Tessa sat staring at Jean-Claude’s head, thinking it was very shapely and that he had good hair. Suddenly, as if her eyes had bored into him, he glanced over his shoulder and stared at her. And she stared back. Then without saying a word he swung his head rather abruptly and looked straight ahead through the windscreen, remained totally silent as they drove to the restaurant.
Tessa sat very still, not moving at all, saying nothing, just thinking about him, asking herself what was happening to her? And why now? She half-listened to Lorne and Michel discussing an old French movie they both loved, Belle de Jour, but mostly she was thinking about Jean-Claude Deléon, replaying in her head their meeting just over an hour ago. Was that all it was? Only an hour? She felt as if she’d known him always…how curious to feel that…
Quite innocently she had gone with Lorne to that grand private house on the Faubourg Saint-Germain; a hôtel particulier it was called, as were all these grand private homes in Paris, each one hidden behind forbiddingly high stone walls. They had entered the inner courtyard through a black-painted door set in a narrow side wall, crossed the large cobblestone yard, gone through the front door of the house and mounted an imposing staircase which led to the handsome foyer.
Since Lorne had not told her very much about his old friend, she had not known what to expect; much to her astonishment she had found herself mesmerized by him the instant she set eyes on him.
He had been sitting behind the flat-topped writing desk, books stacked in front of him, people clamouring at his shoulder for his attention and his signature. It seemed to her they were full of adulation.
And then he had moved slightly when he had caught sight of her walking towards him with Lorne, and their eyes had locked and held. Immediately she had been drawn to him, pulled closer. Perhaps it was his eyes, which were magnetic, amber-brown and deep set below shapely dark brows that matched his dark hair. His face was well-defined with a strong jaw, broad brow, aquiline nose, generous mouth and a full lower lip. She wasn’t sure how old he was, a lot older than her certainly but she didn’t care; it was instantly apparent to her that he was all male, masculinity personified, in fact. A man’s man.
Suddenly her legs had felt weak and she had trembled inside as he had risen, walked around the desk, stood waiting for her. She had met his intense gaze head on and had found it impossible to look away. They had shaken hands but he had not let go of her fingers, and she hadn’t minded that. And they had just stood there oblivious to everyone, gazing at each other. She had realized at that moment how irresistibly drawn to him she was, had felt the strong pull of sexual attraction and desire. And yet it was so much more than a purely physical thing. It was spiritual also. She felt as if he were looking deep into her soul, seeing her innermost self, and she had understood something else…understood that they were making a pact with each other, albeit unspoken. At that moment, in that grand entrance foyer, something profound had happened, had connected between them, and she was aware there was already an undercurrent of intimacy even though they had only just met.
Now as she sat in the back of the car, being driven through the busy streets of Paris, an involuntary shiver ran through her. Automatically she straightened on the seat as she admitted to herself that there was something inevitable about them.
Matters were out of her hands. The fates had brought them together. Other forces were at work.
He took them to Taillevent on the rue Laminnais, a restaurant she was familiar with but did not know well. It had been closed for a month’s summer vacation since mid-July, had only just re-opened, so there was a flurry of greetings and friendly chatter when they arrived. And he was treated with such deference and awe, as though he were a king, that Tessa was startled. Yet there was a warm familiarity between him and the staff which he appeared to encourage, and she realized there was a sense of humility in him despite his fame. This pleased her, gave her pause for thought.
Once they were shown to the table, Jean-Claude began to seat them, just as Marie-Hélène, her husband, and the other couple arrived. All of a sudden Tessa noticed she would not be sitting next to him; he had placed her at one end of the table, flanked by Alain and Michel, whilst he took the other end, between Marie-Hélène and Natalie.
This meant he was looking directly at her down the stretch of the table, and although he was the perfect host, cosseting them all, talking to everyone, motioning to waiters, being the bon vivant, his eyes inevitably came back to her face every few minutes.
