Read Desperate Measures Online
Authors: Sara Craven
millionaire. No question about where your next meal is coming from.'
Philippa's eyes went frowningly to the canvas on the easel. 'Is
that a problem?'
'There's certainly something,' Zak spread his hands. 'What can I
say? You're too locked up in yourself— too inhibited to paint as you
should be doing. You're
still feeling your way, instead of going for broke. Holding back all
the time. So I ask again—why bother?'
She looked troubled. 'Am I wasting my time—and yours too? Is
this what you're trying to tell me?'
'Hell, no. If I thought that, I'd have said so on day one.'
Philippa was silent for a moment, then she said slowly, 'I
suppose there could be several reasons why I'm doing this. I need to
establish an identity for myself—to prove that I exist as a person in my own right, not just as a well-dressed adjunct to Alain. That's—not
always easy to remember.'
She paused. 'And there's Dad, of course. He always wanted me
to paint. I feel I'm keeping faith with him somehow. That when I'm
struggling to get the paint on the canvas here in Paris, I'm helping him fight for his health over in New York. Does that sound utterly
ridiculous?'
'It doesn't sound ridiculous at all,' Zak told her gently. He paused
again. 'What's the latest news on Gavin, anyway?'
She grimaced. 'Slow. I call the clinic every other day. They tell
me it's still too early for any definite prognosis, but that everything's going to plan. I just keep hoping.'
'That's as much as any of us can do.' Soberly Zak paited her
shoulder. 'Tell me, Madame de Courcy, what does Gavin think of his
son-in-law?'
Philippa swallowed. 'Well, they don't really know each other very
well as yet,' she evaded.
Zak nodded. 'One of these days I'd be real interested to hear the
history of this marriage of yours, and so would Sylvie. She says you
haven't got the
look in your eyes which means happiness for a woman. Yet your
husband's a good-looking guy, and definitely no slouch when it comes
to women, or so Sylvie says.'
Philippa shrugged. 'I think most marriages have to go through a
period of adjustment,' she countered.
'And that's what yours is doing?'
'I think so. Tell Sylvie to stop worrying about me.'
'I will. At the same time, I'll tell the sun not to rise tomorrow.'
Zak paused again. 'Speaking of my wife, she's making bouillabaisse
tonight. Says there's enough for you too.'
'Oh, Zak, I can't.' Regretfully Philippa shook her head. 'I have
another dinner party to go to—a business affair. I'd much rather be
staying for Sylvie's bouillabaisse.'
'Some other time, then,' said Zak. 'See you tomorrow, honey.'
Philippa was thoughtful as she walked slowly down the narrow
staircase that led from the studio to street level. Even she could see that her work was still too tentative. She wondered if it was Alain's attitude that was colouring her approach. His disapproval of her
decision to resume her studies was still patent, if unvoiced.
Yet he had nothing to complain about, she told herself
defensively. She was keeping her side of the bargain to the letter.
Whenever he required her to be at his side, she was there, groomed
and smiling. She was beginning to be less shy too, and could hold her own in conversation. And Alain played his part too— she could not
deny that. He was attentive and affectionate, every word, every
gesture expressing his pride in her, and his satisfaction with her as a wife.
She was becoming used to hearing herself described as
'
charmante
', and no one, to her knowledge, had drawn any more unfavourable comparisons with any other woman. So in that way, at
least, he had reason to be pleased with her.
She bit her lip. But that, of course, wasn't all. If their marriage
could have been lived totally in public, it might have counted as a
success. It was when they were alone together that it all went wrong.
Oh, they didn't quarrel, or anything like that, she acknowledged
glumly. It might almost have been preferable if there had been a few
rows. In fact there were times when she found herself deliberately
provoking Alain— trying to get a reaction. But all to no avail.
No, Alain was invariably courteous to her, even charming in an
aloof way, and his behaviour didn't alter one iota on the rare
occasions he came to her bedroom.
She felt her face warm. She didn't really want to contemplate
those brief, embarrassing encounters in the darkness. Those swift,
almost clinical couplings which were all she was called on to endure.
She supposed she should be thankful for the consideration he
invariably showed her. At least there were no more troublous attempts to seduce her. But gratitude, she had discovered, was not always the
uppermost emotion in her mind, as she lay, tense and trembling, in his arms. She was aware of a strange restiveness when he left her, an
aching void deep inside her.
She told herself it was resentment. He might have a legal right
to use her body, but that didn't mean she had to like it. Besides,
resentment—endurance, also represented safety. They enabled her to
retreat from
Alain emotionally behind the barrier they offered— to resist the
temptation of his physical attraction which still tormented her. Because she couldn't afford to relax her guard against him, even for a moment.
The strange hunger in her body told her that, and she was disgusted
at her own weakness.
And what part Marie-Laure de Somerville-Resnais still played in
his life, she could only guess. Certainly there were nights when he did not return to the apartment. He offered no explanation, and she
certainly never asked for one. He knew the risks implicit in such a
relationship, after all, she told herself stonily.
The threat of the emergency board meeting, with its attendant
vote of censure, had been withdrawn, at least temporarily. Louis de
Courcy had been forced to acknowledge that his campaign to
overthrow his nephew as chairman had been weakened by his new
respectability as a married man. But that did not mean he wouldn't
still be watching and waiting for Alain to make some mistake, some
slight slip. And a resumption of his affair, however discreet, with the beautiful Baronne would be exactly the excuse that his uncle was
looking for, Philippa thought, biting her lip. As for herself, her own feelings on the subject—well, that side of Alain's life was none of her business, was it?
The irony of it all was the overt envy she sensed from most of
the women she met. They clearly imagined she lived a life, not just of luxury, but also of blissful fulfilment.
