Love in Vogue by Eve Bourton Page B

suddenly realised that in his effort to keep his own background obscure, he had failed to take proper account of hers.
    In Paris, she blended easily into his chaotic existence, happy to leave the formality of the Avenue Foch and the Hervy salon for his studio and his friends who congregated in a café near the Place des Vosges. But in New York, the realities of her life were highlighted all around him. Her mother and stepfather for a start; they obviously preferred that impotent fiancé. Patrick had been thrown off guard by the established opulence of their apartment. Even Yolande’s stepfather turned out to be old money, a descendant of one of New York’s city fathers, with tastes and lifestyle to match. Tex Beidecker’s great-grandfather had built the large classical townhouse as a retreat from the noise and pollution of Lower Manhattan in the mid-nineteenth century. The family had lived in the whole house then; now the Beideckers occupied the top two floors, with the remaining storeys leased to suitably discreet and well-heeled tenants with their WASP wives, who doubtless were on the committee that had organised the Hervy gala and did a great deal of socialising for charitable causes. Having Philippe de Rochemort appear to remind him of his status as an interloper was just too much.
    ‘Patrick, what is the matter?’ asked Yolande, after she had paid off the cab.
    ‘Nothing.’ He followed her sullenly into the building.
    ‘Thank you, Javier,’ she said, smiling at the burly doorman as he called the lift for them. ‘How did the game go?’
    ‘The Giants rule!’ He grinned. ‘And I had twenty bucks on it. You had a good evening, Miss Yolande?’
    ‘Terribly dull,’ she said, stepping into the lift. ‘We weren’t allowed to throw any balls around.’
    Javier laughed uproariously as Patrick followed her into the lift. When they were inside, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her passionately.
    ‘Do you still love me?’
    ‘Darling, whatever made you think I don’t?’ Yolande kissed him back, her hands clasped round his neck. ‘Has Vic Bernitz turned you down?’
    He smiled. ‘No. In fact, I’ve got the part. As soon as the backing is arranged, we start shooting.’
    She couldn’t take it in for several moments. ‘You’re not joking?’
    ‘No. I just have to get the contract finalised with my agent.’
    ‘Oh, that’s marvellous! Fantastic! Oh, Patrick, I’m so happy for you …’
    It was exactly what he wanted to hear. Soon he would really put her to the test. She would have to choose between him and her hidebound family, which, he sensed, sneered both at him and his profession.
    Hank Pedersen stared in astonishment at his wife, then walked across to the window of his Central Park West drawing-room to look out at the rain, pouring down on a dark October evening.
    ‘You’re nuts, Althea. It won’t work.’
    He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, and turned to face her. Tall and blond, his physique had suffered from years of desk work. His face was gaunt. He’d been up nearly all the previous night, sorting out a problem with one of Pedersen Corp’s Far East subsidiaries. Though Hank always insisted on recreational facilities for his staff, he himself was never to be found working out in the corporate gym housed in the basement of his company headquarters in Midtown. A guy didn’t get rich pulling weights.
    ‘So you’re not really interested in buying Marchand Enterprises?’ asked Althea. ‘I wish I’d known before. I’ve almost fixed everything with Rikki von Stessenberg.’
    Hank joined her on the sofa, frowning. ‘Well, it’s a great opportunity. … But Jesus, Althea, I couldn’t. Tex Beidecker is a good friend of mine.’
    ‘Tex Beidecker doesn’t own Marchand.’
    ‘But the girl’s his step-daughter. He’s fond of her.’
    ‘Well, well.’ Althea leaned back and surveyed him cynically. ‘I never thought you of all people would let sentiment get in the way of