This was the third time he had changed this evening and he was not going to do so again. He decided that his choice of dark-grey slacks, black cashmere jacket, white voile shirt and black-and-white polka-dot tie was correct for dinner at Le Voltaire.
This was where Rosie had suggested they go, explaining on the phone that it was a smart but unpretentious restaurant serving wonderful food, located on the Quai Voltaire on the Left Bank. He had told her it sounded great, and she had offered to book a table for them.
Picking up his black cashmere overcoat from the chair in the sitting room, where he had left it earlier, he went out into the corridor and headed for the elevators. A few minutes later he was getting into the car waiting for him outside the hotel on the Avenue Montaigne.
As the driver pulled away from the kerb and headed towards the Left Bank, a half-smile struck Johnny’s face. He was amused at himself. He had not paid so much attention to what he wore for years; at least, he had not changed so many times for one occasion. And when he had done so in the past it had only ever been for his shows, concerts and press photographs. Never for a woman. But then there had never been a woman like Rosie in his life.
And he had never been in love before. He most certainly was with Rosie; he had fallen in love with her the night Nell had brought her to dinner at his house in Benedict Canyon.
Quite frequently, when he remembered his initial dislike of her, he chuckled to himself. That hadn’t lasted very long, had it? And he had thought about her constantly since that first meeting. In fact, she was rarely out of his mind. For two months, her face had haunted him night and day. But now, all of a sudden, as he rode across Paris to see her again finally, he was nervous. And very impatient.
Curbing his need to tell Alain, his driver, to put his foot down, Johnny settled back against the seat and held himself in check.
Oh yes, he was in love with her.
And oh yes, he wanted to make love to her.
And very decidedly yes, he wanted to marry her.
Rosalind Madigan was the right woman for him, the only woman. And certainly she was the only woman he had ever thought of as a potential wife.
A week ago, out on Staten Island, he’d really had to restrain himself. When his Uncle Salvatore had started talking about marriage and a wife, he’d wanted to blurt it out, tell him about Rosie. He still didn’t know how he’d managed to keep his mouth shut, but somehow he had.
Rosie was going to be a surprise for his uncles, a wonderful surprise. Once he returned to New York, at the beginning of April, he was going to invite them to dinner at a good restaurant in Manhattan. And this was when he would present Rosie to the two of them. They’d fall in love with her just like he had, no question in his mind about that.
He stifled the laugh that rose in his throat as he thought of the two old guys meeting her. They won’t be able to resist Rosie. His Rosalind. He repeated her name silently to himself. He liked it. Rosalind Madigan. Rosalind Fortune. It sounded pretty good to him.
Unexpectedly, a curious fear gripped him. Mingled with his nervousness it made him panic. He was suddenly balking at the idea of seeing her, of being with her. What if he were disappointed? What if she didn’t live up to his expectations? She had been his dream woman for two months. He had fantasized about her in every way; he had had sexual fantasies about her; he had shunned other women because of her. In a way, he had set himself up to be disappointed, hadn’t he?
This was a new experience for him, loving a woman, genuinely caring for her. Apart from his Uncle Vito and his Uncle Salvatore, nobody had ever meant anything to him. Not even Aunt Angelina, Vito’s wife, who had always treated him nice. He’d loved his mother, that was natural, went without saying. But she’d died when he was a little boy and he hardly remembered her.
Yep, the two old guys were the only human beings he’d ever felt anything for until he met Rosie. As for other women, he’d never felt anything but lust for them.
Frowning, glancing out of the window, he wondered when they would get to the rue de l’Université. He was so anxious he was almost jumping out of his skin.
And then a few seconds later, just as he was about to ask Alain where they were, the car came to a standstill.
‘We ’ave arrived, Monsieur,’ Alain said, glancing over his shoulder and smiling. The young man got out of the car and was opening the back door before Johnny could even respond.
‘Thanks, Alain,’ Johnny said, and taking a deep breath he walked towards the building where she lived.
***
The moment she opened the door and smiled at him, Johnny felt his panic dissipating.
