Never Leave Me (42 page)

As they all strolled into the grand salon for tea and scones and thick creamy slices of local cheese, Luke reflected again on how curious it was that, despite all his jealousy, he should be unable to harbour dislike for Greg. If it hadn't been for Lisette he would have liked to have thought of him as a good friend.

‘I see you scooped both Alloys International and Quay Med last month,' he said to him, as Heloise de Valmy, still regally beautiful in silver-grey silk, began to pour tea.

‘You pitched for Quay Med as well, didn't you?' Greg said, allowing the conversation to flow along the safe, uncontroversial channels of their mutual profession.

He knew damn well where Luke had been only minutes ago. Waylaying Lisette, no doubt propositioning her, his wife and child only rooms away. The anger Luke always aroused in him flared through him and he controlled it with difficulty. Luke's long-standing obsession with Lisette was something he had long ago learned to live with. He glanced across at Lisette as Luke began to tell him about his agency's Quay Med campaign. She was sitting on the chintz covered sofa, her long, slim legs crossed lightly at the ankles, her head tilted slightly to one side as she listened to her mother recounting details of her father's illness. He could well understand why Brandon was still obsessed with her. So was he. And he was no nearer a total possession of her than Brandon was. The physical barrier which had come down between them so many years ago had never been lifted. There were times when he thought he must have dreamed the night of their marriage; the long, hot, passion-filled nights in Paris. Her sexuality then had been deep, freely given. A glorious expression of her love for him and of her need of him. Now it was so suppressed that it was hard to believe it had existed at all. He wondered when she had realised the mistake she had made. Had it been when she had first had to leave France? Had that been the turning point that had ripped the heart out of their marriage?

‘I'll be paying a trip to our Los Angeles office towards the end of the year,' Luke was saying. ‘Is it okay if I pay a flying visit to San Francisco? It will seem strange seeing you on home ground and not in France.'

‘I think'Frisco is big enough for both of us,' Greg said with the easy manner that always disconcerted Luke. He was never sure of Greg. Never sure how much he knew or suspected. Never sure what his inner feelings were. He was a man whose outward negligence covered a driving ambition that had made Dering Advertising one of the top American agencies. A man who had made lieutenant-colonel by the age of twenty-eight. A man it would be very dangerous to ever under estimate.

Heloise de Valmy had suggested a walk through the rose gardens before they retired to their rooms to change for dinner, much to Greg's bemusement. ‘Does your mother really expect me to don a tuxedo for dinner, sweetheart?' he, asked as he closed the door of their room behind them.

Lisette sank wearily onto the bed, kicking off her shoes and stretching out full length on the blue silk counterpane. ‘I'm afraid so,
chérie.'

Greg stepped into the adjoining bathroom and turned on the shower. ‘Luke says he never usually changes out of denims the whole time he's here.'

A smile touched the corners of Lisette's mouth. ‘That's when he's here alone with Papa, and Mama is in Paris. When Mama is in residence, denim is definitely not for the dining table!'

He had pulled off his shirt, his socks. Through the open doorway she watched him as he unzipped his trousers, stepping out of them and tossing them to one side. Her throat tightened as he stepped into the shower. In San Francisco they now had separate bedrooms. It meant she had little opportunity to enjoy the pleasure of seeing him naked. She had died inside when he had suggested they sleep apart. She had wanted to hurl herself into his arms and tell him she never ever wanted to sleep apart from him. But she had not done so. She had been too frightened.

The newspapers were full of stores of deserted war brides. Their husbands had married in haste in the heat of war, and had brought them home to America. French, Dutch and English wives had found themselves in a strange country, a strange culture, without family or friends, and the marriages had all too often suffered accordingly. When Greg's ardour had cooled towards her, Lisette had been terrified that he, too, was beginning to realize how impetuously he had married. And was, perhaps, beginning to regret it.

The jets of water were turned off. She watched as he towelled himself dry, as he wrapped the towel around his waist and walked back into the bedroom.

