Maxim was fascinated. He wondered who she was.
As if she were aware that someone was scrutinising her she turned slowly.
Their gaze met.
Maxim saw that her eyes were large and luminous, a light grey-blue in colour. A dreamer’s eyes, he thought, unable to tear his gaze away from hers, mesmerised by her beauty. And yet there was something else, something more than her beauty which captivated him. There was a mysteriousness about her and it made him catch his breath.
The girl suddenly smiled at him.
It was the loveliest of smiles, lifted the corners of her pretty mouth in a tantalising tilt, dimpled her cheeks, brought a sudden gaiety and laughter to her sparkling eyes.
Maxim smiled back.
Unexpectedly, he felt very happy, almost light-headed with happiness. He knew it was her smile that made him feel this way… it seemed to fill all the empty places of his heart.
They just stood there staring at each other and smiling.
‘Here it is, Monsieur,’ the owner of the shop said, hurrying back from his private quarters, the antique book in his hands. ‘It is unique. And the illustrations are… wonderful.’
With great reluctance, Maxim pulled his eyes away from the girl.
He swung to face Monsieur Arcel, and glanced down at the book which the Frenchman had placed on the counter in front of him.
‘Look at the paintings,’ Monsieur Arcel exclaimed, opening the leather-bound volume at random, pointing to a page.
‘Yes, I see what you mean,’ Maxim murmured, and then, unable to resist, he swung his head, looked over his shoulder, his eyes seeking the girl again. To his surprise and dismay she was no longer standing near the window. She had vanished.
Maxim turned to Monsieur Arcel. Urgently, he asked, ‘The young woman who was standing there near the window, did she leave?’
‘Why yes, Monsieur West, she slipped out a moment ago. When you were perusing the book.’
‘Excuse me.’ Maxim rushed to the door, wrenched it open, ran out into the street, looked up and down anxiously.
He spotted her a little further along the quai. He was just in time to see her stepping into a taxi.
‘Wait!’ he cried.
She did not hear him. The sound of the traffic drowned out his voice.
Helplessly, Maxim stood and watched the cab slide into the swiftly moving line of cars on the Quai Saint-Michel and disappear from sight. A sigh trickled out of him and he swung around and went back into the shop, a sense of dejection descending on him.
‘Do you know the girl who just left, Monsieur Arcel?’ Maxim asked, striding back to the counter.
The old Frenchman shook his head. ‘I am so sorry, I do not. It is the first time I have seen her. Ah, but she is lovely, eh, Monsieur West?’
‘She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever set eyes on,’ Maxim said.
***
‘I’ve never seen you looking so morose, Duke. Not for years,’ Stubby murmured, peering at Maxim across the dinner table. ‘For God’s sake, do cheer up.’
Maxim chose not to comment. He picked up the glass of good burgundy, which Stubby had ordered earlier, and took a swallow.
Stubby also drank, observing his friend over the top of the glass, his eyes thoughtful.
The two men were sitting at a corner table in Chez Andrd, an excellent bistro on the Rue Marbeuf, not far from the Plaza-Athenee Hotel where they were staying.
Ever since he had returned to the hotel at six-thirty Stubby had been disturbed by Maxim’s glum face and even glummer demeanour. He took another sip of the red wine, put the glass down, and remarked, ‘You look as if it’s the end of the world.’
‘That’s how I feel.’ Maxim returned Alan Trenton’s steady gaze, then muttered, ‘I’ll never find that girl again.’
‘I can’t believe it!’ Stubby cried, his blue eyes widening. He was incredulous. ‘You, of all people, going on this way about a bloody female! You! And imagine, all these years I’ve believed that the only thing which really excited you, gave you pleasure, was business. It just goes to show what an idiot I am, doesn’t it?’ Stubby shook his head. ‘You’ve certainly fooled me, Duke.’
Seeing the humorous side, Maxim had the good grace to laugh. ‘I am behaving out of character, aren’t I?’
‘I’ll say.’
The noise of the bistro swirled all around them. They did not speak for a while.
