by Marie Laval
He pointed to the bags, suitcases and boxes piled up against the wall in the hallway.
‘Don’t worry about unpacking these. I’ll send a few of my staff later to help you settle in. They will have you organised in no time.’
His arrogance almost took her breath away, and once again her cheeks felt like they were burning.
‘It’s nice of you to offer but I don’t need anyone to organise me, not even you, Monsieur Coste.’ She didn’t care if she sounded rude or if her voice quivered with anger. All she wanted now was to push him out of the door and send him on his way.
‘Are you sure?’ A doubtful expression appeared on his face.
‘Positive. Let me show you out.’
He picked up his rifle and his bag. The bag gaped open when he slung it over his shoulder, she caught a glimpse of grey fur inside and repressed a shudder. A rabbit he’d just shot, no doubt.
She thanked him again, watched his tall, athletic figure disappear in the darkening shadows with the dog running excitedly around him, and closed the door with a sigh of relief.
At last she was alone to enjoy her first evening at Bellefontaine.
Even though Paul had set the central heating on, it felt chilly in the kitchen. She lit a fire in the stove with the old newspapers and wood Paul had left for her in a wicker basket, then hauled her bags and suitcase upstairs to her room. Located in the tower room at the far end of the corridor, she had chosen it because of its large window overlooking the garden and the forest.
She opened a bag, took out a couple of towels and some toiletries, and stepped into the en-suite bathroom. After a hot shower, she put on navy tracksuit bottoms and a dark blue sweater, gave her hair an energetic towel dry and left it loose on her shoulders.
Back in the kitchen, she opened a tin of tomato soup and a packet of crackers, and set a mug and the bottle of champagne on the worktop. Never mind that she’d lost half her crockery and had no decent wine glasses, she would celebrate her first evening in Bellefontaine in style, even if she had to drink champagne in a mug.
A loud knock on the front door made her jump.
‘Hello! Bonsoir!’ A man’s voice called from outside. ‘Delivery from Manoir Coste for Mademoiselle Cater.’
Puzzled, Amy walked over and opened the door. A man in jeans and fleece leaned against the door frame, a picnic hamper in his arms.
‘There must be a mistake. I didn’t order anything.’
The man stepped into the porch light and flashed a smile. With his dark hair and blue green eyes, he bore a striking resemblance to Fabien Coste.
‘You are Mademoiselle Carter, aren’t you?’
She nodded.
‘Then there’s no mistake. Where do you want this?’
She pointed to the hamper. ‘What is it?’
‘An offering from his lordship. Fabien can’t resist helping a damsel in distress.’
‘But I am not a damsel in distress.’
‘That’s not what he said,’ he snorted. ‘So you do want it or not?’
She was about to say he could take the hamper back but delicious smells of roast onions, garlic, and herbs tickled her nose and made her mouth water. Whatever was in that hamper would be a lot nicer than tinned tomato soup and dry crackers.
‘No, it’s all right. Please come in,’ she said, opening the door wider.
‘I didn’t introduce myself,’ the man said as he followed her inside. ‘I’m Frédéric, the odd-job man at Manoir Coste, or the dogsbody depending on how you look at it.’
The resentment in his voice was so brief she thought she’d imagined it.
He put the hamper on the kitchen table, looked at her and whistled between his teeth.
‘Very, very nice.’
She smiled. ‘Thank you. I’m so happy with the house, I think it looks beautiful too.’
‘I wasn’t talking about the house, I was talking about …’ He pointed to her blue top. ‘It’s the exact colour of your eyes.’
‘Oh …’ A little uneasy now, she opened the hamper and pulled out a business card with the coat of arms of Manoir Coste.
A short message written in a strong, masculine hand read ‘Welcome to Bonnieux. Good luck with Bellefontaine. FC.’ In the hamper were plates, a set of silver cutlery, a casserole dish, some cheese and a baguette, and a selection of tiny pastries. There was also a flask of coffee, a long-stemmed crystal glass, and a bottle of Côte du Rhône. She took the lid off the casserole dish and breathed in with delight subtle aromas of garlic and herbs.
