Danielle Steel - Honor Thyself

“What does it look like?”

“I don't know, I can't remember,” Carole said in a small voice, as another voice in the room answered for her.

“It was a small house in a courtyard, with a garden, and beautiful windows. It had a mansard roof, and oeil de boeuf windows on the top floor.” It was Matthieu, standing near her bed, looking fierce. She looked up at him in tears, not wanting to see him, and yet relieved at the same time. She was confused, and he looked past her at the doctor on the other side of the bed.

“What happened here?” he asked in a booming voice. “Where was the guard?”

“There was a misunderstanding. He went out to lunch and so did the nurse. His relief never came.” The doctor looked distressed in the face of Matthieu's fury, which was justified.

“And he left her alone?” he snapped at her.

“I'm sorry, monsieur le Ministre , it won't happen again.” Her voice was ice-cold. As impressive as he was, Matthieu de Billancourt didn't frighten her. She was only worried about her patient, and the horror that could have happened to her at the young Arab's hands.

“That boy came to kill her. He was one of the terrorists who bombed the tunnel. He must have seen that stupid article in the paper yesterday about her memory coming back. I want two guards on her door now, day and night.” He had no authority in the hospital whatsoever, but even the doctor knew that what he was saying made sense. “And if you can't defend her properly, send her back to the hotel.”

“I'll take care of it,” the doctor reassured him, and almost before she could say the words, the head of the hospital walked in. Matthieu had summoned him immediately, as soon as he saw the boy being led out in handcuffs and the police told him what had happened. Matthieu had run up the stairs to Carole's room. He had been coming to visit her. And he had raised hell when he discovered what the boy had almost done. If she hadn't been able to reach the bell, she would have been dead.

The head of the hospital asked Carole if she was all right, in broken English, and he bustled out again a minute later to bang some heads. The last thing they needed was an American movie star being murdered in their hospital. It would make for some very bad press.

The doctor left again then, with a warm smile at Carole, and a cool glance at Matthieu. She didn't like being told what to do by laymen, whether retired ministers or not, although in this case she knew he was right. Carole had very nearly been killed. It was a miracle that the boy hadn't succeeded in his mission. If he had found her asleep, he would have. A dozen ugly scenarios came to mind.

Matthieu sat down in the chair next to her bed and patted her hand, and then he looked at her with a gentle expression that had nothing to do with the way he had spoken to the hospital personnel. He had been outraged at how badly they had protected her. She could so easily have been killed. He thanked God she hadn't.

“I was planning to come to see you today,” he said softly. “Would you like me to leave? You don't look well.”

She shook her head in answer.

“I have a cold,” she said, looking into his eyes. She felt a jolt of recognition gazing into them. They were eyes she had once loved. She didn't remember the details of what had happened between them, and she wasn't sure she wanted to, but she remembered both tenderness and pain, and a feeling of intense passion. She was still shaking from the shock of the incident that had just occurred. She had been terrified. But something about him made her feel protected and safe. He was a powerful man, in many ways.

“Would you like a cup of tea, Carole?” She nodded yes. There was a thermos of hot water in the room, and a box of the teabags she liked. Stevie had brought them from the hotel and left them for her. He made it just the way she liked it, not too strong and not too weak. He handed the mug to her, and she took it, sitting up on one elbow. They were alone in the room. The nurse had stayed outside, knowing who was in the room. If nothing else, she was in good hands, and she was in no medical danger now. The nurse was there for her comfort, not due to any dire need. “Do you mind if I have a cup too?” She shook her head, and he went to make himself a mug of the same tea. She remembered then that he was the one who had first given it to her. They had always drunk that tea together.

“I've been thinking a lot about you,” he said to her after a sip of the vanilla tea. Carole hadn't said a word. She was too frightened by what had just happened.

“I've been thinking about you too,” she admitted. “I don't know why, but I have. I've been trying to remember, but I just can't.” Some things had come back to her, but nothing about him. No details. She only remembered his eyes and that she had loved him. That was all. She still didn't know who he was, or why everyone jumped to attention when he approached. More important, she didn't remember living with him, or what their life together had been like, except for the tea, just now. She had the feeling that he had made tea for her before. Many times. At breakfast, at a kitchen table where sunlight poured into the room.

“Do you remember how we met?” She shook her head. She felt a little better after the tea. She put the empty mug on the table and lay down again. He was sitting very near her, but she didn't mind. She felt safe next to him. She didn't want to be alone. “We met while you were making the movie about Marie Antoinette. There was a reception at the Quai d'Orsay, given by the Minister of Culture. He was an old friend of mine, and he insisted that I come. I didn't want to. I had something else to do that night, but he made such a fuss about it that I went. And you were there. You looked staggeringly beautiful. You had just come off the set, and you were still in costume. I'll never forget it. Marie Antoinette never looked anything like that.” Carole smiled at the memory. She vaguely remembered it now, the costume, and a spectacular painted ceiling at the Quai d'Orsay. She didn't remember him.

“It was spring. You had to go back to the set afterward and return the costume. I took you there, and after you changed, we went for a walk along the Seine. We sat by the river, on the dock, and talked for a long time. I felt as though the sky had fallen in on me, and you said you did too.” He smiled at the memory, and their eyes met again.

“It was a coup de foudre,” she said in a whisper. They had been his words after that first night … coup de foudre… bolt of lightning… love at first sight. She remembered his words, but not what had happened next.

“We talked for many hours. We stayed awake until you had to be back at the set at five that morning. It was the most exciting night of my life. You told me about your husband leaving you for another woman. She was very young, as I recall. Russian, I think. She was having his baby. You were devastated, we talked about it for hours. I think you truly loved him.” She nodded. She had gotten the same impression from Jason. It was strange, having to rely on all these people to tell her how she had felt. She had no recollection of it herself. Not with Jason. But she was beginning to recall some things about Matthieu, not so much events as feelings. She could remember loving him, and the excitement of that first night.

She vaguely remembered going back to the set, without having slept. But she didn't know how he had looked at the time. In fact, he had changed very little, except for the white hair. It had been dark then, almost black. He had been fifty when they met, and one of the most powerful men in France. Most people had been afraid of him. She never had been. He had never frightened her. He had loved her too much for that. All he had wanted to do was protect her, as he did now. He didn't want anyone to harm her. She could feel that now, as he sat close to her, talking about the past.