by Liz Fielding
Emmy reached for a book, but before she opened it she gave him an enigmatic little smile. ‘You think it’s going to be easy to talk Kit into taking my father’s money, don’t you?’
‘Do I?’
For a moment she held his gaze. ‘You’re wrong about him, you know.’
Brodie was startled by the glowing sincerity with which she spoke but she was right. He had been assuming, like Carlisle, that it would simply be a matter of numbers. Not if, but how much it would take to buy the man off.
As Emmy settled back to read, he put himself in Kit Fairfax’s shoes. If she loved him, how much would it take to make him go away? Which was when he realised he’d better give some serious thought about his next move if the man refused to take the bribe.
They changed trains at Lille without incident and it was the afternoon by the time they arrived in Marseilles. Another half an hour before they were sitting in the comfortable Renault that Brodie had hired.
He turned to her. ‘Well, Emmy, we’re in the south of France. Where now?’
‘Head north,’ she said. ‘Then east.’
‘North and then east?’ He regarded her with a degree of amusement. ‘You’ll forgive me but that isn’t very precise. Where exactly are we going?’
‘I’ll give you directions as we go,’ she hedged.
‘Not directions like that, you won’t. It’ll be dark in a couple of hours and I have no intention of ending up lost on some remote track miles from anywhere.’ Which was what she undoubtedly had in mind.
‘Just head north, Brodie. I’ll tell you when to turn off. I’m really good with directions.’
He hadn’t expected her to tell him where they were going; in fact he had rather been banking on her obstinacy. ‘In the dark?’ he pressed. ‘Honest?’
‘Of course,’ she said, not quite meeting his eyes.
He gave her a thoughtful look before he started the engine and headed for the nearest intersection. Only then did Emmy abandon her careless pose.
‘You’ve taken the wrong turning, Brodie!’ she declared, as he headed towards the old port area of the city. ‘I said north.’
CHAPTER FIVE
BRODIE was unmoved. ‘North is not good enough, Emmy. I’ve been sitting in a train since first thing this morning and I’m not about to be driven all over France on some wild goose chase of yours. We’ll spend the night in Marseilles and set off first thing in the morning. Once you’ve told me exactly where we’re headed.’
She stared at him, clearly not believing her own ears. ‘I thought you were desperate to get this finished with.’
‘I am.’ Then he shrugged. ‘But not so desperate that I’m prepared to drive off into the night without any idea of where I’m going. Besides it does seem a shame to come so close to the home of bouillabaisse and not treat ourselves to a dish.’
He’d been in an odd mood ever since they’d left this morning, Emmy thought. As if he knew something that she didn’t, and it bothered her. But she knew why he was doing this. She had refused to tell him exactly where they were going, afraid that he would find some way to leave her behind and take off into the interior to deal with Kit without any interference from her. After all he thought she was penniless and entirely in his hands.
Well she would let him think it. It would probably be a lot easier getting away from him in a busy city like Marseilles than out in the country. But it wouldn’t do to let him see she didn’t mind that much.
‘I hate bouillabaisse,’ she said, sitting back in her seat, folding her arms and staring out of the opposite window.
‘It’s not obligatory. I know a restaurant down by the old port where I’m sure you’ll find something to your taste. The view if nothing else. Perhaps we should take a boat ride out to the Chateau D’If in the morning? I’ll show you the cell in which the Count of Monte Crisco was incarcerated if you like.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Brodie, The Count of Monte Crisco is a novel. Fiction. Dante wasn’t real.’
‘I know,’ he replied, teasing her gently. ‘Neither was Sherlock Holmes, but people still write to him at his Baker Street lodgings.’
‘Anyone would think you were on holiday,’ she declared, crossly. ‘My future is at stake here. Aren’t you taking it seriously?’
‘I am finding it rather difficult,’ he confessed. ‘Hollingworth might be able to justify a jaunt like this as business but then he’s more used to this sort of thing than I am.’ He paused, waited, she didn’t reply. ‘You have done this before?’ he prompted.
