by Dix, Isabel
`That would be lovely, Madeau. I haven't had tea since I . . .' Her voice trailed away as she remembered the day of her arrival at the chateau.
`Then I shall go and make some. It will be ready in about fifteen minutes . .
`Oh, Madeau . . .' Charles interrupted her with some instructions in French which Kate who was only half listening understood to be something to do with the evening meal. She heard him talking about the Auberge and assumed that they would be going out to eat.
But Madeau would have none of that, and the last words spoken as she went out the door were final indeed. ' A deux, monsieur. Ce soir vous diniez a deux. Id. Chez vous.'
There was silence for a moment as the door closed firmly but quietly behind her. Then Charles walked over to the window and pulled aside the curtain. 'Have you seen the view from here?'
`No. I did hear you call it the garden room. I didn't see any garden.'
`No.' His voice was suddenly distant, unemotional. `It lies at the side of the house.'
With a reluctance she could scarcely understand Kate walked over to stand beside him. 'Yes, it is beautiful.' She looked down on the wistaria rioting over the pergola, at the pelargoniums spilling pink and white from the huge stone urns, but she scarcely saw them, so conscious was she of the figure standing so near. And his scrutiny of her profile was beginning to bring the colour self-consciously into her cheeks again. Desperately she searched for something to divert atten-
tion from herself and leaning forward into the window embrasure she found it.
`Oh, you have a swimming pool !' She had not meant the relief she felt to show so clearly in her manner.
`Yes.' His reply was dry and she felt a qualm when he moved away from her towards the door, but she refused to turn and look at him. 'I shall wait for you in the hall so that I can show you the rest of the house.'
`Oh yes, thank you.' Unwillingly she swung round to where he stood with his hand on the heavy brass knob of the door. 'I'll be down in a few minutes. I'll just tidy my hair ' Charles nodded briefly and the door closed soundlessly behind him.
Kate stared at the door wishing she could think of some logical explanation of the effect this man had on her. Even with the distance of the room between them she could sense some power urging her towards him, some influence that made her afraid to trust her own reactions. It couldn't simply be sex. In the frankly randy world of advertising she had always been able to handle that arid had never found herself in an even vaguely threatening situation. But now, she was by no means sure of Charles Savoney-Morlet and even less so of herself. Last night she had made up her mind to do something about it, and now was the very moment when she ought to begin.
It was barely five minutes later when she found her way along the corridor and down the stair into the hall. Charles rose from a chair in a shadowy corner and threw down the letters he had been reading. For a moment Kate was afraid that he would make some comment on her altered appearance, but after a swift, not very encouraging glance at her hair which she had
slicked down with oil and tied back in a rubber band he said nothing but simply led her to a door and stood back so that she could precede him.
Surprisingly the sitting-room had been done out in a completely modern style, but one that was so understated it fitted in with the rest of the house. The room was enormous and had been divided into two parts, one part of it clearly used as a work place, with a desk and some of the impedimenta of the photographer's trade about it.
But it was the other end of the room that attracted Kate's attention first, where the huge arched window filled the entire wall and which gave light not only to the sitting-room but to a second room suspended above the first and extending several yards into the centre. A flight of steps led up to a gallery with an elaborately carved balustrade leading along to this hanging room.
Kate turned round, amazed by such unusual and daring architecture, and then with a tiny shake of her head she smiled at Charles, who was watching her reactions closely.
`It's . . . quite fantastic!'
`Is that good? Or bad?'- It was difficult to-tell whether her reaction had pleased him.
`It's good—of course you must know that. I can't think how it all came about.'
`Well, this was a high barn when first I came. You can imagine it, can't you?' She nodded. following the sweeping movements of his hand as he illustrated. 'It was full of straw when I came in and there was just an earth floor.' He tapped the golden wood with one polished brown shoe. 'And up there was a platform with some kind of ancient lifting gear on it. There was a tiny
shuttered opening there and underneath there were large doors for carts to come in. When I was supervising the first alterations,' he grinned in sudden amusement as he pointed to the upper storey, 'I put a bed up there. It was then that I decided I would make that my bedroom.'
