Luke felt sick with the impatience to see her again. Six years! Christ! How had he endured it? He had no intention of enduring it again. He had recently become chairman of Johnson Matthie Advertising, and as Johnson Matthie had an office in Los Angeles, he was determined that he would find the need to visit the west coast of America on a regular basis. He had missed her arrival by minutes, having been asked for the tenth time by Annabel to put the tennis nets up on the courts ready for their and the children’s use.
‘She’s gone up to greet her father,’ Annabel had said soothingly. ‘Greg is in the library indulging his taste for calvados with Heloise. Dominic has taken Melanie exploring. Lucy is having a little sleep.’
Good manners demanded that he go immediately into the library and renew his acquaintance with Greg. He had not done so. Greg could wait. He had taken the stairs two at a time, walking feverishly up and down the long gallery that ran outside the first floor bedrooms, waiting impatiently for her to emerge from Henri de Valmy’s bedsitting room.
When she did he knew that his wait, all the waiting, had been worthwhile. She was twenty-seven now, no longer a girl but a woman. Her hair was swept into a perfectly combed knot, accentuating the shape of her tiny ears, the depth of her remarkable violet eyes. She was wearing a cream linen suit and a vanilla silk blouse and her shoes were high and peep-toed, her perfume the same elusive fragrance he had remembered for six years.
‘I was beginning to think you had drowned on the crossing,’ he said, striding towards her, seizing hold of her shoulders, drinking in the sight of her.
She laughed, pleased to see him despite his fervour which always disconcerted her. ‘We’re not late, Luke. The ship only docked two hours ago.’
‘You’re six years late,’ he said grimly, lowering his head to kiss her.
She turned her face swiftly, so that his impassioned kiss seared her cheek, not her lips.
‘We’re friends,’ she said, catching hold of his hands tightly, her voice fierce. ‘Friends, Luke. Not lovers. Don’t spoil this homecoming for me, please.’
His lean dark face was so harsh as he looked down at her that it could have been Arabic, not English. ‘Are you happy?’ he demanded savagely. ‘Do you still love him?’
It was easier to answer the second question than it was the first. ‘Yes, I still love him,’ she said, her eyes holding his steadily. ‘I will always love him, Luke.’
He drew in his breath, his nostrils pinched and white. ‘And are you happy?’ he asked relentlessly. ‘Does he know yet? Have you told him?’
She shook her head, turning away from him, beginning to walk along the gallery towards the stairs. ‘I haven’t told him. It’s been too long, Luke. I can never tell him now.’
‘And Dominic?’ he asked, walking at her side, hating the fact that in another few minutes he would have to share her with her mother, with her children, with Greg. ‘Don’t you want to tell him about Dieter? Don’t you want him to know about his father?’
He saw the pain at the back of her eyes, saw her almost physically flinch, and knew his words had found their mark. ‘He could, if you wanted him to,’ he continued relentlessly. ‘He could if you weren’t so scared of Greg leaving you!’
She wheeled round to face him, suddenly angry. ‘But I am scared of Greg leaving me! I love him! I don’t want to live without him for an instant, Luke! Do you understand me? No matter what the cost, it will be worth it if only Greg continues to love me!’
There was such passion in her voice that he knew he had lost his battle for her, even before it had begun.
‘Then there’s nothing more to say,’ he said savagely, spinning on his heel, walking away from her. She ran after him, catching hold of his arm.
‘Don’t be foolish, Luke! I’ve looked forward so much to being with you again. To seeing Melanie and Lucy playing together. To be back at Valmy again. Please don’t fall out with me!’
He looked down at her, a lock of his dark, straight hair falling low across his brow, his eyes bleak with the fury of his defeat. From downstairs they could hear the faint sound of childish voices.
‘Please, Luke,’ she repeated, her eyes pleading with him for understanding.
There was a long, taut moment and then he shrugged, smiling ruefully. ‘Okay, you win. Let’s face the troops together, mon brave.’
