The Night That Started It All (20 page)

‘You must miss her,’ she observed coldly.

‘
Shari
.’ His gentle chiding tone made her feel ashamed. Advertising her neediness was hardly the way to inspire a man to love her. She felt her throat thicken, but held back the tears for all she was worth.

The rest of the journey seethed with an unbearable silence. When they drew up in the street before their apartment building, he turned to her, his intelligent eyes alert and at the same time grave.

He hesitated, then took her hand and said firmly, ‘I don’t
miss her,
mon amour
. I’m with you now. I’ve moved on. We all have.’

‘Sure. Sure we have.’

‘Hold the irony, please, Mlle Lacey.’ His dark eyes scrutinised her face with tender concern. ‘We—Manon and I were over long before our affair ended.’

She lifted her eyebrows. ‘
Affair
? Oh, that’s cool. After seven
years …
’

He shrugged. ‘That was what she wanted our relationship to be. No promises, no certainties. More than anything in the world she didn’t want to
belong
to anyone.’ His mouth made a sardonic curl. ‘So she
said
. That was what caused the final crash. She wanted our relationship to stay the same. But …’ He opened his palms and said simply, ‘
I
changed. I wanted—more. I understand now she saw that as a betrayal. At the time I was—angry. Disillusioned. You might say a little bitter. I said some things that were unkind, and she—stormed off to the airport in a fury, never to return.’

‘Oh.’ So it wasn’t just the Jackson Kerr affair that had broken their relationship. Shari hardly dared ask, but the question was burning on her tongue. ‘What was it
you
wanted?’

He flicked down his lashes and made a rueful grimace. ‘Not a Russian wolfhound. No. I … er … suffered a brainstorm on my way home one evening and thought I wanted to have a child. Imagine that.’ He shot her a veiled glance.

Her heart started thumping with a dawning realisation, but she struggled on to extract more of this astounding confession. ‘You and Manon? You
wanted
a—a—baby?’

He inclined his head.

‘Oh. Right. Well.
Well. So
… Did you—propose to her?’

He shrugged. ‘The roses, the ring, the carpet of rose petals, the private room in the restaurant, kneeling like a fool—the whole bloody farce.’

‘Oh-h-h.’ She winced in sympathy. ‘And she said no?’

He gave a sardonic laugh. ‘Manon was a little like you in
some of her ideas. She accused me of being a selfish chauvinist determined to cruelly subjugate her to domestic slavery and prevent her from realising her full potential by weighing her down with children.’ From the harsh intake of breath through his nostrils, some lingering outrage was apparent. ‘That was what she said to the media, among other things.’

She could imagine how bitterly such a rejection had hurt. Then to see Manon allowing herself to be subjugated by the next man in so precisely the manner she’d sneered at …

Shari’s heart positively ached for him. No wonder he’d been so cold to the beauty when they’d met. ‘That really wasn’t fair,’ she said earnestly. ‘You may not be perfect, but you aren’t cruel.’

He laughed and kissed her lips. ‘Thank you,
chérie
. I am trying very hard not to be. And the fates must have forgiven me, because now I have an adorable …’

‘Friend.’

His dark eyes gleamed. ‘
And
a child to look forward to. I am the happiest father-to-be in Paris. Do you believe that?’

Meeting his glowing gaze, she did. If there was one thing she was certain about, it was that. He was definitely in love with the baby.

‘And I’m not really like her at all, by the way,’ she said, getting out of the car.

But the concierge called to him at that moment, and Shari doubted he even heard.

Darkness was approaching when Luc strolled into a bar in a sidestreet tucked around the corner from the Ministry for the Interior. His elderly friend was already ensconced at a table, perusing
Le Figaro
.

‘Henri.’

‘Ah, Luc.’ He folded the news sheet and rose to brush cheeks. ‘Good to see you, my young friend. What are we drinking?’

Henri already had a cognac before him, so Luc signalled the
bartender for the same. Once the courtesies had been observed, enquiries made about health, family and the stock market, the real reason for their meeting was subtly addressed.

‘I’m afraid the news is not good for your friend with the
fiancée.’

Luc’s heart lurched. ‘No?’

