Heaven Scent

by Sasha Wagstaff

  Ashton reddened slightly and turned away, he was ridiculously shy and her stare was provocative. Hearing the woman’s heels clicking on the pavement, he looked up to see her sashaying away, her hips swinging sexily and unapologetically as she made her way down the street. Ashton hoped she wasn’t as interested in the building as he was, because he was going to do whatever he had to in order to secure it.

  Delphine was feeling very out of sorts as she sat in a café waiting for a friend. Cat Hayes’ arrival had unsettled her. She hadn’t met her personally, so far, but she had been unnerved to see Seraphina chatting to her for so long. Cat Hayes had no airs and graces, according to Guy, and if she was a gold digger, she was hiding it well, by all accounts.

  Not that it mattered, Delphine reasoned, sipping her espresso. Cat Hayes could be beautiful, she could be ugly, she could be pleasant or she could be shallow; it was unimportant in the scheme of things. Whatever she was like as a person, Delphine could only imagine one outcome for Cat Hayes: being sent packing on the first suitable flight home with no claim whatsoever to the Ducasse-Fleurie fortune.

  ‘So.’ Cybille Thibault took a seat opposite her good friend. She ordered an espresso for herself and leant forward, her eyes sparkling with interest. ‘What’s she like?’

  Delphine took a moment to formulate her answer. Cybille was a coiffed, chain-smoking dragon who had lived off her billionaire husband’s inheritance since his well-publicised debacle with two underage sisters but she was also an important member of Delphine’s inner circle. Cybille was a gossip but a discreet one and she wielded great power. Somehow, she had survived her husband’s recent scandal unscathed and her opinions mattered greatly. She was also a good friend of the editor of one of France’s best-selling society magazines, which was probably one of the reasons she had emerged apparently untouched from her husband’s shame.

  ‘Well?’ Cybille frowned impatiently, playing with her cigarettes.

  ‘I haven’t met her properly yet. But I saw her from a distance and she seemed . . . very normal.’

  ‘Normal?’ Cybille put her coffee cup down with a clatter. ‘What does that mean?’

  Delphine shrugged vaguely. ‘She didn’t look remarkable in any way.’

  Cybille sat back and narrowed her eyes. ‘Was she pretty?’

  ‘She was . . . passable.’

  Cybille smiled triumphantly. ‘So she was pretty. I thought so.’ She lit a cigarette, daring the staff in the café to tell her off. ‘The thing to remember about Olivier is that he was a playboy – he played the field and he had his pick of women. Now, did she seem flashy or cheap?’

  Delphine sipped her coffee. ‘I couldn’t say. Her clothes weren’t of any note and neither was she.’

  Cybille delicately puffed smoke out of her nostrils, somehow managing to make it look classy. ‘You really are being most ambiguous, Delphine! How am I supposed to help you if I don’t have any information?’

  ‘Help me?’ Delphine raised her pencil-thin white eyebrows.

  Cybille considered her. ‘Delphine. How do you think I survived my husband’s disgraceful scandal?’

  Delphine patted her chignon with slight distaste. ‘Good connections?’ she offered, not sure what else to say.

  Cybille looked smug. ‘Well, yes, that helps, of course. But when cornered, we women need to be smart, we need to be one step ahead of our adversaries.’

  ‘And how, pray tell, do I get one step ahead of Olivier’s widow?’ Delphine moved her coffee cup to one side as Cybille discreetly pushed a business card across the table. ‘Yves Giraud’, it said in bold, black lettering.

  ‘A private detective?’ Delphine’s voice rose to a squeak.

  Cybille shot her an indignant look, glancing over her sholder to see if Delphine’s raised voice had attracted attention. ‘What are you trying to do, ruin my reputation?’ She looked affronted. ‘I’m telling you about Yves because you are my good friend and because I care about you.’

  Delphine inclined her head. ‘Sorry. I just don’t understand why I would need a private detective. I can see why you did – forgive me, I am only speaking the truth here, Cybille – but how does this apply to my situation?’

