Lily looked up, saying, “Doctor? I am Mrs. Kohle, Melissa’s mother.”
“Dr. Langlois,” he replied tersely.
“How is she?”
“Very weak. There was a great deal of blood lost in the delivery.”
“But she’s so thin and ill-looking!”
He gave a very Gallic shrug. “That has nothing to do with the baby. We have no idea why she was allowed to get into such a condition; she obviously has not had proper nutrition during her pregnancy. She had no strength whatsoever to draw on; we had to deliver the baby by Cesarean section.”
His look was one of censure, as if Lily had deliberately arranged for this to happen to Melissa.
“The baby is premature, and weighs under five pounds.”
Lily’s and Ellis’s eyes met. In their concern for Melissa, they had forgotten about the baby.
“How is the child? May we see it?”
“The baby is fighting for survival, madame. Its tiny lungs are not developed. It is being given oxygen in an incubator, but its chances are not good.”
Lily had cried so much that there were no tears left. She swallowed the lump in her throat and whispered, “Is it a boy or a girl?”
“A girl, madame.”
When Lily saw the tiny child lying behind the glass of the incubator, she heard again the echo of the doctor’s words: too small, too young to survive.
This unwanted baby girl was her own flesh and blood. In spite of herself, she loved her; it was as simple as that.
“Live,” she whispered against the glass that separated them. “Live, little one!” She felt Ellis’s arm slip around her as they gazed together at the fragile form, breath barely stirring its tiny chest.
Turning to him, she looked into his eyes and said, “Pray for her, Ellis.”
“I am,” he answered quietly. “I already am.”
Harry arrived the next morning. He came to the hospital room to find Lily and Ellis already there; He expressed no surprise at finding his agent there. All his thoughts were concentrated on his daughter.
Melissa was semi-comatose, but somehow, even in her sedated state, she seemed to recognize her father. “Daddy?” she murmured woozily. “Oh, Daddy?”
“I’m here, darling,” he said, taking her hand. “Your mother’s here, too.”
But Ellis and Lily slipped out once it became clear that Melissa wanted to speak to her father. When Harry emerged some time later, he looked ashen and shaken.
“What the hell happened to her?” he demanded angrily. “Does anyone know?” A fit of coughing overtook him, and Lily frowned. Harry didn’t look at all well. Maybe his story about being ill wasn’t a complete fabrication. Recovering his composure, he went on, “Where is the man responsible for all this?”
“All we know is that she was brought by ambulance. Obviously, she hasn’t been able to answer any questions. We can’t press her until she gets her strength back. How do you think she is?”
“What do you think I think?” Harry cried hoarsely. “She looks like a corpse. There isn’t an ounce of flesh on her bones! All I know is, I’m going to kill the bloody bastard, but where the hell is he?”
At that very moment, the man whom they were discussing was poised on skis at the top of a mountain at Val-d’Isère, straining to burst from the starting gate at the sound of the pistol shot.
The shot went off and the skier exploded from the gate. His lean, taut figure sliced down the giant slalom course, whipping past the poles and carving turns with effortless grace. All the other skiers made the run look like a battle against treacherous icy turns, but this one’s timing had such magic, he appeared to be gliding with perfect ease.
At last he was snapping past the final gate, tucking his head down, and speeding past the finish line. It had been a spectacular run. The crowd watching gave a roar as his time flashed on the board—a full five seconds better than any of the preceding times.
Bronzed and muscular, he stood in the brilliant sunshine some minutes later, nonchalantly receiving congratulations for yet another unbelievable performance. Golden-haired and majestic, he was like a god amid mere mortals. No one watching him would ever have guessed that Jean-Paul Duval had ever traveled in anything but the jet-set circles he now negotiated as comfortably as he did the slalom course.
But Duval had been born in a rat-infested hovel in Marseilles, son of a fishmonger and his slovenly wife. There had been beatings and scoldings and constant financial turmoil. It came almost as a relief to him when, at the tender age of ten, he had been thrown out into the streets to fend for himself. Forced to subsist on his wits, he had scavenged through garbage cans and stolen anything he could lay his hands on.
He quickly learned the ways of survival, but it had been a lonely, uncertain existence. Eventually, like so many in that port city, he was drawn back to the waterfront of his birth.
He began hanging around the magnificent yachts which rode at anchor beyond the humble fishing vessels. One day, as luck would have it, he was spotted by a captain in such urgent need of a new cabin boy that he was willing to overlook Jean-Paul’s obvious deficiencies of dress and manner. The twenty-eight-meter yacht which became his new home was owned by an Italian count and contessa, who took immense pride in the fact that the only larger boat in the harbor at the moment belonged to the Greek shipping magnate Ari Onassis.
The style of living aboard was opulent, to say the least. The count and contessa had spared no expense for themselves and their guests.
Jean-Paul’s lot was a cramped berth in a gloomy forward cabin, where he discovered that he was unfortunately prone to violent seasickness. But after the first few weeks his nausea subsided and he began to look around himself with keen interest. At last he was close to the fabled rich people he had looked at so long from afar. He promptly decided that it was his destiny to be equally wealthy, by hook or crook.
