers."
"Good." Patricia was looking forward to joining her aunt.
"Your aunt will be very happy to know you're coming to Nairobi, Miss Wells." Mr. Lowery's voice brought Patricia back to reality. "I shall cable the good news to her at once. Now then," he continued. "There remains one more matter for you to attend to, one your aunt has specifically requested."
"Yes, Mr. Lowery?"
"She has instructed the bank to open an unlimited charge account for you at B. Altman's, in case you'd like to do some last-minute shopping. You know, clothes for your trip, gifts for friends perhaps."
"That's very kind of her." Patricia was touched by her aunt's thoughtfulness. "But I'm sure I already have everything I need, Mr. Lowery."
"As you wish, Miss Wells. But I assure you it will give Lady Pat great pleasure to know you've taken her up on this offer. And, by the way, keep in mind this is the middle of summer on the African Continent. Don't be shy if you think of some clothes you might be able to use, or luggage perhaps," he added coaxingly.
The next day Patricia visited B. Altman's and chose a few lightweight items her wardrobe lacked for a midwinter visit to the Tropics. She also spent some time looking for a present for her aunt, finally spotting the perfect gift at a counter of imported accessories. It was a gossamer-thin scarf of silk chiffon in greens and light blues.
Oh, yes, Patricia thought, delighted, as she tried it on herself. If Aunt Pat does have the same coloring as I do, then this should complement her nicely. It's something she can use even if she's still bedridden.
The rest of the week flew by and on the afternoon of her departure, Annie accompanied Patricia to the airport, where both girls had a pleasant time nibbling on refreshments in the first class waiting lounge.
"Have a wonderful time," were Annie's last words to her friend as the flight to Nairobi was announced over the P.A. system.
The girls kissed each other affectionately, then Patricia followed the other passengers through the security gates and up the ramp leading to the huge jet.
"Here you are," said the stewardess, as she steered Patricia to a comfortable window seat. "The first class compartment is only half-filled, so you have an empty seat next to you. You'll be able to stretch out for a good night's sleep whenever you feel like it." Then she added, "The flight to Nairobi will take almost eighteen hours, with one stop in Abidjan, the Ivory Coast."
Although Patricia could usually force herself to fall asleep in most circumstances, she was grateful to know she would be almost as comfortable on this plane as if she were at home in her own bed. It was only early evening now and a film would be shown before dinner. Patricia decided to forego the movie and as soon as the plane was airborne, she made her way up the spiral staircase to the small, elegant lounge. The banquettes were all unoccupied and Patricia sat down to face a window filled with a dusky blueness.
How restful it is here, she thought, with just the hum of the airplane. A good time to do some deep breathing exercises, she decided. Patricia took pride in her profession as a dance therapist and used every opportunity to keep her own body in excellent condition. Interested in the age-old science of yoga, she enjoyed practicing some of the gentle and relaxing exercises based on controlled breathing.
She stretched her long legs, her feet clad only in the soft knitted slipper-socks the stewardess had handed out earlier. Closing her eyes, she focused on her breathing and gave herself to the satisfying sensation of total relaxation, losing all notion of time. Then a man's voice shook her suddenly, shattering her tranquility.
"You are truly beautiful at rest. There's an angelic quality about your face. So different from when we first met. What a fascinating woman you are, capable of such drastic changes!"
The voice was French-accented, melodious, and deep-throated. "Tell me, are you meditating in the manner of yoga masters?"
Patricia recognized the voice immediately. It could belong to only one man—the stranger who accosted her in New York hardly a week ago. She had wished never to see him again—Count Armand de Vincent—he had disturbed her peace of mind once before, just as he was doing now. What could he be doing here? He was supposed to be in New York City.
Patricia kept her eyes shut for a moment, hoping to find that he was just a figment of her imagination, wishing to find herself alone upon opening her eyes.
"Whatever are you doing on this plane?" Her voice was an involuntary gasp.
"You look as though you've seen a ghost." He seemed amused. "I'm simply a passenger on this airplane, as you are, beautiful lady," he said endearingly. "I'm traveling to my home in Abidjan, the first stop on the way to Nairobi. Abidjan is the capital of Ivory Coast in West Africa," he went on, explaining as if to a child.
"But I didn't see you get on the plane," Patricia persisted.
"I was late getting to the airport. I almost missed the flight."
Before she could move her hand, he was holding it in his own. His long, tapered fingers entwined around hers. He brought the tips of her fingers to his lips.
