The Night That Started It All (2 page)

But she was a rational person. She was safe now. She would get over it. The important thing was to fight fear. Not to turn into an emotional cripple, cringing at the sound of every male voice. She could still enjoy men and indulge in a little flirty chit-chat.

Maybe.

Rémy was
not
typical. Her head knew this. Once again, though, it was her heart that was the trouble.

In fact it was a good thing, a needful thing, that Neil was insisting she come to his party. There’d be loads of men there, all quite as civilised as her lovely brother. It could be her testing ground. From this moment on, serenity was her cloak and her shield.

When her hand grew steady again, she lined both lids with
the darker shade, painted a band of purple shadow beneath her eyes and on the upper lids, then switched to the turquoise brush inside the corners, across the bridge and all the way to her brows.

Standing back to examine her handiwork, she felt a surge of relief. Not only was the bruise undetectable, the stripe across her eyes looked quite atmospheric. It was dramatic, maybe a little over the top, but it suited her. Somehow it made her irises glow a vivid sea-green.

If she hadn’t been kicking herself over what a fool she’d been, how needy she must have been to fall for such a cliché, she’d have laughed to think of how poor old Neil and Emilie would freak when she turned up looking like Daryl Hannah in
Bladerunner
.

Though Emilie was no fool. She
had
grown up with Rémy.

That set Shari worrying again, so as an added decoy she drew a frog on her right cheekbone.

Now what to wear to Neil’s fortieth? If a woman was forced to go to a party wearing a stripe, it might be best to look gorgeous. A little shopping might be called for. Her smile broke through. With her camouflage in place, the frump could go out.

She’d cried her last tear over the man who couldn’t love. Cried and cried till she was empty.

It was time to get back on the horse.

L
UC
was made to feel abundantly welcome in Emilie and Neil’s pretty harbourside home. Luc, and at least a hundred of their friends. The place was crowded, its family atmosphere so warm it was palpable.

Too warm. A reminder of all that had departed from his world.

And,
quelle surprise
, Emilie was pregnant.

It seemed to Luc everyone was. Everywhere he looked from Paris to Saigon to Sydney women were swollen, their husbands strutting about like smug cockerels. The epidemic had spread across the equator.

He doubted he’d have noticed if he hadn’t looked, really looked that day, at the
boulanger
in the Rue Montorgeuil strolling with his pregnant wife, a brawny tender arm around her waist. The guy had been so proud, so cock-a-hoop, so in love with life and the world, Luc had carried the image home with him.

Worst mistake in history.

Apparently, when lovers ran out of things to say to each other, the last remedy to propose was marriage. Manon’s response to the suggestion of a child had been as swift as it was ferocious.

‘What has happened to you, darling? Do you suddenly want to tie me in chains? I am not the brood mare type. If you want
that
, find another woman.’ Her smile hadn’t diminished the anger in her lovely eyes.

Once he’d recovered from the shock, he’d realised the enormity of what he’d suggested. The fact that some women did agree to sacrificing their freedom and autonomy to reproduce was nothing short of a miracle.

Inclining his head, he accepted another canapé, wondering how long he would have to wait here in this hothouse of domestic fecundity before Rémy put in an appearance. He was beginning to have his doubts it would even happen. Could his cousin have got wind of his arrival? He’d hardly known himself until the last minute, when he was due to leave Saigon and thought of his pleasant Paris apartment waiting for him.

That empty wasteland. Traces of Manon in every corner.

Otherwise he doubted he would ever have dreamed of travelling so far. But from Saigon a few extra hours’ hop to Sydney had had its appeal. Deal with the Rémy problem, enjoy a few days of sunshine, blue seas and skies. Postpone work, Paris, his life. What was not to enjoy?

He should have realised. Wherever he went in the world,
he
was there.

At least Emi hadn’t changed. Like the sweetheart she was, every so often she darted back to the corner he was lurking in to ensure he wasn’t neglected.

Smiling, she offered him wine, her blue eyes so reminiscent of her twin’s. Or would have been if Rémy’s had ever possessed any kindness, humanity or the tiniest hint of the existence of a soul.

‘So tell me, Luc … is it true? Manon is pregnant?’

