Echoes in the Dark

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my cousin Ann, who loves a good Intrigue. I hope this one qualifies.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Caroline Evans—Her past is shrouded in the mists of amnesia.

Julien Gerrard—The walls of his emotional fortress are threatened by a woman who is heartbreakingly familiar, a woman those every action echoes in his darkness like a ghost.

Andre Gerrard—Darkly handsome and openly sensuous, he is also very sure of his abilities to attract.

Suzanne Rochette—Caught by her loyalties between two brothers, what role does she play in the events unfolding on the island?

Paul Dupre—Suzanne’s lawyer, he is the link in Paris who ties them all together.

Prologue

“Give me the keys,” he said, the patient humor evident in the deep voice. The faint accent ran like an echo through his English.

When she ignored his command, he caught her wrist, and the sight of dark, tanned fingers against the paleness of her arm caused a reactive tightening of her stomach muscles. She watched, mesmerized, as he slid his fingers up her inner wrist. She could tell by his eyes that, as always, he knew exactly the effect his touch had. She resisted the memory of the pleasant roughness of those fingertips moving over her breasts earlier tonight when he had coaxed her to dress and join him at the reception she had just disrupted.

She took a deep breath, fighting the hunger that his hard body could always evoke. It was so easy for him to manipulate her. She was so ready to do whatever he asked because she loved him and she wanted him. God, how she wanted him. She shook her head to destroy the images produced by the remembrance of his familiar possession. If she allowed him to touch her, she would lose the anger, and he would win.

“Let me go,” she ordered, punctuating her command with a sudden jerk against the strong hand that held her prisoner.

Perhaps the element of surprise made her successful or perhaps his desire not to hurt her made him loosen his hold. Suddenly she was free, running again toward the Mercedes convertible he had given her. She opened the door and, slipping into the driver’s seat, tried to insert the key into the ignition.

Her trembling fingers failed in the first attempts, and by the time the engine finally roared to life, he had moved into the passenger seat beside her.

She glanced at his face and saw he was still amused. Her temper, never under any reliable control, especially lately, reacted predictably. No one had ever angered her as he could, with only a look or a word. The blow she ineptly directed at his face fell harmlessly against the hard forearm he raised between them.

“Kerri,” he protested, laughing, and again caught her wrist. His reflexes were so much faster than hers, honed by years of activities that demanded speed and dexterity to escape the constant threat of injury.

“Why are you so angry? What have I done this time?” he asked, still smiling.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know. ‘What have I done?’ I can’t believe you can ask that. You couldn’t take your eyes off her.”

“Is that what this is all about?” he asked, laughing, relieved. “Of course, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She was practically nude. A palace reception and the ambassador’s wife shows up in something most women wouldn’t wear to bed.”

“She seemed to think you liked it well enough. She certainly wanted you to get a good look. A very good look. A close-up.”

His only answer to that accusation was the quick upward slant of his beautifully molded lips, but this time he controlled his laughter. He reached to run his knuckles gently down the slim column of her throat, knowing it was futile to argue with her in this mood. She slapped at his hand and moved as far away from him as the confines of the car would allow.

“Have you slept with her? Have you slept with every woman in the country? Every damn woman in the whole damn world?”

She hated the hysteria she could hear building in her voice, wished she could control the ridiculous accusations, the same accusations that she had made too many times in the past weeks. One minute she wanted to cry and rage at him, and then, perversely, she wanted to bury her head against the elegant dark dinner jacket and vent all those frustrations. Even she didn’t know what she was crying about or why she couldn’t seem to stop these bitter scenes.

Eventually he would tire of the ranting denunciations. Just as he would tire of having to explain to her his world of art and music and literature. She knew so little of those things, and he knew so much, she thought with despair. The gap between their backgrounds seemed too wide to bridge, no matter how hard she tried. Deep in her heart she knew that their time together was flashing by in an ever-increasing spiral, fueled by her jealousy and her endless insecurities. She knew it, but she didn’t seem to be able to do anything about slowing that inevitable destruction.

He tried to pull her into his arms, and she wondered why she resisted what she wanted so desperately. He brushed tendrils of sun-streaked blond hair out of the tracks of her tears. She turned her face to rest against those caressing fingers and saw pain in the lucid blue depths of his eyes. Then he masked what was reflected there with the downward sweep of thick, coal black lashes, so that when he looked up at her again there was only concern and, as always, the reassurance of his love.

“No, I haven’t slept with her,” he said resignedly. He lightened his voice deliberately. “But you’re right. This is my fault. Everything is my fault. The fact that you are only nineteen and very pregnant and very far from home. All of those things are my fault.”

