“She’ll be very welcome.” Caitlin meant the words. She had liked what she had seen of Chelsea’s daughter at the pier. She appeared to have a grave maturity unusual in one so young. “I’m generally quite busy in the fields, but my mother can care for her.”
“She doesn’t need taking care of. At least, that’s what she’s always telling me.” Chelsea strode toward the door. “Naturally, I don’t listen to her. The only thing I ask is that you keep the reporters away from her for the next month or so. Tyndale’s article is going to set off ripples, and I don’t want any of them touching her.”
“Ripples?”
“Ask your friend.” Chelsea’s shrewd gaze shifted to Alex. “I’ll bet he knows all about Marisa. He seems to be privy to a good deal of information.”
“As it happens, I do know about what happened to Marisa.” Alex’s expression was grave. “And I admired your response to it.”
“I couldn’t do anything else.” Chelsea glanced at Caitlin. “You’ve got guts and you’re not greedy. I like that.”
“You’ve got guts too.” Caitlin found herself smiling at Chelsea. The woman was loaded with charisma and it was difficult not to respect the actress’s frankness. “But I can’t say you’re not greedy.”
Chelsea’s full-bodied laugh rang out. “It comes from growing up in the slums. No matter how rich you get, there’s never enough.”
Alex reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. “I’ve had a contract drawn up for you to sign. We can make the necessary changes and you can initial them and—”
“No way,” Chelsea said flatly. “Send it to my business manager.”
Alex smiled faintly and turned to Caitlin. “Smart lady. Now, that’s what you should have done, Caitlin.”
“But I didn’t have a business manager. I can’t trust anyone but myself,” Caitlin said. “Unless it’s you.”
Alex grimaced. “Then heaven help you.”
“Amen,” Chelsea said dryly, opening the door and waving them out.
“What did she mean about you knowing about her daughter?” Caitlin asked Alex as they walked down the corridor toward the elevator.
“Nothing that most of the world doesn’t know too,” Alex said. “It’s not something anyone could sweep under the carpet. Chelsea Benedict was in jail for fourteen months.”
“Jail?” Caitlin turned and looked at him.
“Chelsea grew up in the slums of New York. Her mother was a hooker and her father—” He shrugged. “Who knows? He wasn’t around long enough to matter. She went to a performing arts high school and was well on her way to a promising career, when she met Harry Pernell. Pernell was an older man, a rich Wall Street mogul. He got Chelsea pregnant when she was sixteen, married her, and she had Marisa six months later.” He pushed the button for the elevator. “She filed for divorce four years after Marisa was born and sued for custody. She didn’t get it.”
“The mother usually gets custody,” Caitlin said. “Why didn’t Chelsea?”
“Harry Pernell evidently was a prime son of a bitch. He was rich enough to hire witnesses and manufacture evidence against her. He received sole custody, but Chelsea didn’t give up. She went back to work and hired lawyers. Marisa was attending a private school in Manhattan and Chelsea bribed servants and school officials to let her spend time with Marisa.”
The doors of the elevators slid open. They entered the cubicle and Alex pushed the lobby button. “When Marisa was six, Chelsea found out that Pernell was sexually abusing her.”
“His own daughter?” Caitlin felt sick.
Alex nodded. “Incest. Back then the subject was taboo. No one would believe Chelsea when she went to the police.”
“Dear God,” she whispered.
“So Chelsea kidnapped Marisa and hid her away with friends out of state.” Alex’s lips twisted. “And Pernell had Chelsea arrested and thrown in jail for kidnapping. She stayed there for fourteen months. She said she’d rot there before she let Pernell have Marisa.”
“That took great courage.”
Alex nodded. “The lady has style. Her lawyers eventually found evidence against Pernell on another child molestation charge, that one involving vicious and obvious assault, and Chelsea was pardoned.”
“What happened to him?”
“He was sent to prison. He didn’t last seven months in jail before he had a fatal ‘accident.’ Convicts don’t like child molesters.”
