Love in Vogue (9 page)

Yolande was a problem – the entire family was agreed on that point. Her Dorset holiday with Patrick made waves on both sides of the Atlantic. She had turned down several modelling jobs, started going to all-night parties, and snubbed all her old friends. Her ungracious and thoughtless behaviour with Patrick at her grandparents’ house had upset even their very indulgent grandmother, who adored her.

Now Yolande was back in Paris for a few weeks, but Corinne hardly saw her. Just as well. That way she didn’t have to lie to Yves about what her terrible little sister was up to, although there was enough coverage in the gossip columns to give him the general idea. It was painful to see how much he still loved her. He’d flirted valiantly with a couple of girls his mother invited to Rochemort during the summer, but neither wanted to play second fiddle to Yolande Marchand. They flounced back to Paris with the dubious honour of not even having had to pretend to resist the advances of a sexy Baron de Rochemort. Instead of long August afternoons of multiple orgasms and cocktails, it was tennis, swimming, and country walks. Standards at the château had slipped appallingly now Philippe was gone.

Corinne herself was very relieved to escape from Burgundy when that great French convulsion,
la rentrée
, commenced in September. At least in Paris one could try to evade the ghosts of happier times. But even as she forced her attention to the launch of Hervy’s new perfume range, she found her thoughts full of her father and Philippe. The two men she had loved – both gone. And here she was, selling love and romance to other people.

She almost jumped when the phone rang.

‘Monsieur Corsley for you, Corinne.’

‘Miles? Hello. How are you?’

‘Fine. I would have called before, but I’ve been in Frankfurt for a couple of weeks. I seem to recall that we have a date. Would you be able to join me for lunch today? I’ve got a table booked at the Plaza Athénée.’

Corinne almost laughed. Was this her father’s idea of a weird joke?

‘One o’clock,’ she said. ‘I’ll meet you there.’

It was extremely short notice, but Miles never dragged his heels with women. If she liked him, she would come; if she didn’t, he would have to forget that he had been thinking about her far too much since their encounter at St Xavier.

She looked as breathtaking as the day they first met when he saw her heading towards the table in Le Relais Plaza, dressed in a navy two-piece suit that showed off her curves and drew wolfish glances of admiration from fellow diners. There was slight embarrassment initially. A polite business-like handshake, both sheltering behind formal small talk for the first ten minutes, a formality reinforced by the historic dining room, its design based on that of the famous 1930s liner the
Normandie
. Then they began to relax, and Miles toasted Corinne’s success with the new Hervy trenchcoat.

‘You certainly don’t read fashion magazines,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘So you must have been checking up on me.’

‘Haven’t you paid me the same compliment?’

Their eyes met; mutual recognition and amusement. She raised her glass, smiling. ‘Here’s to Daniel Lemoine. I assume we engaged the same man.’

‘How did you know?’

‘He advertises your bank as one of his clients. Otherwise he’s very discreet as private eyes go. So how did I rate?’

Miles looked grave. ‘Rather worrying, I’m afraid. Highly intelligent, beautiful, sound business brain, no known defects.’

What had most interested him was the gaping hole where there should have been information on her private life. Just a sentence that said she had been single for several years. It seemed impossible. Now he knew why. ‘How much did you pay him?’

‘More than you did, possibly.’

‘Don’t I get to know what he found out about me?’

Corinne was thrown by the steadiness of his gaze now. She noticed the dark rings around his irises that accentuated the flecks of grey and blue and made them look like gleaming flint. Sharp, piercing. Looking straight into a part of her she never let anyone see. This was no longer a joke. No man but Philippe had looked at her like that. Philippe, who had broken her heart. She began to wish she hadn’t come. Why had this relative stranger made her admit she’d been interested enough to check his background? All Daniel had come up with was a pristine record of achievement – which was exactly what one would expect of someone like Miles Corsley.

‘Why don’t we exchange the reports?’ she said.

‘Deal – next week?’

‘Next week?’

He leaned back in his chair, smiling once more. ‘Of course. You are coming out with me again, aren’t you?’

