by Sara Craven
He hadn’t even waited to wish her goodnight, let alone offered the chance of the private conversation she needed.
So I’ll have to go to him instead, she told herself, taking a deep breath.
The door to the State Bedroom stood slightly ajar, and Helen paused before tapping lightly at its massive panels.
‘Entrez.’ His voice was brusque, and not particularly welcoming.
When she went in she saw that he’d changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, and was packing the elegant dark suit he’d worn for the wedding into a clothes carrier, his movements swift and economical.
She halted, the breath catching in her throat. ‘You’re leaving already? You’re not staying the night?’
‘As you see,’ he returned unsmilingly. ‘I am expected elsewhere.’
‘Where this time?’ She tried to speak lightly. ‘Kabul? Rio de Janeiro? I can hardly keep pace with your travels.’
‘I have to return to Paris.’
‘Of course.’ Helen lifted her chin. ‘Another place that occupies much of your time and attention. But couldn’t you delay your trip just a little—please? Go back tomorrow, perhaps, or the next day? I think we need to spend some time together—and talk. Don’t you think so?’
‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘That will probably be necessary very soon. But not quite yet.’ For a long moment he looked at her, the dark eyes scanning her slender body in the pale silk dress, but he took no step towards her.
He added quietly, ‘It is essential that I go tonight. Accept my regrets.’
But she was not quite beaten. Not yet. She braced herself for a last throw of the dice.
She said huskily, ‘Marc, you—once asked me to go to Paris with you, and I refused. But I could pack very quickly—if you’d consider asking me again.’ She stared at him across the space that divided them, her eyes shining with sudden tears. She whispered, ‘Please don’t leave me again. Take me with you. Keep me with you.’ She paused, swallowing. ‘Or couldn’t you just—forget Paris altogether and stay here?’
She saw a flash of something like pain cross the dark face.
‘I am sorry.’ His voice was harsh. ‘But that is not possible. Please do not ask me to explain.’
But no explanations were necessary, she thought, knifed by desolation. She already knew why there would be no second chance for them. For her. Why he’d decided to shut her out of his life. Angeline Vallon had won, and she was no longer wanted.
Her marriage was over almost before it had begun.
She said quietly, ‘I—I’m sorry to have embarrassed you.’ And turned to go, praying that she would not break down completely in front of him.
He caught her before she reached the door. ‘Hélène.’ His voice was low and urgent. ‘Ah, Dieu. I did not mean it should be like this. Forgive me, if you can.’
Then his mouth was on hers, and he was kissing her with a kind of stark desperation, his lips plundering—bruising—as if he intended to leave his mark on her for ever.
His hands were in the small of her back, pulling her against him, and she was gasping, trembling, her body grinding against his hardness in open longing as desire scalded her. Her arms wound round his neck as her lips parted in trembling, passionate response.
Stay with me…
But he was already detaching himself, putting her away from him. He said hoarsely, ‘I cannot do this. I have to go.’ There was a kind of agony in his eyes. ‘One day, perhaps, you will understand.’
She leaned against the massive frame of the door, listening to the sound of his retreating footsteps.
What was there to understand? she wondered drearily. Only that she’d humbled herself totally to try to win him and been rejected. And now she had to live with the shame of it, she thought. And began to weep very softly.
Helen came out of the doctor’s surgery and stood for a moment, as if she wasn’t sure which direction to take. She was shivering a little, but whether it was because of the autumnal feeling in the air or the news she’d just received she couldn’t be certain.
Why didn’t I realise? she asked herself numbly. How could I not have known?
At first she’d attributed her feeling of malaise and the disruption of her monthly routine to the strain imposed by the last turbulent weeks. But this morning she’d been swiftly and comprehensively sick as soon as she’d got up. And her immediate shocked suspicion had just been cheerfully confirmed by the doctor who’d known her all her life.
‘Another page in Monteagle’s dynasty,’ he’d congratulated her. ‘Your husband must be thrilled.’
