monsieur.'
'Now I have made you angry!' He groaned. 'I apologise. It is not
my place to judge.' He put out his hand and touched her fingers.
'Please say you forgive me and that one day soon you will drink coffee with me again?'
This, Philippa knew, was the moment to back away. To smile
politely, and make some non-committal reply. She was married, and
she shouldn't be making assignations with another man, however
innocuous. And if I was really Alain's wife, she thought with a pang, I wouldn't even be contemplating such a thing. But as it is...
'What are you thinking? That it might make your husband angry
to know that you sit in the sun and talk—and smile a little?'
'Why should he mind?' she said coolly. 'I live my own life too.'
'Then I may see you again? I have to ask, you understand,
because I have nothing else belonging to you that I can use as an
excuse.'
Philippa stared at him, her eyes widening. 'Do you mean you
deliberately kept my keys?' she asked slowly. 'That was very wrong of you, monsieur.'
He nodded. His smile was rueful and appealing. 'Forgive me? I
know it was wrong, but I could not bear just to see you walk out of my life. We will meet here tomorrow at the same time?'
'Perhaps,' she said. 'I don't know.'
His hand closed round hers. 'I shall wait until you come,' he said.
'A bientot, Philippa.'
'Au revoir, Fabrice.' Her smile was shy, uncertain, as she
withdrew her hand.
He was nice, she told herself defensively, as she walked back
towards Zak's studio where the car would be waiting. She liked him,
and it would be pleasant to have a friend—someone to compensate
for the loneliness of her life.
With her painting, and Fabrice for a friend, maybe her shame of
a marriage wouldn't hurt quite so much any more. Perhaps she would
even learn in time to tolerate Marie-Laure's presence in her life.
As she turned the corner, she wondered suddenly if Alain would
be equally tolerant about Fabrice. He had no right to be otherwise, of course, considering his own conduct, but she knew he would be
perfectly capable of operating a double standard.
But I'm not contemplating an affair, Philippa told herself with
decision. I don't want to be involved— not with Fabrice, or Alain either.
Her throat closed painfully at the thought, and her hands
clenched into fists at her sides.
I don't want to be hurt again, she went on silently. Or to spend
any more sleepless nights crying. No, I just want to sit in the sun, and talk—and smile a little.
Surely there's no harm in that, is there? Suddenly, in her mind,
she saw Alain's face etched in lines of harshness, his green eyes
glittering with anger as they'd been the previous evening. And she
shivered, remembering the ruthlessness of his response when she had
provoked him before, on their wedding night.
No matter how innocent her intentions, she thought, as she
crossed the street to the car, she would have to be very careful. Alain de Courcy was not a man to cross.
CHAPTER SEVEN
'I CAN'T,' Philippa said. 'It's impossible, and you know it.'
Fabrice took her hand and held it firmly. 'But why not? It is a
concert, nothing more. The music of Ravel and Debussy, whom you
have told me you enjoy. Why should you not be my guest?'
Philippa sighed. 'Fabrice,' she said gently, 'I've told you a dozen
times already—I'm a married woman.'
'And will attending a concert break your marriage vows?' he
asked tartly. 'Mon Dieu, Philippa, your husband has no such scruples, I assure you.'
Philippa stiffened defensively. 'I don't know what you mean.'
Fabrice shook his head. 'This crazy loyalty of yours,' he
muttered. 'He does not deserve it, Philippa. You must know that. The
man is notorious. His affaires are blatant. Why, even as we speak
together...'
'You mustn't talk about Alain like that,' Philippa said forcibly, as
pain lanced through her. 'If you persist—well, I shan't be able to meet you again.'
'Don't say that.' Fabrice's clasp on her hand
'Now I have made you angry!' He groaned. 'I apologise. It is not
my place to judge.' He put out his hand and touched her fingers.
'Please say you forgive me and that one day soon you will drink coffee with me again?'
This, Philippa knew, was the moment to back away. To smile
politely, and make some non-committal reply. She was married, and
she shouldn't be making assignations with another man, however
innocuous. And if I was really Alain's wife, she thought with a pang, I wouldn't even be contemplating such a thing. But as it is...
'What are you thinking? That it might make your husband angry
to know that you sit in the sun and talk—and smile a little?'
'Why should he mind?' she said coolly. 'I live my own life too.'
'Then I may see you again? I have to ask, you understand,
because I have nothing else belonging to you that I can use as an
excuse.'
Philippa stared at him, her eyes widening. 'Do you mean you
deliberately kept my keys?' she asked slowly. 'That was very wrong of you, monsieur.'
He nodded. His smile was rueful and appealing. 'Forgive me? I
know it was wrong, but I could not bear just to see you walk out of my life. We will meet here tomorrow at the same time?'
'Perhaps,' she said. 'I don't know.'
His hand closed round hers. 'I shall wait until you come,' he said.
'A bientot, Philippa.'
'Au revoir, Fabrice.' Her smile was shy, uncertain, as she
withdrew her hand.
He was nice, she told herself defensively, as she walked back
towards Zak's studio where the car would be waiting. She liked him,
and it would be pleasant to have a friend—someone to compensate
for the loneliness of her life.
With her painting, and Fabrice for a friend, maybe her shame of
a marriage wouldn't hurt quite so much any more. Perhaps she would
even learn in time to tolerate Marie-Laure's presence in her life.
As she turned the corner, she wondered suddenly if Alain would
be equally tolerant about Fabrice. He had no right to be otherwise, of course, considering his own conduct, but she knew he would be
perfectly capable of operating a double standard.
But I'm not contemplating an affair, Philippa told herself with
decision. I don't want to be involved— not with Fabrice, or Alain either.
Her throat closed painfully at the thought, and her hands
clenched into fists at her sides.
I don't want to be hurt again, she went on silently. Or to spend
any more sleepless nights crying. No, I just want to sit in the sun, and talk—and smile a little.
Surely there's no harm in that, is there? Suddenly, in her mind,
she saw Alain's face etched in lines of harshness, his green eyes
glittering with anger as they'd been the previous evening. And she
shivered, remembering the ruthlessness of his response when she had
provoked him before, on their wedding night.
No matter how innocent her intentions, she thought, as she
crossed the street to the car, she would have to be very careful. Alain de Courcy was not a man to cross.
CHAPTER SEVEN
'I CAN'T,' Philippa said. 'It's impossible, and you know it.'
Fabrice took her hand and held it firmly. 'But why not? It is a
concert, nothing more. The music of Ravel and Debussy, whom you
have told me you enjoy. Why should you not be my guest?'
Philippa sighed. 'Fabrice,' she said gently, 'I've told you a dozen
times already—I'm a married woman.'
'And will attending a concert break your marriage vows?' he
asked tartly. 'Mon Dieu, Philippa, your husband has no such scruples, I assure you.'
Philippa stiffened defensively. 'I don't know what you mean.'
Fabrice shook his head. 'This crazy loyalty of yours,' he
muttered. 'He does not deserve it, Philippa. You must know that. The
man is notorious. His affaires are blatant. Why, even as we speak
together...'
'You mustn't talk about Alain like that,' Philippa said forcibly, as
pain lanced through her. 'If you persist—well, I shan't be able to meet you again.'
'Don't say that.' Fabrice's clasp on her hand
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