“Only a mile or two.”
“And we’ll walk?”
“Of course, it’s the only way to see Istanbul.”
Caitlin vaguely remembered telling Alex the same thing about Paris, but she had never been the indefatigable guide Kemal had proven to be. It was only a little after eight in the morning and she was exhausted. “Can’t we take a taxi?”
Kemal decisively shook his head. “You have no need of taxis. You’re a big, strong, beautiful woman.” Then, as he saw her face cloud mutinously, he relented. “But maybe tomorrow we’ll rent you a bicycle.”
“No, thank you. Not in this traffic.” She sighed. “Very well, I’ll walk.”
“A bicycle is good. Much better than an automobile. It goes places even the smallest car would not.”
Caitlin shook her head. “Which way?”
Kemal started briskly down the street, and she fell into step with him.
They walked in silence for over a block before Kemal asked suddenly, “Why do you treat Alex with such coldness?”
Caitlin gave him an exasperated glance. “That’s a very personal question, and it’s none of your business, Kemal.”
“Is it because you have been lovers and are no longer?”
Caitlin stiffened. “How do you know that—”
“Oh, Alex did not tell me,” Kemal said quickly. “I have great sensitivity of soul. Naturally, I would sense this feeling between you.”
“Sensitivity and second sight?”
Kemal grinned. “The two go together.” He studied her guarded expression. “Are you frightened of Alex?”
She was startled. “Why would I be frightened?”
“He’s a man who can kill. Sometimes women fear that in a man.”
She remembered the moment a few days before when she had felt a tiny ripple of fear as she had looked at Alex. “What happened between Alex and Irmak?”
“Alex became . . . irritated.”
“And?”
Kemal shrugged but didn’t answer.
“No, of course I’m not afraid of Alex,” Caitlin said.
“Then why do you have a separate bed, when you wish to occupy his?”
“I don’t wish to—Kemal, this conversation is closed.”
“You’re angry with me,” Kemal said. “I spoke only because I like Alex Karazov. I like you too.”
“That’s not unusual. You seem to get along with everyone.”
“Oh, yes, everyone likes me. How could they help it?”
“I have no idea.” She smiled reluctantly. It was impossible to be annoyed with Kemal for long, and this occasion was no exception. The rogue blithely trampled on forbidden ground as if he owned the entire earth.
“But you should not stop yourself from taking what you want from each other,” Kemal persisted. “Who knows what tomorrow will bring? You must savor every moment.”
“Kemal, you’re a complete pagan.”
“But it’s true,” he protested. “Trust me. This is wisdom I speak.”
She suddenly chuckled. “Philosophy according to Kemal?”
He nodded gravely. “When I was a small boy I was very poor and my family was much despised. So I ran away from them. I thought I was running to a better life.”
“And it wasn’t?”
“Alex did not tell you? No, it was not a better life. I should have clung to my family and enjoyed the good times and endured the—” Kemal broke off and smiled at her. “Enough. You do not want to hear my blabberings.” Whether she did or not, she could see Kemal was done with confidences. He offered magnanimously, “If your feet are truly sore after we come back on the ferry, we will take a taxi back to the cottage.”
She felt as if he had gifted her with a diamond tiara. “Really?”
He nodded. “You pay, of course.”
“Of course.” Caitlin had discovered almost immediately how right Alex had been about the compliment Kemal had paid her by not charging her for acting as her guide. “That goes without saying.”
“I will not climb that tree, Pauley.” Chelsea’s tone was unequivocal. “You’ve had me riding bareback on the cliff, running through a field of roses, dancing on grapes.” She made a face. “I’m going to get you for that. Do you know how squishy that stuff is between your toes?”
“But you have such divine toes, angel,” Pauley drawled. His white teeth gleamed as he smiled coaxingly. “And you know we have to have one more shot before we pack up and go back to Nice.” He gestured to an orange tree a few yards away. “Now, here’s how I see it. You’re a nymph sitting on the lower branches of that orange tree. We’ll put the fans on you and your skirts will blow gently and the blossoms will fall on your hair and then drift down on the Wind Dancer on the pedestal below the tree.”
