by Diana Palmer
“I’m not that good,” Jolana protested.
“But you are! That painting you did of Nice, it was magnifique.” She pursed her lips. “Now let me see. A cocktail party, I think. Next week. We will invite all the right people.” She smiled and patted Jolana’s hand. “You leave everything to me, chérie. I will handle it.”
“Phillipe might not like it,” Jolana said nervously.
“He will,” Maureen said offhandedly. “Now, here is what we will do.”
Jolana expected the party to be a total disaster, because she was nervous and insecure and uncertain of her ability to please Maureen’s titled and wealthy friends. But she learned quickly that most of them were friendly and outgoing and extremely kind. Her beauty intrigued the men, and her bubbly personality and genuine curiosity even gained points with the women. By the end of the evening, she was hard-pressed to manage conversation with all the people who interested her.
“Chérie, you are a sensation,” Maureen laughed when they both caught their breaths in the kitchen, where the cook was pouring out canapés at an amazing rate.
“I haven’t talked so much in months,” Jolana confessed. “I’ve had an enthusiastic debate on foreign policy with a Greek billionaire and discussed American fashions with a member of the Italian aristocracy. I can hardly believe it.”
“Starstruck?” Maureen grinned.
“In the extreme.” Jolana held her cocktail glass loosely and her dark eyes were dreamy. “If you could only see the background I had,” she sighed, “you’d realize just how fascinating this is to me. They’re people,” she added, as if she found the fact astonishing. “They’re real people. Very intellectual, very involved in all kinds of cultural and charitable projects, and not at all full of themselves. And so—” she searched for the right word “—so regal.”
“But, so are you,” Maureen reminded her, gesturing toward Jolana’s fair complexion set off against the off-white designer gown she was wearing, along with a fabulous emerald necklace Phillipe had given her. Her short blond hair curled softly around her face, and she was slender as a reed—although she’d needed a larger size dress than she normally wore.
Jolana laughed and shook her head. “It’s just the trappings,” she protested. “A title and designer clothes and fabulous jewelry would make most women look chic. I’m the same nervous coed you used to know at college.”
“But now you hide it very well,” Maureen said. She hugged the taller girl impulsively. “Come. We must return, or they will think we do not like them.”
“I’ve had two offers already,” Jolana mentioned. “The big Greek wants me to paint his wife and son, and that polo player from London wants me to do his prize polo pony.”
“Have you accepted?”
She shrugged. “I’m afraid to. I don’t know if Phillipe would like having me jet around the globe to paint people.”
Maureen considered that. “Mr. Dorianos has a villa in Nice. He could have his wife and son pose there for you. He wouldn’t mind. You ask him. And as for the polo player, Jeremy Blaine—it would be better if you did the pony from a photo. He most likely wants more than a painting of a horse,” she said. “You watch him, chérie. He has wandering eyes and hands.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Jolana laughed. “I’ll just tell him I don’t do ponies. In a nice way.”
“Good girl. Come.”
It was a long evening, but at the end of it, Jolana had lined up enough work to last her at least a month. The commissions were fairly large ones, which should please her absent husband. But when she lay down that night, she wondered at the course her life was taking. When Phillipe had proposed, she’d envisioned something entirely different. She’d seen them going places together, doing things together. They were married less than a month, and already he was cruising in the Mediterranean without her. Somehow, it didn’t seem much like a marriage. It was more of a legalized liaison.
Besides the loneliness, she was feeling worse by the day. The mornings were beginning to be an ordeal. She awoke with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, and some foods that she once loved were beginning to unsettle her. She was tired all the time, too. But she seemed healthy enough. Too healthy, in fact. Her clothes were all getting tight in the waist. She wondered now if it mightn’t be something besides just the difference in climates. Perhaps she was pregnant already.
