Jacqueline Baird - Passionate Betrayal

CHAPTER ONE THE small red car raced up the gravelled drive and screeched to a halt at the foot of the massive stone steps that led to the impressive entrance door of the Chateau Doumerque. Early September in the Vendee, and the late summer sun shone out of a clear blue sky, turning the grey stones to silver, transforming ' Le Petit Chateau', as it was locally known, into something straight out of a fairy-tale. The young woman who leapt out of the car, with more haste than elegance, appeared to be immune to the beauty of her surroundings. Dressed as she was in brief white shorts and a T shirt, her tangled red hair trailed behind her like some medieval banner, her long legs a flash of gold as she took the steps two at a time and disappeared inside the lovely old building. She was late, very late, but it had been one of those days, she thought, cursing beneath her breath in voluble French. The luncheon party held by one of her grandpapa's employees had turned into a riotous beach party at Les Sables d'Olonne.

Not her sort of thing at all, and being half drowned by an over exuberant eighteen-year-old boy hadn't helped. The final straw had been the puncture on the way home. 'Mariewhere have you been? You are lateyour grandpapa will be arriving any minute.' The admonishing tone in the brisk demand was obvious. Marie skidded to a halt on the polished marble floor of the entrance hall, and bestowed her most beguiling smile on the worried-looking elderly lady blocking her path. 'I know, Anna, I know ... Blame it on a puncture, and hold the fort until I have a chance to get changed, please, Anna!' Not waiting for an answer, she deftly side-stepped around the housekeeper and raced through the main salon, plus a further couple of reception-rooms, before she finally reached the foot of the west tower staircase.

Marie had fallen in love with the chateau at first sight, as a nervous seventeen-year-old, and now, seven years later, she still adored it. It was the only real home she had ever known, but the exclusion of a central staircase was a definite drawback, she thought ruefully as, slightly out of breath, she reached the long gallery on the first floor. She turned her back on the gallery and quickly ascended a much narrower spiral staircase to the top of the tower, and her own private domain. Years ago, when her mother and Tante Celeste were girls, Grandmama Doumerque had arranged the renovation of the east and west tower rooms into two self-contained suites. Marie pushed open the heavy oak door, and let it slam back behind her. The large, circular room had been divided in two.

The front semicircle was the bedroom with long windows overlooking the entrance to the chateau, and the remaining semicircle was dissected again to form a small study and a rather elegant, if now somewhat dated, bathroom. She crossed her study with a brief glance at her desk, and opening her bedroom door she sighed with relief; the sense of peace she felt at reaching her own private eyrie had a calming effect on her taut nerves. Kicking off her sandals and stripping off her T-shirt, she hopped one-legged into the bathroom, trying to remove her shorts. In seconds she was naked, and shoving her long hair unceremoniously on top of her head she pulled on a shower-cap and, turning on the shower, stepped gratefully beneath its soothing spray. Marie hated to be late for anything or anyone; she was a stickler for convention, almost obsessive about it, but with good reason. Her formative years had been spent roaming around England with her French mother and English fathernot that she had been allowed to call him Father, he had preferred Tom.

Her parents had delighted in telling her that they had met in Paris in the Sixties. Her mother had been studying at the Sorbonne and her father had been studying art. They had been so wrapped up in their own ideals that they had never recognised how bitterly their young daughter resented their free and easy lifestyle. Even now, as a mature woman, it still made her blood boil when she saw a television documentary, or read an article, elegising the glorious Sixties. There was never any mention of how the children of these totally self-absorbed parents felt, but she knew from personal experience... Tom had spent his life fighting authority, and, when he wasn't saving the seals, the white rhino, the whales or the world, he'd preached peace and love for everyone, while as his daughter she would have preferred him to love her, individually, a little more.

She had watched her beautiful mother slowly develop an addiction to supposedly harmless drugs. What a joke ... All the old resentment churned in her stomach as she remembered her mother, out of touch with reality. Marie turned off the water and jumped out of the shower. Wrapping a large fluffy towel around her body, she returned to the bedroom, deliberately blanking out the painful memories of the past. From an antique marquetry chest of drawers she extracted lacy briefs and a matching bra, and with a minimum of thought she withdrew a stylish buttercup silk halter-necked dress from an elegant old mahogany wardrobe.

In minutes, she was fully clothed again. She grimaced at her reflection as she sat down at the dressing-table. With a sigh, she picked up a comb and began the tedious task of trying to comb the tangles along with a good deal of sand from her long red hair. Finally she managed to pin it up into some semblance of a chignon, although wayward wisps of curls framed her face and trailed the nape of her neck. She carefully applied a moisturiser to her lightly tanned skin, a flick of mascara on her long lashes, a touch of lipstick and she was ready. She stood up and tightened the belt of her dress firmly around her narrow waist, unconsciously chewing her lower lip in a nervous gesture.

She had felt uneasy ever since her grandpapa's phone call last night, informing her that he was bringing an English guest home. There was no reason for it, but somehow she could not shake the feeling of impending doom. With a very Gallic shrug of her slender shoulders, Marie told herself to stop being so silly. Her grandpapa had been staying with Tante Celeste and Jacques at their stud farm in Normandy, some twenty miles from Deauville. According to Grandpapa the haut monde always went to Deauville late in August. She had been a few times herself and she had to admit he was probably right.

The race-track was magnificent and the wealthy and elegant paraded there with more style than any thoroughbred racehorse. It was said Prince Charles in his bachelor days had been a frequent visitor to the town. The sound of a car arriving interrupted her wayward thoughts, and she crossed to the long window overlooking the forecourt. Her full lips curved in a fond smile as she watched her aunt and uncle alight from their Range Rover. They were a lovely couple, and their young daughter Janine had been the inspiration for Marie's venture into writing and the subsequent publication of her first children's book. Marie raised her hand to wave, but never completed the gesture as her attention was caught by the two men alighting from the second vehicle, a gleaming metallic grey Jaguar.

Her grandpapa, still a fine figure of a man for all his seventy odd years, looked remarkably happy, his handsome face covered in a broad grin as he listened appreciatively to something his companion was saying, but it was the other man who caused Marie's fingers to curl convulsively into the velvet window drape, her knuckles gleaming white with the force of her grip. She stood as though turned to stone, her horrified gaze fixed upon the tall, broad-shouldered stranger. It could not be ...she told herselfit must be a trick of the light... The late afternoon sun cast a silver halo around the man's head as he turned and with a few lithe strides reached the boot of the car and, opening it, withdrew a smart leather suitcase. He straightened to his full height, something over six feet, and with a toss of his proud head, like some predatory animal scenting the air, he strolled to the entrance steps and stopped, a foot on the first step. She could see his profile clearly, and fear along with a host of other emotions widened her topaz eyes.