“The tree isn’t even in bloom.”
“We can fix that. I brought props from Nice. Who says the blossoms have to be real? Silk is good. Silk is fine.”
“We don’t have the Wind Dancer.”
“The magic of special effects, angel. I can transpose a picture of the Wind Dancer on the film and then shoot it surreal. Dream stuff.”
Chelsea heard Jonathan’s low chuckle but she didn’t look in his direction. Pauley had been running her ragged with his demands for the past two days and she was not amused. “I do not do trees.”
“It will be perfectly safe. We’ll get a ladder and—”
“Pauley, I grew up in the slums of New York. The only trees I knew about were the coat trees at Ulysses S. Grant Elementary. I refuse to go swinging through this grove like Sheena of the Jungle.”
“You’re tired.” Pauley’s tone turned to a solicitous croon. “And I’m a bastard not to realize how hard you’ve worked today. Take a fifteen-minute break and we’ll talk about it later.”
“Fifteen minutes? I’ve been up since dawn and you give me—” Chelsea stopped as she realized she was talking to the air. Pauley had strolled away toward the cameraman on the crane, and the rest of the crew had dispersed and were wandering in the direction of the trestle table with refreshments Katrine had ordered set up at the edge of the orange grove.
“A nymph?” Jonathan lifted his brow. “Somehow I can’t see you as a wood nymph. You’re much too substantial.”
“Tell that to Pauley.” She moved across the grove to where Jonathan was standing. “He suddenly seems to think I’ve become an earth mother.” She lifted the hem of her gold tissue gown to show him her bare feet. “And I haven’t seen a pair of shoes all day. I think he has a foot fetish.”
“Interesting thought.” Jonathan’s eyes twinkled as he took her arm. “I don’t suppose you want to go for a walk, then? Can I get you anything to drink?”
She shook her head. “I just want to get this over with. I’ll never complain about going on location for a movie again. At least the studios give me a stunt girl.”
“He got some wonderful shots though. I think I like the one where you’re kneeling by the stream in that gold gown best.” He turned and smiled gently at her. “You did a fantastic job. You looked like a Joan of Arc who had found the Holy Grail.”
His expression was so loving that suddenly all her annoyance and weariness started to melt away. “Did I? It’s all a blur. I’m not sure I remember it.” She started to reach out and take his hand and then stopped. The atmosphere here at Vasaro practically breathed of Utopia, and she had continually to remind herself the outside world was only a few miles away and any one of Pauley’s crew could be tempted by the tabloids to bring that world down on them again. Her hand fell to her side without touching him. “I missed you this morning.”
“I was on the phone with Interpol and then Peter and I had to go over some contracts that my office sent by courier yesterday. I have to pay some attention to my business.”
“Not too much.” Chelsea tried to smile. “You can let it slide a little, can’t you? We may not have a chance like this again.”
Jonathan’s smile faded. “The hell we won’t. We’ll hav
e a chance all the time when you marry me.”
“No. You know I can’t.” She turned away and looked blindly at the group of people gathered around the trestle table. “I like your Peter. He’s as nice as you said he was. Does he know about us?”
“I haven’t said anything to him, but he knows me well enough to read me. He probably realizes I love you.” He paused before adding deliberately, “And that you love me.”
“I never said that,” Chelsea said, her pace quickening. “I told you I didn’t—” She broke off and moved toward the table. “It’s time we got on with the shoot. Maybe I’ll let Pauley make me a Nereid after all. What the hell? I’ve done everything else.”
“When are you going to stop running, Chelsea?”
“I’m not running. I’m just doing my job.” Chelsea glared defiantly at him over her shoulder. “This is a job I can do. The one you have in mind for me wouldn’t suit me at all.”
“It would suit you very well,” Jonathan said quietly. “Try it. It’s not as if—”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Jonathan, but you’ve just received a telephone call. I think you’d better return it.”
They both turned to see Peter strolling toward them through the grove.
