a man who was falling in love. Because Giancarlo would never do that. He treated her like a mistress because she was a mistress. And if she had found herself wanting the relationship to deepen instead of coming to an abrupt end—well, then she was wasting her time.
Because that was never going to happen. It had never been part of the deal. And if she had been grown-up enough to accept his terms from the outset, then she should be grown-up enough not to want to move the goalposts because she’d discovered that it didn’t really suit her after all. So she accepted his gifts with a kind of calm emptiness—and found that when it came to visiting the most romantic capital in the world she had the perfect wardrobe to take with her.
She had thought they might fly, but instead they took the train—a champagne trip through the Channel Tunnel, emerging from the darkness into the flat, French countryside until the train drew into Paris, at the Gare du Nord.
‘Are you ready for Christmas?’ questioned Giancarlo as he ushered her through the station to where a car was waiting for them. ‘Because this city does it better than any other.’
Cassie nodded as she climbed into the luxurious leather interior of the limousine, feeling as excited as a small child who had been told she was going to meet Father Christmas. ‘Ready for anything,’ she whispered.
Fairy lights woven into the trees gleamed golden-bright all the way along the Champs Élysées, and Christmas trees were festooned with fake snow. Cassie sat very close to him in the back of the car as they passed all the famous designer stores—Chanel, Gucci and Louis Vuitton—with their clever-clever windows and pencil-thin mannequins.
They were staying at a grand hotel not far from the Eiffel Tower—with a foyer in which stood the biggest Christmas tree Cassie had ever seen. It was looped with lights and hung with cinnamon sticks and baubles which glittered like icicles—and beneath it were stacked piles of fake, gold-wrapped presents.
Giancarlo had rented an enormous suite whose huge windows overlooked the Avenue Montagne where champagne awaited them—as well as big vases of bright pink roses. The bed was indescribably opulent and one of the two bathrooms contained a Jacuzzi. For a while Cassie wandered around like a woman in a trance as her fingertips skated over the heavy brocade arm of an antique sofa.
‘I keep thinking that this is a dream and that soon I will wake up.’
‘Well, don’t go to sleep just yet,’ he murmured as he pulled her into his arms. ‘Didn’t you know that Paris was invented for lovers?’
For a moment the word mocked her. Lovers, he had said—but it was an intensely misleading word, because what did this have to do with love? And how many other of his lovers had he brought to this romantic city?
But Cassie pushed the nagging thought away as Giancarlo began to undress her, sliding the whisper-soft silk lingerie from her trembling flesh as his mouth found her breast.
For three days they did all the things which tourists were supposed to do—climbing up the Eiffel Tower and marvelling at all the cathedrals and beautiful little churches which studded the city. Exploring the tiny side streets, they discovered dusty antique shops in which to browse. They walked through a frosty Left Bank and ate boeuf bourguignon with crusty bread and on another day they wandered through the Tuileries Gardens and watched the ever-changing light reflected on the river Seine. And when they weren’t exploring they were having sex—amazing sex, which Cassie suspected was sharpened by the sense that it would all soon be over.
But that sense of displacement never quite left her—and it was reinforced on their last day, when he tried to buy her a beautiful black suede coat which he’d seen in the window of Valentino and persuaded her to try on.
She shook her head. ‘Thank you—but no.’
‘But I want you to have it, bella,’ he said, in a voice of silky determination.
‘No, Giancarlo,’ said Cassie firmly, even though she could barely recognise the sleek, chic woman who stared back at her from the mirror.
‘Why not?’
‘Because…because it’s so expensive.’
‘Well, why not? You’re worth it…’
‘No!’ she said fiercely, her cheeks growing pink. ‘Please don’t say that. It makes me feel like some kind of…of…commodity.’
There was a pause. ‘If you’re trying to make me feel bad, then let me warn you now that you won’t succeed,’ he drawled, but Cassie couldn’t mistake the irritation which underpinned his words.
In the brightly lit shop their eyes clashed and one word leapt to the forefront of Cassie’s mind, while nearby the sales assistant pretended not to notice.
‘Warn me?’
‘Just don’t bother trying to lay a guilt trip on me, bella. It’s coming to the end of our time together and I wanted to buy you a warm coat, that’s all. I’ve noticed you don’t have one—and there’s a long, cold winter ahead.’
Cassie stared at him, feeling sick. He was making her sound like some urchin from a Victorian melodrama—standing in a threadbare coat selling matches while snowflakes swirled down around her!
‘You know what you can do with your damned coat,’ she flared as she pulled it off and thrust it at him. And, turning round, she walked out of the shop without looking back.
He caught up with her outside and his face was dark with fury as he caught hold of her, his fingers biting into the thin material of her coat, which now seemed to mock her. ‘Don’t ever do that again,’ he snapped.
‘What, refuse to be bought off?’
‘I’m talking about making a scene in public. Do you think I don’t care about my reputation—even if you have no regard for your own?’
Her body beginning to tremble, Cassie stared at him. And as his critical words registered the scales began to fall from her eyes. How could she have been so stupid? Just because she had allowed herself to be completely captivated by his magnetism and charm, she had credited him as having all kinds of attributes which didn’t exist outside her wistful imagination.
Because to Giancarlo she was a commodity. She was his mistress and he paid the bills. He brought her to Paris and in return she provided sex on tap. It was temporary and it meant nothing. Nothing.
He had spoken of reputation, but he had missed the point somewhere along the way. Because with one stroke he had managed to both save and ruin her reputation. Yes, he had ensured she didn’t have to return to Cornwall after being sacked for suspected theft—but he had persuaded her to enter into a liaison which made a mockery of all the things she believed in. Her idealistic dreams of love and fidelity had been smashed.
She had learnt that if a woman provided good sex to a rich man she was rewarded with clothes costing tens of thousands of pounds. That had been the price she’d been paid for the loss of her innocence—and maybe the cost was too high. An adventure in London had become nothing but a sordid affair—and the sooner she left it all behind, the better.
But afterwards she half wished that she had just gone ahead and let him buy her the coat because it ruined the rest of the trip—and, in a way, it ruined their goodbye.