If they only knew, she thought, with a little sigh as she emerged
into the late afternoon sunlight.
The men seemed to come from nowhere—two of them, scrawny
and greasy-haired, dressed in denims. One of them pushed her,
sending her flying to the pavement, while the other one grabbed at
her shoulder-bag.
Philippa screamed, clutching at the strap, and heard,
somewhere near at hand, another male voice answer.
Suddenly the grip on her bag was released, as the two muggers
took to their heels and vanished around the corner.
'Are you hurt,
mademoiselle
? Hands helped Philippa gently to
her feet, then set about retrieving her coin purse, compact and other belongings which had become strewn across the pavement in the
struggle.
'No, I'm fine.' The knees of her jeans were torn, and her skin was
grazed. She would have bruises tomorrow, she thought, as she leaned
against the wall, trying to recover her breath, and taking her first look at her rescuer.
He was young, dark-haired and undeniably attractive. He was
smiling, but his face was concerned as he handed over her bag.
'But you have had a shock, yes? There is a little bar in the next
street. You must have some coffee— a cognac. Yes, I insist.'
She was glad to take the arm he offered. When she tried to
move, she found her legs had turned to jelly. The bar was only a
hundred yards away. He seated her at a pavement table, and
summoned a waiter with a flick of his fingers. The coffee and brandy
arrived with the speed of light.
'That's better,
hein
? he asked as she sipped.
'Much better. I'm so grateful,
Monsieur
...?' Philippa hesitated, the question in her voice.
'I am Fabrice de Thiery, entirely at your service,
mademoiselle
..'
His eyes were warm, flickering over her with that appreciation which
was so totally French.
She flushed. 'Actually, it's
madame
. My name is Philippa de
Courcy.'
He looked startled, then his expression changed to regret. 'You
look altogether too young to be a married woman.' His gesture
indicated her casual clothing.
'I study art—I work in a studio just back there. The street has
always seemed so quiet. I never imagined...'
'Of course not. Probably they have been watching you—hoped
to take you by surprise.'
'I can't imagine why,' she said candidly. 'I had nothing of real
value in my bag. I only ever carry a few francs at the most.'
'When one has nothing,
madame
, a few francs can seem a great
deal.' He smiled at her. 'Tell me about your painting.'
Her blush deepened. 'Oh, it's just something I do for the time
being. Are you interested in art?'
'I am interested in most things,' he said. 'But I work in
accountancy.' He leaned forward. 'You look sad. Did they hurt you,
perhaps, more than you have said?'
Philippa shook her head. 'No—it's just that—well, my husband
doesn't really approve of my painting, and now that this has
happened, he'll insist on my using the car and the chauffeur, and
that's the end of my independence.'
'And that matters to you?'
'Very much.' She forced a rueful smile. 'The thieves stole more
than they realised.' She set down her coffee-
cup and looked at her watch, an exclamation escaping her. 'Oh,
look at the time! I'm going to be late. I must find a taxi...'
'I have a car. May I drop you somewhere?'
Phihppa hesitated. 'I don't like to impose,' she protested. 'You've
been so kind already...'
He pooh-poohed that. 'Anyone would have done the same,' he
declared, signalling for the bill. 'What is your address?'
She told him, and his brows rose almost comically.
'Oh, Ia, Ia
. You are the wife of that de Courcy?'
She nodded. 'Does that mean I don't get my lift?'
'Of course not. But your husband is right.' He was frowning. 'You
should not be walking the streets of Paris unescorted. But I will take you home straight away, and perhaps he will not be too angry,
hein
?
'I have to thank you again for rescuing me,' Philippa said, as his
car drew up outside the apartment building.
'It was my pleasure.' He took the hand she held out to him, and
kissed it. His eyes smiled at her. 'But I still think you look too young to be married,' he murmured.
'Au revoir
, Madame de Courcy.'
'Au revoir
, Monsieur de Thiery.' As she scrambled out of the car, Philippa was aware her heart was thumping. How pleasant it was to be
regarded as attractive and not merely useful, she thought, as she rode up in the lift. When she got to the door, she realised to her dismay
that her keys were not in her bag.
They must have fallen out, and I missed them when I was
picking everything up, she thought, as she pressed the buzzer.
Madame Giscard answered the door, wearing her usual grim
expression. 'Monsieur has been asking for you,' she began, then her
eyes widened. 'But what has happened,
madame
? Your clothes are torn, and there is blood!'
'Someone tried to snatch my bag, but fortunately they were
disturbed.' Philippa tried to shrug it off. 'I'm sorry if Monsieur Alain is waiting. I'll get ready straight away.'
She dashed to her room, took the cream brocade skirt and the
jacket with the deeply squared neckline from her wardrobe, grabbed
some underwear and flew into the bathroom for a hasty shower.
She was back in her bedroom, clad only in her white silk and lace
bra and briefs, frantically applying her make-up, when the door
opened without ceremony to admit Alain.
'What is this Henriette has been telling me? That you've been
robbed?' His voice was sharp. 'How did it happen?'
Philippa sighed. Now the recriminations would start, she
thought.
'I'd just come out of Zak's,' she told him. 'These two men tried to
grab my bag, then another man appeared and they ran off. They
didn't actually manage to take anything,' she added appeasingly.
Alain's brows rose. 'They cannot have been very determined
thieves if the presence of one other man put them to flight,' he said, after a pause. 'How fortunate that he happened to be there.'
'Yes, it was,' Philippa agreed fervently. 'He was marvellous
afterwards as well—bought me a drink, and then drove me home.'
'Ah.' Alain strolled over to the window and glanced down into the
street. 'And do you know the name of your gallant rescuer?'
'Of course. He's called Fabrice de Thiery.'
'I must try and trace him—offer him some reward.'