A Spell in Provence
Page 20
She added that she was taking Stéphane to see his friend Brice in hospital the following day.
‘Do you know if Brice has remembered anything yet?’ Amy asked.
‘Apparently the drug he took induces amnesia. He may never recover his memory of the past couple of weeks.’
Amy was thoughtful when she put the phone down. How stupid and selfish of Paul to be drinking himself to oblivion and cutting himself off from his family at a time when his son needed him.
Sitting at the kitchen table, she flicked through Renaud Coste’s journal, eager to read once again the words that had moved her so much when Fabien read them. She could still hear his voice as he read his ancestor’s words. What wouldn’t she give to hear him to talk about her with such passion?
She pressed a hand against her chest. Her heart ached, her whole being ached. She loved him. Wanted him. Longed for him. Yet she must forget all about him, and the sooner the better. He was only playing with her and it was destroying her. Oh, it was obvious he fancied her. He had made that clear enough, but he was also involved with Claudine, and she had to remember that.
What she must do now was put some distance between them. She would give him the diaries back, tell him she wasn’t interested in investigating the temple any longer then keep well away from him.
She stood up. She would go to Manoir Coste right now. It was after eight - too late for Monsieur Dubois and his family to arrive but, just in case, she pinned a note on the front door, explaining that she would be back shortly.
She grabbed her car keys, slipped Renaud Coste’s diaries into her bag and went out. The roads were quiet and the drive only took ten minutes.
As she arrived at Manoir Coste she wondered briefly if she should leave the books at the reception for Fabien, but decided against it. It would be the coward’s way out. She would talk to him and make sure he understood that she didn’t want anything to do with him from now on.
Fairy lights lit the way to the cottage. Sweet, heady scents of herbs and flowers filled the air, blue shadows shivered in the light breeze as she walked across the empty walled garden. At last she arrived in front of Fabien's house. Light shone through the half-closed shutters, a piece of piano music could be heard through the open window. He was in. Her throat tight, she knocked on the door and waited.
A couple of minutes passed.
He must be busy. Perhaps he wasn’t alone, and Claudine was there.
The door opened just as she was about to leave.
He must have just come out of the shower. His hair was wet, droplets of water speckled his bare chest. He was barefoot, all he wore were a pair of jeans and a white towel around his neck.
‘Aimée?’
He had a way of saying her name which was almost a caress and made her heart beat faster.
She pulled Renaud Coste’s diaries out of her bag and held them out.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you at home. I know it’s late, but I'd like to give these back to you.’
He looked confused.
‘I thought you wanted to read through them.’
‘I did. Well, I read enough anyway. The thing is ... I also wanted to tell you that I don’t think we should carry on with our … investigation. I’m going to be far too busy with Bellefontaine to run around looking at the fountains, and Laurent is coming back in a few days. He is far more qualified than us to carry out the research, don't you agree?’
Once again, she realised she talked too much, too fast.
‘Why the sudden change of heart?’ he asked in a cold voice.
‘Pardon?’
‘Am I so insufferable you can't stand the idea of spending any more time with me?’
Confusion and embarrassment made her face burn. He sounded angry. She swallowed hard, shook her head.
‘No, of course not.’
‘Then why are you cutting me off? I thought we made a good team.’
‘We do,' she replied weakly. ‘But I'm sure you'll have no problem finding someone else to help you with the Coste diaries.’
How she wanted to run away and be as far from him as possible ... No, that wasn't the truth! She wanted to touch him, wanted to feel the heat and the strength of his body against hers. She wanted him to kiss her like he had that evening at Bellefontaine.
‘I don't want anyone else,’ he said. ‘I want you.’
She let out an anguished whimper.
‘Please, don't say that. I have to go. Good night.’
‘Aimée. Wait.’
He stepped forward and pulled her to him, trapping her hands against his chest.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked in a breathless whisper as she lifted her face up.
‘What I should have done a long time ago. What I think you want me to do despite everything you've just said.’
The feel of his arms around her, the scent of his bare skin, still damp from the shower, was making Amy so dizzy she would have fallen had he not held her tightly.
‘But ...What about Claudine?’
‘What about her?’
She tried to push him away and felt his body harden under her touch.
‘How can you forget her so easily, how can you suggest that we …’
She saw puzzlement in his eyes.
‘Wait a minute. Surely you don't think I’m involved with Claudine. Whatever gave you that idea?’
‘Everybody seems to assume that you two are as good as engaged.’
He shook his head.
‘Claudine works for me, that’s all. And before you ask, there’s nobody else either. You're the only woman I want, and it’s been driving me insane for weeks. '
‘Aimée. Look at me.’
He ran his fingers through her hair. His mouth touched hers, hard, impatient, demanding. She parted her lips under the pressure, and he deepened the kiss. His hands slid up and down along her back, branding her through her thin cotton dress.
Overwhelmed by a molten surge of desire, she gripped his shoulders and let herself be swept away.
‘Come with me.’