‘It looks as if Lucy is not going to see much of Melanie these holidays,' he said, opening the
armoire
and taking a shirt from a hanger; a dark pair of trousers; a tuxedo. ‘She's been following Dominic about all day like a little shadow.'

She raised herself up on one arm. If she reached out, her fingertips would just skim the golden-honey tones of his skin. She curled them tightly in her palm, knowing where such a gesture would lead, longing for it and dreading the wave of frigidity it would bring in its wake.

He laid the clothes over a chair and sat down beside her on the edge of the bed, strapping on his wristwatch. She could see the pearls of water clinging to the curling mass of his hair. The smooth, bronzed flesh of his shoulders, the long, strong ripple of his spine. She closed her eyes, dizzy with desire. Why, in God's name, didn't her guilt stifle her desire as well as response? Why was she left with the agony of one without the relief of the other?

‘Do you want a drink before you shower?' he asked her, turning his head, his eyes meeting hers.

His movement had been too quick, too sudden. He had surprised the hunger in her eyes. The physical longing. His own desire ignited immediately. ‘Lisette!' His voice was choked. He twisted round on the bed, pulling her towards him. She could feel the dampness of his skin, smell the lingering fragrance of shampoo and soap. She gave a small, inarticulate cry, her arms going around his neck as his mouth closed hard and sweet on hers.

For a few dizzy moments it was as though the restraint that had built up between them had never been. The towel around his waist slid to the floor. His body imprisoned hers, her fingers curled in his hair. His lips were on her neck, the base of her throat. He unbuttoned the ivory silk blouse with speed, glorying in the sight of her breasts as he eased them free of her lace-edged brassiere.

‘Oh, God, Lisette, I love you … Love you …' His voice throbbed. He didn't wait for her to slip free of her skirt. He pushed it high, his hands sliding down to her hips, pressing her in towards him. She gasped aloud, pushing herself up to meet him, desire running through her like liquid gold, burning and consuming. He groaned above her, his body entering hers, and then she arched her back, not in passion but in a rictus of frigidity. This man who loved her so much, who had given her so much, was being deceived by her in the most monstrous, shameful way possible. If he knew, he would leave her. He would look at her with loathing and disgust and wish that he had never seen her. Never touched her.

‘What's the matter, Lisette?' His voice was harsh, almost a shout. He had seen the flare of panic in her eyes. The emotional and physical drawing back. For years he had tried to pretend that it didn't exist. Now he could pretend no longer.
‘Don't you want me?'
he demanded, his gold-flecked eyes blazing, his face savage.
‘Don't you love me?'

‘Yes,' she sobbed, ‘Please believe me …'

He didn't believe her and his fingers tightened on her shoulders till she cried out with pain. He took her with the ferocity of frustration, uncaring of her hands pushing against his chest, her cries of protest.

‘
What the hell is the matter with you?'
he yelled down at her.
‘Why the devil do you freeze when I touch you? Turn away from me when I reach out for you?'

Her skirt was still round her waist, her hair tumbled from its sleek knot. ‘I don't know!' The tears were pouring down her face. ‘But I love you, Greg! I love you more than anything else in the world!'

‘I don't believe you!'
He sprang from the bed, hardly able to contain his rage and pain. Dear God in heaven, where had the scene now taking place sprung from? In three quick strides he was in the bathroom, pulling on his discarded clothes.

‘Where are you going?' she asked, pulling herself to her knees, her clothes in disarray, her hair tumbling wildly around her shoulders.

‘I don't know!'
His face was bone-white, his eyes brilliant with pain.
‘Somewhere where I can forget the travesty of our marriage!'
and he spun on his heel, striding from the room, the door rocking on its hinges as he slammed it behind him.

She didn't cry. She was beyond tears. She sat huddled on the edge of the bed, her arms folded tight around her, her breathing harsh and erratic. He had gone. She didn't know where. She didn't know when he would return, and when he did return, she didn't know what she could possibly say to him. He had accused her of not loving him and she had denied it. But if she had accused him similarly would he have been able to deny it with the same vehemence? She didn't think so.

