by Diana Palmer
Her eyes lifted, tear-filled, to find the passion raging in his, making them black and glittery.
His hands touched her stomach, so gently, so tenderly. “If you were mine,” he whispered, “and this was my child, you’d never get five feet away from me. You’d sleep in my arms, and I’d comfort you if you were afraid, I’d walk with you and dream with you.”
Tears streamed down her face and she pushed at his hands, “I’m married,” she whimpered. “I’m married.”
“To an idiot,” he said harshly. “To a man who doesn’t care if you fall down a flight of stairs! Oh, God, leave him. Come back to New York with me! I’ll take care of you!”
She forced her legs to take her away from him. She opened the living-room door, her eyes red and swollen, her heart breaking in half. “Please go.”
He fought to catch his breath. “No. Please. Please. We’ll just talk. Just that. Don’t send me away,”
Her eyes closed. “It won’t make things easier.”
“Close the door and sit down,” he said quietly. “We’ll talk.”
“I can’t bear it,” she said on a sob, staring at him with pain and torment in her dark eyes. “Please, please go!”
“You mustn’t get upset,” he said as he realized just how much he was tormenting her. “Jolana, it’s all right, I’ll go. Please don’t cry, darling.”
That made it worse. She leaned against the wall, needing the coolness of it against her hot cheek.
He paused beside her and brushed away the trace of tears from her soft face. “I won’t be far away,” he said softly. “If you need me, I’ll be at the Savoy.”
She swallowed. “I’m married,” she repeated.
His features contorted. “Yes, I know.”
Her eyes searched his, dark and accusing. “I don’t want you. Go away.”
“I brought this on both of us,” he said, and he understood her anger, her frustration. “I can’t take it back, but maybe we can...”
“Divorce is out of the question. Babies need two parents. I have to make it work, Nick, for the baby’s sake. It’s too late for us.”
“I love you,” he said under his breath.
She shook her head. “You’re just on the rebound from Margery, Nick, and you don’t know it. That’s all it is, and maybe there’s a little guilt mixed in.” She pushed the door open wider, ignoring his surprise. “I’ll do you a favor and forget everything you said. Now you’d better go, really. It wouldn’t do to start people talking. If you still want me to do the exhibit...”
He glowered at her. “Of course I still want you to do the exhibit.”
“Then I’ll start at once. Tony can tell you where my paintings are stored.”
He sighed. “Tony and I aren’t speaking these days, Jolana,” he said. “Perhaps you’d better give me the name of the storage company.”
She did, scribbling it on the back of a scrap of paper. “Tony will get over it,” she said, “I’m sorry about the disagreement. It was over me, wasn’t it?”
He stared at the scrap of paper. “In a way, I suppose so.” He looked up, and his eyes were dark and quiet. “Have lunch with me tomorrow.”
She hesitated. Part of her wanted to, but the sensible part knew that it was only prolonging the agony to see him, to be with him. “I’d better not. I think Maureen’s coming home today.”
“Then I’ll take you both to lunch,” he suggested, smiling.
“Nick...”
“Don’t fight me. You can’t win, even now.”
She glared at him. “I’m a married woman. I’m a pregnant married woman!”
“You’re a knockout,” he observed, smiling at her flushed, lovely face. “Too bad it isn’t a couple of thousand years ago. I’d have thrown your husband to the lions and taken you as my Roman ancestors probably would have done.”
“Yes,” she murmured absently, “I always thought you had the look of a centurion.”
“While you have the look of a particularly beautiful patrician,” he said softly. “I was a fool, Jolana. I’ll have years and years to regret it all.”
“You’ll find someone else,” she said quietly. “Isn’t there a saying about the grass always being greener on the other side of the fence?”
His eyes narrowed. “In other words, I only want you because you got away?” He shook his head. “No. And it’s not on the rebound, either. I want you because I love you, Jolana. I’ll never stop. Not if you live with Phillipe for the next hundred years. It will be your name I’ll whisper on my deathbed.”
She turned away, hating the surge of pleasure she felt at the words. “Please, Nick, I can’t take any more.”
