A Perfect Stranger (3 page)

I'll do that. And think about it. I can always throw something together when you're in New York.

With any luck at all you'll be in Washington and too busy to see me.

Could be. When are you coming East?

Probably in a couple of weeks. I've got a client to see in New York. I'm cocounsel for him on a fairly big case out here.

I'm impressed.

Are you? His eyes narrowed as he glanced out at the view. Why? Will it sound good in your campaign material? I think Mother's readers will get you more votes than I will, don't you? There was a touch of irony in his voice. Unless of course I have the good sense to remarry Rachel.

Just don't get into any trouble.

Have I ever? He sounded amused.

No, but if I run for the Senate, it'll be a tight race. I'm running against that morality maniac, and if anyone even remotely related to me does something unsavory, I'll be up shit creek.

Be sure you tell Mother. He said it in jest but she responded immediately with a serious voice.

I already have.

Are you kidding? He laughed at the very thought of his elegant, long-legged, couture-clad, white-haired mother doing anything unsuitable that might jeopardize Kay's bid for a seat in the Senate, or anywhere else.

I am not kidding, I mean it. I can't afford any problems right now. No nonsense, no scandal.

What a shame.

What does that mean?

I don't know ' I was thinking of having an affair with this ex-hooker who just got out of jail.

Very funny. I'm serious.

Unfortunately I think you are. Anyway, you can give me my list of instructions when I come to New York. I'll try to behave myself until then.

Do that, and let me know when you're going to be here.

Why? So you can arrange a blind date with Rachel? I'm afraid, Congresswoman Willard, that even for the sake of your career I wouldn't do that.

You're a fool.

Maybe so. But he didn't think so anymore. He didn't think so at all, and after the phone call with Kay ended, he found himself staring out the window and thinking not of Rachel, but of the woman he had seen on the steps. With his eyes closed, he could still see her, the perfectly carved profile, the huge eyes, and the delicate mouth. He had never seen a woman so beautiful or so haunting. And he sat there at his desk, with his eyes closed, thinking of her, and then with a sigh, he shook his head and opened his eyes again and stood up. It was ridiculous to be dreaming of a total stranger. And then feeling foolish, he laughed softly and brushed her from his mind. There was no point falling in love with a perfect stranger. But he found, as he went downstairs to make something for dinner, that he had to remind himself of that again and again.

Sunlight flooded into the room and shimmered on the beige silk bedspread and identically upholstered chairs. It was a large handsome room with long French windows that looked out over the bay. From the boudoir, which adjoined the bedroom, one could see the Golden Gate Bridge. There was a white marble fireplace in each room, and there were carefully selected French paintings, and a priceless Chinese vase stood in a corner in a Louis XV inlaid vitrine. In front of the windows was a handsome Louis XV desk, which would have dwarfed any room except this one. It was beautiful and enormous and sterile and cold. Next to the boudoir, there was also a small wood-paneled room filled with books in English and Spanish and French. The books were the soul of her existence, and it was here that Raphaella stood quietly for a moment looking out at the bay. It was nine o'clock in the morning and she was wearing a perfectly sculptured black suit molded to her form, showing off her graceful perfection subtly yet with immense style. The suit had been made for her in Paris, like most of her clothes, except those she bought in Spain. She rarely bought clothes in San Francisco. She almost never went out. In San Francisco she was an invisible person, a name people rarely mentioned and never saw. For most of them it would have been difficult to associate a face with the name of Mrs. John Henry Phillips, and certainly not this face. It would have been difficult to imagine this perfect snow-white beauty with the huge black eyes. When she had married John Henry, one reporter had written that she looked like a fairy-tale princess, and had then gone on to explain that in many ways she was. But the eyes that gazed out at the bay on an October morning were not those of a fairy-tale princess, they were those of a very lonely young woman, locked in a very lonely world.

