Dreaming of Manderley Read online

  Also by Leah Marie Brown

  The It Girls Series

  Faking It

  Finding It

  Working It

  Owning It

  Dreaming of Manderley

  Leah Marie Brown

  LYRICAL PRESS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by Leah Marie Brown

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Epilogue

  Teaser chapter

  LYRICAL PRESS BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2018 by Leah Marie Brown

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Lyrical and the Lyrical logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-5161-0113-9

  First Lyrical Press Electronic Edition: January 2018

  eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0116-0

  eISBN-10: 1-5161-0116-2

  Prologue

  Last night I dreamt of Jake Gyllenhaal again. It seemed to me that I stood on the balcony of the Hôtel Barrière, Le Majestic, watching him walk the red carpet outside the Palais des Festivals et des Congrès, close enough to see the sun shining on his artfully tousled hair, but separated by an undulating sea of tuxedo-clad paparazzi.

  There was Jake, my Jake, serious and self-contained, working the carpet with the effortless grace of an actor from Hollywood’s Golden Age—a Cary Grant or Clark Gable. Cameras flashed, reporters shouted, fans screamed, the palm fronds rattled in the Mediterranean breeze.

  A willowy blond actress, Hollywood’s latest It Girl, joined him, wrapping her toned arm around his waist and briefly resting her head on his muscular shoulder.

  He looked down at his wrist, fiddled with his black-diamond-studded cufflinks, before slowly looking through his thick lashes at the crowd, then shifting his gaze up, to where I stood on the balcony of the luxurious hotel. Our gazes locked, my heart skipped a beat, and time seemed to stand still the way it does before a major cosmic shift or in dreams.

  I whispered his name in my dream—Jake—and he smiled up at me, one of his lazy, lopsided grins. The crowd fell silent, the paparazzi turned their cameras toward me, zooming their lenses in tight. I closed my eyes against the blinding flash of popping bulbs and, when I opened them again, Jake and the paparazzi had vanished.

  I was still standing on the balcony. The street below was empty except for a few lovers strolling arm in arm. I sensed I was dreaming, but still felt a sharp stab of loneliness watching the lovers, the kind of loneliness that pierces all the way to your soul and leaves you with lingering effects.

  I stared out at the pearly moonlight reflecting off the onyx sea. I heard a noise behind me, but was too transfixed by the otherworldly moonlight to turn around.

  And then I sensed him, felt the heat of his body before the warmth of his touch. I believe I shivered in the dream, as well as in my sleep. He pressed his lips to my bare neck, and murmured low in my ear, “You are real. I feared you were a dream, my darling Manderley.”

  A cloud passed over the moon, casting the scene in thick, velvety darkness, and then he was gone and I was standing alone on the veranda of my father’s Charleston home, alone save for the ghosts of my mother, father, and beloved aunt, floating beside me.

  Moonlight can play tricks, even in dreams.

  I can never be with Jake. That much is certain. But sometimes, in my dreams, I do go back to those strange, enchanting days in the South of France. Days of innocence and yearning, of sorrow and splendor, when my life as I now know it, began . . .

  Chapter One

  Text from Emma Lee Maxwell:

  Have you gone to any glam parties yet? Have you seen Zac Efron or Liam Hemsworth? Please tell me you are not holed up in your room, reading some dreary old Brontë novel in that sad flannel nightgown? I would die if I had the chance to live in Cannes. Yes, I know that would defeat the purpose. You know what I mean.

  Text from Tara Maxwell:

  It’s tax time and Daddy always filled out my forms. Would you please go on the IRS website, download a 1040EZ form, and fill it out for me? You’re so good at all of that stuff.

  I am not happy. It is a sparkling sunny day. A soft, sea-scented breeze is blowing on my face and ruffling my long bangs. I am standing on the edge of a cliff in the Côte d’Azur, watching turquoise waves crash on the rocks far below, and all I want to do is let out a high-pitched, mournful cry, like the seagulls circling over my head.

  I am not a drama queen. I promise. There are legitimate reasons for my seemingly theatrical ennui. More reasons than nuts in a fruitcake.

  Forgive my atrocious manners. I should introduce myself. My name is Manderley Maxwell. Mandy, to my friends. Plain, dirty-dishwater blond, gray-eyed, hard-working, dependable Mandy.

  I move in a world filled with pouty-lipped Angelina Jolies, ample-bosomed Scarlett Johanssons, and fashion-forward Blake Livelys, but I am not a bombshell. Not even close.

  I will never score a Jake Gyllenhaal, Henry Cavill, or Ryan Gosling. The most I can hope for is a Jonah Hill, an equally reliable guy who tickles my funny bone, even if he doesn’t make my pulse race.

