R Is for Rebel (29 page)

Abigail was trying to distract herself from the power of his words. The truth of them always made her want to wince a little, as from a too-hot coal fire in the old-fashioned grate at Dunlear. “I know. I know it's all true, but it's just so—”

“Abigail!” He didn't raise his voice often, other than to roar his carnal satisfaction, so when he did, Abigail started.

“Yes?”

“Look at me.”

She kept her gaze down. “I don't need to look at you to know you're right. I feel kind of weak when I look at you.” He put his finger under her chin, and with a gentle urging, brought her face to face with him. Her eyes were shimmering with unshed tears and her lips were twisted into a lopsided smile. “See?” she croaked.

“Oh, Abigail. It's all too much, isn't it?”

She hated feeling like a little girl, but something about broken engagements and moving across continents made her feel entirely
small
.

“It will all turn out right,” she hiccupped and wiped at a stray tear. “I know that's true, here”—she put her hand on his heart—“but everything out there?” She tossed her head toward the large windows overlooking the Place Vendôme. “It feels tricky and loaded with obstacles and trials.”

“Abigail—”

“No, wait, because I think this is legitimate. It's not just that I feel like a home wrecker”—she knew it was tired ground, they'd argued that point past death—“but more that I don't want to look back a few years from now and feel like we were swept up in this part of everything. I love feeling swept up.” She gestured between the two of them and let her hand return to his warm chest, loving the feel of his constant, reliable heart pounding beneath her touch. “Swept up here, this way, but all of the realities of where we will live and how we will live, I need to own all of that.”

Eliot rolled his eyes. “I don't even know what that means. My mother says crap like that all the time, about
owning
this or that, and it makes me feel like a friggin' caveman that I have no clue what that really means.”

She brought her hand up to his cheek for a moment then let it rest back on his chest. “You know exactly what I mean. I want to go through all of it together. To decide together. Not feel thrust along by circumstance… or you.”

“I'll thrust you along.” He winked, then tried to give the situation the serious attention she wanted. “That's all fine in theory, but the reality is that someone has to at least initiate the plan. Let it be you. I'd welcome that. But the sad, immature truth is that I'm simply overcome with eagerness. I don't think any decision at this point could possibly be construed as rash, after all the hand-wringing that's preceded it.”

She released a long exhale. “You're right. I think I'm just being a coward and wanting to crawl under the bed until you sort everything out with Marisa… what if she fights for you? I would. I will!”

“That's more like it.” He kissed her and nipped at her soft bottom lip. “Please leave all that to me. If it helps assuage your conscience, you were first. For whatever that's worth. She can't win, and I doubt she even wants to. I mean, after the initial shock of not having her plan executed,” he pinched the words out, “I think she's honest enough to know it's all for the best… for her most of all.”

Abigail gave him a cynical look.

“Well, maybe not
most
of all, but, at least, on some level, it's got to be better for her to be free than to be with someone whose heart is firmly held by another.” He looked down at Abigail's hand resting on his chest to make his point.

She leaned in to kiss his chest, loving the feel of his heart beating on her lips, the feel of his chest hair against her wandering fingertips. She pulled away slightly, still looking up at him. “Your heart really is mine, after all, isn't it?” Her lips were moist and full from their endless lovemaking of the past week. Her eyes were shining with hunger and satisfaction and anticipation and simple love.

Eliot tried to win the ongoing battle within him: to stare forever into those willing eyes, savoring the timeless beauty of her skin, the straight perfection of her nose, the high arch of her brow, or to dive at her and take and give everything her look promised and demanded. He looked his fill, then he took her hard and thoroughly, with an animal ferocity she had encouraged him to honor over the past days. Sharing that demanding, primal part of him always brought Abigail to the highest reaches of her own satisfaction.

She relived the sweet aftermath of those powerful moments again and again as her body lay there in London, alone and empty. He was right, as usual. Being apart was simply not tenable.

Eliot had meetings in Milan for the two days after he left Paris. Marisa had had very limited access to reliable communication while she'd been in Tanzania, so he had not expected to hear from her for the weeks she was away, but he was surprised he'd only had one quick text that morning letting him know she was back in Geneva.

He took a deep breath and dialed her cell. It was early Monday morning and she sounded like she was already deep in work mode.

“Hey, Eliot. How are you?”

“Good. How was your trip?”

“Great,” she answered a bit too enthusiastically, thinking foolishly of that kiss in Frankfurt, then reminding herself that Eliot was asking about Africa. “They broke ground on the hospital. It was really something to be there for that. Thanks for asking.”

Eliot was surprised at the mellow, grateful tone of her voice. She sounded oddly relaxed. “So, I'll be back in Geneva tomorrow night. Are you free for dinner?”

She swiveled in her office chair to take in the priapic spray of the fountain in the middle of Lake Geneva. The early morning sun was clear and pristine.
Fresh start
popped into her mind. “Yes. I don't have anything booked. Where do you want me to meet you?”
Please
don't say your place
, she thought as soon as she'd asked him to decide. She was afraid he had recommitted himself to their wedding, and she was no longer sure she wanted to recommit. She needed to think a bit more about James before she gave up on Eliot, certainly, but she didn't want to be lulled into the comfortable routine of their life together—the subtle ease of Eliot's beautiful home and how easily they got on there—and let that affect her decision.

