A Scent of Magic Page 18

Simone was aghast. “You went in?”

  “The place does belong to the company, my dear, and I have a key. Now, now, don’t get yourself all upset. When you didn’t answer my knock, I just went in to make sure you weren’t murdered in the night or something.”

  “But…but you stole those vials…,” she sputtered, outrage blinding her to his inferred concern for her welfare. “You came into my apartment and took them. That folder as well.”

  Dupuis shook his head and gave her a condescending smirk. “You are such an ingénue,” he replied. “I find that refreshing in a young woman these days.” His tone shifted from cordial to serious. “I saw these containers in the lab last week where you were working. I figured you must have brought your work home, and I must admit to a certain amount of professional curiosity about your progress, or shall we say, lack thereof?” He raised a brow and aimed a meaningful look at her.

  Simone was not about to let him intimidate her. She crossed her arms and glared back at him. “I told you last week, I must work in complete privacy. What I create is art, as much as a painting or a piece of music. It takes great concentration, and I cannot, will not, tolerate intrusions such as this. You have no reason or right to…to burglarize my living quarters.”

  “I stole nothing, Miss Lefevre,” Dupuis said levelly. He picked up a ball point pen and tapped it irritatingly end over end on the desktop. “I believe what is in those vials belongs to the House of Rutledge. That formula, too, although it’s nothing unusual. If anyone could be accused of theft, it could be you. After all, you did take the perfume from these premises.”

  Simone was livid. “How dare you? You have no idea where those fragrances came from, or the formula. Perhaps they were mine to begin with.”

  “Then you’ve been working on personal projects on company time?”

  The man was despicable. Yet she realized suddenly he did have a point. She had been on a personal quest, in a way. She backed off just a bit and took a deep breath. “Look, Monsieur Dupuis, I do not wish to enter into a fray with you. I…I have reason to believe that what is in those vials could be the basis for our first grand parfum, and I have spent three frustrating weeks trying…”

  He did not let her go on. “What is in those vials, Simone?” His eyes narrowed and suddenly seemed to take on a sybaritic glow.

  She looked down at her hands, breathing deeply, trying to bring her emotions totally under control. She raised her eyes to meet his gaze directly. “I don’t know.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I wish I had a better answer for you, but I don’t know what is in them.”

  The sneer returned to his face. “Some master perfumer you’ve turned out to be. I thought from the records I received about your talents and abilities that there would be nothing with a scent that you would not recognize instantly. Especially such a remarkable fragrant essence as this.” He paused and eyed her pointedly. “I‘m sure you are well aware just how remarkable this perfume is.”

  His words dropped like rocks into the pit of her stomach, and Simone swallowed over her apprehension. How far had he gone in his personal experimentation with the oil?

  He held up one of the small flasks. “What is it about this potion, Simone, that makes a man feel half his age and twice his potency? What is it that brings on the dreams…?” The expression in his eyes shifted to pure lust, and his voice took on a husky tone. “I’m certain you know what I am talking about.”

  Oh, my God. Simone felt a shudder crawl involuntarily down her spine. Antoine Dupuis had experienced the dreams. Her first thought was that she hoped she hadn’t played a part in them. Her second was not to rise to his bait. She opted to remain the ingénue. “I beg your pardon?”

  He failed to find it refreshing this time. Abruptly, he stood up and came around to the front of the desk and took her arm, pulling her roughly to her feet. His face, directly in her own, was intense. He smelled of fear. And power. And domination. “You claim that you want to create les grands parfums. But don’t you see? You already have.” He gestured toward the desk. “I don’t give a damn where you got that fragrance. Make more of it.”

  Simone wrenched free of his grasp and backed away from him. “I can’t.” She watched his face go from red to purple.

