Folly's Child Read online

  For a moment his assistant looked on the point of bursting into tears of relief, then his good-looking brow cleared and he nodded.

  Thanks, Hugo. I’m sure she’d be a lot happier as well as the rest of us if only you would.’

  All day Hugo turned the interview with Laddie over in his mind. He was hurt and angry that anyone should dare to criticise Paula yet in his heart of hearts he knew there must be at least a nugget of truth in what Laddie had said. He had not been entirely oblivious to the change of atmosphere at the showroom, the air of resentment that had an edge of frost in spite of the searing temperatures of New York in a July heatwave, and he supposed that the traits in her character which he regarded as lovable foibles might be interpreted by others as haughty supremacy and bossiness.

  Strange really, he thought, that someone with as ordinary a background as hers should be able to give such a good imitation of a princess of the Royal House – strange, but darkly exciting. As for telling the bastards their jobs, that was just the act of a small girl pretending to be grown up. But he had promised Laddie, so he had better have a word in her ear.

  They had now moved into the house on East 70th Street and this evening was one of the rare ones they spent at home. They had dined quietly on a delicious selection of cold meats prepared by their newly-employed housekeeper and now they were relaxing with the remains of a bottle of Moët et Chandon in the garden with the strains of Vivaldi wafting out to them through the open French windows.

  ‘Honey, I want to talk to you.’ Hugo moved his chair a little closer to hers, reaching for her hand and feeling his stomach contact as it always did when he touched her silky flesh. She looked so beautiful sitting there with the last rays of the dying sun turning her hair to molten gold and her long bare legs, emerging from the briefest of silk mini-shifts, elegantly crossed to expose her smooth honey-coloured tan. For a moment he was tempted to abandon the attempt at gently chastising her and make love to her instead, right here in the garden with the scent of the roses and banks of sweet-smelling stocks heavy in the air. But the sooner he set her right about her role at the showroom the better.

  ‘I talked with Laddie today,’ he began. ‘Honey, you are going to have to be more careful what you say to the staff. Some of them are taking offence at you telling them how they should do their jobs.’

  A quiver of indignation ran through Paula but she tossed her head.

  ‘Oh, you mean the models being bitchy. Well, they usually are. I’ve put up with that all my working life. I can handle it.’

  ‘I know you can but I can’t afford a bad atmosphere,’ Hugo said gently. ‘But it’s not just the models. Even Laddie has taken umbrage. Look, I know it’s all fresh to you and I expect some of them are jealous and unpleasant because of it but can you soft-pedal a bit – for me?’

  Paula stared. There was a hard little gleam in her eyes.

  ‘So Laddie has been to you behind my back telling tales, has he?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that, honey. Laddie was simply reporting on the way the staff feel and saying you weren’t always as tactful as you might be.’

  ‘And you believe him?’ Paula withdrew her hand sharply from his.

  ‘Laddie is an excellent assistant,’ Hugo said soothingly. ‘I’ve come to trust his judgement.’

  ‘Even when he tells tales about your wife? How dare he! Surely I am entitled to a certain amount of respect!’

  ‘Of course you should be treated respectfully,’ Hugo agreed. ‘But respect in a professional capacity has to be earned. Take your time, feel your way and I’m sure you’ll get it. But antagonising people is not the answer, believe me, honey.’

  Paula leapt to her feet. She was furious with Laddie and even more furious with Hugo for listening to him.

  ‘Well thank you, Hugo, for standing up for me so gallantly!’ she snapped. ‘If I’m such a nuisance at the showroom I won’t embarrass you by coming there anymore. I can find plenty of things to do – shopping, lunch parties with the girls, charity do’s – and when I get tired of that I might even find myself a modelling job with some other designer. There are plenty who’d be glad to have me – Hugo Varna’s English wife.’

  He caught at her wrist. ‘You’re blowing this up out of all proportion. Sit down, have another glass of champagne and stop being silly.’

  Enraged by his conciliatory tone she snatched her wrist free.

  ‘Thank you, I don’t want any more champagne.

