The Paris Secret (45 page)

‘I can’t.’

‘Too bad.’ She was moving again, slipping through the crowd, away from him, escaping him.

His hand. Her wrist. Back there again.

‘Listen to me—’

‘No. I heard enough.’ She went to claim her arm back but he was holding harder this time. She couldn’t fool him twice.

‘Look, I got it wrong, OK? I let you down when you needed me.’ Every word seemed cloaked in velvet, his accent a caress she could curl into.

‘But I didn’t need you,’ she replied coolly, watching to see her words wound. ‘The case was thrown out. She’s been charged with perverting the course of justice. It
was all lies, just like I said.’ She looked up into those dark shimmering eyes, wanting to see the look that came into them when he saw he’d thrown her – them – away for
nothing.

It was already there. ‘I should have listened to you.’

‘Damn right you should,’ she said, her anger a white heat that radiated from her. ‘But instead you left me to face it all on my own.
You
, who should have known better
than anyone how lonely it is to be defined by lies! No one else could have understood it but you – and you didn’t. You just couldn’t see beyond your pain, your loss. No one else
mattered. Not me. I didn’t.’

He stared down at her, unbroken and resolute. ‘You have to understand – it’s been
years
of trauma that we’ve gone through with Natascha. It broke us all. She is
not the only victim, you know. My mother does not eat, my father does not sleep. I haven’t been free to live my life the way I want, where I want, doing what I want. Our entire lives are
lived through the prism of her needs, Flora. How could I have explained to her what you meant to me and in the next breath, told her about your brother? She would have seen it as a betrayal. I had
no choice!’

‘No. And I guess you never will.’ Flora blinked back at him, willing her anger to stay with her. She understood his dilemma even if she couldn’t forgive it, but there was no
point in either compassion or forgiveness. There would be no apology, no begging, for this was the bleak truth that would always separate them. Freddie had been the lucky one. He’d been able
to get justice in time, but it was too late for Natascha now. Xavier was right; they had been living with the scars for too long and she was too damaged to ever let him go. He would never be there
for her. Natascha would always come first. ‘You’re trapped, Xavier. But I’m not.’

Like a flash of light on a blade, she turned away and slipped into the crowd, her arm raised in the air to catch the first passing cab.

‘Flora, wait!’ he cried, catching up with her three seconds later, standing by her shoulder. ‘You don’t understand. That’s why I’m here. Things have changed.
The press at home – it’s all come out about Desanyoux. Natascha has given a statement to the police about what he did. It’s looking like they’re going to prosecute.
Don’t you see? It’s set her free. She can finally move forward with her life.’

A taxi had pulled to a stop by the kerb in front of her and Flora – who had reached to open the door – paused, feeling her heart quicken at the news.

People bustled past them, newspapers turned into makeshift rain covers over their heads as they ran for shelter, and Flora realized as she looked up at him that she – he – must be
soaked too, although she wasn’t aware of it. Rather, she was remembering the last time they’d stood in the rain; it had been the same then, too – wanting him, not understanding
him.

‘I really hope so,’ Flora said sadly. ‘She deserves it. You all do.’

She opened the taxi door but he stopped it mid-swing, with an outstretched arm.

‘Where the hell are you going?’ he cried. ‘Didn’t you hear what I just said? We can be together now.’

She shook her head. ‘It’s over, Xavier. I can’t be with someone I don’t trust – and I don’t trust you not to throw me over again. I’m sorry but whatever
you think’s going on between us – it isn’t enough.’

‘It’s everything!’ he shouted above the rain. ‘You know how I found you just now? I smelled your hair! In this city, with all these people, in the pouring rain, I could
smell
you.
I turned round and there you were running in the opposite direction, even though I’d told them to keep you there till I arrived.’

A beat pulsed and the cabbie stuck his head out of the window.

‘Look, love, you getting in or what?’ he asked.

Before Flora could think to reply, Xavier hurriedly pulled a twenty from his pocket and told the driver to beat it.

She stared at him, open-mouthed.

He shrugged, a playful smile twitching on his lips. ‘What? I’d pay anything if I thought it would get you back. Twenty pounds? Thirty? There’s no limit!’

She half-laughed but not quite. To laugh was to let him in and she wouldn’t – couldn’t – do that again. Her shoulders slumped, wearied from the fight. ‘Don’t
you get it, Xavier? We’re no good for each other. All we are is a fucked-up mix of lust and confusion. I can’t live like that. I don’t know which way is up with you.’

He took a step closer. ‘Good. Your life should be turned upside down when you fall in love.’

‘L . . . love?’
she spluttered. ‘Are you completely mad? How can you even use that word? This is the second-longest conversation we’ve ever had!’

‘So? You had me at “Go to hell”.’

She laughed this time in spite of herself, seeing the way his eyes softened at the sound.

It emboldened him and he took another step nearer, standing so close now their toes almost touched. ‘Actually, it was before that. I fell for you the second I walked in and found you
wrestling with the ostrich.’ He paused for a second, mischief enlivening his eyes, making her heart skip. ‘How did you know it was my fantasy?’

Flora laughed again, wrong-footed by his humour at a time like this, but she stopped soon enough as his fingers pushed her hair away from her face. She tried to read him, resist him, knew she
could do neither. ‘Her name’s Gertie.’

