Last of the Great French Lovers

by Sarah Holland

  'Just pray.' Susannah walked her to the front door. 'And get to Jean-Marc immediately. Want me to ring the airport and book your flight?'

  Alicia turned, white-faced and filled with fear. 'Please. And could you book a car to meet me and drive me back to the chateau?'

  'I'll do both right away.' Susannah nodded, opened the front door, and on impulse flung her arms around Alicia, holding her close in a moment of shared anxiety. 'Take care, love!' she whispered. 'And it's lovely to have you back again. You've been so lonely for so long, haven't you?'

  Alicia's dark eyes filled with hot tears. 'Yes...' she admitted at last, and disappeared into the red XJS a moment later, wiping tears from her pale cheeks as she drove home, flung her suitcase back together again, and then roared along the motorway at high speed to Heathrow.

  Reporters were jostling at the gates of Chateau Brissac as her taxi pulled up. It was midnight. Alicia called to Georges, the gate-guard, and the electronic buzz swung the gates wide. Flashbulbs exploded in the night as the taxi sped on to the drive to the chateau itself. Police cars and vans were parked outside the front door.

  'Mademoiselle!' Etienne was grey-faced with anxiety as he met her in the hall. 'Thank God you returned!'

  'Where is he, Etienne?' she asked huskily as the chauffeur carried her suitcase upstairs.

  'In the study with the police.' Etienne led the way. 'They've been here all night, waiting for the next communication. Oh, mademoiselle, we're all so frantic...!'

  Alicia put a comforting hand on the old butler's shoulder. 'Try not to worry too much. I'm sure Dominique will come to no harm.'

  The study had a tense atmosphere when she went in. A tape machine was set up by the telephone. Plain-clothes detectives sat talking to Jean-Marc at the desk, and Jean-Marc himself looked hellish. Pierre Dusort sat on a long dark leather sofa, his head in his hands.

  Jean-Marc looked up when she came in, and his eyes widened. His face was taut with strain, his mouth white and his grey eyes shadowed from lack of sleep. His black jacket hung over the back of the chair, his black waistcoat unbuttoned to hang loose on his powerful frame, his red tie hanging in straight lines either side of his neck and his white shirt unbuttoned at the throat.

  Alicia walked silently to his side, sinking down in the chair next to him. He met her dark gaze, and his black lashes flickered on his tough, tense cheekbones. But he said nothing, and as they looked at each other Alicia felt her mouth quiver with emotion.

  A senior police officer in a smart black suit watched Alicia with interest. His blue gaze flicked to Jean-Marc's face and back to Alicia's as though figuring out what had happened between them.

  Suddenly, the telephone rang.

  Everyone tensed, staring at it.

  'A call's come through. Get a trace on it,' the officer in the black suit said into a walkie-talkie, then motioned Jean-Marc to answer it. 'Just keep them talking.'

  Jean-Marc snatched up the receiver. 'Brissac!'

  Alicia watched the lines of strain deepen at his mouth as he listened. Her heart ached with love.

  'Where is she?' Jean-Marc's curt voice asked in French. 'If you've hurt her...'

  It was the kidnappers, then. Alicia listened, acute tension in her face, thinking of poor Dominique. Did they have Olivier, too? How had it happened? She watched Jean-Marc snatch up a black and silver pen and write something down in bold black handwriting.

  'Don't be a fool!' Jean-Marc said suddenly, grey eyes flaring. 'Just because I told the police? What did you expect me to do? Yes, I know I agreed to your terms! You changed them—I followed suit!'

  The officer in the black suit was motioning wildly for Jean-Marc to keep them on the line longer, not to argue with them.

  'I can't possibly liquidate that much cash in twenty-four hours!' Jean-Marc said tightly, then sat forwards, face white. 'No! Wait --' His mouth tightened in the silence that followed, and he lowered the receiver, his eyes grim. 'He hung up.'

  The officer spoke rapidly into his walkie-talkie. Machine-gun French burst back at him. Jean-Marc grimly replaced the receiver. The tape machine switched off.

  'We have an area trace!' The officer looked up with sharp blue eyes. 'And it's France. Not far from here, in fact. The call came from St Aubin de Chateau.'

  Jean-Marc sucked in his breath. 'Fifty kilometres away!'

  'Yes. It seems you were right, Monsieur Brissac. The kidnappers are amateurs. Young rebels.' His eyes narrowed. 'I take it new demands were made just now?'

