by Sara Wood
‘Don’t.’ Half turning, he scowled at the hillside, lost in thought. Tessa wrapped herself in her own troubles. She ought to prepare herself for the fact that her mother might be poor and living in some dump of a building. That had never crossed her
mind up to now and she fidgeted uncertainly, wondering if she could break in on the man’s deep absorption in the scene ahead, into whatever thoughts were going on in that handsome head.
Nothing ventured... ‘Do you know the village very well?’ she asked, her eyes soft with anxiety.
He turned and looked at her thoughtfully. Suddenly he seemed to be pinning her in place with the intensity of his stare, frowning as though something about her reminded him of someone. ‘What’s your interest?’ he enquired guardedly. Some inner alarm made her cautious. ‘It’s pretty,’ she replied lamely, earning herself a scornful curl of his autocratic mouth. She sought to expand her remark. ‘You can’t deny that, crumbling walls or not! All those roses clambering up walls, orangeblossom heaving over hedges, geraniums dotted about on balconies...’ She hesitated, then asked, ‘Is-is all of it run down?’ And she found herself praying for his reassurance. ‘Virtually all, I regret to say,’ he replied, bringing the worry lines to her forehead again. ‘The landlord didn’t give a damn.’ That last sentence had been said softly-and not to her. Only the faint breeze had carried his half-audible words to her sharp ears. Yet his icy anger had been un¬mistakable. Alarmed by his words, she wondered why he cared so much. Because he obviously did, and she struggled to understand why his eyes were so cold and his mouth had set in such deep and bitter lines.
She shivered. Something was wrong about the village. And suddenly she felt afraid of what she might find when she reached her mother’s house.
‘I must go,’ she said hoarsely.
‘So you know what happened?’
‘N-no.’
‘I think you should.’
His tone made her whole body tense. What was he trying to tell her, with those knowing, sardonic eyes? Did he know her mother? Was he trying to prepare her for something?
CHAPTER TWO
TRYING to sound unconcerned, Tessa said, ‘OK, tell me.’ The man squared his shoulders. ‘It’s a well-known scandal. Go into any village or town for fifty miles and mention Turaine and you’ll get several lurid versions.’ His gaze homed in on her as if watching for her reaction. She stared back with wide, apprehensive eyes. ‘The landlord, Lucien de Turaine, had a mistress who held complete sway over his every move. She led him such a dance around the fleshpots of the world that he neglected the village he owned and it gradually fell into disrepair.’
‘How awful!’ she exclaimed.
‘Criminal,’ he agreed. ‘But she was totally self-centred and de Turaine only too willing to be her slave.’
‘Amazing that any woman could influence a man that strongly,’ marvelled Tessa.
‘She was beautiful. And irresistible. One of those born flirts who are utterly confident about their looks and who use men to their own ends,’ he said cynically.
Despising the woman, Tessa probed for more information. ‘Lucien de Turaine ... If he’s the landlord, does that mean he owns the whole village?’
He nodded, the bright sunlight catching the glitter in his eyes. ‘The family has owned the village for seven hundred years.’
‘Then I’m appalled that he doesn’t have a better sense of duty! It’s dreadful that he can’t be bothered to look after his tenants!’ she declared indignantly, ready to do battle on her mother’s behalf.
‘Couldn’t,’ came the languid correction. ‘The man is dead. His son has taken over.’
‘Is he more caring? Will he do the repairs, do you think?’ she asked anxiously, caught up now in the welfare of Turaine. ‘The village is bankrupt. The estate coffers are empty. The mistress drained his father dry. Every last damn penny.’ Tessa’s face showed her shocked disapproval. ‘That’s outrageous!’ she declared. ‘I’m so sorry. What a dreadful situation.’
‘She’s a money-grabbing monster and deserves to be hanged, drawn and quartered.’ He sounded grim and she shot him a curious look, but his expression was neutral. ‘The damage is done,’ she mused soberly. ‘What’s going to happen if there’s no money for restoration? Will the son sell some of the houses and use the proceeds for repairs?’
