Act of Will (49 page)

Although she no longer painted landscapes, Christina still saw everything in terms of light.

And the first week she was in Paris it seemed to her that every day was filled with a luminous light that was glorious. As she went from the Ritz Hotel, where she was staying, to her various appointments, she would look up and marvel at the shining sky flung high like a canopy of pale blue silk above this most beautiful of cities.

The weather was perfect, mild, sunny and without the mugginess that had made London so unbearable before she had left. Yet despite her appreciation of the radiant skies, the sunlight shimmering on the River Seine and leaking through the leafy green cupolas of the trees, and casting its golden glow on the wide boulevards and ancient buildings, Christina had no desire to put what she saw on canvas.

The day she had given up her painting she had vowed she would not hanker after it, or have regrets, and she had not.

In some ways, it was a relief for her not to have to strive to top the world’s most renowned painters, which was something her mother had somehow always believed she could do. It would be impossible for anyone to better Turner, that greatest of all the nineteenth-century English landscape artists, who had captured light on canvas with
such genius and brilliance; or Van Gogh or Renoir or Monet.

And in all truth, Christina had really come to enjoy her work as a fashion designer. It was a constant challenge and more rewarding every day; she was savouring the business side as well as the creative endeavour it involved.

And, not unnaturally, the extraordinary acclaim she was receiving also gave her great pleasure, whilst the money she was earning was more than gratifying—it was thrilling. She knew that by the end of the year she would be able to repay her loans to Dulcie and Elspeth. But most important of all, her mother had finally retired from Leeds General Infirmary and had agreed to accept a cheque every month from her. It had been a battle, but
she
had won in the end, thanks in no small measure to her father, who had run a great deal of interference for her. He had understood how much it meant to her.

This week, as she had gone from her appointments with the perfume manufacturer to meetings at the fabric houses, and generally attended to her business, she had managed to find time to go shopping for gifts for her parents. For her mother she had found butter-soft kid gloves and a silk scarf and several blouses; for her father, silk ties and voile shirts and an elegant cigarette lighter. Jane had not been left out; she had bought her dearest friend a glamorous silk evening shawl from Hermès in a mixture of the pretty pinks Jane loved.

Christina thought of Jane now, as she walked slowly across the Place Vendôme towards the Ritz Hotel early on Friday evening at the end of her first week in Paris. It didn’t seem possible that Jane had left for New York only last Friday. It felt so much longer.

She missed her a lot, but then they had been inseparable for the last five years, so that was only natural, she
supposed. Jane was the best friend she had ever had, and the only close friend really. Her mother had kept her so busy with her painting when she was growing up there hadn’t been much time for playmates when she was little, or chums when she was a teenager. It had always been painting lessons and field trips and museums and galleries and being force-fed art, art, art. Now that she looked back, she realized that she had spent most of her growing-up years with Audra, until she had left for the Royal College of Art.

Christina smiled to herself as she went through the doors of the Ritz, remembering with some affection the little Hôtel des Deux Continents where she and Jane had stayed on several trips to Paris in their college days. It had been a far cry from this elegant edifice where Hemingway had once hung out and movie stars and princes and the rich and famous stayed. She wished Jane were here with her on
this
trip, staying
here
… what fun they would have together.

Her suite was in the other wing of the Ritz, at the rue Cambon side of the hotel, and she had to traverse a long gallery of shops to reach the smaller of the two lobbies. But she did not stop to browse as she usually did; she was far too anxious to get up to her suite, take off her shoes and order a pot of tea. It had been a hectic day and she had walked a lot, since most of her appointments had been close to each other.

The
concièrge
smiled pleasantly as he handed her the key to her suite, and told her no, there were no messages, in answer to her question. Smiling back, murmuring her thanks, she swung around, took a step towards the lift.

It was then that she saw him.

She stopped dead in her tracks, staring.

His eyes were riveted on her. He rose from the chair, walked towards her in easy, graceful strides.

She was dazzled by the blue radiance of his eyes.

As he drew level with her, he said, ‘
Hello
.’

