by Diana Palmer
She clasped her hands around his where they rested on her thickened waist and leaned back with a smiling sigh. “No, darling,” she said softly. “I was just watching the rain.”
He turned her slowly. “Suppose you watch me instead?” he said drily, bending.
She gave him her mouth and put her whole heart into showing him how happy she was that they were married, that she was safe from Nick. Thank God Tony had shielded her. She didn’t want any complications. Not now. Nick had broken her heart once. She was never going to let him get close enough to try again.
Jolana had hoped that because of the baby, Phillipe would spend more time with her. But when she was offered a commission painting the family of a wealthy Arab, Phillipe encouraged her to take it.
“Petite, the money will be welcome, you know?” he said finally, and he looked so worried that she gave in.
“Are things any better?” she asked softly.
He sighed and wiped the worried expression from his face. “Some,” he said. “But we cannot afford to turn down this commission. It will not tire you too much?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “I paint sitting down, you know.” She kissed his cheek. “All right. But I’ll miss you.”
“It will not be for long,” he said. “The Arab family is only at Beaulieu-sur-Mer. It is not far to go.” He grinned. “Perhaps other men will find you all too attractive, chérie. I must protect my interests by visiting you often,” he added wickedly, touching her rounded stomach, which was just beginning to show her condition.
She laughed. “Well, in that case, I’ll have to buy some sexy nightgowns.” She frowned a little. “Phillipe, you don’t mind the way I look now?”
“Mind?” He let his hands wander down the silky fabric of her dress slowly, and his face changed with the sensation. “I find you wildly sexy, didn’t you know?”
That pleased her. She kissed him and tried not to think how it would have been with Nick. Somehow she didn’t think Nick would have allowed her to be apart from him during her pregnancy. But, then, he was older than Phillipe. And much more deceitful. She had to keep reminding herself of that, of how he’d hurt her. Because in her heart, his memory was as bright as it had ever been.
The Arab family was fascinating. The children, so dark and with such huge, liquid brown eyes, were the ideal subjects for Jolana at that particular time in her life. She painted them with love and longing, and marveled at their patience as she sketched.
“Comtesse, you are so talented,” their mother sighed as she studied the progress of the painting over Jolana’s shoulder. “I feel flattered that you agreed to such an arrangement. I cannot believe it would be because you needed the money.” She laughed softly when she said that, and Jolana was glad that her financial worries didn’t show. Nevertheless, it was so close to the truth that she felt a twinge of hurt pride.
“I enjoy my work,” she said quietly, “and such delightful subjects make it all the more pleasant. Your children are beautiful, madame.”
The Arab woman studied Jolana quietly.
“There is to be a child for you, soon, I think. I do not presume too far?”
“Of course not,” Jolana said, turning. She smiled. “It’s our first. But how did you know? My stomach has quieted since I’ve been here, and I didn’t think it showed...”
“A woman almost always knows,” came the soft reply. “You have such a glow of beauty. It is one I remember, because my husband often remarked of it when I was carrying our children.” She turned away to look out at the ocean, her dark features sad. “They were better days, when there was not so much money. Now, he is so rarely at home and I have very little to occupy me when the children are away at school.”
Jolana felt a surge of pity. She felt much the same way herself, because Phillipe seemed to spend far more time away from her than with her. But there was nothing she could say.
“Your husband, comtesse. He is a race driver, I am told,” the Arab woman said after a minute, turning with a polite smile.
“Yes. I spend much of my time worrying about him,” Jolana confessed. She stared at the palette and brush in her hand. “It is something he’s always done. I can’t ask him to stop. But it concerns me.”
“Yes, I imagine it does. Men! I never understand why they enjoy taking risks so much, and never concern themselves with our small feelings.”
Jolana laughed. “I suppose it’s one of the many differences between the sexes. But in all honesty, Phillipe’s devil-may-care attitude was what attracted me in the first place. I’ve always been so conventional myself that it was fascinating to find someone who liked to break the rules.”
“My husband is such a man,” the older woman confessed. “But I had no choice in my marriage. It was arranged while I was but a child. I am not regretful, you understand. We have a good marriage. I fell deeply in love with my husband. But our customs are...rigid.”
