MasterStroke (3 page)

All Sandrine had to remind her of her mother and father was a faded Polaroid print. In it, they looked pale and haunted, two young people, slight and good-looking, dressed casually in jeans and t-shirts, their love for each other radiantly apparent as they walked hand-in-hand towards the camera. They were in a meadow of some kind, a gentle slope of faded yellow grass, in a pale golden late afternoon light, their shadows cast long behind them. Far behind them, a hill rose and, barely peeking above its crown, was a long hard edge of terracotta roofing and a brick chimney. She had no idea where the photo was taken and neither did Bridget. The location was as much a mystery as her parents’ own lives.

Sandrine could recognise the genetic similarities with her mother who was slim and delicate with pale skin and auburn hair. Her father was just as slim with slightly darker blonde hair; her parents were quite obviously the products of a time before fast food had taken hold.

Sandrine had kept that photo in a frame on her bedside table throughout her childhood. It was the last thing she’d see at night and the first she’d see in the morning. She built up elaborate fantasies about her parents, the meadow, the golden glow and the glimpsed house beyond the hill. It permeated her waking hours and very often her dreams.

Time after time, her parents would march towards her through the swaying grass, a warm breeze stroking their hair. They would stop before her, their faces filling the photo as if it was a window from their world into Sandrine’s.

“We love you so much, darling,” her mother would say, soft and breathy. “We always have and always will.”

“Sandrine, my pretty girl, we’re so sorry we had to go away. But we’ll see you again. We love you,” her father would say in a low masculine voice she didn’t recognise but may have heard on television one day.

They would wave and smile and blow kisses. The good dreams would always start out that way. The bad dreams went darker, bleaker, and very quickly became far, far worse. Sandrine would often wake up hyperventilating, with tears stinging her eyes and soaking the pillow. They were the earliest dreams she could ever remember and she continued to have them her entire life.

Sandrine never told anyone of her dreams, least of all her aunt who, despite her warmth and fierce devotion, was essentially a down-to-earth soul. The fantasy life that Sandrine concocted around her dead parents had no real basis in fact. It was fed solely by the one photograph and the little information her aunt revealed over time. She knew nothing of the circumstances of the accident beyond that it happened in outback Australia. She knew where they were buried. One day, she was sure, she would visit their graves but she’d never felt the need. They lived on in her heart and that was all that mattered. The actual events of a quarter of a century ago mattered little.

So Sandrine grew up in the little farmhouse near Haworth in Yorkshire; her aunt often pointed out that Emily Bronte, who had lost her own mother when she was three years old, spent her early years nearby.

Over time, Sandrine and Bridget grew as close as a family could. Although an orphan, she never lacked for affection but she found it difficult to make friends and it was only after she left for London to attend university, and again to the United States for her doctorate, that she came to trust people enough to allow them into her life. Even then, not many knew much about her or the tragedy that had played such a role in her life.

To the world, she presented an image of a confident woman at ease with her own intellect and company. She attracted like-minded people and was as protective and nurturing of her friends as her aunt had been with her. But she had constructed a wall around her emotions that nothing could breach. Although devoted to her friends, she maintained a distance. And when she loved, it was with the same detachment.

She had abandonment issues, to be sure. So she chose the timing and circumstances of her affairs as well as when they would end. Intense emotional involvement rarely occurred. In many ways, she had sealed an important part of her, her heart, away with her parents’ memory and had never felt the need to release it.

Yet here she was, sitting across from a man she’d met only hours before, and feeling a very real and totally unexpected connection. Maybe it was the
côtes du rhône
or the soothing ambience of the surroundings. Or quite possibly it was the fact that he was different from so many of the men she had met.

This is crazy
, she admitted. She knew nothing about him. He could be a con man or serial killer. He had charm aplenty, more than enough confidence and appeal to open doors – and quite probably legs, Sandrine ruefully noted – anywhere he went. She was aware that his mega-watt lop-sided grin and his deep earthy voice were melting her usual reserve. But she didn’t care in the least. She would be careful. She always was. She would hold back, at least until she had a better idea of any ulterior motive on his part.

