by Nora Snowdon
The plane crawled to its destination on the tarmac. Helen waited, watching the other passengers pull bags from the overhead and pack away their winter coats and scarves. Helen wished the plane would never stop. A sense of dread consumed her. She worried either that she’d lost revenue for the charity, or she’d have to get up in front of a crowd her father’s acquaintances—and the woman claiming to be his widow, and make a speech. Helen knew the speech should be the least of her worries, still the idea petrified her. Plus, no matter what she wore, it would be wrong.
What a vain, self-centered egotist she was, to think any of that mattered. The important thing was that this event was helping children from disadvantaged backgrounds. She’d written some of her thank you speech, leaving her four days before the gala to make it more dynamic. And even that didn’t really matter. No one at the gala cared what she had to say. They wanted to feel charitable, receive tax breaks, and to elevate their own social status as philanthropists. Her job was to say thanks and make them feel good. That way the charity could hit them up again next year for more money.
After most of the people had deplaned, she grabbed her carry-on and made her way down the stairs to the tarmac. The heat smothered her like a warm, heavy blanket as she wandered to the terminal. She assembled her documents.
“No, I don’t have any food, ammunitions, and I have not been on a farm in the last six months,” Helen told the scowling man behind the desk. He typed a few things into his computer and waved her through without a word. Helen was searching for a taxi when she noticed Edward walking toward her.
Tears hovered at the back of her eyes and she struggled to appear casual. “Hey, Edward. How are you?”
“I’m fine, Miss Dunhill. Let me take your bags.”
“Sure. What’re you doing here?”
“I’m working for the estate.” Edward loaded her bags into the trunk of his limo. “The new owners hired me back on. Bettina, Rosa, and Oscar too. I’m to take you to the Wyndham Resort. Bettina made some hot patties for you. They’re in the paper bag on the seat. It’s good to see you again, miss.”
Now her tears really threatened. “Thank you, Edward. It’s good to see you, too.” Helen sunk into the warm leather seats engulfed by the tempting odor of Bettina’s cooking.
Everything felt familiar and yet strange. A tingle of anxiety tightened her muscles as they neared her father’s old mansion then she relaxed back into the seat as they proceeded into the center of town. The Wyndham Resort was even grander than she remembered from years ago when she’d dined there with her father. Edward helped her check in and then informed her he would see her later that week at the estate.
After he left, Helen sat, bewildered, on the large bed. They’d booked her into a luxury suite. Had someone made another colossal mistake? Maybe she should call someone to see if she should do anything. No. The company had professionals for all the gala prep work and most of it would already be done. Helen unpacked, showered, and slid into the luxurious bed for a quick nap before dinner. Mr. Wilkins, the gala coordinator, would call her if she was needed.
Helen was drifting off to sleep when she heard a quiet knock at the door. Still fuzzy, she wrapped herself in the hotel’s fleecy housecoat and opened the door a couple of inches. She let out a surprised gasp at the sight of Antoine standing in the hallway.
Her face flushed and her knees trembled just at the sight of him. Dressed in a casual shirt and pants and as devastatingly handsome as when she’d first seen on the tennis court what seemed like years ago; he still had that mesmerizing effect on her. She couldn’t help remembering the soft, insistent, feel of his kisses. Or the thrilling touch of his hands. Thank heavens she left the chain on the door, or she might’ve done something stupid.
“Bon jour, ma petite. I was hoping you might be available to be kidnapped?” Antoine asked with a small smile.
Her jaw dropped and she stared at him in disbelief.
“Or perhaps, we could just talk?”
“What is there to talk about? You got what you wanted. I got an education. Everybody’s happy.” She tried to close the door. His foot held it ajar.
“What do you mean?” Antoine’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion “I want you, ma petite.”
“Well you can’t have me. Go back to the beautiful Laurenne and leave me alone.” Helen gave up trying to push his foot out of the doorway and walked away.
“Helen. What are you talking about? You must explain.” He stood in the doorway frowning.
