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 themaswhose 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 peacefulmas.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.
Chapter Five
Arielle woke. Her bedroomwas full of sunshine. She hadn’t drawn the curtains the night before, performing the minimum of bedtime ministrations, barely getting into her nightgown before sinking down on to her bed and drawing the bedclothes over her. Exhaustion had overcome her.
Emotional exhaustion from the cataclysmic events of the day and, too she knew, from the wine she’d drunk and that lethal liqueur.
As she came to consciousness now, she felt a fleeting longing that what had happened yesterday had only been a nightmare, unreal. But it was all too real. All too real a nightmare.
TheMas Delfinewas gone, no longer her home. And she must leave and lose it for ever.
Words that the man who was taking it from her had framed themselves in her head.
You will survive.
Her face soured. Yes, of course she would survive. What choice did she have? None.
But survival would be bleak.
Heavily, she got out of bed. Judging by the sun, she’d overslept by a good couple of hours and compunction smote her. The hens, and Maurice and Mathilde, would be desperate to get out. Hastily she pulled on the same clothes she’d worn yesterday and ventured out of her room, burningly conscious that at the other end of the landing was the man who was takingher beloved home from her. But she must not think of that right now. She must only hurry down to let out the poultry.
But as she unlocked the kitchen door and opened it, she stopped dead. The hens were already out. Jean-Paul, the very handsome, and very conceited cockerel who lorded over his harem, was strutting about, helping himself to the maize plentifully scattered over the cobbles. His harem was equally busily engaged.
‘Have I given them too much?’
A voice from the gateway to the gardens made her head turn sharply. Lycos was strolling forward. For ten seconds Airelle could only stare. He was wearing a tee shirt, damp over his chest, and dark blue board shorts, his bare feet in open sandals. His sable hair was glistening wet.
