To Be the Best (36 page)

Maddy laughed with him. He always managed to assuage her worries, to lift her spirits.

He jumped up, took her hand in his, pulled her to her feet. ‘Come on, love. Let’s go inside. I want to make some phone calls.’

‘To whom, darling?’

‘The family, of course.’

‘All right.’

They walked along the terrace towards the French doors, their arms wrapped around each other.

Abruptly, Madelana stopped, turned to Philip.

‘Once I’ve seen the gynaecologist in London, and we’ve spent a few days in Yorkshire with your mother, as we promised, I’d like to go home, Philip…home to Australia. Home to Dunoon.’

He hugged her to him, loving her more than ever for saying this. ‘Yes, my darling, we’ll go home,’ he said, ‘and make ready for our first child…’

Half an hour later he was still on the phone in the library.

He had spoken first to Daisy and Jason in Yorkshire, then to Paula at the store in London, passing along the news about her pregnancy. And each time he had brought her to the phone to have a word.

There had been many congratulations, and lots of love sent, and Daisy, in particular, had been ecstatic, knowing she was to become a grandmother again.

Now Philip was talking to his cousin Anthony at Clonloughlin in Ireland.

She had not anticipated this, had not expected him to shout their news to the world in this way. Philip was such a private man when it came to his personal life, and after all, he had insisted on a secret engagement and marriage. Maddy knew then, with a sudden flash of insight, why he had excluded his family from their wedding. It had been for her, to save her from undue heartache, to balance the situation. He had a vast family; every member of hers was dead.

How painful her wedding day might have been…Philip would have been surrounded by his loved ones, she would have been alone, with no one from her side to witness that very special and important day in her life. And she would have longed for her parents and little Kerry Anne, for Young Joe and Lonnie.

Philip had understood all this. Of course he had. Everything was suddenly very clear to her.

Madelana curled up on the big, comfortable sofa, listening to him speaking, watching him, thinking what an extraordinary man he was. Shrewd, brilliant, tough in business, yet so sensitive and loving when it came to his feelings for her.

She blinked, sat back, held her head on one side, trying to visualize him objectively for a split second. What a handsome man he was. It was his colouring that so startled her at times – the dark glossy hair, the black moustache, the tanned face, the eyes so supernaturally blue. He seemed larger than life.
And he was so wonderfully alive and vital; he positively glowed with well being at this moment.

He must always be like this, the way he is today, she thought. Full of laughter and life and joyousness. And I must never be the one to cause him pain.

There was no question in Arabella’s mind that Sarah considered her to be a usurper of sorts.

No, that’s too strong a word, she thought, impatiently throwing down the magazine she had been reading, unable to concentrate. I’m the…
interloper.
Yes, that’s the right word. Until I strolled into his life Sarah had him all to herself whenever he came to Europe. The woman enjoys being the centre of attraction. That was only too apparent at lunch today.

Arabella rose, glided across the sitting room of the guest suite of the farmhouse in Mougins, stood looking out of the window for a moment.

It had been a glorious day, but now dusk was falling, and the gardens below were bosky, mysterious, almost eerie in the dimming light. A faint, vaporous mist shrouded everything in a mantle of grey and opal tints, and the trees in the apple orchard beyond the white fence were inchoate, illusory.

She shivered, filling with melancholy, feeling unexpectedly sad. She shrugged these feelings away before they took hold. She had no reasons to be sad. She had everything. Arabella smiled a small, secret smile. Well, not
everything.
But she was getting there.

Swinging around, she returned to the fireside, settled herself on the sofa once more, enjoying the warmth and cheerfulness of the blazing logs. She liked a fire. There was something comforting about it…perhaps because it reminded her of her childhood in Hampshire, the big old house where she had grown up.

After a few moments’ reflection and several adjustments to
her plans for the next few weeks, she glanced around for the umpteenth time since they had arrived that morning, admiring the room again.

