by Helen Brooks
'Please—please, Luke…' She couldn't take any more of this. Winner? He thought she was a winner? The bitter irony swept through her with such intensity that she felt faint for a moment. He saw what the world saw. What would he say if he saw the real Josie Owens?
'OK, OK.' He held up one large, tanned hand as he accelerated with more fury than finesse, the powerful car leaping forward with a growl of rage. 'But it's a waste. A damn waste.'
You'll never know how much of one, she answered him silently as misery became a hard lump in her throat.
The scenery was flashing by the windows as the car fairly flew along the road. They were back at the chateau in half the time it had taken them to drive to the caterers, arriving a moment before an impressive dove-grey Mercedes, which drew to a smooth halt just as Luke opened Josie's door.
'Mr Hawkton?' The tall, burly, fair-haired man who unwound himself from the car's interior was handsome and young, his good-looking face wreathed in a smile that didn't fade an iota at Luke's less than enthusiastic response. 'I'm Pierre Delpire; I have an appointment with yourself and a Miss Owens at eleven.'
He spoke excellent English, Josie thought fleetingly as she smiled and shook hands with the young Adonis along with Luke, his accent adding just a faint sexy tinge to his words. And he was the first builder she had met who travelled in a Mercedes, she reflected wryly, although this was the South of France after all.
'I expected someone older.' Luke's voice was not exactly offensive but it wasn't welcoming either, and the other man's hundred-watt smile dimmed slightly as it met the silver-grey gaze.
'Did you?' Pierre Delpire was polite, but clearly he felt somewhat out of his depth. 'Probably my father. But he would not be of use on something like this, Mr Hawkton, not at this stage. I have trained as an architect and so we decided it would be useful if I came to discuss the preliminaries, yes? Then if the proposition is feasible we go from there?'
Luke looked set to argue some more, but before he could speak Josie nodded brightly, her voice brisk. 'That's fine, Monsieur Delpire. Perhaps you'd like, to come and look at the site?'
'Thank you, yes.' He smiled down at her, the bright intensity back in shining order as his vivid blue eyes took in the delicate beauty of the small woman in front of him.
'Mr Hawkton has hired my firm to oversee the project,' Josie said quietly as the three of them passed through the massive wrought-iron gate at the side of the house that led directly into the gardens. 'The idea of the ice rink was mine, I would be grateful for any help you can give that will make things easier.'
'Although you will, of course, be dealing directly with me most of the time,' Luke put in smoothly, taking her elbow in a firm grip as they walked. 'That is understood?'
'Of course, Mr Hawkton.' The other man seemed mildly puzzled by Luke's cold voice, and Josie had to bite back the sudden burst of anger his authoritative tone brought to the surface. He was acting as though he didn't think she was capable of overseeing the work, she thought tightly, when he knew quite well that wasn't true.
'You speak excellent English.' She forced every trace of annoyance from her voice as she smiled up at Pierre when an awkward silence had reigned for a few moments. He was a good few inches smaller than Luke, although the hard, firm body was muscular and fit, his face dear and unlined.
'I lived in England with my mother for ten years, until I was twenty-five,' the young Frenchman explained quietly. 'When she died my father offered me a place in his business, so I moved out here two years ago. I love France, my father's country, but I also love England.' He smiled at her, his face open and friendly. 'An English country pub on a warm summer evening with the smell of woodsmoke in the air is hard to beat.'
'Where did you live?' she asked interestedly, unaware of Luke's dark, frowning face at her side.
'Sussex. A little village called Oakcross.'
'I know Oakcross,' she said delightedly, before she could think. 'I—' The sudden realisation that she had said more than she intended came too late. 'I lived near there at one time,' she added weakly.
'Did you?' Pierre grinned down at her. 'We will have to compare notes—' He came to an abrupt halt. 'Owens-Josie Owens. I knew I recognised the name from somewhere. You were with Peter Staples when he had that first car crash of his, weren't you?'
'Peter?' She too had stopped, and she turned to face the young Frenchman, aware as she looked at him of Luke's keen glance on them both. 'I…yes, I—I knew Peter when I was younger,' she stammered weakly. Here, of all places, to be faced with the past. It was ironic, bitterly ironic, she thought desperately. How much did Pierre know, and how quickly could she change the subject?
'You know he is dead?' The words were stark, and without any of the social niceties that were normal in such a conversation.
'Dead?' She stared at Pierre, her eyes enormous in the whiteness of her face. 'No. No, I didn't know that,' she said numbly, shock at the sudden revelation freezing any other reaction.
'Another crash similar to the one with you,' Pierre said levelly, his face straight now. 'He was a good friend, your Peter. The parties and fun we had… He—how do you say it?—took me under his wing when I arrived in England. Showed me the good time…'
He would, Josie thought silently as her mind whirled and spun. Even when she had known him, and especially after the crash, his friends had begun to drift away, recognising the true personality of the man they had hero-worshipped. Peter would have loved having a good-looking young man like Pierre in tow, to bolster the playboy image that had begun to tarnish, and it was clear that he had completely taken in Pierre with that synthetic charm he'd practised so well.
