Love in Vogue (27 page)

Claire came in from Isabelle’s room and stopped when she saw him sitting half-clad by her dressing-table, glumly contemplating her jars of make-up. ‘Aren’t you coming? Isabelle’s waiting for her story.’

She forced herself to look away as he stood up. He still had a body to die for, and she was horrified to feel a tug of desire deep inside again.

‘Shall I get you a bath robe?’

‘If it’s one of his, I’d rather not.’

‘He never used it.’

Philippe took the robe she offered him; a tight fit on the shoulders, but it concealed most of his muscular torso. He went in to Isabelle, now sitting up in bed determined to extract as many stories from him as possible. Eventually she was satisfied, and allowed herself to be tucked in and kissed goodnight.

‘Can I really see your château, Papa?’

‘Yes, darling.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘No, that’s a bit soon. In a couple of weeks, if you’re a very good girl and go to sleep now.’

He kissed her and stroked her hair with a smile of such warmth and tenderness that it brought tears to Claire’s eyes. She went back to her own room. Ten minutes later Philippe followed and found his shirt laid out on the bed.

‘It’s dry now,’ Claire said. ‘Is she all right?’

‘Sound asleep.’ He moved into the centre of the room. ‘Do you know, I haven’t had a cigarette for five hours. It’s a miracle.’

‘I gave up when I got pregnant.’ She retreated to a corner.

‘Claire, why are you cowering over there? Come here. We’ve got to talk.’

He put on the shirt and sat down on the bed, motioning her to join him. She remained in the corner, too conscious of his body, his piercing eyes, and her vulnerability.

‘I’m so glad you came,’ she said. ‘But I didn’t mean you to take it so far, Philippe. Isabelle’s not used to having a fond papa.’

It only confirmed his suspicions about Garnier-Dumont. It was all his fault. He should never have left Claire to face it alone, never allowed his child to suffer the consequences. He was beginning to understand his mother’s attitude to the whole affair.

‘Didn’t you want me to love my own daughter?’ he asked. ‘She’s marvellous. I adore her. I just wonder if you can ever forgive me.’

She forced a smile. ‘Well, as we both agree that she’s absolutely wonderful, there’s nothing to forgive. I could never be sorry for having her. I suppose we ought to arrange times for you to visit her. If you want to, I mean. After all, you have rights, and I …’

‘Claire!’ Philippe could bear it no longer. He bounded over to her and grabbed her shoulders. ‘How can you say such things? Rights! I don’t want rights! I want to see her every morning when she wakes up and tell her silly stories every night. Don’t you understand, darling?’

‘No, Philippe, no. It’s impossible.’

‘You said you still loved me.’ He pulled her into his arms and held her fast, wanting her to kiss him. ‘So why is it impossible?’

‘Because … ’ She looked up, recognised the expression in his eyes, and tried to break out of his embrace, away from danger. ‘Philippe, don’t start it all over again. I can’t, I just can’t. Please, you must understand’

‘Why are you crying? Because I’m trying to ask you to marry me? I want you to give me more babies to spoil.’

She was stunned into silence. It wasn’t a hope she had ever allowed herself to entertain. How could he marry her? The eternally carefree and unshackled Philippe de Rochemort, who only had to click his fingers to get any woman he wanted?

‘Claire?’

She looked up again, saw the glow in his eyes, and pulled his head down. Their lips met. Slowly, then with passion. Oh, it was so easy to fall into him again. Taste that mouth, stoke the heat building inside her, want him so much she forgot everything.

‘Does that mean yes?’

She pushed him away, breathless. ‘But …’

‘Yes or no? Claire, I must know.’

‘Do you love me?’

‘Yes.’ His turn to be surprised. He didn’t even have to think about it. He just felt it. He belonged with her. She had finally given him a certainty he thought he would never know. And it felt so good. Kisses, hot, hard, devoured her. ‘I love you. I know I don’t deserve you, but I’ll try to. Come downstairs, I want to show you something.’

He seized her hand and led her down to the salon to retrieve the carrier bag, now emptied of Isabelle’s presents. At the bottom was a folder, which he handed to Claire, making her sit close beside him on the sofa.

‘Open it, darling. No, I’m not mad. Open it.’

She took out two property specifications for wine-growing châteaux in the less renowned areas of Burgundy. Beautiful houses in need of modernisation, ample potential for development as hotels or conference centres, both with vineyards.

