Desperate Measures. Sara Craven

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      Numb, she thought. And that was how she still felt.

      But at least she did not have a honeymoon to endure. They would have to dispense with that convention for the time being, Alain had told her, because he had already taken more time off to stay in London than he could spare. So they were going straight to his Paris apartment.

      ‘I hope it won’t be too dull for you,’ he said.

      ‘Oh, no,’ Philippa had stammered, hardly able to conceal her relief. Simply sharing a roof with him would be ordeal enough, she thought. The prospect of being alone with him in the bridal suite of some exotic location with all that implied had been more than she could bear. And judging by the sardonic slant of his mouth he’d known exactly what she was thinking.

      She put a hand to her throat and touched the string of matched pearls which had been his wedding gift to her.

      ‘Exquisite!’ Monica had exclaimed as she helped Philippa to change.

      ‘Yes—but don’t they mean tears?’ Philippa had felt faintly troubled as she fastened the clasp.

      ‘Not, my dear, if you have any sense.’ Monica’s smile held a touch of envy not unmixed with malice. ‘Enjoy the loot, Madame de Courcy. Because you may find that’s all there is,’ she added cynically, then glanced at her watch. ‘Now do make haste. Your husband’s waiting.’

      Your husband. Philippa stole a covert look at this unexpected and alarming phenomenon who sat beside her, apparently engrossed in a sheaf of papers from his briefcase.

      She didn’t know whether to feel glad or aggrieved at his absorption, and decided on balance that even if it wasn’t exactly flattering, it was a relief. At least she didn’t have to try to make conversation.

      During the past ten days she had seen Alain almost daily, but she knew him no better than she’d done that first evening when she’d walked into the library at Lowden Square, she acknowledged ruefully.

      To her relief, he had made no further attempt to kiss her, or move their relationship on to a more intimate level than the friendship he’d promised, although they were still really no more than acquaintances, she admitted to herself.

      He had been invariably charming to her, however, setting himself, she realised, to draw her out, discovering her tastes in literature and music as well as art, whether she preferred ballet to opera, if she enjoyed tennis or squash, her preferences in food and wine.

      It was as if he was compiling a dossier on her. And perhaps he was—a series of facts to be fed into a computer somewhere at De Courcy International and resurrected at birthday or anniversary times.

      And she was only just beginning to realise how very little he had vouchsafed in return, this stranger who was now married to her for better or worse.

      For better or worse. Philippa repeated the words in her head, and shivered suddenly.

      In no time at all, it seemed, they were landing. The formalities at the airport were mercifully brief, then Philippa found herself being whisked away in a chauffeur-driven limousine. She supposed this was the kind of treatment she would have to get accustomed to.

      Almost before she was ready, she found herself walking into an imposing building in one of the city’s most fashionable areas, and travelling up in the lift to the penthouse.

      The apartment, Alain had told her, was not part of the family estate which he had inherited, but had been acquired by himself a few years previously as a pied-à-terre near his business headquarters. He was looked after by a married couple, a Madame Henriette Giscard, and her husband Albert, and they were waiting to welcome their master and his new bride, their faces well-trained masks.

      When the introductions were completed, Alain took her to one side. ‘Will you be all right if I leave you here?’ he asked in a low tone. ‘I need to go to the office, and I cannot say when it will be possible to return.’

      ‘Oh, that’s all right—that’s fine,’ Philippa stammered, feeling the colour rise in her face under his quizzical look.

      ‘I don’t doubt it.’ Mouth twisting, Alain ran his forefinger down the curve of her hot cheek. He turned back to Madame Giscard, waiting at a discreet distance. ‘I shall not be here for dinner, Henriette. Make sure Madame has everything she requires.’ He lifted Philippa’s nerveless hand and pressed a swift kiss into its palm. ‘Au revoir, mignonne.’

      If the Giscards considered his departure eccentric behaviour for a new bridegroom, they kept their opinions well hidden. Philippa found herself being conducted over the apartment with a certain amount of ceremony. It seemed evident from the covert glances she’d seen them exchanging that not only was the marriage itself a shock to them, but that the Giscards considered her the last kind of wife they would have expected Alain de Courcy to choose. Her lack of sophistication and experience must be woefully apparent, she thought bitterly, and if she couldn’t fool the servants, how could she hope to deceive his family and friends?

      She managed to contain her sigh of relief when Madame Giscard expressionlessly showed her to her bedroom, a pretty Empire-style room immediately adjoining the one used by Alain himself. In spite of the neutral attitude he had adopted towards her up to now, she had still secretly feared some confrontation over the sleeping arrangements once they were actually married. It was good to know he could be trusted after all.

      She requested a light dinner, and was served promptly and without fuss with a cup of bouillon, and a perfectly grilled sole with fresh fruit to follow. Afterwards she telephoned the New York clinic, as she always did, to ask after Gavin. She received the usual response—that it was still too early for any definite prognosis—and after that she was left pretty much to her own devices.

      She decided to conduct her own, more leisurely exploration of the apartment without Madame Giscard’s chilly presence at her side. She found the place slightly austere and unwelcoming, with its large, high-ceilinged rooms, and vaguely reminiscent of Lowden Square in its elegant formality. There was nothing in the least homelike about it, Philippa decided, hearing the clatter of her heels on the polished floor. The furniture and curtains seemed to warn, ‘Look, but don’t touch.’ She found herself wondering how much time Alain actually spent there.

      But there was one blessedly familiar touch—Gavin’s painting of the bridge at Montascaux which hung over the elegant marble fireplace in the salon. She stood, her hands behind her back, staring up at it. She had loved their time at Montascaux. She sighed soundlessly as she remembered the jumble of roofs on the steep hillside sweeping down to the river, with the ruined château towering above the gorge. They’d rented a house high above the village, with a wood behind it. The house in the clouds, she thought nostalgically. While Gavin painted, Philippa had done her own sketching, then shopped at the small but cheerful market, concocting what she now recognised must have been some weird and wonderful meals for them both. But her father had never complained, she thought, a smile trembling on her lips.

      As she turned away, uttering a wordless prayer for her father’s safety and restoration to health, she noticed the exquisite clock which occupied pride of place on the mantelpiece.

      Certainly Alain seemed in no hurry to return, she thought. Not that she wanted him to, of course, she hastily reminded herself, but, on the other hand, he could have made slightly more effort to ease her into her new environment. Didn’t he realise how totally strange and isolated she must be feeling? she asked herself with faint resentment.

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