The Secret of the Villa Mimosa (18 page)

Phyl glanced down at her elegant black suede shoes and the rain-slicked sidewalks. The downpour had subsided to a fine drizzle, like mist on the wind. She sighed resignedly. What the hell, they were only shoes, even if they had cost a small fortune.

The cabdriver told her how to get there, and she tightened the belt of her black silk raincoat, put up her umbrella, and strode to the corner of McMahon, praying she had translated his directions correctly.

The Avenue Foch was a wide, beautiful tree-lined street lined with elegant houses and apartments, but it
was longer than she had thought. It was a stiff ten-minute walk, and she arrived at the smart apartment building breathless and damp and late. A uniformed concierge took her name, checked his list, and escorted her to the elevator. The brass cage whooshed her creakily upward, and then she stepped out into an enormous duplex penthouse.

Brad Kane was waiting for her. He looked even more handsome than she remembered: tall, lean, and blond. He was wearing an elegantly cut dark blue cashmere jacket, a blue shirt, open at the neck, well-pressed blue jeans, and expensive western boots. She thought with a smile he looked like a guy in a Ralph Lauren ad.

His light blue eyes were half hidden behind gold-rimmed eyeglasses as he walked toward her, his hands outstretched.

“Ma pauvre petite
,” he exclaimed, taking in her soaked appearance. “Paris has attempted to drown you. Come, we must take care of you.”

She thought with astonishment,
He must be very rich.
The apartment was palatial; there seemed to be acres of polished parquet floors and enormous Aubusson rugs, massive pieces of gilded boulle furniture, beautiful Venetian mirrors, and sparkling chandeliers. As she followed him through the hall, Phyl caught a glimpse of a huge Rembrandt on one wall, and surely that was a Renoir, and wasn’t that a Corot?

“Come with me,” he said briskly, taking her hand as they walked through a sitting room, down another hallway—and into a bedroom.

Phyl froze at the doorway.

“Quickly, take off your shoes,” he said. “And your stockings.”

She stared numbly at him. He walked to the bedside table and pressed a bell. Then he turned to look at her and laughed. “It’s all right. I’m not going to seduce you. I’ll just ask my valet to dry them. After all, you can’t sit all night with wet feet.”

Phyl knew she was blushing and knew he was laughing at her. She thought angrily she hadn’t felt this foolish since she was seventeen.

He pointed to the bathroom. “You’ll find a pair of slippers and a towel in there.”

She went to the bathroom and closed the door. She pulled off her tights, smoothed back her hair, and pressed a cool cloth to her burning cheeks. The terry slippers were too big for her, and she grinned wryly at her ridiculous image in the mirror, in sexy black Alaia and floppy slippers. She took a deep breath, took herself in hand, and shuffled back out to find him.

“Hi,” she said, smiling hesitantly from the doorway. “Sorry I was late, but the traffic … and the rain—”

“No matter, now you are here.” Their eyes met. “And just as beautiful as I recalled.”

A young white-jacketed Asian hovered behind him in the doorway, clutching her wet shoes. “Give François your other things,” Brad said. “He will dry them for you.”

She did as she was told, and François disappeared. Brad led her to a chair and told her to sit down. Weakly she found herself obeying his every command. She was astonished by how compliant she was; she was always the one in control. She was surprised how easy it was for her to assume this new submissive role. And how subtly pleasant it was. She watched silently as Brad took a towel and knelt in front of her. He removed the slippers; then he took her right foot and began gently to dry it.

He glanced up at her and smiled. “You know it’s a fact that not many women have pretty feet. Too many years of high heels and tight shoes. But yours are truly beautiful. Slender, smooth, beautiful bones. Delicate as a racehorse.”

The sight of him on his knees in front of her holding her foot generated such a sudden erotic charge that Phyl felt herself tremble.
Fool
, she told herself severely
again as she quickly put on the slippers and walked with him into the enormous salon.
You’ve been here only five minutes, and that’s twice you’ve thought he was about to seduce you.

“Sit here, my dear Dr. Phyl,” he said, leading her to a sumptuous brocade sofa in front of a blazing fire. “Toast those beautiful toes while I attempt to redress the rain damage by pouring you a drink.”

