Love in Vogue

by Eve Bourton

Genres: Siblings; Women's Fiction; Billionaires Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

When her tycoon father suddenly dies, Corinne Marchand throws herself into running his couture empire based in Paris. Having been abandoned by her playboy lover Philippe de Rochmort three years earlier, she's also mistrustful of men and convinced that she is better off alone - so when she meets attractive merchant banker Miles Corsley, she refuses to give him the time of day, let alone a date. Corinne's younger sister, model Yolande, has loved Philippe's brother Yves all her life, and they are to be married - but after meeting bad boy film star Patrick Dubuisson she breaks off her engagement and embarks on a passionate affair in Hollywood. When Philippe finally returns to France and shocking secrets are revealed, Corinne has to decide if she will trust Miles with more than her money as they battle to save her company from a hostile takeover - while Yolande learns the hard way that Hollywood glamour doesn't always bring happiness. Paris is the city of love, but will it ever be in vogue for the Marchand girls again?

Release date: August 27, 2015

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 360

Sample

Chapter One

‘God, I feel sick.’

Corinne Marchand’s dark eyes dimmed with pain. It was too hot. So horribly oppressive. Mid July, and despite the air-conditioning she was sweltering in a black linen suit in the executive bathroom at her father’s office, making last-minute touches to her make-up.

‘So do I.’ But Yolande, standing beside her, still looked infuriatingly cool even at this moment of crisis. ‘You’re smudging your mascara. Let me.’

Corinne obediently stood still while her younger sister skilfully repaired the damage. Her stomach had been invaded by a squadron of butterflies, her hands wanted to shake. But she had her speech ready. In her head. Word perfect. She was here to fight. And she was going to win.

‘What if they vote against me?’

‘They won’t.’

‘But everybody expects Georges to take over.’

‘Why? Papa certainly didn’t want him to, and he doesn’t even want it himself.’

‘What about you? You’re perfectly entitled to stand against me.’

‘Oh, Corinne, really …’

And they both had to grin. As if. Yolande had never been interested in anything other than modelling and enjoying herself in Parisian night spots where Corinne always felt out of place.

‘Had to read you your rights, petite fleur.’

Yolande smiled sadly. That had been their father’s endearment for her. ‘Yeah, I know. But no thanks. Oh, I miss him so much.’ She turned into her sister’s arms, clung on, choked back the tears.

‘Me too. Me too.’ Corinne held her close, struggled to keep her control. ‘Don’t start me off. I’ll look like a complete Goth if this mascara runs again. We’re already late.’        

It was quite a change after the high-rise steel and glass of the bank’s office on London Wall – a boardroom in exquisite Second Empire style, with all the gilt and glamour befitting the headquarters of a major fashion house on the chic Avenue Montaigne. Miles Corsley was at last beginning to enjoy his secondment to Paris. He briefly checked his tie in one of the huge mirrors and laid out his papers on the polished walnut table, tuning his ear in to the various conversations in French going on around him. There was Marchand Enterprises’ finance director, Georges Maury, a well-built man with thinning grey hair combed back neatly from his forehead, in ponderous discussion with a sharp-featured junior: business school clones. Then a couple of leisured looking gentlemen, more interested in their golf handicaps than the fact that they were here to vote on the future of one of France’s most prestigious companies. Non-executive directors up from the provinces, Miles guessed. Probably from Burgundy, where the late Jean-Claude Marchand had started his business empire as producer of one of the finest wines on the Côte d’Or before branching out into exclusive cosmetics and fashion.

Miles had met the legendary Jean-Claude only once, four weeks previously, and had been almost knocked out by his sheer zest for life. He was every inch the tycoon – tough, shrewd, and charming, with penetrating green eyes and a sharp wit. That he had found time in his crowded diary to try to lick a young banker from London into shape was a tribute to both his generosity and his energy. And, Miles was sure his Uncle Rupert would say, to his incurable optimism. Now he was dead. It was a sharp reminder that one should always seize the day.

An impeccably dressed young man with a shock of black hair was pacing the other side of the room. That had to be Yves de Rochemort, one of the major shareholders. Miles noted his height because it was unusual for him to meet a Frenchman at the same eye-level as his own six feet two inches. He was a baron, if Miles remembered correctly, though of course the title was of no account in the French Republic except in certain circles where the old nobility still concerned themselves with such things. He kept looking anxiously at the panelled double doors.

