Leonie (53 page)

“But I don’t know you, Jim Jamieson. I don’t know which part of your name is really you. Are you Homer, the scholar? Or Alexander, the warrior? And if not, then who is Jim? I don’t know what you do, or even where you live.”

“Right now I live in San Francisco, but I’m thinking of moving.”

“Oh? Where to?”

He handed her the cup of tea. “Paris.”

Léonie laughed. “I thought only prospectors lived in California—wild men, covered in gold dust!”

Their eyes met over their cups. “It all depends what you’re looking for ma’am,” Jim said with a grin.

She felt that familiar warm flutter of response. She liked him. She liked his nice smiling mouth, his blue eyes with their long lashes, his bigness, his broad shoulders that looked strong enough to cope with any disaster, and the way his body looked so firm and tight. There was an endless list of things to like about him. She wondered what that silky mustache would feel like when he kissed you.

Chocolat jumped from the sofa, stretching each leg slowly, before walking across to Jim, her tail waving like a banner. Leaping onto his knee, she rested her paws on his chest and peered into his surprised face, sniffing curiously. Satisfied, she curled up on his lap, tucking her tail neatly around her paws and resting her head on his knee. She purred gently.

“Well,” said Jim smugly, “it looks as though I’ve been accepted by the family. Now all I have to do is persuade you.”

“Persuade me to do what?”

“I have plans,” he said mysteriously.

Léonie stirred her tea, a smile edging its way across her mouth despite his brashness. She watched him piling a scone with scarlet jam and a mound of cream. “Eat this,” he commanded. “You need more flesh on your bones, Léonie Bahri. What you need is a man to look after you.”

“Do I?” she murmured, enjoying herself. There was a take charge quality about Jim that was very appealing, he made her feel looked after. He made her laugh. And he sent big peach-colored roses. She bit happily into the scone, licking the cream from her lips.

Jim leaned forward in his chair, watching her. Every move she made was a delight. Even eating the scone, the pinkness of her tongue flickering across her lips, the curve of her long eyelashes on her cheeks as she half-closed her eyes to savor the creamy delight, the flutter of her hair as it rebelled against its firm brushing. It was odd, he thought, that such a successful woman should seem quite so alone, and quite so vulnerable.

“You didn’t ask what my plans were,” he said suddenly.

“Tell me.” She laughed. “I can’t wait.”

Those luminous tawny eyes gazed directly into his. “I’m going to ask you to marry me,” he said, holding her gaze.

Léonie felt her heart pounding. This stranger was planning to
marry her? Or at least he was planning on asking her. Had anyone else ever asked her to marry him? Rupert had promised to marry her, and Jacques had cared about her enough to do so, but circumstances had driven them apart before they had reached that stage. The others, well, they’d been just lovers. And Monsieur? No, Monsieur had never said those words, he had never really loved her. Edouard d’Aureville had loved her, she’d felt it that night by the river when he had kissed her. There had been a future in that kiss, but it couldn’t be. She must be careful with Jim Jamieson, he was going too fast for her.

“Don’t worry,” he said, touching her wrinkled brow. “I don’t mean to confuse you. I just thought I’d let you know that my intentions are honorable.”

Despite herself, Léonie laughed. He was very attractive. “Why don’t we just begin at the beginning?” she suggested, relaxing again.

“An excellent idea.” He beamed. “Just leave everything to me, Léonie.”

Maroc was astonished when Léonie canceled the Saturday sailing. “But why?” he asked. “I thought you couldn’t wait to get back to France.”

“But I feel better now … and I’ve got good company.”

“Jamieson?”

Léonie grinned at him. “Jamieson.”

“There’s the meeting of the Château d’Aureville trustees on the twenty-ninth,” he reminded her.

It was the first time she had ever forgotten. The Château d’Aureville trust was the most important thing in her life. Still, that gave her two weeks, two more weeks with Mr. Jamieson.

Jim courted her with a very American single-minded thoroughness, sending her flowers each morning, always the same generous-scented peach roses, and showing up each afternoon to take her to lunch at some special restaurant in town, or off on some expedition to the coast to eat lobster and scallops and small delicious oysters. In the evenings they went to shows and drank late-night glasses of champagne in fashionable cafés while he showered her with installments from his life story.

