by Julia James
As it had done ever since he’d left the nightclub last night, the seductive image of Sabine Sablon slid into his inner vision. Enough to distract anyone. Even himself...
He pulled his mind away. Time to discover just how deep Philip was with the alluring chanteuse. ‘Well,’ he continued, ‘I can be with you within the hour if you like?’
He did not get an immediate reply. Then Philip was saying, ‘Could you make it a bit later than that?’
‘Studying so hard?’ Bastiaan asked lightly.
‘Well, not precisely. I mean, I am—I’ve got one essay nearly finished—but actually, I’m a bit tied up till lunchtime...’
Philip’s voice trailed off, and Bastiaan could hear the constraint in his cousin’s voice. He was hiding something.
Deliberately, Bastiaan backed off. ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘See you for lunch, then—around one... Is that OK?’ He paused. ‘Do you want me to tell Paulette to expect me, or will you?’
‘Would you?’ said Philip, from which Bastiaan drew his own conclusion. Philip wasn’t at the villa right now.
‘No problem,’ he said again, making his voice easy still. Easier than his mind...
So, if Philip wasn’t struggling with his history essays at the villa, where was he?
Is he with her now?
He could feel his hackles rising down his spine. Was that why she had turned down dining with him at Le Tombleur? Because she’d been about to rendezvous with his cousin? Had Philip spent the night with her?
A growl started in his throat. Philip might be legally free to have a relationship with anyone he wanted, but even if the chanteuse had been as pure as the driven snow, with the financial probity of a nun, she was utterly unsuitable for a first romance for a boy his age. She was nearer thirty than twenty...
‘Great!’ Philip was saying now. ‘See you then, Bast—gotta go.’
The call was disconnected and Bastiaan dropped his phone back in his pocket slowly, staring out of the window. Multi-million-pound yachts crowded the marina, and the fairy tale royal palace looked increasingly besieged by the high-rise buildings that maximised the tiny footprint of the principality.
He turned away. His apartment here had been an excellent investment, and the rental income was exceptional during the Monaco Grand Prix, but Monte Carlo was not his favourite place. He far preferred his villa on Cap Pierre, where Philip was staying. Better still, his own private island off the Greek west coast. That was where he went when he truly wanted to be himself. One day he’d take the woman who would be his wife there—the woman he would spend the rest of his life with.
Although just who she would be he had no idea. His experience with women was wide, indeed, but so far not one of his many female acquaintances had come anywhere close to tempting him to make a relationship with her permanent. One thing he was sure of—when he met her, he’d know she was the one.
There’d be no mistaking that.
Meantime he’d settle himself down at the dining table, open his laptop and get some work done before heading off to meet Philip—and finding out just how bad his infatuation was...
* * *
‘I could murder a coffee.’ Sarah, dismissed by Max for now, while he focussed his attentions on the small chorus, plonked herself down at the table near the front of the stage where Philip was sitting.
He’d become a fixture at their rehearsals, and Sarah hadn’t the heart to discourage him. He was a sweet guy, Philip Markiotis, and he had somehow attached himself to the little opera company in the role of unofficial runner—fetching coffee, refilling water jugs, copying scores, helping tidy up after rehearsals.
And all the time, Sarah thought with a softening of her expression, he was carrying a youthful torch for her that glowed in every yearning glance that came her way. He was only a few years older than her own sixth-formers, and his admiration for her must remain hopeless, but she would never dream of hurting his feelings. She knew how very real they seemed to him.
Memory sifted through Sarah’s head. She knew what Philip was experiencing. OK, she could laugh at herself now, but as a music student she’d had the most lovestruck crush on the tenor who’d taken a summer master class she’d attended. She’d been totally smitten, unable to conceal it—but, looking back now, what struck her most was how tolerant the famous tenor had been of her openly besotted devotion. Oh, she probably hadn’t been the only smitten female student, but she’d always remembered that he’d been kind, and tactful, and had never made her feel juvenile or idiotic.
