She wondered what he would think about the language of the flowers that Allain had used to such romantic effect. Would he consider it a gesture of charm and grace, or only corny sentimentality?
It was sentimental; she had to admit it. But what was wrong with that? It seemed that the Victorians of Violet’s era, with their unabashed reveling in the heights and depths of their emotions, were less restricted, in their own way, than people were today. No one had time, now, for sweet and delicate indications of growing affection or for gentle enticements; no one risked their lives for love, or pined away for lack of it. Sentimentality had become an embarrassment. It was mushy and lacking in sophistication. It had been repressed, much as the Victorians had repressed sexuality. The situation was exactly reversed these days, so that love was now expressed as sexual attraction, with heavy breathing and the quick grab. It was depressing.
In a strange sort of way, Joletta envied Violet. Her ancestress had come to Europe in search of distraction and fecundity, and had found a romantic adventure. It hadn’t been that way for Violet’s descendant and her chance-met stranger. Joletta didn’t know why; maybe it was her own fault. Maybe she should have been more open, more forthcoming. Maybe she should have grabbed.
It didn’t matter, not really. She wasn’t going into a decline for lack of love. In fact, she didn’t need the complication of a man tagging along behind her when she crossed the channel to France the next day. She was just as well off without Rone.
As she strolled along the paths of Regent’s Park, Joletta found herself turning often to look behind her, or else searching the faces of the people nearby. At first she thought she was, almost unconsciously, expecting Rone to appear. After a while she began to feel on edge, not quite at ease. There was a prickling awareness in the surface of her skin, as if she were making herself conspicuous, or else was being watched.
Her pleasure in the gardens evaporated. She put away her notebook where she had been scribbling descriptions of the running roses, clematis, wisteria, and other old-fashioned flowers that Violet had mentioned. She took a few more pictures of annuals in massed beds, but her heart wasn’t in it. When a large group of schoolchildren came along, all in uniforms, she followed close behind them until she reached the gate. She headed then for the underground that would take her back to the hotel.
There was a note waiting for her at the desk. It was from Rone. She read it quickly in the elevator, then again more carefully once she had reached her room.
There was certainly nothing sentimental or romantic about it; it was, instead, brisk, slightly humorous, and matter-of-fact. He apologized for not appearing as threatened, but a business problem had come up, one that still required his attention. He had tried to call several times, but she was always out. He was keeping his fingers crossed for a smooth channel crossing for her, and he would catch up with her in Paris.
It wasn’t exactly a kiss on the hand and a promise of a secret rendezvous. Joletta, struggling with a variety of feelings from gladness and amusement to irritation, shook her head. She wanted too much, no doubt. The question was, did she really want it from Rone Adamson?
She had had a late lunch, on top of which her body had not quite caught up with English time; going out to dinner seemed more trouble than it was worth. She had bought a little of the beautiful fruit and cheese and bread at Harrod’s the day before. She would take a hot bath, read a little, nibble a little, and call it a night.
It was when she opened the drawer to take out her nightgown that she discovered her room had been searched. Her underclothes might be made of nylon and synthetic satin, but she liked them neatly folded, not in a rumpled pile. The books and pamphlets she had been gathering over the past few days were stacked wrong, and the clothes left in her suitcase had been rearranged, with the sweaters she was saving for Switzerland on top.
It might have been a maid exercising her curiosity, though Joletta thought the maids in most hotels were trustworthy. It could have been a petty thief looking for loose cash, or someone from a passport-theft ring; she had been told before she left home that American passports were worth several thousand on the black market. If it was any of these things, however, the intruder must have been disappointed. Everything valuable or interesting she had with her stayed with her every moment, either in her shoulder bag or in a safety pouch inside her clothing.
That included the journal.
She didn’t want to think the journal might be the cause of the search, hated feeling that she would now have to be on her guard. She had just begun to feel safe, to feel distant in time and space from her problems. She had begun to hope that the episode at the airport was a coincidence, that it had nothing to do with New Orleans. None of that was acceptable any longer. It was difficult to readjust her thinking.
It was even harder to admit that there was another connection between London and New Orleans, another unacceptable coincidence that had cropped up since her arrival.
That was Rone.
7
SHE WOULD ALWAYS REMEMBER THE poppies of Flanders, Joletta thought. One reason was their brilliant blood-red color as they lay in thick swaths between the green of the spring grass and the soft gray blue of the French sky, but the main cause was their tour director, who joined them with their Belgian bus and driver at Calais after the channel crossing. The director, a Welshman with a voice as rich and smooth as natural honey, read as they rode through the countryside from the poem “In Flanders” Fields.”
Violet had described the poppies in her journal. Their hardiness in spite of their apparent fragility had impressed her, as well as their color. It seemed deeply satisfying to Joletta to think that she was seeing so much that her ancestress had also seen. That was the whole point of the trip, of course, but it was amazing how much was still there, still basically the same, from the old landmarks to the plants.
