Never Leave Me (47 page)

Nick had shrugged and been disappointed, but had not argued. Greg's mouth tightened as he swirled ice cubes around in his glass. Over the last six months he had become a man very few people chose to argue with. His easy-going affability was a thing of the past. Now he rarely smiled. Unhappiness had made him curt and unapproachable. He drained his glass and walked over to the windows, staring out over the darkened streets to where the bay gleamed silkily in the distance. He was thirty-six. He was rich, successful, attractive to women – and as miserable as hell.

Jacqueline's letter lay open on his desk: ‘… so I am going to marry him. I have no illusions that my letter will devastate you. That you will immediately realise what a mistake you made in encouraging me to leave for Paris. You didn't love me and, to be fair to you, you never pretended to me that you did. Not after you had married. But what kind of a marriage is it? I still don't know and still don't understand. I loved you very much, Greg. I doubt that I will ever love my Frenchman as much, but I will try. Goodbye, my darling …'

She was right in supposing that her letter had not devastated him. He had only felt relief. Her unhappiness had weighed on his conscience and now, at last he felt free of it. She would make a good wife and mother. No doubt, in time, she would come to love her Frenchman far more than she had ever loved him. He hoped so.

Nevertheless, her letter
had
unsettled him. She had asked, in writing, the question that he had been asking himself for months. Just what kind of a marriage did he have? Ever since their return from France nearly a year ago, there had been no sexual relationship between himself and Lisette. She had retreated from him not only physically but mentally as well. He no longer knew what she was thinking or feeling. She ran his home superbly. She was a marvellous hostess; a perfect mother. She turned heads in the most crowded and star-filled of rooms. And she was as far removed from him as the moon.

He turned away from the window and poured himself another drink. She wasn't happy, he could see that by her eyes, by the desolation that filled them when she thought herself unobserved … His own eyes hardened. There had been a time when he had believed he would do anything in the world to make her happy. Now he knew that it wasn't so. It was their marriage that was causing her misery and he did not have the strength to free her from it. The scotch burned the back of his throat. Jesus God. Why couldn't things be as they had been when they were living in Paris? What the hell had happened to turn them into the polite strangers who now shared the same house, but not the same bed? Who appeared together in public and avoided each other's company in private? No wonder Jacqueline had been unable to understand. He himself didn't understand. He only knew that he had still not reached the point where living without her would be preferable to the raw hurt he suffered by continuing to live with her.

When he arrived home he found her sitting at her desk in the small downstairs room that she had turned into a study for herself. She was writing, the soft light of the desk lamp casting a halo around the dark sheen of her hair as it fell forward, curtaining her face.

‘I phoned home at lunchtime but you weren't here. Had you gone to Chrissie's?' he asked, stepping into the room.

She looked up, startled, and almost immediately he could see the shutters coming down behind her eyes.

‘No … I went for a drive … And a walk.' Her voice was stilted and he felt like an inquisitor,

‘North or south?' he asked, forcing a smile, wanting to prolong the conversation, and knowing very well that she regarded his presence in her room as an invasion of her privacy.

‘I … South. To Carmel.' She had turned her head away from him and he could no longer see her face. He saw that she had been writing to her father when he disturbed her. The blue airmail letter still rested, half finished, beneath her hand.

‘I would have thought Carmel too touristy for you,' he said with surprise.

‘No. I like the beach. It reminds me of home.'

She sounded as if she had been crying. Home. She had lived with him in San Francisco for all these years and Normandy was still home for her. He moved towards her, resting his hand lightly on her shoulder. It was the first physical contact there had been between them for months. He felt her tremble beneath his touch and said gently, ‘I didn't know you were still so homesick, sweetheart. We could go back again if you wished.'

She gave a small gasp and he knew that he had been right and that she had been crying. ‘If you are so unhappy, perhaps it would help if you talked to me,' he said compassionately, raising his hand from her shoulder and stroking the silky fall of her hair. It had been a long time since he had run his fingers through the long, shining strands and felt the soft sweep of it brush against his chest.

