by Nora Roberts
little short skirts of the women fluttering in a breeze that smelted of water and flowers. That smelted of Paris. She saw cafes where people huddled around small round tables and drank from glasses that glinted red and gold like the sunlight.
If she had been told that the plane had taken them to another planet and another time, she would have believed it.
When the car stopped at the hotel, Adrianne waited until her father had stepped out. “Can we see more later?”
“Tomorrow.” Phoebe squeezed her hand so tightly she winced. “Tomorrow.” She fought not to shiver in the balmy evening air. The hotel looked like a palace, and she was through with palaces.
With the entourage of servants and bodyguards and secretaries, they took an entire floor of the Crillion. To Adrianne’s disappointment, she and her mother were ushered to their suite and left alone.
“Can’t we go and have dinner at this place called Maxim’s?”
“Not tonight, darling.” Phoebe peered out through the peephole in the door. A guard was already in place outside the door. There was to be a harem even in Paris. Her face was pale when she turned back, but she smiled and struggled to keep her voice light. “We’ll have something sent up. Anything you want.”
“Being here is no different from being in Jaquir.” She looked around the elegant suite. Like the women’s quarters, it was plush and secluded. Unlike them, there were windows open to the evening. She crossed the room and looked out at Paris. Lights had twinkled on, giving the city a festive, fairy-tale look. She was in Paris but was not permitted to be a part of it. It was as if she’d been given the most glorious jewel in the world and allowed to look at it for a few moments before it was snatched back and locked away in a vault.
“Addy, you must be patient.” Like her daughter, Phoebe was drawn to the window, to the lights, to the life in the streets. Her yearnings were only the stronger because she had once been free. “Tomorrow … tomorrow is going to be the most exciting day in your life.” She gathered Adrianne close to kiss her. “You trust me, don’t you?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“I’m going to do what’s best for you, I swear it.” Her grip tightened, then abruptly she released Adrianne and laughed. “Now, you enjoy the view. I’ll be back in a moment.”
“Where are you going?”
“Just into the next room. I promise.” She smiled, hoping to reassure them both. “Look out the window, baby. Paris is beautiful this time of day.”
Phoebe closed the door between the parlor and her bedroom. It was risky to use the phone. For days she had tried to think of a better, of a safer way. Though she had needed relief, she hadn’t touched a tranquilizer or a drink since Abdu had announced the trip. Her mind was clearer than it had been in years. So clear it hurt. Still, she could think of no way except the phone. Her only hope was that Abdu wouldn’t suspect betrayal from a woman who had tolerated his abuse for so long.
She picked up the receiver. It felt foreign in her hand, like something from another century. She nearly laughed. She was a grown woman, living in the twentieth century, yet it had been almost a decade since she had touched a telephone. Her fingers shook as she dialed. The voice spoke in quick French.
“Do you speak English?”
“Yes, madame. May I help you?”
There was a God, she thought as she lowered herself to sit on the bed. “I want to send a cablegram. An urgent one. To the United States. To New York.”
Adrianne stood at the windows, her hands pressed against the glass as if by will alone she could dissolve it and become a part of the world that hurried by outside. Something was wrong with her mother. Her deepest fear was that Phoebe was ill and they would both be sent back to Jaquir. She knew if they were taken back now, she would never see a place such as Paris again. She would not see the women with their bare legs and painted faces or the high buildings with their hundreds of lights. She thought her father would be glad, glad that she had seen but not touched, smelled but not tasted. It would be another way to punish her for being female and of mixed blood.
As if her thoughts had conjured him, he strode through the door and into the suite. Adrianne turned. She was small for her age, as delicate as a doll. Already there were hints of the dark, sultry beauty from her bedouin blood. Abdu saw only a thin girl with wide eyes and a stubborn mouth. As always, his eyes frosted over when he looked at her.
“Where is your mother?”
“She is through there.” When he started for the door, Adrianne took a quick step forward. “May we go out tonight?”
He spared her a brief, disinterested glance. “You will remain here.”
