The Antique Love (23 page)

“Yeah, well,” she shrugged her shoulders, carefully nonchalant. “I’ve learnt my lesson since bringing Louis here. Don’t mix with
grand’mère
’s friends.”

Her father harrumphed in agreement.

“Jean-Luc seems a decent enough chap, though,” he continued blithely. “And was really very pleasant at the funeral. We spoke a lot about you, actually.”

“Really?” Sophie’s eyes widened at this and she turned round, all pretence at casualness forgotten. “What did he say?”

“Oh, nothing much. He thought you’d got married, for some reason.”

Sophie winced again at the childish lie she’d told him all those years ago. Jean-Luc hadn’t made it easy for her to leave that hotel room, and a make-believe fiancé had been the only excuse she could think of. She still remembered the look of disgust on his face as she closed the door.

Her father continued. “I put him straight about that. Not that he’s husband material himself.” He let out a loud guffaw.

The penny finally dropped for Sophie. She put her hands on her hips.

“Dad, what else did you talk about? Did you tell him the name of my college?”

A look of confusion crossed her father’s face. Sophie sighed. It was no use blaming her dad. He would have been no match for Jean-Luc. Sophie herself had been no match for him. Her father had handed over the means to engineer her placement, in all innocence, and Jean-Luc had made full use of the information.

So that explained how it happened. But it still didn’t explain
why.

The sound of the front door slamming, followed by a tuneful whistling in the hallway interrupted her dark train of thought.

“Jack’s back from college,” she said unnecessarily. Her brother was a welcome excuse to cut short the conversation, but before she could leave the room, her father held out a tentative hand to halt her.

“I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve given you, love.”

“Dad!” she protested. “It wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t help being ill. It’s just one of those things.”

“I could have been stronger,” he said. “When your mother died, I— “

“Sssh, Dad, I know.” There was nothing either of them could say about her mother’s slow death from cancer. Nothing that could take away the constant grief. Her father released her and picked up her mother’s photo from the desk where Sophie kept it. It had been taken in Paris, when her mother still lived there before their marriage took her to England. A vibrant woman, she smiled radiantly from the frame, long black hair tied back in a scarf, the world with all its possibilities still in front of her.

“You look so much alike. You have her beautiful eyes,” her father said softly. “Your mother asked you to look after Jack and me, and you’ve worked so hard for both of us. She would have been proud of you.”

Sophie’s eyes welled up. “Oh, Dad. She’d be proud of all of us.”

“We’ll be okay, love. You go and show Jean-Luc Olivier what you’re made of.”

Sophie stood on the street opposite the Pascha Silks mill in Lyon’s historic Croix-Rousse district, her heart bumping, holding on to the memory of her family’s loving farewell a little desperately. During the past few days, she had read the company brochure from cover to cover and done as much groundwork as she could, and not just confining her research to the silk-weaving industry. She learned that Jean-Luc Olivier had a privileged upbringing and had been expensively educated at one of France’s top private schools. He retired from racing suddenly, at the height of his career. He was not married. It was impossible to discover if he was in a relationship. Recent photos showed him escorting various implausibly thin and beautiful women. There were no direct interviews and absolutely no clues to the man himself.

The building in front of her was just as impenetrable. Large gold letters spelled out the words
Pascha Silks
above the doorway, matching the stylish brochure. Sophie gazed up at the building’s façade. Impossible to see what was happening behind all those windows. She shifted her shoulder bag, lifted her chin with a bravery she was far from feeling, and began to cross the road.

* * * *

Two storeys up, from his desk on the second floor, Jean-Luc broke off his telephone conversation and placed his mobile on the table. He moved nearer the window, narrowing his eyes against the light.

She was standing hesitantly on the other side of the road, a copy of the company brochure clutched to her chest. She was very primly dressed in a blouse and tight pencil skirt, her luxurious black hair drawn back into a neat bun. She was still beautiful.

A slow smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. She had come, and his instincts had been right. She was nothing if not courageous. He followed her as she squared her shoulders and tilted her head determinedly. Looking right and left, she crossed the road towards the main entrance of the building and disappeared beneath him.

Jean-Luc turned to his desk, his smile replaced by a look of uncharacteristic self-doubt. They had both changed. The young English girl he had known four years ago had matured. He thought of the figure he had glimpsed through the window. She was more curvaceous, more womanly than the teenager he had known. He made the mistake of letting his thoughts dwell on that figure, and suddenly he was filled with the same adrenaline rush he had at the starting-line of every race. And the same determination to win, at all costs.

The phone on his oak desk purred softly.

“
Mademoiselle
Challoner,
monsieur
.” His receptionist hesitated over the English name.

“
Bon
, Annette. Send her upstairs to me.”

* * * *

Downstairs in reception, Sophie clutched the brochure more tightly. The receptionist had offered her a seat, but she preferred to calm her nerves by inspecting the silks on show in the reception area. It was an exotic display. Brightly coloured fabrics fell in dramatic folds from several stands arranged along one wall. Sophie reached out a hand to feel the softness of a peacock silk glide through her fingers. She was filled with an incredible sense of the surreal.

“Monsieur Olivier will see you now,” said the receptionist. “Good luck.”

Sophie gave a small, tight nod in return, unable to smile.

That’s me—lucky
, she thought with dull irony when she reached the MD’s door. A brass plaque stared at her coldly. JEAN-LUC OLIVIER. DIRECTEUR-GENERAL.

She straightened her shoulders and knocked.

“Come in.” The deep, familiar voice came unhurried through the heavy door. Sophie hesitated just a fraction, before turning the brass handle and pushing the door wide.

