Read Desperate Measures Online
Authors: Sara Craven
Desperate Measures (25 page)
- It was as if he was compiling a dossier on her. And perhaps he was—a series of facts to be fed into a computer somewhere at De Courcy International and resurrected at birthday or anniversary times.
- And she was only just beginning to realise how very little he had vouchsafed in return, this stranger who was now married to her for better or worse.
- For better or worse. Philippa repeated the words in her head, and shivered suddenly.
- In no time at all, it seemed, they were landing. The formalities at the airport were mercifully brief, then Philippa found herself being whisked away in a chauffeur-driven limousine. She supposed this was the
- kind of treatment she would have to get accustomed to.
- Almost before she was ready, she found herself walking into an imposing building in one of the city's most fashionable areas, and travelling up in the lift to the penthouse.
- The apartment, Alain had told her, was not part of the family estate which he had inherited, but had been acquired by himself a few years previously as a pied-a-terre near his business headquarters. He was looked after by a married couple, a Madame Henriette Giscard, and her husband Albert, and they were waiting to welcome their master and his new bride, their faces well-trained masks.
- When the introductions were completed, Alain took her to one side. 'Will you be all right if I leave you here?' he asked in a low tone. 'I need to go to the office, and I cannot say when it will be possible to return.'
- 'Oh, that's all right—that's fine,' Philippa stammered, feeling the colour rise in her face under his quizzical look.
- 'I don't doubt it.' Mouth twisting, Alain ran his forefinger down the curve of her hot cheek. He turned back to Madame Giscard, waiting at a discreet distance. 'I shall not be here for dinner, Henriette. Make sure Madame has everything she requires.' He lifted Philippa's nerveless hand and pressed a swift kiss into its palm. 'Au revoir, mignonne.'
- If the Giscards considered his departure eccentric behaviour for a new bridegroom, they kept their opinions well hidden. Philippa found herself being conducted over the apartment with a certain amount of ceremony. It seemed evident from the covert glances
- she'd seen them exchanging that not only was the marriage itself a shock to them, but that the Giscards considered her the last kind of wife they would have expected Alain de Courcy to choose. Her lack of sophistication and experience must be woefully apparent, she thought bitterly, and if she couldn't fool the servants, how could she hope to deceive his family and friends?
- She managed to contain her sigh of relief when Madame Giscard expressionlessly showed her to her bedroom, a pretty Empire-style room immediately adjoining the one used by Alain himself. In spite of the neutral attitude he had adopted towards her up to now, she had still secretly feared some confrontation over the sleeping arrangements once they were actually married. It was good to know he could be trusted after all.
- She requested a light dinner, and was served promptly and without fuss with a cup of bouillon, and a perfectly grilled sole with fresh fruit to follow. Afterwards she telephoned the New York clinic, as she always did, to ask after Gavin. She received the usual response—that it was still too early for any definite prognosis—and after that she was left pretty much to her own devices.
- She decided to conduct her own, more leisurely exploration of the apartment without Madame Giscard's chilly presence at her side. She found the place slightly austere and unwelcoming, with its large, high-ceilinged rooms, and vaguely reminiscent of Lowden Square in its elegant formality. There was nothing in the least homelike about it, Philippa decided, hearing the clatter of her heels on the polished floor. The furniture and curtains seemed to warn,
- 'Look, but don't touch.' She found herself wondering how much time Alain actually spent there.
- But there was one blessedly familiar touch—Gavin's painting of the bridge at Montascaux which hung over the elegant marble fireplace in the salon. She stood, her hands behind her back, staring up at it. She had loved their time at Montascaux. She sighed soundlessly as she remembered the jumble of roofs on the steep hillside sweeping down to the river, with the ruined chateau towering above the gorge. They'd rented a house high above the village, with a wood behind it. The house in the clouds, she thought nostalgically. While Gavin painted, Philippa had done her own sketching, then shopped at the small but cheerful market, concocting what she now recognised must have been some weird and wonderful meals for them both. But her father had never complained, she thought, a smile trembling on her lips.
