The Only One

by Penny Jordan

  ‘Susan … no of course I don’t mind….’ Brooke heard him say. ‘Yes, tomorrow night is fine…. No I don’t have any other engagements and even if I did….’ He laughed, and Brooke crept off the settee clutching her clothes, shame burning a scorching flame over her skin. How could she have been so stupid?

  She heard Adam come to her door and knock gently, calling her name, but for her pride’s sake she pretended to be asleep. She couldn’t bear to face him now. What on earth could she say? How could she explain away her behaviour? It wouldn’t have been so bad if Adam didn’t know that she was still a virgin. Had she been experienced she could have lied glibly and said her behaviour was the result of natural frustration; just as his response to her had been the natural response of a highly sexed male to the overtures of an available woman.

  She barely slept, waking in time to hear Adam moving about. She shrank back under the bedclothes when he knocked and walked into her room, holding a tray.

  ‘Toast and coffee,’ he told her curtly, avoiding looking at her. ‘Brooke….’

  ‘Adam….’

  They both spoke together, both breaking off to look at the other. ‘Brooke, you can’t stay here any longer,’ Adam told her firmly when she fell silent. ‘Neither are you well enough to go back to the Lodge alone….’ He turned away from her drumming irate fingers against the wall. ‘I own a villa in the South of France. A French couple run it for me. I normally visit it a couple of times a year, the rest of the time it’s let out to friends … It’s empty at the moment, and I’ve made arrangements for you to recuperate there. You’re booked on a flight at lunchtime today. Don’t worry about clothes and things. I’ve spoken to the LeBruns, all that will be taken care of at their end. Madame LeBrun will take you shopping….’

  ‘I’m to go there alone?’

  She hated herself for asking the question but was completely unable to resist.

  ‘The LeBruns will be there to take care of you.’ Adam avoided her eyes. ‘A month should be long enough to see you sufficiently recovered.’

  ‘And my job?’ Brooke asked him tightly, knowing the answer, her heart sinking as she waited for it. Adam guessed how she felt about him, and as she had known he would, he didn’t want to get involved with her. Adam didn’t want love in his life, he wanted a sexually compatible, experienced woman who shared his views on life, not an over-romantic virgin.

  ‘We’ll review the position once you’re well enough. My existing PA has agreed to stay on for an extra month—her baby isn’t due for two, and she’s feeling well enough to go on working….’

  ‘Adam….’ Hating herself for doing it Brooke reached out towards him, sensing his withdrawal even though he didn’t move. Every bone in his face was rigid with tension.

  ‘It’s for the best Brooke,’ he told her unemotionally. ‘I think last night showed us both that, I can’t keep you here any longer without taking you to my bed….’

  ‘And?’ she asked, her heart in her mouth. Perhaps if she told him she knew the rules and accepted them … but her hopes were dashed as he responded curtly, ‘And I don’t want the complications that would involve, and there are complications—we both know that.’

  Meaning that he knew—or guessed—how she felt about him, Brooke thought miserably. What could she say? She could insist on going back to the Lodge, where all she could do was sit and brood, or she could give in gracefully to the arrangements he had made and hope that a month away would help her to gather her mental resources to such an extent that she could control her feelings for him. ‘Very well.’ She bowed her head in acceptance, not looking up until she knew he had left the room, and biting down hard on her lip to stop the tears falling. Susan must possess ESP because Brooke knew that without her telephone call last night by now she and Adam would have been lovers, and the dreadful thing was that even knowing he didn’t love her, she still wanted them to be. Adam was right, it was best that she left, best for her and best for him.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  HER flight to Nice was uneventful, and as Brooke stepped off the plane to sombre clouds and light drizzle she felt that the weather was reflecting her moods. She hadn’t cried since Adam had made his decision to send her away, but the tears were there clogging up her throat, held back only by a fierce effort of will.

  He had driven her to the airport and waited with her for her flight. It had been an agony she hadn’t wanted to endure, knowing who he would be spending his evening with. No doubt tonight his physical hunger would be appeased, while she….