  'The price doubled,' Jean-Marc said tensely. 'A hundred million francs.'

  Sharp intakes of breath went around the officers, who all looked at each other, and the officer in chief pursed his hard mouth in a silent whistle.

  'What else?'

  'They want it delivered at midnight tomorrow night. The location is changed, though.' He tore off the piece of paper he had written on and handed it to the officer. 'A suitcase containing the money is to be lowered from a helicopter into the valley below Les Baux-de-Provence.'

  'Clever,' the officer said, mouth twisting.

  'They're learning fast,' Jean-Marc said grimly.

  'But is Dominique all right?' Pierre Dusort asked hoarsely from the long couch, and he looked as though he had aged twenty years.

  'So I was told.' Jean-Marc's face was ashen below his tan, his grey eyes bleak. He looked back at the officer. 'But there is no proof, Girot. We must find her fast.'

  'I'll arrange a search of the area,' Girot said curtly, and got to his feet. 'You get the money.'

  'A hundred million francs?' Jean-Marc said grimly. 'Cash? On a Sunday? At one in the morning?' He gave a harsh laugh, but picked up the telephone and began making calls.

  He was successful. By two o'clock in the morning, he had the promise of the cash from a Swiss bank, to be flown by helicopter to the chateau, arriving at approximately midday tomorrow.

  'I need a drink,' Jean-Marc said, standing up, 'and some fresh air. If you need anything to eat or drink, just ring the kitchens on the house phone. Number fourteen. Gentlemen...'

  Girot turned, frowning. 'You must stay up, Monsieur Brissac. They could call back. We could find them. Anything could happen.'

  'I won't be far,' he said grimly, and strode wearily to the door.

  Alicia got up and followed him silently, closing the door behind her and watching him walk to the drawing-room, going in leaving the door open and picking up a whisky bottle from the drinks cabinet.

  'You left me,' Jean-Marc said deeply, without turning, as though he sensed her presence so acutely that he did not need to reassure himself that she was behind him.

  'Yes...' Alicia's eyes moved over his dark head with love, and she closed the door.

  'But you came back.' He turned, a whisky glass in one hand, and his grey eyes were bleak. 'Because of the kidnapping?'

  'I saw the story on the news in London.'

  'And were afraid for Dominique.' His mouth firmed into a white line, he studied his whisky, then said, 'You must have grown very fond of her.'

  Her heart twisted. 'Yes...' What else could she say? Declare her feelings for him and risk brutal rejection?

  He raised the whisky glass to his hard mouth and drank.

  'How did it all happen?' Alicia asked haltingly.

  'Olivier and Dominique were, at a bar in town,' he said flatly. 'They were asked to a party. They went. Olivier was heavily drugged by someone without his knowledge. He didn't know what had happened until he woke up in a ditch, alone. By the time he managed to walk to the nearest village and summon help, it was dawn. The ransom note had been sewn on to the back of his jacket. The police contacted me immediately.'

  'Where is Olivier now?'

  'Upstairs,' he said deeply, 'under sedation and watched by a nurse. He's recovering from shock. The police suspected him at first and interrogated him. I intervened in the end because I could see he was on the point of some kind of breakdown, and so could the police once I'd pointed it out.'

  'You
suspected him?' she asked slowly.

  'Not really.' He made a grim face. 'But the police have a job to do, and I didn't want to flex too many muscles by interfering. I had to, in the end, but only to save Olivier's mental health.'

  'What did the ransom note say?' she asked huskily, appalled for poor Olivier and the ordeal he had been through. As for Dominique... she couldn't bear to think of what she was still going through.

  '"We have Dominique Dusort,"' he recited, running a tired hand over his eyes.'' 'Do not contact the police if you wish to see her alive again. We will telephone at ten o'clock with our demands. Answer the call personally or Dominique dies."'

  Alicia winced. 'What made you contact the police?'

  'The call didn't come,' he said flatly, and drained the whisky glass. 'And the Press already had the story. I was besieged by reporters by nine a.m.'

  'Presumably, that's why the kidnappers didn't call,' Alicia said slowly.

  'Yes. At midday, I flew to Paris to meet with Girot. I had no option by then.' He flexed his tired shoulder muscles, grimacing.

  Alicia moved forwards, her dark eyes on his face. 'Let me...'

