Falling for the Rebel Falcon

‘That’s right. He really wasn’t keen on another child. After that, Perdita became the family nickname for me.’

‘But it’s not really your name, is it?’ Hortense said. ‘You write your features as Perdita Davis, but I noticed you checked in as Erica Hanson.’

‘Yes, that’s my real name, but I only use it for official stuff. Erica Hanson keeps her bank account in order, pays her taxes on time and generally behaves properly. Perdita Davis is as foolish and frivolous as a scholarly family ever produced.’

She said this with an air of pleasure, even pride.

‘Where does the Davis name come from?’

‘The family more or less ordered me not to use Hanson in case people connected me with them and they died of shame,’ Perdita said ironically. ‘I just plucked Davis out of the air.’

‘So they can deny all knowledge of you,’ Hortense said, outraged. ‘That’s pretty nasty of them.’

‘They have a serious reputation to keep up,’ Perdita said, shrugging. ‘You can’t really blame them.’

‘I can. Reputation nothing! You’re a big success but they treat you like an outcast.’

‘Oh, I’m not melodramatic about it,’ Perdita said. ‘It’s not really important.’

She spoke lightly to hide the fact that Hortense had hit a nerve. In truth she cared more for her family’s attitude than she would admit, and her friend’s indignation on her behalf warmed her heart.

‘They’re probably jealous that you’re making your fortune out of it,’ Hortense observed. ‘Your scoops are fast taking you to the top. Though, let’s face it, you do sometimes sail a bit close to the edge.’

‘I did at one time,’ Perdita agreed. ‘But recently I’ve been a bit less “adventurous”. I don’t break quite so many rules now. I’m even getting a bit respectable.’

‘You?’

Perdita shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s my academic background coming out at last. Serious, respectable, upright. How about that?’

‘What brought this about?’

‘There was a big commotion recently. Have you ever heard of—?’ She named a journalist so notorious that his name was known over many countries.

‘Yes, wasn’t he the one who tricked that woman into talking to him, and it all ended in tragedy?’

‘That’s right.’

‘But surely it had nothing to do with you?’

‘No, I wasn’t involved in any way. But I met him once a few years back, and vaguely admired his tricksy methods. Not now, though. Let’s say I’ve grown up a bit, and it made me think about the road I was travelling.’

‘Does that mean strait-laced Erica has taken over completely, and cheeky Perdita no longer exists?’

‘Not at all. Perdita’s still there, still maddening, still taking chances. But these days she’s a bit more careful about how she might affect other people.’

Hortense chuckled. ‘Serve you right if you met the man of your dreams and had to choose between your two selves. That would teach you a lesson.’

‘I don’t have any dreams,’ Perdita said cheekily. ‘My heart’s never been broken and it’s never going to be. I’ve got too many other things to do.’

‘Have you no sense of romance?’ Hortense demanded indignantly. ‘Here you are in Paris, the most romantic city in the world, and you’re not entranced the way any other woman would be.’

‘When I get my scoop I’ll be entranced.’

‘I know better than to argue with that. I’ll be off to my own room, we have a busy day tomorrow. Goodnight. See you at breakfast.’

When she was alone Perdita went to the window, looking out to where the Eiffel Tower glowed in the distance. Everything in her surroundings was glamorous, and that was just how she liked it. It emphasised the life she wanted and the way she liked to see herself.

She’d told Hortense that her heart had never been broken and it was almost true.

After the riotous success that had made Thomas run from her she’d gone from strength to strength. The life of a freelancer suited her perfectly because it made her the one in charge, choosing her own targets.

Then she’d met Frank, a photographer. They’d worked as a team and she’d fallen in love with him, although these days she denied, it even to herself. But he’d betrayed her, using her talents to get close to a notorious story, then selling his pictures to another journalist who could do more for his career.

After that she’d decided to work alone, taking her own pictures. She’d learned a lot of technique from Frank, so who needed photographers? If it came to that, who needed men?

‘Maybe there’s something wrong with me, always putting the job first,’ she mused. ‘But that’s the way I am. It’s not my fault if I like fun. And fun likes me. Ah well! Time for bed.’

Next morning Hortense dropped in to Perdita’s room just as she was getting up.

‘Sorry to arrive so early,’ she said, ‘but I’ve got a busy day ahead preparing for this wedding.’

‘No problem.’ Perdita lifted the phone. ‘Let’s have some breakfast.’

While they waited for the food to arrive she took a shower, then sat in a bathrobe to eat, seizing the chance to ask more about the Falcon family.

‘I don’t really know anything about Leonid,’ she said. ‘He isn’t as easy to research as the others.’

‘True. His real name isn’t even Falcon. He’s actually Leonid Tsarev. It’s only when he’s over here with his brothers that he’s called Falcon as a courtesy. All anyone really knows about him is that he’s an incredibly successful business magnate—they call them oligarchs in Russia, don’t they? I’ve got friends in Moscow who say he doesn’t seem to have a very interesting private life. All work and money, no time for pleasure. At least, not the kind of pleasure the world hears about, if you know what I mean. Grim and gruff.’

‘They can be interesting too,’ Perdita mused. ‘Now, what am I going to wear today?’

‘Let’s look,’ Hortense said, opening the wardrobe. ‘Hey, what lovely clothes you’ve got. You must have a very rich boyfriend.’

‘Well, I don’t. I pay for my own clothes.’

‘You must be making a fortune.’

‘I do all right, but I don’t usually buy such expensive things. I splashed out a bit to come to this hotel. I wanted to look as if I fit in with the millionaires.’

‘You’ll do that all right.’ She pulled down pair of luxurious stretch jeans. ‘You can actually get into these?’

‘Sure.’

Hortense held them up against her plump figure, and sighed. ‘You know, I could murder you for being slim enough for these. Hey ho!’ She tossed them onto the bed. ‘Put them on.’

‘But do I want to wear them right now?’ Perdita mused. ‘I’d like to give a first impression of severe, virtuous modesty. Maybe even a bit dull.’

‘In your dreams! Listen, if a kindly fate has made you slim enough to wear these, count your blessings. Who knows how long those blessings will last? Right, now I’ve got to be going. And remember, if we happen to bump into each other—’