The feelings of fierce satisfaction that surged through Caitlin shocked her. She had always thought revenge was futile, but the idea of a helpless child being victimized in any way, but especially by her own father, made her sick with fury. If she felt such a strong reaction just hearing about it, what must have Chelsea gone through? Caitlin suddenly felt a strong sense of kinship with the woman.
“And this is the story Chelsea thinks the reporter will resurrect?”
“When she first made it big in Hollywood, everything about her past was dug up and spread in the tabloids. But she faced up to it and told the media and the public to back off. She said that if what she gave them on the screen wasn’t enough for them, they could all go to hell.”
“Sounds like her.”
“She’s a survivor.” The elevator opened and Alex propelled Caitlin into the bright, noisy lobby. “She catches the imagination and yet she’s earthy enough for most women to identify with her.”
“Like Vasaro.” A sudden memory of Chelsea as she had first seen her rushed back to Caitlin—beautiful, weary, and yet still ready to do battle. Yes, Chelsea was like Vasaro. She could take whatever the elements threw at her and still endure and flourish. “I’m glad she’s going to be our spokeswoman.” She grimaced. “Not that anyone asked my opinion.”
“The promotion was to be left in my hands,” Alex reminded her.
“I know. I’m not complaining.” She gave him a radiant smile. “And you did fight for the name.”
“Stop looking at me like that,” Alex said roughly. “I fought her because I knew she’d back down.”
“You couldn’t have been certain.” She slipped her arm in his. “Chelsea’s right, you’re not nearly as tough as you pretend.”
Alex shook his head, warning her. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m something I’m not, Caitlin.”
“I don’t know what you are.” Her smile widened. “But I think I’m beginning to find out.”
He looked at her with a mixture of exasperation, frustration, and tenderness before he managed to tear his gaze away. “We’ll fly directly to Paris from here. We have an appointment day after tomorrow with Pierre Desharmes.”
She was immediately distracted. Pierre Desharmes was one of the premier packagers in the perfume industry, but he wouldn’t have been her choice. “No.”
Alex looked startled. “No?”
“I want Henri LeClerc.”
“He’s very much in demand.” He lifted a skeptical brow. “We may not be able to persuade him to put Dior and Coty on the back burner to create a package for us.”
“I want to try.” She hesitated. “I read something about him in a magazine two years ago that may help.”
“You can’t rely on anything in the media.”
“Well, it may be nothing . . . but I still want to try.”
“Then we’ll try. I’ll call his office from the airport and set up an appointment.” Alex smiled as he opened the glass doors of the front entrance and a chill blast of wind touched their faces. “We can only look the situation over and see how we can twist it to suit ourselves.”
“Find out what LeClerc wants and then give it to him,” Caitlin quoted, experiencing a thrill of excitement surging through her. In spite of the feeling that she was an alien in this fast-moving world in which Alex seemed so comfortable, she couldn’t deny the exhilaration of jetting from country to country and dealing with high-powered people like Chelsea Benedict and Jonathan Andreas.
“Exactly.” An odd expression crossed Alex’s face as he looked down
at Caitlin’s flushed cheeks and shining eyes. He stopped in the street to gently draw the collar of her coat closer around her neck and shut out more of the bitter chill.
Chelsea knocked and then opened the door of Marisa’s bedroom. “Hi, they’re gone.”
Marisa looked up with a smile. “Good. Now you can order room service and then get to bed.” She was curled up on the bed, her algebra book open, making notations in an open spiral notebook. She wore her old faded blue pajamas that made her tall, slender body look almost boyish. “Did you eat any of those scones they brought with the tea?”
Chelsea shook her head as she strolled toward the bed. “I couldn’t face them. My stomach still feels on the quavery side. Scoot over.”
Marisa moved across the bed and Chelsea lay down beside her. Chelsea gave a contented sigh and closed her eyes, letting all the tension of the day seep out of her. “This is good. God, I’m tired.”
Marisa tossed her notebook aside and lay in companionable silence, waiting for Chelsea to stir.