She turned then, looking up at him, her eyes resolute. ‘Yes,' she said, her voice tight in her throat, her hands trembling as she laid them in her lap. ‘I've wanted to talk to you for a long time, Greg. Let me talk to you now.'

He knew that if he lowered his head to hers, if he kissed her, she would not turn away from him. The breath was so tight in his chest that he could hardly breathe. The moment had come out of nowhere and he was determined not to let it go.

‘Then let's talk, he said huskily, cupping the perfection of her face in his hand as his mouth closed over hers.

The fountain pen she had been holding dropped from her fingers. It had been so long since he had called her sweetheart that at first she had thought her hearing was deceiving her. His mouth moved on hers, warm and sweet, infinitely tender. She knew that she dare not think of Luke. Of the savage love-making that had taken place only hours ago in the cottage at Carmel. She dare think of nothing that would freeze her as he drew her slowly to her feet, fitting her body snugly against his, letting her feel the hardness of him, the raging desire.

‘I love you, Lisette,' he said, his voice raw with need. ‘I've always loved you. I've never stopped loving you.'

Her skin burned where his lips touched it. She wanted to ask a thousand things. If he still also loved Jacqueline Pleydall. If he would move back into her bedroom again. Her fingers curled in his hair, her body pressed against his and she knew that the time for questions was later. Much later. She could allow nothing, no memory or guilt, to sabotage this moment of reconciliation. This time she would not fail him. This time she would show him how very, very much she loved him. How wonderful things could still be between them.

The telephone bell shattered the silence. His mouth didn't move from hers as she reached out for the receiver, lifting it and letting it fall, unanswered on the leather top of her desk.

‘… I'm phoning from the airport.' The faint precise English tones were unmistakeable. ‘Annabel phoned me an hour or so ago, just before I left Carmel. She wants to know if Melanie can come and visit you for a couple of weeks…'

Slowly Greg raised his head from hers and looked down at her, his face white.

‘… she can stay in the cottage at Carmel, of course, if I'm over at the same time …'

‘My God …' Greg whispered disbelievingly, releasing his hold on her so abruptly that she nearly fell. ‘So that's who you were with this afternoon!'

‘… For goodness' sake, Lisette. Yes or no?' Luke continued impatiently. ‘My flight is already boarding.'

‘He was over here on business.' Her lips were so dry she could hardly speak. ‘Naturally I drove down to say hello to him. I was going to tell you, but …'

‘No!' His face looked as if it had been carved from stone. ‘You wouldn't have told me, Lisette. You would have kept it to yourself as you keep everything to yourself. God only knows how often he flies over here, how often you see him.' His nostrils flared, there were thin white lines around his mouth. ‘Don't let me encroach on your time any longer,' he said savagely. ‘You obviously have better things to do with it,' and he turned away from her, striding from the room, not trusting himself to remain a moment longer.

‘Lisette, for God's sake, what's the matter? Are you there?' Luke demanded querulously.

Blindly she groped for the desk and the telephone. ‘Yes,' she said unsteadily, ‘I'm here.'

Another five minutes and his telephone call wouldn't have mattered. She would have told Greg everything that she had kept secret for so long. She would have told him about Dieter. About Dominic. Even about Luke. No matter what his reaction, she would have been free of her burden. Now it weighed on her heavier than ever, crushing the life out of her.

‘What do I tell Annabel? Can Melanie come over and stay with you?'

She sat on the edge of the desk, pushing her hair away from her face, her voice weary. ‘Yes,' she said, knowing that there was no way she could refuse. Annabel would be offended if she did; Melanie hurt. Dominic, if he got to know of the refused request, would be outraged.

‘Good. Melanie will fly out to you next weekend. I'll let you know the estimated time of arrival of her flight. I'll see you myself a couple of weeks later.
Au revoir.'

‘Luke!'

He had been in the act of replacing the receiver. ‘Yes,' he said, arrested by the urgency in her voice. ‘What is it? If I don't board now I'm going to miss my flight.'

