Desperate Measures (12 page)

couldn't see how spoiled and spiteful she was, or did he just not care?

'All of a sudden,' Fabrice said softly, 'I feel I am talking to

myself.'

Philippa snapped out of her brief reverie with a start. 'I'm sorry—

that was rude of me.' She drank the remainder of her coffee. 'I have a lot on my mind, you see.'

He nodded gravely. 'I do understand. I know more than you

think, perhaps.'

She laughed, reaching for her bag. 'After two cups of coffee? I

doubt it.'

'I know for example that you are not happy,' he said. 'That your

husband lives a life totally his own.'

Philippa bit her lip. 'I'm not prepared to discuss my marriage

with you, or anyone, monsieur.'

'Now I have made you angry!' He groaned. 'I apologise. It is not

my place to judge.' He put out his hand and touched her fingers.

'Please say you forgive me and that one day soon you will drink coffee with me again?'

This, Philippa knew, was the moment to back away. To smile

politely, and make some non-committal reply. She was married, and

she shouldn't be making assignations with another man, however

innocuous. And if I was really Alain's wife, she thought with a pang, I wouldn't even be contemplating such a thing. But as it is...

'What are you thinking? That it might make your husband angry

to know that you sit in the sun and talk—and smile a little?'

'Why should he mind?' she said coolly. 'I live my own life too.'

'Then I may see you again? I have to ask, you understand,

because I have nothing else belonging to you that I can use as an

excuse.'

Philippa stared at him, her eyes widening. 'Do you mean you

deliberately kept my keys?' she asked slowly. 'That was very wrong of you, monsieur.'

He nodded. His smile was rueful and appealing. 'Forgive me? I

know it was wrong, but I could not bear just to see you walk out of my life. We will meet here tomorrow at the same time?'

'Perhaps,' she said. 'I don't know.'

His hand closed round hers. 'I shall wait until you come,' he said.

'A bientot, Philippa.'

'Au revoir,
Fabrice.' Her smile was shy, uncertain, as she

withdrew her hand.

He was nice, she told herself defensively, as she walked back

towards Zak's studio where the car would be waiting. She liked him,

and it would be pleasant to have a friend—someone to compensate

for the loneliness of her life.

With her painting, and Fabrice for a friend, maybe her shame of

a marriage wouldn't hurt quite so much any more. Perhaps she would

even learn in time to tolerate Marie-Laure's presence in her life.

As she turned the corner, she wondered suddenly if Alain would

be equally tolerant about Fabrice. He had no right to be otherwise, of course, considering his own conduct, but she knew he would be

perfectly capable of operating a double standard.

But I'm not contemplating an affair, Philippa told herself with

decision. I don't want to be involved— not with Fabrice, or Alain either.

Her throat closed painfully at the thought, and her hands

clenched into fists at her sides.

I don't want to be hurt again, she went on silently. Or to spend

any more sleepless nights crying. No, I just want to sit in the sun, and talk—and smile a little.

Surely there's no harm in that, is there? Suddenly, in her mind,

she saw Alain's face etched in lines of harshness, his green eyes

glittering with anger as they'd been the previous evening. And she

shivered, remembering the ruthlessness of his response when she had

provoked him before, on their wedding night.

No matter how innocent her intentions, she thought, as she

crossed the street to the car, she would have to be very careful. Alain de Courcy was not a man to cross.

CHAPTER SEVEN

'I CAN'T,' Philippa said. 'It's impossible, and you know it.'

Fabrice took her hand and held it firmly. 'But why not? It is a

concert, nothing more. The music of Ravel and Debussy, whom you

have told me you enjoy. Why should you not be my guest?'

Philippa sighed. 'Fabrice,' she said gently, 'I've told you a dozen

times already—I'm a married woman.'

'And will attending a concert break your marriage vows?' he

asked tartly. 'Mon Dieu, Philippa, your husband has no such scruples, I assure you.'

Philippa stiffened defensively. 'I don't know what you mean.'

Fabrice shook his head. 'This crazy loyalty of yours,' he

muttered. 'He does not deserve it, Philippa. You must know that. The

man is notorious. His affaires are blatant. Why, even as we speak

together...'

'You mustn't talk about Alain like that,' Philippa said forcibly, as

pain lanced through her. 'If you persist—well, I shan't be able to meet you again.'

'Don't say that.' Fabrice's clasp on her hand tightened. 'These

few snatched moments together have become my life. You cannot take

them from me.'

'And you shouldn't say things like that either.' Philippa, her face

warming, tugged her fingers free of his grasp. 'You promised to be my friend, Fabrice.'

'Then let me as a friend escort you to this concert,' he said

promptly, forcing a reluctant laugh from her.

'Oh, you're incorrigible!'

She was beginning to find his increasing possessive-ness an

embarrassment, yet, she had to admit, his company had been a

lifeline to her also over the past weeks, in view of the continuing

breach between Alain and herself.

She bit her lip. The lock she had demanded on her bedroom

door had been fitted, but it had proved totally unnecessary. Since their quarrel, Alain had not been anywhere near her room on any pretext

whatsoever.

In fact, he had been away from Paris a great deal, ostensibly on

business, although there had been many times, lying awake, staring

into the darkness, when she had wondered...

When he was at home, their only encounters seemed to be at the

meal table, and the social events to which he still insisted she

accompany him, and where he continued to play the part of the

attentive, devoted husband.

Clearly, she thought wanly, you can fool some of the people

most of the time. And her awkward reception of his attentions was,

even more surprisingly, attributed to the natural shyness of a newly

married girl, and smiled on approvingly.