It was pleasant lying there with no need to struggle, no need to be strong or clever or sparkling. Chelsea knew she would be herself in another moment, but just then she wanted only to lie next to Marisa. She could hear the light, even sound of Marisa’s breathing and smell the fresh fragrance of the bouquet of iris and white lilac on the nightstand. The management of the hotel had sent up the bouquet when they had checked in, and Chelsea remembered how Marisa had smiled her slow, luminous smile when it had arrived and touched one of the velvet-textured petals of the iris with a gentle finger.
Chelsea was beginning to relax as the serenity Marisa always projected flowed into her. How did she do it? Chelsea thought in wonder. All the pain Marisa had suffered had wounded but never scarred her. “You know, sometimes I believe in all that reincarnation crap.”
“You do? Why?”
“I think maybe some people may be born with their souls already in high gear and ready to roll.” Chelsea opened her eyes and gazed thoughtfully at a picture of the aurora borealis on the opposite wall. “So that nothing that happens to them can change or destroy what they are. Do you know what I mean?”
“I think you’re talking about old souls.”
“Am I?” Well, Marisa would know. She devoured books like a chocoholic let loose in a Godiva shop. Chelsea turned on the bed to look at her. “I think you must be an old soul, baby.”
Marisa chuckled. “You must be tired. I’ve never heard you wax philosophic before.”
“Philosophic? Me?” Chelsea looked at her, startled. “Oh, my God, you’re right. I sound like Shirley MacLaine.” She sat up on the bed. “I must be light-headed. I’d better have something to eat. I’ll order us both a salad and soup. Okay?”
“Okay.” Marisa leaned back against the headboard as Chelsea placed the order with room service.
“There.” Chelsea replaced the receiver and stood up. “Now I’ll go and let you get on with your homework until they bring the food.”
“You don’t have to leave.”
“Yes, I do.” Chelsea moved toward the door leading to the sitting room. “I’m disturbing you, but you’re too polite to tell me.”
“Mother, that’s not true.”
“Yes, it is.” Chelsea paused at the door and looked back over her shoulder. Marisa’s expression was half concerned, half rueful, and Chelsea suddenly felt such profound love, it took her off guard. God, how had she gotten so lucky? With all the mistakes she had made, she must have done something right. “I’m not hurt. I know you love me.” She made a face. “It’s probably not easy having an actress for a mother.”
“No.” Marisa smiled. “But it’s very entertaining.”
“What a ghastly pun.” Chelsea looked away from her. “I’ve decided to endorse a perfume.”
Marisa’s eyes widened in surprise. “Why?”
Chelsea shrugged. “It’s a good deal.” She paused. “The woman who created the perfume also grows flowers at a place called Vasaro in the South of France. I’m sending you there for the next few months until the perfume is launched.”
Marisa went still. “The reporter.”
“It’s best, baby.”
“I’m already behind and I’ll miss the first few months of school.”
“You can make it up. Your grades are good.”
Marisa looked intently at her mother. “I don’t need to run away from this.”
“It’s not running. Just a little selective ducking.”
“It’s the same thing. You always try to shelter everyone you care about. You don’t have to protect me, Mother.”
“Yes, I do. You don’t know how those tiger sharks can shred you.” Chelsea smiled. “Don’t give me a hassle, baby. You’re pretty protective, too, or we wouldn’t have been out in that boat, running interference for that blasted whale.”
“That’s different.”
“Yeah, you don’t weigh eight tons.” Chelsea coaxed, “Go to Vasaro?”
For a moment she thought Marisa was going to refuse, then her daughter nodded. “All right, I’ll go to Vasaro.”
7
“I thought we’d never get through customs.” Caitlin got into the taxi and settled back on the cushioned seat with a sigh of relief. “They were all so grim. Did you see those soldiers with the machine guns?”
Alex nodded as he got into the taxi and handed the driver a slip of paper. “They have a right to be nervous. The Black Medina killed two people at a Bach festival in Vienna yesterday.”
Caitlin shivered. “I hadn’t heard.”
“I read about it in a newspaper on the plane,” he said as the taxi pulled away from the curb.
