Leonie (52 page)

“Come on, you two,” called Isabelle. “The baggage is loaded. Let’s go or we’ll be late.”

Maroc spent the morning restlessly pacing his suite, consuming vast quantities of black coffee and worrying about de Courmont. The minutes ticked by and at ten-thirty he went back down to the lobby, where he bought a newspaper and wandered casually across to the concierge’s desk. “Better weather for the crossing today.” He smiled, pointing to the headlines on yesterday’s storms. “We were unlucky enough to get caught in this.”

“That was bad luck, sir,” the clerk smiled politely.

“I think a friend of mine sails today. The Duc de Courmont?”

“Yes, sir. He booked at the last minute, he was lucky to get a cabin, but some people were canceling—afraid of the bad weather, you see. He’s on the
Empress
sailing at eleven.”

Maroc folded his paper neatly and placed it under his arm. The relief was so intense that he felt weak. It was all right, Monsieur didn’t know.

He walked across to the porter’s station at the left of the lobby, tipping the waiting man casually as he asked him, “Did the Duc de Courmont leave yet?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” the porter said appreciatively. “Well over an hour ago.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“He took a cab, sir, to the West Street Pier.”

That was it then. He had gone. And Amélie had gone. Léonie would see neither of them. Shrugging on his overcoat, he strode out into the icy street, turning up his collar against the wind. He made up his mind not to tell Léonie before the concert tonight.

Jim Jamieson was not a man to be put off by a difficult task. He’d panned for gold in the Rockies, mined for silver in California, and made a fortune in oil in Texas. He’d lived the rough, tough life of frontier towns and now, at twenty-six, he was head of
his own building and land company with headquarters in San Francisco.

Miss Bahri was difficult to contact, but he would do it. She was at the Waldorf, but she wasn’t taking any calls and she wasn’t seeing anyone. He had picketed the hotel lobby all afternoon, and had finally spotted her, swathed in a vast fox-fur coat and half-hidden beneath an enormous hat, as she had sped across the foyer into a waiting car. She was accompanied by a short, dark man—he’d seen him on the ship—but he’d never seen them together. And, he remembered, there were no rings on her fingers.

He took a cab to his apartment on Gramercy Park, where he hastily packed a few things, drove back to the Waldorf, and checked in. Then he went downstairs to wait. Hours passed. He had dinner. He waited some more. He stared at the large gilt clock on the wall, it was almost two in the morning, he must have missed her. He sighed. He’d try again tomorrow. He was surely not going to give up.

Maroc glanced at Léonie’s face as she sat beside him in the limousine. It was just after two o’clock and she was obviously exhausted. Quite apart from her superb stage performance, she had been wonderful at the ball afterward. She had smiled, chatted, danced; she had kissed the men who had given the biggest checks; she had given out prizes and congratulations and she had made a speech—all without a single sign that she was bored or tired. She had worked hard for those children. He wondered when he should tell her. How much longer could he put it off?

“Was it really all right, Maroc?” she asked from behind closed eyes. She always asked him the same question, she still needed his reassurance, though the applause must have told her the answer.

“More than all right,” he replied, holding her hand. “You will have made a lot of children happy because of tonight.”

“I hope so,” she said wearily, as the car pulled up at the hotel. The big lobby with its sweeping staircase and marble columns was very quiet and they waited in tired silence for the elevator.

“Léonie,” he said finally, “I need to talk to you.”

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” A vision of the nice soft white bed, with Chocolat curled up on her pillow, purring, was all that was on her mind.

He hesitated. She was so very tired. “It can wait,” he said simply.

–
• 48 •

The lobby of the Waldorf was not where he wanted to spend the rest of his life, decided Jim Jamieson, as he tried one more time to get Miss Bahri on the telephone and once again was informed that she was not taking any calls. He banged down the telephone in frustration. What the hell was going on? It had been three days now and she hadn’t left the suite. Flowers were delivered to her, but she had received no visitors. Who, he wondered, were the flowers from? Could she be ill? No doctor had been summoned, he knew that. But why would she come to New York and spend all her time in a hotel suite?

