Her Own Rules/Dangerous to Know (34 page)

“So did I. And although our marriage
was
fraught, it was very passionate, you can't deny that, can you?” I challenged.

“I don't! My God, of course I don't, you should know better than that.”

“What are you trying to tell me, Sebastian? That you've fallen in love again?”

He leaned across the table and his face was suddenly so glowing, so alive, so youthful even, I was momentarily thrown off balance.

He said, “Yes, I've fallen in love, Vivi. With someone who totally amazes me, astounds me. And I love her in a way I've never loved any other woman, or
anyone,
for that matter.” There was a slight hesitation, and he added gently, “I loved you in a different way. The love I feel for this woman is something . . . something of another world, something that I can't explain. It's the most extraordinary experience of my life. I've never felt quite like this ever before and I know I won't feel this way ever again.”

“She overwhelms you sexually,” I murmured, believing this might well be the truth. He was a very sensual man.

“She does. Very much so. But it's more than that. Much more. I feel absolutely complete and whole when I'm with her. It's as if part of me was missing until she came into my life. She seems to balance me in so many ways.” He paused and gazed at me, reached for my hand. “I'm sorry, Vivi, I don't mean to hurt you.”

“You're not,” I reassured him and I meant what I said. “I know you loved me, well, love me, in a
certain
way, I understand that. You love her
differently,
that's all. Nothing's ever the same with other people. I know I was married to Michael and it was quite a different marriage than ours. I know our marriage didn't work out for many, many reasons. But at least we had those five years. On the other hand, your marriage to Betsy Bethune blew up in no time at all. Relationships are always different.”

“That was no marriage! It was not like ours!” he exclaimed. “Betsy was no wife to me.”

“I realize that.”

“Have I upset you?”

I shook my head and asked, “Who is she?”

He smiled, and it was such a beatific smile I was startled again; his demeanor was so out of character today. And I couldn't help thinking that whomever she was she must be someone very unique.

“You'll meet her,” he ventured. “And you'll like her, love her even. And she'll love you, I know that. You'll be great friends.”

“But who is she?” I pressed.

“She's a doctor. A scientist, actually. Very brilliant.”

“How old is she?”

“About your age. No, a bit younger, by a couple of years.”

“American?”

“No . . . I met her in Africa.”

“Is she African?” I asked.

“No, she's European. I'm going to be meeting her in Africa quite soon, she's working on a project there. We're going to India together, then we're coming here for Christmas. That's why I hoped you'd be here, to meet her. However, I hope we can get together in France in the new year. Can I bring her to meet you at
Vieux Moulin?”

“Of course.”

“And if it's not too much to ask of you, I hope you'll be present at our wedding. We want to be married in the spring. You will be there, won't you, darling? I want you there.”

Flabbergasted though I was, I found myself agreeing. “Of course, Sebastian. You know I'll be there, if that's what you want.”

“I do, Vivi, I do.”

 

I sat up, blinking in the sunlight and pushing my hair out of my eyes. And I asked myself the most potent of questions:
Why would Sebastian Locke commit suicide when he was about to marry the love of his life?

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

H
alf an hour later I was sitting with my friend Marie-Laure on the terrace of her home, Château de Beauvais, telling her about the autopsy report.

She listened patiently, as attentive as she always was to my words, and when I had finished she said nothing, simply sat there, digesting what I had told her.

Finally, after a few minutes, she murmured softly, “Mon Dieu, how terribly sad. What a waste.”

“Yes, it is. And I can't help wondering why Sebastian would commit suicide when he was about to marry the love of his life.”

She stared at me in surprise. “
He was
? How do you know?”

“He told me,” I answered, and proceeded to repeat the conversation Sebastian and I had the day we lunched together in New York.

“You say he was euphoric that Monday,” Marie-Laure murmured thoughtfully, “Yet five days later, on Saturday night, he killed himself. It is obvious, is it not, Vivienne? Something must have happened during the course of that week, and whatever it was caused him to do this most terrible thing to himself.”

“Or he was murdered,” I said.

“You don't mean that, do you?” She looked at me askance.

“Well, it's a possibility, isn't it? According to the autopsy report he was full of barbiturates and alcohol. But someone could have doctored his drinks—the way they make a Mickey Finn.”

“What is that? A Mickey Finn?” she asked, sounding puzzled.

“It is a combination of alcohol and chloral hydrate, and it usually knocks people out, makes them unconscious. It can also be poisonous.”

“So, you think Sebastian was given this . . . Mickey Finn?”

