CHAPTER THIRTEEN

It was almost two o’clock in the morning before Leo finally put down his sketchpad and allowed her to leave the studio. As she reached the stairs leading up to the attics, she staggered, so tired she could barely stand upright, her joints stiff.

He was there in an instant, an arm about her waist. ‘Careful,’ he murmured. ‘Here, let me help you.’

‘I can manage, thank you,’ she said, but then almost missed the first step and tumbled sideways. Again, he saved her from bashing her face on the wooden banister. ‘Oh, for goodness sake… Alright, maybe I do need your help. But only because you”ve kept me in that blasted studio for hours, barely moving.’ She stretched, groaning. ‘I think I’ve seized up. And that’s your fault.’

‘Absolutely,’ he agreed, supporting her up the stairs. ‘I’m a bad man.’

‘You think you’re so funny. But you’re not,’ she said bitterly. ‘You are, in fact, a very bad man.’

He chuckled, which made her grind her teeth even harder.

At last, they had almost reached her room. ‘I need the bathroom first,’ she said with dignity.

‘I’ll wait.’

‘Oh no, you won’t. I’ll be fine from here.’ And she stalked into the bathroom, as much as it was possible to stalk with aching legs.

Some ten minutes later, having done the necessary, brushed her teeth and washed her face, she groped her way out into the dimly lit corridor to find him waiting a few feet away.

‘What on earth are you still doing here?’ she hissed. ‘I told you to go away.’

He had been studying his phone and looked up in a distracted way. ‘Did you? Oh yes, you did. Alors, I ignored you.’

‘I see that.’

‘I was concerned for you,’ he said, looking her over. ‘You’re right, I should never have kept you in the studio for so long. I’ll go to bed now. I just wanted to check you were okay.’

‘Of course I am,’ she insisted, and somehow tripped over something in the gloom, falling to her knees.

He helped her up, frowning. ‘Mon Dieu, are you hurt?’

‘Ouch… Maybe a little… I tripped over…’ She peered behind herself accusingly but could see nothing. The corridor was clear of obstacles. ‘I caught my foot on something, I’m sure.’

One brow rose, his expression skeptical. ‘Of course.’

‘Oh, forget it.’ He was still holding her close, she realised, and felt a tiny frisson of electricity down her spine. She could smell his sharp citrus aftershave. A warning alarm went off in her brain… ‘Please let me go.’

‘Liselle said you were dull and ordinary,’ he murmured, their faces mere inches apart in the gloomy corridor.

‘Did she indeed? What a cheek!’

‘She was wrong. Yes, you give a damn good impersonation of somebody sensible and uptight. But in fact…’ He put a finger under her chin and raised her face to his, his gaze intent. ‘I find you quite mesmerising.’

Then he kissed her.

Maeve knew she should not be allowing Leo Rémy to kiss her. She barely knew the man. And what she did know about him was not particularly complimentary. Yes, he was an artist. And yes, she admired artists. They were a breed apart as far as she was concerned. Magical, otherworldly creatures capable of weaving spells and bewildering the senses. At least, it seemed he must be capable of that. Because she didn’t push him away or say no or make any kind of protest at all. She simply stood there, and enjoyed the unusual sensation of being kissed.

Unusual, but not novel. She had dated men in the past. But she’d never let those dates go beyond a certain point. She had no moral misgivings about becoming intimate with a man she was dating. She simply hadn’t felt strongly enough about anyone to allow them to go much beyond kissing and cuddling. But the kissing and cuddling part was surely how a woman decided whether she enjoyed kissing and cuddling with that particular man.

And she never had.

Part of her had thought she must be less interested in sex than other women her age. Not quite wired up to enjoy frisky behaviour as her peers seemed to be, judging by what her colleagues at school occasionally revealed about their love lives, winking and smirking as they did so. And she would laugh back while wishing she was like them. But she wasn’t.

She was boring and uptight, some might say. Liselle, for instance, from what Leo had just revealed. Or perhaps she’d simply never met the right man.

Until now, she thought with a sudden moment of exhilaration, as his arms tightened about her, cradling her close, and his kiss deepened.

Because she liked this.

This was nothing like the horrid, wet, sloppy kisses she had endured from boyfriends past.

This was rather splendid.

