Desperate Measures (9 page)

millionaire. No question about where your next meal is coming from.'

Philippa's eyes went frowningly to the canvas on the easel. 'Is

that a problem?'

'There's certainly something,' Zak spread his hands. 'What can I

say? You're too locked up in yourself— too inhibited to paint as you

should be doing. You're

still feeling your way, instead of going for broke. Holding back all

the time. So I ask again—why bother?'

She looked troubled. 'Am I wasting my time—and yours too? Is

this what you're trying to tell me?'

'Hell, no. If I thought that, I'd have said so on day one.'

Philippa was silent for a moment, then she said slowly, 'I

suppose there could be several reasons why I'm doing this. I need to

establish an identity for myself—to prove that I exist as a person in my own right, not just as a well-dressed adjunct to Alain. That's—not

always easy to remember.'

She paused. 'And there's Dad, of course. He always wanted me

to paint. I feel I'm keeping faith with him somehow. That when I'm

struggling to get the paint on the canvas here in Paris, I'm helping him fight for his health over in New York. Does that sound utterly

ridiculous?'

'It doesn't sound ridiculous at all,' Zak told her gently. He paused

again. 'What's the latest news on Gavin, anyway?'

She grimaced. 'Slow. I call the clinic every other day. They tell

me it's still too early for any definite prognosis, but that everything's going to plan. I just keep hoping.'

'That's as much as any of us can do.' Soberly Zak paited her

shoulder. 'Tell me, Madame de Courcy, what does Gavin think of his

son-in-law?'

Philippa swallowed. 'Well, they don't really know each other very

well as yet,' she evaded.

Zak nodded. 'One of these days I'd be real interested to hear the

history of this marriage of yours, and so would Sylvie. She says you

haven't got the

look in your eyes which means happiness for a woman. Yet your

husband's a good-looking guy, and definitely no slouch when it comes

to women, or so Sylvie says.'

Philippa shrugged. 'I think most marriages have to go through a

period of adjustment,' she countered.

'And that's what yours is doing?'

'I think so. Tell Sylvie to stop worrying about me.'

'I will. At the same time, I'll tell the sun not to rise tomorrow.'

Zak paused again. 'Speaking of my wife, she's making bouillabaisse

tonight. Says there's enough for you too.'

'Oh, Zak, I can't.' Regretfully Philippa shook her head. 'I have

another dinner party to go to—a business affair. I'd much rather be

staying for Sylvie's bouillabaisse.'

'Some other time, then,' said Zak. 'See you tomorrow, honey.'

Philippa was thoughtful as she walked slowly down the narrow

staircase that led from the studio to street level. Even she could see that her work was still too tentative. She wondered if it was Alain's attitude that was colouring her approach. His disapproval of her

decision to resume her studies was still patent, if unvoiced.

Yet he had nothing to complain about, she told herself

defensively. She was keeping her side of the bargain to the letter.

Whenever he required her to be at his side, she was there, groomed

and smiling. She was beginning to be less shy too, and could hold her own in conversation. And Alain played his part too— she could not

deny that. He was attentive and affectionate, every word, every

gesture expressing his pride in her, and his satisfaction with her as a wife.

She was becoming used to hearing herself described as

'
charmante
', and no one, to her knowledge, had drawn any more unfavourable comparisons with any other woman. So in that way, at

least, he had reason to be pleased with her.

She bit her lip. But that, of course, wasn't all. If their marriage

could have been lived totally in public, it might have counted as a

success. It was when they were alone together that it all went wrong.

Oh, they didn't quarrel, or anything like that, she acknowledged

glumly. It might almost have been preferable if there had been a few

rows. In fact there were times when she found herself deliberately

provoking Alain— trying to get a reaction. But all to no avail.

No, Alain was invariably courteous to her, even charming in an

aloof way, and his behaviour didn't alter one iota on the rare

occasions he came to her bedroom.

She felt her face warm. She didn't really want to contemplate

those brief, embarrassing encounters in the darkness. Those swift,

almost clinical couplings which were all she was called on to endure.

She supposed she should be thankful for the consideration he

invariably showed her. At least there were no more troublous attempts to seduce her. But gratitude, she had discovered, was not always the

uppermost emotion in her mind, as she lay, tense and trembling, in his arms. She was aware of a strange restiveness when he left her, an

aching void deep inside her.

She told herself it was resentment. He might have a legal right

to use her body, but that didn't mean she had to like it. Besides,

resentment—endurance, also represented safety. They enabled her to

retreat from

Alain emotionally behind the barrier they offered— to resist the

temptation of his physical attraction which still tormented her. Because she couldn't afford to relax her guard against him, even for a moment.

The strange hunger in her body told her that, and she was disgusted

at her own weakness.

And what part Marie-Laure de Somerville-Resnais still played in

his life, she could only guess. Certainly there were nights when he did not return to the apartment. He offered no explanation, and she

certainly never asked for one. He knew the risks implicit in such a

relationship, after all, she told herself stonily.

The threat of the emergency board meeting, with its attendant

vote of censure, had been withdrawn, at least temporarily. Louis de

Courcy had been forced to acknowledge that his campaign to

overthrow his nephew as chairman had been weakened by his new

respectability as a married man. But that did not mean he wouldn't

still be watching and waiting for Alain to make some mistake, some

slight slip. And a resumption of his affair, however discreet, with the beautiful Baronne would be exactly the excuse that his uncle was

looking for, Philippa thought, biting her lip. As for herself, her own feelings on the subject—well, that side of Alain's life was none of her business, was it?

The irony of it all was the overt envy she sensed from most of

the women she met. They clearly imagined she lived a life, not just of luxury, but also of blissful fulfilment.