"Forgive me. Do I really frighten you so much? Or do you perhaps not find me as unattractive as your actions seem to convey? Permit me to introduce myself, I'm Armand de Vincent." His penetrating gaze never left her for a moment.
Patricia lowered her eyes. She knew all too well who he was. Yet, disturbed and annoyed as she was, she had to admit he was even more handsome than she had recalled.
He wore a casual, beige cashmere jacket, with leather patches at the elbows. Matching trousers accentuated the muscles of his long legs. His feet were encased in hand-stitched calfskin moccasins. A light blue shirt, open at the neck, complemented his eyes. He seemed even taller than Patricia remembered and she felt small and fragile beside him, although she stood almost five feet seven inches in her stocking feet.
As she gazed at this man—so attentive to her now—she recalled the photograph of him kissing Brigitte Duval's hand.
But instead of anger, she trembled with a strange excitement that Armand de Vincent's presence seemed to engender in her.
"I'm Patricia Wells." She tried to sound cool. "I'm going to Nairobi."
"Patricia… In my native country, we say Patrice." He spoke her name as if he were tasting a new wine, accentuating it in the French "Patrisse."
"Your name suits you. You are Patrician not only in looks, but your demeanor bespeaks nobility as well."
Patricia's heart began to do somersaults, as it had when they first met. Against her better judgment she was finding him fascinating. The touch of his hand and his lips on her fingers sent shivers up and down her spine. It was more than she could cope with. She jerked her hand away and stood up, chin held high.
"If you will excuse me, I think I'll return to my seat." She made an effort to be detached and poised, but she knew she sounded shaky.
"Oh, but ma chère, belle Patrice." His eyes danced merrily. "You wouldn't want to disobey Captain's orders, would you?" He pointed to a sign above their seats which read: FASTEN YOUR SEAT BELTS.
As if to reinforce the Count's statement, a voice sounded over the loudspeaker.
"This is the captain speaking. We're about to fly through a bit of turbulence. Nothing to worry about, but please remain in your seats until the FASTEN YOUR SEAT BELTS sign is turned off."
Helpless and resigned, Patricia slid back onto the banquette and looked around the tiny lounge, realizing they were the only passengers in that area. She would be alone with this disturbing male!
Subdued lights played from the low ceiling above them. The light seen through the small window had changed from the golden hues of the setting sun to inky blackness. Patricia recoiled as the Count bent over her. She then realized, to her relief, that he was only fastening her safety belt. However, she didn't want him this near for any reason at all. She pulled at the belt, stinging his hand with the tough nylon fabric.
"I can take care of myself," she whispered, hooking her clasp.
"Ah, you really are a little tigresse!" He rubbed his w
rist where she had hit him with the strap. Lowering himself into the seat next to her, he said, "A temper such as yours certainly requires an understanding and loving man to abate it."
He tossed his curly black hair and looked deeply into Patricia's eyes. "Tell me, Patrice, are you as passionate when in the arms of a lover?"
Patricia kept her face still; only her catlike green eyes sent sparks of anger. "My passion, as you call it, is reserved for my work. I have no need of a lover. I am totally satisfied without a man's presence to spoil it."
"What is your work, Patrice?" He seemed sincerely interested.
"I'm a dance therapist. I work with handicapped children." She continued, enthusiastic as always when speaking of her job. "To me, my work is more than a way to exercise and keep one's body healthy. It is a way of achieving complete happiness. I need nothing else."
She curved her lips into a condescending smile. "But then, you—a man bent on seeking only physical pleasures—couldn't begin to understand."
"My, my, aren't we a bit defensive?" He laughed. "There are many people who manage to combine satisfying jobs with rewarding personal lives—even happy marriages."
"Marriage is of no interest to me," Patricia countered. "It would be a hindrance. I wouldn't dream of giving up my way of life just to be a wife."
"But why think of giving up anything, Patrice? An appreciative man would find no end of pleasure in your accomplishments. Your chosen profession, dance therapy, would bring blessings to any community anywhere in the world. The man who loves you would want you to continue your work. He would be proud of it."
He probed her with his violet-blue eyes and spoke softly. "If—just for the sake of argument— we assumed I were to be that man, my desire to please you would have no limitations, Patrice. Except to be thoughtful of you and never reckless."
"I have every reason to believe that you are a reckless man." Patricia spoke crisply.
"What on earth are you saying?"
