Desperate Measures (14 page)

I'm glad, she thought savagely. I hope everyone laughs at him.

She took one last look at the picture, then turned away. She had

to get dressed. She had plans to make.

Zak raised his eyebrows when she told him her decision.

'It's the right idea, honey, but I'm not sure about your motives,'

he told her. 'Going away is one thing, running away is another.'

Philippa shrugged insouciantly in reply. 'Desperate situations call

for desperate measures,' she countered. 'That's turning into my life's philosophy.'

'Oh, really?' He sent her a sceptical look. 'Well, don't forget your

life drawing is also pretty desperate

and could use some work. Try and find yourself a model locally.'

He swept her into a bear-like hug. 'And come back strong.'

Fabrice was waiting for her at the cafe. He rose as she

approached the table, his face serious.

'Philippa, you have seen the morning paper?'

'Yes, I've seen it.' She sat down and he signalled the waiter to

bring their coffee. 'Fabrice, I've something to tell you. I'm going away, very soon, down to the south-west. I'm planning to rent a house there and do some painting.'

He looked totally taken aback. 'You mean—you are leaving your

husband?'

She shrugged. 'I'm going away to work. I need to be on my own.'

'No.' Fabrice leaned towards her, his face intense. 'You should

not be alone. You are too young, too lovely for that. Philippa—cherie—

not all men are as uncaring as Alain de Courcy. Let me prove it to you.

I want to be with you—to love you.'

Philippa bit her lip, concealing her dismay. She supposed she

should have seen this coming.

'No, Fabrice,' she said gently. 'It's quite impossible. I don't need

—a relationship.'

'Not yet, perhaps, but there will come a time, and I can be

patient.' He reached out and took her hand, stroking the palm gently

with his thumb. 'Let me come with you, Philippa. Let me care for you

and protect you. I won't make any demands of you, I swear. It will all be exactly as you want. I have some vacation I can take whenever I

please. I could drive you to wherever you want to go, as soon as you

wish. Tomorrow, if it pleases you.'

She stared at him. The offer was a tempting one, although

fraught with difficulties. Fabrice undoubtedly thought that he wouldn't have to be patient for too long, and that it would only be a matter of time before isolation and proximity delivered her into his hand like a ripe plum. Well, he would soon discover his mistake.

And if she seriously wanted to hit back at Alain— damage his

pride—what better way than this? There was a kind of poetic justice in letting him think she was leaving him for another man.

'You'd be very bored,' she said slowly. 'I intend to work, very

seriously. I'm going to hire a model and...'

'But I could help,' he said eagerly. 'I can cook for us. I could even be your model. Why not?'

Philippa could think of any number of reasons, but she kept

them to herself.

There would also be several advantages attached to leaving

Paris with Fabrice. If she took a train, Alain would be able to trace her, and she didn't want that. She wanted to vanish from his life at least temporarily, leaving just a note to say that her lawyers would

eventually be contacting him about the divorce. She didn't want any

recriminations, or any pressure on her to stay and act as camouflage

until Marie-Laure could be considered officially out of mourning. Not that he could pressure her any more—not now that Gavin was almost

cured. But he could try and persuade her...

A small shiver tingled down her spine. She could not bear that.

She needed to get away, and soon. And she could handle Fabrice,

couldn't she?

_

She looked at him across the table, and smiled. 'Tomorrow,' she

said, 'would suit me very well. As early as you can make it.'

The die, she thought, was cast.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE RAIN began just south of Perigueux. Watching it lash

relentlessly against the windscreen, Philippa thought it matched her

mood almost ideally.

She stole a sidelong look at her companion. He was on edge too,

she'd noticed, using the rear-view mirror with almost paranoid

intensity. Perhaps he was beginning to think eloping with the wife of Alain de Courcy wasn't the most sensible thing he'd ever done in his

life, she thought with wry sympathy. If so, he might not mind too much when she told him, as she would have to, that there was no place for

him in her life, even on a temporary basis.

All the way from Paris, she had tried hard to justify her use of

Fabrice on the grounds that she might, one day in the far distant

future, fall in love with him. But she knew that it would never happen.

She belonged to Alain and she always would do, even though he didn't

want her.

What a mess it all is! she thought, watching the rain with weary

distaste.

But she had to admit that her escape had gone without a hitch.

Fabrice had been a tower of strength. While she'd dashed around

buying the painting equipment she needed, he had telephoned

Madame Bethune in Montascaux to ascertain on Philippa's behalf if

the house in the clouds was available for letting. Madame Bethune

had remembered Mademoiselle Roscoe with the greatest pleasure,

and

had assured him the house could be hers for at least two

months.

With her painting gear safely stowed in Fabrice's car, all Philippa

had to concern herself with was a small travelling bag. She'd packed

jeans, shirts, a couple of warm sweaters, some light canvas shoes,

and her toilet things. Not one item had come from her trousseau—

she'd made sure of that. She'd left her wedding pearls, her

engagement ring and every other piece of jewellery Alain had given

her, along with a brief note stating baldly that she was going away

with another man—well, it was almost the truth, she thought

defensively—and asking him not to look for her.

She had, however, retained her wedding ring, slipping it into the

purse section of her wallet. It was foolish, she knew, but she needed something to keep— to remember always.

More practically, she had drawn enough money from her

account to keep her, with a certain amount of austerity, for the next two months.

After that she would have to become self-sufficient. There was

always a market among the tourists who flocked to the south-west of

France for original paintings of local views, and she would try to

exploit that, she told herself optimistically.

Her departure from the apartment, not long after dawn that

morning, had been magically simple, aided by the fact that Alain, once again, had not spent the night at home.

