Unwelcome Invader (Harlequin Treasury 1990's)

by Angela Devine

  ‘Not any more,’ replied Laurette. ‘Her husband was a Grand Prix racing driver and he was killed in an accident several years ago. But if Marc had really loved her, he would have married her by now, wouldn’t he? Heaven knows, she’s willing enough!’

  ‘When she came to Tasmania she told me they were going to get married!’ blurted out Jane.

  Laurette’s eyes widened.

  ‘Well, it’s the first I’ve heard of it! And I don’t believe a word of it. Marc wouldn’t be having an affair with you if he was planning to marry Simone, now would he?’

  Jane sighed and shook her head.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she admitted.

  ‘But he must have told you something about how he feels towards you!’

  ‘That’s just the trouble. He hasn’t!’ cried Jane passionately. ‘I don’t know where I stand with him. He’s so secretive.’

  It was Laurette’s turn to sigh and shake her head.

  ‘I guess you’re right,’ she admitted. ‘Marc does tend to clam up about his feelings, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t got any. Look, why don’t you talk to him, Jane? Tell him how much he’s upsetting you. Ask him what he wants from you. Find out where you stand.’

  Jane accepted a cup of strong black coffee from Laurette and nodded soberly.

  ‘All right,’ she vowed. ‘I will.’

  Several hours later Jane woke from a troubled doze to hear the sound she had been waiting for on the stone staircase outside her bedroom. The sound of stealthy footsteps going up to Marc’s room. It was almost midnight and obviously his conference with Simone was finally over. Her heart lurched wildly at the thought of what she was about to do, but her mind was made up. She couldn’t bear the uncertainty any longer, so she intended to follow Laurette’s advice. However difficult it might be, she would tell Marc frankly that she loved him and beg him to be equally honest about his feelings for her. Taking a deep breath, she checked herself in the mirror. With her blonde hair rippling around her shoulders and her eyes huge and troubled, she still looked a bit like Little Orphan Annie. But her body under the clinging satin nightgown was unmistakably a woman’s body and there was a resolute set to her jaw. If Marc didn’t want a serious, committed relationship with her, she was determined to hear the truth from him.

  Picking up the trailing hem of her nightdress, Jane tiptoed up the chilly stone stairs and tapped firmly on the heavy oak door. There was a long silence, then it swung open with a creak. But it wasn’t Marc who stood there in the glowing lamplight. It was a woman, clad in an even flimsier nightdress than Jane’s.

  ‘Simone!’ breathed Jane.

  ‘Hello,’ exclaimed the other woman with an amused, quizzical look. ‘I’m afraid Marc’s already in bed and I was just about to join him. Is there anything urgent that you want?’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  JANE passed a thoroughly wretched night. After the first shock of seeing Simone in Marc’s bedroom she muttered something incoherent and retreated to her room downstairs, but her disbelief soon gave way to a mixture of fury, outrage and paralysing misery that left her unable to fall asleep for hours. At four a.m. she was still lying in the dark—red-eyed, miserable, and with a pounding headache—totally unable to think what she should do next. Unable to think of anything except the cruel betrayal that Marc had inflicted upon her. At last towards dawn she fell into a restless, turbulent sleep, but was woken shortly after six a.m. by a knock at the door.

  ‘Marc!’ she mumbled in a dazed voice. She felt a brief, treacherous thrill of joy at the thought of seeing him, then memory hit her like a sledgehammer. Her spirits plummeted miserably. Although perhaps he had come to offer some explanation…

  ‘Come in,’ she ordered miserably.

  The door creaked open. This time it was not Marc who stood there with a tray of croissants and coffee, but Simone. Jane stiffened, looking at the other woman with an alert, watchful expression.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked suspiciously.

  Simone eyed her thoughtfully for a moment, then crossed the room and set down the tray on the bedside cupboard. After that she pulled up a chair and sat down beside Jane with the brisk air of a detective about to interview a barely lucid assault victim.

  ‘I brought you some breakfast,’ she said tranquilly. ‘Why don’t you eat it while you and I have a little talk?’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Your position here,’ said Simone. She snapped on the bedside lamp and looked closely at Jane. ‘Poor girl, you’ve been crying, haven’t you?’