Champagne waited in a silver bucket on a side table. “To a happy coincidence,” he said, raising his glass and looking deep into her eyes, “that you and I were on the Paris flight together. And that I get to see you again.”

“You seem to spend a lot of time on planes,” she said, remembering their conversation.

“My business causes me to travel a great deal.”

She crossed her legs primly and took a cautious sip of the champagne. “And what exactly is your business?”

“You’ll be surprised when I tell you.” He grinned engagingly at her. “I own one of the largest cattle ranches in America.”

Phyl gave an astonished laugh. “You don’t look like my idea of a real cowboy.”

“Maybe not now. But I was. Still am, when I need to be. When I was a kid, I loved all that: riding the range, rounding up the cattle. Now it’s all numbers and percentages, taxes, and acreage, government subsidies and lobbies, and about a million problems. But I guess I still love it. Or at least I love the land. And the tradition. The Kanoi Ranch was started by my grandfather. When he died, my father inherited it, and now it’s mine. Third generation may not make it the oldest in the United States, but it’s one of the few still remaining in the same family.”

“That’s wonderful. To love what you do. What you are.”

“And I really do love it. Passionately. You might call it my raison d’être.”

His eyes hardened as he looked at her. “I would never part with Kanoi, though Lord knows I’ve had enough offers. Enormous offers. From the Japanese especially. But I’ll never let Kanoi pass out of the family. Never. I’d die first.”

“And when you do die, who will inherit?”

His look was enigmatic. “Why, my son, of course.”

Phyl thought regretfully she might have guessed he was too good to be true; he was married. “And how old is your son?” she asked as nonchalantly as she could, taking a sip of her champagne.

He threw back his head and laughed. “He’s no age yet. Zero. A figment of the future, yet to be born. And I have yet to find a wife.
The perfect wife.
” His eyes twinkled as he refilled her glass. His mood change from intense and serious to teasing and flirtatious was so sudden it took her by surprise.

“Tell me about yourself,” he commanded.

She said uneasily, “I’m usually the one asking that question. Now I’m not sure I like it.”

“But surely you have nothing to hide?”

“I have found that most people have something to hide. Maybe even you and I.”

She began to tell him about her work and her busy life. “I’m constantly on the run,” she admitted with a weary sigh, “from TV studio to hospital to patients to my writing to book tours. And I confess this Paris trip is an excuse to escape it all for a week.” She laughed. “I feel like a kid playing hooky.”

François reappeared with her shoes, miraculously dry and looking good as new. She put them on, and they walked around the corner to Chez Georges.

Brad put his arm around her shoulders as they walked, holding her close to him, sharing the umbrella. As she matched her stride to his long legs, Phyl was aware of the warmth of his body, his nearness, the
touch of his hand. The gentle, intimate pressure of his arm on her shoulders sent a thrill of excitement through her, and she pulled away, afraid he might sense it. She told herself severely she was reacting like a high school teenager on her first visit to Paris, but then she smiled, suddenly not caring. She was enjoying herself in a way she had not in a long time, enjoying feeling young and carefree.

The bistro was crowded. Lamps cast pools of golden light over the white linen-clothed tables, and there was an aroma of good food and the soft murmur of conversations in French she could not understand. It added to her feeling of isolation, of separateness, alone with Brad Kane at their small corner table.

She was giddy from jet lag and wine, a different person from the calm, controlled, busy Dr. Forster. It was as though tonight she had left her real world and her cares behind. She felt feminine, sensual, alive to every nuance. And, she told herself nervously, less sure of herself. But Brad Kane was attentive and charming; he was handsome and sexy. And she was footloose and fancy-free in Paris. Life felt pretty good at Chez Georges that night.

Brad gave the waiter their order and then he began to tell her about his idyllic childhood on Hawaii. And about his parents: the good-looking father and the ravishingly beautiful mother. About running wild on their own private island retreat. And about the great house at Diamond Head and the thousands of acres of ranchland on the Big Island.

Phyl was enchanted by the ideal world he described; it was so different from the harrowing tales of family life she was so used to hearing, and she thought how lucky he was.