He smiled back, a wide, joyous smile.
And then she reached out, took hold of his hand and drew him inside the apartment.
They stood in the foyer staring at each other, still holding hands. Neither of them said a word.
Finally, he stepped forward, at the same time drawing her towards him; he kissed her first on one cheek, then the other.
‘It’s great to see you, Rosie,’ Johnny said at last.
‘And you, too, Johnny,’ Rosie responded, laughter bubbling up in her.
His bright blue eyes were fastened on her intently. All manner of emotions were churning inside him. He wanted to kiss her face over and over again, take off her dress, make love to her passionately, tenderly, and for a long, long time.
He wanted to tell her everything he’d ever thought about her since they had met, confess the sexual fantasies he’d had about her, tell her he loved her, ask her to marry him as soon as possible. He wanted to say it now. He wanted everything now. At once. All of her, every tiny bit of her. He never wanted to be without her ever again. And that was exactly how it was going to be. They were going to be together for the rest of their lives.
But he knew he couldn’t do any of these things, or tell her any of this, or explain everything to her at this moment. Slowly, go slowly, he cautioned himself, and he got a grip on his swimming senses, brought his overwhelming emotions under control.
He had waited most of his adult life to find her, to meet this woman of his dreams, his true soul mate. And so he could wait a little bit longer to take her to him, to possess her completely, to make her his. She was going to belong to him.
‘Let me take your coat,’ Rosie said, extracting her hand.
‘Yes,’ he muttered, realizing he’d been gaping at her, and rather foolishly so, at that. He straggled out of his coat, handed it to her silently.
After she had hung it in the hall closet, she smiled at him once again, took his arm and led him into the sitting room straight ahead.
‘I have champagne on ice, and white wine too, but perhaps you’d prefer something else?’
‘Oh, I don’t care,’ he said, giving her a faint smile. ‘What’re you having?’
‘A glass of champagne, but you can have anything, Johnny, anything you want.’
Oh honey, I hope so, he thought, staring at her again, devouring her with his eyes. And then feeling self-conscious, aware of the rush of desire rising up in him, he glanced away swiftly. Moving across the floor in the direction of the fireplace, he added, ‘Champagne’s fine, yeah, why not. I’d like a glass, sure, Rosie.’
‘Excuse me, I won’t be a moment,’ she said, and disappeared before he could offer to open the bottle for her.
Turning around, he stood with his back to the fireplace, glancing at the room, eaten up with curiosity about her.
He saw at once that she had good taste.
The sitting room was quite large, but she had not cluttered it with too much furniture. The walls were cream, the floor made of highly-polished parquet, covered in the centre with a carpet. It was worn in parts and its colours were faded, but he recognized that it was an antique and obviously valuable. There were some handsome antique tables and a console, sofas and chairs covered in yellow silk, and a grouping of attractive paintings on a long wall. He stared at the rest of the sitting room, noticing his flowers everywhe
re, the fine pieces of porcelain arranged in niches built on either side of the fireplace and the antique crystal lamps shaded in cream silk.
It was a pleasant, comfortable room, and Johnny was at ease in it. He felt at home, and this pleased him. The piano in the window area beckoned. He walked over to it, but paused for a moment to look at a collection of photographs arranged on a skirted table. He wondered who all the people were. He would ask her when she came back. He needed to know everything about Rosalind Madigan.
Seating himself at the baby grand, Johnny lifted the lid, and involuntarily his fingers slid across the keys. He could never resist a piano, and he began to play Cole Porter, one of his favourite composers. Then, as he always did, he started to hum, and in a moment he was crooning softly the opening lines of You Do Something to Me.
‘Johnny, that’s wonderful!’ Rosie exclaimed from the doorway.
‘Just tinkling,’ he said, glancing up. She was carrying a tray laden with a bucket of champagne and glasses. He leapt to his feet and went to help her with it. But she wouldn’t let him take it from her.
‘I can manage, honestly I can,’ she said, walking forward. She put the tray down carefully on the coffee table in front of the fireplace.
