Authors: Eve Bourton
‘Madame Garnier-Dumont? Could you please come to my office to answer the telephone?’
She stared at him, automatically stretching out a hand to prevent Isabelle from tipping cream onto the table cloth.
The manager looked solemn. ‘It’s urgent, madame.’
Claire rose from the table and followed him. The call was from the police commissioner in Nice. It was with extreme regret that he had to report that
monsieur le ministre
her husband had drowned at 2 p.m. after being knocked unconscious into the sea by the boom of the yacht
Vol-au-Vent
. Death must have been almost instantaneous, since his body had been recovered within minutes by the
Vol-au-Vent
’s crew, who had radioed immediately for assistance. Helicopters were on the scene, and the deputy commissioner was already on his way to the Hôtel de Paris and could give her further details as information came in.
‘May I express my deepest condolences, madame, on this sad loss – not only for you and your daughter, but for the whole of France. Madame? Madame?’
The receiver crashed to the floor. Claire had fainted.
Philippe collapsed onto the king-size bed in his 30th floor Manhattan apartment and loosened his tie. It had been an unusually tiring day. After a few minutes’ relaxation and a cigarette he began to feel human again. He’d skipped the trauma of after-work karaoke with colleagues for a little peace and quiet. Must be getting old. Could probably have got laid too – there was a blonde from marketing whose chat-up lines had been getting more explicit every week. But Philippe longed for a French meal and a conversation about the latest French books and films, anything which took his thoughts from this eternal wheeling and dealing. He made himself some coffee and ripped open the copy of
Le Monde
he had grabbed from his pigeonhole as he left the office.
Henri Garnier-Dumont drowned off Monaco: The president mourns the tragic death of his trusted ally
Oh God. Claire. Claire and Isabelle. He rifled through his address book for Claire’s mobile number, which he’d purposely not stored on his own phone lest he’d been tempted to call or text her. He knew her phone was tapped, but he couldn’t think who would be at all interested in her love affairs now. He quickly punched in her number.
She sounded overwhelmed to hear him after such a long time. ‘Philippe! Is it really you? I never thought I’d speak to you again.’
‘Are you all right? Is Isabelle safe? What happened?’
She managed to give him an account of the accident, details having been sketchy in the paper. Henri had apparently ignored instructions to remain seated in the cockpit, and in moving forward on the deck he’d been caught by the boom as it swung round when they tacked, instantly fracturing his skull as it pitched him into the sea. Conditions had been squally. He was dead by the time the crew hauled him back on board.
‘Thank God you were ashore,’ said Philippe feelingly. ‘Isabelle’s all right, then?’
‘She doesn’t really understand what’s happened, and I suppose that’s for the best. I want her to meet you.’
‘I’m just as keen to meet her. But it will be rather awkward at the moment.’
‘The funeral’s next Tuesday. The president’s attending. All the publicity – I don’t know how to face it. I need you.’ She paused, hoping he would respond. ‘Philippe, I love you.’
Silence.
‘Do you – have you found someone else?’
‘No.’
Well, it wasn’t exactly true. He had been planning to marry Corinne, and he didn’t even count his transient American girlfriends.
‘Don’t you think we should discuss this when we meet? Listen, darling, I’m going to come home. But I have some business deals to tie up first. I’ll see you when everything’s fixed.’
‘But I was hoping you’d come soon.’
‘Claire, be sensible. It won’t do you or Isabelle any good at all if I appear now. You’re in the media spotlight, and I want to see you privately. It will be soon, but not just yet.’
‘I see.’ She sounded unconvinced.
‘Henri won’t be able to spy on your emails now, will he?’ he asked, trying to cheer her up. ‘I’ll write as often as I can. And we can talk anytime.’
It was more than she had dared hope for. He had to be serious, he must want to see her. And once he had held Isabelle in his arms she was sure – as sure as she could be of anything in her present uncertainty – that he would stay.
