Filled with anger and a sudden urge to act, Rachel stormed into the bathroom, eager to wash the tears from her face and the pain from her heart. She showered in haste and quickly applied some make-up. Her anger suddenly had a focus point, and the words began to form in her mind. She wanted to hurt him. Hurt him where he was most vulnerable. She needed to do this — tell him exactly what a cold bastard he was.
“Alain, the so-called strong one — the all-powerful, almighty Alain. You’re a judgmental, arrogant, hypocrite,” she rambled in anger and snatched a dress from the hanger.
With those thoughts of vengeance she closed the door behind her and made her way to the concierge in the lobby, determined that Alain would know her last thoughts about him. She would leave them in a handwritten message that he could carry with him — to remind him.
• • •
Alain woke early, ordered coffee, had a quick shower, and, without care, tossed his evening clothes into his black leather valise. He dressed in a white, open-neck shirt and comfortable navy linen trousers. Pushing his feet into his soft leather driving shoes, he placed a quick call to the concierge to have his car ready.
Not in the mood for breakfast, Alain wasted no time checking out. He turned to leave through the revolving doors when Rachel stepped from the elevators. She hesitated when she noticed him, but Alain gripped his valise with firm determination and headed for the door. Without acknowledging her, he walked straight past her.
The valet attendant placed his valise in the trunk and Alain jumped into his low-slung, Seychelles blue sports car. The classic DB6 was in pristine condition and was Alain’s favorite vehicle from his collection, but at that moment, the pleasure of owning the car was wasted on him. Without as much as a glance, Alain engaged first gear and roared away.
He drove fast but controlled, taking the most direct route via Boulevard Princess Charlotte to the A8 West. Within minutes, he entered through the tollgates and settled in for the drive back to the estate.
His mind racing, Alain tried to collect his thoughts. The picture of Rachel exiting the elevators would not leave him. Dressed in a pleated white chiffon dress that showed her lean figure, she looked hurt and almost afraid when she stepped from the door.
Irritated, he tried to clear the image of her big eyes from his mind. He had noticed the hesitant hand, raised as if to address him, but she faltered when he stormed past her. He clenched his jaw determinedly.
“Time to forget about her and move on, Alain,” he muttered and pushed a hand through his hair.
Ever since returning to Chateau Léon, Alain had had no shortage of female company. Unmarried at thirty-four and the heir to one of France’s most elite wine estates, Alain was an eligible catch and on the mailing list for almost every social event in Europe. His athletic frame, sulky eyes and black mane of waving hair had earned him the unwarranted reputation of a heartbreaker, but he had always been very discrete in his interactions with the many beautiful women who crossed his path.
There were times, during his stay in Argentina as a hot-blooded, aspirant wine maker, when he might have been a little promiscuous, but he was young and carefree then.
Once there was someone special — a woman who mattered. She made him consider the idea of taking their relationship to the next level. They experimented with the idea, moved in together, and lived like committed, loving partners. After four months, they woke one morning, and, over coffee, engaged in a frank discussion about the merits of continuing their relationship. They parted as friends with the knowledge that passionate lovers don’t necessarily make good life partners. After that, Alain’s interests in woman became less important as he spent more time focusing on their family business, concerned with his father’s health.
His phone flashed, and, with a curl of his lip, he inserted the earpiece and accepted the call.
“Bonjour,” he barked.
“Alain, Marque here. You’re still going to make it, aren’t you?”
The question left Alain silent. The episode with Rachel had distracted him, and he had forgotten completely about his commitment. Marque was expecting him on his yacht for the St. Tropez Regatta des Bravades.
The two men were close friends and had been sailing competitively since they were young boys. All that sailing experience eventually paid off, and they’d finished a respectable fourth at last year’s Rolex Swan Cup.
“Don’t tell me you forgot.” Marque’s irritated disappointment was tangible over the roar of the engine.
