The Garden Of Dreams

‘At Fontaine House.’

‘Fontaine Fabrics?’ Lissa gasped.

‘That is correct, mademoiselle. You know the company?’

‘I’ve heard of it, of course, monsieur. Who hasn’t? And of course the designs are often featured in our magazines. They’re gorgeous, but I’m afraid the price puts them out of my range. Working girls and Fontaine Fabrics don’t go together, I’m afraid.’

‘It is true we supply mainly to couture houses,’ he agreed. ‘After all, if our fabrics were to be put on to the mass market, they would no longer have that exclusive quality which is their main value. However, we are not indifferent to the demands of this market, and we have certain plans, although I would have thought in many ways it was plentifully supplied already.’

He reached down and touched a fold of chiffon peeping from her velvet coat. ‘This design is most charming, par exemple.’

‘You surprise me, monsieur. I didn’t think you had noticed.’ Now why did I say that? Lissa wondered miserably, and waited to be swept by another icy blast.

‘You are mistaken, mademoiselle. You will find that I miss very little.’ His voice was almost affable, but his expression was as grim as ever.

It was almost as if he was warning her about something. But what? They were complete strangers, and if there was any justice or mercy, they would never meet again after this evening, so what could be prompting his extraordinary attitude?

And Paul? She bit back a smile. What would he make of her sardonic companion? Just shrug, probably, and order some champagne.

The car drew smoothly and noiselessly to a halt and the door was opened by a commissionaire. Lissa was helped out and conducted through wide glass doors into an enormous tiled foyer, empty but for a huge white reception desk, holding several telephones and the latest in switchboard and intercom systems. The decor was bare to the point of austerity, the plain white walls relieved only by what Lissa at first took to be very good abstract paintings, but what she realised were actually framed prints of some of Fontaines’ most successful designs.

Monsieur Denis guided her past the lift, his hand firmly gripping her elbow. Lissa was acutely conscious of his touch for a reason she could not have explained even to herself.

‘The party is being held on the mezzanine,’ he explained. ‘You do not object to climbing a few stairs?’

‘Of course not.’

At the top of the short flight, a white quilted door faced them. Monsieur Denis held it open for her to pass through and they came into a gallery crowded with people. The party seemed to be in full swing, and laughter and chatter ebbed and flowed on all sides, with the chinking of glasses. Deft-footed waiters carried trays of glasses and canapés between the chattering groups of people.

‘May I take your coat, madam?’ A smiling woman in a black dress appeared at her elbow.

‘Thank you.’ Lissa undid the clasps, and was immediately aware of whose hands were slipping the coat from her shoulders. She found her pulses had quickened, and was furious with herself.

‘What would you like to drink?’ Monsieur Denis inquired.

‘A dry sherry, please.’ She forced herself into composure as a waiter hurried up in answer to his nod. He ordered her sherry and a whisky for himself, then turned back to her.

‘A cigarette?’ He offered her the slenderest of gold cases.

‘Thank you.’ Lissa opened her bag and produced her lighter. He took it from her and sent the little flame soaring with a practised flick of his thumb.

‘How clever.’ Lissa smiled at him, deliberately overcoming her nervousness. ‘I can never get it to work for me first time.’

‘The mechanism is a little stiff, I think.’ He examined the lighter, black brows raised. ‘A pretty toy, très élégant. I compliment you on your taste.’

‘I am afraid the credit is due elsewhere, monsieur. It was a present from a friend.’

‘Ah,’ he said, and there was a note in that monosyllable that sent hot, indignant colour flooding her face again. At that moment the waiter returned with their drinks, and she was obliged to take hers with a murmur of thanks.

More people were arriving all the time, through a door in the centre of the gallery which Lissa guessed led to the lifts they had bypassed. She was surprised when each of the newcomers was loudly announced by a master of ceremonies, stationed at the door.

‘No one announced us,’ she thought. ‘We came in through a side door. I hope to heaven he’s not a gatecrasher or something frightful like that, but he spoke of Fontaines as if he belonged to it. It must be all right.’

She turned to look for an ash tray and a tall man, rather bald, with glasses, came hurrying towards them.

‘Raoul, my dear fellow! So delighted you could make it. We don’t get together nearly often enough for my liking. Why didn’t you give us more warning? Helen would have laid on a dinner party. She’s just looking for an excuse.’

