The only good thing he could say about Pete, Hugh reflected, was that where his own money was concerned, he knew how to move fast. Montfort had convinced the board completely that buying House Massot would lift them to the level of Tiffany. Pete Stockton now wanted this deal almost as much as he did.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’m much obliged.”
Hugh hung up and went into the marble-clad retreat of his sumptuous bathroom to brush his teeth. By the time he had finished, an envelope had been slid discreetly under his door. It contained the signed authorization from Pete Stockton.
Montfort smiled and put it beside his bed. He slept well, as he always did before a fight.
Chapter 15
Sophie couldn’t concentrate. She thanked God, for once, for Katherine. Her mother-in-law’s rigorous social training came in useful at a moment like this, when she had to smile and dance—avoid offending anyone, even though her thoughts were otherwise engaged.
How dare he?
She could hardly believe it. How dare he! Her husband’s long-time enemy, to come up to her at a charity ball and try to take advantage of her? Just because Gregoire had to work tonight. Hugh Montfort must have planned it, have known she was going to be alone. He must think me as dumb as a rock, Sophie told herself. What, I wouldn’t know about him? That I would sign over Tom’s 30 percent to some takeover shark?
It occurred to her that she in fact wouldn’t have known about Hugh Montfort, if it hadn’t been for Judy Dean; and she felt a rush of gratitude at the thought.
Gregoire had never mentioned him. But most likely he didn’t want her to be bothered.
Sophie fought to keep her composure.
“Sophie, you are not eating?”
Richard de Belfont, Baron de Fosin, her neighbour, bent over her solicitously. Sophie regarded her plate: duck with a bitter apple sauce.
“Oh, yes, delicious,” she said faintly, forcing down a forkful.
“Sophie never eats, Richard,” said Margot, his wife, with a thin smile. “How else do you think she stays so slim?”
“Margot, you’re too sweet,” Sophie said automatically. Her eyes scanned the table: six of Pierre’s favourite people, favourites in that they were all titled or very rich indeed, and to her right, a politician, a junior minister in the culture department, the “spare man.” He’d been ogling her hopefully all evening, but she could barely respond to his energetic compliments and polite conversation about the château.
Oh hell, I wish Gregoire were here, she thought.
Of course he couldn’t be with her every moment. He had come out to the country, or had her to lunch, every day since she’d left the firm; ever since the day she’d decided not to come in anymore, and Gregoire had driven straight out to the country, kissed her hand, and told her that he loved her.
Sophie toyed with her duck and champagne. Yes, she would think about Gregoire, that was the way to go. He had taken her in his arms and kissed her, in a very practiced way, and although she’d been stiff, and resisting, he hadn’t minded. He told her he knew she was Catholic, and he would wait. . . .
But I was expecting to melt, she thought. Oh well, perhaps it was just lack of practice. It had been seven years, after all.
This train of thought was not completely satisfactory, but she forced herself to consider Gregoire’s kindness, his willingness not to push, to go at her pace. And he’d called and sent flowers every day and come as often as possible; of course there would occasionally be nights when he had to work.
In fact before this evening, she reflected guiltily, she’d almost been looking forward to it. Just a little. Well, before he declared himself she’d been longing for him to say something, and now that he didn’t leave her alone, she wanted a break. I’m just perverse, Sophie thought.
But she’d certainly changed her mind when Hugh Montfort appeared. She wanted Gregoire then. He would have told him where to go.
When Sophie thought it was safe, she snuck in a couple of looks over to Montfort’s table. He was seated so she could only see the back of him, but he appeared unfazed by her rebukes. He was deep in animated conversation with the other benefactors. She’d thought that at the very least he would have stormed out.
As soon as it was safe, Sophie excused herself and made her way to the cloakroom. She summoned her driver and waited impatiently for him to come around.
From time to time she glanced back nervously into the hall. Had Montfort seen her leave? She was sure he must have. But he hadn’t followed her. She rehearsed two or three put-downs, just in case he did.
