and she felt her fingers tighten involuntarily around the phone as his words bumped into one another inside her head like dodgems at the funfair. ‘Blame you for what?’
‘I waited as long as I could, poussin, but it was such a good offer—’
His use of her childhood nickname as much as his wheedling tone sent a ripple of alarm over her skin. Her father only ever called her poussin—little chick—when he wanted something or when he wanted to be forgiven.
‘What offer?’ she said slowly.
The lift doors opened and she stepped out into the glass-ceilinged atrium. Straight ahead, she noticed her PA hovering nervously in front of her office door, and her heart gave a sickening thump.
‘What have you done, Papa?
‘I’ve done what I should have done a long time ago.’ The wheedling tone had shifted, become defensive. ‘So I hope you’re not going to make a fuss, Margot. I mean, it’s what you’ve been telling me to do for years—sell my shares. And now I have. And I have to say I got a damn good price for them too.’
It was as if a bomb had exploded inside her head. Blood was roaring in her ears and the floor seemed to ripple beneath her feet.
‘You said that if you were going to sell your shares you’d come to me first.’ Margot felt panic, hot and slippery, run down her spine.
‘And I did.’ There was a burst of laughter in the background and she felt her father’s attention shift and divert away from her. ‘But you didn’t pick up.’
‘I couldn’t. I was having a massage.’ She let out a breath. ‘Look, Papa, we can sort this out. Just don’t sign anything, okay? Just stay where you are and I will come to you.’
‘It’s too late now. I signed the paperwork first thing this morning. And I mean first thing. He got me out of bed,’ he grumbled. ‘Anyway, there’s no point in getting out of shape with me—just talk to him. He should be there by now.’
‘Who—?’ she began, but even without the tell-tale clink of ice against glass she could tell her father was no longer listening.
She heard the click of his lighter, then the slow expulsion of smoke. ‘Apparently that’s why it all had to be done so early. He wanted to get up to Epernay...take a look around headquarters.’
Margot gazed dazedly across the honey-coloured parquet floor. No wonder her staff were looking so confused. Clearly the newest Duvernay shareholder was already on site. But who was he—and what had he told them?
Her pulse stuttered in time with her footsteps. There were already enough rumours circulating around the company as it was—and what would the bank think if they heard that Emile had suddenly decided to sell his shares?
Silently she cursed herself for not picking up her messages—and her father for being so utterly, irredeemably selfish.
‘It’ll be fine,’ Emile was saying briskly.
Now that the worst was over he was clearly itching to be gone.
‘You’re so rational and practical, poussin.’
She could almost see him shuddering even at the concept of such qualities.
‘Just talk to him. Maybe you can persuade him to sell them back to you.’
He was desperate to be off. If Margot had been the sort to scream or hurl abuse she would have unleashed the tide of invective churning in her throat. But she wasn’t. A lifetime of watching the soap opera that had been her parents’ marriage had cured her of any desire for a scene. For a moment, though, she considered telling Emile in the most irrational, impractical terms exactly what she thought of him.
Only, really, what was the point? Her father’s ‘me first’ morality was precisely why he’d kept the shares in the first place.
‘Although somehow I doubt it...’
Her father exhaled again, and she pictured him stubbing out his cigarette with the same careless force with which he had upended her dreams of taking back control of Duvernay.
‘He seemed absolutely set on having them. But, truthfully, I think I might have done you a favour. I mean, he is the man of the moment, right?’
The man of the moment.
Margot blinked. Her brain was whirling, her thoughts flying in a hundred directions. She had read that headline. Not the article, for that would have been too painful. But, walking through the centre of Paris last month, she had found it impossible to tear her gaze away from the newsstands. Or more particularly the head-and-shoulders shot that had accompanied the article, and those eyes—one blue, one green—staring down the Champs-Élysées as if he owned it.
‘Man of the moment?’
Her voice sounded blurred, shapeless—like a candle flame that had burnt the whole wick and was floundering in wax.
‘Yeah—Max Montigny. They say he can turn water into wine, so I guess he’ll give those stuffy vignerons a run for their money—Yeah, I’ll be right there.’
Margot tried to speak, but her breath was thick and tangled in her throat. ‘Papa—’ she began, but it was too late. He was talking over her.
‘Look, call me later—well, maybe not later, but whenever. I love you, but I have to go—’
The phone went dead.
But not as dead as she felt.
Max Montigny.
It had been almost ten years since she’d last seen him. Ten years of trying to pretend their relationship, his lies, her heartbreak, that none of it had happened. And she’d done a pretty good job, she thought dully.
Of course it had helped that only Yves had ever known the full story. To everyone else Max had been at first a trusted employee, and later a favoured friend of the family.
To her, though, he had been a fantasy made flesh. With smooth dark hair, a profile so pure it looked as though it had been cut with a knife, and a lean, muscular body that hummed with energy, he had been like a dark star that seemed to tug at all her five senses whenever she was within his orbit.
Only as far as he was concerned Margot had been invisible. No, maybe not invisible. He had noticed her, but only in the same jokey way that her own brother had—smiling at her off-handedly as he joined the family for dinner, or casually offering to drive her into town when it was raining.
And then one day, instead of looking through her, he had stared at her so intently she had forgotten to breathe, forgotten to look away.
Remembering that moment, the impossibility of not holding his gaze, her cheeks felt suddenly as though they were on fire.
She had been captivated by him, enthralled and enchanted. She would have followed him blindly into darkness, and in a way she had—for she had gone into his arms and to his bed, given herself to him willingly, eagerly.
From then