“Okay.” She whirled back to face him through the four-inch gap. “I’ll explain. While I was at your place, some friend of yours messaged to ask whether you’d seduced the American dog out of her Dunhill shares. He made a few more disparaging remarks. Gosh, I wonder how I could’ve taken that the wrong way. So, you’ve got the damn shares. Now, go away.” She shoved him out of the doorway, slammed and locked the door.
She shook with rage and frustration as she paced her room. How dare he come back! And how could she still want him so badly? He hadn’t even touched her, and her whole body was aching with desire along with the anger. He was like a dangerous drug she couldn’t quit. No. She corrected herself, she had quit him. This was just the withdrawal stage. She needed a distraction.
A quick peek confirmed the mini bar was fully stocked. She battled with her conscience knowing she couldn’t justify the expense of dipping in. Plus, if she started drinking, would she ever stop? She threw on her cut-offs and t-shirt, checked that Antoine wasn’t still in the hallway, and made her way to the hotel gym. If she couldn’t get drunk, then running on a treadmill would have to suffice.
*
Antoine drove back to his house in shock. It wasn’t possible. He hadn’t told many people of his reason for coming to Nassau except—Merde! Winston. How could he have been so indiscreet? And what other disparaging remarks had Winston made? What had he said about Laurenne? No wonder Helen was so angry.
But she must have realized there was something much more between them. If he had not been attracted to her, he would not have let it go so far. Did she think he had no scruples? At his house, Antoine poured himself a glass of wine and tried to plan his next actions. Two drinks later, he was no closer to a solution. He was, however, very irate.
How could Helen blame him for insults he didn’t even make? He would never call her a dog. He loved the way she looked, so sweet, naïve, and incredibly sexy. And she fit so perfectly in his arms. Antoine felt himself harden, remembering the feel of her soft body, cuddling up to him in the night. He would get her back, no matter what it took. A smile crossed his face as he imagined taking her to the French Riviera or to the Musée D’Orsay. She was his, at least until their affair had run its true course.
*
Helen climbed the stairs back up to her room. Her legs were rubbery, her face beet red, and her skin was dripping sweat. And yet despite her complaining muscles, she felt ten times better. For the first half hour on the elliptical, her mind kept jumping back to the image of Antoine in her doorway. By the end of her forty-minute run on the treadmill, the pounding rhythm in her ear had obliterated all other thoughts. Now she just wanted to shower and rest her weary legs.
*
Helen was editing her speech when the phone rang. It had better not be Antoine.
“Hello?”
“Miss Dunhill? This is George Wilkins. I’m the coordinator for the Memorial Gala. Please let me say how sorry I am for your loss. We’re glad to be able to hold this Gala in your father’s memory. I’m sure he would’ve been very happy knowing he was helping such a worthy cause as the Feed the Children Foundation.”
“Thank you.” Helen wondered again whether her dad would’ve liked this concept. Did this man, George, even know her father? Still it was a good cause.
“The reason I’m calling is, I wanted to check that you got the itinerary.”
“Uh… No. I was kind of wondering if there was one.”
“Ah-hah. That might explain why you aren’t
here at dinner.”
“I’m supposed to be somewhere, right now?” Helen heard her voice getting shrill. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t worry. We’re downstairs in the hotel’s dining room. Just come when you can and I’ll introduce you around. I’ll keep an eye out for you.”
“Thank you. I’m really sorry. I’ll be down soon.” Helen threw on her black dress and wondered how much of an itinerary there was. She only had the two fancy dresses. After that she’d have to repeat, switch into more casual, or buy something else. Her hair was still damp from her shower. Oh well, she’d pretend she was going for that wet look. A quick dash of makeup and she was ready. If only she could calm her jittery stomach. The mini-bar called out to her, but better sense prevailed.
Helen walked into the fancy dining room with trepidation. She’d just approached the hostess when she noticed a short, balding man rushing toward her. His infectious smile relaxed her somewhat.
