BARBARA TAYLOR BRADFORD

__________________________________________________________

THREE WEEKS

IN PARIS

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk

Special overseas edition 2002

First published in Great Britain by

HarperCollinsPublishers 2002

Copyright © Barbara Taylor Bradford 2002

Barbara Taylor Bradford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Ebook Edition © 2002 ISBN: 9780007330652

Version: 2017-10-25

For Bob, truly a man for all seasons,

with all my love

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

PROLOGUE

PART ONE Les Girls

Chapter One - Alexandra

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four - Kay

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven - Jessica

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine - Maria

Chapter Ten

PART TWO Doyenne

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

PART THREE Quest

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

PART FOUR Celebration

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

On the rue Jacob the man shivered and turned up the collar of his overcoat. It was a bitter February day, icy from the wind that swept down from the Russian steppes and across the plains of Europe to hit Paris with a sharp blast.

The sky was a faded blue, the sun watery as it slanted across the rooftops, almost silvery in this cold northern light, and without warmth. But Paris was always beautiful, whatever the weather; even when it rained it had a special quality all of its own.

Spotting a cab he hailed it, and as it slowed to a standstill he got in quickly and asked the driver to take him to the post office. Once he was there he unwrapped the package of stamped envelopes, seventy-one in all, and dropped them, in small batches, into a letter box, then returned to the cab.

The man now gave the driver the address of the FedEx office, settled back against the seat, glancing out of the window from time to time. How happy he was to be back in the City of Light, but, nonetheless, he could not help wishing it were a little warmer today. There was a chill in his bones.

In the FedEx office the man filled in the appropriate labels and handed them over to the clerk along with the white envelopes. All were processed for delivery within the next twenty-four hours, their destinations four cities in distant far-flung corners of the world. Back in the taxi he instructed the driver to take him to the Quai Voltaire. Once there, he alighted and headed towards one of his favourite bistros on the Left Bank.

And as he walked, lost in his thoughts, he had no way of knowing that he had just set in motion a chain of events that would have far-reaching effects. Because of his actions lives were about to be changed irrevocably: and so profoundly they would never be the same again.

PART ONE Les Girls

Chapter One Alexandra

It was her favourite time of day. Dusk. That in-between hour before night descended when everything was softly muted, merging together. The twilight hour.

Her Scottish nanny had called it the gloaming. She loved that name, it conjured up so much, and even when she was a little girl she had looked forward to the late afternoon, that period just before supper. As she had walked home from school with her brother Tim, Nanny between them tightly holding on to their hands, she had always felt a twinge of excitement, an expectancy, as if something special awaited her. This feeling had never changed. It had stayed with her over the years, and wherever she was in the world dusk never failed to give her a distinct sense of anticipation.

She stepped away from her drawing table, and went across to the window of her downtown loft, peered out, looking towards the upper reaches of Manhattan. To Alexandra Gordon the sky was absolutely perfect at this precise moment…its colour a mixture of plum and violet toned down by a hint of smoky grey bleeding into a faded pink. The colours of antiquity, reminiscent of Byzantium and Florence and ancient Greece. And the towers and spires and skyscrapers of this great modern metropolis were blurred, smudged into a sort of timelessness; seemed of no particular period at this moment, inchoate images cast against that almost-violet sky.

Alexandra smiled. For as far back as she could remember she had believed that this time of day was magical. In the movie business, which she was occasionally a part of these days, dusk was actually called ‘the Magic Hour’. Wasn’t it odd that she herself had named it that when she was only a child?

Staring out across the skyline, fragments of her childhood came rushing back to her. For a moment she fell down into her memories…memories of the years spent growing up on the Upper East Side of this city…of a childhood filled with love and security and the most wondrous of times. Even though their mother had worked, still worked in fact, she and Tim had never been neglected by her, nor by their father. But it was her mother who was the best part of her, and, in more than one sense, she was the product of her mother. And not a bad product at that, she thought, continuing to stand in front of the picture window, lost in remembrances of times past.

Eventually she roused herself and went back to the drawing board, looked at the panel she had just completed. It was the final one in a series of six, and together they composed a winter landscape in the countryside.

She knew she had captured most effectively the essence of a cold, snowy evening in the woods, and bending forward she picked up the panel and carried it to the other side of the studio, placed it on a wide viewing shelf where the rest of the panels were aligned. Staring intently at the almost complete set, she envisioned them as a giant-sized backdrop on the stage, which is what they would soon become. As far as she was concerned, the panels were arresting, and depicted exactly what the director had requested.

‘I want to experience the cold, Alexa,’ Tony Verity had told her at the first production meeting, after he had taken her through the play. ‘I want to shiver with cold, crunch down into my overcoat, feel the icy night in my bones. Your sets must make me want to rush indoors, to be in front of a roaring fire.’

He will feel all that, she told herself, and stepped back, eyeing her latest work from a distance, objectively, her head on one side, thinking of the way she had created the panels in her imagination first. She had envisioned St Petersburg in winter, and then focused on an imaginary forest beyond that city.

In her mind’s eye, the scenery had come alive, almost like a reel of film playing in her head…bare trees glistening with dripping icicles, drifts of new snow sweeping up between the trees like white dunes. White nights. White sky. White moon. White silence.

That was the mood she sought, had striven for, and wished to convey to the audience. And she believed she had accomplished that with these panels, which would be photographed later this week and then blown up for the stage.

She had not used any other colours except a hint of grey and black for a few of the skeletal branches. Her final touch, and perhaps her most imaginative, had been a set of lone footprints in the snow. Footprints leading up between the trees, as if heading for a special, perhaps even secret destination. Enigmatic. Mysterious. Even troubling, in a way…

The sharp buzzing of the doorbell brought her head up sharply, and her concentration was broken. She went to the intercom on the wall, lifted the phone. ‘Hello?’

‘It’s Jack. I know I’m early. Can I come up?’

‘Yes, it’s okay.’ She pressed the button which released the street door, and then ran downstairs to the floor below in order to let him in.

A few seconds later Jack Wilton, bundled up in a black duffle coat, and carrying a large brown shopping bag, was swinging out of the lift, walking towards her down the corridor, a grin on his keen, intelligent face.

‘Sorry if I’m mucking up your working day, but I was around the corner. At the Cromer Gallery with Billy Tomkins. It seems sort of daft to go home and then come back here later. I’ll sit in a corner down here and watch CNN until you quit.’

‘I just did,’ she said, laughing. ‘I’ve actually finished the last panel, Jack.’

‘That’s great! Congratulations.’ As he stepped into the small foyer of her apartment he put down the shopping bag, reached for her, pulled her into his arms, and, stretching out his leg, he pushed the door closed with his booted foot.

He hugged her tightly, brought her closer, and as his lips brushed her cheek, then nuzzled her ear, she felt a tiny frisson, and this shivery feeling ran all the way down to her toes. There was an electricity between them that had been missing for ages. She was startled.

Seemingly, so was he. Jack pulled away, glanced at her quickly and then instantly brought his mouth to hers, kissing her deeply, passionately. After a second, he moved his mouth close to her ear, and murmured, ‘Let’s go and find a bed.’

She leaned back, looking up into his grey eyes, which were more soulful than ever at this moment. ‘Don’t be silly.’ As she spoke a small, tantalizing smile touched her lips and her sparkling eyes were suddenly inviting.

‘Silly? There’s nothing silly about going to bed. I think it’s a rather serious thing.’ Throwing his duffle coat on the floor next to the shopping bag and putting his arm around her, he led her into the bedroom.

He stopped in the middle of the room and taking hold of her shoulders he turned her to face him, stared into her eyes, his own questioning. ‘You went missing for a bit,’ he said, sounding more English than ever.

She stared back at him, said nothing.

He tilted her chin, leaned down and kissed her lightly on the mouth. ‘But I have the distinct feeling you’re suddenly back.’

‘I think so.’

‘I’m glad, Lexi.’

‘So am I,’ she answered.

He smiled and led her towards the bed without another word. They sat down together side by side, and he began to unbutton her shirt; she tugged at his tweed jacket, and within seconds they were both undressed, stretched out on the bed.

Leaning over her, he asked, ‘And where was it that you went?’

‘Not sure. Fell into a deep pit with my work, I suppose.’

He nodded, understanding, since he was an artist and tended to do the same at times when he was painting. But he had really missed her, and her withdrawal, her remoteness had worried him. Now he brought his mouth down to her, his kisses tender.

Alexandra felt that frisson once more, and she began to shiver slightly under his touching and kissing. He continued to kiss her as he stroked her thigh, and she experienced a sudden rush of heat, a tingling between her legs.

Unexpectedly, she stiffened. Swiftly, he brought his mouth to her mouth; his tongue sought hers, slid alongside hers, and they shared a moment of complete intimacy.

And all the while he did not stop stroking her inner thigh and the centre of her womanhood, his fingers working gently but expertly. To him it soon seemed as though she was opening like a lush flower bursting forth under a warm sun.

When she began to gasp, he increased his pressure and speed, wanting her to reach a point of ecstasy. He loved this woman, and he wanted to bind her to him, and he wanted to make love to her now, be joined with her.

With great speed, he entered her, thrusting into her so forcefully she cried out. Sliding his hands under her buttocks, he lifted her up, drew her closer to him, calling out her name as he did. ‘Come to me again, come with me, come where I’m going, Lexi!’ he exclaimed, his voice harsh, rasping.

And so she did as he demanded, wrapped her legs around his back, let her hands rest lightly on his shoulders. Together they soared, and as he began to shudder against her, he told her over and over again how much he loved making love to her.

Afterwards, when they finally lay still, relaxed and depleted, he lifted the duvet up and covered them with it, then took her in his arms. He said against her hair, ‘Isn’t this as good as it gets?’

When she remained silent, he added, ‘You know how good we are together…’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re not going to go away from me again, are you?’

‘No…it was the work, the pressure.’

‘I’m relieved it wasn’t me. That you weren’t having second thoughts about me.’

She smiled. ‘You’re the best, Jack, the very best. Special…unique, actually.’

‘Ah, flattery will get you everywhere.’

‘I’ve just been there, haven’t I?’

‘Where?’

‘Everywhere. With you…to some wonderful place.’

Pushing himself up on one elbow, he peered down at her in the dim light of the fading day, wondering if she were teasing him. Then he saw the intensity in her light green eyes, and he said softly, ‘Let’s make it permanent.’

Those lucid green eyes he loved widened. ‘Jack…I don’t know what to say…’

‘Say yes.’

‘Okay. Yes.’

‘I’m talking marriage,’ he muttered, a sudden edge to his voice. He focused all of his attention on her, his eyes probing.

‘I know that.’

‘Will you?’

‘Will I what?’ Now she was teasing him and enjoying doing so, as she usually did.

‘Will you marry me?’

‘Yes, I will.’

A slow, warm smile spread itself across his lean face, and he bent into her, kissed her forehead, her nose, her lips. Resting his head next to hers on the pillow, he continued, ‘I’m glad. Really so bloody glad, Lexi, that you’re going to be mine, all mine. Wow, this is great! And we’ll have a baby or two, won’t we?’

She laughed, happy that he was so obviously delirious with joy. ‘Of course. You know what, maybe we just made one.’

‘It’s a possibility. But to be really sure, shall we try again?’

‘You mean right now?’

‘I do.’

‘Can you?’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous, of course I can. Feel this.’ Taking hold of her hand, he put it on him under the duvet. ‘See what you do to me. And I’ll always be ready to make babies with you, darling.’

‘Then stop boasting and let’s do it!’ she exclaimed, sliding a leg over him, kissing him on the mouth. ‘Let’s do it all night, in fact. It’s one of the things I love to do with you, Jack.’

‘Don’t you want dinner?’ He raised a brow.

‘Oh, who cares about food when we’ve something so important and crucial to do.’

He started to laugh. ‘I care. But we don’t have to venture out, my sweet. I brought dinner with me. In the shopping bag.’

‘Oh, so you planned all this, did you? Very devious, you are, Jack Wilton. You wicked, sexy man. I might have known you came here to seduce me. To impregnate me.’

‘Seduce you! What a bloody cheek! You’ve just displayed the most incredible example of splendid cooperation I’ve ever come across. As for impregnating you, you can bet your sweet ass I’m going to do that.’

They began to roar with laughter, hugging each other and rolling around on the bed, filled with hilarity and pleasure in each other, and the sheer happiness of being young and alive. But after a moment or two of this gentle horseplay, Jack’s face turned serious, and he held Alexandra still. ‘You’re not going to change your mind, are you, Lexi?’

