Leonie (18 page)

She thought about it as she lay on the warm sand early one morning. She had come back so late that she hadn’t bothered to go to bed, but had sat by the window waiting for the dawn, and then she’d tiptoed down to the beach, thrown off her clothes, and waded naked into the sea, gasping as its early morning coldness touched her. It always excited her, swimming without her clothes, and Rupert had laughed at her for it. She cut through the water with a powerful crawl, covering the bay fast and gracefully, feeling the surge of the water beneath her, lifting her breasts, pushing between her legs. Yes, she was definitely attracted to Gilles de Courmont. All right, she asked herself, if you could choose now to have Rupert or “Monsieur,” who would you choose? Whose hands would you like to caress you? Whose lips would you like to taste? Whose body would you like next to yours? Flinging herself into a dive, she plunged beneath the blue-green swell. She knew the answer.

She was ready early that night, sitting on the terrace watching the sea and the sky and the pretty white yacht anchored out in the bay. The cab usually came at seven and at seven-fifteen she went inside, tidied her hair, and returned to her seat on the terrace. By seven-thirty she was pacing its length restlessly, and at eight o’clock she began to worry. At nine-thirty she was still sitting there with Bébé sleeping on her knee, a glass of pastis in her chilled hand. By ten-thirty she realized that for the first time in ten nights the cab wasn’t coming for her. She watched the twinkling lights of the yacht in the dark bay, wondering if it were his
Bel Ami
. She made excuses for him. Of course, he must be busy, he always says his time isn’t his own. “I expect it’ll be here tomorrow night, Bébé.” Picking up the cat, she went to her room and undressed slowly, hanging up her dress with care, ready for tomorrow.

It took a long time to get to sleep, and it wasn’t Rupert she was thinking of.

Verronet was tired of the train journey back and forth between Paris and Nice and then the drive along the coast to Monte Carlo. De Courmont was needed in Paris and he knew it—nothing was being accomplished by this long-distance traveling. He was needed on the scene. He had invested heavily in the railway link with Russia and their people would be in town this week and, more important, because of de Courmont’s total commitment to the development of the automobile, key discussions were to take place the following week with automobile men from Chicago. Verronet had suspected that for once his employer had found a consuming interest in making cars instead of money. And now this girl was upsetting everything. Was de Courmont really expecting them to come all the way down to Monte Carlo just so he could hang around there, waiting for that girl; hadn’t he had enough of her yet?

After boarding the yacht, he made straight for the main saloon. De Courmont was waiting. “Let’s get down to business at once,” he said impatiently. “I have an appointment at three.”

He went over the papers, making rapid decisions, raising points that had seemed hidden under a mass of complicated contractual language. Verronet admired him; whatever it is, he’s not losing his mind over her, he thought.

“I’ll be back in Paris for a day at the end of this week to meet the Russians,” de Courmont told him, “but I think perhaps we’ll have the Americans come down here—we’ll lay on a few diversions for them. They’ll enjoy the atmosphere, and the casino.” He knew it would work in his favor, thought Verronet admiringly. He always knew exactly what to give each one, how to sweeten the bait.

De Courmont left the offices of Grimaud and Gagnac, notaries of the city of Nice, and strolled down the narrow cobbled street feeling very pleased with himself. Things were going exactly as he had planned and that was always satisfying. He turned onto the main boulevard and stopped in front of the jeweler’s window. There were rings and necklaces, bracelets and pins, ruby-studded cigarette cases and gold bags beaded with diamonds—everything to tempt a lady. He wondered, he just wondered what might
tempt this one. He pushed open the door and went in, imagining her surprise when he gave her the jewels, the way she would look as she tried them on, her cries of joy and feminine greed for the pretty, glittering baubles—and maybe her softer cries as she allowed herself to be seduced by him. Anticipation was a marvelous pleasure, he thought, leaning lazily against the glass counter while the man brought out tray after tray of jewels for his inspection.

It had been six nights now and each night Léonie had dressed and waited for the cab that had never come, and Madame Frenard was worried about her. Not worried as she had been when Rupert went away, when they had been afraid she might try to do something bad to herself, but worried by her anger. She’d bristled with it, sparked with it; she’d stormed up and down the terrace, seething with anger. “Damn him,” she’d cried to the cloudless heavens, “what is it that men want from me!”

