Lucy Gordon: Miss Prim and the Billionaire

‘Nobody.’ She threw herself back on the bed and wriggled luxuriously. ‘But there’s something I do need, and I’m getting impatient.’

‘Your wish is my command,’ he said just before his mouth came down on hers, his hands explored her willing body, and they quickly became one.

Returning his love had been the greatest joy of her life, a joy that she knew instinctively could never be repeated. It had lasted a few months, then ended in cruelty.

Jake, a rich, powerful man with criminal connections, used to getting his own way, had made it plain that he wanted her. She’d told him he had no chance. He’d departed without a word, and she’d congratulated herself on having dealt with the situation.

Marcel had been away making a long-distance delivery. When he called she said nothing about Jake, not wanting to worry him. Time enough to tell him everything when he returned.

He never did return. On the evening she expected him the hours passed without a word. She tried to call, but his phone was dead. At last there was a knock on her door and there was Jake.

He thrust a photograph into her hands. It showed Marcel in bed, bloodied, bandaged and barely alive.

‘He had an accident,’ Jake said, smirking. ‘A van knocked him over in the street.’

‘Oh, heavens, I must go to him. Which hospital is he in?’

‘You don’t need to know that. You’re not going to see him again. Are you getting the message yet? I could have him killed in a moment, and I will if you don’t see sense. And don’t even try to find the hospital and visit him because I’ll know, and he’ll pay the price.’

He pointed to the picture. ‘A doctor who works there owes me a favour. She took this. I’m sure you don’t want him to suffer any more … misfortunes.’

She was left with the knowledge that not only was Marcel badly hurt and she could never see him again, but that he would think she had deserted him. That thought nearly destroyed her.

She risked writing him a letter, telling everything, swearing her love, begging him not to hate her, and slipped it through the door of his dingy apartment. He would find it when he returned from the hospital.

For days she waited, certain that Marcel would contact her, however briefly. But he never did, and the deafening silence blotted out the world. His phone stayed dead. In desperation, she called his landlady, who confirmed that she’d seen him arrive home and collect mail from the carpet.

‘Ask him to call me,’ she begged.

‘I can’t. He’s vanished, just packed his bags and left. I think he still has some family in France, so maybe he’s gone there. Or maybe not. His mobile phone’s dead and it’s like he never existed.’

But it was the other way around, she thought in agony. Marcel had wiped her out as though she’d never existed. Obviously he didn’t believe her explanation that she had done it for him. Or if he did believe, it made no difference. He hated her and he would not forgive.

Now his voice spoke in her memory.

‘It’s all or nothing with me, and with you it’s all, my beloved Cassie. Everything, always.’

And she’d responded eagerly, ‘Always, always—’ But he’d warned her, all or nothing. And now it was nothing.

Sitting in the hotel garden, she tried to understand what she’d just learned. The ‘poor boy’ with barely a penny had actually been the son of a vastly wealthy man. But perhaps he hadn’t known. He might have been illegitimate and only discovered his father later. She must try to believe that because otherwise their whole relationship had been based on a lie. The love and open-heartedness, so sweet between them, would have been an illusion.

She shivered.

It was time to flee before he found her. She couldn’t bear to meet him and see his eyes as he discovered her now, her looks gone. How he would gloat at her downfall, how triumphant he would be in his revenge.

But as she neared the building she saw that it was already too late. The glass door into the garden was opening. Marcel was there, and with him the receptionist, saying, ‘There’s the lady, sir. I was sure I saw her come out here. Mrs Henshaw, here is Mr Falcon.’

‘I’m sorry I kept you waiting,’ Marcel said smoothly.

‘No … it was my fault,’ she stammered. ‘I shouldn’t have come outside—’

‘I don’t blame you at all. It’s stifling in there, isn’t it? Why don’t we both sit out in the fresh air?’

He gestured towards the garden and she walked ahead, too dazed to do anything else.

He hadn’t reacted.

He hadn’t recognised her.

It might be the poor light. Twilight was settling, making everything fade into shadows, denying him a clear view of her face. That was a relief. It would give her time to take control of the situation.

But she was shaken with anguish as they reached a table and he pulled out a chair for her. He had loved her so much, and now he no longer recognised her.

‘What can I get you to drink?’ Marcel asked. ‘Champagne?’

‘Tonic water, please,’ she said. ‘I prefer to keep a clear head.’

‘You’re quite right. I’ll have the same since obviously I’d better keep a clear head too. Waiter!’

A stranger might be fooled by this, she thought wryly, but the young Marcel had had an awesome ability to imbibe cheap wine while losing none of his faculties. After a night of particular indulgence she’d once challenged him to prove that he was ‘up to it’. Whereupon he’d tossed her onto the bed, flung himself down beside her and proved it again and again, to the delight and hilarity of them both.

Hilarity? Yes. It had been a joy and a joke at the same time—exhausting each other, triumphing over each other, never knowing who was the winner, except that they both were.

‘Cassie, my sweet beloved, why do you tease me?’

‘To get you to do what I wanted, of course.’

‘And did I do it to your satisfaction?’

‘Let’s try again and I’ll let you know.’

‘You clearly believe that business comes before pleasure,’ he told her now in a voice that the years hadn’t changed. He spoke English well, but with the barest hint of a French accent that had always enchanted her.

How many women, she wondered, had been enchanted by it since?

‘Smith recommended you to me in the highest possible terms,’ Marcel continued. ‘He said nobody knew as much about my new property as you.’

‘I hope I can live up to Mr Smith’s praise,’ she said primly.

‘I’m sure you will.’ His reply was courteous and mechanical.

‘Do you mean to make the hotel similar to La Couronne?’

‘I see you’ve been doing your homework. Excellent. There will be similarities. I aim to provide many facilities, like a conference centre.’

‘I wonder if the building is big enough for that.’

‘I agree. There will need to be expansion. I want the best firm of builders you can recommend.’

For a while he continued to talk about his plans, which were ambitious, and she made notes, not even raising her head when the waiter appeared with their tonic water.

Her hand, and one part of her brain, were working automatically. There was nothing in him to suggest recognition, no tension, no brightening of the eyes. His oblivion was so total that she even wondered if she was mistaken and he wasn’t her Marcel after all. But when she stole a sideways glance she knew there had been no mistake. The shape of his head, the curve of his lips, the darkness of his eyes; all these she knew, even at a distance of years.

This was her Marcel.

Yet no longer hers.

And no longer really Marcel.

The same was true of her. Cassie was gone for ever and only Mrs Henshaw remained.