  “What the hell do you mean, you can’t? We have every substance known to man upstairs in that perfume lab. It shouldn’t be that difficult…”

  “Mais non, we do not,” she countered, gratified in some small way that she truly could not indulge this man his childish tantrum. “This essential oil is different from anything I have ever encountered. I have been working steadily for the past three weeks to break it down chemically, to mimic its scent, to determine its…well, its magic, if you will. There appears to be something in it that defies the equipment, the computer, and my own nose!” As she talked, she was aware that her words came more rapidly and at a higher pitch than she would have liked, but she couldn’t help it. They reflected her own frustration, and she didn’t care if Antoine Dupuis knew it.

  The little Frenchman cocked his head to one side and studied her for a long moment. “I hired you because you are the daughter of Jean René Lefevre. You have the potential for becoming one of the finest noses in the business. I trust in your abilities. But I warn you, I will tolerate no excuses. I want this perfume. And I expect you to develop it for the House of Rutledge.”

  “For the House of Rutledge?” she asked petulantly, irked at his attitude. “Or for yourself?”

  But he appeared unoffended. “Is there a difference?”

  “The flower resembles that of the brugmansia, a cousin to the datura,” the botanist informed Nick, bringing out a large illustrated encyclopedia of the plants of the world. He thumbed through it until he came to the page he sought, then turned the volume around so Nick could see the color photo for himself. Next to the photo, Nick laid the ghost of the blossom that had been pressed between the pages of Mary Rose’s book and marked “Mahja.”

  “See the resemblance?” Dr. Wheatley remarked, pointing out the elongated trumpet shape. Nick nodded, not wanting this to be the answer. He didn’t know much about the brugmansia, but he knew that datura was an ancient and highly toxic hallucinogen. That’s all he needed, for the secret to his “love potion” to be a narcotic drug. But it appeared to be a distinct possibility.

  “Is there any way to know for sure? I mean, like doing a DNA test or something?”

  “We could take a look at the pollen. It will tell us the genus, perhaps even the species.”

  Nick left the fragile treasure in the safekeeping of Dr. Thomas Wheatley at Kew Gardens and departed, feeling suddenly disconcerted and uncertain about the future of his perfume. Brugmansia? Datura?

  He rolled the possibilities over in his mind and decided it was entirely feasible that the mahja could indeed be one of these, or a close relation. He tried to recall his uncle’s description of his visit to the remote Himalayan monastery, where he was massaged with an ointment made from the mahja plant. Hadn’t he written in his diary that it had engendered a mind-altering state that had assuaged his mental pain over being separated from Mary Rose? Something like that.

  It didn’t sound exactly like the effect of a hallucinogenic drug, but the oil must have had some kind of mood-altering ability that had so impressed John Rutledge that he had stolen the seed pods on his way out.

  Discouraged, Nick sped through the crowded London streets, oblivious to the beeps and honks of the cars that whizzed by him. Brugmansia. Datura. If the “magical” ingredient was one of these, or even a close relation, his project would likely have to be abandoned.

  It had been foolish of him, he decided, to plan his entire future around the development of one particular perfume. Still, he could not dismiss the power, and the potential, of the perfume oil he’d found in the old trunk. Neither could he dismiss the dreams. If only for his own satisfaction, he vowed to follow through with his investigations until he knew exactly what the substance was
that had the ability to vault him into a dreamworld so lifelike, so sublime, he did not want to wake up.

  With each dream experience, with each sensual rendezvous with Simone, Nick found what his uncle claimed he was about to do at the end of the diary to be more and more understandable, if not believable.

  Nick heard chimes over the din of the city and looked at his watch. Noon. His stomach growled in sync. He should get back to the office to check on the team of computer technicians he’d left a couple of hours ago busily setting up his electronic equipment. But they’d probably be on lunch break, he figured, and decided to pick up a quick bite himself in one of his favorite restaurants, a place he’d often gone for lunch, not far from the House of Rutledge. As glad as he was to be out from under the control of Antoine Dupuis, he missed that aspect of his former position, being around others in his everyday life. He would admit it to no one but himself, but his new lifestyle was a very lonely one.

