Lovers and Liars Trilogy by Sally Beauman
“I did what? That’s not true—I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Gini fought to control her voice; she had begun to tremble, and she could sense it, some vile revelation, very close. “You’ve been listening to lies—someone’s cheap lies—”
“No, I haven’t.” His voice rose. “I don’t damned well listen to gossip and rumor. Lamartine made a deal with Max. I know that for a fact. Max wanted Lamartine’s photographs—and when Lamartine made your presence a condition of working for us, Max gave in. He’d never have sent you out there otherwise. And judging from your present behavior, Max was right. You’re erratic, and untrustworthy, and—”
“Pascal wouldn’t do that!” She heard her own protest echo into the telephone. Her voice had risen, and was unsteady. Tears had sprung to her eyes. “How can you say that? How dare you say that? You know nothing about me. Nothing about Pascal. Pascal would never make conditions of that kind. Unlike you, he’s a professional.”
That stung him; there was a sharp intake of breath.
“Yes. Well, no doubt you were persuasive when you put him up to it. You were persuasive with me. I’ll say this for you, Gini, you put on a good act.”
“You bastard. You lying, sanctimonious bastard. I—”
She stopped. She was listening to the dial tone. At the second adjective McGuire had hung up.
Gini replaced the receiver. She was trembling from head to foot. It could not be true, she told herself. Pascal would never deceive her like that.
Then, the next second, she knew it could be true. She could remember the afternoon he had set off for his private meeting with Max. She could remember his quiet elation when he returned, and the negligent way in which he had said that it had been a good meeting, but nothing was finalized yet. He and Max had been circumspect. Her terms had finally been met four days later, Pascal’s signed and sealed two days after that. She could not decide which she minded more, the fact that Pascal could, out of love, misinterpret her own wishes so disastrously, that he could lie and then continue to lie for more than six months—or the fact that, as Rowland McGuire had been quick to point out, she had overestimated her own worth.
Her own abilities, her experience, her years of fighting to get just such an assignment, had counted for nothing. She’d been sent out there as Pascal’s girl, as a price paid with reluctance to secure his services. She felt the most acute and painful humiliation. How many other people were privy to this? Had they all known, the other reporters, the editors in features and news, the assistants, the secretaries? Had they all been as scornful as McGuire? Had they all been gossiping, and laughing behind her back?
Her first impulse was to reach for the telephone, to call Pascal, demand the truth. But as she reached for the machine, humiliation and shame receded and anger flooded back. She felt rage against Max, bland, amusing Max, who had said one thing and thought another. She felt the most bitter rage against Rowland McGuire, who jumped to the wrong conclusions, put two and two together and made six, who had been prejudiced against her, she now saw, from the very beginning, and who had just addressed her with such contempt.
He might think she was just going to drop this story, crawl meekly back to London and hide her head: well, he was wrong. Every major lead on this story with the exception of Mitchell had come from her. It was she who had persuaded Mitchell to talk, she who had won Fricke’s confidence, and she who had the Paris lead now. She thought of Erica van der Leyden that afternoon—the way in which Anneke’s mother had clasped her hands. That female exchange was far greater validation than any Rowland McGuire could provide; she had no intention of stopping now. Think, act, move, she said to herself. A quick future image of McGuire sprang into her mind. She saw him contrite; she saw him take back everything he had just said. But this little glimpse of a possible future disturbed her, and she pushed it aside at once. She had spent too much of her past life seeking her father’s approval; she did not intend seeking McGuire’s.
She loathed him, she told herself. She did not care one jot how the man reacted. She had nothing to prove to him; she was her own arbiter, proving her worth and her ability to no one but herself.
Without further hesitation she called the front desk and told them to book her on the next flight to Paris. There was one in forty-five minutes. If she hurried, she could catch it. This hotel, part of a large group, also had a branch in Paris. “Fax through a reservation for me, will you?” Gini said. But there she met her first hitch. Unfortunately, that would not be possible, the clerk explained. They had already had this problem earlier: not only their sister hotel, but every other major hotel in Paris was fully booked.
“You see,” said the clerk, “it’s the collections. They start tomorrow, and of course—”
“Forget it,” Gini said. “I’ll fix it myself.”
She dialed the St. Vincent hotel in Paris, where she knew Lindsay and her staff would be occupying several rooms and suites for the duration of the collections. She could not get Lindsay, who was out. After being transferred from phone to phone, and at the point when she was about to hang up, she finally reached Lindsay’s assistant, Pixie: Pixie, who was usually so ebullient and efficient, but who now sounded frantic, inattentive, and distressed. Gini could hear telephones ringing in the background; the noise of people and conversations and running feet. She began to explain her predicament, then stopped.
She realized Pixie was crying.
“I’ll try,” Pixie was saying. “I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise. Hang on—I’m coming. I’m sorry, Gini—Max is on the other line. I’m trying to find Lindsay; she’s out with Markov, and she doesn’t even know yet. It only just came through on the wires. It’s pandemonium here. I don’t know why I’m reacting this way. After all, I never knew her. But I felt as if I did, and—”
“What’s happened, Pixie?”
