by Nancy Gideon
Nicole fell in behind her victim, pacing her steps to match the other’s, moving like a shadow herself until the time was right. Then she picked up her tempo, gliding silently, swiftly past, her fingers darting with an undetectable agility to catch the strings of the purse, confident that she would be blocks away before the theft was discovered.
Then a grip like iron circled her wrist in a cold, unbreakable band, freezing her hand half in, half out of the pocket, the plump prize clutching damningly in her fingers. Her gaze flew up in alarm to meet black eyes and a silky smile.
“Bon soir. Do not look so alarmed. I have no plans to call the gendarmes. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
Chapter Eight
WHEN NICOLE stepped into the sumptuous rooms of the house in the Place Vendôme, it was with an uncertain reluctance. She’d expected to have her attempted thievery reported to the authorities, not to be rewarded by a visit to her intended victim’s home.
Her own family lived in quiet elegance, but the splendor of this apartment was grand enough to steal her breath away. She stood in the threshold of the drawing room, taking in the sights. The room was designed to display four large portraits. Constructed in a Moorish style, its ceiling resembled a Turkish palace with a canopy of trelliswork tied together by ribbons. The borders depicted foliage, flowers and peacock feathers all in rich hue. Accent colors were a vivid contrast; a low Eastern-fashioned sofa in deep crimson, walls of sky blue, the ceiling a pale yellow intermixed with azure and sea green. Gold ornamentation relieved and complemented the brightness. Around the room incense urns, cassolettes and flower baskets exuded natural and artificial perfumes. The whole appealed to all the senses in such a way that Nicole was momentarily overwhelmed.
“Please, make yourself comfortable. We must get to know one another better, you and I.”
Her hostess stepped gave her cloak a careless toss. Nicole found herself admiring one of the most beautiful women she’d ever seen. Glorious blond hair was swept back from perfect porcelain features. A simple sheath artfully displayed a form that was feminine grace and supple strength. Though she was smiling, her eyes were flat black and opaquely staring. Nicole got no sense of warmth or welcome. Power was what the woman exuded. A deep, controlling pulse of power. It was her likeness reflected down from the exquisite oils showcased by the room’s splendor; her face rendered by different artists beneath the wimple and veils of the Crusades, beneath the padded roll headdress of the Renaissance, set against the wide fanlike collar of Tudor England and beneath the elaborately styled coif à la Pompadour. They must have all been painted within a short span of time, for the exquisite features showed no sign of age.
“Why would you care to know me better, madame? I have just tried to rob you. I would think you would be more interested in calling for the police.”
The woman laughed, a light airy sound that struck a slightly discordant key. “Why would I call them? I was hoping to find you. You see, I have been looking for you these last few nights.”
Nicole stiffened. “And why is that, madame?”
“You are so like them, you know, so inquisitive, so cautious. What must they think of what you are doing and how you are living?”
“Who, madame?”
“Your parents.”
Nicole stared, plainly nonplused. “My parents?”
“Louis and Arabella Radman are the names they used in London. Do they still go by them?”
Nicole ignored the smooth question to ask one of her own. “Did you know them in London?”
“Briefly. I am an old and dear friend of your father’s. Perhaps he has spoken of me.”
“Your name?”
“Bianca du Maurier.”
“I am afraid he has never mentioned you.” When the woman’s features set into rigid lines of displeasure, Nicole was quick to add, “He doesn’t speak of the past at all.”
“Ah, how very like him.” And she smiled, a silky expression that moved upon her face without affecting the level cut of her stare. “Are they well, your mother and father?”
“When last I saw them, they were.” And how would they be now? she wondered. In a panic trying to find her? She had a vivid image of her mother’s tears, and quickly blocked it and all other tender memories that tried to seep in with that single recollection.
“So you have been here in Paris for how long?”
Something in the way the woman approached her questions put Nicole on the defensive. Perhaps it was her upbringing of skillful evasion. Answer no queries directly, her father had always said. You never know what the asker is trying to find out. Or why he is doing the asking. Trust no one. She should have applied that sentiment to him as well. “For some time, Madame du Maurier. I am staying with friends.”
“Ah, yes. Your friends. The Parisian gypsies. I realize the popular theme is poverty among them, but for this evening, would you humor me as your hostess and spend a few hours upon an elevated plane?”
“I don’t—”
“The air of the street hangs upon you. It is not a flattering perfume for one so young and lovely. And those garments befit a pauper, not a princess.”
Nicole felt herself flush with unaccustomed humility. No one had ever called her shabby before, and her pride rebelled. “I am sorry if my presence offends you, Madame du Maurier. Perhaps I should go—”
“Oh, no, my child. I was going to offer what luxuries I have at hand. A fragrant bath, a fine linen gown. Would it offend you to enjoy these things while you are my guest?”
A bath. At the thought of it, her skin fairly itched for a decent scrubbing. She washed daily, but it seemed like ages since she’d lingered in a tub.
As if she could read the younger woman’s thoughts, Bianca smiled generously and gestured to a doorway. “Please. Allow me the pleasure of pampering the daughter of an old friend. You have nothing to fear from me. If you would like, you can leave right now. I just thought you would take advantage of the opportunity to ask me certain things. About your father. About yourself.”
