Love in Vogue (22 page)

‘Hell, no! She thinks I’m part of the global capitalist conspiracy bent on the annihilation of the planet.’

‘That’s quite a responsibility.’

‘I do my best.’ He grinned.

‘She’d hate me.’

‘She’d envy you. She used to love fashion when she was a kid. Then she got an eco-warrior boyfriend at university, and it’s been one lost cause after another ever since. I’m just waiting for Caro to wake up and smell the Fairtrade coffee. We even use it at the bank these days.’

‘So what does she do?’

‘Currently she’s working as a volunteer teacher on a school project in Africa. She hasn’t been home for two years.’

‘Your parents must miss her.’

‘They’re both dead.’

‘Christ, I’m so sorry.’ She was appalled that she had assumed he came from a perfect family with adoring happily married parents; and she had rejected his sympathy over her father’s death as a sham.

‘It was a long time ago. Car crash. Caro was only thirteen. I think that’s what kicked off her career as a perpetual rebel.’

‘But you rebelled by being conventional?’

‘Oh, I have my moments, you know.’ He was toying with her hair, smiling. ‘Especially where you’re concerned.’

Corinne felt her heart thudding as he pulled her into his arms. This was just how they had been that October evening at his flat in Paris, and it had all gone horribly wrong. But she wasn’t going to panic this time. For God’s sake, she knew all about sex. And she was sure it would be wonderful with Miles. She used to be quite good at it once, before Philippe had shattered her confidence. But now, knowing he had had an affair while they were together, she felt even less sure of herself, even more afraid.

‘Relax, Corinne,’ Miles whispered. ‘I just want to kiss you.’

He brought his lips slowly to hers and teased her gently into the kiss. His tongue flicked along her lips, then into her mouth. When it touched hers, she moaned and opened for him, wanting him to take, to stop her thinking, to kiss her mindlessly and desperately until she could give no more. He felt the change from fear to desire as she ravaged him with her mouth, hungry and relentless. She fell back against the cushions and pulled him on top of her, and they were exactly where they had been before. She could feel his erection, so hard and so ready, felt her own need, sharp and keen. And then the panic began. She wanted to scream at herself. No, it couldn’t happen again. It couldn’t. She wanted Miles. She wanted to give him all the pleasure she could, but her stomach was in knots of terror. Her hands fell away from him, her breathing grew ragged.

Miles raised himself off her. ‘Corinne, are you all right?’

‘I’m sorry. It’s me. It’s not you.’

‘Tell me what the problem is – maybe we can fix it.’

‘I can’t. I can’t.’ Tears came to her eyes. ‘I’m such a wreck.’

‘No you’re not.’ He sat up and pulled her back into his arms, stroking her hair while she cried. ‘You’re lovely.’

He rocked her for a few minutes until she stopped crying, wishing she would tell him what had happened to her in the past to make her so petrified of her own libido. He had no doubt that she was very highly sexed. Her passion tore through him every time they kissed. But she just couldn’t seem to trust her feelings enough to let go.

He turned her face up so he could look into her eyes. ‘I want to make love to you.’

‘I know. I want you to, but I just can’t. Not now. I’m sorry, Miles.’

He kissed her. ‘It’s OK. I understand. Why don’t we have dinner? I’m starving.’

She stood up, grateful for an excuse to extricate herself from embarrassment. Miles set the table and fetched the wine, and kept up a stream of inconsequential chat during the meal so that she felt almost normal again. Afterwards she showed him round the library, which housed family documents and an impressive collection of books on wine, built up over two centuries. They listened to the radio, locked on a station playing the latest hits, and then to French vocalists he’d never even heard of – Patricia Kaas, Alain Souchon, Patrick Bruel. Strange how much you could find out about someone from their taste in music. He discovered with surprise that the formidable Corinne Marchand had a very romantic streak and a great love of French popular song. They even danced a little, but the lighthearted atmosphere of Dorset on New Year’s Eve was missing. Miles felt all the progress he thought he had made completely evaporate. She was undeniably charming, a perfect hostess, a lovely woman, but emotionally more remote than ever. When they said goodnight, she quickly pecked his cheek and slipped off into her room before he could try her lips. He heard her turn the key in the lock, and went to bed very dissatisfied.