Because she was young, she persisted when others would have bowed away. “It is not late. The sun has only just set. Grandmother told me there was much to do in Paris at night.”
He stopped fully now. It was rare for her to dare to speak to him, rarer still for him to bother to listen. “You will remain inside. You are here only because I permitted it.”
“Why did you?”
That she had the temerity to ask had his eyes narrowing. “My reasons are of no concern to you. Be warned that if you remind me of your presence too often, I will rid myself of it.”
Adrianne’s eyes glistened with a combination of grief and anger she couldn’t understand. “I am blood of your blood,” she said softly. “What reason is there for you to hate me?”
“You are blood of her blood.” And he turned to open the door. Phoebe stepped out quickly. Her color was high, her eyes round and wide, like a doe’s when she scents the hunter.
“Abdu. Did you want to see me? I needed to wash after the trip.”
He saw the nerves. He smelled the fear. It pleased him that she did not consider herself secure even outside the walls of the harem. “An interview has been arranged. We will have breakfast here at nine o’clock with the reporter. You will dress accordingly, and see that she is prepared.”
Phoebe glanced toward Adrianne. “Of course. After the interview I’d like to do some shopping, perhaps take Adrianne to a museum.”
“You will do what you wish between ten o’clock and four. Then I will require you.”
“Thank you. We’re grateful for the chance to visit Paris.”
“See that the girl holds her tongue, or she will see Paris only through that window.”
When he left, Phoebe let her shaking legs buckle. “Addy, please, don’t anger him.”
“I have only to be to anger him.”
When she saw the first tears, Phoebe opened her arms. “You’re so young,” she said as she rocked Adrianne in her lap. “Too young for all of this. I promise I’ll make it up to you.” Over Adrianne’s head her eyes focused and hardened. “I swear I’ll make it all up to you.”
She had never taken a meal with her father. Because she had the resilience of an eight-year-old, Adrianne found it easy to skip over the words that had been spoken the night before and look forward to her first day in Paris.
If she was disappointed that they would take their meal in the suite, she said nothing. She liked her new blue dress and matching coat too well to complain. In an hour she would truly begin her week in Paris.
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this interview, Your Highness.” The reporter, already charmed by Abdu, took her seat at the table. Adrianne kept her hands folded in her lap and tried not to stare.
The reporter had very long, very straight hair the color of ripe peaches. Her fingernails were painted red, as was her mouth. Her dress was of the same shade, cut snug, and its skirt skimmed her thighs as she crossed her legs. She spoke English with a rolling French accent. To Adrianne, she was as exotic as a jungle bird and just as fascinating.
“It is our pleasure, Mademoiselle Grandeau.” Abdu signaled for coffee. A servant jumped to obey.
“I hope you enjoy your stay in Paris.”
“I always enjoy Paris.” Abdu smiled in a way Adrianne had never seen. He suddenly looked approachable. Then his eyes passed
over her as though her chair were empty. “My wife and I are looking forward to participating in the ball this evening.”
“Parisian society is looking forward to greeting you and your beautiful wife.” Mademoiselle Grandeau turned to Phoebe. “Your fans are thrilled, Your Highness. They’ve felt you deserted them for love.”
The coffee burned bitter in Phoebe’s throat as she smiled. She would have traded every jewel she owned for a whiskey. “Anyone who has ever been in love would understand that there is no sacrifice and no risk too great.”
“Might I ask you if you have any regrets about giving up your thriving career in films?”
Phoebe looked at Adrianne and her eyes softened. “How can I have regrets when I have so much?”
“It is like a fairy tale, is it not? The beautiful woman swept off by the desert sheikh to a mysterious and exotic land. A land,” Mademoiselle Grandeau added, “which becomes wealthier every day because of oil. How do you feel,” she asked Abdu, “about the Westerners pouring into your country?”
“Jaquir is a small country which welcomes the advances that oil brings. However, as king, it is my responsibility to preserve our culture while opening doors for progress.”
“Obviously you have an affection for the West, as you fell in love and married an American. Is it true, Your Highness, that you have another wife?”