“No, no, you're misunderstanding me, Marie-Laure,” I said quickly, and explained, “A Mickey Finn is not necessarily lethal, and anyway I was just using that as an example. What I'm trying to say is that he might have consumed a quantity of alcohol that had been tampered with, you know, laced with barbiturates.”

“Now I see what you are getting at. But who would want to do that? Who would want to murder Sebastian?”

“That's the problem, I don't really know,” I answered glumly. “Although he
has
antagonized a lot of people over the years, and even quite recently. He told me that himself the last time I saw him.”

“Who did he antagonize?” she asked.

“Mainly foreign governments. Or rather,
members
of foreign governments, people whom he suspected of being overly bureaucratic, who were slowing down his aid programs with what he considered to be their unnecessary red tape. Or those whom he believed to be corrupt. He just swept them to one side in that imperious way of his and plunged ahead, doing his own thing. In the process he performed innumerable miracles, of course. He may have been a bit of a maverick, and stubborn, independent, willful, and domineering, but he did get things done. And unlike anyone else ever has.”

“I understand what you're saying, chérie. But surely you don't
really
believe a foreign government would send somebody to
kill
Sebastian, do you?”

“I don't know . . . Maybe. More peculiar things happen every day of the week. We certainly read about them in the papers, see a variety of bizarre incidents on the television news.”

“It would be a bit risky, I think,” Marie-Laure replied, nodding to herself. “After all, he was the world's greatest philanthropist. One of the most prominent men alive today. His killer, or killers, would be condemned by the entire world.”

“Terrorists are condemned, but that doesn't stop terrorism,” I pointed out. “And besides, killers have to be caught to be condemned.”

“Very true,” Marie-Laure agreed, and rose. She walked up and down the terrace at the back of the château, deep in thought.

I sat watching her, thinking what a truly good friend she had always been to me. When I had phoned her earlier, to say I wanted to come over to discuss a problem, she had dropped everything she was doing in order to receive me, to listen to me.

She was a small woman, diminutive really, and although she was forty she was like a young girl with her slender figure, dark, bobbed hair with bangs, and an exceptionally pretty face. She was also one of the most capable people I knew, running the château and its lands, which she had inherited from her father, being a supportive wife to Alexandre and a devoted mother to her two children, François and Chloe.

She and I had met thirteen years ago, when Sebastian and I were first working on the old mill, and we had taken to each other at once. And there had been times, over the years, when I had wondered what I would have done without her friendship.

Marie-Laure stopped pacing finally, came and sat down on the garden seat next to me. Staring into my face, she took hold of my hand, and said carefully, “I don't believe Sebastian was murdered. I think you must accept the facts, accept the autopsy report, accept that he took his own life.”

“But he didn't have any reason to do that,” I persisted quietly.

“Perhaps he did. How do you or I know? How does anyone know about another person, Vivienne? How do we know what goes on in someone else's mind?” She shook her head, and went on, “We have no conception. There is one thing, Vivienne . . .”

“Yes?”

“Could it have had something to do with the woman he was in love with?”

“What do you mean exactly?”

“Maybe she broke off her engagement to him,” Marie-Laure suggested, her dark-brown eyes intent and alert as they fastened on mine.

“That's a possibility, I suppose anything can happen in a relationship. But I don't think she did that, no, no, no,” I answered.

“Don't be so emphatic, chérie. Women have been known to change their minds. They do it all the time.”

“No woman in her right mind would dump Sebastian Locke!” I exclaimed.

“You did, Vivienne,” she retorted, throwing me a wise and knowing look.

“No I didn't. We separated by mutual agreement . . . we loved each other, we just couldn't live together. We were tempermentally unsuited.”

“Let us consider this,” Marie-Laure began. “The woman, who was younger than you, apparently, finds herself growing more and more nervous about the age difference between them. She gets . . . how do you say it . . . the cold feet, no? And so she ends their relationship.”

“All right, it could happen, I'll grant you that. But even if she did break it off with him, he wouldn't kill himself over it. Not Sebastian. I just know he wouldn't. Honestly, it's not a good enough reason for me, Marie-Laure, it really isn't. Sebastian was tough and resilient. He had a strong character, and he had many things in his life which were of vital importance to him. His work at Locke Industries, the Locke Foundation, and all of the charities he was involved with. He was constantly traveling the world, dispensing aid. So many people depended on him, and he
knew
they did.”

“I was always aware that he took his responsibilities seriously. It was one of the things I've always admired about him,” she said.