“Join the club.” He touched her face lightly. “Phillipe asked me to look after you. As long as I’m in Paris, I’m going to. Will you drive to Le Mans for the race?”
“Phillipe wants me to. I’ll probably go with Maureen...”
“You’ll both go with me,” he said. “I’ll arrange it with you later. Meanwhile, plan on lunch tomorrow. Maureen, too, if she comes back in time. So long.”
With one long, last look, he walked out the door. When he heard it close behind him, he sighed. What was he going to do? She was adamant about staying with Phillipe. And if he put too much pressure on her, he could endanger the child. His child. Remembering that tiny flutter under his hand made him flush with pleasure. If only he had the right to take care of her, to love her. Oh, God, what a fool he’d been. And it didn’t look as if there was a chance in hell of righting things. Well, he’d manage one day at a time. He’d be with her as much as he could. He walked out onto the street and wasn’t at all surprised to find it raining.
Jolana was hard at work on a painting of a Parisian street scene when Maureen breezed in the next morning, looking tanned and fit and full of energy.
“Chérie,” she laughed, flopping down on the couch with an exaggerated sigh. “I am exhausted with fun! We had such a marvelous time on the cruise. I am sorry you could not come with us.”
“I wouldn’t have been much help, hanging over the side.” Jolana grinned. “Phillipe went to Le Mans day before yesterday to meet Pierre.”
Maureen’s face gave away annoyance before she erased it. “Did he?”
Jolana studied her closely. “Pierre came in with you today, didn’t he?” she asked softly.
The shorter woman sighed heavily. “You are too astute, my friend. Much too astute.”
“I’ve just learned how Phillipe is,” she corrected. Her hands carefully structured the street on canvas with gray oils. “You needn’t worry. I’m getting used to his women. At least, I tell myself that.” She put down the brush and buried her face in her hands. “Oh, God, I’m pregnant, doesn’t he care?”
Maureen rushed to comfort her, holding her while she cried and cursing her brother for all she was worth.
When Jolana finally regained her lost composure, she dried her eyes and put away her paints. “My heart just isn’t in this today.”
“You are painting again,” Maureen said, as if she had suddenly noticed what Jolana had been doing.
“Yes. For an exhibit in New York that Phillipe and Domenico Scarpelli decided I should do.”
“Domenico Scarpelli?” Maureen said. “Who is he?”
“He publishes a magazine in New York, and owns an art gallery there,” Jolana said simply.
She sat down, divesting herself of her paint-splattered smock to leave her swelling contours in their maternity outfit of white and blue. “I had an exhibit in Monsieur Scarpelli’s gallery in New York, just before I came over here. He learned from his cousin where I was and flew over to offer me another showing.” She smiled carelessly. “Apparently, I made him a good deal of money.”
“Oui, but you said he publishes a magazine, n’est-ce pas?” Maureen asked with a frown. “He also has a gallery.”
“He’s something of an entrepreneur, I gather,” Jolana told her. She stretched. “Nevertheless, it comes at a lovely time. Phillipe says we’ll make gobs of money from it.”
“And my brother never gets enough money,” Maureen said bitterly.
“Oh, it’s almost noon! Mr. Scarpelli is taking us out to lunch!”
Maureen’s eyes grew large as saucers. “But, how did he know that I would be here?”
“I told him. He’s in Paris until the Grand Prix in Le Mans. And,” she added with a pretended grimace, “I think he wants to make sure that I produce quickly.”
“Should I change?” Maureen asked, conscious of her jeans and green T-shirt.
“You look lovely,” Jolana said, “I’m not dressing up.”
“Oui, but you are married. I am not! And Pierre...oh, là! There Monsieur Scarpelli is!” She jumped up, smoothing her T-shirt, to grin over her shoulder at Jolana. “I will let him in.”
Jolana’s heart threatened to knock her down with its accelerated beat. She hated Nick for doing this to her, for refusing to see reason. She didn’t want to be near him. It was pure torture.
