A Scent of Magic Page 14

  What on earth was she doing in London? What had possessed her to go chasing after that perfume oil when she had so many opportunities open to her in the States? Was her hatred of Nick so strong that she would make such an impulsive decision just to attempt to seek revenge against him? Revenge had been on her mind for a full ten years, but never as a real possibility, and now that the possibility was upon her, she found to her surprise it had somehow lost its appeal. In fact, she felt a little sorry for Nick. From what Dupuis had told her, Nick had given up all holdings in his family’s firm to start over with a nothing little perfumery stuck somewhere out in the suburbs of London.

  Leaning back against the pillows, Simone kicked off her shoes. Nicholas Rutledge was such a mystery to her. If she could only understand, find some logical reason for his behavior all those years ago, maybe she could at last put closure on the incident and get on with her life, emotionally speaking. She supposed the time must come when she would get over it. But her father’s face loomed behind her closed eyelids, and she knew that time had not yet arrived.

  And she knew that revenge was still very much on her agenda. It just seemed anticlimactic that Nick had chosen to give her such an easy victory.

  Simone’s stomach growled, and she got up and went into the postage stamp-sized kitchen, but there was nothing in the place to eat. The emptiness of the small fridge reflected in microcosm the macro emptiness of her life. One day seemed just like the next in her futile search to identify the nature of the perfume oil. She had to look at the calendar to remind herself what day of the week it was. Thursday night. She had nothing to do. Nowhere to go. No friends to call. Tomorrow was Friday, and Friday night promised a repeat performance.

  She bit her lip to keep from crying. What’s going on here? Simone was not a crybaby. And yet here she was, wallowing in some sort of misguided self-pity. She had everything she wanted.

  Didn’t she?

  An idea occurred to her. Instead of spending another lonely weekend in London, perhaps she would return to Redford. Esther at least was a friendly face, and Simone had enjoyed hearing the old woman’s tales. She thought of the seeds, and of the lush garden Esther cultivated around her home. Maybe she would let Simone plant them there. What did she have to lose? Maybe they would produce some kind of exotic plant, and she could make Shamir his perfume. Maybe then he’d quit popping in on her.

  The thought made her grin, and she shook her head, still amazed at the ease with which she accepted the impossibility of his disappearance. There was a logical explanation, she was certain. Maybe when she had his perfume, he would let her in on the secret.

  But how would he know if she successfully created the perfume he so adamantly desired?

  He just would, she guessed, and decided not to worry about it further. She placed a phone call to Esther and made plans to travel to the country the next evening when she got off work. Then she changed into more comfortable clothes and went to a nearby Indian restaurant, where she ate more than she should have, as if trying to fill the inexplicable emptiness within her that hungered for satisfaction.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Nick was in a dark mood as he headed back to his office from his tennis match. The pro had bested him in two out of four sets because Nick had been unable to keep his focus on the game. Instead, his thoughts kept tumbling back to the mystery of the substance that continued to confound him, and to Simone. To the enormous task that lay ahead of him in starting the new fragrance house. To Simone. Simone.

  Simone.

  She was driving him mad. Her name had seemed to echo with each contact of the ball against the racquet. He must stop thinking about her.

  And yet, he could not. Because now she was part and parcel of his most forbidding competitor, the House of Rutledge. He’d read the announcements of her employment in the newspapers and received numerous calls from curious friends who wanted to know if Nick knew the French woman who had taken his place. He’d been vague in reply. Sure, he knew of her, but more so of her father, he’d told them, a knife twisting all the while in his gut. If Dupuis had intentionally contrived to continue to torment Nick, he couldn’t have chosen a more effective device.

  Somehow, he must put her out of his mind.

  His cell phone rang, startling him.

  “It’s Brenda. Your ship has come in,” she quipped merrily. “It arrived in Southampton this morning.”

  The news cheered him, and he smiled. “Thanks. I think I’ll drive down to check on it. Don’t expect me back in the office today.”

