Without thinking of the consequences, Jimenez raised his riding crop in the air and slashed out at Tres Jolie's face. It came down so fast that none of the spectators in the tribunes could tell what had happened. All they saw was Tres Jolie rearing suddenly and her jockey fighting to keep her under control. Then he was thrown from the horse. He landed on the track, and the thundering hooves of Baron and Mylene instantly crushed him.
A sudden hush filled the tribunes.
Ermanno Foggi felt rather than saw what had happened. For an instant Mylene's hooves had not touched earth. What they had touched was soft and pliable. Yet this was a race. He couldn't stop to give assistance. He had to keep on going.
Expertly he skirted Mylene around the rearing Tres Jolie and came up alongside L'Afrique and started to pass him. For a moment he looked to his left and caught a glimpse of Jimenez's dark eyes flashing behind his goggles. Then he saw a riding crop raised high in the air. Instinctively he ducked his head. It was too late. He felt a burning slash across the back of his neck and a white fireball burst in front of his eyes. Then the world blacked out. Jimenez had whipped him unconscious. Mylene collided into L'Afrique and the two horses went tumbling.
The crowd screamed in a frenzy as Piper burst across the finish line.
After the race, Hubert de Léger and Edgardo Jimenez were standing outside the stables. Hubert's face was red with rage. Jimenez had his head wrapped in a bandage and there was a terrified look in his eyes. Behind them they could hear the sudden crack of a gunshot. Both men had been prepared for it; still, they both jumped.
A moment later the stable door creaked open and the Comte de Léger came out with stiff dignity, his face white. He stopped in front of Jimenez, towering over the tiny jockey. 'Why?' he asked in a whisper, fighting to control his anger. 'Why?'
Suddenly Jimenez went to pieces. The terror of Hubert's temper and the threat of deportation loomed like a specter in front of him. 'Is not my fault!' he screamed in fright. 'I had to do! He made me!' The jockey wiped away his tears and pointed a trembling finger at Hubert.
The Comte jerked as if he'd been struck. He turned slowly and stared at his son without speaking. Hubert lowered his head and studied his feet.
The Comte took a deep breath. What he had feared the most had finally happened. Hubert had done something which all the power and money of the de Légers could not undo. A hopeless sadness welled up inside him. Didn't the fool know that never again would any member of the family be able to hold up his head in public? Didn't he realize the disgrace he had brought down on the house of the de Légers?
Wordlessly the Comte drew himself up and walked stiffly back into the stables. Hubert glared menacingly at Jimenez. His eyes bore right through the jockey's. The little man shrank back in fear.
At that moment a second gunshot cracked the air at Auteuil.
Hubert had become the new Comte de Léger.
Nigel Somerset had sat with the d'Ermos in their private box. He did not normally go to horse races if he could help it, and for one simple reason. Just as he did not get caught up in the gambling fever in the casinos, neither could he get caught up in the spirited excitement of watching some horses flying around a track. The only reason he was here was that he had come to Paris for business dealings with the Marquis. It was he who had invited him.
'You must come,' the Marquis had said. 'Our Piper is racing at Auteuil. It will be the race of the year.'
Nigel was no stranger when it came to horses. He had ridden all his life. The proper social upbringing of any upper-class Englishman from a wealthy family included learning to ride, attending private boarding schools, and playing polo. Nigel had been a polo player, mostly because it had been expected of him. He had had a string of polo ponies, and though he found the game diverting, he found that his mind was far better equipped for business and politics than sports. As far as races went, his social station required that he appear regularly at Ascot. Especially when the royal family—his family—was out in full force. He found Ascot bearable because of its pomp. Everyone dressed in stylish finery and the Royal Box was festooned with purplish-blue hydrangeas and white lilies. The Queen, a distant cousin, always sat in her place of honor under a scalloped canopy. Although Auteuil was crowded with the rich and the titled, it just wasn't the same. No one knew how to stage an extravaganza like the English. But the chief reason he did not like to attend races was that he preferred to ride horses himself rather than watch others doing it.
