One Who Kisses Read online

  One Who Kisses

  By

  Marjorie Lewty

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  ONE WHO KISSES

  Polly West had met and married Piran St Just while on holiday in Paris—a thoroughly romantic situation, one might have thought. Except that the marriage itself was anything but romantic—a mere business arrangement made for the sake of Piran's little nephew Jules. Would the thought that she had secured the child's happiness compensate Polly for the fact that her husband would never love her?

  Books you will enjoy

  by

  MARJORIE LEWTY

  MAKESHIFT MARRIAGE

  Blake Morden relied on his secretary Maggie Webster for everything—except the one thing she wanted him to rely on her for. He would never love her, as she had loved him for so long. But then his fiancée jilted him and, on the rebound, he asked Maggie to marry him…

  A GIRL BEWITCHED

  Emma's young cousin Lisa seemed to have been absolutely bewitched by Trent Marston, and heartbroken when he callously walked out on her. Now that Lisa had married, presumably on the rebound, that would be the end of Trent, Emma thought—only to find she was in danger of becoming bewitched by him herself!

  BEYOND THE LAGOON

  'God preserve me from rich men's daughters,' said Gideon North contemptuously. Susan French wasn't rich at all—but she was pretending to be Della Benton, who was, so if and when Gideon discovered the deception, it was hardly going to improve his opinion of her, was it? And why did she care so much?

  First published 1983

  Australian copyright 1983

  Philippine copyright 1983

  This edition 1983

  © Marjorie Lewty 1983

  ISBN 0 263 74203 2

  CHAPTER ONE

  Paris in September. It was so beautiful that it almost made up for all the disappointments of the last few weeks, Polly told herself, stepping out briskly along the wide, tree-lined boulevard.

  It had rained in the night and the morning air had a clean, washed smell. The trees rustled their laundered greenery in the breeze. On the pavements outside the cafes the little tables would soon be filled with people, chatting and drinking coffee under the striped canopies while they lazily watched the world go by, but this early in the morning the tables were empty, waiting.

  Polly stopped and consulted her map of Paris, on which she had put a cross against the coach station she was making for. This was the last day of her five-day holiday and she had saved the greatest treat until the end—a day trip to see Chartres Cathedral.

  She turned off the boulevard and crossed the gardens, taking a short cut over the grass. Two French boys in black berets—students probably—strolled towards her, deliberately changing direction as they drew near. They smiled cheekily as they reached her, their dark, laughing eyes resting in blatant appreciation on the slender figure in tight jeans and frilly white blouse, the silky wheat-fair hair, the piquante face with its tilted little nose and pretty mouth.

  The morning air was so exhilarating that Polly very nearly smiled back, but remembered in time that it was unwise to smile at strange men in a foreign country. So she walked on, chin held high, ignoring the remarks they called after her. Perhaps fortunately her knowledge of the French language wasn't up to translating them.

  This was the penalty of coming abroad on her own. But being on her own was the way she wanted it. She could have been out with that rather nice American boy who was staying at her hotel with his parents. But she wasn't looking for romance on her Paris holiday, not so soon after Mike.

  Her face clouded as she thought of Mike, far away up in Lancaster, starting out on his first teaching job. If only her own appointment hadn't fallen through at the last minute she would have been up there with him now, teaching at the same school, deepening the friendship they had struck up in college, only a couple of days before the end of their final term.

  It had seemed to Polly like the beginning of something wonderful when Mike Tarrent, tall and blond and athletic, and every girl student's pin-up, had singled her out at the graduation dance. When they discovered that they both had appointments to start in September at the same school in Lancaster it seemed like Fate.

  And then, the next day, the awful news came through that the teacher whom Polly had been appointed to replace temporarily had recovered unexpectedly from her illness and would be able to resume her job again at the beginning of the new term in September.

  Polly was devastated, and Mike had comforted her. 'Never mind, Poll, you can still come up to Lancaster with me. The flat I've got booked is big enough for the two of us and you can probably pick up a job. How about supply teaching?'

  'Share your flat?' Polly's blue eyes opened very wide. 'Do you mean—?'

  'Why not?' Mike grinned. 'Seems a good idea to me.'

  'But we haven't—I mean, we hardly know each other—'

  He bent his blond head and nuzzled her ear. 'There's one excellent way of getting over that small difficulty, my sweet. Never been known to fail. Shall I expound further?'

  'No, thanks, I can imagine.' She pulled a face at him. Better to take this as lightly as he seemed to be doing. 'Thanks for the offer, Mike, but the answer's no.'

  He had argued a bit, pleaded a bit, but she knew he wasn't heartbroken. There would be lots of pretty girls in Lancaster. She wasn't heartbroken either, she assured herself for the hundredth time now, her sandals sinking into the soft turf as she quickened her pace. But Mike was fun, he was a marvellous companion and she was dreadfully disappointed that she would probably never see him again. It was better this way, she tried to believe. If she had agreed to go with him she would have fallen in love with him, and that wouldn't have been a good idea. He was obviously not the kind of young man with marriage on his mind, and Polly knew she wasn't the kind of girl who could take an affair lightly and let it go with a smile and a wave when it was over.