She had dreamed of Violet and her Allain since Bath, vivid, disturbing dreams that she could not quite recapture when she woke. In them it seemed that she herself was, somehow, Violet. Her subconscious at work, no doubt. She wished she could remember the details; it might well be helpful.
She was one of the few people on the bus who was traveling alone. Most of the others were retired couples who had escaped their children and grandchildren, or else honeymooners or widows traveling in pairs. There were two single men in their fifties, one a tall, thin professor of psychology who kept his nose in a guidebook, and the other a short balding travel writer with a great regard for his own crude jokes. Joletta had so far avoided the writer by pretending to be extremely sleepy, but she was afraid she might have trouble with him eventually.
Their tour director was fluent in French, Spanish, Italian, and German. He was pleasant and erudite, but his instructions concerning time spent at stops and payment of excursion fees definitely had something of the policeman about them. But he was good at his job, which was to make sure that the group got where it was going on time and that everyone enjoyed the trip.
The chestnut trees were blooming in Paris, not only the white, candlelike horse chestnuts, but also the rust-red Spanish chestnuts. They towered over the traffic of the motorway and lined the avenues in pruned perfection. The River Seine, as they crossed it to the Left Bank, wound like an iridescent ribbon of brown and green and blue under its many bridges, while buildings Joletta had only seen in photographs loomed above it in dingy limestone majesty.
The hotel was not large or grand, but was comfortably quaint, with a tiny lobby and white marble stairs that flanked an elevator the size of a broom closet. Joletta’s room faced on the avenue and had twin beds with down coverlets and pillows set over extremely hard bolsters. The casement windows behind white lace curtains actually opened, exposing a minute balcony railed with decorative cast iron. The white-tiled bath had yellow fixtures, which included a bidet. Some of the tour group complained about the accommodations; Joletta was charmed.
There were, she supposed, still Fossier relatives living in Paris. Mimi
would have known their names, would have written letters of introduction and insisted that Joletta deliver them. That wasn’t the kind of stay that Joletta wanted; her time was too short for it. She had read and heard so much about the famous sights of Paris that she was hungry to see them, to touch them, to stand in the middle of them and know that she was there. She would enjoy as much of Paris as she was able in the time available, and hope someday to return for the rest.
On the morning of the third day, she left her hotel, strolling past brasseries, banks, and trendy furniture stores, pausing to stare into the windows of antique shops and check out the offerings of flower stalls. She was on her way to the Seine; at least that was her first destination.
Crossing the river, she moved along its Right Bank with the Louvre looming above her. The sun felt good; the air was pleasant with the smell of green growing things, with the dank scent common to rivers everywhere, and also a whiff of baking bread. There was an acrid undercurrent of exhaust fumes from the traffic rushing past, but Joletta was able to ignore it.
Imperceptibly, she felt her spirits lift. She had nothing to do except please herself for this whole day; she had done the tourist things and meant to concentrate now on the journal sites. She would, eventually, arrive at the Jardin de Luxembourg, which Violet had mentioned with special emphasis, but she was in no hurry. She wanted simply to be in Paris, to sample the good things to eat offered by street vendors, to watch the artists along the river, to stand on a bridge and stare. She wanted to feel the city around her, and to know that she was in the heart of it.
It was late afternoon when she reached the metro stop nearest her hotel, on a cross street just down from it. She made her way along the ceramic-tile-lined exit tunnel that was so much cleaner than the London underground and walked up the steps. She was tired, but happy, and ready for a bath and a quiet meal somewhere before bed.
Emerging into the slanting daylight with the rest of the metro passengers, she stood waiting for the light to change before she could cross the street toward the hotel. She glanced in that direction as her attention was caught by a woman and a man coming out of the tall and narrow entrance doors. They were talking as they descended the wide steps.
Natalie.
The light changed. Joletta started walking, then kept on. She moved with the knot of people across to the opposite curb, then continued along the sidewalk flanking the cross street without turning. Within seconds she was out of sight, but still she did not stop.
There was a tight feeling in her chest. She thought she might be sick. Her footsteps, quick and purposeful and gathering speed, rang in her ears. She didn’t want her cousin in Paris. It wasn’t simply that Natalie might interfere with what she was doing; her cousin’s presence felt like a violation of her privacy and a curb on her freedom.
It had to be Aunt Estelle who had set Natalie to following her. Perhaps she had pulled some strings, or hired some kind of investigator to track her down. As incredible as it seemed, it would have been just like her.
It was funny, really. Her aunt and Natalie probably thought she knew exactly where she was going and what she was doing to get the formula. Even if she tried to tell them differently, it was doubtful they would believe it. Fine, then. But she wasn’t going to be harassed. Let Natalie catch up with her if she could.
“Hey, slow down, will you? Do you know you passed your hotel?”
The voice, warm with laughter, came from just behind her. It belonged to Rone.
Joletta broke stride, but before she could turn, her arm was caught and she was swung around. She put out her hand instinctively to ward him off as she spun to face him. Her open palm pressed for an instant against the warm muscles under his yellow polo shirt, imprinting their firm resiliency, their hard strength, upon the sensitive inner surface. She snatched it away as if she had touched a nuclear reactor.
