Authors: Roberta Latow
‘Ben, he thought I was still the plaything of his will. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t see that, if I had been that, I was no longer. I’m not the same person that I was before Jason’s death. Ahmad frightened me into questioning whether I am emotionally and psychologically free to marry you. He is such a Svengali, I almost believed that I was not free, not even worthy of marrying you. He made me so insecure about myself it took hours of rehashing who and what I am before I realised that he had only given my self-esteem a pounding. He hadn’t destroyed it. Ahmad is wrong about me, about us. There is nothing he can say or do that would make me run away from you. And in my heart I know you will never abandon me.’
‘I’m glad you understand that.’
‘OK, so now we know he cannot separate us, nor stop our plans. But, Ben, that look in his eyes, that certainty that I am not free to marry you … That evil, self-satisfied expression on his face – what did he mean with a statement like that? If we ourselves are not the reason we will never marry, then what is?
That was what I was pondering when you arrived. What does he mean, Ben? We can’t take lightly anything Ahmad says. I know him well enough to be sure of that.’
‘I’ll go and see him in the morning. Maybe I can find out what this is all about.’
‘Then you think there
is
something in what he said?’
‘Not necessarily. In fact it doesn’t matter what he meant. We will marry, and be happy, I can promise you that.’
‘Then there is no need for you to go and see him.’
‘No, I suppose not,’ he told Arianne, without conviction.
For Arianne the world seemed right again. She smiled at Ben. ‘My goodness, it’s warm in here.’
He returned her smile. She was just fine, recovering from a traumatic meeting as a lesser woman might not have done. There would be no scars. He loved her just a little bit more for that and for her courage. Heroic. Yes. He was about to marry a lady who was beautiful, heroic.
The aura of the admiration Ben felt for Arianne was so strong it drew her to him. She reached out and caressed his cheek, took his hand, and said, ‘Thank you.’
‘It’s hard to hide love,’ he told her.
‘By God, I’m happy you’re here.’
‘It seems I could be nowhere else.’
That provoked her to ask, ‘What happened? How is it you are here? The consortium, your deal? Oh dear.’ She looked upset for him.
‘No. No. Everything’s all right. I must return to Ireland in the morning.’
‘You flew back for me.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
Ben knew there was no point in hiding the truth. ‘I had a terrible sense of menace and foreboding, something ominous, around me. I had hardly walked away from you and Ahmad before I wanted to return. I thought myself silly. I put the idea firmly out of mind. All day I was suppressing a feeling of unease. In Dublin I realised I was not concentrating as well as I should be on the business in hand. I felt I must be here for you. For us.
For me
.’
Arianne grew pale. There was something very wrong. And only Ahmad knew what it was. She knew Ben to be one of the most stable, secure men she had ever known. If Ben sensed something ominous stalking them, it had to exist. It suddenly loomed as a fact more than a threat. They were together. Together they would take whatever it was in their stride. They would deal with it. ‘You came back for me because you sensed I was in danger.’
‘For us, I told you.’
‘But what about Ireland?’
‘You’re coming with me in the morning. We have to make the first flight out.’
Life seemed to be running again for Arianne. She nodded assent, and gave him a more open and happier smile than he had seen since his return. ‘I’m ravenous. Will you make me an omelette? One of your big, delicious, fluffy omelettes. I want to shower. To wash away Ahmad and this awful day. I’ll be down in twenty minutes.’
Arianne had sprung to life again. She was right there living in the present with him. All else seemed irrelevant. ‘An omelette it is,’ he proclaimed. Arm in arm they walked to the foot of the stairs. She went up and he went into the kitchen.
The long shadow of Ahmad still obscured their future.
Marguerite Wrightsman was the woman you went to for people, gossip, good food, the right wines, and to find an amusing party when in London. She ran a salon hardly less impressive than Madame de Stael’s in Paris had been in another age. Her salon boasted a cross-section of interesting people: writers, painters, musicians, the aristocracy, a smattering of industrialists, the high-fliers in politics, handsome men and distinguished ladies. She knew how to mix and match people so as to bring out the best in them. She was a woman of a certain age, well past her prime, much loved and admired, and powerful because of her connections that spanned several continents. A woman of infinite charm and intelligence, her wit was almost legendary.
