by Diana Palmer
“Don’t you ever think of anything but money?” she asked. “And you might ask how I feel, damn you! I am carrying your child!”
“Such venom,” he laughed, pulling her close. “Stop, you’ll hurt the child,” he cautioned as she struggled.
She gave up, standing rigidly in his embrace. “Why don’t you divorce me?” she asked. “It would give you more time to race and gamble and...”
He cocked his head. “And?” he prodded.
She dropped her eyes. “Nothing.”
He kissed her forehead. “Tell me about this exhibit.”
She was caught up in her own lie. She made up a wild tale about sending paintings back to New York to be exhibited, about a second one-woman show. Phillipe hung on her every word, interested, absorbed.
“When?” he asked then. “Will you be able to work in Paris?”
She shifted in his embrace. “I suppose so.”
“Then, I will call and tell him that you accept. He is staying at the Carlton? What is his name?”
“Phillipe...!”
“What is his name, petite?” he asked, already with the phone in his hand. “Jolana, we cannot afford to turn down such an exhibit, ma chère,” he coaxed, smiling at her. “Come now, it will occupy you when I go to Le Mans. Tell me.”
She sat down, waiting for the blow to fall. “His name is Domenico Scarpelli.”
“Scarpelli,” he said and began dialing the phone.
Jolana paled as Phillipe asked for Nick. Seconds later, he brightened. “Mr. Scarpelli, my name is Phillipe Comte de Vinchy-Cardin! Listen, my wife, Jolana, has told me about this gallery of yours in New York and the exhibit that you want her to do. Mr. Scarpelli, are you there? Oui, I think it is a grand idea. Grand! Now, we are leaving for Paris in the morning. You are, too? What a marvelous coincidence. Oui, I go to Le Mans in two weeks. Now, suppose we get together say, Saturday, and discuss it? My sister, alas, has sailed to Greece, but Jolana and I can entertain you. You will? Marvelous. Here is the number.”
He was giving directions, and Jolana was trying not to faint. What was she to do now? What a hell of a time for Maureen to go on a tour with Pierre and leave her alone like this! Keeping the truth from Phillipe was going to take all her nerve, and she didn’t feel up to it at all. What have I done? she moaned inwardly.
Thank God Nick had kept his head and gone along with her wild fabrication. But she didn’t know how she was going to be able to put on an act in front of Phillipe, who was quite perceptive. Perhaps Nick and her husband would meet and leave her out of it. She managed not to think how ridiculous that sounded and busied herself getting things packed for the trip back to Paris.
The rainy season in the sprawling city on the Seine was over, and everything was in glorious bloom. Jolana was delighted that she could bring cut flowers from the apartment’s garden inside and arrange them in the luxury of the living room. Company flooded in the moment they opened the apartment again, and they seemed not to have any time alone. Not that it mattered, she thought with a sigh. They had separate bedrooms now. Phillipe had said that he didn’t want to disturb her rest, but she’d reached the point in her pregnancy where she hated being alone. She was a little frightened, a little uncertain, and it would have been nice to have someone beside her in the darkness.
She spent the week dreading Nick’s visit and trying not to show it. Phillipe talked of little else.
“It comes at such a good time, chérie,” he said as she was busying herself with the cook, arranging that night’s dinner for the two of them and Nick. “This gallery showing, I mean. The commissions are nice, but you will make much money from a gallery.”
She didn’t look up from her notes for the cook. “Yes,” she agreed quietly.
He stared at her curiously. “You do not mind?”
She stood erect, putting a hand to her aching back, and stared at him. “Have you any idea how long it takes to put together a showing?” she asked quietly.
His eyebrows arched. “Well, no.”
“I have paintings in New York, which weren’t sold. I need at least ten more. At a couple of weeks per canvas...”
“So long?” he asked.
She glared at him. “I won’t do sloppy work, no matter how hard up we are for cash.”
