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I turn and walk back down the road that stinks of diesel and fish.
“You’re fucking nuts,” Alexis calls after me.
I don’t look back. Doing so would mean I care about the insult. Alexis’s laughter follows me into the car. I start the engine and clench the wheel. I should be going to the office in the city. I should catch up with the Italian deal. Instead, I turn the car in the opposite direction.
I need a vent for my anger, and my vent is at home.
Chapter 13
Zoe
The moment I hear the front door shut, I go to the writing desk standing in the far corner of Maxime’s room and go through it. I find what I’m looking for in the second drawer. Pulling out the writing pad and pen, I sit down in the chair and write a letter to Damian.
I tell him I’ve arrived safely in France after a short holiday in Italy. I tell him Venice was magical. I tell him I’m settling in nicely in my new home, baking apple pie. I tell him I can’t wait for the day he gets out, that I’ll bake apple pie to welcome him, and I hope he’ll bring his cell mate for me to meet. I’m sure his friend will love apple pie. I make sure to mention the address and give a detailed description of the property. I paid attention to the road signs on the way and the address on the letterbox by the gate. I mention how wealthy and important my white knight is, so much so that his property is guarded. Then I sign off as always, my name with two x’s and o’s.
To anyone reading it, it’s just a letter from a happy girl who got lucky by landing a rich guy, but Damian will understand the code. He’ll get the message. He’ll know Zane and Maxime are his enemies, and that I’m being held against my will.
Folding the letter neatly, I seal it in an envelope I find in the same drawer and write the address on it. Then I go through the room, looking for a phone. I doubt Maxime would’ve left one, which is why my priority was writing the letter, but I still try.
There are no landline plugs in the room, so I take the letter and exit onto the landing. The house is quiet. No sounds come from the kitchen. The hallway is dark and spooky. Faded tapestries and portraits of men and women dressed in clothes from centuries ago hang on the walls. The space smells of wood polish and cedar. I shudder but force myself to walk out onto the creaking wooden floor, opening doors as far as I go.
The one next to Max’s room gives access to a bedroom the same size as his but decorated with feminine pinks and lilacs. The two rooms share the same bathroom and balcony. The other rooms on the floor are all bedrooms with en-suite bathrooms. A heavy wooden door at the end of the hallway gives access to a spiral staircase. Unable to squash my curiosity, I climb the stone steps to the top. The staircase exits into a circular tower room. A narrow bay window with a built-in bench overlooks the sea. I can’t make out much of the view through the stained-glass window. The only furniture is a small desk. Other than that, the floor and walls are bare. It’s cold and noisy with the wind cutting around the tower.
Shivering, I go back to the first-floor landing and descend the steps to the foyer. I pass the guest bathroom and dining room, a big and smaller lounge, and am about to reach for the door at the end when it opens in my face.
Gasping, I clutch the letter to my chest. A woman dressed in dark slacks and a button-down blouse stops dead when she sees me. Her green eyes widen. She sweeps her gaze over me, taking in my face, clothes, and boots. Slender and willowy, she’s a head taller than me. Her blond hair is twisted into a bun, and her smooth skin is pale like porcelain, but unlike mine, hers is blemish free. She’s wearing mascara and a glossy pink lipstick. Her perfume is faint but smells expensive.
“Oh,” she says, “you must be Zoe.” Her accent is less pronounced than Maxime’s.
“You must be Francine.”
“I just got back from my lunch break and found Max’s note.” She gives me another quick once-over. “Is there something you wanted?”
I hand her the letter. “I was hoping someone could mail this for me. I don’t have a stamp.”
She reaches for it hesitantly. “I’ll leave it with Max’s mail. He usually drops it in the mailbox on his way to work.”
My spirits sink. He’ll read it, no doubt. He won’t understand the hidden messages, but he may not like the details I conveyed about his house, such as how well protected it is and where it’s situated. I can only hope he won’t burn it.