Clearly the Marchand sisters were unused to business, and didn’t realise they should have been here fifteen minutes ago. They probably wouldn’t stay long. All Miles had heard was that their late father had been wildly indulgent and that the youngest, Yolande, who intermittently pursued a modelling career at Hervy, the ailing couture house he had rescued from oblivion a few years before, filled the gossip columns with her escapades. Twenty-nine-year-old Corinne was something of a mystery. An airhead like her sister, his colleague James had said, but without the looks. She worked for her father in some senior role, but seemed very good at keeping herself out of the limelight. No, they would be gone quickly. Georges Maury was sure to become the new managing director, and then Miles could have a long hard chat with him about the huge sums that Marchand owed Corsley First European Bank.

The boardroom doors swung open. So the Marchand sisters had finally decided to show up. Miles glanced up perfunctorily; and was sure he heard the thud as his jaw hit the floor. The taller of the two had the grace of a dancer and a beauty that was searing and vital – tumbling chestnut hair, luminous green eyes under arched brows, high cheekbones, full mouth, and a surprisingly firm chin. Aristocrat and sex goddess all in one. He wouldn’t have believed her to be real if she hadn’t cast him a curious half-smile as her eyes swept the room. Obviously used to making an entrance, he thought. And bloody terrifying; the sort of girl who could eat a man for breakfast and two more for lunch and dinner. That had to be Yolande. He would have recognised her anyway by the strong resemblance to her father. Yves de Rochemort bounded over to her and circled her waist with his arm, then kissed her lips. He escorted her to a seat, while Georges Maury went over to Corinne. After the formal cheek-kissing, he gave her an affectionate hug.

Miles watched in growing appreciation as Corinne was led to the head of the table. James needed to get his sight tested. Though her looks were more reticent, she was every bit as easy on the eye as her sister. Curvier, but still slender, her legs and hips were swathed elegantly in black. She wore a pale pink silk blouse and minimal jewellery. Dark hair was swept back from a classic face, with the same arched brows, high cheekbones, and uncompromising chin as Yolande. He realised that smouldering black eyes were trained on him warily but he just stared back. Couldn’t help it. A man could drown in molten eyes like that. And when he caught the spicy notes of her perfume, he felt as though he’d been punched in the gut.

‘Who the hell is that?’ Corinne whispered to Georges.

‘He’s representing the lenders. He’ll go when we’ve discussed the figures – first item on the agenda.’

Corinne resented the way the man stared at her, and not just because of his want of manners. It was the fire of arousal in his eyes, the hungry way they raked over her and laid her bare. It infuriated her because for a millisecond she felt a responsive shiver, desire she thought she had killed entirely during the past few years. And surprised her because outwardly he seemed like a gentleman. An attractive one too if it weren’t for that insolent gaze. He had an air of unmistakable authority, with piercing grey-blue eyes that gave intensity to a rugged face. The nose was aquiline, the mouth stubborn. His light brown hair was closely cropped like a soldier’s. There was nothing soft about him, she thought. Well, maybe a gentleman who played hard ball. His pin-striped suit was decidedly English, and if she wasn’t mistaken, so was he. She resolved to conduct the entire meeting in French.

She took the chair and called the meeting to order. A secretary began to take minutes. There was one empty seat – it belonged to Antoinette Brozard, one of the non-executive directors. Corinne looked questioningly at Georges.

‘I’m afraid Toinette is unwell and sends her apologies. She nominated me as her proxy.’

Corinne quickly extinguished a flicker of annoyance, and then fixed her eyes on the stranger.

‘We haven’t been introduced,’ she said, her voice as icy as her expression.

‘Miles Corsley.’ He stood up, tall and straight. ‘From Corsley First European Bank. May I offer our sincere condolences on your father’s death.’

Oh, the boss’s son, thought Corinne. And though his French was good, the accent was definitely Anglo-Saxon. They had a damn nerve sending some junior family member to check on her company and apologise for driving her father so hard he had dropped dead of a heart attack. Fifty-eight, no signs of illness. No warning that her wonderful father, so full of life and love, would be lying on a mortuary slab instead of chairing this meeting with his customary verve and good humour. She felt tears come to her eyes, and forced herself to block out the image of his body at the hospital, that last kiss on his cold forehead.

‘Thank you,’ she said curtly. She turned to the secretary. ‘Sylvie, please note that Monsieur Corsley will be in attendance for agenda item one only.’

