Hotel du Barry (25 page)

‘I know. Melancholy sets in if I think about them too much. We all yearn for peace. So really, who can blame Thomas Rodd when someone like Eddie falls for him, eh?'

The two of them watched an aeroplane's flickering lights moving across the sky. Mary yearned to be elsewhere.
Oh Sean, what the fuck are you doing on the other side of the world?

It was five in the morning at the Hôtel de Crillon. Cat couldn't sleep. The suite was a mess of tangled lingerie, abandoned shoes and empty champagne bottles. She stood at the open window luxuriating in the atmosphere. Cat finally understood why Daniel had loved the Hôtel de Crillon so much. It was steeped in history; the eighteenth-century palace had withstood wars, bloodshed and revolutions while retaining its distinctive Louis XV elegance. Daniel had once told Cat that Marie Antoinette had taken music lessons beneath the massive crystal chandeliers, back in the days when it was still a palace.

Transparent drapes billowed backwards and caressed Cat's naked body. She shivered, not because she was cold but because she felt so alive. From her elevated position she could see the Place de la Concorde, with its ancient Egyptian Obelisk of Luxor looming over a few circling automobiles. Nearby was the Jardin des Tuileries and the Jardin des Champs-Élysées. The sky was perceptibly lightening and in the distance she could just make out the Eiffel Tower.

Cat stepped back into the room. Jules was asleep on the rumpled double bed. Small beads of sweat had formed on his upper lip and when he exhaled, his breath fanned the lock of dark hair that had
fallen across his cheek. She eased down the bed sheet and gazed at his naked body. His arms were flung back over his head and she could see the sharp delineation of his sculpted biceps. Cat studied him as she would a life model. His stomach muscles were just as taut as Michelangelo's idealised marble sculptures. From his deltoids to his quadriceps, he was a prime specimen indeed. Cat suppressed the desire to lick him all over.

She gleefully eyed her catch and traced a finger over the thick scar that ran diagonally across his chest. Who had stabbed Jules and why? He had another small scar dissecting his eyebrow. It was the necessary stroke of imperfection needed to accentuate his masculinity and made him more than just another pretty boy. Cat squirmed with delight. He was all hers for the whole weekend. Beyond that, the future was an exquisite mystery.

Jules had definitely not disappointed her and if she hadn't been so sore she would have woken him up and requested another round of combat. She kissed him softly on the mouth. He was so plum tuckered out that he didn't respond, so she let him sleep. He'd been tender, loving and overly solicitous, spending hours gentling her as she lay naked on the bed. In the end, she'd gripped his face and pleaded, ‘Jules, please. I just want you to do it.'

And he had. It was then she'd realised there was a definite advantage to Jules having had so many women. A less worldly man wouldn't have known how to please her.

Cat moved across the room, enjoying the coolness of marble underfoot. She poured herself another champagne and savoured the bubbles tickling her tongue. It was marvellous to be young, in Paris, with a new lover. She blushed when she thought of his body moving against hers and she touched the moisture between her legs with a sense of wonderment. As she moved back to the bed, her toe stubbed on something hard. Tangled underfoot were Jules's trousers. When she picked them up, a pistol fell out of the pocket.
It was heavy to the touch with a smooth pearl handle; the type of handgun that could be easily concealed in a gentleman's suit coat or trouser pocket. It was significantly smaller than Daniel's handguns. He'd only ever carried arms when travelling through dangerous territory such as Bolivia or the wilds of Africa. Why would Jules bring a weapon to cosmopolitan Paris? What possible use could he have for a pistol at the Louvre or the Paris Opera?

Cat froze when Jules stirred but then he mumbled something, turned over and went back to sleep. She realised she had two choices; she could either confront him or wait and see if he mentioned the pistol. Cat slipped it back into his trouser pocket.

It wasn't the first time she'd been suspicious. When they'd visited the Louvre the day before, five of the guards had nodded at Jules and the sixth had winked and grinned. She'd asked him, ‘How well do you know these chaps?'

‘Oh they just know me by sight, that's all. When I lived here I visited the Louvre frequently and lingered around for hours. Couldn't stay away from the place.'

‘Which collection did you like the most?'

