Leonie (37 page)

“There is no power on earth that would make me stay with you. You’re a monster.”

He pulled her closer, thrusting his face next to hers. “If you leave,” he said quietly, “I’ll ruin you. I gave you everything, and I can take it all away. You’ll be left with nothing … 
nothing!
”

“You forget, you made me an independent woman. You put money in my bank account, bought the stocks and shares, invested in property—”

“All in companies that I own and all with a clause that they revert to me at any time I should say. You never learned to read the small print, Léonie—every business contract’s first rule.”

She began to laugh. “Of course. How typical, Monsieur, how very typical. You only lent them to me for as long as I behaved! Well, you can keep them all. I shall be back where I started. I’ll leave the jewels in the safe, the money in the bank—it’ll be all you have to console yourself with. You’ll ruin me, but you’ll ruin yourself … you’re just a shell, a façade of a civilized man. You’re a cold, arrogant, ruthless killer.”

“I’ll find your child, Léonie. And when I have her, you’ll have to come back to me, or …”

The unspoken threat dangled in the air between them. “If it takes me years,” he whispered, “I’ll find her.”

“And if it takes me years, Monsieur, I’ll find the evidence that you had Charles d’Aureville killed. It will all catch up to you, Monsieur, one day, I promise.”

“Think of your child, Léonie.… Wouldn’t it be nice to know that she was safe?”

Her heart was beating so wildly she felt sure he must be able to see it, that he must surely feel the fear that was sweeping through her, and then she remembered him with his sons in Monte Carlo, remembered him telling her that it wasn’t until his son almost died that he knew how much he meant to him. If Amélie were his child, would he be able to kill her? She took a deep breath. “But what if Amélie were yours, Monsieur? What if Amélie was really your daughter?”

The door shut behind her and he stared after her in disbelief. What was she saying? He wanted to run after her, to beg her for the truth. Was the child
his?
Could it be possible? Had he killed Charles d’Aureville for nothing? He walked to the window, gazing
unseeing at the gardens in the middle of the square. She had gone. Left him. The only key was the child. Once he had her, Léonie would come back to him. He would offer her her daughter—alive—there would be no danger, so long as Léonie stayed with him.

But how was he ever to know if Amélie was his child? Was Léonie fooling him again? He
must
find her. If it took him a lifetime, he would do it. And then he would have Léonie again.

He walked along the line of curtains, releasing their tasseled ropes until they swung in a silvery mist, closing out the light from the room.

–
• 35 •

Amélie d’Aureville swung back her thick blond braid impatiently and peered from the loft at Roberto and Diego waiting in the stable ten feet below. It looked a very long way down and she glanced longingly at the ladder. “I told you she wouldn’t do it,” said Diego contemptuously. “What do you expect? She’s a girl, and anyway, she’s only eight.”

“She’ll do it,” replied Roberto do Santos stubbornly. “She’s no coward.”

Damn, thought Amélie, now there’s no way out—I’ll have to jump, Roberto believes I can do it and I’m not going to let Diego Benavente beat me. Dangling her skinny legs over the side, she wriggled to the very edge, balancing uncertainly. Diego had closed the door so that no one would see them and it was quite dark. She could just make him out, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, waiting. Roberto’s hair, as blond as her own, gleamed in the dimness as he looked up at her. “It’s all right, Amélie,” he called, pushing a bale of straw into place beneath her, “this’ll cushion your fall … it won’t hurt, I promise you.” She had to do it, he told himself, quashing the pity he felt for her. She couldn’t let Diego win or he’d never let her play with them again, and he couldn’t bear for her to be left out. “Come on,” Roberto encouraged her, “I’ll catch you.”

Gripping the beam, Amélie shut her eyes tightly and slithered over the edge, dangling uncertainly in space, seconds passed, her arms hurt, she could hold out no longer. The ground came up to meet her in a rush and she sprawled on the hay with Roberto, who had broken her fall by grabbing her just before she hit the ground.

