By Request Collection April-June 2016. Оливия Гейтс

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СКАЧАТЬ personal fears and phobias and do something for someone else. Regardless of what Luc Valentin thought, she did have courage and self-respect, and she could behave honourably, and like an adult.

      She could go there and meet him on his home turf with cool composure.

      Though she did lay down some stipulations. She would only go briefly. And she would arrange it all herself. She wanted no interference.

      There would be no advance warnings given. She made Neil solemnly promise on his honour as a brother and a stockbroker. No jolly welcoming committee at the airport. No feather bed tucked under the charming rafters of Tante Laraine’s rustic roof.

      Emilie was shocked and wounded at this—Tante Laraine was her mother’s beloved cousin, and the mother of Luc—but Shari insisted. She would rather stay in a hotel.

      She would rather stay in a drain.

      All right, she could admit to herself she was scared. Call her a coward, but everyone knew the French loathed strangers. Especially if they couldn’t speak the language creditably. Rémy had always found her attempts to use her high school French hilarious.

      Naturally, the last thing she wanted was to stay in a household where her name was a byword. One of her deepest fears was that Luc would have informed his entire family about the whore of Babylon Rémy had engaged himself to. It wasn’t as if she’d be able to defend herself there by telling them the truth about their golden boy.

      Boys.

      And as if everything else weren’t enough, the truth was, as Neil very well knew, she’d been severely traumatised by funerals ever since her mother’s. If Neil hadn’t been there to put his arms around her quivering ten-year-old self in the bad days and nights that had followed she’d probably have had to be sectioned.

      Dragging herself to the task, she booked a room in a hotel near the Louvre. At least it didn’t sound too bad. There was something solid about an Hôtel du Louvre. If her nerve failed her when it came time to attend the ceremony, she could always sneak to the museum and hide among the Egyptian antiquities.

      The flight she booked was transferable, just in case anything came up where she was required to stay longer. If Luc Valentin got over his disgust at the way she’d spoken to him on the phone, he might feel forced to take her to dinner, or something. She should probably accept, for the family’s sake, although she’d be reserved, even rather chilling.

      She took steps to ensure she had something decent to wear to the ceremony. Luc might have a low opinion of her morals and her self-regard, but she would give him no opportunity to sneer at her clothes. Rémy had often declared that a Frenchmen could only ever feel distaste for the woman who was careless of projecting her beauty.

      It had never been any use explaining to him how easy it was for an author/artist to forget to change out of her pyjamas for twenty-four hours when in the grip of her muse. Even Emilie had wrinkled her nose when she found out her guilty secret. Shari doubted Luc would be any different.

      Just as well she wouldn’t be there long enough to get found out. She would establish a lasting impression of herself there as a woman of faultless grace and dignity.

      Taking Emilie’s advice, Shari stuffed the corners of her suitcase with scarves. A woman could get away with much in Paris, Em promised, so long as she wore a scarf. Along with the scarves Shari included a massive pack of tampons. When her period finally, blessedly, did eventuate, it was bound to be Niagara Falls.

      The moment arrived when, braced for every kind of horror, she boarded the flight.

      By the time she disembarked at Charles de Gaulle mid-evening twenty-five hours later, among other things she was feeling rather wan. An hour before landing, a minor bout of turbulence had made her lose her dinner. Fear, no doubt, combined with motion sickness.

      She cleaned herself up as best she could, scrubbed her teeth and sponged her neck, but her hair was lank, her clothes wrinkled and her breasts felt tender and vulnerable.

      At least no unwelcome man loomed up in Arrivals to witness her failure to project her beauty at the airport. One thing she never wanted to give Luc Valentin the chance to see was Shari Lacey in transit. He’d seen more than enough.

      Soon she was in a taxi being whisked incognito through the streets of the City of Light.

      Though it was officially spring, Luc’s home turf must have been suffering a cold snap. A drizzly rain obscured its fabled beauty and chilled Shari to her soul. When she alighted from the cab, her teeth chattered.

      She glanced around her, pursing her lips. So this was Paris.

      Drawing her thin trench coat around her, she regarded the hotel with grim misgiving. Its façade was imposing, in keeping with the surrounding palaces on the grand boulevards.

      But a smiling porter strolled out to take her bag and usher her through the revolving doors, and inside, thank the Lord, the lobby was warm, the people surprisingly welcoming.

      Feeling empty after her mishap during the flight, Shari planned to order a snack from the restaurant. But once settled in her airy room with its long, graceful drapes at the windows, all she had energy for was the hot shower she’d craved the last five thousand miles. Then, clean, warm and comforted, she slipped between the sheets.

       CHAPTER FIVE

      SHARI woke to the pale grey light of a Paris dawn. Straight away the horrors of the day ahead sprang into her mind and her stomach swam in total rejection.

      Naturally. There wasn’t a lot to look forward to.

      Rémy, in his c—situation. Luc Valentin on his home turf. Remembering his last view of her. Judging her. Looking the way he looked in her dreams. So damned sexy.

      She dressed with gentle movements so as not to antagonise her insides. It struck her that every garment she donned was doubly appropriate. Funereal, for mourning, and sinful, sultry and black for her wicked, whorish nature.

      Emilie had lent her a beautiful, elegant silk suit from her pre-pregnant days. Shari had to suck in her breath to close the skirt zip, but at least the cinched-in waist flattered her curves, especially her breasts in the new lacy C-cup she’d bought to accommodate the recent rise in volume.

      With sheer black stockings and high heels, she judged the overall effect satisfactorily black, and possibly more elegant than she’d ever achieved to date. Now for the hat.

      She’d managed to prevail on Em for a loan of her wide black organza Melbourne Cup number with the luxuriant velvet rose adorning its brim. Shari loved the gorgeous thing. All it lacked was a veil.

      Positioning it carefully over the simple chignon she’d managed to achieve, she had the wistful sense it still made something of a disguise. None of her friends would have recognised her. Perhaps Luc wouldn’t.

      Though she’d smoothed on some make-up, her strain shone through. Staring at herself in the mirror, she understood breakfast wasn’t even a remote possibility. Lucky for her the bar-fridge offered a convenient bottle of the blessed black fizz, among other things. She crammed it into her shoulder bag for later. Just in case.

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