“You mean you don’t know? I thought that must be why you were calling—”
“What’s happened?”
“It’s Maria Cazarès. She’s dead.”
Chapter 13
GINI RACED FOR THE airport. She caught her plane with five minutes to spare, and it was not until it was airborne that she had time to think. Pixie had known no further details, not how Cazarès died, or where, just that she was dead, had died earlier that day and that it was natural causes—or that seemed to be the case.
“I’ll do my best about the room,” she had finished, “but you can imagine, Gini, right?”
Gini could imagine only too well. She could imagine what might or might not have caused this sudden death; she could imagine the immediate consequences. A second circus would be coming to town. From America, from Britain, from all over Europe: when legends die, the jackals move in.
Her flight left on time; every ten minutes Gini checked her watch. Half an hour to landing, twenty minutes to landing. She had only hand luggage. With luck, she could be in a taxi and at the St. Vincent within thirty minutes of clearing customs.
Then the problems began. They were stacked over Charles de Gaulle airport. When she finally reached the taxi stand, there was a long line. The trip from the airport was slow, the center of Paris gridlocked with traffic. She ran up the steps of the St. Vincent, into its huge marble-floored lobby. There she stopped dead.
Rowland McGuire had been luckier, it seemed. He rose to his feet as she entered. As she attempted to walk straight past him, he blocked her path. He then took her arm.
“What kept you?” he said.
Gini gave him a furious look; she struggled to free herself.
“Don’t you touch me,” she began. “Just get out of my way.”
“Let’s not waste time,” he said, tightening his grip and propelling her toward the elevator. “I suggest we go straight up to our room.”
“What did you just say?”
“Our room. It has three phone lines and two faxes. It’s a suite. One bed and one couch. Since I’m a gentleman, I’ll take the couch.”
“Let go of my a
“—Besides, neither of us will be getting much sleep. The French press has a head start, and I intend to catch up. Press eight.”
“Go to hell.”
“Along the corridor. First door on the right. That’s it. You like it? It’s the last available room of its kind in Paris. It’s cost the Correspondent six thousand francs above rates. When in doubt, bribe. Now…” He closed the door. “I would like you to listen to me.”
“Let me out of this room.” Gini rounded on him, her face white with anger and distress. “You think I’d work with you now? After what you said to me? Just get out of my way. I don’t want to work with you, I don’t want to be in the same room with you.”
“Maybe. But you’re going to hear me out.”
“The hell I am. I remember what you said. You damn near accused me of being a whore.”
“I never used that word.”
“Don’t lie. It’s what you meant.”
“Possibly. My phrasing was more tactful, I think.”
Gini smacked him hard across the face. She had to reach up to do it, but she hit him with her full strength. The blow left a mark across his cheek. Tears had sprung to her eyes. She drew back, shaking, fighting to control her voice.
“You think I work like that? You think I operate that way? Well, I don’t. I never have—never. I despise women who do that. I fought for years to get an assignment like that. I care about the stories I work on. I tried to cure myself of that in Bosnia because I thought I couldn’t do my work and care—but I’m not cured. And now I don’t want to be. I’m going to find Mina Landis—and I don’t need your help. I’m going to find her because—”
She broke off with an angry gesture of the hands. “… because I talked to Anneke’s mother, and… she wept. You wouldn’t understand. But I care, Rowland, I care very much about that.”
Her voice had risen, and the emotion she felt was so strong, she could scarcely speak. Furious that Rowland McGuire, of all people, should see her like this, she began to push past him.
“Just get out of my way, Rowland. I have nothing else to say to you. Let me out of this room.”
“No,” he said in a perfectly level voice. “I won’t do that. I’m not even sure I could do that.”
“What?” Gini said, and then she stopped. Suddenly she began to see Rowland McGuire, really see him. It was as if a camera changed focus, from long shot to close-up. One minute he was faceless, blurred, just a tall shape between her and the door; the next, she could see the man himself. He was wearing an overcoat, one of his usual old tweed suits, a white shirt with the top button undone, and a green tie with the knot loose. Earlier, manhandling her into the elevator, he had seemed dourly amused; he did not seem amused now, or angry, or resentful of the fact that she had just slapped his face.
She could see the mark her palm had left across his cheekbone, a red weal that emphasized his pallor and the set determination in his face. He was regarding her with absolute seriousness, his green eyes resting unwaveringly on her face. His hands were by his sides; he appeared simultaneously relaxed and intent. She glanced down, weighing her chances of pushing past him, then looked up, met that intent green stare—and sensed the danger at once.
They were standing very close to each other, their eyes locked. At that moment, when she was least expecting it, out of antagonism, haste, and furious anger, she felt something arc between them that was none of these things, a sexual message so sharp she gave an involuntary intake of breath.
She felt it pulse through her own mind, she saw it reflect the same instant in his face. She saw a deeper concentration come into his eyes, and then a surprise—as if he had expected this, foreseen this, as little as she had. In the same moment, again with unspoken accord, they each stepped back.