She blushed. ‘I’m sure my father gave you all the details.’
‘Some,’ he agreed. Gerald Carlisle had told him that Emmy had fallen for a smooth talking fortune hunter who’d eloped with her from an Italian villa where they were both staying with friends. Brodie suspected that it was simply a summer romance that had got out of control; a real fortune-hunter would have taken a great deal more money to dislodge.
‘I was barely eighteen, Brodie,’ she said, defensively, as the silence continued. ‘A child.’ She set her lips in a firm line. ‘This time I know exactly what I’m doing.’
‘Maybe you do, Emmy.’ When he’d worked out what exactly she was doing would be soon enough to confront Fairfax. ‘But since I had planned to take a few days off this month, I’ve decided to combine business with pleasure.’
‘Oh, really? And do you always bring work with you, when you’re on holiday?’
‘I brought you.’
She glared at him. ‘What did you do, Brodie, ring your secretary in the middle of the night and get her to rearrange your schedule? Just like that?’ She snapped her fingers.
‘I wasn’t given much choice. Apart from a diary full of appointments that needed to be changed, I had to organise the return of the car I borrowed after you…’ — Emmy glared at him, daring him to say the word “stole” — ‘…after you helped yourself to mine.’ He grinned. ‘I think you owe Jenny a bunch of flowers at the very least for getting her out of bed. Make it a big one and I won’t say another word about it.’
She wasn’t proud of taking his car and didn’t like being continually reminded of it. ‘Is that a promise?’
‘Cross my heart.’ He took one hand off the wheel and sketched a cross above his heart.
‘Then it’s a deal.’ Emmy remained silent while Brodie wove through the evening traffic and pulled into the space in front of a small hotel. ‘You’re serious aren’t you,’ she said, as he flipped the release on his seatbelt.
‘About the bouillabaisse? Of course.’
‘About taking a holiday?’
‘We’re in the south of France, Emmy. It’s what people do here.’ He opened the door for her. ‘Since you’ve chosen my favourite part of the world for your runaway wedding, I thought I might as well take a few days to relax while I’m here, so like you, I’m anxious to get the business part out of the way.’
‘Why don’t you just forget about me and take your holiday?’
‘Because I’m very conscientious. However, I’m quite prepared to relax tonight and forget why we’re here. Why don’t you try and do the same?’ Emmy regarded Brodie with suspicion. She didn’t think he was on holiday, she thought that he was being horribly devious about something. But Brodie smiled and offered her his hand. ‘Come on. You might as well accept that the only travelling we’ll be doing tonight is a gentle stroll to a café where we can to admire the sunset over the Vieux Port. I promise you, it won’t hurt a bit. You might even enjoy it.’
Emmy thought that he was probably right, but as she took his hand and allowed him to help her from the car, she reminded herself not to let it show too much.
Brodie, Emmy realised as they entered the small, but charming hotel, had never intended to drive into the interior that night. The proprietor, Monsieur Girard, greeted him with warmth and enthusiasm but no surprise.
She strained to follow Brodie’s excellent French as he signed the registration card but the two men were speaking too quickly fo
r her own inept schoolgirl version of the language.
‘Your secretary is remarkably efficient,’ Emmy said, just a little sourly as it became obvious that his decision to stay overnight in Marseilles had nothing to do with her reluctance to tell him exactly where they were headed.
Brodie caught her look, gave the slightest of shrugs. ‘I knew we wouldn’t arrive until late afternoon so I asked her to ring ahead and reserve a room for me.’ He pushed the card he had filled in across the reception desk. ‘You should learn to overcome your fear of flying, Emmy. We could have been here several hours ago and you would by now have been in the arms of your own true love.’
He said that with a certain cynicism. Presumably her enthusiastic response when he kissed her had reinforced his view that she was simply winding up her father. That had been a mistake, she acknowledged, but an understandable one, surely? The assured manner of that kiss suggested that he was used to enthusiasm.