Maxim drew closer, leaned across the table, and asked, ‘Can I let you in on a little secret?’
‘Why not? You’ve been telling me your secrets since you were eight. Why stop now?’
‘I think I’m in love.’
‘Oh come on!’ Stubby exploded. He was aghast. Then a shout of laughter burst out of him and he sat staring at Maxim, but quite suddenly his laughter died in his throat, and he said in a sober voice, ‘Good God, I think you mean it! But how can you have fallen in love with a girl you haven’t even spoken to? You, Maxim! Women are usually the last thing on your mind.’
‘I know. And you’re right, of course, Alan,’ Maxim said quietly, now feeling more than a little shamefaced. ‘I am being stupid, aren’t I? Crazy. Let’s forget about the girl and all that silliness, which is what it is, actually. Pure silliness. How did your meeting go?’ he asked, changing the subject.
‘Okay. More than okay. The French group are keen to do a deal. It was well worth my while, driving out to Versailles to see Monsieur Verland. They do have North African oil interests. Libya, I think. The bottom line is this: Monsieur Verland is prepared to come to London for talks, when Dad gets back from Hong Kong, so I think the old man will be pleased with the way I’ve handled things.’ Stubby sat back in the chair, gave Maxim a faint smile. ‘But I can’t help wishing I was still in business with you, old chap.’
‘So do I, Stubby. Come back! Tell your father the oil business bores you, that you want to work with me in Westrent again.’
‘I wish I could, but you know very well I can’t. Dad’s just not up to snuff these days, and if I did a bunk… it’d kill him, actually. He really needs me in the business with him.’
‘I know. But remember, you’re always welcome… I miss you.’
‘I feel the same way, Maxim. We’ve always been good sparring partners, haven’t we?’
‘The best.’
Stubby looked thoughtful. ‘The girl… how old was she?’
‘Seventeen or eighteen, thereabouts. Why?’ Maxim lifted a brow.
‘She’s probably a student. I bet she bought books at Arcel’s shop, and that she’ll go back. Why don’t we stop in there tomorrow? It’s Saturday, we’ve nothing better to do.’
‘Why? To what purpose?’
‘We could ask old Arcel a few pertinent questions. He might know more than he realises. We could jog his memory. You never know, she might have given him a clue to her identity, and he just doesn’t realise it.’
‘Oh, Stubby, that’s so far-fetched… it’s clutching at straws…’ Maxim’s voice trailed off lamely, and he fell silent. The impact of the girl was still fresh in his mind. He would give anything to know who she was, and to find her again.
FORTY
Anastasia saw him before he saw her.
He stood with his back to her, but then he moved his head slightly and she caught a glimpse of his face and her heart missed a beat. She did not have to look twice to recognise the man who had stared at her so penetratingly in Arcel’s bookshop yesterday.
That he was a guest at the party celebrating Yvette’s engagement to Philippe Amaud was surprising in itself. But that she had spotted him amongst the two hundred people present, and so early in the evening, was remarkable. Even more amazing was the fact that he was actually talking to her mother. At least, the blond young man with him was engaged in conversation; he just stood to one side, listening politely. And his companion and her mother appeared to know each other quite well, if their animated expressions were anything to judge by.
Anastasia hov
ered a short distance away, at the other side of the dance floor. She was standing next to an enormous potted orchid, one of the many exotic floral decorations used to enhance the tented gardens of the de Millinets’ house in Neuilly-sur-Seine, near the beautiful Bois de Boulogne.
She stepped behind the plant so that she was partially hidden from view herself but able surreptitiously to observe her mother and the two young men quite clearly.
***
Anastasia and her parents had arrived at the supper dance about half an hour ago, and, after greeting their host and hostess, and congratulating the newly engaged couple, they had stood chatting to each other for a few minutes, sipping champagne from crystal flutes, admiring the lovely setting and elegant guests. The men were in black tie. The women wore evening gowns and were much bejewelled. It was an extremely chic gathering; the creme de la creme of Parisian society mingled with movie people and members of the jet set.
