The Night That Started It All Read online

  Two now? She lowered her gaze. ‘We’ll see.’

  See how keen he would be when he knew. When she told him what was growing inside her and taking over her body, her life, the world. How would he handle such news? That moment in Sydney when he’d heard Rémy spoken of as her fiancé flashed into her mind. His reaction had been severe enough then, but that had been nothing like this.

  Would he blame her? A bolt of pure panic made her hands and armpits moisten, and for a second she nearly reeled. Oh, God in heaven, she should get a grip. Luc wasn’t the violent type. After yesterday and last night, how could she even think of comparing him with Rémy?

  Examining her face, Luc felt the slightest twinge of anxiety. Surely she wasn’t still thinking of boarding that flight? A petite woman shouldn’t undertake such a harrowing journey again so soon. She still hadn’t recovered from the first. Why else would she be so pale?

  For the next two hours Shari wandered through the gallery in a turmoil of unreality. Staring blindly at work after exquisite work, she was unable to think of anything except—it. It was a mere embryo now, she supposed. Not much more than a few tiny little cells. With a face, already? How long would it take eyes, nose and lips to develop?

  She wished she could dash somewhere private to look it up on the Internet. Maybe when she got back to the hotel. Find out the developmental stages. Despite everything, she was curious to at least see what it looked like.

  She felt Luc send her a couple of searching glances, and realised she’d hardly said a word. She needed to clean up her act. This was no way for a grown woman to take charge of what was, after all, a perfectly normal though terrifying situation.

  ‘What do you think?’ he said, paused before a Starry Night Over the Rhone.

  She tried to focus. The painting shimmered before her gaze, ablaze with passion and aspiration, hope and the purest joy in simple things. How could such a treasure have been created by someone in a far worse life predicament than she could ever contemplate?

  Oh, she was such a coward. Tears swam into her eyes. ‘It’s—a dream. Magic. The vibrancy of it. You imagine you know about something, but when you’re up close to it, in real life, and it’s connected to you your entire perception changes. You suddenly realise fate has you in its sights, and you’re helpless against nature. You’re nothing. You thought you had power to control your life but …’ Suddenly sensing his keen scrutiny, she stemmed the wild flow with a lurch of dismay.

  What on earth had she been babbling?

  ‘That’s how I feel,’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s as if Vincent knew exactly what was in my heart when he painted this picture. I am so pleased you feel the power of it too. But not surprised,’ he added warmly. ‘Not at all surprised.’

  He put his arm around her and hugged her to him as if she was a precious thing. She smiled, relieved, so pleased to still be in accord with him, but underneath her glow her anxiety only intensified. He was warm now, so admiring, appreciative of her charms. Liking her. How would he feel when she told him? Would she see a swift and deadly turnaround?

  Just imagining him turning cold and distant made her heart pang with dread.

  ‘Are you feeling very well?’ He was looking closely at her.

  ‘Sure. Fine. Do you—do you visit here often?’

  He continued to scrutinise her. ‘Not so often now. Though I know it well, of course. If I’m in Paris at the weekends I like to visit the smaller galleries—ones out of the usual way of the tourists.’

  ‘I’m a tourist,’ she reminded him.

  But she was thinking how little she knew of him. This tiny little minuscule face was unfurling, maybe resembling his … She squashed that hysterical thought. Ridiculous when she knew zilch about the whole development thing, and anyway she had no idea what she was planning to do about it.

  ‘What do you do at weekends when you aren’t in Paris?’

  He lifted his shoulders. ‘Different things. My family have a little farm in the country. I visit there sometimes.’

  ‘A farm? Is that where your mother lives?’

  He smiled. ‘Sometimes she goes there. Sometimes the Alps, or the beach, especially when Paris is too hot. But in winter she prefers her apartment.’

  ‘And your father?’

  ‘He lives in Venice.’

  ‘Why Venice?’

  He lifted quizzical brows at her. ‘His lover lives there.’

  She flushed. ‘Forgive me for asking so many questions.’ How crass she must have sounded. ‘I feel as if you know everything about me and I know so little about you.’

  He looked amused. ‘Ask what you like.’

