Daughters of Fortune: A Novel

by Hyland, Tara

  He clutched his hands to his heart, feigning hurt. “I’m insulted that you could think so badly of me.”

  She laughed. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just . . . I’m not sure it’s very me. Véronique would be far better, surely. She does this kind of thing all the time.”

  “But I don’t want to use a posed picture. I want this picture of you.” He regarded her intently. “Would you settle for burlap when you could have cashmere?”

  Caitlin blushed a little. It was stuff like this that got to her. The extravagant compliments—even though she told herself it meant nothing, that flirting like that was as much a part of Lucien as his blood or bones.

  The Frenchman sensed her weakening and moved in for the kill. “Please, Caitlin. I give you my word: if you hate the picture, it will come down immediately.”

  She sighed again, this time in resignation. “Okay, fine. You can use the photograph. As long as you promise to remove it if I ask you to.”

  He reached out and covered her hand with his. “Of course. I would never break a promise to you.” His long, cool fingers squeezed hers gently, those intense blue eyes locked on hers.

  She drew her hand away and pushed her hair back from her face, something she did when she was nervous or unsure of herself.

  “Good. Well, that’s settled then.” She stood up abruptly. “I should go. Get back to work.” She hurried off to the kitchen.

  Standing to one side, Alain had been eavesdropping on their exchange. He waited until Caitlin had gone, then leaned across the bar. “Old friend, I am warning you—take care. Caitlin isn’t like the girls you are used to.”

  Lucien smiled at his concern. “I know that.”

  “Good.” Alain did not return the smile. “Because I won’t stand for you hurting her.”

  The following Friday afternoon, after classes, Caitlin decided to visit Le Nabi, the illegal gallery where Lucien was exhibiting. It was one of several in the area, a product of the current art scene in Paris. Lack of studio space and the difficulties of getting exhibited in established galleries had driven many young, innovative artists to start collectives, taking over old abandoned buildings around the Belleville and Canal St. Martin areas.

  Le Nabi was the most famous of these. Originally a school, it had closed in the seventies and stood derelict for fifteen years, before a group of artists and photographers had broken in and secretly converted it into exhibition space. Along with a dozen other unofficial arts venues in the city, it was rapidly gaining a reputation as a place where collectors in the know could buy work from rising stars before they hit the big time.

  Caitlin couldn’t help being impressed when she got inside. It was far bigger and more established than she had imagined: around seventy artists exhibiting over five floors in discrete studio spaces. There was a lot to see—everything from street to installation art, as well as Marcel Duchamp–style sculptures. But Caitlin ignored them all and headed straight for Lucien’s exhibits.

  She’d asked Alain about his work the previous evening. He’d explained that Lucien used his art to explore the social issues of the time, to show a darker side of Paris.

  “His mother was Algerian, his father French,” he’d told her, “so growing up, Lucien never really felt he belonged to either culture.” Now, looking at his photographs, Caitlin could see how he’d drawn on that—that sense of alienation—to highlight the current social unrest in France. He’d taken his camera out to the grubby banlieues, and here were the results: grainy black-and-white shots of grim public housing and soulless motorways; strip malls and fast-food joints; homelessness and gang warfare. It was a window into the casual violence, poverty, and despair of thousands of ordinary lives. It was also some of the most powerful work Caitlin had seen for a while. She couldn’t help being impressed by the depth and empathy of his art.

  She spent a long time looking at the main collection. Finally, aware that the gallery would be closing soon, she moved through to the smaller annex. The subject matter was less serious in there—a haphazard collection of moments that had captured Lucien’s interest. It was there that she found the picture he had taken of her. It would have been hard to miss, as it took up most of the back wall. For a moment Caitlin felt horribly embarrassed, seeing herself looming so large, until she remembered no one else was here. Only then was she able to relax a little and finally study the picture that she had come to see.