  She turned and marched into the house. In the doorway she almost bumped into Doris, the live-in maid, who was wearing the smart black dress and white lace apron that Paula insisted on.

  ‘For heaven’s sake look where you are going!’ Paula snapped.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Varna, I was just coming through to tell you that you have a visitor.’ The girl’s cheeks were slightly flushed; there was an air of over-excitement about her – as if she had just been told she could compete for one of the big prizes on a game show, Paula thought.

  ‘A visitor? At this time of night? Who is it?’

  ‘It’s Mr Varna’s visitor really,’ the girl qualified, her excitement surfacing again in a hastily suppressed giggle. ‘He says his name is Mr Martin, Mr Greg Martin, and that he’s a business associate.’

  Paula almost stamped her foot with annoyance. The. last thing she wanted at the moment was to be forced into a social situation.

  But of course Hugo would want to see Greg Martin. He had been out of New York for the last six months so she had not met him, but from what Hugo had told her she knew the two men were good friends as well as business partners. Well, with any luck she’d be able to excuse herself as soon as the introductions were over and go to her room. Perhaps a good soak in the bath tub would make her feel better.

  Doris was hovering like a huge trapped black and white butterfly.

  ‘Very well, Doris,’ Paula said. ‘ You’d better show Mr Martin in.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ‘You must be Paula,’ the stranger said, holding out his hand.

  She took it, her anger forgotten. She felt exactly as she had felt when as a child she had crashed out of a tree still clutching the broken branch to land flat on her back on the ground beneath. All the breath had been knocked out of her then and as she gasped for air she had felt as if her diaphragm had glued itself to her backbone. It was the same now.

  ‘And you are Greg. I’ve heard so much about you.’

  ‘All good, I hope.’ His voice had a lazy drawl to it; she tried to place it and couldn’t. She wasn’t yet sufficiently used to identifying the nuances of accent and placing them – Boston, East Coast, Mid West. The only ones she instantly recognised were twanging Bronx – because Hugo retained traces of it – and Deep South drawl, because she had seen Gone with the Wind at least six times.

  ‘All good of course!’ she said, smiling.

  His hand felt firm and cool on hers; she did not want to relinquish it. But behind her she heard Hugo’s exclamation: ‘ Greg! I didn’t know you were back in town!’ and she stepped aside and watched the two men embrace, clapping one another on the back and grinning like eager schoolboys.

  In spite of the Italian ancestry on his father’s side, Greg towered over the slightly-built Hugo and in every other way, Paula thought, his Mediterranean heritage was clearly stamped on him. His shoulders were broad, his hips slim, his complexion deep-tanned and swarthy. Jet black hair sprung from a classically patrician face, dark eyes smouldered like some sleeping volcano. There was a slight hook to his nose and his teeth gleamed very white.

  ‘I see you have met my wife,’ Hugo said. ‘Paula, this is the guy I owe all my success to. If it hadn’t been for him I’d still be running a couple of sewing machines on Mom’s kitchen table.’

  Greg laughed. ‘That’s nonsense and you know it. If I hadn’t spotted your potential someone else would have.’ But he looked pleased all the same.

  ‘We’re in the garden, Greg. It’s too good an evening to be indoors.
Let’s crack another bottle of champagne. This is an occasion – the return of the prodigal!’

  He steered Greg towards the French doors and Paula followed, feeling a little left out. She was used to the almost entirely undivided attention of any man she met – this one scarcely seemed to have noticed her. And oh, she wanted him to notice her! It mattered more than it had ever mattered before – and not simply because her ego required it. She was quivering from head to toe with barely suppressed excitement – no wonder Doris had looked so flustered! There was something about Greg Martin that had reduced her to a veritable jelly of desire. She knew she would do anything – anything to have him look at her with those fiery dark eyes boring into her very soul.

  ‘Ask Doris to bring out another bottle of Moët, would you, honey?’ Hugo said over his shoulder and her irritation flickered again. First he chided her as if she were a naughty schoolgirl, then he ordered her about like a servant – how dare he?

