Zara had seen him immediately and she also recognized Sir Lodon. And there were enough guests in the restaurant who recognized her, the delicate dark-blonde in the sexy lilac YSL-dress with the high-heeled sandals. Her hair hung loose to her shoulders, and she looked like a knock-out, as always – but she wasn’t smiling; she stared at Gregor and before he knew it, she was standing at their table. She smiled charmingly at Sir Lodon. “Nice to see you, Madame Valois,” he said and got up to kiss the hand she extended. She smiled briefly, then turned to Gregor. He had never seen a hand raised so quickly, and his cheek was already burning. She had slapped him in front of everyone! He hadn’t figured on that!
The other men at the table were silent and a bit bewildered, and then grinned broadly. What should they say when their banker had just been slapped – by this beautiful woman?
Gregor touched his cheek, which burned, and he was so stunned that for several seconds words failed him. But if he had any, he wouldn’t have been able to use them, because Zara hissed at him, “You dare to destroy my career? What right do you have to do this?”
He was satisfied; he had at least disturbed her composure – although four months was a really long period of time. He didn’t think that she would hold out that long.
Her eyes glimmered angrily. He shouldn’t have smiled with such satisfaction, for Zara already had the bottle of red wine in her hand. At the last moment he held her hand tightly and steered her out of the restaurant with an iron grip, and with a short “I believe I must speak with Madame alone.” The others were still grinning – and it wasn’t just the four men who had watched everything, the other guests too – and Gregor knew full well that he would be reading about the incident in every tabloid the next morning.
He let her loose from his clutches in the foyer. She did not go quietly – she struggled, and cursed him. She reminded him of a wild cat.
She stood facing him, furious, and he still held her hands in his grasp. He was afraid she would hit him again or throw something at him.
He was not as amused now as he had been in the restaurant. She had simply made an exhibition of herself; the men at the table were, after all, business partners. “How can you behave like a fishwife!” he shouted at her. “You repulsive, conceited asshole,” she yelled back at him, angrily. “Now moderate your voice!” The guests in the foyer turned to look at the beautiful couple, giving both Gregor in his expensive dark blue designer suit and Zara in her thin designer dress the once-over. Many wondered if they were actors . . . and not only because they were conducting their public squabble so dramatically.
“I can raise my voice here if I want to – leave me in peace!” Her cheeks glowed with excitement and actually he would have liked to have kissed her and to have made love to her on the spot, but he knew that he mustn’t show weakness with regard to her in any way.
“You’ll get your peace when you marry me.” he said then, calmly. “Never, ever. You overestimate yourself; you can’t blackmail me.” How could he possibly think that she would marry him now? But her heart beat faster, as it did the first time that he said he wanted to marry her.
Gregor let her hand go. “Let’s see how long you can hold out,” he said slowly and smiled again. “My career isn’t that important,” she said, sounding somewhat resigned. He felt sorry for her, but he mustn’t show or tell her that either.
“We’ll see, but you’ll come ‘round, and beware if you make another scene!” He raised his index finger, not intending to be serious any longer; he almost had to laugh as he thought about the scene, and it was difficult for him to keep a straight face.
He had missed her in the last weeks, and how keenly he felt her absence at night. No other woman could replace her, despite her faults, her wildness, and her craziness. He would be able to tame her.
He turned and went back to his guests. Zara stood there nonplussed, and watched him go. He can’t be serious, can he?
Zara called her father but he had recently become a father again, and after a few words it was clear that he really was not interested in helping her. Zara didn’t want to judge whether he wouldn’t or couldn’t, but she assumed that he was more interested in his new child.
One could hardly believe it – the blonde bimbo had given him a daughter. Zara actually had no interest in seeing the child, but at her father’s urgings, she became the baby’s godmother. Her father’s new wife came to Paris that summer, shortly before Zara finished her MBA without having found a job, and she was pressed into watching the little one so that her mother could go shopping.
