Chapter Four
Arielle finished the washing up and wondered what to do next. Her mind was still blank. A strange air of dissociation seemed to be possessing her. A kind of preternatural calm. Maybe it was some kind of aftershock. She stared blankly out of the kitchen window recalling her juddering reaction earlier when she’d been totally overwhelmed. She had very nearly gone into a complete breakdown, shaking and convulsing like that, terrifyingly out of control…
But he stopped it—pulled me back.
His blunt words came back to her—that her home had never been hers in the first place. Protest rose in her throat, then subsided. Bleakness filled her.
I have to face the truth. That Mas Delphine was never mine. So it was never mine to lose.
Pulling that self-protective sense of dissociation around her as best she could, she went out onto the terrace. There was no sign of the man. She could not see him anywhere in the gardens, nor by the pool when she walked past it. Yet his monstrous car was still there, parked in the shade of the old chestnut tree by the pond. Suddenly she could feel the oppressive heat and an immense sense of weariness overcoming her. Exhaustion of mind, body and spirit from the catastrophe that had broken over her like a pitiless tsunami that morning. She felt herself sink down onto one of the padded loungers, shaded by the house. She leant back on it shutting her eyes. She would rest. Just for a moment…
Lycos lifted his head from his pillow, for a second not knowing where he was. Then recall flooded through him. He was at the mas he’d won from the boorish Gerald Maitland. He’d diverted off the road to Paris to take a look at it. He rose to his feet, feeling refreshed. He’d gone up to the bedroom as the effect of driving all night had caught up with him and had flaked out on the counterpane. He glanced at his watch. He must have slept for a good couple of hours and the light had changed in the dusky room. Crossing to the window he looked out over the garden and the view beyond. He’d made the decision to stay the night. But why?
There was nothing to keep him here. He’d seen the place, got the measure of it, knew what to instruct whatever realtor he engaged to sell it for him. So, there was no point in staying longer. He might as well return to his normal life.
And yet…
His gaze rested on the scene beyond. It really was lovely and very peaceful. Nothing was moving, other than a few hens who’d wandered into the garden and were pecking about in the vegetation, and the chorus of cicadas was soothing. The scent of honeysuckle and lavender wafted up to him, fragrant in the warm air. He flexed his shoulders. A swim would be good. If the ducks had no objection.
His mouth tugged into a half-smile unconsciously as he turned away. He put his suitcase onto the bed, lifting layers till he’d found his swim shorts. He swiftly changed into them keeping his polo shirt on. He collected his sunglasses and helped himself to the bath towel from his shower that morning, which had been drying on an old-fashioned wooden towel rack beside the wardrobe. Barefoot, he headed downstairs, let himself out onto the terrace and made his way around to the pool. Where Arielle was he had no idea, but right now his focus was on the pool.
He turned the corner of the house and stopped dead. He’d found not Cinderella, but Sleeping Beauty fast asleep on a lounger in the shade.
Slowly, silently, on bare feet on the paving stones, he went up to her and gazed down at her. She was half on her side, the yellow tee shirt pulled across her breasts, outlining them and shaping them for his view. Her slender legs were slanted, bare arms by her sides. Her hair was coming loose from its confining knot, forming tendrils around her face. He could see her breathe softly, her breasts rising and falling gently, her eyelashes dusky on the tender curve of her cheek, her lips very slightly parted.
Of its own volition his hand reached out, one finger carefully brushing away a lock of hair that was teasing the corner of her mouth. Did she sense his touch, light though it had been? She moved slightly and he drew his hand back, but continued to gaze down at her. She really was so very, very lovely.
Like no other woman I’ve seen…
The women he usually consorted with were a world away from this pastoral Sleeping Beauty. His women, the ones he selected for his pleasure when pleasure was what he wanted, were chic and sophisticated. They had perfect hair, perfect make-up, perfect sex appeal and perfect allure. All carefully, deliberately, prepared for his delectation. They knew exactly what a man like him wanted and provided it for him. Trophy women. Groomed to within an inch of their pampered lives to adorn the arm of a rich man and share a little of his riches, while it pleased him to permit them to do so.
Nothing, nothing at all like the Sleeping Beauty now lying there for him in all her natural loveliness.
Not even knowing that he was looking at her.