‘I was particularly taken with the European Masters and formed an intimate relationship with Mona Lisa. I used to sneak in and visit her early in the morning before the tourists arrived. I was greedy, I wanted to have her all to myself. But that's in the past. You're the only woman for me now, babe.'

Cat rolled her eyes. ‘Jules, I need food.'

‘Let's get out of here. How about lunch in Montmartre, eh?'

At a small café in the Rue Saint-Rustique they'd devoured delicious
coq au vin
and washed it down with a carafe of
vin ordinaire
. Cat had excused herself to visit the Ladies lavatory and on her return found two young Frenchmen talking to Jules. Their heavy leather motorcycle jackets and jackboots intimidated the café's patrons and the waiters were eyeballing them warily. As Cat
approached the table, the blond man with the gold earring and tattoos cuffed Jules lightly across the head and said in French, ‘Gotta go, my friend. Don't worry, I'm onto it like a rat up a sewer. And send my disregards to the Professor.'

As they brushed past Cat, both men checked her out with blatant interest. Cat watched as they leapt onto black motorcycles and kick-started powerful engines. When they took off in high gear, nobody could hear themselves speak until they'd reached the end of the narrow street.

Cat looked Jules in the eye. ‘Why didn't you introduce me to your friends?'

He'd shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Chaz and Alain feel shy around English girls.'

What's he hiding?
Cat knew Jules was lying. Neither was the type to be nervous or shy around women. When they'd turned their gaze on her she'd felt stripped naked and she got the distinct impression both men were trying to read her.

Jules murmured in his sleep. A pleasant drowsiness came over Cat. Her days of constantly nodding off were a thing of the past and now when she got drowsy it was only because she was genuinely tired. Cat nestled up against Jules. They were a perfect fit. It felt right. He stirred and placed a protective hand on her breast. She smiled and within minutes was fast asleep.

After they'd had breakfast, Cat and Jules took a leisurely stroll. Unknowingly they exuded a magnetic eroticism. People in the street cafés paused mid-conversation and stared at them with open admiration. The Parisians did not steal glances or look surreptitiously; they openly observed all the passers-by with frank interest. The café chairs were set up in rows so that the patrons could stare outwards at the passing parade.

Cat was fascinated by the sight of one particular Frenchman dining with his dog. The pug was sitting on a wicker chair at the table and the man was feeding him morsels of bacon from his own fork. It worked on the principle of two bites for the owner and one for the pug. The fork moved easily from the dog's mouth to his master's. When the bacon was finished the man gave the dog a quick kiss on the top of his head and the dog licked his face.

Cat nudged Jules and grinned. She remembered Daniel telling her, ‘Keep this in mind, kid. The human mouth contains more germs than those of your average domestic mastiff. Untreated bites from humans can be lethal.'

Cat realised it was the first time she'd been able to think about Daniel without feeling skinless and defenceless. Doc Rubens had been right after all, her grief was still there but it was becoming bearable. Experiencing Paris with Jules was exciting and dangerous in a good way.
Daniel will always be part of me, but my life is just beginning. I wish he could have met Jules.

Cat insisted they stop by a theatre in the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. She searched the collection of publicity photographs displayed under glass and pointed out an actress. ‘There, that's her. As I mentioned she's way too young to be my mother at twenty-four. But do you think we might be related?'

The actress's name was Josephine Marais. Jules carefully studied her photograph. It was a hand-coloured black and white print. ‘Her eyes have been tinted the exact same colour as yours. Despite her black hair, there's a strong resemblance and you've got the same lovely features.' He kissed her. ‘Yep, I reckon you're definitely related.'

‘Jules, I want to try and see her. I've only spoken to her manager on the phone. He wasn't nasty about it but I did feel upset.'

‘If you phone him he'll just fob you off again. The guy is only doing his job, he's the gatekeeper. Listen, why not just drop in and ask to speak to him? Use the element of surprise. That's what I'd do in a tricky situation like this.'

‘But I'd have to lie!'

‘Cat, lying is pretty low on the scale of sinning. You need to stop being so bloody British.'

He put his arm around her. ‘Do you want me to come with you? Although I reckon you'll probably have a better chance of meeting her if you go in alone. I can wait in the foyer.'