He lifted a crystal glass of juice. His expression seemed blandly amused, but his fingers gripped tightly. He despised being questioned by a woman. “In my religion, a man is permitted four wives as long as he can treat each of them equally.”
“With the women’s movement growing stronger in the United States and Europe, do you believe this clash of cultures will cause problems for the countries which come to the Middle East to build?”
“We are different, mademoiselle, in dress, in beliefs. The people of Jaquir would be equally shocked that a woman in your country is permitted to become intimate with a man before marriage. This difference will not deter financial interest on either side.”
“No.” Mademoiselle Grandeau wasn’t there to argue politics. Her readers wanted to know if Phoebe Spring was still beautiful. If her marriage was still romantic. She cut into her crepe and smiled at Adrianne. The child was striking, with the king’s sultry black eyes and Phoebe’s full, sculpted mouth. Though the coloring spoke of her bedouin ancestors, she had the stamp of her mother. The features were smaller, finer, than those of the woman who had once been called the Amazon queen of films. The purity of bone structure, the stunning profile, and the clear-eyed vulnerability were there.
“Princess Adrianne, how do you feel knowing your mother was considered the most beautiful woman to grace the screen?”
She fumbled. The hard, brief glance from her father had her straightening. “I am proud of her. My mother is the most beautiful woman in the world.”
Mademoiselle Grandeau laughed and took another bite of crepe. “It would be hard to find anyone to disagree with you. Perhaps one day you’ll follow her footsteps to Hollywood. Is there any chance that you’ll make another movie, Your Highness?”
Phoebe swallowed more coffee and prayed that it would stay down. “My priority is my family.” She touched Adrianne’s hand under the table. “Of course I’m thrilled to have been asked to come here, to see old friends. But the choice I made, as you said, was made for love.” Over the table her eyes met Abdu’s and held. “Where there is love, there is very little a woman won’t do.”
“Hollywood’s loss is obviously Jaquir’s gain. There is a great deal of speculation that you’ll wear The Sun and the Moon tonight. It’s considered one of the world’s greatest treasures. Like all the great jewels, The Sun and the Moon has legends and mystery and romance attached to it and people are eager to see the fabled necklace. Will you wear it?”
“The Sun and the Moon was a gift from my husband on our marriage. In Jaquir this is considered the bride price, a kind of reverse dowry. It is, second only to Adrianne, the most precious gift Abdu has given me.” She looked at him again with a hint of challenge. “I’m proud to wear it.”
“There won’t be a woman in the world who won’t envy you tonight, Your Highness.”
With Adrianne’s hand still caught in hers, Phoebe smiled. “I can say only that I look forward to this evening more than any other in years. It will be glorious.” Her eyes met Abdu’s again. “Inshattah.”
As Phoebe had suspected, they were joined by two guards and a driver when they left the hotel. She was ecstatic over her first victory. She had stopped at the desk and requested her passport on which Adrianne traveled as her minor child. The guards were chattering, apparently believing she was inquiring about the performance of some trivial service, and never even noticed when the clerk returned from the rear office and slipped the leather-encased document into her hand. She could have wept with joy … and the first glow of pride she’d felt in years, but she disciplined herself to betray nothing. Now she had no real plan, only a fierce and edgy determination. Beside her in the limo, Adrianne all but bounced with excitement. They were truly in Paris now, with hours to spare before she would have to go back to the hotel. She wanted to ride to the top of the Eiffel Tower, to sit in a café, to walk and walk and walk and hear the music of the city she had only imagined.
“We’ll shop a little.” Phoebe’s mouth was so dry she had to force her tongue from the roof of her mouth. “There’s Chanel, Dior. Wait until you see all the beautiful clothes, Addy. The colors, the materials. But you have to stay close to me, very close. I don’t want to lose you. Don’t wander. Promise.”