‘Hélas, I must return to Paris very soon.’ Monsieur Denis was actually smiling at last, a genuine smile that lit up his face and made him look younger and incredibly attractive. How old was he? Lissa wondered. Early thirties, surely. He was slim for his height, but he looked wiry and he moved with a kind of whiplash grace.

There was something about him, just as Jenny had said. Only a resemblance so fleeting that she couldn’t relate it at all. Probably some film star, she thought. Lissa herself rarely visited the cinema, but Jenny and Roger went regularly. In fact Jenny always declared it was Roger’s resemblance to Steve McQueen which had attracted her in the first place. Again, this was a resemblance visible only to Jenny, Lissa thought amusedly.

‘Mademoiselle Fairfax, may I present to you Max Prentiss, the managing director of Fontaine-London.’

As Lissa and Prentiss shook hands, Monsieur Denis continued, ‘This isn’t a full-scale visit, Max. I had one or two items of a personal nature to deal with. In the autumn I shall have time to spare, and to enjoy one of Hélène’s excellent dinners.’

‘All is forgiven, then,’ Prentiss said lightly. He smiled at Lissa. ‘What do you think of our latest design?’

‘I haven’t seen it,’ Lissa glanced around. ‘Is this what the party is all about?’

‘My dear child,’ Prentiss took her arm, ‘you’ve been sadly neglected. What are you thinking of, Raoul? You keep this lovely creature exclusively to yourself, and you don’t even show her the reason for the celebration. Shame on you! Come, my dear.’

He led Lissa along the gallery, chatting amiably and calling greetings to people as they went. A small dais had been set up halfway along the gallery; and he paused. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Our latest—Bacchante.’

Lissa breathed, ‘Oh!’ She was looking at a cascade of material like a shimmering waterfall of green and gold, spilling endlessly on to the white carpet of the dais. Vivid splashes of colour like flames glinted here and there.

She turned to Prentiss. ‘It’s—fabulous. There’s no other word. But surely you don’t just put out one new design a season?’

‘Oh, no, we are not as exclusive as that,’ Prentiss smiled. ‘We show the full range privately to certain invited buyers. But one is always selected to show the trend we are following in any particular range of designs.’

‘I would love to see the whole range.’ Lissa’s eyes shone.

‘I’m sure it could be arranged,’ said Prentiss. ‘I’ll have a word with Raoul …’

‘Oh, no, please.’ Lissa flushed. ‘I wouldn’t dream of imposing …’

‘Nothing of the sort,’ said Prentiss. ‘She wouldn’t be imposing on anyone, would she, Raoul?’

Lissa realised he had come silently to stand beside them. She glanced up at him quickly and saw that he was looking amused.

‘She may certainly visit the design rooms if she wishes,’ he said. ‘But I hope you are not suggesting Bacchante for her, though, Max. It would kill her colouring.’

‘Undoubtedly,’ agreed Prentiss. ‘I was thinking more in terms of Midsummer Night—those deep blues, with silver undertones—against that hair, eh, Raoul?’

‘Merveilleux.’ Raoul Denis drew deeply on his cigarette and Lissa was aware that he was watching her intently, and felt a blush creeping into her cheeks.

‘Oh, please,’ she said, laughing a little nervously. ‘It’s too tantalising.’

Prentiss patted her hand. ‘Well, we won’t tantalise you any more, but if you do come—and I hope you will—make sure you see Midsummer Night—and Venetian Glass. Just ask for me, and I’m sure you’ll have no trouble getting in.’

Lissa looked at Raoul Denis inquiringly as Prentiss turned away. ‘Is security so strict?’

‘Of course.’ He glanced around. ‘There are security guards on duty now—to stop unofficial photographs mainly—but no one would guess. There have been times when our designs have been pirated. We take no chances now.’

Lissa stared at the material on the stand. ‘It’s quite beautiful,’ she said slowly. ‘It’s like the whole spirit of spring—golden and glowing and innocent.’

‘But with a touch of savagery underneath,’ her companion agreed a little mockingly. ‘Rather like a woman, wouldn’t you say, ma belle?’