Corinne didn’t remember saying yes, but they met the following week, the deal over the reports by then in oblivion. Miles was such good fun. She agreed to meet him again after that, and tried to convince herself she enjoyed his company simply because he was discreet and detached from the French business network which could threaten her – divorced from the rumour mill by his Englishness. But it was his job to keep a finger on the pulse of Parisian commerce and after all, he was her banker. Somehow it soon seemed irrelevant. They seldom talked shop and their telephone calls and emails increased in length and frequency with no apparent purpose.

On their fourth date, Miles asked her back to his apartment after an evening at the theatre. Corinne admired the neatness of the place – a stark contrast to the clutter she remembered at Patrick’s studio, where she had been invited to meet her sister’s new boyfriend before they left for the Hervy
prêt-à-porter
launch in New York. Patrick and Yolande had been living it up in Manhattan for barely a week now and her mother was already sending frantic emails. It was pleasant to relax in this quiet, neutral room, which betrayed little about its bachelor occupant. There were two heraldic shields mounted on the wall, a few sporting prints, and on the mantelpiece a large photograph of a dashing Guards officer in full dress uniform. She looked again and realised it was a very young, ridiculously handsome Miles.

‘How could you give up all that for a bank?’ she asked as he handed her a glass of wine.

‘The thrill of polishing one’s kit and being shot at wears off after a while, you know. Besides, if I hadn’t given it up I wouldn’t have met you.’

Corinne sipped her drink, too conscious of his presence next to her on the sofa. She could feel his warmth spreading across her, smell his aftershave. Dior – she recognised it at once, and admired Miles for not trying to win points by wearing Hervy. He would be within a few days, though. She never let a customer get away. And then she was focusing on that magnificent physique … Was his body as muscular as it looked through his clothes?

Damn, he was fit. Any other woman would have got him into bed long before now; but the last thing she needed was more heartbreak. She’d never found it easy to detach herself emotionally from sex, and it would be foolish to try with someone like Miles. If she slept with him, Corinne knew she’d fall in love with him, and then when it was all over she’d have to try to pick up the pieces. And she didn’t think she could do it again.

‘What are the shields?’ she asked, snapping her thoughts back to safer topics.

‘Winchester and my regiment. I suppose you think I’m immature having such things around?’

‘No, not at all. We all have our icons. Whatever made you say that?’

Miles edged a little closer, his arm resting along the back of the sofa. ‘I’d like to know what you think of me. I can’t work it out. You’re so reserved.’

‘Am I?’

‘Aren’t you?’

‘You tell me.’

‘I just did.’

They both laughed. She felt his fingers running through the ends of her hair. His eyes were trained on her face. ‘In fact, I think you’re the most secretive person I’ve ever met.’

‘Oh come on.’

‘But it’s true.’ He took the glass from her hand and put it on the floor. ‘You’re a beautiful enigma, Corinne Marchand.’

He leaned in towards her. Lips parted, eyes intense. She knew what was coming and moistened her own lips in readiness. A kiss couldn’t possibly hurt, couldn’t really complicate things. Then his arms were wrapped tightly around her, and his mouth was on hers. His chest was hard, immovable – his lips urgent and warm. She was surprised to find that she was pressing him to her, giving way to those delicious, firm lips. The kiss began to vibrate through her whole body. It was just wonderful to feel a man’s body again, the slight scrape of stubble on her skin, the rapid breathing, the rush of desire. She didn’t hear herself moan, didn’t realise she was the one who took his mouth and plundered.

Miles wasn’t expecting the explosion of desire that ripped through him. How could she kiss in so many ways – with tenderness, innocence almost, then greed, passion, heat. She was like a volcano, pouring liquid fire into him. She coaxed his lips apart in a slow seductive dance with hers, and then her tongue was caressing his, and he simply had to have her. He eased her back against the cushions and began to explore her body. He felt her stiffen slightly as his hands cupped her breasts, teased her nipples until they were hard. She was moaning something, but he didn’t hear. Quickly he unfastened his trousers. Then his hands were underneath her dress, on her thighs. Shocked, she submitted as his mouth took hers in a searing kiss.

‘Corinne … I want you so much. You’re so lovely …’

‘Miles, please don’t.’

His lips were against her throat, his hands pulled her legs apart, probing, caressing. She gasped with pleasure as he found her core and stroked, and began to strain towards him with low murmurs of pleasure. She hadn’t thought she could feel like this again. It felt so good.