  ‘No,’ retorted Jane defiantly. ‘I just have bags under my eyes until I put my make-up on in the mornings.’ She leaned forward and peered equally searchingly at Simone. ‘I can see you suffer from the same problem.’

  Simone’s eyes flashed ominously, but she took a deep breath and forced herself to smile.

  ‘I can’t blame you for feeling hostile towards me,’ she said. ‘This is a difficult situation for both of us. I’m sorry that I embarrassed you last night, but you must make allowances for the fact that Marc and I haven’t seen each other for several weeks and our reunions are always rather sizzling in those circumstances. Still, you shouldn’t be hurt by it. I’m sure Marc will sleep with you tonight.’

  ‘No, he won’t!’ flared Jane. ‘You may think all this eternal triangle stuff is glamorous and sophisticated, but I don’t want a bar of it.’

  ‘So what do you intend to do?’ asked Simone softly.

  Jane’s eyes narrowed to stormy pinpoints of light.

  ‘For a start I intend to tell Marc exactly what I think of his appalling behaviour,’ she announced, flinging back the covers and preparing to get out of bed.

  Simone caught her arm and restrained her.

  ‘You can do that if you like,’ she said. ‘But are you sure it’s what you want? If you go upstairs to him now, you know very well you’ll get agitated, you’ll start crying, you’ll make a fool of yourself. And that won’t impress Marc. You know he’ll just look at you with that cool, weary expression of his, won’t he? I don’t know whether you’ve realised it, but he doesn’t like scenes.’

  Jane made a choking sound deep in the back of her throat. Every muscle in her body was shaking with adrenalin, so that she almost craved a violent, angry quarrel, a chance to tell Marc what she thought of him and unload all her anger and grief. But would it do any good? As she saw the faint, mocking smile that flickered over the Frenchwoman’s lips she knew that Simone was right. Marc would just give her a look of cool, weary distaste if she burst in on him and made a jealous scene. All she would achieve by it would be to lose even more of her dignity.

  ‘I wish I were a million miles away from here!’ she exclaimed passionately.

  Simone nodded her head.

  ‘That’s not a bad idea, actually,’ she said. ‘Of course you can stay here if you want to, but is that what you really want?’

  ‘Of course it’s not!’ cried Jane hotly.

  ‘Then why not go home to Australia?’ urged Simone soothingly. ‘I can tell Monsieur and Madame Le Rossignol that you had some kind of urgent phone call—perhaps that one of your parents is sick—and I’d be happy to drive you to Brive. The train from there to Paris only takes a little over four hours and I’m sure you could soon get a flight home without any trouble at all.’

  ‘You’re just trying to get rid of me!’ flared Jane.

  Simone shrugged.

  ‘I don’t deny it. But you can hardly blame me, can you? It would certainly be easier for me if you left and probably much less painful for you.’

  That statement was unanswerable. Jane bit her knuckles and stared unseeingly in front of her. The thought of going to Laurette for advice rose in her mind, but she dismissed it. No, she couldn’t face Laurette—couldn’t bear to tell her the truth about how badly Marc had hurt her. She would simply dissolve into tears if she tried. Much as she disliked Simone, and hated the solution she was offering, it did seem to be the best way out. And she could a
lways write to the Le Rossignols later to thank them for their hospitality. Suddenly she made up her mind.

  ‘All right, I’ll go,’ she said bleakly.

  ‘That’s very sensible of you,’ murmured Simone. ‘Look, I’ll run upstairs and dress. Then I’ll get my car keys and come back for you in…shall we say ten minutes?’

  Nobody saw them leave the château. Jane kept expecting someone to open a window and shout at them to demand where they were going, but nothing happened. The whole place simply continued to drowse peacefully in the early morning light as Simone’s red sports car turned down the white gravel road that led through the avenue of poplars.

