The Secret of the Villa Mimosa (17 page)

She glanced at her watch, surprised that the cabin doors were not yet closed; the plane was already ten minutes late. She asked the flight attendant what the delay was.

“We’re waiting for one more passenger,” he told her. “Meanwhile, may I offer you a glass of champagne?”

She shook her head, thinking irritably she need not have bothered nearly killing herself running all that way. She heard the flight attendants greeting the tardy passenger and then the captain requesting that the cabin doors be closed. She glared irately up at him as he walked by. It was the blond, good-looking guy whose arms she had fallen into at the check-in desk.

There was a twinkle in his eyes as he caught her glare. “Sorry,” he said with an apologetic grimace. “I wanted to tell you there was no need to run, but you were too quick for me. You just took off—”

“Like a bat out of hell.” She finished for him. She shook her head, laughing at herself. “I just hate to be late.”

“I always thought that was a virtue,” he said, handing his jacket to the flight attendant and stacking his hand baggage in the locker. “Anyhow, I’m the one
who should be apologizing for delaying your flight. Especially now I know how much you hate to be late. Still, you don’t have to worry, the tailwinds tonight will have us there on time.”

He was smiling down at her, and she thought with a surge of interest that he really was attractive: tall and lean, with an angular face and light blue eyes behind gold-rimmed Armani eyeglasses. He had an easy, rangy body and thick, smooth dark blond hair, and he looked like a man very much at ease with himself. She wondered curiously what he did.

“How did you know that? About the tailwinds tonight?” she asked.

“I usually like to fly myself on these trips,” he said with a deprecating little shrug of his shoulders. “Unfortunately tonight we had a spot of trouble in the electrical system at the last minute. And I have to be in Paris by tomorrow morning. So that’s why I’m on this flight and why you were delayed.” He laughed, a deep attractive sound as he said, “My apologies again,” and went forward to take his seat as the plane began to taxi toward the runway.

Fatigue swept her curiosity about him away. She refused the meal, turned out her light, and closed her eyes, hoping for sleep, but she only managed a fretful doze. The flight was annoyingly bumpy, and the seat belt signs remained lit. She drank cups of hot tea and took Advil to sooth her pounding head and checked the time once more. They were five hours into the long flight, and an eternity of turbulent plane ride stretched in front of her.

She stood up to retrieve her black work bag from the overhead bin and noticed that her fellow passenger’s light was on. Peering closer, she saw he was writing busily in a yellow legal pad. He was, she thought mockingly, a real little bundle of energy, making the most of every moment. Just the way she always told herself she should.

She took out the paper she had prepared for the conference and began to go through it once again. Dawn was breaking when she next glanced up, and orange juice and breakfast were being served. Thank God, she thought, putting away her papers, they were almost there.

Paris was obscured beneath a bank of carbon gray cloud when at last the plane began its descent. Phyl nodded good-bye to her handsome fellow passenger as she moved up the aisle. He was still gathering his papers together, and she thought he really was a cool customer. He acted as though the world would wait for him.

And maybe it would, she thought, surveying the usual chaos of Charles de Gaulle Airport. She had to wait ages for her bags, and by then all the taxis had disappeared and she was left alone on the sidewalk, staring at the bouncing rain.

Her knees trembled with tension and exhaustion as she glared at a waiting chauffeur-driven dark blue Bentley.

“Looks as though it’s not your lucky day,” an amused voice said, and she turned and looked into the laughing eyes of her handsome neighbor.

“It’s my own fault. I should have had a car meet me.” She shrugged. “I guess there’ll be a taxi before too long.”

“In Paris? In the rain?” He grinned. “No chance. But I’d be glad to offer you a lift.”

She glanced at him and then at the enormous Bentley. “That yours?” she asked, nodding in its direction.

“It’s a company car. My personal tastes run to more racy lines.”

She laughed. “It looks wonderful to me right now. But I wouldn’t want to take you out of your way. I’m at the Raphaël.”

“The Raphaël first, please, Adams,” he told the English driver. “Then home.”

Phyl stepped into the car and sank gratefully back into its luxurious leather cushions. She looked across at him, smiling. There seemed to be about an acre of seat between them, but she was as aware of his masculine presence as though he were touching her.
It must be Paris
, she thought, amused.

“You look tired,” he said sympathetically, and she groaned.

“You mean I look like a wreck. I certainly feel it. All I want right this minute is a hot bath, a cool drink, and a soft bed.” Their eyes met as the car slid smoothly through the traffic. “Perhaps we should introduce ourselves,” she said, holding her hand across the great divide between them. “I’m Phyl Forster.”

“Brad Kane.”

His hand was hard and unexpectedly cold. “I’m in Paris for a conference,” she added. “Psychiatry.”

“Of course. Dr. Phyl. Forgive me, I should have recognized you.”

“Not necessarily. Besides, the way I feel now I’m sure I don’t resemble the photo on the book jacket.” She laughed, even though weariness was overtaking her. She liked her handsome good Samaritan.

The telephone rang and she closed her eyes as he answered it and had a quick conversation in French. “Please excuse me,” he said to her, “but there are some important calls I must make.”

She lay back, half dozing, listening to the soothing murmur of his voice in the background, wondering vaguely who he was, and what he did, and if it was a woman he was talking to in that soft, sexy French voice. Still, thinking longingly of the bed waiting for her, she was glad when they finally arrived at the hotel.