After she rang off, Philippe drained his coffee and gazed at Isabelle’s picture on the wall. He’d had the snapshot blown up into a poster. He hadn’t told Yolande that. He hadn’t told her how homesick he was, how much he missed his family and all the things he had taken for granted when he was in France. Now he could go back and they were his for the asking. So was Claire; sweet, graceful, forgiving Claire, whom he had ill-treated the most. He didn’t know if he was man enough to accept her love. What could he offer her in return? His heart? Surely not. Most women he slept with concluded that he didn’t possess so vulnerable an organ, and on reflection he was inclined to agree. But when he looked at the smiling face of his daughter, something stirred. When he thought of his mother, he had sharp twinges of shame and regret. When he thought of Corinne – but he made a point never to think of her. Their love, so unexpected, so brief, so intense, could have no place in the superficial cocoon he had woven for himself over the past three years.
His next call was to Rochemort. His mother was ecstatic when he announced that he would be coming home. Philippe received an express package from her later that week, containing a silver St Christopher with the Rochemort arms engraved on the reverse. The prodigal son was forgiven.
To her surprise, Corinne returned to Paris in early January in a reasonably cheerful frame of mind. The New Year wasn’t the disaster she had feared, though the weather in Dorset was foul. But her grandparents were, as usual, unfailingly good-humoured, and with the house full of uncles, aunts, and cousins she hadn’t seen for some time, the atmosphere defied gloom. Everyone ignored the fact that Yolande should have been there. Lady Albury actually seemed relieved by her favourite granddaughter’s absence. The long stay with Patrick over the summer had temporarily dampened her enthusiasm for Yolande.
Miles turned up on New Year’s Eve with a breezy smile and some papers he intended to discuss with Corinne, but was immediately pounced on as good party material. Sir John Albury had been stationed with Miles’ father in Germany, and treated him to some hair-raising army stories, whilst Tex had a few questions on banking issues. Corinne’s teenage cousins, Fiona and Annabel, then hauled him off with knowing smiles and wicked giggles.
‘Corinne, you must kiss him,’ insisted Grace.
‘Mummy, don’t be mean,’ laughed Corinne as she was propelled towards the library, where Miles had been manoeuvred into an inescapable trap under the mistletoe. ‘I didn’t invite him here to be assaulted.’
‘Oh, I rather think he’s enjoying it.’
‘Absolutely,’ agreed Fiona, keeping him firmly in place as Grace had instructed.
He was laughing, but he looked embarrassed as Corinne drew near. She tried to joke it all off. ‘Perhaps I should have warned you that we have a female hit squad here too.’
‘But they kiss much better than they do at my uncle’s,’ he said. ‘Now girls, why don’t you beat it so I can be seduced in style?’
Protesting loudly, they were hustled out of the room by Grace, who closed the door as she left with a wink. As soon as they had the library to themselves, Miles moved away from the mistletoe. Corinne retreated to a window seat flanked on either side by huge bookcases, their shelves crammed with volumes old and new. Jane Austen was just as likely to be found next to the latest thriller and Wisden. It was an elegant room rich in oak, with extensive views over the gardens. She stared out, suddenly feeling rather foolish.
‘This is a lovely house,’ said Miles, joining her. ‘Late Georgian?’
She faced him, trying to regain her confidence. ‘1770, actually, designed by Robert Adam. Of course, we’ve not had it that long. The first Baronet Albury bought it in the nineteenth century. He had a smaller place down on the coast before.’
‘How did he get the title?’
‘Nothing glamorous, I’m afraid. We didn’t get round to fighting until the Boer War. I think he helped with some loan for the Crimean campaign.’
‘So you have banking connections too?’ he asked. ‘It’s uncanny, really. We’re linked in so many ways; finance, the army, same part of England. And yet we wouldn’t have met if I hadn’t been seconded to Paris.’
Corinne smiled. It was a train of thought that would definitely appeal to her mother, who had obviously been matchmaking since his arrival.
‘It’s so good to see you again,’ said Miles, wanting to edge closer, but resolutely sitting two feet from her. ‘I’ve missed you, Corinne. You were right – about being friends, and all that. I was completely out of order and I’m sorry. I’ve brought some stuff over if you want to talk business.’
Corinne stood up, disappointed that it had come to this. Just business. Before they used to have fun, they used to talk about so many different things. Now there was a barrier, and she felt it within herself.
‘I don’t think we’ll have much time for that, Miles. Lunch is any minute now, then some neighbours will come over. And tonight you’ll be danced off your feet if Fiona and Annabel have any say in the matter. Not to mention my grandmother.’
‘And you?’ he queried, also rising.