Corinne cried herself to sleep, hating herself for being such a coward. What the hell was wrong with her? Hadn’t she asked Miles here so they could sleep together? It couldn’t be the thought that Philippe would be coming tomorrow. She had already decided how she would deal with him. What would Yolande do in the same situation? Take a chance, probably. Go to his room without a thought for anything but immediate pleasure. But what if when they got back to Paris it faded into a one-night stand, and she ended up hurt and used again? She couldn’t bring herself to gamble with her feelings any more.

Marie-Christine took Corinne aside when she arrived at Le Manoir with Yves around noon the following day, her expression uncharacteristically anxious. She blurted out an excuse from Philippe, who had been included in the lunch invitation, and was about to hint at important revelations when she was stopped by Corinne.

‘Don’t worry. I know everything.’

‘You
know
? About his child?’

‘Yes.’

The baroness soon resumed her customary sangfroid. ‘Philippe will probably be over later – if that’s all right with you? It was a terrible shock to me, Corinne. The way he treated you!’

‘I’m fine. Really.’ Corinne linked arms with her and smiled. ‘Don’t you want to see Miles Corsley again? That Englishman you fell for last August?’

Miles now appeared, handsome, cheerful, and evidently poised to be the life and soul of the party. Marie-Christine breathed an inward sigh of relief. So Corinne had found someone else at last. Though she had only admitted it to herself, the effect of Philippe’s return on Corinne had worried her the most. Now, perhaps, all their lives could be finally straightened out.

A lively meal followed, and if one or two at the table were hiding their deepest feelings, the casual observer would have been fooled. Miles, however, couldn’t help catching a melancholy expression which now and then flitted across Yves’ face, and when he and the baroness had gone home, asked Corinne about it.

‘He’s in love with Yolande. They were engaged.’

‘What happened? Or shouldn’t I ask?’

‘Well, you shouldn’t. But if you must know, she broke it off because of Patrick Dubuisson.’

‘Ah.’ He stretched out his legs, leaning back in his seat. ‘And she sold her stake in Marchand because of him. Now I see why she’s not a popular topic of conversation around here. By the way, who’s this Philippe they kept talking about?’

‘Yves’ older brother. He’s just returned from America.’

Miles wasn’t interested in pursuing the subject, turning instead to a discussion he had had with Yves on the workings of the
appellation contrôlée
system, which provided a profitable source of conversation for fifteen minutes. But Corinne was clearly absorbed by something else, and when he asked if he could go out to the vineyards with Gaston Leclerc, she was only too pleased. Gaston had recognised him instantly that morning, and insisted on treating him to a grand tour. He liked Miles, and something told him that they would be seeing much more of each other in the future. Miles wondered why everyone except Corinne was being so kind.

Philippe borrowed Yves’ BMW to drive to Le Manoir that afternoon, since he hadn’t yet bought a car of his own. He was surprised to see a British-registered Range Rover parked beside Corinne’s black MG in front of the house, then remembered his mother mentioning she had an English banker staying for the weekend. Evidently she was still trying to sort out the mess over Yolande’s shareholding.

He nearly rang the main doorbell, then decided to use his old route into the house and walked round to the side entrance. The door was unlocked. He gently pushed it open and stepped cautiously into the passage, just as he used to tiptoe through it not to disturb Corinne’s father in his office. Not that Jean-Claude had disapproved of Philippe – but he had always had a way of buttonholing him for a long chat when he was itching to be with Corinne. Now he was dead, and the silence in the house was deafening. No Jean-Claude, no Toinette, no Yolande; no laughter and cheerful voices. Where would she be? In the salon? Upstairs?

He was still hesitating when Marius suddenly emerged from Jean-Claude’s office and began to bark.

‘Marius!’

Her voice. Philippe froze. She was there, just metres away. Marius bounded up to him and sniffed him, then began to jump at his shoulders, his tail wagging, his tongue hanging loose. Philippe rubbed his back, glad of a welcome from some living creature at least.

‘Marius, you silly dog! Come here.’

Corinne appeared at the office door, saw Philippe, and stopped dead. She called Marius again. The dog ran to her and was commanded to sit and be quiet. She shut the door and took two steps towards Philippe.

