In the Millionaire's Possession (34 page)

Us, Helen thought. There is no
‘
us
’
and never can be. Because even when Angeline Vallon is history, as you suggest, there
’
ll be someone else in her place. There
’
ll always be someone else
—
for a month or two…

‘
But I can
’
t pretend it doesn
’
t exist either,
’
she said raggedly.
‘
That wasn
’
t part of the deal. So I shan
’
t be going with you to Paris.
’
She took a deep breath.
‘
But Monteagle is yours too, of course, and when you choose to be there I
’
m prepared to reach some
—
compromise with you.
’

‘
As you did last night?
’
The words slammed at her.

‘
Yes,
’
she said defiantly.
‘
Exactly like that.
’

He said something under his breath
—
something harsh and ugly
—
then threw himself off the bed, grabbing for his discarded clothing. But he made no attempt to dress himself.

Instead, he reached into the pocket of his dinner jacket.
‘
Then allow me to congratulate you on your performance, madame.
’
His voice seared her like acid.
‘
You learn quickly
—
and, as I explained, I would not wish you to go unrewarded for your efforts.
’

He tossed the roll of money into the air, and watched the banknotes flutter down on to the bed around her.

‘
Consider yourself paid in full,
ma femme
,
’
he added.
‘
Until the next time
—
wherever and whenever that may be.
’

And he left her, white-faced and stricken, staring after him, as he strode to the door and vanished.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

‘
YOU mean it?
’
Lottie
’
s face lit up.
‘
You
’
ll let me have my wedding reception in the Long Gallery? Oh, Helen, that
’
s wonderful.
’

Helen returned her hug.
‘
Well, you can
’
t squeeze everyone into your cottage
—
not without appalling casualties and structural damage anyway,
’
she added drily.
‘
And the Gallery looks terrific now it
’
s finished. It really needs to be used for something special.
’

Lottie hesitated.
‘
And you
’
re sure Marc won
’
t mind?
’

‘
Why should he?
’
Helen asked with a light shrug.
As he
’
s so rarely here
… She thought it, but did not say it aloud.

‘
I only wanted a tiny wedding,
’
Lottie said mournfully.
‘
A few close friends and family.
’
She sighed.
‘
But that was before our respective mothers presented us with their final guest lists, and a string of other instructions as well. I
’
ve had to rethink all my catering plans, for one thing, as well as dashing off to the wedding hire place in Aldenford for some ghastly meringue and veil.
’

Helen patted her consolingly.
‘
You
’
ll look wonderful,
’
she said.
‘
And I guarantee Simon will be secretly thrilled.
’
She paused.
‘
Shall we get some music laid on for dancing? Really test the Gallery
’
s new floor?
’

‘
Why not?
’
Her friend shrugged lavishly.
‘
In for a penny, in for a pound. The whole nine yards.
’
She gave Helen a speculative glance.
‘
Does Marc like dancing? I mean, he will make it to the wedding, I hope? Or will he be in Bolivia or Uzbekistan?
’

‘
I
—
really don
’
t know,
’
Helen admitted uncomfortably.
‘
But, wherever he is, I
’
m sure he
’
ll do his best. I
’
ll ask Alan to remind him. After all, he seems to see much more of him than I do,
’
she added, with attempted nonchalance.

There was another silence, then Lottie said fiercely,
‘
Oh, this is all so wrong
—
such a mess. Simon and I are so happy
—
so crazy about each other
—
and you
’
re so damned miserable. And don
’
t argue with me,
’
she warned, as Helen
’
s lips parted in protest.
‘
Even a blind person could see it.
’

‘
I have what I asked for,
’
Helen said quietly.
‘
And so has Marc.
’
She tried to smile.
‘
He seems quite content
—
and you have to admit the house is looking terrific.
’

‘
I don
’
t have to admit anything.
’
Lottie picked up her bag and prepared for departure.
‘
In fact there are times when I wish you
’
d sold Monteagle lock, stock and barrel to bloody Trevor Newson. So there.
’

And there are times when I wish that too, Helen thought with sudden wry bitterness. The shocked breath caught in her throat as she realised what she had just admitted to herself.

