The Lost Dreams

by Fiona Hood-Stewart

  “How about that?”

  “Not bad,” Moira conceded. “If I were you, I’d get on home and start thinking about dinner. Brad has a healthy appetite,” she added, tongue in cheek.

  “How do you know?”

  “Yesterday morning made it blatantly obvious. Go on,” she urged, “get moving.”

  “All right.” Charlotte made up her mind. If she went down, she might as well go down swinging. All at once she knew exactly what she would do. Rushing over to her friend, she gave her a quick hug.

  “You’re right, Mo, and I’m off at once. Wish me luck.”

  Half an hour later, Charlotte flung open her closet and began flipping through the hangers, pulling out clothes and throwing them on the bed. She held up a well-cut short white dress her mother had bought her on her last trip to London. She’d never worn it. Now she held it against herself and stared in the mirror. Not bad, she decided, tilting her head, not bad at all.

  She dropped the dress on the bed with the other garments then entered the bathroom and stripped. A few minutes later she stood under the warm spray, lathering her body with scented shower gel, shampooing her hair, rinsing and conditioning. Once she felt deliciously clean, she stepped out and wrapped a large terry bath towel about her body and stood before the misted-up mirror. She wiped a portion of it, pleased with her own image. Her cheeks were flushed, teeth white and eyes bright, and she hadn’t felt so good in ages.

  Charlotte threw back her head and gave a delighted laugh. The last time she’d decided to seduce Brad, all those years before, she’d felt the same reckless high. Putting one foot up on the tiny tiled counter, she unscrewed the top of the scented body cream Moira had given her for her birthday and which until now she hadn’t bothered to use. It smelled delicious, and felt slippery and sensual as she smoothed it over every inch of her body.

  It had rained all afternoon. Then, as often occurred, the setting sun had made a last-minute appearance. Slanting through the small windowpanes, it highlighted her hair. She sighed. Glancing outside, she watched the sun disappear behind the hills. Soon it would be evening. The children would probably end up playing Ping-Pong at Lucy’s, which suited her just fine, she reflected, giving the cap of the cream a smug twist as she replaced it on the shelf. In fact, she’d ring Sheila Morisson and make sure they did stay over.

  “Let him come,” she whispered at the vibrant reflection in the mirror. “But please, don’t let us get too burned.” Then, taking a deep breath, she went back into the bedroom and for the first time in longer than she could remember, she dressed for a man.

  There was little point in letting things fester, Brad decided. He’d go up before dinner and get it out of the way. He was the one to blame, he realized morosely. If he hadn’t allowed matters to get out of hand, none of this would have happened. He just hoped it hadn’t damaged their friendship permanently. But it was too late to lament what had occurred yesterday—and to be honest, his only regret was that they hadn’t had more time. But still, he’d been wrong, and there was only one way to make it right.

  It was almost twilight as he walked up the hill. Suddenly Rufus barreled out of the undergrowth and joined him, trotting silently next to him as though aware that something important was about to occur.

  It was, he realized woodenly. Tonight he would finally acknowledge that his most cherished dream couldn’t come true.

  The light in the window probably meant she was home.

  Good. The sooner he got this behind him, the better. Then, after he’d apologized, he’d have to make a point of avoiding her, keep to himself. Perhaps even consider making the trip back stateside.

  The thought of New York and Sylvia left him depressed, and as he approached the cottage, his steps lagged.

  This was final. He’d spent the entire day going over his options and had come to the sad conclusion that he had none. After tonight, there would be no going back, no changing his mind. He couldn’t play with Charlotte’s feelings or with his own.

  He opened the gate and stared blankly at the door. How could he let her go after finally tasting what they could be together?

  But he had no choice. It was too late for them.

  Perhaps, he thought as he knocked on the door, it always had been.

  “Come in.” Charlotte’s voice echoed from the back of the cottage as he stepped warily into the hall. Candles burned in the small silver dish on the hall table, where usually she kept her keys, and wildflowers burst from vases everywhere. A pang of regret and a tinge of unjustified anger ripped through him, for there was something sensual and enticing in the air. He hesitated. Apparently she was expecting someone.