Marguerite knew almost everyone that a man like Ahmad might want to know about. When he walked away from Arianne and Three Kings Yard, it was to her that he went, to Marguerite and her town house in Belgravia. Marguerite was that rare thing, an international English aristocrat. Her first husband had been a French cabinet minister, her second an American millionaire, a Washington power-broker, a Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court, and adviser to several presidents. Her years in France and Washington had honed her into the high-society hostess that she continued to be. Widowed for the second time by the death of Mark Wrightsman, she returned to make her home in London, the city of her youth. And it was in Belgravia that she held court.
Ahmad liked Marguerite Wrightsman. She was everyone’s friend and no man’s fool. He had no qualms about arriving at her door unannounced. He was shown into the handsome library on the ground floor overlooking the garden by Marguerite’s black American butler, impeccable in black trousers and a white cotton jacket. Marguerite never merely entered a room. A diminutive,
elegant woman, still a great beauty who looked many years younger than she was, she simply materialised, was just suddenly there. She left it to others to make an entrance. She held out her arms now, offering both her hands to Ahmad as she walked towards him. He took them in his and pressed them.
‘A surprise, Ahmad, a very nice one. You will of course stay to dinner. I have people upstairs in the drawing room.’
She was – as he had expected her to be at his bursting in on her evening – hospitable, kindness itself. Marguerite had known Ahmad Salah Ali for years, yet this was the first time he had ever come to her house unannounced. She led him to one of the pair of Queen Anne settees covered in a luscious terracotta and silver Fortuny fabric. They sat together on the same settee, he still holding her hands, caressing her jewel-encrusted fingers.
‘I must apologise for this intrusion, Marguerite.’
‘I think not, Ahmad. It’s always a treat to see you.’
‘You look marvellous – as you always do,’ he told her. This was mere conversational foreplay. She cut into it.
‘How can I help?’
‘Do I look as if I need help?’
‘No. But at this hour – and you arrive without notice. Must we pretend you have come without reason?’
Ahmad smiled at Marguerite. He had always liked her directness. She usually chose carefully her moment to employ it. ‘I had lunch today with a long-time friend. A very dear old girlfriend. She was accompanied by a man, someone she wanted me to meet. I think she was seeking approval. She is rather a naive woman, who has lived an interesting but really quite sheltered life. It appears this man has charmed her and, though she knows very little about him, she has accepted his proposal of marriage. He only stayed long enough for a drink. That’s not long enough to find out much about a man. The woman’s husband was one of my best friends. I feel an obligation to make certain we are dealing here with a good man. His name is Johnson, Ben Johnson. Now I told myself that if Marguerite knows him or has even heard of him, he may not be all bad. You are my first stop in finding out something about this man. I would like to know my friend is safe with this Ben Johnson.’
The butler arrived with two crystal glasses and a bottle of
champagne opened and resting in a silver cooler, and a silver salver offering freshly made cheese straws. They were placed on a table and glasses were filled.
‘I don’t know him well. Not at all well, but yes, I know something about him. He is the nephew of a very good friend of mine, Sir Anson Bathurst Belleville, one of England’s respected senior diplomats. Ben Johnson is one of those continental Americans – well, half-American. He is Anson’s sister’s child. A handsome man. You have nothing to fear for your friend, he’s no fortune-hunter. He’s selective, doesn’t run with the Euro-trash types, or the fast American nouveau riche jet-set, though he is always on the fringes of the Cotswold polo cliques. He is a top polo player. Ben had a very beautiful, extremely difficult and neurotic wife – a tragic marriage that ended with her suicide. She was neurotically possessive. It was a difficult and unhappy marriage. Her death was a severe blow to him. You see, he loved her, worked like a demon on his marriage and did everything to help her.’
‘How long has he been a widower?’
