He wasn’t asking her whether she’d like him to. He was telling her, in that autocratic manner which came naturally after a lifetime of having people run around after him. But Jennifer was too tired and too confused to argue—and, if the truth were known, she was glad that he had taken over.
Somehow he had managed to commandeer the use of a luxury car, and he settled her in the soft leather seat beside him, adjusting his jacket so that it modestly covered her and then barking out a terse instruction in French as the vehicle began to move away.
Dreamily, Jennifer turned her head to watch out of the window as the glittering crescent of coastline sped by in a blur of lights. They passed the cool marble splendour of the Hedoniste—and suddenly Jennifer was relieved that they weren’t going near it, with its hordes of paparazzi and heaven only knew who else.
‘Where’s your hotel?’ she questioned.
Matteo stared out of the opposite window—anything to avert his eyes from her, and from the knowledge that she was all rumpled, her dress all stained…by him… His fingertips were still sticky and warm from having been inside her, and if he drifted them close to his face her particular feminine scent pervaded his nostrils with a potency which made him hard all over again.
‘It’s not really a hotel.’ He swallowed as the car swept through wrought-iron gates, past the dark shapes of lemon trees and cypress.
In the bright moonlight she could see that the hedges were fantastically shaped, and there was an odd-looking sculpture which was emphasised by soft lights pinned into a nearby tree. It looked old and very beautiful, and Jennifer blinked at it in astonished surprise.
‘What is this place?’ she asked quietly.
‘It was once a villa belonging to one of Cannes’s most famous residents—an English aristocrat who discovered the perfect climate here, and the stunning beaches. Now it is owned by an eccentric Frenchman—who will let rooms out, but only if the mood takes him.’
He turned his head and saw her looking down at her crumpled state of undress. ‘He is very particular and very discreet,’ he added. ‘There will be no need to be seen by him, or by anyone else for that matter. One is able to bring guests to a place like this without the whole world knowing. For people in the public eye it is a godsend.’
She couldn’t stop torturing herself with images of him bringing other women here in the future. Perhaps similarly unclad, and also recipients of his remarkable brand of lovemaking.
But Jennifer knew that she couldn’t bring the subject up—certainly not now, when she was already feeling so vulnerable. The sex had been a mistake—but there was no need to compound that mistake by starting to quiz him about his future plans. That would only make her self-esteem tumble and put her in an even more vulnerable position.
Matteo had every right to do whatever he wished. Sex gave you no rights—not even if it was with the man to whom you were still legally married.
But then she remembered what he’d said about Sophia—and for the first time she was able to think about the actress without feeling sick. Had it been true what Matteo had said, about it only being the once and thinking about her all the while? Should the fine detail actually matter?
Of course it mattered. A one-off mistake—if that was really what it was—was completely different from a long-term affair which had been shrouded in secrecy and deceit.
But in a way that was worse—because it gave her a faint flicker of foolish hope that maybe the relationship wasn’t doomed after all. But it was. Too much had been said and done to ever go back. A bout of wonderful sex wasn’t a cure-all. Their marriage was in its death-throes, and that had just been one final, bewitching puff of life breathed into it.
She had to take responsibility for what had just happened between them back there, and then let it go.
But as he led her up a carved wooden staircase which was scented with sandalwood, Jennifer felt a very real shiver of fear ice her skin. What if she wasn’t able to just let it go?
Well, you don’t have the luxury of choice, she told herself. You’ll have to.
At least the room was exquisite enough to distract her from her uncomfortable thoughts—with tall, shuttered windows which led out onto a moon-washed balcony. In the distance she could see the coloured glimmer of the town—like a muted version of the fireworks which would later explode in the night sky as part of the Festival celebrations.
‘Oh, it’s beautiful,’ she said automatically, and turned round to find that he was watching her. She gave a nervous kind of laugh. ‘What the hell am I doing talking about the view? Isn’t this the kind of situation where you wish you could just wave a magic wand and suddenly it’s different?’
‘Don’t you think I spend most of my life doing that?’ he questioned bitterly.
‘Matt—’
He shook his head. ‘Let’s not waste any time with recriminations. There’s no point.’
‘No. But I have to say this. Thanks for...rescuing me and bringing me back here.’
‘A while back you were angry with me for having had my wicked way with you.’
She didn’t answer straight away, but she knew that she couldn’t continue to act like an innocent little virgin who had been coerced into something against her will.
‘Maybe I was angry with myself, for having allowed it to happen.’
‘Si,’ said Matteo slowly, in an odd kind of voice. ‘I can understand that.’ He gave the ghost of a smile. ‘So, let’s forget it ever happened, shall we?’
‘Yes,’ she said slowly, hoping her pain didn’t show. ‘Let’s.’