'He wrapped his car round a tree,' Pierre continued flatly, 'after he'd been drinking. He drank a lot after that crash with you—but then I suppose you know about that. And the women… He was always searching for understanding. If you hadn't left him like that—'
'Like what?' Josie stared at Pierre in amazement. What on earth had Peter told the young Frenchman? It was clear from his face that he held her personally responsible for his hero's death.
'You broke his heart—'
'I did nothing of the sort,' Josie flashed back as she found her tongue along with a furious rage that burnt in every nerve and sinew. So that was how Peter had explained to everyone the circumstances of that first horrific crash, with its tragic consequences? Holding himself up as a remorseful, rejected suitor whose woman had walked out on him when he'd needed her most?
'It wasn't his fault, you know,' Pierre said sorrowfully. 'He always wished he could have convinced you of that—'
'Were you there?' Josie bit out tightly. 'Were you? No, you weren't. So just keep quiet about something you know nothing about.'
'I—'
'I think Miss Owens is saying the matter is closed.' If Luke's voice had been any colder the air around them would have splintered, and Pierre suddenly seemed to realise where he was and why. 'Now, if you'd care to continue with the job you are going to be paid a great deal to do…' Luke continued icily, and he waved a hand for them to start walking again.
'Of course.' Pierre was now a deep scarlet, but Josie couldn't dredge up any sympathy for the young man as Luke once more took her arm in a firm hold. The past was suddenly more real than the present, all the pain and agony and terrible desperation of that time at the forefront of her mind as she walked between the two men to the site of the proposed ice rink.
How dared Peter play the part of the innocent? she asked herself angrily. How dared he? And how could anyone, anyone believe such a ridiculous story? But then Peter at his most charming had been hard to resist, and to a young, gullible French boy in a new country with no friends… Yes, she could see that Pierre must have been a sitting duck for Peter's strategy—like herself all those years ago.
So he was dead? Even as she discussed the ice rink plans and future arrangements a separate portion of her brain was ticking away on a different plane altogether. Peter Staples was dead. She waited fo
r some emotion—anything—but it was as though all her feelings had fallen into a great vacuum.
In the early days after the accident, when she had been coping with the knowledge of her own mutilation and the fact that her father's death was due to that man, she had wished him dead constantly. And afterwards, even as she had begun to carve out her new life, she had been consumed by a wish for revenge, driven by it.
But now? Now all she felt was a faint sense of relief that no other woman would suffer the same kind of torment she had at Peter's hands. He had died as he had lived, violently and foolishly, and she was just glad that in his dying he hadn't taken anyone with him. He already had the deaths of two men to answer for.
Pierre left just before lunch, after the plans for the small but extremely expensive ice rink had been agreed, and Luke was in a dark mood of his own as the Mercedes drew away, the occupant clearly relieved to be leaving.
'Are you happy with the arrangements so far?' Josie asked tentatively as they walked into the house, breaking the icy silence. She had decided to endeavour to keep the conversation purely and solely on the job in hand if she could, although her instinct told her it was a forlorn hope.
'Ecstatic,' he said crisply without looking at her. 'Shouldn't I be?'
'If you don't like anything that has been mentioned you only have to say-—'
'Really?' He cut into her careful words with all the softness of a bullet. 'Well, there was just one little thing, as it happens. How come an ape like that knows more about you than I do?'
'What?' She stared at him, unable to believe she was hearing right.
'And don't play dumb; it doesn't suit you. You know exactly what I am referring to, Josie. He knows about your past life, your old boyfriend—this Peter—and what is Pierre Delpire to you? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. But I'm left standing there like an old flame at a wedding. Oh, to hell with it—' He ground out the words through clenched teeth. 'What does it matter anyway?'
'But I don't know Pierre Delpire,' she said confusedly, utterly bewildered by the black rage darkening the rugged features.
'Exactly. He is a stranger to you, a complete stranger, yet he knows more about you than I do. How do you think that made me feel back there?' he said furiously, his eyes slits of silver.
'I… I don't understand—'
'You don't understand?' he snarled scathingly. 'It's damn clear I'm the one who doesn't understand anything. You were involved with this Peter, from all accounts, and then gave him the old heave-ho and drove the guy half-insane. What was it? The career beckoning? The bright lights of the city? Or did the poor fool want to marry you, have a family? That would really have done it, wouldn't it? Who are you, Josie? What are you? How can one woman give off so many different signals?'
'I don't have to explain myself to you or anyone else,' she said tightly, her face white.
'No, that's right—that's absolutely right,' he agreed, his face as black as thunder. 'You are your own person, aren't you? Answerable to no one and with no one answerable to you.'
'Yes.' She raised her chin and looked him full in the face as her heart thundered so hard she felt she was going to pass out at his feet. 'That's how it is.'
'And how you want it to remain?' he asked coldly.
She nodded, not trusting her voice, willing herself to remain in control for just a few moments more until she could make an excuse and escape that devastating gaze.
'I see. Well, there is really nothing more to be said, then, is there? If you will excuse me, I shall have lunch in my study while I work on some papers. You may have yours in your room or on the veranda, whichever you prefer.' He stared at her, the silver eyes like liquid mercury.
