Runaway Fiancee. Sally WentworthЧитать онлайн книгу.
to look once more at her portrait.
Jean-Louis Lenée was an artist of his times; the painting was in the modern idiom but a recognisable likeness despite the richness of the colour and the symbolic background of rising hills and dipping valleys that, on closer inspection, turned out to be the voluptuous figures of women. Angélique’s own, undeniably beautiful figure was tantalisingly hidden by a flowing white windswept gown that revealed parts of her and concealed others, leaving all to the imagination. But it was her eyes that held the viewer, mesmerising, hypnotic, teasing, alight with life and laughter.
She smiled a little. Earlier the woman had said that the picture had been painted with passion; that was true, but it had been the passion of frustration as much as desire. And Jean-Louis had been forced to use his own imagination about her figure because he had never been allowed to see her naked. Maybe that was why the picture had come across with such force, why the tantalising element was so strong. It was extremely erotic and yet at the same time possessed deliberate fragility, working on the viewer’s imagination to create his or her own individual fantasy, to lose themselves in the picture.
A wide shaft of late-evening sunlight shone down on Angélique as she studied the painting, highlighting the profile of her tall, slim figure, turning the golden hair into a halo that melted into the light. She was wearing a white dress that reached down to her ankles, a gown not unlike the one she had worn in the painting—an idea of Jean-Louis’s. The material was thin and with the light behind her became almost translucent, revealing the enticing outline of her shapely legs—legs so long they looked as if they started at her waist. She became a living painting, and far more lovely than the portrait in front of her.
A lift rose to the first floor, and the doors opened noisily. Chattering people came to the door, showed their invitations, walked over to exclaim at the picture and then went to look for Jean-Louis. A deep voice in good French but with an English accent said smoothly, ‘I seem to have forgotten my invitation but...’ The voice tailed off and Angélique could imagine money, a bribe, being handed over. Another gatecrasher; there must have been at least twenty of them there already. Moving away, Angélique ran lightly up the stairs and became lost in the crowd.
A lavish buffet, given as a present by the owner of the gallery where Jean-Louis was to have his next exhibition, was served to the guests. Wine and champagne flowed freely. The noise level grew higher, the atmosphere hot and overpowering. The room was circular, the walls windowed from floor to ceiling so that diners could look out past the metal girders of the structure of the Tower and see the landscape of Paris spread out below them. The sun had dropped low towards the horizon, outlining the surrounding buildings, black against the molten glow. Lights began to come on, piercing the dusk, romanticising the city. Angélique stood in the shadow of one of the metal struts where two windows joined, a drink in her hand, watching the throng. Soon the food and drink would run out and the more fashionable element would start to leave, to go on to other places. Only Jean-Louis’s artist friends, the Bohemian element, would stay on to the bitter end, and then they would all go on to some club, perhaps Au Lapin Agile in Montmartre, and drink the rest of the night away. But not Jean-Louis; tonight he had other ideas in mind.
People came up to her, spoke, tried to draw her back into the party, but went away when she gave them no encouragement. But then a huge cake was wheeled into the centre of the room and Jean-Louis began to look round for her. ‘Angélique. Angélique! Where are you?’
She reluctantly stepped forward, but then eager hands clasped hers, shouted that she was here, that she was coming. They pulled her towards him, the throng parting for her. She glimpsed faces, some that she knew—bearded artists, made-up models, suited men who ran art shops and galleries—but most were strange to her. But they were all smiling, laughing, pushing her towards Jean-Louis and the huge, vulgar cake designed like an artist’s palette, towards the centre of the room where they would be the focus of all eyes.
Jean-Louis came to meet her, put his arm round her. He was a little taller than Angélique, about five feet ten, thin and wiry. His hair reached his collar but was clean and neat, and he had the lean face and thin lips that you saw often on French men. His clothes were good, bought with the large advance the gallery had given him, designed to impress potential clients and convince them that he would make a suitable house guest if he went to stay while he painted their portraits. His eyes gleamed down at her in excitement and anticipation; he was expecting a great deal from tonight—in more ways than one.
The art gallery owner, Jean-Louis’s sponsor, stepped forward and made a speech, congratulating him on his success with the painting, prophesying many more successes in the future, promising his support. It was a long speech but they all listened good-naturedly and applauded loudly at every opportunity. Only at the end did the man remember this was also an engagement party and gallantly compliment Jean-Louis on the beauty of his fiancée and wish them both every happiness. Somebody put a knife in Jean-Louis’s hand, there was a clamour of shouts for him to make a speech, which he cheerfully did. His speech was a little more risqué, and there were some knowing remarks from his friends when he looked deep into Angélique’s eyes. Then, the speech over, he raised the knife to plunge it into the cake.
‘Just one moment!’ The voice was sharp, authoritative, not to be ignored. With an English accent. Angélique recognised it as the voice of the gatecrasher she had heard earlier.
A man stepped forward from the crowd. About thirty-two or three, he was tall and very English, his shoulders in the immaculately cut dark suit broad, his straight figure strong and athletic. His face was cleanly handsome, with the hard, determined jaw that denoted self-confidence and willpower. And he looked completely out of place in this ornate, colourful gathering.
The crowd had fallen silent and there was an air of expectation as the man moved into the cleared space in front of Angélique and Jean-Louis. He was looking at Angélique, his eyes intent, but she returned his gaze with only natural curiosity. The man frowned, and then turned to Jean-Louis and said, ‘I’m afraid this woman is an impostor.’
The artist gave an incredulous laugh. ‘What are you talking about? Angélique is my fiancée. We are to be married.’
‘In that case we have a problem.’ The stranger again looked at Angélique. ‘You see, she is already engaged to me.’
CHAPTER TWO
FOR a moment there was silence, followed by a buzz like that of a swarm of bees as everyone began to question their neighbour in hissing undertones, wanting more information but eager to hear what would happen next, not wanting to miss a word of a possible scandal.
It was Jean-Louis who spoke first. With a suspicious frown he said, ‘Who are you? I don’t know you.’
‘My name is Milo Caine. I’m British.’
‘Do you know him? Is what he says true?’
Jean-Louis had turned to Angélique, and the Englishman also had his eyes on her, his gaze intent, penetrating, as if he was trying to see into her soul.
She gave a small, amused laugh. ‘Of course not. I’ve never seen him before in my life. He’s probably a crank. And he’s definitely a gatecrasher. Why don’t you have him thrown out?’ Taking hold of her fiancé’s arm, she smiled up at him. ‘Everyone’s waiting; let’s cut the cake.’
‘Of course. Of course.’ Turning his back on the man who called himself Milo Caine, he plunged the knife into the gaudy cake. The people nearby cheered and clapped, but with a disappointed air; they felt cheated of a scandal, of some excitement.
After cutting the first slice, he dipped his finger into the icing then playfully lifted it to Angélique’s mouth. She laughed again and, taking hold of his finger, went to lick it off, her eyes on his, teasing, flirtatious.
‘Maybe you ought to look at this.’
It was the Englishman again. Growing angry, Jean-Louis turned to gesture to the waiters to get rid of him, but then came to an abrupt stop as he saw the photograph held out towards him. It was an enlarged shot, in black and white, perhaps a studio portrait, showing two people,