It wasn’t so difficult when Corinne hit her stride. The butterflies fluttered away, her voice gained in confidence, she engaged everyone in the meeting with a look, a smile, as she hoped they would approve her presentation of the latest company figures. She’d watched her father do it so well, so many times. It was in her blood. And it soon showed.

‘As you can see from the spreadsheet, Marchand-Beauté profits show a seven per cent quarterly increase, with a projected twenty-five per cent for the full year – our sales peak comes at Christmas. We have increased turnover and reduced costs, and I expect further cost savings of twelve million euros for this year to come through once our rationalisation of production is complete. Our mid-range products are doing well in retail, but we have had rapid growth from the web boutique. It will be one of my priorities to continue the work my father started in this area. Hervy couture is finally showing a profit – modest, but very encouraging – while the accessories have really taken off in China and Russia, and I expect continued profits growth as we roll out in other global markets. We are spending a considerable amount on launch of the prêt-a-porter range and perfumes, but if anything I feel the profits forecast for this sector is conservative. My recent trips to London, New York, Beijing, and Tokyo have convinced me we have the right designer and product range to bring this great brand back to the glory days when Hélène Hervy established the company in this very building so many decades ago. Now, on the second page you’ll see projections for our holding in Elegance Hotels …’

Miles lost his air of amused superiority during the second sentence. He even forgot how sexy Corinne’s voice sounded as coolly and swiftly she shredded all his preconceptions with her expert financial summary. He’d throttle James Chetwode when he got back to the office for giving him such inaccurate background information for this meeting. This was no brainless bimbo living at Papa’s expense in a job where she couldn’t do any damage, but a highly competent, intelligent professional who knew her company and her audience inside out and was about to subject him to ritual humiliation. He could see it as she turned those megawatt eyes on him with a charming but deadly smile and flipped over another page.

‘Monsieur Corsley, I’d like to draw your attention to page six, where you will see that although Marchand’s gearing is still substantial, we made two additional debt repayments during the last quarter and are well on target to meet our obligations for the rest of the year. I have outlined plans for further cost reductions across the group, which when combined with our increasing turnover and profits, should comfort the bank that despite a change at the top, Marchand will remain a well-managed and profitable business for decades to come.’ He felt the chill sweep across him as she switched back to ice queen mode. ‘If you have any questions, I’m sure Georges will be happy to discuss them with you offline. I’ll get this report emailed to you this afternoon.’

And that was it. The regal dismissal. She didn’t give him a second glance as he gathered up his papers. He strode out of the room, fuming.

‘Well, that busted his ego,’ said Yolande, earning a reproving glance from her sister. She was quite unused to meeting protocol.

‘Was it altogether wise?’ Yves wondered aloud.

‘He had no right to be here,’ Corinne shot back. ‘Who invited him?’

Georges cleared his throat. ‘Your father, my dear.’

She paled and felt a little sick.

‘He’s new to Corsley’s Paris office and is taking over the Marchand account, and Jean-Claude thought it would help him to get his bearings if he sat in on one of our board meetings.’

‘Oh joy.’

‘Your father was also going to invite him to tour some of our operations, but I’m not sure how far he got with that.’

‘All set up, monsieur,’ said Sylvie. Then she looked at Corinne. ‘I’ve already put them in your diary.’

By the time Corinne was ensconced in an armchair opposite her sister in their late father’s office she was the new head of a global luxury goods company with, as Georges kindly informed her, a great deal to do to persuade the markets that Marchand’s board had made the right choice. The first thing she did was to take the clips out of her hair and let it fall free, then slip off her detested high heels with a sigh of relief and curl her legs up beneath her.

 ‘I told you they’d vote for you,’ said Yolande.

‘Considering that in the end I was the only candidate, it was hardly a triumph. But thanks for your support, darling. I really appreciate it.’

‘You’ll be brilliant.’

Yolande wasn’t gushing. She was absolutely convinced her clever older sister could handle anything. Corinne had waltzed through her degree at Oxford with a First, and had improved results at every department of Marchand she had ever worked in, from the shop floor up. Yolande herself had undertaken a few fairly calamitous placements with the firm in her summer vacations during a protracted spell of higher education on both sides of the Atlantic, before kicking off her modelling career at Hervy at the grand old age of twenty. She’d had countless agents trying to sign her for years, but hadn’t taken the idea seriously until it became clear she would never graduate. Her father had indulged her, always hoped that one day she would wake up and become more like Corinne. And when that failed to happen, he had pinned all his hopes on her engagement to Yves – one of those on-off affairs that kept the paparazzi happy, if no one else.