‘’Course not, silly.’ She touched his cheek lightly, smiled seductively. ‘Shall we get to it then…making babies, I mean.’

‘Try and stop me–’ he began and paused.

The shrilling of the intercom startled Alexandra, and nonplussed she stared at Jack. Then she scrambled off the bed, took a woollen dressing gown out of the wardrobe, and struggled into it as she ran to the foyer. Lifting the intercom phone, she said, ‘Hello?’

‘FedEx delivery for Ms Gordon.’

‘Thanks. I’ll buzz you in. I’m on the fourteenth floor.’

The carbon copy of the original label on the front of the FedEx envelope was so faint she could barely make out the name and address of the sender. In fact, the only part she could read was Paris, France.

She stood holding the envelope, a small furrow crinkling the bridge of her nose. And then her heart missed a beat.

From the doorway of the bedroom, Jack said, ‘Who’s it from? You look puzzled.’

‘I can’t make out the name. Best thing to do is open it, I suppose,’ she replied, forcing a laugh.

‘That might be a good idea.’ Jack’s voice was touched with acerbity.

She glanced across at him swiftly, detecting at once a hint of impatience…as if it were her fault their lovemaking had been interrupted by the FedEx delivery. But wishing to keep things on an even keel, to placate him, she exclaimed, ‘Oh, it can wait!’ Dropping the envelope on the small table in the foyer, she added, ‘Let’s go back to bed.’

‘Naw, the mood’s gone, ducks. I’m gonna take a quick shower, make a cuppa rosy lee, then start on dinner,’ he answered her in a bogus Cockney accent.

She stood staring at him, biting her lip.

Observing the crestfallen expression in her eyes, Jack Wilton instantly regretted his truculent attitude. He softened, pulled her towards him, embraced her. ‘I’m sorry, I was a bit snotty, Lexi. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Okay?’ His eyes held hers, a brow lifted quizzically. ‘Don’t you see, I was put out…and you know why. I was all ready to make babies.’ He grinned, kissed the tip of her nose. ‘So…’ He shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Let’s go and take a shower together.’

‘I guess I ought to open–’

He cut her off. ‘It’ll wait.’ Taking hold of her hand, he led her across to the bathroom and into the shower, turned on the taps, adjusted the temperature, held her close again as the water sluiced over their bodies.

Alexandra leaned against him, closed her eyes, thinking of the envelope she had left on the table. She was beginning to worry about it, anxiety-ridden and tense inside. She could well imagine who it was from. It could be only one person. And the thought terrified her.

But she was wrong.

A short while later, when she finally opened the envelope it was not a letter inside, as she had misguidedly believed, but an invitation. Her relief was enormous and the anxiety instantly dissipated.

She sat on the sofa in her living room, staring at it, and a smile broke through, lighting up her face. Leaping to her feet, she ran across the room to the kitchen, where Jack was cooking. ‘Jack, it’s an invitation. To a party. In Paris.’

Jack glanced up from the bowl of fresh tomatoes he was stirring, took a sip of his tea, and asked, ‘Who’s the party for then?’

‘Anya. My wonderful Anya Sedgwick.’

‘The woman who owns the school you went to…what’s it called again? Ah yes, the Anya Sedgwick School of Decorative Arts.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And what’s the occasion?’

‘Her birthday.’ Leaning against the door jamb, she began to read from the engraved invitation. ‘The pleasure of your company is requested at a celebration in honour of Anya Sedgwick on the occasion of her eighty-fifth birthday. On Saturday June the second, 2001. At Ledoyen, Carré Champs Elysées, Paris. Cocktails at eight o’clock. Supper at nine o’clock. Dancing from ten o’clock on. Hey, isn’t that great, Jack. Oh, how wonderful.’

‘Sounds like it’s going to be a super bash. Can you take a friend, do you think?’

Alexandra glanced at the invitation again. Her name had been written across the top in the most elegant calligraphy she had ever seen. But it was only her name. The words, and guest, were missing. ‘I don’t think I can. It has only my name on it. I’m sure it’s just for her family and former pupils…’ Alexandra’s voice trailed off.

He was silent for a moment, concentrating as he finely chopped an onion. When he at last looked up, he asked, ‘Are you going to go?’

‘I’m not sure. I don’t know. It all depends on work, I guess. I’ve only one small set to finish for Winter Weekend, and then that’s it. I’ll be out of work, if something doesn’t pop up.’

‘I’m sure it will, Lexi,’ he reassured, glancing at her, smiling. ‘Now scoot, and let me finish the pasta pomodoro, and before you can say Jack Robinson I’ll have dinner for my lady.’

She laughed, said ‘Okay,’ and went back to the sofa, still holding the invitation in her hand. Seating herself, she stared at it for a moment longer, her mind on Anya Sedgwick, the woman who had been her teacher, mentor and friend. She had not seen her for a year. It would be lovely to be in her company again, to celebrate this important milestone in her life…Paris in the spring. How truly glorious it would be…

But Tom Conners was in Paris.

When she thought of him she found it hard to breathe.

Chapter Two

Alexandra awakened with a start, and after a moment she sat up, blinking, adjusting her eyes in the darkness. The room was quiet, bathed in silence, but for a long moment she felt a presence, as if someone stood nearby, hovered close to the bed.

She remained still, breathing deeply, pushing the feeling away, knowing this was all it was…just a feeling, the sensation that he was with her in the room because her dream had been so very real.

But then it always was, whenever she dreamed it. Everything that happened had a validity to it, was vivid, lifelike; even now, as she rested against the pillows, she could smell him, smell his body, his hair, the cologne he used. Jicky by Guerlain. It seemed to her that even the taste of him lingered on her mouth, as if he had kissed her deeply.

Except that he had not been here tonight…only in the dream, one so extraordinarily alive in her mind that after awakening she had believed he truly was in the bedroom. But, of course, she was alone.

Suddenly knowing that sleep would be elusive, at least for the moment, Alexa sat up, switched on the bedside lamp and slid her long legs out of bed. As she glided across the floor, she realized she was bathed in sweat, as she usually was after this recurring dream.

Wrapping herself in her pale blue woollen dressing gown, she hurried through the small front foyer and went into the kitchen, snapping on lights as she did.

What she needed was a cup of tea. Camomile tea. It would soothe her, encourage sleep. After filling the kettle with water and putting it on the gas ring, she sat down on the stool, contemplating the dream which she had with such regularity.

The odd thing was, the dream was always exactly the same. Nothing ever changed. He was suddenly there with her, either coming through the door or standing by the bed looking down at her. And inevitably he slid into bed, made love to her, cradling her in his arms, telling her he missed her, wanted her, needed her. And always he reminded her that she was the love of his life. His one true love.

And the dream was rooted in such uncanny reality she was invariably shaken; even her body felt as if it had been invaded by a sensual and virile man. It was, she muttered under her breath, filling the mug with boiling hot water. At least it was this afternoon. Jack Wilton made love to me when he arrived here today…in the gloaming he loved me well.

Yes, a small voice said in her head, but in the dream you just had it was Tom Conners loving you. It’s never anybody else but Tom Conners in the dream, and that’s your basic problem.

Sighing to herself, Alexa turned on a lamp and sat down in the comfortable, overstuffed chair near the fireplace, sipping the camomile tea, staring into the dying embers of the log fire.

What was wrong with her? The question hovered over her like a black cloud.

She had made love with Jack and enjoyed every moment of it, and there had been this unexpected and wonderful renewal of passion between them, a passion sadly absent for months. To excuse this she had blamed tiredness, work, the pressure and stress of designing sets at top speed for the new play. But in all truthfulness, something else had been at play. Exactly what that was she wasn’t sure. She had pulled away from having sex with Jack, had avoided it. There had been a strange reluctance in her to be intimate with him, and she had mentally recoiled. But why? He was appealing, attractive, good-looking in a quiet way, and had a very endearing personality. He was even funny, made her laugh.

So many images invaded her, bounced around in her head, and conflicting thoughts jostled for prominence in her mind. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to sort them out. Suddenly she sat up straighter, and thought: My God, I agreed to marry Jack! In effect, I’m engaged to him!

This was no joke as far as he was concerned. He was very serious. He had gone on talking about getting married over dinner, constantly touching his glass of red wine to hers, and they had laughed together, flirted, been in tune on all levels.

Whilst they hadn’t exactly settled on a date, she had sort of acquiesced when he had talked about a winter wedding at the end of the year. ‘In New York. A proper wedding,’ he had insisted. ‘With your family and mine, and all the trimmings. That’s what I want, Lexi.’ And she had nodded in agreement.

Once dinner was over, he had helped her stack the dishwasher, and then they had gone to bed. But he had left at five, kissing her cheek and whispering that he wanted to get an early start on a large canvas for his upcoming show.

As for her, she had dreamed about another man, and in the most intimate way possible at that. Was there something wrong with her? This wasn’t normal, was it?

Despite the camomile tea and its so-called soothing properties, she was suddenly wide awake. Glancing at the small brass carriage clock on the mantelpiece she saw that it was already ten past six in the morning.

Ten past twelve in Paris.

On an impulse, before she could change her mind and stop herself, she lifted the phone on the side table and dialled his office number, his direct line. Within a split second the number in Paris was ringing.

And then he answered. ‘Allo.’

She clutched the phone tighter. She couldn’t speak. She could barely breathe. She heard an impatient sound from him, and then he spoke again.

‘Tom Conners ici.’ Then again, this time in English, he said, ‘Hello? This is Tom Conners. Who is this?’

Very carefully she replaced the receiver. Her hands were damp and shaking, and her heart was thudding unreasonably in her chest. What a fool she was to do this to herself. She took several deep breaths, leaned against the cushions in the chair, staring off into space.

He was there. In his office. He was still in Paris. He was alive and well.

And if she went to Paris, to Anya Sedgwick’s birthday party, she would do exactly what she had just done now. She wouldn’t be able to resist. She would call him, and he would say let’s have a drink, because he was like that, and she would say yes, that’s great, and she would go and have a drink with him. And in consequence of that she would be genuinely lost. Floundering about once more. Yes, a lost soul.

Because to her Tom Conners was devastatingly irresistible, a man so potent, so compelling he lived with her in her thoughts, and in her heart and mind–if not all the time, for a good part of it.

Even though they had stopped seeing each other three years ago, and he had been the one to break it off, she knew that if she spoke to him he would want to see her.

But she couldn’t see him. Because she was afraid of him. Afraid of what would happen to her if she fell under his mesmeric spell once again.

You’re such an idiot, she chastised herself. Anger flooded her. It was an anger at herself and her lingering emotional involvement with Tom Conners. And she knew it had been foolish to make that call, even though she hadn’t spoken to him. Just hearing that arresting, mellifluous voice of his had truly unnerved her.

Alexa now forced herself to focus on Jack Wilton. He loved her, wanted to make her his wife, and she had actually accepted his proposal. All that aside, he was a truly decent human being, a good man, honourable, kind, loving, and generous to a fault sometimes. His success had not spoiled him, and he was very down-to-earth in that humorous English way of his, not taking either himself or life too seriously. ‘Only my work must be taken seriously,’ he was forever telling her, and she understood exactly what he meant by that.

She knew he adored her, admired her talent as a designer, applauded her dedication and discipline. He encouraged her, comforted her when she needed comforting, and he was always there for her. And the truth was he had stayed in the relationship and had been exceedingly patient with her even when she had been cool towards him physically these last few months.

What’s more her parents liked him. A good sign, since they’d always been very critical when it came to her boyfriends. Not picky about Tom Conners, because he’d charmed them without trying. But then again, they had never really known him, nor had they actually understood the extent of her involvement with him, because their relationship had evolved after she had left Anya’s school in Paris.

Jack would make a wonderful husband, she decided. He loved her, and she loved him. In her own way.

Alexandra pushed herself up out of the chair very purposefully, and, turning off the lamp, she went back to bed. Jack Wilton was going to be her husband and that was that.

Sadly, she would have to forgo Anya’s eighty-fifth birthday party. For her own self-protection.

Chapter Three

Seated at the mahogany table in the elegant dining room of her parents’ apartment on East Seventy-Ninth Street, Alexandra was savouring the tomato omelette her mother had just made, thinking how delicious it was. Hers inevitably turned into a runny mess, despite having had her mother, the best chef in the world, to teach her over the years.

‘This is great, Mom,’ she said after a moment, ‘and thanks for making time for me today. I know you like to have your Saturdays to yourself.’