Until this particular race he had almost forgotten how uncivilized other countries were. The behavior of the de Légers' jockey had been deplorable. No Englishman from the lowliest cockney to the stiffest upper crust would tolerate such scandalous foul play. But sportsmanship was one thing, murder another entirely. The jockey who had been trampled was dead. Any accident casts a pall on a sporting event. This one, done so deliberately, left a foul smell in the air.
He had congratulated the Marquise on her heavy gold trophy and then turned around, making room for the other well-wishers who had swarmed to the box.
Suddenly he froze as he found himself face to face with a beautiful woman and a child with a freckled nose and bright orange hair. His heart began hammering. For a moment, neither he nor the woman could speak. Then he found his voice and said softly, 'Hélène. . .?'
For an instant Hélène's violet eyes widened in confusion. Then she forced herself to smile politely, but it was a sad smile. 'Nigel,' she said stiffly, 'it has been a long time.'
The moment the words were out, she realized how reproachful they sounded. She had wanted to be cold and aloof. Like a stranger, not a wronged wife. What was wrong with her?
'Yes, it has been a long time,' he said quietly. 'Much too long.'
5
Hélène had loved her chateau from the moment she'd first laid eyes on it. Now, with Nigel, it took on a special characteristic it had never had before. She banished Monsieur and Madame Greuze, the caretakers, to their cottage and wouldn't allow them to enter the chateau once all week long.
Madame Greuze placed her hands on her big hips and sniffed disapprovingly. 'Just make sure you're in the kitchen at six each morning,' she admonished. 'The barrel next to the door is filled with stale bread and rolls.'
Hélène nodded. She didn't know what Madame Greuze was talking about, but as she propelled her out into the hall, she assured her that everything would be well taken care of.
Madame Greuze looked at her with indignation and heaved a sigh, her big bosom rising and falling. But obediently she untied her starched white apron, hung it neatly in the cupboard under the stairs, and left without arguing any further.
Hélène shared her bedroom with Nigel. It was her favorite room, on the second floor of one of the corner turrets overlooking the pond. It had been newly wallpapered a lovely deep blue with a continuous pattern of miniature white ovals in which blue urns sprouted thistle-like flowers. The bed was wide enough for two, in a sleeping alcove, half-hidden behind draperies. They matched the wallpaper and were lined with heavy white cotton in order to cut any drafts. The ceiling, too, was blue, and so was the wainscoting. A faded Oriental rug covered the rough-hewn reddish stone floor; the table, which doubled as a desk, was draped with another, smaller Oriental carpet. The ancient French chairs grouped around it had white-painted frames and gold velvet upholstery, and the pictures on the walls were inexpensive but charming small landscapes in simple gold frames.
They stayed up late into the night. Nigel built a birch log fire in the huge fireplace in the salon and turned off the lights. They spread cushions out on the rug and lay on them, enjoying their closeness as they talked in the snug air and drank brandy from balloon snifters.
'We have a lot to catch up on,' Nigel said softly.
Yes, we have, she silently agreed. The cushions were soft and warm, and his closeness, or the brandy, or both, made her feel heady. Deliriously happy. She snuggled against his warmth, and he held her close, comforting and smelling of freshness. Now
that he had come back into her life, she needed him more than she needed anyone or anything else, and she knew that he needed her in the same way. He tightened his arms around her and kissed her, his lips warm and moist and demanding, hers not at all submissive, but just as demanding as his.
Suddenly she pulled away from him. There was something she had to ask him before they made love.
'Nigel?'
He saw the anxious expression on her face, the fear and the hesitation. 'Yes, darling? Is something wrong?'
'No,' she said slowly, her eyes locked into his. 'I just have to know. . .' Her words trailed off, and she shook her head miserably, afraid of the question she had to ask; even more afraid of his answer.
He reached for her hands and held them gently. 'Tell me,' he said.