She laughed, slipping her arm through his, walking happily with him down the staircase to where the children with Annabel and Greg and her mother waited.
‘I’m only going to speak French now that I am in France,’ Dominic was saying with eight-year-old importance.
‘I want to speak French, too,’ Melanie said, gazing up at him adoringly. ‘Please can I speak French, Mummy? What is French? Is it nice? Can Lucy speak it?
‘I’m sure Lucy can speak a little French,’ Annabel said indulgently. ‘Now why don’t you come with me to the bathroom and wash all those grass stains off your hands and knees? Wherever have you been?’
‘I’ve been exploring with Dominic. We’ve found lots of nice places and …’
‘Excuse me,’ Annabel said apologetically to Lisette and Heloise. ‘I must take her to the bathroom. I can’t imagine how she got so dirty. She’s only been out of my sight for a few minutes.’
Greg grinned as a concerned Annabel led a reluctant Melanie in the direction of soap and water. ‘Annabel is going to have to learn that Melanie is going to be permanently covered in scratches and grazes and grass stains if Dominic has adopted her as an acolyte. They were attempting to climb onto the stable roof when I called them in. I thought it best Annabel didn’t know.’
Luke gave him a lopsided grin, his hands deep in his trouser pockets. ‘Your judgement was correct,’ he said good-naturedly. ‘Melanie only goes out with her mother or a nanny when we are at home. These weeks at Valmy are going to open up a whole new world for her.’
As they all strolled into the grand salon for tea and scones and thick creamy slices of local cheese, Luke reflected again on how curious it was that, despite all his jealousy, he should be unable to harbour dislike for Greg. If it hadn’t been for Lisette he would have liked to have thought of him as a good friend.
‘I see you scooped both Alloys International and Quay Med last month,’ he said to him, as Heloise de Valmy, still regally beautiful in silver-grey silk, began to pour tea.
‘You pitched for Quay Med as well, didn’t you?’ Greg said, allowing the conversation to flow along the safe, uncontroversial channels of their mutual profession.
He knew damn well where Luke had been only minutes ago. Waylaying Lisette, no doubt propositioning her, his wife and child only rooms away. The anger Luke always aroused in him flared through him and he controlled it with difficulty. Luke’s long-standing obsession with Lisette was something he had long ago learned to live with. He glanced across at Lisette as Luke began to tell him about his agency’s Quay Med campaign. She was sitting on the chintz covered sofa, her long, slim legs crossed lightly at the ankles, her head tilted slightly to one side as she listened to her mother recounting details of her father’s illness. He could well understand why Brandon was still obsessed with her. So was he. And he was no nearer a total possession of her than Brandon was. The physical barrier which had come down between them so many years ago had never been lifted. There were times when he thought he must have dreamed the night of their marriage; the long, hot, passion-filled nights in Paris. Her sexuality then had been deep, freely given. A glorious expression of her love for him and of her need of him. Now it was so suppressed that it was hard to believe it had existed at all. He wondered when she had realised the mistake she had made. Had it been when she had first had to leave France? Had that been the turning point that had ripped the heart out of their marriage?
‘I’ll be paying a trip to our Los Angeles office towards the end of the year,’ Luke was saying. ‘Is it okay if I pay a flying visit to San Francisco? It will seem strange seeing you on home ground and not in France.’
&nb
sp; ‘I think’Frisco is big enough for both of us,’ Greg said with the easy manner that always disconcerted Luke. He was never sure of Greg. Never sure how much he knew or suspected. Never sure what his inner feelings were. He was a man whose outward negligence covered a driving ambition that had made Dering Advertising one of the top American agencies. A man who had made lieutenant-colonel by the age of twenty-eight. A man it would be very dangerous to ever under estimate.
Heloise de Valmy had suggested a walk through the rose gardens before they retired to their rooms to change for dinner, much to Greg’s bemusement. ‘Does your mother really expect me to don a tuxedo for dinner, sweetheart?’ he, asked as he closed the door of their room behind them.