I bit my lip, pondering, then endeavored to explain more fully to her. “Listen to me, Sebastian would never kill himself over a woman, no matter how much he loved her. He was far too sophisticated, too strong a man for that. Don't forget, he never had any problems getting a woman. He had five wives altogether, including me. My mother was his mistress, and God knows how many other mistresses he had over the years. Furthermore, there's no doubt in my mind that women were falling at his feet right up to the time of his death. That's the kind of man he was. Women couldn't resist him. And I can't begin to tell you how fantastic he looked the day we had lunch earlier this month, better than ever. He was full of vitality and that fatal charm of his was wholly intact. He was irresistible, in fact.”

Marie-Laure nodded slowly. “What you say about him is true, I remember his charisma, his great sex appeal, and certainly you knew him better than anyone. So, I cannot argue, your reasoning is valid. Therefore it must have been something else which caused him to take that most fateful step.”

“Correct. But what could have pushed him over the edge?” I asked.

“I cannot even attempt to make a guess,” she answered. “I just do not know. However, what we both know is that it wasn't a health problem, because the autopsy would have revealed any fatal disease. The police have done a thorough investigation and ruled out foul play, so we know that it was not murder. Anyway, chérie, that is too far-fetched an idea for me to even contemplate.”

“What you're saying is that you believe he actually did kill himself. Am I correct, Marie-Laure?”

“Yes, you are. What other conclusion is there? We just don't know
why
he did it, that's all.”

Marie-Laure and I stared at each other. We were both at a loss.

Eventually, she said, “Let us admit it, chérie, we will never know the reason. The only person who could tell us is . . . dead.”

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

D
riving back to
Vieux Moulin
from the château, I replayed everything Marie-Laure had said, and as I did I began to feel much calmer.

My dear old friend usually made great sense and this afternoon had been no exception. I realized she had helped me to adjust to the fact that Sebastian
must
have killed himself. Very simply, there was no other explanation for his death. In the beginning, murder had crossed my mind but only fleetingly really; I had attributed his fatal collapse to natural causes, either a heart attack or a stroke. This was the reason I had been so shocked by Jack's phone call. Suicide had been the farthest thing from my mind.

But Marie-Laure had reminded me that we never really knew anybody, however close to them we were, or knew what went on in their minds. People could do surprising things. In essence, she had helped me to put matters in a better perspective, and I began to relax for the first time since Sebastian's body had been found.

By the time I arrived at the mill it was almost six-thirty. The sun was sinking low behind the ragged line of dark hills, the pale blue sky of earlier fading into an iridescent pearly gray. As I swung off the dirt road and into my driveway, it was already dusk.

Once I'd parked the car, I went inside and raced straight to my bedroom without even letting Phyl know I was back. I didn't have much time to get ready before Kit arrived to pick me up for dinner.

In my bedroom I pulled off my blue jeans and sweater, slipped into my dressing gown, and refreshed my makeup. After brushing my hair and spraying on perfume, I dressed quickly in beige wool culottes, a cream silk shirt, and black and beige shoes. Taking a black blazer out of the wardrobe, I slipped this on and made my way to the kitchen.

Phyl was standing at the old farm table, filling a wine cooler with ice cubes, and she glanced up as I walked in.

“There you are, Mrs. Trent, I thought I heard you come in a short while ago. This is for the Sancerre. Should I open it now, do you think?”

“Hi, Phyl, and why not.” I glanced at my watch. “Mr. Tremain will be here shortly, he's usually on time. You know, Phyl, it's turned quite coolish, I think it would be better if we had drinks inside tonight. In the library, I guess.”

“Good idea. Shall I light a fire?”

“No, thanks anyway. It's hardly worth it. We'll be going out for dinner in half an hour.”

“There're a couple of messages for you, over there on the dresser,” she said.

I strolled across the floor, took the messages from underneath the small old-fashioned flat iron that served as a paperweight, and read them quickly. Renny Jackson, my book editor in London, had called to tell me she would be in Aix-en-Provence next weekend, and could we have lunch. She said she would ring me again on Monday to make the date. The other message was from Sandy Robertson, one of the editors I worked with at the London
Sunday Times.
Nothing important, Phyl had scribbled. He will phone you tomorrow.

“Are you sure Mr. Robertson doesn't want me to call him back now, Phyl?”

“Oh yes, quite positive. He said he was just leaving the office, that he'd only phoned up to have a social chat with you.”

“I see.” I crumpled the messages in a ball, gave them to her to throw away just as the door bell clanged loudly.

“That must be Mr. Tremain,” Phyl said.

“I'll get it,” I told her and hurried out.

When I opened the door and greeted Kit a split second later, I was surprised to see how fit and well he looked, despite his arduous painting schedule of the last few months.