And yes, sexually exciting. Because what else could all these warm, funny, tingling sensations she was experiencing mean? Unless she was getting a water infection…

Time to throw caution to the wind, she thought wildly.

Extraordinarily for her, Maeve raised both arms, linked them about his neck, and actually kissed him back.

He made a noise against her mouth, a soft, heartfelt groan which she felt like echoing.

And suddenly they were pressing together in the gloom, and she could feel every inch of him. Every. Incredible. Inch. And there were quite a few inches down there, she felt sure. And that was spectacular too.

Goodness me, she thought, hot-cheeked, her heart hammering away like a piston. And when, a few seconds later, he slipped his tongue playfully into her mouth, she almost shrieked out loud, her whole body electrified and trembling.

Perhaps sensing the powerful charge running through her, Leo drew back, gazing down into her face. His dark eyes were heavy-lidded, a strange intensity in his gaze.

‘You okay?’ he asked softly.

‘I… erm… I…’ She groped for suitable words to fit the occasion. But even her extensive vocabulary failed her, alas.

Instead, she gripped his silky black hair between her fingers and tugged his head back to hers. Their mouths met again and she gave a sigh of contentment, only belatedly aware that he had gently manoeuvred her against the wall of the corridor, and was pressing against her urgently. And she didn’t even mind. In fact, she welcomed it, and was just beginning to wonder if they should segue into the bedroom, or if that would break the spell, when suddenly it was over.

A strange wailing sound broke them apart.

‘What… What on earth is that?’ she exclaimed, pulling back in alarm.

Leo seemed less surprised, though clearly frustrated. ‘Damn.’ Glancing down to his right, he muttered, ‘Duchess! What are you doing here?’ The words were in French but she was fairly certain she’d interpreted them correctly.

A ‘duchess’? Wailing in the dark hallway?

Well, maybe the old chateau was haunted. It certainly looked haunted from the outside.

She held her breath, half-expecting to see an eerie feminine ghost as Leo released her and took an unsteady step back.

But the wailer was no ghost.

Instead, sitting behind him in the corridor, a long, fluffy tail wrapped elegantly around its front paws, was a large white cat with glowing eyes.

‘You have a cat,’ she said blankly, staring down at the wraith-like apparition. ‘I didn’t know you had a cat. Where on earth did it come from?’

‘Duchess is my grandmother’s cat. Named for the cat in the Disney cartoon The Aristocats, if you know it. She’s quite elderly now, so rarely ventures out of my grandmother’s apartments. I’m sorry if she startled you. No doubt that”s what you fell over. She has a tendency to lurk in the shadows...’ Running a hand through dishevelled hair, Leo shot her a wry glance. ‘Perhaps just as well she came along to interrupt us. There’s a certain chemistry between an artist and his model, especially after a sitting like that. At least, I’ve always thought so. But it would be a mistake to take it too literally. To act on it…’

Without finishing that thought, he bent abruptly, scooped the fluffy white cat into his arms, gave her a brief nod, and said, ‘I’ll let you get to bed. We can talk in the morning. I’d better take Duchess back to my grandmother’s rooms so she doesn’t worry.’ He paused. ‘Good night, Maeve. Thank you for sitting for me tonight. Next time will be easier.’

She watched him go, then staggered into her bedroom and shut the door. She threw herself on the bed without even bothering to undress.

Next time?

She wasn’t sure how safe that would be. Or sensible. And right now, safe and sensible might be boring but it seemed like the best way to go if she wanted to retain her sanity.

There’s a certain chemistry between an artist and his model.

Understatement of the century. She had kissed him. What an idiot. He had kissed her and she had kissed him back, instead of politely declining to be seduced. They had practically done it in the corridor. Good grief…

Dull, sensible old Maeve, kissing an artist in a French chateau after sitting for a portrait. Everything about that scenario was unprecedented and topsy-turvy. At any moment, the sky might fall on her head. Or the world erupt into flames around her. It was on that level.

But it would be a mistake to take it too literally. To act on it…

He was absolutely right.

No more of that nonsense, thank you very much, she thought as she drifted off to sleep. It would be strictly platonic ‘sitting’ from now on. If she even set foot inside his far too cosy and beguiling artist’s studio again, which was doubtful.

Goodness though, but he was a marvellous kisser.

Mentally, she thanked the lurking white cat for having saved her from herself.