Her hands went to her waist and she felt a warm glow all over. Could that be it? Could she be carrying Phillipe’s child so soon? It had been only a few weeks but they’d taken no precautions. Yes, it was possible. But just to be sure, she’d wait another couple of weeks before she saw the doctor. Meanwhile, it was her own precious secret. When it was confirmed, then she’d tell Phillipe. She only hoped he’d be as happy about it as she felt.
The days passed lazily after that. She commuted once a day to the huge villa of the Dorianos family, where she made sketches of madame and young Stevros. They were a beautiful mother and child. For Jolana, it became more a labor of love than a job, especially when she thought about the tiny life she might be carrying. As a result, the painting, when she started it, had an aura of fascinated affection that shone out of it like sunbeams. When she presented it to madame and Mr. Dorianos two weeks later, it was met with silence.
They gazed at it for a long time, while Jolana held her breath. When Mr. Dorianos looked up, there was a suspicious glaze in his eyes and he seemed speechless.
“It is...most flattering,” madame managed huskily, and smiled. It was a wobbly smile. Impulsively, she went forward and hugged Jolana. “It is beautiful. Thank you. In my old age, it will be my greatest comfort. You have managed to capture the very feeling I have for my son.”
“Never have I seen anything like it,” her husband said, shaking his head as his eyes traced it over and over again. “Comtesse Vinchy-Cardin, I am awed by the scope of your talent. You have a rare gift.”
“Thank you,” Jolana said with a smile. “I’m only glad you like it.”
She left there with delicious elation, rushing back to the villa to share her praise with Maureen. But Maureen wasn’t there. Phillipe was. And he looked half-angry when he saw her.
He was suntanned, and his blond hair had traces of platinum where it had been bleached by the sun. He was wearing a white suit, and he looked wonderful.
“Phillipe!” Jolana laughed, and flung herself into his arms. “Oh, Phillipe, I’m so glad you’re home!”
“Are you?” He didn’t return the embrace. He held her at arm’s length, staring curiously down her slender body in jeans and a floppy multicolored shirt. “You look very healthy, ma petite. Have you missed me?”
“So much,” she said, and meant it. She reached up to kiss him. “Phillipe, I’m painting again,” she enthused. “Mr. Dorianos had me to paint his wife and son, and they had an absolute fit over the portrait! I was so excited...!”
He seemed to relax. “Ah. So that is why I saw the Ferrari in his driveway when we sailed into port.”
She blinked, staring up at him. “You thought...?” She burst out laughing. “As if I’d have the energy, after a month of marriage to you!” she said pertly.
He laughed, too, shaking his head. He linked his hands around her waist and swung her lazily from side to side, his lips pursed as he studied her. “I am jealous of you. Do you mind?”
She wondered. If he trusted her, should he be jealous? On the other hand, it was often said that a husband who accused a wife of infidelity often did so because he himself was guilty of it. She frowned up at him.
“Who went on the cruise with you?” she asked with narrowed eyes.
He looked startled, then nervous. “A few friends, no one you know. Ah, no more talk of sailing, come and tell me all the latest news! Where is Maureen?”
“Off with Pierre somewhere,” she offered. She stopped him at the doorway to the spacious living ro
om that overlooked the Mediterranean. “Phillipe, you aren’t sorry we got married?” she asked uncertainly.
“Chérie! What a silly question!” He bent to kiss her softly. “Later, when I am rested, I will prove to you how ‘sorry’ I am!”
But she still frowned, studying him closely. “I think I’m pregnant, Phillipe,” she said, unable to put it off a minute longer.
He stood very still, his face rigid, his eyes slowly running down to her waistline and back up. “Have you...seen the doctor?” he asked hesitantly.
“Not yet. But I have all the symptoms.” She searched his eyes for some sign of warmth. “We didn’t take any precautions,” she reminded him. “Phillipe, please say you want it.”
Her pleading, hurt look melted him. “But of course I want it,” he said, drawing her close. But over her shoulder, his features contorted, his eyes closed. He held her tightly to his muscular body. “You don’t know how much I want a child. You have told Maureen?” he asked suddenly, stiffening.
