In the Millionaire's Possession (31 page)

Unhappy colour rose in her face.
‘
Please
—
don
’
t talk like that.
’

‘
Tes conditions sont trop rigoureuses
,
ma mie
,
’
he told her mockingly.
‘
I cannot sleep with you
—
I may not even swim with you
—
and it is obvious you would prefer to eat alone. These I accept. But I refuse to censor my words
—
or my thoughts.
D
’
accord
?
’

There was a silence, then Helen nodded jerkily.
‘
As you wish.
’

‘
I recommend you treat your time with me like medicine,
cherie
.
’
Marc swallowed the remainder of his coffee and replaced the cup on its saucer. His eyes were hard.
‘
To be taken quickly and as soon forgotten.
’
He rose to his feet.
‘
Half an hour, then. And try, if you can, to smile for the cameras as if you were happy. This week will soon pass.
’

By the time they came back to the villa that evening Helen had already reached at least one conclusion.

In the sunlit hours, she thought, she could
—
just
—
play the role assigned to her. But it would be an entirely different matter when the velvety darkness descended. That was altogether too intimate an ambience, and if she was to survive, as she must, her evenings had to be her own.

So when Marc turned to her after dinner and invited her to go with him to the Yacht Club, for coffee and brandies, she refused, saying mendaciously she had a headache.

‘
Pauvre petite
.
’
His mouth curled with faint irony.
‘
Do you wish me to remain here and cherish you?
’

‘
No, thank you,
’
she returned coolly.
‘
I
’
m not chained to your wrist. You
’
re free to go out alone whenever you want.
’

‘
How sweet you are,
’
he drawled mockingly.
‘
And how understanding.
’
He paused.
‘
I shall try not to disturb you on my return.
’

Elise, who was clearing the table, sent them a look that said louder than words that such a new wife should expect to be disturbed by her husband, and should,
en effet
, actively welcome it, headache or not.

Marc walked over to Helen, dark and devastating in his tuxedo, and bent, his lips swiftly brushing her hair.

He said quietly,
‘
Sleep well,
’
and went.

There was a silence, then Elise said dourly,
‘
I will fetch you a powder,
madame
, for ze
’
eadache.
’

She not only fetched it, she stood over Helen while she swallowed the foul-tasting thing.
‘
Now you will be restored for the return of
monsieur
,
’
she said with a firm nod.

But Helen wasn
’
t so sure. The tension of walking round St Benoit Plage all afternoon, hand in hand with Marc, was threatening her with a genuine headache. It had been quite an ordeal for her, however impe ret owever imrsonal his touch.

The villa was equipped with a state-of-the-art audio system and an eclectic mix of music. Helen curled up on one of the giant hide sofas in the
salon
and put on some slow sweet jazz. But the music alone couldn
’
t stop her thinking, her mind replaying all the events of the past twenty-four hours. Above all she found herself wondering what Marc was doing
—
and who he might be with.

She
’
d been aware all afternoon of the predatory glances being aimed at him by tanned and sexy women keen to get closer regardless of her presence. And now she
’
d turned him out on the town alone…

But then what choice did she have? she argued defensively with herself. She certainly had no right to expect physical fidelity from him.

Sighing, she picked up one of the glossy magazines arranged on the low table in front of her and began to flick over the pages. She paused to glance at a double-page spread showing people attending a charity performance at the opera. The name
‘
Angeline Vallon
’
seemed to leap out at her.

She looked at the accompanying picture, her heart beating slowly and unevenly.

She saw a tall, beautiful woman, with a mane of dark auburn hair tumbling down her back, standing beside a much smaller man with a beard and a faintly peevish expression, described as
‘
her industrialist husband Hercule
’
.

Madame Vallon was wearing a very low-cut evening gown that set off her frankly voluptuous body, and a magnificent diamond necklace circled her throat.

She didn
’
t look like someone who had to ask more than once for what she wanted, thought Helen, trying not to wince. Nor someone who would be easily persuaded to let go.

And you
’
re quite right to opt for self-preservation, she told herself stoically. Because you
’
re no competition for her. No competition at all.

She closed the magazine, replacing it with meticulous exactitude on the table, and made her solitary way up to bed.

But not to sleep. Not until much later, when she eventually heard quiet footsteps passing her room, without breaking stride even for a moment, and then the sound of Marc
’
s door closing.

Helen turned on to her stomach, pressing her burning face into the pillow.

I shall not ask again
. That, after all, was what he
’
d told her. And apparently he
’
d meant every word.

