Angus’s head turned sharply as his peripheral vision caught the shape of his small weekender bag, already packed and stowed near the door.
His eyes narrowed.
No… he had a better idea.
Angus McLeod was going to prove to himself, the world in general and Moira Stirling in particular that she was mistaken – even if she never knew why.
He was going to do something that a boring man wouldnevercontemplate doing in a million years.
He would go to work as usual and act as if nothing untoward had happened. He would be as polite and pleasant to his secretary as he had always been. But, when his workday finished, he was going to take a taxi to Edinburgh Airport.
Alone.
And he was going to go on this bespoke, ultimately romantic exploration of the South of France.
Alone.
Minus the romance part, of course. That was taking things a totally unnecessary step too far. A Promise in Provence had created the itinerary and laced it with all things romantic. If Mademoiselle Pascoe wanted to earn her extravagant fees anda career-building review, she would just have to scrape the romance off, like icing from a cake.
And how hard could that be? It was no more than the same kind of contrived nonsense that was used to decorate a birthday or wedding cake, after all.
A flash of inspiration told Angus that there was a far more important point to doing this than proving he was not the boring person Moira considered him to be. This had the potential to provide reassurance that he hadn’t been wrong for his entire life.
That the only thing that really mattered had nothing at all to do with whatever frivolous decorations were piled on the top.
He was going to take back the cake – thenakedcake – and damn well enjoy doing so.
3
She would have recognised him a mile away.
But Tilly was holding up her iPad, along with other VIP transfer services, private drivers and tour operators, for Angus McLeod’s benefit because, while he might have seen her profile picture on A Promise in Provence’s website, she could be quite sure he hadn’t been sighing overherphotograph.
She spotted him even before he emerged from behind the sliding glass doors and her heart skipped a beat and then accelerated.
This was it. She was about to meet a man who was too good to be true. A real-life Prince Charming. He was striding towards her, right now, his eyes narrowed, scanning the crowd of people waiting for passengers from the incoming flight from the UK – a tall man in casual but smart trousers and a navy blazer, carving a path through the jostle of other travellers emerging into the arrivals hall who were pushing trolleys, carrying children or dragging suitcases that rattled over the tiled floor. Mr McLeod wasn’t encumbered by a trolley or children and his only luggage was a slightly battered-looking leather holdall hanging from a shoulder strap.
And he seemed to be walking alone. Tilly could hear a shriek of delight and happy laughter from a group nearby who had just spotted the loved one they had come to meet. A baby was crying on her other side. An announcement was being made over the loudspeaker system but it was, suddenly, all just a background buzz of sound.
Whywas Angus McLeod walking alone?
Wherewas Moira?
It certainly looked as if something untoward had happened. Her client’s face was set in lines of such grim determination it could only be described as a scowl.
Tilly’s smile faded as her heart sank. This wasn’t anything like how she’d imagined this ‘meet and greet’ would go, but he had spotted his name on the screen of the iPad she was holding and was making a beeline for her and he looked…
…angry?
‘Mademoiselle Pascoe?’
‘Please, call me Tilly.’ She managed to find a smile but it felt unnaturally tight. ‘You’re Mr McLeod?’
He didn’t bother responding to the rhetorical question.
‘Come with me,’ he commanded. ‘We need to talk.’
It was only a matter of navigating a short distance through the crowd to reach one of the bars on the ground floor of Terminal One. Angus’s gaze raked the area, landed on the curved couches beneath umbrella-shaped indoor trees and gave a staccato nod.