The brilliant dark eyes flickered over her, lingering on her shoulders and the slender curves revealed by the deeply cut neckline. Lissa had an overpowering urge to pull the edges of her dress together over her breasts. In spite of herself her hand went up, and brushed against the hard unfamiliar shape of Paul’s brooch. It gave her an odd sense of reassurance, and she forced herself to stare back at this disconcerting stranger, who seemed so bent on tormenting her.

‘Mr Prentiss is charming,’ she commented, keeping her voice steady. ‘Do you know all the people here?’

‘No, why should I?’

Lissa felt baffled. ‘Well, haven’t you come here to meet anyone in particular?’

‘No, it was a coincidence the design party being on this particular evening when I happened to be in London. I know the London house is being run well, so I need concern myself very little.’

Lissa could not keep sarcasm out of her voice. ‘That must be a great comfort to them. What precisely do you do that makes you of such importance, monsieur?’

‘I do very little,’ he said indifferently. ‘I am managing director of the French house, but that is nothing. It was my grandfather who was the important one. Fontaine was his creation, which is why our family retains the controlling interest.’

Lissa said nothing for a long moment. Then she said quietly, ‘I must apologise, monsieur.’

‘Why? You could have had no way of knowing. Apologies are unnecessary.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I think we have done our duty here. It is time we were leaving for the theatre.’

Lissa would have liked another drink, several drinks in fact to nerve herself for the rest of the ordeal ahead, but instead she murmured, ‘Yes,’ submissively and allowed herself to be steered to the door, where her coat appeared as if by magic. She waited for a moment while Raoul Denis made his farewells, then they walked together towards the stairs.

‘I have arranged for us to take a taxi to the theatre,’ Raoul Denis said.

‘But why aren’t we going in your car?’

‘I prefer not to cope with your English parking problems. I’ve ordered it to meet me at your appartement later tonight,’ he said. ‘We will have dinner after the theatre.’

Lissa’s heart sank. She had intended to plead a headache after the theatre, and leave him to his own devices for the rest of the evening. But it looked as if she was going to be robbed of her early night, after all.

‘Courage, ma belle.’ Was she just imagining that note of malicious amusement in his voice? ‘The night is yet young.’

Eternal would be a better word, Lissa thought, as they walked through the glass doors into the coolness of the early summer evening.

CHAPTER TWO

TO Lissa’s amazement, Raoul Denis seemed to undergo a kind of sea-change as the taxi drew away from Fontaines. He did not plague her with any more barbed remarks as they sped through the West End, and when he mentioned the play he had selected for them to see, she was delighted.

‘That’s wonderful!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ve been wanting to see that for ages.’

She had tried to persuade Paul to go with her on several occasions, but he claimed that straight theatre bored him, and he preferred the intimate cabarets in the night clubs to which he usually took her.

It was an excellent production and the play itself was stimulating and thought-provoking. During the interval, Lissa found herself in the bar and realised with a start that she and Raoul Denis had been arguing for fully ten minutes about the effectiveness of the confrontation between two of the major characters which had led to the first act curtain. She also realised that during this argument she had totally forgotten how much she disliked him. She faltered with what she was saying and looking up, found he was laughing, and wondered uneasily if he could read her thoughts.

‘Have another drink,’ he said. ‘Yes, we have time. The bell hasn’t gone yet. I think that little one who plays the daughter has a future, don’t you?’

Lissa, sipping her vodka and tonic, agreed.

‘Do you go to the theatre much in Paris, monsieur?’ she asked.

‘Very little, I regret,’ he replied. ‘Most of my spare time is spent in the country at my house there. My mother is to some extent an invalid, and I like to be with her as much as I can. Tell me,’ he added unexpectedly, ‘does your English reserve and conventionality insist on this formality, or could you not bring yourself to call me Raoul?’

Lissa nearly choked on a mouthful of her drink. It was on the tip of her tongue to remind him that the formality of the evening to date had been imposed by him, but she overcame her resentment.

‘I’m not as prim and conventional as all that,’ she said with a slight smile. ‘I’ll call you Raoul.’

‘Splendid,’ he approved. ‘And I call you what? Lisse?’

‘It’s Lissa—short for Melissa, actually. My mother felt very poetic when I was born,’ she said, talking nonsense to cover her embarrassment as he gave her another of his searching looks.

‘And have you inspired no poetry since? I cannot believe Englishmen are so lacking in soul,’ he said.