She would do likewise now, with Philip. His crush, she knew perfectly well, would not outlast the summer. It was only the result of his isolation here, with nothing to do but write his vacation essays...and yearn after her hopelessly, gazing at her ardently with his dark eyes.
Out of nowhere a different image sprang into her head. The man who had walked into her dressing room, invaded her space, had rested his eyes on her—but not with youthful ardour in them. With something far more powerful, more primitive. Long-lashed, heavy-lidded, they had held her in their beam as if she were being targeted by a searchlight. She felt a sudden shimmer go through her—a shiver of sensual awareness—as if she could not escape that focussed regard. Did not want to...
She hauled her mind away.
I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think about him. He asked me out, I said no—that’s it. Over and done with.
And it hadn’t even been her he’d asked out, she reminded herself. The man had taken her for Sabine, sultry and seductive, sophisticated and sexy. She would have to be terminally stupid not to know how a man like that, who thought nothing of approaching a woman he didn’t know and asking her to dinner, would have wanted the evening to end had ‘Sabine’ accepted his invitation. It had been in his eyes, in his gaze—in the way it had washed over her. Blatant in its message.
Would I have wanted it to end that way? If I were Sabine...?
The question was there before she could stop it. Forcibly she pushed it aside, refusing to answer. She was not Sabine—she was Sarah Fareham. And whatever the disturbing impact that man had had on her she had no time to dwell on it. She was only weeks away from the most critical performance of her life, and all her energies, all her focus and strength, had to go into that. Nothing else mattered—nothing.
‘So,’ she said, making her voice cheerful, accepting the coffee Philip had poured for her, ‘you’re our one-man audience, Philip—how’s it going, do you think?’
His face lit. ‘You were wonderful!’ he said, his eyes warm upon her.
Damn, thought Sarah wryly, she’d walked into that one. ‘Thank you, kind sir,’ she said playfully, ‘but what about everyone else?’
‘I’m sure they’re excellent,’ said Philip, his lack of interest in the other performers a distinct contrast with his enthusiasm for the object of his devotion. Then he frowned. ‘Max treats you very badly,’ he said, ‘criticising you the way he does.’
Sarah smiled, amused. ‘Oh, Philip—that’s his job. And it’s not just me—he’s got to make sure we all get it right and then pull it together. He hears all the voices—each of us is focussing only on our own.’
‘But yours is wonderful,’ Philip said, as though that clinched the argument.
She gave a laugh, not answering, and drank her coffee, chasing it down with a large glass of water to freshen her vocal cords.
She was determined to banish the last remnants from the previous night’s unwanted encounter with a male who was the very antithesis of the one sitting gazing at her now. Philip’s company eased some of the inevitable tension that came from the intensity of rehearsals, the pressure on them all and Max’s exacting musical direction. Apart from making sure she did not inadvertently encourage Philip in his crush on her, sitting with him was very undemanding.
With his good-natured, sunny personality, as well as his eagerness and enthusiasm for what was, to him, the novelty of a bohemian, artistic enterprise, it wasn’t surprising tha
t she and the other cast members liked him. What had been more surprising to her was that Max had not objected to his presence. His explanation had not found favour with her.
‘Cherie, anyone staying at their family villa on the Cap is loaded. The boy might not throw money around but, believe me, I’ve checked out the name—he’s one rich kid!’ Max’s eyes had gone to Sarah. ‘Cultivate him, cherie—we could do with a wealthy sponsor.’
Sarah’s reply had been instant—and sharp. ‘Don’t even think of trying to get a donation from him, Max!’ she’d warned.
It would be absolutely out of the question for her to take advantage of her young admirer’s boyish infatuation, however much family money there might be in the background. She’d pondered whether to warn Philip that Max might be angling for some financial help for the cash-strapped ensemble, but then decided not to. Knowing Philip, it would probably only inspire him to offer it.
She gave a silent sigh. What with treading around Philip’s sensibilities, putting her heart and soul into perfecting her performance under the scathing scrutiny of Max, and enduring her nightly ordeal as Sabine, there was a lot on her plate right now. The last thing she needed to be added to it was having her mind straining back with unwelcome insistence to that unnerving visitation to her dressing room the night before.
