Forbidden or For Bedding? (7 page)

No!
It hadn't been like that—it hadn't! Not for her, at least. She wouldn't let such thoughts intrude, wouldn't let the wonder of it all warp into something sordid and regrettable. Because it hadn't been! Yes, of
course
she was simply a passing fancy. How could she be anything but to a man like Guy de Rochemont? But that didn't mean it had been tacky or repellent. Every portion of her body told her otherwise.

She took a deep breath, straightening her shoulders. The beautiful line of the gown shimmered over her body, reminding her of how she had looked last night. With swift fingers she reached into the tumbled mass of her hair and plaited her tresses into a long pigtail over one shoulder, glancing in one of the many wardrobe mirrors as she did so. Yes, that was fine. Neat, tamed. Her eyes were still
smudged with make-up, but a quick wipe with a tissue from the vanity unit removed a great deal—enough until she could gain her own flat. Slipping her feet into the soft leather shoes, she reached for the evening purse that went with the gown. There—she was ready to go.

Calm and composed again.

The door of the bathroom opened and Guy de Rochemont emerged, his showered body clad now in a dazzling white hotel bathrobe. His sable hair was damp, and diamond drops dewed his long eyelashes. Alexa felt her breath catch, felt a sense of wonderment that for a few brief hours he had been hers to embrace.

Well, now it was the morning, and real life took over again.
His
would, clearly, and so must hers. ‘
Cherie
, there was no rush for you!' His voice was amused, as well as rueful, as he took in her dressed state at a glance as he strode to the wardrobes and threw open the doors. Inside, Alexa caught a glimpse of serried male garments hanging up. ‘You should have stayed in bed—had breakfast. It is only I who had to make this infernal early departure—
tant pis
!'

‘No, that's quite all right.' Alexa's voice was composed, beautifully composed, and she was proud of herself. As if there was nothing extraordinary about standing there in Guy de Rochemont's London hotel suite as he proceeded to get dressed. ‘I must get going myself. I'll have the dress and accessories cleaned and returned. Should they go to your London offices, or…'

He gave her a questioning look as he shrugged himself into a pristine shirt. ‘You don't like the dress? You should have said last night—the stylist would have found another for you. But I can assure you it suits you completely—you look
superbe
in it.' His voice changed a fraction. ‘Just as I knew you would.'

‘The dress doesn't belong to me,' she answered.

‘Don't be absurd.' There was a flash of something that might be hauteur or irritation in his voice.

‘Monsieur de Rochemont—' Alexa began. She hadn't actually intended to call him by his French name, but it had come out of her mouth automatically—out of habit.

His eyes flashed with green incredulity.

‘Monsieur?'
he echoed, his fingers stilling in the act of doing up his shirt. He stared at her. Then his mouth gave a wry smile. ‘Alexa, I know you are English, and the English are very formal, but we have reached the point of first names—
je t'assure
!'

His clearly deliberate use of the intimate form of speech emphasised his assurance. She gave a slightly awkward lift of her hand. ‘Well, it doesn't really matter anyway,' she said, ‘since we shan't be seeing each other again. So—'

‘Comment?'
His expression froze.

Alexa's sense of awkwardness increased. ‘I'm afraid I can't resume your commission…' she began, then trailed off, not actually wanting to put it into words.
Just because I've slept with you…

He seemed to appreciate her unspoken point. Or at any rate ignore it. He gave a frown, as though something was not understood on her part. ‘
N'importe pas
. The matter of the portrait,
cherie
, we can discuss later. However, the matter of moment now is that for some reason I have yet to comprehend you seem to think we “shan't be seeing each other again.”' He echoed the intonation of her earlier words.
‘Dis moi,'
he said, and his intonation changed again suddenly, as did the expression in his eyes, which all at once seemed to make Alexa's breathing stop. ‘Did you find last night not to your liking?'

His voice—and his eyes—told her he knew the question
was as impossible to answer in the negative as if he had asked whether a rare vintage champagne might not be to her liking. Alexa made herself breathe.

‘That isn't really the point,' she began, then stopped. She seemed to be beginning a lot of sentences and then stopping, not knowing how to proceed.

But her hesitation did not trouble Guy de Rochemont. He had resumed buttoning his shirt, and Alexa found her eyes going to the strong column of his throat, the lean twist of his wrists. Found her pulse somehow more noticeable. She really had to go—she really did. But Guy de Rochemont was saying something that brought her up short. ‘
Bon.
Then we are agreed. Last night was exceptional, and we shall arrange matters accordingly. As I said, I am
désolé
that I am required to be on a pernicious flight to a tedious destination within the hour, but I shall return at the earliest moment—tonight, I hope. If not, then tomorrow at the latest. If you phone the London office my PA will give you my contact details for your convenience.'

He moved on to do up his cuffs, with swift, assured movements, then took out a tie and proceeded to knot it, continuing to talk to her as he did so. ‘I shall endeavour to keep you apprised of my movements, but I must ask you to understand—as I am sure you do will—that I have commitments it is impossible for me to ignore, however much I may wish to do so. Accordingly, it is inevitable that there will be times—
hélas
—when I cannot honour my undertakings to you. I must therefore request your forbearance.'