‘His lordship mentioned that you were on your own and might want some jobs doing around the place.’
Once again, there was a hint of sarcasm in Frédéric’s voice when he mentioned his boss.
‘In fact,’ he carried on, ‘he said you’d need all the help you could get.’
Annoyed now, Amy crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes.
‘Well, he got that wrong. I can manage perfectly well on my own.’
He chuckled. ‘Very well. I’ll show myself out. I hope you enjoy your meal,’ he said as he opened the front door. ‘I’ll call tomorrow for the hamper.’
‘There’s no need, ‘I’ll bring it back to Manoir Coste myself in the morning.’
‘No problem. By the way, it’s great to see that you’re not put off by the stories about this place.’
‘You mean the stories about the mysterious goddess and her blood-thirsty worshippers?’ She shrugged as she recalled the old tales the estate agent told her the first time she visited Bellefontaine.
‘I found them rather … interesting.’
‘Interesting? Most folk wouldn’t dare set foot anywhere near Bellefontaine, never mind live in it,’ Fred said with a crooked smile. ‘You are very brave.’
‘Brave? No, sensible, that’s all. This place is wonderful. It’s everything I always dreamt of and I’m not going to let a few old wives’ tales put me off.’
‘Let’s hope you still think that way after living here for a few weeks,’ he said before waving goodbye and climbing into a battered old Range Rover.
A shiver of unease crept down her back and she hurried to close the door onto the dark winter night.
It didn’t take her long to set the table for her solitary supper. She popped open the bottle of Deutz and poured a little champagne into the elegant crystal flute Fabien Coste had sent.
‘To Bellefontaine!’ she said aloud, raising her glass. Her voice echoed in the empty house, as if the walls were talking back to her.
No wonder Fabien Coste was arrogant, she thought as she put her dirty plate in the sink a short while later. His restaurant at Manoir Coste fully deserved its three Michelin stars. She had never eaten better food.
Stifling a yawn, she drank the last of the smooth, rich coffee. It was time for bed. Tidying the kitchen only took a few minutes. She locked the front door, closed the downstairs shutters, and went up to her room.
As she leaned outside of the window to get hold of the shutters, small yellow lights dancing and flickering at the bottom of the garden caught her attention. They sparkled for a few seconds, then disappeared and the night was pitch black once more. Amy peered into the darkness for a while but the lights didn’t come back, so she fastened the shutters and closed the window. Uneasy, she made the bed, and still in her jumper and jogging pants slipped between the cold sheets.
She tossed and turned for a long while after switching the light off, the house’s unfamiliar sounds keeping her awake. The wooden stairs creaked, pipes gurgled, the shutters rattled in the breeze. Outside, night birds called, and the wind swished through overgrown grass and tree branches.
What if there were people out there – burglars, or poachers? Amy took deep breaths and tried to relax. She was being silly. The lights outside were nothing to worry about. It was probably only a group of teenagers looking for a quiet place for a late night party.
At last she closed her eyes and drifted into a fitful sleep.
Loud banging on th
e front door woke her up with a start. Sitting up in the dark, her heart thumping hard, she switched the bedside lamp and checked her watch. 2:20 a.m. The banging stopped as suddenly as it started, and then there was only silence – a deep, thick, eardrum-bursting silence.
Perhaps there’d been an accident and someone needed help? Shivering, she got up, climbed down the stairs and switched on the hallway light. Her nerves taut with apprehension, she unlocked the front door and pulled the handle down. Something white, grey and furry flapped against the door as she opened it. Her hand flew to her mouth and let out a strangled cry as she realised what it was.
A rabbit hung, pinned to the door by a single nail through the throat.