Alain’s eyes narrowed and he clenched his jaw. He was in no mood to be chastened. Then he relaxed his tight grip on the steering wheel. Without his participation, Marque would be short-handed and couldn’t be competitive in the race. They’d spent months preparing the yacht, and had drilled the team to perfection. He simply couldn’t get out of this one.
“My gear still in the locker?” he asked, knowing the answer.
“Yes, as always.”
“See you in an hour,” he replied, and killed the connection. Shifting the powerful engine into a lower gear, he roared up the steep incline.
• • •
St. Tropez arguably could be described as one of the prettiest harbors in the Mediterranean, its long, curving promenade allowing tourists to steal glances at the sleek yachts moored in the turquoise waters. On the day of the regatta, the participating yachts were moored along the quay, offering both spectators and competitors a close-up view of the hardware.
As last year’s winner, Marque’s forty-five-foot Swan was honored with the central spot in the harbor, and when Alain arrived, she was lying proudly at anchor, gleaming in pristine white. Alain boarded the sleek yacht, stepping directly onto the teak to avoid making any scuff marks.
“Aha, my executive officer is on board,” Marque announced with visible relief, and in typical European fashion he greeted his friend with a kiss to each cheek. “We have less than an hour before we cast off, so hurry up,” he added, encouraging Alain with a friendly slap on the shoulder.
Six hours later, the grueling sailing in the strong winds and wild sea behind them, Marque sat, his back resting against the gleaming polished mahogany of the bulkhead, his long, sun-browned legs stretched out in front of him on the blue-and-white-striped upholstery.
Alain seated himself across from Marque, propped his bare feet on the seat, and took in the gleeful, grinning face of his friend. It was tinged a shade darker by the sun and wind of the day’s sailing. In silence, they stared at the simple glass trophy on the drop leaf teak table between them, a testament to their hard work of the last twelve months. Joyous laughter and excited shrieks from the deck above mixed with the clink of ice cubes and the low beat of jazz over the stereo.
“Thanks, Alain. I couldn’t have done it without you,” Marque said in a brief moment of seriousness.
Alain shook his head. “Sure you could.”
Marque shrugged in response and drank deeply from his ice-cold beer, studying Alain’s face all the time. “So who is she?” he asked, taking care to place the tall, frosted glass on the coaster in front of him.
Alain shifted in his seat. “What do you mean?”
“Come on, Alain, you’ve been just a little distracted ever since you returned from Monaco. Something, or someone, has your attention. My guess is it’s a woman. Is it Rachel?”
Alain sat, pensively staring at the flashing amber colors of the single malt he was swirling in the heavy crystal glass. The same color as Rachel’s eyes, he thought wryly. A deep frown formed on his forehead. He’d never been able to hide anything from Marque. He raised his glass to Marque and took a sip. “Yes, it’s Rachel.”
Marque was silent, waiting for him to continue.
“I don’t understand what it is, but since the moment I saw her, she’s affected me in a different way. Don’t get me wrong — I want to bed her — but
I also can’t get her from my mind.” He looked into Marque’s questioning eyes and continued, “We made an instant connection. I was drawn to her like no other woman before. She’s beautiful and intelligent — ”
“But … ” Marque let it hang in the air.
Alain sat back and pushed the glass away from him. “Just one small problem — she’s married with two kids.”
“Married?” Marque asked incredibly. “Well, I didn’t see that one coming.” Marque sat back, leaned his head back against the bulkhead, and studied Alain’s face. Then a slow smile spread over his face. “She got to you, didn’t she?” he said with a slow, confirming nod.
“Much good it does me.” He stood abruptly, eager to leave. “I’ve got to go.”