Gini looked at the door, which was shut but unlocked. Rowland McGuire had moved to one side, so to leave would have been simple. She took a step toward the door, then hesitated. Rowland put a hand on her arm, then instantly withdrew it. Gini realized her anger had gone. There was still noise, turmoil, in her head, but it was of a different kind.
“How did you know I was coming here?” she asked in a quieter voice.
“I called your hotel in Amsterdam. They told me you’d left for Paris. I called about fifteen minutes after you left.” His eyes never left her face. “I called from my car, on the way to the airport. I was already on my way here. Someone had to cover this. I had fired you. I was the only other person with the necessary background. I was going to apologize. Ask you to join me here. I wanted—” He hesitated. “The hotel told me you’d had difficulty obtaining a room in Paris. I guessed you’d have tried to contact Lindsay, so I called here. It wasn’t difficult to track you down. I knew which flight you’d taken. So, I got here. Found the room. Made some calls. Waited.”
“When did you hear about Maria Cazarès?”
“For certain? About five minutes after we spoke. I first heard the rumor about an hour before from a journalist friend here. He phoned back to confirm just after I hung up on you. Confirmation came through on the wires about five minutes after that.”
“So you’d heard a rumor she might be dead before we spoke?”
“Yes. I had. Plus I’d had two very difficult conversations with my source in Amsterdam. That was the timing. It isn’t an excuse.”
There was a silence. Gini could sense an emotion that was at variance with the calm precision of his speech. She hesitated.
“What made you want to apologize?”
“I realized how badly I’d behaved.”
He paused, his face suddenly troubled. Gini, who had known the instant she asked the question that it would have been safer unvoiced, prayed he would not answer it more fully. She was about to interrupt him, when he spoke.
“I want you to know,” he went on in a deliberate way, “I am ashamed of what I said. Not only because I was wrong—on two counts. Also, because I lost my temper and I said things there’s no reason you should forgive.” He hesitated, and she could sense his struggle. “Despite what people say about me, I very rarely lose control to that degree. I now see, of course, why I did.”
Gini admired him then. His gaze did not waver as he made this admission—and no woman could have misunderstood what he meant. His meaning was absolutely clear in his expression and tone. It might be an understated declaration, but a declaration it was. It was characteristic of him, she suspected, to phrase it in such a way, so she could ignore this revelation, or, with equal directness to his, respond.
She stared at him, unable to break his gaze. She knew that if he spoke again, if he tried to make his statement more explicit, she would be free. She could walk past him then, go out that door. She waited; he did not speak—but the silence in the room did.
She could feel the danger acutely now, the threat of the next, the threat of the unforeseen, the possibility just around the corner of her as-yet-unmade response. She could feel time picking up speed. The second or two it took her to make her reply was freight-train fast, freight-train loud. She had a brief and confused sensation that she, and he, were passengers here. One wrong word, one wrong gesture, and they’d both be getting on a train there was no getting off.
“It wasn’t true, what you said,” she said. “About the Antica. About Pascal…”
And she thought, for an instant, she was safe. She had bypassed his declaration, and she saw his mouth tighten as he registered that. She had used Pascal’s name, which should, under these circumstances, have made her entirely secure; instead, the use of his name had a very opposite effect. Rather than carrying a charmed strength, it was suddenly weak: with it came a tide of uncertainties and unhappiness, all those months of loneliness and misery, of waking alone, and sleeping alone, and walking alone through London streets. It was no protection at all from this acute and unexpected sexual awareness, an awareness that sent a charge through every nerve in her body so she could scarcely think for a need to be touched.
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He did not argue with that lie; he said nothing at all. He took her hand and drew her against him gently. He looked down at the tears on her face, then held her still against him in a gentle embrace. After so many weeks of abstinence, the shock of a man’s body, and a man’s embrace, was intense. She let her face rest against the muscles of his chest; she listened to the beating of his heart. She felt a sense of protection, and then of need. The body could be starved of affection as much as the mind, and for a short while just to be held, and be held by a man, gave her relief. She felt as if she had been struggling so long, fighting herself for so long, and now—suddenly—she was released.
Then it began to steal upon her, the realization that this was not just any man, and not a neutral embrace. It was a particular man, strong, a little taller than Pascal, a man whose body, touch, manner of holding, were new to her. She realized that her breasts were pressed against his chest, that he was becoming aroused, that one of his hands rested in the small of her back, exerting no pressure as yet.
Behind her in this room which she had scarcely looked at when she entered it less than ten minutes before, a telephone had begun ringing. She had a confused sense that it might be for either of them, and that if it was for her, someone was trying to reach another woman, leading some previous life. She let it ring, and Rowland let it ring, five times, six.
He rested his hand against her throat, then lifted her face to his. She met his steady, green, intelligent gaze: a man who could indeed be impetuous, a man who was more than prepared, when he judged it necessary, to take risks. She felt him stir against her, and a tremor of response ran through her own body. Even then, when she knew they could both sense consequences, repercussions, when the noise of them was so loud in her head that she could scarcely think, even then he was scrupulous, and he gave her a choice.