‘Have you tried hypnosis?’ he asked.
‘Hypnosis?’
‘I believe it can be quite effective in dealing with irrational fears. If, of course, your fear is genuine.’ He clearly wasn’t convinced about that either. He took the key the proprietor handed him and picking up both their bags in one hand headed for the antiquated lift with its wrought iron gates.
‘One key?’ she demanded.
Brodie’s jaw tightened. ‘One key. And you’d better hope there’s a bolster, Emmy. This is an old-fashioned hotel and I’m afraid they don’t go in for twin beds.
‘Really?’ She stepped into the lift. ‘Then I hope, for your sake, Brodie, that the floor is comfortable.’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time I’d slept on a floor. I just hope there isn’t a draught under the door.’
Emmy smiled so much that it felt as if her face was cracking in half. ‘You think I’d make a bolt for it, in Marseilles, in the middle of the night?’
‘It sounds unlikely when you put it like that, however your track record to date suggests I would be foolish to ignore the possibility. And just in case there’s a handy drainpipe, I’m warning you now that I’ll have all our documents and money locked in the hotel safe overnight.’ And apparently able to read her mind he continued, ‘You may not need your passport to travel now, Emmy. You’ll certainly need it to get married.’ He paused. ‘Along with your birth certificate, an affidavit of residence in France, a prenuptial medical certificate, a solicitor’s certificate regarding a marriage contract, a Certificate of Law from the British Embassy in Paris — that is if you haven’t already applied for one from the Foreign and Commonwealth Office — the declaration of forenames—’
‘You’ve been doing your homework,’ she said, interrupting what was obviously going to be a lengthy list.
‘It’s my legal training. You only have one chance to get it right. And the French do take marriage very seriously as you’d have discovered if you’d done your homework before starting out on this madcap scheme. It would have saved us both a lot of trouble,’ he told her, as the lift finally jolted to a stop.
‘Trouble is my middle name,’ she retorted, ‘didn’t my father tell you that?’
‘We didn’t discuss names, but according to the file he gave me you were registered at birth simply as Emerald Louise Victoria. Was Trouble a baptismal addition?’ He opened the gate for her and apparently not expecting an answer to his question, said, ‘After you, Miss Carlisle.’
He was confident that he had her, she thought as she stepped from the lift. Well that was good. He would relax. He would be less cautious. And for now, she would be very, very good.
But there was no need for pretence as she looked around the delightful suite of rooms they had been allocated on the first floor overlooking the Vieux Port. Old-fashioned provincial French, with heavy ornate furniture, the sitting room and bedroom were charming.
And since the sitting room was furnished with a large and comfortable-looking sofa, he had obviously been just teasing about sharing the huge, inviting bed that dominated the inner room.
‘Didn’t your secretary query just one suite of rooms, Brodie?’ she asked, glancing into the bathroom.
‘My secretary doesn’t know that you are with me,’ he pointed out. Which didn’t quite answer her question, she noticed. But then he was a lawyer.
‘Then who did she think the other seat on the train was for?’
‘In the interests of discretion, I decided to book the seats on the train myself.’
‘You’re hoping to keep the whole thing quiet?’ she enquired, as she turned back to him.
‘If you want to make a spectacle of yourself in the tabloids, Emmy, I really couldn’t care less. I am simply acting as your father’s agent—’
‘You mean you’re just obeying orders?’
Brodie’s slate eyes hardened to granite, his face darkening ominously. And he was right to be angry. She knew that it was an unforgivable, hateful thing to have said and immediately repentant, took half a step towards him.
‘Brodie…’ But he cut her off her apology.
‘—in a situation that is totally repellent to me. However, since I wholeheartedly agree with his sentiments when it comes to avaricious men who take advantage of young women cursed with an abundance of wealth, I will do everything I possibly can to carry out his wishes. Not for him, but for you.’ And picking up his briefcase he crossed to the door. ‘I’ll leave you to use the bathroom first, Emmy. I suggest you take the opportunity to wash your mouth out while you’re in there.’