At her side, Philip was glancing at his watch. He made a face.
‘Need to go back to your essays?’ she asked sympathetically.
‘No,’ he answered, ‘it’s my cousin—the one who owns the villa on the Cap—he’s turned up on the Riviera and is coming over for lunch.’
‘Checking you aren’t throwing wild all-night parties, is he?’ Sarah teased gently, although Philip was the last type to do any such thing. ‘Or holding one himself?’
Philip shook his head. ‘Bastiaan’s loads too old for that stuff—he’s gone thirty,’ he said ingenuously. ‘He spends most of his time working. Oh, and having hordes of females trailing around after him.’
Well, thought Sarah privately, if Cousin Bastiaan was from the same uber-affluent background as Philip, that wouldn’t be too surprising. Rich men, she supposed, never ran short of female attention.
Before she could stop it, her mind homed back to that incident in her dressing room the night before. Her eyes darkened. Now, there was a man who was not shy of flaunting his wealth. Dropping invitations to flash restaurants and assuming they’d be snapped up.
But immediately she refuted her own accusation.
He didn’t need money to have the impact he had on me. All he had to do was stand there and look at me...
She dragged her mind away. She had to stop this—she had to. How many times did she have to tell herself that?
‘Sarah!’ Max’s imperious call rescued her from her troubling thoughts.
She got to her feet, and Philip did too. ‘Back to the grindstone,’ she said. ‘And you scoot, Philip. Have fun with your cousin.’ She smiled, lifting a brief hand in farewell as she made her way back to the stage.
Within minutes she was utterly absorbed, her whole being focussed only on her work, and the rest of the world disappeared from sight.
* * *
‘So,’ said Bastiaan, keeping his voice studiedly casual, ‘you want to start drawing on your fund, is that it?’
The two of them were sitting outside on the shaded terrace outside the villa’s dining room. They’d eaten lunch out there and now Bastiaan was drinking coffee, relaxed back in his chair.
Or rather he appeared to be relaxed. Internally, however, he was on high alert. His young cousin had just raised the subject of his approaching birthday, and asked whether Bastiaan would start to relax the reins now. Warning bells were sounding.
Across the table from him, Philip shifted position. ‘It’s not going to be a problem, is it?’ he said.
He spoke with insouciance, but Bastiaan wasn’t fooled. His level of alertness increased. Philip was being evasive.
‘It depends.’ He kept his voice casual. ‘What is it you want to spend the money on?’
Philip glanced away, out over the gardens towards the swimming pool. He fiddled with his coffee spoon some more, then looked back at Bastiaan. ‘Is it such a big deal, knowing what I want the money for? I mean, it’s my money...’
‘Yes,’ allowed Bastiaan. ‘But until your birthday I... I guard it for you.’
Philip frowned. ‘For me or from me?’ he said.
There was a tightness in his voice that was new to Bastiaan. Almost a challenge. His level of alertness went up yet another notch.
‘It might be the same thing,’ he said. His voice was even drier now. Deliberately he took a mouthful of black coffee, replaced the cup with a click on its saucer and looked straight at Philip. ‘A fool and his money...’ He trailed off deliberately.
He saw his cousin’s colour heighten. ‘I’m not a fool!’ he riposted.
‘No,’ agreed Bastiaan, ‘you’re not. But—’ he held up his hand ‘—you could, all the same, be made a fool of.’
His dark eyes rested on his cousin. Into his head sprang the image of that chanteuse in the nightclub again—pooled in light, her dress clinging, outlining her body like a second skin, her tones low and husky...alluring...
He snapped his mind away, using more effort than he was happy about. Got his focus back on Philip—not on the siren who was endangering him. As for his tentative attempt to start accessing his trust fund—well, he’d made his point, and now it was time to lighten up.
‘So just remember...’ he let humour into his voice now ‘...when you turn twenty-one you’re going to find yourself very, very popular—cash registers will start ringing all around you.’
He saw Philip swallow.
‘I do know that...’ he said.
He didn’t say it defiantly, and Bastiaan was glad.
