Authors: Eve Bourton
‘I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed this afternoon,’ he said, holding her for a fraction longer than was polite. ‘Perhaps I could reciprocate in Paris?’
‘I won’t be back until September.’
‘That’s a date, then.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll call you. Goodbye, Corinne.’
‘Goodbye, Miles.’
She watched him climb into his car and waved until he was out of sight. Of course he wouldn’t ask her out on a date. In Paris they would be constrained by their business relationship and it would be impossible. It had been a very pleasant afternoon, all the same. But Corinne didn’t expect to see Miles Corsley in anything other than a professional capacity again, and the thought mildly depressed her.
Miles took his time getting back to the Lebrun farmhouse. He needed it to cool off, to forget how she had felt in his arms, and how instead of politely brushing his lips against her cheeks he had had to exercise all his self-control not to taste her mouth, drag her off somewhere and ravish her. The woman was trouble. He’d known it the second he set eyes on her. But she was in his system, and he was going to have to deal with it. It would, he decided, be interesting to find out whether the ice queen or the warm and lively Corinne Marchand he had met at St Xavier would be the one he eventually got into his bed.
‘What did she say about Yolande?’ Yves asked his mother as they sped off through the village.
‘She’s in England with that actor. Darling, I’m sorry, but I really think it’s hopeless.’
His jammed his foot down on the accelerator.
‘Yves, for God’s sake, do you want to kill us both? I may be half-crippled, but I’d like to try to enjoy the years I have left.’
He slowed down at once. ‘Sorry.’
She sighed, hating feeling so powerless. She could do nothing to help, and even commiseration upset him. When they reached the château, Yves left her to read a book while he went for a swim in their pool. But no amount of energetic front crawl could ease the torture. Yolande was gone. She didn’t love him. The more he thought about it, the more he felt he had only himself to blame. He had handled everything the wrong way – put her on a pedestal and worshipped her as a goddess, and not let her know how much he loved her and needed her as a woman. Her absence was like a physical wound, gnawing away at him from the inside. But it was too late. She was in England with Patrick Dubuisson, being screwed out of her innocence and her money. It was driving him mad. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
Just after 6 a.m. Half-asleep, Patrick leaned across Yolande to pick up the telephone, bleeping shrilly and insistently on the floor beside the bed. She stirred and snuggled against him as he groped for the receiver.
‘Allo?’
‘Is that Patrick Dubuisson?’
An American voice, female, just audible on an echoing line. It took him a while to register the words.
‘Speaking,’ he replied, summoning up all Yolande’s lessons on answering the phone in English. ‘Who is it, please?’
‘Well, I don’t know if you’ll remember me. It’s Althea Pedersen …’ the echo was louder. Patrick sometimes hated cordless handsets. ‘Althea Pedersen,’ she repeated. ‘We met over dinner at Le Grand Véfour back in July.’
Vic Bernitz. Hollywood. His mind switched into top gear. ‘Mrs Pedersen! How could I forget? It was such a delightful evening. How are you?’
‘Fine, just fine. Your English has certainly improved.’
‘I’ve been practising all summer.’
‘Still the same teacher?’
‘Yes. In fact she’s here now.’ Patrick shifted his weight so that Yolande could move, but she was now awake and slid her arms around his waist. ‘We were asleep.’
‘I’m sorry, I should have realised. But I’m throwing a party in Malibu, and Vic Bernitz is here. I mentioned your name to him and he was interested. Shall I put him on?’
‘Yes please. It’s very kind of you.’
Patrick could hardly believe it. He heard her shouting ‘Vic!’, and mentally rehearsed what he would say.
Yolande kissed his shoulder. ‘Who is it?’
‘I’ll tell you afterwards.’ Mrs Pedersen was still calling ‘Vic’, and he could hear the buzz of voices in the background.
‘Hi, this is Vic Bernitz,’ came a deep, laid-back Californian voice at last. ‘Althea tells me you’re the hottest property in France since Alain Delon. Are you?’
‘Hotter,’ replied Patrick, deciding in a flash that an over-the-top approach would score on a long distance phone call. He had to sell himself – fast.
Bernitz laughed. ‘I can’t go into much detail right now, but I’ve been offered an intelligent thriller that requires an exciting new male lead. Have you much experience?’
‘Two films and some television work.’