  As she joined the men in the garden she was annoyed to find they were talking business. Boring! Dollars – and millions of them – only became interesting when she could spend them. She settled herself in the garden chair opposite Greg, crossing her legs provocatively and watching him from behind her long lashes. To her disappointment he still seemed quite oblivious to her.

  ‘So you had a profitable trip then?’ Hugo was saying.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ For the first time since she had sat down the jet-dark eyes swivelled to look at her. ‘ So, by the seem of it, did you!’

  Hugo smiled. ‘I went to see a fashion show and came back with a wife. I wish you could have been at the wedding, pal, but it all happened so fast. Just wait, Greg, one day the same thing will happen to you!’

  Greg laughed, waving his hands in protest.

  ‘No way. I enjoy being an eligible bachelor too much for that.’

  ‘So did I. But marriage is an institution I can thoroughly recommend.’

  Hugo beamed at her. Oh yes! she thought. Less than an hour ago you were carping at me, passing on sneaky complaints from your twopenny-halfpenny staff. Marriage is an institution – that’s rich!

  But the moment she looked at Greg her annoyance died again. Impossible to remain in a bad temper looking at that handsome face and beautiful body. Look at me, Greg, please look at me!

  Darkness fell, Hugo turned on the soft floodlighting and still they sat talking. Paula watched them, feeling the small quivers of desire tickling her inner thighs, scarcely listening to their interchange.

  At last Greg rose. ‘I’d better be going, Hugo. I’ll look in at the showroom one day next week. I can’t say exactly when – I’ve got several important deals to sort out. But you’ll be there, I guess?’

  ‘Why don’t you have dinner with us one evening?’ Paula suggested.

  He swung round, giving her the full benefit of those dark eyes. She thought there was just the slightest hint of amusement in them.

  ‘That would be nice. Would it be all right if I brought someone with me? I’d hate to play gooseberry on the newly-weds.’

  Her stomach lurched uncomfortably. He knew! He knew what she was thinking and he was rejecting her!

  ‘Of course,’ she said smoothly.

  ‘Who will it be?’ Hugo asked, apparently unaware of the tension hanging in the air. ‘ Which one is in favour at present?’

  Greg shrugged. ‘ I’m not sure. I’ve been away for rather a long time and I only got back today, remember. But I’m sure I can find somebody to make up the party.’

  ‘You bet you can!’ Hugo laughed, and added, to Paula: ‘Greg is never short of a partner. His little black book reads like a directory of who’s who in the world of glamour.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Paula said icily.

  ‘Goodnight, Paula, it’s been a pleasure to meet you.’ He took her hand again and bent to kiss her cheek. Her pulses raced.

  When he had gone Hugo put his arm around her, drawing her close.

  ‘Shall I tell you something, honey? Greg’s little black book might be full of glamour girls but not one of them is as lovely as you. And stud that he is, he doesn’t know what he’s missing. Come to bed, huh?’

  Paula, too weak with longing to protest, let him lead her up to the elegantly decorated master bedroom and undress her. But as she lay in the huge four-poster bed with its silk drapes, submitting to Hugo’s fevered embraces, it was Greg’s face she seemed to see in the darkness and when she reached her shuddering climax it was as a result of imagining Greg’s lips tugging and teasing her, Greg’s arms around her, Greg’s body upon and within her, not Hugo’s at all.

  For three whole days Paula could neither eat nor sleep. That first night while Hugo snored gently beside her she lay rigid, quite unrelaxed by their lovemaking, her whole body aching and quivering as she thought of Greg. Eventually she got up and wandered around the house, picking up the beautiful pieces she had bought to adorn it and putting them down again, afraid they would fall from her trembling fingers and be broken.

  At breakfast, toying with a piece of toast while Hugo ate a huge, pile of sunnyside eggs and ham, she asked him about Greg. ‘What exactly does he do?’

  Hugo smiled good-humouredly. ‘Good question. He calls himself a financier but that covers a multitude of sins. He started, in real estate, I believe, and used that as a basis from which to branch out into mortgage securities and investment consultancy. He’s got a finger in more pies than you could name – and to be honest the only thing that has ever concerned me is that he was rich enough and interested enough to put up the money that set me on the road to success. When I needed a backer, Greg was there. I’ll never stop being grateful to him for that.’