‘Hello. Your mother told me you might call. Shall we go to the salon?’

‘Hello, Corinne.’

He couldn’t think of anything else to say, and stood rooted to the spot, staring at her. She was wearing a navy dress that suited her slim figure. Her hair was styled differently, in a longish bob, less ingénue than he remembered. Though she looked little older, there was a maturity in her expression which only accentuated her fine features and heightened her beauty. But she certainly didn’t look friendly. He followed her to the salon in silence, and having shut Marius out, locked the door and put the key in his pocket.

‘Philippe, what do you think you’re doing?’

‘I don’t want to be disturbed.’

‘Give me that key!’

‘Come and get it.’ He smiled, leaning against the door.

She sat down abruptly on the sofa, her dark eyes flashing angrily. ‘Give me the key!’

‘I will. After we’ve talked.’

Corinne had expected some change, but he was exactly the same. In looks, in manner – nothing about him suggested that he felt the slightest difference in their relationship or any remorse for the past. He sat beside her and gave her the key. She put it on a table nearby.

‘So what do you want to talk about?’

‘Us. How sorry I am. Corinne…’

‘No! I hate you! Get off!’

But it was useless. She was in his arms and his lips were on hers. She struggled, but he just clasped her wrists and forced her down, his mouth pressed over hers, hungry, pitiless. Corinne could hardly believe it was happening. Even as the tears started to her eyes she felt her body reacting to him. When their tongues touched, she lost her resistance completely. Her hands ran down his back and slipped under his jacket, pulling at his clothes, aching to touch his skin. How could he still do this to her? Make her want him, make her forget the years of pain he’d caused her?

Philippe began to kiss her neck, and his hand was on her thigh. Suddenly she was horrified. Her body was betraying her. She must be mad. How had she fallen into this old, old trap – now there wasn’t even the shadow of love for him left in her heart?

‘Let me go, Philippe!’

‘But Corinne …’

‘Bastard! Let me go!’

He was taken aback. She wriggled out of his arms and then slapped him hard across the face. Twice.

Stunned, he rubbed his cheek. ‘I guess I deserved that.’

She stood up, glaring at him. Then the door handle turned.

‘Corinne, are you in there?’

It was Miles. She hurriedly straightened her clothes and snatched the key from the table. ‘Make yourself tidy,’ she ordered Philippe. ‘It’s my guest.’

Miles registered several things as soon as he stepped into the room. Both Corinne and that devilishly handsome man sitting on the sofa looked embarrassed and dishevelled. The top two buttons of her dress were undone, and the tail of his shirt was visible below the hem of his jacket. The atmosphere was pulsing with sex. He found himself consumed with jealousy.

‘Miles, you haven’t met Yves’ brother – Philippe de Rochemort.’

They shook hands, then Miles turned away.

‘Won’t you have a drink with us?’ Corinne asked.

‘No thanks. I’ve got one or two things to see to in my room. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of catching up to do.’

He was gone, and she felt terrible. The expression in his eyes was unmistakable. He loved her, and she hadn’t even realised it. And now Philippe had probably ruined her chances by his opportunistic attempt to revive the past.

She rounded on him angrily. ‘Will you just go? I don’t think there’s anything for us to talk about.’

‘Corinne, I haven’t said a thing yet. Come back here.’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Sit in a chair, then. I promise to behave.’

He stood up and tucked in his shirt, rather grateful for the intrusion. Things had got a little out of hand. He hadn’t meant to lose control – just a few kisses by way of reconciliation. But the touch of her lips had made him wild. It had been a mistake to meet her here. The whole ambience reminded him far too much of what they had once had together.

Corinne
left the door slightly ajar and went over to the sideboard. ‘Do you want a drink?’

‘Excellent idea.’

Philippe sat down and lit a cigarette, watching her as she poured two glasses of wine. He knew the meeting was going to be painful, but he had to pass the test with honour. He had other obligations now. They were together for over an hour. Miles did wander past the door once, driven by a tormenting curiosity, and heard snatches of a conversation in rapid, impassioned French. About a child, Marie-Christine, business disputes. So they must have had sex before he got back from the vineyards. That’s why Corinne had been so anxious for him to go. He felt sick. He went upstairs with Marius, who watched him with soulful eyes as he began to pack his bag.