How could she say no? Zara actually was quite different than her superficial, arrogant vanity might have one believe – but her young stepmother knew it; in her plain and simple way she had noticed that there was more to Zara than met the eye.
So there she was, sitting on a park bench in the Jardin du Luxembourg, the child in a tram next to her as she tried to read a book.
The little one was named Coralie and was a pretty blonde baby, although Zara thought she looked a little dumb, which she kept to herself. She would never mention it to her father and his wife.
And as it seemed to happen more often than not, Gregor always appeared when she felt her worst, like now.
He was in Paris again. He still hoped, even after half a year, that she would give up and return to him, now that he had set everything in motion, but she was really stronger than he expected, and she continued to hold out.
“Have you become a nanny because you can’t find another job?” he teased. She looked at him -- he was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, obviously he wasn’t coming from a business appointment. He wasn’t giving up. “Move – you’re blocking the sun.” she barked at him, sullenly.
The child began to cry and Zara picked her up out of the carriage and held her, rocking back and forth, and put the baby bottle in her mouth.
It was such a touching scene, as she sat on the bench with her hair tied back, in a mini-skirt and flip-flops, tenderly feeding the child that Gregor had to turn away so that he wouldn’t weaken. One weak moment and she would have the upper hand again. It had become a power-play, as he was aware, even if he really didn’t want it to be. It wasn’t his way, he didn’t like such relationships. But had he really had a relationship with Zara? Or was everything just one huge power-play?
“Hey, my little one, the man isn’t going to hurt you,” Zara whispered to the baby, and Coralie actually stopped crying. “See, even this child can be reassured with that statement!” she hissed.
Gregor sat down next to Zara and stretched his long legs. “Whose is she?” “Not mine,” Zara said, and patted Coralie, who was chewing her pacifier contentedly. “Well, that’s obviously clear.” Why was she in such a bad mood? When the hell is his strategy going to work? “She’s my half-sister, by my father’s new wife, the bimbo,” Zara said finally, and put Coralie back in the tram. “She’s sweet, Gregor said softly. “But can you really call your father’s wife a bimbo?” He was shocked once again by her direct, brutal way of judging people. “She’s a blond, dumb bimbo.” She shrugged her shoulders. The child reminded her of her situation, her inability to have children -- not that she really wanted any. But when there wasn’t any possibility of having them, the decision was easy, since it had already been made. She looked at the child tenderly; she hadn’t been able to choose her parents. And Zara brushed a blonde curl out of her face.
“My God, Zara, there are specialists if you want a child,” Gregor said slowly and he was immediately sorry that he had. It was too soft a statement again, far too soft. Zara looked at him, furious. “That is none of your business; my mother dragged me all over the world to try to remedy the problem, and believe me that was no picnic, but that’s also none of your concern.” She remembered well the shaman in Mexico, when she was nineteen years old. She jumped up and pushed the baby carriage in front of her, taking large steps away from the bench. For some reason, there were tears in her eyes. Gregor sensed that might be the case and let her g
o. It won’t be long, he thought, before she’ll be standing in front of his door.
Not quite two days later, Gregor was still in London and was having lunch with Sir Lodon, as luck would have it, and other colleagues from the investment bank at the Mes’anges Restaurant, when he looked up and saw Zara at a distance. This time he certainly didn’t want to provoke a fuss at the table. He had only been in a leadership position at the bank for a few weeks officially and found these kinds of scandals not in keeping with his status. This was one of the reasons why at that time he didn’t want an actress for a wife, but rather this seemingly perfect noblewoman. The irony of fate.
He got up. “Please excuse me for a moment.” He left his napkin on the table and sighed. Zara was already at the entrance of the restaurant. She was perfectly dressed – in that regard he couldn’t find fault. She was wearing a white pleated skirt that stopped just above the knee, a white silk blouse that was somewhat transparent, revealing the outline of her lace bra underneath, a matching handbag, and pointy stiletto-heeled shoes. Her large dark glasses were parked in her long dark hair. She attracted the attention not only of his companions, but most eyes in the restaurant followed Gregor to rest on her as well.