‘You're right. And there's no harm in giving it another go.'

Cat approached the bookings desk with a confidence she didn't feel. She felt sinister when she lied yet she really had no other choice. The receptionist was elegant but hard-faced. The two pencilled black dashes, indicating eyebrows, made her look decidedly cross. Her red talons turned the pages of a fashion gazette and she seemed bored. Cat coughed politely. The woman glanced at Cat enquiringly. ‘
Bonjour, Mademoiselle
.'

Cat flashed her most winning smile and said in her best French, ‘I'm here to see Mr Victor Mastrioni. We're meeting for lunch on Monday. But I was passing by and thought I'd drop in, just on the off-chance Victor might be available.'

‘
Une minute, s'il vous plaît
.'

‘
Merci.
'

The receptionist disappeared behind a red velvet curtain. Two, three then four minutes crawled by. Cat's tension ratcheted right up and her stomach churned.
Perhaps I should leave while the going is good? Mademoiselle Marais is the star of the show. There's no bloody way they're going to let me see her without an appointment.

But just then the red curtain parted. A man in a gangster's suit extended his hand towards her. On his little finger was a pinky ring with a ruby the size of an olive. He seemed perplexed. Cat widened her violet eyes at him and beamed as though she'd known him her whole life. ‘
Bonjour, Monsieur Mastrioni.
'

Josephine Marais was about to lose her temper again and the costume designer was struggling to keep his. They'd been locked in discord for well over three hours. Not an unusual occurrence. Josephine sighed pointedly when Georges adjusted the stiff satin flounces on what purported to be a tennis outfit. She'd demanded that Georges make her a Chanel-inspired outfit in soft jersey fabric, but the director had put his foot down. Josephine suspected he was determined to show off as much of her lithe body as possible and the costume barely covered her breasts and bottom. She'd wear it for the scene in which she'd throw a tantrum, hurl her tennis racket at the handsome male lead and then swoon as he kissed and caressed her into total submission. The playwright had cleverly plagiarised Shakespeare's
The Taming of the Shrew
. So although the script was preposterous, Josephine knew from experience that it would be another sensational hit.

Mademoiselle Marais had almost worn herself out and Georges knew it. There'd be no more screaming and he could now finish the job. The new show was opening in two days' time and as the undisputed star of the show, Mademoiselle had more costume changes than anyone else. Her luscious hourglass figure meant it was easy for Georges to make her look gorgeous on stage. It was crucial to do so, because Josephine's looks far outweighed her modest talents as an actress and well she knew it. But what Josephine had in spades was indefinable star power. She was utterly mesmerising even when doing something as mundane as making a cup of tea
and her voice, when not raised in anger, was low and melodious. It was a shame she despised musicals because – as even her critics conceded – Josephine was unsurpassed as a singer and hoofer. She could dance backwards in high heels while cracking jokes and singing. Her comedic timing was exceptional yet she yearned to be accepted as a serious character actress. However, recently she'd given in to pressure from Victor Mastrioni and successfully screen-tested for an American musical.

Josephine was the indulged mistress of a French industrialist and she kept him on his toes by languidly encouraging a coterie of male admirers. It was an open secret that she and her billionaire fought constantly. He was a gentleman who liked his women on the fiery side. In turn, Josephine understood the power she could wield over him simply by behaving like a spoilt diva. She'd discovered early on that people were eager to accept the estimation one gave oneself and now cunningly presented herself as a brilliant, volatile woman with exceedingly high expectations. Josephine had developed the ability to appear luminescent by hitting an inner switch. When she walked into a room full of strangers she could polarise every man's attention just by thinking,
I can have any man here that I want. Any man.
Mademoiselle Marais always knew exactly how much rope each man needed to hang himself, and rarely had any use for women friends.

There was a knock at the door and Josephine and Georges turned expectantly. Neither of them was unhappy about the interruption. Victor Mastrioni stuck his head around the door. He spoke English with a slight Italian accent. ‘Josephine, there's someone here to see you. It's important.'

‘I don't have time for admirers today. Tell him I said no.
Non, non, non!
'

Mademoiselle spoke excellent English but she'd retained her sensual French accent for effect. Ditto the French words with which she peppered her conversation.