Lisette sank wearily onto the bed, kicking off her shoes and stretching out full length on the blue silk counterpane. ‘I’m afraid so, chérie.’
Greg stepped into the adjoining bathroom and turned on the shower. ‘Luke says he never usually changes out of denims the whole time he’s here.’
A smile touched the corners of Lisette’s mouth. ‘That’s when he’s here alone with Papa, and Mama is in Paris. When Mama is in residence, denim is definitely not for the dining table!’
He had pulled off his shirt, his socks. Through the open doorway she watched him as he unzipped his trousers, stepping out of them and tossing them to one side. Her throat tightened as he stepped into the shower. In San Francisco they now had separate bedrooms. It meant she had little opportunity to enjoy the pleasure of seeing him naked. She had died inside when he had suggested they sleep apart. She had wanted to hurl herself into his arms and tell him she never ever wanted to sleep apart from him. But she had not done so. She had been too frightened.
The newspapers were full of stores of deserted war brides. Their husbands had married in haste in the heat of war, and had brought them home to America. French, Dutch and English wives had found themselves in a strange country, a strange culture, without family or friends, and the marriages had all too often suffered accordingly. When Greg’s ardour had cooled towards her, Lisette had been terrified that he, too, was beginning to realize how impetuously he had married. And was, perhaps, beginning to regret it.
The jets of water were turned off. She watched as he towelled himself dry, as he wrapped the towel around his waist and walked back into the bedroom.
‘It looks as if Lucy is not going to see much of Melanie these holidays,’ he said, opening the armoire and taking a shirt from a hanger; a dark pair of trousers; a tuxedo. ‘She’s been following Dominic about all day like a little shadow.’
She raised herself up on one arm. If she reached out, her fingertips would just skim the golden-honey tones of his skin. She curled them tightly in her palm, knowing where such a gesture would lead, longing for it and dreading the wave of frigidity it would bring in its wake.
He laid the clothes over a chair and sat down beside her on the edge of the bed, strapping on his wristwatch. She could see the pearls of water clinging to the curling mass of his hair. The smooth, bronzed flesh of his shoulders, the long, strong ripple of his spine. She closed her eyes, dizzy with desire. Why, in God’s name, didn’t her guilt stifle her desire as well as response? Why was she left with the agony of one without the relief of the other?
‘Do you want a drink before you shower?’ he asked her, turning his head, his eyes meeting hers.
His movement had been too quick, too sudden. He had surprised the hunger in her eyes. The physical longing. His own desire ignited immediately. ‘Lisette!’ His voice was choked. He twisted round on the bed, pulling her towards him. She could feel the dampness of his skin, smell the lingering fragrance of shampoo and soap. She gave a small, inarticulate cry, her arms going around his neck as his mouth closed hard and sweet on hers.
For a few dizzy moments it was as though the restraint that had built up between them had never been. The towel around his waist slid to the floor. His body imprisoned hers, her fingers curled in his hair. His lips were on her neck, the base of her throat. He unbuttoned the ivory silk blouse with speed, glorying in the sight of her breasts as he eased them free of her lace-edged brassiere.
‘Oh, God, Lisette, I love you … Love you …’ His voice throbbed. He didn’t wait for her to slip free of her skirt. He pushed it high, his hands sliding down to her hips, pressing her in towards him. She gasped aloud, pushing herself up to meet him, desire running through her like liquid gold, burning and consuming. He groaned above her, his body entering hers, and then she arched her back, not in passion but in a rictus of frigidity. This man who loved her so much, who had given her so much, was being deceived by her in the most monstrous, shameful way possible. If he knew, he would leave her. He would look at her with loathing and disgust and wish that he had never seen her. Never touched her.
‘What’s the matter, Lisette?’ His voice was harsh, almost a shout. He had seen the flare of panic in her eyes. The emotional and physical drawing back. For years he had tried to pretend that it didn’t exist. Now he could pretend no longer. ‘Don’t you want me?’ he demanded, his gold-flecked eyes blazing, his face savage. ‘Don’t you love me?’