Leo couldn’t believe he had given in to temptation and kissed her. In fact, he didn’t even know why he’d been tempted in the first place. A bizarre impulse had come upon him, no doubt generated by a night spent staring at her intriguing face and body, and frantically trying to get them down on paper before the creative urge disappeared. He knew that kind of intensity could become erotic. But, other than with Liselle, he had never experienced it so strongly. And even with Liselle, it had been pure sexual desire. Liselle was a very attractive woman and it would be hard for any man to resist her once she’d made up her mind to seduce him.

Maeve, on the other hand, showed no interest in him as a man. She seemed interested in him as an artist. But that was completely different. She was certainly not behaving like a woman who wanted to be seduced. Quite the opposite, in fact.

And yet, it had been quite irresistible, catching her in his arms and becoming fixated by her mouth, and wanting to put his mouth against hers, and find out what she tasted of.

Herbal tea, as it turned out.

But something else too.

She tasted of Maeve. And that had suddenly become the most exciting flavour he could imagine. It was as if she’d bewitched him…

Despite clearly being under a spell, he threw himself into bed and slept soundly until late morning, when a knock at his door made him stir and sit up, yawning muzzily.

‘Leo?’

He knew that voice.

Astonished, he jumped up in alarm and swiftly pulled on a dressing gown before opening the door. It was his grandmother. ‘Grandmère? Is something wrong? Was I supposed to be taking you somewhere?’ He checked his watch and blinked. It was nearly lunchtime. ‘I’m sorry, I was up very late again last night.’

‘No, I’ve come about something else.’ Briskly, she looked him up and down. ‘I think you should get dressed and then come downstairs for a chat.’ And she went away again, leaving him staring after her.

A chat?

He showered rapidly, pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, and hurried downstairs to find his grandmother in one of the cool sitting rooms that overlooked the courtyard garden. As he walked in, Bernadette was placing a tray of powerful-smelling coffee and flaky croissants on a small table in front of their grandmother.

His sister looked round as Leo approached. ‘You did manage to get some sleep then, last night?’ Her voice was mocking, letting her know she suspected him of getting it on with Maeve.

She wasn’t far wrong. But he had no intention of kissing and telling.

‘I had enough to function.’ He dropped onto the sofa beside his grandmother and snatched up a croissant. It smelt delicious and he was ravenous.

‘You were painting Maeve last night, Bernadette told me.’ His grandmother studied him. He couldn’t tell if she was happy or disapproving. ‘I hope you didn’t keep our guest up too late.’

Definitely disapproving.

‘Of course not.’ When his grandmother turned, fluffing the large cushion at her back, he mouthed an ironic, ‘Thank you so much,’ to his sister for telling tales on him. ‘And I brought Duchess back to your rooms. I found her wandering the house.’

His grandmother groaned. ‘Poor old thing… I wondered why she was so sleepy this morning. But if she had an adventure last night, that would explain it. She’s getting ancient, like me. Sometimes she forgets she’s too frail to have the run of the chateau anymore and manages to slip out when someone leaves the door open to my suite.’ She smiled at him. ‘Thank you for returning her to me, dear boy.’

‘Boy?’ His sister sounded skeptical.

‘At my age, nearly all males seem like boys to me,’ their grandmother said regretfully. ‘Once, I thought I might even try remarrying… But all the men I used to like are either dead or soon will be.’

His sister snorted.

Leo took another bite of croissant, directing a quelling glance at Bernadette.

‘I’ll be in the kitchen,’ Bernadette murmured, and whisked herself out of the room.

Traitor, he thought, watching her vanish.

‘I was in the mood for painting last night,’ he told his grandmother, trying to make light of it. ‘I’ve taken some preliminary sketches, that’s all. Who knows where they’ll lead?’

‘To an exhibition, I’m told.’

‘I see my sister has been having quite a long conversation with you.’ He ran a weary hand over his face. ‘Yes, if Liselle has her way, and if I have enough paintings worth showing by then, there may be an exhibition soon. At least, she’s trying to set one up.’

‘And Maeve… Is she happy for you to paint her?’

He finished the soft, flaky, buttery, home-made croissant – one of Bernadette’s finest skills – and poured coffee for them both. He was feeling strangely exhilarated after last night.