Pouring the champagne into crystal flutes, she continued, ‘I wish you hadn’t stopped singing. I love your voice. And I love listening to you, Johnny. Please, sing something else. Oh, I shouldn’t have said that, should I? It’s work for you… that’s what you do all the time. And you’re not in Paris to sing, but to have a few days’ rest before your British tour.’
Johnny took the glass she was offering him, glowing inside. She had said she loved his voice. That was terribly important to him; he was happy she had paid him this compliment.
He murmured, ‘When I see a piano I can’t help gravitating to it. And I’ll sing for you any time. But no more songs tonight. I want to talk to you instead.’
Raising his glass, he said. ‘To you, Rosie, the most beautiful woman in Paris.’
Gazing back at him, feeling herself blush under his intense scrutiny, Rosie shook her head. She wanted to look away, to escape from those vivid blue eyes pinning hers so forcefully, but she found she could not. Shaking her head yet again, and laughing lightly, she said, ‘I’m not the most beautiful woman in Paris, but thank you anyway.’ She touched her glass against his. ‘Welcome to my city, Johnny, welcome to my home.’
‘You’re the most beautiful woman in the world as far as I’m concerned,’ he said softly, looking at her with longing. And then he tore his eyes away from her face, glanced around the room and, changing the subject, went on hurriedly, ‘This is a nice place you have, Rosie. Have you lived here long?’
‘About five years. I found it by accident and fell in love with it.’
Strolling over to the photographs, Johnny bent over the velvet-skirted table and peered at them. ‘Here you are with Nell, and I recognize a young Gavin Ambrose. But who are the others in the picture?’ He straightened and looked at her questioningly.
Rosie walked across the room towards him.
Johnny realized that she had the most beautiful legs. He hadn’t noticed them before. But then he had only met her once; he foolishly kept forgetting that. Very simply, he had made love to her so many times in his head, had had such erotic mental sessions with her, he felt he knew her inside out and upside down. But of course he didn’t know her at all.
Rosie drew to a standstill next to him, and he smelled the fragrance of her. It was a tantalizing mixture of lilies of the valley, shampoo, soap and water and youthful skin. He was aware that she was going to drive him crazy before the evening was out. She was sexual dynamite to him.
Picking up the photograph in the silver frame, he showed it to her, and said, ‘I guess I’m being nosey, but who’re these other kids? Who’s the luscious blonde girl?’
‘That’s Sunny. She was one of our group.’
‘She’s gorgeous. As they say, she oughta be in pictures. Is she an actress?’
Rosie shook her head and the expression on her face changed ever so slightly. ‘She’s in a nursing home in New Haven. She got into drugs a few years ago, and one night she took some bad stuff. It scrambled her brains. She’ll be a vegetable for the rest of her life. Poor Sunny.’
‘Oh Jesus, that’s a rotten thing to happen!’ he exclaimed and shivered. ‘I’ve watched drugs destroy a few people I knew…’ He left his sentence unfinished.
‘This is Mikey,’ Rosie continued. ‘He was a nice guy, I should say is a nice guy. It’s just that we don’t know what happened to him. He disappeared two years ago, and although Gavin has tried to find Mikey, he hasn’t been successful. He even hired private detectives.’
‘When somebody wants to stay lost, they usually manage to stay lost,’ Johnny remarked, and looked down at the photograph he was still holding. ‘And who’s the handsome guy with the wonderful Clark Gable smile?’
‘That’s my brother.’
‘Isn’t he Nell’s boyfriend?’ Johnny said.
‘Yes, he is.’
‘He’s a good-looking son of a gun. He oughta be in pictures too. But I guess he ain’t, or I’d know it. What does he do?’
‘He’s an accountant,’ Rosie replied. This was the answer she, Nell and Gavin had always been warned to give. Nobody must know that Kevin was an undercover cop with the NYPD, and there were no exceptions to this rule.
‘And you were kids together in New York, is that it?’ Johnny asked.