‘Oh, I can dance too, you know.’
‘Save me a slow one?’
‘All right. We can talk shop when we get back to Paris.’
‘So you’ll come out with me again?’
Corinne took his hand and drew him back under the mistletoe. ‘Yes,’ she said, putting her arms around his neck. ‘I’d love to. Now, if you don’t want your reputation shredded, you’d better pay your dues. They’re probably looking through the keyhole.’
His lips were cautious at first, his arms hanging free, but as her mouth responded to his, he clasped her waist. Her lips parted and she took his tongue in, teased and caressed it, made love to him with her mouth. Again. Blood and sense drained from his head, straight to his groin. Did she have any idea of what she was doing to him? Her kiss was as lethal as it had been before. His desire was as strong. But his love was stronger. He pulled her body tight against his and felt the tandem thumping of their hearts. A perfect fit. When their lips parted they remained locked together, Corinne’s head against his shoulder, her fingers playing idly with his hair.
‘That wasn’t too painful, was it?’ he murmured.
It was so good to be in his arms again. Her legs were a little shaky, her breathing rather too fast, but she wasn’t afraid this time and she didn’t want to run. No threat now, no convenient bed for casual copulation; just a warm, loving embrace which she enjoyed without reservation. She sighed and nibbled under his jaw. Miles felt her relax and turned up her face.
‘We’ve missed an awful lot of kissing since October – which is a tragedy, since you are spectacularly good at it.’
‘It’s not the kissing I mind.’
It was the way she said it. At once he knew there was someone else. Someone who had really messed her up and smashed her heart. He wanted to tell her how he felt, but it wasn’t the right moment. She would have to learn to trust him completely first.
He kissed her again, tenderly, then loosened his arms and smiled. ‘Didn’t you say something about lunch?’
The rest of Miles’ visit passed off as well as it had begun, and he was certainly high in Grace’s favour by the time he returned home. Corinne, however, eluded all her mother’s queries and meaningful suggestions, saying goodbye to her and Tex at Heathrow after the holiday without revealing anything of her plans – business or emotional. She returned to Paris an hour after their departure for New York.
Paris was cold and the atmosphere sluggish. There were no communications from potential bidders for Marchand Enterprises, no sign in fact that anyone was interested in acquiring the company. Yves was right. Whoever had fuelled takeover speculation when Yolande sold out was obviously prepared to play a waiting game. Corinne had nevertheless devised her own strategy, of which Georges Maury greatly approved. He also approved of Miles’ report on the affair, which she presented to him as soon as she got back to her office on the Avenue Montaigne. It identified the likeliest predators and outlined a takeover defence – demerging and de-listing the group – which Corsley European would, of course, be only too pleased to handle.
‘This is good, Corinne, very good,’ said Georges, as he cast his eye over the report’s conclusion. ‘He’s clearly done his research. But we can’t afford it.’
‘I know. And it would weaken our control over the business.’
‘Really, it’s a banker’s dream. Think of all the money he’d make if we let him put this plan into operation.’
‘Think of what we might lose if we don’t.’
He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘Are you seriously considering this option, Corinne?’
‘Not yet. It depends on Toinette. We spoke at Christmas and I’ve fixed a meeting for next week.’
‘Shall I come?’
Corinne grimaced. ‘I’d rather you didn’t, Georges. It’s going to be a very emotional chat.’
‘I see.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘So you’re going to appeal to her love for Jean-Claude? But she’s sure to want something solid in return.’
‘I’ve thought of that. Just leave it to me. Everything will be all right.’
‘I hope so. Perhaps you understand her better than I do. But if you do succeed in acquiring her stake in UVS, what then? There will still be trouble.’
‘That’s why I’m having lunch with Miles Corsley today. I rather think that whatever happens, he could be very helpful.’
She sounded so like Jean-Claude, Georges thought it was uncanny.
‘By the way,’ he said as she was turning away. ‘About Yolande.’
She jerked her head round sharply. ‘What about her?’
‘Is she really going to sell her share of the apartment and St Xavier? Yves mentioned it to me.’
‘I’ve had a letter from her lawyers. But she’s stated conditions. She’s only selling her share of Le Manoir, not the vineyards. And she wants all the pictures and furniture valued independently, so that when she comes over they can be divided up fairly.’