It would be the wedding of the season if it ever took place. The Rochemorts had a large Burgundy estate neighbouring the Marchands’ vineyards, and the two combined could dominate the market for grand cru red burgundies. Other business alliances could also be strengthened. Yves was both a major shareholder and director of Marchand Enterprises, and his father and Jean-Claude had been close friends and business partners. He was the perfect choice. Too perfect. Perhaps that was why Yolande seemed to be doing her best to scupper the match. Rows and reconciliations had followed a predictable pattern over the past few months. Corinne looked at her and let out a deep sigh. How was she supposed to cope with her adorable, irrepressible little sister now their father was gone? She needed someone she could rely on, and all she had was a headstrong girl she’d fished out of trouble more times than she could remember. Without his encouragement and support, a Rochemort-Marchand marriage now appeared to be doomed. It shouldn’t have been Yves and Yolande, anyway. It should have been her and Philippe. She forced her mind back into focus. It was never a good idea to start thinking about Philippe.

Sylvie provided a welcome interruption when she tripped in with a tray and cups. ‘I thought you might like some coffee, madame la présidente.’

Corinne almost choked. ‘I hope you’re not going to make a habit of calling me that.’

A discreet and very polished senior PA, Sylvie had worked for Jean-Claude for over two decades and had known Corinne as a girl, but she was a stickler for etiquette. She looked a little pained. ‘But …’

‘Corinne is fine.’

‘But …’

‘Please.’ The tone was final. ‘And you shouldn’t be bringing us coffee – I usually get my own. But thanks very much. It’s been a long day.’

‘It’s so kind of you, Sylvie,’ added Yolande, gratefully taking a cup and dropping in more sugar lumps than any girl her size had a right to eat.

Sylvie melted as two smiles exactly like the late Jean-Claude’s beamed up at her. ‘It’s no trouble. Can I do anything else for you?’

‘You could tell me why Papa arranged all these visits for Monsieur Corsley,’ said Corinne. ‘I don’t remember him ever paying such attention to our bankers before.’

‘He genuinely liked him, I think. You know how he used to take a fancy to certain people. But he always had his reasons for a charm offensive.’

‘Exactly. If we were in a tight spot with them I could understand, but actually we’re not. Did he mention anything else to you?’

‘Not really. But he seemed to want you to handle most of the visits.’

Sylvie left the room and Corinne frowned. Now she would have to be nice to the sexist pig. What on earth her father had seen in him she couldn’t fathom. She looked up and caught a glint of amusement in Yolande’s eyes.

‘What?’ she demanded in English, just in case they could be overheard.

‘Maybe Papa was trying his hand at matchmaking.’

Corinne spluttered on her coffee.

‘Think about it.’

She did. And was horrified to conclude that Yolande was probably right. Miles Corsley was exactly the kind of man her father would have considered an appropriate suitor; a dead boring banker with a superiority complex. Despite his own tangled private life, Jean-Claude had always held peculiarly antiquated views on relationships when it came to his daughters.

‘What a bloody cheek! He should never have accepted the meeting.’

‘I don’t suppose he has any more idea that was what Papa had in mind than you did.’

‘I’ll make damn sure he never does.’

‘But he’s seriously cute, even if he is a bit stuffy. And he’s definitely got the hots for you.’

‘Oh really?’ Corinne wasn’t sure whether to be exasperated or amused. Yolande’s requirements of men were seldom the same as hers, but her radar for the basics was usually infallible. ‘Wouldn’t he be more up your street?’

‘Absolutely not. He’s far too old.’

Corinne decided to be amused. Anyone over thirty was ancient as far as her sister was concerned, and she doubted that Miles Corsley was more than thirty-five. She chuckled.

‘Anyway, he doesn’t want me,’ continued Yolande. ‘But he certainly noticed you, although that put down you gave him probably pissed him off a bit. He was simply drooling over you when you walked in.’

‘Look who’s matchmaking now.’

‘Oh I’m not suggesting you go that far! Just have a bit of fun. I bet he’s good in bed.’

‘Yolande!’

‘Oh, like you didn’t notice.’