‘I—I haven’t mentioned anything to him.’ Helen had looked at her hands, twisted together in her lap. ‘Not yet. I wanted to be sure.’
He’d said once, in a distant past that was somehow only a few weeks ago, that he wanted children. But since then everything had changed, and she could be certain of nothing.
She had received a keen look. ‘I gather this wasn’t planned?’
Her lips had formed themselves into a soundless ‘no’.
‘Then it will be a marvellous surprise for him,’ Dr Roscoe had said confidently, and dismissed her with sensible advice about the morning sickness and instructions to make another appointment.
Now, somehow, she found herself outside again, taking great gulps of air and wondering when exactly this had happened. She could only hope it had not been during the brief nightmare of her wedding night, but on that other never-to-be-forgotten time, when Marc had ravished her body and her senses, unaware or uncaring that her heart was already reluctantly his.
But how would he react when he learned she was pregnant? she asked herself wretchedly. He had not wanted to stay with her for her own sake. Would he come back for the baby she was carrying?
Slowly, she turned and began to head back to Monteagle, her mind treading wearily round the same questions and coming up with uncomfortable answers.
She was so deep in her own thoughts that she hardly realised where she was, until a familiar voice said, ‘You’re looking glum, darling. Trying to figure out where you’ll find your next millionaire?’
Her head came up instantly, defensively, and she met Nigel’s derisive grin. His car was parked on the other side of the road, outside his parents’ empty house with the ‘Sold’ board in the garden. And he was here, standing in front of her, the last person she wanted to see.
Strange, she thought, that worrying about Mrs Hartley’s good opinion had once been her major problem.
She said, ‘What are you doing here?’
He shrugged. ‘Mother thought she might have left some things in the roof space, and asked me to check.’ He paused. ‘I saw you walking past and thought I’d say a last goodbye.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘And—goodbye.’
‘I also wanted to say—hard lines.’ Nigel detained her, his hand on her arm. ‘It looks as if you’ll have to sell that expensive heap of yours after all,’ he added with a sympathetic whistle.
‘I’m sorry,’ Helen said coldly, ‘but you’re not making any sense.’
‘No?’ He started artistically. ‘Then maybe Monsieur Delaroche hasn’t told you the bad news. There’s been a boardroom revolt in his company—too much going wrong, drop in profits, et cetera—and he’s going to be out of a job very soon. Out of money too. He’s wasted any fighting fund he might have had pouring money into Monteagle. And there’ll be no golden handshake either—not if Hercule Vallon has anything to do with it.’
She said scornfully, ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Maybe you should take more interest in your husband’s affairs,’ Nigel drawled. ‘His business ones, that is. The board’s voting to replace your Marc some time this week, and as his company’s his only asset, you’re going to need another backer to keep Monteagle. Because he can’t afford to.’
He grinned insolently into her shocked face. ‘The beautiful Madame Vallon will have her revenge at last. But then you know all about that,’ he added insinuatingl
y. ‘You told me so at your wedding.’ His smile widened. ‘Maybe you should have considered the implications more carefully. You wouldn’t have rushed into marriage with such indecent haste if you’d known your millionaire would soon be broke.’
Her heart was hammering and her mouth was dry, but she managed to say with icy pride, ‘I’d have married Marc if he’d been penniless.’
‘You married him for Monteagle,’ Nigel sneered. ‘We all knew that. And once he loses everything do you really think you’ll be able to afford to keep the place on? I don’t.’
‘No,’ Helen said quietly. ‘Nor do I.’ She paused, lifting her chin. ‘But I know a woman who will.’
As the taxi took her into the centre of Paris the following day Helen felt strangely relaxed. The calm after the storm this time, she thought.
She had wrung Marc’s private address and the whereabouts of his company’s head office out of a patently unwilling Alan Graham.
‘This is Marc’s battle,’ he’d kept saying as she had confronted him. ‘He didn’t want you to know—to be involved.’ He gave her a bitter look. ‘After all, you only cared about this great white elephant of a house. You never displayed the slightest interest in his work—or his life, for that matter. Why start now?’
