Love in Vogue (33 page)

‘I hope Yolande appreciates it,’ Anne-Louise said, as they got into his car.

‘I doubt it,’ Yves said tersely. ‘I’ve been a total idiot.’

‘It was sweet of you.’

‘I’m sick of being sweet.’ He turned and grabbed her. ‘I want you, Anne. Just sex. I don’t do love any more.’

She didn’t know when she had ever seen such intense blue eyes, or felt such naked lust burning through her veins. ‘Neither do I.’

‘Takeaway and back to my place?’

‘Sounds good.’

He leaned in, crushed her mouth beneath his, tasted her, branded her, ran his hands down her body. Then dropped her back into her seat, gasping.

‘Seat belt,’ he said.

They picked up a couple of pizzas, but as soon as they were inside his flat, the boxes were dropped to the floor. Anne found herself in arms of steel, a hot mouth devouring her, hands stripping her, clothes tangled on the floor. He was so sexy, nothing like she’d expected. And gorgeous, too. Long, lean, his chest covered in black hair, his face even more handsome now he also looked dangerous.

Yves buried his face in her hair, rubbing his hands up and down her back, her buttocks, pulling her into him. He was impatient to be inside her, but he needed to slow things down. This was going to be a one-night stand Anne-Louise Chevagnac wouldn’t forget. She was tugging at his trousers, kissing his neck, wanting to give him what she felt they both so desperately needed. But it wouldn’t be a pity fuck. Nobody whose body was starting to throb the way hers was under his hands could say that. She looked up at him, startled, when he suddenly pulled away.

‘What’s the matter?’

A vision of Isabelle had flashed through his head. ‘Condoms.’

‘I’m on the pill.’ She struggled with his zip. ‘What’s wrong with your trousers?’

Yves smiled. ‘Allow me.’

He pushed her hands aside and swiftly removed them, and her eyes widened. He was very impressive. Yves pushed her down onto the bed and lowered himself on top of her. She quivered in anticipation as he started to kiss her, touch, slowly explore. He was so generous. It was all about her. Her needs, her desires. It had been so long. Too long. He had beautiful creative hands and the most sensitive lips, which seemed to know her body’s every point of pleasure. She was panting, shaking, begging for him when he finally entered her, inch by delightful inch.

He kissed her when he was fully inside and smiled. ‘You’re sure you don’t want to change your mind?’

‘Shut up, Yves, and take me!’

She’d go mad if he didn’t. She thought she’d go mad when he did.

Yves let out a long sigh of satisfaction. Anne was lying in the crook of his arm, nibbling his neck, her hand gently stroking his thigh. He felt himself getting hard again.

‘Mmmm …’

‘You were …’ She raised herself to look at him. Eye to eye. ‘Absolutely amazing.’

‘My pleasure,’ he said, and meant it. ‘We both needed it. So who’s the bastard who broke your heart?’

Oh, he was sharp beneath that cool exterior, she thought. Maybe not sharp enough, though. ‘My husband,’ she replied levelly.

‘What!’ He shot out of her arms and sat up. ‘You’re married!’

‘Technically, yes. But we’ve been separated for a year now. That’s why I don’t wear a ring.’

‘Going to get divorced?’

‘I suppose so. It’s not what I want, but – oh God, I don’t know. We just can’t seem to talk anymore. He’s a financial analyst. He got a job in New York. I was meant to join him after three months, then he told me he’d met someone …’ her voice trailed off.

Yves felt her pain and pulled her back into his arms. ‘I know.’ He kissed her gently. ‘Believe me, I know.’

‘You still love her, don’t you?’

‘Always. And you still love him.’

‘Yes,’ she replied with a sigh, snuggling against him.

‘So are you going to have it out with him when you fly over there?’ he asked, stroking her hair.

‘That’s the plan. My last chance to see if we can work things out.’ Her hand slipped back down his body caressingly, while her mouth sought his. He was such a good kisser and for the moment his lips were hers. She took the sweetness he offered and forgot her pain.

Yves slid his hand between her legs. She was getting very aroused again, and so was he. She shuddered as his fingers stroked in and out of her. ‘So this is the first time you’ve had sex since he left?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve got a lot of catching up to do.’

‘I know,’ she said, pushing him to his back with devilment in her eyes. ‘I hope you weren’t planning on getting any sleep tonight.’

‘Well, well, you’re quite a celebrity today,’ said Philippe, tossing another paper onto the pile. ‘You must have packed a pretty powerful punch.’