‘You really are insufferable.’

‘That means I’m right.’

Fortunately for Corinne, who found annoyance getting the better of her humour, Yolande’s mobile rang. ‘Patrick? Yes, the meeting’s over. I’m with my sister. Of course, darling, I’d love to. The Bar des Théâtres? I’ll be about an hour. See you.’

It wasn’t the ‘darling’ that alerted Corinne. Yolande was always lavish with endearments – on a good day even their dour old concierge Monsieur Boniface could be ‘darling’. But the gleam in her eyes boded only one thing if she knew her sister – she was planning to have sex, and it clearly wasn’t going to be with Yves.

Yolande just looked at her, all innocence.

‘You can’t fool me. Is this Patrick someone I need to worry about?’

‘No. He works for you, actually – modelling at Hervy. He’s great fun. But he’s an actor. He only models when he’s resting.’

‘You know that isn’t what I meant, Yolande. I thought there was something up with you and Yves.’

‘I was going to talk to him today, actually. But he’s gone straight back to St Xavier, and I can’t do it over the phone.’

‘Promise me you won’t keep stringing him along. It isn’t fair. You know it isn’t.’

‘I just don’t want to hurt him.’

‘You think screwing around behind his back isn’t going to hurt him?’

Yolande’s expression hardened, and she seemed about to lash out with a retort but thought better of it. ‘You’re right. I must talk to him. I will, promise. He’ll be fine. He’s not in love with me, you know.’

Corinne shook her head. ‘You silly girl.’

‘God, you sound just like Papa.’

‘And you’re acting just like him!’

Yolande looked a little shamefaced. She said nothing.

Corinne had adored their father, but his dizzying parade of female companions had been proud testimony to his inconstancy. Mystifying, really, when their mother was so beautiful and charming and had been very much in love with him when they had married. But the marriage hit the rocks soon after Yolande was born. Grace Albury had bitterly resented Jean-Claude’s philandering, and after one particularly blazing affair was talked about all over Paris, she walked out and went home to England. A protracted and acrimonious divorce followed. When Grace remarried five years later, she settled with her American banker husband in New York, but Jean-Claude retained custody of their daughters. Eventually they reached a messy compromise whereby the girls spent term time with their English grandparents in London and attended the French Lycée, with holidays divided between France and America. It had hurt so much. Corinne loved both her parents. She had hated taking sides, the rows, the court battles, the long tearful goodbyes every term. Now her father was gone, and she hadn’t had him to herself nearly enough. And Yolande seemed bent on continuing a most undesirable family tradition.

‘Be careful, Yolande. Please. I’m not going to say any more about it. You’re a big girl now. But I love both you and Yves, so it’s quite hard for me to sit on the sidelines while you two tear each other apart.’

Yolande went over to perch on the arm of Corinne’s chair and put an arm round her. ‘Don’t say anything to Mummy, will you? Not until I’ve spoken to him.’

Corinne tugged her down and gave her a fierce hug. ‘Monster! Of course not. Now let me up. I’m going back to the Avenue Foch to start clearing out Toinette’s stuff.’

Yolande got to her feet. ‘Damn, I’d forgotten. I’ll come with you. I’ll put off Patrick.’

‘It’s OK, she’s not there. She’s at her own apartment. But we’ll have to cope with her at the funeral.’

They both looked grim. Immaculate, elegant, steely Antoinette Brozard had been Jean-Claude Marchand’s mistress for over twelve years. Though she’d never been unkind, she’d been hell to get along with. Nothing could ever be out of place or less than perfect. It was like living in a TV commercial. The girls had tolerated her, but could never pretend they liked her – which was doubtless why they hadn’t thought of her before. They always tried to airbrush Toinette out of their lives as far as possible.

Corinne winced as she pushed her feet back into her high heels.

‘They look really fab on you.’

‘Pity they don’t come with an insurance policy to pay for the corrective foot surgery I’m going to need.’ Corinne started to pack up her laptop. ‘How do you wear them all the time?’

‘Years of practice. And …’ Yolande pulled out a pair of glittery flip-flops and some Hervy jeans from her bag and proceeded to throw off her suit, ‘… emergency relief supplies.’

Corinne laughed. ‘You are such a fraud.’

With her blouse hanging loosely over her skinny jeans and the flip-flops on, Yolande didn’t even look her twenty-three years, more like a fresher at an Ivy League campus. She shook out her hair and fastened a huge belt around her hips to complete the look.