‘What do you think?’ he asked. ‘It would be bloody hard work. The wines aren’t brilliant, even though they’re in
premier cru
villages. It would take us about five years to break even, let alone make a profit. But if we ran part of the house as a hotel, we wouldn’t starve. Actually, this one, the Château Briteuil, isn’t more than an hour’s drive from Rochemort. Of course, if you can’t bear the idea, I’ve got a couple of consultancy schemes that could work in Paris. But it’s not what I really want to do and I’d probably be abroad rather a lot. Claire – you’re not crying again?’

It was too much, too soon. She cried for a few minutes, sniffed, wiped her eyes. When he had kissed her back into a smile, she said she rather liked the look of the Château Briteuil.

‘But how did you find out about these properties so soon after coming home?’

‘I’ve been looking ever since I decided to leave America. A friend sent these to me in New York. They’ve not been advertised yet, so I’ve more or less got first option. Of course, you’ll still have this house.’

‘I hate it. I’ve been so unhappy here.’

‘Let me make you happy.’ He smiled as he pulled her into his arms. ‘Come to bed with me.’

Claire hadn’t thought she could feel so blissfully content. Locked in Philippe’s arms, limbs entwined, skin to skin. Her heart was pounding, shock waves still rolled through her. And there was no rush to get dressed this time, no hurrying down back stairs and switching taxis on the way home. No need to hide.

‘Mmmm …’ she leaned up to kiss him. ‘I could really get to like this.’

‘You’d better.’ God, she looked so sweet and sexy, all flushed and tousled and with desire lighting up her eyes. He rolled her onto her back, leaned over her, started to kiss his way down her body. ‘Because, my darling, I need to make love to you again.’

 Afterwards they talked for a long time. No recriminations, no bitterness. Only plans for the future, how to break the news to their families, when to go and view Château Briteuil. Philippe pushed for everything to happen as quickly as possible. Now Claire was his, he didn’t want to risk losing the happiness he had found.

‘But what about the media?’ she asked. ‘I don’t think I can face all that.’

Philippe stroked her cheek. ‘I won’t let anyone get to you. That reminds me, Isabelle will have to take my name. Can we change her birth certificate?’

Claire found him early the following morning in his daughter’s room, making her squeal with laughter by acting out scenes with her new furry toys in an American accent. She began to wonder what she was letting herself in for. Philippe kept insisting that he wanted more children. The Château Briteuil would be a very boisterous place indeed.

Miles walked out onto the steps of his club in St James’s Square and glanced up. It didn’t look as though it would rain. In fact it was just the morning for a brisk stroll. Forty-five minutes to spare before his appointment with Ulrich von Stessenberg. That gave him time to finalise plans with Grant Macdonald over a coffee before they were due at the Connaught. He walked up to Piccadilly, which he crossed with a throng of listless teenagers being herded along to the Royal Academy by a harassed teacher. Cars jumped the lights, scaffolding blocked the pavement, beautiful paintings sat serenely neglected in art gallery windows and the first trickle of tourists emerged from the tube to see the sights. It couldn’t be anywhere but the heart of London.

He poked his head inside the Hervy boutique in Old Bond Street and emerged very impressed, then marched down Bruton Street and into Berkeley Square. Macdonald was waiting for him on a bench beneath one of the ancient plane trees, its winter branches bare and forlorn. He offered Miles a cardboard cup as soon as he sat down.

‘Double espresso, as requested.’

‘Thanks.’ Miles took a welcome sip. ‘So, what’s the drill? Are you wired or have your guys bugged his suite?’

‘That’s not something you need to bother about. All you need do is soften him up, then let me rescue him when he thinks there’s no other way out.’

‘But it’s OK for me to get the Marchand shares off him first? Once your lot gets hold of him, I imagine all UVS assets will be frozen.’

Macdonald smiled. ‘Oh, we might play the markets for a little while. In a very controlled way, of course.’

‘Not with my client’s shares, you won’t.’

‘Of course not. You may restore them to Miss Marchand tonight, over dinner and … Well, you’re a lucky man. She’s gorgeous.’

‘Damn you, you haven’t had
us
under surveillance?’

‘Not you, but we had to be sure about her since she bought into UVS. Don’t worry, she came out clean. I’m a bit concerned about how much her stepmother knew, but we’ll follow that up later. It’s Stessenberg we need. Do you want me to run over any of the details again?’