“You mustn’t say things like that,” protested a shocked Madame Frenard. “He’ll come back, you’ll see.”

“Oh, yes,” sneered Léonie, “he’ll come back, just like Rupert did.” She’d dashed off along the path round the Point, still screaming her anger to the sky, and had come back an hour later, sullen and tearless. From her usual place on the window ledge Bébé stared at her. “And you … you traitor,” Léonie muttered, “you liked him, you purred for him, you sat on his knee.”

The cat yawned, stretching herself to full length along the ledge, rolling on her back, peering at Léonie mischievously, upside down. Léonie tickled her chin, smiling. “Oh, you,” she sighed, “you know how to charm … you should teach
me
, little kitten.”

She went humbly to the kitchen to apologize to Madame Frenard and to help her prepare supper. At least she was working for her keep now; she was becoming quite a popular waitress among the lunchtime locals. Back where I started, she thought cynically.

She didn’t hear the cab when it came along the road because it was the first night she hadn’t listened for it, and when the driver came to the door with the note she was taken by surprise. Wiping her hands on her apron, she looked at the familiar writing on the envelope in disbelief. He’d sent for her again, she supposed, just like that. She should drop everything and put on her best dress and go and pander to his perverse whim of being the duke out
with the little servant girl. Well, not this time. She was damned if she’d go.

She handed back the note, unopened. “Tell Monsieur le Duc,” she said in a voice that trembled, “that Mademoiselle Léonie refused his invitation. She is too busy to see him.”

“But mademoiselle …”

She turned away, leaving him standing, open-mouthed, on the doorstep. “That’s all,” she said curtly, stalking back into the kitchen.

Madame Frenard watched Léonie’s rigid back as she stirred the bubbling tomato sauce on the stove and sighed. Would things never go right for the poor girl?

The cab returned at breakfast and this time a young man accompanied the driver. “I’m to give these documents to you personally, mademoiselle,” he said smoothly. He bowed and turned to walk back up the path.

“Wait,” she called, “don’t you need an answer?”

“No, mademoiselle. There is no answer,” he called, turning into the lane.

She took it down to the beach to read. His writing was pointed and severe, the crisp letters unelaborated with loops and curls, and his words were equally direct.

“I’m sorry you were unable to have dinner with me, Léonie,” she read, “especially as I was here for only the one night. I had hoped to give you this personally, but in the event, may this gift make you happier than love did.”

She stared curiously at the small parcel that accompanied the letter, then ripped it open, hastily pulling off the ribbon and the pretty marbled paper. “Title Deeds and Documents Relating to the Property Known as
LA VIEILLE AUBERGE
with 10 Hectares of Land, fronting onto the bay of—” her glance traveled rapidly down the page “—in the name of Léonie Bahri.”
Her
name! They were the title deeds to the inn—in
her
name. She remembered the night he’d asked her what she wanted most from life and she’d told him. “A home,” she’d said, “like the old inn.” He’d given her a home. He’d waved his magic wand and made her dreams come true. This from a man who chose only omelettes because there was nothing he wanted, nothing for him to dream for, nothing to long for.

Léonie stared at the inn. It stood square and solid, whitewashed
and clean, against its background of olives. She had known that the Frenards ran the inn—as had Monsieur Frenard’s father before him—for the owner, who lived in Nice. And now suddenly she was the owner.

She sat down in the sand staring at the deeds, running her finger over the page with her name. She was a woman of property. The inn was hers. And what about all the nights she had waited—when there had been no message, no explanation? You’re always waiting, she told herself, waiting for Rupert to come back, waiting for the carriage to come—waiting for the man to beckon, added a sneaky little voice in the back of her mind. She looked again at the title deeds, at all they implied. Men are all the same: the moment you accepted, the moment you gave in, you were owned. She stood up briskly. “I’ll give them back, of course,” she announced to Bébé. “I’ll get a job—in a café, in the music hall if I have to—but I won’t be bought!”

