Desperate Measures (17 page)

angrily. 'No, not in that way. But he was going to model for me...'

'Model?' His tone was steely. 'When you say that, ma chere, do

you mean clothed or unclothed?'

Philippa's lips tightened, 'Well, both, actually, but...'

'Formidable,' Alain said softly. 'This story gets better and better.'

'It is not a story,' she said between her teeth. 'I need to work on

my life drawing—Zak's orders—and for that I need a model. Whom I

shall now have to pay.' She gave him a burning look. 'There's nothing salacious about modelling, you know. To a painter the human

body is a composition of light and shade— planes and angles.'

I wonder if that is how de Thiery would have regarded it,' Alain

said coolly. 'Perhaps he might have agreed with me that a naked girl, certainly, should be enjoyed with all the senses, not just the eye.'

'I'm sure that's exactly what you would think,' Philippa retorted

with a bite. 'But there weren't going to be any naked girls, and

anyway, you're not an artist.'

He laughed. I think with my father, ma belle, thai one artist in

the family is enough. Now I shall take my philistine self to the farm in search of proper bedding. I do not intend to spend another night under one small car rug.'

As she poured out her coffee, Philippa watched him cross the

courtyard to the gate, moving with that lithe muscled grace she had

come to know so well. She sighed. He was beautiful, she thought

sadly. That was the only word for it.

Oh, why couldn't he have just accepted her departure from his

life and stayed in Paris where he belonged? Why had he followed her

here, tormenting her, distracting her—insulting her with his offer that they should continue their soulless arrangement? she asked herself

stormily. Every day she was forced to remain under the same roof with him was like a fresh wound.

Work, it seemed, was the only answer.

When she had finished breakfast, she went up into the

pigeonnier. The house was regularly rented by artists, who used it as a studio, so the big room was neatly swept out.

Philippa hunted round until she found a small table, which she

covered with a cream cloth, before beginning to assemble the

elements of a still life subject on it. She carried up from the kitchen an earthenware jug, some tumblers, a wine bottle, and a small wicker

basket filled with fruit and vegetables. It took some time to arrange these to her satisfaction.

She was standing back, surveying the composition critically,

when Alain came up the wooden stairs.

'Madame Bethune was reluctant to issue any more bedding,' he

said with faint amusement. 'She was astounded to hear that more

than one bed would be used. She's clearly a romantic soul, even if she did insist on addressing me as Monsieur de Thiery.'

Philippa flushed. 'Yes—well, Fabrice did telephone her originally,

so I suppose she thinks...'

'It is quite obvious what she thinks,' Alain drawled. 'She was

after all instructed to prepare just one room.'

Philippa's colour deepened. 'Not by me,' she said stonily. 'But

fortunately, it's no longer an issue.'

She determinedly switched her attention back to the table. She

regarded the arrangement for a moment, then shook her head.

'Something's still not quite right.'

Alain came to stand beside her. 'It lacks height,' he said, after a

moment. 'Why not use the bottle as a candlestick?'

'Why, yes,' she said grudgingly, annoyed that he should have

noticed something so obvious, when she had overlooked it. Her

concentration was shot to pieces, she thought. 'There should be some

candles in the kitchen.'

She descended the stairs, tensely aware that he was following,

and went through the communicating door into the main part of the

house.

There was a limp package lying on the kitchen table. Alain

nodded towards it. 'In the guise of Fabrice, I accepted a rabbit for our dinner tonight.'

'Heavens!' Philippa tried to speak lightly as she took some

candles from a dresser drawer. 'I've no idea what to do with a rabbit.'

'Ah, but I have,' Alain told her. 'Would you prefer it sauted with

garlic and herbs, or casseroled with a mustard sauce?'

Philippa gulped. 'Er—sauted, I think,' she said rather faintly.

'Fine,' he said briskly. 'I'll call you when it's ready.'

'You really don't have to bother

' she began,

but he interrupted.

'It's my pleasure, cherie.' His smile was tinged with irony. 'A little compensation perhaps for making you suffer the inconvenience of my

presence.'

Oh, God, she thought. If he only knew... Aloud, she said lamely,

'Well, thank you,' and fled back to the pigeonnier.

She made numerous sketches of her subject, from every angle,

concentrating hard, but as the afternoon wore on she found she was

content with nothing she'd done. The thing looked stilted—random,

she thought restively. But at least she'd made a start.

There was the most deliciously savoury smell of cooking drifting

through from the kitchen, and she wrinkled her nose in appreciation

as she went in,

Alain was seated at the table, slicing carrots into sticks. He

glanced round at her. 'Have you finished for the day?' he asked.

'I think so.' She dropped wearily on to the chair opposite and

watched him. 'Have you been cooking all afternoon?'

'By no means. I walked down to the village to the tabac, then I

had a game of boules with some of the local people.'

Philippa stared at him. 'Weren't you bored?' She saw his brows

lift, and hurried on, 'I mean, it's so different from the life you're used to. You must feel so—so cut off from your work—from everything.'

'You don't think I'm capable of relaxation?'

'Not exactly,' she said slowly. 'But you always seem so dynamic—

so high-powered. I'd have thought you'd find the pace of life round

here—frustrating.'

His mouth twisted in amusement. 'If I'm frustrated,
ma belle
, it has nothing to do with the pace of life, believe me.'

To which, Philippa realised with vexation as her face warmed,

there was little she could say in reply.

The rabbit was delicious, moist and flavoursome, accompanied

by small potatoes cooked in their skins, and the carrots, lightly tossed in butter.

'Some cheese to follow?' Alain watched approvingly, as she

mopped up the juices from her plate with a piece of bread.

She shook her head. 'I couldn't manage another thing. You—you

really are a good cook.' She hesitated. 'You're a very surprising person sometimes, Alain.'