She couldn’t let him go like that and she rushed across the room, grasping the sleeve of his jacket to detain him. ‘I’m sorry, Brodie,’ she blurted out. ‘Truly.’
‘So am I.’ He glanced down pointedly at her fingers and she instantly removed them. ‘Take your time in the bathroom. I’m going to have a drink.’
Emmy flinched as the door closed with a firmness that would have equalled a slam from anyone less controlled and she leaned back against it with a little shudder.
‘Damn,’ she said. ‘Damn.’ Her father had no doubt told him that she was a spoilt brat and now, with one stupid remark, she had confirmed it.
She realised that she couldn’t bear to have Brodie believe that. She didn’t want him to think she was a thoughtless girl who was simply going out of her way to give her father the maximum amount of grief. But short of telling him the truth what on earth could she do?
Nothing.
She’d already learned that people believed what they wanted to believe and most people chose to believe that she was just like her mother; wild, irresponsible and selfish. But she wasn’t. Oh, she’d had her moments, but nothing worse than most girls of her age. But her wealth, and a mother with a string of lovers, had put her under the spotlight so that every minor indiscretion was magnified out of all proportion.
What was so unfair, so bloody unfair, was that her mother would never have got herself into this kind of situation. Or if she had, would have quit at the first sign of difficulty.
But Brodie would discover that Emerald Carlisle was not a quitter; unlike her mother she would never run out on a friend, or her family, or a lover, just because the going got tough. She’d see this through to the end and she refused to allow either her father or Brodie to stop her. Only Kit could do that, which was why she simply had to get to him before Brodie. She suspected it would be hard enough even then.
Why was it that life threw you these horrible little trials to test your determination? Just when you were sailing happily along without a care in the world, when plans were made, when putting them into practice had seemed to be a piece of cake?
Why on earth had Kit decided he simply had to go to France at that very moment, for instance? Nothing she could say or do had been able to dissuade him. He’d just dropped one of those absent-minded kisses on her forehead, told her not to worry about him, that everything was going to be fine. But she knew that Kit’s optimism was misplaced. Everything would not sort itself out; it never d
id unless someone gave it a helping hand.
Still, that had been a minor inconvenience; it had only become a disaster when her father had demonstrated an unsuspected ability to think on his feet.
Once she had decided what she would do, she had flaunted Kit quite shamelessly, even finding an excuse to stay overnight at his studio when she had realised he was being checked out by her father’s pet bloodhound. And because of that her father had been ready for her.
Then, as if she hadn’t enough to cope with, Hollingworth, a man with a severe imagination bypass, a man she could rely on to do exactly what her father said without question, had departed for Scotland and the grouse moors, leaving her to the tender mercy of Tom Brodie, whose imagination was in full working order and who didn’t respond predictably when someone pulled his strings. In fact she was willing to wager that he hadn’t responded to string pulling since the midwife had cut the umbilical cord.
She brushed a stupid tear from her cheek and stood up. Tomorrow she would have to escape her clever watchdog in order to get to Kit before him. Tonight she and Brodie were in Marseilles with an evening stroll on the agenda followed by a candlelit supper, giving her a chance to redeem herself, just a little in his eyes. And finally a smile softened the determined line of her mouth. Tonight she would be good.
But not for another few minutes. She’d use the time Brodie had given her to check the layout of the hotel. It would undoubtedly be the only chance she’d get.
Brodie had discarded his jacket and was stretched out on a pavement chair soaking up the lingering heat of the sun. He stared at the glass of pastis he was holding, its cloudy depths as obscure as the problems raised by Emerald Carlisle.
He shifted uncomfortably. What on earth was he doing chasing around the South of France with a runaway heiress, for heaven’s sake? The whole thing was like some 1940s romantic comedy with Cary Grant. Except there was nothing funny about the situation, at least not from his point of view.