  Lucien had caught her at her deepest moment of introspection, frowning down at her sketchpad, the end of a pencil jammed between her teeth, her short dark hair tucked behind her ears. He was right, she admitted reluctantly. It wasn’t so bad. Most people wouldn’t even know it was her. She supposed she could let him keep it up, if he really wanted to.

  Her decision made, she started to turn away. But something stopped her. She stared at the picture for a long moment. She had the oddest sense of déjà vu. There was something so familiar about it . . .

  Suddenly something clicked: it was as though Caitlin had been transported back six years, to a Sunday evening in the cottage in Valleymount. She was finishing her homework while her mother pored over the following week’s roster for the hotel staff . . . frowning, totally absorbed in what she was doing. Then it struck her—in the photograph, she looked exactly like her mother!

  Caitlin stood there, entranced, unable to tear her eyes away. In fact, she was so lost in the photograph that she didn’t notice Lucien entering the room and coming to stand next to her until he finally spoke.

  “Are you okay?”

  She started at his voice, looked around, and saw that he was frowning down at her. She quickly wiped her eyes.

  “Caitlin? Ça va, mon amour?” he asked again.

  The genuine concern in his voice made her tear up again.

  “I’m fine,” she managed, her voice wavering a little. Then, deciding she needed to offer some explanation, she said, “It’s just . . . well, the picture reminded me of someone, that’s all. My mother.”

  “And that makes you sad?” he said quizzically.

  “Well . . . yes.” She hesitated, and then said in a low voice, “She died, you see—five years ago.”

  Lucien reached out and squeezed her arm. “I am so sorry to hear that,” he murmured. There was a silence. Another person might have pressed her for more details, but Lucien seemed to accept her need for privacy.

  “What did you think of the rest of the exhibition?” he asked instead.

  Caitlin was relieved at the change of subject.

  “It’s brilliant,” she said truthfully. She walked back toward the other room, wanting now to get away from the photograph. Lucien followed. “This is my favorite,” she said, pointing toward a landscape. “I love the use of light and shadows. It’s . . . superb.”

  Lucien looked amused. “Superb?” He pretended to mull her comment over. “What an extravagant comment. But how do I know you really mean that? Perhaps you are just being kind.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “And perhaps you’re just fishing for more compliments.”

  He chuckled softly. “I have found that you can never hear too many good things about yourself.”

  Before she could ask any more about his work, another man appeared in the doorway, interrupting them. He was older than Lucien, maybe in his late thirties, and looked a little more conservative, but still cutting-edge in a black suit and open-necked black shirt.

  “Lucien?” He sounded impatient. “We are all waiting for you—as usual. Are you coming or what?”

  “In a bit, Philippe,” Lucien responded good-naturedly. “Why don’t you go on without me?”

  The older man looked as though he was about to object, but then his gaze flicked over to Caitlin, and his expression turned from irritation to amusement. He said something else to Lucien. Although Caitlin’s French had improved dramatically over the past year, she still struggled with rapid colloquialisms—but she thought it was something like, “Instead of standing there flirting all night, why don�
��t you just ask her along?” Caitlin felt her cheeks heating up. Lucien rolled his eyes, and the man chuckled before leaving them.

  “Well?” Lucien turned to her after the man had gone. “Would you like to join us?”

  Caitlin’s instinct was to refuse. She didn’t especially like hanging out with strangers. But tonight she didn’t want to be alone. After being reminded of her mother, she needed some distraction.

  She smiled at him. “I’d love to come.”

  He looked pleased. “Good. Then we should go before I get into any more trouble.”

  Half an hour later, they joined Lucien’s friends at a trendy bar-restaurant on Canal St. Martin. There were around twenty of them, sitting in a circle on the little plastic seats that lined the bank of the canal. They welcomed Lucien, teasing him about turning up late—something of a habit for him, apparently.

  Lucien stayed by Caitlin’s side all evening, topping up her wineglass, leaning over to explain in-jokes when she looked a little lost, and introducing her to the designers who worked at Le Nabi. As the night wore on, it grew darker and colder. Lucien noticed her shivering.