'Do you think so, ma chere? His tone was dry. 'I got the

impression that you found me all too predictable.'

'Oh, no.' She bit her lip. 'I didn't foresee, for one thing, that

you'd follow me here.'

'You thought I'd be content simply to abandon you to the

dubious attentions of Monsieur de Thiery?' he asked. 'No, Philippa, I told you, if you remember, that we had to have a serious talk, you and I.'

'Yes, but surely that could be conducted through our lawyers.'

Her throat felt constricted.

There was a silence, then he said courteously. 'Of course—if that

is what you prefer.'

'I—I think so. We have to be realistic, after all.'

'Yes.' He rose and began to clear the table.

'Let me do that.' Philippa got to her feet. 'It's only fair, after all.'

'And you have a strong sense of justice, don't you,
ma femmel

You believe in adhering strictly to the letter of the law in all

circumstances. You allow no room for negotiation.' His face was grim

as he looked at her.

'I don't understand what you mean.' Her voice faltered slightly.

Alain shrugged. 'It doesn't matter.' He paused. 'If you don't need

my help, I think I'll go back to the tabac again for a while. There's usually a card game there in the evenings, and it will relieve you of my company for an hour or two.'

She said stiltedly, 'Thank you. I—I suppose you haven't any idea

when your car will be ready?'

His face hardened. 'Not yet. It could be a long job, it seems.'

'Oh, God,' she said in a stifled voice, her hands clenching at her

side. 'I wish they'd hurry—get it finished...'

He threw back his head and looked at her, his face icily bleak.

He said, 'And so do I, madame. As God

is my witness, so do I. Then, perhaps we will both have some

peace.'

The rawness in his voice cut Philippa like a blade. His name

formed, achingly, on her lips, but before she could speak it, the door had slammed and he had gone.

CHAPTER TEN

PHILIPPA slept badly that night, tossing and turning, listening

restively for Alain's return. She couldn't put out of her mind the frozen starkness of his face as he'd left her.

Nor could she forget how sorely she'd been tempted to run after

him—to call him back.

But what would that have achieved, she asked herself, savagely

punching her pillow, except more heartbreak in the end?

It was in the small hours when he eventually returned. She

heard the door close downstairs, then the sound of his footsteps

quietly mounting the wooden stairs.

She lay very still, staring across the room in the darkness,

waiting tensely, a wave of mingled terror and half-ashamed

excitement invading her body as he paused outside her door.

And if it opened, if he came to her, what would she say? What

would she do?

For a long screaming moment the questions beat at her mind,

and she could not find an answer. Then, at last, she heard him move

away, and his own door open and close, and slowly she released her

pent-up breath, and allowed her body to relax from its taut coil.

She had escaped again, it seemed, but not from him. It was from

herself, she acknowledged wincingly, as

she turned on to her stomach and buried her burning face in the

pillow.

Dear God, she thought, I'm going to have to be so careful...

She slept fitfully, and woke early. She dressed and went quietly

downstairs, carrying her sandals, so as not to wake Alain. She made

herself some black coffee, and then went straight to the studio.

The previous day's work seemed just as unpromising as she'd

remembered. She rearranged the table yet again, then fetched a chair

and a knife from the kitchen.

She wanted the whole thing to look less static—to appear as if

someone had been working at the table, preparing vegetables, but

had pushed back the chair and got up for some reason.

She stepped back, nodding, then set up her easel and prepared

her palette. She began to work frantically, almost throwing the paint on to the canvas, trying to rid herself of the tensions and uncertainties inside her.

This was the life she had chosen, after all, and she had to make

the best of it. She was turning her back on the role of Madame de

Courcy, which she had filled so awkwardly, and unsuccessfully, and

she had to learn to paint well enough to earn her own living, which

was only what she'd always intended. Only Gavin's illness had

intervened, with all its disastrous consequences.

Philippa sighed soundlessly. One day, she might even be able to

put it all behind her—forget there had ever been a time when she had

been Alain's wife. Their strange marriage had only lasted a few

months, after all. It wasn't a lifetime she had to recover from.

And she'd taken the first steps on the road to recovery, when

she'd left him.

He shouldn't have followed her, talking of honeymoons—babies.

It was cynical—despicable, when he knew—none better—that they

would never share a real marriage. When he didn't love her.

She found herself wondering what it would have been like if she

and Alain had just met—if she'd been here painting, and his car had

broken down, and they'd been thrown together somehow.

She halted that train of thought abruptly. If they'd been

strangers in passing, Alain would have walked by without a second

glance. She was the last woman in the world he would have chosen as

his wife. She might have acquired a surface gloss, but underneath she was still the same colourless little nonentity he'd registered with such shock at their first meeting in Lowden Square. Not just plain either, she admitted wretchedly, but sexually frigid as well.

'Qu'est-ce que tu as?
Are you all right?'

She was so startled at Alain's unheralded arrival in the studio

that she almost yelped.

'Do you have to creep up on me like that?' she demanded

crossly.

'I made a normal entrance,' he said levelly. 'But you were

thinking so deeply that you were oblivious to everything else.'

'Oh.' Her face warmed slightly, and she was thankful he could

have no idea of the tenor of her thoughts.

'I've brought you some soup.' He put the tray he was holding

down on the table. 'You had no breakfast, and you cannot work without eating.'

'I'm not working very much at all at the moment.' Philippa's

nose twitched involuntarily as the rich aroma of the vegetable broth

reached her.

'Isn't it going well?' Alain came to stand beside her, surveying

the canvas with raised brows.

'As a class exercise it would pass—just,' she said. Or as therapy,

she added silently. 'But there's nothing of me—none of the things I