  Keep the cork on the champagne and the Kleenex in the box because this is not a pity party. It’s a reality rave. I know I am strictly B-List, and unless something radical happens in my life, I will remain the hardest working player on the B-list.

  Even my job is B-list. I am an assistant to Olivia Tate, big-time Hollywood screenwriter, and, awkwardly, my best friend. It doesn’t matter that we both graduated from Columbia University, or that I was editor of Quarto, the university�
�s prestigious literary magazine (the same magazine J. D. Salinger once wrote for), I am too busy fetching coffee and proofreading screenplays for my BFF to even think about developing my own writing career.

  Then there’s my family. After my mother died, my father relied on me to be a maternal figure to my younger sisters, Tara and Emma Lee. My younger, needier, spoiled, more glam sisters. At the age of seven, I was cast as the family spinster. I even wear the requisite tortoiseshell glasses and flannel nightgown. I am one fringed shawl short of spending my days in a rocker, going deaf from the incessant click-click-click of my knitting needles.

  Two months ago, my daddy and Aunt Patricia died in a freak boating accident one hundred miles off the coast of Sullivan’s Island, leaving behind a mountain of debt and years of unpaid taxes we knew nothing about. If it weren’t for the trust fund my momma left me, and my job, I would be as aimless and lost as my sisters.

  Through the haze of my tears, I watch a black-winged cormorant dive through the air and plunge into the churning sea, disappearing below the surface. I envy the creature. I wonder what it would be like if I copied the cormorant? If I spread my arms wide and dove off this cliff, would the sea wash away my cares?

  I am not saying I am the suicidal sort. Not at all.

  Though, there are days, like today, when I feel caught in the suffocating cocoon of my life, desperate to wiggle free from the strands and emerge more beautiful, more carefree.

  The cormorant surfaces, a fish trapped in its long yellow bill, and floats effortlessly on the crest of a wave, its black, beady eyes seemingly focused on me. He’s taunting me, silently challenging me to show a modicum of the daring he showed.

  I shift my gaze from the unnerving bird to a clump of grass at my feet, nudging it with the toe of my espadrilles. Nudging. Nudging. Nudging, until the roots break free and the clump tumbles down, down into the swirling surf.

  “Mais qu’est-ce que vous faites? Venez loin de là!”

  My breath catches in my throat at the unexpected intrusion. I spin around too fast, lose my balance, and nearly tumble backwards off the cliff, when the intruder clasps his hands around my waist and roughly pulls me to him. My cheek is pressed against his bronzed, muscular chest. I feel the delicious heat of his body, smell the coconut scent of suntan lotion and the tang of sea salt, hear the steady, soothing thud of his heartbeat, and wonder if I plunged to my death and am now in heaven. Maybe this man is a bare-chested angel.

  “Putain!” he swears, his breath ruffling my bangs. “Tu dois être fou.”

  So not in heaven. Angels don’t drop the F-bomb.

  I pull out of his grasp and crane my neck to look up at him. Sweet Lawd, but he is tall.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said you are crazy.”

  “I am not crazy!”

  “You are American.” His upper lip curls slightly.

  “Yes.”

  “Same thing.”

  I snort because I can’t think of a response. I am, frankly, too offended by his arrogant manner and too awestruck by his strong, whiskered jaw, chiseled cheekbones, piercing blue gaze, and thick crop of wavy dark hair. He’s a walking Dolce & Gabbana advert, all cool sophistication and cultivated European good looks.

  And it hits me.

  He must be an actor. It would explain the movie-star good looks and the cosmically huge arrogance. He is probably some French actor, in Cannes because his film was nominated for the Palme d’Or.

  He crosses his muscular arms over his chest and regards me beneath raised brow. “Were you trying to kill yourself? Is that it then?”

  “What?” My cheeks flush with guilty heat. “No! Don’t be ridiculous.”

  His blue eyes narrow.

  I shift my gaze to my dust-covered espadrilles and wait for my heated cheeks to cool. I want to tell him yelling at a potentially suicidal woman standing on the edge of a cliff is extrêmement stupide and there isn’t a suicide prevention handbook in print that recommends calling a distraught person a fool. But I don’t. If only I had Tara’s confidence or Emma Lee’s charm; then I would know precisely what to say to this handsome, arrogant Frenchman.

  Instead, I start to cry. Tears slide down my cheeks and plop onto the toes of my espadrilles. I am sniffling like some sad, overwrought starlet who has been told her nose is too big/breasts are too small/hair is too frizzy/eyes are too crossed.

  “Come”—he fastens his hand around my forearm—“you need to get out of the sun.”

  “It’s not the sun.” I sniffle.

