Remember

  Clee opened his eyes quite suddenly and caught her studying him. He reached for her, pulled her into his arms, nuzzled his face in her neck, kissing her tenderly.

  Then he whispered against her ear, ‘You had such a pensive look on your face when I opened my eyes… what were you thinking about?’

  ‘You, actually.’

  ‘Ah, I see. And what were you thinking about me?’

  ‘I decided you were… true blue. That’s what my mother calls people she admires.’

  She felt him smile against her neck.

  He said, ‘Is that a roundabout way of telling me you admire me?’ Not waiting for her answer, he added, ‘I wish you felt more than admiration.’

  ‘I do,’ she protested, ‘I feel a lot of things—’ She broke off, pulled away, looked into his dark brown eyes which were dancing with mischief. ‘Oh you! You!’ she cried, putting her hand against his chest, making a weak attempt to push him away. ‘You were trying to trap me into saying something I may later regret.’

  ‘Who, little old me? Never.’ He grinned at her, looking highly amused, and brought her back into the circle of his arms. Stroking her hair gently, he then began to smooth his hands down over her back, and found her mouth with his, devoured it, and ever so slowly he began to make love to her.

  Instantly Nicky was aflame, hungry for him even though they had made love only a couple of hours ago. She ached to feel the hardness of him inside her, ached to be joined to him, to be part of him.

  As if he could read her mind, he was suddenly on top of her, bracing his hands on either side of her body, pushing himself up above her, looking down into her face.

  She reached up to touch him, let her fingers trace a delicate line across his mouth, her eyes focused on his intently.

  He returned her gaze unblinkingly, and entered her with that same force he had used the first night they had made love in the garden, and it brought a cry of surprise and pain to her lips. He paid no attention, was working against her harder and harder, and the pain eased and she was opening up to him, flowing to him. She wrapped her arms and legs around his body, binding him to her, her skin against his skin, her breath mingling with his breath.

  Clee kissed her hard, almost with violence, and then unexpectedly he arched back and away from her, groaned as if in anguish. ‘I love you, Nicky,’ he cried. ‘I love you.’ She felt him flowing into her as she had flowed into him only a split second before, and at this moment she thought: and I am falling in love with you. But she was unable to say this, and so remained silent, holding him close when he collapsed against her and buried his face in her hair.

  FIFTEEN

  Clee paused in the doorway of the library and leaned against the door jamb, staring at Nicky.

  ‘Hi,’ she said when she saw him and, smiling, she walked towards him.

  The dress she wore had a round neck and no sleeves, was cut loose and full, and it fell in folds from ruching on the shoulders. Its colour was a delphinium blue that exactly matched her marvellous eyes, and as she moved forward the light silk swirled around her like a cloud. The pearls encircling her throat in a choker and the matching studs on her ears looked unusually luminous against her tan, and with her golden skin, golden hair and brilliant eyes Clee thought there was a special kind of sheen about her tonight.

  When she drew to a standstill in front of him he saw, on closer inspection, that she had the inner glow of a woman who has recently been well and truly loved, and who has loved in return. There was a subtle sexuality about her—a rosy bloom on her skin, a ripeness around her mouth, and a wise expression in her eyes. It was an unmistakable look, and one which a man always recognizes.

  ‘You look gorgeous, Nicky,’ he said, straightening up, taking hold of her bare arm possessively, kissing her lightly on the cheek.

  ‘You don’t look so bad yourself,’ she responded, eyeing him appraisingly, noting the excellent cut of his cream sports jacket, the fineness of the cream voile shirt that set off his tan and dark colouring, the expensive wine-silk tie, the well-tailored black linen slacks and highly-polished black loafers. After giving him another admiring glance, she added, ‘Good enough to eat, in fact.’

  ‘We’ll leave that for later,’ he quipped, breaking into a chuckle. Moving her forward towards the landing, he went on, ‘We’d better be on our way. I had a tough time getting a table, and I don’t want to lose it.’

  A few minutes later Clee was pulling out of the courtyard and rolling down the driveway.

  Nicky asked him, ‘Where are we going? You’ve been so mysterious.’

