Dare to Love (52 page)

“Get your hands off me!”

“Easy, Elena. Easy. Ouch!”

“Let go of me!”

“Still a wildcat, I see. Still full of spirit.”

“I said let go!”

“Can't, luv. Afraid to.”

I kicked his shin and pounded on his chest with my fists. As he tried to restrain me, grinning broadly, I saw that he was enjoying himself immensely, and that merely spurred me on. I fought viciously. Anthony chuckled and finally managed to get his arms around my waist, holding me in a tight grip with my arms trapped at my sides. I struggled for several more minutes, and then, energy spent, I finally stopped resisting. Cautiously, he loosened his grip, afraid to let go entirely.

“Feel better now?” he asked.

“I detest you, Anthony.”

“I seriously doubt that, luv.”

His arms held me loosely, ready to tighten again at the least sign of struggle. I could feel his strength, the power in his tall, hard body. I could smell his skin, his hair, the tangy shaving lotion he still used. I remembered other times, other fights and the rowdy, passionate reconciliations that invariably followed. I tried to put those rousing bouts out of my mind, but the memories were too strong. Anthony Duke was a rogue through and through, but he had been a magnificent lover.

He seemed to be reading my mind.

“Missed me?” he inquired.

“The day you walked out on me was the happiest day of my life.”

“The saddest day in mine, luv. I didn't want to do it, you know. I hated myself for losing all your money to those swindlers with their phony bonds. I couldn't face you, couldn't bear to tell you what happened.”

“So you skipped.”

“I left a letter,” he protested. “Surely you got it?”

“I got it.”

“Hardest letter I ever had to write.”

“I'm sure.”

“You did all right for yourself.”

“Indeed I did. I proved to myself I didn't need you.”

“You need me, Elena. You still need me. I've got plans.”

“Let go of me, Anthony.”

“I've got big plans. We're going to—”

There was a knock on the door. Anthony hesitated a moment and then released me. He frowned and glanced at the door. There was another knock and another, much louder. Sighing, he looked at me with indecision but still reluctant to open the door. I gazed at him coolly. Finally, he shrugged and stepped over to open the door. The girl was blonde and voluptuous, a gaudy coquette with a friendly smile and far too much makeup. Anthony said something I couldn't hear, and the girl peered over his shoulder. When she saw me she bristled and opened her mouth to protest, but he quickly gagged her with his hand and shoved her out onto the landing, closing the door behind them. I heard shrill, angry cries and then the sound of high heels clattering down the stairs. Anthony wore a sheepish grin as he came back in.

“Sorry, luv. Business.”

“One of your protégées, no doubt. You shouldn't have sent her away. I'm leaving.”

He pretended to look crestfallen. “Leaving?”

“You haven't changed a bit!” I snapped. “You're still the most outrageous, the—the most infuriating man I've had the misfortune to meet!”

“You still care. I knew it.”

“Get out of my way!”

“You're really leaving? So soon? I thought we might have lunch together and then have a real reunion. Hey, wait a minute! Let me get my vest and jacket. I'll take you home.”

“No, thank you!”

“Hold on! You don't know the neighborhood. There're never any cabs. You'll get lost. Can't have you wandering about the streets in an outfit like that.”

I started toward the door, but he grabbed my wrist and yanked me back and down into a chair. When I tried to get up he raised his hand back as though to slap me, a gesture that was only half playful. I didn't want another fight, so I sat there resigned and maintained an icy, aloof silence while he scrambled into his dark blue vest and blue-and-gray checked jacket. His manner was jaunty as he stepped to the badly cracked mirror to adjust his gray silk neckcloth.

“There!” he announced. “Dashing as ever.”

I continued my silence as we went downstairs and outside, but Anthony was not at all perturbed. His old charm was working full force, and I was furious with myself for letting it get to me. He was so damnably engaging. It was impossible to stay angry with him, impossible not to forgive him. I wasn't going to do anything about the spurious autobiography. I knew that already. He clearly needed the money. His suit was beginning to look threadbare, and I suspected it was the best he owned. The garret apartment was frightful, probably freezing cold in winter.

