Love in Vogue (19 page)

‘Not any more. She asked me back.’

Rupert’s resolute jaw dropped slightly. ‘You sly bugger,’ he said at last. ‘I thought she was just a passing fancy. Everybody has one in Paris.’

‘I’m sure Aunt Alice would like to know who yours is.’

‘Now look here …’

Miles laughed at last, and his uncle stopped abruptly, straightened his tie, and smoothed his iron grey hair. Though not conventionally handsome, he had an imposing air and looked more than capable of a Parisian fling.

‘All right, let’s get down to business. What exactly does your friend Corinne want to know?’

‘She’s bought a thirty per cent stake in a private equity firm called UVS, which owns thirty-five per cent of Marchand Enterprises. The head of UVS is refusing to sell his Marchand holding to her at any price. He calls himself a count, but he’s not listed in any armorial directories. I’m looking for leverage on him to force a sale.’

‘You mean you want some dirt?’

‘The truth would probably do, Rupert. I’m sure he’s a nefarious character.’ Miles handed over a thick file containing all the information he had so far been able to gather on Ulrich von Stessenberg. Rupert put on his glasses and flicked through it.

‘Well, he’s got enough companies here to start his own exchange. I see the type. An opportunist stake-builder for corporate American raids?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Can he sell these Marchand shares to anyone else?’

‘Not without Corinne’s agreement now she’s his partner in UVS. But he can force her out. She’s not got much time.’

‘I see. Ulrich von Stessenberg – what’s his nationality?’

‘Ostensibly American.’

‘Ostensibly?’ Rupert took off his glasses and gave Miles a querying look.

‘It doesn’t match his accent. I did speak to him on the phone to try to negotiate a deal over the Marchand shares, and he’s definitely not a home-grown Yank. If you could find out his roots, I might be able to remind him of that dirty little bar he used to run as a drug store in Berlin – or whatever.’

‘I must say, you have a vivid imagination.’

‘Creative thinking. Isn’t that what you prize in the bank’s staff?’

‘My dear Miles, I only look for staff who will help me run an efficient and profitable operation.’ Rupert closed the file. ‘Quite frankly, this doesn’t look like one.’

‘But there would be a good commission. However, if you won’t help,’ Miles took the file and stood up, trying to hide his disappointment, ‘I’ll have to look elsewhere. It’s just that I’ve drawn a blank in Paris.’

‘Frankfurt?’

‘I’ve got Peter Muller onto it there, but he’s found nothing, except that there’s no such title as Count von Stessenberg.’

Rupert motioned Miles to sit down again. ‘I see you’re eating your heart out. Is she a looker?’

‘Tell me what you think.’ Miles showed him a photo he’d taken of Corinne on his mobile phone on New Year’s Eve.

Rupert whistled. ‘I see now why you froze out poor Olivia Denderby at Christmas. Your aunt’s not too pleased about that, you know. What does she think of you?’

‘She likes me. I came on a bit strong and she backed right off for a while. But we’re moving forwards again now.’

Rupert picked up the file and looked through it slowly, then leaned back in his black leather chair. ‘Perhaps I could help,’ he said eventually. ‘But I refuse to get personally involved in the deal. That’s your job. Just make sure it pays, Miles. This is a bank, not a dating agency. I know you’re my nephew and she’s a beautiful girl, but don’t think for a moment that I approve of conducting business affairs for anything other than profit. If there is an emotional dividend as well, I wish you luck.’

Miles tried not to smile.

‘I have friends who could very well find the information you’re looking for,’ Rupert continued, swivelling his chair so that he was facing the window. ‘It’s delicate and possibly bends the Official Secrets Act, but I’ll try my best. Naturally, I’d send anything to your apartment, not to the bank. Do what you can with it, and forget this conversation as soon as you leave the room. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes, uncle.’

‘How much time have you got?’

‘Corinne will be forced to sell her UVS holding to him at the end of March.’

‘Eight weeks. Well, it’s not impossible. Now, to hard cash. How much did we make on the Masson takeover?’

They remained in discussion for some while. By the time Miles boarded his return Eurostar to Paris he felt confident that he would get the breakthrough he needed on Ulrich von Stessenberg. Rupert Corsley had been an officer in British intelligence for many years. His friends were well-positioned to make some discreet enquiries.