  He looked relaxed enough, but all at once she felt shy. She knew she was bound to make a mess of framing the right questions. What were they, even? Where to start? There should be a manual available for the woman who was knocked up in a one-night stand.

  She hesitated. ‘Well, do you …? You mentioned your ex-fiancée. Manon—is it? Emilie told me a little bit about her.’

  She sensed a sudden stillness in him. Then he said smoothly, ‘She was not my fiancée.’ He gave an insouciant shrug. ‘We—had a looser arrangement than that.’

  ‘Oh?’

  She paused before a painting of a village church. Heavenly blue and the most glorious, joyous yellow she’d ever imagined possible. Honestly, all this beauty was playing so excruciatingly on her emotions, her eyes kept pricking. It was probably one of the symptoms. As if she needed any more.

  She glanced at him. ‘What of now? As of this moment. Do you have someone?’

  Though he was amused, his eyes glinted. ‘As of this moment I am here with you.’

  She moistened her lips. ‘Were you and she together—a long time? You and Manon?’

  ‘Some years. Six. Seven.’ His lashes swept down.

  ‘Oh. That is a long time.’ She felt surprised. She hadn’t realised the relationship had been quite so—established. For a loose arrangement it seemed long. Whatever ‘loose’ meant.

  A man who’d been in a seven-year relationship didn’t seem like a man who fooled around, at any rate. She glanced speculatively at him. Would he have …?

  Frowning, she moved on to the next picture. Pretended to examine it. ‘I saw a picture of her. She’s very beautiful. Emilie said she’s renowned for her elegance and chic.’

  ‘Did she?’ His lip made a sardonic curl. ‘I must thank Emilie for informing you so well. No doubt she told you about the dog.’

  She glanced at him in surprise. ‘No. She never mentioned a dog.’

  ‘Tiens. I am grateful.’

  Though if there was a dog, it was sounding far more domestic than she had imagined from her understanding of loose arrangements.

  ‘Did you …?’ She drew a breath. ‘Did you never think of marrying her?’

  His eyes veiled, then slid away. Suddenly he leaned forward to study a scene where some fully clothed men were picnicking by a stream with a naked woman. ‘Do you not admire the artist’s use of the light here? If I could only achieve this effect I believe I might be content for all time.’

  Shari took a moment to digest the stunning snub. Maybe she should have expected it. Clearly, the intimacy of the bed did not translate to the museum. There were lines she must not cross.

  Why, oh, why had she even asked him? It wasn’t as if she expected him to marry her. But that was what he would assume when she broke the news. He’d think she was looking to trap him in playing happy families.

  Breaking into a sweat, she edged away from him.

  Face it, it was clear he was still pretty raw about losing the beautiful woman. Well, it was only natural. Any guy’s ego was bound to feel trashed if his girlfriend ran off with a movie idol.

  Especially if the guy was still madly in love with her.

  ‘Why are you wrinkling up your face and looking as if you tasted a lemon?’ She started. Luc slipped his arms around her and kissed her ear. ‘Is Renoir such a disappointment?’

  She flashed hi
m a rueful smile. ‘Never. How could he be? To be honest I—I was feeling guilty. I think I’ve intruded, asking you things you don’t care to discuss. I guess you’re thinking those things some French people say about Australians.’

  ‘What do they say?’

  ‘Oh, you know. We’re too open. Too—forward.’

  He laughed easily. ‘Who says that? Come, we will eat déjeuner. My mother wants to meet you properly. The family will be there.’

  Shari’s heart sank. ‘Lovely.’

  There was no sign of the limo. Luc ushered her to a neat little Merc parked in a nearby street. As soon as they were in the car, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her, a steamy, highly explorational clinch that sucked all the breath from her lungs and shut down her brain entirely. Responding to the sexual cue, her wanton body was instantly aroused, then disappointed when he drew back.

  With a husky laugh, he murmured, ‘Not here, ma chérie. Soon, soon.’

  Soon? How likely was that, once he heard the news? But after the outcome of her recent tactful inquiry, it felt impossible to break it just then. She’d have to wait until he’d forgotten it.