If they only knew, she thought, with a little sigh as she emerged

into the late afternoon sunlight.

The men seemed to come from nowhere—two of them, scrawny

and greasy-haired, dressed in denims. One of them pushed her,

sending her flying to the pavement, while the other one grabbed at

her shoulder-bag.

Philippa screamed, clutching at the strap, and heard,

somewhere near at hand, another male voice answer.

Suddenly the grip on her bag was released, as the two muggers

took to their heels and vanished around the corner.

'Are you hurt,
mademoiselle
? Hands helped Philippa gently to

her feet, then set about retrieving her coin purse, compact and other belongings which had become strewn across the pavement in the

struggle.

'No, I'm fine.' The knees of her jeans were torn, and her skin was

grazed. She would have bruises tomorrow, she thought, as she leaned

against the wall, trying to recover her breath, and taking her first look at her rescuer.

He was young, dark-haired and undeniably attractive. He was

smiling, but his face was concerned as he handed over her bag.

'But you have had a shock, yes? There is a little bar in the next

street. You must have some coffee— a cognac. Yes, I insist.'

She was glad to take the arm he offered. When she tried to

move, she found her legs had turned to jelly. The bar was only a

hundred yards away. He seated her at a pavement table, and

summoned a waiter with a flick of his fingers. The coffee and brandy

arrived with the speed of light.

'That's better,
hein
? he asked as she sipped.

'Much better. I'm so grateful,
Monsieur
...?' Philippa hesitated, the question in her voice.

'I am Fabrice de Thiery, entirely at your service,
mademoiselle
..'

His eyes were warm, flickering over her with that appreciation which

was so totally French.

She flushed. 'Actually, it's
madame
. My name is Philippa de

Courcy.'

He looked startled, then his expression changed to regret. 'You

look altogether too young to be a married woman.' His gesture

indicated her casual clothing.

'I study art—I work in a studio just back there. The street has

always seemed so quiet. I never imagined...'

'Of course not. Probably they have been watching you—hoped

to take you by surprise.'

'I can't imagine why,' she said candidly. 'I had nothing of real

value in my bag. I only ever carry a few francs at the most.'

'When one has nothing,
madame
, a few francs can seem a great

deal.' He smiled at her. 'Tell me about your painting.'

Her blush deepened. 'Oh, it's just something I do for the time

being. Are you interested in art?'

'I am interested in most things,' he said. 'But I work in

accountancy.' He leaned forward. 'You look sad. Did they hurt you,

perhaps, more than you have said?'

Philippa shook her head. 'No—it's just that—well, my husband

doesn't really approve of my painting, and now that this has

happened, he'll insist on my using the car and the chauffeur, and

that's the end of my independence.'

'And that matters to you?'

'Very much.' She forced a rueful smile. 'The thieves stole more

than they realised.' She set down her coffee-

cup and looked at her watch, an exclamation escaping her. 'Oh,

look at the time! I'm going to be late. I must find a taxi...'

'I have a car. May I drop you somewhere?'

Phihppa hesitated. 'I don't like to impose,' she protested. 'You've

been so kind already...'

He pooh-poohed that. 'Anyone would have done the same,' he

declared, signalling for the bill. 'What is your address?'

She told him, and his brows rose almost comically.

'Oh, Ia, Ia
. You are the wife of that de Courcy?'

She nodded. 'Does that mean I don't get my lift?'

'Of course not. But your husband is right.' He was frowning. 'You

should not be walking the streets of Paris unescorted. But I will take you home straight away, and perhaps he will not be too angry,
hein
?

'I have to thank you again for rescuing me,' Philippa said, as his

car drew up outside the apartment building.

'It was my pleasure.' He took the hand she held out to him, and

kissed it. His eyes smiled at her. 'But I still think you look too young to be married,' he murmured.
'Au revoir
, Madame de Courcy.'

'Au revoir
, Monsieur de Thiery.' As she scrambled out of the car, Philippa was aware her heart was thumping. How pleasant it was to be

regarded as attractive and not merely useful, she thought, as she rode up in the lift. When she got to the door, she realised to her dismay

that her keys were not in her bag.

They must have fallen out, and I missed them when I was

picking everything up, she thought, as she pressed the buzzer.

Madame Giscard answered the door, wearing her usual grim

expression. 'Monsieur has been asking for you,' she began, then her

eyes widened. 'But what has happened,
madame
? Your clothes are torn, and there is blood!'

'Someone tried to snatch my bag, but fortunately they were

disturbed.' Philippa tried to shrug it off. 'I'm sorry if Monsieur Alain is waiting. I'll get ready straight away.'

She dashed to her room, took the cream brocade skirt and the

jacket with the deeply squared neckline from her wardrobe, grabbed

some underwear and flew into the bathroom for a hasty shower.

She was back in her bedroom, clad only in her white silk and lace

bra and briefs, frantically applying her make-up, when the door

opened without ceremony to admit Alain.

'What is this Henriette has been telling me? That you've been

robbed?' His voice was sharp. 'How did it happen?'

Philippa sighed. Now the recriminations would start, she

thought.

'I'd just come out of Zak's,' she told him. 'These two men tried to

grab my bag, then another man appeared and they ran off. They

didn't actually manage to take anything,' she added appeasingly.

Alain's brows rose. 'They cannot have been very determined

thieves if the presence of one other man put them to flight,' he said, after a pause. 'How fortunate that he happened to be there.'

'Yes, it was,' Philippa agreed fervently. 'He was marvellous

afterwards as well—bought me a drink, and then drove me home.'

'Ah.' Alain strolled over to the window and glanced down into the

street. 'And do you know the name of your gallant rescuer?'

'Of course. He's called Fabrice de Thiery.'

'I must try and trace him—offer him some reward.'