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He glanced at his watch without enthusiasm. His car would be waiting for him, ready to take him to the Paris Opera, where he was entertaining two of his clients and their daughter. His mouth tightened. The daughter was making it clear that she would be more than happy for him to pay her attention for reasons other than the fact that her parents banked at Banc Derenz. And she was not alone in her designs and hopes.
He gave an angry sigh. The whole damn circus was starting up again. Women in whom he had no interest at all, seeking his attention.
Women who were not Tara.
He shut his eyes. I’ll get over her. In time I’ll forget her. I have to.
He knew it must happen one day, but it was proving harder than he had thought it would. Damnably harder.
It was showing too, and he was grimly aware of that. Aware that, just as he’d been when Celine had plagued him, he was more short-tempered, having little patience either for demanding clients or fellow directors.
A bear with a sore head.
That was the expression he’d used to Tara.
Who was no longer in his life. And could never be again. However much he wanted her. Because he wanted her.
That was the danger, he knew. The danger that his desire for her would make him weak...make him ready to believe—want to believe—that his wealth was not the reason at all for her to be with him.
He’d believed that once before in his life—and it had been the biggest mistake he’d ever made. Thinking he was important to Marianne. When all along it had only been the Derenz money.
And the fact that Tara valued the Derenz money was evident. Right from the start she’d been keen on it—from that paltry five hundred pounds for chaperoning Celine back to her hotel to the ten thousand pounds she’d demanded for going to France.
And she had taken those emeralds he’d left for her. Helped herself to them as her due—just as readily as she’d helped herself to the couture wardrobe he’d supplied.
Oh, she might not be a gold-digger—nothing so repellent—but it was undeniable that she had enjoyed the luxury of his lifestyle, the valuable gifts he’d given her. And that was a danger sign—surely it was?
If I take her back she’ll get used to that luxury lifestyle...start taking it for granted. Not wanting to lose it. It will become important to her. More important to her than I am. And soon would it be me she wanted—or just the lifestyle I could provide for her?
He felt that old, familiar wariness filling him. Restlessly, he shifted again, tugging at the cuffs of his tuxedo.
What point was there in going over and over the reasons he must resist the urge to get back in touch with her, to resume what they had had, seek to extend it? However powerful that urge, he had to resist it. He must. Anything else was just too risky.
The doors of the elegant salon were opening and a staff member stood there, presumably to inform Marc that his car was awaiting him. But the man had a silver salver in his hand, upon which Marc could see an envelope.
With a murmur of thanks he took it, then stilled. Staring down at it. It had a UK stamp. And it was handwritten in a hand he had come to recognise.
He felt a clenching of his stomach, a tightening of his muscles. A sudden rush of blood.
What had Tara written? Why?
His face expressionless, belying a melee of thoughts behind its impassive mask, he opened it. Unfolded the single sheet of paper within and forced his eyes to read the contents.
The words leapt at him.
Marc,
I am not going to cash your cheque. What started out as a job did not end that way, and it would be very wrong of me to expect you to be bound by that original agreement.
Also, but for different reasons, I cannot keep the beautiful necklace you left for me. I am sure you only meant to be generous, but you must see how impossible it is for me to accept so very expensive a gift. Please do not be offended by this. I shall have it couriered back to you.
By the same token, nor can I accept the gift of all the couture clothes you provided for me. I hope you do not mind, but I gave them to the maids—they were so thrilled. Please do not be angry with them for accepting.
I’m sorry this has taken me so long, but I’ve been very busy working. My life is about to take me in a quite different direction and I shall be leaving London, and modelling, far behind.
It was simply signed with her name. Nothing more.
The words on the page seemed to blur and shift and come again into focus. Slowly, very slowly, the hand holding the letter dropped to his side.