‘That’s better. I’ll probably see you later tonight.’

Corinne raised an eyebrow.

‘Or maybe not. Bye, darling.’



Future of Marchand Enterprises in doubt as Madame Brozard threatens lawsuit.

Corinne threw the newspaper down in disgust. There was a pile of them, all with similar variations of the story. Only two days after his funeral. Poor Papa. How Toinette must have fooled him all those years! And the way she had wailed at his grave – just a disgusting sham.

Yves bent his long frame down to gather up the papers, then sat back at the large cluttered desk by the window of his office. Outside, the vineyards and gardens which made the Château de Rochemort one of the most celebrated estates on the Côte d’Or were bathed in hot summer sunshine.

‘Do you really think she’ll sue us?’ asked Corinne. ‘Can she?’

‘Probably not,’ he said, scanning the reports rapidly. ‘Look, this piece is by Laurent Dobry, and he and Toinette go way back. It’s just to frighten the Bourse.’

He tossed the paper aside and poured Corinne a glass of red wine. One of Château de Rochemort’s classic years; she sipped it appreciatively.

‘You shouldn’t waste your best vintages on me, you know.’

‘I’m sure you’ll reciprocate,’ he said. ‘So what are you going to do? Marchand shares have already depreciated eight per cent. You could buy them in.’

‘Can’t afford to.’

Yves drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘Well, someone will make a killing, and it could be Toinette. Don’t forget that holding company she has an interest in – the one that bought Philippe’s stake.’

Corinne flinched. Philippe. Yves’ older brother. Breathtakingly handsome, clever, sexy. The love of her life. The ten months they had been together had been the happiest she had ever known. But he had left her, his family, and France one fine day three years before without a word of explanation. Marchand-Rochemort companies almost collapsed when Philippe sold his holdings in both family businesses to UVS, a private equity company with an address in Paris and not much else. Yves had eventually recovered the Rochemort shares by taking out a hefty bank loan, but a heavily indebted Marchand had been unable to do the same. Months of silence and heartbreak followed before word came that Philippe was in Australia. But even his redoubtable mother Marie-Christine knew little of his activities. He sent only the occasional postcard or noncommittal e-mail to show he was still alive and nothing at all to show that he cared.

Corinne rubbed her eyes, tried to, had to focus on business. ‘You don’t think UVS will launch a takeover bid?’

‘Doubt it. You and Yolande are majority shareholders. They can’t get overall control. It could just make life awkward for a while.’

‘You really think Toinette is behind all this?’

‘She’s the sort of woman who has to get her own back.’

Corinne bridled. ‘But Papa left her five per cent of the company! Not to mention a drawer full of Cartier and some rather collectable paintings.’

Yves gave her a wry look. ‘Corinne, look at it from her point of view – twelve years with your father, taking so much care of him – don’t look like that now, you know she did.’

‘So?’

‘She hated it because she couldn’t call herself Madame Marchand. When a woman has enjoyed that kind of lifestyle she’s sure to view a five per cent shareholding and a few diamond necklaces as a pretty poor pension.’

All Corinne remembered were the times she’d been forced to attend Toinette’s famous parties, how she had detested the superficial chat and hordes of strangers who had left her feeling an outsider in her own home.

‘Let’s leave it for now. Perhaps you’d come over for lunch tomorrow? We can talk then. I’ve got so much paperwork to get through.’

‘Great. I want to talk to Yolande too. We really must discuss the wedding. I’ve hardly seen her lately.’

He sounded confident, as he had every right to be. He had inherited his mother’s imposing features, with intense blue eyes that sometimes reminded Corinne too much of Philippe. But at twenty-eight, Yves showed no signs of developing Philippe’s deadly charm. He was still the same direct and down-to-earth guy she had grown up with, though perhaps a little cool for some tastes. But he had always been her friend and she was very fond of him. She was tempted to warn him about Yolande, then thought better of it. There had been Patricks before. If Yves was willing to turn a blind eye to what Corinne sincerely hoped was just another of her sister’s regrettable lapses, there might still be a wedding to talk about after all.

His mind was still on business. ‘Do you mind if I give you some advice, Corinne?’ He leaned forward in his chair. ‘Let the world know that Marchand Enterprises has a new boss, and stop these rumours before the shares fall any further.’

‘Geo. . .