`Up there?'
`Yes, come up and see.' Without waiting to see if she were willing he walked towards the stair and Kate despite her reluctance felt she could scarcely refuse. 'I could never bear to leave this view.' He stood at the window looking out and after a moment's hesitation she followed him, understanding instantly what he meant. Here they seemed to tower above the ground with the swimming pool a patch of blue far below, the river dizzily distant. But now in the late afternoon, with the rich summer light casting a shimmer over everything, the long slow descent to the valley with all the variety of greens and golds was sheer enchantment. Kate held her breath for a long moment before releasing it on a sigh of satisfaction.
`That I can understand.' She spoke softly, causing him to turn round swiftly towards her. 'And,' she refused to meet his gaze but turned to walk into the middle of the room, 'I like your bedroom, even though it's a bit unconventional. Don't you find it just a bit draughty in winter?'
`Not at all.' To prove his point Charles strolled over to the window and pressed a button causing the heavy tweed curtains which hung from floor to ceiling at each side of the window to come swishing smoothly across shutting out the light: Then another switch caused shutters to close over the balcony so that in an instant
they were enclosed in the monastic simplicity of his bedroom.
There was a feverish expression on Kate's face as she glanced from him to the narrow bed, neat and trim with its tailored brown cover, to the row of wooden doors behind which his clothes were presumably hidden, although one opened a mere fraction to show the tiled floor and brown curtain of a shower room.
`So you see it is very . . . private, Kate. Up here you can feel quite cut away from the world.' The slanted eyes were watching her very closely. 'Don't you agree . . . cherie?'
`Yes.' She tried to make her voice sound brisk and sure, but with that disturbing scrutiny, found it difficult. 'Yes, I'm sure it must be.' Desperately she wrenched her gaze from his and found relief in some pencil sketches hanging on the wall close to where she knew the stairs were. 'These are effective.' Both of them were portraits of a woman—the same woman, in one her hair was loose and blowing across her face and she was smiling, and in the other it was swept into a sort of coronet. There was the impression of fairness and the eyes had a lightness that seemed to rob the face of character. In one corner Kate saw the initials C.S.C. `A friend of yours?' She asked the question casually over her shoulder.
`Yes.' His reply was so short that she turned round to look enquiringly into his face, surprising an expression of dark brooding intensity. Then as a welcome release from the awkwardness of the moment they heard the sound of a bell ringing down below, and when Charles pressed the button the shutters slipped quickly back into their concealed alcove.
`Tea, madame!' Madeau called quietly, almost apologetically, and watched smiling as Kate, her cheeks burning, went quickly along the gallery and down the stairs to the sitting room.
The tray had been placed on the glass-topped coffee table and when she had assured herself that they had everything necessary Madeau closed the door and left them. Kate sat in one of the huge so
ft leather settees and began to busy herself with the tea things, wishing that her hands didn't shake so much when she was performing such an everyday task.
`I'm sorry,' she smiled tentatively in Charles' direction, 'I ought to know, but I don't—do you take sugar and cream?'
`No reason why you should know.' Although his tone was bland his eyes surveyed her with positive dislike. `As you say, yesterday we hadn't even met. Just a dash of cream, no sugar.'
Kate lowered her head, refusing to allow him to guess how his manner had hurt her, and if she were honest with herself she found it hard to understand. Surely this was what she was planning, to ensure a state of antipathy between them. Till Antoine came for her.
Without speaking she held out the plate of sandwiches to him, relieved when he took several and put them on his plate, for she had just realised how hungry she felt. But when he shook his head and refused a piece of the delicious-looking gateau Madeau had produced she decided she ought to argue with him.
