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Authors: Francine Mathews
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mess of the downed prop plane. It had missed several late skiers by a matter of meters.
“Sacré bleu,”
he’d muttered. “And how they will get that thing off the
piste
is anyone’s guess. A tow will not do it.
Imbécile.”
As he watched, the emergency door above the wing was thrust open. A long, booted leg in leopard-print velvet appeared in the black maw of the opening. Jacques swore under his breath.
This
type usually arrived by private jet.
She wore sunglasses under the mop of dark curls, although it was already evening and the light was alpine flat. A black Persian lamb coat, full and swinging. Suede gloves, and a leather backpack slung over her shoulder. She poised on the wing, jumped down as carelessly as though the entire life of Courchevel was not gaping at her from Boulevard Creux, and sauntered toward the altiport terminal some hundred meters back along the overshot runway. It was a good six minutes before the rest of the Dash 7’s passengers found courage to follow.
Jacques continued to swear as he watched her go, with a fluency that did him honor. Not because the woman was a sensation—he was long jaded by celebrity and bravado and chic, he saw them all the time. Nor because her beauty was a reproach to a man abandoned by his wife. No, he swore because he had seen Max Roderick fixed like a stone to one side of the
piste,
just beyond the fallen plane, his weight well back in his boots and his poles thrust into the snow. Watching.
He made no move toward the Dash 7—he suggested not the slightest anxiety or concern for its occupants— but something in Max’s expression, the arms folded tightly across his chest as he stared at the wing, toldJacques that Max had been waiting for this plane. For the appearance of this woman.
Although such an idea was impossible.
Impossible,
Jacques repeated to himself now as he stood shivering on his own doorstep. There had been no welcome in Max Roderick’s face. He had merely stared after the woman’s figure while the sirens began to wail, then seized his poles, thrust himself cleanly down the
piste
and vanished from Jacques’s sight.
Until he reappeared, so the rumors went, at a party in the woman’s rented villa—here, in Le Praz—the very next night. The two had been inseparable in the few days since. The paparazzi—never far from
le pauvre
Max—were beginning to sniff the wind.
An old flame,
declared Yvette Margolan with a knowing air as she handed Jacques his olives the following afternoon.
I saw her when I delivered the charcuterie. Not young, but
très chic.
She happened upon our Max unawares, after the passage of many years. It is Fate,
non?
He has been too much alone,
mon vieux,
since la Muldoon …
But Max had not been unaware.
Jacques stood in the rising morning, his eyes fixed on the spot where Max Roderick had passed, riding the platter lift out of Le Praz at eight-fifteen on a Friday of new snow when he should have been aboard the tram for Saulire long since. The cold seeped through his vest and his ancient sweater and he shuddered suddenly, seized by the chill like a dog snapped on a too-short leash. Why should it matter to him, if Max amused himself with a hundred strange women? Was he, Jacques Renaudie, an old man now that his wife had run off with a banker to Paris? Never mind that he had known Max for more than a decade, and had never witnessed such slavish attention, such wholehearted indiscretion …
Curse all women and their heartless scheming, Jacques thought savagely. Where
was
his daughter, anyway? He should refuse Sabine the house when she finally came home. Jacques banged the base of the broom against the step and turned in search of the cigarettes he kept in his kitchen.
Max Roderick had not spent the night in Stefani Fogg’s villa. She had slept at his home instead.
He had dropped down to Le Praz at first light in order to fetch some of her clothes—a change of long underwear, a fresh ski sweater. The rest of her gear
“Sacré bleu,”
he’d muttered. “And how they will get that thing off the
piste
is anyone’s guess. A tow will not do it.
Imbécile.”
As he watched, the emergency door above the wing was thrust open. A long, booted leg in leopard-print velvet appeared in the black maw of the opening. Jacques swore under his breath.
This
type usually arrived by private jet.
She wore sunglasses under the mop of dark curls, although it was already evening and the light was alpine flat. A black Persian lamb coat, full and swinging. Suede gloves, and a leather backpack slung over her shoulder. She poised on the wing, jumped down as carelessly as though the entire life of Courchevel was not gaping at her from Boulevard Creux, and sauntered toward the altiport terminal some hundred meters back along the overshot runway. It was a good six minutes before the rest of the Dash 7’s passengers found courage to follow.
Jacques continued to swear as he watched her go, with a fluency that did him honor. Not because the woman was a sensation—he was long jaded by celebrity and bravado and chic, he saw them all the time. Nor because her beauty was a reproach to a man abandoned by his wife. No, he swore because he had seen Max Roderick fixed like a stone to one side of the
piste,
just beyond the fallen plane, his weight well back in his boots and his poles thrust into the snow. Watching.
He made no move toward the Dash 7—he suggested not the slightest anxiety or concern for its occupants— but something in Max’s expression, the arms folded tightly across his chest as he stared at the wing, toldJacques that Max had been waiting for this plane. For the appearance of this woman.
Although such an idea was impossible.
Impossible,
Jacques repeated to himself now as he stood shivering on his own doorstep. There had been no welcome in Max Roderick’s face. He had merely stared after the woman’s figure while the sirens began to wail, then seized his poles, thrust himself cleanly down the
piste
and vanished from Jacques’s sight.
Until he reappeared, so the rumors went, at a party in the woman’s rented villa—here, in Le Praz—the very next night. The two had been inseparable in the few days since. The paparazzi—never far from
le pauvre
Max—were beginning to sniff the wind.
An old flame,
declared Yvette Margolan with a knowing air as she handed Jacques his olives the following afternoon.
I saw her when I delivered the charcuterie. Not young, but
très chic.
She happened upon our Max unawares, after the passage of many years. It is Fate,
non?
He has been too much alone,
mon vieux,
since la Muldoon …
But Max had not been unaware.
Jacques stood in the rising morning, his eyes fixed on the spot where Max Roderick had passed, riding the platter lift out of Le Praz at eight-fifteen on a Friday of new snow when he should have been aboard the tram for Saulire long since. The cold seeped through his vest and his ancient sweater and he shuddered suddenly, seized by the chill like a dog snapped on a too-short leash. Why should it matter to him, if Max amused himself with a hundred strange women? Was he, Jacques Renaudie, an old man now that his wife had run off with a banker to Paris? Never mind that he had known Max for more than a decade, and had never witnessed such slavish attention, such wholehearted indiscretion …
Curse all women and their heartless scheming, Jacques thought savagely. Where
was
his daughter, anyway? He should refuse Sabine the house when she finally came home. Jacques banged the base of the broom against the step and turned in search of the cigarettes he kept in his kitchen.
Max Roderick had not spent the night in Stefani Fogg’s villa. She had slept at his home instead.
He had dropped down to Le Praz at first light in order to fetch some of her clothes—a change of long underwear, a fresh ski sweater. The rest of her gear
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