- As she turned away, uttering a wordless prayer for her father's safety and restoration to health, she noticed the exquisite clock which occupied pride of place on the mantelpiece.
- Certainly Alain seemed in no hurry to return, she thought. Not that she wanted him to, of course, she hastily reminded herself, but, on the other hand, he could have made slightly more effort to ease her into her new environment. Didn't he realise how totally strange and isolated she must be feeling? she asked herself with faint resentment.
- She tried to watch some television, but found it required more concentration than she was capable of. And a more extensive vocabulary too, she realised uneasily. She would probably have to have some intensive language coaching before she and Alain did
- any proper entertaining, although she could not imagine herself ever acting as hostess in these frankly formidable surroundings.
- In spite of her new hairstyle and new dress, she was still a fish out of water. It was an oddly desolate thought, and her throat constricted suddenly.
- Oh, no, she told herself determinedly. You're not going to cry. You're just tired and rather fraught after one hell of a day, so you'll go to bed—and, in the morning, you can start keeping your side of the bargain by getting to grips with this new life of yours.
- She was on her way across the wide entrance hall when the telephone rang. For a moment she hesitated in case the Giscards reappeared from whatever fastness they had retired to and thought she was usurping their prerogative, but when its shrill summons went on and on unchecked, she reached out and gingerly lifted the receiver.
- 'Alain?' It was a woman's voice, low, warm and husky. 'C'est toi, mon coeur?'
- For a second, Philippa felt as if she'd been turned to stone. But what the hell was she surprised about? Alain had made no secret of his proclivities, after all. It was because of them that she was here at all. She just hadn't expected this kind of confrontation so soon.
- She said curtly in French, 'I'm afraid Monsieur de Courcy is not here, madame.'
- 'And who are you?' Some of the warmth had dissipated.
- 'His wife,' said Philippa, and put down the phone.
- CHAPTER THREE
- Philippa was shaking with temper, and another less easily defined emotion, when she closed her bedroom door behind her. If the phone rang again, it could burst into flames before she'd answer it, she told herself. Turning a blind eye to Alain's amours, as required, was one thing, taking messages from them quite another.
- She stood still for a moment, taking a few deep breaths to restore her equilibrium. Madame Giscard must have unpacked for her, she realised, as she looked round her. Her toilet things were waiting for her, and one of the new nightgowns Monica had insisted on was lying, elegantly fanned out, across the turned-down bed.
- Philippa looked at it with distaste. Its oyster satin and lace had cost more than she'd been used to paying for a whole term's clothes at art school, she thought with irritation. What a terrible waste of money for a garment no one would see but herself!
- The bed itself came in for its fair share of disapproval too. She glanced at the draped and ruched green silk bedhead, and wondered if she would ever be able to sleep amid such opulence.
- She shook herself mentally, telling herself she was now being petty. Maybe a warm bath would relax her a little.
- The bathroom, needless to say, was the last word in luxury. Philippa, accustomed to fighting for her
- turn with half a dozen others, was in the seventh heaven as she lay back in the deep, scented water, feeling the tensions slowly seeping out of her.
- She dried herself slowly on one of the enormous fluffy bath sheets, then experimented with some of the deliciously perfumed lotions and colognes provided before putting on the nightgown. She looked at herself judiciously in one of the long mirrors, and grimaced. The tiny lace bodice hugged her small high breasts, and each side of the sleek shimmering skirt was slashed, almost to the thigh. With her hair hanging, straight as rainwater, almost to her shoulders, she looked like a child playing at being an adult, she thought disparagingly.
- She flicked the soft brown strands away from her face and walked back into the bedroom, halting with a gasp as she found herself face to face with Alain.
- He looked almost as taken aback as she did herself, she realised, her face flaming.
- He was still wearing the formal dark suit in which he'd been married, but he had discarded the jacket and silk tie, and unbuttoned his waistcoat.