He shrugged. “Chérie, I was not asking you to compromise your principles,” he said placatingly and took her gently by the shoulders. He smiled down at her. “It was just a chance remark. Besides, did you not say yourself that you wanted to do this show?”
“Yes,” she lied. “It’s just that...”
“The painting does not tire you, surely. You love it!”
I’m pregnant, she wanted to scream at him. I have your baby inside my body and it’s all I can do to stay on my feet sometimes. But she simply turned away and started toward the staircase to dress. “Yes,” she said. “I love it.” And she let it go at that. She had much worse problems than her husband’s lack of consideration. Nick was coming here tonight. And she had to watch not only her tongue, but her eyes. She didn’t dare let either Nick or Phillipe see how much she was affected by Nick.
She wore a cream silk dress in a shapeless style, with slit sleeves and a V-neckline. It gave her the look of a girl from the Roaring Twenties, and emphasized the becoming flush of her features and the darkness of her eyes in their frame of short, silvery-blond hair. She hadn’t let it grow long again, careful to keep it trimmed so that it didn’t remind her of the way it had curved around her shoulders when she and Nick were together.
Nick had already arrived when Jolana came back downstairs. She hadn’t expected him so soon, and she almost tripped at the bottom of the staircase. But she recovered, grabbing the rail, and was startled to find Nick controlling an instinctive movement toward her. Phillipe merely raised his glass and grinned.
“Careful, chérie,” he teased, “you are not so light on your feet these days. You know each other already, I presume?”
Nick schooled his features carefully, but Jolana knew him well enough to catch the glitter of fierce anger in his eyes as he spoke to Phillipe. That fascinated her, that he could be angry on her account. But it didn’t bear too much consideration. She had a husband. She was pregnant. She couldn’t afford the luxury of letting Nick get to her again.
She moved ahead of them into the living room and sat down. The men were discussing some kind of business, and she waited patiently until they finished.
“Now,” Phillipe said after a minute, seating himself beside Jolana while Nick took the armchair opposite, “tell me about this proposition.”
“The gallery showing,” Jolana prodded, horrified as Nick hesitated.
He searched her eyes quietly for a moment and lifted his brandy snifter to his chiseled mouth. “In addition to the magazine I own,” he began, “I own a gallery in New York. At one time I shared it with a cousin, but he and I had a rather bad falling-out.” He didn’t look at Jolana, but she knew exactly why. It had been over her, she was sure. “The gallery has a wealthy clientele, and some months ago we exhibited some of Jolana’s work. It sold well. I’d like to do it again.”
Probably he’d like to kill her for that wild idea that had forced him to lie, she thought. But he couldn’t. They were both caught in the web of her deception now.
“Jolana would be delighted,” Phillipe said for her, lifting his glass in a toast.
“It’s a tiring thing, getting ready for an exhibit,” Nick remarked, glancing at her. “Are you up to it, comtesse?”
She sensed the concern behind the words and hated him because he wasn’t Phillipe, who never cared how much she tired herself. She stared into her lap. “I can manage, thank you.”
“It wouldn’t have to be a large one,” Nick continued. “No more than twelve or fifteen paintings. I have in mind featuring another artist in the same exhibit.”
Ph
illipe pursed his lips, and Jolana could see the dollar signs in his eyes. “It will cut down the profit,” he murmured.
Nick’s eyes flashed, but he smiled coolly. “Better to cut the profit than risk your heir, comte,” he murmured quietly.
Phillipe had the grace to look ashamed. He touched Jolana’s hand where it rested on her lap, and Nick’s features hardened so much that she was afraid Phillipe would notice.
“Shall we go in?” she asked suddenly, rising. “I find that I’m quite hungry.”
“But of course, ma chère,” Phillipe said with perfect manners, helping her up. He escorted her, ahead of Nick, into the dining room, where the maid began serving only minutes later.
“Excellent,” Nick said as he tasted the delicate soufflé and tender beef and vegetable courses. “Your cook is a marvel.”