  The restaurant was busy with the noonday crowd, and Nick waved to several acquaintances while he waited to be seated. When at last the host led him to a table for two, he took a seat facing the rear and began to study the menu. Having decided on his selection, he lowered the large, leather-bound folder and looked up, directly into the leering face of Antoine Dupuis.

  “Bonjour, Nick.” Dupuis took great pleasure in seeing the acute discomfort on the face of his erstwhile master perfumer. He was surprised to see him in the neighborhood. Nick had always been sensitive and emotional, and Dupuis had expected him to find new haunts, rather than return to the likely painful memories of his old ones. Interesting that he had come back. And an opportunity to see what he was up to. “May I join you?”

  He gave Nick little option as he took the chair opposite. “It is time, don’t you think, to let bygones be bygones?”

  Nick glared at him. “What do you want, Dupuis?”

  “What’s this? Why the frown?” Dupuis asked genially. He fluttered his napkin to signal to the waiter, then laid the crisp, white linen across his lap. “There’s no need for animosity.” He turned to the server who showed up at the table posthaste upon seeing Dupuis’s flag. That’s why Antoine liked dining here. They had proper respect for a man of his position.

  “Two martinis, please. Extra dry. Mine with a twist. Yours?” he turned to Nick. “Olive or twist?”

  “You know I don’t drink at lunch.”

  “Ah, forever the old maid. Well, then,” he said to the waiter, “give him a twist as well. Perhaps he’ll change his mind.”

  Dupuis was almost gleeful at this chance to nettle the supercilious Englishman. He’d had to put up with his superior attitude for ten long years. But not anymore. It always amazed him that no matter how impoverished, how lowered their state in life, the English aristocracy managed to insinuate their sovereignty over those they considered lesser humans. As he supposed Nick considered him to be.

  Dupuis sneered. “Why the sour face, Rutledge? Didn’t you get everything you wanted? I didn’t stand in your way.”

  “I came here to enjoy lunch,” Nick growled. “Alone.”

  “It’s a busy place, and I’m a considerate man. No need for each of us to take up separate tables.” He leaned forward. “Now, tell me, my friend, what has been up with you?”

  A cynical smile curved Nick’s lips upward slightly. “You’re such a bastard, Dupuis. You know damned well what’s up with me. You know I’ve closed the Bombay plant and moved it to England. Just as you and your henchmen know the inside of my new offices…and my home.”

  Dupuis felt a tingle of alarm. “You are mistaken on this, Nick. Yes, of course we know about the Bombay closing. But I have no idea why you keep accusing me of burglarizing you.” The look Nick shot him left no doubt that the perfumer did not believe him.

  “What are you after, Dupuis? Perhaps I could save you the trouble and just give it over to you. That way I wouldn’t have to clean up the mess afterward.”

  The waiter brought the martinis and placed one in front of each man, then took their orders. Dupuis sipped deeply on his. Nick’s was left untouched.

  “I don’t know how to convince you I wasn’t involved in whatever you’re talking about, so I won’t continue to try,” Dupuis sighed at last. “You’ve always been such a hardhead. But I ask, what I could possibly want from you further?” He twisted the knife a little deeper. “I already have everything.”

  “You son of a bitch.”

  Dupuis smiled. “As I said, it is time to let bygones be bygones. What is important is to look to the future.” He raised his glass. “And here is to your future, Nick. I wish you every success.”

  “I don’t drink with criminals.”

  “Your usual charming, hypocritical self.” Dupuis drank anyway. “Well, if you won’t talk about your future, perhaps you’d be interested in hearing about the future of the House of Rutledge.” Although the Englishman didn’t reply, Dupuis was gratified by the look in his eye to see he’d gotten Nick’s attention. He went on, enjoying this immensely.

  “Fate is a capricious thing, is she not? Who would have dreamed ten years ago that the daughter of Jean René Lefevre would join forces with us? I mean, what with your theft of her father’s formulas and all.”

  “And I am certain she knows nothing of your involvement in that business.”

