Runaway Fiancee

‘Don’t call me that! It’s not my name.’

He was suddenly angry again, and stepped towards her. ‘Stop this! You know damn well who you are. And you know damn well that you had promised to marry me.’ His voice harsh, he snarled, ‘Why did you do it? Why?’ Angélique lifted her hands to put them over her ears, to shut out his questions, but he caught her wrists and pulled them down. ‘Don’t you know what anguish you caused? To disappear without a word to anyone—and just a week before the wedding! We scoured the country looking for you. But all we found was your car, abandoned. I thought you were—’

‘Stop it!’ Angélique cried out. ‘Don’t shout at me. You’re making my head hurt. My head always hurts when people shout at me.’

He let her go and she put her hands up to her head again, covering her temples, her eyes tightly closed, and leaned back against the wall. Grudgingly, after a few moments, Caine said, ‘Are you all right? Do you want some water?’

‘No. No, thank you. It will go if I’m quiet.’

He was watching her, gazing frowningly at her bent head. ‘Do you often get headaches?’

‘Not so much now. Not during the day, but sometimes at night—’ She broke off, becoming aware that she was confiding in this stranger.

But, “‘Sometimes at night”?’ he prompted. ‘You get them then?’

‘It’s nothing,’ she said stiffly. ‘Just bad dreams.’

He leaned forward, his face intent. ‘What do you dream about?’

She stared at him, then straightened up and gave a scornful laugh. ‘You ask me what I dream about? You are mad, Englishman.’

‘Am I? Perhaps.’ He suddenly switched to English. ‘I have your passport here; do you want to see it?’

Her eyes flicked to his, then away again. ‘I don’t understand you.’

‘Oh, but I think you do.’ Taking a red-backed passport from his pocket, he opened it and showed her the photograph inside. ‘This was taken only a few weeks before you disappeared. You needed it for the honeymoon we planned in America.’

He still spoke in English but she didn’t react to it until he thrust the passport at her. Slowly Angélique took it and looked down at the photo. The girl it portrayed had made no attempt to smile, but seemed to be looking at the camera with some reluctance.

‘You’ll notice that the description fits you exactly—even down to the scar on your shoulder.’

‘I can’t read English.’

‘Rubbish! Damn you, Paige, stop this idiotic pretence.’

He went to catch hold of her but she dropped the passport and backed away. ‘No! Please! I don’t know you. I don’t know you. I’m sorry, but I don’t.’ She held her hands up to ward him off. ‘Please. Please, leave me alone.’

He stopped, holding his anger under control at her obvious distress. His jaw tightening, Caine reverted to French as he said, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. But you must stop lying to me, Paige.’

‘I am not lying to you.’

Anger flashed in his grey eyes again, but with an effort he said, ‘All right. So suppose you tell me just who you are.’

‘I already have. You know who I am.’

‘I know the name you’ve given me, yes. But I want you to tell me about your background. Where you were born. How old you are. About your family, your work. Everything.’

She frowned. ‘No, why should I?’

‘To convince me once and for all that I’m wrong.’

‘Why should I have to convince you?’ She flared up. ‘It’s you that is making all these stupid accusations.’ Her mouth set obstinately. ‘I won’t do it. Why should I?’

‘Because if you don’t I shall keep on hounding you, following you everywhere, giving you no peace, until you finally admit that you are Paige Chandos.’

Caine had spoken evenly but there was a distinct threat in his tone. Angélique glared at him for a long moment, then shrugged. ‘Oh, very well. I am twenty-three years old and I am from Normandy.’

‘Oh, really? What part?’

‘Lisieux.’

‘I know it well. Whereabouts do you live?’

‘I don’t live there any more; it’s where I was born.’

‘But you must know it. Where did you live? Near the cathedral?’

He asked the question casually enough but was watching her so intently that she was suspicious of it. But Angélique shook her head. ‘I don’t know. We must have left there when I was very young. I don’t remember it.’

‘You haven’t been back there?’

‘No.’

‘So who do you mean when you say “we”?’

She frowned. ‘My family, I suppose.’

‘You suppose? Don’t you know?’

‘Yes, of course.’ She spoke irritably. ‘My family. My parents.’

‘And where are your parents now?’

A hunted look came into her extraordinary eyes. ‘They are dead. Yes, they are dead.’

‘And do you have any other family? Brothers or sisters? Aunts? Uncles?’

Slowly she shook her head. ‘No, there is no one. I can’t remem—’ She broke off, her head rising. ‘There is Jean-Louis. I am going to marry him.’

‘As you say.’ Caine was watching her, his brows drawn into a frown. ‘Where did you go to school?’

A blank look came into her face. ‘Here and there. I live in Paris now.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘With Jean-Louis?’

‘No. I have a room of my own,’ she said with cool dignity.

His shoulders relaxed a little. ‘Did you go to school here in Paris?’