  ‘Have I? I didn’t mean to be.’ He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, brought his gaze back to the road, concentrating on his driving. Then he explained, ‘We’re going to Les Baux, a town not far from here, just beyond St Rémy. The restaurant is called L’Oustau de Baumanière. It’s a charming place and the food is excellent. And I know, before you say it again for the umpteenth time, you’ve had enough meals to last you a lifetime. But you don’t have to eat very much, Nick, just a taste. In any case, I really wanted to take you there because it’s a unique spot, and besides, tonight’s a celebration.’

  ‘What are we celebrating?’ She turned to look at him, wedging herself in the corner of the seat, resting her shoulder against the car window.

  ‘We’re celebrating our book—which we now have a title for. And a few other things.’

  ‘Such as what?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later.’

  Clee turned on the disc player and the car was instantly flooded with George Gershwin’s ‘Rhapsody in Blue’, and they drove in silence for a long while, listening to the music; as usual they were at ease with each other whether they spoke or not.

  But at one moment, as they were passing through St Rémy, Nicky said, ‘Les Baux rings a bell in my mind… I think my mother had several references to it in one of her books. But I can’t remember exactly why, or which book, for that matter.’

  ‘Les Baux is very old,’ Clee told her. ‘It’s a feudal city that’s been around for thousands of years, and it sits on soaring rocky outcroppings high above some of the deep valleys in this region. It’s mostly ruins now, a sort of ghost town in a sense. Still, it’s quite imposing on its airy perch, and it was very famous in the Middle Ages, from the eleventh to the fifteenth centuries, when the Lords of Baux ruled the area. They were rather bloody and violent, ferocious men, rough, and yet they gave their patronage to the troubadours—’

  ‘Of course!’ Nicky exclaimed. ‘That’s it! Troubadours. Now I remember. My mother wrote about Les Baux in her book on Eleanor of Aquitaine, when she touched on Eleanor’s patronage of Bernard de Ventadour, one of the most famous troubadours of all. It was at Les Baux that respect for the lady and the ritual of worshipping her beauty began. The first troubadours started writing, singing, and playing their lutes there.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Clee responded, ‘and the Baux fortress when it was in its heyday and at the height of its great splendour was renowned for its “Court of Love”, and chivalry towards women.’

  ‘I’m so glad we’re going there, Clee. My mother will be fascinated to hear all about it when I get back to New York.’

  ‘I’m not planning to take you up to the fortress and the ruins tonight,’ Clee said quickly, glancing at her askance. ‘It’s far too complicated, not to mention a strenuous climb. You’d never make it in those high heels you’re wearing, babe.’

  Nicky laughed. ‘That’s all right, I don’t feel much like sightseeing or climbing to great heights this evening.’

  ***

  Not long after this conversation, Clee was pulling up outside L’Oustau de Baumanière, which was set under the white stone cliffs below the ancient town of Les Baux.

  After parking the car, he ushered Nicky into the famous restaurant, where they were greeted pleasantly by the maître d’, who obviously knew Clee, and who suggested they have an apéritif outside on the terrace.

  Ten minutes later Clee li
fted his flute of champagne, touched it to hers and said, ‘Here’s to you, Nicky darling.’

  ‘And to you, Clee.’ She smiled at him over the rim of her glass and, after taking a sip of the cold sparkling wine, she said, ‘Now, tell me what else we’re celebrating, as well as the book.’

  He reached for her hand resting on the table, and placed his over it. ‘We’re celebrating being alive, being together, being lucky enough to have lived our lives the way we’ve wanted to live them—at least so far in the game. And most importantly, we’re celebrating being lovers as well as friends.’

  ‘Oh Clee, those are lovely things to say and to celebrate, and we are lucky, aren’t we. Most people have so little, really.’

  ‘Sadly, that’s true.’

