Love in Vogue (3 page)

‘Probably not,’ he said, scanning the reports rapidly. ‘Look, this piece is by Laurent Dobry, and he and Toinette go way back. It’s just to frighten the Bourse.’

He tossed the paper aside and poured Corinne a glass of red wine. One of Château de Rochemort’s classic years; she sipped it appreciatively.

‘You shouldn’t waste your best vintages on me, you know.’

‘I’m sure you’ll reciprocate,’ he said. ‘So what are you going to do? Marchand shares have already depreciated eight per cent. You could buy them in.’

‘Can’t afford to.’

Yves drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘Well, someone will make a killing, and it could be Toinette. Don’t forget that holding company she has an interest in – the one that bought Philippe’s stake.’

Corinne flinched. Philippe. Yves’ older brother. Breathtakingly handsome, clever, sexy. The love of her life. The ten months they had been together had been the happiest she had ever known. But he had left her, his family, and France one fine day three years before without a word of explanation. Marchand-Rochemort companies almost collapsed when Philippe sold his holdings in both family businesses to UVS, a private equity company with an address in Paris and not much else. Yves had eventually recovered the Rochemort shares by taking out a hefty bank loan, but a heavily indebted Marchand had been unable to do the same. Months of silence and heartbreak followed before word came that Philippe was in Australia. But even his redoubtable mother Marie-Christine knew little of his activities. He sent only the occasional postcard or noncommittal e-mail to show he was still alive and nothing at all to show that he cared.

Corinne rubbed her eyes, tried to, had to focus on business. ‘You don’t think UVS will launch a takeover bid?’

‘Doubt it. You and Yolande are majority shareholders. They can’t get overall control. It could just make life awkward for a while.’

‘You really think Toinette is behind all this?’

‘She’s the sort of woman who has to get her own back.’

Corinne bridled. ‘But Papa left her five per cent of the company! Not to mention a drawer full of Cartier and some rather collectable paintings.’

Yves gave her a wry look. ‘Corinne, look at it from her point of view – twelve years with your father, taking so much care of him – don’t look like that now, you know she did.’

‘So?’

‘She hated it because she couldn’t call herself Madame Marchand. When a woman has enjoyed that kind of lifestyle she’s sure to view a five per cent shareholding and a few diamond necklaces as a pretty poor pension.’

All Corinne remembered were the times she’d been forced to attend Toinette’s famous parties, how she had detested the superficial chat and hordes of strangers who had left her feeling an outsider in her own home.

‘Let’s leave it for now. Perhaps you’d come over for lunch tomorrow? We can talk then. I’ve got so much paperwork to get through.’

‘Great. I want to talk to Yolande too. We really must discuss the wedding. I’ve hardly seen her lately.’

He sounded confident, as he had every right to be. He had inherited his mother’s imposing features, with intense blue eyes that sometimes reminded Corinne too much of Philippe. But at twenty-eight, Yves showed no signs of developing Philippe’s deadly charm. He was still the same direct and down-to-earth guy she had grown up with, though perhaps a little cool for some tastes. But he had always been her friend and she was very fond of him. She was tempted to warn him about Yolande, then thought better of it. There had been Patricks before. If Yves was willing to turn a blind eye to what Corinne sincerely hoped was just another of her sister’s regrettable lapses, there might still be a wedding to talk about after all.

His mind was still on business. ‘Do you mind if I give you some advice, Corinne?’ He leaned forward in his chair. ‘Let the world know that Marchand Enterprises has a new boss, and stop these rumours before the shares fall any further.’

‘Georges will sort it out.’

‘But it’s your company! Georges is a great accountant, but he has absolutely no flair. I assume he’ll remain vice-president, but make sure he dances to your tune. Jean-Claude always did.’

She rose to leave. ‘You are, as usual, absolutely right. I’d better get on with it.’

Corinne returned home to Le Manoir de St Xavier, the Marchands’ mellowed seventeenth-century mansion with shuttered windows and a high mansard roof, to find Yolande glumly contemplating a sheaf of papers. She waved it at her sister as she entered the salon.

‘Corinne, thank God you’re back! Georges gave me this while you were out. What does it all mean?’