Nicole hesitated, caught between alarm and anticipation. What did she know about her father? How could that information be helpful to her now?
“Freshen up,” Bianca coaxed. “Then when you are feeling better, we will talk for a while and then you can go back to your friends. You may take the contents of my purse. Money means little to me but you . . . mean everything. I consider it a debt of honor owed to Louis.”
Again that seamless smile, but Nicole was thinking of clean water not drawn direct from the murky Seine. She was thinking of what this elusive woman might tell her. The mystery far outweighed the worry.
“I appreciate your hospitality, madame.”
“Bianca, please. Enjoy your bath. Take your time. We have until dawn.”
Whatever hesitations she might have held to were quickly dispersed when Nicole saw the tub. More a pool, really. Flanked by Grecian pillars, its sleek black tiles were sunken into the floor, creating a rectangle almost large enough for swimming. Candlelight rippled along black satin wall curtains and sparkled across the deep azure ceiling. Low gilt chairs and a chaise lined the walls, offering a comfortable repose. And next to the tub was a stack of plush toweling and a classically styled muslin gown. All as if just laid out to welcome her.
After glancing about the room and seeing no threat to her privacy, Nicole shed her soiled clothes and stepped down into the water. She gave a slight gasp of surprise, for the bath wasn’t warm. Instead, the waters were deliciously cool and silky, with an application of scented oil. She sank down with a sigh, letting it lap all the way up to her ears, and simply soaked for long minutes until her body went nearly boneless with relaxation. When she opened her eyes, she realized that the luminations on the ceiling had a definite pattern, those of the nocturnal sky in various constellations. Even the ornamental medallions we
re emblems of the evening, representing the god of sleep and the goddess of night scattered among the stars. It was like bathing under the dome of a twilight heaven. And the sensation was heaven, itself.
Then came a subtle disruption of that tranquil paradise. Nicole sat up slowly, the water falling away from her shoulders, a prickling awareness creeping along her damp skin. She took a soft breath and let her gaze detail the room again. She was not alone.
“Buòna séra, signorína. Mi scúsi. I did not mean to disturb you. I was only just told that you were here. Forgive me, but I could not resist.”
The warm liquid drawl of his voice directed her gaze. It was no surprise that she hadn’t noticed him earlier. All in black, he seemed a part of the lustrous draperies until he stepped forward into the mellow light. He was every bit as beautiful as she remembered, his complexion hauntingly fair upon all those intriguing facial angles, his eyes so pale they seemed to glow.
“Chi stá. Cóme si chiáma?” Nicole asked languidly.
“Parlá l’italiáno?”
“Poco. Dal mío pádre.”
“Of course. From Gino.” And he smiled beguilingly, the gesture filling his face with a dark enchantment. “Do you remember me?”
Slowly, he approached. Feelings of modesty or fear never surfaced as Nicole stared up at him. Too many other emotions crowded for her attention, among them a strange quiver of recognition, a sense of communion she didn’t understand. Who was this man? Surely she would remember if she’d ever met him. But she couldn’t deny a strong sense of the familiar. It wasn’t his looks but rather his voice and the . . . feel of him, the essence of cool strength and dangerous charm.
He’d come to the tiled rim of the tub and knelt down to trail his hand in the water. His movements appeared languid, but she felt power behind them, a power that stirred her like the concentric eddies in the pool. He lifted his hand and shook droplets from long, gracefully shaped fingertips, then eased out to lie upon his side. She’d never seen a man move with such a feline flow. Except maybe her father.
“I would be surprised if you recalled much of that meeting. We touched so briefly and you were so small, barely a flutter in your mother’s womb.”
His words held no logic, yet she didn’t question them. She was lost in the swirl of his stare, in the sweet brilliance of his smile.
“What is your name, cara?”
“Nicole,” she heard herself respond.
“Nicole,” he repeated, and the sound of her name was a caress. “You are very beautiful, Nicole. I see those I love in your face. I see Gino in your eyes.”
“Gino?” When she looked perplexed, he smiled wider.
“Your father. That is the name I knew him by when we were young and like brothers.”
Young? But he hardly looked much older than she was. He said he knew her mother before she’d been born. How could that be? She shivered as the water suddenly seemed quite cold. And awareness of her undressed state began to assert itself with a blushing discomfort. But he wasn’t ogling her nakedness. He was fixed upon her gaze as if the other was of no importance.
“Don’t be afraid. I would not harm you. I only want to express to you the devotion I feel for your father.” And he bent to press a cool kiss upon either of her cheeks. And without straightening, he added, “And the fondness I have for your mother.” That kiss he planted firmly and passionately upon her lips. An exquisitely explicit kiss.
She was stunned by his intimacy, but he didn’t move to touch her with his hands, nor did he close his eyes. And she didn’t push him away. There was something so intensely poignant in that kiss, she was shocked by the suggestion that this gorgeous man had been her mother’s lover.
“Gerard!”