He strode into the main salon and took a seat at a desk, writing rapidly on a sheet of hotel paper. He signed it firmly and walked back across the lobby and down the corridor to the florist, where he chose a single perfect peach-colored rose, short-stemmed and plump, just opening into full-blown softness—he wanted none of those tall sharp-pointed scarlet roses for Miss Bahri. She was a woman of summer roses that grew in gardens and smelled of sunshine and wind-blown scented petals.

Too impatient to wait for an elevator, he leapt up the curving stairway to the fourth floor and sought out the room service waiter in his little kitchen at the end of the corridor. With a few words and a lavish tip he achieved his aim. “I’m just about to take in her breakfast, sir,” said the man with a smile. “I’ll put it right here next to her plate.”

Jim glanced at the tray—there was just a pot of coffee, some juice, and toast—not a very lavish breakfast.

“Is Miss Bahri ill?”

“No, she’s not ill, sir. She always stays here when she’s in New York and usually she’s very lively, but not this time.”

Jim turned away thoughtfully. What could be wrong? She had
been fine on the ship; she was probably the only woman on board who hadn’t been ill. Well, there was nothing to do but wait. It didn’t come easy to a man of action, but if that was the only way, he would wait.

The rose was beautiful, thought Léonie, picking it up and holding it to her face. It smelled wonderful, too, a sweet heavy scent that reminded her of the garden at the inn in early summer, green and fresh and moist. Oh, she wanted to go home, she wanted so badly to go home. She had done her job. Saturday couldn’t come soon enough.

There was a note with the rose and she glanced at it disinterestedly. It was from Jim Jamieson, the man from the ship—the one with the nice smiling mouth. “James Homer Alexander,” he’d signed it. Such a ridiculous name! “I’ve picketed the lobby of the Waldorf for three days now, dear Miss Bahri,” she read, “and I am in grave danger of being arrested for loitering. Could you please take pity and have lunch with me? Or tea! Or supper or dinner? My floral offering may not be as lavish as some I’ve seen being delivered, but it describes you better. Please say yes? I shall telephone at noon for your answer.”

She looked at the rose with a smile. He thought it described her. Well, it was a perfect choice, it was her favorite sort, but did she want to see him? She put the rose aside with a sigh.

Chocolat purred contentedly in the crook of Léonie’s arm, almost hidden by the long fur of her big coat. There was only one other person in the elevator and Léonie nodded politely to his good morning, turning up her collar and hiding beneath the brim of her hat. As the elevator bounced gently to a stop, she hurried left down the corridor, and out the side door. The first blast of icy air took her breath away and, bending her head into the wind, she cuddled Chocolat closer to her. This was a mistake, she decided, struggling forward, it was much too cold and Chocolat would never walk in this gale. Besides, she didn’t like city pavements, she liked grass and gardens and beaches, and so did she. “What are we doing in this cold city, Choc?” she whispered, cutting down a side street out of the wind, running the last block back to the hotel.

The revolving doors swung behind her as she strode across the lobby, pulling off her hat and running her hands through her hair.

“I knew if I waited long enough I’d get lucky. Good morning, Miss Bahri.”

The American voice was cheerful and unmistakable. Léonie turned and looked directly into the bright blue, dark-lashed eyes of Jim Jamieson. They were as smiling and cheerful as his voice and she felt her own mouth curve upward in response. There was something quite irresistible about such confident charm.

“Good morning, Mr. Jamieson. And thank you for your rose.”

“The question is, would you have thanked me if I hadn’t waylaid you like this? There was a letter with the rose. Remember?”

Even his persistence was confident. “I remember.” She pressed the bell for the elevator.

He moved around so that he stood between her and the cage. “You don’t strike me as the kind of woman to stay silent for very long,” he said, “so I’ll say what I have to say while I have the chance. I’ve wanted to meet you ever since I saw you playing poker on the ship. I’ve picketed this lobby for days now. I’m a very determined man, Miss Bahri. And you haven’t answered my request. Lunch? Tea? Dinner? I’ll even walk your cat.”

Léonie threw back her head and laughed. “Very well, Mr. Jamieson. Why don’t you come to my suite for tea? At five o’clock.”

Jim consulted his watch. “But it’s only twelve-thirty. We could have lunch—and then tea. You can’t ask a man to wait all those hours.” The gates closed behind her and the elevator began to ascend.