  “I’m in the kitchen,” she called. What sort of a pickle was Charlie getting herself into now? he wondered, his protective instincts surfacing. He followed Rufus’s huge, furry form across the hall, drawn by the alluring scents of rosemary and thyme, and something indefinable that left him hungry as well as curious.

  Reaching the kitchen doorway, he stopped in his tracks, stunned. He opened his mouth to say something, then took a long breath and searched desperately for the right words.

  Charlotte was standing by the window, tantalizingly seductive in a short white dress, hair cascading about her shoulders, the swell of her breast visible at the fitted neckline. High heels made her legs seem endless, and her eyes sparkled like two rich amethysts as she leaned back against the counter, watching him, sending shivers up his spine. This was the identical woman to the one he’d seen in the vision in the hall at Strathaird.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he murmured, regaining his composure as he entered the low-ceilinged kitchen that had taken on a new air, like a witches’ coven filled with heady sensuous mystery. “I thought we needed to talk,” he added, as though justifying his presence. But Charlotte remained where she was and simply smiled at him, looking deliciously devious and self-satisfied.

  He glanced at the table, set for two. A fine jacquard tablecloth that he recognized from the Harcourts Classic line graced the table, topped with bone china, folded napkins, flowers and two silver candlesticks. Strains of a sultry Latin ballad drifted in from the living room. It was a scene set for seduction, and it was set for him.

  He sent her a questioning look. “This wasn’t in the program,” he murmured hoarsely as slowly she moved toward him, a gloriously sensual creature who left him weak at the knees. Where on earth was the reticent, uncertain woman who’d avoided his eyes this morning when he’d tried to sit her down to talk things over reasonably? His heart lurched as he recognized the Charlotte he’d fallen in love with so long ago, the confident temptress, innocence blending with the promise of passion.

  He backed away. If he succumbed, there would be no turning back. He reached for the doorway behind him. “Charlie,” he said, backing off as she sidled up to him and slipped her arms around his neck, “as much as I want to, we can’t do this. Just listen to me, I’ve got it all figured out—” But every good intention evaporated as she reached for his lips.

  “We mustn’t do this,” he muttered, hands encircling her slim waist, the feel of her lips on his too much to resist.

  “But we both know it’s going to happen all the same,” she murmured softly, flicking her tongue along his temple, leaving him shuddering.

  His arms snaked down her body and he pulled her close. “Are you absolutely sure?” he asked urgently, control slipping as she nestled against him.

  “I’ve never been so sure about anything,” she assured him in a whisper, hands beginning to undo the buttons of his shirt.

  “Oh, sweet Jesus, thank you,” he sighed, eyes closing as his fingers glided along her bare arms. It was too late for logic, too late to retract. However much his mind tried to dictate, it was simply too late to look back. The die was cast and whatever came next was up to fate.

  “This feels so right, doesn’t it?” he whispered, nuzzling her hair.

  “Yes, it does,” she said into the crook of his shoulder,
for it did. Lifting her head, she searched his eyes, delved into those years of intense yearning, and knew with soul-deep conviction that no matter what convention said, there could never be anything wrong about what they shared.

  The realization left her dizzy, overcome by a light, heady sensation like nothing she’d ever known. She wanted to drench herself in his being, bond with him so deeply, so intensely that their hearts and minds became one. Then his hand caressed the back of her neck, fisted her hair and gently tilted her head back, and the hunger in his eyes left her gasping with sharp, intense longing.

  “I want you, Charlie.” His voice came out husky as he searched her face, all the need in him written right there in his eyes. “I think I’ve wanted you all my life.”

  It was wondrous, frightening and exhilarating. Her mind blanked when his lips touched hers, and her body gave way. This was not the painful, impatient pawing John had forced upon her over the years, but a rough, ragged demand for mutual satisfaction. He ravaged her mouth, fired her senses, leaving her wanting and exposed. She filled her hands with his hair, felt her breasts taut and aching against his hard muscled chest, and craved the touch of his skin. When his hand slipped down her back, pressing her close, body to body, she knew just how much he wanted her.