'Thank you,' she said woodenly, before turning and walking away, her heart cut to ribbons.
Later that afternoon, her face clear of the tearstains that ravaged her features earlier, after the disastrous confrontation with Luke, she stood down on the beach watching the dancing waves lit with sparkling sunshine, the hot, powdery sand like velvet beneath her bare feet.
She had worked for an hour after lunch, but an aching head and an aching heart had driven her outside after a while, and now her walk was slow and weary as she made her way back to the pool area. She had just settled herself on one of the loungers positioned under the dappled shade of a large cherry tree, when the sound of children's laughter brought her head jerking upright.
'Oh, pardon, mademoiselle...' As Madame Marat caught sight of her she came to a sudden stop, causing the trio of chattering children behind her to cannon into her back. 'I did not know you were 'ere,' she apologised hastily, and she turned to usher the now silent infants back the way they had come. 'We come back another day, mademoiselle— pardon.'
'Please, don't do that.' Josie felt highly embarrassed at spoiling what was obviously a treat for the housekeeper's grandchildren. 'I don't mind, really. I think the pool is big enough for everyone.' She smiled warmly into the Frenchwoman's forbidding countenance and received a tentative smile in return.
'Is no problem to come back another day.' Madame Marat said anxiously. 'They are a leetle noisy—excited, you know?'
'It's perfectly all right.' Josie was conscious of three pairs of wide blue eyes surveying her from under three curly mops of hair, and she forced herself to smile at the small children even as her heart gave the little twist that all such encounters caused. They were very pretty—unlike their grandmother—and very small. 'How old are they?' she asked Madame Marat quietly.
'Denis is nearly two.' She indicated a rosy-cheeked little boy, who grinned at Josie immediately. 'Maime is three and Francoise is four.'
'They're lovely children,' Josie said softly.
'They are an 'andful, mademoiselle.' Madame Marat grimaced dramatically. 'But is it any wonder? This is what I ask myself. Their papa, he run off—poof! You understand, mademoiselle? So now my poor daughter, she is all alone. Is very 'ard for 'er, I think?'
Josie nodded sympathetically even as she envied Madame Marat's luckless daughter from the bottom of her heart. With three beautiful babies like these their mother was rich in everything that mattered, she thought silently, although probably the poor woman couldn't see it that way right now.
'Well, please, let them play,' Josie said quietly.
'Merci, mademoiselle.' Madame Marat said something in rapid French to the three children, who immediately echoed their grandmother's thanks, their baby voices high and shrill. There was much giggling and chattering and several covert glances in Josie's direction as their grandmother blew up three pairs of armbands, but once in the water the little tots splashed about at the pool's shallow end while Madame Marat sat at the edge, dangling her feet, her voice raised in warning now and again if they ventured too far.
And after a while it happened… as it always did if Josie came into contact with children. Whether it was her hunger, her longing, her love for all children that drew them to her she didn't know, but, despite their grandmother's repeated admonishments, first one little wet body then another crept over to her side, and she found herself playing and talking with them despite the language barrier.
In the world she had chosen to live in she wasn't often put in such a situation, but on the rare occasions it happened the result was always the same; an immediate rapport and understanding. And a particular kind of exquisite torture for her.
And so it was, just as Madame Marat was trying to persuade them that they had to go home for tea, cajoling them with promises of further afternoons in the pool, that Luke found her, engulfed by tiny plump arms and legs and wriggling bodies, her face alight and her whole being absorbed in the little tots.
He stood and watched her for long minutes before he made his presence known—when the three children were leaving amid tears of protest—and, as he had expected, once she caught sight of him walking towards her the shutter snapped back into place with military precision. And he couldn't believe how angry it made him.
'Had a restful afternoon?' He kept h
is voice expressionless and cool, dropping down on the lounger next to her and stretching out his body to the sun's warmth after slipping off his towelling robe, his head turned to watch her face.
'Yes, thank you,' she lied quickly.
'With those three around?' He kept the disbelief light. 'They tire me out in an hour.'
She lowered her head, allowing the mass of silky curls to hide her flushed face. 'They are nice children,' she said flatly.
'Yes, they are.' He allowed a moment's pause, his eyes evaluating the tension evident in the strained posture of her arms and legs, in the rigid neck and shoulder muscles. 'Did Madame Marat tell you their father has left?' he asked evenly. 'Ran off with another woman, I understand.'
'Yes, she mentioned it.' This was awful; she wouldn't be able to work for him with the atmosphere so tense that the air was vibrating, Josie thought miserably. She'd have to apologise. 'Luke, about this morning—'
'Forget it,' he said shortly. 'I have. That's the best thing, isn't it?'
'I guess so.' She straightened, her head turning to the smooth blue expanse of shimmering water. 'I'm going to have a swim.'
'Good idea.' He didn't follow her immediately, watching for a few minutes as she forced her body through the water at a punishing pace, as though her life depended on it.
She didn't see his fluid dive into the pool but when he surfaced just in front of her, his arms reaching out almost in the same instant to draw her to him, she was too surprised to object. 'You're too serious about your swimming,' His eyes held hers tightly, their depths metallic. 'Don't you ever have fun?'