Before Cara knew what was happening, the driver let her go and a slanging match between the two men erupted, all of it conducted in French, so she couldn’t keep up. Her hands covering her mouth, she got the gist of it well enough.
If she weren’t witnessing it with her own eyes, she would never have believed Pepe was capable of such fury. The menace came off him in waves of pumped-up testosterone, his face a contortion of wrath.
It ended with Pepe pulling a wad of notes from his pocket and throwing them at the driver with a string of words spat at him for good measure. A couple of the said words jumped out at her as she recalled how she and Grace had once made it their mission to learn every possible swear word in French. She was pretty sure Pepe had just used the very choicest of those words.
When he finally looked at her, the rage was still there. ‘Get in the house,’ he said tightly, sweeping past her and up the steps, unlocking the door.
‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’ He slammed the door shut behind her.
‘I’d forgotten Monique had the night off. Thanks for coming to my rescue.’ Her breaths felt heavy, the words dredged up. She knew she should show proper gratitude towards him—if Pepe hadn’t arrived when he did she would likely be bundled in the back of the taxi on her way to the nearest police station. But now they were safely ensconced in his home, her fright had abated a little but blood still pumped through her furiously. Forget the driver, all she could see were those overfamiliar women and Pepe’s amused, arrogant self-entitlement as he accepted their attentions.
‘I thought he was trying to rape you.’
‘Well, he wasn’t.’ She was barely listening. She kicked her crystal shoes off. ‘He was trying to get me to a police station to have me arrested.’
‘What did you run off for? You told me you were going to the bathroom! You humiliated me in front of my friends.’
‘Oh, poor diddums,’ she said, making no effort to hide her sarcasm. ‘I couldn’t stomach staying at that party a minute longer.’ Turning, she hurried through the reception and up the spiral staircase.
‘Are you feeling ill?’ He kept pace easily. Too easily.
‘Yes. I feel sick. Sick, sick, sick.’ She practically ran to her room.
‘Why didn’t you say something instead of running off and leaving me like a fool waiting for your return?’
‘Because you’re the cause of my sickness. Now get lost.’ Thus said, she slammed the door in his face.
Immediately he shoved it back open. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘Leaving.’
Uncaring that he stood mere feet away, and uncaring that the dress she wore cost thousands of euros, she tugged it off and threw it onto the floor, unceremoniously followed by her matching designer bra and knickers. The clothing felt soiled, bought to satisfy his conscience.
‘Like hell you are.’
‘Like you can stop me.’ Storming into the walk-in wardrobe filled with yet more clothing bought to satisfy his conscience, Cara rummaged through until she found the dress she’d worn to the christening. Her dress. Bought with her money.
In the back of her mind a voice piped up telling her to clad herself in as much of the designer clothing as she could before leaving. It would be something to sell online.