Chapter Eleven
“Thanks, Leena. Same time tomorrow then?” The nanny turned to leave and Rachel locked the door behind her. She rested her head against the coolness of the doorsill and stood for a moment, exhaling slowly. With effort, she pushed herself away, made her way to the soft, wide sofa, and flopped down with a heavy sigh. With extended fingers, she gently massaged the dull headache throbbing at her temple. “Just a minute’s silence, please — just a minute.” She closed her eyes and relaxed her shoulders, shedding the day’s pressure like a heavy coat.
With a deep sigh, she opened her eyes and retrieved a large envelope from her leather briefcase. Her hand started to tremble, as she once again read the return address on the back. She flipped the envelope and studied the embossed crest, proudly displaying the emblem of the family-owned Chateau Léon. A cold tingle ran down her neck. This letter could change her life if it bore the good news she was hoping for. She shuddered involuntary at the alternative.
For weeks, she had worked on drafting their firm’s bid on the contract for the restoration of the grand chateau in southern France. Once one of the finest examples of the French revival architectural style, the chateau was badly damaged in a fire in 1984. Now the owner, Eugene Léon, wished to commission a reputable architectural firm to oversee the project and restore the chateau to its former beauty. It was a lucrative project, and her throat closed at the thought of being awarded the work. It would leapfrog their firm from fragile startup to success. The news contained in the envelope was so important that Rachel had waited until she reached the safety of her own home before she could bring herself to open it. So many things would be different if this envelope bore the right message. So much would change back at the office space she shared with her partner in the funky West End of central London.
A soft smile touched her lips as she remembered the day when Peter noticed the wording on the brass nameplate as the contractor was fixing it to their office door. Swift & Simon — Architects the small bronze plaque read on the big red door.
“Swift before Simon … Where did you learn your alphabet, my pretty Rachel?” he asked in mocked seriousness, smiling at her over his red, horn-rimmed reading glasses.
“‘Ladies before gentlemen,’ that’s what my parents always taught me, my dear Peter,” she responded, laughing over her shoulder and stepped through the entrance to their offices. Peter, who’d stood by her during her dark hours of doubt and loneliness. In Peter’s company she was safe to speak her mind freely. During those months, it was thanks to Peter and his partner Gary’s patience and support that she managed to find balance in her life again.
Iain and Mia’s shrill shrieks of excitement interrupted her thoughts, and with a soft sigh, she put the letter aside. She smiled and clapped her hands in excitement at the two kids bursting into the room. They giggled, their little bare feet pattering on the whitewashed parquet flooring as they sprinted to her waiting arms. Iain streaked ahead, long and strong for his age, his deep blue eyes bright with excitement. Mia followed, a little more sedate, wiping a wet curl of ash-blond hair from her face. Bumping and laughing, they launched themselves at Rachel on the sofa. Their warm, clean little bodies squirmed and fidgeted against her until they finally began to calm down, waiting for her to start reading.
“What shall we read tonight, then?” Two little hands pointed in unison to the worn, yellow book on top of the stack.
“Again?” she asked with mock surprise. Two heads bobbed in unison again, and opening the book with flourish, she started reading in a clear, animated voice. At the tender age of three years, the twins still loved to hear the story of Peter Rabbit over and over again.
It was not until later, after the twins were tucked in their warm beds, that Rachel could bring herself to open the letter. She poured a glass of red wine, kicked off her shoes, and sank down on the comfortable sofa, tucking her legs under her. Without further hesitation, she ran the silver letter opener along the top of the envelope, and, ignoring the business card dropping on her lap, she glanced over the content.
“ … and it is my pleasure to inform you that our decision is to award this project to your firm, Swift & Simon.”
Rachel dropped her hands in her lap, and as she tilted her head toward the ceiling, warm tears filled her eyes. A soft relief flooded over her, and the tight knot between her shoulders relaxed. A nervous giggle escaped her, and she reread the entire letter again.
“Thank you,” she whispered once, and then joyous laughter filled the room.
“Peter — got to tell Peter,” she exclaimed, and with a little shriek of happiness, she leaped from the sofa and ran to the kitchen phone.