  Cybille lit a cigarette with the dying embers of her other one, giving Delphine a shrewd glance. ‘What do you know about this girl? What do you really know about her? I suspect not a great deal. And why should you? You haven’t even met her yet and all you know is that for some strange reason she married Olivier last year on holiday.’ She grimaced. ‘Talk about “marry in haste, repent at leisure”, or whatever that expression is. Anyway, once you confront her, you may find you have absolutely nothing to worry about. Perhaps she will simply accept your pay-off – you are intending to pay her off, I take it?’

  Uncomfortably, Delphine nodded. She detested discussing such vulgarities in a café.

  ‘Absolutely the best course of action,’ Cybille assured her. ‘And if all goes according to plan, she will be on a flight home in no time. But should she refuse to sign the paperwork or throw something else your way, you need a plan B.’ Cybille tapped the business card with a fingernail painted a garish shade of pink. ‘Yves Giraud is plan B. He’s an excellent investigator and if there is something to find, he will find it. Perhaps Miss Hayes has something to hide? Perhaps Yves might unearth something unsavoury about her she wouldn’t want revealed?’

  ‘Blackmail?’ Delphine could barely say the word out loud.

  Cybille waved her cigarette in the air. ‘Such an ugly word! I prefer to call it insurance. Sometimes, if a situation becomes unpleasant, one has to fight dirty, especially when it comes to family.’

  She had said the magic words as far as Delphine was concerned. When it came to family, she would stop at nothing to protect her own.

  ‘You make a good point, Cybille,’ she said, smoothly sliding the business card off the edge of the table and into her Chanel handbag. She got to her feet, picking up the bill – it was the least she could do. ‘Thank you. I’ll keep you up to date with developments.’

  Cybille nodded sagely. ‘You do that,’ she said, reaching for another cigarette.

  Xavier strode to the stables restlessly, wondering whether he should give Therese a call back. She’d been badgering him all day and he was about to give in when he discovered his younger brother Max standing next to the dormant lavender fields that would burst into a riot of violet and indigo in June. He was staring down into the rocky valley below, transfixed. Xavier put his phone away. He had been meaning to speak to Max since the party and now seemed as good a time as any.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, reaching Max’s side. He glanced down at the valley, realising Max was doing what he himself often did, visiting the place their mother had lost her life over two years ago. It might seem maudlin to others but it was strangely comforting.

  ‘Hey,’ Max returned, glancing at him moodily.

  Knowing he smoked, Xavier handed him a cigarette. ‘Do you want to be on your own?’

  Max shook his head and accepted Xavier’s lighter. ‘Not really. Did you enjoy the party?’

  Frowning as his phone beeped loudly at him, Xavier ignored yet another phone call from Therese.

  ‘She’s getting clingy,’ Max observed slyly, knowing how much Xavier hated it when girls did that.

  ‘Why do I always pick women who need me to reassure them day and night?’ Xavier groaned.

  Max blew smoke into the air. ‘Because you play the field.’ He shrugged. ‘If you change girlfriends more than you change your underwear, they tend to need reassurance that you’re still interested in them.’

  ‘When did you get so wise about women?’ Xavier laughed, giving him a brotherly shove. He supposed Max was right; like Olivier, he chased women indiscriminately, at least that’s what he’d done for the past two years or so. Before that, he had been optimistic about love. No, he had been in love with the whole idea of love, prepared to settle down and be grown up and responsible.

  Xavier gritted hi
s teeth, hating what he had become. He had changed beyond recognition. Before her, he hadn’t been remotely cynical, but these days he went after women with cold detachment – anything to avoid making the same mistake twice. Xavier’s eyes darkened as he lit a cigarette. Everyone thought he was screwed up over his mother’s death because he had refused to take part in the family perfume business since then, but there was far more to it than that.

  ‘Women,’ Max said, knowing Xavier was contemplating the past. He knew exactly what had happened to his brother two years ago but he wouldn’t ever tell a soul, one, because it was way too private, and two, because one sniff of it would have the press setting up camp outside the château.

  Xavier nodded in agreement. ‘I’m always honest about my intentions,’ he said, his sense of humour returning. ‘But what good does it do me? They still want me to commit in some way. If anything, me saying I don’t want a relationship encourages them.’