  Like someone in a trance Brooke passed through Customs barely aware of the covert looks of interest the Customs Officer gave her. In the arrivals hall she found the LeBruns without too much difficulty; a small, dapper French couple they were holding up a cardboard notice with her name on it, and greeted her in careful English when she made herself known to them.

  Brooke’s own French was good, and she could sense their relief when she switched to that language. It came as something of a shock to learn from them that Adam was fluent in their language, although once she thought about it she could understand how, with his quick grasp of the essentials and hard-headed determination, he would soon pick up enough of any language to get by on. Adam would never trust anyone else to interpret for him; he would always prefer to deal with others direct, whether in a business or any other capacity.

  ‘Monsieur Hart said that we were to take you shopping,’ Madame LeBrun informed Brooke as they led her to the car park. ‘He said that you did not have time to pack suitable clothes before you left England.’

  As she glanced at the sullen sky Brooke grimaced briefly. Her London suit was eminently suitable for such dull weather, but she felt too tired to argue, and it was true that she was getting heartily sick of the couple of changes of clothes she had originally packed for her brief trip to London.

  A telephone call to the Dower House before she left for the airport had assured her that Tod and Balsebar were getting along very well. Tod assured her that the dog was no trouble and promised her that he would continue to look after him for her.

  ‘Just get yourself well,’ had been his parting words to her, but how did she cure herself of a broken heart, Brooke wondered achingly as they sped through the streets of Nice and then started to head out of the town and up into the hills.

  Adam’s villa was close to Juan Les Pins and would be, Brooke suspected, quite spectacular. When she had left London people had been busy with their Christmas shopping, and the pain inside her grew as she thought of spending Christmas here, virtually alone. She would have been alone had she remained in England she reminded herself, but there at least her surroundings would have been familiar. Her solicitor’s wife would have no doubt invited her over for Christmas lunch, and there had been a tentative invitation from Jeff Gibson to go with him to the local Hunt Ball.

  How would Adam spend the Christmas holiday? Ski-ing in Gstaad or somewhere similar, with Susan? A jagged fork of pain tore at her heart and she turned her head towards the window, hoping that Madame LeBrun who was sitting in the back of the car with her, wouldn’t notice her momentary weakness. She had spent several holidays in Switzerland in her teens, and thoroughly enjoyed ski-ing, but it wasn’t that that she envied Susan, it was Adam’s presence; his lovemaking; his….

  ‘Soon we will be there,’ Madame LeBrun told her, interrupting her unhappy thoughts. They had driven through the village and turned off down a narrow lane that seemed to meander past high walls and concealing hedges. When at last they turned into a gravelled drive, Brooke tried to take an interest in her surroundings, apathy quickly changing to genuine interest as she realised that she had been wrong in assuming that Adam would own a modern, showy villa. The building she could see emerging at the end of the drive was old and creeper clad, hugging the contours of the land. Beneath the creeper the walls glowed a soft, warm cream, and as the car stopped outside the main door Brooke was conscious of an almost physical aura of peace.

  ‘How lovely it
is.’ She barely whispered the words, climbing out of the car to study her surroundings.

  ‘Many years ago this land was owned by the monks,’ Madame LeBrun told her. ‘It was here in Monsieur Hart’s house that they once made their remedies from the herbs that grow locally.’

  Almost reverently Brooke touched the mellow stone. Had it been its association with the monks that had persuaded Adam to buy Abbot’s Meade? Who, owning this villa, could not help but be impressed by the soothing air of peace its original owners had left behind them? Abbot’s Meade had it too, she recognised, but to a much lesser extent.

  ‘Come….’ Madame LeBrun touched her arm, smiling understandingly as though she knew how deeply the villa affected her. The main doors opened on to a tiled hallway, decorated in soft cream and rich terracotta. Several doors opened off it and Madame LeBrun opened one indicating that Brooke precede her. She found herself in an elegant and yet welcoming salon, furnished simply in the same rich creams and terracotta as the hall, only with the addition of pure jades and blues, colours which would reflect those of the sea and the sky in midsummer, Brooke realised.

