Danielle Steel - Crossings

When Johnny went out to play, Nick walked into the library with a solemn face. He asked the operator for the Hotel Carlton in Cannes. It was time to bring back his wife, no matter how little she'd like that.

They paged her at the pool, and suggested he call back later. But Nick was insistent with the operator at the hotel. If she was anywhere in the hotel, he wanted her found, and at last they found her, in someone's room, he suspected, but he didn't give a damn. Whatever else she was, she was his son's mother, and he wanted her back in Paris, in case something drastic happened in France.

“Sorry to bother you, Hil.”

“Is something wrong?” The thought instantly crossed her mind that something had happened to Johnny, and as she walked naked across Philip Markham's room, holding the phone, her face wore a nervous expression. She glanced guiltily at him over her shoulder and then turned away as she waited for Nick's answer.

“Have you read the papers yesterday or today?”

“You mean that thing about the Germans and the Russians?”

“Yes, that's exactly what I mean.”

“Oh, for chrissake, Nick. I thought something had happened to Johnny.” She almost sighed with relief as she sat down on a chair and Philip began to stroke her leg as she smiled at him.

“He's fine. But I want you to come home.”

“You mean now?”

“Yes. That's exactly what I mean.”

“Why? I was coming home next week anyway.”

“That may not be soon enough.”

“For what?” She thought he was being a nervous fool, and she laughed as she watched Philip make funny faces and make obscene gestures as he returned to their freshly rumpled bed.

“I think there's going to be a war. They're mobilizing the French army, and things are liable to explode any day.”

“It won't happen as quick as that.” She had been nervous about it before they left New York, but now she had other pursuits in Cannes and the possibility of war seemed very remote to her.

“I don't want to argue with you, Hillary. I'm telling you to come home. Now!” He raised his voice as he pounded the desk, and as he attempted to control his voice he realized that he was afraid, for her as well as their son. He had thought that a war in Europe was at least a year away. He had never intended to expose his family to danger over here, and now he was suddenly desperately sorry that they had come with him. “Hillary, please … I've just been in Berlin. I know what I'm saying. Trust me for once. I want you back here in Paris if anything happens.”

“Don't be so nervous, for chrissake. I'll be home next week.” And as she said it she accepted a glass of champagne from Philip.

“Do I have to come down there and get you myself?”

“Would you do that?” Her voice on the phone sounded surprised, and he nodded as he watched Johnny playing in the garden.

“Yes, I would.”

“All right. I'll see what I can arrange. I'm giving a dinner party tonight for a few friends, and—”

“Never mind that. I'm telling you, damn it, get your ass on the next train to Paris.”

“And I'm telling you that I'm giving a dinner party—” But he cut her off before she could finish her sentence.

“Look, if you won't listen to reason from me, damn you, tell that Markham bastard to bring you home. Come home with him if you want, but you have a child here and the country is about to go to war. Just get your goddamn ass back here!”

“Just what the hell do you mean?” Her voice trembled as she asked. It was the first time Nick had ever mentioned Philip, and she hadn't realized that he had known. The embarrassment of that only served to fan her fury.

“Hillary, I told you why I called. I have nothing else to say.” His voice sounded tired on the phone.

“I want you to explain what you just said.” She had set down the glass of champagne and was sitting up very straight on the bed next to Philip.

“I'm not going to explain a goddamn thing. You heard me. I'll expect to see you here in the next couple of days.” And with that he hung up, and she sat staring at the empty phone.

“What was that all about?” Philip Markham was watching the look on her face, and he knew instantly. “Does he know about us?”

“Apparently.” She stared at him.

“Was he angry?”

“Not at all, or not much anyway. He's just mad that I don't want to come home yet. He's convinced that the whole country is going to explode in the next few days.” She took a sip of champagne and glanced at the man who had been her lover the past two months. He suited her very well. He was every bit as spoiled and decadent and hedonistic as she was.

“He may be right, you know. There was a lot of talk about it last night on the Croisette.”

“Oh, the goddamn nervous French. Anyway, if there's a war, I'm taking my ass home. And not to Paris. I mean Boston or New York.”

“If you can get there, my friend. Does he want to go back now?”

“I don't know. He didn't say. He just wants me in Paris with our son.”

“You know, you're probably safer here. Hell, if the Germans bomb anything, they'll be sure to hit Paris first.”

“That's a comforting thought.” His sarcasm didn't ease her fear. She looked pensive for a moment and held out her glass for more champagne. “Do you think I should go back?”

He leaned over and kissed the cleft between her breasts. “Eventually, pretty girl. But not just yet.” He devoured one nipple gently with his lips, and as she leaned back against the bed she forgot everything that Nick had said to her on the phone. It was only later, as she lay on the beach outside the hotel, that she thought about it again, and some deep inner instinct told her that she should go home. She told Markham about it as they dressed for the dinner party they were giving, and he shrugged with a relaxed air. “I'll get you home in a few days. Not to worry, love.”

“And after that?” She was combing her hair as she asked. It was the first time she had asked him that kind of question, and he looked at her now in surprise.

“Do we have to worry about that?”

“I'm not worried, I'm just asking. Will you stay in Paris with me for a while?” Her voice almost cooed as he watched her, but his face broke into a broad grin.

“Wouldn't Nick Burnham just love that!”

“I don't mean at the house, you ass. You can stay at the Ritz or the George Cinq. But you don't have to rush home yet.” He lived off the income his mother gave him, and everyone knew he was a playboy. He made no secret of it, but he also made no secret of the fact that he was no longer looking to get permanently attached. Four ex-wives had cost him dearly, and he was no longer shopping for a fifth one. But for those purposes, Hillary was perfect. She was already married and she had long since told him that marriage didn't suit her, which made him all the more surprised by the worried look he saw in her eyes now.

“You haven't fallen in love with me, have you?” There was a devil-may-care attitude about him, and it was that that appealed to her so much. He wasn't a tame one she could have for the asking, like Nick. He made her sweat for it, and she liked that. He was the first man who had openly and lovingly called her a little bitch. “I'm a dangerous man for a woman to love, pretty girl. Ask any woman. Hell”—he laughed at his own joke—“ask any man.” He had stolen plenty of wives from his cronies.

“I don't need to. I know what you are. And you're as rotten as I am.”

“Good.” He pulled her gently backward by her hair and kissed her mouth and then bit it. “Then maybe we deserve each other.” He didn't want to admit it to her, but he was more taken with her than he had planned to be. He had thought in New York that it would be an amusing affair for the summer. She had almost openly invited him to meet her in France. But she had thought then that she couldn't have him, and it intrigued them both that having spent the summer with him she still wanted him now. “Maybe I will stay in Paris for a while.” The idea of a month at the George V pleased him, and he wasn't really worried about a war. “Tell you what, I'll drive you up myself the first of next week. Will that do, or do you think Nick will come racing down here for you before that?”