  His eyes flickered open, watching her grimly, his mouth white. Slowly, Alicia moved to stand behind him, her hands on his shoulders beginning to massage the iron tension from them.

  He gave a low, harsh groan. 'Cherie...'

  'Sit down,' she said huskily, her pulses leaping, and he moved silently to the couch, sinking on to it as she sank beside him and continued to un-knot those locked muscles.

  Jean-Marc's eyes flicked to her face, and suddenly he shifted, lying face down on the couch, his arms stretched limply. Alicia moved to accommodate him, sitting beside his strong hips as she began to massage his back, unlocking the muscles along the spine, listening to his harsh groans of pleasure-pain and feeling the muscles relax slowly as she worked her way up his spine, kneading the muscles from left to right until she reached his hard shoulders again.

  As she went to work on those shoulders he muttered something in French, his face in pained ecstasy, and she could feel the muscles locked tight, so she worked hard on them as he groaned, and eventually her fingers reached his strong neck and unlocked that, too.

  His strong hand suddenly closed over hers, and he turned on to his back, staring up at her. 'Why did you leave, Alicia?' he asked deeply. 'Because I asked you to move in?'

  She met his grey gaze, her pulses skipping. 'Yes.'

  'You were going to move in soon, anyway,' he said, his face bleak. 'Why did you run from me just because I --?'

  'Does it matter now?' she asked huskily, her heartbeat unsteady as she bravely ran a tender hand through his black hair. 'I'm here now, and I won't be leaving again.'

  His eyes searched hers. 'You're here to stay?'

  'Yes,' she said, and realised it was true. 'I don't intend to become your mistress, Jean-Marc. But I won't leave again.'

  He watched her in silence for a moment, his dark head resting on the deep red velvet cushions of the couch, and although his face was grim his powerful body was more relaxed, and the whiteness had left his mouth.

  'Did you come back for me,' he asked deeply, 'or Dominique? Or both?'

  Her face was still with inner tension. 'I came back for you.'

  The silence was acute. It was absolute surrender, and they both knew it. She felt as though she had laid her head on the block, her slender neck exposed to his sword.

  Suddenly, he sat up, his hands gently moving her aside as he got to his feet. He walked away from her, his black hair ruffled and his hard body weary in the white shirt, black unbuttoned waistcoat, and black trousers.

  He went to a painting on the wall, a painting of his mother, and pushed it aside. Behind it was a small grey safe in the wall. His strong hands turned the dial this way, that way, and the safe sprang open.

  Jean-Marc withdrew a small deep blue velvet box, and walked back to her. 'This is the Brissac sapphire,' he said tersely, sitting down beside her and opening the box to reveal a vast, perfect blue stone set in antique gold. 'Give me your hand.'

  White, dark eyes enormous, she whispered, 'Jean-Marc...'

  'Just give me your hand,' he said thickly, and gave a harsh sigh.

  Alicia held out her hand, and he took the ring, slid it on to her third finger. She stared down at it, then up at his hard face. 'Are we engaged, Jean-Marc?'

  'What else?' he said curtly, and stood up, walked back to the safe, tossed the blue velvet box in it, shut the door, turned the dial and replaced the painting over it.

  She watched him, her mouth white. 'You want me to marry you?'

  He walked back to her, studying her with hard eyes. 'A little sooner than I expected. But events have moved so quickly. You've always been mine, Alicia—now the rest of the world will know it, too.'

  'So romantic, Jean-Marc,' she said with a sudden flare of pain.

  'Don't ask me for romance,' he said flatly, walking away from her to the drinks cabinet, unscrewing the whisky bottle. 'I don't have room in my life for that rubbish. I wanted you, I fought for you, I've won you. What more is there to say?'

  Alicia almost flinched at the words. But the Brissac ring was heavy on her finger, and she could not deny what he said. He had fought for her and won her. She was deeply in love with him, and although he did not return that love he was making it clear that he would not cheapen her by making her his mistress.

  'You could say you love me,' she said with a wry, hurt smile.

  'But I won't,' he said curtly, and drained a measure of whisky from his glass, looked at her over one shoulder, his eyes bleak. 'Would you ring for some coffee? I'm going to need it if I stay up all night.'

  Alicia picked up the phone, dialled the kitchens, and ordered a pot of strong coffee for two in her husky French accent. Together they drank it, and as time moved on Jean-Marc put his dark head back, studying her through those heavy lids.

  'I take it you don't want a showpiece wedding like Dominique?'

