Thorne's Way Page 2

  Telling herself there had to be some sort of mistake, Valerie had rushed to the hospital where Etienne was being treated. Some seven hours later Valerie stood staring at the still, pale face of the man on the bed and felt hope trickle out of her life like sands from an hourglass.

  Reality seemed to recede as she glanced around in a desperate effort to maintain some point of contact with the real world. But there was no reality for her in the people around her—Etienne’s parents, his brother, the doctor in charge of the case—or in the room itself, or even in the knowledge that the room was in a small private hospital several miles outside Paris. Indeed, even the magical word Paris, which she had learned to love during the last six years of her life, held no concrete reality.

  No, for Valerie, at 6:15 on a stormy May morning, the only reality existed in that still pale man lying on the sterile-looking bed. Recognizing in that man the lover she’d laughed and danced with only ten hours earlier was a task she was finding next to impossible.

  In her imagination the form on the bed changed. For fleeting seconds he became again the smilingly gallant man who had toasted her, his fiancée, such a short time before. After the toast he had lifted her fingers to his lips and murmured, “The next two weeks will seem interminable, my love.”

  In a purely reflex action Valerie now clutched at that same hand, resting limply on the covers. The contrast between the hand she now held and the vitally warm one that had enclosed hers the night before caused bitter gall to rise chokingly in her throat.

  Vitally alive! The descriptive phrase repeated itself painfully in her mind, and she sent up a silent, agonizing plea. Dear God, please, please let Etienne live.

  With the unvoiced prayer came the realization she’d managed to block out of her consciousness till now. Etienne DeBron, her fiancé, her love, her entire life, was very likely going to die. And with that realization came rage. A rage that filled the void created by dissolving hope. A rage that clouded her vision and made her hands shake. A rage that finally settled on the unscathed man who had caused the unbelievable anguish of the previous hours.

  Damn that drunken fool, she thought furiously. Damn him to hell! The curse brought an image of the small, skinny farmer and an echo of his whining voice.

  “Mon Dieu!” He’d invoked the Lord as his witness. “I didn’t see his car,” he’d sobbed brokenly. “The rain was lashing against the windscreen so heavily, I could hardly see anything through it.”

  And even less through your drunken haze, Valerie now accused the farmer silently. For although he was reasonably sober by the time they’d reached the hospital, the man had been very intoxicated when the gendarmes arrived at the scene of the accident.

  He had been out with friends, the farmer had nervously explained, celebrating the birth of his long-awaited first child. Perhaps he had imbibed a little too freely, he’d admitted grudgingly. But, he’d qualified in a belligerent tone, the weather was more at fault for his car’s crashing into Etienne’s than he was himself.

  The sheer outrageousness of his claim had stunned an already deeply shocked Valerie, and it was not until this moment, hours later, that the farmer’s sniveling excuses fully registered. The man was actually blaming Etienne’s injuries on God! Without a twinge of guilt, Valerie silently repeated her curse: Damn him to hell.

  The faint movement of the fingers in her clasped hand drew Valerie’s attention back to the bed—and the face of her love.

  “Je t’aime, Valerie.”

  Whispered through colorless lips that barely moved, the vow, though faint, touched every ear in the hushed room.

  “I love you, Etienne.”

  From a throat dry with fear, Valerie repeated the pledge softly, hoarsely.

  A mere hint of a smile feathered over the pale lips, and cold fingers pressed hers weakly in an attempted caress.

  Valerie’s hand tightened convulsively around his fingers as if willing her strength into him.

  The very stillness of the air in the room gave her warning; and then it happened. From deep in his throat came the final exhalation of life.

  “Etienne?”

  Softly, almost timidly, Valerie called to the still form on the bed.

  “Etienne!”

  Valerie’s tone had sharpened into a demand that defied the truth. Violet eyes, wide with growing horror, searched the white, waxy-looking face for a reason to defy that truth. There was only stillness. A stillness that made her blood run cold.