‘I think,’ he said, in a casual tone that belied the disdainful curl of his nostrils, ‘the current seigneur would rather sell his soul.’ A cloud crossed the sun, throwing the two of them into sudden shadow. Though a light remained in the stranger’s eyes which must have come from within. The air grew chill without the sun’s warmth, reminding Tessa that it was still the treacherous month of May. She gave a little shiver. However intriguing this might be, she was anxious to drive on and find out her mother’s situation for herself.
‘It doesn’t offer much hope for the village if he’s strapped for cash, does it?’ she commented quietly.
Her poor mother. What conditions would she be living in? More than a little apprehensive now, Tessa unthinkingly bent and vigorously massaged her aching thighs and calves. When she straightened, throwing back the wings of pale blonde hair which had fallen across her face, she found herself the subject of a languid appraisal.
Time to withdraw gracefully, she thought, recognising that maybe she’d chatted for too long and had been overfriendly. In the old days before her transformation, it wouldn’t have mattered.
‘That’s the trouble with long journeys on a road-bike,’ she said briskly, thinking she ought to explain away her massage. ‘Muscles begin to seize up.’
‘Yes.’
He said no more. But somehow he imbued that one word and the expression in his suddenly velvety eyes with more sensuality than she would have believed possible. Tessa lifted a hand to her lips in a hasty defensive movement, wondering why he was staring at them so intently. The reason became clear when she felt her mouth. It seemed soft ... and her lips had parted in a definite pout! Startled, she made sure her wayward mouth behaved itself by giving it something ordinary to say.
‘I’ve driven miles,’ she said. And she felt more than a little disconcerted by her staccato delivery. ‘From Roscoff. This morning,’ she added, hoping to redeem herself by sounding perfectly normal.
Astonished, she registered that his entire body had seemed to contract a fraction, as if she’d said something of significance. ‘You came over on the Plymouth-Roscoff ferry?’ he enquired sharply.
She hesitated, puzzled by his interest. ‘That’s right. Why?’
‘I’ve been to Plymouth. You live in an interesting place.’ He offered this banal piece of information with a show of great charm. But his eyes bored into hers disconcertingly. ‘Plymouth’s in Devon. It’s my nearest ferry point, but I actually live in Cornwall,’ she corrected him, with the pride of the Cornish. ‘Just...’ Her voice faded. What was it about the tenseness of his body that made her want to clamp her mouth shut? Reluctantly Tessa finished her sentence. ‘Just across the river from Plymouth.’
‘The town of Saltash?’ he asked. She nodded warily. ‘An attractive part of the world,’ he purred. ‘The river there has some of the qualities of the Dordogne, don’t you think?’
‘Oh, yes. Absolutely.’ Tessa pointedly drew her driving gloves from her pocket. She couldn’t help a grin. ‘They’re both wet.’ He chuckled, as if amused by her evasion. ‘Are you here on holiday?’
Caution put her on her guard again, though she couldn’t have explained why. ‘Kind of.’
‘There’s a lot to see and do, if you’re staying near here.’ And he zapped her with a disarming grin of encouragement. Dragging her eyes away from the dazzling white teeth, she firmly transferred her gaze to the clay-tiled roofs of the apparently deserted village and drew on her leather gauntlets. He was making conversation. He was bored-perhaps without a female companion for the evening.
Even while she tried to explain away his keen interest she sensed something else behind the
plausible charm. Perhaps she was being over-sensitive, but his manner made her feel uneasy. After all, they were alone in a fairly isolated place, with no one in sight, and she’d be an idiot to prolong this conversation.
Determined to tell him nothing more, she produced a polite but cool smile. ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ she said, and added with finality, ‘Well, I’d better be going. Someone’s expecting me. Goodbye.’
‘Safe journey,’ he called softly after her. ‘Be careful, driving in the dark.’
She’d be at her mother’s house before long. Tessa turned her head briefly to say so. ‘Oh, I won’t be-’
She saw the keen flash of triumph in his eyes and stopped herself in mid-sentence. Devious man! She’d as good as admitted that she wouldn’t be driving in the dark. He’d goaded her deliberately! Though what he’d do with the knowledge that she didn’t have far to go, she couldn’t imagine.
