by Galia Ryan
Or perhaps not.
The phone was offered to her as she walked through the door. Amelie’s face wore a slightly puzzled expression.
“Hello.” Stephanie was cautious.
“Stephanie. Thank you for taking my call. I understand this is a difficult time for you.”
“It is. I miss my father so much.”
“I’m sure you do. And no doubt you miss my husband, too.”
Stephanie froze, her fingers tangled in the telephone cord.
Antoinette’s voice was caustic. “Have you nothing to say? Well, then let me talk. I know of your affair. I was told of it a few years ago. A so-called friend felt she had to enlighten me. The trouble was, I didn’t believe her. How could I? You were little more than a child. On top of that, you were Alain’s daughter. Why would my husband be involved in something so dreadful? I told her it was impossible.”
Mathilde. So she had told on them, and Antoinette—loyal Antoinette—had not believed her. Bitter shame and guilt rose in Stephanie’s throat.
“You don’t even want the chance to deny it? No, why should you? It’s true, after all. Well then, let me tell you why I’m talking to you. I have discovered there is the matter of one of my husband’s paintings. A Matisse.”
Another pause.
“You are very quiet, Stephanie. Is this to be a one-way conversation?”
“No,” she finally managed. Knowing Amelie was watching her curiously she kept her head down.
“According to Charles will, this painting is to come to you. I’m presuming you are already aware of this bequest.”
Another agonizing silence. Stephanie stared hard at the pattern on the kitchen tiles.
“I have arranged the delivery. In return, you will never, ever speak of your relationship with my husband. Not to anyone. Nor will you ever have anything to do with my family again.”
“I’m so sorry.” Stephanie realised that at last she was crying. Tears were streaking down her cheeks. They brought little relief, though.
“That may well be true now, but it changes nothing. I will, however, leave you with one pertinent piece of information. I believe your father recently found out about the affair. For what it’s worth, I think that was the cause of the deep rift between him and my husband. Were they arguing in the car, like some said? I believe they were. Over you. I hope you can live with what you have done.”
The line went dead.
Chapter 18.
Rumours of financial misconduct were soon dismissed. The company was audited, and nothing was found to support the theory that Alain and Charles had been guilty of wrongdoing. But the question remained. What had made the two senior partners so antagonistic towards each other in the days leading up to their death?
Logic dictated it had to be related to the company. The two men had been not only partners, but also close friends for more years than people cared to remember.
The media had at first eulogized Alain and Charles, describing them as mavericks who had successfully merged their individual companies to create a large and well-respected organisation. Recently, photographs of the two men had been accompanied by questions. What, the tabloids asked, was being hidden from the shareholders?
Stephanie was lunching with her old friend Gabrielle Bouvier. Gabi had turned into a surprisingly chic young woman. Her hair, once a mass of unruly curls, was now an autumn-tinted bob. Gone, too, were the wooden bracelets and beaten copper earrings in favour of stylish designer pieces in 22-carat gold. The two had stayed close over the years, and other than Olivia, Gabi was the only person who knew the entire story of Stephanie’s affair and the aftermath.
“Why can’t they leave us alone?” Stephanie complained.
“Because it’s news. Just give it time, and it will all die away. Then no one will care anymore.” Gabi speared an asparagus tip and dipped it in the anchovy sauce.
“She’s still appearing in the odd article, you know. Sympathetic family friend, and all that.”
“Who? Mathilde Buisson? I’m surprised anyone cares.”
“She’s the one keeping all the gossip going,” Stephanie said. “I wish the old bitch would crawl back under her rock and die.”
“She hasn’t dropped any hints about you and Charles, though?”
“Not yet.”
“So, just ignore her.”
Stephanie had lost her appetite. She placed her napkin on the table and lifted her wine glass.
“I applied to another legal firm the other day.”
“How did it go?”
“Not well.” She sighed. “I can’t seem to get anyone to give me a chance. All that hard work, and no one will even look at me. I doubt I could get a job pushing the tea trolley.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I have no idea.”
“Perhaps you need to start again. Go where no one knows you.”
“I’ve already thought of that.”
“You’ve got to make up your mind; otherwise you’ll be stuck here with the dreaded Amelie for life,” Gabi said, pushing her plate to the side.
“That really would be a fate worse than death.”
“Why don’t you go away? Reinvent yourself. You don’t need to be a lawyer, do you?”
“No, but it’s what I want to do.”
“Well, sometimes you can’t have everything you want in life.”
“Now you even sound like my stepmother.”
“Sorry.” Her friend grinned. “Look, let’s do something different tonight. Why don’t we try that new place? What’s it called, Coco’s?”
“Okay.” Stephanie’s reply was less than enthusiastic.
“Great. So let’s go shopping. Buy something new to wear tonight. That’ll cheer you up.”
Stephanie was grateful Gabi had stood by her. There were some who hadn’t. She knew that Amelie, too, had discovered a number of those she had previously considered friends who had, since Alain’s death and the ensuing investigation, turned out to be anything but.