  ‘As he said, if he hadn’t been someone else probably would have.’

  ‘Perhaps, but it so happens that Greg was the one,’ Hugo said, washing down his ham and eggs with scalding coffee. ‘ He’s a character, though, make no mistake of it and I think he sometimes sails closer to the wind that he should. But that’s how he’s made his fortune – by taking chances – and I’m sure when you get to know him you’ll like him as much as I do. In fact, I don’t know anyone who doesn’t like Greg. He’s a charmer.’

  ‘Yes,’ Paula said, pressing her knees tightly together and thinking how shocked Hugo would be if he guessed just how well she hoped she would get to know Greg Martin.

  So obsessed with him was she that she went to the showroom that day and the next with Hugo, barely giving a thought to the conversation they had been having when Greg had arrived. Pettifogging jealousy and bitchiness seemed supremely unimportant set against the possibility of seeing him again. But though she almost jumped in anticipation each time she heard the elevator purr to a stop on their floor he did not come. Always it was someone else – a buyer or a press attaché, a house model or a pattern cutter, or simply one of the porters wheeling a rail of samples, carefully concealed beneath the plastic sample bags, on their way back from the Puerto Rican workshops just around the block in the sidestreets between 8th and 9th Avenues.

  ‘Have you made a definite date for our dinner party with Greg Martin?’ she asked Hugo on the third day, unable to contain herself any longer.

  ‘Oh honey, I forgot to tell you,’ Hugo said. ‘I’m afraid that’s had to be postponed.’

  Paula’s heart missed a beat. ‘Why?’ she asked, trembling and hating herself for it.

  ‘He’s out of town again – off to Texas, of all places. He swears it’s business but personally I think the very lovely daughter of a certain oil magnate is behind it. He’s been seeing her lately, I know, and it could be that Daddy is giving him the once-over.’

  Paula could have wept with disappointment and rage. She had so been looking forward to seeing him again and it was bruising to think he had chosen to rush off to Texas with some woman, no matter how rich her daddy might be, when she was horribly sure that he had suspected her motives in inviting him to dinner might be rather more than friendly.

  Dammit, he’s probably laughi
ng at me! she thought, remembering the way he had looked at her when she had issued the invitation – eyes very dark, very knowing, lips curving away from very white teeth in a way that was almost vulpine. But in spite of the feeling of humiliation and the sudden wave of something close to fleeting hatred for the man who had inspired it, the attraction was as strong as ever, perhaps stronger: Paula was not used to rejection. It added a new dimension to her desire and made her more determined than ever – one of these days she would possess Greg Martin just as she had possessed every other man she had ever wanted.

  Whilst Greg was away from New York and she could do nothing to advance her plans to capture him, Paula turned her thoughts to another matter. Ever since she had learned that Laddie had talked to Hugo about her she had been determined to find a way to get back at him and now, in her spare moments (which were many since Hugo was very busy with the new season’s collection) she considered various methods of revenge before rejecting them all. It would be too easy – and too crude – to sabotage his sketches or his samples, and to simply get him fired would not hold any long-term satisfaction. No, Paula thought, what she would really like would be some hold over him, for to her power was still the greatest thrill she could imagine.

  Sex, she realised now, was only the beginning of it, for when the boys had flocked around begging for her favours it had been the sense of power which had been the aphrodisiac. But it had not been long before she had realised there were other ways to be in control. There was emotional blackmail – very powerful, that, and best used on those closest to one, and there was the game of making others indebted and then calling in favours – or constantly threatening to, as she had done with Gary. Now, in her position as Hugo’s wife, there was straightforward supremacy, the power that position could bring. But none of these had worked on Laddie. He was Hugo’s friend as well as his assistant, he had Hugo’s ear – and she knew that he did not like her. There has to be a way, thought Paula. He has to have a weakness. And I am going to find out what it is.