  So—better not. Yes, she was glad she had refused and she mustn't let herself get depressed because she was alone in Paris, this city of romance. She had chosen to give herself this short holiday, using up at least half of her savings from her holiday job as a temporary waitress in Bournemouth, to take her mind off her disappointment. It was a very sensible thing to do, surely, and she had enjoyed it all tremendously. She would buy a picture postcard in Chartres to send to Mike, just so that he wouldn't forget her altogether. And perhaps, she thought as she turned out of the park, if it was meant to happen, they would meet again one day.

  Ah, here was the coach station, just as they had told her at the hotel. Two shiny blue coaches were pulled up under the trees on the opposite side of the road. One had Fontainebleau on the indicator and the other Chartres. Polly hurried across the road. The driver of her coach was leaning against the mudguard of his vehicle, smoking the usual Gauloise. She showed him her booking ticket and he jerked his head sideways and upwards.

  She climbed into the coach. It was nearly full and she was met by a buzz of American and German and other languages she didn't recognise. There was one vacant double seat near the front and she slid thankfully into the inside seat. Lucky to be beside the window; from here she could survey the passing scene in comfort. So far, in her five-day holiday, she hadn't been outside Paris itself. This drive to Chartres would give her some idea of the countryside, as well as a sight of what was, perhaps, the most beautiful cathedral ever to have been built.

  A thin woman in a red dress splashily patterned with roses climbed aboard. She had a shar
p face and elaborately-dressed black hair and she was pulling a small boy of about six behind her, dragging him up the steep step into the coach without much consideration for his short legs—which looked to Polly much too spindly for a boy of that age.

  The woman stood looking round the inside of the coach with darting, beady eyes and Polly was aware that she herself had just taken the only double seat left. The little boy looked scared and he clung to the woman's hand. 'Where can I sit, Grand'maman?' he quavered in French.

  She pushed him into a seat at the front of the coach and sat down herself next to Polly. 'Be quiet now, Jules,' she snapped. 'You can watch the driver from there. Tais-toi!' she added sharply, as he began to whimper, and he looked at her with large, frightened eyes and obeyed.

  Polly's heart went out to the child. She said in her careful French, 'Shall I move, so that the little boy can sit beside you, madame?'

  The woman shook her head. 'Non, celá ne fait rien. He has to learn, n'est-ce pas?' The sharp nose twitched and Madame smoothed her skirt over her knees. 'He will ask me questions all the time if he sits beside me. He is a little nuisance with his questions.'

  Polly was of the opinion that it was a healthy thing for a child to ask questions, but she didn't argue the point. Instead she smiled faintly and turned her head to look out of the window.

  A long, grey, expensive-looking car was pulling up on the opposite side of the road. A man got out and stood looking around. Then he crossed the road purposefully towards the Chartres coach and stopped just below where Polly was sitting, dark eyes raking the passengers inside.

  She watched him with interest. Indeed, it would have been difficult not to feel interest, for he was the most immediately impressive man she had ever seen. With his dark hair and eyes he might have been French, but not many Frenchmen were that tall or had that springiness in their hair. English, she thought. Scottish perhaps, or even American. Most probably English. He had the almost insolent quiet self-possession she had noticed in many of the English during her stay at the hotel. She had noticed, too, that the French were definitely not impressed. The English, they seemed to infer, with their cynical shrug, trop sur de soi! Too cocky, in fact!

  The dark eyes stopped their roving and came to rest, and Polly's heart gave a sudden strange leap, for he seemed to be staring straight at her. Then she relaxed as she realised that her neighbour in the red dress was the object of his hard scrutiny.

  The woman muttered something under her breath and turned away, but the man had recognized her and had one foot, now, on the step of the coach. The driver roused himself sufficiently to make a gesture of protest and an exchange of words followed, during which the tall man remained impassive while the driver waved his arms about a good deal. Finally something changed hands, the driver lit another cigarette and the man swung himself easily up into the coach and stood towering over the woman in the red dress. Polly couldn't resist stealing a glance at him. Close to, he looked even more formidable. He was dressed casually in cords and a checked shirt, the sleeves rolled up to show powerful bronzed forearms. His shoulders were wide and muscular and there was a dark shadow on his chin. A very tough customer indeed, thought Polly, looking away quickly.

  'Good morning, madame.' He spoke in French, but Polly was sure now that he was English. His voice was deep and cultured, contrasting oddly with the roughness of his appearance.

  The woman's eyes avoided his. 'What do you want?' she said sullenly, antagonism oozing from every pore.

  'I think you know what I want, madame. May I trouble you to come outside and speak to me briefly about the matter?'

  For a moment Polly thought the woman was going to refuse. She foresaw trouble. This wasn't a man to be refused anything. But, with a muttered word, her neighbour pulled herself up out of her seat, the red dress clinging tightly to her, and followed the man out of the coach. As he passed the small boy in the front seat he paused for a second, resting a hand lightly on the smooth, dark head. The boy looked up, startled, but with no sign of recognition, and then the man had passed him and jumped down to the pavement. He held out his hand politely to assist the woman, but she ignored it and took her time to climb down the step, her every movement indicating in no uncertain manner that she was being put to great inconvenience.