She nodded and swallowed. 'Why. . .' she whispered miserably, 'why didn't you contact me after you got my note?'
He looked perplexed. 'Note? What are you talking about, darling? What note?'
She heard the honest bewilderment in his voice, and her heart ached for both of them and that which they had almost lost. She told him about Jeanne's sudden illness and the note she'd slipped in his door aboard the Evangelia. They both came to the same conclusion: Blanche Benois had destroyed it.
'She told me she ran into you as you were leaving,' Nigel said. 'She explained that you two had a woman-to-woman talk. That you were running away because you didn't want to get any more deeply involved with me than you were.' The anguish showed in his face. 'I was tempted to call you a thousand times, but each time I started to call, I hung up.' He smiled sadly. 'What a fool I was! I thought you didn't want me.'
Oh, if she'd only called him!
He wrapped her in his arms and she gave herself up to his gentle kiss. 'But now we're together again, darling,' he said softly, nipping her lips. He smiled down into her eyes. 'And this time I won't let you slip through my fingers. I've missed you terribly.'
And then she felt him urgently but gently unbuttoning her blouse. She turned as she felt the pull of silk, as it slid smoothly off her. His warm lips played on the nape of her neck, rippling the tendrils of hair, stirring her. A tingling warmth moved down her back and through her breasts, then gathered force deep within her. Yes, hers was a need that had been dormant and unsatisfied for too long. His fingers unzipped her skirt, removed her slip, pulled off her stockings. She lay on her back, the cushions warm and soft beneath her, and looked up at him, her eyes blazing with intense hunger, her lips unsmiling as he hurriedly started to unbutton his shirt.
'No!' she whispered. 'Let me. . .' And she reached up. Her fingers nimbly undid his shirt front and sleeves. Finally he let it fall away from his body and carefully lay down beside her. She sat up and untied his shoes. Putting her hands on his hips, she gently pulled off his pants.
Hélène took a deep breath, running an index finger down the stiff bulge in his shorts, carefully moving to the softness of his scrotum, fondling, exploring, teasing. Mesmerized, she watched the penis tense at her touch. Then, slowly, reverently, she pulled the trunks down and his cock sprang free.
She could feel the warmth within her melting to wetness as he rolled on top of her. His hands and lips were everywhere at once, stroking, kissing, licking, caressing. His entire body felt hard against her own tight softness. Hélène shuddered in expectation.
'Please. Now.' Her voice was eager and tight in her chest, the words coming in whispered gasps.
'No,' he whispered, his breath and tongue in her ear. 'Not yet.'
And then he was on his hands and knees, his lips moving down over her satiny skin, gently nipping, inexorably moving downward from her shoulders to her soft breasts, twirling his tongue around her stiff, erect nipples, moving downward still. . .
'Don't stop!' she moaned.
He paused for one endlessly suspended moment, his gold-flecked eyes looking up at her; then slowly he moved back up, finally flicking his tongue over each nipple in turn. She arched her back with a lissome feline grace as he mastered her, making her wait. Nigel teased her, drawing her on and out of herself. Suddenly he drove into her, finding her smooth, warm, and welcoming. His hips thrust against hers, as their wet bodies danced a high- precision ballet. Breaking the frantic rhythms, he abruptly threw his head back while pinning the twisting, driven woman underneath him, his orgasm melting into the ecstatic pulses of her own.
When at last they fell against each other in an exhausted sleep, oblivious of the bed awaiting them upstairs, the embers in the fireplace had long since lost their glow. They slept naked on their sides, his arms wrapped protectively around her, his body curled into hers, the back of her head contoured in his neck. It was a gloriously sated, peaceful, and dreamless sleep for both of them.
In the morning, just as daylight broke, Hélène awakened to the sound of banging on the kitchen door. She rubbed her eyes, flipped a coil of loose hair from her forehead, and turned to look at her alarm clock. It was not beside her. Nor was she in bed. She was still on the cushions in the salon, beside Nigel, who was snoring softly, a smile of content on his face. She fell back on the cushions and snuggled deliciously against him, feeling the warm comfort and glow of his flesh. His arm wound sleepily around her, and she shut her eyes.