Jolana studied the averted face and wondered what the woman meant. But it wasn’t her right to ask personal questions. She turned her attention back to the canvas. “Now, about their hands, madame. Do you like the way I’ve sketched them in?” she asked, changing the subject.
It was the first of many commissions Jolana accepted. And meanwhile, her husband was drifting further and further away from her. Gone was the carefree man of her early acquaintance. In his place was a restless, impatient man who seemed to have lost interest even in her body.
One night, a rare night when she and Phillipe were both home in the villa near Monaco, she overheard a strange conversation between him and Maureen.
“You should not do this to her,” Maureen was hissing at Phillipe after he’d announced that he was going to participate in the international motorcar rałlye in Grasse. “Not now! And to enter the Grand Prix at Le Mans as well... Phillipe, you take unnecessary chances! It is not fair to Jolana, to put this burden of worry on her now, of all times!”
“I must,” Phillipe had replied curtly. “Our finances are worsening daily. The drain of medical bills is tremendous.”
“The drain of your wild extravagances is more,” Maureen replied sharply. “And the upkeep of your latest diversion is shameful!”
“That is my concern.”
“What if she learns of it? Have you considered that?” Maureen demanded. “You fool! She loves you!”
There was a hesitation. “She is...my wife. I give her what I am able to give. But I did not realize how very confining it would be, and the baby so soon afterward...”
Jolana had moved away from the open window, feeling sick and alone and full of regret. She’d suspected for a long time that Phillipe was bitter about their marriage, despite the fact that he seemed to enjoy her company. But he hadn’t wanted her in bed for some weeks now, not since her waist had thickened and her stomach was obvious enough to require smock tops. He assured her that he still wanted her but was abstaining “for the baby’s sake.” Since her obstetrician had assured her that sex was possible until the last month, she knew that Phillipe was lying. What he really meant, she thought sadly, was that he didn’t want her anymore. And she was willing to bet that there was more than travel to explain his absences. She began to suspect another woman.
When he left for Grasse, he found her in her studio working on a portrait of yet another child for a vacationing American family nearby.
“Very nice,” he said, smiling as he bent over to brush a careless kiss on her hair. He was wearing a navy blazer with white slacks and a white silk shirt with a colorful tie. He looked continental and very handsome.
Jolana, in her flowing red-and-white dress, felt tacky by comparison. Her hair was windblown from a walk in the garden, and her mouth was without lipstick. She looked like a pregnant woman.
“Off to Grasse?” she asked quietly, brushing color on the child’s pants on canvas.
“Oui.”
; “Good luck with the car,” she said, glancing up at him.
His eyebrows arched. “What else would I need luck with?” he teased, but his eyes were wary.
She wiped her brush. “Oh, nothing. There. How does it look?”
“The client will be pleased. Jolana...” He knelt beside her and studied her face, feeling a twinge of guilt as he realized how tired she looked. “Chérie, perhaps when we are back in Paris, things will be different. It is only another week or so.”
She looked down at him. “No. I don’t think they will be different. You hate me, you hate the baby, you hate our marriage. That won’t change.” She put down her brush and got up.
“Jolana!” He caught her, turning her around to hold her close. “Chérie, that is not so. I adore you. And I want the baby.”
She laughed mirthlessly. “Yes, I can tell. It’s why you stay with me so much.”
He sighed slowly. “That will change,” he said firmly. “When we get to Paris, after the Grand Prix at Le Mans, it will all change. I promise.” He lifted his head and studied her wan little face. “I care for you very much. Perhaps I lack the facility for showing it, and my lifestyle is hard to change after so many years. But I will try harder. I swear it. Forgive me, petite, for adding to your worries.” He bent and kissed her softly.
She sighed and let him hold her. She liked him very much. But love? She knew now for certain that she would never be able to give him the love she’d given so readily to Nick. As long as she lived, and despite his brutal treatment, her heart would belong without reservation to the dark Italian.
