‘Better not be seen talking to a delinquent like me, then,’ Max said abruptly, turning to head back inside. He didn’t notice her face falling. He thought of something and glanced over his shoulder. ‘Fancy coming to a party tomorrow night? It’s formal and there will probably be loads of boring people there but . . .’
‘I’d love to,’ Madeleine replied, jumping up from the wall. ‘You can count on me,’ she added.
So maybe he had one person he could rely on, Max thought, sloping back up to the château. In spite of his mood over Vero and the boys, he couldn’t help hoping Madeleine would turn up tomorrow.
Feeling utterly confused about Xavier, Cat was on her way to meet Angelique Bodart. Having borrowed a sporty little red Peugeot from Guy, Cat was heading towards a building near Mougins where, conveniently, Angelique was doing some shots for a French magazine.
Cat wondered what Xavier was thinking. Did he feel even the tiniest iota of what she was feeling right now? He was so hard to read but at one point sitting there on the bench, she had been certain he wanted to kiss her again. Hating herself for admitting it, Cat knew she had been dying for him to do it too.
She pulled to a halt at the address she’d been given, knowing she needed to stop thinking about Xavier. Inside the building, she was directed to the ‘penthouse studio’ and she found herself inside what looked like a very expensive boudoir. Decked out in pinks and reds, it featured a large bed with a scarlet throw across it and several plump fluffy cushions, mirrored walls and a dressing table with toiletries and make-up all over it. Loud music blared out of a stereo that was out of shot and a crowd of male and female staff were presiding over the photo shoot.
Wondering if all of them were legitimately part of the photographic team, Cat gasped as she caught sight of Angelique lying on the big squashy bed on her front, her blond hair reaching down her back almost to the cleft of her perfect, peachy backside. Completely naked save for a pair of black patent slingbacks and a velvet ribbon round her throat, Angelique looked like the archetypal sex kitten. Her eyes were made up with smoky greys and blues and her lips were red and glossy. It was an unsubtle image but it worked.
Angelique flipped on to her back and gave them all an eyeful of her luscious breasts. The photographs Cat had seen in magazines didn’t do Angelique justice; in the flesh, she was jaw-droppingly gorgeous. As she coiled one leg across her body and flung her arms over her head, Cat heard an audible gasp from the crew.
‘Are you Cat Hayes?’ whispered Celine, Angelique’s assistant, her hands full of paperwork, phones and a honey-coloured silk robe.
Cat nodded.
‘Angelique said to let you sit here.’ Celine gestured to a chair near the front and nearly let the silk robe slither out of her fingers. ‘Oops. Thanks. This shoot, it’s a “crazed lover” scenario, in case you’re wondering about all the mess. All about some lover leaving her for another man.’ Celine frowned. ‘I’m not sure I could see that happening to Angelique but I suppose it’s just acting.’ She pointed at a man in a suit who was watching everything meticulously and prowling around the set restlessly. ‘That’s Mason, Angelique’s agent.’
Cat took the seat, disturbed to find her eyes level with Angelique’s groin. She glanced at Mason. He was a big man with a heavy jaw and a hooked nose and he was wearing a pinstriped suit that made him look more like a mafia boss than an agent.
‘What sort of magazine is this shoot for?’ she asked, doing her best to tear her eyes away as Angelique crawled up on to all fours and put her perfect butt in the air.
Celine’s eyes darted to Angelique. She didn’t want to get caught gossiping but she loved talking about her famous boss. ‘Just one of the usual men’s magazines. She always has to strip off – it’s what they want.’
‘She seems very . . . confident,’ Cat said, raising her eyebrows as Angelique contorted herself into a position a stripper would baulk at. She couldn’t believe it was a shoot for a men’s magazine; it looked more like a top-shelf effort.
‘I know.’ Celine nodded, looking slightly embarrassed. ‘I thought I’d get used to all this but it’s a bit overwhelming. She’s so famous, you know. Me and Mason are worried she’s having a mini breakdown at the moment,’ she confided in a low voice.
‘Really?’ Cat thought Angelique looked totally in control. She moved easily, as if she knew exactly what she was doing and what was expected of her.