Chapter Two
A fifteenth-century fortified castle, and the seat of the Ducs de Coste since the Middle Ages, the manoir stood at the top a hill surrounded by a dense forest of cedar trees. With its high turrets and solid stone walls, it exuded pride and arrogance – rather like its owner, Amy thought, as she parked between two flashy sports cars.
She lifted the hamper out of the boot and started up the steps leading to the castle entrance, shivering in the chilly February breeze that seeped through her brown parka and blue jumper.
The glass entrance door led into a huge lobby and she hesitated a moment before stepping onto the shiny black-and-white chequered floor. With its rich brown wood-panelled walls and enormous crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, the reception area spoke of power, heritage and wealth.Yet the fire burning in the massive stone fireplace and a few armchairs and coffee tables piled high with magazines and newspapers managed to give the place an inviting, cosy and intimate feel.
‘May I help you, Madame?’ a woman asked from behind a modern, almost transparent glass counter discreetly tucked away in a corner of the hall.
‘Yes … I would like to return this hamper to Monsieur Coste.’
‘One moment, please. I’ll see if he is available.’
While the receptionist made a call, Amy left the picnic basket on the counter and walked to the fireplace where a warrior in suit of armour stood to one side. With his helmet down and his gloved hands resting on the hilt of his sword, he looked about to spring to life. Carvings of knights in battle adorned the mantelpiece and right at the top, the Coste coat of arms proclaimed ‘Coste Vaincra!’ like a battle cry.
Coste will vanquish, she whispered to herself.
‘I’m afraid my ancestors were brutes who liked nothing better than gore and battles.’
Startled, she swung round to face Fabien Coste. Dressed in a navy suit that emphasised his broad shoulders, a white shirt with fine green stripes, and a dark green silk tie, today he looked every inch the successful businessman, and a far cry from the rugged hunter she had met at Bellefontaine the day before.
‘Ah … Good morning. I came to thank you for the lovely meal you sent me last night … it was delicious but you really didn’t have to.’
She paused and realised she couldn't remember a word of the polite but firm speech she had prepared on the way to make sure he understood she wasn’t a charity case and didn’t need his assistance.
He smiled.
‘It was my pleasure. Listen, are you in a rush? I could show you around if you have time.’
Visiting Manoir Coste – the most exclusive hotel in the whole of Provence? This was an offer too good to resist and she forgot all about her resolve to have as little as possible to do with him.
‘I’d love to.’
‘Good.’ He smiled again, then led her through a maze of long corridors and into a study where daylight flooded in from four French windows and reflected onto a shiny parquet flooring.
A walnut desk covered with papers, files and a sleek, widescreen computer dominated the room. Tall bookshelves lined the walls to the stuccoed ceiling and huge oil paintings of hunting scenes hung on either side of the mantelpiece. A couple of cream-coloured sofas and a coffee table stood in front of the fireplace which, like the one in the hall, was decorated with the Coste coat of arms and motto.
‘Shall I take your coat?’
He leaned towards her from behind to help her out of her parka. She breathed in his warm, subtle, and seductive sandalwood aftershave. His hands brushed against her shoulders; a shiver rippled over her body and her cheeks heated up. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to notice.
‘Please take a seat.’
He gestured to one of the sofas and sat opposite.
For a few seconds the silence in the room was only broken by the hissing and crackling of logs burning in the fireplace and the soft ticking of an antique clock on the mantelpiece.
Amy folded her hands in her lap, started to cross her legs and almost moaned aloud. Why hadn’t she noticed how muddy her boots and the hem of her jeans were? Quickly she stretched to hide her feet under the coffee table. She could only hope she wouldn’t leave any dirty smudges on the Persian rug.
‘How was your first night at Bellefontaine?’ he asked, breaking the silence.
She pulled a face. ‘Not very good. I didn’t sleep much.’
It would be more accurate to say that she hadn’t slept at all. After removing the dead rabbit from the front door and stuffing it in the bin outside, she had sat in the kitchen, tense and scared, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, jumping at every creaking or rustling sound inside and outside the house. It had been a long night, and rarely before had she felt so scared and so completely alone.
