Breaking the Rules (Harte Family Saga Book 7)

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Larry sat back, closed his eyes for a moment, and then, sitting up straighter, staring at James, he asked, “How could something like that happen? In Paris, of all places, the home of the catwalk and the center of the world’s fashion.”

  “I don’t know,” James replied. “But the police seem to suspect a terrorist act, according to Craig, who was talking to some of them outside the hotel.”

  Larry simply gaped at him.

  The two security men helped M into the suite, one on each side of her, their hands under her armpits. She hopped forward, smiling broadly at her husband, and then her smile slipped when she saw Larry in his bathrobe and pajamas and realized he was pale as a ghost.

  “Darling, what’s wrong?” she asked as he came toward her looking anxious.

  He took hold of her, kissed her cheek, and said, “I managed to get food poisoning on location. At lunchtime. The assistant director brought me home this afternoon, and the doctor attached to the production has been over to see me. I’m fine, sweetheart, it’s nothing serious, but what about your ankle?”

  “I’ll have to get it X-rayed tomorrow morning. However, I’m certain it’s only a sprain. What did you eat that made you so ill?” She stared at him intently and lifted a brow.

  “Eggs first, and then I had a shrimp salad.”

  “You only need to eat one tiny piece of contaminated food to get sick as a dog, at least that’s what Daddy has always told me,” M remarked and sat down in the chair. Looking up at Stuart and Craig, who were hovering over her, she said, “Thanks so much for looking after me and Geo, and Luke. Let’s order a drink, shall we? We all need one.” Glancing at Larry, she exclaimed, “Oh, sorry, darling, perhaps we shouldn’t be crowding in on you like this. You should be resting.”

  “I’m glad of the company, and I can always go and lie down in the bedroom if I feel suddenly done in again. Right now, well, I’m glad to say I’m not too bad. Luke, Geo, you two were really lucky from what James has just told me.”

  Luke said, “Damn right we were lucky, and fortunately we were both near the end of the catwalk and, more important, close to an exit door. But the person who is truly lucky is M, Larry. If she hadn’t had the accident backstage, done her ankle in, she would have been on the runway. She would have been thrown off when it collapsed, like all of the others were.”

  “I can’t bear to think of what might have happened,” Larry said, a rush of apprehension turning him cold. Swallowing hard, squeezing M’s shoulder, he thanked God she was safe.

  Geo, who was standing with her arm tucked through her husband’s, looked from Larry to M and said quietly, “You must have a guardian angel sitting on your shoulder, M.”

  M pursed her lips together, stared at Geo, and said, very slowly, her eyes reflective, “Once, when I was quite small, I fell into a deep ravine. I rolled, tumbled, rolled and tumbled, until I got to the very bottom. When my panic-stricken mother reached me, I was totally intact. Not a scratch or a bruise on me. All I had was a dirty face. It was a miracle I hadn’t been killed, and she told me that day that I had a guardian angel watching over me. I guess I do, Geo. I hope I do in the future, too.”

  Larry said, “James, would you be kind enough to call room service. Let’s get a couple of bottles of white wine up here and a bucket of ice. There’s a drinks trolley over there with the usual on it—scotch, vodka, and gin, and here’re Cokes, tonic, and soda in the minibar. I won’t have any alcohol, but I’m sure you all need a drink after what you’ve been through.”

  James did as Larry asked, and once the order had been given, he walked over to Stuart and Craig. “Give me your take on the disaster. Tell me what you found out, Craig. You were in the street, weren’t you? Come on, chaps, let’s sit over there.” As he spoke, he indicated a second seating area against the back wall; the three of them walked over and sat down.

  Geo took the chair next to M; Larry positioned himself on the sofa next to M’s chair and took hold of her hand. Luke sat down next to Larry, asking him, “Do I still have blood on my face?”

  “No, you’re as clean as a whistle,” Larry responded, and looking affectionately at his wife, he murmured, “I shall have to get you a pair of crutches tomorrow to help you get around.”