‘Don’t be so silly, I’m glad you’re here,’ Diane Gordon answered, glancing up, smiling warmly. ‘I was just about to call you this morning, to see what you were doing, when the phone rang and there you were, wanting to have lunch.’

Alexa returned her mother’s smile and asked, ‘When’s Dad getting back from the Coast?’

‘Tuesday, he said. But it could be Friday. You know what the network is like. You grew up with networks and their schedules, lived by them when you were a child.’

‘And how!’ Alexa exclaimed. ‘I suppose Dad’s going to see Tim this weekend.’

‘Yes, they’re having dinner tonight. Dad’s taking him to Morton’s.’

‘Tim’ll love that, it’s his favourite place in LA. I guess he’s going to stay out there after all. When I spoke to him last week he sounded very high on Los Angeles, and his new job at NeverLand Productions. He told me he was born to be a movie maker.’

Diane laughed. ‘Well, I suppose that’s true. Remember what he was like when he was a kid, always wanting to go with your father to the television studios, to be on the set. And let’s not forget that Grandfather Gordon was a very highly thought of stage director for many years. Show business is in Tim’s blood, more than likely.’ Diane took a sip of water, then asked her daughter, ‘Do you want a glass of wine, darling?’ a blonde brow lifting questioningly.

‘No, thanks, Mom, not during the day. It makes me sleepy. Anyway, it’s fattening…all that sugar. I prefer to take my calories in bread.’ As she spoke she reached for a piece of the baguette, which her mother had cut up earlier and placed in a silver bread basket. She spread it generously with butter and took a bite.

‘You don’t have to worry about your weight, you know. You look marvellous, really well,’ Diane remarked, eyeing her daughter. She couldn’t help thinking how young she looked for her age. It didn’t seem possible that Alexandra was thirty. In fact, in the summer she would be thirty-one, and it seemed like only yesterday that she was a toddler running around her feet. My God, when I was her age I had two children, Diane thought, and a husband to look after, and a growing business to run. Thirty-one, she mused, and in May I’ll be fifty-eight. How time flies, just disappears. Where have all the years gone? David will be fifty-nine in June. What is even more incredible is our marriage. It’s lasted so long, so many years, and it’s still going strong. A record of sorts, isn’t it?

‘Mom, what are you pondering? You’re looking very strange. Are you okay?’ Alexa probed.

‘I’m fine. I was just thinking about your father. And our marriage. It’s amazing that we’ve been married for thirty-three years. And what’s even more staggering is that the years seem to have passed in a flash. Just like that.’ She snapped her fingers together and shook her head in sudden bemusement.

‘You two have been lucky,’ Alexa murmured, ‘so lucky to have found each other.’

‘That’s absolutely true.’

‘You and Dad, you’re like two peas in a pod. Did you start out being so alike? Or did you grow to resemble each other? I’ve often wondered that, Mom.’ Her head on one side, she gazed at her mother, thinking how beautiful she was, probably one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen, with her peaches-and-cream skin, her pale golden hair and those extraordinary liquid blue eyes.

‘You’re staring, Alexa. You’re going to see all my wrinkles!’

‘Oh Mom, you don’t have one single wrinkle. I kid you not, as Dad says.’

Diane laughed, and murmured, ‘As for you, my girl, you don’t look a day over twenty-five. It’s hard for me to believe you’ll be thirty-one in August.’

‘It’s my new short haircut. It takes years off me.’

‘I guess it does. But then short hair makes most women look younger, perkier. And it’s certainly the chic cut this year.’

‘You once told me short hair was the only chic style, and that no woman could be elegant with hair trailing around her shoulders. And you should know, since you’re considered one of the chicest women in New York, if not the chicest.’

‘Oh, I’m not really, but thanks for the compliment. Although I should point out that the whole world suspects you’re a bit prejudiced.’

‘Everyone, the press included, cites you as a fashion icon, a legend in your own time. And your boutiques have been number one for years now.’

‘We’ve all worked hard to make them what they are, not only me, Alexa. Anyway, what about you, darling? Have you finally finished those winter sets?’

Alexa’s face lit up. ‘I completed the last one of the snow forest earlier this week, on Tuesday actually. Yesterday I saw blow-ups of them all at the photographic studio, and they’re great, Mom, even if I do say so myself.’

‘I’ve told you many times, don’t hide your light under a bushel, darling. It doesn’t do to brag, of course, but there’s nothing wrong in knowing that you’re good at what you do. You’re very talented, and personally I was bowled over by the panels I saw.’ Diane’s pale blue eyes, always so expressive, rested on her daughter thoughtfully. After a moment, she said, ‘And so…what’s next for you?’

‘I have one small set to do for this play and after that my contract’s fulfilled.’ Alexa laughed a little hollowly, and added, ‘Then I’ll be out of work, I guess.’

‘I doubt that,’ Diane shot back, the expression on her face reflecting her pride in her only daughter. ‘Not you.’

‘To be honest, I’m not worried. Something’ll turn up. It always does.’

Diane nodded, and then her eyes narrowed slightly. ‘You said on the phone that you wanted to talk to me. What–’

‘Can we do that later, over coffee?’ Alexa cut in swiftly.

‘Yes, of course, but is there something wrong? You sounded worried earlier.’

‘Honestly, there’s nothing wrong. I just need…a sounding board, a really good one, and you’re the very best I know.’

‘Is this about Jack?’

‘No, and now you’re sounding like all those other mothers, which most of the time you don’t, thank God. And no, it’s not about Jack.’

‘Don’t be so impatient with me, Alexa, and by the way, Jack Wilton is awfully nice.’

‘I know he is, and he feels the same way about you. And Dad.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. But how does he feel about you? That’s much more important.’

‘He cares.’

‘Your father and I think he would make a good–a very nice son-in-law.’

Alexa did not respond.

Half an hour later Alexandra sat opposite her mother in the living room, watching her as she poured coffee into fine bone-china cups. She was studying Diane through objective eyes, endeavouring to see her as clearly as possible. It suddenly struck her, and most forcibly, what a unique person she was, a woman who was savvy, smart, successful, and highly intelligent as well. And she really did understand human frailties and foibles, because her perception and insight were well honed, and she was compassionate. But would she comprehend her dilemma, a dilemma centred on two men?

After all, there had only been one man in her mother’s life, as far as she knew, and that man was her father, who Diane Carlson had met at twenty-four and married within the year; they had been utterly devoted to each other ever since. I know she’ll understand, Alexandra reassured herself. She’s not prudish or narrow-minded, and she never passes judgement on anybody. But how to tell her my story. Where do I begin?

It was as though Diane had read her daughter’s mind, when she announced, ‘I’m ready to listen, Alexa, whenever you want to start. And whatever it’s about, you’ll have all my attention and the best advice I can give.’

‘I know that, Mom,’ Alexa answered, adding, Thanks,’ as she accepted the cup her mother was passing to her. She put it down on the low antique table between them, and settled back against the Venetian velvet cushions on the cream sofa. After a second or two, she explained, ‘Late yesterday afternoon I got an invitation to go to a party in Paris. For Anya. She’s going to be eighty-five.’

A huge smile spread across Diane’s face, and she exclaimed, ‘Good Lord, I can’t believe it! She’s a miracle, that woman.’

‘Oh, I know she is, and aside from looking so much younger than her age, she’s full of energy and vitality. Whenever I speak to her on the phone she sounds as busy as ever, running the school, entertaining and travelling. Only last month she told me she’s started writing another book, one on Art Deco. She’s just so amazing.’

‘I’ll say she is, and what a lovely trip for you. When is the party?’

‘On June second, at Ledoyen. It’s a supper dance, actually.’

‘That’ll be fun, we must find you something pretty to wear. Is it black tie?’

‘Yes, it is, but look, Mom, I’m not sure that I’m going to go.’

Diane was startled, and she frowned. ‘Whyever not? You’re close to Anya, and you’ve always been a special favourite of hers. Certainly more than the others–’ Diane stopped abruptly, and stared at her daughter. ‘But of course! That’s it. You don’t want to go because you don’t want to see the other three. I can’t say I blame you, they turned out to be rather treacherous, those women.’

With a small jolt, Alexandra realized that she hadn’t even thought about her former best girlfriends, who had ended up her enemies. She had been focused only on Tom Conners, and her feelings for him. But now, all of a sudden, she realized she must throw them into the equation, along with Tom. Her mother was quite right, they were indeed an excellent reason she should stay away from Paris. They were bound to be at the party…Anya would have invited them as well as her…together the four of them had been her greatest pride the year of their graduation…her star pupils. Of course they’d be there…with bells on.

‘You’re right, Mom, I have no desire to see them,’ Alexa said. ‘But they’re not the reason I don’t want to go to Paris. It’s something else, as a matter of fact.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘His name’s Tom Conners.’

Diane was momentarily perplexed. The name rang a bell but she couldn’t pinpoint the man. She leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing. ‘Tom Conners. Do I know him? Oh yes, now it’s coming back to me. Isn’t he the Frenchman you introduced to us a few years ago?’

‘That’s right, but Tom’s half French, half American. If you remember, I did tell you about his family. His father’s an American who went to live in Paris in the early fifties, married a French girl and stayed. Tom was brought up and educated there, and he’s always lived in France.’

‘Yes, so I recall, darling. He’s a lawyer, if I remember correctly, and very good-looking. But I didn’t realize there was anything serious between the two of you. I thought it was a brief encounter, a sort of fling, if you like, and that it was over quickly.’

‘It lasted almost two years, actually.’

‘I see.’ Diane sat back, wondering how she had missed this particular relationship. On the other hand, that was the period Alexa had lived in Paris, working with Anya’s two nephews in films and the theatre. However, her daughter had certainly kept awfully quiet about Tom Conners, had confided nothing. Odd, really, now that she thought about it. She said slowly, ‘Somehow you’re still involved with Tom Conners, I think. Is that what you’re trying to say?’

‘No…Yes…No…Look, Mom, we don’t see each other any more, and I never hear from him, he’s never in touch, but he’s sort of there…inside me, in my thoughts…’ Her voice trailed off lamely and she gave her mother a helpless look.

‘Why did you break off with him, Alexa?’ Diane asked curiously.

‘I didn’t. He did. Three years ago now.’

‘But why?’ her mother pressed.

‘Because I wanted to get married, and he couldn’t marry me.’

‘Is he married already?’

‘No. Not now, not then.’

‘I’m not following this at all. It doesn’t make sense to me. I just don’t understand what the problem is,’ Diane murmured, her bafflement only too apparent.

Alexa hesitated, wondering if she could bear to tell her mother Tom’s story. It was so painful, harrowing. But when she glanced at her mother’s face and saw the worry settling there, she decided she had no option. She wanted her to understand…

Very softly, Alexa said, ‘Tom was married very young, Mother, to his childhood sweetheart, Juliette. They grew up together, and their parents were friends. They had a little girl, Marie-Laure, and seemingly, from what he told me, they were an idyllic couple…the poster couple, I guess. Very beautiful, very happy together. And then something bad happened…’

Alexa paused, drew a deep breath, and continued, ‘In July of 1985 they went to Athens. On vacation. But Tom also had to see a client from Paris, who owned a summer house there. Towards the end of the vacation, Tom arranged a final meeting with his client before he took his family back to Paris. That morning he told Juliette he would meet her and Marie-Laure for lunch at their favourite café, but Tom was delayed and got there a bit late. It was chaotic when he walked into the square where the café was located. Police cars and ambulances were converging in the centre, and the human carnage was horrendous. People were dead and dying, there was blood and body parts everywhere, as if a massacre had taken place. The police told Tom that a bomb had exploded only minutes before his arrival, more than likely a terrorist’s bomb that had been planted on one of those big tour buses, this particular one filled with Americans from the hotel in the square. About sixty people were on the bus, and they all died.

‘As the bus was leaving the square it suddenly blew up, right in front of the café where Juliette and Marie-Laure were waiting for Tom. The impact of the blast was enormous. People sitting at the various cafés around the square were blown right out of their chairs. Many were killed or injured…’ Alexa stopped, and it was a moment before she could continue.

After taking several deep breaths, she went on: Tom couldn’t find Juliette and Marie-Laure, and as you can imagine he was worried and frightened, frantic as he searched for them. He did find them eventually, under the rubble in the back of the café…the ceiling had collapsed on them. They were both dead.’ Alexandra blinked, and her voice was so low it was almost inaudible as she finished, ‘Don’t you see, he’s never recovered from that…that…nightmare.’