  The white-coated figure of the doctor bent over the still form. Short, blunt fingers moved a stethoscope over the exposed chest, then the doctor straightened, head moving side to side.

  From the other side of the bed came the harsh sound of weeping from both Etienne’s parents. The strong arm of his brother slid over her shoulders, his hand grasping her upper arm firmly.

  “Etienne, no—please no!”

  The hand on her arm tightened at her anguished cry and the arm turned her in, against his chest, forcing her eyes from the ashen face. Strong fingers pried loose her grip on the lifeless hand.

  “Valerie, he can no longer hear you,” Jean-Paul coaxed in his enchantingly accented voice. “Come away, petite, he is lost to us.”

  Valerie lifted her tear-streaked face to gaze pleadingly into his dark eyes, so like Etienne’s, bright now with his own unshed tears.

  “Can’t I stay with him, Jean-Paul?” she begged softly. “Please, he’ll be all alone.”

  “He is not alone, mignon.” Jean-Paul’s lips moved in a faint, sympathetic smile. “Come.” Turning her firmly, he walked to the door, giving her no choice but to go with him. “Etienne would not want you to stay.”

  Moving like a sleepwalker, Valerie had allowed herself to be led to the door. She’d turned to gaze once more on the beautiful features of the man who was to have become her husband in two weeks’ time.

  The flame of joyous animation that had burned so brightly inside Valerie had been extinguished with Etienne’s last breath. From the moment Jean-Paul led her from that hushed hospital room, Valerie had slipped into a numbed shock. In a blessedly frozen state, she had been able to receive the condolences of friends and co-workers and had stood mutely in the small cemetery while the shell that had contained the essence of Etienne was interred in the family vault.

  It was after she was alone in her apartment, having declined Jean-Paul’s pleas that she stay with his parents for awhile, that the shock wore off and the real pain began. In an agony of remorseless grief, Valerie sank from despondency into a deep depression that even her closest friends could not break through.

  The one person who might have been able to reach her was unaware of her withdrawn state. Jean-Paul, with a gentle understanding so like his brother’s, had respected her request for solitude after the funeral. He had called her at least once a week to ask if there was anything he could do for her. But her answer had always been the same: There was nothing she needed.

  Then, three months after Etienne’s death, Jean-Paul’s company had sent him to New York City. He had stopped to see her before leaving Paris, and again she had assured him there was nothing she needed. He had left with obvious reluctance, his dark, compassionate eyes shadowed with concern.

  “Don’t worry about me, Jean-Paul,” Valerie sighed when he hesitated at her door. “Go and enjoy yourself. You’ll love New York.”

  “Petite,” Jean-Paul had murmured. “I cannot help but worry about you. You are—” he had paused, his voice cracking with an emotion Valerie was beyond noticing. “You are special to me,” he had finished lamely.

  “I will be fine, and I will be here when you return,” Valerie promised, sending him on his way. She had been neither.

  As the weeks slipped into months, she grew more withdrawn from the people around her. Her work suffered and she didn’t care. In fact, she was totally unaware that her boss was frantically covering up for her. Nothing touched her, nothing moved her, and she would have shrugged indifferently had someone told her that he
r superior’s sympathetic efforts had failed and management was all too aware of her slipshod work.

  The Paris weather was unusually harsh that winter, and for the first time in her working life, Valerie was constantly absent from the office. That also did not go unnoticed at the home office of J.T. Electronics.

  Holed up in her tiny apartment, Valerie could not have cared less about anything. Too disinterested to prepare proper meals, yet continually hungry as a result of emotional emptiness, she ate constantly—all the wrong kinds of foods.

  By the time winter was on the wane her hair had lost its gleaming sheen, her complexion was no longer translucently glowing, and she was fifteen pounds heavier. She didn’t care.

  This, then, was the state of Valerie’s existence on a blustery day one week before she found herself taking off in a luxurious private plane. She had once again not gone to the office.

  To begin with she had overslept. Then, after glancing out the rain-spattered window, she had shrugged and, after calling the office to inform them she would not be in, she had gone back to bed.

