By Request Collection April-June 2016. Оливия Гейтс
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wryly, wrenched them. If only Australia hadn’t been so far away. If he could talk to her. Hear her voice …
In the midnight hours he’d once or twice considered taking a month’s vacation and taking the long flight back. Just to—catch up. See if she needed protecting.
Those last bitter moments at her house stayed with him. We are strangers still rang in his ears. In English the words sounded even harsher than they did in French. That cold click of her locking her door, locking him out, had reverberated through him with a chill familiarity.
He grimaced at himself. Suddenly women were rejecting him on both sides of the world. Why? He’d never been a guy to pursue an unwilling woman. Vraiment, until Manon’s sudden betrayal he doubted he’d ever before experienced one. All his life, he’d taken for granted his ease at acquiring any woman he desired.
But first Manon, and now Shari … Somewhere on the journey, he’d lost his way.
Maybe he should have stayed in Australia and persevered. If it hadn’t been for that crucial directors’ meeting he might have stayed and … What?
Remonstrated with her? Sweet-talked her? Tried to make her forget Rémy? But how could he have? What man would dream of trying to impose his will on a woman who was already wearing the evidence of brute masculine force?
His fists, his entire being clenched whenever he thought of it. If he ever came across the canaille who’d done that to her …
He felt certain it had been Rémy. No wonder she’d been weeping when he’d gone to the apartment in search of him. How could such a woman have been sucked in by the guy?
He threw up his hands in bafflement.
Was that why Shari had insisted her wound had been an accident? She was still in love with her fiancé, ex-fiancé, whatever he’d been?
One thing was certain, whatever her status that night, she wasn’t engaged now.
Nom de Dieu. This impulse to contact a woman on the other side of the world, make some sort of approach, remind her he was alive, was ludicrous.
His feet slowed at the place where the red-curtained windows of a bar spilled an inviting glow into the grey afternoon.
Signalling the bartender for cognac, he took a table by the window. A couple of women came in and sat down. One of them had fair hair, not unlike Shari’s.
He drew the accident report from his pocket and re-examined it. Had they told Shari about the other woman in the car? Maybe she was in despair, grieving for the coquin.
He took out his mobile, calculated the time in Australia, then with a gesture of impatience slid the phone back into his pocket.
A blonde woman at the other table turned his way.
He dropped his glance, conscious of disappointment. There wasn’t the slightest resemblance.
Jolted from sleep, Shari dragged her eyelids apart as her phone vibrated with maddening persistence. She stretched out her hand for the bedside table.
‘Hello,’ she croaked.
‘Shari. Ça va?’
The masculine voice slammed Shari with a sickening shock. Her heart froze.
‘Rémy?’
There was a nightmare instant of suspense, then the voice, contrite, apologetic, said, ‘Shari, c’est moi. Luc. I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you.’
‘Sorry? You’re sorry?’ The relief, the warm, weakening relief flooded through her like a sob and gave her back her speech. ‘Do you know what time it is? Phoning in the middle of the night and speaking French … Are you trying to terrify me? And d-d-did you think I would want to speak to you ever again in my life? How did you get this number, anyway?’
‘From Neil.’ His voice dried. ‘Forgive me. I see this was a mistake.’
‘Another mis—’ she started to say, but Luc Valentin, the man who felt disdain for her, the man who knew her shame, disconnected before she could finish.
She lay awake until dawn, staring into the dark, alternately regretting her anger, then burning with it all over again. If only he hadn’t surprised her that night without her make-up. If only he’d left her some shred of dignity, she might not have had to feel so angry with him. She might have been able to hear his voice without all this agony.
It seemed her agony was never-ending. The excruciating reports of the efforts to reclaim Rémy went on for days before he was recovered. Messages flew thick and fast between Sydney and Paris. Luc’s name came up so often in Neil’s conversation, Shari wanted to cover her ears.
It was hard enough trying to squash down her memories of the party night. Shari didn’t care if Neil thought Luc was a great guy. But she couldn’t say so. She just had to grin and bear it all. And of course, poor Emilie needed to reminisce and talk about Rémy and her other family members. The least Shari could do for her grieving sister-in-law was to listen.
Emilie produced some photos of a visit she and Neil had made to France as newly-weds, before Rémy emigrated. One in particular smote Shari’s eye. It was of a foursome, leaning against a ramshackle fence in some rural setting. Rémy and Emi were linking arms with Luc and a spectacular-looking brunette with cheekbones and long, straight, shampoo-model’s hair.
‘See, Shari? Here’s Luc and Manon. This was the day we visited Tante Laraine’s farm. Do you remember, Neil? How happy we all were?’ Her eyes filled with tears.
‘Oh, Em.’ Shari put her arms around her and stroked Em’s hair. Naturally, anyone in tears always brought hers on as well.
When they’d all mopped up, Shari glanced again at the picture, once or twice. Manon was beautiful, no doubt about it. Some would say she and Luc looked good together. Right together, both being so tall and good-looking. Though Shari was not one of those people. How people looked was hardly the point.
She tried to persuade herself Luc didn’t appear all that happy in the picture. He wasn’t exactly grinning like the others, just smiling a little at Manon in that amused sort of way that made his eyes warm.
It scraped her heart. She turned away from it. Family photos had never interested her, anyway.
As it happened, she knew enough about Manon, since naturally, after the Luc debacle, she’d come across a few things on the Internet about Manon and her sensational affair with Jackson Kerr. Not that she was all that interested in Kerr and Manon at Cannes, or Kerr and Manon in LA. There’d been a million articles about Kerr’s discarded actress wife, with the usual wild gossip over the trashing of the marriage.
The tabloids had been pumped with it all when the affair was fresh, though now after all this time it had gone off the boil.
Luc hardly came in for a mention, except she saw his name mentioned in a couple of French newspaper articles about business. Who cared, anyway?
She buried herself in work. Anything to blot out reality.
She was involved in mapping out paintings one morning for her owl story when a magnificent bouquet of flowers was delivered to her door. Wow. It must have been ruinously expensive. Carrying the fragrant mass in to join her accumulating hothouse, she opened the card.
And felt a rapid pounding in her temples.
To Shari. Sincere condolences for your tragic loss from my heart. Luc Valentin.
She sat at her kitchen table, staring at the card, smarting. What did he mean by it? He knew enough about Rémy. He’d seen her bruise. Was he using this occasion to needle her?
Meantime, Neil continued to pour information into her unwilling ears. While Rémy had recently made his home in Australia, he’d still kept his French citizenship. His true heart had always been in Paris, according to the family. He must be transported