‘Yes,’ she sobbed, ‘Please believe me …’
He didn’t believe her and his fingers tightened on her shoulders till she cried out with pain. He took her with the ferocity of frustration, uncaring of her hands pushing against his chest, her cries of protest.
‘What the hell is the matter with you?’ he yelled down at her. ‘Why the devil do you freeze when I touch you? Turn away from me when I reach out for you?’
Her skirt was still round her waist, her hair tumbled from its sleek knot. ‘I don’t know!’ The tears were pouring down her face. ‘But I love you, Greg! I love you more than anything else in the world!’
‘I don’t believe you!’ He sprang from the bed, hardly able to contain his rage and pain. Dear God in heaven, where had the scene now taking place sprung from? In three quick strides he was in the bathroom, pulling on his discarded clothes.
‘Where are you going?’ she asked, pulling herself to her knees, her clothes in disarray, her hair tumbling wildly around her shoulders.
‘I don’t know!’ His face was bone-white, his eyes brilliant with pain. ‘Somewhere where I can forget the travesty of our marriage!’ and he spun on his heel, striding from the room, the door rocking on its hinges as he slammed it behind him.
Chapter Nineteen
She didn’t cry. She was beyond tears. She sat huddled on the edge of the bed, her arms folded tight around her, her breathing harsh and erratic. He had gone. She didn’t know where. She didn’t know when he would return, and when he did return, she didn’t know what she could possibly say to him. He had accused her of not loving him and she had denied it. But if she had accused him similarly would he have been able to deny it with the same vehemence? She didn’t think so.
She rose from the bed and crossed to the window, leaning her aching head against the coolness of the pane. It was odd that here, where it had all begun between them, it was all coming to a hideous end. He had married her knowing little more about her than her name. She wondered when he had begun to regret his haste. Had it been when he had seen Jacqueline Pleydall again? When he had suggested that they no longer share the same bed? She didn’t go down for dinner. She asked her mother to make her apologies on her behalf, pleading a headache. If Greg, too, failed to appear at the table there would be anxious speculation as to why, but she was too weary to care. She wanted, with all her heart, to be able to slide her arms around Greg’s waist and to lean her head against the reassuring strength of his chest, secure in the knowledge that he loved her. And she could do so no longer.
Greg had stormed out of the chateau, striding white-faced through the gardens and out across the open land that led to the headland. The heat of the day had faded, and wind was fallowing in from the Channel strongly and mares’tails scudded across a leaden sky. He began to run, wishing to God he could drive the pain and fury away. Why, in the name
of all that was holy, had he allowed himself to bring to the surface the hurt that had smouldered for so long? There could be no going back now to the easy camaraderie that had been so carefully nurtured between them. He had destroyed it all by his need of her; his rage at meeting again that total withdrawal of herself that cheated him of possession of her.
The waves hurled themselves remorselessly at the cliff face, clawing deep into the chalk, surging and ebbing over a shingle of water-smoothed pebbles. He panted to a halt. It was a coastline he loathed. Even now he had only to close his eyes a fraction and he could see the ships as they had approached the shore. See the running figures of his comrades as they were mowed down in their hundreds. A pillbox still stood, gaunt and bleak, staring out over the heaving grey waters. How Lisette could retain affection for such a glacial, inhospitable sea he had never been able to understand. He had thought she would be captivated by the dazzling blue shimmer of the Pacific. But she had not been. She had never said so, but he knew that blue sea and pristine white surf were no compensation to her for windswept beaches and the cold, inhospitable waters that pounded her native shoreline.
He stood, his hands dug deep in his trouser pockets, his brows pulled together until they met as he stared out over the heaving waves. What would her reaction be if he suggested that they end their marriage? If he told her there was no need for her to return to America with him? That she could stay in Normandy forever and never leave it? He spun swiftly on his heel, facing Valmy and the beech woods and the distant spire of the church he had been married in. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t envisage life without her. If she left him, it would have to be of her own volition.
Never Leave Me Page 32