Nor had Olivia deserted her, although earlier that morning Stephanie had called her, hoping once more for a sympathetic shoulder to cry on. But Olivia had kept the conversation light-hearted. Stephanie wondered if she’d thought a cheerful voice would aid the healing process. Or perhaps it was simply that she was completely caught up in her new man.
“You will never guess darling; he’s Argentinean and quite dreamy.”
“Really?” Somehow she could not imagine Olivia on the arm of a South American. Weren’t they supposed to be philanderers and noted for their amorous adventures?
“Didn’t I teach you not to judge?” Olivia said, a hint of mischief in her voice. “In fact Diego is not only faithful, but also wealthy.”
“So what happened to Jeremy?”
“Changed my mind, darling.”
“Oh. So where did you meet Diego?”
“In a nightclub. I was there with David and a few others. You remember David? His ex-wife moved to Australia? She now holds court in Melbourne, apparently.”
“Sorry, no, I don’t remember him. So will I be visiting you in Buenos Aires soon?”
“We’ll see.” Olivia laughed.
Putting down the phone, Stephanie felt more despondent than ever. She had forgotten to tell Olivia she had received a letter from Giancarlo. It hardly rated a mention in any case. He was okay, working hard and apparently feeling that he was doing something worthwhile.
For the first time she envied him.
Chapter 19.
Stephanie told Amelie she needed space. Time away to consider her future.
Amelie hadn’t argued. A broken Antoinette had taken her into her confidence, revealing all she had discovered about Stephanie’s affair with Charles. Not unexpectedly, Amelie had taken her friend’s side.
She arranged for funds to be placed into her stepdaughter’s bank account. “Call it an advance on your trust fund,” she had said coldly.
Now Stephanie was sitting at the bar of on
e of Cannes’ more luxurious hotels, questioning the wisdom of returning to the Côte d’Azur. Everywhere she looked there were memories. She glanced out to the terrace, and recalled the copious amounts of champagne she and Charles had shared over the years.
If she had one wish, it would be that he was sitting with her now.
Her intention had been to spend a week or so gathering her thoughts and putting a plan together. If she couldn’t practice law in the foreseeable future, there must be something else she could do.
A couple strolled passed her, heading perhaps for the lift and their room. She was stylishly and expensively dressed, he, older and somewhat more staid. Stephanie wondered whether they were lovers, or if their relationship was one of family. They might be simply friends, but she doubted that. Their body language was a little too relaxed. Had anyone speculated about her and Charles? The difference in their ages had been far greater—not that she had cared at the time—but it would have been noticeable.
Two men were seated at a corner table. Both had looked her way. There had been a brief moment of eye contact. Their suits were impeccable—Italian cloth, she guessed. She noted they were polite to the waiter, but had resumed their conversation immediately after he had taken their order. What could be so important? This was, after all, Cannes.
Glancing over the rim of her glass, Stephanie observed an elderly woman in a silk kaftan and matching turban at another table. Her skin was paper white and almost translucent, her lips Dior red. A tiny canine sat bolt upright on her lap, and between sips of her Pimm’s royale, the woman absently ran her hand down the dog’s back. Would the woman’s husband join her later? She hoped so. She was already discovering being alone was not as wonderful as it was made out to be. Perhaps that was why Olivia surrounded herself with numerous lovers.
She had taken a suite with a sea view—an extravagance, all things considered. The day she arrived she had sat on her private balcony and let the sights and sounds of the Riviera wash over her. And she had cried. For herself, for Charles, for her father. It was a wholesome and restorative grief, and afterwards she knew the healing process had finally begun. That she would never be the same was only to be expected. But she no longer had any doubts about being able to put her life back together.
That evening she was wearing black velvet. The dress, while demure at the front, plunged daringly at the back. It had been one of Charles’ favourites. She added the emerald and diamond earrings that he had given her for her eighteenth birthday four years earlier, and dabbed Magie Noire on her pulse points.
The hotel restaurant overlooked the boulevard. She and Charles had eaten there many times, and she knew how popular it could be. Especially when celebrities were in town. The tables closest to the floor-to-ceiling windows were considered the choicest, and she was secretly thrilled when, moving into the flamboyantly decorated room, she was immediately shown towards one. Was it a good omen for the future? She held her head high, aware that her entrance had generated glances of curiosity from other diners.
After ordering a glass of her favourite champagne she settled down to study the menu. Her waiter was attentive and happy to make suggestions.
The ambience in the restaurant was perfect. Her food was delicious, and the book she had brought along, hoping to avoid the self-consciousness of dining alone, absorbing. She felt relaxed and confident.
She declined a dessert and was finishing the last of her champagne when her waiter returned. Bowing politely, he informed her that the gentleman at the bar wondered if he might join her for a cognac.
She was not in the mood for small talk.
“Please thank the gentleman. Perhaps another time.”
“Madame.” The waiter bowed for the second time, and left to deliver the reply.
Although it was still early in the season the evening was pleasantly warm. She decided the idea of a cognac was, in fact, a good one. She would take it on the terrace.
“I was once told that only after the third rejection should you reconsider the wisdom of an enterprise.” The man spoke fluent French, but his accent was unusual.