‘Because I am involved,’ she told him. ‘I’m his wife, and I’m going to be the mother of his child.’ She paused, allowing him to digest that. ‘If he’s fighting for our lives, then I should be with him.’ She paused again. ‘Especially as you seem to hold me entirely to blame,’ she added drily.
‘You came into his life at just the wrong time,’ he said bluntly. ‘Marc owed his success very much to instinct. He could almost smell political instability—knew when there was trouble brewing. But when he met you he took his eye off the ball. Even when things started to go wrong he thought the company’s problems could wait a little while he made sure of you.’
He shrugged. ‘But like most successful men he had enemies, and they were soon circling, smelling blood in the water. Given the chance, he could pull things around, and that’s what he’s been trying to do for the past weeks. But the odds are stacked against him.’
She said, ‘And Angeline Vallon? Wasn’t she—his mistress? I—I heard—rumours.’
‘Angeline Vallon,’ Alan said carefully, ‘is a self-obsessed bitch, married to a man who’s mega-rich and mega-stupid, who lets her do pretty much as she wants. A couple of years back what she wanted most was Marc, but he wasn’t interested, and he made the mistake of letting her see it. So she started stalking him—letters—gifts—phone calls. She rented an apartment near his, boasted that they were lovers, tipped off the gossip columns. Turned up at any social event he was attending.
‘In the end, he had to take legal action. She was turning his life into a nightmare. And for a while, admittedly, it went quiet. But that was just while she was thinking what to do next. And, of course, she came up with the alternative idea of taking his company away from him. He’d turned her down, so he had to be punished in a way that would hurt him most.
‘She made her husband believe—God knows how—that she was the injured party—that Marc had been pursuing her, frightening her with his sexual demands. And, urged on by Angeline, Hercule got together with some of the board who thought they could make a better job of running the company than Marc. All they needed was a window of opportunity.’
He shook his head. ‘And when Marc saw you, he left that window wide open.’
She said fiercely, ‘Why didn’t he tell me any of this?’
His mouth twisted ruefully. ‘Because he thought that you only cared about the money—and saving this house. That if he lost the company he’d also lose what little he seemed to have of you.’
His voice deepened harshly. ‘We’ve been friends for years. He always seemed—invincible. Until he met you. You made him vulnerable. And you didn’t seem to give a damn about him either.’
He shook his head. ‘When I saw him after the honeymoon he was like a stranger—so withdrawn, so wretched. Naturally he wouldn’t talk about it, and I couldn’t ask. But he no longer seemed to have the will to watch his back, just when he needed to most. And now it’s probably too late.’
‘No,’ Helen said, swiftly and clearly. ‘I don’t accept that. Oh, why didn’t he tell me what was happening?’
Alan was silent for a moment. ‘Perhaps because he didn’t want you to see him lose?’ He hesitated. ‘It might be better to wait until he sends for you.’
‘But if he loses he may never send for me,’ she said. ‘And I’m not risking that. Because if he has to start all over again, I intend to be with him.’
It was late afternoon when she reached the Paris offices of Fabrication Roche, only to find the main entrance locked. She rang the bell and a security guard appeared.
She said in her schoolgirl French, ‘Where is everyone?’
‘They have been sent home, madame, following the meeting today.’
Her heart sank like a stone. ‘And Monsieur Delaroche?’
‘He is still here, madame,’ the man admitted. ‘In the boardroom. But he has given orders not to be disturbed.’
She said briskly, ‘I am his wife—Madame Delaroche. Please take me to him at once.’
He gestured helplessly. ‘But I have my orders, madame, to admit no one.’
Helen stared at him tragically, allowing her lip to tremble convincingly. ‘But I have travelled all the way from England, monsieur. And I am enceinte. These rules cannot apply to me.’
She could never be sure whether it was her announcement that she was pregnant or the threat of tears that did it, but next minute she was in a high-powered lift, travelling to the top floor.
At the end of the short passage a pair of double doors confronted her. She opened them and slipped inside.