  The drive to Brive took almost two hours, but Jane remained silent and miserable, gazing out of her window at the countryside that glided by. Her head ached and there was a lump in her throat. Even now she could scarcely believe in Marc’s treachery. Fortunately Simone didn’t attempt to talk, but concentrated on sending the car speeding along the country roads towards Cahors, where they turned north. Once they reached the Brive railway station Simone was very efficient about parking the car, transporting Jane’s luggage and buying her a train ticket. All the same, Jane rebelled when Simone showed signs of wanting to stay with her until the train left.

  ‘You don’t have to stay and make sure I catch it,’ she muttered.

  Simone’s eyebrows rose.

  ‘I’m just being friendly,’ she protested.

  Jane snorted.

  ‘I appreciate the ride, but there’s no need to be hypocritical. We aren’t friends, Simone. You want to get rid of me and I’m leaving. That’s all there is to it, so let’s just say goodbye and leave it at that.’

  ‘All right,’ agreed Simone with a shrug. ‘Goodbye. And good luck with your vineyard. I don’t think Marc will be buying it now.’

  ‘No,’ said Jane with a sigh. ‘Well, goodbye, Simone. I hope you and Marc will be very happy.’

  And that’s the biggest lie I’ve ever told in my life, thought Jane as she watched Simone’s elegant figure retreating from the waiting-room. I don’t hope they’ll be happy; I hope they’ll be just as miserable as I am now. A turmoil of anger and jealousy and disbelief surged through her, mingled with more poignant emotions of tenderness and regret. Even now, in spite of the way Marc had treated her, she longed to see him. Gazing around at the sea of strange faces, she felt a sense of total desolation sweep over her, then a sudden movement near the main door of the station caught her eye and her heart almost stopped beating.

  It was him! Lean, dark and apparently seething with annoyance as he pushed his way through the crowds that impeded his progress. Then suddenly his eyes met hers and a flare of ruthless triumph lit his face as if he were an eagle sighting its prey. Jane turned to flee, but found her way blocked by a large luggage trolley. In panic she swung round, looking for another escape route, but found her wrist caught and held.

  ‘Where in the name of God do you think you’re going?’ demanded Marc. ‘Why did Simone bring you here? And where is she?’

  ‘She’s gone,’ muttered Jane sullenly, answering the easiest of these questions.

  Marc’s eyes flashed.

  ‘You still haven’t told me what the hell you’re doing here!’ he snarled. ‘It’s not customary in polite circles for guests to vanish out of the house at six in the morning with all their luggage without a word of explanation to their hosts. I want to know what you’re doing here!’

  ‘How did you know where we were?’ faltered Jane.

  ‘I heard the car leaving and caught a glimpse of the pair of you. By the time I was up and dressed it was a damned hard job picking up the trail and figuring out where you’d gone. But never mind that. What are you doing here at the railway station?’

  Jane fought down a furious impulse to retort that it wasn’t customary in polite circles to sleep with two women on alternate nights. Instead, she gave a cool, indifferent shrug.

  ‘I had a phone call from my father,’ she lied. ‘He told me he’d had a change of heart about the property and he’s decided to release my share of the money, so I don’t have any problems any more. I want to get home and get all the documents signed before he changes his mind. If you don’t want to buy the Saddler’s Corner property then I’ll probably buy it from my father myself.’

  Marc stared at her in horror and disbelief.

  ‘And you intend just to leave like this? Even if your father has had a change of heart, why can’t some arrangement be made by telephone or fax machine? My parents are expecting you to stay on here and I wanted to show you more of the country round Bordeaux.’

  For an instant Jane was touched by his obvious dismay, but the memory of Simone gloating in the doorway of his bedroom came blazing back at her, and she hardened her heart.

  ‘Well, there’s no point in that now, is there?’ she retorted coolly. ‘Not with the way things are between us.’

  Marc frowned.

  ‘You mean because of what happened last night?’ he demanded in exasperation. ‘Look, that means nothing, Jane. It was so trivial and meaningless! There’s no reason to let it spoil our affection for each other.’

  Jane’s pride was touched on the raw. How could he dismiss the episode with Simone as if it meant no more than a few thoughtless cross words? A surge of anger flooded through her so that she wanted to hit back and hurt him as badly as he had hurt her.