A familiar pincer clenched Luc’s entrails, though he maintained his smile. ‘How would I know? I don’t keep up.’

Emilie flushed. ‘
Pardon, mon cousin
. I don’t mean to intrude. I was just so surprised when Tante Marise mentioned it. I wouldn’t have thought … Manon never seemed the—the type to want babies.’

No, Luc acknowledged behind his poker face. She hadn’t been the type when she was with him. But there were only so many forms of betrayal a man cared to discuss.

He steered Emilie away from the blood-soaked arena of his personal life and onto the subject of burning interest to Head Office.

‘Do you see Rémy often?’

Emilie shook her head. ‘
Mais non
. Not so often since he was engaged.’ She smiled fondly. ‘He is in love at last. I think he has no need of his sister any more.’

Her hopeful gaze invited Luc to think the best of her beloved brother. Fat chance. The notion of Rémy in love with anyone but himself was about as easy to gulp down as this over-oaked blend.

‘Maybe he has gone to the outback to see a client,’ Emi said eagerly. ‘You know he needs to fly to the clients sometimes.’

Luc frowned. ‘Without informing his staff?’

Emilie coloured and cast a glance at her husband, who’d just joined them. ‘Well, Rémy’s always been—private.’

‘Secretive,’ Neil put in.

‘
Neil
. Don’t say
secretive
.’ Emilie gave her husband a spousely shove. ‘I’m sure he’s done nothing wrong. He may just have forgotten to leave a message.’

Reading Neil’s suddenly bland face, Luc had the impression Neil didn’t share his wife’s confidence in her charming brother.

Shari took a moment to nerve herself before pressing Neil and Emilie’s bell. She’d stopped wearing the ring weeks ago, of course, but if anyone asked her about it, if they even mentioned Rémy’s name, she still wasn’t sure how far she could trust herself not to turn into a complete wuss and burst into tears.

Too emotional. Just too emotional.

Emilie opened the door.

‘
Enfin
, Shari, after all this time …’ She stopped short, looking Shari up and down. ‘My God. Is it really you? You look …
incroyable
.’ Emilie kissed her on both cheeks and dragged her inside. ‘I adore it. So sexy and
mystérieuse
.’ Emilie thought she was speaking in English, but it often came out sounding like French.

With gratifying awe she examined Shari’s transformation. The stripe across her eyes was intriguing enough, Shari supposed, but it was her chiffon dress and new five inch platforms that really had Em reeling.

‘Oh-h-h,’ the darling woman enthused. ‘I am
green
. How can you walk in them? But what have you done to your eyes?’ Shari’s heart suffered a momentary paralysis, but Emilie continued exclaiming. ‘
Pretty
, so pretty. Is that frog a tattoo, really?’

Shari eased back out of the direct light. ‘You know me. Always faking it.’

Emilie giggled. ‘No, don’t say so. Now, where’s Rémy?’ She peered out into the dark street.

Shari tightened her grip on the strap of her shoulder purse. ‘Rémy isn’t coming.’

‘Not?’ Emilie looked nonplussed. ‘Oh, but … quick, phone him. Tell him he has to. Our cousin is here to see him and he’s looking so stern everyone is terrified.’

Shari looked steadily at her. ‘No, Em. I can’t.’

Emilie blinked bemusedly at her, and Shari was about to drop the bombshell when more guests piled in through the gate and hailed the hostess.

Shari seized her escape.

‘Catch you later.’ She smiled, and walked through to the party like a woman riding a storm.

It was a while since she’d visited. As things had deteriorated on the engagement front, she’d chosen to avoid the perceptive gazes of her brother and Em. Little changes had taken place in their home since the last time she’d dropped by to hang and read to their little girls.

Tonight the rooms were crowded, people spilling from the
living rooms to the pool terrace. A small army of hired staff was flitting about, distributing hors d’oeuvres like largesse to the poor.

Heading for a quiet corner, Shari felt conscious of eyes turning to follow her. For a scary moment she feared her stripe wasn’t holding up, until a likely lad stepped in her path and told her she looked hot.

Hot
? Oh, that glorious word. Pleasure flowed into the dry gulch where her self-esteem had once bubbled like the tranquil waters of an aquifer. Her spine stiffened all by itself. She loved the sweet-talking hound.