Yves sat opposite his brother in the salon of Claire’s home, gazing in incomprehension at the pictures of his attack on André Hamel. Now it seemed like a bad dream. He wasn’t really properly awake. Had he really had Anne-Louise five times last night? They had kissed goodbye only three hours before. She seemed like a dream too. A good one. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes.

‘Are you all right, Yves?’

‘Never better.’

‘Hamel says you must have been drunk and he’s no intention of pressing charges. You, drunk? What did he really say about Yolande?’

Yves told him, and Philippe’s expression hardened. ‘I’d have given him one too if I’d been there.’

‘I made him retract in public – but I don’t suppose that’s been reported?’

‘Let me see. Editors get so selective about these things. We’re keeping them in business at the moment. First Claire and me, now you in a fight. It ought to do wonders for the family name. I bet you’ll get record prices for the wine.’

‘I ought to. Last year was magnificent.’

Philippe continued to rifle through the papers. ‘“At last – the truth” By A-L C. Do you know him?’

Anne-Louise, of course. So she’d decided to cash in too. But the report was weighted entirely in Yves’ favour. Philippe’s mind was racing ahead. He discussed the subject with Claire later that day, and as a result, an envelope containing a selection of newspaper cuttings was couriered to the Beideckers in New York.

Yves decided that the only way to quell the rumours was to brazen things out. He called on Toinette that afternoon and was surprised by the warmth of her welcome. When he visited his mother afterwards, she dismissed it all as the inevitable consequence of Jacqueline inviting blood-sucking journalists to her parties. Yves returned to his flat reflecting that had he only punched Patrick Dubuisson the previous year, Yolande might now be his. It was a tormenting thought. He picked up the phone and rang Anne-Louise.

‘Yves, please don’t be cross about the article.’

‘I’m not. How many days before you leave for New York?’

‘Three.’

‘Care to spend them with me? Dinner included this time.’

‘I’d love to.’

‘Amanda, I love you …’

‘Oh, oh, mmm …’

Yolande could bear it no longer. She stood up and began to prowl behind the cameras. The rest of the studio was empty except for Vic Bernitz, Ethan Casavecchia, and the make-up artist and the camera and sound guys. This was an intimate love scene, and Jayne Herford had insisted it be shot in privacy. But it wasn’t private enough. Suddenly she got off the bed where she and Patrick were lying semi-clad, snatching up a sheet for cover.

‘Cut!’

Vic and Ethan bounded out of their chairs.

‘Get her off the set!’ yelled Jayne. ‘Just get her off, or I’m not going through with this scene.’

‘But Jayne …’ Vic began.

‘Quit the buts. Either she goes or I do.’

Furious, Yolande marched up to her. So Jayne wanted to make love to Patrick on camera without the inconvenient presence of his girlfriend. ‘No one tells me where to go! You wouldn’t be here at all if I hadn’t put up the money for this film.’

‘You’re such a jealous bitch! Can’t you let Patrick out of your sight for five minutes?’

‘With you? Do you think I don’t know what’s going on? Get out! Now! I’m closing this picture down. I won’t be made a fool of any longer.’

‘Yolande!’ Vic was instantly at her elbow. ‘Please, come and talk to me. We’ll sort this out. Jayne didn’t mean it. It’s difficult doing these scenes. Patrick, come here.’

But Patrick wasn’t in the mood to play peacemaker. He grabbed Yolande by the arm and hauled her off to a dark corner, shouting at her in harsh, rapid French. The others just watched in helpless incomprehension.

‘You can’t pull out now, Yolande. There are contracts, remember? You agreed to back this movie and I’m going to make sure you do!’

‘I can do what the hell I want! I know all about you and Jayne’

‘It’s not true, and you know it. Just ask Sam MacPherson. I don’t think he’d be overjoyed by your insinuations about Jayne and me. For God’s sake stop behaving like a spoilt baby. I’m an actor. It’s my work. Fuck off and let me get on with it!’

‘Patrick!’

‘I mean it. If Jayne wants you off the set for this scene, you go. You’re driving us both mad. I’m not having an affair with her and I’ve no intention of starting one. Now fuck off, you stupid bitch!’

‘You bastard, Patrick! I never want to see you again!’

She turned on her heel and fled, fighting back the tears. Patrick remained immobile, but Vic and Ethan pursued her, pleading with her, trying to calm her down. They knew very well it was legally almost impossible for her to withdraw her capital, but it wouldn’t do to let her go off in such a temper. She just told them both to go to hell before she climbed into her car and drove off.