  She hoped the lunch wouldn’t take long. What if it went on for ever and she lost the chance to be private with him? Though, was it best to be completely private with him? For this sort of news, maybe it would be as well to have witnesses. A public place would be preferable, perhaps a café.

  ‘You’re too quiet,’ he observed on the way, paused for some lights. ‘What’s going on inside that head?’

  She met his slanting glance. ‘I was just—wondering about your dog.’

  ‘Comment?’

  ‘You know. You mentioned a dog.’

  He said sharply, ‘There is no dog.’ Then, flushing a little, he broke into a reluctant laugh. ‘Manon—my ex-girlfriend—had a passion to acquire a Russian wolfhound. The Borzoi. You know the one? We discussed it and—decided it would not be practical. I preferred something else.’ His hands lifted from the wheel in agitation. ‘After the—split, someone in the press heard about it, suggesting that our partnership ended because I would not allow Manon to have the pet she craved. You can imagine, in France … I was crucified in the tabloids. You see?’ He smiled ruefully.

  ‘Oh.’ She swallowed. ‘Yes, yes. I see.’

  Staring out at the Seine, she kept her hands tightly clasped in her lap. She could see all right.

  ‘What was it you preferred?’ she said.

  A muscle flickered in his lean cheek. The corner of his mouth made an infinitesimal downward curl that was really quite heartbreakingly attractive. ‘Something smaller.’

  Tante Laraine lived in the seventh arrondissement. Luc pressed a button in what looked like an ordinary wall in the street, and a panel slid open to reveal a security plaque. He dialled in a code and a door opened. Inside, to Shari’s surprise, was a beautifully manicured garden with a fountain. A gravelled path led to the side entrance of a gracious old building with the distinctive Parisian mansard roof and dormer windows.

  Several children were darting here and there among the shrubbery, playing a game that required sudden shrieks and bursts of laughter. A couple of them called to Luc, and he waved back.

  As she approached the entrance Shari’s nerve began to fail. The people inside all thought she was Rémy’s fiancée, and here she was, fresh from Luc’s bed, pregnant with Luc’s child and planning to … what? How could she possibly carry off such a dilemma?

  ‘Luc.’ She started to breathe faster than a woman approaching the finish line in the London marathon. ‘Do you mind if we don’t go here?’

  His brows lifted in surprise. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Could we just go to a café or …’ She tried to swallow but she was all out of saliva.

  His eyes narrowed on her face. ‘Que veux-tu …?’

  ‘There’s something I might have to tell you.’

  Some people burst through the doors then, exclaiming when they saw her and Luc. Amidst all the embraces and introductions, her moment was lost, though on the way up in the lift with the others Luc kept looking searchingly at her. He whispered, ‘Are you feeling well? Is everything fine?’

  ‘Yep. Fine,’ she lied through her lying teeth.

  Laraine’s apartment was on the top floor below what Shari imagined would be a garret for starving artists and bohemians. When she was ushered inside, though, it seemed possible Laraine kept an army of maids and footmen up there.

  The ceilings were extraordinarily high and ornate. As for the furnishings … Shari doubted if the precious pieces had been created any later than the eighteenth century.

  Several other family members were present, some Shari recognised from the funeral. Tante Marise. Oncle Georges, whose eyes lit up when he saw her. A couple of younger cousins, Anne-Sophie and Sophie-Louise, with spouses. She’d never remember which Sophie was which. Though warmly welcomed and kissed by all, Shari suddenly felt burningly aware of her casual attire.

  A scarf could only go so far to catapult an ordinary Aussie girl into Parisian society. If only she’d done something with her hair. The Sophies looked chic, even in jeans.

  Luc glanced at her often, a slight frown in his eyes that made her heart quake. Trust her to choose the exact right moment. She’d alerted him to trouble, and she could see he was speculating.

  Contrary to things she’d read, the family seemed happy to converse in English on her behalf, except when they forgot. Luc poured her a sherry and handed her the glass. Feeling his mother’s quick glance flick between them, Shari accepted it, taking care not to touch him.

  Laraine suspected, Shari saw suddenly. Though how much? Was the Ritz etched into their body language? Or did Laraine have X-ray vision?