He took her arm as she stepped from the car and apologized again for having been on the phone. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been there to rescue me from the rain,” she said, smiling tiredly.

He held her gaze for a long moment. Then he took a card with his address and phone number from his pocket and gave it to her. “Call me, busy lady,” he said lightly, “if you have a moment to spare in Paris.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips, and then, with a quick wave and a smile, he climbed into the big car and was gone.

Like a man I met in a dream
, she thought a short while later, sinking into a hot bath. The Raphaël was one of those smaller Paris hotels that pride themselves on luxury, service, and discretion. The water was hot, the soap smelled delicious, the Evian was iced, and the bed enveloped her in soft pillows, crisp sheets, and cozy blankets. She was asleep within minutes.

She awoke six hours later in a jet-lagged confusion of time and place, staring in puzzlement at the darkened room. Then it came back to her: She was in Paris.

The bedside clock said 6:30
P.M.
She walked to the window and pulled back the curtains. The gray buildings across the street looked even grayer, and the sidewalks glistened. She sighed, watching the traffic surging past. It was her first night in Paris. She was alone, and it was raining.

She took a quick shower and put on her face and a little black dress. Then she added a splash of her favorite perfume and headed downstairs.

In the bar she ordered a glass of red wine, a Brouilly, and nibbled moodily on tart little green olives, thinking of the long evening ahead of her. A quick survey showed almost everyone in couples, and those still alone were obviously waiting for someone. Loneliness overwhelmed her, as gray and bleak as the clouds over Paris. She felt lost without her familiar busy routine when there was no time for such self-indulgences as “loneliness.” For the first time in years she was not happy with her own company.

She crossed her long legs, trying to look nonchalantly as though she too were waiting for a friend. She
was in the most beautiful city in the world, the bastion of great food, the citadel of culture, the haven of lovers. And she was alone.

The waiter brought her wine, properly lightly chilled, and she sipped it, thinking of the card tucked temptingly inside her purse with Brad Kane’s telephone number and address. She told herself that, of course, she couldn’t call him. He would surely be busy. A man like that must have a dozen girlfriends or probably just one special one. Anyway, she was sure he wasn’t just sitting alone in his apartment contemplating a solitary dinner, the way she was.

She watched wistfully as the bar gradually filled up and people greeted one another with kisses on both cheeks, feeling even lonelier as she listened to the cheerful multilingual chatter. In desperation she fished the card from her purse and studied it.

Of course she couldn’t call him. She put the card on the little table in front of her and stared at it. Then she stood up quickly, smoothed her skirt, and, before she could change her mind, hurried off in search of a phone.

She listened to it ring with the funny beeping sound of French phones, biting her lip, nervous as a schoolgirl hoping for a first date. She tapped the card impatiently on the marble counter. After ten rings, half exasperated, half relieved, she was about to replace the receiver when suddenly he answered.

“Mr. Kane?” she exclaimed.
Fool
, she groaned, blushing,
of course, it’s him.

“Who is this?”

Brad Kane’s tone was cool, distant, as though he had other things on his mind. Or as though someone else were in the room.

“It’s Phyl Forster.” There was a long pause, and she bit her lip nervously. “We met on the plane.” She knew she was stupid to have started this, but now she had to go through with it.

The pause seemed endless. At last he said, with a hint of a smile creeping into his voice, “It’s very kind of you to call me. I didn’t think you would.”

“You didn’t?” she said doubtfully. And with a surge of anger at herself: “Then why go to the trouble of giving me your card and asking me to telephone you?”

“Call me an optimist,” he retorted, laughing. “Besides, I liked you. I thought you were beautiful and smart, and I wanted to see you again. Make that
want
to see you. If I apologize, would you consider having dinner with me tonight? Unless you have a business function, of course,” he added smoothly, giving her an out if she wanted one.

Phyl smiled, suddenly elated. “Well,” she said, playing the game, “I really should be meeting a colleague…. But it’s my first night in Paris, and it’s raining. Yes. I would like to have dinner with you.”

“Great. Terrific. You want to go somewhere grand? Or real bistro French? The choice is yours.”

“Oh, I’d love a real French bistro.”

“There’s a place right around the corner from me. It’s a favorite of mine, and I think you’ll enjoy it. I could pick you up at, say, eight-thirty.”

She glanced at her watch. “The traffic is hell. Why don’t I just get a taxi and meet you there?”

“In that case, why not come to my place first for a drink? You have the address?”

She nodded, smiling, relieved. “Yes.”

“At eight-thirty then, Dr. Phyl Forster.” He laughed. “And remind me to ask if the Phyl is for Phyllis? Or Philomena? Or Philodendron? Or philosophy …”

Or fool
, she said to herself, smiling as she put down the receiver.

16

T
he traffic on the Champs-Élysées was backed up, and it was every man for himself. The cabdriver fluently cursed the weather, the other drivers, his fellowmen, and the French traffic laws as he edged a wheel onto the sidewalk, then sped past a dozen other trapped, horn-honking drivers. He made a quick right down a side street and a series of rapid zigzags and emerged onto the equally blocked Avenue McMahon. He surveyed the scene and shrugged resignedly.

“This will take at least twenty minutes. It’s better if you walk.”