He continued without a beat as he lifted his suit jacket from its padded hanger and shrugged himself into it, with an ease of movement she was burningly familiar with from all his sittings for her in her studio. ‘Nevertheless, I trust we shall be able to spend sufficient time together, and that your work will permit you the flexibility required to ensure
that. Have no anxieties for the moment. All can be arranged. For now, however…' He finished his knot, crossed to the bedside to retrieve the slim gold watch, wrapping it around his wrist as casually as if it had not been an item of masterly workmanship, with a price tag of several tens of thousands of pounds. ‘I must fly to Geneva, and that is that. Already
le temps presse
, so I must ask your indulgence of my unseemly haste.'

He crossed towards her, buttoning his jacket as he did so, and Alexa found her hand being taken.

‘Don't look so bemused,
ma belle.
' There was amusement in his voice, and a timbre that yet again seemed to make her breath catch.
‘Tout sera bien. Tu vas voire.'

He dropped the swiftest, most fleeting kiss on her mouth. As he started to move away, letting go of her hand to head for the door of the suite, she blurted out, her incomprehension evident in her voice, ‘I don't understand!'

He paused by the door, in the act of opening it, and glanced back at her. Amusement was still in his eyes. That and something more—something that suddenly made Alexa's legs unable to support her.

‘But it is very simple,
ma belle
—now we are lovers,
non
?'

And with that he was gone.

Behind him, staring blindly at the closed door, Alexa felt her mind go completely blank.

H
ER
mind stayed blank all the way back to her apartment in the taxi she had climbed into at the hotel. She had walked with head held rigid across the marbled foyer, convinced that every eye in the hotel must be on her, seeing what she had done—for why else would a woman be leaving a hotel in the morning, still wearing the dress of the night before? She was sure, too, that the taxi driver had glanced knowingly at her in his mirror, and for that reason she'd stared blankly out of the window, before handing him a ten-pound note for her fare and walking into her apartment block as quickly as she could. She half ran up the stairs before any other occupant could spot her and jump to exactly the same conclusion. She had never done anything like this before—
never!

‘Well, of course you haven't!' she admonished herself as she gained the sanctuary of her bedroom and started to rid herself of the betraying dress. ‘You've never been seduced by the likes of Guy de Rochemont before!'

But I have now…and I will remember it all my life
.

Out of nowhere, she felt weak. She sank down on the bed, the reality of what had happened hitting her. Emotion came from all over—some that sense of wondrous bemusement, the almost physical memory of the hours entwined
with him, and some sheer amazement about what had happened.

Playing over and over in her mind were the words he had left her with…

‘Now we are lovers,
non?'

Her expression changed. Confusion and incomprehension were in her eyes. What did he mean? What
could
he mean?

She found out within the hour. She had scarcely finished showering and changing her out-of-place evening gown for sensible daywear before her entryphone sounded. Heading downstairs to the entrance lobby, she discovered a delivery of flowers so huge that she could hardly carry them up to her flat. Inside, she fumbled for the note.

It was all it said. All it needed to say. The phone call that came from Guy de Rochemont's PA five minutes later said the rest. The woman's dismissive style had not changed, but this time, instead of informing Alexa as she usually did that Mr de Rochemont either would or would not attend the next scheduled sitting, Alexa was given a mobile phone number ‘as Mr de Rochemont instructed'. She was to use it instead of the London number, but only in reply to a call from its owner, and on no account must the number be made available to any other individual.

The woman finished with an admonitory flourish.

‘Please ensure you do
not
call me, Ms Harcourt, in relation to Mr de Rochemont's itinerary. It will not be in my power to give you any information Mr de Rochemont has not instructed me to forward to you. Such information will be disclosed to you only on an “as necessary” basis, as Mr de Rochemont instructs.'

After the call, which Alexa had heard out in a silence that was partly due to her continuing inability to believe what she was hearing and partly because she had long since decided to ignore the woman's pointedly unpleasant manner, Alexa resumed her task of distributing the flowers into a variety of containers—for she possessed no single vase that was capable of holding the vast bouquet.

The scent of the flowers seemed overpowering. But her mind seemed strangely blank—as if too much had happened, too fast, and she could make no sense of it at all.

I don't know what to do,
she thought.
I don't know what to do.

Then don't do anything.

The words formed in her mind and brought a kind of relief. After all, nothing was required of her for the moment other than to place the vases around the flat. Then, knowing she was in no state of mind to go to her studio—where, anyway, no current commission awaited her other than Guy de Rochemont's, which, whatever the extraordinarily unbelievable events of the night before, she had resigned—she settled down at the desk in her living room and worked her way through a considerable amount of domestic paperwork, from utility bills to ongoing business expenses.

Then she vacuumed the flat, cleaned the kitchen, did some laundry and finally, after a light lunch, set off to the shops, having first despatched by courier the dress and accessories from last evening, with a note apologising because they had not been first cleaned, to Rochemont-Lorenz.