After Phillipe had gone, she wandered around the house like a lost soul. Maureen was away on a cruise with Pierre and some friends, and Jolana was alone. She enjoyed the solitude of the villa, overlooking the rocky coastline, and she wasn’t at all afraid. There were servants in the house, and neighbors whom she knew. But being alone with her thoughts was torture at times.
She couldn’t help remembering Tony’s note. Possibly she should have answered it, but she just couldn’t. Why would Nick be searching for her? What could he possibly want? He had his beloved Margery, and her son, and nothing left over to give any other woman. Perhaps Tony had told him about her stupid accident with the alcohol and pills and he thought she’d meant to kill herself over him. Perhaps he wanted to apologize. She laughed coldly. Why should he care? No man who cared about a woman could actually admit to her that he’d used her to rid himself of his lust for another woman. The thought made her ill, after all these months. Of course, it hadn’t been totally Nick’s fault. She’d been eager enough, and desperately in love. She’d practically seduced him that night, and he’d been too aroused to stop. But why had he told her the truth? She agonized over it. It would have been so much kinder to let her think he’d been carried away by her, anything except that Margery had stirred him up and he’d used Jolana because of it.
She didn’t want to see Nick. She didn’t want his apologies or his excuses. She only wanted to try to make the most of her marriage and look forward to having her baby. The past was over. Seeing Nick could only make things harder. If only she understood why he was looking for her. It didn’t make the least bit of sense.
By the end of the week, she was feeling deserted and out of sorts. Her painting was going badly, and she needed a diversion. So she dressed neatly in a white linen maternity suit with a red patterned blouse and red accessories and had Maurice, the handyman Phillipe had hired, drive her into town. That small luxury made her feel better. She sent Maurice off to have a drink in a bar while she had lunch at one of the lovely outdoor cafés overlooking the Mediterranean.
In the harbor, boats were everywhere. Sailboats and motorboats and yachts. The weather was lovely and sunny and there was a breeze that carried an almost flowery scent. Jolana felt young and free and able to conquer the world.
She treated herself to a ham and spinach quiche and fresh fruit, with strong black coffee. She’d lost her taste for wine during her pregnancy and preferred the coffee, but sparingly.
As she gazed out over the harbor she heard murmurs around her and felt eyes watching her. That was puzzling. She turned, her hair short and sassy, her complexion faultless, her makeup precise and exquisite, and found a nightmare standing just across the way.
Domenico Scarpelli froze in place as he saw her. She was only partially visible from the waist up, so that her pregnancy wasn’t immediately noticeable. But it was her face he was looking at, his dark eyes starving as they searched it. He was thinner than she remembered, and there was a bit of silver at his temples that she didn’t recall seeing so vividly before.
Her heart raced, but she fought to keep her poise, looking so elegant and regal that even the waiter smiled at her as he seated Nick.
“Do you mind?” Nick asked huskily before he sat down.
The café was crowded. “No,” she lied.
He sat down and nodded at the waiter. “Just coffee,” he told the man, who quickly left them alone.
“Hello, Nick,” Jolana said as carelessly as she could. “What brings you to the South of France?”
He folded his dark, masculine hands on the white linen tablecloth and stared at her. “I could say a conference, if I wanted to lie,” he said finally, his voice strained. “But I won’t. I came to find you.”
She arched an eyebrow as she lifted the delicate cup to her lips. “So?”
“Tony wouldn’t tell me where you were,” he ground out.
“I asked him not to.” She sat up straighter, trying not to notice the black thickness of his hair. Under it, his eyes were dark and full of secrets, his face dark and broad and with new lines in its faultless olive complexion. His mouth was as beautiful as ever, and she remembered so well how it had felt to kiss it and be kissed by it. She dropped her eyes to his navy blue jacket and white shirt. It was open just enough to display the beginnings of his hard, muscular chest with its mat of hair. That brought back even more intimate memories, so she stared at her coffee instead.
“It’s taken months to track you down,” he said after the waiter had placed a cup of steaming black coffee before him and retreated. “I finally had to resort to a detective agency, but all they could find out was that you’d been visiting the de Vinchy-Cardins and had come south with them on holiday. The French are reticent about disclosing people’s movements, aren’t they?”