“Five o’clock, Mr. Jamieson.”

Her voice floated down to him and he gazed after the disappearing cage, smiling. Five o’clock it was.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Léonie called from her bedroom, “I’ll be with you in a minute.” She surveyed her face in the mirror. She didn’t know if Jim Jamieson was here to see “Léonie,” but if he was then that’s what he would get. She applied the eye crayon expertly, smudging the line into a softer shadow, creaming on a blush of rouge and fluffing on powder, while Julie brushed her hair into a smooth golden mane. She slid a gold circlet around her forehead and examined herself critically in the mirror. Yes, that would do. She was ready for Mr. Jamieson. It had taken her exactly ten minutes to become “Léonie” again.

*   *   *

Jim prowled the sitting room. Despite its too-opulent decor, crowded with too many fragile gilt chairs, the room had become very much Léonie’s. Photographs in silver frames were scattered on tables and moiré silk cushions in a springtime softness of mint green, almond blossom pink, and lilac overflowed from sofas and chairs. A velvety moleskin rug was draped across the big couch in front of the fire and Léonie had banished the usual enormous floral trophies to the hallway, filling her sitting room with growing green plants—gentle spreading ferns and small graceful trees. Jim’s rose in a thin silver flute spilled its petals onto the rug. Piles of books were strewn on tables, on chairs, on the floor, and there was music on the stand of the grand piano. A pair of Léonie’s gold sandals lay where she had cast them off and Jim smiled as he picked them up and placed them neatly side by side.

He peered closely at the photographs: a dark-haired beauty, very Spanish-looking with a smaller, bespectacled man beside her: another of an older couple standing in a garden in front of a white square villa on a hill surrounded by cypresses and olive trees. There was no picture of a man, surely if there were a man in her life she would carry his picture with her?

A painting was propped on a small gilt easel near the window and he stepped back to look at it more carefully: a naked girl on a tumbled bed, a wonderful wash of light and color, it was sensual, beautiful.

“Well? Do you like it?”

Jim hadn’t heard her come in and he swung around with a smile.

Oh, God, what a fool he’d been! Why hadn’t he realized who she was? Mademoiselle Bahri, the shirt-sleeved, midnight-hour poker-player of the tumbled hair and luminous eyes, was the famous “Léonie.” He was such a
fool
not to have recognized her!

Léonie watched the bemused expressions flitting across his face. His astonishment was so patent that she laughed. She had been wrong. Jim Jamieson had wanted to see Mademoiselle Bahri. There was an innocence about him. It wasn’t naivete, just a good wholesome innocence.

“I’m sorry,” said Jim, smiling ruefully, “I must be the only man in America who wouldn’t recognize you. Will you forgive me?”

Léonie settled herself on the couch in front of the fire with Chocolat curled into the corner beside her. “I’m flattered,” she
told him, “and glad that you recognized that there are two Léonies. Only my closest friends know that secret.”

“Then I hope that puts me in the same category?” Jim’s bright blue eyes smiled into hers.

His gaze was intimate. Or was it just that she felt that way about it? Léonie decided to ignore his question. “Do you like the painting?”

“It’s wonderful.”

“I knew the artist—a long time ago.”

“Not now?”

“No. Not now.” He was clever, too, she thought, he caught all the nuances.

The waiter arrived with tea—a trolley filled with tiny cucumber and salmon sandwiches, crustless and thin, and toasted muffins oozing butter, still-warm scones with strawberry jam and thick smooth cream to be spooned on top, and a dark moist chocolate cake. Léonie and Jim gazed at each other in delight over the top of the feast. The fire crackled in the grate and the chilly sky was already darkening outside the long windows. Somehow the laden trolley and its silver pots of tea gave the hotel room an air of domestic intimacy, as though they were a comfortable married couple sitting down for tea on a cold winter’s afternoon. Except they weren’t married, thought Léonie, and she barely knew this man.

“I feel,” said Jim, pulling up a spindly gilt chair with an expression of distaste, “as though we’ve known each other for years.”

He took charge, picking up the pot and pouring tea. His firm square hands looked capable even performing such a small task, she thought, looking at them. They were long-fingered and a scatter of smooth dark hairs silkened his skin.