Runaway Fiancee

It was Jean-Louis who spoke first. With a suspicious frown he said, ‘Who are you? I don’t know you.’

‘My name is Milo Caine. I’m British.’

‘Do you know him? Is what he says true?’

Jean-Louis had turned to Angélique, and the Englishman also had his eyes on her, his gaze intent, penetrating, as if he was trying to see into her soul.

She gave a small, amused laugh. ‘Of course not. I’ve never seen him before in my life. He’s probably a crank. And he’s definitely a gatecrasher. Why don’t you have him thrown out?’ Taking hold of her fiancé’s arm, she smiled up at him. ‘Everyone’s waiting; let’s cut the cake.’

‘Of course. Of course.’ Turning his back on the man who called himself Milo Caine, he plunged the knife into the gaudy cake. The people nearby cheered and clapped, but with a disappointed air; they felt cheated of a scandal, of some excitement.

After cutting the first slice, he dipped his finger into the icing then playfully lifted it to Angélique’s mouth. She laughed again and, taking hold of his finger, went to lick it off, her eyes on his, teasing, flirtatious.

‘Maybe you ought to look at this.’

It was the Englishman again. Growing angry, Jean-Louis turned to gesture to the waiters to get rid of him, but then came to an abrupt stop as he saw the photograph held out towards him. It was an enlarged shot, in black and white, perhaps a studio portrait, showing two people, a man and a woman. The man had his arm round the woman’s waist and was looking down at her with what appeared to be possessive pride, and the woman was looking towards the camera, smiling, but not with any great happiness; instead there seemed to be nervousness behind the smile. The man was Milo Caine—and the woman was unmistakably Angélique.

‘And then there’s this.’ Before either of them could react Milo Caine showed them a newspaper cutting, again with a photograph. When Jean-Louis didn’t take them, Caine let them drop and they fell on the cake. Then he started to take more photographs from his pocket, ordinary snapshots in colour this time, always of himself and Angélique. He kept dropping them onto the cake, covering its surface.

With a sudden snarl of anger Jean-Louis lifted the knife and stabbed it down hard into the black and white photograph, jabbing cleanly through it into the depth of the cake, and leaving the knife quivering there. ‘What is this?’ he demanded of Angélique.

‘Maybe we could go somewhere more private and discuss it,’ Caine said quickly, before she could answer.

Suddenly becoming very French, Jean-Louis threw his hands wide and said in a low, menacing voice, ‘How dare you come here and say these things at such a time? Do you think I care that Angélique knew you once? She is my fiancée now. You are nothing! Forgotten. It is me that she is to marry. Angélique is—’

‘She is not.’ Caine’s voice, cold and sharp, cut through his anger, momentarily silencing him. ‘She is not Angelique Castet. She is not even entirely French. Her mother is English,’ he said, his grey eyes watching her, ‘and her real name is Paige Chandos.’

Both men had turned towards her, but Angélique was unaware of their gaze. She was staring down at the photographs, a stunned look on her face. Slowly she reached out to pick one up, to look at it more closely. It appeared to have been taken some time ago because her face had a youthful, innocent look, and must have been taken at a classy party because she was wearing a lacy evening dress. Beside her, but not touching her, stood Milo Caine in a dark evening suit. He was smiling easily, completely relaxed, but again she seemed tense.

Suddenly Angélique dropped the photo as if it were red-hot. ‘Jean-Louis!’ She clung to him and, her voice filling with distress, said, ‘I don’t understand. How were those photos taken? I don’t know this man.’

He looked at her, half puzzled, half disbelieving. ‘But you must know him.’

She raised a strained face to his. ‘I don’t, I tell you. It’s some trick. Make him go away. Get rid of him.’

Jean-Louis turned, his chivalry aroused, and prepared to do battle. But the Englishman drew himself up, squaring his shoulders. He was taller, his shoulders broader, and there was a look in his eyes that would have given anyone pause. Suddenly Jean-Louis recollected that there were several reporters present, as well as rich and influential people that he needed in his career. It would hardly do for him to be involved in a brawl in such a public place. Especially if there was any truth in Caine’s claim—and even more especially if he lost the fight and was made to look a fool.

‘Shall we go somewhere more private?’ Caine suggested again. ‘The restaurant manager’s office, perhaps?’

He gestured with his arm and, agog with curiosity, those around them stood back to give them a corridor in which to walk. With an angry gesture, Jean-Louis took hold of Angelique’s hand and began to stride along. Milo Caine followed them, first stopping to pick up all the photographs.