Marc was standing by the huge picture window at the end of the room, silhouetted against the fading afternoon light. His bent head and his arms folded tautly across his body spoke of a weariness and tension almost too great to be borne. And of a loneliness that tore at her heart.
She put down her travel bag. ‘Marc,’ she said softly. ‘Marc, darling.’
He turned abruptly, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. ‘Hélène—what are you doing here?’
She walked towards him. ‘I made myself homeless this morning,’ she said. ‘I was hoping you might offer me a bed for the night. Or for quite a lot of nights. The rest of our lives, even.’
His mouth tightened. He said, ‘Is this some game?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m deadly serious. You see—I’ve sold Monteagle.’
‘Sold it?’ His hands gripped her arms. He stared down into her face. ‘But that is not possible. It is your home, the centre of your life.’
She said steadily, ‘Marc, you’re the centre of my life. Nothing else matters. So Monteagle now belongs to Trevor Newson—every brick, every beam, every blade of grass. All except the portrait of Helen Frayne,’ she added. ‘And Alan’s taking care of that for us.’
He let her go, stepping backwards, his face a mask of consternation. ‘You sold to Trevor Newson—to that man? But you loathe him—and his plans for Monteagle. You have always said so.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘But I don’t think his schemes will be as bad as I thought. He’s buying the house primarily for his wife, and I suspect she won’t let him go too far. Besides,’ she added, shrugging, ‘I won’t be there to see what happens. I’ll be with you, if you want me. And if you don’t hate me too much for selling the place you loved so much.’
‘I loved it for your sake, Hélène,’ he said quietly. ‘Because I adored you, mon amour, and I wanted only to make you happy.’
‘And now perhaps I can make it up to you in turn, for losing Fabrications Roche.’ She took an envelope from her jacket pocket. ‘Marc, darling, this is for you. It’s in your name.’
‘Comment?’ He was frowning as he tore open the envelope, then he stopped, his lips parting in a gasp of
sheer astonishment as he saw the amount on the bank draft it contained. ‘Mon Dieu! He paid you this much?’
‘Without a murmur,’ she said. ‘Egged on by the wonderful Shirley. Alan and the bank manager advised me what to ask, and I think I could have got more.’ She paused. ‘But it’s enough, isn’t it?’ she asked almost diffidently. ‘Enough for us to start again—together? Begin a life—a real marriage? Because I love you, and I don’t think I can live without you.’
He stared at her in silence and she tried to laugh, the memory of his last rejection burning in her. ‘Marc—please. Haven’t you got anything to say?’
He said unsteadily, ‘I think I am afraid to speak in case I awake and find that I have been dreaming.’
Helen moved to him, sliding her arms round his waist under his jacket, pressing herself close to him. She whispered, ‘Do I feel like a dream?’ His body quickened and hardened against hers. ‘Because you feel incredibly real.’
‘Ah, mon ange.’ He sank down to the floor, pulling her with him to the thick carpet. Their hands tugged and tore at each other’s clothing, made clumsy by haste and need. She returned his kisses eagerly, moaning faintly as his hands uncovered and caressed her naked breasts, then lifted herself towards him, sobbing with acceptance as he entered her.
He said thickly, ‘Hélène—je t’aime—je t’adore.’
‘Yes,’ she whispered, her voice shaking as she began to move with him, their bodies blending hungrily. ‘Oh, my love—my love…’
It was not a prolonged mating. Their mutual desire was too fierce, too greedy for its satisfaction. As the soft, trembling pulsations deep within her reached their culmination she cried out, and heard him groan his pleasure in turn.
When she could speak again, Helen said faintly, ‘Thank heaven I packed some stuff. You’ve wrecked this dress completely.’
‘I hope you do not want me to apologise.’ He wrapped her closely in his arms, his lips against her hair. ‘Perhaps you should stop wearing clothes altogether.’
‘With winter coming?’ Helen pretended to shiver. ‘Besides,’ she added, trying to sound casual, ‘the baby might catch a chill.’