  Max laughed. ‘It’s a bit like the business, Xav,’ he commented. ‘The more you say you don’t want to get involved, the more everyone gets on your case to do it.’

  It was true. Since his mother’s death, Xavier felt that everyone was relying on him, waiting and expecting him to take up the reins and carry on where she left off. Being a ‘nose’, a scent creator, was an exceptional and much envied talent, Xavier knew that. He was invaluable to the family business because he understood the brand and he was the only one who could create something new to breathe life into the company. If only he could find it in himself to care. Once upon a time, his life had revolved around whether iris poudre and blackberry blended well and whether ‘gourmand’ scents featuring edible or dessert-like qualities really did bring about a sense of well-being. But these days, such things barely touched his radar.

  ‘Did you meet Olivier’s widow last night?’ Xavier asked, blowing smoke into the air.

  Max’s expression was guarded. He was fairly sure it was Cat Hayes he had offered his spliff to but he was hoping to God she didn’t grass him up. ‘Not really.’ He shrugged.

  ‘Me neither. At least, she caught me with Therese, skinny-dipping, but we didn’t exactly have a chat.’ Xavier grinned. He probably looked like a spoilt playboy, splashing around naked in the hot tub, but what did he care? The opinion of Olivier’s widow hardly mattered.

  ‘Enough about me,’ he said to Max, turning to face his brother. ‘Where were you last night?’

  Max looked evasive. ‘I was . . . around,’ he said, scowling slightly. ‘What are you getting at?’

  Xavier met his eyes sternly. ‘You know exactly what I’m getting at. Were you doing drugs again?’

  Max threw his cigarette into the valley aggressively. ‘You can’t ask me that!’

  ‘I can ask you anything I damned well like and you’d be better telling me than our father. He’ll go mad if he finds out you’re doing drugs, you know that.’ He noted the shock in his brother’s eyes. ‘Oh, come on, Max! I know all the signs. Olivier was just as bad. You’re on a dangerous path right now and you don’t want to end up the way he did.’

  ‘Olivier had a great life,’ Max said flippantly. ‘And I don’t do jet skis, so there’s no danger there.’

  Xavier gripped his arm. ‘Olivier is dead, remember?’ he howled angrily. ‘He’s buried in the ground and we’re still picking up the pieces – at least, I am. The last thing I want to do is clear up after my baby brother too.’

  Max shook his hand off. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise I was such a burden to you, Xavier. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine, you won’t need to “clear up” after me, all right?’ He stormed off, his dark head down and his hands shoved into his pockets.

  Xavier sighed; he hadn’t handled that well. He hadn’t meant to make Max feel as though he was a burden, he was just trying to get the silly kid to make more sensible decisions. Xavier cursed under his breath, knowing he had probably made matters worse. Turning, he saw his father approaching. Xavier’s heart sank. He wasn’t in the mood for a confrontation and that was all his father seemed to want from him right now.

  ‘There you are,’ Guy said. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’ He couldn’t bear the sight of the valley that had taken his beloved wife from him but, strangely, his children seemed drawn to it. Perhaps they felt closer to Elizabeth here but he found staring at her place of death traumatic. ‘We’re going to speak to Olivier’s widow tomorrow morning. Do you want to be there?’

  Xavier shook his head. ‘No thanks. I’m sure it will be tedious and unpleasant.’ He noticed the deep lines etched down his father’s cheeks, marks that had only appeared in the past year or so.

  Guy shook his head, raking his silver hair back with an impatient hand. He reminded himself to stay calm. Xavier had a temper and getting cross with him would achieve nothing. ‘She’s a very beautiful girl, you know. She may not be the gold digger we all assumed she was.’

  ‘What, because she’s beautiful?’ Xavier scowled. ‘Olivier had relatively good taste in women, so his widow wasn’t likely to be ugly. But it doesn’t mean her intentions are pure, does it? She has to be slightly mental, at least. If she wasn’t after Olivier’s money, she’s crazy for marrying someone she barely knew.’ He shrugged. ‘Who cares, anyway?’

  ‘Xavier!’ Guy roared, his good intentions to stay calm evaporating. ‘This is important to the family, you need to step up and get involved!’