Not six weeks after he came aboard, the contessa discovered him. She thought him a handsome, charming little street urchin and decided to befriend him. The contessa took pleasure in rewarding him for some small task or another and soon became inordinately attached to him. When the Italian couple left the yacht to go back to their own home, she managed to persuade the count to take him along with them. And so young Duval began to take in the most chic, most expensive resorts in Europe.
It was at Chamonix, from his small servant’s room high up in the attic, that he first saw people skiing. He longed to know the exhilaration of gliding down snowy mountains at such speed. It must feel like flying. Almost immediately, Jean-Paul noticed a group of skiers who were subtly but unmistakably set apart. Another servant told him that they were World Cup racers. To Jean-Paul they were like gods as they schussed down the mountains effortlessly; up close, they were even more fascinating, with their muscular physiques and bronzed, glowing good looks.
He was too impatient to bide his time. Hiding behind the ski chalet, he saw a large party of people tilting their skis against the side of the building and going inside. As soon as they had disappeared to sit by the fire and boast of the day’s exploits, Jean-Paul was gone with a pair of skis and poles.
Possessing no ticket and no money to buy one, he crowded onto the gondola with all the others and sidled up to a couple who looked old enough to be his parents.
At the top, he was the first one off, dragging the long skis to an open space. He watched the others to understand the technique, then strapped the skis to his stolen boots as best he could. Duval felt a surge of self-confidence. He could do this!
He dug in his poles and launched himself. As he felt the wind whip against his face and the snow surprisingly firm under his skis, he almost laughed aloud. It was like flying!
But the heady sensation lasted only a long, glorious moment before abruptly he knew something was wrong. He was going too fast…. He couldn’t seem to turn his skis….
A tree suddenly loomed up ahead of him, and he swerved with a sure, catlike instinct, but in the process he caug
ht his edge in a rough spot and tumbled head over heels in a spectacular cartwheel. When he had finally come to a halt, half-buried in a drift, he felt as if he were choking on snow. His skis had come off in his headlong fall, and as he struggled to his feet and looked around, he saw them lying broken behind him.
Well, he thought philosophically, he could always steal another pair.
Leaving them where they lay, he decided to walk down the hill, but he found that his ankle burned with pain every time he put his weight on it. He wanted to cry, but stoically he gritted his teeth and began limping toward the chalet.
The next day, the contessa sent for her little page and was startled when he limped in heavily.
“What is wrong, bambino?”
“I fell on the ice outside, Contessa, and twisted my ankle.”
The contessa exclaimed when she examined the boy’s ankle; it was swollen to twice its normal size.
“You should not be walking on this, bambino! Go up to bed now, and I will send the doctor to you.”
“Thank you, Contessa.” He smiled up at her winsomely. “Your kindness is all I need to recover.”
Trying to hide her smile, the contessa replied, “Nevertheless, I will send the doctor. Now go!” As he disappeared, she looked after him with a fond twinkle. The little devil. He knew just how to get around her.
The doctor’s report was encouraging. No bones broken, but he would have to stay off the ankle for a week. Jean-Paul shrugged philosophically. In a week they would be gone from Chamonix, but next winter they would come here again. And the next time he was on a pair of skis, he was going to be a little less cocky—and a lot better. Despite his first fiasco, he remained enchanted by this new world of skiing. He determined to make it his own.
They spent the warm, balmy summer sailing on the Adriatic, while Jean-Paul dreamed of skiing. By the fall, he had developed a new plan for the tactics he would employ to become not just proficient but expert.
He realized it would not be enough to steal a pair of skis and struggle along by himself. He took advantage of the count’s absence—he was away on business—to put his plan into action. Jean-Paul waited until an afternoon when the contessa had gone to the village and would not be returning until dusk; he lit a single birthday candle and placed it in his window, knowing that when the contessa returned she would see it. His birthday had actually been a month before, but she would not know that, and he was sure that when she saw the candle she would come by to wish him a happy birthday.
Watching intently, he finally saw her come into the courtyard. She looked up, hesitated, looked back, and then started toward his wing.
Inwardly he exulted. It was going to work! Her interest in him thus far had been maternal; he guessed shrewdly that one of the true sorrows of her life was the fact that she had no children of her own. But the time had come to effect a change in that attitude.
The contessa knocked, then opened his door—and stopped short. Jean-Paul was completely nude. He appeared to have been changing from his day clothes to the suit he wore to serve at the table. Simulating confusion and embarrassment, he clutched his shirt to him, but not before he had made sure that the contessa had had a good look at him.
The contessa blushed as she stared at him. Her cute little Jean-Paul was almost a man. In spite of herself, she felt a stirring of desire.
Turning away, trying to hide her burning cheeks, she murmured, “I’m sorry—I had no idea…. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“It’s all right,” he said with feigned shyness.
“Yes, well—come to see me as soon as you’ve changed, please.”
After that episode, their relationship underwent a subtle transformation. They never spoke of it, of course, but once or twice Jean-Paul caught her giving him the eye. And she had stopped calling him bambino.
As he had hoped, just before they started for Chamonix the contessa was easily persuaded to give him an old pair of skis they had in the storeroom. Once there, it soon became taken for granted that whenever he was not needed by the contessa, Jean-Paul was free to go skiing.