“Aren't you a sight for sore eyes!” he exclaimed, beaming as he stepped into the hall.

He swept me into his arms and hugged me tightly, not giving me a chance to say anything.

When he finally released me, he kissed me lightly on the lips and held me at arm's length, his expression appraising. “You look great, just
great
, Vivienne.”

“So do you.” I smiled at him. “And you don't look a bit done in, as you claimed you were.”

“I am, though. But just knowing you'd returned put the starch back in me and cheered me up no end,” he replied, grinning at me. Slipping his arm around my shoulders, he walked me across the hall, and his happiness at being with me was palpable.

“Since it's turned cool tonight I thought we'd have drinks in the library,” I said. Looking at him, I added, “It's lovely to see you, Kit.”

“And you. I feel as if you've been gone forever. Now that you're finally here I hope you're going to stay, Viv.”

“Yes, I am, thank God. I've got to dig into my book again, finish it by March.”

We met Phyl in the doorway of the library; Kit greeted her in his usual breezy, friendly fashion, before ushering me inside the room. Its walls were lined with books from floor to ceiling, and I had used wonderful old Provençal furniture.

Turning to me he said, “This is my favorite spot in the whole house, you did such a wonderful job on it.”

“Thanks,” I said and went to the table where Phyl had placed the wine cooler holding the bottle of wine and two glasses. I poured.

“Cheers,” Kit said, touching his glass to mine. “Welcome home, fair lady. You've been missed.”

“I've missed you too, Kit.”

“I hope so,” he answered and lowered himself into a chair near the big picture window which overlooked the gardens.

I sat down on the sofa opposite, and as I leaned back against the soft leather and looked across at him, I was surprised to discover how much I really
had
missed him. I had not realized it until this moment.

Christopher Tremain was an attractive man by anybody's standards. Of medium height, he was slender, wiry in build, with a shock of dark-blond hair above a surprisingly unlined college-boy face. Since the first day I met him I've always thought of him as looking like the all-American hero, racing across a football field clutching a ball. Forty-two years old, he was a New Yorker as I was. He had lived in France for eighteen years, where he was deified as one of the great modern impressionist painters of his generation, and had moved to Provence from Paris two years ago.

Intelligent and exacting gray eyes stared back at mine staring at him. He said, “What's wrong? Do I have a dirty mark on my face?”

I shook my head. “No, I was just thinking again how truly fit you look, in the best of health. Certainly much better than you did just before I left in July.”

“I feel better. It's the work, I guess. All that painting, the supreme physical and mental effort seems to have regenerated me.”

“I know what you mean, work is a great turn-on for me too.”

“Viv . . . look, there's something I want to say—” He stopped.

“What?” I asked swiftly, detecting an odd note in his voice. “What is it?”

“I want to get this out of the way before we go to dinner. When I was getting ready a bit earlier I had the news on, and CNN had a flash about Sebastian. I guess the autopsy report's been released by the Connecticut State Police—” Again he cut himself short and looked at me worriedly.

“It has. Jack called me from New York this afternoon as soon as he knew. The Chief Medical Examiner's verdict is suicide, barbiturate poisoning. You must know that though, surely they had it on CNN.”

“Yes, they did.” He hesitated, before adding, “It seemed odd to me.”

“
I
thought so. In fact I drove over to see Marie-Laure earlier to discuss it with her. She knew Sebastian a long time, and knew him quite well.” I let out a long sigh. “We tossed it around for ages, and there doesn't seem to be any other explanation for his death. We finally agreed on that, we'd no alternative.”

“I know how upsetting his death must have been to you, and I'm sorry I wasn't there to comfort you,” he expressed with genuine sincerity.

“I'm okay, Kit. It was a bit of a shock at first, and Jack's news today knocked me for a loop. But as Sebastian would have said, life has to go on.”

“Life's pretty unpredictable,” Kit said, putting his drink down on the coffee table in front of him. “One never knows what's in store, what terrible shocks there are around the next corner.”

Rising, he came and joined me on the sofa, stretched one arm along the back, and drew closer to me. “I want to help you, Vivienne, help you to cope, to make things easier for you, if I can. I'm here if you need me.”

“I know that. I'm fine, honestly I am.”

“Is it all right, Viv? Between
us
, I mean.”

“Of course it is, Kit.”

“So I
can
assume we're picking up where we left off in July?”

“Oh yes,” I answered quickly I was beginning to realize that I not only wanted to resume our relationship, but needed it, needed him.

He leaned forward, took my face between his hands, and kissed me passionately. I returned his kisses with the same ardor.