–
• 13 •

He knew exactly how she would react. It was lunchtime and he sat on the terrace outside the Café Riche in Monte Carlo, imagining how she would have looked, the expressions that must have flitted across her lovely peach-fleshed face, amazement, bewilderment, speculation, excitement—certainly anger—and maybe a little fear. He knew she must have been prepared to hate him, he’d primed her anger, deliberately neglecting her for a whole week after seeing that she was pampered and comforted and looked after. Oh, yes, she’d be angry all right. He smiled to himself. She’d come tearing back to see him—right about now, if he’d calculated correctly. She wouldn’t be able to wait, Léonie always acted on impulse. But what was she going to do now? Would she throw the deeds in his face and scream at him? Or would she throw her arms around his neck and kiss him? He sighed with satisfaction, either way was all right with him. He knew he finally had her.

As if on cue, Verronet hurried along the terrace toward him. “Mademoiselle Léonie is on board the yacht, sir.”

He sat for a while, enjoying the sunshine, savoring the anticipation; his staff had their instructions, they knew what to do. “Waiter,” he called.

“Yes, sir?” the man came running.

“I’ll have an omelette, please … and a bottle of Evian water.” There was plenty of time, Léonie would wait.

Léonie had been there for an hour, sitting nervously in the main saloon with its wide windows overlooking the busy little harbor. The saloon was immaculate—too much so. It was a room that could have belonged to any rich man of taste. There were no personal mementos, no telltale signs of the presence of two small
boys, though they had left only recently to be with their mother in the country. No one had disturbed her, she had been quite alone, only the clock ticking on the large square desk had sounded the passing minutes. At one o’clock the steward had come to offer his apologies for Monsieur le Duc’s absence, he was expected back at any moment, meanwhile would madame care for some lunch?

“Oh, no, no thank you,” she had said, but he’d smiled and said that Monsieur le Duc would have insisted on it.

She’d drunk a glass of champagne to calm her nerves, and then a second because the first hadn’t seemed to work, and then she’d wandered restlessly onto the deck of the big boat, curious to see what this “home” of his was like, what clue it gave to the true man. She had expected ostentatious luxury, but there was none, just the special gleam of everything that was the best—polished mahogany and shining brass. A big immaculate white boat.

The sun was hot and Léonie returned restlessly to the saloon; the clock on the desk said two-thirty. Perhaps she should leave. After all, wasn’t she waiting—again? The thought annoyed her. Yet she had to stay, she had to give back the deeds before she changed her mind. She couldn’t stand the ticking of the clock! There was another door leading off from the saloon and she peeked through. It was a small study—a desk covered in papers, books on tall shelves, polished boards with a small Persian silk rug in faded blue-green and a deep sofa under the window that looked out onto the sea. It was quiet, no clock ticking, just the sound of the waves, and she sat on the edge of the sofa to wait. The champagne and the sun made her feel sleepy and she arranged the cushions, making herself more comfortable. How long would he be? she wondered.

The boat was absolutely silent, swinging gently on the rippling water under the hot midafternoon sun. The crew had been dismissed for the rest of the day and even the seabirds were taking a siesta.

Gilles found her in the study, asleep with the packet of deeds on the sofa beside her. Walking across to the desk, he poured himself a glass of whiskey, sipping it thoughtfully. She was so very young and so very lovely. He wanted to kiss her eyelids, they were so transparently delicate, blued with tiny veins under the tender skin—but he waited.

He read her thoughts from the expressions that crossed her face
as she awoke—confusion, surprise, and relief. She sat up quickly, smoothing her skirt. “I must have fallen asleep.”

“I expect it was the champagne—and the heat.” He smiled at her. “I’m sorry you weren’t able to have dinner with me the other night.”

“But I waited for you—
all week
, I expected to see you!”

He shrugged his shoulders, staring indifferently through the window at the sea. “I told you that I’m a busy man, my time is not always my own.”

He was right. It was silly to expect that he had time only for her. He had to attend to meetings and business matters—and a wife and family. She remembered the two little boys eating ice cream. “I came to return these”—she held out the packet—“it was very kind of you, but I can’t accept.”