It seemed to Tessa that the evening passed in a foggy blur. She did everything by rote, ordered food, played around with it whilst barely tasting it or enjoying it. Occasionally she sipped her wine, and made conversation with the two men seated on either side.
Sometimes she looked across at Lorne, half smiled or spoke a few words to him, but mostly she remained quiet, attentive, listening, trying to glean as much as she could about Jean-Claude. And she rarely took her eyes off him. Once or twice he asked her if she liked the food, or gave her a faint smile, but mostly he spoke eloquently about the things which interested him and the others at the table–theatre and film, literature, and politics. Endlessly they all chattered about international politics, world conditions and the future.
As he talked she began to understand more about him. She knew he was considered a great thinker and philosopher in France, but she hadn’t realized he had covered wars–in Bosnia, Kosovo and Afghanistan. That he was a journalist of some standing and repute quickly became apparent to her; she also learned he was a protégé and favourite of President Mitterrand; that the French elite thought of him as another André Malraux; and that he had made documentaries, and written a play that had run at the Comédie Française, one of the great theatres of Paris.
The only thing she didn’t know was his exact age. Lorne had said he was about forty-nine, but she thought he was wrong. Jean-Claude looked to be in his fifties to her, although she had to admit to herself she’d never been very good at guessing people’s ages.
And so the evening went until it was time for them to leave the restaurant. Once more he came with them in the car, but insisted that she and Lorne were dropped off first at the hotel. When they arrived there, Jean-Claude got out, came to say goodnight to her on the steps. He took one of her hands, brought it to his lips and kissed it. Then he stepped back, gave her a long penetrating look as if committing her face to memory.
‘À bientôt,’ he murmured and stepped to one side, shook Lorne’s hand and said goodnight. A moment later he was gone, the car driving off down the street.
As she and Lorne walked through the lobby to the lift, her brother said, ‘That was an abrupt departure. I was about to ask him to come in for a nightcap. I know he likes a good Calvados.’
‘Obviously he wants to get home,’ she responded softly.
‘He’s very taken with you, Tess.’
‘Is he?’
Lorne gave her a swift, peculiar look and exclaimed, ‘Come on, you know he is!’ When she was silent, he asked, ‘What about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘You know what I mean. Are you interested in him? Stupid question, isn’t it, when you were practically swooning at his feet.’
‘Is that what I was doing?’ She looked up at her brother, her silvery eyes questioning.
‘Yes, you were. I’ve never seen you like that ever before. But then I’ve never seen him behave like that either.’
‘So you’ve seen him with women have you, Lorne?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘And how did he seem then?’
‘Laid back. Cool.’
‘And how was he with me? At the actual book-signing, I mean?’
‘Bowled over. Very taken. Suddenly smitten. Actually, I think the word I’m looking for is intent. He was very intent and intense.’
Tessa sighed but said nothing as they got into the lift and went up to their suite. Once they were inside, she swung around and said to her brother: ‘I’m going to say goodni
ght, darling. I’m tired. I want to go to bed. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘No, of course not, Tess.’ He kissed her cheek, watched her as she walked down the sitting room to her bedroom. He thought: She’ll be all right.
Once she was in her bedroom, Tessa sat down in the chair near the bed and looked at the book in her hands, which she had clutched all evening. It had an arresting cover, showed a collapsed suit of medieval armour. His name blazed across the top and at the bottom was the title. One word. WARRIORS. She turned to the inside back flap, studied his photograph for a moment, started to read about him.
The phone began to ring, and she reached for it. ‘Hello?’ she said.
‘C’est moi.’
‘I know.’
‘When can I see you?’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘That’s good. For lunch?’
‘Yes,’ she said, her heart beginning to clatter against her ribcage.
‘I hope Lorne will not feel–how shall I say? Left out.’
‘He has other plans tomorrow,’ she improvised.
‘Bien. Je vous envoi une voiture. At noon.’
‘Thank you.’
‘À demain,’ he said and was gone.