He pulled her inside the house and kicked the door closed. Her bag slipped off her shoulder and thudded to the floor. Fabien pinned her against the wood with his body.
‘I’ve wanted you for so long,’ he whispered as his lips trailed down the side of her neck. The stubble on his cheek rasped against her tender skin, creating an explosion of sensations that made her body tense and tight and shivery. The music, loud inside the room, played a dramatic soundtrack to her heart. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, and she arched against him. Wanting him.
He pulled away once again, looked down.
‘Now is the time to walk away.’
He sounded hesitant, a far cry from his usual proud and confident self.
‘I don’t want to walk away.’
‘So now you want me?’
He lifted her chin, caressed the outline of her face with the pad of his thumbs.
‘I always did.’
His eyes darkened. He pulled her close and bent down to kiss her, his mouth in turn tender and hard, until she burned with the wild, primitive need to give, take, and be taken.
He let out a ragged breath.
‘I think we’d better go up.’
She nodded and he took her hand. He led her up the stairs, and into a large bedroom. Shadows - their shadows - danced on the walls as he pulled her into his arms again and started caressing the side of throat, the swelling of her breasts through her light summer dress, slid down along her waistline. His hands settled on her hips and he drew her closer. She threw her head back, breathed out a sigh. This was torture, sweet, beautiful torture.
‘I want you, so much,’ he said as he struggled to unfasten the buttons of her dress.
She helped him. Her dress parted open.
‘I can take care of the rest,’ he said in a raw voice. He pulled the dress down. It billowed as it fell to the ground. And then she stood in front of him in her white lace bra and panties.
He unclasped her bra which slipped from her shoulders.Standing on her tiptoes, she wrapped her arms around his neck. The contact of their bare flesh sent shockwaves through her body. He too shuddered, placed one hand at the back of her head whilst his mouth possessed and devoured.
‘Fabien.’ She whispered his name over and over again as he cupped her breasts, circled the small, hard tips with his thumbs, and bent down to kiss and arouse her.
Spreading her fingers on to his chest, she stroked random patterns until his breathing was harsh and his heart drummed fast and hard against the palm of her hands.
‘Come.’
His eyes were hooded as he motioned her towards the bed, helped her lie down on the dark covers. He undressed swiftly, lowered himself down to the bed, and covered her body with his. He was hot, heavy, and strong. His hands, his mouth stroked and possessed, relentless.
Pressure built and coiled inside her, tighter and tighter until a bright, white light exploded behind her eyelids. Sliding his hands under her hips, he lifted her off the bed and opened her to him, then he lifted her hands arms on either side of her head, and started moving, hard and fast, his eyes never leaving hers for a second. Wave after wave of pleasure made her body tighten and fly. She heard her own voice whisper, plead and cry out. He arched like a bow above her, his body powerful and taut. Time stopped. She was his, now and forever.
Hours later, after they dozed off and made love again, she curled up against him, rested her head on his chest, and listened to the beating of his heart. He stroked the nape of her neck where her hair was tangled and slightly damp.
‘You know what? I think I have developed a certain fondness for old maids.’
His fingers trailed along her spine.
‘Especially English old maids.’
She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. This was a dream, a wonderful dream.
‘Would you like something to drink?’ he asked. ‘A glass of champagne or white wine, perhaps?’
‘Just water for me, please.’
He got up and ran downstairs. She heard the clinking of glasses on a tray, the gushing noise of a tap being turned on and off. The fine cotton sheets were smooth against her skin. Her whole body was sensitive, her senses sharper. She stretched, smiled and let out a sigh. Never before had she felt so elated, so content – so whole.
She glanced at the objects displayed on the shelves at the other end other room. Even though she had noticed them before it had been too dark to make out what they were, and she'd had other things on her mind. Her eyes were used to the dim lighting now and she could see the objects were vases, or containers of some kind.
The blood drained from her face.
No. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be!
She got up and walked to the shelves. In front of her was the same object she’d seen in her dream of the secret ritual – the rectangular silver container Ben called a salinum. In her dream, the man carrying out the ceremony had taken some white power from it and sprinkled it all over her body. She lifted the salinum off the shelf and towards the light to study the engravings. Two lions, sitting opposite each other, with snakes writhing out of their manes. Like the one in her dream.
What was it doing on Fabien’s bedroom shelf? How could she have dreamt of the very same object when she’d never seen it before?
Fabien came back into the bedroom with a tray that he placed on the bed.
‘Here is your glass of water, Amy … I see you are admiring my Roman collection.’
He walked towards her and took the object from her hands.
‘I believe this is called a salinum, and was used to carry out religious ceremonies.’
He put it back on the shelf and turned to her.
‘Listen, I’m going to pop out to the hotel kitchen for a few supplies. I’ll make us something nice for breakfast. It’ll soon be daylight.’
He pointed towards the window and Amy saw that indeed, the sky was lighter to the east. Already, goldfinches and thrushes were singing their dawn chorus.
‘It’s a good idea,’ she said, although her throat was so dry, so tight, she had no idea how she could speak.