  “A crutch will do. And thanks, darling.”

  After a few moments talking together, James, Stuart, and Craig joined them, all three of them settling down on the opposite sofa in front of the fireplace.

  James said, “We all want to know as much as we can, to understand what happened, and I think the two people who know the most are the eyewitnesses: Luke and Geo. After that, M can give us details about the activity backstage. Luke, start telling us, would you, please?”

  “I will, if you want. But actually, James, Geo should really start this off, because she saw more than I did.”

  Before James could utter a word, Geo said, “That’s right, I did see everything.” She steadied herself and began by saying, “The funny thing was, right near the end of the show, I saw something really strange. I thought I saw the runway shift slightly. It appeared to tremble. Then when I looked again, I thought I’d dreamed it, or that I needed glasses. In the end, I decided I’d been imagining things.” Suddenly afraid that she might start to weep, Geo took a moment before continuing her story.

  After Geo, Luke spoke for several minutes, mostly explaining what had happened when people started to panic, how they pushed past one another and upturned chairs in their haste. With emotion he said he actually saw the models falling off the catwalk and into the audience, how some people were injured when this happened, others hurt in the crush of the crowded area. He finished by explaining how he, Geo, and Ann and Rebecca, the two American women, had managed to make such a swift and relatively easy escape.

  James now looked at M and said, “You were backstage, so Geo told me. How did you find out about the collapse of the runway?”

  “It was Philippe Tremont who came rushing backstage. He looked alarmed, told me to pull my things together and to come with him. I asked him to bring Stuart over, and within seconds the two of them had virtually lifted me outside. I then persuaded Stuart to try to get back into the hotel. To find Geo, extract her and Luke. First, Stuart called for the car, and once I was in it he went to the front entrance of the hotel.”

  “Anything to add, Stuart?” James asked.

  The ex-SAS officer shook his head. “That’s about it, James. Craig was the one who had a bird’s-eye view of the events outside.”

  Craig nodded. “That’s true. Not much to tell, though, James. There were any number of cops milling around. Their cars and vans were blocking the area. The traffic jams were building, so there was a great deal of shouting, blaring of horns, and foul language being spouted out of windows. I did manage to have a few words with two different cops at one point, and both told me that counterterrorism units had been summoned. They were naturally very anxious. Some were wondering if there were bombs planted inside the hotel. I tried to get more information from others but wasn’t able to do so.”

  At this moment the doorbell rang, and James went to open it. The waiter wheeled in a trolley, immediately opened a bottle of the white wine, and poured a small amount for James to taste. He did so, and the waiter hurried off, telling James to ring if he needed anything else.

  James asked, “Who wants what? Geo? M? Luke?”

  “I’ll have white wine, and I suppose Geo will, won’t you?” M said.

  Geo smiled at James. “That’s fine, darling.”

  Stuart and Craig also elected to have white wine, as did Luke. After pouring the wine, James opened the other bottle. Craig handed the glasses around, and then they all settled back in their seats to continue the conversation.

  It was Larry who spoke first. Glancing at James, he said, “As you’re the expert here, in view of your last position, working for Her Majesty’s Secret Service, why do you think the flics called in the counterterrorism unit or units? I mean, why would the police think terr
orists would target Jean-Louis?”

  “If the tragedy at the hotel this afternoon was an act of terrorism, I’m certain it wasn’t aimed at Jean-Louis Tremont . . .” James lifted his glass of water, said cheers, took a sip, and continued. “This disastrous act was directed at the Hôtel Cygne Noir. It is an American-owned hotel, by the way, and also the new preferred destination for American movie stars and celebrities. And the act was also aimed at one of the biggest industries in France.”