Eliot tried to tease out some meaning from the strange tone that kept creeping into Marisa's voice: cautious, but certainly not fearful. “Let's just go for beer and fondue,” he suggested, “if you don't mind. I've had enough fancy French food to last me a year. Unless you're craving sushi or something?”

“No. Fondue sounds fine. I'll see you tomorrow night at Soleil at seven. Sound good?”

“Great, see you then.”

“Okay, I've got to hop, Eliot. I'll see you then.”

Then the phone went dead. Eliot held his quiet cell phone in the palm of his hand and stared at it as if it were a curious Etruscan artifact. What in the world was that about? No outpouring of detailed successes from Africa? No (justifiable) interrogation about the status of his unresolved feelings for the anonymous other woman? What the hell? Was she going to act as if their discussion of three weeks ago had never transpired?

***

Marisa looked at her desk and decided to drown herself in the backlog of work that had piled up in her absence. After two hours, she had slogged through most of her emails, dealing with those she could, delegating where possible, and setting aside the others for closer replies later in the week. She was just starting to open her paper mail when the phone on her desk rang.

“Marisa Plataneau.” Her tone was bitter: she was grimacing at a letter from a foundation in New York that was declining a recent grant application.

“As bad as all that?” The British lilt was unmistakable.

Marisa dropped the piece of paper she was holding and watched as it floated down onto her desk. A flash of sizzling joy crackled through her. “Just got a lot better.”

“Are you still engaged?”

“Last time I checked, yes.”

“Are you free this weekend?”

“How did you get my number?”

“Your luggage tag.”

She laughed at his tone, as if it was perfectly right and just that he would do so.

“Hi, James.”

“Hi, Marisa.”

She turned to look out at the lake again. The golden midday sun shone on the dark blue surface. Two small craft were braving the brisk, Alpine wind, their sails perfect white triangular silhouettes.

“So? Are you free this weekend?” His voice was even more intoxicating on the telephone, if that was possible. His low rolling timbre had been heady in person; now it was downright erotic.

“I don't know James. I mean—”

“Hear me out. Obviously, I have my own crass, selfish interests clouding my powers of analysis, but listen. I'm not saying you should throw over the future Mister Plataneau for me, but I'm not sure this guy you are with now is the right guy.”

“You don't even know him. Or me, for that matter.”

“I don't know him, and I don't care to. But you… now there's the interesting part of all this. You just don't seem, I don't know, fully committed.”

Marisa corralled her thoughts as best she could, weighing the strong desire to be completely honest with James against the fact that he was a veritable stranger. This newfound, compelling urge to expose herself to him won out. “Here's the thing, and I kind of hate you a little bit for it, but you are absolutely correct. I don't feel comfortable going into the details—he is still my fiancé after all, and he is, on every level, a very good man, and I am a good woman, I suppose.” James hummed his agreement as she continued. “But whether or not he and I are good together? I wonder. And then, well, I do not think these are the thoughts that an engaged woman is supposed to be entertaining.”

James was sitting on the edge of his desk in the mahogany, wood-paneled office that his father, and generations of Mowbrays before him, had occupied. He felt her bending slightly toward him, like a palm tree in a gentle leeward breeze. “I can't say I envy your position, but since you already seem to be questioning the… viability… of the whole enterprise, perhaps you'd enjoy a weekend in the country to, you know, unwind.”

“What country might that be?”

“England. The English countryside. Perhaps you've heard of it? I'm heading out to my cousin's for a house party, for the weekend, and he told me to bring a date. And I want you.” He paused. “As my date, I mean.”

“James.” She said his name matter-of-factly, simply to hear it and feel it on her lips.

“Marisa.”

She closed her eyes and felt the caress of her name on his lips. And then decided that she had as much right to second thoughts as Eliot and threw caution to the very blustery Swiss wind. “Yes. My answer's yes. I can probably get to London by suppertime on Friday… I might even be able to schedule some meetings for Friday there during the day.”

James tried to think of something more eloquent than
thank
you,
God
, but nothing came to mind so he stayed silent.

“James?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what do you think?”

“I think… I think I am feeling very lucky and can't quite get past that at the moment.”

Marisa felt herself respond to the heat of his voice and his enthusiasm. “Oh. I thought maybe you were just toying with me, you know, to see if I would say yes.”

“Why would you think that?” He sounded irritated.

“I don't know. I am not well-versed in the art of planning secret weekends.”

“It's not secret as far as I'm concerned. I'm bringing you to a house filled to the rafters with prying relatives. Prepare yourself.”

“Well, maybe it's not right, then. I feel a bit treacherous.”

“Oh, please don't change your mind now. I mean, I suppose we could check into a hotel somewhere, but that feels even more clandestine and guilty somehow. And I don't want to feel the least bit guilty. You will have your own room. It's rather a castle.”

“What do you mean it's
rather
a castle? Is it a castle?”

“Well, it is. Yes.”