`You must,' masterfully she slid the cake on to his plate and handed him a silver fork, 'or Madeau will be very disappointed.'
Will she?' Obligingly Charles took the fork and broke of a piece of the cake. 'I doubt it. Madeau knows my tastes well enough and doesn't expect me to eat many sweet things. But if you insist then I'll try to finish it.' He pushed his cup across the table. 'And if I could have another cup of tea to help it down . . .' He waited while she filled his cup, studying her closely through narrowed eyes. 'I'm glad to see you like food, Kate, if you're to be married to a Frenchman. And you don't seem to have any of these slimming fads that so many women have.'
`Someone told me,' Kate licked the last piece of cream from her spoon, 'that it was time I lost some weight.'
`Oh?'
`Yes.' Slightly annoyed by his lack of comment, she found herself stammering. 'It was . . . someone at work.'
`You've no need. To slim, I mean.'
`Oh!' The colour flooded into her cheeks as she realised that she had been waiting for a compliment, expecting it even. That much must have been obvious to him. And he had, albeit minimally, paid it.
With a bang Kate replaced her plate on the tray beside her cup and saucer and got to her feet. She wandered about the room, looking at the pictures on the walls, mostly modern, vibrant with colour and giving an impression of light. They were framed in heavy brass which suited their uncompromising impressionism.
All the time she was conscious of Charles's eyes following her, making her feel awkward, a stranger, an interloper. Her eyes lighted on a group of photographs
arranged in a block on one wall of the studio end of the
TOM.
`May I?' She gestured towards them.
`Of course.' He shrugged, then rose to his feet, going over to press a switch so that the walls were flooded with soft light.
Kate walked over, her eyes narrowing in surprise as she saw some studies of a famous New York model.
`It's Auriol Hayden, isn't it?' Then when there was no reply she turned round to look at him. 'Isn't it?' she demanded.
`Yes.'
`Gosh!' Hastily she scrutinised the rest of the photographs, noticing the quality of the camera work, the softness of the outlines, the way the light caught the downy hair of the girl's face before her eyes went to the signature black and bold in one corner. 'Charles Saint Cyr.' She spoke the name with wonder and admiration. `For heaven's sake, they're by Charles Saint Cyr! Did you know?' She flashed an excited glance in the direction of the silent man who stood dark and shadowy behind her.
He didn't reply, but she searched the rows of photographs, uttering little cries of admiration. 'Isn't she gorgeous? And isn't he the most marvellous . . .' She stopped when she caught sight of another photograph, one on its own and unframed, tucked into the dark frame of one of the more important pictures.
It took her a moment to recognise the man in the photograph. He was sitting back in his chair and laughing. And the girl who was leaning forward over their restaurant table, touching his cheek with her long tinted fingers, was the most famous model in the United
States. But there was no doubt about it, and the realisation brought a cold trickle to her spine. Slowly she turned round to face him.
`You should have told me.' Her voice was flat, dispirited.
`Told you what, cherie?'
`Oh, nothing at all.' Now she wanted to lash him with her sarcasm. 'Telling me that you took photographs. Why didn't you tell me that you were Charles Saint Cyr? Did you think that I might pester you for a job?'
It took him a long time to answer and while she waited Kate trembled with the emotion that seemed to stretch tautly between them.
`No, that idea was one that hadn't occurred to me. I simply thought that perhaps it would be best to get to know each other slowly. For instance, there are things that you haven't told me. Such as why you did such a mad thing as come to a country where you understand little of the language to marry a man you don't know. And why you don't even have the sense to bring a friend with you. Does your family care so little for you that none of this matters?'
`How dare you speak to me like that!' The violet eyes blazed with sudden fury, fanned by the realisation that no one could dispute the sense that lay behind his questions. 'How dare you, when you,' she repeated the accusation on a rising note, 'you have taken part in a deception that must even in this country be beyond the law! What would your position be, Monsieur Saint Cyr or Savoney-Morlet—it's hard to know who you really are—if I went to the police and told them all about the farce yesterday? You and your aunt would, I suspect, find yourselves in jail!'