  Even imagining the impossibility made Shari a tiny bit giddy. With the family all believing she was Rémy’s woman, how must it look?

  As she allowed her restless glance to wander her nerve jumped. On a side table where some family photos were displayed, the lovely couple blazed out at her. Luc in evening dress, Manon in a beautiful bare-shouldered gown, her hair up, on this occasion honey-blonde. Another of them in relaxed weekend mode with several of the present company. Clearly, Manon had been part of the family.

  Excruciatingly out of her comfort zone, Shari answered questions about her journey, Sydney, Emilie and her children, the new twins about to be born, smiling, smiling. Babies, mothers, newborns—all were popular here, apparently.

  Shari gazed at her sherry. Would it look suspicious if she didn’t drink it? In a limbo of indecision, she held the glass in her hand, untouched.

  Not that any of those pregnancy rules would have to apply to her, necessarily. After all, if she didn’t stay pregnant … Why was it so hard to control one’s breathing and slow it down?

  There was a bit of discussion about Rémy, then the conversation moved on to other things. People appealed to Luc often for his opinion, and when he replied he was always pleasant, measured, amused. Occasionally though he seemed not to hear them. He kept staring at the floor, or at Shari. Then he looked grave and so darkly handsome she felt the twist in her heart that signalled trouble ahead.

  As if she didn’t have enough.

  At a point where the conversation grew loud and lively, Luc strolled over to her and murmured, ‘What did you want to talk about?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing. Shh.’ She smiled as if everything were as normal as gramma pie while on the inside she was imagining herself growing huge, going to hospital all by herself and coming home to her flat in Paddington, with a … Well, not quite by herself.

  The meal was an exquisitely prepared torture.

  At first there was foie gras on slivers of toast on her plate. In her strangely disconnected state she couldn’t help wondering how many poor geese had died to produce it. Lucky there was some lettuce she could chew on, a few curls of celery.

  Sensing Luc’s gaze, she was tempted to let their eyes tangle for an instant. His compelled her, questioning, uncertain, and s
he skittered hers away.

  Oh, God. Had he guessed?

  ‘You have made a journey très, très, vraiment long, Shari,’ Laraine said. ‘A pity the occasion is so melancholy.’

  The family showed their concern for the grieving fiancée with a series of questions, punctuated by discussions about the food and family concerns Shari wasn’t privy to, interrupting themselves and each other so rapidly she found it barely possible to get in a word.

  ‘Oui, les pois, s’il te plait. How long were you and Rémy engaged, Shari?’

  ‘Not long. You see—’

  ‘Try some of this, Sophie-Louise. So, Shari … had you planned your wedding soon?’

  ‘No. Well, actually—’

  ‘You are not enjoying your wine, ma chérie?’ That was Tante Marise, worrying she wasn’t partaking of enough sustenance.

  Not to be outdone in the hospitality stakes, Laraine quickly asserted her authority. ‘Vite, Gilbert, apportes ce Sancerre. Shari, you have had a terrible ordeal. You must eat to recover your vitality. You will find this chablis is very fine.’ She beamed.

  It looked beautiful, pale and chill in its crystal glass. Without a doubt, all the food was of the finest, though Shari could barely do more than taste. A rabbit that had scampered across meadows fragrant with thyme before it was murdered. Artichokes dressed in a manner a duke from the Perigord had only recently demanded on his deathbed.

  If she didn’t drink the wine, would she give offence? Maybe just a sip, though even a sip could damage something very small and fragile. What if she drank it and the poor little face shrivelled up in agony?

  Her insides clenched. She put her glass down.

  ‘While you are here you must visit the village where Rémy and Emi grew up,’ someone offered.

  ‘I am certain Luc would be happy to take you there and show you everything,’ Tante Laraine said warmly. ‘Tiens! I say, we must all go together and picnic in the woods.’

  ‘Bien sûr, Shari,’ Tante Marise added kindly. ‘Rémy would have liked to see you there.’

  She guessed they weren’t intending to torture her, but with her world now dominated by an embryo—Luc’s—this constant harking back to Rémy was an agony.