His voice softened seductively, and his thumb teased slowly along her bottom lip. “And I am delighted to take full responsibility for them. We should be at the villa, watching old movies. I could massage your back and show you how much I love you. I shouldn’t have brought you tonight—”

“Because you’re ashamed of me. Ashamed to be seen with a cow in a tent while everyone else—”

“Kerri, for God’s sake, stop this. You’re not a cow.” He laughed suddenly at the ridiculous comparison to her graceful body, and at the sound, she raised her eyes to focus on his, to launch another round of vitriolic bitterness, but the look of tenderness on the spare planes of his face arrested the impulse. “You are so beautiful it’s all I can do not to make love to you in public,” he whispered. “All night I’ve wanted to run my hands over you, to touch our son. To hold your breasts. So full. God, so sensitive...”

He stopped, the impact of those memories blocking his throat. He couldn’t believe she didn’t know how he felt. How could she not know after all this time?

“Why don’t you know how I feel?” he asked, pain darkening the timbre of his voice. “I don’t know what else to do. Nothing I do or say seems to be enough. Tell me what you want from me, Kerri. What do I have to do to convince you?”

For the first time she heard despair in the voice that always before had been gently patient, tenderly amused at her tantrums, loving, caressing. With her fears, she was destroying what they had, and she knew it.

She looked up to reassure him, to tell him how much she loved him, adored him, thought she couldn’t live if she lost him.

Perhaps the answering tenderness in her eyes made him think that it was over, a display of fireworks like all the other scenes, bright and intense, but fleeting when confronted with his concern. Perhaps he regretted letting her see what these emotional outbursts did to his control. Whatever the impulse that produced his next words, it was a mistake.

“And a tent?” he repeated, smiling at her. “Believe me, my darling, if that’s a tent, it is the most beautiful, and probably the most expensive, one in the world. Not that it wasn’t worth every franc. You look—”

“You bastard,” she hissed at him, suddenly and unreasonably furious again. “You told me to buy something special for tonight. I didn’t want to come. They all hate me, and it doesn’t matter what I put on. I’m still going to look like a cow. And then you tell me I’m too extravagant.”

“I don’t give a damn what the dress cost. I don’t care what you spend, and you know it.”

She could hear anger beginning to thread through the rich darkness of his voice, the accent thickening as it did when he became emotional. As it always did when he made love to her.

“This is insane,” he said, bitterly. “Everything I say you pounce on. You wait for me to say something you can use against me. There’s no way I can win,” he finished, turning away from her to look out the windshield.

“And God knows you have to win,” she mocked, another familiar battleground. “God knows your whole damn life revolves around winning. All the little games. You have to be the best. You always have to win. Well, you certainly won the prize this time. And you’re stuck with it. Is that what’s wrong? You’ve begun regretting this particular trophy, haven’t you?”

“Only at times like these,” he said quietly, a contrast to her fury, and he didn’t look at her.

It was what she had dreaded. And expected. Finally he’d said it. She didn’t acknowledge how long it had taken her to goad him into it. Another self-fulfilling prophecy.

She slewed the Mercedes out of the parking place, leaving a trail of smoking black, and pushed the accelerator to the floor. The car fishtailed in response, and as she corrected the movement, she felt him reach across to find and buckle her seat belt. It took him several attempts, but he was successful, despite her fist beating ineffectually against his hands.

He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. He trusted her driving. He had taught her how to drive on these mountain roads himself. Repeating the lesson, instructing, demanding, until he was sure enough of her competence to present her with the car that was now speeding toward the first series of hairpin turns that led away from the palace terraces.

She touched the brake, anticipating, as he had instructed her. She felt the difference in the response, the sponginess of the pedal, but then the car was into the curve, and she concentrated on guiding it smoothly through the series of switchbacks. As soon as she reached a relatively straight stretch of road, she touched the brake again, more strongly this time, recognizing that the speed of the car was approaching a level beyond her competence.

He would have been able to handle the rocketing vehicle, smoothly and nonchalantly, she thought bitterly. Nothing ever challenged his sure control, his hard certainty. She had never seen him at a loss. Years of privilege, blue blood and too much money insulated him from the fears people like herself faced every day.

In the midst of that familiar litany came the realization that the brake was having no effect on the downward plunge of the Mercedes. There had been no perceptible slowing in spite of the fact that she was practically standing on the pedal.

“Julien,” she said, and the panic in her voice made him open his eyes, pulled him from the contemplation of how he had mishandled tonight, from the regret he felt over the pain he had caused her.

“Julien!” This time she screamed, begging for his competence against the rush of the wind, and as her eyes sought his face, she lost control of the car. The right front tire touched off the pavement and the steering wheel jerked from her hands. It spiraled against the frantic reach of his fingers, but by then it was too late.

