3
The Betrayal
Finally she was going to see him again. Lindsay hadn’t eaten for a day and a half; she was too excited. She’d felt nauseous whenever she even got near food, even her beloved cheeseburgers. She’d changed, she knew she had, but was it enough? He was used to Sydney and she was perfect. True, Lindsay was no longer the awkward dumb twit who’d stared at him, unable to say anything, unable to do much of anything except gaze upon him with adoring eyes, but that had been nearly two years ago. She’d been young then, very young and gauche and silly. She was grown now; she was mature. She was eighteen and nearly a woman. Her hands were clammy.
She was also in France, riding in a white limousine, provided by the prince, on her way to the George V, and she would see him for the first time since his and Sydney’s wedding. She could still see him clearly in his tuxedo, still remember how the stark white of his dress shirt was so elegant and sophisticated against his olive skin. And his dark, dark eyes, looking at her, so intently, so seriously. She shivered with the pleasure of the thought. Of course Sydney would be there, but Lindsay didn’t care. She just wanted to see him, look at him, know that he was happy.
She pulled out the wrinkled oft-folded letter from her purse and read it yet again. The limo driver had raised the glass shield and she was quite alone. The limo’s engine was powerful, smooth, and quiet. She smoothed out the page and read:
My dearest Lindsay:
Sydney and I will be in Paris the week of April 11. Enclosed is a ticket. We want you to join us. Do come. I, especially, want to see you again.
And he’d signed it as he had the other cards he’d sent during the past two years. With love, Alessandro. She’d turned eighteen the month before. She was grown now. She had a figure too, not as perfect as Sydney’s, but it wasn’t bad. She had breasts and a rear end. She was also awfully tall, but she remembered him as being taller. He would see her as grown, he just had to. She stopped her thinking there, as always. Her half-sister was married to him. That was that.
There had been no more pregnancies, as far as Lindsay knew. The poor prince. If he’d been married to her, she would have done anything for him, had as many kids as he wanted. He was special, he deserved all the good life could provide him. He was wonderful.
She fell into daydreaming about him, and it was always the same, with only minor variations. He was carrying her in his arms and he was telling her that he loved her more than life itself, that she was so dear to him, that only she could make him feel so open, so giving. He was carrying her aboard his yacht and the crew were smiling and nodding, approving of him and of her, approving of them together, and it was perfect. Somehow Sydney was gone, magically, not dead, of course, that would never do. She was just gone and the prince was free and Lindsay was with him and would be for the rest of her life. Oh, how she loved him, and in her daydream he loved her even more. He was Alessandro to her. He was her prince. He was her god. She sighed at the muted sound of the intruding Paris traffic. The daydream was bliss itself, and she was always loath to let it go.
She had three different news clippings about him, one with a photograph. She carried the photo with her in her wallet. She pulled it out now and stared. He looked grim in the photo, but his magnetism was clear to her, as were his beauty and the sweet tenderness of him. The article accompanying the photo spoke about recent problems in the family munitions factory near Milan, of terrorist acts on arms shipments bound for Iran, perpetrated by Iraq. Lindsay hadn’t paid much attention, searching only for personal remarks about him. One article, at the end, had mentioned that he was married to an American heiress and lawyer, Sydney Foxe di Contini, of the international firm of Hodges, Krammer, Huges, etc., now a partner herself. There were no children. It spoke of his antecedents, but nothing of interest to Lindsay.
Lindsay hadn’t seen Sydney since the wedding. She hadn’t even seen a photo of her. Whenever the prince and Sydney had visited the United States during the past year and a half, Lindsay had never been invited back to San Francisco at the same time. And they had never stopped off to see her. She was certain this was Sydney’s doing. Sydney had ceased to like her, had probably never liked her, and finally had just stopped pretending. Lindsay remembered, even now cringing against the black leather of the limo, how Sydney had laughed at her the day of the wedding, telling her that the prince was amused by her silly teenage infatuation. How he found her pathetic. Just like her father. Lindsay cut it off right there.
Why had Sydney suddenly changed her mind? Why did she want to see Lindsay now? She didn’t quite know what to make of it. She believed firmly that the prince had put his foot down. It was his doing that she was now in Paris. Sydney hadn’t had a choice but to go along with it. He was the boss and Sydney had bowed to his wishes.
As for Lindsay’s father, it was as if she no longer existed to him. She knew he was in Italy a good three months of the year, but she knew nothing more, for her father, when he was compelled to speak to her, only remarked that her half-sister was as beautiful and as accomplished as ever. About the prince, his son-in-law, Royce never said a thing. And Lindsay was too intimidated to ask. She’d asked him once, inadvertently, about her mother, and he’d hung up on her.
The limousine was entering Paris proper now and Lindsay pressed the electric button to lower the passenger window. The air was cool and sweet, the sun bright overhead, and it was, after all, April in Paris, the most romantic city in the world in its most romantic month of the year. Lindsay touched her fingers to her hair. The deep waves were in place, with tendrils wisping around her face. Gayle’s mother had done little with the thick overly curly masses of hair, but she’d told Lindsay not to worry. By the time she was twenty, she’d said, the fashion world would be ready for her. Lindsay pulled out her compact and studied her face. Too pale, but she didn’t have any blusher. All she wore was lip gloss, and that was a soft pink and nearly gone. She was eating it off.
She was so nervous she felt nausea rising in her throat. She swallowed and breathed in the wonderful Paris air and tried to practice what she would say to him. Her mind was sluggish and she felt like a fool. She felt her spirits plummet and knew she would make an idiot of herself in front of him and in front of Sydney. And Sydney would laugh at her. And then she’d tell their father, and he’d laugh too.
She was to go to the reception at the George V Hotel and ask to be escorted to the suite of Prince Alessandro di Contini. She wondered if the prince would be there to greet her or if just Sydney would be there waiting. It wouldn’t matter, she told herself, he would be there soon enough and she could look her fill and, she prayed, she would say something witty, something to charm him, something that would make even Sydney look at her with new respect.
Her luggage was old and battered, and for the first time she was embarrassed. The doorman, however, didn’t seem to notice. She was led inside, allowed with gentle condescension to try out her French, and then escorted across the grand lobby to the correct elevator.
The bellhop led her down the wide carpeted corridor of the twelfth floor. Lindsay slowed; her palms were wet and she felt stickiness in her armpits. She’d shaved her legs the previous night and cut herself badly in three places. At least the bleeding had stopped so she didn’t have to wear Band-Aids under her panty hose.