Lissa, feeling herself blushing again, was thankful when the bell rang at that moment signalling them back to their seats.

During the second act, she knew he was watching her most of the time, and she concentrated all the more fiercely on the stage. It was this scrutiny and the general oddness of his behaviour during the evening that was making her so nervous and on edge, she told herself.

As they moved through the crowded foyer after the performance, Raoul Denis asked, ‘Have you any particular preference in restaurants, or are you prepared to leave the choice all to me?’

‘Quite prepared,’ Lissa smiled at him. ‘I warn you, I enjoyed that so much that I shall expect nothing but the best.’

‘Soit.’ He sent her a swift glance. ‘I trust you will find the remainder of the evening even more enjoyable.’

Again Lissa had a sense of vague unease, but as she looked inquiringly at him, he began once more to talk of the performance they had seen, and they were soon involved in a discussion which occupied the taxi ride to the quiet but very expensive restaurant he had chosen. The tables were set in alcoves round the walls, and the entire room was lit by candles, which lent an air of mystery and intimacy which immediately appealed to Lissa.

‘Though it makes me feel as if I should whisper all the time,’ she said, leaning back on the luxuriously upholstered bench seat.

‘Why?’ Raoul, sitting close beside her, sounded amused.

‘Well, you can’t really see who else is here,’ she explained. ‘It’s the sort of place where people have trysts and exchange secrets.’

Raoul bent towards her until his mouth brushed her ear. ‘If you have a secret to confide, ma belle, consider me your confident.’

Lissa, disturbed by his proximity, moved hastily, and her hand caught a glass, sending it clattering across the polished table on to the thickly carpeted floor. A waiter hurried to retrieve it—luckily unbroken—and brought her another glass, while she sat, flushed and angry at her lack of poise.

He did that deliberately, she thought, but why? And she wished with all her heart that the evening was over.

As the meal proceeded, Lissa realised that Raoul Denis’ knowledge of food and wines far outweighed even Paul’s, whom she was used to regarding as something of an expert. The meal was delicious, and the service was swift and unobtrusive. Lissa leaned back in her seat feeling warm and relaxed, as coffee and brandy were served.

‘A cigarette?’ Raoul asked.

‘No, thanks. It would spoil that wonderful food.’ She turned to smile at him and found to her surprise that he seemed to have withdrawn to a distance. But that was idiotic. He had not moved. She closed her eyes momentarily, and when she opened them again he was watching her.

‘I think the time has come for our departure,’ he said softly, and signalled to the waiter.

‘This is the perfect place to end an evening,’ Lissa said dreamily.

‘Or even to begin it,’ he said, helping her to rise and putting her coat round her shoulders.

As they crossed the pavement to a waiting taxi, Lissa stumbled slightly, and Raoul’s hand was instantly under her elbow.

‘Take care,’ he warned, and helped her into the cab.

Lissa collapsed on to the seat and again closed her eyes. The cab felt stuffy and the list of fares and regulations which faced her was oddly blurred.

‘Oh, God,’ she thought. ‘I’ve had too much to drink. This is terrible!’

‘Are you all right?’ he asked as she pulled herself together and sat up.

‘Fine,’ she lied, smiling carefully. As her mind raced back, she realised she had unwittingly drunk far more than her usual modest amount—sherry before dinner and a glass of wine with a meal. There had been drinks at the party, she recalled, and the vodka at the theatre, and wine in the food at the restaurant as well as with it, not to mention that last brandy.

Coffee, she thought. Black coffee and bed as soon as possible.

Maggie would certainly look a little askance if her secretary turned up for work the next day with an obvious hangover.

The taxi drew to a halt in front of the terraced house where the girls had their flat, and Lissa quailed at the thought of the two flights of stairs to her front door. Raoul paid off the driver and glanced up the street.

‘My car does not appear to have arrived,’ he remarked. ‘Is there perhaps a telephone in the house?’

‘Mrs Henderson doesn’t have one, but there’s a call box just round the corner.’ Lissa hoped that she was not slurring her words. She waited for him to say goodnight and go and look for the phone box, but he showed no signs of leaving. Eventually, she felt forced to ask, ‘Would you—er—like some coffee?’

‘Merci bien.’ He took the latchkey from her unresisting hand and fitted it into the lock. ‘En avant!’