Your breakfast is ready, Mrs. Phillips. A maid in a crisp white uniform stood in the doorway, her announcement more like a command, Raphaella thought, but she always felt that way about John Henry's servants. She had felt that way, too, in her father's house in Paris and her grandfather's house in Spain. It always seemed to her that it was the servants who gave the orders, when to get up, when to get ready, when to eat lunch, when to eat dinner. Madam is served announced dinner in her father's house in Paris. But what if Madam didn't want to be served? What if Madam only wanted a sandwich, sitting on the floor in front of the fire? Or a dish of ice cream for breakfast instead of toast and poached eggs? The very idea made her smile as she walked back to her bedroom and looked around. Everything was ready. Her bags were stacked neatly in the corner they were all glove soft in a chocolate-colored suede and there was a large tote bag in which Raphaella could carry some gifts for her mother and aunt and cousins, her jewelry, and something to read on the plane.

As she looked at her luggage she felt no thrill of pleasure to be going on a trip. She almost never felt a thrill of pleasure anymore. There was none left in her life. There was an endless strip of highway, heading toward a destination both unseen and unknown, and about which Raphaella no longer cared. She knew that each day would be just like the day before. Each day she would do exactly what she had for almost seven years, except for the four weeks in the summer when she went to Spain, and the few days before that when she went to Paris to see her father. And there were occasional trips to join her Spanish relatives for a few days in New York. It seemed years now since she had last been there, since she had left Europe, since she had become John Henry's wife. It was all so different now than it had been at first.

It had all happened like a fairy tale. Or a merger. There was a little bit of both in the tale. The marriage of the Banque Malle in Paris, Milan, Madrid, and Barcelona to the Phillips Bank of California and New York. Both empires consisted of investment banks of major international proportions. And her father's first gargantuan business deal with John Henry had won them, jointly, the cover of Time. It was also what had brought her father and John Henry together so often that spring, and as their plans began to prosper, so had John Henry's suit with Antoine's only child.

Raphaella had never met anyone like John Henry. He was tall, handsome, impressive, powerful, yet gentle, kind, and soft spoken, with a constant glimmer of laughter in his eyes. There was mischief there too sometimes, and in time, Raphaella had learned how much he liked to tease and play. He was a man of extraordinary imagination and creativity, a man of great wit, a man of great eloquence, great style. He had everything that she or any other girl could ever want.

The only thing that John Henry Phillips had lacked was youth. And in the beginning even that was difficult to believe as one looked into the lean, handsome face or watched the powerful arms when he played tennis or swam. He had a long, beautiful body that men half his age would have envied.

His age had, at first, discouraged him from pursuing Raphaella, yet as time went on, and the frequency of his trips to Paris increased, he found her more charming, more open, more delightful on each occasion. And despite the rigidity of his ideas about his daughter, Antoine de Mornay-Malle did not resist the prospect of seeing his old friend marry his only child. He himself was aware of his daughter's beauty, her gentleness and openness, and her innocent charm. And he was also aware of what a rare catch John Henry Phillips would be for any woman, despite the difference of years. He was also not blind to what it would mean to the future of his bank, a consideration that had weighed with him at least once before. His own marriage had been based on affection, and good business sense as well.

The aging Marquis de Quadral, his wife's father, had been the reigning financial genius of Madrid, but his sons had not inherited his passion for the world of finance and had, for the most part, gone into other fields. For years the elderly marquis had had an eye out for someone to succeed him in the banks he had founded over the years. What happened instead was that he met Antoine, and eventually, after a great deal of fancy footwork, the Banque Malle joined forces on numerous deals with the Banco Quadral. The union rapidly quadrupled Antoine's power and fortune, delighted the marquis, and brought along with it the marquis's daughter, Alejandra, Marquesa de Santos y Quadral. Antoine had been instantly taken with the flaxen-haired, blue-eyed Spanish beauty, and at the time he had been thinking for a while that it was time he married and produced an heir. At thirty-five he had been too busy building his family's banking business into an empire, but now other considerations had begun to weigh with him as well. Alejandra was the perfect solution to the problem, and a very handsome solution at that. At nineteen she was a startling beauty, with the most devastatingly exquisite face Antoine had ever seen. It was he who looked like the Spaniard beside her, with his black hair and dark eyes. And together they made an extraordinary pair.