“We have had her for many years,” Phillipe remarked. “She is one of the best.” His eyes clouded. “With luck, we may keep her a bit longer.” He sighed, and Jolana sensed that something was worrying him very much.
“When can you begin on the canvases, comtesse?” Nick asked Jolana with studied carelessness.
“Tomorrow,” she said, glancing at Phillipe. “It will give me something to do while Phillipe prepares for the twenty-four-hour race at Le Mans.”
“Oui.” Phillipe grinned. “She will need occupation, because I go to Le Mans tomorrow.”
“So soon?” she burst out, and hated that impulsive query.
Phillipe shifted in his seat. “You know that I must prepare,” he said. “Pierre will be there, and we must see to the car. There is much to do. Besides, Maureen will be returning shortly. You will not be alone.”
Nick glanced at Phillipe and smiled. “I plan to be in Paris for another few days. It would be my pleasure to keep an eye on the comtesse for you while I’m here.”
Phillipe brightened. “So kind,” he said. “Thank you, monsieur. I do not like to leave her at such a time, but you understand how it is.”
Nick’s eyes narrowed as he studied the younger man, and Jolana almost believed that he could see right through him. “I understand very well, in fact,” he said, and the words were almost a threat.
Phillipe, however, was blissfully unaware of the undercurrents in the conversation. He led the discussion around to racing, and held forth for over an hour. Nick left soon thereafter, promising to discuss further arrangements with Jolana herself.
“A very profitable evening, did you not think so?” Phillipe asked later, smiling secretively. “Perhaps it may all work out after all. You do not mind that I go now to Le Mans?” he added with a frown.
“No,” she said. “I don’t mind.”
He sighed, coming close to kiss her forehead gently. “Jolana, I wish that I could be what you want me to be,” he said with a sudden burst of honesty. “I am a rake, and you know that better than you appear to. But if it is any consolation, I am very fond of you, and very proud that you are my wife.”
She smiled weakly. “It helps.”
He kissed her lips gently. “After the Grand Prix,” he promised. “This one last race, and then we will go away together for a few days. We will start over. We will build a good marriage.”
She agreed, reaching up to kiss his cheek before she went upstairs alone. But she knew all too well that it wouldn’t happen. Phillipe would never change. She would live with him and have his child, and learn to involve herself in other things than marriage. Because Phillipe had nothing to give her. Only his name and his possessions and his title. And she’d have traded them all to be loved.
He left early the next morning, suitcase in hand, pausing to kiss her warmly at the door before he bounced down the steps to his car.
“Will you come and watch me race, this once?” he called up to the apartment.
“Yes,” she agreed, smiling. “I’ll come.”
“For you, I will win. Adieu, ma petite!” He laughed and waved and roared away down the street. And she watched him go with a peculiar sense of emptiness. Why had he said adieu, and not au revoir? A little thing, an insignificant thing, but it worried her.
Nick’s visit later that afternoon worried her more. The staff vanished as he walked in the door, and Jolana felt ill at ease with him and a little afraid. He was as big as a house, and his light slacks and the open-necked white silk shirt emphasized both his size and his muscular build. He looked broader than ever, darker, more threatening. She felt tiny beside him, in her green maternity slacks and patterned green smock.
“Suppose you tell me what the hell is going on?” he asked the minute they were in the living room.
“Shush!” she said frantically, and rushed to close the door. She leaned back against it, feeling weak. “The servants don’t eavesdrop, but your voice carries, Nick.”
“Answer me, please,” he continued, glaring at her.
She stared down at her clasped hands and sighed. “Nick, he was home when I got there, and he demanded to know where I’d been, and with whom. He knows too many people, you see. I couldn’t have gotten away with lying about it. So I made up the story about a show. It was all I could think of.”
He stood in front of her, breathing heavily, staring unblinkingly until she thought her heart would burst.
“He didn’t hurt you?” he asked.
It was an unexpected question. She looked up. “No. He wouldn’t hurt me, not physically.”
“But you were afraid of him.”