He’s not what I would have expected, Sophie thought. Except for his class—the name Hugh Montfort spoke volumes. But she had pictured him as an indolent, weak-chinned public school boy, looking to glom on to the success of Pierre and Gregoire, and sulky when he was refused.
Montfort had been nothing of the kind. He was her own age, maybe just a touch older, and well-dressed without too much care taken about it, which she never liked in men. Tall, like Gregoire, but stronger. Indeed, he made her shiver, although the evening was balmy. He was very muscular, and tense when he moved, predatory, in more than the corporate sense of the word. Sophie longed for the comfort of Gregoire.
As soon as she had slid into the back of her limo, she reached for the phone and called his direct line at the office. Nobody was there. She gave the driver his home address.
The car pulled along the gravel drive into the neon stream of nighttime Parisian traffic. Sophie was almost the first to leave, but she didn’t care. She had put in an appearance; that was sufficient, as representative of the House. And now she had something a little more fun to do.
Well, there was a tinge of fun to it, she admitted. Of course she was madly in love with Gregoire, and being courted was very exciting, but still. . . .
Truth to tell, she had found the time away from the office just slightly dull. Looking back on it, even studying reports hadn’t been so bad. And there was Judy Dean to talk to. Judy had come down to the château for a visit, but it wasn’t quite the same. Sophie had actually enjoyed working. It wasn’t true work, not like Judy’s—she knew that—but it had been fun to try, at least, to wrap her mind round something more important than planting schemes and estate management.
And now she had some important information—now she could help Gregoire! Their enemy was on the prowl again. Of course Gregoire would know how to defeat him. She wondered, a touch anxiously, if he’d be offended if she asked for updates?
Ah, here they were. Boulevard la Reine, with its modern town-houses, all in a row. Gregoire’s was the third, and she could see that the light was still on. A car was parked outside, a little Renault, so she had the driver wait in the next space, and climbed out, carefully lifting her coat and dress so that mud didn’t splash on the hem. She had a good dry cleaner, but one couldn’t ask for miracles.
Sophie rang Gregoire’s bell. She heard light footsteps running down the stairs, and the door opened.
“Yes?” said a young woman.
Sophie blinked. The girl was no more than nineteen, with dyed blonde hair cut just below her chin in a long bob. She had a pretty face and undistinguished brown eyes, and was wearing jeans and what looked like a man’s shirt, thin red stripes on white.
“Sorry, I must have picked the wrong house,” Sophie said, in confusion. The development was expensive, but the houses were identical.
But then she heard heavier footsteps; she recognized them; they were his. Gregoire came running downstairs, smiling at her, and opened the door. He was wearing a white shirt, a tie, and trousers, and smelled of aftershave. He kissed her hand, gallantly.
“Chérie!” he said. “Welcome; it’s so good to see you.”
Sophie stared uncertainly at the young woman.
“Excuse me,” Gregoire said. “This is Lise, my new assistant. Lise—this is the lady I’ve been telling you about, Mme Massot, who owns the company.”
“Delighted to meet you, Madame,” Lise sa
id. “It’s a great honour.”
Sophie shook hands, feeling stupid.
“We decided to come back here and work, as there was such a quantity of it; it’s late, and I thought I should at least buy Lise a pizza,” Gregoire said. Sophie glanced into his sitting room; there was indeed a pizza box open on his expensive green-glass coffee table. She smiled.
“I didn’t think you were a pizza kind of guy.”
“From time to time,” he said. “Come in, come in.”
The young girl stood aside as Sophie moved into the hallway.
“Wow, what a dress,” she said.
“Thank you,” Sophie replied, a little awkwardly. She looked at Gregoire, who immediately came to her rescue. “Lise, since Mme Massot is here, I’ll knock off for the night. You can finish typing everything up at home.”
“Uh, yes, Monsieur,” said the girl.
“Just make sure you’re in early—seven thirty,” Gregoire said easily.
“Yes, Monsieur. Good night, Madame. Nice to meet you.”