“I think I need to know a bit more about you, Mr. James Moh-Bree.”

James loved the slight hint of French on that last syllable. “What would you like to know?”

“Just a few basic facts. What do you do for a living? Any family to speak of? Ex-wives? Children? That sort of thing.”

“I am thirty-six years old.”

“So am I.”

“Never married.”

“Neither am I. Yet.”

“No children. Yet.”

Marisa felt a ping of excitement that she'd never felt before, with Eliot or anyone else. The idea of participating in the creation of James Mowbray's children made her feel a little light-headed. “I don't have any children either,” she added. “Yet.”

“I work for my family's clothing business, a British men's clothing business that I'm attempting to wrest out of the dark ages and into the twenty-first century. I have four sisters and live in London. Does that suffice?”

Marisa felt suddenly deflated. What was it with her and men who worked in textiles? He most certainly knew, or knew of, Eliot. It was impossible. She remained quiet.

“What is it?” James asked.

“
Ouf.
It is just… well… you probably know my fiancé because he's in a similar business and I think it all feels a bit too close to home. I don't know, James. I—”

“Do you want to tell me who he is? I don't want to cause you any trouble. Maybe you're right.”

That wasn't what she wanted to hear at all. She felt let down and a bit lost that he had given in so easily.

“But,” he added carefully, “I don't think you are.”

Maybe if she avoided Eliot for the rest of the week, she could spend the weekend with James and chalk him up as a prewedding fling. Over and out, as Eliot liked to say. It seemed terribly conniving, but Eliot had really been the one to set this whole ball in motion in the first place by making his own hesitation known. She exhaled. “All right, you are probably going to Google it anyway, so I might as well tell you. He's Eliot Cranbrook… of Danieli-Fauchard.”

James was gutted. Eliot wasn't just a good man, he was one of the best. James had met him at Devon's wedding last year and they had spoken many times at fashion awards ceremonies and other industry events. He had seen him from afar at several of the shows in Paris only last week. “Huh.”

“Yeah,” Marisa said. “Huh.”

“I kind of wish you hadn't told me.”

“I know. I kind of wish I didn't have to. But that's why I need to be, if not clandestine, at least a bit discreet. I am so not a romantic, James, truly. But whatever sprang to life between us at the airport yesterday… it feels real to me. Does that make any sense?”

“Perfect sense,” he replied gently.

“So. What do you think?”

“I think you should still come to Dunlear with me and we will have a great weekend, and it's none of anyone's business who you are or what you are doing there. Max invited me and I invited you, and that's the end of it. The only thing is, I think one of my cousins' wives is a pretty good friend of Eliot's. It's Sarah James, you know, the shoes? Anyway, it's her brother-in-law who's hosting the party. Max Heyworth is his name and he's one of my oldest, closest friends.”

“I don't know, James. If it gets back to Eliot—”

“Would that really be so bad?”

She was silenced into contemplating the truth of what he said.

“Look, Marisa, I'm not saying he should be the brunt of gossip or anything, but the more I talk to you, the more I feel like I might be the way out you have been looking for. Just tell him.”

“Jesus. It's like I am riding along thinking,
Yes, yes, yes
, and then you say something like that and I stop short, and think,
No!
Tell him what, exactly? That after he and I have been dating, living together, and planning to marry over the course of the past year, that suddenly I have met someone—precisely
one
day ago—and am now having second thoughts. It's ludicrous. I am notoriously rational. My father is a philosophy professor. I have never lacked conviction!”

James burst out laughing and then Marisa started laughing too. They both simmered down. Then James continued with his gradual assault. “Here's the thing, Marisa. I want to parade you around on my arm and laugh at a big table of friends with my hand resting on your leg beneath the tablecloth and, well, you can imagine quite well what I want to do after that, but you will have your own room and it's not an orgy or anything. Just come as my guest and meet my friends and see parts of my life other than those few hours spent on layovers in Frankfurt.
Please
.”

She suspected she would have followed him into a burning building when he asked like that, his voice kind, but laced with something dark and compelling. “Very well. I must be losing my mind, but I feel like I've been such an obedient, driven thing for so many years and now I just want this bit for myself and everyone else can take their suicidal French rationalists and stick them somewhere.”

James started laughing again, joyfully. “Fabulous. If you are able to come into London on Friday for meetings, that would be ideal. We can drive out to Dunlear that afternoon. Otherwise, if you come in that night, try to get a flight into Gatwick. That's the closest airport.”

“I'm really going to do this?”

“Yes. Thank god, yes. Here, take my details and I'll be back in touch in a day or two to confirm you got everything settled.” James gave her his phone and email contacts and told her again how much he was looking forward to seeing her at the end of the week.

***

Eliot didn't know if he was more grateful or frustrated that Marisa had avoided him all week. She basically blew him off that first night, calling him late in the afternoon and saying she was swamped with a backlog of work from being away for three weeks. He didn't doubt it. His own office was in a wild flurry of post–Fashion Week activity, following up on huge orders for the coming season.

She said she was staying at her flat in town that night and would probably spend the rest of the week there as well, seeing as she'd be working late for a few nights to come.