  Xavier’s fiery temper flared up just as quickly. He turned on his father. ‘Why do I need to? Because it suits you?’ He lifted his chin angrily, his dark eyes flashing. ‘All you care about is the business! You can’t stand the fact that I’m not interested in the money or in perfume. You think my life should be ruled by it like yours is. I don’t care, all right? Not any more.’ Xavier stormed back to La Fleurie looking just like his brother Max a few minutes ago.

  Despairingly, Guy stared after him, ignoring the uncomfortable feeling that Xavier might have a point about his life being ruled by the family business. But someone had to care – didn’t they?

  Chapter Four

  The next day, feeling deeply apprehensive, Leoni ventured back to La Fleurie. There was a family meeting to attend after the weekend and there was no way she was missing that.

  Maybe Olivier’s gold-digging widow had already left, Leoni thought hopefully as she strolled outside into the watery sunshine. She flexed her shoulders; it felt surprisingly good to be back at La Fleurie, where she still had an office. Having moved into a nearby apartment a few years ago, Leoni split her time between the perfume warehouse and La Fleurie, crashing out in her apartment when she needed sleep or privacy. Work was manic at the moment and at least when she was in the family home, she could be herself and let go of the tough façade she put on at the warehouse. Well, Leoni thought, it wasn’t all a façade; she supposed she was tough in many ways and she was certainly more focused on work than the rest of her family.

  Leoni’s moment of relaxation was short-lived. Catching sight of a mane of butterscotch-blond hair in the pool house, she realised Olivier’s widow was indeed still around. Turning puce and not even stopping to think, Leoni marched in and confronted Cat.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she blurted out brusquely in French.

  Startled, Cat simply stared at Leoni. She was wearing a conservative navy dress that, whilst chic, made her look far older than she was. Her severe expression intimidated Cat but the eyes were so like Olivier’s, the jawline identical too . . .

  Leoni looked pained. Not only did Olivier’s silly widow have the most appalling dress sense, the girl couldn’t even understand basic French. Why else would she be staring at her so gormlessly? Feeling irritable, she opened her mouth to ask the question again in English.

  ‘God, but you look like Olivier!’ Cat declared, before she could stop herself. Then she repeated the statement in French.

  Leoni flinched, clearly taken aback. Belatedly, it occurred to her that Cat may well have understood every word of the spiteful speech she’d
delivered at her party. Leoni felt a pang of regret. It had been a nasty moment, one fuelled by too much champagne and raw grief, but it was out there now.

  Defensively, she responded, her next words more loaded with sarcasm than she intended them to be. ‘Well, I hope me looking like Olivier doesn’t make you feel awkward.’

  ‘Not at all. In fact, it’s . . . it’s actually oddly comforting.’ It was. It was like seeing Olivier again in some ways, although obviously Leoni was her own person and didn’t appear to share many personality traits with her brother. Olivier had been so hedonistic and funny, and Leoni . . . well, Leoni seemed far more serious. And very angry. But maybe Olivier’s death had done that to her – death rarely brought out the best in people.

  Cat immediately felt contrite. Leoni was Olivier’s sister and the last thing she wanted to do was provoke her further. ‘I’m so sorry, it must be such a shock meeting me like this. I know I’d find it hard. But please don’t worry too much. I reckon I’ll be leaving soon and you can all get on with your lives again.’ She gave Leoni a warm smile, to show there were no hard feelings.

  Disarmed by Cat’s honesty, Leoni felt wrong footed. She tried to look at Cat the way Olivier might have done; after all, with all the women at his disposal, he had chosen to marry Cat, so there had to be something special about her. Grudgingly, Leoni admitted she had a certain appeal. Aside from the crumpled white top and jeans, Cat was really pretty, not at all the brassy tart they’d been expecting. She had a hesitant but friendly smile, and a lovely figure, slightly too curvy to suit French couture but still, Leoni supposed she could see the attraction.

  ‘Have you met my grandmother yet?’ she asked Cat.

  Cat shook her head. ‘Not yet. There’s a meeting later today . . . in the boardroom, apparently.’ She paused and glanced up at the château. ‘I know this place is huge but I didn’t realise it had a boardroom.’