“Miss Dunhill. You were quick. We haven’t even finished ordering yet. I’m George.” He shook her hand with too much enthusiasm and led her to the head of the table. A quick glance revealed the six others were dressed nicely but not too formal. Phew. Her dress was right. “Come meet the rest of the people. Now to your left we have Richard Belleville. He’s the CFO of the new Dunhill Holdings. Richard, Miss Dunhill.”
“Please, call me Helen.”
“My pleasure, Helen.” Richard’s smile seemed genuine.
“And this is Al Rodin. No relation to the sculptor.” George laughed heartily so Helen thought she’d better join in as well. “His wife Louise. And you know Camille, Robert’s widow, of course.”
Helen was surprised at how much younger and prettier Camille looked than she remembered her. She was probably only in her early thirties. “I believe we met, was it, three years ago?”
“Mais oui.” Camille’s face lit up with an angelic smile. “It was three years ago. And I believe you were wearing that same dress.”
Heat rushed to Helen’s face. “Well you know what they say, reuse, recycle, and refurbish.”
“You certainly didn’t get that habit from your father. He always said you were very cheap.”
Helen fought to keep the smile plastered on her face and to keep her fist from connecting with Camille’s jaw.
George jumped into the conversation. “You’ll have to excuse Camille. I’m sure the English word she was looking for was frugal, meaning good with money.” The warning look he shot Camille dared her to contradict him. “It’s difficult learning the idiomatic expressions in a second language.”
“Ah oui,” Camille agreed smugly.
“And these two are Randy and Andy. They are the design team that will be taking care of the gala decor, giveaways, and everything beautiful.”
Randy gave Helen a brilliant, over-whitened smile. “I’m pleased to meet you. And I just love that dress you’re wearing. It has a definite sexy, sophistication that is so in style.” He turned to Andy. “Don’t you think?”
“Mmm. Delicious.” Andy’s blue-tipped and gelled hair danced with his enthusiasm.
“Before they get onto discussing everyone’s fashion,” George laughed again, “I’ll continue.” He indicated the nerdy-looking man next to Andy. “Stefan is in marketing, and I’m what you’d call the stage manager. I coordinate all the different groups and make sure the whole show run smoothly. Now have a seat and take a quick boo at the menu.”
Helen ordered a conch salad. She was pretty sure she wouldn’t have to pay for her meal, but she didn’t want to assume anything. Plus, with Camille glaring at her, she might not be able to eat very much. Why had Camille even written her about the gala?
She wished she’d told Jan that she wasn’t available. This trip was becoming unbearable and it was only the first day. Still, it was best to get hit with all the shocks at the start and the rest might be easier.
The dinner dragged on with no discernible end in sight. George was solicitous and getting on her nerves. The tone of the evening disintegrated further after several more bottles of expensive wine had been downed. Camille played the grieving widow to the hilt, dramatically draping herself over her Al’s shoulder despite his wife’s discomfort. Richard was oozing sympathy while admiring Camille’s overflowing boobs.
Luckily, Helen had abstained from drinking or she might’ve retaliated against Camille’s frequent insults. Helen wasn’t just there as Robert Dunhill’s daughter, but also as a representative of Feed the Children. A catfight would be inappropriate. Man, she’d like to deck Camille, though. It was funny, after years of being a responsible, reasoning adult, these past few months had made her want to resort to violence more times than she’d care to count.
Over coffee—well most of the others were drinking expensive liqueurs—George passed her a print out of the itinerary.
“Now if you have any problems with any of this, just let me know. We can be flexible on most of it. Well, not the date of the gala.” He let out another boisterous laugh. “We’ve already sold out. But anything else just let me know. The rest of the things are a few PR gigs and some socializing just for fun. If you need anything at all, just give me a call. I’ve got budgets to cover almost anything.”
“Thank you, George. This all looks fine. And nicely typed, too,” she added with a smile.
“Well I tell you, once I learned about the different fonts and spellcheck; there was no stopping me on the computer.”