‘She’s usually so business minded,’ Celine went on absentmindedly. ‘None of us can understand why she’s turned this Hollywood film down. She actually had the role without auditioning for it – how often does that happen?’ Celine tutted. ‘I practically had my bag packed and my ticket to L.A. booked but then she did an about-turn and said she didn’t want to do it.’
Cat frowned. Why on earth would Angelique turn down a chance at Hollywood? The place was hardly teeming with French actresses.
Suddenly remembering she was speaking to a perfect stranger, Celine went bright red. ‘Oh my God, you can’t tell anyone about that!’ She jumped as Angelique stood up and snapped her fingers for her robe.
Cat shook her head as Celine dashed forward and helped Angelique into the honey-coloured silk.
‘Cat Hayes? I speak a little English . . . oh, you speak French? Wonderful. I only know a few swear words in English anyway.’ Angelique smiled charmingly and took a seat. ‘My agent tells me you have some sort of offer for me.’ Before she had finished the sentence, Mason was at her elbow.
He introduced himself to Cat briefly and took a seat without being offered one, his large frame filling it with ease.
Cat felt apprehensive. She’d offered actresses or models roles in ad campaigns a few times before but not often enough to feel particularly confident about it. It occurred to her that perhaps Delphine had set her up, hoping she would mess the whole deal up and the family would think she had done it on purpose, but Cat put the thought aside firmly. She had to stop being paranoid about Delphine.
Telling herself it was just like pitching a brand to a client in her advertising firm, Cat cleared her throat. ‘I do. It’s in the early stages but the Ducasse-Fleurie perfume brand is hoping to launch a new fragrance this summer. The family would very much like you to front the campaign.’ She followed up with a few more details, handing some glossy brochures over and chatting about the company.
Close up, Angelique was even more breathaking. The honey-coloured robe complemented her colouring perfectly and even when she removed the red lip gloss and heavy foundation with a cloth Celine handed her, she was still stunning. It was difficult to pinpoint her age but Cat guessed Angelique might be only a few years older than she was – in her late twenties perhaps, early thirties at the most. As Cat watched her, she couldn’t help putting the concept together in her mind – Angelique in exquisite, expensive underwear, being showered with purple, velvety petals. Her expression would be innocent yet knowing . . .
‘I’m familiar with the brand,’ Angelique informed her silkily, handing the dirty make-up cloth to Celine without even looking at her. Celine hovered for a moment before resigning herself to her redundant status and leaving. ‘And I like it. I would certainly consider—’
‘How much?’ Mason demanded, butting in. He spoke in English.
Angelique shot him a furious look. ‘Mason! Leave this to me, please.’
Mason looked fit to burst. ‘I’m your agent, it’s what I’m meant to do.’ He fixed his beady eyes on Cat. ‘And if you’re going to do this campaign, it had better be worth it. It’s only a fucking perfume, you know.’
Cat guessed he was struggling to understand why Angelique had turned down a role in Hollywood, especially before she knew what was involved in this offer. He would be thinking of the hefty percentage he had just lost and Cat couldn’t blame him.
Why would she turn down such an amazing offer? Cat wondered again. Angelique would be perfect for a big budget film across the pond. She had no qualms about taking her clothes off, she was utterl
y self-composed and it didn’t take an expert to spot that she had an ambitious streak.
Maybe Angelique saw it as selling herself out, Cat thought. Perhaps she preferred to be a very big fish in a small pond as opposed to the other way round. And she was French – perhaps the idea of living in La-la-land with all its craziness and image obsession wasn’t for her.
‘Ignore him,’ Angelique said, crossing her legs. ‘Tell me more about this new fragrance.’
Cat did so, using everything she could remember from her trip to Grasse with Xavier. She described the concept in great detail and glossed over the fact that she wasn’t sure what the scent would smell like. She hyped up all the positive angles she could, highlighting Ducasse-Fleurie’s achievements over the past few years and making the most of Xavier’s world-renowned talent as a senteur to make the bait as tempting as possible.