  For perhaps five minutes the two of them stood arguing beneath the trees, and Polly watched them, fascinated. Their voices didn't reach her through the window, but in dumb show it was obvious that some very unpleasant words were being exchanged. The Frenchwoman's face was distorted with anger. Her hands moved in jerky, furious gestures as if she would like to attack the man physically. He, on the other hand, remained apparently calm. Only the harsh twist of his mouth and the contempt in his dark, hooded eyes betrayed his emotion.

  What a shocker, thought Polly, half amused and yet oddly unnerved by the sight of that grim, inflexible face. It had nothing to do with her, of course, but she wouldn't like to be on the receiving end of that man's disapproval. She realised that she was staring at the two of them and looked away quickly.

  A moment or two later the woman came back into the coach. The driver squeezed out his cigarette and climbed in behind the wheel. The doors swished to, the engine spluttered into life and they were away.

  The last thing Polly saw was the tall, somehow menacing figure of the dark man, standing staring grimly after the coach. She chuckled to herself. It was rather fun to make a drama out of what was no doubt a run-of-the-mill family feud. Or perhaps the woman in the red dress owed him money—or perhaps—

  Her flight of imagination came to an abrupt end as she heard a strangled sigh and saw that her neighbour was shaking all over, her face putty-coloured.

  Polly put a hand on her arm. 'Are you feeling ill? Shall I tell the driver to stop?'

  'Non, non.' The beady eyes stared straight ahead. 'In a moment I shall recover.' She lay back, closing her eyes.

  The boy had climbed up in his seat and was peering over the top. 'Grand'maman, Grand'maman, who was the man? What is the matter?'

  The woman appeared not to hear. Polly leaned forward, a finger to her lips. 'Ssh, Jules,' she said, very low. 'Your grandmother is not feeling well, but she will soon be better.' She wished she were more fluent in French. He looked so pale and anxious and she would have liked to be able to console him.

  He stared at her for a moment, as if summing up this stranger who spoke to him. His dark eyes were enormous in his small, pale face, the lids lowered slightly. With a slight shock Polly saw a strong resemblance to the man who had caused all the trouble. Evidently it had been a family quarrel.

  The boy glanced at his grandmother and then back at Polly. 'Are you English?' he said.

  A bilingual child—that was a relief. Polly smiled at him. 'Yes, I'm English. And you're French, aren't you?'

  'Only half,' he said. 'My daddy was English and my maman is French.' His lower lip drooped and he looked as if he might cry.

  Polly said quickly, 'Look at those funny houses over there, Jules.'

  He looked. 'Those aren't houses, it's a windmill, silly!'

  She pretended to peer out of the window. 'Of course it is, how stupid of me. Do you know about windmills, Jules?'

  'I know about all sorts of buildings,' he said in a superior tone. 'I am going to be an architect, you see. My daddy was an artist,' he volunteered confidentially.

  No father, evidently, poor mite. Polly wondered where his mother was and why he was in the care of his grandmother who quite patently wasn't interested in him.

  'Can I come and sit by you?' He sounded eager now. 'I could tell you about the cathedral. It has flying butt-resses,' he added carefully. 'They help to prop it up in case it falls down.'

  'Really? Now I didn't know that.' Polly resisted her impulse to smile.

  'Yes.' Jules nodded importantly. 'And it's been burned down lots and lots of times, but they built it up again. My father told me all about it when I was little. He was going to take me to see it, only he died.' He spok
e so matter-of-factly that Polly guessed that his father's death couldn't have been very recent. 'So I made Grand'maman bring me.' Jules went on. 'I've asked her and asked her, but she never would.' He glanced briefly at the woman beside Polly. Her eyes were still closed, but her face had lost its papery whiteness and resumed its normal sallow colour under its heavy make-up. 'But today she said we could come. She said it would get me out of the way.'

  Get him out of the way? Of what? Polly wondered. Or—more likely—of whom? A dark, arrogant figure suddenly appeared before her mind's eye.

  'Can I come and sit by you?' the boy asked again.

  His grandmother opened her eyes suddenly. 'Jules!' she hissed. 'Sit down and behave yourself. Tais-toi!' She raised a hand threateningly and Jules slithered back into his seat.

  The woman turned to Polly. 'He gets too excited,' she muttered in half-apology.

  'Are you feeling better now?' Polly enquired politely.

  The woman's mouth closed like a trap, and then, as if she had to release the emotion seething inside her, she began to talk. 'That man!' she began viciously. 'He is a monster, a—' There followed several words that Polly could only guess at, but the general tone was as offensive as the woman could make it. She almost spat the words out. 'He is Jules' uncle, you know, and now that the boy's mother—my dear daughter—can no longer look after him, that man wants to take him away from me, back to England. But I will not allow it. I will fight him with every breath in my body—'

  She lay back in her seat, panting.

  Polly didn't want to snub the woman, who was obviously in a state of extreme agitation, neither did she want to have a long story of family quarrels thrust upon her. She turned her head and looked out of the window, hoping that the woman would quieten down.