  ‘And thank you for bringing me here tonight.’ She looked around her again… the terrace was ablaze with flowers… the gardens were lushly green… the varied species of trees growing under the white stone cliffs were in full bloom. The setting was one she truly appreciated and she said, ‘This is such a beautiful place, Clee…’ Sitting back in her chair, she eyed him carefully. ‘And what with all its ancient symbolism to do with the troubadours and their songs of love, I’m beginning to think you’re a romantic at heart, however much you might want to disguise that fact.’

  ‘I don’t, at least not with you, and I think you’re right, I am a bit of a romantic,’ he admitted, giving her a half smile. Almost immediately, his expression changed, became more serious and he glanced down into his drink, looking unexpectedly reflective.

  This sudden change in him was almost imperceptible, but Nicky noticed it and leaning forward she asked, ‘What is it? Is something wrong?’

  ‘No, no, of course not,’ he answered, looking up and shaking his head. He gazed at her for a long moment, his eyes riveted on hers. ‘I said something to you this afternoon, and because it was said at the height of passion, you probably think that I didn’t really mean it. But I did, and I do, and I’m going to say it again, even if you don’t wish to hear it…’ There was a small pause. ‘I love you, Nicky.’

  She stared at him. Her eyes were huge in her face and glittering brilliantly. There was no question in her mind that Clee was speaking the truth, being sincere; he didn’t know any other way to be. ‘Clee,’ she began, and stopped.

  ‘You don’t have to say you love me, Nicky. Maybe you do, maybe you don’t. We have plenty of time, you and I, to find out about that. One day you’ll tell me how you feel about me—when you know yourself. In the meantime, I just wanted to tell you, here and now when we’re not in bed, that I love you. I have for a long time, without realizing it.’

  Her lips parted and she looked as if she was about to speak.

  Clee shook his head. ‘Not a word, Nicky, not now. It’s not necessary,’ he said, his smile warm and loving.

  ‘But I want to say something.’ She hesitated fractionally, before murmuring, ‘I have all kinds of feelings for you, Clee, and not the least of which is my… my physical passion for you.’ She was on the verge of telling him that she thought she was falling in love with him, and then changed her mind. Instead, she said, ‘And I do love you, as my dearest friend…’ Her sentence trailed off.

  ‘I know you do.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t look so worried.’

  Nicky laughed. ‘I didn’t realize I did.’ She sighed lightly. ‘These past few days have been just… glorious, Clee, there’s no other way of describing them.’ A wistful expression flitted onto her face. ‘I’m so sorry they’re coming to an end.’

  ‘But they’re not. You’ll be with me tomorrow night in Paris, and on Friday and Saturday, before you leave for the States on Sunday.’ He stroked her arm lightly, traced little lines up and down with his fingertips. ‘Three whole days and nights, not counting this evening.’ Bending into her, he kissed the tip of her nose. ‘And I’m going to make love to you the entire time—circumstances and surroundings permitting.’

  ‘Clee Donovan, you’re incorrigible!’

  ‘If I am, it’s because of you.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be, I’m not complaining. Now, let’s look at the menu.’ He swung his head, spotted a waiter hovering, and gestured to him. The man hurried over and Clee asked for more champagne to be poured, adding that they would like to see the menu.

  ‘Oui, Monsieur,’ the waiter answered as he filled their flutes.

  SIXTEEN

  The interior of the restaurant was equally as eye-catching as the exterior.

  An arched ceiling, stone walls and matching floor gave it a medieval feeling, as did the high-backed chairs covered in blue-and-gold brocade velvet, the Provençal antiques made of dark wood, and the lantern-style ceiling lamps. Pretty floral cloths covered the tables, each of which had its own three-branch silver candelabra and bowl of flowers, and there were other huge bowls of colourful blooms scattered throughout.

  Because Clee had ordered the dinner whilst they were sitting outside on the terrace drinking champagne, they were served their first course almost immediately. Nicky had selected melon, Clee one of the specialities of the house. This was ravioli with truffles and leeks, which he insisted she try.

  ‘Just one piece,’ he cajoled, ‘it’s delicious. It’ll melt in your mouth.’ Spearing a square of ravioli with his fork, he leaned over the table and fed it to her. He watched her eat it, his warm, dark eyes full of love for her.