How long he stood—motionless, gazing down at her—he didn’t know. All that he knew was that thoughts were moving inside him. More than thoughts. He wanted to reach out his hand again, touch her, stroke the soft curve of her cheek, trace the parted outline of her lips, lean down towards her…brush her mouth with his. Taste the sweetness that she promised. Taste all of it. Taste all of her…
Resolve shaped itself in him. He had not expected to come into possession of this farmhouse in the middle of Provence. He had not expected to follow an impulse to find it, inspect it and assess it. He had not expected to find it occupied by this pastoral Sleeping Beauty, this hard-done-by Cinderella.
And yet, so it was. And because it was, he would pause a while. Take his time here, in this quiet, peaceful, unexpected place, and enjoy what it had to offer. Enjoy all of it.
His gaze lingered on Arielle, so peacefully asleep.
And she can enjoy it too. I can be her Prince Charming. Charm her away from her woes for a while. Divert her from her unhappiness at losing her home.
He stepped away, moving to the other lounger, dropping his towel and sunglasses down on it. He shrugged off his polo shirt and walked to the edge of the pool. The trespassing ducks had vanished. He thought he could see two white forms under some bushes on the far side of the pool with their heads tucked under their wings, sleeping. Bracing his body at the edge of the pool, he swallow-dived into its cooling depths, disappearing beneath the water into the world beneath.
Behind him, on the shaded lounger, Arielle’s eyes flew open.
She started. What had woken her? She propped herself up on her elbow, eyes widened. Then she realised what had roused her. In the pristine waters of the azure pool the lithe, masculine form of the man who was taking her home from her, ploughed down the length in a strong crawl. He reached the end swiftly, turned and returned down the length, repeating the process several times as she simply stared.
Words rang hollow in her head.
Well, it’s his pool now, along with every other centimetre of my home.
The bitter truth was hard to swallow. Impossible to accept. Yet accept it she must.
Stiffly, she got to her feet. She would leave him to it. Taking possession of her swimming pool, making himself at home in it. Just as he was making himself at home in the entire place and ousting her from all that she loved so much.
He reached the end of the pool again, pausing this time. He looked across at her with one forearm thrown across the tiled edge to hold him in place in the deep water. His dark hair was sleek on his head, lashes loaded with water, cheekbones glistening.
‘Care to join me?’ he asked.
Arielle shook her head.
‘Why not?’ he challenged.
She only shook her head again. She knew she ought to move away, leave him to it, but something held her back. Something kept her eyes fixated on him, unable to look away. He was good-looking, lethally so. She’d known that from the moment he’d strolled into the courtyard in the early morning sunshine with his dress tie loose, the top button of his dress shirt undone and as rough jawed as he had been. As if he were a pirate who had come to seize all she possessed and held dear.
She’d known it again when he’d come down to lunch, freshly-shaven. With his night-dark eyes, his chiselled cheekbones, his bladed nose and the sensual curve of his mouth. Wearing his expensively-styled casual wear, seeming more at home on the glitzy Riviera than at an old-fashioned Provençal mas.
And there in that moment, she knew it all over again as her eyes looked over his broad, bare shoulders, his half-exposed, leanly muscled torso, his bared forearm, his sleek, slick wet hair and his diamond-laden lashes.
She knew it. She felt it.
Felt the strange hollowing inside her that had nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with all the tumult and aftershock of what this day had brought her. What this man had done to her.
She turned away, her face burning suddenly with a heat that had not come from the late afternoon sun. She turned and hurried away.
Hearing, as if an echo, a soft laugh behind her…
Lycos dipped below the water again. His soft laugh silenced, but the reason for it still resonant within him, as he dolphin-kicked the length of the pool before surfacing. A sense of satisfaction filled him. He knew why she had refused and he was glad of it. He had seen the sudden flush in her cheeks as she’d turned away.
He slowed his stroke, easing back to a more leisurely, steady pace. Lapping the lengths and pondering as he did so. Any of his other women, the ones he was used to, would have instantly either accepted his invitation, eager to respond, or else would have turned it down coquettishly, flirtatiously.
Arielle had simply blushed.
And walked away.
As his pace slowed, he thought about it. Found words shaping themselves in his head. Unfamiliar words.
All I have seen from her, all day, is emotion. Shock, dismay, distress. So much emotion. Raw and uncontrolled. I have seen her as she is. Nothing hidden.
It was a strange realisation. An unfamiliar one. What did he know of any of the women he’d consorted with? They’d always put forward a persona, an image, a facsimile of whoever they were. He’d never penetrated behind that persona. Never questioned who they really were, if they were anyone at all, whether they had any existence other than the one he required them to have.
But I keep myself from them, too. I keep myself from everyone.
