He doubted he’d have noticed if he hadn’t looked, really looked that day, at the boulanger in the Rue Montorgeuil strolling with his pregnant wife, a brawny tender arm around her waist. The guy had been so proud, so cock-a-hoop, so in love with life and the world, Luc had carried the image home with him.
Worst mistake in history.
Apparently, when lovers ran out of things to say to each other, the last remedy to propose was marriage. Manon’s response to the suggestion of a child had been as swift as it was ferocious.
‘What has happened to you, darling? Do you suddenly want to tie me in chains? I am not the brood mare type. If you want that, find another woman.’ Her smile hadn’t diminished the anger in her lovely eyes.
Once he’d recovered from the shock, he’d realised the enormity of what he’d suggested. The fact that some women did agree to sacrificing their freedom and autonomy to reproduce was nothing short of a miracle.
Inclining his head, he accepted another canapé, wondering how long he would have to wait here in this hothouse of domestic fecundity before Rémy put in an appearance. He was beginning to have his doubts it would even happen. Could his cousin have got wind of his arrival? He’d hardly known himself until the last minute, when he was due to leave Saigon and thought of his pleasant Paris apartment waiting for him.
That empty wasteland. Traces of Manon in every corner.
Otherwise he doubted he would ever have dreamed of travelling so far. But from Saigon a few extra hours’ hop to Sydney had had its appeal. Deal with the Rémy problem, enjoy a few days of sunshine, blue seas and skies. Postpone work, Paris, his life. What was not to enjoy?
He should have realised. Wherever he went in the world, he was there.
At least Emi hadn’t changed. Like the sweetheart she was, every so often she darted back to the corner he was lurking in to ensure he wasn’t neglected.
Smiling, she offered him wine, her blue eyes so reminiscent of her twin’s. Or would have been if Rémy’s had ever possessed any kindness, humanity or the tiniest hint of the existence of a soul.
‘So tell me, Luc … is it true? Manon is pregnant?’
A familiar pincer clenched Luc’s entrails, though he maintained his smile. ‘How would I know? I don’t keep up.’
Emilie flushed. ‘Pardon, mon cousin. I don’t mean to intrude. I was just so surprised when Tante Marise mentioned it. I wouldn’t have thought … Manon never seemed the—the type to want babies.’
No, Luc acknowledged behind his poker face. She hadn’t been the type when she was with him. But there were only so many forms of betrayal a man cared to discuss.
He steered Emilie away from the blood-soaked arena of his personal life and onto the subject of burning interest to Head Office.
‘Do you see Rémy often?’
Emilie shook her head. ‘Mais non. Not so often since he was engaged.’ She smiled fondly. ‘He is in love at last. I think he has no need of his sister any more.’
Her hopeful gaze invited Luc to think the best of her beloved brother. Fat chance. The notion of Rémy in love with anyone but himself was about as easy to gulp down as this over-oaked blend.
‘Maybe he has gone to the outback to see a client,’ Emi said eagerly. ‘You know he needs to fly to the clients sometimes.’
Luc frowned. ‘Without informing his staff?’
Emilie coloured and cast a glance at her husband, who’d just joined them. ‘Well, Rémy’s always been—private.’
‘Secretive,’ Neil put in.
‘Neil. Don’t say secretive.’ Emilie gave her husband a spousely shove. ‘I’m sure he’s done nothing wrong. He may just have forgotten to leave a message.’
Reading Neil’s suddenly bland face, Luc had the impression Neil didn’t share his wife’s confidence in her charming brother.
Shari took a moment to nerve herself before pressing Neil and Emilie’s bell. She’d stopped wearing the ring weeks ago, of course, but if anyone asked her about it, if they even mentioned Rémy’s name, she still wasn’t sure how far she could trust herself not to turn into a complete wuss and burst into tears.
Too emotional. Just too emotional.
Emilie opened the door.
‘Enfin, Shari, after all this time …’ She stopped short, looking Shari up and down. ‘My God. Is it really you? You look … incroyable.’ Emilie kissed her on both cheeks and dragged her inside. ‘I adore it. So sexy and mystérieuse.’ Emilie thought she was speaking in English, but it often came out sounding like French.
With gratifying awe she examined Shari’s transformation. The stripe across her eyes was intriguing enough, Shari supposed, but it was her chiffon dress and new five inch platforms that really had Em reeling.
‘Oh-h-h,’ the darling woman enthused. ‘I am green. How can you walk in them? But what have you done to your eyes?’ Shari’s heart suffered a momentary paralysis, but Emilie continued exclaiming. ‘Pretty, so pretty. Is that frog a tattoo, really?’
Shari eased back out of the direct light. ‘You know me. Always faking it.’
Emilie giggled. ‘No, don’t say so. Now, where’s Rémy?’ She peered out into the dark street.
Shari tightened her grip on the strap of her shoulder purse. ‘Rémy isn’t coming.’
‘Not?’ Emilie looked nonplussed. ‘Oh, but … quick, phone him. Tell him he has to. Our cousin is here to see him and he’s looking so stern everyone is terrified.’
Shari looked steadily at her. ‘No, Em. I can’t.’
Emilie blinked bemusedly at her, and Shari was about to drop the bombshell when more guests piled in through the gate and hailed the hostess.
Shari seized her escape.
‘Catch you later.’ She smiled, and walked through to the party like a woman riding a storm.
It was a while since she’d visited. As things had deteriorated on the engagement front, she’d chosen to avoid the perceptive gazes of her brother and Em. Little changes had taken place in their home since the last time she’d dropped by to hang and read to their little girls.
Tonight the rooms were crowded, people spilling from the living rooms to the pool terrace. A small army of hired staff was flitting about, distributing hors d’oeuvres like largesse to the poor.
Heading for a quiet corner, Shari felt conscious of eyes turning to follow her. For a scary moment she feared her stripe wasn’t holding up, until a likely lad stepped in her path and told her she looked hot.
Hot? Oh, that glorious word. Pleasure flowed into the dry gulch where her self-esteem had once bubbled like the tranquil waters of an aquifer. Her spine stiffened all by itself. She loved the sweet-talking hound.
Standing way taller on her new platforms, she blew him a kiss. ‘Too hot for you, sweetie,’ she tossed over her shoulder as she swished by.
There now, that wasn’t too hard, was it?
She greeted a few faces she recognised, flashed a wave here, a smile there, just as though everything in her little corner of the world was hunky-dory. She hoped no one inquired about her so-called fiancé. She should never have promised to allow Rémy time to break the news to Em in his own way. She might have known he’d never drum up the courage.
Face it, she’d known all along she should have told Neil and