  “The Fashion Business, with capital F and B,” M exclaimed and looked pointedly at James. “And an industry which makes billions a year, one of the two top export businesses in France . . . Wine and Fashion spell France.” She paused, drank a little wine, then said, “I know haute couture is not as big as it used to be, that the wealthy customers for it are diminishing, but haute couture is still the great symbol. Pret-à-porter and ready-to-wear are big and sell well, and so do the toiles of the couture clothes, which are bought by manufacturers from all over the world. They buy the right to copy the originals. And then there are patterns and fabrics, all from the haute couture range, which are sold worldwide. It employs thousands of people. So here’s how it probably breaks down: damage an American hotel, damage a French industry, damage the Western democracies by slaying people. I believe it was a terrorist act,” M finished and looked at Craig and Stuart, who she knew agreed.

  Luke said, “I absolutely concur with M, especially about fashion being such a huge business. So many people dismiss it as a vanity, and shallow, but they don’t realize all its different moneymaking aspects. Fashion photography, fashion magazines, fashion public relations . . . it is just endless. And—”

  “Oh, my God, I must call my sister!” M cried, struggling to her feet. “She knew I was doing this charity show today. I have to phone her in London before she sees the news on television. Larry, please help me into the bedroom. Excuse me, back in a minute.”

  Once they were alone in the bedroom with the door closed, Larry took M in his arms and held her close to him. Against her hair, he said, “Thank God you weren’t hurt, my darling. You’re my life, you know. Without you I would have nothing.”

  “I feel the same way, Larry, and perhaps my mother was right all those years ago when she said I had a guardian angel. . . . I had a narrow escape today.”

  “I think so, yes.” Looking down at her, his bright blue eyes riveted on hers, he said in a low and very serious voice, “I do have food poisoning, M. I haven’t taken any pills. All the vomiting I had earlier today was due to something I ate. When I promised you I would never take a pill ever again, I meant it.”

  “I know you did, and it never crossed my mind that you might have taken pills. I know you, Laurence Vaughan, and you’re a serious, dedicated actor. You would never do anything to jeopardize your career. I do have one question, though. Was anybody else ill after lunch?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. Two members of the camera crew, and the woman who runs the catering company for the film locations, Chantelle Valbonne. And perhaps her assistant, although I’m not sure about that.”

  “Will you be able to go to work tomorrow?” she asked.

  “Yes, but thank God I’m not on call.”

  “And neither am I, not with this ankle. I know it’s not broken, but I will go to the doctor.”

  “Please, darling. And I’ll come with you.”

  “That’s great. I’ll treat you to lunch. In the meantime, I must call London town.”

  “Come on, sweetheart, I’ll help you over to the chair.” Larry put his arm around her and lifted her to the desk chair. She pulled her cell phone out of her jacket pocket and dialed her sister.

  “Hullo, darling, is that you?” M asked, knowing it was.

  “Yes. Where are you, M? I just heard the news on television about that dreadful disaster at the Hôtel Cygne Noir. I was starting to worry about you, because you’d told me you were modeling there today. You were, weren’t you?”

  “I was, yes, Birdie—”

  “Have many people been hurt?” her sister cut in.

  “From what I understand, yes, but I don’t have many details. You see, I fell backstage and sprained my ankle. It was a flukey thing, but I was unable to go onto the runway again. It saved me, the sprain, I mean.”

  “I’ll say! Anyway, I was just going to phone you, so it’s quite a relief to hear from you, little one. How’s Larry?”

  “Great, except that he had a mishap today, too. He has food poisoning, caused by something he ate at lunch on location. But basically we’re both okay, I promise.”

  “When are you coming to London, darling? I can’t wait to see you.”

  “In ten days. We’ll be arriving at the beginning of April. Larry has to shoot there; he has about a week’s work and he’ll be down in the country. Once those scenes are in the can, he’s finished, except for postproduction. But all of that will be done in London. We’ll definitely be there for a couple of months.”

  “Whoopee! That’s wonderful news, M. Everybody’s going to be thrilled. By the way, did you call our big sister? To tell her you’re all right.”

  “I didn’t even know she was in Paris. I thought she was away with the children. So no, I didn’t.” M took a deep breath. “Could you phone her for me, Birdie, please? I just don’t want to talk to her yet, or go and see her.”