Diane was staring at Alexandra in horror and tears had gathered in her light blue eyes. ‘How horrendous, what a terrible, terrible tragedy to happen to them, to him,’ she murmured, and then looking across at her daughter, she saw that Alexa’s face was stark, taut, drained of all colour.

Rising, she went and sat next to her on the sofa, put her arm around her and held her close. ‘Oh darling, you’re still in love with him…’

‘Am I? I’m not sure, Mother, but he does occupy a large part of me, that’s true. He’s there, inside, and he always will be, I think. But I’m smart enough to know I have no future with Tom. He’ll never marry me, or anybody else, for that matter. Nor will he have a permanent relationship, because he can’t. You see, he just can’t forget them.’

‘Or he won’t let himself forget,’ Diane suggested softly.

‘Perhaps that’s true. Perhaps he thinks that if he forgets them he’d be riddled with guilt for the rest of his life and wouldn’t be able to handle it. You brought me up to be sensible, practical, and I believe I am those things. And after we broke up, I knew I had to get on with my life…I knew I couldn’t moon around yearning for Tom. I understood there was no future in that.’

Diane nodded. ‘You were right, and I think you’ve managed to get on with your professional life extremely well. I’m proud, of you, Alexa, you didn’t let your personal problems get in the way of your career. All I can say is bravo.’

‘You once told me years ago that I must never negate my talent by not using it, by wasting it, and I listened to you, Mom. I also knew I had to earn a living, I wasn’t going to let you and Dad support me, especially after you’d sent me to such expensive schools, Anya’s in particular.’

Diane nodded. ‘Just as a matter of interest, how old is he? Tom, I mean.’

‘He’s forty-two, Mom.’

Diane nodded, searched her daughter’s face intently and wondered, ‘Do you love Jack Wilton a little bit at least?’

‘Yes, I do love him, in a certain way.’

‘Not the way you love Tom?’ Diane ventured.

‘No.’

‘You could make a life with Jack, though?’

Alexandra nodded. ‘I think so. Jack’s got a lot going for himself. He’s very attractive and charming, and we get on well. We’re compatible, he makes me laugh, and we understand each other, understand where we’re both coming from, which is sometimes the same place. We admire each other’s talents, and respect each other.’ She half-smiled at her mother. ‘He loves me, you know. He wants to marry me.’

‘Would you marry him?’ Diane asked quietly, hoping for an answer in the affirmative.

Alexa leaned against her mother, and a deep sigh escaped her. Unexpectedly, tears spilled out of her eyes. Then she swiftly straightened, flicked the tears away with her fingertips. ‘I thought I could, Mom, I really did. But now I don’t know. Ever since that invitation arrived yesterday, I’ve been in a turmoil.’

‘You won’t be able to resist seeing Tom if you go to Paris, is that what you’re telling me?’

‘I guess I am.’

‘But you’re stronger than that…you’ve always been strong, even when you were a little girl.’

Alexa was silent.

After a short while, Diane said slowly, carefully, ‘Here’s what your loving and very devoted sounding board thinks. You have to forget Tom, as you know you should. You must put him out of your mind once and for all. He’s not for you, Alexa, or anybody else, in my opinion. What happened to his wife and child was unbearable, very, very tragic, and so heart-rending. But it was years ago. Sixteen years ago, to be precise. And if he’s not over it by now–’

‘He wasn’t over it three years ago, but I don’t know about now–’

‘–then he never will be,’ Diane continued in a very firm voice. ‘Your life is here in New York, not in Paris. For the most part, your work is here, and you know you can make a wonderful life with Jack. And that’s what you should do…’ Diane stopped, tightened her embrace, and said against her daughter’s glossy dark hair, ‘There are all kinds of love, you know. Degrees of love. And sometimes the great love of one’s life is not meant to last…perhaps that’s how it becomes the great love…by ending.’ Diane sighed, but after a moment she went on, ‘I know it’s hard to give someone up. But, in fact, Tom Conners gave you up, Alexa. Not vice versa, so why torture yourself. My advice to you is not to go to Paris. That way you won’t be tempted to see Tom, and open up all those wounds.’

‘I guess you’re right, Mom. You usually are. But Anya’s going to be really upset if I don’t go to the party.’

‘I’m sure she will be.’ There was a slight pause, and then Diane exclaimed, ‘There is an alternative! You and Jack could go to Paris together. Obviously, you couldn’t go looking for Tom if you were there with another man.’

Want to bet? Alexandra thought, but said, ‘The invitation doesn’t include a guest. Only my name is written on it. And I’m sure Anya’s only invited former pupils and her family.’

‘But she wouldn’t refuse you…not if you said you were coming to Paris with your…fiancé.’

‘I don’t know what she’d do, actually. I have to think about that, Mom, all of what you’ve just said…and implied.’

The invitation stood propped up on the mantelpiece next to the carriage clock, and the first thing Alexandra did when she got home was to pick it up and read it again.

Down in the left-hand corner, underneath the initials rsvp was the date of the deadline to accept or decline: April the first 2001. And in the opposite right-hand corner it said: Black Tie, and underneath this: Long Dress, All the information she needed was right there, including what to wear; attached to the engraved invitation with a paperclip was a small rsvp card, and an envelope addressed to a Madame Suzette Laugen at 158 Boulevard St Germain, Paris.

So, she had the rest of February and most of March to make up her mind, to think about Anya’s birthday and decide what to do, whether to go or not. That was a relief. But she knew she would spend the next few weeks vacillating.

Deep down she wanted to go, wanted to celebrate this special birthday with Anya, an extraordinary woman who had had such an enormous influence on her life. But there was the problem of Tom Conners, and also of her former friends…Jessica, Kay and Maria. Three woman once so close to her, and she to them, that they were inseparable, but they were sworn enemies now. She couldn’t bear the thought of seeing any of them.

April the first, she mused. An anniversary of sorts, since she had met Tom Conners on April the first. In 1996. She had been twenty-five, he thirty-seven.

April Fool, she thought, with a wry smile. But she wasn’t sure if she meant herself or him.

Placing the invitation back on the mantel, she knelt down in front of the fireplace, struck a match and brought it to the paper and small chips of wood stuffed in the grate. Within minutes she had the fire going, the logs catching alight quickly, the flames leaping up the chimney.

Pushing herself to her feet, Alexandra turned on a lamp. Along with the fire it helped to bring a warm, roseate glow to the living room, already shadowed as it was by the murky winter light of late afternoon. She felt tired. After leaving her mother, she had walked all the way down Park Avenue from Seventy-Ninth Street to Thirty-Ninth. Forty blocks of good exercise, but she had finally given in and taken a cab back to the loft.

After glancing out of the window at the lights of Manhattan slowly coming on, Alexa sat down on the sofa in front of the fire, staring into the flames flickering and dancing in the grate. Her mind was awash with so many diverse thoughts, but the most prominent were centred on Tom.

It was Nicky Sedgwick who had introduced them, when Tom had come out to the studios in Billancourt to see his client Alain Durand, who was producing the movie. It was a French-American co-production, very elaborate and costly. Nicky and his brother Larry were the Art Directors and were designing the sets, and at Anya’s suggestion they had hired her as their assistant. But she had become more like an associate, because of all the work and responsibility they had heaped on her.

What a challenge the movie had been, and what a lot she had learned. It was a historical drama about Napoleon and Josephine in the early part of their relationship, and Nicky, who was in charge, was a stickler for historical accuracy and detail. Even now, when she thought of the endless hours she had spent at Malmaison she still cringed. She had taken countless notes, knew that house inside out, and had often wondered why the famous couple had ever lived there. Its parkland and closeness to Paris, she supposed. Nicky had been thrilled with her…with her work, her overall input, and most of all with her set designs. In general, it had been a positive experience, and she worked on most of their films and plays after that, until she left Paris.

The day Tom Conners came out to the studios shooting was going well, and Alain Durand had been elated. He and Tom had invited the Sedgwick brothers to dinner when they wrapped for the day, and she had been included in the invitation since Anya’s nephews had by then adopted her, in a sense.

She had been struck dumb by Tom’s extraordinary looks, his charm and sophistication. So much so, she had felt like a little schoolgirl with him. But he had treated her as a grown-up, with gallantry and grace, and she had been smitten with him before the dinner was over. Later that night she found herself in his arms in his car after he drove her home; two nights later she was in his bed.

‘Spontaneous combustion,’ he had called it; not very long after this he had said it was a coup de foudre, clap of thunder, love at first sight. Which they both knew it was.

But that easy charm and effortless grace hid a difficult man of many moods, a man who was burdened down by the needless deaths of his wife and child, and by an acute sorrow he was so careful to hide in public.

Nicky had teased her about Tom at times, and once he had said, ‘I suppose women must find his dark Byronic moods sexy, appealing,’ and had thrown her an odd look. She knew what he was hinting at, but Tom was not acting. He really was in pain. But it was Larry who had been the one to warn her. ‘He comes to you dragging a lot of baggage behind him, emotional baggage,’ Larry had pointed out. ‘So watch out, and protect your back. He’s lethal, a dangerous man.’

Alexa stretched out on the sofa. Her thoughts stayed with Tom and their days together in Paris. Despite his moodiness, those awful bouts of sadness, their relationship had always been good, even ecstatic when he shed the burdens of his past. And it had only ended because she had wanted permanence with him. Marriage. Children.

She wondered about him sometimes, wondered who he was with, how his life was going, what he was doing. Still suffering occasionally, she supposed. She hadn’t been able to convey to her mother the extent of that. She hadn’t even tried. It was too hard to explain. You had to live through it with him to understand.

He was forty-two now, and still unmarried, she felt certain of that. What a waste, she thought, and closed her eyes, suddenly craving sleep. She wanted to forget…to forget Tom and her feelings for him, forget those days in Paris…she was never going back there. Not even for Anya Sedgwick’s eighty-fifth birthday.

Chapter Four Kay

I remember dancing with him here, right in the centre of this room, under the chandelier, she thought, and moved forward from the doorway where she had been standing.

Her arms outstretched, as if she were holding a man, Kay Lenox turned and whirled to the strains of an old-fashioned waltz which was playing only in her head. Humming to herself, she moved with rhythm and gracefulness, and the expression on her delicately moulded face was for a fleeting moment rhapsodic, lost as she was in her thoughts.

Memories flooded her.

Memories of a man who had loved and cherished her, a man who had been an adoring lover and husband, a man she was still married to but who no longer seemed quite the same. He had changed, and even though the change in him was minuscule, she had spotted it from the moment it had happened.

He denied her charge that he was different in his behaviour towards her, insisting she was imagining things. But she knew she was not. There had been a cooling off in him; it was as if he no longer loved her quite as much as before.

Always attentive and solicitous, he now appeared to be distracted, was even occasionally careless, forgetting to tell her if he planned to work late or attend a business dinner, or some other such thing. He would phone her at the very last minute, giving no thought to her or any plans she might have, leaving her high and dry for the evening. Although she seethed inside she said nothing; she was always patient, understanding and devoted.

Kay had never believed it possible that a man like Ian Andrews would marry her. But he had. Their courtship had been idyllic, and so had the first two and a half years of their marriage, which had been, for her, like a dream come true.

And these were the memories which assailed her now, held her in their thrall as she moved around the room, swaying, floating, circling, as if in another kind of dream. And as she danced with him, he so alive in her head and her heart, she recalled his boyishness, his enthusiasm for life, his gallantry and charm. He had swept her off her feet and into marriage within a month of their first meeting. Startled though she was, she had not objected; she had been as madly in love with him as he was with her. Besides, it also suited her purpose to marry him quickly. She had so much to hide.

A discreet cough intruded, brought her out of her reverie and to a standstill. She glanced at the door, feeling embarrassed to be caught dancing alone, and gave Hazel, the cook at Lochcraigie, a nervous half smile.

‘Sorry to intrude, Lady Andrews, but I was wondering about dinner…’ The cook hesitated, looking at her steadily, and then finished in a low voice, ‘Will his lordship be here tonight?’

‘Yes, Hazel, he will,’ Kay answered, her tone firm and confident. ‘Thanks, Hazel. Oh, by the way, did you see the dinner menu I left?’

‘Yes, I did, Lady Andrews.’ The cook inclined her head and disappeared.

But will he be here? Kay asked herself, walking to the window where she stood looking out across the lawns and trees towards the hills that edged along the pale blue skyline. After breakfast he had announced he was going into Edinburgh to buy a birthday gift for his sister Fiona, and it was true that it was their birthday tomorrow and they were seeing her for Sunday lunch, a birthday lunch. But she couldn’t help wondering why he hadn’t asked her to pick something out earlier in the week, since she went to her studio in the city three days a week. On the other hand, he and Fiona were twins and unusually close, and perhaps he felt the need to do his own selecting.