He got dressed quickly, slipped some trainers on, and rushed down the stairs.
As soon as she heard the front door slam shut, she dressed, ran downstairs and opened the front door. Once outside, she ran towards the car park. Faster. Faster. She had to leave before Fabien came back. Her hands shook so badly that she struggled to unlock her car door. She sat behind the wheel, slipped the key into the ignition. and almost cried with relief as the engine roared to life. With a last look at the dark silhouette of Manoir Coste, she reversed her Clio and drove down the road towards Bellefontaine.
She managed to hold back the tears until she was home. Her note for the Dubois was still pinned to the door. She had forgotten all about them the moment Fabien had kissed her, so if they had come, they must have tired of waiting and found another guesthouse.
Michka greeted her at the door. As she walked through the empty farmhouse it felt that her whole world had come crashing down.
The discovery of the salinum changed everything. She sat at the kitchen table, stroked the puppy’s head, tried to think.
She had to try to be rational about this. What did it really mean that Fabien had a salinum identical to the one in her dream? Could it be that it wasn’t a dream after all and that like Sophie Dessange, she had been subjected to some kind of ritual in an underground temple?
That would also mean that people had sneaked into Bellefontaine, drugged her, and carried her out without leaving a trace, perhaps using the underground passage and the trap door she was now sure existed in the cellar.
A shiver of fear ran down her spine, a sick feeling weighed down at the pit of her stomach. Had Lily been right all along?
There was a darker, deeper fear she now had to confront, even if it could destroy her.
Was Fabien involved? Was he the man she’d seen in the temple? Had he been using the salinum she’d seen on his shelf during the ceremony?
Amy put her head in her hands and let out a cry of anguish. He’d been sceptical, angry almost, every time people mentioned the cult. He had even forbidden Laurent and his team to dig in the forest, and said that sometimes it was better for things to remain lost. Was it because he was involved and didn’t want anyone to find out? His mother had said he’d been fiercely protective of his grandfather’s papers, so much so he’d even forbidden her access to the library and had been enraged when he’d found out Céline had lent her the drawings.
She shook her head. No, he couldn’t be involved. He had shown her Renaud Coste’s diaries when he didn’t have to. He wanted to work with her, he said they were a good team. He had made love to her with a passion that still resonated inside her whole body. Maybe he was just pretending to need her help. Was he also pretending when he made love to her? Was it his way of keeping her close … controlling her and keeping her quiet?
The phone rang, strident in silent house. It must be Fabien. He must be back at the cottage by now and wonder why she left so abruptly.
She’d better answer. She didn’t want to run the risk of him coming to Bellefontaine. She needed time on her own to figure out what to do, what to think.
‘Allo?’ Her voice was faint, shaky.
‘Amy! What’s wrong? Why did you leave?’
Her mind raced. She had to come up with a convincing answer.
‘I felt ill suddenly. I needed to go home.’
‘How are you now?’ he asked in a slightly more mellow tone of voice.
‘Not very well, I’m afraid. I don’t know what the matter is. but I’m s
ure I’ll feel better after a few hours’ rest.’
‘Would you like me to come over?’
‘No!’ she cried out. ‘No, thank you,’ she said more calmly. ‘I’ll be fine.’
There was a short silence.
‘All right then. Let me know if you want anything. I’ll call you later.’
‘Sure. Goodbye.’
She put the phone down. Fresh tears welled up in her eyes. After the night she spent in his arms, she couldn’t switch off her feelings for him so easily.
Never had she felt so utterly alone. And there was no one she could confine in. Adèle had her own worries, and so did Chris, who was miles away anyway. Besides, the last thing she wanted was to make wild accusations against Fabien without proof.
No, she would have to wait. Laurent would be here soon. Together, they would make sense of what, if anything, was going on. For now she would try to get some sleep. She undressed and slipped between her cold sheets.
Chapter Seventeen
The reference section at Apt library was empty, except for the librarian sorting out books and files behind the counter. Amy sat down, put her bag at her feet, and set Denis Piquot’s journal on the table. The title was so faded it was barely visible on the dark green leather cover.
She bent down and breathed in the book’s musty scent. Récits étranges d’un voyageur dans le Lubéron, 1755 (The Strange Tales of a Traveller in the Luberon, 1755). It was an intriguing title for what seemed an intriguing collection of myths and legends. She flicked through the yellowed pages and found copies of the prints she had bought at Lourmarin at the back, together with other engravings of Bonnieux and surrounding hilltop villages.
Fabien was right. The shopkeeper in Lourmarin had cut the prints out of another copy of the book to sell them separately. No wonder he’d looked uneasy when she had asked about their provenance. According to the librarian, Denis Piquot’s books were very rare. So rare Amy had been very lucky to find a copy after running an internet search. Would she be lucky enough to find the answers to the questions which now haunted her? After seeing the salinum at Fabien's house, she believed that the ceremony hadn't been a dream after all. Who were the people involved, why had they taken her and, more importantly, was Fabien one of them?