She took a deep breath.

“I grew up in England. Both my parents died when I was young. My father was French, my mother English. I was raised by my aunt. I have a graduate degree in art history but I’m not sure what I want to do with it so I’ve been working at Buckingham’s Books while I decide. I love old books with an emphasis on Romanticism, although I think I may have told you that. I also love old movies, anything from 40s film noir and musicals onwards. And comedies. Chaplin, Buster Keaton, the Marx Brothers, up to and including early ‘70s Woody Allen. I hardly ever watch television but have loads of DVDs and they’re arranged alphabetically, not by category. I eat too much ice cream when I’m watching a sad movie. I haven’t travelled much at all, mainly Europe and I spend most of my time overseas in museums and art galleries. So far, my favourites would be the Prado, the Pompidou – although I’ve never pretended to understand modern art; give me a good figurative piece anytime – and the Tate. I love food and I’m lucky enough, so far, to be able to eat what I want and not have to count calories. I have no idea where I want to be in five years and that sort of question drives me crazy. I don’t like piña coladas or getting caught in the rain. I prefer cold weather to hot and I’d never willingly go to a beach resort. I’m told I have a good sense of humour although it might take a while to catch the punchline. I’m far too conservative in my fashion sense, all my friends have told me that over the years, but I appreciate a finely tailored garment so I buy a lot of French designers from on-line auctions because I can’t afford them retail. I don’t drive and have never been able to drink much. I find it difficult to get rid of the hiccups and it’ll often lead to a sneezing fit and then I’ll end up collapsing laughing.”

Sandrine took a breath and noticed Jack had one eyebrow raised.
Well, he did ask about me.

“And I find it hard to completely trust people but I’m enjoying your company immensely and I hope we can be friends.”

Wow, where did that come from?
It sounded more like something Mariel would say. The ultimate pick-up line. Maybe the wine was making its presence felt. Whatever it was, it was exactly what she was thinking. It was just unfortunate it had tumbled out.

Jack was laughing hard but she didn’t feel threatened. It wasn’t like he was laughing at her. He was laughing with her. She just wasn’t laughing herself.

“Well, that pretty much covers all the bases. Are you always so forthcoming with strangers?”

“No, not at all. It just tumbled out.” She blanched suddenly.
I don’t understand what’s happening. I’m becoming a chatterbox, just luridly blurting out any nonsense that rushes through my head.

“Then I appreciate your honesty. And, yes, I agree. I’m enjoying this as much as you and I’d love to get to know you better.”

A warmth spread through her and she relaxed. She wasn’t sure if she blushed, she certainly hoped not, but her face felt hot. She took her time sipping the wine to cover up any embarrassment and when she looked up again Jack was staring hard at her. His gaze was intense.
Is there something wrong? Do I come across too eager?
He was probably the sort of man who had women throwing themselves at him wherever he went.

Sandrine waited, wondering where the moment would go, how the discussion would progress. There was definitely some spark, a barely discernable shift in the atmosphere. He hadn’t moved and yet he suddenly appeared to be closer, so close she could feel the heat of his body and smell a subdued yet earthy and masculine smell.

She sensed at that second that he wanted to lean across and kiss her and was shocked by the realisation. She was even more shocked that she wanted to be kissed. If she was perfectly honest, she wanted a lot more. Her body felt clammy.
What is wrong with me? He’s close but not that close and yet I’m aroused. I can feel myself wanting him. This is crazy.

Panic was about to grip her. She noticed her glass was empty.
Waiter, more wine, please. And hurry.

“I really should go. I’m having dinner with a friend,” she hurriedly said. It was a lie and she felt bad the moment the words left her mouth but this was beginning to spiral out of control and she urgently needed some space. And the opportunity to assess whether she was being too hasty.

“Yes, regrettably I have to go as well.”

Damn! Now I’ve done it.
Everything was going so well but suddenly it was like somebody had turned the music up high and the lights brighter than they should be. She looked around. She would swear there were more people than a few moments before. Their closed little world had been wrenched open.

