a French millionaire for any reason whatever, no matter how practical it had been made to sound. She tried to recall to mind exactly what he’d said, but her brain refused to co-operate, producing only a jumble of confused impressions.
It must have been a dream, she told herself foggily. My worries and the name of Monica’s dinner guest just got muddled in my subconscious, that’s all. There’s a logical explanation for everything.
She stretched her arms above her head, then brought them down slowly in front of her. She had small, workmanlike hands, which she was accustomed to seeing stained with paint. Latterly, though, she’d been using them mainly to help nurse Gavin, and they looked almost respectable for once.
Suddenly, as she looked at them, one of the images in her mind sharpened into a reality she couldn’t ignore. She sat bolt upright, stifling a startled yelp.
My God, she thought, he kissed my hand! She sat for a moment, staring at her fingers, as if she expected to see them marked with the brand of Cain—re-living with shock the swift brush of his mouth against her skin. Knowing helplessly there was no way in which she could have dreamed that particular sensation.
It happened, she thought. It all really happened. And, in that case, what the hell do I do now?
Well, first she could answer the phone, which rang at that moment as if obeying some cue.
‘Well?’ was Monica’s response to her guarded ‘Hello.’
Philippa swallowed. ‘Well what?’ she countered feebly.
Monica sighed irritably. ‘Please don’t behave as if you’re half-witted,’ she commanded crisply. ‘What have you decided? Are you going to accept Alain de Courcy’s offer?’
There were dust motes whirling in the broad beam of sunlight slanting between the thin curtains.
That’s what I feel like, Philippa thought, gripping the receiver as if it was her sole contact with reality. As if I’ve been caught up in something I don’t understand and can’t control, and now I’m helpless—going round and round forever.
‘Philippa?’ Monica’s impatient voice sounded in her ear. ‘Hello—are you still there? I asked what you were going to do.’
She said quietly, ‘I don’t think I really have a choice. I’m going to—to take his money.’
‘Not merely the money, my dear.’ Monica gave a short laugh. ‘You’ll also be getting an exquisite Paris apartment, a country house near Fountainebleau, and a villa in the hills above Nice, and that’s just to start with. And Alain is one of the most attractive and eligible bachelors in France. You’re doing extremely well for yourself.’
‘Am I?’ Philippa asked. Her heart felt like a stone.
‘You’d better be married from Lowden Square,’ Monica went on. ‘Will Gavin be well enough to attend the ceremony?’
Philippa sat up as if she’d been shot. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I’m afraid not. I hope by the time it takes place he’ll already be in America, starting his treatment.’
‘Well, just as you wish, of course. I’ll have a room prepared for you, and expect you some time later today. We’re going to have to do some serious shopping.’
‘Why?’
Monica’s sigh quivered with irritation. ‘My dear girl, although the ceremony will undoubtedly be very quiet, and extremely private, you still cannot be married in denim jeans. Lennox and I will supply your trousseau as our gift.’
‘It really isn’t necessary …’
‘Nonsense,’ Monica said crisply. ‘I’ll see you later.’ And rang off.
An hour later, Philippa found herself being shown into Alain de Courcy’s hotel suite. He was sitting at a table by the window, eating breakfast and reading a newspaper, as she entered, but he rose to his feet immediately, greeting her courteously.
‘I’m sorry,’ Philippa said when they were alone. ‘I should have telephoned first. I’m obviously too early …’
‘Pas du tout.’ He motioned her to the seat on the other side of the table. ‘Have you eaten?’
Philippa realised with embarrassment that the table was laid for two. ‘Oh—you’re expecting company as well.’
He smiled at her. He was casually dressed this morning, she noticed, in slim-fitting dark blue pants and a matching shirt, open at the neck to reveal the tanned column of his throat, and the first shadowing of hair on his chest.
He said, ‘I was expecting you, ma chère. Will you have some coffee?’ He lifted the pot and poured some into the other cup, then offered her cream and sugar which she refused.
Alain de Courcy took an apple from the bowl of fruit which had accompanied his breakfast and began to peel it.
‘You’ve had sufficient time to think?’
She nodded wordlessly.
‘So—what is your answer?’
She picked up the spoon and aimlessly stirred the dark aromatic brew in her cup, deliberately not looking at him.
‘I—will marry you, monsieur.’ She paused. ‘But there are conditions.’
‘I imagined there might be,’ he said with a certain irony. ‘Tell me about them.’
She said, ‘My father’s treatment is to start as soon as possible—and he’s to know nothing about our—arrangement.’
‘You are going to keep our marriage a secret from him? But why?’
‘Because he’d know why I was doing it, and he’d refuse to go to America—to let me sacrifice myself for him. I can’t risk that happening.’
‘I understand, but I am not sure you will be able to carry it through. There will come a time when he has to know.’
Philippa flushed dully. ‘You mean when—if I get pregnant? I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.’
‘I did not entirely mean that,’ Alain said slowly. ‘If the treatment is successful, he will wish to take up his former life again, and you were a close part of that. Don’t you think he might notice you had acquired a husband?’
She said quietly, ‘If the treatment works—when he’s fully recovered, I’ll tell him everything, because it will be too late then for him to object, and I hope he’ll understand why I had to do it.’ She paused, biting her lip. ‘If it doesn’t work, then it won’t matter anyway.’
She hesitated again. ‘Also, I was wondering whether you wanted me to have a medical examination.’
He put down the quarter of apple he was eating and stared at her. ‘Why should I wish such a thing? Are you feeling unwell? Do you believe your father’s illness is hereditary in some way?’
‘Oh, no.’ Philippa’s face was like a peony. ‘I was thinking