After a while the three Derevenkos had separated and had wandered off in different directions. Alexander Derevenko had caught sight of some of his cronies from the picture business, and had loped off to hobnob with them near the bar. Margot had glided across the dance floor to join her friends Lucrezia and Sophie. Anastasia had drifted about aimlessly, seeking her own friends. Somewhat to her surprise not many of them were in evidence, certainly none of the girls to whom she was especially close. She felt rather lost, especially since Yvette clung to the arm of Philippe, her betrothed. There was such a scarcity of young people, she began to wonder if this was going to turn out to be a boring party—for adults only. Perhaps the de Millinets had invited more of their contemporaries than their daughter’s special chums. That was not uncommon on these sort of occasions.
And then a split second later, she had seen him.
Instantly, she had thought: Fate. We were fated to meet again. I just knew it was so last night.
She had not stopped thinking about him since yesterday afternoon. The minute she had arrived home she had regretted her hasty flight from Monsieur Arcel’s little antique bookshop on the Quai Saint-Michel. But the dark and handsome young man had had such an aura of sophistication and self-confidence about him, and he had stared at her so suggestively, and with such intensity through those dark piercing eyes, she had felt suddenly frightened. And somewhat inadequate. Shy, gauche, schoolgirlish, and most certainly out of her depth. She was very inexperienced when it came to men.
And so she had fled, run out into the street and hailed the first taxi she had seen.
But last night, when she had been dressing to go out to dinner with her parents and her father’s Hollywood associates, she had decided to make herself look more grown up, older. Practising, she had muttered to herself as she had piled her hair on top of her head, put on pink lipstick, dressed in one of her new and more sophisticated outfits, a black silk two-piece, and high-heeled black patent shoes.
Her father had looked slightly startled when she had joined him and her mother and their guests for cocktails in the garden. He had murmured that she looked chic, a word he had never used in relation to her before, and her mother smiled and nodded in agreement. Later, at Tour d’Argent, she had noticed that quite a lot of people glanced her way, admiringly, and she had been pleased.
Last night she had been testing the waters, preparing herself, wanting to be ready when she saw him again. She was positive that their paths would cross; she had simply not known how quickly.
It was meant to be, Anastasia thought, staring at his well-defined profile. She wondered what to do. She acknowledged to herself that she ought to go and speak to him immediately, whilst her mother was engaged in conversation with the blond young man, so that her mother could introduce her to him.
She hesitated, and in that moment she saw that her mother was nodding graciously and walking away, moving across the floor to join another group of friends nearby.
Now, Anastasia instructed herself. Go now. Go before it’s too late, before he disappears in the crowd.
Skirting the edge of the dance floor, where people were already beginning to dance, she walked over to the other side of the tented garden, and drew to a standstill immediately behind him.
He was tall. Taller than she had realised. At least six feet, and quite broad.
‘Good evening,’ she said.
He swung around and so did his companion. They both stared at her.
But she heard his quick intake of breath, observed his shock and disbelief registering, then saw pure pleasure invading his face.
‘It’s you!’ he exclaimed.
‘Yes.’
He thrust out his hand. ‘I’m Maximilian West. Tell me your name before you disappear again.’
She took hold of his hand. It felt smooth, dry, and his grip was strong. ‘I’m Anastasia Alexandrovna Derevenko,’ she said.
‘What a lovely name. And hello, Anastasia. Hello. Hello.’ He swung to his friend. ‘Alan, this is Anastasia. The young lady from Arcel’s bookshop.’
‘So I gather,’ Stubby said. ‘I can’t begin to tell you what a pleasure this is, Anastasia. You are Madame Derevenko’s daughter, aren’t you?’
Anastasia nodded. A small frown furrowed her brow. ‘Have we met before?’
Alan grinned. ‘My parents have a villa in Cannes, and they are friends of the de Millinets. And yes, I think we did meet once. Rather fleetingly, a long time ago. You were about twelve, I believe.’
‘Oh! Anastasia said and smiled at Alan. He smiled back. They all smiled at each other.
