Her mother was still demanding to know the name of the friend who’d led her astray.
‘Just someone I met at ballet class,’ Rosalie lied. ‘Anyway, she’s left now.’
‘Well, you are never to see her again,’ her mother replied. ‘In fact, it’s high time you stopped ballet. I will cancel your lessons and increase your typing classes.’
Rosalie quietly groaned.
‘You’re too tall to ever be a ballet dancer and far too …’
And there she stopped, but Rosalie knew what she meant. Rosalie was extremely curvaceous, which of course had been one of the reasons Johnny had been keen to take her on. The Americans enjoyed a woman with something they could grab hold of and were not interested in half-starved Parisian waifs.
‘Time to find you a suitable husband,’ her mother continued. ‘Or you’ll be left on the shelf. You can’t remain under our roof for ever, doing just whatever you please.’
Rosalie turned away. When she found the man for her, she’d know it. Her heart would sing, and she’d feel such passion it would bowl her over. None of her mother’s choices had caused even the slightest wobble.
CHAPTER 8
A bearded man with a bulbous nose, who could either have been an artist or a criminal, seemed to be studying Rosalie. She tried to meet his pale, guarded eyes but they were focused just shy of her left ear, unsettling her. Judging by the look of the network of broken veins on his cheeks, he was a drunk, but still Irène led her across to the bar to introduce them.
He frowned and something pulsed inside her. A warning maybe. Rosalie shot her friend a curious look. Why was she insisting on introducing them?
‘This,’ Irène said, ignoring the look, ‘is Pierre.’
‘Drink?’ the man said.
She spotted he had two chipped teeth then looked down at his feet. You could tell a lot by a person’s footwear and his shoes were expensive, Italian leather. When she glanced up, she smiled. ‘Pernod, please.’
‘Good choice,’ the man said.
‘Pierre has something for you,’ Irène said.
‘Really?’ Rosalie said, tapping her fingers on the bar counter.
The man studied her face before speaking, and something about the way he did it made her feel wary. There was menace in his gaze. She saw it in the way the skin around his eyes tightened as if he were calculating.
‘What would you say if I told you that your father has a secret?’ he finally said.
Rosalie frowned. How did this man even know who her father was?
‘I’d laugh at you,’ she replied, already sensing that if she engaged with him there might be no turning back.
He tilted his head to one side and scrutinised her face again. ‘You’d be wrong to do so.’
‘How can someone like you know anything about my father?’
‘I could take the information to the police.’
As well as a sickly-sweet cologne, danger came off this man in waves.
‘What’s it about?’ she asked.
He scribbled something on a piece of paper, and she raised her brows.
‘Well?’ he said. ‘Interested in saving your father’s reputation?’
‘You have proof?’
‘I do.’
