Chapter One
Earlier that day
Arielle stood from where she had been crouched deadheading the vivid, vermillion geraniums. They grew in terracotta pots lining the low wall that separated the wide paved terrace in front of the house from the garden beyond. The garden itself was rich with Provençal beauty, from the glossy dark leaves of the oleanders and olive trees framing the space, to the citrus, peach and mulberry trees behind. Arielle’s gaze swept over the vista. A garden bathed in the warm, late afternoon sunshine. So familiar. So loved. And so soon to be lost.
How will I bear it?
The thought made her heart clench but she crushed it down.
All I can do is make the very most, while I can, of my beloved home.
Before it was sold.
Because sold it would be. Her stepbrother, Gerald, would see to it. So would his mother—Arielle’s stepmother. Arielle’s eyes darkened. A woman more different from her own unworldly, gentle mother, her father’s first wife, was impossible to imagine. Naomi was as hard as nails and avaricious to the core. Her one soft spot was for her detestable son, Gerald. She doted on him, indulged him, funded him. Not with her own money of course, but with her husbands’. Husbands, plural Arielle thought bitterly.
Naomi’s third husband had been Arielle’s father, Charles Frobisher.
He had made his money in property—making him wealthy enough to tempt Naomi Maitland to get her claws into him when he’d been widowed. When he’d shockingly succumbed to a heart attack eighteen months previously, Arielle had discovered that in his new will he’d left everything he’d possessed to Naomi. His daughter had inherited nothing.
The clenching of her heart was like a vice now as Arielle’s eyes swept round, up from the garden and over to the house behind it. The beautiful, honey-coloured old stone Provençal farmhouse, with its tiled roof and its wooden-shuttered windows. The house she loved, so, so much. The Mas Delfine.
It had been her mother’s house, inherited down the generations, but had become the property of Arielle’s stepmother. Bestowed upon Naomi by Arielle’s own father.
How could he do it to me? How?
Unlike the close relationship she’d had with her mother, Arielle had never been as close to her father, focussed as he was on amassing the wealth he’d made in property. But she had been his only child and he’d been casually affectionate towards her. She’d always understood that the mas she’d loved so much, where she had spent the summer holidays with her mother from boarding school in England, would one day come to her, passing down the female line.
But when her mother had died, so tragically three years ago, she’d discovered that the mas was actually her father’s property. Even then, she had assumed that her father would leave it to her, his daughter. But it had gone to Naomi, along with the rest of his estate. Naomi had then promptly bestowed the house upon the son she doted on. Whereupon Gerald had spitefully informed Arielle that he would sell it as soon as he could find a buyer who would pay the price he wanted for it and there would be nothing, absolutely nothing, she could do about it.
But until that happened…
Until then I will stay here, with my memories, and make the most of this time. My last summer—
Anguish made her heart clench again.
Lycos Dimistrios strolled out of the casino. A mix of satisfaction and contempt filled him. It was a familiar combination. One that had been known to him since he had first embarked upon his ascent from poverty to the world he now lived in—the world of the rich. He glanced over the scene in front of him. The seafront promenade here on the French Riviera overlooked a marina that was filled with luxury yachts, all glittering with lights and throbbing with the sounds from the onboard parties still going at this hour, gone midnight.
As Lycos waited for his valet-parked car to arrive he was conscious of the folded piece of paper in the inner pocket of his tuxedo jacket. It might have been an unusual win, but a notary would find it all in order. Lycos had made sure of that.
His opponent had been a fool, but then so were many who chose to play him. This one had been particularly repellent—boastful, rude to the croupier, rude to the waiters, demanding and entitled. The kind of person who liked to win simply to beat someone else down. Especially, this evening. Lycos’s lip curled.
Lycos was known on the casino circuit as ‘The Wolf’. His nickname was a play on his name in Greek and, as his formidable reputation had grown, the name had been deemed appropriate. It was a reputation he had earned.
Those who indulged in gambling did so for a variety of reasons—but Lycos had just one. To make money. Make it and keep it. Every gambling win he’d ever made had gone, apart from retaining what he would stake in his next play, into solid wealth. Wealth that had been stored, accumulated and invested. Taking him far, far away from his lowly origins in the backstreets of Athens.
Now his world was very different. The fabled, glitzy Côte d’Azur or anywhere else that boasted opportunities for gaming at his level. Anywhere that the wealthy gathered to disport themselves expensively. He disposed his time among them, going where the mood and impulse took him.
Right now it was taking him north as his regular review of his investments, managed for him by a prestigious private bank based in Paris, was due. His car was drawing up with his case already in the boot. Bestowing an appropriate note from his wallet, he took the driving seat, loosened his black tie and unfastened the top button of his dress shirt. Despite the lateness of the hour, he was as sober as a judge. He never touched alcohol when he was at the tables.
Gunning the engine, he moved out into the traffic, heading inland. Heading for Paris.