Turning away from the long expanse of window, Kay walked across the terra-cotta tiled floor, heading for the huge stone hearth. She stood with her back to the fire, thinking, as always, what a strange room this was, and yet it succeeded despite its strangeness. Or perhaps because of it.

It was a conservatory which had been added on to one end of the house, built by Ian’s great-great-grandmother in Victorian times. It was airy and light because of its many windows, yet it had a cosiness due to the stone fireplace, an unusual addition in a conservatory, but necessary because of the cold Scottish weather in winter. Yet in summer it was equally pleasant to be in, with its many windows, French windows and cool stone floor. Potted plants and wicker furniture painted dark brown helped to give it the mandatory garden mood for a conservatory, yet a few choice antiques added charm and a sense of permanence. A curious but whimsical touch was the Venetian blown-glass chandelier which hung down from the beamed ceiling, and yet this, too, somehow worked in the room despite its oddness.

Kay bit her lip, thinking about Ian, worrying about their relationship, as she had for some time now. She knew why there had been this slight shift, this moving away…it was because she had not conceived. He was desperate for a child, longed for an heir to his lands and this house, where the Andrews family had lived for four hundred years. And so far she had not been able to give him one.

My fault, she whispered to herself, thinking of her early years in Glasgow and what had happened to her when she was a teenager. A shudder passed through her slender frame, and she turned bodily to the fire, reached out to warm her hands, shivering unexpectedly as she filled with that old familiar coldness.

Lowering herself on to the leather-topped club fender, she sat staring into the flames, her face suddenly drawn, her eyes pensive. Yet despite the sadness there was no denying her exceptional beauty: with her ivory complexion, eyes as blue as speedwells and red-gold hair that shimmered in the firelight, she was a true Celt. But at this moment Kay Lenox Andrews was not thinking about her beauty, or her immense talent, which had brought her so far in her young life, but of the ugliness and degradation of her past.

When she looked back, growing up in the Gorbals, the slums of Glasgow, had been something of an education in itself. There were times when Kay wondered if she might have been a different person if her early environment had not been quite so difficult and harsh.

She knew there were those who said environment helped to create personality and character, while others believed you were born with your character intact, that character was destiny, that it determined the roads you took, the life you ultimately led. She herself tended to accept this particular premise.

The road she took was the road to success. At least, that is what she repeatedly told herself when she set out to change her life. And her positive attitude, plus her determination, had helped her to accomplish wonders.

When she was a teenager, the thing that had driven her was the need to get out of the Gorbals, where she had been born. Fortunately, her mother Alice Smith felt the same way, and it was Alice who had helped her to move ahead, who had pushed her out into the bigger world. ‘And a much better world than it is here, Kay,’ her mother had repeatedly told her, always adding: ‘And I want you to have a better life than I ever had. You’ve got it all. Looks, brains, and that amazing talent. There’s nothing to stop you…but yourself. So I’m hoping to make certain you bloody well succeed, lassie, I promise you that, even if it kills me trying.’

Her mother had plotted and planned, scrimped and saved, and there had even been one moment when she had actually resorted to blackmail in order to rescue Kay and fulfil her own special plans for her daughter. Alice had enormous ambitions for Kay, ambitions some thought were ludicrous, beyond reach. But not Alice Smith. Nothing and no one was going to stop her grabbing the best for Kay; eventually, all that shoving and pushing and striving, and sacrifice had paid off. Her cherished daughter was launched with a new identity…a young woman of background, breeding and education, who happened to be stunningly beautiful, unusually talented, and all set to become a fashion designer of taste and flair.

I wouldn’t have made it to where I am today without Mam, Kay now thought, still gazing into the flames of the roaring fire, ruminating on her past life. But a moment later she was brought back into the present by the sound of loud knocking on a glass windowpane. She sat up swiftly and glanced across the room.

Kay was startled to see John Lanark, the estate manager, on the terrace, bundled up in a Barbour jacket and scarf, hovering on the other side of the French windows. Jumping off the fender, she ran to let him in, surprised he was paying a call on Saturday.

Unlocking the door, she exclaimed, ‘John, come in! Come in at once. It’s freezing out there.’

He flashed her a breezy smile, stepping into the conservatory quickly, pulling off his tweed cap as he did. ‘Morning, Kay. I know I ought to have phoned instead of barging in, but it just so happened I was passing in the Land Rover on my way to the village, and I remembered I’d promised Ian I’d let him know about the progress on the septic tanks at the Home Farm. Would he be about?’

‘No, he’s not, John. He drove into Edinburgh this morning, but he’ll be back this afternoon. Do you want to leave a message, a note perhaps?’

‘No, no, I’ll phone him later. Basically, everything’s now in proper order, but I’d like to fill him in with the details.’

‘I’ll tell him. And how’s Margo?’

‘Oh she’s just wonderful. Busy with the church festival for spring. It’s a little way off, as you know, but she likes to get started early.’

Kay nodded, then smiled at him. She had always liked this loyal and genial man.

He said, ‘Look, I’d better get off. I don’t want to take up your time. And I’ve a lot of paperwork waiting for me.’

‘That’s all right, John. But like you, I have work to do and the morning seems to be escaping.’

‘Tempus fugit,’ he murmured, said goodbye and let himself out.

Kay left the conservatory and walked towards the front hall set in the centre of the house. It was a vast open space, with a high-flung cathedral ceiling and a double staircase, with carved balustrades, which ran up to the wide upper hall. The main feature of the latter was a soaring stained-glass window which bathed the front hall below in multi-coloured light, almost like a perpetual rainbow.

She took the left-hand side of the staircase, running up to the second floor, where her design studio was located in what had once been the day nursery at Lochcraigie.

As she opened the door and went in on this bitter February morning she was glad to see that Maude, the housekeeper, already had a fire burning brightly in the grate. It was a large, high-ceilinged room with six tall windows, and it was flooded with the cool northern light she loved, and which was so perfect for her work. In this crystalline light all colours were true, and that made her designing so much easier.

Stepping towards the old Jacobean refectory table that served as her desk, she reached over and picked up the phone as it began to ring. ‘Lochcraigie House,’ she said, walking around to her high-backed chair and sitting down.

‘It’s me, Kay,’ her assistant said.

‘Hello, Sophie. Is something wrong?’

‘No, nothing. Why? Oh, you mean because I’m calling on Saturday. No, all’s well in the world, as far as I know. At least it is in mine, anyway.’

Kay smiled. Sophie was a darling, full of energy and life, and a joy to work with. At twenty-three she was bursting with talent, enthusiasm and ideas. ‘Then you are the lucky one,’ Kay said at last, wishing that all was well in her little world. She went on, ‘I just came up to the studio, and as I’m sitting here talking to you I can see that vermilion piece which came from the mill the other day…I like it, Sophie, I really do. It’s such a change from the colours I’ve been using this past year.’

‘I agree. It’s really vibrant, but also sort of…smoochy.’

‘What do you mean by smoochy?’

‘You know, smoochy, as in kiss-kiss-kiss.’

Kay burst out laughing.

Dropping her voice, Sophie now said confidingly, ‘I called because I finally got that information for you.’

‘What information?’

‘About the man my sister recently heard of…you know we discussed it two weeks ago.’

‘Oh, yes, of course. Sorry, Sophie, I guess I’m being a little bit stupid today.’ She clutched the receiver more tightly, filled with sudden expectancy.

‘His name is François Boujon, and he lives in France once again.’

‘Where exactly?’

‘Just outside Paris. A place with a peculiar name. Barbizon. My sister got me all the information. Do you want to know everything now, or shall I tell you on Monday?’

‘Monday’s perfectly fine, I’ll be at the studio by about ten, and we can talk then. But just tell me one thing now…is he difficult to get an appointment with?’

‘Yes, a bit, I’m afraid. But Gillian will help.’

‘Can she?’

‘Oh yes, very much so…her girlfriend Mercedes has a strong connection, which is good.’

‘It certainly is, and listen, I’m very grateful, Sophie, I really am. Thanks for going to all this trouble.’

‘It wasn’t anything, not really. I was happy to do it, Kay. So, I’ll see you Monday then.’

‘That’s right. Have a good weekend.’

‘I will, and you do the same.’

‘I’ll try,’ Kay answered, and after saying goodbye she returned the phone to its cradle. Resting her head against the faded red velvet covering the chair’s back, she let her eyes roam around the room, her mind whirling with all manner of thoughts. Then quite suddenly she remembered the envelope which had arrived by FedEx yesterday, and she reached for the decorative wooden box on one end of the desk. Lifting the lid, she took out the envelope with its beautiful calligraphy–her name so elegantly written–opened it and slipped out the invitation.

Once again she read it carefully.

Anya’s party was on the second of June, a good four months away. She wondered if she could get an appointment with Francois Boujon for around that time.

It would be perfect if she could, because Ian hadn’t been invited, and so she could travel alone to Paris. Kill two birds with one stone, she thought, and then she sat back in the chair, frowning hard. Her vivid blue eyes clouded over, and her expression became unexpectedly grim.

They would be there and she would have to see them. No, not only see them, but socialize with them, spend time with them. Not possible. They hated her. The feeling was mutual.

Alexandra Gordon, the snob from New York. From the elite social set, Junior League, and all that ridiculous kind of thing. Always so toffee-nosed with her, stuck-up, snubbing her.

Jessica Pierce, Miss Southern Belle Incorporated, with her feminine sighs and languor and the dropping of lace hankies along the way. Poking fun at her, teasing her unmercifully, never leaving her alone with her taunts.

Maria Franconi, another snob, this one from Italy, with her raven hair and flashing black eyes and fiery Mediterranean temperament. And all those lire from her rich, Milanese textile family, flaunting her money and her connections, treating her like a servant.

No, it’s not possible, Kay told herself again. I cannot go to Anya’s party. Because my tormentors will be there…how miserable they had always made her life.

She knew what she must do. She must go to Paris sooner rather than later, to meet with this man Francois Boujon. She hoped she would get an appointment relatively soon. She would set everything in motion on Monday, ask to see him next month. And it did not matter what it cost.

She put the invitation back in the envelope, placed this in the wooden box, dropped the lid and turned the key. Then once more she sat back in the chair, her eyes becoming soft and faraway as she thought of Ian. The man she loved. Her husband…who must remain her husband at all costs.

Chapter Five

Even as a child, growing up in the slums of Glasgow, Kay had always managed to escape simply by retreating into herself. When the cramped little flat where she lived with her mother and brother Sandy became overly oppressive, she would find a small corner where she could curl up, forget where she really was, and dream.

A great deal of her childhood was spent dreaming, and she found solace in her dreams. She could escape the impoverished, gloomy world she occupied and go to another place, any place she wished. It made her young life more bearable.

And she always dreamed of beauty…flower-filled gardens, picturesque country cottages with thatched roofs, grassy meadows awash with wildflowers, and grand open spaces with huge, canopied green trees where trilling bird-songs came alive. And sometimes her dreams were of pretty clothes, and ribbons for her hair, and sturdy black shoes, shining with boot polish, for Sandy; and a beautiful silk dress for her mother…a pale blue dress to match her eyes.

But as she grew older Kay’s priorities changed, and she began to replace her dreams with a new-found focus and concentration, and it was these two qualities, plus her talent, which helped to make her such a great success in the world of fashion.

Now, as she sat at her desk, thoughts of Ian lingered, nagged at the back of her mind. But eventually she let go of her worries about her marriage and became totally engrossed in her work, as she usually did.

In many ways, she loved this old day nursery here at Lochcraigie more than her busy, high-tech studio in Edinburgh, not least because of its spaciousness and high ceiling, but also because of the clarity of the light which came streaming in through the six soaring windows.

After looking through a few sketches for her autumn collection, which she had just finished, she rose and went over to the swatches of fabric hanging on brass hooks attached to the opposite wall. The vermilion wool she had focused on a short while before attracted her attention again, and she unclipped it, carried it over to the window, where she scrutinized it intently.

Suddenly, a smile flickered in her eyes as she remembered Sophie’s comment a short while ago. Smoochy, she had called the colour, as in a kiss, and Kay knew exactly what her assistant meant. It was a lovely lipstick shade, one which reminded her of the glamorous stars of those old movies from the fifties.