“Are you all right?” he asked, peering at her to see if she were crying.

Amélie sat up. “ ’Course I am, why shouldn’t I be?”

“You cheated,” complained Diego, “you had the hay there and that makes at least a couple of feet difference. Anyway, Roberto helped you.”

“I did not cheat,” yelled Amélie angrily. She could never win with Diego—he always had an answer. He put her down for being a girl and for being only eight years old, always boasting that he was already eleven, and a year older than Roberto. He provoked her into deeds of daring that were almost too much for her. But he hadn’t beat her yet! Still, her ankle hurt, it was beginning to throb painfully, and she felt she might cry.

“Of course she didn’t cheat, Diego,” said Roberto reasonably, trying as usual to keep the peace between them. “She did really well.”

Diego pushed open the stable door. “Oh, come on,” he muttered, “let’s gallop the horses up to the coffee fields.”

“Why do we always have to do what
you
want to do, Diego Benavente?” yelled Amélie, pulling her throbbing foot under her and curling up on her bale of straw.

“Come on, Amélie, please,” begged Roberto. “I’ll let you ride Bicho.” She adored his pony Bicho and to ride him was a treat he accorded her when he was being extra nice.

Amélie hung her head. “I don’t want to,” she muttered. “I’d rather stay here.”

“Leave her, Roberto,” said Diego impatiently. “Let’s have a race; I’ll bet Vinicius can beat Bicho any day.”

Roberto hesitated. “Are you sure, Amélie?”

“ ’Course I am!”

“Come
on
, Roberto!”

“Well … all right. I’ll see you later, Amélie.”

Amélie waited as they crossed the yard to the paddock, holding back her tears until they were out of sight. Ow! Her ankle really hurt. “I hate you, Diego Benavente,” she sobbed, as she scrambled to her feet and hobbled after them.

From the veranda Sebastião do Santos watched Amélie limp across the courtyard, no doubt in search of Roberto. He fought an impulse to dash after her and find out what was wrong, but if she wanted to be with the boys and play boys’ games, then she must work things out for herself. Still, she looked so small and vulnerable in the baggy shorts she insisted on wearing so that she could be like Roberto—she even wore his shirts and pulled back her thick
mane of hair as tightly as she could so it would look short like his because, of course, Isabelle wouldn’t allow her to cut it. More often than not, when the d’Aurevilles were staying on the Fazenda Castelo do Santos during the holidays, they’d find Amélie curled up asleep in Roberto’s bed, their two blond heads side by side on the pillow, her two little cats dozing at their feet. Anyway, whatever had happened to her, he’d bet that Diego Benavente had something to do with it. Diego made him uneasy, despite his dark good looks and his charming grin—he could talk his way out of any trouble with his glib tongue. It was a pity that Roberto was so close to him, but then, as their parents were lifelong friends and the Benaventes had the neighboring
fazenda
, it was only natural that Diego would be Roberto’s best friend. And poor Amélie wanted that role very badly.

He had loved Amélie from the very first day he saw her, a blond beaming baby girl who’d come to stay with his family and their houseful of boys. He, as the eldest do Santos son, had been seven years old, and his brothers Flavio six, Marcus four, and Roberto just three. She had moved into their house and into their hearts as easily as if she were a do Santos daughter, and her soft curls, her amber eyes, and her very feminine charm had made him her particular slave. The first thing he had always done when he got home from school was find Amélie, and he’d spent hours riding her around on the back of Zeze, Roberto’s dehorned pet ram, her little fingers clutching its woolly coat and her low merry chuckle delighting him as her tiny heels drummed on the gentle beast’s sides in an attempt to make him go faster. As she grew up, it was Roberto, of course, so close to her own age, who had become her playmate, but it was still Sebastião who was her confidant, the one to whom she told everything—all her secrets and her fears and her worries. It was he who had taught Amélie to swim when she had confided to him that she was afraid of drowning like her mother and father, and with his help she’d overcome those fears.