She rose from the bed and crossed to the window, leaning her aching head against the coolness of the pane. It was odd that here, where it had all begun between them, it was all coming to a hideous end. He had married her knowing little more about her than her name. She wondered when he had begun to regret his haste. Had it been when he had seen Jacqueline Pleydall again? When he had suggested that they no longer share the same bed? She didn't go down for dinner. She asked her mother to make her apologies on her behalf, pleading a headache. If Greg, too, failed to appear at the table there would be anxious speculation as to why, but she was too weary to care. She wanted, with all her heart, to be able to slide her arms around Greg's waist and to lean her head against the reassuring strength of his chest, secure in the knowledge that he loved her. And she could do so no longer.

Greg had stormed out of the chateau, striding white-faced through the gardens and out across the open land that led to the headland. The heat of the day had faded, and wind was fallowing in from the Channel strongly and mares'tails scudded across a leaden sky. He began to run, wishing to God he could drive the pain and fury away. Why, in the name of all that was holy, had he allowed himself to bring to the surface the hurt that had smouldered for so long? There could be no going back now to the easy camaraderie that had been so carefully nurtured between them. He had destroyed it all by his need of her; his rage at meeting again that total withdrawal of herself that cheated him of possession of her.

The waves hurled themselves remorselessly at the cliff face, clawing deep into the chalk, surging and ebbing over a shingle of water-smoothed pebbles. He panted to a halt. It was a coastline he loathed. Even now he had only to close his eyes a fraction and he could see the ships as they had approached the shore. See the running figures of his comrades as they were mowed down in their hundreds. A pillbox still stood, gaunt and bleak, staring out over the heaving grey waters. How Lisette could retain affection for such a glacial, inhospitable sea he had never been able to understand. He had thought she would be captivated by the dazzling blue shimmer of the Pacific. But she had not been. She had never said so, but he knew that blue sea and pristine white surf were no compensation to her for windswept beaches and the cold, inhospitable waters that pounded her native shoreline.

He stood, his hands dug deep in his trouser pockets, his brows pulled together until they met as he stared out over the heaving waves. What would her reaction be if he suggested that they end their marriage? If he told her there was no need for her to return to America with him? That she could stay in Normandy forever and never leave it? He spun swiftly on his heel, facing Valmy and the beech woods and the distant spire of the church he had been married in. He couldn't do it. He couldn't envisage life without her. If she left him, it would have to be of her own volition.

He began to walk back across the marram grass towards the chateau. There was nothing for it but to return. To exercise the iron-strong control that had so shatteringly and suddenly just let him down. He swore savagely beneath his breath. There would be Luke to endure. The chatter of the children. The anxious curiosity in his father-in-law's eyes if it became obvious that he and Lisette were at odds with each other. The facade of a happy marriage would have to be maintained at least for the length of their stay. And afterwards? His hands clenched. He would think of afterwards later. For the moment he had dinner with his in-laws and the Brandons to survive.

‘Lisette has a headache,' Heloise de Valmy said, disguising her surprise at his arrival at the dinner table in casual slacks and sweater, and at his apparent ignorance of Lisette's condition.

‘The trip over was rougher than we had anticipated,' Greg said in an effort to explain Lisette's indisposition, aware of a flare of curiosity in Luke's sharp blue eyes. The
Ile de France
is not half so steady as we had been led to believe.'

Henri, who had never ventured on a boat in his life, laughed. It was a long time since he had dined downstairs and though he was disappointed that Lisette had not been able to join them, he was enjoying himself.

‘Better the
Ile de France
than the little tubs Luke and Annabel cross from England in,' he said, as his wife lit the candles in the ornate candelabra and shadows danced softly over crisp white napery and silver.

It was a dinner that seemed endless. He wanted to excuse himself and go to Lisette. He wanted, somehow, to put right all that had gone wrong between them.

‘What do you think of
Time Magazine's
choice of the German Chancellor as “Man of the Year”?' Henri asked him as home-made vichyssoisse was followed by trout in almonds and
mange tout.
‘A bit of a surprise, don't you think?'