A Perfect Stranger by Danielle Steel Read Free Book Online Page B

lipstick and clipped pearls on her ears. She ran a hand over her suit, straightened her stockings, and looked in her handbag to ascertain that the cash she always carried on trips was concealed in a side pocket of the black lizard bag her mother had sent her from Spain. She looked, when she stood in front of the mirror, like a woman of incredible elegance, beauty, and style. This was a woman who dined at Maxim's and went to the races at Longchamp. This was a woman who partied in Venice and Rome and Vienna and New York. This was a woman who went to the theater in London. This wasn't the face or the body or the look of a girl who had slipped into womanhood unnoticed and who was now married to a crippled and dying seventy-six-year-old man. As she saw herself, and the truth, all too clearly, Raphaella picked up her bag and her clothes and grinned ruefully to herself, knowing more than ever how appearances can lie.
    She shrugged to herself as she left her bedroom, tossing a long, handsome, dark mink coat over one arm as she made her way once more to the stairs. The elevator had been put in for John Henry, and most of the time she still preferred to walk. She did so now, up to the third floor, where a suite had long since been set up for her husband, with three rooms adjoining it, for each of the nurses who cared for him in shifts. They were three matronly women, content with their quarters, their patient, and the job. They were handsomely paid for their services, and like the woman who had served Raphaella breakfast, they had somehow managed to remain unobtrusive and faceless over the years. Frequently she found herself missing the passionate and often impossible servants of Santa Eugenia. They were servile for the most part, yet often rebellious and childlike, having served her mother's family sometimes for generations, or at least for many years. They were warlike and childlike and loving and giving. They were filled with laughter and outrage and devotion for the people they worked for, not like these cool professionals who worked for John Henry.
    Raphaella knocked softly on the door to her husband's suite of rooms, and a face appeared rapidly at the door. Good morning, Mrs. Phillips. We're all ready. Are we? Raphaella nodded and stepped inside, down a short hall into a bedroom, which like her own room downstairs had both a boudoir and a small library. Now John Henry was tucked into his bed, staring across the room at the fire already burning behind the grate. She advanced toward him slowly, and he seemed not to hear her, until at last she sat down in a chair next to his bed and took his hand.
    John Henry' . After her fourteen years in San Francisco her accent was still evident when she said his name, but her English was perfect now, and had been for many years. John Henry' . He turned his eyes slowly toward her without moving his head, and then slowly he moved himself so that he could look at her, and the lined, tired face contorted into a half-smile.
    Hello little one. His speech was slurred but she could understand him and the agony of the smile now rendered crooked since the stroke always tore at her heart. You look very pretty. And then after another pause, My mother had a hat like that a long time ago.
    I think on me it is very silly, but ' She shrugged suddenly looking very French as she smiled a hesitant little smile. But it was her mouth that smiled now. Her eyes seldom did. And his never did anymore, except on rare occasions when he looked at her.
    You're going today? He looked worried, and again she wondered if she should cancel her trip.
    Yes. But darling do you want me to stay?
    He shook his head and smiled again. No. Never. I wish you would go away more often. It does you good You're meeting' He looked vague for a moment searching his memory for something obviously no longer there.
    My mother, my aunt, and two of my cousins.
    He nodded and closed his eyes. Then I know you'll be safe.
    I'm always safe. He nodded