Alan said, ‘Excuse me, you two. I see an acquaintance of mine over there. Camilla Galland, the actress. I think I’ll go and talk to her. She seems to be all alone, looks a bit forlorn. See you later.’
Stubby sauntered off nonchalantly.
‘I thought I’d lost you,’ Maxim said with breathtaking candour, staring at her, continuing to cling to her hand. ‘I thought I’d never find you.’
‘I knew we’d meet again,’ she responded with the same brand of unselfconscious honesty.
‘You did?’ He sounded surprised.
‘Oh yes, I was certain.’
‘Why? I mean, what made you so sure?’
‘It’s Destiny.’
‘Oh.’ He paused, peered at her. ‘Are you saying that I am your destiny, Anastasia?’
‘Yes. And I am yours.’
‘I hope to God you are.’
She half smiled, stood looking up at him, her eyes growing dreamier than ever. He was even more handsome than she had realised yesterday: his face was strong and masculine, his dark eyes brilliant, his nose straight and well-shaped above a mouth she could only think of as being beautiful. It was wide, full and generous. There’s nothing mean about him, she thought, he’s a man of great heart. She could tell this from his eyes and his mouth, the expression on his face. His dark brown hair had a slight wave in it, was brushed straight back from a broad brow. Straight away she noticed how immaculately dressed he was. His dinner jacket had most obviously been cut by the best tailor in Savile Row and the dress studs down the front of his pleated voile shirt were small cabochon sapphires set in gold. Discreet, and expensive, as was the paper-thin gold watch on his wrist. His impeccable clothes and grooming pleased her. She liked men to be well dressed, just as her father was.
For his part, Maxim was staring down into a face that had haunted him for the past twenty-four hours. It was a face of infinite beauty and sensitivity, with that hint of mystery he had noticed yesterday. The face of an angel, he thought. A Botticelli angel. It was the eyes, of course, which so captivated. They were so luminous and light-filled they appeared to be transparent, and they were a lovely hazy-blue in colour. They reminded him of Mutti’s eyes.
It struck him that the girl appeared more grown-up tonight. It was the hairdo to a certain extent, upswept as it was into a coil of plaits on top of her head like a small coronet. Plus the touch of pink lipstick, the mascara on her thick blonde lashes. Yesterday she had not worn any makeup at all. The chiff
on gown she was dressed in tonight and the delicate opal-and-diamond jewellery also enhanced her natural loveliness.
Finally, he spoke. ‘What do you do, Anastasia?’
‘I go to school. Or rather, I did until I passed my Bac earlier this summer. I shall be starting at the Sorbonne in the autumn.’
He nodded. ‘How old are you?’
‘Eighteen. And how old are you, Maximilian?’
‘Twenty-five, and call me Maxim.’
‘All right, Maxim. And what do you do?’
‘I’m a financier.’
She laughed. ‘At twenty-five!’
‘Of course.’ He grinned at her. ‘I’m very clever.’
‘I’m sure you are.’ She laughed again. ‘Could we dance? I like this song.’
‘What’s it called?’
‘Darling Je Vous Aime Beaucoup.’
It seems appropriate, let’s dance.’
Still gripping her hand, he put his other arm around her shoulders, and led her to the dance floor, where he took her in his arms. For a moment he did not move, just held her very close to him, and she could feel his heart beating very rapidly, as hers was. They stood clutching each other for a little longer, and then he guided her onto the floor, staring down at her, smiling.
‘It’s a charming song,’ he said as they began to dance.
‘A friend of my father’s wrote it,’ she told him. ‘Anna Sosenko. She’s also in show business.’
‘Does that mean your father is?’
‘Yes, he’s a film producer.’
Maxim merely nodded.
Once they fell into the rhythm of the music and were moving perfectly in step, Maxim slid one hand down her back, and pressed her body into his, and Anastasia welded herself to him. They danced on in silence, cheek to cheek, and she wished the dance would never end; and so did he.
Maxim kept her on the dance floor for several numbers, wanting to hold her in this intimate way, reluctant to let go of her. But at last he said, ‘Let’s sit and talk, Anastasia.’