This time he started on the gentler slopes, but with his natural athletic ability he rapidly improved. By December he skied from the summit for the first time.
Duval was apprehensive as he surveyed the long, steep slope from the mountaintop. But through iron will, natural confidence, and determination, he barely paused before pushing off.
He took one bad fall that day, but luckily his slender hickory skis didn’t crack. He picked himself up, took a deep breath, and went on with renewed abandon.
When he finally skidded to a halt in front of the chalet, he tore off his cap and shook his head, laughing in exultation. He had done it: conquered the highest peak at Chamonix!
Now it was time to impress the contessa. Catching sight of her, he hid himself at the top of the gondola. Then, as she took off down the slope, he followed. After skiing behind her for a minute or two, he increased his speed and drew up alongside her, then dropped back, then came forward again, weaving in and out, carving the arcs at which he was fast becoming proficient.
The contessa didn’t know who the graceful boy was and Jean-Paul played up the mystery, allowing her just a glimpse of him on one side before veering off to the other.
At the bottom he waited for her as she skied up and stopped in front of him. Then he ripped off his sunglasses and smiled at the shock reflected in her face.
“Jean-Paul! It can’t be! How on earth did you learn to ski like that?”
And in truth it was not just his extraordinary ability that stunned the contessa. The hours of skiing were quickly developing his physique. He had acquired a tan, which well complemented his blond locks and only enhanced his powerful sensuality.
Ever since that day she had seen him nude, the contessa had not allowed herself to think about the way his body had looked in the candlelight, but at this moment the memory came back.
“You must have the finest instructors,” she said finally, still staring at him. “You could be a champion, you know.”
“With your inspiration, Contessa,” he said, summoning up all the precocious sexuality of his Mediterranean heritage.
More than once, he had let his gaze wander appraisingly over the contessa’s full bosom and the rounded bottom so appealingly revealed by her clinging ski pants. It was impossible for her to be in love with the conte; he was old and fat and balding.
As a young boy in the streets of Marseilles, he had witnessed the act that went on between women and men, and he knew that he was ready. Indeed, he had been from that day when he had felt the contessa’s eyes on his nude body.
When they went back to the villa in Tuscany, Jean-Paul was given a room in the family quarters, just down the hall from the contessa’s own suite. The count never even thought twice about it; his contessa must have her little whims. Even though there was a thirty-year difference between his age and that of his wife, he never imagined that she would look elsewhere—and certainly not to a boy of barely fourteen.
The contessa herself could not have explained her compulsion. To take a lover was one thing, but a mere child … yet somehow Jean-Paul had never been a child.
The first time he came to her room, she looked into his eyes wonderingly, for they were experienced eyes, wise far beyond his years. When they made love it was extraordinary. She had had lovers before, but never one with Jean-Paul’s innate sexual knowledge. It seemed to spring from an endless inner source, as he showed her things she had never experienced before.
He broke through all the barriers and somehow, despite the guilt that plagued her, she could not bring herself to break off their affair.
Meanwhile, she saw to it that he had unlimited funds for his lessons and equipment. Under the top Swiss and French instructors, he was rapidly climbing the ladder of junior racing.
Then, abruptly, at eighteen, he vaulted to the top. He entered his first big-time race—one of the more important on the European circuit—and
won. It was one of the most stunning upsets in ski racing history, and the contessa rejoiced for him.
But that night, as she saw him surrounded by a knot of adoring young girls, she knew despair, for she suddenly realized that she had lost him. He was no longer a poor young boy, but a grown man. And as the newest star in the skiing world, he would have women—hundreds of them. Young, beautiful, unencumbered.
The only reason he had stayed with her so long was that he had needed her financial support. That suddenly became clear. But now that he could earn his own way through prize money, he would no longer be beholden to her largesse. She could only bow out of this inauspicious affair as gracefully as possible.
The World Cup circuit was not to be conquered overnight, but by the time Jean-Paul was twenty, he was a figure to be reckoned with, both on and off the mountain. He had already forgotten how many women had offered him their hotel-room keys, and then themselves, and how many of those he had accepted.
At twenty-four, he reached the pinnacle: He won the World Cup. Wealth and fame—the destiny he had dreamed of so long ago on the yacht in Marseilles—were no longer dreams, but reality. He was the darling of fate—until the day he almost literally stumbled across a pretty young girl on the slopes of St. Moritz.
His first reaction was irritation, but as he began to berate her, he was wrenched to a halt. Gazing up at him from where she had fallen was a petite brunette with the most intriguing violet eyes he had ever seen.
“Sorry,” she announced. “But you should have looked where you were going.”
And with such an unpromising introduction began an affair that would blossom into one of a passion and intensity that neither of them had known.
Jean-Paul was the most handsome man Melissa had ever seen, but he, for his part, couldn’t quite fathom the instant attraction he felt toward her. After all, he had known some of the most extraordinary beauties of Europe.
But something about her piquant little face—a certain untouched quality, a youthful arrogance—filled him with an irresistible urge to make her his.
The Last Princess Page 37