The Mercedes plunged off the sheer drop of the curve and almost to the bend below, its downward hurtle stopped only as it caught between two of the trees that lined the twisting mountain roads. Caught and held. She was strapped inside by the seat belt that he had fastened only moments before, but the wrenching deceleration threw him from the convertible to the road below.

* * *

HE NEVER KNEW how long he was unconscious. He awoke to the smell of gasoline and absolute silence. He wiped ineffectually at the blood obscuring his vision, and then his only thought was to find her.

The brutal journey was agonizing in the darkness. He was never sure that he was crawling in the right direction, guided only by the smell and then by the soft crackling that he had thought at first was the metal of the car expanding against the forces that had left it a twisted ruin.

It was not until he was close enough to feel the heat that he knew he was wrong. What he had heard was the fire that had begun to lick around the shattered Mercedes.

He had been calling her name for a long time, willing her to answer him. Finally his long fingers found the handle of the door, and he used it and his desperation to pull himself up in spite of his shattered leg. As he reached for the seat, hands groping to find her in the pitiless blackness, the explosion rocked the night, throwing him to lie once more against the gravel of the road below.

This time he didn’t awaken even as careful hands loaded him into the ambulance. It would be a very long time before he was again aware of anything at all.

Chapter One

“I‘m sorry, but she’s extremely insistent. She has something she wants to show you, something she’s sure you’ll want to see.”

The secretary watched the ironic smile of his employer, but he knew better than to apologize. That was the unforgivable sin—to apologize for the references one made quite naturally, and so he hurried on with his story.

“We’ve all tried, but she’ll speak to no one but you. She says it’s personal. She’s clutching some sort of package wrapped in brown paper, and she won’t budge. Short of having her thrown out bodily, I don’t know what else to do.”

The man seated behind the massive desk could hear the frustration. His secretary didn’t deal well with unexpected interruptions to his schedule. He sometimes wondered who was really in charge here, but because he cared so little, he let his staff’s efficiency carry him effortlessly through the long days. There was no longer any challenge in running the businesses he had pulled from bankruptcy only three years ago. Everything in his life was too well-ordered, the wheels all turning smoothly, oiled by his efficient employees, his soft-spoken servants and, most of all, by his money. At least the old woman offered a break from the routine. That, of course, was why Charles was so annoyed.

“There’s nothing that can’t be put off the few minutes it will take to listen to whatever she has to say. Ask Rachelle to bring in a tea tray. And if it’s private, there’s no need for you to remain. Show her in when the tea arrives.”

“But—”

“That will be all, Charles. Thank you for attempting to handle this. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

He waited until the door had closed behind the retreating secretary. Only then did he remove his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose and then briefly massaging his temples. He could feel the beginnings of a headache. He hoped that Rachelle would include his afternoon coffee with the tea. He closed his eyes and rested his head on his hands, elbows propped against the gleaming mahogany desk.

When he heard the door, he opened his eyes and put the glasses back on, standing up to turn toward his visitor. Her hesitation was obvious, but Rachelle’s friendly voice urged her forward, and finally they advanced across the parquet floor, their footsteps echoing hollowly in the quiet elegance of the room. When Rachelle had seated her in the chair before his desk, he, too, sat down and waited. It was not until she had been provided with a cup of tea, his own coffee poured and placed, fragrantly steaming, on his desk, and the door closed behind Rachelle that he spoke.

“They tell me that you have something to show me,” he said softly, working to keep the amusement out of his voice.

She rustled the package in her lap, until, with trembling hands, she succeeded in freeing whatever it contained from the wrappings. As he waited for her to speak, the silence stretched too long between them. Finally her voice quavered into the sunlight of his expensive office.

“Then you don’t recognize it? The jeweler assured me it belonged to you. I tried to sell it, but he wouldn’t buy it. He said it belonged to the Duc d’Aumont and that you would perhaps pay me more than its value to recover it,” she suggested hesitantly. “He said it’s very old.”

“They didn’t tell you,” he said softly, and she sensed somehow that it was a question.

“I don’t understand. Tell me what?”

“If you are showing me something I’m expected to recognize, we’re both doomed to failure,” he said gently. “You see, I’m blind.” He could say it quite naturally now, after all these years. He could even smile to reassure her.

“Of course.” Her voice was relieved. His lack of response was not a lack of recognition. “I should have known from the glasses, but they didn’t tell me. It’s so bright in here, I didn’t think. I suppose I envied you their protection against the glare.”

He laughed easily and stood to adjust the shade behind him, dimming the painful brightness. There was no fumbling in his movements, so that she found herself watching those sure fingers in amazement.