As often happened with Kay, inspiration suddenly struck out of the blue. In her mind’s eye she saw a series of outfits…each one in a different version of vivid vermilion red. She thought of cyclamen first, then deep pink the colour of peonies, pale pinks borrowed from a bunch of sweet peas, bright red lifted from a pot of geraniums, and all of those other reds sharpened by a hint of blue. And mixed in with them she could see a selection of blues…cerulean, delphinium and aquamarine, as well as deep violet and pansy hues, a softer lilac and the lavender shade of hydrangeas.

That’s it, she thought, instantly filling with excitement. A winter collection of clothes based on those two colours–red and blue–interspersed with other tones from these spectrums. What a change from the beiges, browns, greens, taupes and terra-cottas of her spring season.

Turning away from the window where she still stood, Kay went over to the other fabric samples and searched through them quickly, looking for the colours she now wanted to use. She found a few of them and carried them back to her desk, where she spread them out. Then she began to match the samples to the sketches she had already done for her winter line, envisioning a coat, a suit or a dress in one of the reds, purples or blues.

Very soon she was lost in her work, completely oblivious to everything, bubbling inside with enthusiasm, her creative juices flowing as she began to design, loving every moment of it.

At twenty-nine Kay Lenox was one of the best-known young fashion designers on both sides of the Atlantic. In London her clothes sold at her boutique on Bond Street, and in New York at Bergdorf Goodman. She had a boutique in Chicago and one in Dallas, and another on Rodeo in Beverly Hills.

Her name was synonymous with quality, stylishness and wearability. The clothes she designed were elegant, but in a relaxed and casual manner, and they were extremely well cut and beautifully made.

The fabrics Kay favoured gave her clothes a great sense of luxury…the finest light wools, cashmeres, wool crepes, soft Scottish tweeds, suede, leather, crushed velvet and a heavy silk which she bought in France. Her flair and imagination were visible in the way she mixed these fabrics with each other in one garment–the result a look entirely unique to her.

Kay worked on steadily through the morning, and so concentrated was she that she almost jumped out of her skin when the phone next to her elbow rang.

Picking it up, she said, ‘Lochcraigie,’ in a somewhat sharpish tone.

‘Hello, darling,’ her husband answered. ‘You sound a bit snotty this morning.’

‘Ian!’ she exclaimed, her face lighting up. ‘Sorry. I was lost in a dress, figuratively speaking.’

He chuckled. ‘Is your designing going well then?’

‘I’ll say, and I had a brainstorm earlier. I’m doing the entire winter collection in shades of red running through to palest pink, and blue going to lilac to violet and deep purple.’

‘Sounds good to me. Did John phone by any chance?’

‘He stopped by, actually. He wanted you to know that the septic tanks at the Home Farm are under control.’

‘That’s a relief.’

‘Did you find a gift for Fiona?’

There was a moment’s hesitation before he said, sounding vague, ‘Oh, yes, I did.’

‘So you’re on your way home now?’

‘Not exactly,’ he replied, clearing his throat. ‘Er, er, I’m a bit peckish, so I’m going to have a spot of lunch. I should be back about fourish.’

The brightness in her vivid blue eyes dimmed slightly, but she said, ‘All right then, I’ll be here waiting for you.’

‘We’ll have tea together,’ he murmured. ‘Bye, darling.’

He hung up before she could say another word, and she stood there puzzled, staring at the receiver in her hand, and then she went back to work.

Later that afternoon, when she had eaten a smoked salmon sandwich and drunk a mug of lemon tea, Kay put on a cream fisherman’s-knit sweater from the Orkneys, thick woollen socks and green Wellington boots. In the coat room near the back door she took down her dark green coat of quilted silk, pushed her red-gold hair under a red knitted cap, added a matching scarf and gloves, and went outside.

She was hit with a blast of freezing air, and it took her breath away, but her clothes were warm, the coat in particular, and she set out towards the loch, in need of fresh air and exercise.

This was one of her favourite walks on the estate, which in its entirety covered over three thousand acres. A wide path led down from the cutting garden just beyond the back door, past broad lawns, and thick woods bordering one side of the lawns. In the distance was the narrow body of glassy water that was Loch Craigie.

At one moment Kay stopped and stood staring across at the distant hills, partially obscured this afternoon by a hazy mist on their peaks and lightly covered in snow. Then her eyes settled on the great stone house where she lived, built in 1559 by William Andrews, the new laird of Lochcraigie. From that time onwards, the eldest son had inherited everything through the law of primogeniture, and fortuitously there had always been a male heir to carry on the Andrews name. An unbroken line for centuries.

Ian was the laird now, although no one ever used that old Scots name any more, except for a few oldtimers from his grandfather’s day who still lived in the village.

Apart from these vast lands, the Andrews family had many other interests, primarily in business, including manufacturing, publishing and textiles. Everything belonged to Ian, but he was a low-profile millionaire content to lead the quiet country life.

Kay began to walk again, striding out at a steady pace, her eyes thoughtful as she contemplated her own past. She couldn’t help wondering what Ian would say if he knew of her mean and poverty-stricken beginnings. He would be horrified, shocked, perhaps even disbelieving…

She let these thoughts float away, up into the air, and took several deep breaths…her troubles began when she was a teenager, but she had always known they would end, that she would have a different life when she was older.

And now she did. She had everything she had ever wanted, had ever dreamed about…a husband who was not only young and handsome but an aristocrat, an ancient historic house she called home, a big career as a fashion designer, fame, success…

But no child.

No heir for Ian.

No boy to be the laird of these vast estates and holdings, one day in the far distant future, when Ian was dead and they proclaimed a new Master of Lochcraigie.

She sighed under her breath. It was an old story. After a moment she increased her pace, almost running down to the loch. The body of water was flat and grey, leaden under the wintry sky, and she did not plan to linger long. The air had grown much colder and there was a hint of snow on the wind. But she walked along the edge of the water for fifteen minutes, always enjoying the tranquil view, the sense of peace that was all-pervasive here.

On her way back, she took the paved path which led her past the Dower House where Ian’s mother lived. For a moment she thought of dropping in to see her mother-in-law, but changed her mind. It would soon be four o’clock and Ian would be home; she longed to see him, to assuage her anxiety about him. She had plans for tonight, big plans, and she wanted him to be in the right frame of mind. If she were absent when he arrived, he could be put out.

And so she passed the Dower House and climbed the narrow steps, thinking of Ian’s mother. She was a lovely woman, with impeccable manners, manners bred in the bone, and a kind and loving heart. She had always been her champion, and for that Kay was grateful.

Margaret Andrews had been born a Hepburn, and her family was somehow distantly related to the ill-fated James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, third husband of Mary Queen of Scots, who had died a terrible death in Denmark, imprisoned in the dungeons of a remote castle. Kay hated the story of Bothwell’s death. It always upset her; she couldn’t bear to think of that virile, vigorous and handsome man dying in such a ghastly way. And yet the story haunted her…She chastised herself now for her morbid thoughts of Bothwell, and ran across the lawn to the terrace in front of the conservatory. A second later she let herself into the house.

Kay knew at once that Ian was in a good mood as he walked into the conservatory just after four. He was smiling, and when she went to greet him he hugged her close and kissed her cheek. ‘You look bonny,’ he said to her as he moved away, went and stood with his back to the fire.

She smiled back at him. Thank you. Hazel just brought the tea in, Ian. Shall I pour you a cup?’

He nodded. ‘It was a long drive back, and I thought I was going to hit snow, but so far it’s held off.’

‘Not quite,’ Kay said, and pointedly looked towards the window. ‘It’s just started.’

He followed her gaze, saw the snowflakes coming down heavily. But he laughed and said, ‘It looks as if we might get snowed in, Kay.’

‘I don’t care! Do you?’

‘No. Well, let’s have tea then.’

They sat down on the wicker furniture grouped in front of the fire, and Kay poured for them both, looking across at him surreptitiously as she did.

Ian appeared to be happier this afternoon than he had in a while, more lighthearted and carefree than was usual. He also looked younger, unusually boyish today, but perhaps that was because his fair hair was tousled from the wind and he wore an open-neck shirt under a pale blue sweater with a vee neckline. Very collegiate, and vulnerable, she thought, and smiled, thinking of her plans.

Ian said, ‘Actually, I hope the snow doesn’t stick. It really would be quite awful if we had to cancel tomorrow’s birthday lunch.’

Kay nodded in agreement. ‘Let’s not worry about the lunch now. I heard a weather report earlier on the radio, and it’s supposed to be sunny tomorrow, and also much warmer.’

Ian smiled at her, and surveyed the tray of sandwiches and fancy cakes. ‘My goodness, Hazel’s done us proud this afternoon,’ he murmured and reached for a sandwich, bit into it. ‘Mmmmm…this is delicious. I see she’s put out most of my favourite things.’

‘By the way, Ian, what did you end up getting Fiona?’

‘What do you mean?’

Kay gave him a baffled look, and exclaimed, ‘The gift, for her birthday. What is it?’

‘Oh yes…a pair of earrings. Rather nice, I’ll show them to you later.’

They fell into a companionable silence, sipping their tea and eating the little sandwiches and cream cakes in front of the blazing fire. Outside the windows it was snowing heavily now, and settling on the ground, but neither of them noticed, preoccupied as they were with their own thoughts.

Kay couldn’t help feeling taut inside, even though Ian appeared to be so relaxed and at ease with himself and with her.

He was more like his old self, and this was a good omen. She planned to seduce him later, planned a night of lovemaking, and it was important that he was in the right mood. She believed he was…at least at the moment. She prayed it would last. And with a little luck she would get pregnant. She must. So much depended on it.

For his part, Ian was thinking about his trip to Edinburgh. It had been interesting, to say the least, and he was glad he had made the effort to go. And he was happy with the purchases. He hoped Fiona would like his gift, certainly it had been carefully chosen. He looked at his wife, and couldn’t help thinking how beautiful she looked today, and desirable…he let that thought slide away…

Kay broke the silence when she confided, ‘The FedEx envelope I received yesterday was an invitation…an invitation to go to Anya Sedgwick’s eighty-fifth birthday party in Paris.’

‘I don’t have to go too, do I?’ Ian asked, frowning, looking worried. ‘You know how I hate travelling.’

‘No, of course not,’ she answered quickly. She didn’t even bother to tell him that only her name was on the invitation. But she did think to add, ‘I’m not going to go either.’

Ian stared at her, apparently puzzled and surprised. ‘Whyever not?’

‘I don’t really want to see people I haven’t seen in seven years…I lost touch with my friends when I graduated.’

‘But you’ve always admired Anya.’

‘That’s true, she’s the most fascinating woman I’ve ever met, a genius, too.’

‘Well, then?’ He raised a sandy brow.

‘I don’t know…’

‘I think you should go to her party, Kay, just out of respect.’

‘Perhaps you’re right. I’ll think about it.’

Chapter Six

By the time they had finished their tea the snow had settled on the ground, and it was continuing to fall steadily. Outside, it was growing darker and darker; the dusky twilight of late afternoon had long since been obliterated, and already a few sparse early stars sprinkled the sky.

But in the snug conservatory all was warmth and cosiness. The fire roared in the great stone hearth, constantly replenished with logs and peat by Ian; the table lamps cast a lovely lambent glow throughout, and in the background music played softly.

Ian had turned on the radio earlier, to listen to the weather report, and after hearing that heavy snow was expected, he had tuned in to a station playing popular music. Now the strains of Lady in Red, sung by Chris De Burgh, echoed softly around the conservatory.

The two of them had been silent for a while, when at one moment Ian looked across at Kay intently, his eyes narrowing. ‘You’re very quiet this afternoon, and you look awfully pensive. Sad, even. Is something the matter, darling? What are you brooding about?’

Kay roused herself from her thoughts, and shook her head. ‘Not brooding, Ian. Just thinking…people do suffer for love, don’t they?’

His brows drew together in a small frown, but his expression was hard to read. After a split second he answered her. ‘I suppose some do…’ He paused and shrugged offhandedly. ‘But what are you getting at exactly?’

‘I was thinking of Bothwell earlier, and the way he loved Mary. How he died because of her…well, in a sense, he did. And that awful death…chained like a poor dog to a pole for years…’ Her voice trailed off and she let out a long sigh. ‘He suffered for love. It’s so heartbreaking, that story, when you think about it.’

‘But it happened hundreds of years ago. I do believe my mother’s been filling your head with stories again–’

‘Yes, but they’re all part of Scottish history,’ she interrupted peremptorily. ‘I can never get enough of it. I guess I didn’t pay enough attention at school…but your mother’s rectified all that. She’s been a wonderful teacher.’