  Nick turned the Triumph in the direction of the motorway to Southampton, gratified that this particular ship had finally arrived. By showing up at the dock in person, perhaps he would be able to arrange for the crated perfumery equipment to be delivered to the office tomorrow. He wouldn’t be able to get the technicians started on setting up the lab until next week, but at least he could supervise the off-loading of the crates. It would make him feel like some progress was being made.

  He was acutely aware that time was of the essence, and he’d already waited nearly a month to start on his first fragrance. He hoped it was worth it. He mustn’t disappear from the fragrance scene too long. People forget, or change jobs, and he might lose his valuable contacts. He must move quickly now, before Simone came out with her first perfume, and more importantly, before he ran out of money.

  Bringing out a new perfume was an expensive proposition. It wasn’t just the fragrance itself that was so costly. It was the bottle, the packaging, and the hype. He was aware that Calvin Klein had spent fifty million dollars to launch “Eternity” worldwide. Thank goodness he could introduce his fragrance in Britain alone, where the cost wasn’t so exorbitant. He had enough money to properly develop and promote one fragrance.

  Just enough.

  For just one.

  One that would be successful enough that he could use its fame and the proceeds to bring out subsequent products.

  His first perfume had to be the right perfume.

  Reaching home at last, Nick took off his shoes and poured a stiff scotch. Then he clicked open his briefcase and took out the familiar amber vial and placed it on the table. In only a matter of days he could undertake the scientific examination of the oil inside, he thought with relief. He fully expected to discover that the mysterious mahja was in actuality some familiar plant, the scent of which would become immediately recognizable once he knew its identity. And he also fully expected to feel foolish that his nose had been unable to tell him what it was.

  He couldn’t believe that his nose had let him down so miserably. Normally, he could identify hundreds of scents, singularly or in complex combination. He frowned. Maybe he ought to give his nose one more chance.

  Determined to keep this final olfactory experiment exactly that, an experiment, he set up the investigation in as formal a manner as he could construct at home. He covered the small table in the study with a white cloth, placed the bottle in the center, and took a seat in a hard-backed chair. He was determined not to allow himself to slip into the pleasurable sensuality he knew could be engendered by the scent of the perfume.

  Two hours later, he still had no answer, and he was exhausted from consciously fighting the effects of the perfume, resisting the force of its provocative titillation. Even so, he’d had a hard-on for most of those two hours. He stood and stretched, then headed for a cold shower before his unsatisfied sexual appetite became too painful.

  Nick read long into the night, afraid to drop off to sleep, afraid of the dreams and the lover he expected awaited him there after having exposed himself to the perfume. But nature at last took command, and he drifted into a deep sleep.

  It was not a sleep, however, that remained undisturbed.

  He heard the sound of water falling, trickling over rocks and past cool vegetation to collect in a pool somewhere nearby. He heard a woman’s voice, singing in lilting tones, and he was drawn to the music.

  Around him, a familiar indigo mist swirled i
n a light breeze, tinting everything with its ethereal blue. The glade where he stood was tropical in nature and should have been swashed in a hundred shades of green. Instead, it reflected the almost luminescent colors of the mist. The large flat leaves of some of the plants were blue-black rather than jungle green. Smaller leaves were tinged with purple, or ruby, or indigo, while underfoot, tiny flowerlets drooped their bell-shaped heads gracefully, nodding in an almost silvery light. It was an enchanted forest, a magical glen, a secret, mystical garden.

  The indigo mist was familiar to Nick, but this place was a fantasy he had never before visited. He felt himself relax into the moment, allowing the sensuality of his surroundings to suffuse his entire body. Breathing deeply, he inhaled a sweet essence, the fragrance of flowers mixed with the fresh green of the woodlands, and he shivered in delicious anticipation of the pleasure it promised.

