Runaway Fiancee

“Just what game are you playing, Paige?” Letter to Reader Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN Copyright

“Just what game are you playing, Paige?”

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

“Stop this! You know damn well who you are. And you know damn well that you promised to marry me. Why did you do it? Don’t you know what anguish you caused? To disappear without a word to anyone—and just a week before the wedding!”

“Please, I don’t know you. I’m sorry, but I don’t.”

“You must stop lying to me, Paige. 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—my fiancée....”

Dear Reader,

Welcome to

Everyone has special occasions in their life—times of celebration and excitement. Maybe it’s a romantic event—an engagement or a wedding—or perhaps a wonderful family occasion, such as the birth of a baby. Or even a personal milestone—a thirtieth or fortieth birthday!

These are all important times in our lives, and in THE BIG EVENT! you can see how different couples react to these events. Whatever the occasion, romance and drama are guaranteed!

We’ve been featuring some terrific stories from some of your favorite authors. If you enjoyed this miniseries in Harlequin Romance®, we hope you’ll continue to look out for THE BIG EVENT! in Harlequin Presents®.

This month we’re delighted to bring you Runaway Fiancée by Sally Wentworth. In December we have Mary Lyons’s sassy romance Baby Included! Find out how gorgeous hero Ace Ratcliffe copes when he reaches a milestone birthday!

Happy reading!

The Editors

Runaway Fiancee

Sally Wentworth

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

JEAN-LOUIS had taken over the Eiffel Tower for the party. It was because he had become so famous—almost overnight, it seemed—that so many people had come to celebrate his engagement. Of course the painting was on display, and many of them had come just to see it. It was his finest work; critics all over France had raved about it. Suddenly he was fashionable and everyone wanted to meet him, to be painted by him, especially the women.

Basking in the adulation, and taking full advantage of it, Jean-Louis had invited the cream of Parisian society as well as his more artistic friends, all of whom were happily mingling here in the restaurant. And of course they were all intrigued that he was to marry his model; artists didn’t usually bother to many the women who posed for them, they merely kept them as their mistresses for a while before they moved on to the next face and body that fired their imagination.

The painting was hung in a prominent position, attracting a clamour of people round it, champagne glasses in their hands, their voices raised in knowledgeable praise. Many of them turned their heads and looked towards Angélique, comparing the living woman with the painted image. It had felt strange at first when people did this, when she’d heard them discussing her as if she were just an object, but she had got used to it now, was immune to their open stares and comments.

She overheard one woman, elegant, theatrical, say in a compelling voice, ‘Of course, he was passionately in love with her when he painted it. Anyone can see that. The sexual awareness just screams at you.’

Eyes turned towards her again, some speculative, most knowing. This was Paris. Of course an artist would have an affair with his model. The only surprise would be if he didn’t. Or, as now, if he offered marriage. With a flick of her long, corn-gold hair, Angelique turned her back on them and walked over to where Jean-Louis was the centre of a noisy, laughing group. People made way for her, and he immediately reached out and took her hand, carried it to his lips and kissed it in a flamboyant gesture. He was loving this, she could see. For too long he had hovered on the brink of being regarded as a great painter, but now he had arrived, now he could pick and choose his subjects, his pictures would command huge prices and he would, at last, achieve his ambition to be one of the haute bohème. All he had to do was consolidate his brilliant achievement. Already he had agreed to paint several commissions.

He put a possessive arm round her slim waist and drew her to his side. ‘You are happy, chérie?’

‘Of course. It’s a wonderful party.’ She spoke in fluent French, in which there was just the trace of an indefinable accent.

‘Are you working on another painting of Mademoiselle Castet?’ someone asked him.

The ‘Mademoiselle’ amused her; the guests were treating her with some respect because she was his fiancée, otherwise she would just have been ‘the model’.

‘But of course.’ Jean-Louis opened his arms in an expansive gesture. ‘How can I not paint her? She is so sensational. Her eyes—so beautiful. My palette cannot possibly do justice to them.’

People immediately began to reassure him, and it was true that he had painted her eyes with consummate skill, giving them their true brilliance, a vital glow, so strong that it seemed as if a light burned within her. It was Angélique’s eyes that he had first noticed about her, their fire and their deep amber flecks against the intensely green pupils, and he had pursued her with single-minded determination until she had finally agreed to let him paint her. She had resisted for a long time, though, foreseeing this publicity and wanting no part of it. She had held out, too, against his sexual propositions, until Jean-Louis had become almost as frustrated about that as not being able to paint her. Almost, but not quite. With Jean-Louis his work would always come first. He had never said so, of course, but Angélique had no illusions about it.

A reporter with his camera came up, wanted to take her picture standing by the painting. It was far from being the first time it had happened but Jean-Louis was all enthusiasm. He went down the steps with her to where the picture was placed in the reception area of the restaurant, instructed the reporter on where to place her for the maximum effect, to get the light right. The man took a whole film of shots but by that time Jean-Louis had become bored and gone back to the upper floor. Angélique, though, stayed behind. Momentarily alone, she turned to look once more at her portrait.

Jean-Louis Lenée was an artist of his times; the painting was in the modern idiom but a recognisable likeness despite the richness of the colour and the symbolic background of rising hills and dipping valleys that, on closer inspection, turned out to be the voluptuous figures of women. Angélique’s own, undeniably beautiful figure was tantalisingly hidden by a flowing white windswept gown that revealed parts of her and concealed others, leaving all to the imagination. But it was her eyes that held the viewer, mesmerising, hypnotic, teasing, alight with life and laughter.