But was that the sketching or the kiss?

‘She didn’t say no.’

‘And she’s aware that these paintings may be put on show to the public?’

‘She knows.’ A memory struck him, and he sat upright. ‘By the way, you had an arty friend once, didn’t you, a long time ago? I used to take you to visit her. She lived somewhere near the Boulevard St Germain as I recall.’ He handed her a milky coffee, which was how she preferred to take it these days. ‘I think her first name was Agathe.’

His grandmother stared at him, taken aback. ‘Yes, that’s right. Agathe Saint-Yves. But what on earth makes you mention her all of a sudden? Such a difficult woman… Goodness, I haven’t seen her in years.’ She sipped her coffee remorsefully, her delicate brows drawing together. ‘We had a falling out, I’m afraid.’

‘A falling out? Was it serious? I mean, was it bad enough that you would never want to see her again?’ He knew his grandmother sometimes flew into towering passions over some political thing or other, and cut people out of her life forever. That would be awkward if it were the case with Maeve’s grandmother.

‘No, nothing that bad. Why?’

Briefly, he explained about Maeve and her grandmother’s photograph. ‘I’ll ask her to show it to you.’

‘Please do.’

Abruptly, he realised he hadn’t yet told her about Uncle Henri’s call. ‘I’ve some bad news, by the way. There was a fire at the premises at Cave Rémy.’ When she exclaimed in horror, he held up a hand. ‘It’s okay, the damage wasn’t too extensive and Henri’s dealing with it. But I promised him I’d try to fit in a visit soon, so I can assess the situation with my own eyes.’

‘Oh dear.’ His grandmother hesitated, and he saw a shadow in her face. ‘Leo, there’s something else.’

‘Go on.’

‘I didn’t just call you downstairs for a chat. The thing is, I… I have some other rather difficult news for you too.’

He had raised his coffee cup partway to his lips, but put it down when she said that. ‘What do you mean? What news?’

She indicated a newspaper lying folded on one of the chairs. ‘Bernadette showed me that newspaper report this morning. One of her friends had seen it and brought it round. A horrible rag, but… We both thought you should be told. Especially since it seems likely we may have a visitation soon.’

‘A visitation?’ Puzzled, he got up to fetch the newspaper, but stopped dead, his eye instantly falling on the gossip column article ringed in red ink. And the photograph that accompanied it. ‘Good God. This must be a joke.’

‘I only wish it were.’ His grandmother looked at him with sympathy in her large, dark eyes. ‘I fear we must steel ourselves, Leo.’

He felt his stomach contract. He was looking at a photograph of his father.

Sébastien Louis Rémy.

He hadn’t seen him in years. But he would have known him anywhere, his own father, even under the hat tilted at an angle to half conceal his face, his arm about the shoulders of a young woman smiling beatifically into the camera.

He shifted his gaze to study the woman. Dressed in an exotic print caftan, with long, blonde hair, heavily made-up and dripping with jewellery, she was holding up a slender hand to the photographer, showing off a diamond engagement ring and gold wedding band on her ring finger.

The caption beneath read, Theatrical impresario Sébastien Rémy, 56, wed 23-year-old model Chanelle Plaget in St Tropez this weekend.

His skin grew cold and he swallowed hard. ‘What the hell?’ he said thickly, rooted to the spot as he read aloud the scanty gossip column that followed the photograph. ‘A whirlwind romance. Met at a rock star’s party. Good God… It’s widely believed Chanelle is carrying Sébastien’s child.’ His voice shook. ‘Private wedding held at romantic getaway… Couple to honeymoon in Paris.’

He threw the newspaper down and turned away, running a hand through his hair. He swore under his breath, barely able to contain his fury and frustration, despite his grandmother’s presence.

‘I don’t believe it. He’s more than twice her age. What was my father thinking? And she’s pregnant? Will the man never stop making a complete laughingstock of our family?’

His grandmother said nothing but sat with her hands in her lap. ‘I regret everything my son has done to disgrace his family name. But this, perhaps, more than anything else. That poor girl. She can’t have any idea what she’s walking into.’ She gave a long, heartfelt sigh. ‘But he will bring her here, that’s for sure.’

‘Why? He hasn’t been to Chateau Rémy in years.’