Jonathan frowned impatiently. “Can’t you handle it?”
“It’s Al Jennings. He’s calling from Cannes.”
Jonathan stiffened and his gaze narrowed on Peter’s face. “What in the hell is he doing there?”
“Well, I don’t think it’s a pleasure trip.” Peter’s gaze shifted uneasily to Chelsea. “He says he wants to meet with you at his hotel tomorrow afternoon.”
Chelsea quickly hid the panic shooting through her. She should have known their time together was too good to last. “Then you’ll have to go, won’t you?”
“Not unless I wish to go.” Jonathan’s lips tightened. “I don’t run when Al Jennings crooks his finger.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Chelsea said bluntly. “I know who Jennings is. He’s the good senator from South Carolina and he’s grooming you for the nomination. Of course you have to go.” She met his gaze directly. “And we both know why he’s here. He’s trying to save your political skin. He must have seen those pictures of us together at the party at Versailles when you introduced me as spokesperson. I should never have let you do it. Christ, I should have known better.”
“The decision wasn’t entirely your own,” Jonathan said dryly. “You may believe you have to carry the burden in every relationship, but I did have something to say about it.”
Peter was trying desperately not to make eye contact with either one of them. “Shall I tell him you’re unavailable?”
“No.” Jonathan held Chelsea’s gaze. “Tell him I’ll be glad to meet with him.” He paused. “And so will Ms. Benedict.”
“No!” Chelsea shook her head. “Leave me out of it, Jonathan.”
“Why? Are you afraid you may be wrong about the party seeing you as a scarlet woman?”
“I’m not wrong.” Her hands opened and closed nervously at her sides. “I just don’t see what good it would do for me to go.”
“Then go because I want you to go,” Jonathan said softly. “And because if you don’t go, I’ll tell the honorable senator to go to hell.”
He would do it. Chelsea felt helpless and exasperated. “What if there are reporters there?”
“Chelsea, for God’s sake, you can’t hide—” He turned to Peter. “Tell Jennings the only way we’ll meet with him is if he can arrange that there be no possibility of any media present.” He turned back to Chelsea. “Okay?”
She nodded slowly. “Okay.”
Peter breathed a sigh of relief. “Right. I’ll call him back.” He whirled and the speed with which he moved through the grove resembled flight.
Chelsea straightened her shoulders with a touch of militancy, her hands smoothing the delicate golden folds of her gown. “I suppose I’d better climb Pauley’s tree if we’re going to get the shoot wrapped up this afternoon. Otherwise he’ll raise hell if I leave tomorrow morning.” She glanced at Jonathan and asked haltingly, “Will you be around?”
“I wouldn’t miss it. It’s not every day that I get to see you up a tree.” Jonathan’s lips were twitching. “I’ll definitely be around.”
For now. For today.
Chelsea didn’t look at Jonathan again as she strolled beside him toward Pauley and the crew. Well, nothing lasted forever. She should be happy nothing had happened to disturb these last two weeks they’d had together.
She wasn’t happy, dammit. She wanted more.
“You look very fierce. What are you thinking about?”
“An old nursery rhyme that fits me perfectly.” She quoted softly, “‘Greedy eyes, greedy gut. Eat the whole world up.’ Caitlin once said I was greedy. She was right.” He opened his lips to speak, but she went on quickly. “I’ll have to go down to the village and see Marisa before I leave. I’ve scarcely had a chance to talk to her since I got here. She’s looking well, isn’t she?”
“Blooming.” Jonathan frowned uncertainly. “She was very quiet when you introduced us. Do you think she likes me?”
Chelsea looked at him in astonishment. She had never heard Jonathan sound so insecure. “She’s always quiet. Of course she likes you. Everyone likes you.”
“She’s not everyone, she’s your daughter,” Jonathan said. “And I hope she’s going to be my daughter.”
Chelsea started to protest but restrained herself. If their meeting with Jennings went as she thought it would, their time together might well be coming to a close, and she would be damned if she’d spoil it by arguing with him. Instead, she smiled and said, “Don’t worry. Marisa likes you. What’s not to like?”