  The song of the woodland sprite that beckoned him was sweet as well, drawing him in a wordless melody. He parted the foliage and stood silently, watching the woman who stood hip-deep in a pool, her back turned to him. Her hair was dark as the midnight blue shadows that hovered in the forest beyond, and it was piled high upon her head, exposing a slender neck and gently sloping feminine shoulders. She played with the water, dipping her hands into its shimmering depths and raising them to watch the drops dance as they fell from her fingertips to splash into the placid pool.

  With her arms upraised, he could see the inviting outline of her breasts, the curve of her waist, the silhouette of her hips just above the water’s surface. She was as mystical and dreamy as the rest of his surroundings, chimerical and corporeal at the same time. A twig snapped as he took another step toward her, and she turned to him, smiling, as if she had expected him all along.

  It was Simone.

  And it was not Simone.

  It was someone who looked exactly like the French beauty who seemed to have ensnared his heart, his mind, and his soul. But this Simone was guileless. There was no hatred in her eyes. No artifice. No revenge. Her expression instead evinced a willingness to transcend all that had gone before, a wish to forgive, an invitation to start anew—all those impossibilities he’d long ago despaired would ever happen. She stretched her arms up to him, a goddess offering her body in a gesture of intimate reconciliation. Nick thought he would explode with joy.

  She began to sway sensually in the water, and he watched transfixed as the ripples caressed the flat of her belly just above the triangle of dark curls that were barely visible below the waterline. She released her hair from its confinement, and he saw it spill down and across her shoulders in sensual abandon, coming to rest in gentle curls upon her breasts. Not daring to breathe lest the illusion fade, Nick clenched his fists to contain the raw energy coursing through him. Could she really forgive him? Could there be a chance…?

  He did not hesitate to accept her invitation, as astounding as it was.

  There was no need for him to remove his clothing to join her. He wore nothing and stood before her unashamed in his nakedness, like a primal warrior. His desire for her pressed hard, and he paused for a moment before going to her, as if to allow her to gaze upon him and understand the force of his passion. Her regard indeed dropped from his face, traveling slowly down his form, understanding his message. He saw her tongue edge between her parted lips.

  Advancing to the brim of the pool, his eyes locked on hers, and he saw her move toward him, emerging from the water until she stood only ankle deep in front of him. She took his hands in hers, and he felt himself being drawn toward her with surprising strength.

  When their bodies met, a force sizzled between them, like water dropped onto a hot skillet. Her body heat appeared unquenched by the cool waters where she had just bathed, its glow turning the light sheen of dampness on her skin to steam. She tilted her head, closed her eyes, and leaned into him, her full breasts crushing against his chest. Her arms slid to the small of his back, and she pressed him even more closely to her.

  This garden must surely be paradise. Nick could think of no other explanation. He must have died somewhere along the way, and somehow the gods had forgiven him for all his errors and transgressions and sent Simone to tell him so. He was pervaded by the strangest sense of peace and love, unlike anything he’d ever experienced in his lifetime. If this is what it was like to be dead, he thought briefly, he never wanted to live again.

  His heart thundered in the misty night as he and the woman he loved more than life itself were reunited in a place that removed them from all time and space, a place where the past didn’t matter, and the future would never arrive. They were one, in the moment, in the now of the bliss that showered them in fulfillment.

  Nick awoke abruptly. His eyes flew open and his heart sank as reality returned. He lay very still upon his bed, closing his eyes again, trying with all his might to regain entrance to that magical garden in his dreams. But the gates to the subconscious were closed, shut tight against him, and he felt the moisture of unshed tears behind his lids.

  God, what he wouldn’t give for one moment of the grace he’d just dreamt of. One moment in Simone’s arms, one moment of her love and forgiveness. For that, he would sell his soul.

  Groaning, he rolled out of bed, his feet landing heavily on the cool floor. The clock on his nightstand said five-thirty-five. Too early to get up, too late to go back to bed. He shuffled to the bathroom, then made his way downstairs to the kitchen, where he foraged for a pre-breakfast snack. His mind was numb, his body recovering as best it could from the effects of the erotic dream. It had been a mistake to experiment further with the perfume. He’d known that. Just as he had known, on some level, that he wanted to enter another dream, wanted to meet Simone in that eerie world of shades and mists.