  And she him.

  He came up for breath, kissed her eyelids, and she drew him back, urging his hands down the front of her thin cotton dress, delighting in his moan when he realized she wore no bra. Then he found her nipple and a rush of heat left her light, limp and wanting.

  “The kitchen’s not the best idea,” he whispered, drawing her toward the door, but she stalled him. With something between a laugh and a groan, he slammed her against the fridge door, moving roughly against her and she clung, not caring if he took her right there. This was the most wonderful, exciting thing that had ever happened to her and she savored it, afraid that if he stopped for a moment, it might all go away.

  He lifted her arms and her dress, sighed when he realized there was nothing underneath, and slid his warm hands over her buttocks. She tugged at his shirt, trying to undo the buttons, then, frustrated, ripped them free, pulling the fabric off his shoulders. Delighted, empowered, she turned her attention to the belt buckle of his jeans, surprised when she felt his hand restrain hers.

  He looked down at her, eyes alive with love and longing. Then, dropping a kiss on her mouth, he lifted her in his arms.

  “Brad—”

  “Shh,” he tenderly whispered, kissing her eyelids. With a sigh, she looped her arms around his neck and he lifted her, carrying her to the bedroom. John had never done anything remotely similar or so wonderfully romantic, she reflected.

  She’d left the door conveniently ajar, and with a shove of his shoulder he pushed it open, then kicked it shut before carrying her to the bed. Eyes locked, he gently laid her down among the pillows.

  A warm glow radiated from the shaded bed lamps and a scented candle flickered on the dresser, its reflection gleaming in the mirror as he lowered himself beside her.

  “You can still change your mind,” he muttered hoarsely, praying she wouldn’t as he gazed down at her longingly.

  “I’ve never wanted anything more, Brad,” she said softly, something hungry and intense flickering over her face. “I don’t care a damn about tomorrow. Whatever happens, we’ll always have this.”

  He crushed her to him, wanting to devour, forcing himself to keep it slow. He wasn’t going to hurry, wasn’t going to rush or spoil this precious moment he’d dreamed of all these years. Instead, he’d give her all the love and pleasure he sensed she’d never known, everything he knew she so desperately needed.

  A rush of pure satisfaction gripped him when his fingers coursed south and he felt her eager response to his probing fingers. When she opened for him, it was as if he’d been given a gift of unimaginable worth. Touching deep within her, he swallowed her gasp with a kiss, and slowly massaged her core.

  She writhed, moaned, the sheen of passion making her skin glow. “Brad, darling, please,” she murmured, eyes pleading.

  She was all woman, unfettered scented sweetness, wet warmth waiting to be fulfilled. He would remember her forever just as she was right now, wild with longing, poised on the brink of newly discovered passion and pleasures that, he sensed with pride, only he could give her. She arched into his hand as he pressed deeper, and her sharp, shattering gasp of release almost drove him over the edge.

  Then her eyes opened, spelling deep yearning as fierce and needy as his own. He gave way, thrust deep within her, mind blank as together they journeyed on a sharp rising wave, rolling inland, higher and higher.

  And when at last it crested, he crashed headlong with her into the surf.

  12

  Armand stared, eyes narrowed, at the library shelves reaching up to the carved oak frieze and coffered ceiling. His task was not proving easy, he mused, hand fiddling nervously with the Star of David necklace that he’d been given on his eighteenth birthday, along with his mother’s letter.

  The Cardinal had handed it to him ever so casually, saying merely that Sylvain de Rothberg had given the piece to his mother when she saw him in prison. He remarked that Françoise was a brave girl and that he wanted Armand to have it.

  Nothing more, nothing less.

  But Armand knew. He had always known. And those few words had sufficed to confirm any lingering doubts. He’d never removed the Star of David since.