“Your mother and Jonathan are going to Cannes tomorrow for a business meeting,” Peter said. “And the film crew is leaving tonight for Nice to start editing the commercials. Soon we’ll have the place to ourselves again.”
“Good.” Marisa slanted him a smile. “If you can rule out Katrine, Jacques, and the workers.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I know. You want to get back to your journals.” Marisa leaned back against the bole of an olive tree, her gaze on the orange and gold wings of a butterfly hovering over a bed of purple violets. “Why are these journals so important to you, Peter? You said Caitlin wants to know about the inscription on the Wind Dancer, but what about you?”
Peter shut Catherine’s brown leather journal and turned to face her. “I don’t know. I guess I’ve always felt close to the people who wrote them and—no, that’s not true. From the moment I started reading Caterina’s journal I’ve felt as if I were somehow part of their story.” He made a face. “Since I came to Vasaro I’ve even started dreaming about them.”
Marisa picked a blade of grass and put it between her lips. “What kind of dreams?”
“Not good.”
“About the Wind Dancer?”
“Not really.”
She shook her head. “Am I going to have to pry it out of you?”
She would do it too, he thought ruefully. She had evidently caught the hint of disturbance in his voice and would persist. He had learned that Marisa’s serenity cloaked an inflexible determination where the well-being of the people she cared about was concerned. “About Paradignes.”
“Who?”
“Don’t you remember? I told you that Paradignes was the brother of the king of Troy who gave Andros the Wind Dancer and helped him escape from Troy before it fell.”
“Oh, yes. He decided to stay and died when the Greeks invaded the city.”
Peter nodded. “I’ve been dreaming about him.”
“What kind of dreams?”
“Just what you’d expect of me. Crazy dreams. Paradignes is sitting in a big chair that looks like a throne. His head is resting on the high carved back and his eyes are closed. He’s waiting for something.”
“How do you know?”
“I k
now.” He moved his shoulder helplessly. “I’m looking at him and yet I feel I am him. I can feel his sadness, and his patience and his waiting.”
“That doesn’t sound like such a bad dream. Why should it frighten you?”
“Because I know he’s going to open his eyes and look at me.” Peter shook his head. “I told you the dreams were crazy.”
Marisa threw away the blade of grass she had been nibbling and knelt in front of him. “Listen, you’re having these wild dreams because you’ve been staring at Caterina’s journal for the past four days. Why shouldn’t you be dreaming about the Wind Dancer legends? And when you have this stupid dream again, remember that you and Paradignes are nothing alike. You would never have been caught sitting waiting for those Greeks to break in and kill you. You’re too much of a fighter. You’d have gone with Andros or saved Troy single-handedly.”
He chuckled. “I’m glad you have such confidence in me.”
“It’s true. Tonight, if Paradignes comes knocking, send him packing. He has nothing to do with you.”
“Right.” Everything Marisa said made perfect sense. He couldn’t explain to her how the dreams made him feel. Standing there before the old man, waiting in terror for him to open his eyes, knowing it was coming, because in some incredible fashion he knew he was a part of that proud, sad Trojan.
Marisa was wrong about Paradignes and him being totally different. She didn’t realize it was she who was the fighter and was trying to instill that quality in him through sheer force of will. He was much more prone to accept fate and make the best of it, as Paradignes had done.
And the two of them had one more thing in common that he would not mention to Marisa. The old man had been unable to flee or do battle because, like Peter, he, too, had an infirmity.
Paradignes had been a cripple.
“You’re right, I’ll shoo him on his way.” Peter stood up and reached down to pull Marisa to her feet. “Come on. Drive into Grasse with me. I’ve got Caitlin’s box packed and I want to send it off this afternoon.”
She nodded and fell into step with him.
“Wait a minute.” He stopped and moved a few paces away from her. “The sun is coming through the trees and forming a halo around your hair.” He lifted the Nikon dangling from the strap around his neck and aimed it at her. “What a fantastic dappling effect. Almost angelic.”
Reap the Wind Page 30