  He bit into an apple. The truth was, and he forced himself to face it here in the dim light of the breaking day, the truth was, he wanted exactly what he had just dreamt of…that incredible sense of peace and happiness that had been his so fleetingly in the arms of his dream lover. That sense of being forgiven, of being loved, of having another chance with her.

  He threw the apple across the room. Damn.

  Angrily, he returned to his bedroom and switched on the television to catch the early morning news, determined to cling firmly to the reality of his world—Simone would never love him. There was no second chance. He didn’t deserve to be forgiven, and he certainly did not deserve to know such incredible peace of mind, or to feel such joy in his heart. His dreams of her castigated him with such precision no human jury could match its vengeance.

  He stared at the images on the screen, but he saw only the garden he had just visited in his dreams. Simone in the garden.

  Simone in the garden.

  Wait. Nick froze. Simone in the garden. Clyde Covington had told him she’d been snooping in the garden behind the carriage house when he’d apprehended her. What was Simone doing in that garden? Mary Rose’s garden.

  A thought he’d dismissed earlier suddenly slammed through him again, and this time, he considered it a possibility. Maybe Simone did know about the perfume. Why else would she have been there, in that particular garden? At midnight, for God’s sake? Nick had no idea when or how she’d learned of it, but he knew in every cell of his body that she was after the same perfume oil that he sought to identify and use in his debut perfume.

  Even if he were to work fast and furiously once he broke the secret of the mahja, with the resources of the House of Rutledge behind her, Simone’s version of the perfume, heavily marketed as it would be, would bury him. Nick leaned back into the pillows, nauseous. What irony, if she beat him to it and created the perfume that he’d counted on to be his salvation.

  But it would be Antoine Dupuis who would end up the big winner in this game. The nausea turned to a knot that wound tightly in his gut.

  He’d be damned.

  It was too early to accomplish anything, but Nick decided to be at the office, ready to supervise the off-loading of the crates. Ho
pefully the shipping line would schedule his for a morning delivery. While he waited, he could line up for next week the team of technicians who would install the computerized equipment.

  Once that was accomplished, Nick decided he would spend the weekend at Brierley Hall. It might be his last chance to go to the country for a long while, and he was anxious suddenly to explore the garden behind the carriage house, once cultivated by one Mary Rose Hatcher, witch.

  Simone thought the day would never end, and she was like a kid out of school when at last five o’clock came. She hurried to her flat to pick up the suitcase she’d already packed and headed for the train station.

  The evening train was filled with commuters. It passed from London’s heart, stopping frequently as it made its way into of the sprawl of the suburbs. At last it reached the open countryside, where it picked up speed, racing past villages seemingly older than time. Summer was ripe on the hillsides, the yellow of rapeseed and gorse glinting in the late sunshine, contrasting with greens deeper than any she’d ever seen. England was beautiful in its own way, she decided, although in her heart she longed for the Mediterranean slopes surrounding Grasse.

  “Ah, it’s good t’ see you again.” Esther greeted her with a warm embrace, and Simone’s spirits lifted discernibly. She settled in to “her room,” as Esther called it, and joined her hostess for a light supper of sandwiches and tea in the small dining room, over which she told the older woman all about her new job.

  “But are y’ happy up there in London?” Esther wanted to know.

  Simone paused. Was she happy? Not really. She was frustrated, lonely, and more than a little insecure still in her job. But it was a start, she assured the woman, and she was certain she would get used to it.

  “Have y’ been able t’ learn how t’ make the perfume I gave you?” Esther said, her blue eyes glittering in expectation.

  Simone frowned and stared into her teacup. “Actually, no,” she replied regretfully. “I have been working on it for over three weeks now, and it just eludes me. Even the computer is scratching its head.”