  “Here,” he said, taking his jacket off and putting it around her shoulders.

  It was hard for Caitlin not to be flattered. Lucien was something of a celebrity in the circles they ran in, and clearly popular with everyone here. Even though he sat to the side, quietly sipping his wine and only interjecting the occasional comment now and again, every story and joke seemed to be directed at him. And now here he was, focusing all his attention on her.

  Around midnight, there was talk of moving on elsewhere.

  “We’re heading over to La Flèche d’Or,” Philippe called over. “Are you coming?”

  Lucien looked questioningly at Caitlin. “I can’t,” she said. I’ve got to work tomorrow.”

  “I will walk you home then.”

  God, no, she thought. That was the last thing she wanted. The romantic walk home, the pause by the door . . . “Oh, there’s no need,” she said quickly. “It’s not far. Really, I’ll be fine.”

  “But I insist,” he said firmly. “Not least because Alain will kill me if anything happens to you.”

  Unable to think of a logical reason to refuse his offer, Caitlin gave in.

  They made the twenty-minute walk back to her apartment in silence. They were both quiet—Lucien, because he wasn’t one to make small talk, and Caitlin, because she was preoccupied. She was thinking about the way he had touched her hand in the café last week; of the knowing look Philippe had shot them earlier—wondering what Lucien was expecting to happen when they got to her place. Because that was the last thing she wanted. It was still too soon after . . . well, after what had happened at Greycourt.

  Finally they reached the café. At the front door Caitlin fiddled with her keys. She’d already decided she wouldn’t ask Lucien in. That would give the wrong impression, and she had a horrible feeling she’d done quite enough of that already.

  “Thanks for walking me home,” she said.

  “It was no problem. I will sleep easier, knowing that you are safe.”

  She knew then that she had to say something; that this couldn’t go on.

  “Lucien, please . . .”

  He raised a questioning eyebrow. “Please, what?”

  “Please stop saying things like that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve told you before,” she said firmly. “I’m not interested in going out with you.”

  He sounded amused as he asked, “And why not?”

  “Because . . .” she stumbled. “Because I’m too busy. I’ve got so much to do for college, and what with working at the café, I don’t have time for anything else . . .” She trailed off.

  She’d been expecting him to argue back. But instead he reached out and touched her cheek with his long, cool fingers. “Well, I’ll just have to see what I can do to change your mind, chérie.”

  She didn’t know what to say. But he wasn’t looking for a response. In that moment, she suddenly became aware of how near he was; the way he had moved toward her without her realizing. He was so close now she could feel his breath on her cheek, see the pale moonlight reflecting off his strong jaw as he bent his head, his eyes glittering with something she couldn’t quite read. Too late, she guessed his intention. She was still trying to think up a way to stop him as he kissed her.

  His lips brushed hers gently at first, so light she wasn’t even sure it had happened. Then, sensing no resistance, his mouth found hers properly, his kiss harder, deeper. Then his hands were in her hair, tipping her head back; his tongue prying her lips apart, sliding against hers.

  Her eyes fluttered closed, and she felt an involuntary shiver of desire run through her body. It had been so long since she had felt like this . . . But as he drew her closer, a memory flashed through her brain, a hazy memory of a darkened room and a bed and an incident that had started off with a kiss very much like this one; a kiss that had cost her more than she had imagined possible.

  What the hell am I doing? The thought flashed through her brain, swiftly followed by another. This is a mistake.

  She broke away from his kiss, from his arms, pushing him from her. “Lucien, I said no!”

  Before he could respond, she fled inside.

  She ran to the safety of her bedroom, slammed the door shut, and sank to the floor. She noticed her hand was shaking as she reached up to touch her lips, still warm from his. It was a long time before she felt able to pick herself up off the floor.