His searching hazel eyes rested on her, and then he half smiled. ‘My mother’s the best teacher I know. A genius at it, especially when it comes to history, and the history of the clans. She held me enthralled when I was a child.’

‘She’s told me a lot about the noble families, but so much more as well. I’ve learned a great deal about the Stuarts. How extraordinary they were, so bold and courageous, so very beautiful to look at.’

‘And very ill-fated,’ he shot back pointedly. ‘At least some of them were. Foolish Mary, led by her heart and not her head. She was no match for crafty Elizabeth Tudor, I’m afraid. Not in the long run. Her cousin was so much cleverer.’

‘The problem with Mary and Bothwell is that they were so entangled in the politics of the times. It doomed them.’

‘That’s an old familiar story, isn’t it?’ Ian shook his head, laughed a bit cynically. ‘She was trying to keep a throne and protect her heir, and he wanted to sit next to her on his own throne, and the lords were in rebellion. God knows, it was a dangerous and hellish time to live.’

‘Your mother explained everything. She’s such an expert on Scottish history…’ Kay paused, added: ‘And a bit of a nationalist.’

He laughed. ‘So are you!’

‘Something must’ve rubbed off.’

He smiled at her indulgently.

There was a small silence.

Eventually Kay murmured, ‘Your mother once told me that suffering for love is a noble thing. Do you agree with her?’

Ian burst out laughing. ‘I’m not so sure I do! And let’s not forget that my mother is something of a romantic, always has been, always will be, just like you are. But come to think of it, no, I don’t want to suffer for love. No, not at all. I want to relish it, enjoy it, wallow in it.’

‘With me?’

‘Is that an invitation?’ he asked, eyeing her keenly.

She simply smiled, beguilingly.

Ian rose and crossed the room, took hold of her hands and brought her to her feet. And then he led her over to the fireplace, pulled her down on to the rug with him.

He smoothed his hand over her red-gold hair, shimmering in the fire’s glow, and held strands of it between his fingers. ‘Look at this…Celtic gold…it’s beautiful, Kay.’ She was silent. Her eyes never left his face. He began to unbutton her white silk blouse, leaned forward, kissed her cheek, her neck, and her mouth, then moved her down. He kissed her with mounting passion.

But after only a moment, Kay pushed him away. ‘Ian, stop! We can’t. Not here! Someone might come in.’

‘No, they won’t.’

‘Maude might, or Malcolm. To clear away the tea things.’

He laughed dismissively. But, nevertheless, he got up and walked over to the door set in the wall, to the right of the fireplace. This led to the main house.

Risk, Kay thought. He loves taking risks, taking chances. It excites him. And I mustn’t fight him now. He wants to make love…I must seize this moment.

She heard him locking the door, and his footsteps echoing on the terra-cotta tiles as he came back to her.

Ian knelt on the floor next to Kay. He took her face in both of his hands, brought his lips to hers gently, gave her a light kiss.

‘What about the French windows?’ she asked, pulling away, glancing worriedly towards the terrace.

‘Nobody’s going to be out in this weather, for God’s sake! There’s a snowstorm brewing!’

He doesn’t care, she thought. He doesn’t care if someone sees us through the windows. Or walks in. But she knew this wouldn’t happen. He was right. Everyone was snowbound tonight, safe in their homes. His mother down the hill in the Dower House; his sister Fiona ensconced in her cottage by the loch; John Lanark and his family secure in the estate manager’s house close by the Home Farm. No one would venture out unless there was an emergency.

Ian had taken off her cardigan and white silk blouse, and was fumbling with the hooks on her bra. She helped him to unfasten it, then reached out for him, pulled him into her arms. They fell back on the rug together, and she kissed him hard, deeply. He responded with ardour, and then almost immediately sat up, pulled off his sweater, struggled out of his shirt, threw them to one side.

Kay followed suit, and within a few seconds they were both completely undressed, naked on the rug in front of the fire. Ian sat back on his haunches looking down at her. She never failed to stir his blood. She was such a beautiful woman, tall, slender, long-limbed; and her skin was pale as ivory. But now, in the firelight, it had taken on a golden glow and her red hair was like a burnished halo around her narrow face. How very blue her eyes were.

Staring back at him, Kay saw the intensity in his luminous hazel eyes, twin reflections of her own filled with mounting desire. She lifted her arms up to him.

In answer, he stretched himself on top of her. How perfectly we fit together, he thought.

‘I want you,’ she whispered against his neck, and her long, tapering fingers went up into his hair.

He wanted her as much as she wanted him, but he also wanted to prolong their lovemaking. Sometimes it was too quick. He was too quick. Tonight he had the great need to savour her, to pleasure her, before he took his own pleasure with her.

And so he kissed her very slowly, languorously.

As he began to caress her breasts, her hands moved down over his broad back, settled on his buttocks. Smoothing his hand up along her leg, he slipped it between her thighs; her soft sighs increased as he finally touched that damp, warm, welcoming place. She arched her body, then fell back, moaning.

Now he could hardly contain himself and he parted her legs and entered her swiftly, no longer able to resist her.

Kay began to move frantically against him, her hands tightly gripping his shoulders, her whole body radiating heat and a desire for him he had not seen in her before. Excited beyond endurance, he felt every fibre of his being exploding as he tumbled into her warmth, and she welcomed him ecstatically.

William Andrews, who inherited Lochcraigie on the death of his bachelor uncle, had had a growing family, and so it was necessary to provide a larger dwelling to accommodate them all. To this end, he built a new house which was finished in the late summer of 1559, and for the past four hundred and forty-two years it had stood unflinching on the small hillock above the loch.

Across all these decades the large bedroom, which overlooked the long body of water and the rolling hills beyond, had been called the Laird’s Room. From William’s day on it had always been the private enclave of the head of the family, from the moment he inherited the title and property until he died.

Like the rest of the rooms in this great stone manse, the bedroom had a grandeur and dignity about it. Of spacious proportions, it had eight windows, one placed on each side of the central fireplace, and three set in each end wall. The fireplace itself was grand and soaring, with an oversized iron grate to hold big logs and slabs of peat, the kind of massive fires necessary in the dead of the Scottish winter. Its mahogany mantel matched the dark beams which floated across the ceiling and the highly polished, pegged-wood floor.

The elegance of the room was not only to be found in its beautiful proportions, but in its furnishings as well. Set against the main wall, and facing the fireplace, stood the mahogany four-poster bed, with its carved posts, rose silk hangings and coverlet.

The same rose brocade, with a self-pattern of thistles, covered the walls and hung as curtains at the many windows. It was faded now, having been chosen by Ian’s great-great-grandmother, the famous Adelaide, renowned in the family for her installation of the Victorian conservatory.

Although she had taste and a great eye for decorating as well as for fashion, Kay had not tampered with anything in the master bedroom. For one thing, Ian loved the room just the way it was, and so did she. So there was no good reason to upset him by making changes to a setting already quite beautiful, and one loaded with tradition and family history.

In particular, she admired the handsome antique chests, dressing table and other smaller pieces from the Jacobean period, and the Persian rug in the centre of the room. This was very old, its rose and blue tones faded, but it looked perfect against the dark pegged wood; it was priceless, she knew that. A beautiful gilded mirror over one of the chests, antique porcelain lamps and vases, and a charming old grandfather clock standing in one corner were items in the bedroom which Kay cherished as much as Ian did.

Several comfortable chairs were arranged near the fireplace, and Kay curled up in one of them now.

It was late, well past midnight.

Ian was already fast asleep. She could hear the faint rise and fall of his deep breathing; the only other sounds in the room were the crackle of the logs in the grate and the ticking of the clock in the corner.

Kay was thinking of Ian. She had been overwhelmed by his passion tonight, not only in the conservatory after tea, when he had taken her by surprise and made amazing love to her on the floor, but then later in their bed, when desire had overtaken him yet again. He had been unable to get enough of her, or so it seemed.

She had found herself responding in kind, meeting his passionate sexual needs, as wild and demanding as he was.

Hope rose in her that she had conceived.

Kay wanted a child as much as her husband did. Not that Ian ever made reference to his longing for a son. But she knew, deep within herself, how much he yearned for an heir, a boy to follow in his footsteps as the Laird of Lochcraigie.

What would happen if she didn’t conceive? Not ever? Would he divorce her and find another woman to bear him a son? Or would he shrug and hope that his sister Fiona would marry, and provide a male child to inherit the title and vast family holdings? The awful thing was, she had no idea what Ian would do.

Rising, Kay walked over to the window and looked out. It was still snowing; there was a high wind that sent the crystalline flakes whirling about, and on the ground they were still settling. There was a blanket of white below, and under the pale moon this pristine coverlet seemed woven with silver threads. The wind rattled the windows, but the house stood firm and solid as it always had. William Andrews of Lochcraigie had built a manse that had defied time and the harsh Scottish winters.

If only she had someone to talk to, Kay thought, pressing her face against the cold windowpane. She had never discussed their childlessness with Ian, for fear of opening Pandora’s box; or with her mother-in-law for the same reason. If only Mam were still alive, she thought, and unexpectedly a surge of emotion choked her. Her mother had made her what she was, and put her where she was, in a sense, but her mam was no longer around to reap the benefits or share the joy. Her brother Sandy was long gone, having emigrated to Australia eight years ago, and she never heard from him any more. Sadly.

I have no friends, at least not close friends, she realized, and thought instantly of Alex Gordon. They had been so very close once, until their terrible quarrel. Sometimes, when she wasn’t closing her mind to those wonderful days at Anya’s school, memories of Alex enveloped her, and she found herself missing the American girl. Not the Italian though; Maria had been a pain in the neck. And Jessica, too, had been difficult. Jessica had been mean to her, teasing her and putting her down. Miss Jessica Pierce was cruel and vindictive.

A long, rippling sigh escaped from her throat, and she felt a sadness settle over her. But there was Anya Sedgwick. She had always been good to her, not only as a teacher and mentor, but as a true friend, almost like a loving mother. Perhaps she should go to Anya’s party after all. If she went a few days before the party she could meet with Anya privately, unburden herself perhaps. But why wait until June? she now wondered. And thought instantly of Francois Boujon. Once she had an appointment with him she could make a date for lunch or tea or dinner with Anya, who would be thrilled to see her, she had no doubts about that.

Suddenly, boldly, Kay made a decision. She would go to the party anyway. Out of respect for Anya, as Ian had suggested earlier.

She couldn’t help wondering how her three former friends would behave towards her. She had become a fashion designer of some renown, after all. And although she seldom used her title away from Scotland, she was, nevertheless, the Lady Andrews of Lochcraigie now.

Chapter Seven Jessica

Jessica Pierce was in a fury.

She stood in the elegant den of her Bel-Air house, looking down at her boyfriend Gary Stennis. He was almost falling off the cream velvet sofa, sprawled out across the cushions, dead drunk.

Her cool grey eyes swept around the room.

Everything looked neat, undisturbed in the superbly decorated room. Except for the messy jumble of things he had managed to accumulate on the low, antique Chinese coffee table in front of the fireplace. A piece that had cost her the earth.

The unusual ebony table, beautifully inlaid with mother-of-pearl orange blossom trees, was littered with a number of highball glasses, one of her best Baccarat crystal goblets, a bottle of Stolichnaya Cristall, half full, and an empty bottle of her Château Simard Saint-Emilion 1988. One of my better red wines, she thought, as her eyes settled on an antique crystal dish. With a flash of irritation she saw that this valuable signed piece of Lalique, a gift from a client, had been carelessly used as an ashtray. It was full of cigarette butts. And God knows what else.

Sighing under her breath, Jessica picked it up and sniffed. The unmistakable aroma of cannabis was missing. For once he had not been smoking pot with his friends and colleagues. She put it down, relieved.

A frown furrowed her brow, and she leaned closer to the coffee table, staring at the crystal goblet. It bore traces of lipstick on the rim. But it had been a business meeting, of that she felt sure.

Pages of his new script were scattered on the floor, along with a yellow legal pad on which innumerable notes had been scrawled. In his handwriting.

Straightening, now focusing all of her attention on Gary, she studied him at length, through dispassionate eyes. His salt-and-pepper hair was mussed, his face was gaunt and pale, with dark smudges under his eyes. In sleep, his mouth had gone slack, was partially open, and with his furrowed neck it made him look curiously old, worn out.

Washed up, she thought, and felt a tinge of sadness.

But no, he wasn’t that. At least, not yet.