‘Gertie? The ostrich?’

She nodded, wishing he didn’t smell so good, wishing his eyes didn’t burn like that – desire and laughter and irreverence and fearlessness swirling in an intoxicating mix that
made it hard for her to breathe.

His hold on her tightened. ‘God, that was in the fantasy too,’ he murmured, pulling another smile from her.

‘Anything else in this fantasy of yours I should know about?’

There was a riot in his eyes now. ‘Well, if you want to be faithful to the original version, you’re naked.’ He shrugged.

She laughed again, cross to be laughing, helpless against his charm assault. ‘Oh, am I?’

He shrugged. ‘Yes. You, me . . . Gertie.’

Her smile faded as she stared up at him, wondering how this enigma of a man had managed to change so much, doing so little. ‘We don’t know each other, Xavier.’

She felt his fingertips press against her. ‘Yes, we do. In our souls we do. We’ve both known it from the beginning. The rest is just detail.’

‘You call knowing the intricacies of someone’s life a detail?’

‘Yes. All that matters is the kiss. It’s the kiss that reveals the heart,’ he murmured, rubbing his thumb gently along her lower lip, triggering a flutter in her belly.

It was all over. Who was she trying to kid? Her head didn’t believe a word of what he was saying but for the first time in her life, that was seemingly irrelevant; her heart wouldn’t
have it any other way. She’d take him however she could get him. ‘You’d better kiss me then and show me yours.’

His eyes fell to her lips and she felt her longing for him surge. ‘. . . No.’

‘
No?
’

He smiled wickedly, stepping back and taking her by the hand. ‘First we talk.’

‘Oh,
now
you want to talk?’ she protested as he began to lead her up the street, his arm outstretched for his driver whom she could see now, parked a discreet distance away.
‘I don’t believe you! You’re incorrigible. Is it always going to be like this?’

He stopped and whirled her into his arms, his fingers pushing back her hair as she stared up at him, the rain on her face: breathless, disoriented, his. ‘Yes,’ he whispered.
‘It is.’

This story is based on the real-life discovery a few years ago of an abandoned Paris apartment, locked up since the Second World War. I vividly remember seeing the images
online – do google it and you’ll see – and feeling so fascinated by this dusty time capsule. I kept wondering not just about the people who had been forced to flee it, but why no
one had ever come back. After all, it takes something to wilfully forget that you own an apartment in Paris!

So where does real life end and fiction begin? Well, Gertie the ostrich is real (although perhaps not called Gertie by anyone else!), but I’ve allowed my imagination to run away in almost
every aspect – from the apartment’s location and layout to its ownership and reasons for abandonment – and although I’ve used some real names, such as Auguste Renoir and
Ambroise Vollard, others such as Faucheux and Huber are made up, as are all the paintings described. I really hope you enjoyed the story, but of course, its historical backdrop is rooted in
painfully true events and I was very conscious of this in the telling of it. Even over seventy years later, it doesn’t make for easy reading and nor should it.

I would like to thank my brilliant, indomitable, ‘give me a bar chart’ agent Amanda Preston for being so enthusiastic when I first mooted the idea of writing this
story. I wasn’t sure whether to proceed as the apartment’s discovery had been widely covered in the media and I wasn’t convinced I could take such an intriguing, high-profile
prospect and do it justice. As ever, Amanda gave me the courage to have a go.

Also, the amazing team at Pan Macmillan who have embraced this book with gusto and big hearts, delivering a beautifully fresh cover look – thank you James Annal – and energetic
marketing campaign – yes, I do mean you Jodie Mullish! I am indebted to my copy-editor, Mary Chamberlain, and proofreader, Amber Burlinson, who took a very dense plot and helped me simplify
and streamline it; and to my editors Victoria Hughes-Williams and Caroline Hogg, who knew exactly how and when to crack the whip. To Anna Bond, Daniel Jenkins, Eloise Wood and Katie James, you
shall all be hugged very hard next time I see you, so perhaps adopt the brace position?

For my parents, Malcolm and Mally, and my parents-in-law, Victor and Lynne, your love and support is invaluable. You had faith in me even before the first book was finished, and writing two
books a year with a young family is only possible because of all your help with the children, the dogs, tea and cake, and fizz o’clock. I appreciate each one of your kindnesses and every
effort.

To my beloved family, thank you for walking the entire Cap of Cap d’Antibes with me, just so that I could check out the big estates, and particularly to my husband Anders for tolerating
spending fifteen euros on Cokes. Trekking all those Provençal miles – oh my goodness, Saint-Paul-de-Vence in 95-degree heat! – may have been done in the name of research, but you
all made it such fun. If the journey is the destination, I never want ours to end.

Also by Karen Swan

Players

Prima Donna

Christmas at Tiffany’s

The Perfect Present

Christmas at Claridge’s

The Summer Without You

Christmas in the Snow

Summer at Tiffany’s

Christmas on Primrose Hill

First published 2016 by Macmillan

This electronic edition published 2016 by Macmillan
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com

ISBN 978-1-4472-8027-9

Copyright © Karen Swan, 2016

Cover Images: Background © Dave and Les Jacobs/Gallery Stock
Girl © Shutterstock

The right of Karen Swan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Pan Macmillan does not have any control over, or any responsibility for, any author or third-party websites referred to in or on this book.

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liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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