Damn him, I thought ruefully. I came here intending to inflict mortal wounds, and now I'm actually beginning to feel sorry for him.

“We'll have to walk a spell,” he said chattily. “There's sure to be a cab down near the river. Lovely weather, isn't it? You really look sensational, Elena. The past three years have been good to you. Glad you came to see me. Would you believe I was planning to call on you any day now? I have a terrific proposition—”

“I'm not interested in any of your propositions.”

“America, luv. I spent two years in America after you and I separated, and the country's fabulous—rough and rowdy and exuberant and wealthy beyond your wildest imagination. There are towns out West you wouldn't believe—endless plains with real live Indians—I saw 'em with my own eyes. And California! They've discovered gold out there, you know. It's the most incredible spot on earth, and they're starving for entertainment—”

“Here's the river. I don't see a cab.”

“I made connections while I was over there, Elena. I was in charge of a theatrical troupe. We traveled all over. I met a lot of people, and all of them asked me about you. You're famous over there, too, and when the book comes out—”

“I told you I'm not interested.”

“I've already started making arrangements,” he continued. “When you hear what I've got in mind you'll jump at the chance.”

“You don't give up, do you?”

“We'll make a bloody fortune,” he assured me.

“Dream on,” I said dryly.

“Oh, I know you're put out with me,” he admitted, “but you're not one to hold a grudge. It's going to be you and me, luv, just like it used to be.”

I gave him a look. He ignored it, thrusting his hands into his pockets and sauntering along as though he owned the world. We passed a weathered gray bookstall heaped with yellowing pamphlets and tattered prints and hundreds of used books. Students browsed leisurely, searching for treasures. A young man in splattered blue smock sat at his easel, painting one of the arching stone bridges, and two weary prostitutes strolled by, their make-up and garish attire somehow pathetic in the bright daylight. Spotting a cab in the distance, I stepped to the edge of the pavement and waved.

“We need to get together,” Anthony said. “We need to talk.”

“I don't think so.”

“Don't be that way, luv.”

“We have nothing to discuss, Anthony.”

“I've never been able to forgive myself for what I did to you. I want to make amends. I mean that. I want to—”

The cab pulled over. The driver tipped his hat, and I opened the door and climbed inside. Anthony, looking genuinely worried, reminded me of a forlorn little boy whose sand castles were about to be destroyed. The old feelings rose up inside me, and there was a moment of dangerous weakness as I looked into his eyes. He stood there in front of the bookstall in his near-threadbare suit, valiantly striving to maintain an air of confidence, and my heart went out to him. It took great effort to resist the impulse to reach out to him.

“Be reasonable, luv,” he pleaded.

Giving the driver instructions, I closed the door of the cab and said, “Goodbye, Anthony.”

He looked crestfallen. As the cab drove back through the city I was filled with remorse. I thought about the past, reminding myself of Anthony's bullying manner, his outbursts of temper, the infuriating way he had taken me for granted. But as I listed all his faults, I kept remembering his faith in me, his engaging grin, his enthusiasm and high spirits and that incredible charm. In some ways those days when we were together seemed to be the happiest days of my life.

I steeled myself against the memories, and by the time the cab finally stopped in front of the house I had them under control and was irritated at myself for being so vulnerable where Anthony Duke was concerned. Millie was waiting for me inside, wearing a deeply concerned expression in place of the lively curiosity I expected.

“You needn't look so grave,” I said wryly. “It was Anthony, of course. I got his address from the publisher. I threw a few things, but there was no actual bloodshed. He hasn't changed at all! He had the temerity to suggest a tour of America. Can you believe it? He spent two years over there and—”

I cut myself short. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. I could sense it. Millie wasn't herself at all, and she hadn't paid the least bit of attention to what I was saying.

“What is it?” I asked.

“A messenger came while you were gone, Elena. He—he brought a letter from Touraine, from—Phillipe's father. I didn't open it, of course, but the messenger was a Du Gard servant and he told me—”

She took both my hands in hers and squeezed them tightly.