“And you,” Sophie said, glad when the door had shut behind her. “I’m sorry, sweetheart; I didn’t think you’d still be working, really, at this hour.”
“We were almost done.” Gregoire clasped her hand. “I’m so glad you’re here; you’re so much more interesting than dull work on diamond suppliers. Allow me,” and he slipped off her silver coat. “It is a fabulous dress, darling. Did you manage to survive the evening without me?”
“Funny you should ask,” Sophie said, sitting down on one of his woven-leather chairs. She felt on more familiar ground now; jealousy of a secretary, what could be more stupid? “I met someone unexpected.”
“And who was that?” Lazard moved into the kitchen. “Tea? Coffee? A digestif?”
“Something decaffeinated, if you have it. Chamomile would be lovely. Anyway, it was Hugh Montfort.”
Sophie watched Gregoire as he busied himself in his sleek chrome kitchen; his back stiffened.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Perfectly; he introduced himself to me.”
“And made an offer for the company, no doubt,” Gregoire said, laughing.
“Yes, he did.”
He spun on his heels, staring. “What?”
“He said he had a proposition for me. But I told him the answer was no,” Sophie reassured him. “I told him to talk to you.”
Lazard poured boiling water into an earthenware teapot. “What did he say to that?”
“He informed me that you ‘did not have the interests of our shareholders at heart,’ ” Sophie said. “Pompous ass.”
Gregoire, she could see, took this badly. His hands were trembling as he set out cups and saucers.
“He’s an oaf,” Lazard spat. “An interfering fool.”
“Don’t worry,” Sophie said. “I didn’t believe him for a second.”
Gregoire took a deep breath, then two, then came back beside her and set down the cup.
“Sugar?” he said.
She shook her head, and he caught her hand and kissed it again, more passionately this time. It made Sophie wriggle just a little.
“Gregoire . . .” she said, faintly. “I’m sorry, I just . . . I need more time . . . it’s been so long.”
That sounded like an excuse. Even to her. Sophie flashed on Pierre, and her squirming distaste whenever he came to her bed, peeled back the covers, and lay down next to her, where she stayed still and fearful, gritting her teeth and hoping he’d soon be done.
Gregoire smiled softly, then reached up and traced a smooth fingertip along the line of her neck.
“Don’t worry, darling, I know you are religious.” He stood up, to Sophie’s relief. “I think it’s charming,” he said. “A beautiful woman is not always so virtuous. . . .”
She looked down. She wasn’t some kind of saint, if that’s what he thought.
“Stay there a moment, my darling,” he said, and disappeared into his bedroom. Sophie sipped her tea and tried to calm herself. She had to get used to a man’s touch, that was all it was. No need to be afraid. He was hardly going to jump on her right now.
Gregoire reappeared and crossed the room towards her. Then, taking her hand again, he knelt at her feet. Sophie stared as he produced a little red box.
“It isn’t Massot,” he murmured. “I hope you don’t mind. . . . I want to have fresh memories, just for us. It’s Cartier.”
He flicked open the box. It was a huge, very fine diamond, oval cut and set in platinum; expensive but boring. No, classic, Sophie instantly corrected herself.
“It’s beautiful,” she exclaimed dutifully.
“I hope before long to change your name, as well as your jewels,” Gregoire said. “I was going to wait, but why should we wait? Sophie—you know I love you; will you marry me?”
She said yes, of course; she couldn’t think of any other answer that was reasonable. Gregoire loved her, she loved him . . . she must do. He was willing to wait for her; he had money of his own. And she was so tired of being lonely.
He triumphantly slipped the ring onto her left hand, next to her other engagement ring and wedding band. It didn’t fit, but he assured her it was the work of a day to have it corrected.
“And we must be married as soon as possible. You’ll tell Tom. Perhaps we can arrange the ceremony at the château, by next week.”
Sophie laughed. “Next week? Don’t be silly.”
“You forget, I have to wait to make love to you until we’re married. You can’t blame me for being eager.” Gregoire came and perched himself next to her on the couch. “But seriously, darling; we love each other, delay is foolish.”