“No, not yet. Why?” she asked.
He sighed heavily. “Let me speak with her first. She will be as thrilled as I am, I promise you, but I would like to tell her. Is that acceptable?”
“Yes,” she said, but she had a nagging suspicion that something was very wrong. She started to ask him, then he abruptly changed the subject, telling her about the trip.
Maureen came home just shortly thereafter, and Phillipe met her at the door. There were quick whispers, followed by Maureen’s wildly excited explosion of enthusiasm. She threw herself at Jolana, all laughter and smiles.
“Oh, chérie, such a blessing, such a heavenly blessing,” she murmured gaily. “I could not be happier.”
“I’m very glad,” Jolana sighed. “You’ll make a lovely aunt.”
And while the women were embracing, Phillipe was watching with quiet, confused eyes. He knew the child could not possibly be his. The finest doctors in Europe had been able to give him no hope that he would ever father a child. He was hopelessly sterile. But the de Vinchy-Cardin line needed an heir, and he needed Jolana. Besides, who would it hurt, if he kept his knowledge to himself? Even Maureen did not know the truth about him. He had worked hard to conceal the information from her as well as the rest of the world. He sighed, watching Jolana. A child. That poor, stupid fool in America, her lover of one night, would be the only loser in this. He would spare her the knowledge of her folly.
The more he thought about it, the more pleased Phillipe became. As he stared possessively at his lovely wife, he almost regretted that little brunette he had met on the cruise. He’d have to be much more careful now about his liaisons. He had a feeling that Jolana wouldn’t understand or accept them. Well, she wasn’t bad in bed. A little reserved still, a little less involved than she should be. He could teach her. And the baby would be nice. He moved closer to her and slid an arm around her shoulders. The future looked very good indeed.
CHAPTER TEN
JOLANA WAS PREGNANT. The doctor confirmed it the very next day, and she felt as elated as she felt afraid.
“This is common,” the kindly old physician assured her. “It is a frightening thing, madame, to have the full and awesome responsibility for a child, for raising and feeding and clothing and guiding him to adulthood. But rest assured that we all feel it. You will cope very easily. Your husband, he will be pleased?”
She smiled. “Oh, yes.”
“I will refer you to a good obstetrician in Nice, if that is where you will be residing...?”
“Well, Phillipe did say we’d go back to Paris in May...” she answered.
“For good?”
“I assume so, yes.”
“Then I can recommend a very good man there,” he said, scribbling down something on paper. “I will write to him in your behalf. Since the pregnancy is so far advanced, it would be well if you go soon, madame.”
“So far advanced?” she asked.
“Well, it is difficult to say without having you hospitalized for further tests, but...”
Before he could finish whatever he was about to say, the nurse rushed in to tell him of an emergency case that needed immediate attention. Jolana was tactfully and politely pushed out the door, and she went back to the villa frowning.
“Is it so?” Phillipe asked the minute she got in the door. “Is there to be a child?”
“Yes,” she laughed, beaming.
“Chérie!” He picked her up in his arms and carried her to the living room, putting her gently on the sofa. “I must take excellent care of you now, my wife,” he said softly and bent to kiss her. “Excellent care.” He began to unbutton her blouse.
“Phillipe...!”
“Maureen has gone off with Pierre. Cook is in town to buy groceries. The villa is empty,” he said wickedly as he eased her out of the soft blue dress and everything under it. “Ah, my wife, how pregnancy becomes you... I find it oddly erotic.”
His mouth moved softly over her swollen breasts, and she cradled his head against them as she felt the familiar gentle excitement he created in her body.
“Phillipe, there’s just one thing,” she whispered as he rose to take off his own clothing.
“Oui?” he murmured, letting his eyes worship her as he got the last of the fabric out of the way.
“The doctor...’’ She caught her breath as he slid his long, elegant body alongside hers, letting her feel his obvious hunger. “The doctor said that the pregnancy was...advanced...”