He stared at her, washed pale by the moonlight. ‘You can stay here—there’s no way you can appear at the Hedoniste tonight—not looking like that.’ His black eyes were hard and glittering as he saw her lips part in protest. ‘Oh, don’t worry, Jenny,’ he drawled. ‘We won’t have to endure the temptation of sharing. I’ll see if there are any more rooms available. Jean-Claude is bound to have something.’
‘But I don’t want to kick you out of your suite!’ she protested.
His lips curved in a smile which was almost cruel. ‘Then what else would you suggest?’ he taunted softly. ‘That I sleep on the sofa? Or perhaps we vow to share opposite sides of that huge bed?’ He nodded his black head towards its satin-covered expanse. ‘Want to try it, Jenny?’
And show him what a walk-over she was?
‘Forgive me if I pass up your delightful offer,’ she said tightly, and heard his bitter laugh as the door closed behind him.
But after he’d gone, reaction to all that had happened set in and a wave of lassitude washed over her. Her head was spinning and her limbs were aching, but really she ought to go and ‘freshen up’. To remove all traces of Matteo from her body. If only you could take a bar of soap and scrub your heart clean at the same time.
Outside, she could hear the sound of circadas as she kicked off her shoes and wriggled out of her dress, letting it fall carelessly to the floor. She didn’t care. The designer who had loaned it to her for free publicity would let her keep it. And given the state it was in she was going to have to keep it—but she knew she would never wear it again. How could she? She would never be able to look at it again without remembering…
Naked and shivering, she washed her hands and face and then poured herself a glass of wine from the heavy decanter which stood on the antique table by the window.
She meant to take only a sip, but the blood-red liquid filled her with a fle
eting peace and contentment and she finished the glass and went over to the bed.
It was a typical Matteo bed, with a novel lying half-open on the pillow. She looked at it with interest until she saw that it was Italian and she didn’t understand a word. But when was the last time she had read a book? She’d used to devour them in those days before the merry-go-round of publicity had filled her every spare hour.
On the bedside table was his mobile phone, and for a moment she was sorely tempted to flick through it and look at the messages. But she resisted. Dignity, Jennifer, she told herself sleepily. Try to retain just a little bit of dignity.
She sat down on the bed, moved the novel to one side and lay down, putting her head on the soft pillow. In a minute she would go and wipe off her make-up, but for now the room was spinning. She groaned and shut her eyes. Please make everything all right, she prayed. Let this all be over without any more pain—and please don’t let me dream of him. Especially not tonight. Just let me have one night off from the tempting beauty of his dark face.
She hadn’t been intending to sleep, nor to dream. But she did, and it seemed that her dreams were impervious to her pleas. One came to her which was frighteningly vivid. Through half-slitted eyes she could make out his lean, dark body bending over her. The raw, feral scent of him drifted upwards towards her nostrils.
She writhed against the mattress, holding her arms up, wanting him to stay with her. ‘Matt,’ she moaned softly. ‘Oh, Matteo.’
When she awoke it was morning—with sunlight coming in bright horizontal shafts through the slats of the shutters. Jennifer sat up, blinking as she looked around the room. But the bed was empty, and so was the chaise-longue which lay underneath the window.
Her eyes strayed to the ornate wardrobe door, from which hung a floral sliver of a dress in layers of silk-chiffon in her favourite pink, and a pair of sandals which matched perfectly. Jennifer frowned. Where the hell had that come from? Had the good fairy flown into the room overnight and waved her wand?
Slowly, she got out of bed and went over to investigate. As well as the dress there was a matching bra and pants set, and Jennifer did not have to look at the size to know that they were exactly her measurements. And that somehow Matt had got hold of them at some god-forsaken hour and left them here for her.
And then she found the note.
Jenny. You looked too peaceful to wake and I found myself another room for the night. Don’t worry about Hal—I will deal with him. In fact, try not to worry about anything. You should give yourself a break for a while—you look exhausted. Be kind to yourself and let’s try to keep the divorce as amicable as possible. Matt.
It was a pleasant note, a reasonable note—the perfect note on which to end a marriage.
So why did she clutch it with white-knuckled fingers, tears beginning to stream down her face as if they were never going to stop?
CHAPTER FIVE
London was rainy and the flat felt cold and unwelcoming. Jennifer had been living there since the marriage split—she and Matteo had agreed that the luxury apartment would be ‘hers’, just as the ancient stone house on the island of Pantelleria would become ‘his’.
The accountants had suggested that they sell their home in the Hollywood Hills, because apparently prices there had rocketed since they’d first bought it. Jennifer wasn’t going to break her heart about that. It had never felt like a real home to her anyway. But then, where did?
Their schedules had been so frantic that they’d never seemed to have the time to do the things which other newly-weds revelled in. There had been no careful choosing of furniture or browsing over curtain material. Nor had there been any of the usual concerns about what they could or couldn’t afford.
They’d been able to afford almost anything!
Matteo had made an almost obscene amount of money since leaving drama school, and his asking price now ran into millions of dollars.