Here, and in the adjoining bedroom, ancient, dark wood ceiling beams, white, half-timbered walls and old brick fireplaces had been left intact. In combination with the slightly slanting ceiling, they gave this top floor under the eaves a cosiness, and character. Thick wool carpet stretched wall to wall, and its
café-au-lait
beige was the perfect backdrop for the lovely English chintzes on the huge sofa and the chairs, the French Provençal country furniture made of ripe woods polished to a mellow gleam. The same coffee-coloured carpet flowed through into the bedroom, where fine Porthault linens dressed the bed, upholstered the antique headboard and hung as curtains at the mullioned windows.

The suite was as fresh as a flower garden, overflowing with diverse floral patterns that somehow blended well together, and it was infinitely comfortable. A fortune had been spent on the entire farmhouse, and all of the rooms had been put together with taste, discernment and an eye to colour and design.

Whatever else Sarah Lowther Pascal might be, she is certainly a clever homemaker, Arabella decided. She had done wonders with the sprawling old farm perched on a hillside high above Cannes, had decorated it with flair, given it undeniable cachet and charm. And in the grounds outside she had turned a series of decrepit old barns into one huge, superb studio for Yves, had covered the central section with a roof of glass to let in the maximum amount of light.

Yves Pascal’s paintings hung everywhere in the farm. They were bold, modern, not to Arabella’s taste at all, which ran to Old Masters and the traditional. But the artist was a powerhouse in the international art world, and his paintings were in great demand; apparently others liked his works, even if she did not. These days they were commanding huge prices.

On the other hand, she had really taken to the small, wiry Frenchman from the moment she had met him. He was a bit of a peacock, a strutter, an egocentric. But nonetheless, he was the possessor of an inordinate amount of Gallic charm. She did not quite understand his relationship with Sarah. They seemed to be poles apart. Yet he adored his wife and their child, Chloe; she had noticed that immediately.

Jonathan had told her that the little girl had his grandmother’s looks and colouring. He had not volunteered much about the legendary Emma Harte in the four months she had known him, but from a remark Sarah had made at lunch, she had gathered that the two of them were at loggerheads with their cousin, Paula O’Neill. After lunch, later that afternoon, she had asked Jonathan why there was a feud in the family, and he had muttered something about Paula turning their grandmother against them, persuading her to make certain changes in her will. He had seemed suddenly upset, even angry, and after murmuring a few sympathetic words, she had wisely let the matter drop. She had not wanted to underscore his unprecedented agitation. She had never seen him like that before.

Her thoughts centred on Jonathan.

She had been led to believe he would be difficult to ensnare. But this had not proved to be the case. He had immediately fallen for her, and heavily so, had courted her assiduously in Hong Kong. She had withheld herself in every way in the beginning. Then slowly she had opened up, both mentally and physically. She had let him see her intelligence, her inquiring mind, her knowledge about art and antiques, her sophistication; and she had tempted him with her body. Their fraternal good night kisses had led to deeper kissing, then petting and increasingly intimate touching, until she had finally succumbed to his potent sexuality, had allowed him to take her to bed.

All along she had never pretended to be a virgin, had let
him know there had been other men before him. But she had carefully pointed out that she was discriminating, not promiscuous, and wanted to be certain of her feelings, his feelings, before they embarked on an affair. He had applauded her candour, and had confided he was only interested in women who were as experienced and worldly-wise as he. And he had shown patience with her.

A knowing look slid into Arabella’s pitch-black eyes. She had expertise. She knew how to give him pleasure in countless ways…ways he had no comprehension of as yet. She did not want him to know just how experienced she was in the art of sex. She wanted him to become totally besotted with her, to fall truly in love with her first. Only then would she take him to heights he had never dreamed of, as only she knew how.

And so she continued to lead him along gently, and little by little it was all happening…every day he became more committed to her. There was a new warmth in him, and he could not get enough of her. In bed and out of it. He wanted her with him all the time.

Arabella looked down at the plain gold wedding band on the third finger of her left hand. It was gleaming brightly in the firelight. Jonathan had wanted to give her a circle of diamonds. She had asked for this plain, old-fashioned gold ring, telling him that it was more symbolic. He had been surprised, yet obviously touched, by her sentiments.