‘It sounds wonderful,’ Angelique purred, while Mason looked ready to explode. ‘We can work out the terms and conditions later on but for now, you can take my word for it that I would love to be involved. It sounds exactly like the sort of high-profile, well-respected project I’m going to become known for in the future.’
Cat stood up, pleased. She shook Angelique’s hand. ‘Just to warn you, you might need to come down to the family home at some point. There’s talk of shooting the campaign there. It’s really beautiful,’ she added, in case Angelique needed convincing.’
‘I’m sure you’re right.’ Angelique smiled, omitting to mention that she was more than familiar with La Fleurie. ‘I have a flat in Provence so I will move back there for a while until I’m needed.’ In her heels, she was slightly taller than Cat and her breasts were spilling out of the robe. She didn’t bother to close it as she leant over and kissed both of Cat’s cheeks.
Cat was enveloped in an overpowering waft of jasmine. She remembered Xavier saying he detested the smell and Cat found herself agreeing with him. It was such a strong, pungent aroma and it had a cloying aftertaste. Dry down, she corrected herself, remembering what Xavier had taught her. She frowned, wishing she could stop thinking about him at every turn.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ she told Angelique. She gave Mason’s big sweaty hand a quick shake and made her escape.
When Cat had gone, Mason turned on Angelique. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’ he demanded.
Angelique frowned. ‘It’s my decision, Mason,’ she said. ‘You get your cut but ultimately I decide what I want to do, just like I always have.’
‘But there’s a Hollywood film on the table . . .’
‘I don’t care!’ Angelique’s blue eyes flashed coldly at him. ‘I am doing the Ducasse-Fleurie ad campaign and there is nothing you can do about it. Fuck the Hollywood film. They want me naked, just like everyone else. I told you, I want to be a brand. I want the world to know who I am, not just Hollywood.’
Mason stomped out of the studio.
Celine was hovering nearby. Angelique pointed her finger at her. ‘Are you going to tell me what to do as well?’
Celine shook her mousy head fervently. ‘Of course not, Angelique! I wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘Good.’ Angelique tightened her robe. ‘Pack my bags, Celine, but don’t bother about yours. I haven’t decided if I need you in the south of France yet.’
In a few months, maybe even a few weeks, Angelique thought happily, she would be back at La Fleurie and, if she had her way, back in Xavier’s bed.
Chapter Sixteen
On a balmy spring evening, Ashton arrived from Paris as the Rose-Nymphea party was in full swing. He stood outside La Fleurie, consumed with nerves. Leoni was somewhere inside and he had no idea whether she would have Jerard on her arm or not. Ashton knew he had no choice but to deal with it but now that he was here, it suddenly seemed like a much bigger thing than he’d imagined.
God, he had missed her. Since her last visit to Paris, Ashton had backed off to give her some serious space. He figured she needed to devote herself to her new relationship and he didn’t want to encroach on her time and seem like some sort of needy twat. Whatever he felt for her, they were friends and nothing more. Ashton took a deep breath. It was like an illness, one without any cure, it seemed, but he needed to pull himself together and be mature about it. He straightened his bow tie and headed round the side of the château, knowing the party would be taking place in the main salon. He bumped into Max as he headed away from the gardens.
‘Ash.’ Max greeted him warmly, shaking his hand. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages.’ Ashton looked immaculate in a well-worn but made-to-measure dinner suit and a white bow tie. Max frowned, thinking Ashton looked rather dejected.
Realising he probably looked miserable, Ashton plastered a smile on to his face. ‘I’ve been tied up in Paris. How are things?’
Max looked shamefaced. ‘Did you hear about us getting thrown out of college?’
‘Ah, yes. Guy told me when I phoned to speak to him about the building.’
‘Oh, right.’ Max’s eyes flashed bitterly. ‘You must have heard the terrible version of the story then. Dad isn’t exactly pleased with us at the moment. How come Leoni didn’t tell you?’
Ashton walked alongside him into the château. ‘We’ve . . . we’ve both been very busy,’ he said, not wanting to say they’d barely spoken since she got together with Jerard. The only text he’d received from her in recent weeks was a formal one asking if he was coming to the party, followed by a cryptic one inquiring about a possible date he might bring. Ashton was baffled. Surely Leoni didn’t think something was going on with Marianne, and why would she care anyway? Maybe she thought a relationship between himself and Marianne might jeopardise the building purchase. Ashton grimaced.