Jim came from Savannah, Georgia. A “true American” was
how he described himself to her as he looked around the crowded restaurant. “Not like these Yankees.”

“But all Americans are Yankees to the French,” said Léonie, laughing at his pretend-shocked expression.

He told her that he was thirty-five, but she knew he was lying: he could be no more than twenty-six or twenty-seven, but it touched her that he had been sensitive enough to think the age difference might bother her.

Each night he asked her to marry him. And each night she refused. Each night he asked her to let him come in for a last drink, and each night she refused.

Lying alone in bed she wondered why. Was it because she was older than he? She flung back the covers and climbed out of bed, stripping off her nightgown and assessing herself in the long mirror. At thirty-three her body was still firm and rounded and she eyed it with satisfaction, remembering those hard mornings in the cold studio when she had forced herself through the dance routines and exercises. Most women her age were all downward slopes of flesh by now, supported by corsets, she thought, running her hands across her body. It was good to have breasts that still pointed upward and a bottom that was still round and trim.

No, it wasn’t her age that worried her, or that her body would betray her. Then why not? There had been other lovers. But this was different. Jim wasn’t the sort of man to play a secondary role in her life. He was very much in charge, which was rather nice, she thought wistfully. She liked being taken care of, relaxing in his arms might be just as pleasurable. She pushed aside the thought. There would be no compromising with a man like Jim. He might want more than she was prepared to give. And, anyway, it couldn’t work. He was American, he lived and worked in America. She lived in Europe. And she
must
work. Her children were dependent on her.

She climbed back into bed. The Château d’Aureville seemed to eat up money and the investments she had made hadn’t been too successful. She tossed and turned worriedly. Life was always so full of problems. Jim’s strong honest face followed her in her disturbed dreams. He was a man to lean on, a man a woman could depend on, but she didn’t have the right. Her destiny was different.

*   *   *

Jim’s approach was direct and uncompromising, but still touched with that southern charm and an irrepressible humor that kept her constantly laughing.

“Léonie, will you come out to California with me?” he asked her one night as they returned from dinner. “You’ll enjoy San Francisco, it’s much more your sort of town than New York.”

Léonie felt a pang of dismay. “But when do you have to go?”

“Next week.” He put a finger under her chin, smiling into her eyes. “Don’t tell me you might miss me?”

Next week, thought Léonie in panic. Next week he was going to San Francisco. And she was returning to France.

“Perhaps I will miss you,” she admitted. She knew she would.

“Then come with me.”

His voice was persuasive, and he was looking at her eagerly, waiting for her answer. He really thought she could go with him. Jim’s life was so simple, so uncomplicated. “I can’t go with you, Jim. What would people say?” She noticed how his eyes crinkled when he laughed, and he laughed a lot. Life with Jim Jamieson would have been such fun.

“Certainly no more than they are saying already. Most of New York thinks we’re lovers by now, you know. After all, we spend so much time together—I might almost have thought we were, too!”

Léonie sighed. “You Americans, you’re always in such a rush.”

He put an arm around her pleadingly. “Léonie, at least invite me in for a drink before you send me off for the night.”

“Very well,” she said, handing him her keys as they walked down the corridor, “but only one.”

The brandy waited on a table near the fire and there was a warm red glow still left in the coals. Jim poured himself a drink, prowling the room, shifting spindly gilt chairs out of his way irritably.

“All this French clutter,” he grumbled, “and there’s nowhere to sit.”

“Sit here by me,” she suggested, snuggling into the moleskin-covered couch.

He sank down carefully next to her. “Are you sure it won’t break?” he asked with pretend concern.

Léonie sighed with exasperation. “Jim, stop pretending. You know perfectly well you’re not the wild man from California. You’re a proper, well-brought-up southern gentleman.”

“I think I’m about to forget my southern manners,” he said, sliding his arm around her shoulders.