  The following Monday, Caitlin returned from classes to find a package waiting outside her door. From the size and shape, it didn’t take a genius to figure out what it was. But still, when she unwrapped it and saw that it was indeed her picture from the gallery, she couldn’t help feeling touched that Lucien had realized how much it meant to her. All weekend she’d been feeling bad about the way she’d reacted to his kiss. Now she felt even worse.

  That evening, when he came into the café, she made a point of thanking him.

  “It was my way of apologizing for . . .” He hesitated. “For whatever I did wrong the other night.”

  There was a question in his voice, and she avoided his gaze as she said a slightly awkward, “Thank you.”

  He waited until she looked up again and then indicated the chair opposite him. “Do you have time to join me for a drink?”

  Now it was her turn to hesitate. Part of her was terrified of taking this next step, of letting someone in. But there was another part of her, the part that wanted to be with Lucien, that was telling her she needed to grab this opportunity to move on.

  “You know,” she said, pulling out the chair, “I think I’m due a break around now.”

  He gave her a slow smile. “I am very pleased to hear that.”

  21

  _________

  Elizabeth gave the fax machine a well-placed smack. She’d discovered over the past few weeks how notoriously temperamental it was. At first, she’d patiently consulted the manual and tried to figure out what was wrong. Now, whenever it wasn’t dialing, she resorted to violence. She was about to hit it again when she heard someone call her name. She looked up to see Kathleen glaring at her.

  After three months, the uptight Scot hadn’t gotten any friendlier. Elizabeth suspected Kathleen got a secret thrill out of lording it over the boss’s daughter. She’d learned not to care. It was easier to be pleasant and bide her time.

  She pasted on a smile. “What can I do for you, Kathleen?”

  The other woman glared harder. “I’ve left a stack of photocopying on your desk. I’m going to lunch now. Could you make sure it’s done by the time I get back?”

  “Of course,” Elizabeth said amiably.

  As Kathleen walked away, the smile slipped from her face. It killed her to be polite. Every time. But at least it helped cover up how miserable she was, working here.

  Unbelievably, it had gotten even worse since that awful first day. She was g
iven every mundane task in the department. She got sent on all the coffee runs. She covered the phones at lunchtimes; she typed and filed. She stood over the copier for hours, until her back ached and her eyes blurred.

  It didn’t help that no one seemed to like her. During her first week, she approached Sarah, one of the younger and friendlier girls, and asked if she fancied going for lunch at a new Italian place that had opened up around the corner from the office.

  Sarah didn’t even bother to look up from her computer. “I don’t eat Italian food,” she said.

  “Well, we could go somewhere else,” Elizabeth tried again.

  “I don’t eat lunch.”

  A couple of people who sat nearby sniggered. Elizabeth swallowed hard, determined not to let them see how she felt.

  “Right, I understand,” she said quietly, turning away.

  In the end, she went out on her own at lunchtime, to get some fresh air and grab a sandwich. As she walked along the street, she happened to glance in the window of Bertolli and there, sitting in the window and tucking into pasta, was the whole team—including Sarah. Ducking her head down, Elizabeth hurried on, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of witnessing her humiliation.

  That had been three months ago. Three months of photocopying and filing and being snubbed by her coworkers. For a brief, wild moment, she had considered quitting. She could tell her father that she needed some time elsewhere, perhaps getting an MBA. And she might have gone through with it if it hadn’t been for Cole Greenway. She didn’t want him to think that he’d won.

  The way he treated her that first day still grated, and weeks of seeing him stroll self-importantly around the office while she was forced to deal with menial tasks had infuriated her even more. But what made it worse was that every female in the department seemed to have a crush on him. She was in the ladies’ room one day, touching up her makeup, when she overheard Kathleen and Sarah talking about him.

  “Last Friday, I swear I was drunk enough to beg to go home with him,” Kathleen was saying.

  Sarah giggled. “I don’t blame you. Do you know if he’s single?”