“I won’t.” Adrianne felt her own nerves begin to rise. At the times when her mother talked like this—very fast, with the words jumping out on top of each other—she soon and always fell into depression. Then she would grow so quiet, so removed, so closed in upon herself and unmindful of others that it terrified Adrianne. Frightened about what she knew was about to happen, Adrianne kept up her own chatter, staying glued to Phoebe’s side as they were escorted into the most exclusive shops in Europe.
It was like another dream, different from the vision of Paris at dusk. The salons were bright with gilt tables and velvet chairs. In each one they were ushered in with a deference Adrianne had never received in her own country. She was cooed over by women with glossy faces, served lemonade or tea and tiny sweet cookies while models with thin limbs and frail-looking bodies glided out draped in the latest fashions.
Phoebe ordered with abandon, dozens of cocktail dresses with skinny straps and layers of beads, slim suits in raw silk and linen. If her plan succeeded, she would never wear a stitch of what she recklessly purchased. It seemed a kind of justice to her, the smallest and sweetest of revenges. She swept from salon to salon, ladening the silent guards with boxes and bags.
“Well go to the Louvre before lunch,” she told Adrianne as they settled in the limo again. She checked her watch, then sat back and shut her eyes.
“Can we eat in a cafe?”
“Well see.” She groped for Adrianne’s hand. “I want you to be happy, darling. Happy and safe. That’s all that matters.”
“I like being here with you.” Despite all the cookies and tea and lemonade at the couturier’s she was hungry, but she didn’t want to say so. “There is so much to see. When you told me about places like this, I thought you were making up stories. It’s better than a story.”
Phoebe opened her eyes to stare out the window. They were driving along the river in the most romantic city in the world. Recklessly, she lowered the glass and drew in a deep breath. “There, Addy, do you smell it?”
Laughing, Adrianne leaned closer, like a puppy, to let the breeze race against her face. “The water?”
“The freedom,” Phoebe murmured. “I want you to remember this moment.”
When the car stopped, Phoebe alighted slowly, regally, not sparing a glance at the guards. With Adrianne’s hand in hers, she entered the Louvre. There were throngs of people-students, tourists, l
overs. Adrianne found them as fascinating as the art her mother pointed out as they strolled through the galleries. Voices echoed off the high ceilings, a variety of tones and accents. She saw a man with hair as long as a woman’s, wearing jeans torn off at the knee and carrying a battered knapsack. When he caught her staring, he grinned and winked, then held up two fingers in a V. Embarrassed, Adrianne looked down at her shoes.
“So much has changed,” Phoebe said. “It seems like a different world. The way people dress, the way they talk. I feel like Rip Van Winkle.”
“Who?”
With a sound perilously close to a sob, Phoebe bent to hug her. “It’s just a story.” As she straightened, she glanced toward the guards. They were a few paces behind, bored. “I want you to do exactly what I say,” Phoebe whispered. “Don’t ask questions. Hold tight to me.” Before Adrianne could agree, Phoebe pulled her into a group of students. Moving fast, elbowing and shoving when necessary, she worked her way through, then sprinted down a long corridor.
There were shouts behind her. Without breaking rhythm, she scooped Adrianne up and raced down a (light of stairs. She needed a door, any door that led to the outside. If she could get to the street, somehow get out and into a cab, she had a chance. Whenever a corridor snaked off, she took it, barreling her way past visitors and staff. It didn’t matter whether she was heading out of the building or deeper into it. She had to lose the guards. She heard footsteps pounding behind her and ran blindly, like a hare trying desperately to outrun a fox.
Paintings flashed by as she ran. Her labored breathing grew loud as she streaked by the most treasured art in the world. People stared. Her hair had fallen from its neat twist to tumble wild and red around her shoulders. She saw the door and nearly stumbled. Gripping Adrianne, her heart about to burst, she broke free of the building. But she did not stop running.
She could smell the river again, and the freedom. She stopped, gasping for breath, a beautiful, terrified woman clinging to a child. She had only to lift a hand and a cab swerved to the curb. “Orly airport,” she managed to say, looking right and left as she bundled Adrianne inside. “Hurry, please, hurry.”