‘There are some laws made of steel. They cannot be bent in the slightest. I’m sorry, my friend, but what can one do? This is the new world. The law is implacable on immigration matters. However …’ Henri contemplated his cognac. ‘Might I suggest a possible solution?’

Luc listened, and his spirits sank. Henri was assuming that this situation was straightforward, the woman like any other.

He endeavoured to explain. ‘She is not—I
believe
from what my friend says—she is not the sort of woman who wishes to be pinned down. Forever is not a phrase in her vocabulary. My friend is concerned that if he sets a foot wrong she’ll be fleeing to the airport in a snap.’

Henri arched his brows and laughed with frank amusement. ‘Ah, Luc. Tell your friend he is an idiot. He just needs to find the right inducement.’ He made a suggestive, masculine gesture. ‘In the end they all want to be pinned down.’

Luc grimaced ruefully. ‘Not all.’ He rose, thanking Henri before leaving and walking slowly back to the métro, a heavy weight constricting his heart. ‘No. Not all.’

Shari spent some of her afternoon engaged in research. It was a risk, it could have been self-defeating, but knowledge was power.

Unsurprisingly, there was little of recent date to find out about Manon. The grand passion seemed to have dropped altogether from public sight. As Shari had noticed as far back as Sydney, it seemed that once the scandal had been milked for every last drop the media circus had moved on. The tabloid
sites were no longer swamped with sightings of Jackson Kerr and his new woman.

Just a view here or there of Manon spotted in Beverly Hills, always shying away from the camera. Manon sunning herself on Jackson’s private beach with a friend.

Was it possible they’d split up? Was this why Manon was back in France to have her baby? Shari was ready to bet LA was dotted with fabulous clinics for celebrities. Surely the American ones would compete with the best in the world.

She studied some of the old images from the time Manon had worked for the glossy. How could Manon have even
dreamed
of exchanging Luc for a butterfly like Jackson Kerr?

Scrolling back to the Malibu image, she enlarged it so she could get a clearer view of the friend. She could have been the same woman who’d been with Manon at the clinic.

Jackson might have been off on location somewhere. Shari hoped he wasn’t seducing another leading lady. He already had a few notches on his belt in that direction, if the celeb spotters were to be believed.

That would certainly explain why Manon had come back. Maybe she needed to call on friends and family for support.

When Luc arrived home Shari noticed a change in his mood. He tried to conceal it, but she sensed there was something on his mind. As if that over-the-moon excited guy in the street outside the clinic had plummeted to earth and it had gone hard with him.

She examined him carefully. ‘Is everything fine? At work? Your family?’

Anxiously she contemplated the meal she’d cooked. Her salad—she was leaving the vinaigrette dressing to him—the lamb cutlets with the Shari Lacey version of ratatouille instead of a sauce. It was Luc’s turn to make the dessert.

His handsome face lightened. ‘Everything is good. No need to worry.’ He smiled, but she couldn’t help wondering. And worrying.

He partook of the meal she’d partly prepared with apparent appreciation, but, as she’d noted before, he was a courteous guy. She made the resolution to take some lessons in French cuisine just as soon as she had the chance. Definitely.

Over the next week or so he often seemed deep in meditation. Once or twice she caught him looking at her with an expression she couldn’t interpret.

Well, she
was
starting to show. Her waist had thickened a little, and there were definite signs of a bump. To compensate she started making sure she looked beautilicious when he arrived home. Pretty clothes, underwear. She even had her hair cut and foiled and bought a straightener. At one point she succumbed to ironing a tee shirt.

In the bedroom she felt driven to experiment in ways that surprised even her normally inventive self. Was it hormones, rivalry or sheer insanity? Every time he looked gloomy, she felt challenged to distract him in some new and sensuous way.

She was at risk of turning herself into a femme fatale.

Luc came home early one afternoon when she was working on her book. The dining room’s light with its romantic view of the rooftops and chimney pots of Paris had made it the obvious choice for her workplace. To spare the furniture, she’d spread a sheet over the table for her paints and paraphernalia, and pinned up some paper to protect the silken walls from splashes.

‘
Ça va
.’ He kissed her, tasting of coffee, the city, man and desire.

‘You’re early.’

‘
Oui
.’ He noticed her painting and bent to examine it, exclaiming, ‘Aha. The carousel in the Luxembourg. You know, my papa used to take me there when I was a little kid.’