That was one of the reasons why Jennifer had allowed herself to be tempted away from the stage and gone into films herself. Matteo had made hundreds of opportunities possible, and she had seized them with eager hands—for surely it would have been crazy to turn down such chances?
She’d wanted to be his equal in all ways—and yet when her own asking price had rocketed she had felt none of the expected joy or satisfaction. Just a kind of nagging feeling that somehow she’d sold out. And the price she’d paid for her glittering career had been frequent separations from her husband which had fed all her insecurities and doubts.
Sometimes she had found herself wondering what it would have been like if they had created a proper place together. Spent ages lovingly choosing items together, instead of suffering the incessant march of an army of interior designers who had transformed each one of their homes into dazzling displays which celebrity magazines had fallen over themselves to feature. Matteo had drawn the line at that. ‘We have little enough privacy as it is,’ he had told them angrily.
Maybe she should have done something to try and claw some of that privacy back—but Jennifer had been a brand-new player in the celebrity game, and she’d been too busy enjoying it to want to pull the plug on it. How easy it was, with the benefit of hindsight, to recognise the mistakes she’d made.
She glanced uninterestedly at the unopened post and the pile of film scripts waiting to be read. Then her mobile rang, and in spite of everything her heart leapt. Because she’d be lying if she denied fantasising about Matteo on her flight back from Cannes. She felt as if he had poured all her emotions into a mixing bowl and stirred them up. Maybe he was ringing her to ask if she’d got back safely? Or maybe just to say hello—because if the divorce truly was going to amicable then why shouldn’t he say hello?
She picked up her phone and made her voice sound as cool as possible.
‘Hello?’
‘Jennifer?’
Jennifer’s heart sank, and she immediately felt guilty that it had. ‘Hello, Mum.’
‘Where are you?’
Jennifer held the telephone away from her ear as the loud voice came booming down the line. Her mother always described herself as an actress too—though she had never progressed beyond the strictly amateur productions at their local village hall. The rest of the time she had spent living out her fantasies through her only child.
Quashing the terrible temptation to say that she was anywhere but England, Jennifer murmured, ‘I’m at the London flat.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, why not?’ questioned Jennifer. ‘I live here.’
‘No, I mean why aren’t you doing the round of parties and interviews in Cannes? There’s hardly been a thing about you in any of the papers!’
‘That’s because…because—’
‘Because that bastard of an ex of yours was there, I suppose?’ interrupted her mother viciously.
Jennifer bit her lip. ‘Mum, I won’t have you talking about Matteo that way.’
‘Then you’re an idiot, darling. He’s made a complete and utter fool of you!’
‘Look, I’ve just flown in—was there anything in particular you wanted?’
‘Well, actually, yes! I was hoping to run an idea of mine past your agent! Or that rather nice publicist I met…what was his name? Hal? Yes, that was it! Hal! I think he took a slight shine to me!’
‘Mum—’
‘There are such rubbishy screenplays around at the moment that I thought to myself—well, why shouldn’t I have a go?’
Jennifer counted to ten. And then on to twenty. Now was not the time to tell her mother that she’d sacked Hal. Or why.
Promising to visit very soon to talk about it, she managed to finish the call and went throug
h to the kitchen while she listened to all the messages that had arrived while she’d been in France.
There were four calls from her agent. Two magazines wanted her on their cover, and a very famous photographer wanted to include her in his coffee-table book of the world’s most beautiful women.
But Jennifer didn’t feel in the least bit beautiful—she felt empty and aching, almost worse than she had when she and Matt had first split. At least then there had been endless, explosive rows, and she had felt that breaking up was the best thing to do. She had been carried along by the powerful storm of her anger and hurt.
But the episode in Cannes had been poignant and bittersweet. It had emphasised her vulnerability around him and reminded her of what they had once shared—but a pale imitation of the real thing. It had taunted her with what she was missing…that feeling of being properly alive. Because Matt was like the blazing sun in a summer sky, and when he wasn’t around the world seemed dark and cold.
She spent the next few weeks lying low. She wore nondescript clothes and no make-up and kept her eyes down when she went out. As she had intended—no one recognised her. If you were a good actress, then no one should. It was more than just appearance. You could slope your shoulders and make your body language as low-key as possible.
She knew she ought to start trying to rebuild her life as a single woman, but her high-profile marriage had affected the way people saw her. She was famous now—and that had a knock-on effect on everything she did. She could no longer have normal friendships, because people wanted to know her for all kinds of different reasons. These days their motives had to be scrutinised, and Jennifer hated that. Fame separated you—left you lonely and isolated.
And going back wasn’t easy. There were people she had been at drama school with, but she hadn’t seen them for years. She’d just been so busy, with film after film, and she’d been living on the other side of the world. Fame and money changed your life—no matter how much you swore they weren’t going to.
A Scandal, a Secret, a BabyMarriage Scandal, Showbiz Baby! Page 19