She managed to keep a smile in place as she waved her friend off, but her stomach was churning and her legs felt oddly weak.

How can I suddenly feel like this? she asked herself as she made herself turn, walk back into the house she loved. The home she
’
d always considered worth any sacrifice.

Monteagle
’
s been my life all this time. My lodestar. And so it should be still
—
because I have nothing else. Nothing…

The embroidery from the old bed curtains had been transferred exquisitely to its rich new fabric, and it gleamed in the mellow sunlight that poured in through the mullioned windows. While above the fireplace the other Helen Frayne looked enigmatically down on her descendant.

And, dominating the room, that enormous bed
—
made up each week with fresh linen, yet still unused.

Helen had stood in this room grieving after her grandfather
’
s funeral, knowing that she was entirely alone. She
’
d tried with a kind of desperation to convince herself that it wasn
’
t true. That she would spend her future with Nigel and find happiness and fulfilment
—
but only if she could save her beloved home and live there. That had always been the proviso.

No guy stands a chance against a no-win obsession like that
.

She found herself remembering Nigel
’
s petulant accusation.

But it wasn
’
t an obsession, she cried inwardly. It was a dream
—
wasn
’
t it? Only now the dream was dead, and she didn
’
t know why.

Except that she was lying to herself. Because it had begun to fade six weeks ago, when she came back from France.

Without Marc. Without even saying goodbye to Marc. Because he
’
d already left for the airport when she arrived downstairs that last morning at the Villa Mirage.

Later, on her own homeward journey, she
’
d asked Louis to stop at a little church she
’
d seen on the way out of St Benoit Plage, and she had filled the poor box to bursting with the euro notes that Marc had scattered so scornfully across her shocked body, hoping that by doing so she could somehow exorcise the stunned misery that was choking her.

All the way back to Monteagle she
’
d told herself over and over again that it would all be worth it once she was home. That somehow she
’
d even be able to survive this agony of bewildered loneliness once she could see her beautiful house coming back to life.

Only it hadn
’
t been like that. Not when she
’
d realised that she was actually expected to move into this room
—
that bed
—
alone, and had known that she couldn
’
t do it. That it was impossible. Unthinkable.

An unbearable solitude
—
worse than any imagining.

So she
’
d informed Daisy quietly that she
’
d prefer to sleep in her own bedroom for the time being, and the housekeeper, noting her pale face and tearless eyes, had tactfully not argued with her.

And there the matter rested. In distance and estrangement.

She
’
d explained, charmingly and ruefully, to anyone who asked that Marc was in serial business meetings and would join her as soon as he was free. But it was an excuse that sounded increasingly thin as a week had passed and edged into a fortnight without a word from him.

She
’
d found this lack of communication unnerving, and eventually swallowed her pride and approached Alan Graham.

‘
I was expecting Marc here this weekend,
’
she had fibbed, fingers crossed in the pockets of her skirt.
‘
But I
’
ve heard nothing
—
and I
’
ve stupidly mislaid his contact number in Paris. Do you know what
’
s happening?
’

‘
I certainly know that he
’
s not in Paris,
’
Alan returned with a touch of dryness.
‘
He left for Botswana several days ago, and is going on to Senegal. He
’
s unlikely to be back in Europe until next week, but even then I don
’
t think he has any immediate plans to visit the UK.
’

‘
I see.
’
Another lie. She forced a smile, but the architect
’
s face remained impassive.
‘
Well, perhaps his secretary could supply me with a copy of his itinerary
—
or let me know if there
’
s an opening in his schedule.
’

She expected him to offer an address, a telephone extension and a name, but he did none of those things.

He hesitated perceptibly.
‘
Marc is incredibly busy, Mrs Delaroche. It might be better to leave it to him to get in touch
—
don
’
t you think?
’

In other words, if Marc had wanted her to make the first contact he
’
d have supplied her with the means, she realised, mortified. And Alan Graham
—
not just her husband
’
s friend, but also his employee
—
had been instructed to block her, to keep her at a safe distance where she could not interfere with the way he lived his life.

‘
Yes,
’
she said, her voice stumbling over the word.
‘
Of course.
’