‘I won’t be frightened of the dark,’ she finished innocently, and couldn’t resist adding, ‘I brought a nightlight and my teddy bear.’
His laughter accompanied her as she prepared to get back on her bike. Somehow she couldn’t move naturally. Even though her back was to him, she knew she was under close scrutiny because her spine tingled.
With a casual movement she swung onto the bike and flung back her hair, ready to hook on her helmet. A vital awareness of her own slender throat and the faintly abandoned tilt of her head made her jam the helmet on quickly and slam down the visor.
One neatly booted foot released the stand and her slim body dipped in a supple movement as she lifted the choke. Then she punched the ignition, leaned forward and waited edgily for the revs to pick up.
A furtive glance in her side mirror told her that he was copying down her numberplate. Glory be! What for? As she watched in amazement he reached for his mobile phone. Calling up the gang? Tessa laughed at the idea but gave a little shiver of apprehension nevertheless, and drove off in a flurry of dust without another backward look.
The encounter had disturbed her and made her edgy. She sighed. His behaviour would have to remain a mystery-unless he deliberately tracked her down! Unaccountably her hand faltered on the throttle and she hastily made a correction. It had been a strange meeting-one she would remember for a while. And because of it she was almost dreading the reunion with her mother. In addition to the initial awkwardness she was expecting, now she felt really worried about her mother’s present circumstances. Tessa drove up the hill to the village at a slower speed than necessary, deep in thought. Whenever she’d shown resentment or anger in the past, and hinted that her mother had been selfish, her father had denied it. He’d explained that it had been his fault, that his inadequacy had driven Estelle away. Over the years, his insistence had made her believe him. She crested the hill. Ahead of her was a small medieval arch leading into the village. It occurred to her that her mother might have contacted them only because she was in trouble. Tessa tried to feel generous. Her father was willing to forgive. So would she. Whatever her mother’s financial state-or her living conditions-it wouldn’t matter. They’d be together. And they’d natter till the small hours then go out to buy boxes of throat lozenges and natter some more. There would be someone to confide in at last. A woman, with a woman’s sensitivities and emotional experience.
It would be wonderful to unburden herself. Eventually she’d tell her mother about her problem with her weight-though she wouldn’t say that she’d ballooned from the age of five, when her mother had left home, because she had found comfort in cakes and sweets. That would be tactless. Nor would she say that she’d felt deprived of love, since her father had been too wrapped up in his own loss to realise that his daughter was suffering too.
But she’d be able to talk about how the kids at school had called her names and made her cry till she’d learnt a few defensive measures-mostly an ability to joke about herself. But it hadn’t taken away the misery of always being the last to be chosen for a team, or of spending most of her break-times hanging around the teacher on duty.
As an adolescent she’d apparently been invisible to boys, and she had never felt more alone than when she’d met her classmates out walking with their boyfriends. Boyfriends had been unattainable for her, and so she’d wanted one desperately. Now that her trim figure drew men like a magnet and she could have her pick of them, she wasn’t particularly interested!
She smiled wryly. Her face softened, the lines in her forehead ironing out as she remembered the gaiety in her mother’s voice.
‘After you’ve been here a few days,’ her mother had said during her surprise telephone call the previous week, ‘perhaps you’d keep an eye on my house and holiday lets for a couple of weeks while I pop over to England. I can’t leave my holiday cottages, you see, but I’d love to see your father again.’ Once she’d got over the shock, Tessa had been thrilled speechless. And there had been tears of joy in her father’s eyes when she’d relayed the message.
She tried to recapture that happiness she’d felt for her father as she drove into the deserted village square. Battling with confused emotions, she parked her bike against the massive stone base of a pillar supporting the roof of an open-sided market hall with fascinating medieval rafters.
Off she went in search of the Rue Boulangerie, half expecting to see her mother beckoning from a window. Tessa’s excitement and nervousness mounted. Half an hour later she was trudging disconsolately back down a narrow, stepped street, her leather jacket slung over one shoulder. She’d explored the whole village in vain. Tiredness flowed over her in dizzying waves as she came in sight of the square. Her cropped top clung to her sweating body. Her feet hurt, her neck ached and her stomach rumbled. An irrational dread nagged at her mind that she’d come on a wild-goose chase.