He knew why he did that. There’d been too much in the past for anything else. Too much that he didn’t want to think about, to remember. It was the way he operated. The way that worked for him. The way he had become over the long years that separated him from the past. The way he was familiar with.
He knew no other way to be. No other way he wanted to be.
As he reached the shallow end of the pool he halted abruptly. He waded out of the pool using the corner steps, feeling the warmth of the late afternoon sun on his bare shoulders. He strode to his lounger, seized the towel to pad himself dry, then, looping it around his neck, slid on his sunglasses, scooped up his polo shirt and headed back indoors.
From the cool hallway he could hear clattering coming from the kitchen and caught the aroma of garlic. He paused by the door, leaning against the jamb.
‘Dinner?’ he queried.
Arielle was by the sink, chopping onions on a wooden board.
‘Boeuf bourguignon,’ she said. She did not look at him. ‘It will take a good hour.’
‘No problem,’ Lycos returned easily. ‘I’m going up to shower and change. An aperitif would be good when I come down. Enjoy it with me.’
He didn’t bother to wait for an answer. He simply vaulted lightly up the stairs and disappeared into the bathroom, removing his dark glasses as he did.
The swim had done him good. Or something had.
In a pleasant mood he stepped inside the shower cubicle and turned on the water.
Arielle chopped the onion into smaller pieces more vigorously than was necessary. Her lips were tightened. Inside her chest she could feel her heart beating and she knew why. But she paid it no attention and instead, she focussed on cooking. She knew the reason for that too…
Onions chopped to within an inch of their life, she extracted beef steaks from the freezer. She cubed them and then tossed them in seasoned flour, then seared them. She then added the steak to the iron pan, along with the chopped garlic, onions and a plentiful amount of fresh thyme from the pots in the garden. She poured in a good measure of wine and set it all to simmer. Would her uninvited and unwelcome guest require a dessert as well? Her mouth tightened further at the thought, for Lycos Dimistrios was no more her ‘guest’ than Genghis Khan had been a ‘guest’ of those receiving his grim visitation.
For a moment she felt an overwhelming urge to march upstairs and bawl him out. Yell at him for being demanding, entitled and obnoxious. Then she sighed. What would that get her? An order to pack her bags and get out. She took a breath to steady herself.
Stick it out this evening. He’ll leave in the morning and then, until he formally sells and evicts you, you can at least stay here. It could be weeks before a buyer wants the place. Precious weeks for you…
For that reason, and that reason alone, she would put up with his overbearing behaviour. And certainly not because he could raise her pulse in ways that had absolutely nothing to do with the reason he was here. She crushed that wayward, illicit and completely irrelevant-to-the-dire-situation thought way down.
What does it matter what he looks like? It’s who he is. He’s the man who won my home in a stupid, vile game of cards! So, I should totally ignore anything else about him.
She picked up a metal sieve and headed out for the walled section of the gardens that had been set aside as a kitchen garden. She would pick raspberries, soak them in liqueur and serve them with ice cream from the freezer.
Back in the kitchen she rinsed the raspberries and left them to drain. She then topped and tailed the beans she’d also picked to go with the beef and stirred the aromatic bourguignon simmering gently in its heavy iron pan on the hob. She felt hot and sticky from the day’s heat and from the cooking. She usually swam this time of day…
Well, why not? He’s had his swim. I can have mine.
In his pool?
Defiantly, damning him for everything he was, she headed upstairs. A moment later she ran back down again, tee shirt over her costume and towel in her hand, and made for the cooling waters of the pool.
Lycos was strolling in the gardens. He’d intended to fetch his laptop from the boot of his car, but as he’d headed outdoors, refreshed after his shower, the early evening air had drawn him into the gardens instead. He stepped down to the lower levels of terracing, inhaled the heady scent of lavender and watched the sun lowering behind the trees. From far away he thought he could hear cattle lowing and the faint, plaintive bleat of sheep. As he made his way back up to the top level, he realised he could hear the sound of water lapping. Curious, he glanced through to the pool area.
Arielle was swimming. Not as he had swum, with vigorous freestyle, but with a slow and graceful breaststroke. Her head was up out of the water with her hair piled up on top. All he could see of her was her shoulders and the dim outline of her body beneath the surface. He watched her for a moment as she headed away from him, unaware of his observation, and then he let her be as he went back to exploring the grounds of his new possession.
Returning via the courtyard, he entered the house by the kitchen door, drawn by the appetising aroma of the dinner cooking. He picked up the long wooden spoon resting on a plate and lifted the heavy lid of the iron pan, starting to stir the contents.