She smiled a little. Earlier the woman had said that the picture had been painted with passion; that was true, but it had been the passion of frustration as much as desire. And Jean-Louis had been forced to use his own imagination about her figure because he had never been allowed to see her naked. Maybe that was why the picture had come across with such force, why the tantalising element was so strong. It was extremely erotic and yet at the same time possessed deliberate fragility, working on the viewer’s imagination to create his or her own individual fantasy, to lose themselves in the picture.

A wide shaft of late-evening sunlight shone down on Angélique as she studied the painting, highlighting the profile of her tall, slim figure, turning the golden hair into a halo that melted into the light. She was wearing a white dress that reached down to her ankles, a gown not unlike the one she had worn in the painting—an idea of Jean-Louis’s. The material was thin and with the light behind her became almost translucent, revealing the enticing outline of her shapely legs—legs so long they looked as if they started at her waist. She became a living painting, and far more lovely than the portrait in front of her.

A lift rose to the first floor, and the doors opened noisily. Chattering people came to the door, showed their invitations, walked over to exclaim at the picture and then went to look for Jean-Louis. A deep voice in good French but with an English accent said smoothly, ‘I seem to have forgotten my invitation but...’ The voice tailed off and Angélique could imagine money, a bribe, being handed over. Another gatecrasher; there must have been at least twenty of them there already. Moving away, Angélique ran lightly up the stairs and became lost in the crowd.

A lavish buffet, given as a present by the owner of the gallery where Jean-Louis was to have his next exhibition, was served to the guests. Wine and champagne flowed freely. The noise level grew higher, the atmosphere hot and overpowering. The room was circular, the walls windowed from floor to ceiling so that diners could look out past the metal girders of the structure of the Tower and see the landscape of Paris spread out below them. The sun had dropped low towards the horizon, outlining the surrounding buildings, black against the molten glow. Lights began to come on, piercing the dusk, romanticising the city. Angélique stood in the shadow of one of the metal struts where two windows joined, a drink in her hand, watching the throng. Soon the food and drink would run out and the more fashionable element would start to leave, to go on to other places. Only Jean-Louis’s artist friends, the Bohemian element, would stay on to the bitter end, and then they would all go on to some club, perhaps Au Lapin Agile in Montmartre, and drink the rest of the night away. But not Jean-Louis; tonight he had other ideas in mind.

People came up to her, spoke, tried to draw her back into the party, but went away when she gave them no encouragement. But then a huge cake was wheeled into the centre of the room and Jean-Louis began to look round for her. ‘Angélique. Angélique! Where are you?’

She reluctantly stepped forward, but then eager hands clasped hers, shouted that she was here, that she was coming. They pulled her towards him, the throng parting for her. She glimpsed faces, some that she knew—bearded artists, made-up models, suited men who ran art shops and galleries—but most were strange to her. But they were all smiling, laughing, pushing her towards Jean-Louis and the huge, vulgar cake designed like an artist’s palette, towards the centre of the room where they would be the focus of all eyes.

Jean-Louis came to meet her, put his arm round her. He was a little taller than Angélique, about five feet ten, thin and wiry. His hair reached his collar but was clean and neat, and he had the lean face and thin lips that you saw often on French men. His clothes were good, bought with the large advance the gallery had given him, designed to impress potential clients and convince them that he would make a suitable house guest if he went to stay while he painted their portraits. His eyes gleamed down at her in excitement and anticipation; he was expecting a great deal from tonight—in more ways than one.

The art gallery owner, Jean-Louis’s sponsor, stepped forward and made a speech, congratulating him on his success with the painting, prophesying many more successes in the future, promising his support. It was a long speech but they all listened good-naturedly and applauded loudly at every opportunity. Only at the end did the man remember this was also an engagement party and gallantly compliment Jean-Louis on the beauty of his fiancée and wish them both every happiness. Somebody put a knife in Jean-Louis’s hand, there was a clamour of shouts for him to make a speech, which he cheerfully did. His speech was a little more risqué, and there were some knowing remarks from his friends when he looked deep into Angélique’s eyes. Then, the speech over, he raised the knife to plunge it into the cake.

‘Just one moment!’ The voice was sharp, authoritative, not to be ignored. With an English accent. Angélique recognised it as the voice of the gatecrasher she had heard earlier.

A man stepped forward from the crowd. About thirty-two or three, he was tall and very English, his shoulders in the immaculately cut dark suit broad, his straight figure strong and athletic. His face was cleanly handsome, with the hard, determined jaw that denoted self-confidence and willpower. And he looked completely out of place in this ornate, colourful gathering.

The crowd had fallen silent and there was an air of expectation as the man moved into the cleared space in front of Angélique and Jean-Louis. He was looking at Angélique, his eyes intent, but she returned his gaze with only natural curiosity. The man frowned, and then turned to Jean-Louis and said, ‘I’m afraid this woman is an impostor.’

The artist gave an incredulous laugh. ‘What are you talking about? Angélique is my fiancée. We are to be married.’

‘In that case we have a problem.’ The stranger again looked at Angélique. ‘You see, she is already engaged to me.’

CHAPTER TWO

FOR a moment there was silence, followed by a buzz like that of a swarm of bees as everyone began to question their neighbour in hissing undertones, wanting more information but eager to hear what would happen next, not wanting to miss a word of a possible scandal.

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?’

‘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—’