‘Miles.’ After a pause, finally finding her voice, she managed, ‘What are
you
doing here?’

The small, amused smile she remembered so well tugged at one corner of his mouth. ‘I’m staying here,’ he said. ‘I always stay at the Ritz when I’m in Paris.’

‘Oh.’

He put his hand under her elbow purposefully and escorted her to the lift. They did not speak riding up, and he followed her out at her floor; when they reached the door of her suite she fumbled with the key and, in her nervousness, dropped it.

He picked it up, put it in the lock, turned it, held the door open for her, then stepped inside after her. He leaned against the door watching her move ahead of him, so willowy and lithe. She had the most gorgeous legs. Why hadn’t he noticed before now? But how could he have known? She had been wearing the long grey Grecian gown at Hadley. He knew one thing, though. The heat was in him again, as it had been the night he had first set eyes on her at the beginning of the month. He wondered why this so surprised him. That was why he was here, wasn’t it?

Strolling across the foyer towards the sitting room, Miles leaned against the door jamb, still watching her, fascinated by her. He couldn’t wait to take her in his arms, to make love to her. He would like to do that now, at this very moment. Yet he knew he could never make a move like that. He was a gentleman and he did not want to frighten her by pouncing on her. She struck him as being an innocent, naïve, and inexperienced, at least
where men were concerned. Beyond all of these things, though, he wanted to get to know her a little better, to savour her and enjoy the anticipation of his ultimate possession of her.

Christina placed her handbag and document case on a chair and pivoted so suddenly she startled him.

She said, ‘It’s not a coincidence, is it?’

‘Of course it isn’t, Christina.’

He moved into the room, came to a stop next to her and took her hand in his, held onto it tightly, crushing it between his fingers. He looked at her deeply, his face close to hers, their eyes on a level. He said, ‘I decided I didn’t want to wait two weeks to take you out to dinner. That’s why I’m here… to have dinner with you. Tonight—I hope. You are free, I trust?’

‘Yes.’ She was not sure if she believed him. She searched his face, her brows drawing together in a pucker. ‘Don’t you have business here too? I mean, you didn’t fly from London to Paris simply to have dinner with me… surely not?’

‘I most certainly did.’

‘Oh.’ She felt the sudden rush of heat to her face and there was that tight feeling in her chest again. She wanted to look away but she found she could not. His eyes held hers in the same mesmerizing way they had at Hadley Court.

Miles smiled an odd little smile and let go of her hand, walked over to the window and parted the curtain, looked down into the gardens below. Swinging to face her he said lightly, ‘If it weren’t July and the tourist season I’d take you to Maxim’s tonight, but since it is, and since I didn’t bring a dinner jacket which is obligatory masculine dress on Fridays, shall we dine in the gardens here at the hotel?’

‘Anywhere you wish. Yes, here would be lovely, Miles.’

‘Then I’ll meet you downstairs in the American Bar at—’ He pushed up his cuff, glanced at his watch. ‘Eight o’clock? Is that all right with you? It does give you an hour to change and dress.’

‘That’s plenty of time, thank you.’

He came across the room, paused as he drew alongside her and looked deeply into her face for the second time in a few minutes. He took her hand, kissed her finger tips, then said, ‘Of course I came to Paris because of you. Believe it—it’s true. You see, I haven’t been able to get you off my mind since we met at Hadley.’

He was gone before she could say a word in response, striding across the sitting room, through the foyer and out of the suite. He did not look back as she somehow thought he might.

The door clicked softly behind him.

She was standing alone in the middle of the floor.

She blinked, for a moment unable to absorb everything that had happened in the space of… what? Fifteen minutes, at the most? He had followed her to Paris as soon as he could get away… he had been in the lobby waiting for her to return this evening… and of course he had more on his mind than buying her a decent meal, as Jane had so succinctly put it. But then, so did she.

She had not been able to stop thinking about Miles Sutherland for the past two weeks, and her disappointment over the cancelled lunch had been so acute it had lingered for days. Walking through into the bedroom, unbuttoning her black linen dress, Christina let her mind rest on Miles.