“It was my father who instilled in me my deep love of Kanoi,” Brad said, and she thought, enthralled, that his voice was as deep and smooth as the red wine she was drinking. “He taught me the history of Hawaii, he
told me how the Kane family had worked hard for almost a century to carve out our heritage. He told me about the sweat and toil and anguish that went into making the Kanoi Ranch what it is today.

“I adopted my father’s wisdom like a sponge. He gave me my values. He told me that the Kane name and the Kanoi Ranch and fortune were paramount in our lives. Nothing else mattered.”

He met Phyl’s wide sapphire eyes frankly. “And that’s why I travel so much. I divide my time between Europe, taking care of our business interests here, and the ranch in Hawaii.”

“Tell me about your father?” Phyl asked, curious about every aspect of Brad’s life. “He sounds like a dynamic character.”

He laughed. “That he was. Jack Kane was a hard man. And a hard drinker. He never really counted any man his friend because he could never bring himself to trust anybody. But women found him exciting. He was tall, fit, good-looking. He could ride a horse better than any cowboy. I used to watch him when I was a kid, and I remember thinking he was the picture of grace, flowing with the animal as though they were one. And he lived for Kanoi.”

“And your mother?”

Brad’s eyes hardened. “My mother was spoiled and temperamental. But you cannot imagine any woman more beautiful. She had the kind of loveliness that strikes like a poisoned dart at men’s hearts. My father hated other men to look at her. Yet he was never faithful to her.”

“Did she know about it?”

“I guess she did,” he said, staring moodily into his glass. He drank the wine in a quick gulp. Then, as if realizing he had revealed too much, he added lightly, “I mustn’t forget that I’m with a psychiatrist.” He gave her a quick sunny smile in another sudden mood swing that left her bewildered. “Next thing I know you’ll
have me on your couch, and I’ll discover I’m full of complexes and phobias I never suspected I had.”

Fatigue crawled subtly down Phyl’s spine, her limbs were suddenly heavy, and her eyelids felt as though they had weights on them. She yawned, then apologized, and he said quickly it was his fault and they were both jet-lagged.

They strolled back to his apartment and picked up his car, a black Ferrari.
What else would a man like him have?
Phyl thought, leaning sleepily back against the soft leather as he drove her home.

At the hotel he stopped the car and turned to look at her. “I can’t think when I’ve enjoyed an evening so much,” he said softly. “Thank you, Dr. Phyl.” Breathless with anticipation of his lips on hers, she gazed into his eyes. “We should do this again,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it instead. “May I call you?”

Phyl said regretfully, “I’m busy with the conference. And I’m leaving for the Riviera on Tuesday.”

“I’ll remember that,” he said. She waved as he sped away into the traffic.

The next evening, when she returned to the hotel from the conference, there were masses of white tulips and freesias and a note from him. “Dinner tonight? Please say yes.”

She didn’t think twice; she just canceled the conference reception and called him.

“I’ll take you to one of Paris’s oldest and finest restaurants,” he promised.

She dithered for ages over what dress to wear, finally deciding on a feminine short black lace. She smiled as she remembered Mahoney’s remark about red and tucked a red rose into her hair and rubies and diamonds in her ears. When she looked at herself in the mirror, she saw a different woman, a softer, tremulously alive woman.
A sexy woman
, she admitted with a long sigh that had nothing to do with fatigue or de
spair. And that was a woman she had not allowed to be seen for a long time.

In the bar downstairs Brad looked admiringly at her. “The American in me would say you look like a million dollars,” he said, kissing her hand gallantly. “But tonight, the Frenchman in me must tell you, you look
ravissante.
”

He took her to Le Grand Véfour, and Phyl thought the rococo dining room with its gilt mirrors and enormous floral displays was divine; she thought the food was delicious and the wines were sublime. And Brad Kane looked after her as though she were some precious hothouse flower. She smiled as she felt herself blooming in the warmth of his subtle compliments, remembering herself telling Mahoney she was an ice maiden. Mahoney hadn’t believed her, and she thought now he was being proved right. She could almost feel herself melting under Brad’s warm gaze.

He was the perfect host and the most attentive escort. He recommended dishes he thought she would like, he ordered red wine because it was her favorite, and he pointed out all the celebrities dining there. He recounted the history of the grand old restaurant and told her stories of Paris life and gossip. He put himself out to entertain and amuse her, and he succeeded so well she was enchanted.