“Peter, we got it!” she blurted out, and, before he could say a word, “The Léon project is ours!”
For a moment the line went silent.
“Peter, you there?”
“Yes, of course. Are you sure … I mean, when did you hear?”
“I just opened the letter. Sorry Peter, I just couldn’t do it at the office.”
“Wow, Rachel darling — this is big. Big with a capital B!” Peter’s excitement increased as the news sank in. “We will have to think about expanding our little business now, won’t we?”
Rachel nodded enthusiastically at his comment. The excitement and relief made her giddy, and for a second she frowned with some guilt while pouring her second glass of wine. Then she raised her glass and consoled herself with the promise to run an extra two miles in the morning.
“We will have to look at our workload for the next year. You might have to relocate to Provence, Rachel. Will you be able to handle that?” The rational side of Peter started surfacing after the initial flurry of excitement.
Rachel popped an olive in her mouth and chewed on it, deep in thought. Then she sat up straight with sudden purpose, her eyes wide. “I can handle it. I will rent something close to the chateau and get a nanny for the twins during the day. Eugene sounds like a reasonable man, and I will structure the work around my schedule.” Then, with more excitement, “Oh, Peter, I can hardly believe it’s happened. We worked so hard for this, and now, we have it.”
For the next forty minutes Rachel and Peter’s excited conversation darted from project logistics to resources and staffing, and then finally drifted to scheduling for the project.
Later, with the promise to clear her calendar for an early meeting in the morning, Rachel hung up. The light buzz in her ears wouldn’t stop, but despite her exhaustion, she smiled happily. Three years of hard work had finally paid off.
Taking her glass, she walked to her bathroom and started to run a long, hot bath. She undressed and glanced at her image in the mirror. Not bad, she thought. A mother of two children, at twenty-nine she still had a remarkable body. Rachel always enjoyed individual sports at school — triathlons and sailing Laser sailboats. The years of cycling, swimming, and running had shaped her body to be lean and lithe. She no longer competed in triathlons, but the discipline to train regularly had stayed with her. Her morning runs were important to her, mentally and physically.
She untied her hair, letting it tumble to her shoulders. She tilte
d her head and she studied the image of her naked body with a critical eye. Her gaze came to rest on her strong, well-formed shoulders.
“Too bony,” she mumbled.
Her gaze moved to take in the slender shape of her toned arms. “Hmmm, desperately need some sun,” she continued her critique.
Then, with a slight wrinkle on her forehead, she turned her focus to her waistline. Turning sideways, standing on her toes as steam started clouding the mirror, she carefully inspected the sensuous curvature of her flat stomach and hips for any unwelcome evidence of her weakness for chocolate. She traced her index finger down her chest, across her stomach, to finally hover, hesitating just above the hairline scar, barely noticeable, below her navel. She touched the scar lightly and smiled at the memory of the day the twins were born. The day that forever changed her life.
A dark thought suddenly crossed Rachel’s mind. Alain.
“That man,” she said with disgust.
For months she had buried any thoughts about him deep away, but as her hand touched the hairline scar, the hurtful memories of that night, more than six months ago, rushed back. Annoyed at herself for allowing any thought of him back in her mind, Rachel grabbed her robe and snapped it on with a sharp pull on the belt.
“Don’t let him spoil the day,” she said aloud and lifted her chin. Then she rested her hand lightly on the area below her navel and whispered, “Today has changed everything, my little babies.”
Rachel arrived at her office early the next day, two large coffees in hand. Peter studied her over his funky red reading glasses with a quizzical expression on his face. Then he pushed the design he was working on to one side, and smiled warmly.
“You’re early.”
“It’s the start of a new day, and we have a lot to discuss.”
The rest of the morning was spent in Peter’s office while they worked on drafting the rough terms of the contract for the project. Just before lunch, a knock on the door interrupted them. It was Rachel’s assistant, Darcie.
Heart to Heart Page 48