There were muffled voices and laughter, and a minute later Nick walked in, handsome in a gray vested suit that emphasized his dark complexion and clung to him like a second skin. He was elegant enough for a magazine ad, sexy enough to make women look over their shoulders. She felt weak at the knees just from looking at him, without remembering how it felt to be made love to by him. His dark eyes skimmed over her possessively and he smiled.
“Comtesse,” he said, nodding. “I trust the work is going well?”
“Yes, it is going well,” Jolana said. She picked up her purse. “I really should stay here...”
“Nonsense,” he said. He took her arm and Maureen’s. “I refuse to be deprived of the company of two such lovely ladies. Besides, I’ve had a special meal prepared.”
He took them to a small Italian restaurant, where he apparently was well-known. Someone named Benito rushed out, speaking hurriedly in Italian, and returned with a platter of salad that took Jolana’s appetite by surprise.
“It’s delicious,” Nick told her, smiling at her fascination with it. “Black olives and spinach, sliced eggs and onions, and God knows what else, with a salad dressing that Benito locks in a safe.”
“How crisp and cool it looks,” Jolana sighed. She let the waiter serve her and smiled as she tasted it. “Marvelous!”
“I thought it might appeal to you. It’s nutritious, too.”
Maureen laughed delightedly. “You seem almost to know that my sister-in-law’s appetite has been poor. It is good to see her eating.”
“Yes, it is,” Nick said, and for an instant his expression was tender.
“Are you married, monsieur?” Maureen asked with disarming frankness.
“No. Not yet,” he said as he dug into his food. “And you?” He smiled.
“No, I have been engaged several times, but each time I broke it off. Perhaps I have just never met the right man,” she finished, looking teasingly into Nick’s eyes.
Jolana felt a twinge of jealousy. She attacked her salad with renewed vigor, feeling a kind of rage that she hadn’t experienced since she learned the truth about Margery. It spoiled the day for her. She had no right to be jealous, of course. But she was, all the same.
Nick took them back to the apartment just an hour later, pleading business as an excuse. He didn’t linger, except to arrange a time for the trip to Le Mans the next day for the start of the race. When he left, Maureen raved for the rest of the evening about how exciting a man he was. And Jolana did her best to stay busy and not to notice.
She expected Phillipe to call that night, but he didn’t. It was just one more disappointment in a string of them. She didn’t sleep well, either. She felt a nagging disquiet, a sense of desolation. Perhaps it was the movement of her child that produced it, she told herself. Finally, she arose at five o’clock in the morning and made breakfast, since she couldn’t sleep.
“Chérie,” Maureen exclaimed sleepily, with her robe loose around her small, slender body and her dark hair disheveled as she paused in the doorway. “Up so early? I could not believe my ears when I heard the rattle of pots and pans. And where is Cook?”
“Cook doesn’t come for another hour,” Jolana reminded her. “I was hungry. Want some bacon and eggs?”
“Non!” Maureen exclaimed, making a face. “Just toast and jelly for me.” She sat down and watched Jolana pour coffee into a cup for her. “Could you not sleep?”
“Not a wink,” the taller girl confessed. She put the coffee pot down with a sigh. “Maureen, I’m worried about the race.”
“None of that,” Maureen said firmly. “Phillipe is a survivor. He has been in so many races that he is a veteran. This is just one more. You must say that to yourself. You cannot afford the luxury of worry now, chérie.”
“Yes, I know. But...”
“Eat your breakfast,” Maureen said. She smiled. “We will go to Le Mans with Monsieur Scarpelli and have a lovely time. You can occupy your mind by helping me think of ways to seduce him.”
“Maureen!” she gasped.
“Well, as an alternative, you may help me think of ways to let myself be seduced. Is that better?”
“You’re impossible,” Jolana told her, turning to make toast. “What shall we wear?”
“Something comfortable. It will be a long race, and the seats are hard.”
“We aren’t going to sit there the whole twenty-four hours?” Jolana asked hopefully.
“No. We will stay with friends overnight,” Maureen assured her. “It will be very exciting. You will see. And to watch it with Domenico Scarpelli... Dieu!”
It was only a crush, only infatuation, Jolana assured herself. But she felt sick all over. What if Maureen caught his eye, what if they developed a relationship? Could she bear it? And there was Phillipe. Oh, God, what a mess! She finished making Maureen’s toast and rushed upstairs to dress, gnawing at her lip.
