But even giving her Limoges the care it deserved didn’t take enough time. She scrubbed the wooden counters, threw out the leftover bread, and turned off the light, moving back into the airy, delicate living room that she’d missed so desperately when she’d been on her self-imposed exile.
The room was almost English, she had to admit it, much as she hated the English. The comfortable chairs and sofa were covered in a pink chintz, the watercolors were of the Lake District, the curtains were Irish lace. Well, even the worst abomination of a country could have its merits.
She moved slowly, carefully across the room to the little table that held her precious store of cognac. She poured herself a small glass and took a deep, warming sip. By this time of night she began to get a little weary, she had to admit it. But there was always one thing that could manage to give her energy.
The photos were arranged on the baby grand piano, each in its silver frame. Nicole, solemn, dignified as only a too-serious five-year-old could be, even in happ
ier times. Isabelle, her mother, Harriette’s only daughter, with her too-large nose and her laughing eyes that were now forever closed. Jacques, Harriette’s husband, a man with too little imagination and too much morality, but a good man, nonetheless.
And Marc Bonnard. Handsome, charming Marc Bonnard, in a matching silver frame. He’d been startled when he’d seen it, and professed himself flattered. Harriette had only smiled sourly.
She moved to the piano and stared down into Marc’s wonderful eyes. “You bastard,” she said, the words a ritual, “you murdered my daughter. And I will make you pay for it.” Holding her glass of cognac in a silent toast of vengeance, she drained it.
And ten blocks away, Claire shivered in Marc’s arms.
CHAPTER 4
There was rain that night. Claire lay on the too-soft bed, clutching the freshly laundered sheet in desperate fingers, digging her feet into the mattress. Marc’s slender, delicate hands held her hips, allowing her no movement, as he used his mouth on her.
He was very good with his mouth, but tonight he was inspired. No matter how she writhed and struggled he wouldn’t let her go, and she knew she’d have bruises on her hips tomorrow. She was sweating, aching, desperate, as he slowly, carefully brought her just to the point of orgasm. And then he backed off, just long enough for her to regain a small portion of her self-control, only to begin the slow, maddening process all over again.
He was relentless, indefatigable, and Claire was weeping, helpless, her heels drumming against the bed as she sought a release he refused to grant her. She bit her lip, hard, to keep her pleas from bubbling forth. It would do no good, it would only incite Marc further, and besides, she didn’t want to risk Nicole hearing. She suffered in silence, her body convulsed in tiny spasms of useless reaction as he took his time in a ritual he had long ago perfected, but this night brought to astonishing heights. That it was closer to torture than to love occurred to her when her mind was too clouded and aching to block out the disloyal thought.
“Marc,” she moaned, unable to help herself, “please …”
But it was endless long minutes before he finally took pity on her and ended her torment. As he gathered her trembling, weakened body into his arms she had the brief, unpleasant thought that tonight his lovemaking had been rather like a cat playing with a succulent mouse. And the tiny death it had ended with was unpleasantly like a real death.
Her shaky muscles tightened as she rejected the thought. Marc’s body was dry and hot, wrapped around her, and belatedly she realized she hadn’t been allowed to touch him at all.
“Marc,” she whispered, her voice raw, “don’t you want me to … ?”
“No need, darling,” he murmured, biting her ear. He always bit just a little bit too hard, and once more her muscles screamed in tension. “You were so exciting that things just took care of themselves. Do you know how exquisite you look when you struggle against me?”
There it was again, the unpleasant image of an animal caught in a trap. She turned to look at him, and his eyes glittered in the darkness, his mobile, handsome face wreathed in tenderness. He could convey emotions so well with just the slightest twist of that face.
Claire was still shaking inside. She didn’t want to kiss him, didn’t want to taste her desperation on his smiling mouth. So she merely smiled. “I love you, Marc,” she murmured, trying to believe it.
“I know you do, chérie.” He lay back, keeping possessive arms around her. His body was a furnace, hot and dry and perfectly relaxed. “I have a wonderful idea,” he said, his hand trailing through Claire’s flowing hair. “Tomorrow let’s take the day for ourselves. We’ll send Nicole to see her grandmother and you and I will just spend the time together. I have to leave Monday, and I’m going to miss you terribly. I want to go with the memory of a perfect day between us.”
Slowly the trembling had stopped, slowly the sweat had begun to dry on her body as she relaxed beneath his soothing hand. She was still too hot, but these moments, the gentle, comforting, loving minutes after they made love, were the most important to her. It made the darkness and the pleasure that was uncomfortably akin to pain worth it. “That would be wonderful, Marc,” she said, pressing her face against his smooth chest, rubbing like a cat.
“I’ll take Nicole to Harriette’s,” he murmured, “and then I’ll come back and join you in bed. Then we’ll find a wonderful café for lunch, and go for a long walk in the afternoon. I know how you love long walks.”
“That would be heavenly.” She was very drowsy, and her doubts and distaste had vanished into a haze of satisfaction.
“I’ll take you someplace you’ve never been before.” His voice was a soporific litany, lulling her to sleep. “A wonderful park where the old people go, and they sell the best coffee ice cream in Paris.”
It took every ounce of strength and determination she possessed to keep from panicking. The sick feeling in the pit of her stomach stayed there, and the sweat on her body turned chilly. “That would be heavenly, darling,” she whispered in the darkness, keeping her muscles relaxed, feigning a sleepiness that had now vanished.
And Marc Bonnard, his hand still possessively smoothing Claire’s red gold hair, smiled into the dark, rainy night.
Yvon Alpert lay awake, listening to the rain. He’d been awake since three, since the rain started. Jeanne had left sometime after five, oblivious to his dark mood. She’d chattered on and on about how nice things would be next month, when they were married and she didn’t have to rush home to change her clothes before work. He’d suggested more than once that she could bring things over, but Jeanne was a good Catholic, with a strict sense of propriety. Each time she spent the night she had to allow herself to be persuaded, had to convince herself that she was swept away by passion and emotion and it wasn’t her fault. If she’d done anything as calculated as bring a toothbrush she could no longer believe in her own essential purity.
Yvon had been patient, understanding, but just before dawn on a rainy night it took all his willpower to keep from screaming at her. She left, with a saucy bounce of her narrow hips and a cheerful wave, unaware of the torments her fiance was suffering.
He didn’t get out of bed to watch her walk down the street, as he did on other nights. He should get up, make some coffee, ignore the rain, and act like it was any other day. He stayed where he was.
The sheets smelled like sex. They smelled of Jeanne’s middle-class perfume, and sweat, and that faint, ammonia-like odor of semen. He should get up, wash, and face the day. He didn’t move.