At the apartment, Philippa felt increasingly that she was living

on a knife-edge of tension. Alain's behaviour to her was always

courteous, but totally aloof. Even when he stood next to her when they were out together, and, on rare occasions, touched her, she felt the

complete impersonality of the contact, and it chilled her. However

physically close they might appear to onlookers, she knew that in

reality they were light years apart.

Which was why she had turned with a kind of relief to Fabrice,

and the undemanding companionship that, at first, he had seemed to

offer.

But of course, she supposed ruefully, she had been naive to

think that state of affairs could continue indefinitely. Fabrice wasn't some kind of escort service but a young normal attractive man. And

now their relationship seemed to be fast approaching a point of no

return, and she wasn't sure how she felt about that.

The question she had to ask herself was—no matter what Alain's

conduct might be, did she really and truly want to have an affair with Fabrice or anyone else?

And the instinctive answer which invariably presented itself was

a resounding no.

So it simply wasn't fair to Fabrice to keep him hanging around

hoping, when she knew perfectly well there was nothing to hope for.

There was no future in their relationship, and without doubt she ought to tell him so, quite unequivocally.

But, although she knew it was selfish, she was reluctant to give

Fabrice his marching orders. The fact was he at least represented a

little human warmth and contact in the increasingly bleak desert of

her life. Zak and Sylvie were wonderful, of course, but seeing them

together, observing at first hand the close fabric of their marriage, and comparing it with the empty shell she herself inhabited, was becoming almost unbearable.

Her work, she knew, was becoming increasingly superficial and

trivial. Zak was having to criticise her over purely fundamental things, and she could tell he was worried about her.

'You need to commit more of yourself, honey,' he told her over

and over again. 'It would do you good

to get away on your own somewhere for a few weeks— a few

months even—and paint yourself into exhaustion. Let whatever's

going on in that mixed-up subconscious of yours take over. Find out

what you're about.'

She'd smiled and said it sounded a wonderful idea but it was

impossible now. Maybe some time in the future...

Her commitment, after all, she told herself, was to being

Madame de Courcy, and not some voyage of self-discovery which

might or might not be successful.

But one thing she knew about herself was that if she could roll

back time, and find herself once more in the library at Lowden Square, she would run a million miles from Alain rather than submit herself to the pain of this pretence of a marriage.

And the fact that he hadn't deceived her about his way of life,

and she'd gone into the arrangement with her eyes wide open, made

no difference at all— provided not the slightest consolation.

Her only real concern at the time had been Gavin, and the

precious lifeline that Alain seemed to offer. She'd given little thought to her own needs and emotions, living in close proximity to someone

of Alain's attraction. She should have considered the implications, her own sexual
naivete
and vulnerability included, before agreeing to his terms.

Yes, she had been desperate, as he'd pointed out, but if she

could have foreseen the desolation that awaited her as his non-wife,

then she knew she would have reneged on the deal—told him to find

someone else.

But it was too late now, and at least she had the consolation of

knowing that Gavin's condition had

taken a decided upswing. The clinic had managed to isolate and

identify the mysterious virus which had attacked him, and there had

been no further deterioration or wastage. In fact, her father had even regained a certain amount of mobility in his right hand and side. It was restricted, but it was there, and for that she was deeply, tearfully

thankful.

It didn't make her marriage to Alain the right thing to have

done, necessarily, but it helped her justify the desperate measures

that she had undertaken, and tell herself that if Gavin's health and

vigour were going to be restored, then this present pain was worth

suffering.

'Philippa?' Fabrice's voice reproached her, drawing her back from

her reverie. 'Where have you been? You haven't been listening to a

word I've said!'

'I'm sorry,' she apologised. 'I was thinking about my father.'

'Your father?' His face was crestfallen.

She realised she had dented his ego a little and hastened to

make amends. 'I'll consider going to the concert, Fabrice, I promise.'

He beamed at her. 'That's wonderful! And you'll tell me your

decision tomorrow, hein?

'Don't rush me.' She forced a smile in return.

'I would never do that.' He shook his head. 'It is just that I

cannot bear to see you so unhappy and trying to be brave. Don't you

deserve some happiness—to be the centre of a man's life—to be

loved?'

The emotionalism in his voice disturbed her. He'd never spoken

this frankly before, she thought. These were deep waters they were

getting into.

She glanced at her watch. 'I really have to go. Marcel will be

waiting, and it's getting difficult to find excuses why I'm not always waiting for him outside the studio.'

'And you are afraid he will tell your husband?' As she pushed her

chair back, Fabrice rose too, his expression challenging. 'Why should he care? When he meets with his beautiful Baronne, Philippa, it is not just to drink coffee, I promise you.'

She bent her head. 'I—suppose not,' she agreed stiltedly. 'But all

the same, I have to go
. Au revoir
, Fabrice. A demain.'

She slung her bag over her shoulder and walked down the street

quickly towards the studio. She was stricken to find that the identity of Alain's mistress was apparently common knowledge outside the circle

in which they moved. This was exactly what we were trying to avoid,

she thought, dismayed. What on earth could Alain be thinking of? Or

was he now so obsessed with the beautiful Marie-Laure that he'd

ceased to think altogether? That he'd decided his mistress was worth

the possible loss of his company after all? Because he'd provided his uncle with the perfect weapon to use against him.

She glanced at her watch again, and slowed her footsteps. For

once she was much too early for Marcel, but not far away there was a

square with a small parade of galleries and boutiques which she'd

always meant to visit. She could kill some time there.

She was standing looking critically at an abstract canvas which

occupied one gallery window in glorious isolation, when a voice behind her said without particular pleasure, 'So it is you. I thought so.'

Philippa started slightly and turned to meet the unfriendly gaze