Louise Fuller - Revenge At The Altar

She felt her chest tighten. And, of course, for her, buying back her father’s shares would have an additional and thankfully undisclosed benefit of sending a strong message to the bank.

‘Oh, Papa.’ Her father was such a child, but today of all days she was prepared to indulge him, and so, despite her annoyance, she spoke placatingly. ‘You know I’ve been trying to get hold of you. I must have rung you at least a dozen times.’

She felt a rush of excitement as she played back her father’s rambling message inside her head. He’d mentioned something about flying up to Reims, but that had been hours ago. She glanced at her watch. Surely he must be here by now?

Her mouth was suddenly almost too dry to get words out. ‘Where are you staying? I can come to you, or I can send a car to pick you up.’

Her pulse accelerated. She couldn’t believe it. Finally it was happening. The moment she’d been waiting for almost her whole life.

Buying back the ‘lost’ shares, as her grandfather referred to them, was a goal that had preoccupied her since she’d taken over the reins of the business. In doing so, she would not only make Duvernay whole again, she would also bring closure to the whole sorry complex mess of her parents’ marriage and the repercussions that had followed her mother’s tragic death.

She felt her pulse tremble.

Her father and her grandparents had always had a fraught relationship. Emile might look like a film star, but to them he was just a horse trainer—eloping with their nineteen-year-old daughter had not endeared him to her straitlaced and image-conscious family. His decision to live off Colette’s trust fund had merely deepened the rift.

But after her death, it had been his refusal to turn over her shares to his children that had turned a difficult relationship into a bitter stand-off.

Emile had always claimed it was an act of self-preservation. Her grandparents had seen it as an act of spite. Either way, the facts were undeniable. Her father had threatened to take her and her brothers to Switzerland if he wasn’t allowed to hold on to the shares, and her grandfather had agreed to his demands on two conditions: that he give up custody of his children to his in-laws and that they keep their mother’s name.

Margot shivered. Once she had thought that grief might bring the two sides of her family closer. In fact the reverse had happened. There was still such bad blood between Emile and his in-laws that even now they both took every opportunity to point-score.

But maybe now that might finally change.

The thought made her heart leap upwards. It would just be so wonderful to put all of this behind them before Louis’s wedding. Her first task, though, was to pin Emile down...

‘Papa?’ she repeated, trying to sound casual. ‘Just tell me where you’d like to meet.’

‘That’s why I’m calling—’

His voice had changed. He sounded a little uneasy—defiant, almost—and briefly she wondered why. But before she had a chance to give it any more thought he started talking again.

‘I did try, so you can’t blame me—Not now, chérie , put it over there . I waited as long as I could...’

Hearing a soft but unmistakably feminine murmur, Margot frowned. Even now her father couldn’t manage to give her his full and undivided attention. Her mouth thinned. No doubt he was already celebrating the upcoming sale of his shares with his current batch of hangers-on.

And then her heartbeat froze, and she felt her fingers tighten involuntarily around the phone as his words bumped into one another inside her head like dodgems at the funfair. ‘Blame you for what?’

‘I waited as long as I could, poussin , but it was such a good offer—’

His use of her childhood nickname as much as his wheedling tone sent a ripple of alarm over her skin. Her father only ever called her poussin —little chick—when he wanted something or when he wanted to be forgiven.

‘What offer?’ she said slowly.

The lift doors opened and she stepped out into the glass-ceilinged atrium. Straight ahead, she noticed her PA hovering nervously in front of her office door, and her heart gave a sickening thump.

‘What have you done, Papa?

‘I’ve done what I should have done a long time ago.’ The wheedling tone had shifted, become defensive. ‘So I hope you’re not going to make a fuss, Margot. I mean, it’s what you’ve been telling me to do for years—sell my shares. And now I have. And I have to say I got a damn good price for them too.’

It was as if a bomb had exploded inside her head. Blood was roaring in her ears and the floor seemed to ripple beneath her feet.

‘You said that if you were going to sell your shares you’d come to me first.’ Margot felt panic, hot and slippery, run down her spine.

‘And I did.’ There was a burst of laughter in the background and she felt her father’s attention shift and divert away from her. ‘But you didn’t pick up.’

‘I couldn’t. I was having a massage.’ She let out a breath. ‘Look, Papa, we can sort this out. Just don’t sign anything, okay? Just stay where you are and I will come to you.’

‘It’s too late now. I signed the paperwork first thing this morning. And I mean first thing. He got me out of bed,’ he grumbled. ‘Anyway, there’s no point in getting out of shape with me—just talk to him . He should be there by now.’

‘Who—?’ she began, but even without the tell-tale clink of ice against glass she could tell her father was no longer listening.

She heard the click of his lighter, then the slow expulsion of smoke. ‘Apparently that’s why it all had to be done so early. He wanted to get up to Epernay...take a look around headquarters.’