  ‘Affection?’ she sneered. ‘What affection? You might as well know the truth, Marc’ A sudden inspiration seized her and the words spilled out, fluent and deadly. ‘The only reason I ever slept with you was because I was hoping you’d help me to get my vineyard back! So there’s no further point in my staying here now, is there?’

  Marc went white around the lips and his eyes blazed.

  ‘You bitch,’ he breathed. ‘You scheming, wanton little bitch.’

  ‘All’s fair in love and war,’ retorted Jane, tossing her head. ‘Well, do you want me to send back your belongings that you left behind in Tasmania? I don’t suppose you’re likely to go there again yourself.’

  Marc gave a short, mirthless laugh.

  ‘I hope to God I never see the place again!’ he rasped. ‘Or you.’

  She had to turn away so that he wouldn’t see the gleam of tears in her eyes, but in a moment she had control of herself again. Her voice came out cool and mocking.

  ‘Goodbye, Marc. Or should I say adieu?’

  Jane arrived home two days later, feeling depressed and exhausted. It was a double shock to hurtle so swiftly from mid-summer in Europe to mid-winter in Tasmania, but the dismal weather matched her mood. She took a taxi from the airport to the farm and got soaked in the brief interval of getting from the vehicle to the back porch. A feeling of desolation gripped her as she watched the red tail-lights of the taxi disappear down the gravel driveway. Although it was not yet five o’clock, it was almost dark. Scarves of grey mist hung about the hills, the sky was the colour of lead, a banshee wind was driving in from the west in gusts and her fingernails were already beginning to turn blue with cold. But worse than the chill weather was the chill in her heart. Gritting her teeth, she unlocked the back door and struggled inside with her suitcases.

  The interior of the farmhouse which she had always thought so cosy and welcoming now seemed just as bleak as the sodden landscape outside. She thought a hot bath might be reviving, but when she turned on the taps she remembered that she and Marc had switched off the hot water service before they went away. Well, she would just have to settle for a hot wash and makeshift meal. She boiled the electric kettle twice—the first time so that she could wash her face and hands and the second time to make a cup of tea. As she sipped the hot, fragrant liquid she realised with a dazed feeling that she had eaten practically nothing for two days. All the way home on the plane she had been too unsettled to feel hungry and even now the thought of food repelled her. Yet her common sense rebelled at the thought of making herself sick on Marc’s account.

  Padding acros
s to the freezer, she opened the door and scanned the containers that were neatly labelled in Marc’s handwriting. Pulling out a small plastic tub of beef stew, she put it in the microwave oven and pressed the button. That was a mistake. The mouthwatering aroma of stewed beef which soon began to fill the room reminded her dramatically of her previous homecoming. She thought of Marc and that turbulent scene in the cellar followed by the candlelit dinner in the middle of the night. At the time she had thought she hated him, but in retrospect the experience had taken on a bittersweet, nostalgic quality.

  Well, she should have realised that her initial distrust of him was perfectly well-founded! She ought to be grateful that the penny had finally dropped and she could now see him exactly as he was. Although somehow she didn’t feel in the least bit grateful as she sat doggedly eating beef stew all by herself at the kitchen table. Once she had finished, she dropped everything unwashed into the kitchen sink, dragged herself up the stairs and collapsed into bed. Not that she found much relief there either. Throughout the long hours of darkness her ears rang with the noise of airplane engines. The wind rattled the window frames, disturbing her sleep, and even when she did sink into true slumber she found herself besieged by confusing nightmares about Marc and Simone. She woke shortly after eight o’clock to find that it was still raining.

  ‘I must pull myself together,’ she said aloud, dragging herself into a sitting position. ‘This won’t do! However much Marc has hurt me, I’ve still got work to do and I mustn’t give up.’

  After a hot shower and some fresh clothes she rummaged in the kitchen in search of breakfast. Once again there were inevitable memories of Marc, since the freezer contained neatly labelled packages of almond croissants, French bread and even frozen coffee beans. Telling herself sternly not to be a wimp, Jane loaded a tray with pastries and coffee and went into the rumpus-room where she lit the wood fire and sat down to gather her wits.

  ‘Let’s see,’ she said aloud. ‘There must be something I should be doing in the winery or the vineyard.’