  Pausing to better view the selection of French books, acquired mostly by Great-Aunt Hortense de la Vallière, he remembered that birthday. Everything had suddenly fallen into place, like the pieces of a bright mosaic. If his uncle had given him the Star of David, it could only be because he—Armand—was none other than Sylvain de Rothberg’s child.

  From then on, it had been easy for the starved, creative mind of a lonely adolescent to begin creating the myth. Unless Sylvain had been his mother’s lover, he reasoned, why would she have mentioned him in her letter? He’d always known the Cardinal was ashamed of him. Eugène had told the world Armand was his illegitimate nephew, when in fact he was nothing of the sort. Sylvain and his mother had probably been lovers for years. But of course, she had been a barmaid and Sylvain was a wealthy, successful jeweler from a family of even wealthier bankers. Society would never have tolerated their union. And so, he reasoned, his would-be father must have found a solution. Perhaps it was not unreasonable to believe Sylvain had even married Geneviève de la Vallière as a decoy, an excuse to be close to the village of Ambazac where Françoise lived and worked.

  It all made perfect sense.

  What made less sense was why the Cardinal refused to reveal his true identity now that all that was part of the past. Only later, as Armand grew up and learned about the Lost Collection, did he come to understand his “uncle’s” motives. It was crystal clear. The fabled Lost Collection was reputed to be a spectacular cache of jewels hidden by Sylvain, so as to keep his work out of Nazi hands. Obviously the Cardinal knew of the collection’s existence. As Sylvain’s brother-in-law and last surviving relative, perhaps Eugène hoped to find and claim it as his own.

  But for what purpose? Would he give it to the Church? Of course. The Church and his own quest for personal power within it were the only things the miserable old man really cared about, Armand reflected bitterly, eyes traveling the well-worn covers. He’d spent years searching for possible clues, aware that if he, Armand, found the jewels first and was proved to be the legitimate heir, then all Eugène’s dreams of glory would go up in smoke. The thought was so appealing that for a moment he stopped and stared out the window, transported on a cloud of pure euphoria.

  Usually he avoided thinking about his childhood, but sometimes it pierced the carefully erected ramparts of his mind despite his determination to forget. He’d never stopped blaming Eugène for his callous disregard of a powerless and petrified boy. Armand stared again at the books before him, seeing instead the dark and terrible events of his past. He shook h
is head to clear it, realizing that only his sure sense of his true identity had kept him going all these long, lonely years. Knowing he was the great master’s son had made it easier to ignore the snubs, the taunts, the careless insults, because what else could one expect of such ignorance? His, after all, was the bloodline of genius!

  If only the Cardinal weren’t spiteful and, yes, jealous, he’d have acknowledged this long ago. Instead, he’d passed him off as a poor relation, forcing his supposed nephew to seek proof of his true identity on his own. Armand recalled his futile efforts to search out other Rothbergs, but there was simply too little information, and those members of the family he could find were in America and Australia and not easily attainable. Even his youthful conversion to Judaism in the hope that members of Sylvain’s synagogue would then vouch for him had been for naught. Now time was running out and he was growing old, but he refused to die as Armand de la Vallière, illegitimate son and mediocre couturier.

  Not he. When he passed on, he wanted the world to mourn him, as suited the only living link to the glorious Rothberg name.

  For years he’d searched all the places Sylvain had frequented but they had yielded no indication as to where the Lost Collection might be. Yet he was certain it was within reach. He’d scoured La Vallière but to no avail. Now, the only place left where Sylvain was known to have spent time, shortly before the war, was Strathaird. He’d come by the knowledge by chance, for he’d never related Sylvain to the Scottish side of the family. But a casual comment from the Cardinal several months back had set him on this track. Strathaird, he kenw, was his last chance.

  All at once he came back to earth and focused again on the packed shelves, wondering if they did indeed hold the key to his fortune. He must be careful and cunning not to reveal his intentions, for until he found the necessary clues to the Lost Collection, what proof did he have? His uncle’s lies would persist, and perhaps even win the day, unless he operated in maximum secrecy.