“I have good reason to be afraid of men,” she said wearily, remembering her childhood.
He seemed to remember that, too, because he moved closer and cupped her face in his big, warm hands. She felt the strength in them, smelled the crisp scent of expensive cologne that clung to his deeply tanned skin.
“Nick,” she protested automatically. Her hands went to his, but she couldn’t remove them. After a minute, she stopped trying.
“How does it feel, being pregnant?” he asked, searching her eyes from an unnerving distance.
It was so unexpected a question that it froze her mind for an instant. “It’s... It’s not unpleasant.”
His thumbs edged toward her lips and traced down to her chin. “Does he move?” he asked.
“Yes, a little,” she said, hypnotized by his touch, by his steady, hungry gaze. “Tiny flutters, like a captive bird.”
His breath came heavily, hard. “Let me touch him,” he breathed, letting one hand drop slowly, tentatively, to the rounded mound of her belly. His eyes held the question, and his touch was almost reverent as his hand flattened over the contours, warm and oddly sensual.
She trembled a little. Phillipe had never liked touching her since the pregnancy became obvious. He turned his head when she undressed, despite his very early avowal that he found her pregnancy erotic. Once she started showing, his interest vanished altogether. It was as if he found the sight of her distasteful. But Nick... Nick seemed fascinated by her. His dark eyes were watching the soft movement of his hand over the silky fabric of her top, so intent that he seemed oblivious to the world around them.
She swallowed, taking his hand hesitantly and pressing it hard against the side of her stomach where she was beginning to feel the tiny flutters. “Here,” she whispered.
“So hard... It won’t hurt him?” he asked, lifting his eyes. And at the same time, the baby moved, and he jerked as if he’d been hit. His eyes widened, brightened, his breath caught. “My God,” he whispered huskily. His eyes fell to his hand and his huge chest rose raggedly. “My God, I felt him!”
She felt tears sting her eyes. Why couldn’t Phillipe be like this? Why did it have to be Nick who made her feel so proud of the baby? It wasn’t fair!
“Does it hurt you, when he does that?” he asked, his face radiant, his eyes fascinated as they lifted to hers.
She shook her head, smiling helplessly at the wonder in h
is expression. “Not at all. It’s quite thrilling. I’m not sure he’s supposed to move so soon, but the doctor isn’t really sure about how far along I am,” she laughed nervously.
Nick knew why, and his face darkened, hardened. He looked down at her and wanted her so much, so suddenly, that his body went rigid with the force of it. His woman. His child. Damn Phillipe!
“Nick?” she said softly.
Afraid that she might come close enough to feel what was happening to him, he put her away from him and moved across the room to the window, sticking his unsteady hands into his pockets. “Do you want to do the exhibit?” he asked huskily.
“Phillipe wants me to.”
“Damn Phillipe,” he said quietly, turning. “Do you want to?”
She wrapped her arms around her swollen breasts. “We need the money. I have to.”
He stood still for a long moment. “All right. But you’ll work at an easy pace. I won’t be responsible for jeopardizing that tiny life inside you.”
The way he said it made her go warm all over. She flushed, and he smiled softly at her.
“I find you wildly exciting, like that,” he said after a minute. “Are you offended?”
She drew in a steadying breath. “No, I don’t think so.” Her eyes lifted to his and she felt the staggering impact of his piercing gaze all the way to her toes.
The intensity of the look they shared had an equally disturbing effect on Nick, who felt as if he’d never be able to stand up straight again. He wanted to groan aloud.
“How does he keep his hands off you?” he ground out. “Oh, God, Jolana...!”
She felt young again. Girlish. Uncertain. She managed a wobbly smile. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“Doesn’t he want you, amore?” he asked quietly. “Is that it?”
She closed her eyes. “You don’t have the right to ask me such intimate things,” she said miserably. “Nick, please go.”
“You were mine before you were his,” he said, moving closer, closer, until he filled the room, the world. “Look at me.”