The manager began to protest but then saw the strained looks on their faces, gave a shrug, and left the three of them alone. He didn’t shut the door properly. Caine gave a small smile, closed it and leaned against it for a moment.

‘What is this?’ Jean-Louis demanded angrily. ‘What do you want?’

Caine straightened. ‘I want Paige to admit that we were engaged.’ He shoved his hands in his pockets, his face becoming set and grim as he looked at Angélique. His voice terse, menacing, he said, ‘And I want an explanation. I want to know just why she disappeared. Why she took it into her head to walk out on her family and friends—and on me.’ It was the first time he had betrayed any emotion, and even now he hadn’t raised his voice, but Angélique was aware of deep, implacable rage that seethed beneath the cool hardness of his face.

‘You’re mistaken,’ she said forcefully. ‘I don’t know you. You’re mixing me up with someone else, someone who looks like me.’

Taking a step towards her, Caine said shortly, ‘Anyone who has seen those photographs can be in no doubt that you are one and the same.’

‘No, you’re wrong! That girl is young, much younger than me.’

‘They were taken some time ago, before you ran away. Why did you? Why did you go?’

He had come close to her, his face taut, his jaw thrust forward, and she could see that the hands in his pockets had closed into fists.

The menace in his eyes frightened her and she stepped back. ‘I tell you, you’re wrong. My name is Angélique Castet and I’m French. Ask Jean-Louis; he’ll tell you.’

But her fiancé might just as well not have been in the room because Caine completely ignored him, instead reaching out to catch hold of her arm. ‘Well, it will be easy to prove, one way or another.’

‘What do you mean? How can you prove it?’ Jean-Louis demanded.

‘Paige Chandos had a distinctive scar, the result of a bicycling accident when she was a child. It’s in the shape of a hollow circle about an inch across, on her left shoulder—like this...’ With a sudden jerk he pulled her against him and held her as he tugged down the sleeve of her dress.

Angé1ique gave an outraged cry and Jean-Louis instinctively caught hold of Caine to pull him away from her, but then stopped as they both looked at her shoulder. It was Milo Caine who recovered first; he gave a harsh laugh. ‘Well, well. How—convenient.’ His scathing grey eyes came up to meet hers. ‘A ladybird. A nice fat round ladybird. Now, I wonder when you had that tattoo done?’

It was Jean-Louis who answered. ‘She has always had it. As long as I’ve known her.’

‘And just how long is that?’

‘Several months.’

‘Paige Chandos disappeared just over a year ago.’

Snatching her arm free, Angelique pulled up her sleeve and said vehemently, ‘I am not this woman you knew. You must be mad to think so. I keep telling you that I don’t know you, that I’ve never met you before.’ She swung petulantly away. ‘Why don’t you go away, leave us alone?’

‘Do you deny that you’re Paige Chandos?’ Angélique threw up her arms in exasperation. ‘Haven’t I already said so a dozen times? I’ve told you who I am.’

‘In that case you won’t mind having your fingerprints checked, then, will you?’ Caine said smoothly.

‘My fingerprints?’ Angélique was taken aback.

‘Yes. They can’t be disguised—or covered up.’ Before she could speak there was a knock on the door and the owner of the art gallery came in. His voice impatient, he said, ‘Jean-Louis, the American millionairess is looking for you. She’s decided she wants her portrait painted, but only if you will do it immediately, before she goes back to the States.’

‘Mon Dieu!’ Jean-Louis smote his forehead in annoyance. ‘Tonight of all nights we have to have this problem.’ He swung round on Angelique. ‘Sort this out. I don’t care if you knew him in the past or not. Just settle this.’

He strode towards the door but Angélique grabbed his arm. ‘Wait! You can’t leave me here alone with him.’

He shook her off, impatient himself now. ‘There are over two hundred people on the other side of the door; just scream if you need help.’

‘No, I’m coming with you.’

She went to follow him but Caine took hold of her arm in a grip that was as strong as a vice, as strong as the embrace of a lover. ‘I think not. You still have a lot of explaining to do.’

He pushed the door shut and then leaned against it before he let her go. Angélique rubbed her wrist, looking at him in wary defiance. ‘What game is it you play?’ she demanded.

Caine’s eyebrows rose. ‘Now that we’re alone, I was going to ask you the same question. Just what game are you playing, Paige?’