‘I really won’t be a total idiot, Bast—and...and I’m not ungrateful for your warning. I know—’ Bastiaan could hear there was a crack in his voice. ‘I know you’re keeping an eye on me because...well, because...’
‘Because it’s what your father would have expected—and what your mother wants,’ Bastiaan put in. The humour was gone now. He spoke with only sober sympathy for his grieving cousin and his aunt. He paused. ‘She worries about you—you’re her only son.’
Philip gave a sad smile. ‘Yes, I know,’ he said. ‘But Bast, please—do reassure her that she truly doesn’t need to worry so much.’
‘I’ll do that if I can,’ Bastiaan said. Then, wanting to change the subject completely, he said, ‘So, where do you fancy for dinner tonight?’
As he spoke he thought of Le Tombleur. Thought of the rejection he’d had the night before. Unconsciously, his face tightened. Then, as Philip answered, it tightened even more.
‘Oh, Bast—I’m sorry—I can’t. Not tonight.’
Bastiaan allowed himself a glance. Then, ‘Hot date?’ he enquired casually.
Colour ran along his cousin’s cheekbones. ‘Sort of...’ he said.
‘Sort of hot? Or sort of a date?’ Bastiaan kept his probing light. But his mood was not light at all. He’d wondered last night at the club, when he’d checked out the chanteuse himself, whether he might see Philip there as well. But there’d been no sign of him and he’d been relieved. Maybe things weren’t as bad as he feared. But now—
‘A sort of date,’ Philip confessed.
Bastiaan backed off. He was walking through landmines for the time being, and he did not want to set one off. He would have to tread carefully, he knew, or risk putting the boy’s back up and alienating him.
In a burst, Philip spoke again. ‘Bast—could I...? Could you...? Well, there’s someone I want you to meet.’
Bastiaan stilled. ‘The hot date?’ he ventured.
Again the colour flared across his cousin’s cheeks. ‘Will you?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ Bastiaan replied easily. ‘How would you like us to meet up? Would you like to invite her to dinner at the villa?’<
br />
It was a deliberate trail, and it got the answer he knew Philip had to give. ‘Er...no. Um, there’s a place in Les Pins—the food’s not bad—though it’s not up to your standards of course, but—’
‘No problem,’ said Bastiaan, wanting only to be accommodating. Philip, little did he realise it, was playing right into his hands. Seeing his cousin with his inamorata would give him a pretty good indication of just how deep he was sunk into the quicksand that she represented.
‘Great!’
Philip beamed, and the happiness and relief in his voice showed Bastiaan that his impressionable, vulnerable cousin was already in way, way too deep...
CHAPTER FOUR
BEYOND THE SPOTLIGHT trained on her, Sarah could see Philip, sitting at the table closest to the stage, gazing up at her while she warbled through her uninspiring medley. At the end of her first set Max went backstage to phone Anton, as he always did, and Sarah stepped carefully down to the dining area, taking the seat Philip was holding out for her.
She smiled across at him. ‘I thought you’d be out with your cousin tonight, painting the Côte d’Azur red!’ she exclaimed lightly.
‘Oh, no,’ said Philip dismissively. ‘But speaking of my cousin...’ He paused, then went on in a rush, ‘Sarah, I hope you don’t mind... I’ve asked him here to meet you! You don’t mind, do you?’ he asked entreatingly.
Dismay filled her. She didn’t want to crush him, but at the same time the fewer people who knew she appeared here nightly as Sabine the better. Unless, of course, they didn’t know her as Sarah the opera singer in the first place.
Philip was a nice lad—a student—but Cousin Bastiaan, for all Sarah knew, moved in the elite, elevated social circles of the very wealthy, and might well be acquainted with any number of people influential in all sorts of areas...including opera. She just could not afford to jeopardise what nascent reputation the festival might build for her—not with her entire future resting on it.
She thought rapidly. ‘Look, Philip, I know this might sound confusing, but can we stick to me being Sabine, rather than mentioning my opera singing?’ she ventured. ‘Otherwise it gets...complicated.’