‘That you’re rich and powerful.’

‘But what about my allowance?’ wailed Yolande. ‘This is all in bonds and shares.’

It took an hour to convince Yolande she wasn’t a pauper, and only a few minutes more for her to decide that Corinne was the best person to deal with her affairs. A salaried non-executive directorship on Marchand’s board without the inconvenience of work seemed a good deal overall. Afterwards Yolande went off to finish removing Toinette’s personal possessions from the house and Corinne went into her father’s office.

Small and comfortable, it couldn’t have been more different than his imposing quarters on the Avenue Montaigne. It felt so odd to be sitting behind the desk instead of in the armchair at the side. Wine charts were fixed to one wall, whilst a Fragonard adorned another. Just the style of painting her father had most enjoyed – the frivolous, erotic side of the eighteenth century. On the desk beside the computer there was a framed photo of Yolande and Corinne as children with their mother, and stuck to the monitor, a holiday snap of Toinette, laughing and happy. Corinne ripped it off and dropped it into the bin, then picked up the telephone and opened her father’s large business address book. He had never really got to grips with his personal organiser. Yes, all the numbers were there, neatly listed under newspapers.

‘
Les Echos
, can I help you?’

‘This is Corinne Marchand. I’d like to speak to your editor, please.’

Then
Le Monde
,
Le Figaro
, Reuters, Bloomberg, and the
Financial Times
in London. A press release from Marchand’s communications director would have been sufficient, but Corinne felt the personal touch would work better this time. Her husky voice sounded appealing in both English and French, and reporters were duly tasked to write up articles for the following day’s editions.

‘Do we have a picture?’ asked one senior editor.

A researcher tracked down a photo of Yolande in one of hot young designer Franco Rivera’s creations for Hervy. ‘It’s her sister.’

The editor whistled. ‘Just make sure we run it.’

Marchand shares rally under new chief executive.

‘Well done, Corinne,’ Yves said over lunch the following day.

Georges looked amused. ‘It was classic Marchand PR.’ He turned to Corinne, who sat quietly next to Yolande, rather disconcerted by their praise. ‘You’re more like your father than you know.’

She was astounded by her own success. The share price had recovered, rumours of a lawsuit had ceased that very morning, and Yolande’s beguiling smile had cheered many a businessman’s dreary commute to work. The crisis was past. Soon they were in animated discussion of the marketing plans for Hervy’s new ready-to-wear collection which was being launched in Europe and the States in the autumn.

Yolande was remarkably quiet throughout the meal. Yves, sitting opposite her, tried to read her expression, but her eyes were distant and unfathomable. When they rose from the table, he took her by the arm and steered her outside into the garden. They walked aimlessly across the lawn until they reached the welcome shade of a poplar tree. He stopped and pulled her into his arms.

‘Yolande…’

She let him hold her, but he could feel the resistance in her muscles.

‘We need to talk about the wedding.’

‘It’s useless, Yves. It’s over.’

‘
Over
? You don’t mean that.’

She broke away from him and took a few steps backwards. Then she tugged his diamond and emerald engagement ring off her finger and held it out.

Yves was shocked, but he played it cool. She was feeling fragile. There was no need for a scene. ‘I’m so terribly sorry about your father, darling. Perhaps we should talk later, hmm?’

He moved close and stroked her cheek gently. Yolande’s patience snapped. She hated the way he treated her – like a child, a small recalcitrant child. All she had ever wanted was Yves. She had adored him – hopelessly, it seemed – for ever. He’d had a string of girlfriends while she was away at school and university, and then suddenly he’d opened his heart to her, told her he loved her and proposed. She’d walked on a cloud of happiness for weeks, and then came the slow, bitter awakening. He never shared his plans, discussed their future, made her feel necessary. Worse, he never made her feel like a woman. He held her as though she were a priceless porcelain vase and pressed tentative lips against hers, and she wanted to scream at him to take her, to love her with the same fierce desire she felt for him. But he never did. If she tried to arouse him he would draw back, smile that truly sweet smile of his and stroke her cheek or kiss her hand; and make her feel as though she were five years old again, grateful that he had come to her birthday party and admired her new dress.

