Three Weeks in Paris by Barbara Taylor Bradford

sofa.
    “Don’t tell me Gina wasn’t here tonight, because I smelled her perfume in the den. And she’s always at your script meetings, drinks my best red wine, and leaves her lipstick on the wineglass. Harry hasn’t taken to wearing lipstick, has he?”
    “Your sarcasm is wasted on me, Jessica. And I fail to understand why you’re always so hard on her. Gina’s been my assistant for years.”
    And partner in bed when you see fit, she thought, then said, “This ain’t my first rodeo … I know what’s what.”
    Gary leapt to his feet, color flooding his face. He looked apoplectic as he said, “I can see the frame of mind you’re in, and I’m not staying around to get in the way of your whip, missy. I’m going to my place. I’ll get my stuff tomorrow. See you around, kid.”
    Jessica did not respond. She merely stared at him coldly, understanding suddenly how truly tired she was of having him use her. And misuse her house.
    He strode out and slammed the office door behind him. A moment later she heard the front door bang and the screech of wheels as he drove out of her front yard at breakneck speed.
    And at this precise moment Jessica Pierce realized she actually didn’t care that he had left in a temper … or that she had pushed him at a bad moment, and he had almost snapped.
    She opened the red leather album and turned the pages, staring at the photographs of her three years in Paris, and with a flash of unexpected insight she recognized how little Gary Stennis meant in her life. Yes, she had feelings for him, and in the early stages of their relationship she had truly believed they had a chance of makingit together on a long-term basis. But now the odds of it working were remote. If she were honest with herself, she knew she shouldn’t string him along anymore. It wasn’t fair to him, or to herself for that matter. She ought to end the affair.
    Well, maybe she just had. He had left in a huff and might never come back.
    She thought again of Lucien, gazing at a photograph of him standing between her and Alexa outside Anya’s school on the rue de l’Université. How young we all look in the picture, she thought. Young, innocent, with life ahead of us … how unconcerned we were about the future … about our lives. We thought we were invulnerable, immortal.
    “Lucien,” she murmured out loud, tracing a finger over his face. “What happened to you?”
    She had no answer for herself, just as she never had. His disappearance was a mystery. It was one that would never be solved.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    TO JESSICA THE PACIFIC HAD NEVER LOOKED MORE BEAUTIFUL .
    The deepest of blues, glittering brilliantly in the afternoon sunlight, it was dazzling to the eye as it stretched into infinity.
    Her gaze remained focused on the ocean as she turned inward, fell down into her thoughts, asking herself what her life was all about, where she was heading, and where she would end up.
    In the last twenty-four hours she had felt extremely depressed about her relationship with Gary, which she now believed was doomed to failure. The end was coming, of that she was sure; she could only hope it would not be too messy.
    It was Monday afternoon, and Jessica was sitting in the small antique gazebo she had shipped from a stately home in England. It now stood at the tip of Mark Sylvester’s property in Santa Monica.
    On a bluff facing the sea, the gazebo was a peaceful spot, a place for reflection and tranquillity, as she had known it would be. Mark loved it, just as he loved the newhouse. She had been quite certain he would approve, but it was a relief, nonetheless, to know he was actually thrilled with it. He was moving in next weekend, and today she had walked him through for the first time since the furnishings had been installed.
    Everything’s gone right with the house; everything’s gone wrong in my personal life, she thought, her mind settling on Gary. She had called him yesterday, wanting to be conciliatory, to make