Leonie (84 page)

The wind was blowing more strongly now, the smoke from the cigar stung her eyes, and Léonie lifted her hand to brush the sudden tears brought on by the acrid fumes. She should find the pills, she must, he was in agony; she couldn’t bear his pain. “The pills,” she whispered, clutching his hands in hers, “the pills, oh, my darling, tell me where. Where?”

His dark eyes, almost black with pain, locked into hers. She’d called him her “darling”—God, it made him so happy. Monsieur gasped as the pain hit him anew, she must do what he wanted, she
must, she must; didn’t she know, couldn’t she read his soul? No pills could save him now, but he couldn’t die without her in his arms, without her lips on his … her kiss … her love.

“Tell me,” begged Léonie, “please, please, Monsieur.” She couldn’t bear it, she couldn’t let him die, not Monsieur, so strong, so indomitable. All the things she’d fought against in him were the same qualities she had loved. She took his hands in hers, pressing kisses on them. “I’ve got to get help, Monsieur,” she whispered. “Let me find a doctor.…”

He couldn’t bear it if she went, he’d be left alone again with only the pain. She was holding his hands but he couldn’t feel them, couldn’t feel the velvet texture of her skin, but there was the fresh summer scent of her hair, and the jasmine. Kiss me, Léonie, just kiss me; give me your strength, for you are stronger than us all.…

Léonie put her hands behind his head, tugging the cushion into place, desperately trying to make him more comfortable so that he might breathe easier. His eyes gazed upward into hers, so blue, so dark, so demanding. Bending her head she placed her lips on his, holding his face in her hands.

Pulling herself away from him, she walked back toward the door. “I’m going, Monsieur,” she whispered, “I’m going to get help for you. I’ll be back as soon as I can, wait for me.”

She spun around and disappeared through the door. He heard her footsteps on the polished teak deck—running away from him. He sat, motionless, his eyes fixed on the door, praying that she would reappear, that she would come back, that she would be unable to leave him. He closed his eyes, recalling the way it had felt when she kissed him. Her lips on his, her hands on his face, her breath on his cheek. Wait, she had said, wait for me. Didn’t she know he had spent his whole life waiting for her—even when they were living together and he went to his office, he was just waiting, waiting until he could be with her again. He couldn’t remember now the pleasure he had taken in the pain of going away and leaving her, forcing himself to be without her so that he could have the passion of his return and their reunion. Léonie, Léonie, come back, come back to me.

A sudden breeze roamed through the cabin, rustling the curtains, brushing his cheek like her warm breath. He could smell the smoke of his cigar, rich, and strong. With an effort, he opened his eyes, glancing sideways at the table beneath the window. The silver
bucket that held the bottle of their special champagne glistened with moisture, the two glasses, still full, beside it. Beyond sat the heavy crystal ashtray where he had left his cigar, but it was empty. The cigar lay smoldering on the polished wooden surface of the table. As he watched, blisters bloomed under the smooth veneer. The thin azure curtain wafted in the breeze as the cigar rolled toward it and came to rest beneath its folds. He watched, mesmerized, as the pretty curtain fluttered gently, hiding its secret—for how long, how long? There, he could see the brown scorch mark, spreading. Then the first small flame tonguing the blue linen, crumpling it into gray ash. And then the great spear of orange flame. It was quite beautiful, the way it licked along the table toward him.

The wheelchair waited just two paces from where he sat. It might as well have been a mile. He’d been too proud to let her see him in that wheelchair, hadn’t wanted her to know he was a cripple. And now he would never see her again. The pain in his chest gripped him harder; he closed his eyes against it and saw her face. Léonie, oh, Léonie, I love you. He was fighting for breath; the flames were creeping closer and the smoke was acrid, choking him, as his own heart was choking him, casting him into blackness.

Léonie’s room was dark, the shutters closed against the warm, still sunlit evening. Chocolat lay beside her, comfortingly, on the big bed as she relived for the thousandth time the sight of the beautiful white yacht, a leaping mass of flame, the splintering sounds of glass, the twisting scream of metal, the crackle and hiss of giant timbers as they crashed into the sea—and then nothing. Just a charred gray hulk. She forced her thoughts away from the image of Monsieur, trapped in the flames, alone. “I tried,” she whispered, “I tried to save him. I didn’t want him to die, not like that. But why? Why, when I went there to kill him?” Was it pity? Or did she still love him? When she’d kissed him, for a moment it was as though they had never parted, all those terrible years had disappeared. What was he feeling when she kissed him? Was it pleasure because he thought he had won? Or did he really love her? She would never know.

She glanced at the statue of Sekhmet, lit with the lamp that was never turned out. The lion face was serene, arrogant, cold. It was just a statue. Carved from stone. She didn’t have to read the inscription
—she knew it by heart. “Sekhmet … mistress of all the gods … protector of those she loves … sends her flame against her enemies.”

Getting up, she walked across to the statue and touched it. It felt cool under her hand, remote. Impersonal. It was over. There would be no more dark corners in her life, no more hiding, no more secrets.

Rushing to the window, she flung open the shutters, letting in the last rays of the sun, devouring the beautiful view with new eyes, her white terraces, her jade and emerald garden, the infinite blueness of the bay and the sky. She was free.

For my mother and father with love

Books by Elizabeth Adler

LÉONIE
PEACH
FLEETING IMAGES
INDISCRETIONS
THE PROPERTY OF A LADY
FORTUNE IS A WOMAN
LEGACY OF SECRETS
THE SECRET OF THE VILLA MIMOSA
NOW OR NEVER
SOONER OR LATER

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Elizabeth Adler was born in Yorkshire. She is
married to an American designer, and they lived in
Spain, Los Angeles, and Rio de Janeiro before settling
in Oxfordshire. They have one daughter, Anabelle
.