“There—there's been an accident.… Phillipe went out with his shotgun to hunt rabbits and apparently he tripped over a log and—I'm sure the letter will provide all the—”

I heard the words, but none of them registered because none of it was real.

“It was an accident.… One of those crazy freak accidents—”

Millie's voice seemed to grow fainter and fainter and then I saw her lips moving but there was no sound, only the buzzing noise inside my head. We were in the sitting room and it began to revolve and colors blurred together, the blue sofa a smear of blue, the violet drapes shimmering violet that melted into the ivory walls, blurring, the room spinning now.

“No,” I whispered. “No—”

Millie took hold of my arms, gripping them tightly, and gradually the room stopped spinning and the colors grew still, took shape and texture and became sofa, drapes, wall, but a terrible hollow feeling inside of me seemed to expand, emptying me of all thought, all emotion, annihilating me. I looked at Millie and I could no longer see her.

“It—it happened three days ago,” she said. Her voice seemed to come from out of a void. “His father wanted you to know. He knew how much Phillipe loved you and—”

“He isn't dead. He isn't. It's not true.”

“Elena—”

“It's not true.”

She gripped my arms, holding me firmly. “Elena, you've got to be strong—”

XXXVIII

Paris had tost all its charm for me. The majestic old buildings, the elegant parks, the gardens, the festive cafes—all of them reminded me of Phillipe. As long as I remained the grief and the guilt would be constant. It was three weeks since I had received Monsieur Du Gard's letter, but the feeling of emptiness was as strong as it had been when Millie first broke the news. I had gone through day after day in a kind of trance, and Millie had stayed by me constantly, fending off the journalists, screening my callers, being as protective as a-feisty mother hen.

I had seen no one but George and Theophile Gautier and my three young cavaliers who had come to call to express their sympathy quietly, their manner touchingly subdued. Today was the first day I had dared venture out alone. Ever since they had learned of Phillipe's death, the journalists had been like a pack of bloodhounds. Millie literally had to fight them away from the door, and dozens of them had camped out in front of the house, hoping to get an interview. They had managed to get to Phillipe's father, and even though he had insisted that his son's death was an accident, it hadn't stopped them from printing wildly sensational stories of his suicide.

Young Du Gard was an expert with guns, the stories claimed, who had been going out into the woods to hunt ever since he was ten years old. But crushed by Elena Lopez' refusal to become his wife, unable to endure life any longer without the woman he loved, he had fetched his shotgun, bid his father farewell and wandered off into the woods to die. He had made his death seem “accidental” to spare pain to those he loved, they wrote. The stories were extremely convincing, and there were dark moments when I believed them myself.

I walked slowly through the park. Millie had wanted to come with me, still worried about the state I was in, but I had insisted she stay home. I had a lot of thinking to do.

I wanted to believe Phillipe's death had been an accident, but grave doubts assailed me. I kept remembering that final goodbye, that final smile, and deep inside I realized that suicide was a very real possibility. Phillipe had been so very sensitive, and he had been very unhappy. Always considerate of others, he would have left no note, and he would indeed have made his death look like an accident. Suicide or not, I knew in my heart that if I had agreed to marry him he would still be alive. He would still be smiling that boyish smile, radiating youth and innocence and goodness.

I paused beside one of the plane trees, and the lawn stretching before me became a hazy jade green blur. I hadn't intended to cry, but the tears came of their own accord, spilling down my cheeks in tiny streams. I let them flow, giving way to my grief this one last time. I allowed myself to think of him as he had been when I first knew him, and for several minutes the pain was almost unbearable. It swept over me in waves, but time passed and finally I drew myself up, wiped the tears away and took control.

I had to make some kind of plans for my own future. I could always take another engagement. The theatrical managers had been almost as persistent as the journalists during those empty weeks. The new “scandal” made Elena Lopez an even greater attraction, and I knew I could name my price. I didn't relish the idea. I was weary of glamorous engagements and plush surroundings and sophisticated friends and newspaper headlines and all that went with it. I wanted something new and different, something fresh and exciting, something that would present a challenge. I wouldn't find it in Paris. I doubted that I-would find it anywhere in Europe.