  “Don’t be silly. Of course it is the sun. The heat can be particularly draining in this part of France, especially this time of day.”

  I don’t argue, nor do I fight him as he leads me down the hill. I am too tired, too emotionally spent to muster enough feeling to argue. I follow him to a narrow scenic pull-off and a sleek convertible Jaguar parked close to the guard rail.

  “What is your name?”

  “Manderley,” I mumble. “Manderley Maxwell. My friends call me Mandy, though.”

  “I will drive you back to your hotel, Manderley.”

  He pronounces my name with a heavy French accent so that it sounds like Mon-de-lee instead of Manderley.

  “I am fine,” I say, taking a step away. “Really.”

  “Are you always this contrary?” He opens the passenger door. “Get in.”

  “Honestly, I took a bus to get here; I can take the bus back to the hotel.”

  He scowls. “Why would you ever do that?”

  He gestures for me to get in and I obey. Because that is what I do. And because it feels good to have someone take care of me for once.

  He walks around the front of the car, moving with the grace of a predatory beast, all sinewy muscles and barely controlled power, and my breath catches in my throat. Am I being reckless? Cannes might be the pleasure ground of Saudi princes, European heiresses, and film stars, but it also attracts the finest criminals in the world. Pickpockets, jewel thieves, human traffickers, prostitutes. I read in a reputable travel magazine that gypsy bosses and gangsters moor their yachts in the bay. What if this man runs an organized crime ring? What if he kidnaps me and sells me to an Eastern European human trafficker?

  He jumps in the car. “Excusez-moi.”

  He reaches over me to open the glove compartment, his chiseled forearm brushing against my bare knees. My heart skips a beat and I silently pray he isn’t going to pull out a Taser or gun. He removes a T-shirt from the compartment and pulls it over his head. I catch a whiff of expensive-smelling, citrusy cologne.

  “My name is Xavier,” he says, slanting a look at me.

  I swallow hard. “Nice to meet you, Xavier.”

  “Tell me something, Manderley. What are you doing out here? This park is off the beaten tourist track.”

  “That was rather the point.”

  “I see.” He frowns. “So you wanted to be alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because you wanted to . . .” He clears his throat.

  “Kill myself?” I laugh, but in the quiet of the car it sounds false, maybe even a little manic. “I wasn’t going to kill myself. I wanted to escape the crowds, and the concierge said this was a nice place to come to be alone in nature. There aren’t many places like this where I am staying.”

  He fastens his seat belt and pushes a shiny red start button. The engine roars to life and we are off. Xavier maneuvers the powerful sports car around each serpentine curve, manipulating the stick shift with the skill of a race-car driver.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Hôtel Le Majestic.”

  He looks at me, one eyebrow raised in that distinctive Gallic expression of astonishment and haughty disdain. I once read that eighteenth-century French believed France to be the center of the universe; the farther one traveled from France, the farther one was removed from culture and reason. In my experience, the French still believe they are culturally superior. It doesn’t matter if they work as a valet, taxi driv
er, or waiter. The woman who turns down my sheets at the hotel gives me serious Gallic face every time she fluffs my pillows.

  “Are you visiting Cannes with your . . . husband?”

  I brush the hair from my eyes and stare at him to see if he is mocking me in my spinsterhood, but his handsome, inscrutable profile gives nothing away.

  “I am not married.”

  “I thought perhaps you were on your honeymoon and a lover’s spat drove you to . . .”

  “To contemplate throwing myself off a cliff?”

  “Oui.”

  He pulls to a stop at a flashing yellow light and looks at me.

  I attempt, in my best college French, to recite a line from one of my favorite novels, Bonjour Tristesse, by Françoise Sagan.

  “You speak French?”

  “ Un peu,” I say, holding up my fingers to indicate a little.

  “Un peu,” he says, shifting into first and taking off. “And yet you are familiar with Françoise Sagan?”

  “I read Bonjour Tristesse in college and wished I could be Cécile, living in a villa on the French Riviera and having a summer love affair with a boy named Cyril.”

  “If I am remembering it correctly, Cyril broke her heart and the story ended with Cécile returning to her sad life.” He looks over at me, his blue eyes piercing my soul. “Isn’t there a famous line . . . about loving someone to the point of madness?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Loved to the point of madness?”

  I laugh sadly because I haven’t ever loved, not deeply, madly, truly loved. Not as Cécile loved Cyril. Pangs of longing echo in my heart. I am almost certain Xavier can hear them.

  “No,” I finally say, my voice wavering.

  “Why not?”

  The bold question knocks me off balance.

  “I don’t have time for romance,” I say, honestly. “I am too busy helping everyone else achieve their hearts’ desires.”