The Night That Started It All
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She wished she wouldn’t keep thinking of all those battered wives she’d seen on television shows over the years. All those sad women, too beaten down to defend themselves, believing they deserved their punishment, making excuses for their abusers. Forgiving them, walking the domestic tightrope fearful of saying the wrong thing.
She started breathing fast, getting too emotional again. It was no use getting worked up again. She wasn’t those women. She hadn’t been too entangled in the relationship to see she had to extricate herself. She’d acted swiftly and decisively, give or take a couple of cruel tweaks of her hair. A twist of her ear. A nipple. Shari Lacey would not be, could never be, downtrodden.
From now on it was all good. She was in her lovely old Paddington again, with every pretty street teeming with the sort of inspirations a children’s author needed. She had everything to sing about.
Still, it was amazing how a man’s fist had only needed to be slammed in her face the one time to leave her as jumpy as a kitten. Thank heavens she’d already dealt with the estate agents and fixed up the details of her move before Fist Day, or she wasn’t sure how she’d have coped.
But she was a rational person. She was safe now. She would get over it. The important thing was to fight fear. Not to turn into an emotional cripple, cringing at the sound of every male voice. She could still enjoy men and indulge in a little flirty chit-chat.
Maybe.
R'emy was not typical. Her head knew this. Once again, though, it was her heart that was the trouble.
In fact it was a good thing, a needful thing, that Neil was insisting she come to his party. There’d be loads of men there, all quite as civilised as her lovely brother. It could be her testing ground. From this moment on, serenity was her cloak and her shield.
When her hand grew steady again, she lined both lids with the darker shade, painted a band of purple shadow beneath her eyes and on the upper lids, then switched to the turquoise brush inside the corners, across the bridge and all the way to her brows.
Standing back to examine her handiwork, she felt a surge of relief. Not only was the bruise undetectable, the stripe across her eyes looked quite atmospheric. It was dramatic, maybe a little over the top, but it suited her. Somehow it made her irises glow a vivid sea-green.
If she hadn’t been kicking herself over what a fool she’d been, how needy she must have been to fall for such a clich'e, she’d have laughed to think of how poor old Neil and Emilie would freak when she turned up looking like Daryl Hannah in Bladerunner.
Though Emilie was no fool. She had grown up with R'emy.
That set Shari worrying again, so as an added decoy she drew a frog on her right cheekbone.
Now what to wear to Neil’s fortieth? If a woman was forced to go to a party wearing a stripe, it might be best to look gorgeous. A little shopping might be called for. Her smile broke through. With her camouflage in place, the frump could go out.
She’d cried her last tear over the man who couldn’t love. Cried and cried till she was empty.
It was time to get back on the horse.
CHAPTER TWO
LUC was made to feel abundantly welcome in Emilie and Neil’s pretty harbourside home. Luc, and at least a hundred of their friends. The place was crowded, its family atmosphere so warm it was palpable.
Too warm. A reminder of all that had departed from his world.
And, quelle surprise, Emilie was pregnant.
It seemed to Luc everyone was. Everywhere he looked from Paris to Saigon to Sydney women were swollen, their husbands strutting about like smug cockerels. The epidemic had spread across the equator.
He doubted he’d have noticed if he hadn’t looked, really looked that day, at the boulanger in the Rue Montorgeuil strolling with his pregnant wife, a brawny tender arm around her waist. The guy had been so proud, so cock-a-hoop, so in love with life and the world, Luc had carried the image home with him.
Worst mistake in history.
Apparently, when lovers ran out of things to say to each other, the last remedy to propose was marriage. Manon’s response to the suggestion of a child had been as swift as it was ferocious.
‘What has happened to you, darling? Do you suddenly want to tie me in chains? I am not the brood mare type. If you want that, find another woman.’ Her smile hadn’t diminished the anger in her lovely eyes.
Once he’d recovered from the shock, he’d realised the enormity of what he’d suggested. The fact that some women did agree to sacrificing their freedom and autonomy to reproduce was nothing short of a miracle.
Inclining his head, he accepted another canap'e, wondering how long he would have to wait here in this hothouse of domestic fecundity before R'emy put in an appearance. He was beginning to have his doubts it would even happen. Could his cousin have got wind of his arrival? He’d hardly known himself until the last minute, when he was due to leave Saigon and thought of his pleasant Paris apartment waiting for him.
That empty wasteland. Traces of Manon in every corner.
Otherwise he doubted he would ever have dreamed of travelling so far. But from Saigon a few extra hours’ hop to Sydney had had its appeal. Deal with the R'emy problem, enjoy a few days of sunshine, blue seas and skies. Postpone work, Paris, his life. What was not to enjoy?
He should have realised. Wherever he went in the world, he was there.
At least Emi hadn’t changed. Like the sweetheart she was, every so often she darted back to the corner he was lurking in to ensure he wasn’t neglected.
Smiling, she offered him wine, her blue eyes so reminiscent of her twin’s. Or would have been if R'emy’s had ever possessed any kindness, humanity or the tiniest hint of the existence of a soul.
‘So tell me, Luc … is it true? Manon is pregnant?’
A familiar pincer clenched Luc’s entrails, though he maintained his smile. ‘How would I know? I don’t keep up.’
Emilie flushed. ‘Pardon, mon cousin. I don’t mean to intrude. I was just so surprised when Tante Marise mentioned it. I wouldn’t have thought … Manon never seemed the—the type to want babies.’