  Alicia paled at the mention of poor Dominique. 'Jean-Marc, what if something happens to --?'

  'Nothing will happen to her,' he said tersely. 'We have to believe that, even if the odds are against it. If these kidnappers are the amateurs I think they are, they won't kill her.' His mouth was grim. 'They may rape her, they may beat her—but they won't actually kill her.'

  Alicia closed her eyes, feeling sick.

  'Don't think about it.' Jean-Marc touched her shoulder, staring at her. 'Think about our wedding instead.'

  Her lids flickered open, stared into his grey eyes. 'No circus, Jean-Marc,' she said huskily, obeying him, pushing the thought of Dominique's possible murder from her appalled mind and catching hold of the wedding instead. 'No Press, no paparazzi, no fashionable guests and no false friends.'

  He nodded, mouth firm. 'We'll marry in the Brissac chapel next week. A quiet, dignified ceremony. I'll call Monseigneur Roussillon in the morning.' His grey gaze fell to the crucifix nestling between her breasts, glimmering silver in the shadow of the black dress she wore. 'I want this settled as soon as possible.'

  Her eyes traced his hard face. It was the face of a conqueror. 'You've won...'

  'I know,' he said, and bent his dark head, his mouth closing over hers in a slow, sensual exploration of her mouth, the mouth that now belonged to him and him alone.

  Later, when he had kissed her fully, she felt helpless with love, her hair tousled around her flushed face and her dark eyes moving slowly over his tough face as she thought, He doesn't love me, but I love him, and that's all I can ever hope for.

  'I must go back to the study now.' Jean-Marc got to his feet with a harsh sigh. 'You go to bed, try and sleep.'

  'No,' she said without thinking, standing too. 'I'd never be able to sleep.'

  He looked at her with bleak grey eyes and nodded, then opened the door. The police had rung for sandwiches and coffee, and were sitting in exhausted silence, eating and drinking while Pierre ran his hands through his hair and lo
oked inches away from a heart attack.

  'Go to bed, Pierre,' Jean-Marc said deeply, putting a hand on his shoulder. 'You're making yourself ill with worry.'

  'My poor baby...' Pierre said with a crack in his voice. 'I can't bear to think of what they're doing to her. I won't go to bed—how can I?'

  'Be quiet!' Jean-Marc said curtly. 'Don't torture yourself—or me!' He turned to Alicia, his grey eyes appalled, and she instantly went over to him. 'Take him into the drawing-room. Put him on the couch. Get Etienne to bring some blankets.'

  Alicia nodded, helped Pierre to stand, and led him into the drawing-room. By the time Etienne had brought the blankets, Pierre was fast asleep. She covered him and tiptoed out.

  The night dragged on. Girot spent a lot of time on his walkie-talkie, and the gunfire French became quite comforting as Alicia sat beside Jean-Marc, her hand on his hard thigh, unseen beneath the desk by the others.

  The telephone rang at dawn, making them all jump. 'That's it!' Girot took the call. 'They've found her! She's being held at a farmhouse outside St Aubin de Chateau. Someone saw her run on to the road an hour ago. Two men dragged her back into the farmhouse.' He picked up his jacket, eyes alight. 'Let's go get her!'

  Alicia got up, trembling, and Jean-Marc gave her a sharp look. 'You're staying here.'

  'You can't make me stay!' she said, shocked. 'What if something happens... ?'

  'That's exactly why I don't want you there!' Jean-Marc took her face in his hands. 'You must stay here, cherie. It could be dangerous if you came.'

  'Then why are you going?' she asked hoarsely. 'You could be hurt!'

  His mouth hardened into a white line of impatience. 'Just do as I say, Alicia, please!' He kissed her deeply on the mouth, his arms sliding around her, holding her close, and Alicia went with helpless love, her arms around his strong neck, uncaring of the sudden silence as everyone else watched.

  When he released her, he stared into her dark eyes and whispered, 'Be here when I get back.' Then he moved away from her, his face hard, picked up his black jacket and was shouldering into it as he left the room.

  CHAPTER TEN

  It was two hours later that the telephone rang to let Alicia know what had happened. There had been a massive police operation, culminating in a brief shoot-out, followed by Dominique's release. No one had been killed, although two kidnappers were injured and in hospital. They had been a gang of young men, all on drugs. Dominique was in shock, slightly bruised but unhurt, and certainly had not been raped by her captors.