Zara was nervous and angry. This was her moment of humiliation. And he looked remarkably young and handsome as always, like Dorian Grey. He was wearing his hair longer than a few months before, she noticed, but it suited him, as did the sand-colored suit, the dark-blue shirt, and his perfect tan – he must have been in the sun.
His blue eyes seemed more blue than usual, probably in contrast to his sun-tanned skin. Actually it was cheeky that he looked so good, and she was furious that his exterior evoked such a response from her.
He came toward her and without saying a word took her by the upper arm, pushing her behind a pillar, where he hoped to avoid too many observers and listeners. She pulled away from him and gave him a light shove.
“Okay, Doctor Levy, you’ve won the battle, but not the war,” she said. Gregor smiled. “We are not at war, Zara, but can you translate what you mean?” “I want my life back; I don’t want the police stalking me, I feel watched, as if I’m at your mercy . . .” She lifted her hands. Gregor, who feared another slap, held her arms fast. “You know exactly how that goes.” “That’s why I’m here.” “Then marry me,” he said with a victorious smile. “Okay, if you like.” She wanted to turn and go, but he still held her by the arm.
“Stay – wait a moment.” He reached into his pocket, took out his mobile-phone, and called his secretary. She picked up right away, and he said, “Peggy – call the French ambassador in London and tell him I need him for a wedding.” He looked at Zara, who stared at him with her mouth open. The secretary was not any less surprised and asked him again if she had heard correctly and who was to get married. It wasn’t exactly Gregor’s job to arrange marriages for couples. “I want to get married – and the French ambassador knows Madame Valois personally, so there shouldn’t be any problem.” Gregor briefly stopped to think a moment. “If he could do it in two hours, it would be ideal – call me back on my mobile-phone if you can’t reach him.” He hung up, being used to this employees doing his bidding without question.
“You’re not serious, are you?” Zara asked. He was still holding her hand tightly. “Yes, otherwise you’ll change your mind again,” he grinned – and he really didn’t want to wait several weeks. Not that he had been living like a hermit in the last months, actually to the contrary, but no one could replace Zara.
“You’ll appear at the French ambassador’s in two hours,” he said then and let her go. She was so intimidated that she simply stood there and looked at him.
“Oh, come on, don’t make a face as if you’re going to a funeral.” He lifted her chin high and looked into her eyes. She looked at him with her large green eyes, silent and unsure, then turned around, sighed and lifted her hand. “In two hours. Best regards to Sir Lodon.” Gregor laughed and went back to his table.
His English colleague, Jonathan Wilbur, about sixty years old and graying, grinned from ear to ear, and said, “Who is that? An actress? Very pretty.” Gregor smiled and folded his napkin. He felt very satisfied.
Sir Lodon leaned forward and looked at Wilbur in astonishment. “You don’t know the princess?” The banker shrugged his shoulders. Apparently everyone knew the dark blonde who looked like a Hollywood star.
“No, should I?” “She isn’t a princess,” Gregor said bluntly. He didn’t like it when someone described her as a princess; it implied even more distance between him and her. “True, practically speaking, but she does stem from ancient European nobility,” Lodon explained. He had penchant for the French aristocracy. Gregor rolled his eyes. “Oh, my dear Lodon, better described as degenerate French nobility.” Lodon smiled. Why was Gregor so critical, he asked himself, when his interest in the girl obviously exceeded mere acquaintance; he had heard rumors that the two had had a relationship at one time.
“It seems, Gregor, that you also have a weakness for this degenerate nobility.” Gregor smiled, and Jonathan Wilbur had to laugh. “The lady seems to be quite annoyed.” “You should have seen Madame the last time, when she actually became violent,” Lodon added, laughing. The conversation was no longer agreeable to Gregor and he raised his eyebrows. “Madame is somewhat impulsive.” For him, the topic was over ; he didn’t want to discuss his private matters.