And, to cap it all, there was the dreaded Citroen convertible parked in the square-as large as life and twice as unwelcome! ‘Blow it!’ she muttered in dismay, hastily flattening herself against a wall.
The man she’d met earlier was walking beside a high wall in the direction of a pair of ornate wrought-iron gates. No, not walking. He was striding, with an oddly grim and angry expression, as though he’d snarl at anyone who stood in his way and kick them aside.
What a change in his manner! she thought. No longer suave, elegant and charming, but a totally different man altogether. And therefore not the sort to be trusted. He held a large iron key in his hand and she realised he must live-or lodge-here, in this very village. She perked up. He’d know where The Old Bakery was. She’d have to ask, like it or not.
‘Beggars and women who can’t speak French can’t be choosers,’ she told herself firmly out loud, dismissing the little flurry of nerves which skimmed around her stomach. ‘Hey! Hang on there!’ she shouted, striding quickly towards him before she lost her courage.
The broad shoulders seemed to square before he turned. ‘You again. What a surprise!’ he declared calmly, as if her appearance wasn’t at all unexpected.
‘Isn’t it?’ she replied with a little jut of her chin, trying to steer an even course between being downright discouraging and yet nice enough to enlist his help. Aware of his eyes on her silky bare midriff, she hastily tried to reclaim his attention. ‘Do you live here?’ she asked politely.
Slowly his gaze travelled upwards to her hopeful face. ‘Kind of.’ Touche! she thought tiredly, seeing the small smile playing
around his mouth. She found a smile from somewhere too. A cool one. Nothing too friendly. ‘I’m looking for The Old Bakery... ‘
‘Yes.’
She blinked. Judging by the expression on his face, he was playing with her, making her work for information. Hadn’t he anything better to do? she thought crossly. She drew in a deep breath. ‘It’s in-’
‘Rue Boulangerie,’ he provided, much to her relief. Yet he made no move to say where it was.
‘I know. Where is that, exactly? I’ve been everywhere looking for it,’ she explained, with a patience she didn’t feel. ‘I’ve
tramped up and down every street. It doesn’t exist, as far as I can see.’
Her long fingers pushed damp strands of flopping pale blonde hair back behind her ears as she stood dispiritedly before him. The enigmatic smile spread into a grin of clear delight. ‘Do you mean that no one would tell you where it is?’ he asked cheerfully.
‘I haven’t asked yet,’ she admitted, puzzled. What was going on here? Her heart began to thump. This was creepy. ‘The place is deserted. There was no one to ask. Anyway, I don’t speak French and I wouldn’t have understood what was said. I thought I could find it on my own.’
‘The Old Bakery is where the owner of the holiday lets lives,’ he murmured. ‘You’re staying in one of her cottages?’
‘No, I’m staying with her,’ Tessa corrected him. ‘She’s my mother.’
‘Ah.’ He nodded, as though that explained everything. Tessa paused, wondering if he’d seen some resemblance earlier and had been trying to place her. ‘She’s expecting me,’ she went on. ‘And she’ll be getting rather worried by now-’ He interrupted her with an involuntary snort of disbelief. ‘Estelle Davis? Worried about another person?’ Tessa bridled at his tone. ‘Yes! Of course! Why not?’
‘She’s not the sort.’
A cold fear ran down Tessa’s back. What did he know of her mother? ‘You’re being extremely rude-’
‘It would be difficult to be otherwise,’ he agreed, quite unfazed. Tessa felt crushed by his contempt. And increasingly worried. All her life she’d done her best to ignore her doubts, her private belief that her mother had behaved selfishly. This stranger was bringing them back. ‘If you know her-’
‘I know of her. It’s not quite the same thing.’ His gaze held hers with a suddenly chilling intensity that she found rather frightening. ‘And you are?’
She gulped, pierced by the icy black eyes and his expression of frank hostility. It upset her that someone; should loathe her mother so much, and through her head went the same question, over and over again. Why? ‘Tessa Davis.’