  She had been sitting on the sofa, her fingers tracing then retracing, the embossed design on the upholstery, when a sharp, imperative knock on her door broke her fixed stare. For a moment she had considered ignoring the caller—whoever it was—then, with a shrug, she walked listlessly to the door and swung it open. She stood staring in disbelief at Janet Peterson.

  “My God, Val!” Janet cried in astonishment the moment she was inside. “What have you done to yourself?”

  Valerie’s unconcerned shrug told Janet more than any defensive explanation would have. Janet had come to Paris for one purpose, and as she studied Valerie’s appearance that purpose hardened. She didn’t bother mincing words.

  “I’ve come to get you, Val,” she announced flatly. “I’m taking you home.”

  “Why?” Valerie asked dully.

  “Why? Why!” Janet exclaimed. Grabbing Valerie’s arm, she pulled her into the bedroom, not stopping until they stood before the dressing table mirror. “You can look at that reflection and ask me why?” Lifting her hand she caught at the limp, dull ponytail Valerie had secured with a rubber band. “Look at this rat’s nest. When was the last time it saw the busy end of a brush?” Her hand moving swiftly, she caught Valerie’s chin, turning her head so they faced each other. “Your skin is the color of wet cement,” Janet declared brusquely. “And you are literally bursting out of your clothes. What have you been living on? A steady diet of gooey pastries?”

  “Pretty much so, yes,” Valerie admitted tiredly. “What difference does it make, anyway?”

  “I’ll tell you what difference,” Janet snapped. “The difference between vital, glowing health, and this—” her hand moved to indicate Valerie’s figure, “mess you’ve become.”

  Valerie had enough pride—or sense—left to wince. Taking her reaction as a hopeful sign, Janet forged ahead.

  “I knew things weren’t good with you, but I had no idea they were this bad. Come back into the living room, Val, and prepare yourself for a much needed lecture.”

  And lecture she did. For over a solid hour Janet expounded on the fruitlessness of Valerie’s withdrawal from the human race. With biting logic, she pointed out the futility and utter waste of becoming a recluse at the age of twenty-seven. On and on she talked, driving her truths home relentlessly.

  Valerie had not wanted to listen, had, in fact, tried to shut the sound of Janet’s voice out completely. It was impossible. Janet had not reached the executive position she held with J.T. Electronics by being ineffectual. She was smart, and she was quick, and, as the saying goes, she could think on her feet. She brought every one of those talents into play in her bid to save Valerie from herself.

  “You’ve been relieved of duties at the office starting now,” Janet tacked on at the end of her lecture. “That means we have what’s left of the afternoon and six full days to whip you into shape.”

  “Relieved of duties?” Valerie had repeated in confusion. “Whip me into shape? What for? Janet, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” A twinge of alarm pierced her indifference. Even when one no longer cared about living, the rent had to be paid. “Janet, are you telling me I’ve been fired?”

  “No, I’m telling you you’ve been relieved of duty in the Paris office.” Janet hesitated, then went on with deadly seriousness. “Val, I want you to listen very carefully to what I have to say. We’ve been friends almost since the first day you started working for the company—right?”

  Her attention fully caught by Janet’s tone, Valerie nodded her agreement.

  “Well, honey, I’m afraid I may have risked my career for you on the way over here. If I’ve miscalculated in my belief in you, and you let me down, I just might find myself in line at the unemployment office by the end of next week.”

  “But why? How?” Valerie shook her head in an effort to comprehend what Janet was getting at. “Janet, I don’t understand.”

  “No, there’s no way you possibly could.” Janet sighed. “I’d better start at the very beginning.” She paused to glance meaningfully at the postage-stamp-sized kitchen. “How about a cup of coffee while I talk?” she suggested.

  “Yes, of course.” Valerie had the grace to be embarrassed that she hadn’t made the suggestion herself. “I’m sorry, Janet.”

  Janet waited until Valerie had placed the tray of coffee things on the table in front of the sofa. Cradling a cup in her hands, she launched into her explanation.