‘Just what the hell is Rikki playing at, Althea? He’s had those shares for months now. The whole deal’s set up. Why won’t he finalise? We were supposed to put in a bid for Marchand at the end of January.’

Hank Pedersen did not look relaxed, though he was meant to be unwinding in the comfort of his Malibu home. A mid-February weekend away from New York – time to be with his wife and forget Pedersen Corp’s global strategy. But he was tense, irritable, and driving Althea mad.

‘Sit down, Hank. Can’t you just forget it for a day?’

He sat in a wickerwork armchair by the French windows, and gazed out at the garden. ‘It’s just that I’ve allocated the funds for the deal. The longer he takes, the more it costs. I hope he’s on the level.’

‘He’s had a few hitches. Marchand’s president has acquired thirty per cent of the company holding the shares. He’s going to freeze her out by Easter.’

‘She’s the sister of that Yolande you had here with Vic Bernitz and his crew yesterday, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Let’s hope she’s as stupid as Yolande.’

‘You’re not very complimentary about my guests.’

‘But she can’t be switched on, honey. Sinking her fortune in a movie, and all because of some low-life like Dubuisson. What the hell does everybody see in him?’ Hank was genuinely puzzled. ‘He’s a third-class jerk.’

Althea drew back. ‘If it weren’t for him, we’d have no deal with Rikki.’ She sat down opposite him.

‘But what does Vic see in him? Couldn’t he have gotten Brett Gallway for the part?’

‘The story required a European with sex appeal. Someone new. Dubuisson’s got what it takes.’

‘Yeah, hasn’t he?’ said Hank sarcastically. ‘The guy had his lecherous eyes on every woman in the room. Yolande must be blind as well as dumb.’

‘I’m surprised you noticed it,’ remarked Althea, too pointedly for comfort.

He was silent for a while. ‘Didn’t you enjoy last night?’ he asked at last.

‘It would have been better if you’d taken the phone off the hook,’

‘But honey, how did I know Carson was going to call? I’m sorry.’

He sounded really contrite, and she smiled encouragingly. ‘I’m cutting the wire tonight. You never know, it might work. Dr Sidakis thinks we have a good chance if we keep to his regime for a few months more. I knew there wasn’t anything physically wrong with you. Just too much work.’

‘Come here.’ He stretched out his arms, and she perched on his lap, tousling his hair as he kissed her neck and face. It was an improvement, but where was the zest? He wasn’t an incompetent lover, either, when he could make the effort; but with Hank, money still came before his wife. Althea knew it, too. It didn’t help.

‘I do want kids, honey,’ he murmured. ‘I want you to have them. It’ll work out. Just be patient.’

‘Do you have to go away for so long in May?’ she asked. ‘Can’t I come?’

‘Well, you could – but it wouldn’t be much fun. Just shopping and the hotel while I’m in meetings. It’s important, or I’d put it on hold. But we’ve got to look hard at our Pacific operations with all the change going on in China. Come along if you want. Althea?’

She slid off his lap, and was busily arranging some flowers in a vase to conceal her disappointment. He would never change. Still planning ahead, still wrapped up in business.

‘I’d just be in your way.’ She faced him. ‘You go. I’ll be OK.’

He seemed satisfied. Their lovemaking that night was uninterrupted, but somewhat lacking in energy. Hank flew back to New York the following morning. Althea decided to stay a little longer in California and watch Vic Bernitz making a movie.
Fast and Loose
had just started shooting, and the LA press was eager to get in on the action. A movie financed by a stunning Frenchwoman, starring her lover opposite Hollywood’s own sex-symbol Jayne Herford – it was a paparazzi dream. Everybody was waiting for the inevitable fireworks. Althea felt it her social duty to pick up some gossip first hand before she returned to Manhattan. Vic had invited her to drop in at the studios anytime. It was an opportunity not to be missed, particularly as there might well have been no film if she hadn’t found Patrick in Paris. It was all down to her. He had told her so himself, and she couldn’t help noticing the glow in his eyes when he expressed his gratitude.

Yolande left her mobile phone on the bed, frowning, then wandered back into the lounge of the apartment she and Patrick were sharing in Beverley Hills. He was stretched out on the leather sofa, perusing the film script.

‘Who was it?’

‘Philippe de Rochemort.’

‘Oh.’ Patrick put down the script and sat up, making room for her beside him. ‘What did he want?’

‘He’s going back to France soon. He wanted to know if I had any messages.’