Arielle turned over in her sleep. The light night breeze from her wide-open bedroom window played over her eyelids. She was dreaming. A dream of happier times, when her mother was still alive and Arielle had had no idea that she would lose her so soon. When she’d had no idea that she would lose her beloved home as well. A slight smile curved her lips, her long hair flowing over the pillowcase.
Outside the stars burned in the dark velvet sky, wheeling in their timeless arc, ushering the land towards the coming dawn.
The dawn that would bring the day that would take her home from her and change Arielle’s life for ever.
The sky was starting to lighten in the east, the night was fading. Lycos changed gear as the powerful car steadily ate up the miles along the Rhône valley, heading north. A road sign loomed up in front of him, indicating an upcoming turning, and he frowned slightly. Why did it seem familiar? Then it clicked. That was the town, Saint-Clément, scrawled as part of the address written on the piece of paper in his jacket pocket.
Another sign for the town flashed past and as the turning approached Lycos moved with a sudden impulse. He was in no rush to reach Paris. He could afford a detour. He turned off Route 7, pausing only to reset his sat nav—he would not rely on road signage alone in this unfamiliar part of the country.
Nearly an hour later he was glad he’d had the sat nav to guide him. He’d gone past the town he’d made the turning for and headed out into the open countryside, which was bathed in dawn light. He was aiming for the location in the next line of the address, a much smaller village, still some distance away.
He almost regretted his impulse but not quite. The Provençal landscape was beautiful at this early hour, washed in the palest dawn sunlight, as he passed cypress trees, olive groves, vineyards and citrus stands, with occasional houses and farms dotting the undulating terrain. The road narrowed so he slowed down although there was no other traffic on the road this early.
In grassy, stone-walled fields cows lifted their heads incuriously, sheep and goats ignored him and the occasional rabbit darted away. Mist hung in low hollows giving the countryside a mythical feel, ancient and timeless, and roadside flowers coloured the verges.
Finally he reached the small village he had been looking for. The little square with its sandy, tree-edged area for boules was deserted but Lycos spotted a boulangerie with its door open. Suddenly hungry, he pulled up to buy a freshly-baked baguette and half a dozen croissants. Checking the directions to his destination, which was still a good few kilometres away, he resumed his journey, demolishing two of the croissants in short order.
The road had narrowed further and had started to climb. Lycos slid his window down—the air was sweet and fresh, and had already begun to warm up. He propped his elbow on the opened window and kept his speed low from necessity. Absently he rubbed his jaw. He needed a shave and a shower. And to get out of his tuxedo into something more appropriate for the day. He would make use of the facilities at his destination. His newest acquisition.
Not that he’d keep it long. He’d check it out, then hand it over to realtors to be disposed of for its maximum value.
He had no use for a farmhouse in the middle of Provence.
Arielle stepped through the kitchen door into the courtyard. It was cobbled, with a gateway set in one wall that was wide enough for a car or farm cart. There was a row of barns opposite, one of which she used as a garage for her ancient but still roadworthy car, the others for general storage and her poultry. Inset into the wall facing the gateway was a much narrower wooden gate that led through to the gardens. She headed through the narrower gate, picking up the two watering cans that she’d filled the previous evening, to water the pots against the day’s later heat, part of the slow rhythm of life here at the mas. Though money was tight, she was grateful that the money her father had given to her when she turned eighteen to fund her music studies allowed her to live here—albeit modestly.
Until Gerald sells it.
No, she would not spoil her peaceful mood by thinking of that. She carried on with the watering, glancing fondly at her beloved home with the morning sunshine glancing off the French windows leading into the parlour. Not grand enough to be a drawing room, nevertheless, she loved its old-fashioned charm, with its stone fireplace, worn but comfortable sofas and chairs, old wooden painted armoire against one wall, and some not very good but familiar and well-loved paintings on the walls in their faded gilt frames. In pride of place was her piano. A baby grand that had been a gift from her father when she had been accepted into music college seven years previously.
Watering done, she stood for a moment enjoying the quietness. She wasn’t yet dressed, but the cotton, belted dressing gown she wore over her nightshirt was fine to eat breakfast in. There was no one to see her and, unless she went into the village, or called on her nearest neighbours who lived on another farmstead a good kilometre away, she wouldn’t see anyone from one day to the next. She liked it that way. Who knew she would be forced to leave the mas?
She gave an instinctive shiver, despite the morning warmth, and went back into the courtyard. The next task was to let out the poultry and feed them before having breakfast at the ironwork table on the terrace in front of the parlour.
Then, abruptly, she paused, frowning. The sound of a car engine along the lane reached her. It was an unusual sound at the best of times, for the country lane led only to Mas Delfine. The engine note grew louder and she stared through the open gateway to see a vehicle approaching slowly over the stony, uneven surface. It was a vehicle such as she had never seen anywhere near the mas. Completely unsuitable for the narrow lanes and completely out of place here. Low, lean, black and very, very clearly an extremely expensive supercar.
What on earth?
The car nosed, engine growling, up to the gateway then stopped, the engine cutting out. The driver’s door opened and a man got out, looking about him as he slammed the car door shut. The noise reverberated in the silent air like a gunshot.
