By Request Collection April-June 2016. Оливия Гейтс
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on to the next picture. Pretended to examine it. ‘I saw a picture of her. She’s very beautiful. Emilie said she’s renowned for her elegance and chic.’
‘Did she?’ His lip made a sardonic curl. ‘I must thank Emilie for informing you so well. No doubt she told you about the dog.’
She glanced at him in surprise. ‘No. She never mentioned a dog.’
‘Tiens. I am grateful.’
Though if there was a dog, it was sounding far more domestic than she had imagined from her understanding of loose arrangements.
‘Did you …?’ She drew a breath. ‘Did you never think of marrying her?’
His eyes veiled, then slid away. Suddenly he leaned forward to study a scene where some fully clothed men were picnicking by a stream with a naked woman. ‘Do you not admire the artist’s use of the light here? If I could only achieve this effect I believe I might be content for all time.’
Shari took a moment to digest the stunning snub. Maybe she should have expected it. Clearly, the intimacy of the bed did not translate to the museum. There were lines she must not cross.
Why, oh, why had she even asked him? It wasn’t as if she expected him to marry her. But that was what he would assume when she broke the news. He’d think she was looking to trap him in playing happy families.
Breaking into a sweat, she edged away from him.
Face it, it was clear he was still pretty raw about losing the beautiful woman. Well, it was only natural. Any guy’s ego was bound to feel trashed if his girlfriend ran off with a movie idol.
Especially if the guy was still madly in love with her.
‘Why are you wrinkling up your face and looking as if you tasted a lemon?’ She started. Luc slipped his arms around her and kissed her ear. ‘Is Renoir such a disappointment?’
She flashed him a rueful smile. ‘Never. How could he be? To be honest I—I was feeling guilty. I think I’ve intruded, asking you things you don’t care to discuss. I guess you’re thinking those things some French people say about Australians.’
‘What do they say?’
‘Oh, you know. We’re too open. Too—forward.’
He laughed easily. ‘Who says that? Come, we will eat déjeuner. My mother wants to meet you properly. The family will be there.’
Shari’s heart sank. ‘Lovely.’
There was no sign of the limo. Luc ushered her to a neat little Merc parked in a nearby street. As soon as they were in the car, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her, a steamy, highly explorational clinch that sucked all the breath from her lungs and shut down her brain entirely. Responding to the sexual cue, her wanton body was instantly aroused, then disappointed when he drew back.
With a husky laugh, he murmured, ‘Not here, ma chérie. Soon, soon.’
Soon? How likely was that, once he heard the news? But after the outcome of her recent tactful inquiry, it felt impossible to break it just then. She’d have to wait until he’d forgotten it.
She hoped the lunch wouldn’t take long. What if it went on for ever and she lost the chance to be private with him? Though, was it best to be completely private with him? For this sort of news, maybe it would be as well to have witnesses. A public place would be preferable, perhaps a café.
‘You’re too quiet,’ he observed on the way, paused for some lights. ‘What’s going on inside that head?’
She met his slanting glance. ‘I was just—wondering about your dog.’
‘Comment?’
‘You know. You mentioned a dog.’
He said sharply, ‘There is no dog.’ Then, flushing a little, he broke into a reluctant laugh. ‘Manon—my ex-girlfriend—had a passion to acquire a Russian wolfhound. The Borzoi. You know the one? We discussed it and—decided it would not be practical. I preferred something else.’ His hands lifted from the wheel in agitation. ‘After the—split, someone in the press heard about it, suggesting that our partnership ended because I would not allow Manon to have the pet she craved. You can imagine, in France … I was crucified in the tabloids. You see?’ He smiled ruefully.
‘Oh.’ She swallowed. ‘Yes, yes. I see.’
Staring out at the Seine, she kept her hands tightly clasped in her lap. She could see all right.
‘What was it you preferred?’ she said.
A muscle flickered in his lean cheek. The corner of his mouth made an infinitesimal downward curl that was really quite heartbreakingly attractive. ‘Something smaller.’
Tante Laraine lived in the seventh arrondissement. Luc pressed a button in what looked like an ordinary wall in the street, and a panel slid open to reveal a security plaque. He dialled in a code and a door opened. Inside, to Shari’s surprise, was a beautifully manicured garden with a fountain. A gravelled path led to the side entrance of a gracious old building with the distinctive Parisian mansard roof and dormer windows.
Several children were darting here and there among the shrubbery, playing a game that required sudden shrieks and bursts of laughter. A couple of them called to Luc, and he waved back.
As she approached the entrance Shari’s nerve began to fail. The people inside all thought she was Rémy’s fiancée, and here she was, fresh from Luc’s bed, pregnant with Luc’s child and planning to … what? How could she possibly carry off such a dilemma?
‘Luc.’ She started to breathe faster than a woman approaching the finish line in the London marathon. ‘Do you mind if we don’t go here?’
His brows lifted in surprise. ‘Pardon?’
‘Could we just go to a café or …’ She tried to swallow but she was all out of saliva.
His eyes narrowed on her face. ‘Que veux-tu …?’
‘There’s something I might have to tell you.’
Some people burst through the doors then, exclaiming when they saw her and Luc. Amidst all the embraces and introductions, her moment was lost, though on the way up in the lift with the others Luc kept looking searchingly at her. He whispered, ‘Are you feeling well? Is everything fine?’
‘Yep. Fine,’ she lied through her lying teeth.
Laraine’s apartment was on the top floor below what Shari imagined would be a garret for starving artists and bohemians. When she was ushered inside, though, it seemed possible Laraine kept an army of maids and footmen up there.
The ceilings were extraordinarily high and ornate. As for the furnishings … Shari doubted if the precious pieces had been created any later than the eighteenth century.
Several other family members were present, some Shari recognised from the funeral. Tante Marise. Oncle Georges, whose eyes lit up when he saw her. A couple of younger cousins, Anne-Sophie and Sophie-Louise, with spouses. She’d never remember which Sophie was which. Though warmly welcomed and kissed by all, Shari suddenly felt burningly aware of her casual attire.
A scarf could only go so far to catapult an ordinary Aussie girl into Parisian society. If only she’d done something with her hair. The Sophies looked chic, even in jeans.
Luc glanced at her often, a slight frown in his eyes that made her heart quake. Trust her to choose the exact right moment. She’d alerted him to trouble, and she could see he was speculating.
Contrary to things she’d read, the family seemed happy to converse in English on her behalf, except when they forgot. Luc poured her a sherry and handed her the glass. Feeling his mother’s quick glance flick between them, Shari accepted it, taking care not to touch him.
Laraine suspected, Shari