He was tall, perhaps late forties. His greying hair was far longer than fashionable and fell to the collar of his dinner jacket. His eyes crinkled at the corners, as if he had spent too much time in the sun. They also sparkled wickedly.
Despite herself, Stephanie felt a tremor of excitement. “And do you always follow that rule?”
“Not always. Sam. Sam Theriot,” he said with a little bow. He made no move to sit down.
“A French name, but you are not French.”
“No. American. Louisiana. My ancestors were settlers.”
“Ah, so you have come home.”
“For a short while.” He summoned a waiter. “Two Armagnacs. We’ll have them outside.”
Stephanie raised her eyebrows.
“Or is this to be my second rejection?” He laid a possessive hand on the back of her chair as though already certain of the outcome.
“It’s hard to believe this entire boulevard was once the domain of private houses.” Sam had removed his tie and placed it in his pocket. Now he leaned back in the rattan armchair having repositioned it in the direction of the beach. A gentle breeze was parting the fronds of the palm trees lining the road, and although there was no moon, the first stars had started to appear in the evening sky.
“Really? I can’t imagine it any different from what it is today.”
“Oh yes. Holiday homes, in fact. Although very substantial ones. They would have belonged to the wealthy of the day. And, hidden behind the walls and gates onto the boulevard were gardens.”
“That must have been a very long time ago.”
“It was.”
Stephanie was intrigued. “How do you know all this?”
“History interests me. Social history, anyway.”
“So, tell me, Monsieur Theriot. Do you know much about your French ancestry?”
“Only a little. They were seventeenth century colonists. Family gossip has it that one of my female ancestors was a Baleine Bride.”
Stephanie frowned. “What’s that?”
“La Baleine was a ship. She brought about ninety women from France specifically to marry and help settle the colony.”
Sam leaned a little closer to her, as if intending to share a thrillingly shameful secret. His eyes bore into hers dangerously. “The women were gathered from the prison of La Salpêtrière in Paris. That would imply my ancestor was most likely a felon or a prostitute.”
“So, you have colourful origins.”
“It appears I do.”
He swirled his Armagnac before taking a mouthful.
“And have you lived up to them?” Stephanie wanted to know. For some reason she was feeling a little breathless.
“If you are asking whether I have my own colourful past, the answer would be no. At least, I don’t think so.”
“That’s a shame.”
To her surprise Stephanie was enjoying herself. It felt good to flirt again. She noted the absence of a wedding ring on his finger. By no means did it mean he wasn’t married. But it was a promising sign.
“Tell me about you,” Sam countered.
“Are you asking if I have a colourful past?”
“Well, have you?”
As he had with her, Stephanie held his gaze. A smile played on her lips. She hesitated for just the right amount of time before replying. “Perhaps.”
“Now I’m curious.”
“You’re wondering if I’m a felon or prostitute?”
“Are you?”
“Would it make any difference?”
“None at all.”
“Then we need say no more.”
Sam raised his brandy balloon to her. “Attractive, intelligent and a woman of mystery. What more could a man ask?”
He undressed her slowly. Expertly, she realised as she leaned back into him. His arms were around her and he was kissing her neck, her shoulders. The black velvet dress
had been cast aside, and lay abandoned on the floor. Her silk g-string lay close by.
“You should not wear black. You are too alive for such a colour. Tomorrow you will wear red.”
“And if I have no red?” Her eyes were closing. The sensations he was creating were everything she could have asked.
“Then I will buy it for you.”
“I have expensive tastes,” she murmured.
His lips found hers. “I expected no less.”
His tongue probed her mouth and she gave herself up to him. The hand on her breast was demanding. It was what she needed. To be taken passionately but uncaringly. To be cleansed of the guilt of the past weeks.
Somewhat breathlessly she broke away. Her tugging at the buttons of his shirt had little finesse. His chest was a mat of dark hair. She lowered her mouth and breathed him in. He smelled of bittersweet spices. Of musk and amber and sandalwood. She took his hand and pushed it between her legs. Then she returned her mouth to his.
His fingers explored and rubbed, and spread her wetness across the top of her thighs. He found her clit, and the pressure of his fingertip on the sensitive bud drew an immediate moan from her. She had to get him inside her. His fingers, his cock—she didn’t care which.
“You are desperate, aren’t you?” His words were slow and heavy.
“Yesssss.” It was little more than a long drawn out sigh. “Fuck me. Just fuck me.”
She was begging.
“Not yet.”
She wondered what he wanted of her. She didn’t care. Anything. Just as long as she could cum.
His hands were on her shoulders, pushing her down.
She understood. She knelt, and waited.
Almost casually he undid his belt and then lowered the zip of his trousers. Reaching inside he pulled out his cock. It was hard and thick.
She knew instinctively he intended to control the moment. Sure enough, he placed his hand behind her head and pulled her forward. “Suck it.”
She didn’t need to be told twice. He was treating her as little better than a whore. Perhaps at heart that’s what she was. Her cunt burned with the intensity of need as she worked Sam’s cock. She had enough experience to know exactly how to please, and when she felt him tense in readiness for his orgasm, a shudder of wanton pride went through her.