Her fridge restocked, she decided it would be a good opportunity to go to the gym, and spent several hours there. The exercise helped occupy her mind. Stop it falling back into vivid memory or that sense of blank incomprehension that seemed to be paralysing her brain. Back home again,
she stayed in all evening, reading or watching back-to-back documentaries on television, before retiring to bed.

As she slipped between cool sheets she had a sudden searing memory of the previous night. For a moment she froze as heat flushed through her body. Then, with a decisive flick of the duvet, she reached for a book on early Italian art—her current bedtime reading. Pictures of martyred medieval saints would be an effective antidote to that betraying sensual flush—and to thoughts about the man who had caused it.

But about Guy de Rochemont she still didn't know what to do.

I don't understand
…was her last conscious thought as sleep took her.

 

It was also her first conscious thought four days later, after days spent resuming her life as much as she was able, given her state of mental bemusement. She had come to the conclusion that the complete lack of any further communication by anyone remotely to do with Guy de Rochemont, let alone himself, could betoken only one thing: his parting words to her, the vast bouquet he had sent and the call from his PA with his private phone number, had not in fact meant anything. It was all beyond her comprehension, and continued to be so right up to the moment when, one Sunday, as she was passing a leisurely morning, the entryphone sounded.

It was Guy de Rochemont.

Numbly, she let him in. Numbly, she opened her front door to him. Numbly, she heard her own voice on her lips—‘I don't understand…'

He glanced down at her, wry amusement in his beautiful green long-lashed eyes that made her breath slow and her pulse instantly quicken. ‘I told you,
ma si belle
Alexa, it
is very simple. As simple…' he lowered his mouth to hers and took her into his arms ‘…as this.'

And so, over the next weeks, and then months, it seemed to be.

Without any conscious decision on her part, Alexa simply accepted the situation. Slowly, the sense of bemusement that it was happening at all seeped away, and having Guy de Rochemont in her life became just—well, her
life
. She did not look for words to describe it, she didn't want to—she didn't want to think about it either. It was simpler that way.

Simpler to accept this inexplicable affair. Simpler not to question him, or herself, or wonder why it was happening. For reasons known only to himself Guy de Rochemont wanted this. Why, she could not fathom. Carla Crespi seemed to be no longer on his radar. Alexa knew this from seeing a photo in a celebrity magazine of the sultry Italian star hooked onto the arm of a paunchy middle-aged man—a film director, according to the caption, which described him as Carla's fiancé. Had she defected? Had Guy tired of the actress? Alexa did not know. Did not want to ask.

Asking Guy about his life was something she refrained from doing. Again, why she was not entirely sure. One element, she knew, was because his existence away from her seemed so completely different from her life that she preferred not to think about it. Another reason was because she knew, with finely honed instinct, that Guy did not want to talk about his life.

Sometimes it overlapped into their time together, with a phone call to his mobile which he would take, talking in one of several European languages, and sometimes in English too. She caught snatches of conversation, but
always busied herself, even if it were only to pick up a book or a newspaper while he was occupied.

Sometimes the tone of his voice, whatever language he was speaking, sounded impatient and irritated, his manner abrupt and peremptory. Then, phone call terminated, so too would be that attitude, and he was his usual self with Alexa again—relaxed and attentive, and, in bed, passionate and demonstrative.

Yet there was a reserve about him that she recognised—recognised because it resonated with her own innate reserve. A reserve that made her glad, too, that Guy showed no inclination to socialise with her, take her out and about. She was relieved, appreciative of his discretion—she had no wish to be seen as Guy de Rochemont's latest paramour, with curious, speculative eyes upon her, and besides, her time with him was too thinly spaced for her to want to spend it anywhere but in his private, exclusive company—wherever that was. Sometimes it was in her apartment, or he'd whisk her to where he was, where his punishing timetable permitted him her company. For time with Guy was precious—and scarce.

And it would not last for ever.

Could not.

The knowledge sent chill fingers creeping over her, and with it another sort of knowledge that seeped into her like icy drops.

How it had happened, she did not know. Why it had happened, she could not tell. That it had happened at all filled her with a terrible sense of both inevitable heartache and yet present rapture too.

For somewhere along the way—unintended, unimagined—she had done what she had never dreamt she would do. She had fallen in love with Guy de Rochemont.

Doomed, hopeless love. For there could be no future
with him, no ending other than the one she knew must come—one day the affair that had started so inexplicably would end, and Guy de Rochemont would no longer be part of her life. He would tire of her, move on, and she would be left behind.

Left behind loving him. Helplessly loving him. Hopelessly loving him.

The knowledge dismayed her—but it did not lessen by one fraction of a fragment the power of the truth about what she felt for Guy. A truth that she knew, with every instinct in her body, she must mask from him, and even, as best she could, from herself. That mask was all the protection she would have—a mask of cool composure that had once been the reality of her emotion but was now no more than a frail, flimsy disguise.

She needed it right up to the final moment when, out of the blue, the blow that she had known must fall one day fell.

Guy was leaving her. Ending their affair.

It was over.