“It’s terrible. All this violence doesn’t make any sense. What do they want?” Caitlin looked out the window. “The terrorists haven’t even made any demands yet, have they?”
“No, but I’m sure they’ll be forthcoming.”
“It’s a new Reign of Terror.” Caitlin tried to dismiss the thought from her mind. “What hotel are we staying at?”
“No hotel.”
“But you were on the phone for an hour at the airport in Reykjavik.”
“Oh, we have a place to stay.” Alex smiled at her. “That’s why I had to pick up that envelope at the ticket counter. A small surprise.”
Forty minutes later the taxi pulled up before a house on the Place des Vosges in the Marais section of Paris. The two-story house facing the square had a steep slate roof, stone and brick facing, and the genteel air of another century.
“We’re staying here?” She clutched at Alex’s arm excitedly. “I can’t believe it. It’s the Andreas town house. I came to see it once when I was studying at the university, but it was occupied and I couldn’t go through it.”
“It doesn’t belong to the Andreas family any longer.” Alex paid off the taxi driver. “It was confiscated by the National Convention after Jean Marc Andreas and his Juliette fled the country.” He picked up the bags and carried them up the stone steps. “Since then it’s never been occupied by an Andreas.” He took out a key from the envelope he had picked up at the airport and unlocked the front door. “Or a Vasaro, for that matter. It now belongs to a banker who’s been living in Kenya for the past two years.”
“Why did you do it?” Caitlin entered the foyer, her gaze traveling in wonder to the crystal chandelier glittering overhead. “You went to all this trouble for me?”
“I had my reasons. I told you, self-interest rules the world.”
“Alex Karazov, why can’t you just say it?” Caitlin put her hands on her hips and stared at him in exasperation. “Dammit, tell me you did it for me.”
A grin lit his face. “All right, I did it for you.” He started toward the staircase. “Partly.”
Caitlin chuckled and hurried to his side. “Mother of God, you’re stubborn.” She passed him and took the stairs two at a time to the second floor. “I wonder which room was Catherine’s?” She ran down the hall, throwing open the doors to the bedcham
bers. “I wish I’d paid more attention to her description of the house in the journal.”
“You mean you didn’t memorize it? Incredible. On the plane I thought you’d given me every detail page by page.”
“You don’t have to be sarcastic. If you had any respect for history or roots . . .”
“I’m not being sarcastic,” Alex said as he followed her down the hall. “I’m joking.”
“Oh, well, I don’t care if you’re sarcastic or not. What a wonderful thing to do—this room.” Caitlin paused in the doorway of a large bedchamber and hurried over to the window. “I think it must have been this room. It overlooks the garden. Catherine said her room overlooked the garden.” She threw open the casement window. “Could we use this room, Alex? Look at the view. We can see over the garden to all those lovely slate roofs. So typical of Paris, don’t you think?”
“I have no idea.” Alex set down the suitcases and came over to stand beside her at the window. “I’ve never been to Paris before.”
“You’ve never been—” She broke off as she turned to look at him in astonishment. “You live in Europe and you’ve never been to Paris?”
“I realize it’s sacrilege,” Alex said solemnly. “I haven’t gotten around to it.”
“You don’t ‘get around’ to Paris. You go on a pilgrimage.” Caitlin smiled exuberantly. “Never mind, I’ll show you everything. We’ll go for walks. Paris should always be seen on foot. I’ll show you the sidewalk café where I used to go after class and we’ll walk across the Pont de Sully.” Her eyes shone with eagerness. “You have to see Notre-Dame. The stained glass of the rose window is wonderful. And Saint-Antoine’s. That’s my favorite cathedral in all of Paris. And we’ll go to the Hôtel Carnavalet, where the Marquise de Sévigné—”
“Do you suppose we’ll have time to see Monsieur LeClerc in between all this sight-seeing? A meeting or two?”
Caitlin’s smile faded. “Of course, I realize that’s what we’re here for. I just thought we might . . . Perhaps you wouldn’t even like my Paris. I never had much money when I was a student and I don’t know any five-star restaurants or—”