Falling for the Rebel Falcon. Lucy Gordon
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When she was alone Perdita went to the window, looking out to where the Eiffel Tower glowed in the distance. Everything in her surroundings was glamorous, and that was just how she liked it. It emphasised the life she wanted and the way she liked to see herself.
She’d told Hortense that her heart had never been broken and it was almost true.
After the riotous success that had made Thomas run from her she’d gone from strength to strength. The life of a freelancer suited her perfectly because it made her the one in charge, choosing her own targets.
Then she’d met Frank, a photographer. They’d worked as a team and she’d fallen in love with him, although these days she denied, it even to herself. But he’d betrayed her, using her talents to get close to a notorious story, then selling his pictures to another journalist who could do more for his career.
After that she’d decided to work alone, taking her own pictures. She’d learned a lot of technique from Frank, so who needed photographers? If it came to that, who needed men?
‘Maybe there’s something wrong with me, always putting the job first,’ she mused. ‘But that’s the way I am. It’s not my fault if I like fun. And fun likes me. Ah well! Time for bed.’
Next morning Hortense dropped in to Perdita’s room just as she was getting up.
‘Sorry to arrive so early,’ she said, ‘but I’ve got a busy day ahead preparing for this wedding.’
‘No problem.’ Perdita lifted the phone. ‘Let’s have some breakfast.’
While they waited for the food to arrive she took a shower, then sat in a bathrobe to eat, seizing the chance to ask more about the Falcon family.
‘I don’t really know anything about Leonid,’ she said. ‘He isn’t as easy to research as the others.’
‘True. His real name isn’t even Falcon. He’s actually Leonid Tsarev. It’s only when he’s over here with his brothers that he’s called Falcon as a courtesy. All anyone really knows about him is that he’s an incredibly successful business magnate—they call them oligarchs in Russia, don’t they? I’ve got friends in Moscow who say he doesn’t seem to have a very interesting private life. All work and money, no time for pleasure. At least, not the kind of pleasure the world hears about, if you know what I mean. Grim and gruff.’
‘They can be interesting too,’ Perdita mused. ‘Now, what am I going to wear today?’
‘Let’s look,’ Hortense said, opening the wardrobe. ‘Hey, what lovely clothes you’ve got. You must have a very rich boyfriend.’
‘Well, I don’t. I pay for my own clothes.’
‘You must be making a fortune.’
‘I do all right, but I don’t usually buy such expensive things. I splashed out a bit to come to this hotel. I wanted to look as if I fit in with the millionaires.’
‘You’ll do that all right.’ She pulled down pair of luxurious stretch jeans. ‘You can actually get into these?’
‘Sure.’
Hortense held them up against her plump figure, and sighed. ‘You know, I could murder you for being slim enough for these. Hey ho!’ She tossed them onto the bed. ‘Put them on.’
‘But do I want to wear them right now?’ Perdita mused. ‘I’d like to give a first impression of severe, virtuous modesty. Maybe even a bit dull.’
‘In your dreams! Listen, if a kindly fate has made you slim enough to wear these, count your blessings. Who knows how long those blessings will last? Right, now I’ve got to be going. And remember, if we happen to bump into each other—’
‘We’ve never met before,’ Perdita vowed.
‘Thanks. If they knew I’d been in touch with a journalist I’d be in trouble. They’re very sniffy about that. Bye.’
When she was alone Perdita eyed several garments, before deciding that she would, after all, wear the snug-fitting jeans. In contrast with their provocation she chose a loose blouse of white silk, that came modestly halfway down her thighs. It was good to be elegant and expensive, but nobody could accuse her of flaunting herself.
She headed out and began wandering around the hotel, studying, listening, taking photographs with her discreet camera, whose tiny size belied its power. Gradually she saw members of the Falcon family, but as yet no sign of the one she wanted.
Then, as she came to the top of a grand staircase, she paused and drew back, wondering if she could really see what she thought she could. At the foot of the stairs was a man whose height, dark hair and handsome features suggested that her search was over. Travis Falcon. This must be him. She was too far away to make out details, but what she could see was surely Travis.
There was no sign of the woman he was supposed to be bringing with him. That could be helpful, if only she could get him alone for a while.
But how to make him notice her, chat for a moment? It wouldn’t be easy.
‘But I think I see a way,’ she murmured.
She had perfected a technique for this kind of occasion. Moving carefully, she could appear to slip on the stairs, creating just enough commotion to attract attention. Quietly she crept down the stairs, not to alert him. Only when she was three steps up did she seem to collapse, rolling down to the bottom.
At once she knew that she’d done something wrong. Instead of the easy landing she’d planned, she felt a sharp pain go through her ankle as her foot twisted beneath her. Wildly she grabbed at the banister and came to a sudden halt at his feet, so that he nearly tripped over her.
He made an explosive sound and dropped to his knees, reaching out both hands to support her, making an explosive sound, then demanding in French, ‘Que le diable? Êtes-vous blessé?’
‘I don’t understand—’ she gasped.
‘Are you hurt?’ he repeated in English. ‘I … I’m not sure,’ she gasped, wincing from the pain. ‘My ankle—’
‘Have you twisted it?’
‘I think so—aaah!’
Still holding one of her hands, he put his other arm about her and drew her to her feet.
‘Try to put your weight on it,’ he said. ‘Just very gently.’
She tried but gave up at once. She would have fallen but for the strength of his arm about her waist, keeping her safe. She raised her eyes to his face.
It was the wrong face.
This man looked enough like Travis Falcon to be mistaken for him at a distance, but up close there was no chance.
‘Oh!’ she gasped before she could stop herself.
‘I think you need a doctor,’ he said in an accented voice that confirmed her fears. Travis was American. This man came from Eastern Europe.
‘No, I can manage,’ she said hastily.
‘I don’t think you can. Let’s collect your things before you lose them.’
She supported herself by clinging to the banister while he scooped up her purse and several papers that had fallen onto the floor from her bag.
‘One of them’s your passport,’ he said. ‘You should take better care of it. What room are you in?’ She gave him the number. ‘Right, put your arms around my neck.’
She did so and he reached down to lift her very slowly and carefully.
‘Is that all right?’ he asked. ‘I’m not hurting you, am I?’
‘No, I’m fine.’
‘Then let’s go.’
Turning,