“I’m leaving tomorrow on business and I still haven’t packed,” he continued.

“The Russian drinking cups?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you going?”

“St Petersburg. Normally, I’d stay out of Russia. It’s a little too dangerous since the Soviet Union collapsed. Too much greed and too much testosterone. But I have a good line on some items and I need to be there.”

“I’m sure you know how to take care of yourself but be careful.”

“Thanks. I’ll be about a week. When I come back, could we have dinner?”

Sandrine’s pulse drummed rapidly.

“Yes, please. I’d like that.”

“Well, you love food and I love to cook. Perhaps you’d consider a home-cooked meal?”

She smiled nervously.

“I’d usually consider that a little forward for a first date” she joked, trying the arched eyebrow thing back at him.

“Mmmm. Perhaps. Although if you count this as the first date, then dinner would be the second. That wouldn’t be too presumptuous, would it?”

“We’ll see,” Sandrine replied. But she already knew. It wouldn’t be at all.

Chapter Three

The next week came and went without word from Jack. She was busy and the shop was quiet throughout those days but her thoughts strayed to Jack frequently. It wasn’t something she was used to, thinking about a man, so she had plenty of time to dwell on exactly why Jack was dominating her thoughts.

He was gorgeous but the more he ran through her mind the more she was at a loss as to why all this was happening. It disquieted and disturbed her. She certainly didn’t feel as if she was in his league. With his male model good looks, easy charm and manifest confidence, he was probably besieged with women and Sandrine imagined him with a steady succession of lovers, of beautiful women eager for his company, eager to do anything to gain his attention.

The fact that he hadn’t been in contact made her uneasy. When she allowed herself to think of that late afternoon in the bar, when she’d so quickly and carelessly told him more about herself than she’d ever shared with anyone before, she flushed with embarrassment.
How stupid and frivolous must I have seemed?
The heat of her anger matched that of her shame.
No more drinks with strangers. How he must be laughing at me! He must be thinking it so easy to take me to bed.

That’s what happens when you open yourself up
, she reproached herself.
People treat you like a fool.
Yet, she
had
enjoyed herself. They’d playfully bantered like actors in an old-time Hollywood screwball comedy. Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert, or Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell.

It had seemed so real but Sandrine was coming to terms with the fact it had been nothing more than the wine clouding her judgement, made worse by the atmosphere of the bar and being so close to someone so attractive. His reckless masculinity was intoxicating, that was undeniable yet he gave every impression of being open and honest. She had to face up to the fact, however, that for Jack it was probably just a few minutes of light conversation and nothing more;
Jack was undoubtedly besieged by attractive women and the last thing he’d remember was someone as mousy and unappealing as me
, she reasoned sourly.

Sandrine considered herself a good judge of character and there was nothing in his manner that suggested he was anything other than the way he presented himself. But she also had to admit she knew little about men. In the past, she’d chosen her lovers carefully from the small social circle in which she moved. They were collectors or academics and were all fired with passions of a more cerebral nature. None had been as magnetic or physical as Jack.

Then again, she reminded herself, she wasn’t anything like Mariel, whose busty, sexy, confronting qualities attracted men like moths to a flame. Sandrine thought of herself as quiet, almost plain. She didn’t dress provocatively and she certainly didn’t turn heads when she walked into a room like Mariel did. Men hardly seemed to notice her which is why she reacted so inappropriately to Jack. And,
foolish girl that I am
, she lapped it up and thought it may lead to something more.

She knew what that something was. When she and Jack had parted outside the bar that night, chastely shaking hands despite her overwhelming urge to lean in close and kiss him goodbye, she was acutely aware of her arousal. It was nothing he’d said or done. He hadn’t led her on in any way. She had simply reacted to his physicality in a way that was quite unlike her. As she walked to her apartment, her coat buttoned tightly against the chill wind, her panties felt damp and her nipples were tingling and rubbing uncomfortably against the lace of her bra.