How thunderstruck Tony had been when Jonathan had married her so quickly in Hong Kong just before Christmas, then swept her off to Europe on their honeymoon. He had been startled to discover she was suddenly going to be out of reach for several months. Very put out, in actuality. And she had taken great satisfaction in being able to ruffle Tony’s infuriating equanimity for once.

Her new husband had wanted to take her to Paris. But there was so much of her past in that city, so much sadness to
be recalled, she was not excited about honeymooning there. Nor did she particularly want to take the chance of running into someone who had known her in the old days. She did not need to deal with friends long since departed from her life, nor confront memories gone stale and cold. And so she convinced Jonathan they would enjoy Rome more, had suggested they then go on to Mougins in the south of France, to visit his cousin Sarah, whom he had spoken about so warmly. This had delighted him, and he had readily agreed to her travel plans.

Rome had been fun. Since she knew the city like a native, she had been able to take him sightseeing, and to the choicest restaurants and clubs, which were well off the usual tourist track, patronized by local society and the international jet set.

And she had been very loving, sexually pliable, catering to his desires, more than ready to please him, and this had made him extremely happy.

It was in Rome that he had bought her yet another wedding gift, an extraordinary necklace which he had presented to her as a surprise on their last night in the Eternal City, before they had left for France. Composed of a single strand of large black pearls, it had a cream-coloured, teardrop pearl hanging from a ten-carat diamond in the centre of the strand.

Although she had some nice jewellery of her own, the black pearl necklace was not only rare but surpassed everything in her possession. Except, of course, for the huge Burmese ruby-and-diamond ring Jonathan had given her when they had become engaged.

The chimes of the little carriage clock brought Arabella out of her reverie. She glanced at it, surprised to see it was seven. Jonathan, who had gone to Cannes with Yves, had said he would be back by seven-thirty. She must be ready for him.

Rising, she hurried into the bedroom, took a sheer, black-chiffon nightgown trimmed with coffee-coloured lace out of
the armoire, then went into the bathroom to undress and freshen up.

A few minutes later, wearing the glamorous nightgown and a matching black chiffon peignoir that floated around her in a cloud, Arabella seated herself at the dressing table. She had worn her silver-gilt hair in a severe chignon all day; now she pulled out the pins and let it fall around her face and down her back. She brushed it until it gleamed.

Leaning forward, she peered at herself in the glass. Sometimes she was startled by her own beauty, by the lack of lines around her eyes and other tell-tale signs of ageing, by the suppleness of her skin, the flawlessness of her complexion. Life had left hardly any marks on her face, and nothing seemed to mar its youth and beauty. Even when she was ill with a cold, or some other minor complaint, she appeared to be in blooming health. How lucky she was. She looked much younger than her thirty-four years.

After scrubbing off her bright red lipstick with a tissue, she toned down her flushed face with creamy foundation and transparent powder until she was very pale, almost wan looking. She added extra eyeliner to her lids, emphasizing their natural almond shape. Smoothing on black shadow, she then highlighted the bones under the brows with touches of purple and silver, and instantly her eyes stood out like huge, dark coals in her face. Once she had blotted her lips, she smeared on colourless salve, and sprayed herself generously with the musky perfume Jonathan preferred. She then lifted the black pearl necklace out of its leather case and clasped it around her neck. Jonathan liked her to wear jewellery in bed. It was a fetish of his.

Hurrying now, she stepped over to the armoire, opened it, stared at herself in the full-length mirror, approving of her reflection. She looked so young, like a girl of sixteen, her face full of innocence – and promise. Yet in contrast, her body was the body of an alluring woman, shapely, sensual, and provocative in the revealing nightgown.

The black chiffon was taut across her breasts. Her nipples and their dark aureoles were faintly visible through the filmy chiffon and lace. She had had the nightgown made in Hong Kong, and the seamstress had cut it to fit her body perfectly; it clung to her in all the right places. And in the most tantalizing way, she decided.