‘What are you doing?’
The voice from the doorway was sharp.
He looked round, unperturbed. Arielle stood there in the doorframe, glaring at him.
‘Giving it a stir,’ he said.
‘It’s fine,’ came the retort.
His eyes went to her. She had a towel wrapped around her, and was dripping on the tiled kitchen floor.
‘It smells good,’ he said.
‘I’m glad you approve.’
Lycos ignored the sardonic note. ‘When you’ve showered and dressed you can share that aperitif with me,’ he said.
‘I’ve got to feed the hens first and lock them up. And the ducks,’ she retorted.
‘Well, when you’ve done that you can share that aperitif with me,’ Lycos amended. ‘I’ll give you a hand with the poultry. Mathilde and Maurice may not come quietly,’ he added, with a twist of humour.
‘No, they come with a lot of quacking and a great deal of expectation of being fed as well as locked up for the night!’
Lycos’s eyes glinted. ‘You see, you can do humour too, if you put your mind to it,’ he said.
Immediately, her expression tightened. Saying nothing, she walked past him and a moment later he heard her padding up the stairs. He went back to stirring the bourguignon. He should not have teased her, it had been unkind of him.
Today has not been good for her.
He set aside the wooden spoon, replaced the heavy lid and walked to the kitchen door. The daylight was definitely fading now and evening was starting to gather. So, he realised with a sudden tug at his mouth, were the hens. He could see several pecking about near the gateway, clearly knowing it was their suppertime. One particularly bold, or hungry, hen headed towards him making a clucking noise.
‘Not me, madame,’ he said apologetically. He watched a while as, unwilling to believe he did not have her feed about his person, the hen pecked near his feet, at what he did not know. Upstairs he heard the sound of shower water. Then, moments later, it cut out. He leant against the doorframe, relaxing against it. It really was very peaceful here, the evening air soft and warm. His eyes went to his car, visible through the open gateway. It seemed quite out of place.
A peck at his feet distracted him. He glanced down. The hen had clearly not believed him.
‘Madame,’ he informed her apologetically. ‘That is my shoe, not your dinner!’
A voice behind him spoke. ‘That’s Hortense—she’s always first in the line.’
Arielle was coming into the kitchen, dressed now. She’d put on long cotton trousers and a light, but long-sleeved sweatshirt, both in blue. The colour matched her eyes, Lycos noted absently, making them look even bluer. Even more beautiful.
‘Their feed is kept in the barn,’ she said.
Lycos watched her head across the courtyard, opening the feedstore door and emerging with a metal bowl filled with corn. Immediately she was surrounded by the entire flock of hens, clucking loudly. She led them into the hen- house, their wings flapping eagerly. Moments later she backed out, shutting them in and locking the door with a lowered bar. Then she turned around.
‘Time for Maurice and Mathilde,’ she announced, heading back into the grain store to emerge again with the refilled bowl. A noisy quacking filled the air and suddenly Maurice and Mathilde were bustling forward from the direction of the pool, necks outstretched.
‘They sleep next door to the hens,’ Arielle said and led them into the duck-house, repeating the procedure as with the hens.
‘All done,’ she said, replacing the now empty bowl back in the grain store.
‘My turn next,’ said Lycos. ‘For feeding. After…’ he added purposefully, ‘…that aperitif. What does your sommelier recommend?’ he quizzed.
‘Vin d’hôtes,’ came the tart reply. ‘From my neighbour’s vineyard.’
‘Ça suffit bien,’ Lycos murmured, standing aside so she could get into the kitchen. He watched while she extracted two wine glasses and then fetched a bottle of wine from a wooden rack. She took the glasses and handed the bottle to him, along with an ancient, and very primitive, corkscrew.
‘You can watch the sun set over your new domain,’ she said, leaving him to follow her across the hallway, then out on to the terrace.
He heard the sudden choke in her voice. Saw, as he came out on to the terrace, her shoulders hunch as she put the glasses on the ironwork table. He set the bottle and corkscrew down beside the glasses. Lifted his hand to her hunched shoulder.
‘Arielle—’
He said her name, his voice low, felt her flinch beneath his touch. Something moved in him, but he did not know what. Only that it was not what he usually felt about another human being.
Or himself.
She pulled away, reached for the corkscrew, seized the bottle and begun ferociously busying herself with opening it before placing it back on the table.
‘Your aperitif, m’sieu,’ she said. Her chin was lifted. Defying the crack in her defences.
‘Thank you,’ he told her gravely. ‘But you must share it with me. I insist.’