“A wedding is a happy day—there’s no need to rush it.” Planning a nice wedding would give her something to do. “And besides, I must break the news to Tom gradually. He’s had a lot to cope with lately.”
“He’ll be fine,” Gregoire said, a touch impatiently. “He must learn that you have a right to move on.”
Sophie stared. “We’re not getting married next week, Gregoire! Be reasonable. I haven’t even been in mourning six months. Besides, the church will make you wait at least six months, go to marriage classes . . . although Fr. Sabin will do that for me.”
“Six months!” Lazard exploded. “But he’s been dead seven years. . . . I don’t have six months. . . .”
Then he caught hold of himself and shook his head.
“Look at me; I am being so stupid. It’s only that I have been planning this, and already the time without you seems too long to me.”
They were soft words, but Sophie shrank back a little; the fire in Gregoire’s blue eyes had surprised her; she’d never seen him angry like that.
He perceived the look. “Ah, chérie, now I have frightened you, and at such a happy moment.”
“It’s all right. You’re just enthusiastic.”
“Exactly,” he said. “You know when something has been building up . . . and when you make the leap, you want it to happen as soon as possible.”
“I understand,” Sophie said. She stood up. “I’ll let Fr. Sabin know tomorrow, anyway.”
“Yes,” Gregoire said eagerly. “Maybe he can get us a dispensation or something. Make it faster. In return for a donation. . . .”
He caught her look and held up his hands. “Okay, okay. I’ll wait as long as I have to, and just hope it won’t be too long.”
Sophie handed him back the ring that was too small, and waited as he fetched her coat and helped her into it. She told herself it was fine, and in fact it was flattering, if Gregoire was on fire to marry her.
Her eyes swept over his place; not her own taste, but definitely expensive. Gregoire was a proud man, she excused him; she looked at the portraits of himself, opening a Massot store, in a group of businessmen, even shaking hands with a former prime minister of France.
A chill crept over her heart; she looked a little closer. Gregoire was clasping M. Jospin’s hand in his, and smiling. He was dressed in a cha
rcoal grey suit, a navy tie . . .
And a white shirt, with thin red stripes.
She’d seen it before.Very recently.
It was the shirt Lise had been wearing.
“Are you okay, my love?” Gregoire said tenderly, draping the coat across her shoulders.
Sophie wrenched her eyes away, and used Katherine Massot’s techniques of composure for the second time that evening.
“I’m fine—all the excitement, you know, darling,” she said. “See you tomorrow,” and kissed him on the cheek.
He opened the door, and Sophie, heart thumping, was thrilled to see her driver, still there, waiting patiently for her, his headlights dimmed.
He got out to open the back door for her, and Sophie climbed in. “Home,” she said, instantly.
“Certainly, Madame. I trust you had a pleasant evening?”
Sophie made no reply. She was looking at Gregoire Lazard as he stood on the steps. He seemed to have sensed that something was wrong. He was staring at the tinted windows of her car, as though he could see through them; and although, at first, she thought it must be fanciful, Sophie felt a sudden, frightening wave of malice.
But then her car moved off and he turned and went into the house, and she was able to breathe out.
Chapter 16
“You do understand, M. Massot, that your position is a delicate one,” Leonard Elgin said.
Tom scowled; he hadn’t come all the way to London to have his grandmother teach him to suck eggs.
“Of course it’s delicate; that’s what I’ve been trying to explain to you,” he said impatiently.
They had put on the full-court press for him. The ancient chambers in Lincoln’s Inn were quietly, decorously abuzz with news of their new client. Tom had been ushered into the largest meeting room and ensconced in one of the leather-backed chairs under a fine Edwardian portrait of a judge. Both senior partners, Messrs. Leonard Elgin and Crispin Hartford, were present. Tom could see they were trying to contain their eagerness.
“The matter will certainly require the most discreet handling,” Hartford agreed. Like his partner, he was a man in his fifties, with a decorous, quiet air Tom approved of; precisely what he wanted after his mother’s behaviour.
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