Margot gazed dazedly across the honey-coloured parquet floor. No wonder her staff were looking so confused. Clearly the newest Duvernay shareholder was already on site. But who was he—and what had he told them?

Her pulse stuttered in time with her footsteps. There were already enough rumours circulating around the company as it was—and what would the bank think if they heard that Emile had suddenly decided to sell his shares?

Silently she cursed herself for not picking up her messages—and her father for being so utterly, irredeemably selfish.

‘It’ll be fine,’ Emile was saying briskly.

Now that the worst was over he was clearly itching to be gone.

‘You’re so rational and practical, poussin .’

She could almost see him shuddering even at the concept of such qualities.

‘Just talk to him. Maybe you can persuade him to sell them back to you.’

He was desperate to be off. If Margot had been the sort to scream or hurl abuse she would have unleashed the tide of invective churning in her throat. But she wasn’t. A lifetime of watching the soap opera that had been her parents’ marriage had cured her of any desire for a scene. For a moment, though, she considered telling Emile in the most ir rational, im practical terms exactly what she thought of him.

Only, really, what was the point? Her father’s ‘me first’ morality was precisely why he’d kept the shares in the first place.

‘Although somehow I doubt it...’

Her father exhaled again, and she pictured him stubbing out his cigarette with the same careless force with which he had upended her dreams of taking back control of Duvernay.

‘He seemed absolutely set on having them. But, truthfully, I think I might have done you a favour. I mean, he is the man of the moment, right?’

The man of the moment .

Margot blinked. Her brain was whirling, her thoughts flying in a hundred directions. She had read that headline. Not the article, for that would have been too painful. But, walking through the centre of Paris last month, she had found it impossible to tear her gaze away from the newsstands. Or more particularly the head-and-shoulders shot that had accompanied the article, and those eyes—one blue, one green—staring down the Champs-Élysées as if he owned it.

‘Man of the moment?’

Her voice sounded blurred, shapeless—like a candle flame that had burnt the whole wick and was floundering in wax.

‘Yeah—Max Montigny. They say he can turn water into wine, so I guess he’ll give those stuffy vignerons a run for their money—Yeah, I’ll be right there.’

Margot tried to speak, but her breath was thick and tangled in her throat. ‘Papa—’ she began, but it was too late. He was talking over her.

‘Look, call me later—well, maybe not later, but whenever. I love you, but I have to go—’

The phone went dead.

But not as dead as she felt.

Max Montigny.

It had been almost ten years since she’d last seen him. Ten years of trying to pretend their relationship, his lies, her heartbreak, that none of it had happened. And she’d done a pretty good job, she thought dully.

Of course it had helped that only Yves had ever known the full story. To everyone else Max had been at first a trusted employee, and later a favoured friend of the family.

To her, though, he had been a fantasy made flesh. With smooth dark hair, a profile so pure it looked as though it had been cut with a knife, and a lean, muscular body that hummed with energy, he had been like a dark star that seemed to tug at all her five senses whenever she was within his orbit.

Only as far as he was concerned Margot had been invisible. No, maybe not invisible. He had noticed her, but only in the same jokey way that her own brother had—smiling at her off-handedly as he joined the family for dinner, or casually offering to drive her into town when it was raining.

And then one day, instead of looking through her, he had stared at her so intently she had forgotten to breathe, forgotten to look away.

Remembering that moment, the impossibility of not holding his gaze, her cheeks felt suddenly as though they were on fire.

She had been captivated by him, enthralled and enchanted. She would have followed him blindly into darkness, and in a way she had—for she had gone into his arms and to his bed, given herself to him willingly, eagerly.

From then on he had been everything to her. Her man of the moment. Her man for ever.

Until the day he’d broken her heart and walked out of her life without so much as a flicker of remorse in those haunting eyes.

Afterwards, the pain had been unbearable. Feigning illness, she’d stayed in bed for days, curled up small and still beneath her duvet, chest aching with anguish, throat tight with tears she hadn’t allowed herself to weep for fear that her grandfather would notice.

But now was not the time for tears either and, swallowing the hard shard of misery in her throat, Margot greeted her PA with what she hoped was a reasonable approximation of her usual composure.

‘Good morning, Simone.’

‘Good morning, madame .’ Simone hesitated. Colour was creeping over her cheekbones and she seemed flustered. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were coming in today. But he—Mr Montigny, I mean—he said you were expecting him.’

Smiling, Margot nodded. So it was true. Just for a moment she had hoped—wanted to believe that she had somehow misunderstood Emile. But this was confirmation. Max was here.

‘I hope that’s okay...?’

Her PA’s voice trailed off and Margot felt her own cheekbones start to ache with the effort of smiling. Poor Simone! Her normally poised PA looked flushed and jumpy. But then no doubt she’d been a recent recipient of the famous but sadly superficial Montigny charm.