Tessa stared at the phone for a moment, put the book down on the bed, and went out into the sitting room. Lorne was nursing a balloon of Calvados and watching a political show on CNN, but swung his head as she came in. ‘Do you want one of these?’ he asked, lifting his glass.
‘I don’t know…’ She paused when she came to the sofa and stared at her brother. ‘Jean-Claude just phoned.’
‘I guessed it was him.’
‘I’m having lunch with him tomorrow.’
Lorne nodded. ‘He told me he was going to phone you about lunch.’
Seating herself on the arm of the sofa she exclaimed, ‘He did! Was he asking your permission? I hope not. I’m thirty-two, for heaven’s sake, a mother, and about to become a divorcee.’
Lorne threw back his head and laughed. ‘Don’t sound so indignant. Of course he wasn’t asking my permission. He’s not like that. When we were leaving Taillevent he told me he intended to call you when he got home, that he wanted to take you to lunch. And I suppose he wanted me to know that, since I’m your brother and we are here in Paris together. Also, he and I are good friends.’
When she remained silent, biting her lip, and looking worried, Lorne added, ‘He’s a grown man, Tessa. He’d never ask my permission to take you out. He was simply being courteous. He’s very gentlemanly, well mannered, always has been, about everything.’
She merely nodded, murmured, ‘I understand,’ and walked over to the bar, where she poured herself a small glass of Calvados.
As she returned to the sofa, Lorne lowered the volume of the television set, raised his glass and with a smile said, ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’ Tessa sat down opposite him and asked, ‘What did he write in your book?’
‘He said he admired my talent as an actor, called me his bien ami, and wished me luck with the film. What did he put in yours?’
‘Something rather odd.’
‘What?’
‘He wrote my name, and then Je suis là.’
‘I am here. That’s what he wrote? It does sound a bit odd. I am here what?’
Tessa shook her head. ‘I am here…waiting. I am here…for you. That’s how I interpreted it.’
‘I think you’re correct. And I was right, he is full of intent.’
‘I find him very compelling.’
‘Yes, he’s extremely charismatic’
‘And you don’t mind that I’m having lunch with him? You’re not warning me about him?’
‘No. I wouldn’t warn you about a man like Jean-Claude Deléon. He’s…a giant of a man, very serious, very responsible. He’s what Uncle Ronnie would call a mensch.’
‘But you said he was a ladies’ man,’ she reminded him.
‘I did, but I didn’t mean he was a womanizer, because I don’t believe he is. Oh, there’ve been lots of women in his life, I know that. But he’s not a philanderer. What I meant when I said he was a ladies’ man is that he likes women, admires women. He’s not a misogynist like some men I know who are red-blooded but don’t like women.’
‘I see.’ She leaned back in the chair, and sipped her drink. After a moment she said, ‘He’s sending a car for me tomorrow at noon.’
‘I told you he was a gentleman. Anyway, my Tess, you should be flattered. Before he meets you for lunch he’s going to be at the Élysées Palace with the President of France.’
Not far away from the Paris O’Neill Hotel, Jonathan Ainsley sat in a small bar on a narrow street just off the Champs-Élysées.
He was waiting for Mark Longden, wondering where he was and sipping a glass of Napoleon brandy. He kept glancing at his watch, cursing the other man under his breath. He was a stickler about time, loathed unpunctuality in others.
Lately, he had come to wonder if Mark had become something of a liability, a hindrance. He had expected more from him, had expected the man to have done much more to destroy Paula through her children.
Whilst it was true that Mark had managed to bring Tessa to her knees, there was still Linnet to take care of, and then Emsie. Jonathan wanted these three Harte women ruined, along with Paula. He hated all Harte women, except for his cousin Sarah; she was the exception to his rule.
Paula and her three daughters reminded him far too much of his grandmother, Emma Harte, whom he had detested throughout her life. He continued to harbour hatred for her, even in death. He believed that she had cheated him out of his inheritance, favouring Paula.