  “I will, if you stop calling me Birdie. However, I don’t understand you, M. Why are you avoiding her?”

  “Oh, Birdie, I’m not! It’s just that I need a bit longer to be me and not part of . . . all of you.”

  Her sister burst out laughing and said, after a moment, “All right, I’ll call her. Bye-bye.”

  “Why don’t you want to speak to the Beautiful One?” Larry asked, using one of his nicknames for her sister. There was a note of bafflement in his voice.

  M looked across at the bed, where he was stretched out resting. “Because she can be a bit . . . peculiar, and also I want to get the Jean-Louis Tremont campaign over with, at least this first part of it. And I want us to be more . . . settled down before I launch you into the middle of my family.”

  “We are settled down. At least I am. I certainly feel like a very much married man, and incidentally, I love that feeling! So hop over here and give your old man a big smacker.”

  “Certainly. I’ll be right over, mister.”

  “Oh, no, better not do that, you’ll fall,” he exclaimed. “I’m coming over to you.”

  Later that night, M fell into an exhausted sleep, but around three o’clock she suddenly woke up. She was filled with a strange apprehension, worried about Sophie, who had taken her place and been hurt, and a sense of guilt settled inside her. Endeavoring to shake this off, she focused on Larry, who slept soundly next to her. In a way, she was angry with herself for suspecting him, initially, of taking those deadly prescription pills. But the thought had leapt into her mind, no two ways about that. Now, in hindsight, she knew he would never go back there, never take a prescription pill again. He was chastened after his experience in Canada. And more important than anything, he had made a promise to her, and she now realized, and accepted, that he would never break that promise. She trusted him.

  Thirty-four

  Philippe Tremont stared at Jean-Louis in astonishment, wondering if his brother had taken leave of his senses. Clearing his throat, sitting up straighter in the chair, he now said, “But why in God’s name would you think Rafi is responsible for the sabotage? My God, that’s ridiculous, Jean-Louis! He wouldn’t even have the resources to do such a thing.”

  “Yes, he would. There is a lot you do not know about our cousin. What is that odd expression our mother used so frequently . . . the water that is still and deep has the devil resting at the bottom. Some such thing.”

  “All right, maybe he does have a bad streak running through him. But please explain two things to me. Why would he want to sabotage your charity fashion show? And how would he have managed to get into a secured room to dismantle
the underpinnings of the runway, and all by himself?”

  “Maybe he was not alone, maybe he is part of a group of terrorists and—”

  “Now you are really stretching it!” Philippe cried, his voice rising. Hearing a noise, he stood, crossed the room, opened the door, and looked into the secretary’s office. Louise’s chair was vacant, and there was no one in sight. No one had been eavesdropping. Closing the door and returning to his chair, Philippe added, “Rafi is not a terrorist. You are exaggerating because of your constant anger toward him.”

  Jean-Louis settled back in the chair behind his desk, steepling his fingers, and looked over them at his younger brother. “Perhaps he is not a member of an organization specializing in terrorism, but he is a hothead. He always has been. And let us not forget that he may bear the name Tremont, because his father was our father’s brother, our uncle, but his mother is an Algerian.” Jean-Louis grimaced, shook his head, and concluded, “And a putain.”

  Philippe sighed. “She’s not a prostitute. But I know you believe all this, Jean-Louis, and I’ve never been able to make you change your mind. Answer this. Why would he want to strike at you?”

  “Because recently I have asked him to start paying back the money he owes us, and I do not think he is happy about that.” Jean-Louis sighed. “Why did I bother to ask him? He has no money, he is a beggar.”

  “All right, maybe he has a vendetta against you. Tell me something, though. How did he get into a locked room? And how could he dismantle the underpinnings himself?”

  “I told you, he may not have been alone. I believe it is obvious he had help. And I cannot explain how he got into the grand salon to do his dirty work. Unless . . . he was part of the construction crew. Perhaps he managed to hide in the room and then let his cohorts in later.”