“Oh God, Viv, I want you, I want to make love to you,” he whispered against my hair, when we finally drew apart. “It's been so long since we were together, I can't stand it. Let's go to bed now, before we go out to dinner.”

I touched his face gently. “Later, Kit. We've got all the time in the world, you and I.”

He shook his head. “No we don't. Who knows what tomorrow will bring. We've got to grasp today, live it hard, take life with both hands. Oh darling, I want you so much.”

“Later, Kit,” I said again. Leaning closer to him, I kissed him quickly and added, “Let's go to dinner and afterward I'll come home with you.”

He looked at me swiftly, his eyes suddenly intense as he asked, “Will you stay the night?”

I nodded. “I want to see the paintings for the exhibition, especially the last one, the big canvas.”

“Oh, so it's my work that interests you, is it, and not me,” he laughed.

“Both,” I answered and laughed with him.

 

When we had made our date for tonight, Kit had promised to take me out on the town. And, true to his word, he did.

We went to the best four-star restaurant in the vicinity, Le Moulin de Lourmarin. He had ordered champagne in advance, and it was served the moment we were seated at the table.

With our dinner, a marvelous veal stew, we had one of the best of our local wines, a Châteauneuf-du-Pape from a nearby vineyard, Domaine de Mt-Redon.

Quite aside from the delicious food and wines, Kit himself was in top form. He was amusing and expansive throughout the meal, talking about his work, his exhibition in Paris, and then he filled me in on the local gossip, told what had been happening during my stay in Connecticut. He kept me laughing and highly entertained for several hours.

Later, over coffee, he suddenly said, “Will you come to Paris with me in November, Viv? Come to the opening of my show?”

“Oh, Kit, I've got such a lot of work to do yet on my book,” I began and paused when I saw the look of genuine disappointment settling on his face.

“Please, Viv, it's important to me that you're there.”

“Then I'll come,” I said, making a sudden decision. “It's at the end of the month, isn't it?”

“Yes, it's Friday the twenty-fifth of November. Why?”

“It's just that the last part of the month is better for me. It gives me a chance to get back into the book. I'll work like crazy for the next few weeks, so that I can take a long weekend off to be with you in Paris.”

The look of pleasure that crossed his face told me what my acceptance meant to him, and I was touched. I said, “Thanks for asking me, Kit, I know your show's going to be a huge success. And I can't wait for my private preview of the paintings tonight.”

“And I can't wait for you,” he said, leering at me wickedly, then grinning he added, “But I honestly think it's better to view the canvases tomorrow In the daylight.”

“Oh you do, do you?” I answered, raising a brow.

 

I stood at the bedroom window, looking out toward the ancient castle of Lourmarin, waiting for Kit. There was a full moon and it illuminated the castle's Renaissance bulk, its stark towers, and brought a silvery sheen to the time-weathered stones.

I had always loved the view from his bedroom and tonight there was something special about it, something different. Perhaps it was the play of brilliant moonlight on those ancient ramparts and the rolling fields where the castle stood. Or maybe it was the dark sky, littered with bright stars and fast-moving clouds that occasionally scudded across the face of the moon to obscure it.

Or perhaps it was because
I
was different tonight.

I was more relaxed and at ease with myself in a way I had not been for a very long time.
I was glad to be with Kit.
That had registered with me hours ago. I had forgotten how good he made me feel with his warmth and attentiveness and loving gestures. This was nothing new He had always treated me well, beautifully really. I'd just forgotten in the three months I had been away.

Suddenly he was there, standing behind me, resting his hands on my shoulders. Lifting my hair, he kissed the nape of my neck. Then slowly he turned me around to face him.

He was wearing a white terry-cloth robe, and he handed one to me. “Please, darling, get undressed, let's go to bed,” he murmured.

But as I started to move away he pulled me back into his arms and kissed me. It was a long hard kiss and when he released me, he said in a low, urgent voice, “Hurry, I can hardly wait, Viv, I've missed you so much.”

A few minutes later I returned wearing the terry-cloth robe and joined him on the bed. We lay side by side for a second, holding hands, watching the sky turning color, and I was happy to be next to him, to savor this moment of rare peace and intimacy. Then in a sudden movement Kit pushed himself up on one elbow, lay on his side, regarding me intently. “You're beautiful, Vivienne,” he said and opened my robe, began to stroke my breasts, my stomach, and my thighs, his hands moving over me lightly. Finally settling into a kneeling position, he bent over my body, kissing every part of me, until he finally arrived at the core of me. And it was here that his mouth lingered. I relaxed and let him love me as he wanted to, in the way he always had.