Yolande brushed her eyes with the back of her hand, but if she was crying, she was trying not to show it. She picked up the script, looked at it unseeingly for a few moments, then dropped it onto the floor.

‘Do you enjoy doing those love scenes with her?’ she demanded fiercely. Yolande would never give Jayne Herford her name. It had been hate at first sight when they met.

Patrick pulled her into his arms and stroked her face. ‘It’s just work. I don’t feel a thing when she kisses me. Not a thing.’

‘Liar. I can see the pleasure on your face.’

‘I’m just a good actor.’

‘Not that good.’

She felt uncontrollably jealous, uncertain, confused. Hearing Philippe’s voice had disturbed her, reminded her too forcefully of everything she had thrown away to watch Patrick smoulder in Jayne Herford’s arms. Tears welled in her eyes and she tried to move away from him, but he tightened his grip.

‘Yolande, how many times do I have to tell you that I want to be with you? I thought we were happy like this. Just the two of us.’ She began to cry in earnest, clutching his shoulders and wetting his shirt. ‘Who do you really miss, darling? Is it Corinne?’

‘She hates me,’ she said between sobs. ‘She said she never wanted to see me again. Because of you, Patrick. Because of you’

‘But you mustn’t let her wreck your life. Give it more time. She’ll come round eventually.’ He took a tissue from a box and wiped her eyes. ‘Why don’t you give your mother a call? You kept saying you would once we began shooting.’

It was a long process, cajoling her into a smile, then a kiss, then a declaration that she adored him, but Patrick was by now an adept in the art. She had been a nightmare lately; ever since that letter from Corinne’s lawyers concerning the sale of her share of St Xavier and the Paris apartment. It remained unanswered. When it had come to signing an agreement, Yolande suddenly lost her resolve. There was no hurry, she had months to think about it, perhaps she could discuss it with her own lawyer personally when she went to Paris. But she wasn’t going to Paris. It was a delaying tactic, a last straw she clung to ferociously because in her heart she didn’t want to sign away her home – or her family. Patrick knew he could never break the bond, and now considered it might be for the best if she renewed contact, with her mother at least. It might stop her from darting those green eyes so disturbingly at him when he was in the throes of a delicious embrace with Jayne Herford, one of the sexiest women it had ever been his pleasure to play opposite.

Yolande rang her mother that evening, and was immediately invited to New York. Patrick kissed her fondly goodbye at the airport the next day, but rather enjoyed himself during her short absence. People were beginning to notice him. He was invited to more parties than he could attend. The women thought he was wonderful and photographers queued up to take his picture. It was just how he had always wanted things to be.

Chapter Eleven

The first Tuesday evening in March. Miles was relaxing in his Ile St Louis flat, cool jazz pumping out of his sound system as he idled his way through a batch of English newspapers. He was taking Corinne out for dinner again, and hoped she wouldn’t still be engrossed by business. Their last date had been spoilt by her constant questions on the progress of his investigation into Ulrich von Stessenberg, which was pretty much at a standstill. Things were not looking good. Stessenberg had now made a formal offer for Corinne’s stake in UVS, and she only had until the end of the month to launch a counter-offensive. The phone rang. It was Rupert, as crisp and exacting as ever.

‘Miles? I need you in London tomorrow to discuss the Marchand business. Get a train tonight.’

‘Can’t we do this over the phone?’

‘No. You’ll understand why when you get here.’

‘But I’m seeing Corinne this evening.’ As soon as he said it, he knew he had dropped several notches in his uncle’s estimation.

‘For God’s sake, it’s her company we’re bloody well trying to save! Think of some excuse. She’s a woman, so she’s bound to think you’re having an affair, but whatever you do, don’t tell her why I want to see you.’

‘I hope it’s worth it.’

‘Planning candlelight and roses, were we?’ snapped Rupert. ‘I’m not sure it was such a good idea sending you to Paris. You’ve gone soft, my boy. My PA’s booked you into the Landmark. Can’t have you at home, or Alice will want to know all about it. I’ll see you in my office at eight thirty tomorrow morning.’

‘Yes, uncle.’ Miles hung up. ‘Damn.’

Oh yes, he had planned candlelight and roses. And a whole lot more.

Forty-five minutes later he arrived at Corinne’s apartment, and was swiftly ushered into the salon by Toinette, who went off to fetch her.