Fabien Coste arched his eyebrows and looked at the young woman in front of him.
‘Any problems?’
She hesitated a fraction of a second before shaking her head. Her windswept ponytail swung from side to side, and tendrils of light blonde hair touched the slender curves of her neck.
‘No problem at all. I must have been too excited to sleep.’
She forced a smile but her deep blue eyes clouded over.
She was lying, he thought. Something had happened, and she didn’t want to talk about it.
There was a light rap on the door and one of his assistants walked in and placed a tray with a silver coffee pot, delicate porcelain cups, and a plate of brioches on the table. Fabien thanked her and poured the coffee out.
‘Would you like a brioche?’ he asked, holding the plate out.
‘I see you have a thing about feeding me.’
She took a small cake and bit into it with a little sigh. ‘Hmm … this is delicious. I would love to ask your chef for the recipe.’
‘He could probably be persuaded to let you have it … if you offer a swap for your raspberry jam.’
She glanced up, as if surprised that he’d remembered.
‘I’m sure your chef has no need for any of my recipes.’
She ate the last of the brioche, reached out for her cup of coffee, and slipped two lumps of brown sugar in. Clearly, Amy Carter was not the type to agonise about diets and calories.
‘Actually, I’m glad you came by this morning,’ he said, a little abruptly. ‘I would like to invite you to our annual Hunt Ball on Saturday evening.’
‘Thank you, but … well, the thing is …’
Her cheeks turned bright pink once again.
‘Let me guess,’ he cut in. ‘You don’t approve of hunters – or of hunting – and the Hunt Ball is the last place on earth you’d like to be, so you are wondering how best to decline my invitation without offending me.’
He paused and smiled. ‘Am I right?’
Her face turned an even deeper shade of red.
‘Well … It is true that I don’t find the idea of a room full of hunters very appealing.’
‘And yet it would provide you with the ideal opportunity to meet people from Bonnieux and make useful contacts for Bellefontaine.’
She bit her lip, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and frowned, as if unconvinced. He found himself holding his breath. He didn’t usually have to insist when he asked a woman out and having to wait for Amy Carter to make up her mind disconcerted
him.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said at last. ‘I do need to make myself known to the locals. I accept. Thank you.’
He let out a sigh and reclined against the back of the seat.
‘Frédéric will come for you at eight. You met my cousin Frédéric yesterday, didn’t you?’
A look of surprise flashed across her face.
‘Yes, he brought the hamper over. He didn’t say he was your cousin, just that he worked for you.’
Knowing Frédéric, he must have complained about the way he was treated at Manoir Coste. His cousin never missed an opportunity to portray him as megalomaniac, egotistic and cruel. Immediately, anger and guilt twisted inside Fabien, as it always did when he thought about Frédéric.
He rose to his feet.
‘I’ll give you a tour of the hotel now if you’re ready.’
He showed her the downstairs reception rooms and drawing rooms, and his award-winning restaurant for which he’d chosen a strikingly modern decor that contrasted with the tall French windows overlooking the terrace and the park. He took her to the ballroom, and enjoyed seeing her deep blue eyes widen in front of the gilded mirrors, glittering chandeliers and the shiny parquet flooring.
She followed him to the first floor, commenting non-stop in a slightly breathless voice on the wallpapers, carpets and quirky combinations of antique furniture and designer pieces he had chosen personally. He had never noticed before how attractive an English accent was – so attractive he stopped paying attention to her words and only heard the inflexions of her soft, feminine voice.
‘Now I understand why Manoir Coste has such an outstanding reputation,’ she declared as they were walking back to his office. ‘You must be very proud to own such a beautiful place.’
Although he had heard similar comments hundreds of time before, her spontaneity and sincerity made him smile. ‘I am.’
It hadn’t been easy to bring the estate back from the abyss and turn Manoir Coste into the successful business it now was, and he would do anything to keep it that way and protect its reputation and the Coste family name.