Their eyes met and Léonie leaned toward him. She kissed him lightly on the mouth. A timeless few seconds passed as she moved her head away and their eyes met. Then he wrapped his arms around her until she felt like a part of him and he explored her mouth, savoring its sweetness, like strawberries in June. Her hair smelled as good as fresh-cut grass, he wanted to grab handfuls of it, to wrap its long silken strands around him, to bind her to him forever with her own beautiful hair.

It was meant to be just one kiss, thought Léonie, running her hands down the length of his back, feeling his taut muscles as he held her to him. Just one kiss.

Jim smiled into her surprised tawny eyes as he flung the soft fur rug onto the floor in front of the fire and then began to undress her, removing each garment as though he were unveiling a precious statue in some rare peach-colored marble. Except her skin didn’t feel like marble, it felt warm and infinitely soft and he wanted just to hold her, naked, next to him forever.

She felt safe held against his hard body. He was firm and muscular, his skin was bronzed from the California sun, smooth and silky under her trembling hands. His lovemaking was joyful and uninhibited. He lavished her body with kisses and caresses, licking her, tasting her, stroking her. Open your eyes, look at me,
look at me
, he demanded, and their eyes locked as deeply as their bodies, until his face contorted with passion and she cried out in triumph.

Jim lay back laughing and Léonie smiled at him, baffled. “But
what
are you laughing at?” she asked. “Did I do something funny?”

“I’m laughing,” he said, “because I’m
happy
. People do sometimes, you know.”

Léonie laughed, too. “I only meant to kiss you, but this is the best thing that’s happened to me in New York. I must say,” she added smugly, “you southern gentlemen certainly know what you are doing!”

He rolled over. “Now that’s a romantic statement, and here I am, madly in love with you.”

She had a sudden terrible memory of lying like this with Monsieur, longing for him to say he loved her, just to tell her—even if he didn’t truly mean it. Other people had said they loved her since then—other lovers—but it hadn’t been as important. And Jim
was
important. He had made love to her as passionately as Monsieur, but there was an edge of tenderness in his caresses, a warmth to his kisses that made her long for more. “Are you really in love with me, Jim?”

“Of course I am. Didn’t I just tell you that?”

“Well, yes, but … you know, I thought you were just being gallant.”

He smiled. “I didn’t hear you say you loved me. You were using other words, but I don’t think any of them meant that.”

Léonie sat up, hugging her knees. “I’m not sure I can say it. Oh, I don’t know, I just can’t commit myself to love, it involves too much. I’m my own woman, and believe me, it took a long hard fight to become that. I want to keep my independence. And, besides, I have other commitments.”

“We’ve all been through other loves, other lives, Léonie. None of us grow up without bruises and scars. Anyway, it’s too late, you’re already committed to me. You’re going to marry me, make no mistake about it.”

“I’m tempted,” she added reluctantly.

“Good.” He clasped her triumphantly in his arms. “Then come to California with me, we’ll get married there. I know the perfect place in Mill Valley, a simple little redwood church, you’ll love it.”

“Jim, Jim,” she protested as he scrunched her in his arms, “don’t go so fast, I can’t keep up with you. We only met two weeks ago.”

“But think about it,” he whispered, kissing her ear, “that lovely little redwood church … like a log cabin.”

She did think about it—with regret—as she kissed him.

Maroc had been trying to get up his courage for days. Now he knew he must tell her, courage or not. It would be better now, while Jim Jamieson was still around and before they left for France. She would need all the help she could get.

“You’re not easy to get ahold of these days,” he said, leaning against the mantel and pushing the log with his foot. It sparked, shooting out thin orange flames, and he stared at it in fascination.

“What’s the matter, Maroc?” asked Léonie, concerned. “You look …” She hesitated, searching for the word. It wasn’t “ill,” he didn’t look ill—“upset” was the best she could manage. And nervous.

“I have something to tell you,” he said gravely, “and when I do, I hope you will remember that what I did was for your own good. It was what we had agreed on years ago, all of us who were involved, that there would be no contact with Amélie.”

She tensed at the mention of her daughter’s name. “What are you saying, Maroc?” she cried. “What about Amélie?”

“Amélie was here in this hotel.”

Léonie stared at him numbly.

“She was with the Comtesse d’Aureville. They were leaving just as we were arriving. By chance I saw the name in the register. I waited. And I saw them.”