  ‘It is wonderful, but that’s enough, thanks, Clee.’ Dropping her voice, she whispered, ‘If I get fat, I won’t turn you on anymore. How would you like them apples?’

  ‘You’ll always turn me on. That is the one thing I’m certain of in this uncertain world.’

  Nicky merely smiled, and dug her spoon into the sweet and succulent Cavaillon melon, which Amelia kept insisting was the best in the whole of la belle France. She decided Amelia was correct.

  Whilst they waited for their main course, Clee spoke about the book, and the various sequences for the photographs, which he had been planning since his return from Beijing. When he had explained everything to her, he leaned back and said, ‘Well, what do you think?’

  ‘It sounds great, and anyway, you know best, Clee, you really do. You’ve done these books before, whereas I’m just a novice, besides which I’m only writing the introduction.’

  ‘Hey, don’t say only in that way, the words are just as important as the pictures.’

  ‘Not really. But it’s nice of you to say so.’

  ‘I was thinking of dedicating the book to Yoyo, and to the memory of Mai. How do you feel about that, Nick?’

  ‘Oh Clee, what a good idea. By the way, I’ve been wanting to tell you, I feel very positive about Yoyo and I have for the past few days. I’m pretty sure he’s going to make it.’

  ‘We’ve got to keep on believing that.’

  The wine waiter was suddenly at their table, pouring more of the white wine with which they had started their meal. ‘It is an excellent wine, is it not, Monsieur Donovan?’ he said.

  ‘Marvellous. And I’ve had this particular Puligny-Montrachet before. In fact, you recommended it to me the last time I was here.’

  ‘I believe I did,’ the wine waiter responded with a deferential smile. He nodded politely to Nicky, then stepped away, moving in the direction of another table.

  ‘I hope you like this wine, Nicky,’ Clee said. ‘I ordered it because it has enough power to hold its own with the richest-flavoured food, and the daurade we both chose has a rich orange sauce. Also, the fish itself is flavoured with herbs. Anyway, I think this fruity Chardonnay goes well with it.’ Clee shifted in his chair, turned the bottle around and studied it for a second. ‘This is a great label—Clos du Vieux Château, Laboure-Roi, and it comes from the world’s capital of Chardonnay, the village in the Côte d’Or where no other type of grape is grown.’

  Nicky sat gaping at Clee, taken aback by this unexpected display of knowledge about wine. Finding her voice, she said, ‘I didn’t know you
were an oenologist.’

  ‘Good God, I’m not, I’m hardly an expert!’ He looked across at her and explained. ‘I just happen to like good wine, and since I live in France I’ve made a point of knowing a bit about some of the best vineyards. After all, I can’t always drink that plonk we make at the farm.’ He frowned. ‘What is it, Nick? You’ve got the queerest look on your face.’

  ‘Nothing, honestly.’ Nicky shivered slightly and a small nervous laugh escaped. ‘I had a funny sense of déjà vu, as if I’d heard those exact words before, but of course I haven’t.’

  ‘That’s right, I’ve never discussed wine with you.’

  No, but Charles always did, she thought, picked up her glass and took a sip of the Puligny-Montrachet. ‘Mmmm, it is good, Clee. Delicious.’

  At this moment the main course arrived, accompanied by several waiters. It was served to them with quite a few fancy flourishes. Nicky caught Clee’s eye and winked at him, and he had to swallow the sudden laughter rising in his throat.

  When they were finally left alone to eat the fish, he grinned at her. ‘That wink and the expression on your face said more to me than a thousand words ever could.’

  ‘Isn’t that what I keep telling you?’

  ‘And I don’t recall disagreeing with you. How’s the daurade, do you like it?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, it’s one of my favourites. I often had it as a child when my parents brought me down to the south of France. And fish isn’t fattening.’

  Clee burst out laughing. ‘Honestly, Nicky, I wish you’d stop this. You don’t have to worry, you’re as thin as a rail.’

  ‘I won’t be, if I stick around you and Amelia.’

  ‘Will you stick around me if I promise to serve you only bread and water?’ he said teasingly, but his eyes were serious.