Trying to subdue the pain of that by telling herself she should be

grateful, Philippa had dealt noiselessly with locks, bolts and the

security system, and sped to where Fabrice was waiting with the car.

She had wondered what she would do if he'd started being

amorous on the journey, but she needn't have worried. He had been

surprisingly subdued, even distrait. He was obviously far more

concerned about being followed than playing the lover, and she had to be thankful for that. All the same, she wished his behaviour was rather less agitated.

'Do calm down,' she said, half amused, half irritated as he cast

yet another glance rearwards. 'There's no one after us. My guess is

that, if Alain's going to bother to look for me, he'll think I'm on my way back to England, and check the Channel ports.'

'How can we tell what he will do?' Fabrice muttered. He sounded

sulky and a bit scared, and totally lacking in the boyish charm he had exhibited in Paris. Will the real Fabrice de Thiery please stand up,

Philippa thought ruefully.

She had wanted to stop for a meal, but he'd insisted that

instead they buy some bread, pate, and cheese from an alimentation

and hold a hasty picnic on a roadside verge.

But she couldn't complain about his driving. Maybe it was fear

that had kept his foot down on the accelerator, but they had made

very good time, and would arrive at Montascaux before it was dark.

Madame Bethune had promised to leave a supply of provisions at the

house, and if Fabrice could calm his nerves sufficiently, he could

demonstrate his prowess as a chef, Philippa thought drily.

She was accustomed to Montascaux bathed in sunshine as her

father had painted it. It was odd to find the familiar streets almost deserted under grey skies, and the rain falling harder than ever.

They crossed the bridge and turned the car off the narrow road

up the steep and winding track which led to the house.

Philippa's heart lifted excitedly as she leaned forward, waiting

for the familiar outline of the building to come into view. It was like coming home, she thought.

It was a simple house, built with the typically steeply sloping tiled roof of the region, and with a pigeonnier attached. It was the

unconverted upper storey of the pigeonnier that Gavin had used as a

studio, and she herself would work in.

'Stay here,' Fabrice instructed tersely as he brought the car to a

halt in front of the house. 'I will take in the baggage.'

It took two trips, and Philippa sat watching guiltily as Fabrice

struggled through the downpour. When he returned he brought an

umbrella.

'Use this.' He handed it to her. 'I will put the car in the barn at

the back.'

She heard the engine start as she ran headlong for the house.

She almost threw herself through the open door into the only living-

room. The range had been lit, giving off a cheerful glow, and there

was an appetising aroma coming from the stove, where one of

Madame Bethune's cassoulets must be cooking slowly.

Philippa gave a little sigh of relief as she glanced round, closing

her dripping umbrella. Nothing had really changed, she thought,

recognising with pleasure the old-fashioned dresser with its blue and white china, and the big central table covered in oilcloth.

She put the umbrella in the sink, dropped her shoulder-bag on to

the table, and started towards the

narrow wooden stairs with her travel bag. Two bedrooms and a

tiny bathroom had been built into the high-raftered roof space. She

opened the door of the larger bedroom and shouldered her way in.

The massive bed had been made up in readiness by Madame

Bethune, topped by a snowy drift of duvet.

Philippa surveyed it wryly. It really was enormous— far too big for

single occupation—and, together with the armoire, it took up nearly all the available space.

Shrugging, she put her bag down in the corner and went across

the landing to check on the other room. She pushed open the door

and paused, her lips tightening. The single bed was stripped to the

bare mattress.

And yet she had told Fabrice quite plainly to ask Madame to

prepare both rooms. There could, of course, have been a simple

breakdown in communication.

On the other hand, Fabrice, in spite of all his chivalrous

protestations, could be trying to force some kind of showdown. To

undermine her resistance by presenting her with
a fait accompli.
Well, he could just think again!

The drumming of the rain on the roof sounded very loud,

suddenly, and very forlorn.

It occurred to her, not for the first time, that she had been

stupidly reckless to come to such an isolated spot with a man about

whom she knew so little. Her desperate need to escape from Paris, to

salvage her pride by taking the initiative, by leaving Alain before he could tell her to go, had clouded her judgement badly.

The last thing in the world she wanted, she realised ruefully, was

to spend even one night under the same

roof as Fabrice. She was grateful for his help, but that was as far

as it went, or ever would go.

She sighed. She would have to offer Fabrice a meal, she

supposed, and then she would ask him bluntly to go—to find himself a

room for the night in Montascaux, even if she had to dip into her small hoard of money to pay for it.

She hoped, without much conviction, that he'd go quietly,

without a scene. She'd promised nothing, of course, but by coming

away with him like this she had placed herself in a hopelessly

compromising position.

She heard the door downstairs close, and squared her

shoulders. She would go down and face him, rather than let him come

upstairs and find her, she decided without enthusiasm.

She took a deep breath and descended the stairs, mentally

rehearsing what to say. He was standing with his back to her, shaking the water from his raincoat. Now that she was alone with him here, he seemed taller, broader—altogether more formidable in these cramped

and homely surroundings, or was that simply a delusion produced by

her private fears?

She swallowed. 'Fabrice ' Even in her own ears,

her voice sounded thin and strained. 'Fabrice, I've been

thinking...'

The words broke off in her throat, as he turned without haste to

face her. Her hand reached for the banister rail, clutched it until the knuckles turned white. The sound of the rain was extinguished by the

terrified throbbing of her pulses, as she stared at him. Not a figment of her imagination, she thought wildly, but there standing in front of her, flesh, blood, bone and sinew. Dear God—Alain!