‘I won't be seeing you in two weeks'times. Not while Melanie is staying here. It isn't possible.'

‘Don't be so ridiculous! Of course you'll see me. What difference does Melanie make?'

‘I can't look after her in my home, and then leave her to commit adultery with her father,' she said, hysteria rising in her throat.

‘You're being over-sensitive,' Luke retorted crisply. ‘Of course you'll see me.
Au revoir
for now. I must go. My flight gate is closing.'

‘I won't be seeing you!'
she cried fiercely, but it was too late. The connection had been severed.

Slowly she replaced the receiver on its rest, knowing she would never see him again, not as a lover. Whatever had existed between them was over. Greg had told her that he loved her, and he had never lied to her. It might be weeks, months even, before the moment of trust that had flared between them could be recaptured, but when it was, she was going to ensure that there would be no Luke to shatter and destroy it.

The next morning, when he had finished discussing the strategy for the newly acquired cosmetic account, Greg said casualty to Nick Burnett, ‘Have you any idea how often Johnson Matthie's London chairman, Luke Brandon, visits over here?'

Nick picked up an armful of storyboards from Greg's desk and rubbed his nose reflectively. ‘Enough to make his opposite number in LA nervous. Rumour has it that he's renting Steven Bernbach's place in Carmel.'

‘Is that the cottage Johnson Matthie used for the “Nostalgia” shoot last year?'

‘Yup. All oak beams and roses round the door. Very picturesque. It should suit Brandon down to the ground.'

Greg forced a dismissive grin. ‘OK, Nick. Thanks. Let me have the new outline as soon as possible.'

Nick left the room and Greg wrote the words ‘Bernbach'and ‘Carmel'down on his notepad and ringed them, staring at them for a long time, his face hard.

‘You mean that Melanie is coming here? To San Francisco? Today?' Dominic asked disbelievingly. ‘But why didn't you tell me? How long have you known? How long is she going to stay?'

‘I knew a week ago,' Lisette said unperturbedly, pouring milk for Lucy and passing it across the breakfast table to her. ‘I didn't tell you because I knew you would think and talk of nothing else.'

A faint flush touched Dominic's cheeks. ‘That's not true,' he said, feigning an indifference he was far from feeling. ‘I'm just interested, that's all.' The slight shrug of his shoulders was so like Lisette's Gallic, dismissive shrugs that for the first time in days a smile tugged at the corners of Greg's mouth.

‘I expect you will be too busy to spend much time with her,' he said, knowing very well that the instant Melanie arrived they would be inseparable.

Dominic grinned. His father was teasing him but he didn't mind. He'd much rather he teased him than look forbidding and unapproachable. His grin faded and the anxiety he felt with increasing frequency returned. There had been a time when his father had never been unapproachable. A time when he had always been laughing. He looked across at his parents, wondering why they so rarely smiled at each other, talked to each other. It was the first time in a month that they had all breakfasted together. He said, ‘Can we go camping while Mel is here? We haven't been for ages and ages. We could go up to Lake Tahoe and teach Mel how to fish.'

Greg hesitated, wondering if the seven-year-old Melanie would be less tomboyish than the six-year-old Melanie had been, and if Dominic was about to be disappointed. ‘We can go if Melanie wants to go,' he said guardedly, ‘but she might prefer to stay in town with your mother and Lucy.'

Dominic stared at him. ‘I meant for us
all
to go to Lake Tahoe,' he said, looking suddenly very small and hunched.

The tension across the table, with its gay chequered cloth and pristine white china, was palpable. Lucy looked up from spreading honey on her croissant, regarding her parents curiously.

‘I don't think your mother would like …' Greg began, rising abruptly to his feet and picking up his jacket.

‘I'd like to go to Tahoe very much,' Lisette said, before he could finish.

Their eyes met and held. She could feel her heart beating fast and light. It was another chance. The only chance there had been since the night of Luke's disastrous telephone call. ‘I've missed our weekends in the mountains,' she said, willing him to understand, to reach her halfway. ‘It's two years since we last went. It's time that we went again.'