`But you've no intention of going to the police, have you, Kate?' He had taken a step towards her and stood looking down, eyes narrowed menacingly. Then a hand snaked out, catching her, not very gently, by the wrist and pulling her against him 'If you had, then you had lots of opportunity today when we stopped in Lioran to buy the things for lunch. You passed a policeman, and don't tell me you didn't notice him, because I saw you smile at each other.'
Kate coloured indignantly. 'Of course I didn't! At least, when he nodded...'
`Of course,' he jeered. 'You had to respond, but still it would make any complaints to the police difficult to support when you came running back so eagerly to the car. It would seem strange in view of the complaint you would be making.'
`Let go of my arm!' The words were hissed between clenched teeth. 'You're hurting !'
Suddenly, although his cruel grip on her wrist was released, she found herself clasped to him in a more tender, infinitely more agreeable embrace, his hands sliding round her waist, then over her hips, moulding her pliant body irresistibly against his. Startled blue eyes looked up, bewildered, into the now blatantly mocking dark ones.
`Don't worry, Kate, there's nothing personal in the least about this. It's just that I hear Madeau coming and . . .' But he said no more, for just then his mouth, undeniable, searching, took possession of hers, expertly parting her lips with his own, sending the flames licking through her veins with unquenchable power.
But just as she allowed herself to be carried along in the spell of bewildering delight, as she felt the tumult
of passion begin to overwhelm her senses as well as her body, it was snatched away from her and Charles was holding her at arm's length, physically and mentally.
`Pardon, madame—Monsieur Charles.' With a smile that showed no embarrassment, only understanding, Madeau hurried out of the room carrying the tea tray and the door closed again behind her.
Kate found the passion of a second before supplanted by an overwhelming contempt for herself and for Charles, but for the moment she was too shaken to express her feelings. Instead she leaned against the desk, oblivious of the rapid rise and fall of her bosom, conscious only of the anguish that racked her body. If she had been less involved with her own feelings she might have seen that his face was pale and disturbed beneath the suntan. Furiously she felt the prick of tears behind her eyes and knew that
if she did not escape she was in danger of allowing him to see her feelings. Hurriedly she thrust herself away from the desk and rushed towards the door.
`Damn you!' She paused with her hand on the knob. `Damn you!' The sob rose in her throat and she was unable to control it.
It was only when she reached the sanctuary of her bedroom that she was able to regain control of her own emotions to begin to think clearly. Charles Saint Cyr. She should have known, of course. That was why from the first she had seen something vaguely familiar in their features. First Antoine, and now Charles. She had seen his photograph often enough in fashion magazines in the past.
Charles Saint Cyr—a name that was mentioned in the same breath as Bailey and Snowdon. Internation-
ally famous for fashion, society portraits, seen constantly in the company of beautiful women. So what was she doing here with him) Distractedly she put her clenched fist to her mouth, pressing her teeth down on her fingers in the hope that the pain would blot out his image from her mind.
But it didn't. Her mind was filled with tortured imaginings about him and Auriol Hayden, and Kate could scarcely avoid the implication that what she was feeling was nothing other than jealousy. It was all too ridiculous, of course. But dangerous. She had seen that look in his eyes, and she knew the response of her own emotions. The sooner she did something about both, the better it would be ..
CHAPTER FIVE
IT was difficult always to be wholly satisfied with life. If that was true in the most ordinary circumstances how much more obvious it was in her present position. Kate reflected on the perversity of human nature as she got up from bed and went to the bathroom for her shower.
Who would have thought a few days ago when she embarked on her programme of discouraging Charles that she would have been disappointed by the ease with which she had succeeded? For after that first day, when for Madeau's benefit he had kissed her, he had treated her with absolute, uninvolved correctness.