Lissa was thankful to find herself at last alone in the peace and quiet of the kitchenette. Raoul had left her to make the coffee while he telephoned. She set out pottery mugs on a tray and plugged in the percolator. Her head was beginning to clear as she carried the coffee through and set it on the table in front of the gas fire.

‘I lit the fire. I hope you don’t mind.’ Raoul Denis was standing by the table. He was holding Mrs Henderson’s magazine, but as Lissa started pouring the coffee, he put it down and came to sit on the sofa.

‘No, it was a good idea. It always gets chilly up here late at night, even if it is officially supposed to be early summer.’ Lissa helped herself to sugar and passed the bowl to Raoul, who declined it with a slight gesture.

‘Did you arrange about your car?’ she asked.

‘Yes, a tiresome misunderstanding. It will be here presently.’

‘That’s good,’ she said, without thinking.

‘Je suis désolé. Do you wish the evening to end so soon?’

‘I didn’t mean that,’ Lissa began, leaning forward to put her mug back on the table. She was determined that he should not needle her again. Certainly he seemed very much at his ease, stretched out on the sofa.

‘More coffee?’ she asked.

‘I thank you, but no.’ He replaced his own cup. ‘It was delicious, however.’

‘So I’ve been told,’ she smiled, thinking of Paul, who invariably expressed his appreciation in extravagant terms.

It was as if that smile lit a fire in Raoul.

‘Mon Dieu!’ His voice sounded suddenly hoarse, but whether it was anger or some other emotion, she could not tell. Before she had a chance to protest, he had reached for her, drawing her roughly into his arms and silencing her with his mouth.

When at last he raised his head, his eyes burned down into hers, as she lay bruised and breathless in his arms.

‘Bon Dieu, Lissa, do you know what you are doing to me?’ he muttered. He bent to her again, but this time his mouth caressed a feverish path down her throat and searched the soft hollows between her neck and shoulders.

Lissa’s pulses were pounding violently. The room swam, and she felt every nerve ending in her body throbbing insistently. Slowly her hands, which at first had been braced against his chest, crept up to clasp his neck, and her fingers twined in his hair. Murmuring endearments in his own language against her parted lips, he began to slide the chiffon from her shoulders. Her body arched towards him instinctively, welcoming his touch. His grip tightened, and the soft chiffon tore beneath his hands.

Something hard and metallic tinkled to the floor and rolled a little way. The brooch—Paul’s brooch.

Lissa was suddenly, sickeningly aware of what was happening to her.

‘No!’ She tore herself out of his arms, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the fireplace, her hair falling round her bared shoulders, her dress torn almost to the waist.

‘Oh, you brute! You devil … how dare you!’

‘Dare?’ He stared up at her. His eyes glittered and he looked as dangerous as a black panther. Lissa was horribly aware of her complete isolation. The couple in the flat below were on holiday and Mrs Henderson was too far away to hear any cries for help. And he knows Jenny won’t be back tonight, she thought helplessly. He must have planned all this deliberately.

‘I was under the impression, ma belle, that we had come to an understanding. Surely you are not trying to pretend that I am the first to avail myself of your—services?’

‘Services?’ Lissa almost choked. ‘You don’t mean—you can’t imagine that I … that I would let you …’

‘Until a moment ago I had every reason to think so.’ His eyes went over her in insolent appraisal and she felt naked under his gaze. ‘As far as I am concerned, ma belle, by accepting my invitation tonight, you placed yourself at my disposal. I regret that you do not see fit to keep your part of the bargain. I am still more than ready to keep mine.’

‘Get out,’ Lissa said between her teeth. ‘Get out now before I call the police!’

‘How do you propose to do that?’ he asked. He laughed harshly. ‘I would not be so ill-advised as to call the police if I were you. The English police are not fools, and they would know what to make of a young woman who allows a man to wine and dine her for the evening and then calls “Rape” in her appartement. Besides, you are unharmed, except perhaps for your dress—and your pride.’

He picked up his light overcoat from a chair and walked to the door.

‘Bonne nuit,’ he said, with a slight bow, and was gone.

Lissa rushed to the door and locked it, then leaned her forehead against the cool white-painted panels, listening to his footsteps going downstairs. Her breath came in great shuddering sobs, and she shivered violently.