Barbara Taylor Bradford’s 4-Book Collection. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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her, for her instincts told her that something quite extraordinary had occurred, not only for herself but for Victor too. She also knew he had not taken their lovemaking lightly, was convinced in her heart of hearts that he did love her. She shifted imperceptibly, easing his weight without disturbing him, and she smiled to herself again. Her body ached, but it was a delirious feeling, like having the imprint of him on her. Euphoria pervaded her whole being. She thought she was going to burst with happiness, and her arms went around him and she held him closer and with tenderness.
Victor was drained. He felt as though every ounce of his strength had trickled out of him. He had loved Francesca in a way he had not made love to a woman for years, not merely with physical enthusiasm and vigour, but with all the passion of his heart and mind. Yet despite the exhaustion, he was experiencing an inner exultation coupled with the most wonderful sense of peace, a peace rooted in the kind of contentment that had eluded him for the longest time. He had forgotten what it was like to feel completely fulfilled emotionally as well as physically. His own fault maybe. He was always seeking solace in the wrong arms, and coming up empty in the end. So many women, so many faces, the famous and the unknowns, those faces long since blurred. He sighed. There were far too many for him to remember and, for reasons of good taste, to count. But she was different.
He raised himself on one elbow and looked down at her, his emotions still high on the surface. The fire had burned low and the light had dimmed, but he could see her quite clearly. His eyes rested on her reflectively. What was it about her that made her so different from all the others, that affected him so strongly? His answer to himself was instant: It was some indefinable thing that he could not quite grasp.
Francesca’s gaze was wide and candid as she searched his face. She lifted her hand and touched his cheek with ineffable gentleness and her eyes grew wide and more brilliant. ‘Oh Vic, oh Vic, darling,’ she began, and sighed and said no more, and her mouth trembled.
He read the adoration and devotion in her face with the greatest of ease, and he saw her love reflected there, and suddenly his heart missed a beat. It was not only the way she was looking at him, but the use of his diminutive and the particular way she had said it which now struck a chord in his mind. It was déjà vu … he had seen that look and heard his name pronounced in exactly that same tone before, long long ago … And then that evanescent memory which had so nagged at him since their first meeting now took shape, became substance.
Francesca reminded him of Ellie. It was not that she looked like his first wife, for in all truth she did not, rather it was a special quality of personality that was the link between them. Implicit in Francesca’s character were honesty, sincerity and goodness, outward manifestations of an extraordinary inner beauty and grace which she possessed in great abundance, as had Ellie. He was unable to speak, but he leaned forward and kissed her brow, and then he ensnared her in his arms. Everything had become quite clear to him.
They lay for a long time, embracing each other, not speaking, drifting with their thoughts, watching the firelight dancing on the walls and the ceiling. At one moment Francesca shivered slightly and Victor pulled the eiderdown over them and drew her closer to him. At last, recovered from his surprise, he said, ‘It’s funny, the way you suddenly started to call me Vic –’
‘I’m sorry,’ Francesca said, rousing herself, recalling that he seemed to dislike this abbreviation of his name. She had heard him correct Hilly Steed several times. ‘You hate it. I’d forgotten.’
‘I don’t hate it from you, or Nicky, just as I never minded when Ellie used it. Anyone else, yes, particularly someone I’m not close to, I guess because it smacks of familiarity.’ He chuckled softly. ‘Also, I was brainwashed by my mother. She never permitted anyone to shorten my name when I was a kid. But it sounds nice when you say it, sort of soft and gentle.’ He rested his head on hers, and went on, ‘I’ve heard your father and Kim call you Frankie, and Diana calls you Cheska. Which do you prefer?’
‘Cheska, I suppose. Frankie sounds so, well, so boyish.’
‘I don’t think anyone would mistake you for a boy, baby. Not by a long shot,’ he laughed.
‘But I don’t mind kid, or baby either,’ she asserted, settling back in the crook of his arm contentedly. ‘They’ve become very special, to me at any rate.’
‘Have they now.’ He smiled and ruminated for a few seconds. Brushing his lips across her shoulder, he went on, in a low voice, ‘I was the first, wasn’t I? The first man in your life, I mean.’
This question did not really startle Francesca, for she had guessed that he had guessed, but she remained silent. Finally she whispered, ‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘It never occurred to me. It didn’t seem to be of such great importance, certainly not to me. Why, was it important to you, Vic?’
He was thoughtful, and after a beat, he replied carefully, ‘Yes, it was in many ways. And I hope I didn’t hurt you. I tried to make it as –’
‘Sssh,’ she murmured, pressing her fingertips to his mouth. ‘And you didn’t hurt me. Well, not too much.’
She felt him smiling against her shoulder and then he said, ‘I didn’t shock you, did I? Some of the things I did …’
‘No.’ She felt her cheeks grow hot as she remembered their lovemaking, and then she brushed aside her sudden self-consciousness, and finished shyly, ‘I … I … liked everything you did.’
He laughed. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ He slipped out of bed, padded across the room, threw a couple of logs on the fire, found his cigarettes in one of his trouser pockets, and returned to the four poster. He propped the pillows behind him, settled down next to her and lit a cigarette. He said, ‘By the way, what time’s dinner?’
‘Nine o’clock, but we should go down about half an hour before, for drinks.’ Francesca glanced at her small travelling clock on the bedside table. ‘It’s almost eight already,’ she exclaimed in surprise.
‘I’ll smoke this and then I’d better go back to my room and shower and dress. I guess I have to put on a shirt and tie?’
‘Yes, but you don’t have to wear a suit, if you don’t want to. A sports jacket is perfectly fine.’
‘If I’d been smart, I’d have stopped off and picked up my robe before coming in here.’ He looked at her sideways. ‘But I was anxious to get to you, baby. Now I guess I have to make myself decent to return to my suite. I can’t very well flit along the corridor clutching my clothes in my hands.’
‘I’ll go and get your dressing gown,’ Francesca cried, and had swung her legs out of bed before he could stop her.
‘Come on, baby, that’s not necessary,’ he protested as she disappeared into the bathroom. She returned almost at once, struggling into a bathrobe. ‘I’ll be back in a flash,’ she told him and went out.
Victor lay back against the pillows, smoking his cigarette, musing on Francesca. He smiled. They were perfect together. Within seconds voices outside the door disturbed his train of thought, and he straightened up, listening alertly. Francesca had obviously run into her cousin. He heard Diana’s light laugh, a few mumbled words exchanged between them, and then Diana said something more clearly, in German, which he did not understand.
The door opened and Francesca came back into the room. Looking across at him, she said, ‘I just ran into Diana.’
‘Yes, so I heard. She knows then … knows I’m in here … knows about us?’
‘I don’t think she thinks I’m borrowing your robe,’ Francesca laughed, her eyes dancing. ‘It’s far too large to fit me.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Nothing.’ Francesca’s blonde brows shot up. ‘It’s really none of her business, you know. Besides, apart from being very romantic, she likes you a lot, so I’m sure she approves.’