‘I’ve got it all. If I forget anything, just interrupt.’

‘Right. Let’s get him.’

Stessenberg had chosen to stay at the Connaught – the acme of discretion, tucked away in Carlos Place where only those in the know ever strayed from the better-known Mayfair thoroughfares. At 11.45 a.m. sharp Miles and Macdonald presented themselves at the hotel’s reception desk. They were immediately directed to a suite on the second floor.

Stessenberg was alone. He greeted Miles with a brief, firm handshake. ‘Mr Corsley, please come in. It was good of you to come to London.’

‘Not at all,’ said Miles, eyeing his host intently. He was attractive in a chilling way. His blue eyes were too light, but at the moment exceedingly affable. ‘May I introduce my colleague – Grant Macdonald?’

Macdonald shook hands and quickly took a seat by the window, while Miles and Stessenberg moved over to a table on which there were several documents, a jug of orange juice, two glasses, and even a pen for Miles to sign the contract relieving Corinne of her stake in UVS.

‘I hope you’ll forgive me for asking for a quick settlement,’ said Stessenberg, sitting down and motioning Miles to a seat opposite, ‘but I have a great deal to attend to on this trip.’

‘Setting up a new fashion label with Franco Rivera, aren’t you?’

‘May I ask how you know that?’

‘My client likes to keep informed about the activities of her former employees. But that’s not what we’re here to discuss.’

Stessenberg smiled. ‘No. I have the relevant paperwork prepared. Would you care to go through it?’

Miles placed his briefcase on the table and leaned back in his chair. ‘Actually, no. My client won’t sell her stake in UVS to you unless you sell your holding in Marchand Enterprises to her.’

‘Please, Mr Corsley, don’t waste my time. I’ve made it perfectly clear that I have no intention of selling the Marchand shares to Mademoiselle Marchand. You may assure her that I have no intention either of trying to take control of her company. She will gain absolutely nothing by these delaying tactics. I’ve offered her a fair price for her UVS holding, so we might as well sign. I thought we had a gentlemen’s agreement.’

‘That rather depends on your definition of a gentleman.’

‘I really don’t have time for semantics. I have a lunch engagement at one. Would you please review the papers? Otherwise I’ll read them to you and then you can sign.’

Miles sipped his orange juice slowly. Stessenberg was one cool customer. He obviously felt secure. It would be rather pleasant to wipe that smug smile off his face.

‘Before we get into more detailed negotiations, it might help if we got names correct,’ said Miles, extracting a file from his briefcase. ‘Now, Herr Graf Klaus-Ulrich von Altminden, what was it you wished to discuss?’

‘Excuse me? I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.’

But Miles had caught a flicker of knowledge and annoyance behind that bland expression. ‘Oh, but I think you have. However, if you need to jog your memory, I have something here that might help.’ He took some papers from the file, one eye on Stessenberg all the time. ‘You were born in East Berlin. Your father was …’

‘Klaus von Stessenberg,’ snapped Stessenberg, ‘an East German civil servant. So what? That’s how things were then. You had to survive. Now, I’d be grateful if you stopped this interesting chat about my family and read the contract.’

‘Well, it is rather interesting that there’s no record of any Graf von Stessenberg in armorial guides. No record of a Klaus von Stessenberg in the East German archives either – it’s simply marvellous how thorough they are. But we do have a Graf Klaus von Altminden who had some rather questionable financial dealings with the Nazis during the Second World War. Managed to jump ship and persuade the Communists he could be useful. Dropped his title and married a Maria Stessenberg, settling down to a cosy existence in East Berlin working for the East German leadership. That’s where you slipped up, Altminden. A little too proud of your noble ancestry, aren’t you? It doesn’t pay when you’re wanted by security services across the globe. Why the hell couldn’t you just change your name to Schmidt?’

‘You’re mad.’

Macdonald, watching from his seat, nodded at Miles.

Miles handed over an intelligence report, endorsed by both the CIA and MI6, and pushed it across the table. Stessenberg shot him a hostile glance and picked up the paper. When he looked up, his expression was ice-cold.

‘This is of no relevance to our business. It’s just family history. So, I wanted to use my father’s title. That’s not a crime.’

‘No, of course not. Looks good on the headed paper, doesn’t it? But, we started thinking, why didn’t you just use your father’s title? Why did you add his title to your mother’s surname? Why, in fact, did you change your name?’