  “It was your decision, Nick. I merely made a suggestion.” Dupuis picked up a fork and tapped the end of it on the pink linen table cloth. Then he raised an eyebrow and slanted a smile across the table. “You forgot to mention how lovely the old man’s daughter is. I’m surprised you didn’t fall in love with her then and botch the whole thing. I have to hand it to you. I doubt if I would have had the discipline to carry through.”

  Nick’s face contorted in anger, and Dupuis thought he might punch him out right across the table. Hummm. So there had been something between them. He kept his finger on the button. “However, I am not the man you are,” he continued smoothly. “I find myself profoundly attracted to Simone Lefevre. And I’m pleased to say, she seems to feel the same about me. We…uh, have had a pleasant time getting to know one another, shall we say?”

  Nick’s face now drained of all color. “You’re a filthy liar, Dupuis.”

  “Careful now, or I won’t pick up the check.”

  The waiter approached with plates of steaming pasta and avoided a collision only by a matter of inches when Nick bolted from his chair. “Go to hell, you slimy little prick,” Nick snarled, throwing his napkin on the table. “And keep your hands off Simone.”

  Dupuis watched the man’s back as he made his way out of the restaurant. An irrepressible chuckle welled from deep within and spilled out between gin-flavored lips. “I suppose I’ll be needing only one of those plates, garçon,” he said, making room for the astonished young server to place his lunch in front of him. “But I’ll keep the other martini.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Simone threw the stack of mouillettes, the slender absorbent testers used by perfumers, into the trash can and swore under her breath in French. Beside her on the large teak worktable was a computer printout generated from her experiments using a gas chromatograph linked to a mass spectrometer, giving her a molecular picture of the chemical structure of the baffling perfume. From this, she should have been able to reproduce it synthetically, but she had worked at it for days to no avail. Her nose did not lie. These synthetic solutions did not even approach the original in scent, although the molecules were as close to identical as she could make them. Even more aggravating, as she worked on the artificially created substance, she experienced no erotic effects whatsoever. She had long since discarded the mask.

  She heard the door to the sealed perfume lab whoosh open and close again, but she paid no heed. Her mind was focused completely on the puzzle at hand and her growing sense of defeat. Even though she was under pressure from Dupuis to perform, it was her own desire to break the secret of the perfume oil that had driven her to work nonstop as long as she co
uld physically stand it. She was exhausted, her eyes burned, and her back ached.

  “Well, well, how is my little princesse du parfum today?” Antoine Dupuis’s chipper voice was as irritating as squeaky chalk on a blackboard, his words insulting. Simone threw her head back, glaring at him. “What do you want?”

  He stopped in his tracks and tilted his head. “My, my, aren’t we touchy? Is it the wrong time of the month?”

  Simone squelched the urge to throw the canister of clean mouillettes at him. How much longer could she suffer this pompous little man? How had Nick managed to work for him all those years?

  “That is none of your business,” she answered him, standing and leaning forward on the table with both hands. “It’s a good thing I’m a relatively well-adjusted woman, Monsieur. It’s comments like those that get male chauvinists in trouble these days. In America, they call it sexual harassment.”

  She could see she’d angered him, and she hoped perversely she might get fired. She found it more difficult by the day to come to work in this place. The only thing that kept her going was that here she had every state-of-the-art piece of equipment known to the fragrance industry at her disposal, and she was determined to win the battle between her nose and Mary Rose’s perfume.

  But Dupuis straightened his tie, cleared his throat, and squared his shoulders. “Pardon, Mademoiselle,” he said with a slight bow. “I did not mean to offend you. Please accept my sincere apologies.”

  She stared at him with a contempt she could not conceal. “A professor once told our class in business management that one should never say to a female employee anything you wouldn’t say to a male.”

  “Point taken. Now,” he said, coming to the far side of the table that separated them by only a few feet, “about the perfume. Where do you stand on it?”

  Simone shoved the computer printouts at him. “That’s what it looks like,” she said. Then she reached into the waste can and drew out half a dozen mouillettes. “And that’s what it smells like.”