CHAPTER NINE

      SHE slept alone that night. Marcel kissed her at the door, touched her face with his fingertips and hurried away. She smiled at his retreating figure, glad that he had the sensitivity not to try to overwhelm her with passion at this moment.

      After everything that had happened, all the unexpected revelations, the business of deciding her appearance next morning was a minefield. In the end she selected clothes that were respectable rather than forbidding, and wore her hair drawn back, but not scraped tightly, so that it framed her face softly before vanishing over her shoulders.

      When she entered the office he was deep in a phone call, his manner agitated. He waved for her to come in, then turned away. He was talking French but she managed to make out that he was about to go away. The idea didn’t seem to please him, for he slammed down the phone and snapped, ‘Imbécile!

       Idiot!’

      ‘Somebody let you down?’ she asked.

      ‘Yes, he’s made a mess of a deal I trusted to him, and now I have to go and rescue it. It’ll take a few days. Come here!’ He hugged her fiercely. ‘I don’t want to leave you. You should come with me and—’

      ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘I’d be a distraction and you’ve got to keep your mind on business.’

      ‘I’d planned such a day for us. I was going to take you over Paris—’

      ‘Paris will still be here when you get back.’ She added significantly, ‘And so will I.’

      His brow darkened. ‘Your word of honour?’

      ‘I told you, I have no reason to leave now.’

      Reluctantly he departed, giving her one last anxious look from the door. She saw him go with regret, yet also with a faint twinge of relief. His possessiveness was like a reproach to her. She couldn’t blame him for it, but she sensed that it could be a problem, one to which he was blind.

      Knowing herself better than Marcel could, she sensed that Mrs Henshaw was more than just an outward change. Her businesslike appearance really did represent a certain reality inside. For the moment Cassie and Mrs Henshaw must live side by side, each one taking the spotlight according to need. But which one of them would finally emerge as her true self? Even she could not be certain about that.

      She’d hinted as much to Marcel the previous evening, but she knew he didn’t really understand. Or perhaps didn’t want to understand. That was the thought that made her a little uneasy.

      For the next few days she was Mrs Henshaw, deep in business and thoroughly enjoying herself. Vera introduced her to the chief members of the staff, who had clearly been instructed to cooperate with her. She went through the books and knew she was impressing them with her knowledge of finance.

      Then there were the builders who had renovated and extended La Couronne, and who spoke to her at Marcel’s command. The more she listened, the more she understood what he’d been trying to do, how well he’d succeeded, and what he wanted in London. Ideas began to flower inside her. She would have much to tell him when he returned on Thursday.

      He called her several times a day on the hotel’s landline. Wryly she realised that in this way he could check that she was there. Just once he called her cellphone, and that was when she was out shopping. He managed to sound cheerful but she sensed the underlying tension, especially when he said, ‘Don’t be long getting back to the hotel. There’s a lot to do.’

      ‘I’m on my way back now,’ she assured him.

      Vera greeted her in a flurry of nerves. ‘He was very upset when he called and found you not here,’ she said.

      ‘Don’t worry; he tried my cellphone and I answered at once.’ She added reassuringly, ‘So when he calls, you can tell him that I’m not slacking on the job.’

      Not wanting to embarrass the secretary, whom she liked, she got straight back to work. A few minutes later Vera’s phone rang and she shut the door to answer it discreetly.

      Poor Marcel, Cassie thought. I suppose I can’t blame him for expecting me to vanish in a puff of smoke. He’ll understand, in time.

      By now everyone knew who she was, and the power she possessed, and they would scurry to give her only the best. On Wednesday evening the cook and head waiter joined her at the table for a few minutes, urging her to try new dishes.

      They were both attractive men, middle-aged but with appreciative eyes, and they enjoyed talking to her about Paris, which they insisted on calling ‘the city of love’.

      ‘You work too hard, madame,’ the cook told her. ‘You should be out there exploring this magical place, becoming imbued with its spirit. Then you would know what to do for the hotel in London.’

      ‘I’m afraid London lacks Paris’s air of romance,’ she mourned, and they solemnly agreed with her.

      Once, long ago, Marcel had whispered in the night, ‘I will take you to Paris and show you my city. We will walk the streets together, and you will breathe in the atmosphere of love that is to be found nowhere else.’