When he arrived at the French Embassy, Zara had not yet appeared. In the meantime, he chatted with the ambassador, who was more than a little surprised to hear who wanted to have a wedding ceremony here and now. Gregor was a little concerned that she wouldn’t show up at all. Had he misjudged her? So many questions swirled around in his mind that he had trouble concentrating on the conversation.
A half an hour past the appointed time the secretary to the ambassador announced that Zara was here.
She came in, overloaded with countless shopping bags from a great variety of designers, placed them provocatively in a corner with a loud bang and extended her hand to the ambassador, who bowed slightly. He knew her entire family and for that reason alone had he acceded to the wish to carry out a wedding. This wasn’t one of his regular duties as a diplomat.
“Lovely to see you, and so spontaneous,” he said. Zara had a reputation of being somewhat odd, as did her father, and he knew that she had already been married once before. “Don’t misunderstand me, but wasn’t it such a hasty marriage the last time too?” he said, looking at Zara, who didn’t appear to be a happy bride. “Well, that had actually been planned for some time,” Zara said, and threw Gregor a meaningful look. “I mean then.”
Zara wondered if Gregor had brought wedding bands, and if he did, she certainly did not intend to wear one. Gregor had, in fact, thought of everything; in his pocket there were two wedding bands: Zara’s was made of platinum with countless pure diamonds.
Nonetheless, the ambassador had to ask three times if she wanted to marry Gregor and he even had to prompt her by saying, “You will have to say yes, if you want to.” Gregor gave her a nasty look. She took the wedding band and put it on herself. Wearing this wasn’t a part of the contract, she thought defiantly.
Gregor accepted her behavior silently, but as they left the Embassy and Gregor pushed Zara and her shopping bags into a taxi, he said, “That was certainly wide off the mark!” Zara smiled. “You have only won one battle, don’t believe for a minute that you will win the war. That lies in the genes!” “Stop with this dumb talk! War, battle, we’re living in the twenty-first century!” It was so childish of her, why couldn’t she simply accept that she felt something for him and that he loved her? “Sanderson Hotel,” he said to the taxi driver.
Zara looked at him. “I have to go back to Paris.” Gregor shrugged his shoulders indifferently. “But not today.” “Please?!” She looked at him with her big eyes. What was she expecting, he asked himself. “You’re my wife, I want a wedding night!”
Zara gave no response, and follow
ed him out of the taxi into the lobby of the modern hotel. She stopped there, and it looked as if she wouldn’t be going one step further.
“What do you want to do now? A scene so that tomorrow you’ll be in all of the English tabloids?” he asked calmly and stopped next to her. He was carrying her many shopping bags and looked at her. She looked a little helpless. Zara was undecided between turning around and running away and hitting him – she couldn’t make up her mind.
It wasn’t about whether she would sleep with him or not, but she didn’t want to make it that easy for him; even if he had won now, she intended to make his life as difficult as possible.
“So come on already!” He gestured toward the elevator to the penthouse. She followed him against her will. She believed that he would send the police after her if she disappeared now. He would certainly find some kind of pretext.
In the elevator she gave him a challenging look. “You’re not going to enjoy this.” Gregor laughed. This petulant little girl was amusing him. He loved her. It was as simple as that.
He looked at the bags. “What did you buy here? There are stores in Paris too!?” She shrugged her shoulders. “Shopping out of frustration,” she admitted honestly. He opened a bag and looked: there were dozens of pink boxes of underwear by Agent Provocateur. “At least it’s underthings,” he mumbled, mainly to himself.
Other things came into his mind and he could see her in front of him in these transparent black nothings. Her voice brought him back to the present. “That’s for me, not for you!” She took the bag away from him and made him laugh.
She had already been in this hotel once before, she recalled, as she entered the penthouse. She remembered the strange open bathrooms, which were enclosed only with glass and silk. She couldn’t remember when that was, nor with whom.
Love under contract Page 18