‘I told you – it’s over. I know you think it’s only because of Papa dying …’ Suddenly she desperately wanted to cry and she paused for some moments, fighting back the tears. ‘But it’s not that, Yves. I don’t want to marry you, that’s all.’

‘I thought you loved me,’ he said, looking straight at her.

It was harder than she had foreseen. She didn’t hate him. It was impossible to hate Yves. She’d loved him so long that he would always be part of her life, and anyway he was the sort of man you simply had to like. His blue eyes seemed to be boring right through her, but it had no effect. She could only think of Patrick. She needed him so badly. Soon she would be with him again and everything would be all right.

‘I don’t love you,’ she said. ‘Not that way. Not enough to marry you.’

Yves was stunned. She seemed determined. So beautiful. So unaware of how much she meant to him, how much he wanted her. He seized her in his arms, crushing her against him. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been around much lately. I’ve neglected you. But once we’re married it will all work out. Yolande, please …’

His lips brushed against her neck, his words came in hot breaths on her skin. She tried to break free, but he held her fast and forced his mouth down on hers with a passion that was entirely unexpected. But it was far too late now. He’d had his chance and he’d blown it. She pulled away.

‘Let me go, Yves! I mean it.’

‘Have you met someone else?’ he asked, his voice quivering slightly.

‘Surely you guessed a long time ago?’

‘But I love you!’

‘Let me go!’

He bent his head to kiss her again, but she struggled and he released her. Yolande didn’t want to see the wounded look in his eyes and ran back into the house, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. He’d get over it. His pride had taken a knock, that was all. Men didn’t suffer heartache in the same way as women.

As soon as Yves entered her office Corinne knew the inevitable had happened, but she hadn’t expected him to look quite so upset.

‘It’s over?’

He nodded.

‘I’m so sorry.’

He sat down opposite her, staring at the ring which Yolande had tossed at him as she turned away. ‘Why did she wait so long? Now she says she doesn’t even love me!’

‘I’m afraid she doesn’t tell me all her secrets.’

‘Who is he?’ demanded Yves savagely.

There was no need to stoke the fire. Corinne didn’t answer.

He was silent for several moments, then put the ring in his pocket and said goodbye. As he crossed the hall on his way out, he heard a movement on the staircase and looked up. It was Yolande. She stopped and leaned on the carved balustrade.

‘I’m really sorry, Yves. But you know I’ll always be your friend.’

He didn’t see the cool, poised woman she had become, those spellbinding siren eyes, but the little girl he had played games with, the teenager he had laughed and danced with, the Yolande he had loved for as long as he could remember. He turned on his heel and left. She sauntered into the office a few moments later looking quite puzzled.

‘Do you know, Corinne, he won’t even speak to me now?’

Her sister glanced up from her e-mails with a despairing expression, then the telephone rang. It was another business call from Paris.

Jean-Claude Marchand’s legacy wasn’t going to be an easy one.

Chapter Two

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Franco Rivera, small, sleek, dark, and harassed gazed at Yolande in surprise, then turned and bellowed to the stylists and semi-clad models behind him. ‘Catherine, that belt’s too slack! Kim, do I have to tell you
again
? It’s the
red
shawl!’

‘You’ve given Catherine my outfits!’ exclaimed Yolande. ‘Didn’t you get my voicemail? I called you yesterday to say that I’d still do the show.’

‘Here,
carissima
, come where we can talk.’

Franco led her to the relative oasis of a clothes rail loaded with numbers for Hervy’s autumn collection. The Rivera style, instantly recognisable – colourful materials cut daringly, yet with the innate classicism that characterised all his work. He hugged her close and kissed her warmly on both cheeks.

‘Sorry, I’ve lost my mobile again. Catherine very kindly stepped in at the last minute, and I can’t really send her away now.’

‘I see.’ Yolande’s lips puckered slightly.

‘I thought – well, with your father’s death. I was sorry, truly sorry to hear of it. He was such a lovely man.’

She looked at him sharply. ‘You think I’m a bitch, don’t you? Doing a show only a week after his funeral. But I couldn’t bear it at home another day. My sister’s taking over the business, so I’m back here where I belong.’