‘Oh, did he? It’s so beautiful there. It must be the best gig in the world for a juggler.’

‘But I don’t see your owl,’ he said, searching the picture.

‘Ah. No. I’ve abandoned him until I’m in Australia again.’

He frowned, as he often did when she mentioned Australia.
She guessed the reminder of Rémy’s business shenanigans there still stung like crazy.

‘See?’ Shyly, she showed him her initial sketch, and some beautiful old posters she’d unearthed from the famous Cirque d’hiver. ‘I’m still working on the face. It’s not so easy to do the juggler.’

He compared them with her painting, exclaiming about the little telltale signs she’d used to make the setting obvious to Parisian children. ‘It’s so good. It’s … exceptional.
Magnifique
. You are a great talent.’ Glancing about at her protective measures, he indicated the room with a sweep of his hand.

‘Maybe you’d like to change all this. Find a new look for the apartment. Make this a proper studio.’

‘But that would be so much trouble, wouldn’t it, when we don’t even know how long-term my stay here will be? I’d hate to cause you all that expense for something that might well turn out to be temporary.’

‘
Shari …
’

She looked enquiringly at him. He looked almost pained, then his jaw hardened. He threw out his hands.
‘Chérie
— There is something— I have something I must discuss with you.’

Clunk
. For some reason her heart hit a pothole. She picked up a cloth and wiped her hands.

He took her shoulders and looked gravely at her. ‘I have had news. Your visa can’t be changed from within France. I’m sorry,
chérie
, but the laws here are very strict. If you wish to apply to be a resident, you must do it from Australia.’

‘Oh.’ It was a shock. ‘You mean—go home?
Already
?’ Disappointment, and a zillion obstacles flashed through her mind. Being with him. Their life. Her hopes and dreams. Her French lessons, her clinic appointments. Leaving him. Leaving
him
.

He lifted his hands. ‘The immigration and visa laws have tightened here as everywhere. This is why …’ his dark lashes screened his eyes ‘—I am suggesting—to spare you the trip—we should get married.’

Her brain spun for a giddy minute or so. When it slowed down she noticed a certain rigidity in him. A waiting stillness. Then the full implications of the words hit.

Pain sliced her heart like a knife. ‘Oh. Oh.
Married
. Heavens, has it come to that?’

His eyes glinted. ‘It may look like an extreme solution, but in your condition … Surely a long flight wouldn’t be advisable?’

‘Oh, that’s just …’ She smiled bitterly and shook her head. ‘Pregnant women can fly right up until the thirty-sixth week.’

‘Are you sure? How do you know?’ His voice sharpened. ‘Have you been checking?’

‘Emilie. She wanted to come for the … Anyway … Anyway …’ She laid her palm on her forehead. She felt flummoxed and prickly, as if all her fur had been horribly ruffled and she might just burst into tears. ‘If I go home, who knows how long I’ll have to wait for a residential visa? I’ll just have the baby there, I guess.’

‘
No
. No, Shari …’ He made a sharp movement but she turned away from him. ‘Don’t think of leaving,
chérie
. No need to give up. The marriage ceremony is nothing. Just a formality. A banal, bureaucratic formality.’

‘Look, I just need to think for a while. Excuse me while I go for a walk.’

She grabbed her bag and almost flew out of the apartment. Down on the ground floor she rushed blindly past the concierge’s office, then headed to the nearest métro. The closest station to the Luxembourg was only one stop further on from Saint-Placide where she travelled for her lessons. Several times already she’d walked from there to the gardens to help her story cook.

Naturally, like the thoroughly emotional woman she was, she cried on the train. Then she cried on the way to the gardens, which was silly because she bumped into people and some of them were quite rude.

Then she walked past the children’s garden, past the carousel,
all the way to the fountain where she’d first told Luc she was expecting. As a coincidence, it was late afternoon again, not many people about.

She sank into a green chair and sat with her head in her hands. These last few weeks she’d been living in a bubble, she realised, and now it had burst.

But if you loved someone, what did it matter? A marriage proposal was a marriage proposal. She probably didn’t deserve roses and pretty words and kneeling on the ground. The alternative was to leave him and fly home. Leave him without his baby? How could she even contemplate such a thing?