He hesitated at her breasts, but only for an instant. “Of course,” he said on a smile. “You are past the first week or so, are you not? Now hush, chérie, I want you.”
He nibbled at her, pleased as he heard the soft moans, felt the hungry pressure of her fingers on his hips. He would have a long talk with her doctor. He would beg the obstetrician not to tell her just how advanced her pregnancy was. A few hints about anticipating the marriage vows, and the shame his young, very shy wife would feel if it were commonly known—yes, that would silence even the most hardhearted of doctors. And she would never know. He lifted her silken body, enjoying the softness of it, the silkiness of her skin under his fingers. She was so beautiful, his wife. He could almost feel sorry for the idiot who had sent her running to France after that devastating affair. He had lost more than he would ever realize. Phillipe smiled as he fitted her warm softness to him and found her mouth.
“Now,” he breathed into the sweet darkness. “Now, petite, this time let me have all of it, this time...move with me...and give yourself totally. Chérie, chérie, je t’aime, je ťaime, je...ťaime!”
His voice broke as his movements intensified, and Jolana clung to him, buffeted by the force of his desire, glorying in his wild need of her. She wondered what he meant, but the clouding mist of desire blurred the words. She was conscious only of the pleasure he could give her, except for the tiny part of her mind that helplessly compared his ardor with Nick’s.
Afterward she was ashamed. It was Nick she was thinking of when she gave Phillipe a response that made him cry aloud with joy. It was remembering how demanding and passionate Nick had been with her that had wrung the last bit of restraint out of her body and given it generously to Phillipe and the surging rhythm of his hips. She’d given him every bit of pleasure she could, returning his kisses, touching him, adoring him. And all the while, it had been Nick, in her mind, in her heart, and she felt as if she’d cheated Phillipe.
He touched her hair lovingly as he lay beside her, damp and sated, his chest shuddering with his heartbeats. “Merci,” he whispered huskily. “Merci. Today you have given me what you never could before. Now we are truly married. Now, you belong to me.”
She pressed close into his arms. “And you’re not sorry, about our baby?” she whispered.
“No. I am not sorry.” He smoothed her short hair. “We will raise him with every advantage. He will be loved, and
needed.”
“I hope he looks like you.”
“I hope he looks like you,” he said in an unusually fervent tone.
Phillipe went with her to Paris when she saw the obstetrician the doctor in Nice had recommended. He managed a private conversation with the kindly middle-aged man before the three of them sat down to discuss the pregnancy and her delivery. She asked for a specific date, but he was vague, mentioning something about the difficulty of deciding exact delivery dates. They would, he said, go from examination to examination and as term approached, he would let her know.
Afterward, Phillipe took her out to eat and they visited art galleries until her feet and strength gave out. They spent the night in the apartment before they were to leave for Monaco the next morning. Unfortunately, there was some unsettling news waiting for her in the form of a letter from Tony.
He was selling his interest in the gallery to Nick. Working in partnership with Nick had become impossible and he couldn’t take any more of it. Also, he added, Nick had been demanding to know Jolana’s Paris address. Tony refused to give it. The letter closed with a strong plea for her to call him; there were things he could tell her more easily on the phone.
She hid the letter before Phillipe saw it. She didn’t want him to know that Nick was looking for her. She wondered why. Surely he was married to Margery by now. What did he want? She thought sarcastically that he probably wanted a little on the side, to make up for what Margery would withhold whenever she got miffed at him. Well, it was too late now. He could find some other poor fool for his extracurricular activities. It wouldn’t be Jolana. She had a husband and a baby on the way, and she was finished with Nick forever. Poor old Tony, she was sorry about his gallery. But Tony would bounce back. She stared out the window at the rain and sighed. She wouldn’t call him. It would lead to too many questions, and that was a closed chapter in her life.
“You are thoughtful, petite. Is something wrong?” Phillipe asked as he pulled her into his arms, resting his cheek on her hair.