Mark suddenly pushed through the door, came hurrying into the bar, making for the table.
Watching him cross the floor, Jonathan was instantly struck by Mark’s ghastly pallor, his strained look, the tired eyes. After they greeted each other, Mark sat down and motioned to a waiter standing near the bar. When he came over to the table, Mark ordered a Napoleon, a cup of black coffee and a packet of Gauloise cigarettes.
‘Started smoking again, have you, Mark?’ Jonathan asked, a brow lifting sardonically. ‘I thought you were one of the true believers, that you condemned out of hand second-hand smoke.’
‘I still do, but I need a smoke tonight. I suppose you could say I need to indulge myself a little bit after a hard week.’
‘My dear Mark, I’ve plenty of things available which you can indulge yourself in, you just have to say the word. And certainly things that are much more pleasurable than a mere cigarette.’
Mark looked at him sideways and shook his head. ‘No women tonight, my friend. Or anything else. I’m too damned tired. It was a rough trip down from Thirsk to London, and I just made the plane to Paris.’
‘I told you to fly from Manchester. You could even have taken a flight from Yeadon. Well, never mind. How’s my house coming along?’ He asked this in a warm voice even though it was of no real interest to him. The last thing he wanted was a house in the north.
‘Even though I say it myself, it’s looking wonderful. I know you’re going to like it, Jonathan,’ Mark said. ‘More than that, you’re going to love it. You won’t want to leave. Ever.’
Now Jonathan merely smiled, inclined his head, knowing very well he would want to leave it and leave it a lot. There was his luxurious apartment here in Paris, and his palatial house on a hill overlooking the harbour in Hong Kong, not to mention his farm in Provence, the latest acquisition. Of course he would continue to travel to these homes, which were much more splendid than the country house in Yorkshire. The building at Thirsk was really only a ruse, wasn’t it? A ruse to delude Mark into thinking he needed an architect, when he had only needed a man to do his dirty work…which was ruining those ghastly women. With his inferiority complex, his desire for fame and money, Mark had been an easy target, particularly since he had innumerable weak spots. He was lustful and loved tarty women, and he couldn’t get enough of Ecstasy, even smack at times, a
lthough he was a bit more cautious when it came to heroin. And he liked to booze it up.
He is my creature, Jonathan thought, looking across the table at the younger man. He will do my bidding because I have him totally in my control. He needs all the things I can offer. Jonathan sat back, a satisfied smile playing around his mouth.
Mark drank the coffee, took a gulp of the cognac and then lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply, and once he had smoked for a few seconds, he said, ‘I heard on the grapevine up in Yorkshire that your father’s other son is in London…Owen Hughes. Staying at that Welshman’s hotel in Belgravia. Brought his wife with him from New York. Is seeing his daughter Evan, your father’s only grandchild, and has even had lunch with Gideon and Evan. It seems like there’s a family gathering going on. How about that?’
Jonathan was furious when he thought of Evan Hughes. The grandchild his father had always craved. She would have to be dealt with as well as the Harte women. He laughed silently. But she was a Harte, too, an offspring of the dreaded Emma. He would deal with her himself.
Before he could stop himself, Jonathan said, in a boastful voice, ‘I have a son, you know.’
Mark was flabbergasted and he gaped at Jonathan. ‘You have a son! Jesus Christ, man, why isn’t he with you, visiting your father with you in Yorkshire? That would certainly put Evan Hughes’s nose out of joint.’
‘My son lives in another country,’ Jonathan answered, which was the truth, and then realizing that more of an explanation was required, he added, ‘He has not been well for some time. He has to be protected, has to live in a warm climate, a special environment.’ This was not true. The truth was the son his wife had presented him with some years earlier had actually not been his, but that of his Chinese partner Tony Chui. It was his eyes that had given her game away, telegraphed to Jonathan the baby was not his. Damn and blast her, too.
‘Who told you all this about Owen Hughes, Mark?’