‘Good, good. Well, this is the set-up. The financing isn’t fixed yet, but I’m looking for a cast anyway. Shooting couldn’t begin until next February at the earliest. I’ll send you the script, and we can take it from there.’
‘Yes, yes.
Merveilleux
. Perhaps we could meet to discuss it? I’ll be in New York in October.’
‘Sure. You could audition for me then. I’ll be in touch.’
‘Thank you, Mr Bernitz, I …’
‘Don’t thank me, son, thank Althea. I’d never even heard of you. Goodbye.’
‘So is it all fixed?’ came Mrs Pedersen’s breathless voice. ‘What do you think of him? Isn’t he a real nice guy?’
Patrick said he was and thanked her extravagantly. She rang off after extracting a promise that he would visit her while he was in New York. He put down the receiver, wondering if it had all been a dream.
Yolande groaned as he moved back to his own side of the bed. ‘Who was it?’
‘Vic Bernitz.’
He pulled her into his arms and stroked her hair; long silky hair which felt good as it floated in thick bunches across his bare chest. He wanted to thank her for introducing him to Althea Pedersen, for taking so much trouble to improve his English, for giving him the break he needed. Patrick Dubuisson, mega-star …
‘Who’s Vic Bernitz?’ asked Yolande. She vaguely recalled the name, but it didn’t interest her. All she was conscious of was Patrick’s caresses and the beating of his heart beneath her head. He wasn’t often tender, and she liked the gentle movement of his hand across her cheek and through her hair. Her thoughts drifted to a white wedding in warm Burgundian sunshine, with Patrick leading her out of the
mairie
at St Xavier.
‘He’s only the best director in Hollywood.’
Yolande’s bubble burst instantly. That Pedersen woman must have called. That’s who he’d been cooing to down line. She suddenly felt excruciatingly jealous. She knew she had no right to block his career, but the thought of losing him to some American film set made her angry. He had her. Why did he need the adoration of a fickle public too? She pushed his hand aside and rolled away.
‘Yolande – what’s the matter?’
‘I’m tired.’
‘I might get a starring role. Vic Bernitz is sending me a script. Aren’t you pleased?’
‘Of course,’ she muttered into her pillow.
‘He’s promised me an audition when I go to New York in October.’
‘So you’re doing the Hervy gala after all?’
‘I might as well.’ Patrick leaned over and pulled her back towards him. ‘Come here. Don’t be such a baby.’
‘You don’t give a damn about me. All you really care about is acting.’
He kissed her, but she was unresponsive.
‘Let me go back to sleep.’
‘I want you.’ He kissed her again, harder, forcing his tongue between her lips. His hand moved over her breasts to the smoothness of her midriff, firm and possessive. Then lower. She groaned and began to respond to his mouth, and he pushed her hand down to his groin.
Patrick had to get control. She needed to know who was boss. He wanted her desperately, but she was going to want him even more before they were through. He liked issuing orders, making her pleasure him, giving her a small reward to keep her going but never enough to make her come. She’d have to beg for that. He almost ejaculated just thinking about it. She’d been dynamite in bed the first time, but a bit too demanding. The most important lesson he’d taught her was that he
always
came first.
‘Come on, Yolande …’
She shook off her drowsiness as he pressed her fingers around his smooth, stiff cock. It was useless. She could never resist him. He settled back for the ride as she began to please him in all the ways she knew so well. The woman was pure sex, and she fuelled a need in him that never seemed to end. It wasn’t until much later that he dragged her off, kissed her savagely and lay between her thighs. They were both hot, sweaty, grunting. He pushed her knees right up until her legs were draped over his shoulders and drove up inside her. Deep, slow thrusts. Yolande moaned as she felt the heat work through her craving body.
Faster, harder. More, more, more.
Then he stopped.
‘Patrick,
please
…’
He pulled out although it was killing him. It was worth it to see the alarm in her emerald eyes. ‘Had enough?’
‘No!’
‘Oh, so you want it now, do you?’
‘Don’t tease me,’ she gasped.
‘On your knees,’ he said, and flipped her over.
Then he gripped her hips, rammed his full length into her and it was fast and exhilarating and she wondered why she had been so jealous about the call from Los Angeles. Of course it was good news. It was marvellous. He was wonderful, he deserved to do well.