He was unlike any man she had ever met. And he was a man. Not a boy like Robin Petrie. Poor Rob. Their abortive little love affair had gone awry very quickly. And
how ridiculous their fumbled lovemaking had been.

It would be different with Miles Sutherland.

He was, after all, a sophisticated man of the world. A little shiver ran through her as she slipped out of her dress and went to the armoire, thinking about Miles. She shuddered, remembering how intensely and passionately he had looked at her as he had held her hand, then kissed her fingers. She had thought, for a moment, that he was going to take her in his arms, and she had felt weak with desire for him. Her excitement and anticipation about the evening accelerated. And as she gave her attention to the clothes hanging in front of her she could not help wondering what sort of evening it would turn out to be.

Her hand settled on a cocktail dress made of a chiffon that was striated in a mélange of lilacs and mauves that bled into each other and faded to the softest of greys. Sleeveless, it had a ruched bodice and a very low vee neckline at the front and the back, and a full gathered skirt.

She knew how alluring she looked in it. She wanted to be as irresistible to Miles Sutherland as he was to her.

A few minutes later, as she pinned up her hair before taking a bath, she peered at herself in the bathroom mirror. She saw his face in her mind’s eye so vividly and felt his presence so strongly he might have been standing behind her looking at her in the glass.

‘Oh Miles,’ she said out loud. ‘I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind either.’

His heart quickened at the sight of her.

She stood poised at the entrance to the bar, wearing a dress the colour of lilacs in the spring, and the choker of milky-grey glass beads encircled her throat; her hair was upswept in a coronet of curls as it had been on the night he had first met her in Kent.

He was on his feet at once and half way across the small bar before she saw him, and when she did a smile struck her face and she came forward in a rush. As they met he caught a faint whiff of her perfume, something light and fresh and green-smelling which evoked sunny summer meadows.

Neither of them spoke. They looked at each other, their eyes locking for a split second.

And then he took hold of her arm and drew her towards the table in the far corner, where the bottle of Dom Pérignon sat in a bucket of ice and his cigarette was smouldering in an ashtray next to the glass of good Scotch whisky he had been fortifying himself with before she arrived.

They sat down opposite each other and he stubbed out the cigarette, lifted his head and smiled at her, very deeply, and she smiled back at him.

In one sense, he was glad to have the table between them. It was a welcome barrier since it prevented him
from doing something foolish, like taking her in his arms and kissing her and so making a spectacle of himself in public. And anyway, he wanted to look at her, study her face, reinforce the image of her that was already etched in his mind: it had been for several weeks.

‘You were drinking champagne at Hadley, so I ordered a bottle,’ he said. As he spoke he heard the tightness in his voice and he was amazed. The tension had been building up in him since he had decided to come here to Paris, and the last hour of waiting for her to change and join him had become unbearable. ‘Is that all right with you?’ he went on, trying to relax, motioning to the waiter to come and open the bottle.

‘Why yes, thank you, Miles, it’s lovely,’ she said, ‘and I only ever drink white wine or champagne, never hard liquor. Anyway, champagne
is
so festive and this
is
a special occasion, after all.’

‘It is?’ He looked at her alertly.

‘
Absolutely
.’

‘Why?’ he asked, fishing. He leaned over the table ever so slightly.

‘Because it’s not often that I get taken out to dinner by a celebrated English politician… and one who flies across the English Channel, no less, in order to do so.’

He saw the merriment in her eyes, the laughter bubbling under the surface, and he felt the sudden, unexpected laughter in himself, realizing that she was teasing him, and he thought: Thank God she has a sense of humour.

‘The flight was well worth it,’ Miles replied, letting his eyes rest on her appreciatively, ‘just to have the view from where I’m sitting—it’s quite lovely.’

‘Thank you.’

The waiter poured the champagne and Miles tasted it
and nodded, and the waiter filled their flutes. Miles raised his glass. Clinking it against hers, he said, ‘To our first evening together.’