‘Years, I don’t really know how many. But for the last year he has been seriously involved with someone I do know very well. Simone Carrier. I think she thought she was going to marry him. He has been very generous to her. And she very liberal with him. That’s how she kept him. Simone always gives her lovers a long leash. A few months ago, he broke off the affair. I had lunch with Simone and her sister shortly after the break-up. She was – still is-angry, very bitter. She expected marriage, or, at the very least, a permanent relationship. Ben Johnson suited Simone. He had all the things she likes in a man: wealth, good looks, an adventurous attitude towards life. He liked to live well. Simone flits between lives in London and Paris. She has a flat here; he bought it for her. They spent a great deal of time together, but he always shied away from a permanent arrangement. She is stunningly attractive. I thought he was besotted with her, as did everyone else. He seemed that way whenever they were out together. I think everyone expected what Simone did: that they would eventually marry. They made a dazzlingly attractive couple.’
The more Ahmad learned about Simone Carrier and Ben
Johnson, the more interested he became in Simone. She seemed to be just the person he needed. ‘I was right to come to see you, Marguerite. I feel better knowing something about the man. Would I find Simone attractive?’
‘Oh, I think so. She is extremely chic and clever. Flirtatious. The sort of woman you like. Always amusing, somewhat of a
femme fatale
with the men. Your type of woman, Ahmad, a challenge.’ It amused her, the twinkle she saw in Ahmad’s eye. How he had perked up at the idea of a new woman – another seduction to add to the long list of women he had had and discarded. She knew he would ask for an introduction. Marguerite was not disappointed.
‘Why don’t we have lunch together?’
This little piece of intrigue delighted Marguerite. She was a woman not easily fooled. There was more to all this than Ahmad was letting on. A mystery to be unravelled. ‘I’ll call her in the morning. If she is in London, I’ll arrange it.’
Ahmad touched the rim of his glass to Marguerite’s. The ring of crystal. Round one, Ahmad thought.
Marguerite had no illusions about Ahmad. She had known more than one woman who had had an affair with him – women who had talked. She knew what he was: the ultimate charmer, seducer, a libertine in the bedroom, an eligible bachelor unlikely ever to be caught. Simone would enjoy him. She would give him a run for his money. Simone never did come cheap. They would be good together for a short time. She was tough. She would not walk away hurt, confused, damaged as most of his women did. And just to make sure, Marguerite would warn Simone to have a great time but to be cautious.
Ahmad was waiting for Simone in the back seat of the black Rolls-Royce. He was taking her to Paris. They had been seeing each other nearly every day since they had been introduced several days before. She was not at all the sort of woman he really enjoyed. Simone was too hard, too avaricious for Ahmad. He liked women he could corrupt; Simone was already corrupt. They were having a good time together, but neither of them had any illusions about the other.
Simone Carrier was perfect for what Ahmad wanted. She was
the best ambassadress he would ever find to deliver the
coup de grâce
. It was almost too easy.
He had not approached her about it as yet. The time had not been right. It was a bonus enjoying her handsome, sensuous good looks, her company. And she was good company, with her brilliantly cultivated, seductive femininity. And the sex? Exciting. She was a whore in bed, more than value for money. But Simone did cost. She enjoyed enormously those after-lunch shopping trips to Bond Street. Yes, she was perfect and might just relish the job he had in mind for her.
Simone rushed down the stairs and out through the front door. She was late as usual, keeping a man waiting as usual. Ahmad opened the door and leaned forward. He smiled. She liked his smile: sexy, full of danger and mystery. She was not fooled by his attentions, and knew they would not last. He would keep her only until he got what he wanted. She still hadn’t figured out what that might be. It didn’t matter to her: she was having a great time playing along with his game of seduction.
‘You look beautiful,’ he told her.
‘Very beautiful?’
‘Oh yes, very.’
‘Thank you sir, kind sir, generous sir.’
There was something in her smile, a facetiousness in her tone that was saying, ‘I’m on to you, Ahmad. You’re not fooling me one bit.’ He liked that. She was playing the game, but that smile told him the game was nearly over. It was time to advance with his plan.