‘They’re honeymooning in Paris,’ she pointed out mildly. ‘Of course he’ll come here. We shall have to be polite.’

‘I won’t be polite,’ Leo responded savagely, and then caught her barely concealed flinch, and dropped to his knees before her, catching her hand. ‘Forgive me, Grandmère. I know this hurts you more than it hurts me.’

‘Don’t forget, if she’s pregnant,’ she said softly, meeting his eyes, ‘that baby will be my grandchild too.’

He bit back another swear word at the horrifying realisation. ‘I can’t stop him, of course,’ he said grudgingly, aware that she was right. ‘This place is his. But I hope he’s not expecting to walk back in here after all these years and take over. I’ve done what he asked when Francis died and run the business for him. At a profit too, even though it was never my forte. And he’s lived handsomely off my skills. What my father knows about business management could be written on the back of a postage stamp.’

‘I agree, and I doubt he would ever do that. I’m sure he just wants to show off his inheritance to this girl he’s married, this Chanelle. And he’s not all bad. Your father loved Francis very much, you know.’ Her voice faltered as she saw his face close up. ‘He loved you too, Leo. But Francis was always…’

‘His favourite, yes,’ Leo agreed heavily. ‘That was never a secret.’

‘I was very grateful when you agreed to take over from Francis. It was a selfless act. The alternative, that Sébastien would come back and try to run things himself, was too horrible to contemplate.’

He nodded. ‘That was the only reason I agreed. To spare you that horror.’ He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. ‘But what a time to pick to roll up here and start interfering in the business.’

She searched his face. ‘What do you mean?’

‘With me painting again.’ He stood up, uneasy under her scrutiny. ‘I had intended to devote all my free time to producing new work for this exhibition. Now this…’

Leo turned, restless, and began pacing the room. He had planned to spend the afternoon making a start on preparing a canvas based on the sketches he’d taken last night. But his head was in a mess now.

His father had betrayed his mother. Not once but many times. He had wounded her deeply, and Leo could never forgive him for that.

Certainly his grandfather had never done so, throwing his son out of the house and warning him never to come back if he valued his looks. Sébastien had laughed in his father’s face, pointing out that there was nothing he could do under French law, since it did not permit a child to be disinherited.

In the end, everything had been left jointly to Sébastien, Henri and his grandmother, though her frail health meant she was unable to do much beyond nominally sign off on the annual accounts and sit on the company board.

Then his father had left Paris with barely a glance in young Leo’s direction.

His mother had never recovered from the failure of her marriage. A short-lived affair had left her with Bernadette, but a new baby had only seemed to exacerbate her depression. Before Bernadette was even a year old, his mother had lost her bloom and turned inwards.

His mother had killed herself in the winter Leo had turned eleven.

He paused before the window, staring out into the enclosed courtyard garden. Sun glinted off windows, half blinding him. He was breathing fast and shallow, his mood volatile…

Maeve was out there, seated on a lounger in the shade, flicking through a magazine. She was barefoot, wearing the same sleeveless summer dress from yesterday. One of Bernadette’s loans, of course.

He wondered what kind of clothes Maeve would ordinarily choose to wear. Nothing so colourful, he suspected.

The basic jeans and tee-shirt ensemble she’d been wearing when they first met had been pedestrian at best, drab at worst. Yet he guessed that understated styles probably suited her better than anything more exotic. More brash colours and patterns might overwhelm her quiet persona.

He flashed back to their impromptu kiss on the attic landing – though it had been more than just a kiss, given the urgency of his desire at the time – and again battled a sense of disbelief that he could have done something so stupid and ill-advised.

She had kissed him back, though.

What did that mean?

He grimaced, pushing such pointless speculation aside. He desperately needed to outline his first painting today and get her back into the studio as soon as possible. And in daylight this time. It was all very well working under electric lighting when there was no other choice, but he wanted to capture the soft glow of summer on her face…

‘When do you think they’ll arrive?’ he muttered.

His grandmother hesitated. ‘Well, the newspaper says they were married last weekend in St Tropez, so it’s likely they’re in Paris already. Which means Sébastien could appear on the doorstep at any moment, bringing his new bride with him.’ Her voice trembled. ‘Today, perhaps? Or tomorrow.’

Leo’s hands tightened into fists at his side. ‘Then we’ll have to be ready for them, won’t we?’

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