CHAPTER TWELVE
LE MANS WAS located southwest of Paris, and it seemed to take forever to get there. Jolana’s stomach was queasy, forcing Nick to make frequent stops so that she could overcome the nausea. Maureen was as solicitous as Nick himself, and Jolana couldn’t help remembering the arduous journey by car from Nice, when Phillipe had refused to stop at all despite her pleas. What a difference there was this time.
She wished that her feeling of apprehension would go away. As it was, she hardly noticed the beautiful countryside they passed on their way to the racetrack. All too soon, they were seated on the benches waiting for the signal that would start the race.
Because of Jolana’s illness, they hadn’t arrived in time to visit Phillipe before the start. Jolana felt bad about that. She’d wanted at least to wish him luck.
“He’ll be all right,” Nick said quietly, watching her nervously fiddling with the purse in her lap. “Do you still feel ill?”
She shook her head. “I feel much better, now, thank you.” She bit her lower lip as the engines began revving up and the announcer’s voice blared out over the stands where people milled in a thick, colorful mass. Her eyes searched for Phillipe’s car.
“Which is it?” she asked, searching.
“Number nine, chérie,” Maureen told her, shielding her eyes from the bright, hot sunlight with her hand. “Là!”
Jolana followed her pointing finger, although the cars all looked alike to her inexperienced eye. Funny-looking cars, she mused, with their bumpers almost on the ground, their low-slung appearance making them seem somehow like bugs to her.
“Look, he sees us, he is waving!” Maureen laughed. She stood, waving frantically, and so did Jolana. Grinning under his helmet, Phillipe waved a long arm and his lips moved as if he said something.
Jolana fe
lt strange as she watched him. Her heart began to beat heavily. “Phillipe,” she called. “Phillipe, don’t!”
“Jolana, chérie, what is wrong?” Maureen said worriedly.
Nick held her arm in a firm grip, helping her back down into her seat. “It’s so damned hot,” he murmured with concern. “Jolana, do you want something cold to drink?”
She swallowed. “Yes, please.”
Maureen fanned her with her program, frowning. “You should have worn the sundress, chérie, not that suit.”
“But it’s very cool, really,” Jolana replied, nodding toward her two-piece lilac suit.
“Not cool enough, I think.”
The engines sounded louder now, and all of a sudden, the race had begun. Maureen paused long enough to watch as the cars sped around the course on the first lap, and Jolana’s hands gripped the bench. She should never have agreed to come. Despite all their disagreements, she cared for Phillipe. She couldn’t bear it if something happened. It was so hot! Why had she come? Phillipe, don’t do it, she kept thinking. Phillipe, please, stop now.
But he didn’t stop. Nick had just returned with something for her to drink as the cars were on their eighth lap. Suddenly, with incredible swiftness, a car spun out. As Jolana and Maureen watched, horrified, it twisted around right into the path of number nine—Phillipe.
Jolana stopped breathing. It happened in slow motion, as inevitably as rain. The car that had gone out of control skidded to a stop just as Phillipe, in the lead, came around the turn. He tried to avoid it, but another car was suddenly beside him. There was a sickening screech of tires, followed by a shuddering crash and the sound of breaking glass. Flames exploded and a woman’s voice screamed and screamed, and Jolana realized that it was her own.
Maureen was already running toward the racetrack, only to be stopped by the guards. Jolana tried to go, too, but Nick turned her into his arms and held her fast.
“No,” she wailed, “I have to... I have to go to him!”
“Be still,” he whispered, holding her closer, his head bent over hers. “Be still, darling, be still. There’s nothing you can do. God help him, there’s nothing anyone can do,” he said, as he saw the tragedy unfolding on the racetrack. The car had become an inferno, and they couldn’t get close enough to get Phillipe out. By the time they got the flames under control and the door open, Nick knew there wasn’t the slightest hope. Nearby Maureen was weeping hysterically, and Nick called to her. She ran back to him, all tears and anguish, and he folded her close beside Jolana.