  Beyond the elegant French windows lay the gardens; mostly formal flower beds, framed by hedges. ‘The pool and tennis courts lie beyond the hedge,’ Madame LeBrun explained to her. ‘The pool is empty at the moment, but if you would care to use it….’

  Quickly Brooke shook her head, feeling the effects of her journey.

  ‘You are tired,’ Madame LeBrun sympathised. ‘I shall show you to your room and tomorrow we shall attack the shops.’ When Brooke would have objected she said firmly, ‘Monsieur Hart has given me my instructions.’ Her face softened into a smile. ‘If you will come this way.’

  The stairs were narrow and twisty, leading up to a rectangular gallery. Four doors led off it.

  ‘As you can see the villa is not large. It has but four bedrooms.’ Madame LeBrun explained, adding, ‘Monsieur LeBrun and myself have an apartment over the garages.’

  She opened one of the doors and gestured Brooke inside. The room was a pleasant size, overlooking a small cobbled courtyard, complete with a dovecot. Brooke felt her breath catch, an almost unbearable mingling of pain and nostalgia sweeping over her. As if she closed her eyes and listened to the doves she might almost be able to believe she was back at Abbot’s Meade.

  ‘You do not care for the room?’ Madame LeBrun sounded concerned. ‘But Monsieur Hart told me to give you this one most particularly.’

  ‘I love the room,’ Brooke assured her in a shaky voice. Her composure was far too fragile for her to endure hearing that Adam had given such specific instructions for her comfort, and it was true, she did love the room. Decorated in pale yellows and peach it seemed to glow with sunlight, despite the overcast sky outside.

  It had its own small bathroom, which Madame LeBrun showed her, and when she had left Brooke alone, promising to bring up a soothing tisane which would help her sleep, Brooke sank down into the peach wicker chair by the window and stared unseeingly out into the gardens.

  Which room was Adam’s? A deep shudder wracked through her body as she remembered the scene in his apartment the previous night. If she closed her eyes it was still possible for her to recreate the scent and feel of his half-naked body; she could even re-live the responses of her own to him, but nothing could bring the reality of Adam into this room with her, no matter how much she longed for him.

  She was glad when Madame LeBrun arrived with the tisane because it broke the powerful spell of her thoughts.

  As the Frenchwoman had prophesied it helped her to sleep, but as she lay, drifting aimlessly in the half world between waking and sleeping, all Brooke’s thoughts were concentrated on Adam. Was he with Susan now? Was he holding her, making love to her as he had made love to her last night? No, not as he had made love to her, Brooke thought with fierce anguish, with Susan in his arms he would know no hesitation; no fear of commitment….

  Was that why he had held off with her, Brooke wondered bitterly, because despite all he had said about not wanting any involvement, in his heart of hearts he was still the young boy she had rejected; the young boy who still yearned hopelessly for the princess he had put on an ivory pedestal? Well, if he had Susan was more than ready to step down off that pedestal, Brooke thought miserably; and very much more than ready to show Adam that she was all too human. Adam was a rich man now, and Susan was a divorced woman looking for a second husband wealthy enough to support her in comfort. Her thoughts jumbling painfully, Brooke at last fell asleep.

  * * *

  ‘We will drive into Cannes for there are to be found the best shops,’ Madame LeBrun pronounced. She was in Brooke’s room watching with an eagle eye while Brooke bit into a rich, flaky croissant, coated with delicious apricot preserve. A large cup of fragrant French coffee waited at her elbow. This was spoiling indeed Brooke thought lethargically. Breakfast in bed. Unwanted an image of Adam bringing her toast and coffee on her last morning in his apartment rose up before her, and suddenly she wanted to cry.

  Suppressing her emotions she tried to concentrate on what Madame LeBrun was saying. The Frenchwoman dressed very elegantly and today she was wearing a neat navy dress that Brooke suspected cost far more than she would ever dream of spending on one outfit. She wanted to protest that she didn’t need any clothes, but knew that she would be lying. Even so, she hated the thought of spending Adam’s money. She had a little of her own saved, and the minute she returned to England she would make a point of reimbursing him for every penny that she spent.