Seven months after they met, their wedding was the main event of the social season, after which they honeymooned for a month in the South of France. Immediately thereafter they dutifully appeared at the marquis's country estate, Santa Eugenia, on the Coast of Spain. The estate was palatial, and it was here that Antoine began to understand what marriage to Alejandra would mean. He was a member of the family now, yet another son of the elderly marquis. He was expected to make frequent appearances at Santa Eugenia, and come as often as possible to Madrid. It was certainly what Alejandra planned to do, and when it was time to return to Paris, she implored her husband to let her stay at Santa Eugenia for a few more weeks. And when at last she returned to him in Paris, six weeks later than she had promised, Antoine fully understood what was going to happen after that. Alejandra was going to spend most of her time as she always had, surrounded by her family, on their estates in Spain. She had spent all of the war years sequestered there and now, even after the war, and married, she wanted to continue to live in those familiar surroundings.

Predictably, on their first anniversary, Alejandra gave birth to their first child, a son named Julien, and Antoine was well pleased. He had an heir for his own empire now, and he and the marquis strolled quietly for hours on the grounds of Santa Eugenia when the child was a month old, discussing all of Antoine's future plans for the banks and his son. He had his father-in-law's full endorsement, and in the year since he had married Alejandra, both the Banque Malle and the Banco Quadral had grown.

Alejandra remained at Santa Eugenia for the summer with her brothers and sisters, their children, cousins, nieces, and friends. And when Antoine returned to Paris, Alejandra had already conceived again. This time Alejandra suffered a miscarriage, and the next time she delivered twins, born prematurely and dead at birth. There was then a brief hiatus when she spent six months resting, with her family, in Madrid. When she returned to Paris to her husband, she conceived yet again. This fourth pregnancy yielded Raphaella, two years younger than Julien. There were then two more miscarriages and another stillbirth, after which the ravishingly beautiful Alejandra announced that it was the climate in Paris that did not agree with her and that her sisters felt she would be healthier in Spain. Having seen her inevitable return to Spain coming throughout their marriage, Antoine quietly acquiesced. It was the way of women of her country, and it was a battle that he never could have won.

From then on he was content to see her at Santa Eugenia, or in Madrid, surrounded by female cousins, sisters, and duennas, perfectly content to be always in the company of her relatives, assorted women friends, and a handful of their unmarried brothers, who squired them to concerts, operas, and plays. Alejandra was still one of Spain's great beauties, and in Spain she led an exceedingly pleasant life of indolence and opulence, with which she was well pleased. It was no great problem for Antoine to fly back and forth to Spain, when he could get away from the bank, which he did less and less. In time he induced her to let the children come back to Paris to attend school, on the condition of course that they flew to Santa Eugenia for every possible vacation and for four months in the summer. And now and then she consented to visit him in Paris, despite what she constantly referred to as the detrimental effects of the French weather on her health. After the last stillbirth there were no more babies, in fact after that there was only a platonic affection between Alejandra and her husband, which she knew from her sisters was perfectly normal.

Antoine was perfectly content to leave things as they were, and when the marquis died, the marriage paid off. No one was surprised at the arrangement. Alejandra and Antoine had jointly inherited the Banco Quadral. Her brothers were amply compensated, but to Antoine went the empire he so desperately wanted to add to his own. Now it was of his son that he thought as he continued to build it, but Antoine's only son was not destined to be his heir. At sixteen Julien de Mornay-Malle died in an accident, in Buenos Aires, playing polo, leaving his mother stunned, his father bereft, and Raphaella Antoine's only child.

And it was Raphaella who consoled her father, who flew with him to Buenos Aires to bring the boy's body back to France. It was she who held her father's hand during those endless hours and as they watched the casket being lowered solemnly onto the runway at Orly. Alejandra flew back to Paris separately, surrounded by sisters, cousins, one of her brothers, and several close friends, but always surrounded, protected, as she had lived her entire life. And hours after the funeral they urged her to go back to Spain with them, and acquiescing tearfully, she allowed them to take her away. Alejandra had a veritable army to protect her, and Antoine had no one, only a fourteen-year-old child.