And then, from nowhere, came a wave of blind panic and fear. She felt suffocated, trapped, horrified by her own body’s betrayal. She writhed furiously when she felt him, rock-hard, move up between her legs.

‘No, Miles! Get off me!’

‘But you want me. I know you do.’

‘Get off me! Now!’

There was no arguing with that tone. He released her and slumped back, angry and frustrated. He had felt the woman, as hot and hungry as he was – and then the ice queen had returned.

‘What the hell’s wrong? I thought you liked me.’

Corinne jumped to her feet. ‘Not that much, Miles. Just forget it, will you? I’m going home.’

He stood up and zipped himself back in, but the erection refused to die. Corinne averted her eyes, feeling completely stupid. How could a harmless snog have turned so quickly into such a disaster? She shouldn’t have let herself get trapped like that. Silently Miles picked up his car keys and escorted her out. Their drive back to the Avenue Foch was equally silent, but he held her by the arm before she could get out of the car.

‘Look, Corinne, I really am sorry. I suppose you like me only as a friend?’

‘Yes.’

‘I see.’ He let her go. ‘Goodbye then.’

‘We are still friends?’ she asked.

‘Oh right, let’s be friends, 
…
’ he said mockingly. ‘After the way you kissed me! You should think a bit more before you stick your tongue down a guy’s throat like that. What do you think I’m made of? I always thought you French were meant to be better at sex than the rest of the planet.’

Was
that
how he saw her? A trophy conquest to be clocked up to his Paris assignment? Hating him and herself for having so misjudged him, Corinne got out of the car and slammed the door. It sped off before she even reached the entrance to her apartment block. So it was over. No more lunches, no more friendly calls and emails – all just a ploy to get her to bed. Still, he hadn’t lied and pretended he loved her, and for some inexplicable reason that made her feel worse.

Miles could have kicked himself as soon as she was gone. He drove about for a while at high speed to work off his temper, but when he got back to his flat, the lingering smell of her perfume immediately recalled their kiss. A kiss that had promised everything – warmth, tenderness, passion. And more. He poured himself a drink and sat down. Then everything fell into place. Why hadn’t he realised that she meant so much to him? He had mauled her like a horny teenager desperate to get laid. Then he’d insulted her. And now she probably hated his guts. He picked up his phone and speed dialled her apartment. It rang for some while before she answered.

‘Hello, Corinne?’

The line went dead. When he tried again, the phone was off the hook. A grovelling apology he sent by email the following morning was returned undeliverable. He tried her office, and was brusquely told by Sylvie that his calls would no longer be accepted. Her mobile number became unobtainable. She didn’t appear in any of their usual restaurants for lunch that week. His colleagues at the bank noticed his sluggish performance, and he soon got a rocket from London
.

‘What the fuck’s going on, Miles?’ Rupert Corsley barked into the phone, as loud as a sergeant-major. ‘I’ve had complaints about you that can’t be ignored.’

‘It’s nothing, Rupert.’

‘That’s not what I’ve heard. You can forget Corinne Marchand. I’m handing the Marchand account over to James Chetwode, and I’ve told him to think with his head and not his prick. You bloody fool. You should know better than to try to get into a client’s knickers. I’ve been apologising for you all over Paris. So get your head down and keep out of trouble. There’s that bid for Masson’s coming up soon, and I must have a preliminary report.’

‘Of course. I’ll get it to you as soon as possible.’

‘And if you need some action, why not look about while you’re home for Christmas? I’ll see if your aunt can find someone to take care of you.’

Typical Uncle Rupert; crisp, cold, factual. He had always prided himself on the bank’s staff benefits, but Miles thought trying to cater for their sexual needs was going too far. Work on the Masson report commenced that very day. Miles didn’t contact Corinne again.

‘The homeless of New York join me in thanking you for your magnificent generosity on this occasion …’

The list of thanks for contributions continued, interspersed with sporadic applause from the thousand or so guests at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. Club Met. One of those chic charity affairs where the indebted and notorious could buddy up with the rich and famous, and all in a good cause – thousands of dollars to the museum, a fair slice to the organisers, a fraction to the homeless of New York.