But the rude, insistent banging continued. Finally she extricated herself from his embrace, got up, slipped into her skirt, and held her blouse against her breasts as she tiptoed into the kitchen to investigate. A moment later she felt Nigel's presence behind her.
'What's going on?' he asked, mystified.
She turned and covered her mouth as she yawned. 'I don't know,' she said sleepily. 'But I aim to find out.'
She opened the back door and they burst out laughing. The swans, ducks, and geese had marched over from the pond and were clustered at the door, pecking it impatiently with their bills as they demanded their breakfast.
Hélène Remembered Madame Greuze's instructions, and they took the old bread and rolls from the barrel and tossed some of them outside. With a squabble, the birds instantly attacked the food.
Every morning after breakfast, Hélène and Nigel took long walks through the autumn woods, breathing the fresh moistness of the air and feeling the cushion of fallen leaves beneath their feet. Once they wandered off the property and walked through the orchards to the fields surrounding the nearby village. The farmers were burning the cut weeds and grass, readying the land to plow in the spring. The smell of fire and roasting potatoes was in the air, and the farmers greeted Hélène and Nigel with solemn respect and offered them potatoes they had roasted under the fires. She and Nigel thanked them politely and peeled the charred skins back with their fingers. They ate the potatoes as they walked on. Neither had ever eaten anything so delicious. You could almost taste the sweetness and the strength of the land, she thought.
Determined to show off her cooking skills, one afternoon Hélène scoured the second-floor library that the previous owner had left behind. After searching for a while, she found a cookbook and proceeded to prepare an elaborate meal. She followed the laborious instructions to the letter, slaving for hours in the high-ceilinged turquoise kitchen with its solid wooden worktables, black fireplaces and stoves, tile ovens, and white enamel sinks. For a moment she couldn't help comparing herself to Marie Antoinette. Only, instead of playing shepherdess, she was playing housewife. Then her lips tightened and she shoved that thought out of her mind. She wasn't playing housewife. She was simply spending a week alone with Nigel.
The meal turned out to be delicious, and she was content. While she was preparing it, Nigel kept her company. He sat at one of the worktables reading a book he had found in the library: She felt a heady glow of euphoria just because he was so near. She thought: This is what a honeymoon must be like.
'You're going to an awful lot of trouble,' he said.
She thought: I'd go through anything as long as you're beside me.
On Saturday night Nigel asked if he could use the telephone to call England.
She watched him heading for the telephone in the salon. Could a whole week have flown by already? she wondered. Was it possible? It seemed as if they had spent only minutes together. How much longer would she have to wait before she could once again taste his kisses and feel his strong arms around her?
When Nigel came back from making the call, he smiled apologetically. 'I forgot something in England. They're sending it over by messenger tomorrow.'
'But we're going back to Paris tomorrow night.'
'It will get here on time,' he said.
The last day began, as had the others, with the feeding of the birds. But the magic was missing. After breakfast they went to the stables and saddled the horses. Wordlessly they rode through the woods, where they had to duck the low, scratchy branches, up the crest of a hill which looked out over the fields and the village. When they got back to the chateau they had a subdued lunch, interrupted by the arrival of Nigel's messenger, who seemed to signal loud and clear that only a scant few hours were left. Four more. And then they would have to drive back to Paris. The minutes were racing faster and faster, and Hélène could find no way to stop the clock.
'Let's take a walk,' Nigel said when they had finished their lunch.
She nodded, forced herself to smile, and changed into slacks and an old corduroy coat. They walked for an hour, followed by the Greuzes' dog. They threw sticks for him to retrieve. Hélène picked up a fallen branch and lackadaisically strummed it along the trunks of trees. She couldn't Remember a time when she'd felt so miserable.
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