of man that you can hate very easily. And what was happening here was nothing to do with him, really. He just treated Catherine as he treats all women. As he will certainly treat you.’ Juliette’s face darkened at the thought. ‘But Charles hates him. Charles is a passionate man, and is capable of passionate extremes. Val Gordon is clever to stay away from him.’
Juliette stood up, swaying a little. ‘Now do you understand tonight?’ Bell nodded dumbly. ‘Then I must go to bed. I’m drunk, and I can’t bear to think any more about Christophe.’
Bell lay down wearily on the white bed and let the held-back tears come. Poor Charles. Poor Charles and poor Catherine. That life should be so cruel. No wonder the pain in his eyes had reminded Bell so sharply of her father. It was the old pain of inconsolable loss, the pain that frightened Bell herself so much.
Oh God, how could she have been naïve enough to think that she could warm that hurt away? She had failed once in her life, and this time all she had had was three pathetic days. And at the end of those she was going away to Valentine Gordon.
It was the cruellest, bitterest coincidence. No wonder. Oh, no wonder.
At last Bell fell asleep with the jaunty striped blazer all wrinkled up underneath her and the ivory bangle digging a red weal into her wrist.
She was woken up by the sun pouring cruelly in through the undrawn curtains and the sound of someone tapping at her door. It was Marianne, with a breakfast tray. She stopped dead when she saw Bell, her eyes and mouth wide open with surprise.
‘I must have dropped off,’ Bell said feebly, trying to raise a smile.
‘Oui, Madame. Monsieur le baron, he asked me to say that there is not much time. The airport …’
‘I know. Thank you.’
The coffee was hot and mercifully strong. Bell gulped it down as she packed her bag. A hot shower helped her headache, and clean clothes made her feel almost human again. But her face was dead white, with all yesterday’s pink, happy glow gone.
At last there was another knock at the door.
‘Charles …’ He was standing there, looking as distant as when he had first greeted her on the Château steps. ‘Charles, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, about it all. About everything.’ She buried her face against his chest, and then felt the blissful relief of his arms going round her.
‘Valentine Gordon is a dangerous man,’ he said stiffly, and she felt a little clutch of apprehensiveness at the weeks that lay ahead. How could she go out there, alone?
‘I won’t go, I won’t go,’ she told him in desperation. Stobbs didn’t matter. Her job didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except Charles.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