Relief, suspicion, and quick, furtive pleasure clashed inside her, leaving her confused. She glanced swiftly beyond him, but Natalie was nowhere in sight.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, the words tight.
“I said I’d meet you. Didn’t you get my message?”
“Yes, but I really didn’t expect—” She stopped abruptly as it came to her that if Aunt Estelle knew where she was staying in Paris, she might also have discovered her hotel in London. If her aunt had sent someone to search the perfume shop, why couldn’t she have found someone to search Joletta’s London hotel room also?
“You have too little faith, Joletta,” Rone said quietly as he released his hold on her arm. “In yourself, and in me.”
Warm color rose in her face at the implication of his words, and also at the memory of the things she had thought about him. She looked away, unable to meet his steady blue gaze. She should have known he could not be so low and sneaky. What reason did he have, really? He knew nothing about her.
He was speaking again. “Are you sure everything’s all right? No more bag snatchers or other desperate types after you?”
There was no point in telling him about the search; her problems were her own. And if she started talking about it, he might realize that her coolness toward him had come from suspicion.
“Of course not,” she said with an attempt at a light tone. “I’ve learned a thing or two about taking care of myself.”
“I’d be impressed, if I didn’t know you’ve lost your hotel.”
The teasing amusement in his eyes was distracting; still, she thought rapidly. “I’ll have you know I know exactly where I am, and where I’m going.”
“Oh, and just where might that be?”
“There’s a little pastry shop a couple of blocks down, and I have a craving for éclairs.”
“Now that you mention it, I can feel a yen coming on, myself — for éclairs, of course. Mind if I join you?”
He was asking for more than just permission to walk along with her to a pastry shop. He was also questioning his welcome. She said simply, “Why not?”
“I thought I might be in trouble.” He indicated with a quick gesture that he was ready to continue in the direction she had been headed. Joletta hesitated, glancing behind him once more. There was still no one there. She turned and they moved off together.
“Why would you think you’re in trouble?” she asked after a moment.
“Several reasons,” he said, his tone a shade more serious than before. “I stood you up in London and left you alone nearly three whole days in Paris. Major crimes. I may also have appeared to take it for granted that you would care whether I showed up or not.”
“I have no claim on your time, just as you have none on mine.”
“All right, I probably deserved that.”
She gave him a level look. “I wasn’t trying to get back at you.”
“You mean it was just a lucky shot?” His words were wry.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, trying to be severe, but failing.
“How about dinner later, then, to celebrate the truce?”
“Fine,” she answered. Let him make what he could out of that.
“Good. Then I’ll tell you that I would have been here sooner, but I’ve been trying to tie up loose ends so I could have a few weeks of uninterrupted time to spend with you. That may not be important to you, but it is to me.”
She walked on a few steps before she spoke. “You don’t owe me an explanation — or anything else. We had fun in England, but I do have my own agenda—”
“If this is where you tell me you’d rather I got lost, it’s too late,” he said, his blue eyes dark with satisfaction. “I’ve already signed up for the rest of the tour.”
She stared at him for a stunned instant. “You mean the bus and everything?”
“And everything,” he repeated with emphasis.
“Isn’t that going a little far to prove a point?”
The planes of his face creased in a smile that seemed to hold extra warmth as he gazed down at her. “Is that why I’m doing it?”
“I could be persuaded to cancel,” he said with no more than an instant of hesitation. “Just say the word, and I’ll rent a car and map out an ABC tour for us both like none you’ve ever seen.”
“ABC tour?”
“Another Blasted Cathedral. Don’t tell me your group hasn’t discovered that joke.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Cathedrals, museums, restaurants, quaint little inns, you won’t miss a thing. I might even get you to Rome for your return flight.” He tilted his head as he paused. “Then again, I might not.”
“How did you know I would be returning from Rome?” It was easier to concentrate on that issue than to think of missing her flight home because of him.
“Easy. I got the number of your tour off your luggage tags at the same time that I got your name. When I spoke to the tour company, I just told them I wanted the same tour. There I was.”
“Enterprising of you.”
“Wasn’t it,” he said agreeably. “But you haven’t answered. Would you like to rent a car and plan your own itinerary? Keeping in mind that we’ve already established the ground rules.”
“Such as separate rooms?” she queried.
“Exactly,” he agreed, though the light in his eyes also had an audacious glint.
It was tempting, especially since she now had some experience of the regimentation and compromises necessary in a group. It would also be tempting fate.
She gave a regretful shake of her head as she said, “I don’t think I can afford it.”
“I can.” The comment was calm, without pressure.
“Thanks,” she replied in firm tones, “but I prefer to pay my own way.”
“A liberated lady?” he queried.
Her brows drew together as she thought about it. “It isn’t that, exactly.”
“You don’t accept diamond bracelets, either,” he suggested.
Wildest Dreams (The Contemporary Collection) Page 10