Afterwards she lay wrapped in his arms in the dark, and Patrick repeated the telephone conversation in detail. Yolande soon had suggestions to make. She would help him rehearse for the audition; they could stay with her mother in New York and make a holiday of it, she’d show him Manhattan …
‘You won’t have time for all these things once you’re famous, darling.’
‘What makes you think I will be?’ he asked.
‘You want to be, don’t you?’
He was silent.
‘Don’t you?’ she insisted.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, Althea, I thought you said this French guy didn’t speak very good English?’
‘He didn’t in July.’
‘Learns fast, then,’ said Vic Bernitz, picking up his Piña Colada and heading for a large wickerwork armchair positioned with a view to the garden. Beyond lay the Pedersens’ private beach.
Althea occupied an identical chair nearby. It was quiet now. The guests had gone, and some of the inevitable party debris was already being cleared away by Juanita, her maid. Peace and plenty reigned along this small stretch of the Malibu coastline. Althea kicked off her shoes and curled her toes to relax the aching muscles in her feet.
‘Do you have any pictures of Dubuisson?’ Vic asked. ‘I’d like to get an image before I mail the script.’
Juanita was sent to fetch the pile of magazines Althea kept at her bedside. She never slept for more than five hours a night, and the combined efforts of journalists the world over were insufficient to keep her amused. There were the usual glossies and then more solid journals. When she was in a serious mood, she would skim through a political or economics article over breakfast. She liked to be considered well-informed.
‘Here,… this is a still from a movie he made last year –
Souvenir Amer
. It picked up a couple of awards at Cannes.’ She indicated a picture of Patrick wearing tight jeans and a sulky pout.
Bernitz took it in slowly, then turned to her. Fiftyish, his jet black hair and beard were liberally streaked with grey, lessening somewhat the devilish effect of his smile. ‘Now I know why you were so keen to promote him.’
‘I liked him, that’s all.’
‘Whatever. He’s sure got the looks.’ He fumbled in his jacket pocket for a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, then studied Patrick’s picture more closely. ‘If he can act as well, I think he’ll do … Strange, but he doesn’t look unfamiliar. And there was something about his voice I seemed to recognise.’
‘Not you too!’ exclaimed Althea. ‘Rikki and I both thought we’d seen him before.’
‘Oh, so you met him with our dear friend Rikki?’ Bernitz took off his glasses and dangled them over the side of his chair.
‘Why don’t you get along with him anymore?’
‘He pulled out of my last picture.’
‘I see. Who’s backing this one?’
‘I can’t say yet. Belco has the rights, but I’m not sure they’ve got the cash. But it’ll be good, Althea. This is the movie I’ve always wanted to make.’
Althea smiled. ‘You almost persuade me to ask Hank to sink a few bucks in it. But he won’t hear anything except Brenton these days.’
‘I thought that business burnt out weeks ago.’
‘Are you kidding? When Hank buys a company he really takes over – the whole shooting match. Until the next acquisition, that is.’
‘And he’s not sold on the movies. What a pity.’ Bernitz gave a comical sigh. ‘You really ought to knock a little culture into him, Althea. It would relax his corporate mind.’
‘Believe me, Vic, I’ve tried.’ Sipping her cocktail slowly, an idea suddenly hit her. She picked up an old copy of
Vogue
and thumbed through the thick, shiny pages. Then she passed it to Bernitz, pointing to a photograph featuring the
,
Hervy show at the Hotel Intercontinental.
‘Look.’
‘You and Rikki and some stunner,’ he remarked. ‘So?’
‘Look again.’
‘She’s extremely beautiful. Why don’t I know her?’
‘I’ll introduce you. She’s Dubuisson’s girlfriend. Very rich, and totally nuts about him.’
‘Hmm … I get the scenario. She pays me to give lover-boy a big break?’
‘Something like that,’ said Althea. ‘She’ll probably come with him to New York for that fashion gala at the Met next month. They both model for Hervy.’
‘You mean this girl has to
work
?’
‘It’s only a hobby.’
He grinned, rubbing his beard while he examined Yolande’s delectable profile. ‘How rich is she?’
‘Well, she part owns Hervy for a start. Then there’s Marchand-Beauté, the cosmetics firm … tens of millions.’
‘Marchand-Beauté? Oh yeah, –
la belle Nature
, and no animal experimentation. My daughter insists their perfume is the best around. Won’t buy anything else.’