He held her chair for her and, stiffly, she sat down. He took his own place. He reached for the bottle, pouring equal measures into both glasses. The setting sun streamed golden light over the gardens. The cicadas were insistent in their chorus. Lycos watched her shakily lift her glass and he lifted his in unison. He looked across the table at her and held her gaze with his own.
‘To survival, Arielle. Whatever the blows that fall.’ He paused. Kept his gaze steady on her. ‘You will survive them all, if you find the strength to do so.’ He saw the uncertainty in her eyes. The doubt. The fear.
‘Believe me,’ he said. ‘I know.’
Arielle lifted her fork, making a start on the bourguignon. An air of unreality possessed her. It was the strangest meal. Here she was sharing dinner and conversing civilly, if stiffly, with a man whose existence she had been completely unaware of not even twenty-four hours previously. A man who was creating a conflict within her that she could make no sense of. None at all. Because the only thing that made any sense to her, the only thing thundering in her head, was that this complete stranger was taking her beloved home away from her.
Yet he was having an effect on her that she could deplore all she liked, try to ignore all she liked, that had nothing to do with that nightmare. Nothing at all…
She felt her gaze fix on him. His face was lit by the soft light from the table lamp, that she’d switched on as the last of the daylight had faded with the setting sun, throwing his chiselled features into relief and yet somehow reflecting in the dark of his eyes, flecking them with gold. She felt something catch inside her. A tiny, silent gulp. A slight, sudden breathlessness. She wanted to shift her gaze, but couldn’t. It seemed to be stuck. The sense of sudden breathlessness intensified.
With distinct effort she dragged her gaze away, dropping her eyes to her plate, taking another mouthful of food. She became aware that Lycos, having already drained his glass of wine, was reaching for the bottle. He glanced in her direction.
‘This is surprisingly good,’ he said. ‘May I top you up?’
Arielle nodded absently, hoping he hadn’t noticed her gazing at him.
‘Perhaps I should call on your neighbours and introduce myself,’ he said as he lifted his refilled glass to his mouth.
Arielle stared. ‘What for? I’ll tell them what’s happened. I’ll tell them to watch out for realtors descending and an eventual sale.’
‘It would be more civil if I did that,’ he countered, resuming his eating.
She continued to stare at him. ‘Why would you want to be civil? You’ve only turned up here to check out your latest gambling win, which you’ve now done. So tomorrow you can head on to Paris.’
She could hear the tightness in her own voice and she reached for her glass, suddenly wanting the strength that came from wine. In the lamplight she could see a considering look cross Lycos’s face.
‘I might stay another day,’ he said.
Arielle set her glass down with a click on the ironwork table.
‘Why?’ she demanded. She didn’t want him hanging around. She wanted him gone. Gone, gone, gone. So she could mourn in private.
Have this last…this very last, time here.
Anguish clutched at her, and she could not stop it. Dimly, she was aware Lycos was replying.
‘It’s very pleasant here,’ he was saying, but she noticed that there was something new in his voice. Something she hadn’t heard before. She looked at him again and saw a musing expression in his lamp-lit face. He lifted a hand and gestured around.
‘Relaxing,’ he said. ‘Just sitting here, dining en plein air, like this, with the warmth all around and the cicadas and no traffic noise. No noise at all,’ he mused. His face tilted up.
‘And the stars above,’ he said. He lowered his hand so that it covered the table lamp, bringing the heavens instantly to light. ‘Looks like that van Gogh painting,’ he remarked. ‘Starry, starry night…’
Arielle’s face tightened. She didn’t want Lycos Dimistrios saying things like that, she didn’t want him praising the Mas Delfine, or the wine or anything else. She didn’t want him full stop. His gaze dropped to her. A sardonic tug pulled at his mouth.
‘Why don’t you just hold up a sign saying, “Go Away”,’ he said cynically.
She didn’t answer, only attacked her boeuf bourguignon with renewed force. A low laugh broke from him and he picked up his own fork again. After a moment he spoke.
‘I mean it, Arielle, I might stay another day. There’s no rush for me to reach Paris. And, like I said, this really is very pleasant. Good food and drink, a warm evening, a starry sky, the scent of…’ He paused, looking at her quizzically.
‘Jasmine,’ she said shortly. ‘It’s always more fragrant at night.’
‘Jasmine,’ he echoed meditatively. He set down his fork, plate cleared. ‘That was good,’ he said approvingly. ‘Maybe, I should keep you on as my personal chef while I’m here,’ he said with the sardonic note back in his voice, although it was tinged with something else. ‘Tell me, what is for dessert? And what liqueurs might there be? The evening calls for something sweet, I feel, on both counts.’