Jayne Herford downed a cup of coffee while Patrick smoked a cigarette. They then performed the scene uninterrupted. Vic thought it so good there would be no need for a retake. Once dressed and feeling calmer, they talked about Yolande.

‘Is she always such a firecracker?’ asked Jayne.

Patrick shrugged his shoulders. ‘She’s Yolande Marchand – what do you expect?’

‘I’m glad no one else was around. Sam wouldn’t like it getting out to the press.’

‘I tried to explain that to Yolande, but she wouldn’t believe me. Anyway, I’m sure
she
won’t talk. She’s too proud. That’s her problem.’

‘Where’s she gone?’

‘Who cares? She’ll come back.’ He turned to leave. ‘See you tomorrow, Jayne.’

‘See you.’

When Patrick got back to the Beverley Hills apartment, there were signs that Yolande had made a hasty departure. Some of her clothes were still in the wardrobe, but she must have taken at least three suitcases. That beige suit Franco had given her at Easter was still hanging in its cover, untouched. Patrick fingered it pensively, then looked about for a note. Surely she had left a note. He searched everywhere, without success. Perhaps she intended to ring up when she arrived wherever she was going. New York, probably. She’d almost certainly run home to Mummy.

He lay on the bed, elated and depressed at the same time. May 6

^th
_.

Hank Pedersen had to be on that Far East trip about now. Yolande wouldn’t be back for at least a fortnight – three weeks if he was lucky. He picked up his mobile and called Althea Pedersen at Malibu. His luck was in. Her husband was out of the country. She told him to drive up straight away. Patrick bounded off the bed and left at once. That scene at the studios had been perfectly timed and excellently staged. He was quite sure his affair with Althea would be an award winner.

Chapter Eighteen

‘Ten days and not a sign of life,’ said Vic Bernitz. ‘I don’t like it, Ethan. I don’t like it at all.’

Ethan Casavecchia dipped a finger into his Piña Colada, grinning suggestively at Vic’s gorgeous daughter Tiffany, who was wearing an apology for a bikini. He brought the finger to his lips and slowly licked it clean. They were lounging by the swimming pool at Vic’s house on a hot Sunday afternoon. All it needed for the day to be perfect was for Tiffany to straddle him with her perfectly toned thighs and rub sunscreen all over him. But Vic would keep talking about Yolande. Why he wanted her back was a mystery. Everything had been going just great since she had stormed out of the studios. Patrick had been a perfect dream to work for, smiling and good tempered.

‘Are you listening?’ Vic asked, digging a finger into his ribs.

‘About Yolande? Sure, sure. She’s a hell of a girl.’

‘She’s a hell of a rich girl, and she’s still got our publicity budget tied up in Belco Pictures.’

Ethan’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses, and he began to pay attention. ‘Ah.’

‘Now, let me give you another one. Can you figure out how we’re going to lay hold of it? Only Yolande can authorise payment. And we need it now. The time’s just right for a publicity blitz. I’ve spoken to the distributors and we’re pushing for an earlier release than scheduled – probably November. We can cash in on the Christmas market.’

‘No way!’

‘Why not? We should be in the cutting room by September now we’ve got the technical stuff sorted out.’

‘But why can’t you just call her? Last I heard she had a cell phone.’

Vic leaned forward in his chair, exasperated. ‘Her cell’s dead. I don’t have any other contact info. Nor does the Belco office. Just find her. Fast. I guess she’ll be with friends some place. Keep ringing round till you locate her. Then leave it to me.’

‘OK, Vic. Will do.’

‘Now! I’m busy.’

With a rueful glance at Tiffany, Ethan beat a speedy retreat into the house and hunted for some glossy magazines. Who did Yolande know well? Then he had a better idea. He put a call through to Patrick.

‘Ethan Casavecchia here.’

Patrick groaned, then put a silencing finger over Althea’s lips. ‘What do you want?’

‘Do you know where I can find Yolande?’

‘What for?’

‘We need to talk to her about the publicity budget.’

Althea started nibbling Patrick’s neck. He shot her a warning look.

‘Well, I haven’t heard from her – but try her mother in New York.’ Patrick quickly recited the Beideckers’ ex-directory number and slammed the receiver down as soon as he could put an end to Ethan’s chatter. Then he took it off the hook again. ‘No more interruptions now.’