“They won’t complain. They think that would remind me that I can’t see,” he said, smiling at her. He could hear the answering laughter from across the desk and, judging his movements carefully by that sound, he reached across its expanse and held his palm open before her. She laid the locket she had guarded these years against the outstretched hand, and the long, dark fingers closed around the delicate golden chain.

He sat down, carefully examining the object she had placed in his hand. As his fingers traced the shape of the entwined hearts and then the roughness of the faceted emeralds that outlined them, she could almost read his emotions by the play of the muscles in his jaw, by the involuntary tightening of his lips and the effort to swallow against the sudden constriction of his throat.

She wished she could see his eyes. She needed so desperately to know if he would be willing to pay what she intended to ask, but the dark glasses were a barrier she couldn’t penetrate.

“Where did you get this? My God, how did you—” he asked finally, his hands no longer deftly examining the locket, but one locked hard around it. She could see only a small fragment of the gleaming links between those clenched fingers.

“I intended to tell you that she gave it to me, but that’s not the truth. I stole it. I didn’t think there was any reason... She didn’t need it. I thought someone should have some good of it, and we had nothing. But then I was frightened. I was afraid that if I tried to sell it, someone would know I’d stolen it. She was dying. Stealing from a dying woman—that’s something God won’t forgive me for, although I’ve prayed for her soul every day. And for the baby. I thought that might make up for the wrong I did,” she said piously, hoping to convince him of her remorse.

She looked up to read his reaction, and at the look on those handsome features, she was really frightened for the first time. She had decided years ago that she was going to hell for what she had done, but this man looked as if he might already have been there, might already have tasted that punishment. She wondered if he would have her arrested, imprisoned, and all this long journey would have been for nothing.

“It’s my grandson. Maybe that’s a punishment for what I did, but it’s too hard. He’s just a little boy, a baby.” She knew she was making no sense, but his stillness was confusing her. She had expected anger, was ready to deal with that, but not this terrifying stillness.

“Where was she when you took this?” he asked, calmly enough, but she was somehow aware of the effort it took him to achieve that control.

“With the nuns, the Sisters of the Sacred Heart,” she said. She had thought he might have known that, but she could see its impact on his face and knew the information was a surprise. “I helped deliver the baby. It was too early and she was— I don’t know what she was. She never said anything, not even during the labor. Most women cry or scream, but she...there was nothing there, behind her eyes. The baby was too small, so fragile. The nuns and I did what we could, but when I left, I knew he wouldn’t live.

“They left me alone with her while they went to get the doctor and while they worked with the baby, but she just lay there. They couldn’t stop the bleeding. I knew she was going to die. I’ve seen too many like that. The doctor couldn’t have gotten there in time to stop it. I took the locket. I’m not a thief, but she was dying. I thought...”

Her voice whispered into silence. She waited for him to speak and finally he did.

“Your grandson?”

“Cancer—and the doctor bills are so high. Perhaps if there’s money, they’ll do something for him. He’s only a baby.”

“How much?” he asked. She watched his hand reach for the button that would summon his secretary.

“The jeweler said it was very old. I thought—” But the opening door and the secretary interrupted whatever she intended to ask for.

“Get her out of here,” he said softly from across the desk. “Give her whatever she wants, but get her the hell out of here and find my brother. I don’t give a damn where he is or what he’s doing. You tell him I want him here now. Tell him he has some questions to answer. Some questions about my wife. And my son.”

The old woman was as frightened by the cold voice as she had been when she thought he might call the police. She realized suddenly that the olive complexion of the hovering secretary had blanched to a sickly gray. She knew he would be obeyed, and in spite of her fear, she began to recalculate what she would ask. Whatever she wants, he had said. She was already going to hell. What did it matter? Her mind was busily reconsidering her request as the secretary hurried her from the office, wiping his brow with the handkerchief he had pulled from his pocket. She hardly noticed how much his hands shook. She was too elated by the success of her morning’s work. It had all been so easy.

* * *

“I DON’T WANT another lie. I want to know why you told me she died in that car. Why you’ve let me think all these years that if I had only reached her sooner, if I had been a little quicker— You’ve let me live with that. Now I find she didn’t die there. She died at the convent. She died, giving birth to my son, alone. She bled to death, alone.”

His cold voice paused to bank the emotions that were clearly threatening the icy control. “Why was she carried to the convent? My God, one of the finest medical facilities in the region was only a few miles away. I was carried there and lived, despite...” He stopped because they both knew what his condition had been.

“I want an explanation for this entire pack of lies you’ve fed me all this time, and damn you, Andre, it had better be a good one. I swear, I could kill you for letting me believe I let them die.”