Standing way taller on her new platforms, she blew him a kiss. ‘Too hot for you, sweetie,’ she tossed over her shoulder as she swished by.

There now, that wasn’t too hard, was it?

She greeted a few faces she recognised, flashed a wave here, a smile there, just as though everything in her little corner of the world was hunky-dory. She hoped no one inquired about her so-called fiancé. She should never have promised to allow Rémy time to break the news to Em in his own way. She might have known he’d never drum up the courage.

Face it, she’d known all along she should have told Neil and Em herself. Weeks ago, she saw now, instead of feeling she had to avoid them all this time. How much could she tell Emilie about her beloved Rémy, though? It was clear she couldn’t reveal anything tonight, with her sister-in-law under pressure.

And she’d have to be careful how much she told Neil. She’d long sensed he didn’t like Rémy. He’d always been so protective of her, heaven knew what he might do if he knew about this last thing. And how might that impact on Emilie?

She spotted Neil then, standing in a group with a tall, dark-eyed, sardonic-looking guy who was scanning the room, looking gloomy and detached.

Luc noticed his host waving at someone and suppressed a yawn. These Australians were so open. So forward. So relentlessly
friendly and lively. To a jet-lagged Frenchman, a houseful of them was overwhelming. He listened, nodded, made meaningless conversation with strangers and mentally gritted his teeth.

These days, an hour in any roomful of couples was an eternity.

He watched a couple’s unconscious linking as they chatted with other people. Hands brushing. Hips. Under duress he could admit to himself he missed those touches. The tiny automatic intimacies a man had with his lover.

At least he lived cleaner now. No promises, no lies. And no pain. It was honest, at least.

As though in ridicule of this absurd reflection a pang of yearning sliced through him. If only he could grow
used
to this life with no alleviating softness in it. No excitement. No warm body to open to him in the deep reaches of the night. What he needed was a …

Through a chink in the crowd his eye was snagged on a flash of colour. He looked. And looked again. He caught a fleeting glimpse of a face, and for a minute the breath was punched from his lungs.

The crowd moved, and now only her soft blonde hair was visible to him. He waited, not breathing, until she angled his way again. Ah. An intriguing sensation thrilled through him. It was her eyes. They were fascinating. So deep and alluring and mysterious. Eyes to haunt a man.

He felt his blood quicken.

The crowd parted again and he was able to take in the whole of her. She’d have fitted in well in any nightclub, but in this assembly she looked almost theatrical. Fragile, with her long legs in the high heels, the soft chiffon dress slipping off one shoulder, neat little shoulder purse knocking against her hip.

Mesmerised, he couldn’t drag his gaze away.

Shari smiled as a waiter proffered a tray. She helped herself to a shot of vodka, downed it, then replaced the empty glass
and took another to be going on with. She was casting about for a friendly face when she noticed the dark-eyed guy still watching her, his brows lowered and intent.

What the …? Had she broken the vodka laws?

His eyes had a strangely hypnotic quality. A girl had to ask herself if it was really the vodka that was so capturing his attention.

She attempted to crush his impudence with a haughty glare, but he didn’t even flinch. Shaken by a momentary pang of insecurity, she hastily drowned it with another gulp of the potato elixir.

For goodness’ sake, she was at risk here of tipsiness, not a good thing in platforms. If the guy didn’t look away soon she’d be unable to lie on the floor without holding on.

Luc was aware other women were probably present. Pretty women with breasts and soft hair. Women with an air of mystery. Blondes. Legs, long and lovely, shimmering with every slight movement.

He just hadn’t until this moment burned to touch one particular one.

Shari eyed her vodka guiltily. Although why should she? She was free, single and twenty-eight, and it was a party. She called the waiter back and rescued another glass from the tray. Turning then to face her examiner, she held them up and waved them at him, then took a sip from each.

His frown intensified. He shook his head at her a little, and she felt her blood stir thrillingly. At the same time a nervous shiver slithered down her spine. This guy was inviting a connection. The question was—what kind?

Shari flicked a glance about to see who else he might be with. He must belong to someone. In that swish dark suit and black silk shirt only a madwoman would have let him out on his own.