  Madame LeBrun was a competent driver, parking the Renault carefully in a specially designated area, not far from the shopping arcades.

  As she followed her through the crowded streets, Brooke was swept by a painful surge of homesickness as she watched the busy shoppers laden with Christmas presents.

  ‘I am afraid that we shall be away from the house on Christmas Day,’ Madame LeBrun apologised to Brooke. ‘My father who is very old already expects us, otherwise….’

  ‘No, please … of course you must not even think of changing your arrangements for me.’ Brooke assured her quickly. What would Adam be doing on Christmas Day? Lunching with Susan and her parents, no longer a young upstart, but a wealthy businessman whose achievements made him an accepted member of their family circle? How could Adam be taken in by her, Brooke wondered achingly; Susan might be beautiful, but she was also hard; and Brooke doubted that she cared any more for the real Adam; the man he was inside the image he had built for himself, than she had cared for Adam the boy. No, what Susan wanted was the outer Adam; the wealthy, assured, predatory male he had become.

  Reminding herself that all she was doing was making the pain worse for herself Brooke tried to concentrate as Madame LeBrun led her from boutique to boutique. At last, obviously at a loss to understand her lack of interest, the Frenchwoman’s eyes brightened. ‘I know just the place,’ she informed Brooke. ‘A countrywoman of yours who has married a Frenchman; she owns a small boutique just down here.’

  ‘Down here’ was a narrow, but charming alleyway occupied by several discreetly fronted and obviously expensive shops. Madame LeBrun paused outside one of them and then went in.

  The woman who stepped forward to serve them glanced thoughtfully at Brooke as Madame LeBrun explained in voluble French what was required.

  ‘Please,’ Brooke interrupted, visions of her small bank balance diminishing far too rapidly hovering unpleasantly before her eyes, ‘I’m not really looking for anything special, just something to tide me over for a few weeks.’

  ‘That is a pity, all clothes should be special,’ the other woman smiled. ‘Indeed I like to think that all my clothes are special. You are here for a month you say…. That will include the Christmas period…. You will surely need something special for that … unless of course you have already brought something with you?’

  Unwilling to admit that she would be spending Christmas Day completely alone Brooke allowed herself to be seated on a
surprisingly comfortable cane chair while cupboards were opened and clothes produced.

  ‘This I think would become you admirably….’ Lovingly the proprietress displayed a tawny velvet outfit for Brooke’s inspection. A skirt and top, the skirt was pencil shaped and very elegant. The top was the same rich colour as the skirt but in a heavy satin, the full sleeves caught up in velvet cuffs. The waist also was banded in velvet the top flouncing out into a flattering peplum, but it was the back of the top that caught Brooke’s attention. Geometrically shaped into a squared off ‘U’ it fastened at the waist with three small velvet covered buttons.

  The moment she touched the deep velvet pile Brooke knew she had to have the outfit no matter how expensive it was. Deriding herself for her folly she allowed herself to be persuaded into it. As she had known instinctively it would, it fitted her perfectly. Even Madame LeBrun gasped in appreciative approval when she stepped out of the changing cubicle to examine her reflection properly in the floor-length mirrors.

  ‘C’est magnifique,’ she pronounced. ‘That colour is so right for you….’

  As she turned round Brooke caught a glimpse of her back; the curve of her spine surprisingly vulnerable, her skin a gleaming, almost pearlescent cream against the dark tawny fabric.

  ‘It is perfect for you,’ the proprietress told her truthfully, ‘and if you should need underwear—’

  The silk satin camisole she produced had the same cutaway back. Plainly, almost severely tailored the fabric clung sensuously to Brooke’s fingers, completely free of lace, the garment’s only adornment was the delicately appliqued butterflies adorning both the low back and moulding the top of the beautifully shaped cups.

  A suspender belt to match was produced and some toning silk stockings, and Brooke knew that she was lost. She simply had to have them all, if only for the anguish of wishing Adam could see her wearing them. Intuitively she knew that Adam would approve of her choice and that he would far rather she spent all her money on one undeniably feminine outfit than on half-a-dozen more practical ones.