The sharp crack of Bianca’s voice had Nicole jerking back in alarm, but her elegant seducer merely rolled upon his back to smile languorously up at the seething woman. With one hand, he dropped a towel into the water and Nicole scrambled to cover herself with it. For some reason, she felt much more exposed to the woman’s black gaze then she had beneath his.
“Cara, why did you not tell me we had a guest?”
“Get up from there, Gerard. This does not concern you.”
“Mía bèlla, how can you say that? She is Gino’s child. She is like family! We were just getting acquainted.” But he did rise; a fluid gesture that seemed to require no visible effort.
“I did not invite her here so you could indulge in your typical foolishness.”
He laughed. It rumbled like the threat of thunder. “Was that what I was doing? I thought I was being quite charming.”
“Go away before you ruin everything,” Bianca hissed, and Gerard sketched a mocking bow toward her.
“As you wish. Shall I step out to find us something to dine upon? What are you hungry for this evening? Some hearty fare or something light and refined? Your taste is so much more . . . particular than mine.”
“Go!”
He gave her a sardonic smile, then turned back to Nicole. “We will talk later, signorina. A più tardi.”
And he was gone. Nicole but blinked and he had disappeared from the room.
“Please forgive his rudeness.” Bianca all but oozed. “He has no manners. Please finish your bath and then join me in the antechamber.”
Then she was gone as well. Shivering, Nicole climbed out of the chilled water and quickly dried and dressed. It flirted through her mind to slip away now while she had the chance, but curiosity held her when wisdom urged flight. She realized for the first time that her trip to Paris had been an escape from the inevitable. It was time to find out who . . . and perhaps what she was.
“Ah, there you are,” Bianca cooed. She was waiting in a low-ceiled chamber, half reclined upon a chaise. Nicole felt a twinge of foreboding as she observed the menagerie frozen into the furniture. Each table leg, each chair arm, every spool, every spindle was an animal part detailed in smooth mahogany; griffins and Chimeras, leopards’ snarls and lions’ pads, like some dismembered trophy room. And in the middle of this monstrous fossilization, Bianca du Maurier seemed as inanimate as the wood. Until she stood, and that ripple of sleek strength reminded Nicole to be on her guard.
“Gerard tells me your name is Nicole. A very pretty name.”
“Is he your husband?”
Bianca chuckled as if she found that idea greatly amusing. “Gerard? No. He is my companion. He can be quite entertaining when he chooses to be. He introduced me to your father when they were young men in Italy. We’ve seen and done much since then, Gerardo, Gino and I. I’m sorry, I meant to say Louis.”
“Gino what?”
“Luigino Rodmini. He has told you none of this?”
Nicole shook her head, feeling terribly naive under the sophisticate’s clucking sympathy.
“He always liked his secrets. But to keep them from his own daughter, shame.”
Oh, yes, he liked his secrets. Looking at the other woman, Nicole wondered how many she was privy to. “How well do you know my father?”
“Intimately,” she purred without a trace of reluctance. Then, with Nicole’s stark pallor, she amended that with a cool, “That was before he met your mother, of course. How well do you know him?”
“I’m beginning to think I don’t know him at all,” she admitted softly. “Nor do I understand much of what is happening in my own life.”
“What kind of troubles could you possibly have? You are young and lovely—”
“And different. I fear I am very much like the father I do not know.” And in spite of her want to sound brave, her voice quavered with uncertainty.
Bianca was instantly all gentle reassurance, calming her with just the right words. “You mustn’t be afraid of what you are.”
“And what am I? Do you know? Can you tell me? Have you a name for it?”
“I don’t feel special,” she said almost angrily. She’d held in these feelings for too long to control them now. She stared at the other woman with a fierce intensity. “I don’t want to be special or different or—dangerous.”
“Only because you are not in control. The powers you possess are like none within the mortal realm.” She leaned slightly forward, her eyes glittering, the color in her cheeks growing feverish. “Gerard tells me you have the same gift as your father. Has Louis taught you how to use it?”
“No, madame, he has not.” And the hard edge of her voice made the icy blonde smile contemplatively.
“I will show you.”
The promise of those words tingled through Nicole. Then, an instant before she heard his voice, she felt Gerard’s return.
“And there is much I can teach you as well,” came the flow of his accented drawl.
“Back so soon.” Bianca was frowning, but an odd gleam of anticipation came to life in her flat black eyes.
“Ah, there is no match for Parisian cuisine. Such variety.” His piercing gaze settled on Nicole. “Was there anything in particular you had a taste for, cara? Forgive me for not asking sooner. As our guest, the choice should be yours.”
“I—I’m not hungry.”
“Oh, but you look hungry. There’s that leanness to your face, that brightness in your eyes. Are you certain you do not care to join us? It would be impolite of me to dine in front of you.”
She noticed then that he held an oddly shaped pewter drinking horn. From the wide throat it curved down to an intricately formed griffin’s face. “I’ve seen that before.”
He glanced at it and smiled. “This is the mate to the one your father has. We picked them up in the Mediterranean—oh, long ago.”
He’d come closer by then, and Nicole was aware of a certain scent intensifying. Her nostrils flared wide to savor it and her lips parted to allow the quickening pants of her breath to pass. Need strung through her veins like fire, and she found herself with stare fixed upon that cup.