In Bed with Her Ex. Nina HarringtonЧитать онлайн книгу.
herself to be sensible. The Marcel she had known had been Marcel Degrande, and obviously no connection with this man. It was absurd to be still reacting to the name after so long.
‘Play your cards right and you’ll come out on top,’ Mr Smith advised.
‘When do I go?’
‘Right now. He’s staying at the Gloriana Hotel, and he’s expecting you there in half an hour.’
‘Half a—? What? But that doesn’t give me time to research the background or the man—’
‘You’ll have to play it by ear. And these papers—’ he thrust some at her ‘—will give you the details of his offer. Yes, I know we don’t usually do it like this, but things are moving fast and the sooner we get the money the better.’
She took a taxi and spent the journey memorising facts and figures, wishing she’d had time to do some online research. She’d heard of Amos Falcon, whose financial tentacles seemed to stretch halfway across the world, but it would have been useful to check his son out too.
Never mind, she thought. A heavy evening’s work lay ahead of her, and she would tackle it with the meticulous efficiency that now ruled her whole life.
At last she entered the Gloriana and approached the reception desk. ‘Please tell Mr Falcon that Mrs Jane Henshaw is here.’
‘He’s over there, madam.’
Turning, she saw the entrance door to the bar and just inside, a man sitting at a table. At that moment he turned his head, revealing just enough of his face to leave her stunned.
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No … no …’
The world went into chaos, thundering to a halt, yet still whirling mysteriously about her.
Marcel. Older, a little heavier, yet still the man whose love had been the glorious triumph of her life, and whose loss had brought her close to destruction. What malign chance had made their paths cross again?
She took a step back, then another, moving towards the door, desperate to escape before he saw her. She managed to get into the hotel garden where there was a small café, and sat down. She was shaking too violently to leave now. She must stay here for a while.
If only he hadn’t seen her.
If only they had never seen each other in the beginning, never met, never loved, never hated, never shattered each other.
Who were those two youngsters who seemed to stand before her now? Naïve, innocent, ignorant, perhaps a little stupid, but only with the stupidity of children who knew they could conquer the world with their beauty, talent and enthusiasm.
Jane Agnes Cassandra Baines had always known she was destined to be a model.
‘Nobody could be that beautiful and waste it,’ her sister had said. ‘Go for it, girl. And choose a better name. Jane will make people think of plain Jane.’
Rebecca was eight years her senior, and had been almost her mother since their parents died in their childhood. These days Rebecca’s misfortunes meant that she was the one who needed caring for, and much of Jane’s money went in helping her.
‘Cassandra,’ Rebecca had said back then. ‘Mum loved that name because she said it meant “enticer of men”. Dad was outraged. I can still remember them squabbling, him saying, “You can’t call her that. It’s not respectable.” In the end Mum managed to squeeze it in as your third name.’
‘Enticer of men,’ she’d murmured in delight. ‘Cassandra. Yes—I’m Cassandra.’
Her agent had partly agreed. ‘Not Cassandra, Cassie,’ he said. ‘It’s perfect. You’re going to be a star.’
She’d climbed fast. Jane no longer existed. Cassie’s picture was everywhere and so were her admirers. Wealthy men had laid their golden gifts at her feet, but she’d cared only for Marcel Degrande, a poor boy who lived in a shabby flat.
He’d been earning a pittance working for a grocery store, and they’d met when he’d delivered fruit to her door. One look at his smile, his teasing eyes, and she’d tossed aside two millionaires like unwanted rubbish. From then on there was only him.
For Marcel it had been the same. Generous, passionate, he had offered himself to her, heart and soul, with nothing held back.
‘I can’t believe this is happening,’ he said. ‘You could have them and their money, but me—you’ve seen how I live. I can’t take you to posh restaurants or buy you expensive presents.’
‘But you give me something no other man can give,’ she assured him, laying her hand over his heart. ‘Who cares about money? Money’s boring.’
‘Yes. Money is boring,’ he said fervently. ‘Who needs it?’
‘Nobody.’ She threw herself back on the bed and wriggled luxuriously. ‘But there’s something I do need, and I’m getting impatient.’
‘Your wish is my command,’ he said just before his mouth came down on hers, his hands explored her willing body, and they quickly became one.
Returning his love had been the greatest joy of her life, a joy that she knew instinctively could never be repeated. It had lasted a few months, then ended in cruelty.
Jake, a rich, powerful man with criminal connections, used to getting his own way, had made it plain that he wanted her. She’d told him he had no chance. He’d departed without a word, and she’d congratulated herself on having dealt with the situation.
Marcel had been away making a long-distance delivery. When he called she said nothing about Jake, not wanting to worry him. Time enough to tell him everything when he returned.
He never did return. On the evening she expected him the hours passed without a word. She tried to call, but his phone was dead. At last there was a knock on her door and there was Jake.
He thrust a photograph into her hands. It showed Marcel in bed, bloodied, bandaged and barely alive.
‘He had an accident,’ Jake said, smirking. ‘A van knocked him over in the street.’
‘Oh, heavens, I must go to him. Which hospital is he in?’
‘You don’t need to know that. You’re not going to see him again. Are you getting the message yet? I could have him killed in a moment, and I will if you don’t see sense. And don’t even try to find the hospital and visit him because I’ll know, and he’ll pay the price.’
He pointed to the picture. ‘A doctor who works there owes me a favour. She took this. I’m sure you don’t want him to suffer any more … misfortunes.’
She was left with the knowledge that not only was Marcel badly hurt and she could never see him again, but that he would think she had deserted him. That thought nearly destroyed her.
She risked writing him a letter, telling everything, swearing her love, begging him not to hate her, and slipped it through the door of his dingy apartment. He would find it when he returned from the hospital.
For days she waited, certain that Marcel would contact her, however briefly. But he never did, and the deafening silence blotted out the world. His phone stayed dead. In desperation, she called his landlady, who confirmed that she’d seen him arrive home and collect mail from the carpet.
‘Ask him to call me,’ she begged.
‘I can’t. He’s vanished, just packed his bags and left. I think he still has some family in France, so maybe he’s gone there. Or maybe not. His mobile phone’s dead and it’s like he never existed.’
But it was the other way around, she thought in agony. Marcel had wiped her out as though she’d never existed. Obviously he didn’t believe her explanation that she had done it for him. Or if he did believe, it made no difference. He hated her and he would not forgive.
Now