Sebastião counted it as his lucky day when Isabelle d’Aureville had decided to come to stay with her old friend and distant cousin, Francisco do Santos. The family ties went back to 1567 when François de St. Chapelle had sailed from Honfleur to Brazil, becoming one of the vast new country’s first settlers. The family had never lost touch with their native country and, though their name had become Brazilianized, each generation had sent its sons back to France to be educated. Francisco Castelo do Santos, his
father, had never forgotten the warmth of the welcome of his French family for the painfully shy young man who had arrived in Paris to take his place at university, and in particular the kindness of their youngest daughter, Isabelle. She had taken him to parties, sharing her friends, and initiating him into the manners and customs of French life, giving him a new confidence and making him feel at home.

In fact, Francisco had fancied himself a little in love with Isabelle—that is, until he had returned home and met dark-eyed Luiza with the long black hair. How they had managed to have a family of Nordic-looking blond sons confounded them.

Tia Agostinha emerged from the wide doors that led from the dining room onto the veranda, her heavy tread sending small tremors through the springy cedar boards. Her eyes followed Sebastião’s gaze as Amélie’s distant figure paused, then bent to rub her ankle, and slowly turned around and retraced her steps.

“That child’s in the wars again,” she sighed.

Sebastião grinned at her. Agostinha was their old nurse, she’d brought up all the do Santos boys and their father and his brothers and sisters before them, and she loved them all equally. But he suspected that for her, too, Amélie was special.

“What happened this time?” called Agostinha, bustling to help Amélie up the steps to the veranda.

“It’s my ankle,” said Amélie, avoiding the question. “I think it’s broken.” She gazed in relief at Agostinha. Everything would be all right now; Agostinha knew how to take care of everything. She’d find some herbs and leaves and soak them in water for a poultice, muttering incantations in Yoruba, her native language, that probably worked some magic spell. Tia Agostinha looked magical, she was so
big
—over six feet tall and almost as wide—and she was a lovely smooth soft mahogany color and her hair was a frizzled reddish halo around her smiling face. And she had the biggest, most comfortable lap for cuddling children.

Agostinha laughed, a loud rumbling sound that always made Amélie laugh, too. “It’s not broken,
mia filha
, just a sprain, that’s all. We’ll soon fix that.”

“Exactly what did happen, Amélie?” asked Sebastião, not letting her off the hook.

Amélie avoided his eyes. “I was just jumping, that’s all.”

“And where was Roberto? And Diego?”

Amélie hid her face in Agostinha’s vast bosom as she swept her
into her arms and carried her off toward the kitchen, making her reply too muffled for Sebastião to catch. It didn’t make any difference; he knew she would never tell on Roberto anyway.

Isabelle had thought that life in Rio was sixty years behind that of France, but on the
fazenda
it was like going back centuries. That was exactly its charm, it never changed. Isolated in its thousands of acres of rolling coffee fields, the big house was as all-embracing and comfortable as Tia Agostinha’s arms, and Isabelle could never decide when she liked it more: in the daytime, when the sunlight filtered through slatted shutters in the lofty salons and the happy family house rang with the voices of children; or in the evening hours, when the sun cast long calm shadows across the lawn, as they gathered for drinks on the veranda, to enjoy the cooler air and each other’s company; or at night, when the only illumination came from antique oil lamps and tall wax candles that lent a tender flickering dimness to the family scene around the vast dining table that could, and often did, seat two dozen with ease.

If anyone had asked her eight years ago where she would most like to live in the world, she would have stated unhesitatingly the Château d’Aureville. Now, she would have to pause, to give herself time to consider the question—and even then she might not have been able to answer. This house was a favorite, but then her new home, the Villa d’Aureville, was just as special in its own more modern way, built as it was on the long empty stretch of beach behind the last hilly spur of the Sierra Nevada mountains that isolated Copacabana from the rest of Rio.