‘We met about fifteen years ago. And we’ve been close ever since. You see, we were all orphans at the time, and became a family for each other. Of course, there are only four of us now. Sunny and Mikey are sort of… well, lost to us.’
Johnny nodded and put the photograph back in its place. Another one caught his eye, and he gave Rosie a swift look before saying, ‘At the risk of being nosey again, I’ve got to ask you who this cute little girl is?’
‘Her name’s Lisette, and she’s my niece. That’s her mother with her. Collie. If you remember I mentioned her to you the night we met. The silver expert.’
‘That’s right! How is she?’
‘She… she died,’ Rosie said and found she was choking up. Managing to take control of herself, she continued, ‘She had been suffering from cancer. We thought she was much better, that it was in remission, but then she got really sick again over Christmas. She died about three weeks ago.’
‘Oh God, I’m sorry, I didn’t know, and I shouldn’t pry like this!’ he exclaimed, almost stumbling over his words, feeling embarrassed at his many gaffes in only a few minutes.
‘Oh, it’s all right, Johnny, really it is,’ Rosie reassured him, and reaching out she touched his arm. ‘Collie was my sister-in-law, and that’s her brother in the photograph. Guy. He was my husband, whom I’m now divorcing.’
Johnny felt a sharp twinge of jealousy, and he wanted to ask her when her divorce would be final, but he lost his nerve. He was afraid of putting his foot in it again, and so he asked, ‘And the house in the background? Is that Montfleurie?’
‘Yes.’
Relieved to be on safer ground, Johnny said, I understand from Francis Raeymaekers that it’s one of the great châteaux of the Loire.’
‘That’s true, and it’s also the most extraordinary place in the world to me. I’ve always loved it. But goodness, Johnny, your glass is empty. Let me fill it up for you.’ Immediately she took it from him, and hurried over to the coffee table where the bottle of champagne sat in a bucket of ice.
He followed her, accepted the glass, thanked her. ‘You told me on the phone you work at home. So where’s your studio?’
‘Would you like to see it? Come on, I’ll show you! It’s at the other end of the apartment.’
Together they went out of the sitting room and crossed the large entrance foyer. As they did he noticed a small library with red walls, lots of books, a sofa and chairs upholstered in a red-and-green fabric, and more of the flowers he’d sent.
She led him down a corridor, and when they passed her bedroom he glanced quickly away, not daring to look inside. Instead he kept his eyes straight ahead, walking slowly behind her, keeping his distance.
‘Here it is,’ Rosie said, opening the door. Turning, she took hold of his arm, drew him into the studio. ‘It’s perfect for my work because of the natural daylight.’
Johnny immediately went over to the display shelf and stood in front of the drawings propped up on it. ‘These are great!’ he exclaimed, admiration apparent in his voice. ‘What a talent you have. Nell’s been telling me that for weeks, and now I know what she means.’
‘Those are for Gavin’s new movie, Napoleon and Josephine,’ Rosie explained.
‘It sounds interesting. Tell me about it.’
‘I’d love to, but I think I’d better do it over dinner at Le Voltaire. It’s getting late. I don’t want to lose our table.’
‘Come on then, let’s go,’ he said. ‘The car’s waiting downstairs.’
THIRTY-THREE
In a funny sort of way, Johnny was relieved to be with Rosie in a public place. The entire time they had been at her apartment he had to struggle with his compulsion to grab hold of her, to kiss her passionately, to make love to her.
Now he had no alternative but to behave himself, and so he sat back, enjoying being with her and gratified to see the glances occasionally thrown their way. Even though he said it himself, they made a handsome couple. A fairy-tale couple, in a sense. He was a big star. There was nobody bigger in the entertainment business today. And she was a beautiful woman, whom any man would be proud to have on his arm.
People in the restaurant had obviously recognized him, were discreetly looking his way. They knew how to behave in Europe, always kept their distance and just looked.
Rosie did not have a high profile. At least, not here. Back in Hollywood, yes. Most people would recognize her face; after all, she was an Academy Award-winning costume designer, and constantly photographed with Gavin Ambrose.
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