- 'What are you doing here?' Her voice was husky with embarrassment as she looked round vainly for a robe, or some other covering to shield her from the totally arrested expression in his green eyes. 'What do you want? It's late.'
- He said slowly, 'I came to wish you goodnight.'
- 'Well, now you've said it, perhaps you'll go.' Her tone was curt, and his dark brows lifted in surprise and hauteur.
- 'I also brought some champagne to drink to our future.' He indicated the ice bucket and glasses waiting on a convenient table.
- 'I don't think that's necessary.'
- 'But it's traditional—for a wedding night.'
- 'But it isn't—not really—I mean, we're not...' Philippa ground to a halt, her flush deepening. 'Oh, you know what I mean.'
- Alain poured wine into the glasses and held one out to her. 'I am not sure that I do.'
- She took the glass, holding it awkwardly. 'You said that you'd—wait,' she reminded him, her voice trembling a little. 'That you'd give me time to—accustom myself.'
- He drank some champagne, watching her meditatively over the rim of the glass. 'But how much time, my reluctant bride? This year, next year, some time—or never, perhaps?'
- Philippa flicked her tongue round her dry lips. The small nervous movement was not lost on him, she realised, her nerves grating. 'I'll keep my word—when it becomes necessary. But not yet.'
- 'And if I told you that it is necessary now— tonight?'
- 'Then I wouldn't believe you.' Still holding her untouched glass, she took a step backwards. 'Please stop saying these things, and leave me in peace as you promised.' She paused, gathering her courage. 'Besides, you're obviously expected elsewhere.'
- His dark brows snapped together. 'What is that supposed to mean?'
- 'It means I'd be grateful if you'd ask your mistresses not to telephone you here.' Philippa lifted her chin. 'Perhaps you should have warned the lady in question that you're now, nominally, a married man. Get her to ring you at your offices from now on. I'm sure your secretary is used to dealing with such calls.'
- There was a long and ominous silence. When he spoke, his voice was like ice. 'How dare you speak to me like that?'
- 'And how dare you expect me to act as go-between with your women?' Philippa spoke defiantly, but she felt frightened suddenly, wishing she hadn't mentioned it quite so precipitately. But she couldn't retract what she'd said now. 'Anyway, she's clearly waiting for you, so I wouldn't waste any more time.'
- 'When I want your advice on how to conduct my personal life, ma femme, I will ask for it.' There was a tiny muscle jumping beside his grim mouth. 'However, I have no intention of spending the night anywhere but here.'
- There was another profound silence. Philippa swallowed. 'When you say "here",' she began. I hope you don't mean...'
- He gave her a brief hard smile. 'I mean exactly what you think, ma belle.'
- 'No—oh, no!' She took another dismayed step away from him. 'You promised me...'
- 'Listen to me,' he said harshly. 'My first task when I left you earlier was to inform my uncle of our marriage. When he had managed to overcome his chagrin a little, he insisted that we dine with him tomorrow evening—so that he and his family may meet you, Philippa.' He shrugged. 'I could hardly refuse.'
- 'But he can't do that!' She gave him an imploring look. 'Please—you've got to put him off. It's too soon—I'm not ready to face anyone yet.'
- 'Exactly the point I am trying to make,' Alain drawled. 'They are expecting, my uncle, my aunt and my cousin Sidonie, to meet my loving and loved wife, not some frightened shrinking virgin. So we will need
- to present them with a normal marriage, not a pretence a child could see through. You begin now to see the necessity, perhaps?'
- 'No,' she said hoarsely. 'No, I don't. I can't meet them yet. You'll have to think of some excuse.'
- 'Au contraire,' Alain said quite gently, and put down his glass. The green eyes swept over her, making her feel, terrifyingly, as if the concealing satin no longer existed. 'I think I shall have to see what I can do to—persuade you.'
- 'Get out of my room.' Her voice cracked. 'Don't come near me—or I'll scream the place down!'
- 'Vraiment?' His brows lifted mockingly. 'And who do you imagine will hear you—or care? The Giscards are far too well trained to interfere.'
- 'You—bastard!'
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