‘Do you like surprises?’ he asked.
‘Love them.’
‘Good.’
At the airport he made several phone calls. They cleared customs and he flew them across the Channel to land in Brittany at a private grass airstrip cut through fields of green crops.
It was a very warm spring morning. The sun was bright in a cloudless sky. They were greeted by an old, battered touring car, its soft top rolled back, the driver a Breton, who seemed pleased to see Ahmad. They drove over a rutted, potholed road and then on to a dirt track and entered a wood dappled with sunlight. Wild daffodils, narcissi, and dwarf tulips were scattered beneath the
ancient trees crowned by fresh, bright green leaves. It seemed to Simone a magical place, breathtakingly beautiful. When the wood thinned out the land rose gently into a blanket of bluebells for as far as one could see. Simone gasped at the dazzling opulence of nature.
The dirt track wound through the bluebells to a water-mill on a bluff overlooking the crashing waves of the Atlantic Ocean, which had been converted to an inn. In the courtyard they drank chilled champagne with their hosts and left the innkeeper and his wife with the picnic basket prepared for them. It was Ahmad who drove them back along the dirt track. When he found his favourite place among the blanket of bluebells they parked the car. Taking the picnic basket between them, they walked through the blue flowers for a breakfast picnic of more champagne, exquisite
oeufs en gêlée, foie gras
, brioche and butter. Hot black coffee was poured into pretty pottery cups from a silver thermos.
‘I like your surprises, if they are all as good as this one, Ahmad.’
‘They get better even than this.’
‘You’re full of surprises. I like the grasp you have on life. The effort you make for your pleasures. A pleasure-seeker
par excellence
, I think.’
Simone knew how to flatter, how to gratify a man. How she must have wound Ben Johnson around her little finger! Yes, all the while that Ahmad had been executing his seduction of Simone, Ben had been on his mind, not Arianne. For it would be Simone and Ben who would deliver the blow to Arianne that would end her dreams of making a new life with Ben. He watched Simone gather the remnants of the picnic together and pack them in the basket. How extraordinary it was, he mused, that when he had walked away from Arianne and Three Kings Yard she was dead for him. Years of sexual delights, happy times, passion, love, all dead and gone for ever. It was almost as if they had never existed. Revenge, no matter how sweet, was a killer.
Simone and Ahmad lay on their backs under the hot sun. Their skin tingled; the heat ate into their bones. Life felt warm and awfully good to them. Ahmad had removed his jacket and now he removed his shirt. Simone turned on her side and watched him with admiration. He was excitingly sexy. He had such erotic
charisma as few men possessed, because they never made the erotic the centre of their lives as Ahmad did. ‘Don’t stop there,’ Simone suggested. His response contained a suggestion of his own in his eyes. She unbuckled his belt. He unzipped. She watched his every move as he stripped. Then he helped her off with her clothes. They lay down together naked under the sun, silent, holding hands and letting the sun do its work. Ahmad dozed off. When he awakened he plucked enough flowers to make a crown of them. Waking Simone with a kiss, he raised her up to place the wreath of bluebells in her hair. ‘We have to go. More surprises ahead.’
‘Not just yet.’ She guided his hands to her breasts.
He enjoyed the hunger for him in her eyes. Her need to have him caress her. He placed his mouth over her nipple and sucked and licked. She wriggled under his love-making with need and pleasure, and the excitement of what was to come.
Ahmad savoured Simone’s breasts. They were magnificently raunchy; they provoked in him a need both to make love to them and punish them for enticing him to sexual excesses with her that he enjoyed far too much, and knew he would soon have to abandon. It was not sex and orgasms he wanted from her: they were a by-product of his greater need for Simone.
It was not only Simone’s breasts that excited him. He liked her hands that could so tease a man. She bent her knees and placed her feet flat on the ground. She relished the feel of the grass on the soles of her feet, the scent of the bluebells, the sweet smell of the earth. The heat of the sun and the scent of their bodies was an aphrodisiac to Simone. She spread her legs wide. Ahmad slipped in between them and covered her body with his.