Saying nothing, Arielle stood up, cleared the plates and marched indoors. She didn’t want his compliments, or his praise, or anything at all. She felt her eyes sting as she went into the kitchen, and she blinked rapidly. She didn’t want him here at all.
But there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that she could do about it.
A hand squeezed around her heart, hard and painful. And despairing.
Lycos stretched out his legs under the table, switched off the table lamp and lifted his face to the stars as the rich wine coursed through his veins, replete from that very good boeuf bourguignon.
Relaxed.
He frowned slightly, gazing upwards at the stars studding the night sky. They burned much more vividly here than they ever did at the coast with all the light pollution from buildings and lit up yachts. Other than the cicadas he really couldn’t hear a thing, maybe just vague sounds coming from the direction of the kitchen.
When had he last felt this relaxed? It was a pointless question because the answer was that he never felt relaxed. Not like this.
He heard Arielle emerge from the house and reaching out a hand he flicked the table lamp back on. She deposited a tray on the table holding dessert—a carton of vanilla ice cream and a bowl of raspberries—along with a square glass bottle and two small glasses.
‘That looks promising,’ he said approvingly, nodding at the glass bottle as he helped himself to a bowl and spoon.
‘It’s an orange liqueur,’ Arielle informed him.
‘Do you make it yourself?’ he asked, helping himself to a generous scoop of raspberries and another of ice cream.
When had he last ate this simply? He did not know. What he did know was that it was surprisingly enjoyable.
She shook her head. ‘No, my neighbours do. They have the equipment and the skill. But the oranges are from here. I’ve soaked the raspberries in it too.’
She filled the glasses, pushing one across at him. He took a cautious mouthful and blinked.
‘It’s strong,’ she said unnecessarily. ‘I’ve no idea what proof, but it’s got a kick.’
‘Very definitely,’ Lycos said dryly, lowering the glass again. He looked across at her. ‘This dinner has been very good, Arielle. You know, I think I will definitely keep you on as my personal chef,’ he said.
He was baiting her and she reacted as he knew she would. Her face tightened, lips compressed. Very tender lips…
‘So…’ he went on, still in baiting mode, ‘…how do you intend to entertain me tomorrow?’
‘I don’t intend to entertain you in any way, at any time,’ she said bitterly. ‘I don’t care what you do, M’sieu Dimistrios, tomorrow or any other day. I’ll start packing up my personal belongings and I must go and see my neighbours about their taking the poultry. Then I must contact the local lycée, to collect the piano I’m giving them.’
He looked across at her. Her expression was closed, but there was something in the bleakness of her eyes she could not hide. Something that might have been tears welling. Something that made him speak.
‘There’s no rush,’ he heard himself saying. ‘Not for me. Nor you.’
He lifted up his liqueur glass, tilted it slightly at her and said, ‘Why don’t we just see how things turn out?’
Even as he spoke, he wondered at that too. Never, in his life, since he’d taken control of it as a teenager, had he ever held to such a pointless mantra. It ran counter to everything he lived his life by. Even when it came to the random turn of a card he did not hold by it. For in that card, whatever it was, he would make his calculation. His decisions based on that calculation. They were cold, careful decisions. Ruthless ones if necessary. But never made on impulse.
Except that it had been impulse that had made him turn off the highway and head off into this remote, deep countryside. Made him seek out the mas whose existence, let alone ownership, he had not known of this time yesterday.
And was it impulse now, saying what he just had?
See how things turn out…
The unfamiliar, alien words hung in his head. More thoughts formed. Questions.
What is it about this place that made me say that?
And it was not just this strangely peaceful mas. His eyes rested on the woman opposite him. Her face so beautiful. Her expression so sad.
He did not want her to be sad.
A frown flickered in his eyes. Why should he care if she was sad? Why should he care anything about her at all?
Or the home she was losing.
The place that was now his…
He drew his gaze away from her as she took some raspberries and began to eat them silently, still with that haunting sadness in her face. He eyes gazed out into the dark. The quietness of the garden and the surrounding countryside all about him. The scent of jasmine, the murmur of the cicadas, beguiling his senses. Inviting him to stay.
Slowly he lifted his liqueur glass to his lips and tasted, again, the sweet, fiery distillate easing down his throat. His gaze returned to Arielle.
Lingering.
Questioning.
Beguiling his senses.