‘Leoni’s always busy,’ Max mocked. ‘What’s changed?’
Ashton felt his heart lift. Was it possible Leoni wasn’t with Jerard any more? Could it be that she was tied up with her home fragrance pitch and that her lack of contact was simply as a result of working flat out? Anything had to be better than the thought of her being whisked out on romantic dates and staying out all night. Ashton winced, hating the thought of it.
Max paused. ‘She has got that new boyfriend, of course.’
Ashton’s heart plummeted.
‘Jerard. Some millionaire, I think, with his own company.’ Max glanced at Ashton, wondering why he looked so tense. His bright blue eyes looked dim as though someone had turned out the switch behind them. ‘Seems like a nice enough guy but I’m not sure he’s right for Leoni.’
‘Really?’ Ashton tried his best to appear normal in front of Max. ‘Why not?’
Max grinned. ‘He’s even more of a workaholic than she is. They’ll never have time for sex or romance!’
One could only hope, Ashton thought ruefully. Jerard was clearly a more fitting a suitor for Leoni than an architect with only a prime-time Paris apartment to shout about. Just her type, he told himself, feeling surprisingly bitter.
Max decided Ashton needed a drink. ‘Cocktails are that way. By the way, you didn’t see Seraphina on your way in, did you? Maybe . . . with an older man?’
Pulling himself together, Ashton shook his head. ‘I’ll let her know you’re looking for her if I do, shall I?’
Max nodded cheerfully, not letting the panic he felt inside show. ‘Great, thanks. Catch up with you later on, Ash.’
Only after Max had gone did Ashton register what he’d said. What was Seraphina doing with an older man? She was only sixteen.
Ashton shook his head. He needed a drink.
Wearing a black vintage Chanel dress with a sequin-encrusted cardigan and a gold chain at her throat, Delphine greeted her guests self-importantly. She wished she could abandon her mahogany stick because it spoilt the regal image she had worked so hard to portray but unfortunately she needed it; her arthritic hip was stiff and painful.
‘Cybille! How lovely to see you. Do help yourself to a champagne cocktail. Cosette . . . you look divine. Thank you so much for coming.’
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Delphine mingled with her guests, delighted to be hosting such a glamorous, well-attended party. The château looked absolutely stunning, with gorgeous, heavily scented floral arrangements everywhere, their blooms echoing the Ducasse-Fleurie colour scheme exactly. White bags containing special, celebratory editions of Rose-Nymphea, rose-pink silk corsages and some beautiful vintage-style lipsticks Leoni had managed to obtain from an old friend who worked at one of France’s biggest make-up companies sat on a table in the main salon. Tied up with curly reams of lilac ribbon, they were ready to be distributed at the end of the evening once the speeches had been made.
Delphine scrutinised the waiters and waitresses she had prepped with military precision over the past few days. Dressed in black and cream uniforms, they were circulating with trays of classic cocktails like dancers performing a Viennese waltz, their steps smooth and faultless. Small but delicious-looking canapés of foie gras on toast, salted quails eggs and lobster tartlets were being passed around and even the thinnest and most figure-conscious women were finding them hard to resist. Classical music was being provided by the same string quartet that had played at Leoni’s party and the volume was just right.
Delphine glanced outside. Strings of muted white fairy lights were looped prettily around the pool area and a row of flamed torches studded the edge of neatly clipped pathways and flower beds. Tea lights in clear glasses hung from trees and the sturdier plants, giving the garden a magical glow as if fairies had descended with baskets of sparkle and glitter.
All the hard work was worth it because the overall effect was wonderful and everything was running like clockwork. Delphine checked her watch, feeling excitement rising in her stomach. And if everything else she had on the agenda went according to plan, there would be surprises all round later on, and not just in the form of the stunning, three-thousand-euro firework display she had organised. Making a quick phone call in the hallway, Delphine made sure the arrangements were in place for her big finale. Hearing the answer she was hoping for, she returned to the party, buoyed up and brimming with anticipation.
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