“Still, do you think the computer will ever, really, replace the mechanical pencil?”
George guffawed. “Now I see why they insisted on you coming to this event. You really are a card. I’m looking forward to hearing your speech at the gala. Most charity spokespeople are so earnest, you want to commit suicide after they talk.”
Helen stiffened in surprise at his comment. George mustn’t have known how her father had died. A quick glance at Camille revealed that she’d missed the suicide reference. Helen cleared her throat before responding, “Oh don’t be putting pressure on me. I’m nervous enough speaking in front of people.”
“You don’t have to do a speech,” Camille interjected. “I can do it. That crowd will eat you alive in your little Wal-Mart dress.”
“That’s enough, Camille! Don’t push your luck.” George intercepted Camille’s signal to the waitress for more wine and negated it calling instead for the bill. “I believe we’ve had enough to drink. In fact, we should probably all call it a night. Tomorrow there are a few meet-and-greets with the press and we’d like everyone on their best behavior.”
Camille pouted, but for some reason didn’t complain further. George wasn’t imposing, but obviously Camille accepted his authority. Perhaps whoever held the company credit card ruled?
Helen rose from the table, relieved the evening was ending. Although she’d known Camille wouldn’t relish sharing the spotlight with her, she hadn’t expected this outright hostility. Camille used to be more subtle in her digs. She’d have to try to avoid Camille if she hoped to retain any confidence in her ability to address the gala audience. As they exited the dining room, George drew her aside.
“I want to apologize for Camille. I believe she has a bit of an alcohol problem. And there may be some anxiety about the lack of inheritance from her late husband’s estate. I’ll try not to put you by her at any event.”
“Thanks George. I’m sorry about the extra trouble.”
“Don’t worry about it. If she gets out of hand, we’ll leave her behind on a sightseeing boat. If we stock enough champagne, she may not notice for days. Ha! You get a good night’s sleep and we’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks again for coming down.” George kissed her awkwardly on the cheek and turned her toward the elevator.
*
As Helen prepared for bed, she realized one good thing. With Camille being such a pain, she hadn’t thought about Antoine for most of the dinner. And now she was so tired from first the exercise and then the stress of Camille, she’d sleep like a baby. Two h
ours later she amended that thought. Instead she was sleeping like an insomniac, desperately wanting sex with the one man she couldn’t have.
CHAPTER 10
At six in the morning, Helen gave up trying to fall back to sleep. She changed into her bathing suit and cover-up, and made her way down to the pool. The palm trees and rocks gave it a comfortable, secluded feeling and, unlike at night, the swim-up bar wasn’t attracting customers. She swam and floated in the ocean-fed pool while she planned out her day. Continental breakfast was available until 11:00. Then some press guy wanted to meet her at noon.
After that she needed to find a dress to help her face Camille at the gala. She’d call Jordana’s little sister and see what size she was. She used to babysit Taylor and knew she’d help if she could. Otherwise Helen would have to buy another dress. She didn’t want to wear the black dress around Camille again, but the blue cocktail dress, wasn’t formal enough for the gala. And Camille, having picked it out way back when, would probably announce its age and cost to everyone within shouting distance.
She should try to win over Camille, but it was hard to know how. And she really didn’t want to. Helen dried off in the sauna before dressing for breakfast. Despite the horrendous events of yesterday, the bright sunshine and beautiful surroundings made her feel much more optimistic.
Back in her room, she scrunched her damp, salty hair, put on a bit of makeup, and dressed for the interview. The itinerary suggested something bright and tropical as this was for the company’s internal press and would run in Europe. Helen smiled, reading all George’s extra little notes on the sheet. He was a micro-management type trying to appear laid back.
She slipped on the Bahamian wrap dress that Antoine had bought for her, refusing to let her mind drift back to that day in the Straw Market. A knock on the door curtailed any more consideration on whether she should rush out to buy fake tan lotion. At least, since the interview was in her room, she didn’t have to bother with shoes.