  “I’ve been worrying about you ever since—” she hesitated, then reworded, “for some time now. I could tell from your short, infrequent notes to me—and from various other sources—that you were more than normally despondent. The last two months I’ve been wracking my brains thinking of how I could help you.”

  “But, Janet, I neither asked nor expected—” That was as far as Valerie got before Janet cut her off.

  “I’m more than aware of that,” Janet scolded gently. “But I was determined to help you whether you asked for it or not. Anyway, the solution came very unexpectedly last week when Jonas’s secretary suddenly skipped town with a married man.” She grimaced. “Needless to say, he was furious.”

  “Mr. Thorne?” Valerie inserted.

  “None other.” Janet smiled grimly. “His behavior was somewhat like that of a lion with a thorn in his paw.” Janet smiled. “A tiny play of words there.”

  “Very tiny,” Valerie agreed.

  “Anyway.” Janet shrugged. “She couldn’t have picked a worse time if she tried. Besides being in the middle of several contract negotiations, Jonas had finalized appointments for a long-planned trip to Paris. He refused to even think about changing his plans and commandeered his assistant’s secretary. Then the agencies were requested to come up with a paragon to fill the desk chair in his outer office.”

  She stopped speaking long enough to swallow the last of her coffee and refill her cup before continuing her story.

  “When a replacement had not been found by yesterday, I badgered Jonas into letting me come over here with him. I sang your praises all during the flight. Finally, in a desperate bid to get him to agree to take you back with him as his new secretary, I said I’d give him my resignation if you weren’t as good at your job as I claimed you were.” Janet drew a deep breath, then added quietly, “He agreed to give you a chance—if you can be ready to quit Paris permanently in a week’s time.”

  Janet neglected to tell Valerie the exact words Jonas had used: “You are walking a very fine line here, Janet. I’ve had numerous reports on this `exceptional secretary,’ and in my estimation she has turned her back on life. And I have no time for quitters.”

  Janet’s appalled shock upon laying eyes on Valerie was two-fold. She was, as a friend, sincerely concerned about Val. But she was also suddenly concerned about losing her own job.

  In the main, it was this possibility that brought about Valerie’s decision to go home. That, and the realization that within
weeks spring would be coming to France. And suddenly Valerie knew she could not bear to be in Paris in the springtime without Etienne.

  Chapter 2

  A soft smile curved Valerie’s vulnerable lips as she shifted slightly in the upholstered seat. Behind the barrier of her closed lids, she was unaware of the sharp blue-gray gaze that pondered that soft smile.

  The smile was for Janet, and it was prompted by a rush of memories. Valerie had been a frightened, lonely nineteen-year-old when she’d entered the offices of J.T. Electronics for the first time. She had been frightened because it was her first job after leaving the security of business school. She had been lonely simply because she had so suddenly found herself alone.

  Her father’s death, after a lengthy illness, had not been the cause of her loneliness. There had been sadness, of course. A sadness touched by guilt because, near the end, Valerie had found herself praying for his release from pain. No, it was not her father’s death, but the shock of her mother’s remarriage, less than three months later, that had brought on her feeling of loneliness. The man was an Australian businessman on vacation in the States. He was, Valerie admitted to herself, charming and good-looking. He was also eight years younger than her beautiful mother. Shock followed shock, the final one coming with her mother’s announcement that she was leaving for Australia with her new husband just one short week after her wedding.

  Stunned, Valerie had stood by mutely while her mother disposed of her home, furniture, and all the collected belongings that she had shared with Valerie’s father.

  “Please try to understand,” Celia Jordan—now Finny—had pleaded to an unresponsive Valerie. “Edwin must be back in Australia by the end of next week, and he wants me with him. Valerie, he’s willing to have you with us. Please come.” It was not the first time her mother had made this impassioned request. Valerie’s answer had been the same every time.

  “No.”

  She had been filled with bitterness and resentment at what she had considered her mother’s disloyalty to her father’s memory. In her bitterness she had punished her mother by remaining adamant in her refusal to go with her.