Somehow she had to be grateful for this one mercy at least.

But, dear God, how painfully, grindingly difficult that was going to be for her. And she found herself stifling a sob.

CHAPTER TEN

MARC had told her the time would pass quickly, but to Helen the days that followed seemed more like an eternity. Yet under other circumstances she knew they could have been wonderful.

From that first afternoon in St Benoit Plage she seemed to have stepped through the looking glass into a different and totally unreal world, peopled only by the beautiful and the seriously affluent.

To her astonishment, Marc had been right about the photographers, and Helen had been chagrined to find herself described in the local news sheet as
‘
charming but shy
’
, under a picture of her with her mouth open, clinging to her husband
’
s hand as if he was her last hope of salvation.

Not shy, she
’
d thought wryly. Just shocked witless at all this unwonted attention.

‘
Relax,
ma mie
,
’
Marc had advised, clearly amused.
‘
They will soon focus on someone else.
’

In the days that followed he took her to Cannes, Nice and Monte Carlo, until her mind was a blur of smart restaurants and glamorous shops. She had learned early on not to linger outside the windows of boutiques, or admire anything too openly, otherwise the next moment Marc would have bought it for her. It was heady stuff for someone who
’
d existed up to now on a skeleton wardrobe, but she found his casual generosity disturbing.

No doubt he treated his mistresses equally lavishly, she thought unhappily, but at least they deserved it. Whereas she, patently, did not.

Not that he cared, she told herself defensively. After all, when this pathetic honeymoon had stumbled to its close he had Angeline Vallon waiting for him. And life would return to normal for them both.

She had to admit that Marc had kept his word about their own relationship. He
’
d made sure from the first that they were rarely alone together. In the car, with Louis as unwitting chaperone, they exchanged polite but stilted conversation, and at the villa, as he
’
d suggested, they pursued a policy of positive avoidance, under the frankly disapproving gaze of Gaston and Elise, who were clearly baffled by these strange newlyweds.

She had no idea where or how Marc spent his evenings, although she was always courteously invited to accompany him and had to struggle to invent excuses. She only knew that she lay sleepless, listening for his return, however late it happened to be. And how sad was that?

There were times when she longed to confront him
—
tell him to his face that she knew he had a mistress. But that would only betray to him how much it mattered to her, and she couldn
’
t risk that. Couldn
’
t admit that he had the power to hurt her.

Also, he might ask how she knew. And she could hardly confess that she
’
d been eavesdropping.

It was far less humiliating to simply keep quiet and count her blessings that she still had Monteagle, if nothing else.

She halted, startled, aware that she
’
d never regarded the situation in that light before. Always her home had been paramount in her thoughts. She
’
d said openly that she would do anything to save it, yet now, for the first time, she was counting the cost and finding it oddly bitter.

It will be easier when I go home, she promised herself. When I get back to the real world again.

And yet, as she at last began packing for the return journey, she found herself feeling oddly wistful
—
even empty. And for once she had a genuine headache. The sky had become overcast towards the end of the afternoon, and she wasn
’
t surprised to hear a faint rumble of thunder from the hills.

When she arrived downstairs for dinner, she found that Gaston had prudently laid the table in the
salle à manger
instead of the terrace.
‘
It makes to rain,
madame
,
’
he told her lugubriously.

Elise came bustling in with a dish of home-made duck pâté.

‘
Monsieur
begs you will commence,
’
she announced.
‘’
E is engaged with the telephone.
’

It was over ten minutes later when Marc eventually made his unsmiling appearance.
‘
I regret that I have kept you waiting.
’
The apology sounded cursory, and he ate his meal almost in silence, his thoughts quite evidently elsewhere.

Eventually, when coffee was served and they were alone, he said abruptly,
‘
We will be leaving for the airport in the morning,
à dix heures
. Can you be ready?
’

Helen put down her cup.
‘
Has the flight been changed?
’

‘
We are not catching the London plane,
’
he said.
‘
We shall be spending a short time in Paris instead.
’

‘
Paris?
’
she echoed.
‘
But where will we stay?
’

‘
I once told you that I have an
appartement
there,
’
he said.

‘
Yes,
’
she said.
‘
And a hotel suite in London.
’

His faint smile was twisted.
‘
The
appartement
is larger,
je t
’
assure
. To begin with, there is more than one bedroom,
’
he added pointedly.

She flushed dully, annoyed that he should read her so accurately.
‘
All the same,
’
she said stiffly,
‘
I
’
d prefer to go straight home.
’