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 aboulangeriewith its door open. Suddenly hungry, he pulled up to buy a freshly-baked baguette and half a dozen croissants. Checking the directions tohis 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 themas.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 theFrench 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 themas?
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 toMas 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 themas. 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 aman 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 themas, 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.