Gary was still a brilliant screenwriter, one of the best, if not the best, in the business, and his past was filled with tunes of glory. And Oscars.

He had written many of the greatest screenplays ever put on celluloid and for some of the most talented stars, male stars especially. During his most-celebrated career he had made, lost and made several fortunes, married two famous movie stars, divorced them, and fathered a daughter with one who no longer spoke to him.

And now, at the age of fifty-one he was courting her and entreating her to marry him.

When he was sober.

Quite frequently these days he was drunk. And because of this addiction, which he refused to admit was an illness, she knew deep down she would never marry him. In her innermost soul she knew she would never be able to cope with an alcoholic on a long-term basis, and that was what he was on his way to becoming, if he wasn’t already there.

Constantly Jessica begged him to go to AA, but he merely laughed at her, and somehow managed to charm her into believing he didn’t need Alcoholics Anonymous. In her quiet moments, when she was alone, she knew with absolute sureness that he did. Just as she knew she should break up with him.

On two occasions Jessica had thrown him out; he had managed to charm his way back into her life. Well, he was a charmer personified, everyone knew that, and the master when it came to words. He had earned millions and millions from his words, hadn’t he?

‘Don’t forget, he’s a writer, he knows exactly what to say to press your buttons,’ her friend Merle was always saying. Her retort to Merle never varied. ‘And don’t you forget that Jeremy’s an actor. He knows which role to play to punch yours. Once an actor always an actor, Merle.’

Merle usually laughed, and so did she. They knew their men, that was a certainty. And they’re both wrong for us, Jessica thought; she turned swiftly on her high heels, went out of the den and closed the door quietly behind her.

She was still furious with Gary for being in this inebriated state when she got home, and the best thing was to let him sleep it off.

Jessica had been in Santa Barbara for five days, supervising an installation at a client’s new house, and Gary had promised her dinner tête-à-tête at home tonight…no matter what time she arrived. A dinner he would cook. He was a great chef when he wanted to be, and a great lover when he was stone-cold sober.

Yes, she loved him, with certain qualifications. Nevertheless, he made her madder than a wet hen at times. Like right now.

When she reached the circular front hall, with its glassy black granite floor and elegant, curving staircase, Jessica picked up her hanging clothes bag and overnight holdall and headed upstairs to her dressing room next door to the bedroom.

As she went into the octagonal-shaped room she caught sight of herself in one of the four mirrors, and after hanging up the clothes bag and putting the other one in a corner, she turned and stared at herself in the nearest glass.

Stepping closer, she moved her long blonde hair back over her shoulders, then straightened her jacket. What she saw was a tall young woman of thirty-one, not bad-looking, quite elegant in a white gabardine trouser suit and high-heeled mules, with a string of pearls around her neck and pearl studs on her ears. But it’s a slightly tired woman tonight, she muttered, then went back downstairs.

Jessica’s brown leather handbag was on a Louis XIV bench in the front hall. Picking it up as she walked past the bench, she hurried down the carpeted corridor to her office. Pushing open the door, she turned on the light switch and moved forward to her eighteenth-century French bureau plat in front of the window.

The first thing she saw, propped up against the Chinese yellow porcelain lamp, was a FedEx envelope.

Jessica sat staring at the invitation for a long time, lost in her thoughts as she found herself carried back into the past.

A decade fell away.

She was young, just twenty-one, and starting out at the Anya Sedgwick School of Decorative Arts, Design and Couture, on the rue de l’Université in Paris, where she had gone to study interior design.

In her mind’s eye she could see herself as she was then…tall, very thin, with straight blonde hair falling to her shoulder blades and a skin without a blemish. A small-town Texas girl on her first visit to Europe. An innocent abroad.

She had been captivated by Paris, the school, Anya, of course, and the little family pension on the Left Bank where she lived. It had all been new, different, and stimulating. So very exciting, and far removed from San Antonio and her parents. She missed them a lot, whilst managing to enjoy every new experience at the school and in her daily life.

And it was in Paris that she met Lucien Girard and fell in love for the first time. It was at the end of her first year that she and Lucien were introduced by Larry Sedgwick, Anya’s nephew. She was just twenty-two; he was four years older, an actor by profession. She smiled now, thinking of the way she teased Merle unmercifully about living with an actor.

Lucien and she had been the perfect match, completely compatible. They liked the same movies, books, music and art, and got on so well it was almost uncanny. They shared the same philosophy of life, wanted similar things and were ambitious for themselves.

Jessica had believed she knew Paris well–until she met Lucien; he had quickly shown her she knew it hardly at all. He took her to wonderful out-of-the-way places–charming bistros, unique little boutiques, art galleries and shops, and obscure pretty corners filled with peacefulness. He showed her interesting churches, little-known museums, and he had taken her on trips to Brittany, Provence and the Cotê d’Azur.

Their days together had been golden, filled with blue skies and sunshine, tranquil days and passion-filled nights.

He had taught her so much, about so many different things…sex and love…the best wines and food, and how to savour them…with him she had eaten mussels in a delicious tangy broth, omelettes so light and fluffy they were like air, soft aromatic cheeses from the countryside, and tiny fraises des bois, minuscule wood strawberries fragrant with an indefinable perfume, sumptuous to eat with thick clotted cream.

With him, everything was bliss.

He had called her his long-stemmed American beauty, had utterly loved and adored her, as she had him, and their days together had been sublime, so in tune were they, and happy. They made so many plans…

But one day he was gone.

Lucien disappeared.

Distraught, she tried to find him, teaming up with his best friend Alain Bonnal. His apartment was undisturbed, nothing had been removed. His agent had no idea where he was and was as baffled and worried as they were. He was an orphan; they knew of no family member to go to, no one to appeal to for information. She and Alain checked hospitals, the morgue, listed him as a missing person. To no avail. He was never found, either living or dead.

That spring of 1994 Lucien Girard had disappeared off the face of the earth. He might never have existed. But she knew very well that he had…

Suddenly jumping up, Jessica hurried across the office to the large French armoire where she kept fabric samples, opened the drawer at the bottom and pulled out a red leather photograph album. Carrying it back to the desk, she sat down, opened the album and began turning the pages…it was a full and complete record of her three years in Paris studying interior design. Almost everyone she had met and cared about was in here.

There we are, Lucien and me, she said under her breath, staring down at the photograph of them on the banks of the Seine, just near the Pont des Arts, the only metal bridge in Paris. She peered at the picture, instantly struck by their likeness to each other; Lucien had been tall and slender also, with fair colouring and bluish-grey eyes. The love of my life, she thought, and swiftly turned the page.

Here were she and Alexa, Kay, Maria and Anya, in the garden of Anya’s house. And here was a fun picture of Nicky and Larry clowning it up with Alexa, and Maria Franconi looking mournful at the back.

Jessica experienced an unexpected feeling of great sadness…Lucien had disappeared and everything had gone wrong after that. ‘Les girls’ as Nicky Sedgwick called their quartet, had quarrelled and disbanded. And it had all been so…so…silly and juvenile.

Jessica closed the album. If she went to Anya’s birthday party she would undoubtedly run into her former friends. She shrugged…not knowing how she really felt about them. Seven years. It had all happened seven years ago…a long time, a lot of water under the bridge.

And could she actually face being in Paris? She didn’t know. Paris was Lucien.

Lucien no longer existed.

That had to be true, because he had never surfaced, never reappeared. She still heard from Alain Bonnal occasionally, and he was as baffled as she continued to be; they had come up with every scenario they could think of, and were never satisfied with any of them, never sure what could have happened.

Accept the invitation. Go to Paris, just for the hell of it, she told herself. Then changed her mind instantly. No, decline. You’re only going to open up old wounds.

Jessica closed her eyes, leaning back in the chair…Her memories of Paris and Lucien were golden…filled with happiness and a joy she had not experienced since her days with him.

Better to keep the memories intact.

She would send her regrets.

Gary said from the doorway of her office, ‘So you finally decided to come home.’

Startled, Jessica swung around in the chair and stared at him. He was leaning against the door jamb wearing crumpled clothes and a belligerent expression.

He’s an angry drunk, she thought, but said, ‘You look as if you’ve been ridden hard and put away wet.’

He frowned, never having liked her southern Texan humour. ‘Why did you get back so late?’ he demanded.

‘What difference does it make? You had passed out dead drunk on my sofa.’

He let out a long sigh and slid into the room, came to stand by her chair, suddenly smiling down at her. ‘I guess we got to celebrating. Harry and Phil were crazy about the first draft of the script, and after making our notes, a few changes, we were pretty sure it was almost good enough to be a shooting script. So…we decided to celebrate–’

‘I guess it just got out of hand.’

‘No. You just got back very late.’

‘Nine o’clock isn’t all that late.’

‘Why were you late? Did Mark Sylvester detain you…in some way?’ He glared.

‘Don’t be so ridiculous! And I don’t like the innuendo. He wasn’t even there. And I was late because there was a lot of traffic on the Santa Barbara freeway. And how was Gina?’

‘Gina?’ Gary frowned, then sat down on the sofa.

‘Don’t tell me Gina wasn’t here tonight, because I smelled her perfume in the den. And she’s always at your script meetings, drinks my best red wine and leaves her lipstick on the wine glass. Harry hasn’t taken to wearing lipstick has he?’

‘Your sarcasm is wasted on me, Jessica. And I fail to understand why you’re always so hard on her. Gina’s been my assistant for years.’

And partner in bed when you see fit, she thought, then said, ‘This ain’t my first rodeo…I know what’s what.’

Gary leapt to his feet, colour flooding his face. He looked apoplectic as he said, ‘I can see the frame of mind you’re in, and I’m not staying around to get in the way of your whip, Missy. I’m going to my place. I’ll get my stuff tomorrow. See you around, kid.’

Jessica did not respond. She merely stared at him coldly, understanding, suddenly, how truly tired she was of having him use her. And misuse her house.

He strode out and slammed the office door behind him. A moment later she heard the front door bang and the screech of wheels as he drove out of her front yard at breakneck speed.

And at this precise moment, Jessica Pierce realized that she actually didn’t care that he had left in a temper…or that she had pushed him at a bad moment, and he had almost snapped.

She opened the red leather album again and turned the pages, staring at the photographs of her three years in Paris, and with a flash of unexpected insight she recognized how little Gary Stennis meant in her life. Yes, she had feelings for him, and in the early stages of their relationship she had truly believed they had a chance of making it together on a long-term basis. But now the odds of it working were remote. If she were honest with herself, she knew she shouldn’t string him along any more. It wasn’t fair to him; or to herself, for that matter. She ought to end the affair.

Well, maybe she just had. He had left in a huff and might never come back.

She thought again of Lucien, gazing at a photograph of him standing between her and Alexa outside Anya’s school on the rue de l’Université. How young we all look in the picture, she thought. Young, innocent, with life ahead of us…how unconcerned we were about the future…about our lives. We thought we were invulnerable, immortal.

‘Lucien,’ she murmured out loud, tracing a finger over his face. ‘What really happened to you?’

She had no answer for herself, just as she never had. His disappearance was a mystery. It was one that would never be solved.

Chapter Eight

To Jessica the Pacific had never looked more beautiful.

The deepest of blues, glittering brilliantly in the afternoon sunlight, it was dazzling to the eye as it stretched into infinity.

Her gaze remained on the ocean as she fell down into her thoughts, asking herself what her life was all about, where she was heading and where she would end up.

In the last twenty-four hours she had felt extremely depressed about her relationship with Gary, which she now believed was doomed to failure. The end was coming, of that she was sure; she could only hope it would not be too messy.

It was Monday afternoon, and Jessica was sitting in the small, antique gazebo which she had shipped from a stately home in England. It now stood at the tip of Mark Sylvester’s property in Santa Monica.

On a bluff facing the sea, the gazebo was a peaceful spot, a place for reflection and tranquillity, as she had known it would be. Mark loved it, just as he loved the new house. She had been quite certain he would approve, but it was a relief, nonetheless, to know he was actually thrilled with it. He was moving in next weekend, and today she had walked him through for the first time since the furnishings had been installed.

Everything’s gone right with the house; everything’s gone wrong in my personal life, she thought, her mind settling on Gary. She had called him yesterday, wanting to be conciliatory, to make amends, but he had not picked up. Nor had he returned his messages. At least, not hers.

So be it, she suddenly thought. I must get on with my life; move on. I have to, in order to save myself. Instinctively, Jessica felt that Gary Stennis would only drag her down with him. She paused in her thoughts, frowning to herself. There it was again, the frightening idea that Gary was on a downward spiral.

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