Arielle clutched at the lapels of her dressing gown. Fear crabbed in her stomach.
Then, reason fought it down. The driver was obviously lost. There was no other explanation for him having turned up here. Not just in a car like that but also, she realised, dressed in, of all things, a tuxedo. God alone knew where he’d come from—maybe some grand château had hosted a flash party and he’d got lost leaving?
He continued to look around him at the front of the mas, visible from where he’d pulled up, and she studied him a moment. He was tall, dark-haired and, though she could not see his face well, his profile seemed to show him frowning. Obviously wondering where on earth he’d arrived at by mistake. She had best put him to rights and send him on his way.
Taking a breath, she headed towards him, her soft-soled slippers making no sound on the cobbles. In the open gateway she paused.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked, speaking French.
The man’s head whipped round, focussing laser eyes on her. For a second he did not speak. Nor could she.
Arielle’s lungs seemed suddenly empty of air. Her gaze fixed on him. She could feel her fingers clutch more tightly at her lapels as she stared. Stared at the most incredible looking man she had ever seen in her life…
Lycos did not move. His gaze rested on the woman standing there. Slender, wearing nothing but a thin, pale blue cotton dressing gown with a cross-over belt that distinctly displayed her shapely figure. Her dark hair tumbled down over her shoulders and waved back from her face. A face that made his gaze even more keen. Oval-shaped, with a tender mouth, peach soft cheeks, delicate arched eyebrows set over deep set eyes. Eyes that were wide and startled.
He started to walk towards her and saw her take a half step back. He saw her hands, with their long fingers and unvarnished nails, clutch more tightly at her lapels.
‘Can I help you?’ she said again. ‘Are you lost?’
Lost? The word echoed meaninglessly in Lycos’s head. No, he was not lost—
Or was he?
He continued to walk towards her, a purpose in his steps now. He wanted to see her up close. As he approached, stepping across the cobbled courtyard, he saw her poised more tensely yet.
‘Are you lost?’ she asked again. This time she addressed him in English, a frown of puzzlement on her face.
‘Lost?’ he echoed, matching her English. ‘No—not if this is the Mas Delfine?’
He saw her eyes widen even more, alarm now evident and confusion. Absently he noticed now, closer to her as he was, that her eyes were a vivid shade of blue, fringed by smoky lashes. His own dark eyes washed over her, taking her in. Whatever he’d expected to find here, if he’d expected anything at all, it was not a woman like this.
So breathtakingly lovely…
She was speaking again and he made himself focus on what she was saying, not her loveliness as she stood there illuminated by the early morning sun that bathed her in its light.
‘What…what do you want with the Mas Delfine, monsieur?’ she was saying, sticking to English. Now there was more than alarm in her voice.
Lycos let his eyes rest on her. Whoever she was and however lovely she was standing there—graceful, beautiful and deshabille with her dressing gown, tumbling hair and blue, blue eyes—it was time to make something clear to her.
‘I want to take possession of it, mademoiselle,’ he said echoing the formality of her address to him. ‘It happens to be mine.’
There was complete silence in the room. It was not a large room, more of a salon privé, and it was dominated by the baize-covered table around which the players were sitting. For a moment, the scene held like a living tableau. The croupier sat in his position, quite motionless, face professionally blank. Players holding their cards with piles of chips and rolls of cash of assorted sizes in front of them. And sitting in the centre of the table was a loose heap of chips and cash, reaching sky-high denominations, along with a hand written note.
The only two players with hands still being played stared at each other across the table. One of the players held his cards in a grip so tight that his nails had left indentations in them. The tension in him was reflected vividly in his reddened, puffy cheeks, the venomous stare in his pouched eyes and the press of his fleshy lips.
The other player was leaning back in his gilt chair, holding his cards with nothing showing in his face. He might have been a stone statue carved by a master sculptor who had delineated the hard planes of his high cheekbones, the blade of his nose, the compressed line of his mouth and the chiselled line of his jaw, shadowing now once more at this late hour. Only his eyes could not have been captured by the sculptor. Half-lidded, very slightly narrowed and dark as night. And with no emotion showing in them. Nothing at all.
‘Messieurs?’
The neutral prompt by the croupier made the tenser of the players clench his cards tightly with a jerk. His expression changed. He saw the chance to make a greedy, triumphant thrust at his opponent. He put down his hand.
A subliminal collective murmuration came from the other players present and, as one, their eyes turned to the other player. For a microsecond, even a microsecond of a microsecond, he still did not move. The look of greedy triumph in the other man’s face intensified. Behind the triumph was another expression—relief. Sweat visibly beaded on his brow. A pulse throbbed at his neck.
Then his opponent, with a movement so slight he might only have been flicking a speck of dust from the table, laid down his hand. There was still nothing in his eyes. Nothing at all.
An audible gasp sounded from those watching and an audible murmur of disbelief came from one.
‘The Wolf wins—again.’