He was silhouetted by the window, hands in his pockets, leaning back against the frame. Sophie registered again the change in his appearance. She was still expecting to confront his younger self, to see him in a leather jacket, his hair tousled, a silk shirt open at the neck. Instead, a sober suit and tie completed the sensation of the surreal. His face, the same she had known, yet curiously different, was dark and unsmiling against the white of his collar.

Sophie took in at a glance the office desk, the neat rows of files, the computer humming softly in the corner. In spite of the trappings of convention, something in Jean-Luc’s pose reminded her forcefully of the driven young man she had known. Neither of them moved. The powerful neck and shoulders were outlined against the light. It was a figure ready for action. A chill settled into Sophie’s very bones. Perhaps realising she was poised for flight, Jean-Luc shifted suddenly and moved away from the window.

He held out his hand. “
Mademoiselle
Challoner.” A slow, disarming smile spread, lighting his gaze with unexpected warmth. Sophie put her hand in his.

As soon as she felt the strength in his brown hand, she was thrown instantly to the night she had lain beside him, his powerful arms wrapped around her, pressed to the heat of him. Despite herself, she closed her eyes momentarily.

“Or perhaps I should call you Sophie?” he continued, looking down. “Since we know each other so well.”

Sophie’s eyes flew open. Now she knew for certain it had been a mistake to come. She tugged her hand out of his grasp. He let go of her immediately and stepped back, the harsh lines on his face softening.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was unforgivable of me.”

Sophie stared at him blankly.

“Yes, I’m apologising. Is that so hard to believe?” The laugh that accompanied his question had a harsh edge. “It was ungentlemanly of me. Let’s start again. Please, sit down.”

Without waiting for her reply, he turned to sit behind his large oak desk, swivelling his leather chair to face her. When she did not move, he indicated the seat in front of him. For a few moments they regarded each other without speaking, Sophie’s eyes still guarded, his own coolly determined. Eventually Sophie sat, warily, in the seat opposite his.

He smiled. The smile had an air of satisfaction that caused Sophie’s hackles to rise.

“Why am I here?” she asked abruptly.

“I don’t understand your question,
mademoiselle
.” He raised his dark eyebrows.

“I think you do understand. And I don’t like being manipulated. Why here? Why now?”

Jean-Luc leaned forward, his expression faintly derisory. “Were you expecting our encounter all those years ago to be free from repercussions? No one escapes the consequences of their actions,
mademoiselle
Challoner.”

Sophie gasped, eyes widening in outrage. “They were your actions as well as mine,” she said hotly. She knew straightaway her words were a mistake. What she saw in his eyes caused her to flush bright red, the hot colour eradicating her pallor.

 “Oh, I remember my actions very well.” His eyes were lit with a dangerous glow. “As well as I remember yours.”

Sophie drew back. The memory of that night burned in her mind. Unlike Jean-Luc, she was struggling to keep her feelings under control. The heat in her cheeks refused to subside. She drew a deep breath.

“It was a long time ago. Why bring it back now?”

“When you get to know me better, you will realise I don’t like mysteries. Now
you
,
mademoiselle
Challoner, have turned out to be something of a mystery.”

“That’s not true. There’s nothing remotely mysterious about me.”

“Oh but I think there is. A woman who passes herself off as a groupie, spends a passionate night with a stranger, then returns to London, telling him she is already engaged. The fiancé turns out to be a lie. Four years later the same woman reinvents herself as a model student and picture of respectability.”

“It’s not invention. This is my life!”

“So I understand. But something doesn’t quite ring true.” His eyes narrowed. “What did you hope to gain from that night,
mademoiselle
? Your grandmother’s friends called you a gold-digger. They say your family is in debt. Did you try and sell your story, was that it? A few thousand euros for a kiss and tell?”

“That’s incredibly offensive.”

Jean-Luc merely shrugged. “It’s been tried by women in worse financial straits than you are.”

“I’m not in financial straits.” Jean-Luc’s blue eyes were a lot more penetrating than Sophie remembered. Suddenly, it was desperately important that she show him no weakness, no dire need for money. She immediately compounded her lie with a greater one. “My grandmother made me her heiress.”

As soon as the words had left her lips, she wondered what on earth had possessed her to say them. Her grandmother had left her with nothing at all. In fact, her grandmother had frittered away all her money in her final years trying to keep up the appearance of wealth. Sophie felt sorry for her grandmother. Insecurity had made her foolish and vain. Jean-Luc Olivier had no excuse for his arrogance. So, even knowing it was wrong, she sealed her lips on her lie and lifted her chin.

Jean-Luc refused to let the subject drop.

“Your tutor tells me your father has been ill. Is that right?”

Sophie folded her arms across her body in an unconsciously defensive gesture.

“What do you know about my family?” she asked, her words a sharp, protective staccato.

“I know your mother died when you were a teenager, and your father has been ill.” His voice was deadly quiet. “I know it is you who pays for your brother’s music lessons. I know you have no one left to protect you.”

His knowledge of her history shook Sophie to the core. For a moment she stared at him, rigid with shock. Then her nerves, strung to the limit since her grandmother’s death, snapped into volatile little pieces. A match was lit to the loneliness within her and she leapt to her feet, violet eyes ablaze.

“How dare you threaten me! How dare you! I’ve lost my family and you dare to make threats. My family is nothing to you.” Her fear at her current helpless situation poured out of her in a torrent of useless, shaking rage. She knew she was out of control—the hot, angry tears welled and fell, blurring her vision, but she was powerless to stop.