“You make it sound as if we’re at war,” she commented coolly, smiling at him with a nonchalance that made his expression darken.
“You and I were,” he reminded her.
“Were,” she emphasized. “That’s all in the past.”
His dark eyes dropped to his hands around the coffee cup. “Tony told me what happened.”
She didn’t even flinch. “If you mean the pills, it was an accident, not a suicide attempt. Once I realized you weren’t worth such despair, I got better.”
The eyes he raised to hers were tortured, anguished. “I messed everything up. I got back to my apartment that night, and Margery was there with the boy, waiting for me.” He ran a hand through his thick, wavy hair. “I went crazy. I had too much responsibility, too quickly, I’d given Margery my word that if she got into trouble, she could come to me and I’d take care of her. It was a question of honor, I suppose. I couldn’t go back on my word. So I made you hate me, and I pushed you away. Almost too far,” he added bitterly. “But I swear to God, all along it was you I wanted, not her. There hasn’t been a day that I haven’t missed you like hell.”
That would have mattered five months before, but she couldn’t let it matter now, although she did wish her heart would calm itself. She toyed with her napkin. “You came thousands of miles to tell me that?”
“No,” he said harshly. “I came thousands of miles to tell you that I love you.”
Her eyes searched his. “Do you, really?” she asked, trying her best to sound unconcerned.<
br />
His face froze. “Didn’t you hear me?”
“Yes, I heard you.” She finished her coffee and put the cup back in its saucer. “Five months ago, after you left my apartment, I might have gone on my knees to hear you say that.” She stared at him. “What does Margery think about your sudden change of heart?”
“Listen,” he said urgently, dragging her hands into his without looking at them, or at the rings that told her marital state, “Margery’s gone back to Andrew. He dried out and he’s being good to her. It’s what she wanted, what she really wanted. Running to me had just become a habit. When she left him, she realized how much she loved him.”
“And what did you realize?” she asked him warily, narrowing her eyes. “When did it come to you that you didn’t love her—when she told you she was going back to him?”
He hesitated. “I’ve known it since the night we shared together.” He stared at her face. “For God’s sake, listen!” he said harshly, when he saw the indifference in her dark eyes. “Jolana, Margery was my first girl. We were close all through our childhoods. We loved each other. I made the mistake of thinking that I still felt that way about her. The reason I dated you in the first place was to try to show her that there was no future with me, that her place was with Andrew.” He laughed shortly. “I felt noble, as if I were making the supreme sacrifice. And then it backfired. She kissed me...dammit, and all I could think of was you. And that night, when we got to the car...”
She flushed, averting her eyes as the erotic memory of that night made her heart go crazy.
“Anyway,” he sighed heavily, “I was already beginning to doubt what I thought I wanted from Margery. But she was jealous of you, and Andrew had ignored her. When she showed up at my apartment I remembered you and what I’d told you. And God help me, I was looking for a way out. I was half-drunk... I knew if I told you I’d been thinking of Margery when we made love that it would turn you off. It was the lever I needed. But after I said it, I got sick all over. Especially when you threw me out and I got a look at your eyes.” He drew in a shaky breath. “I thought I’d go crazy worrying. When I called Tony, to see if he knew anything, he said you were okay and hung up. I assumed that meant you’d decided you were well off without me. I meant to call you myself... But all at once, I was up to my ears in trouble. Margery moved in with me, with the boy. Andrew was making all kinds of threats. It took time to straighten it all out. Tony said you were okay, so I didn’t push it. I... I gave him the portrait you’d done of me, because it was hurting me to see it, to remember what I did to you. I concentrated on Margery. And then it hit me that I didn’t love her. That what I felt for her was a kind of brotherly concern with a little leftover passion mixed up in it. I couldn’t even kiss her after that night I spent with you.” He clasped her hands tighter. “She didn’t seem to want that, anyway. She mourned Andrew, she worried about him. Finally, she went to talk with him and he agreed to have therapy. It worked. She and the boy went home. And then I spoke to Tony and he let me have it.”