Kathleen Tessaro 3-Book Collection: The Flirt, The Debutante, The Perfume Collector

Once again, his wife was ruining his evening!

Wait. That was it!

It was so simple, he nearly laughed out loud with relief.

All he needed was some idiot to do his bidding; someone who couldn’t afford to say no.

Taking out his mobile phone again, he sat down on his sofa, put his feet up on the ottoman and dialled.

Jonathan answered. Arnaud could hear the wail of various ill-tempered children in the background.

‘Mr Bourgalt du Coudray! What a pleasant surprise!’ Jonathan shouted above the din. He was panting now, as if he were jogging up a flight of steps; the wailing growing distant. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’

‘Seduce my wife, Mortimer.’

Jonathan stopped whatever aerobic activity he was doing. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Seduce my wife. Hit on her. Pursue her.’

‘I’m not sure I understand. You want me to—’

‘I want you to make love to her,’ Arnaud interrupted.

‘But, sir, I don’t know your wife. Besides, I happen to have one of my own.’

Arnaud laughed. ‘And …? You act as if you’ve never orchestrated an affair!’

‘I haven’t.’

‘You English are such prudes! Listen, I haven’t got time for this. It’s really quite simple: all you have to do is woo her. It doesn’t matter if she responds. In fact,’ he considered smugly, ‘I’m sure she won’t. All I need is the evidence of a seduction. You’re a clever man. It shouldn’t be too difficult. Oh, and Mortimer?’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t even think of touching her or you’ll live to regret it.’

He hung up.

Life was all about delegating.

Standing, he brushed off his trousers and left to pick up Svetlana.

Marriage was important, he reflected, as he climbed into the back of the huge black Range Rover waiting for him outside the gallery. It hurt him that Olivia was taking theirs for granted.

Settling back into the plush leather seat, he stared out of the darkened window.

Thank God at least one of them cared enough to do something about it.

Jonathan Mortimer sat stunned on the corner of his son Felix’s bed. (He’d only made it as far as the children’s bedrooms.)

What did he mean, seduce her?

How?

And more importantly why?

He’d only met Olivia Bourgalt du Coudray about three times; they were only barely acquainted. How was he meant to suddenly become her lover? He didn’t have the energy to seduce his own wife, let alone someone else’s! The man was insane!

Unfortunately, he was also his biggest client.

Arnaud had laughed at the fact that he’d never had an affair. Was he right? Was Jonathan nothing more than a prude?

He’d certainly never imagined himself as a ladies’ man.

Pulling himself upright, stomach in, shoulders back, he regarded himself in the mirror hanging on the back of the door, cut out in the shape of a laughing giraffe.

His reflection blinked back at him.

Somewhere around forty, he’d developed the same shape as his father: long, spindly legs, a sloping, slightly apologetic stoop and a distinct absence of hair. His features, which had once been forceful and masculine, had softened – in much the same way that water wears away at stones in a brook – and now he seemed like a photograph that had faded in the sunlight; vague and unsure. The buttons of his tailor-made shirt strained over the width of stomach. Even it had lost its crispness.

I couldn’t seduce a pensioner let alone a beautiful socialite, he thought, panicking.

His heart was palpitating. He grabbed Felix’s favourite stuffed dog and curled up on top of his unmade Bob the Builder bed, staring at the dusty animal mobile dangling from the ceiling.

‘I’m going to lose my job.’ He pressed his eyes closed. ‘I’m going to lose my job and we’ll all end up penniless on the streets because of that fucking French fuck! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!’

‘Daddy?’

He flicked an eye open.

His sons, Felix, six, and Angus, three, were standing at the bottom of the bed, looking at him.

‘Yes?’

‘Mummy wants to know if you have any money for the cleaner,’ Felix said.

Jonathan dug out his wallet, struggling to extract the notes without actually standing up. Immediately he assumed his parent voice, the one he’d inherited from his father – exasperation mixed with a half-hearted attempt at authority. ‘You cannot tell me a cleaner has been in this house today!’

Felix nodded. ‘It’s awful! She puts everything where we can’t find it. It takes all afternoon to get it back to normal.’

‘Here,’ Jonathan sighed, handing Felix twenty pounds.

‘Thanks, Daddy.’

‘Why didn’t she come herself?’

‘Mummy’s too fat to come upstairs.’

‘I see.’ That meant she was still sulking from their latest row. ‘Only she’s not fat,’ Jonathan corrected him, ‘she’s pregnant.’