The French Prize

by Cathryn Hein

  A sudden noise had her jerking upright. Christiane stood at the glass sliding door, watching her, and then stepped out onto the terrace. She balanced on the parapet beside Olivia and patted her hand.

  That simple sign of understanding sent Olivia’s eyes welling.

  ‘Where is he, Christiane?’

  ‘Don’t worry. He’ll be fine.’

  Olivia danced her fingers over the stone, unable to cease fidgeting. ‘I can’t help it. I’m worried sick.’ And she had things to tell him, questions to ask.

  The old lady gave her hand another pat and then rose. ‘It’s late. Go to bed. In the morning he’ll be here.’

  She said it as though it were a truth, yet the fear slithering in Olivia’s stomach didn’t abate.

  Olivia rolled onto her side and pulled in the pillow tighter against her head, but her eyes were drifting open. Sleep was losing its grip. She blinked into the darkness. A tiny creak, like the slightest squeak from a tight hinge, broke the silence.

  She sat up and rubbed at her face and sleep-gritted eyes and wondered if tiredness was making her imagine things. She strained her ears. Nothing sounded beyond the normal complaints of an old house. Raimund had not returned. Anxiety had invaded her dream and poked her awake.

  With a heavy sigh, she lay back down and stared at the ceiling, now fully conscious. The night would bring no more sleep. Not while he was still missing.

  Her hands went to her face again. God, she was an idiot. Why should she care what happens to him? He wanted to destroy the thing she treasured most, but worse, he’d made her feel so flustered, so hopeful, she’d been seduced into helping him in his task.

  He didn’t feel anything for her. Whatever emotion she saw, it wasn’t real. He was using her. She had to remember that.

  Somehow, she had to stop him.

  Her hands fell to the sheets. She stared into the darkness, searching for the strength to fight herself, for resolve, for rationality. And then she heard it. The tumble of water down a drain. Faint but there. He was back.

  She was on her feet in a heartbeat, dashing across the tiled floor and down the hall to Raimund’s room. The door was shut, but leaking under the tiny gap at the bottom was a pale-blue flickering light.

  She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the door, her heart thumping in relief.

  Before she could change her mind, she knocked softly on the door. There was no answer. She placed her hand on the knob and began to twist. The latch clicked open. She stared at it and then let her hand flop back to her side.

  She should go back to bed. That’s what a sensible, rational person would do. He had returned, her fears were allayed and walking into his room wearing only cotton shorts and a tank top was asking for trouble. There was no need to see him. No need at all.

  Except he didn’t know about the symbol.

  Another soft knock went unanswered and this time, when Olivia turned the knob, she didn’t stop.

  The room was empty, the main light off, but she could hear the rustle of cloth and see shadows wax and wane under the globe of the adjoining bathroom. By the bed, its screen drawn into quadrants of flickering blue-grey building scenes, sat an open laptop computer.

  As she took a step closer, the screen changed to another set of four views. She stared at the top-left quadrant, feeling recognition pluck at her memory, but then the screen switched circuits. It didn’t matter. She knew she was looking at the house in which she stood.

  ‘You should be asleep, Olivia.’

  The words were sudden and close. She squeaked in fright and spun around, her hand fluttering to her mouth. Raimund was barely a foot away, yet she hadn’t heard him approach.

  ‘You scared the hell out of me!’

  ‘You should not enter a bedroom uninvited.’

  ‘I knocked,’ she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

  She felt vulnerable standing in his room with him so close and half undressed. His hair and face were wet, with beads of water trickling down his cheeks and throat. The bluish glow of the computer screen made him look almost ethereal, as though he’d just stepped from the ocean, a prince from Neptune’s realm. He held a towel in his hand but made no move to use it. She couldn’t tell if he was angry or intrigued by her presence. His eyes constantly flicked to the computer and back to her face, but it wasn’t a shifty look, more the movement of a man watchful and alert.

  ‘And I did not answer, yet you still entered my room.’

  He was right. She shouldn’t have walked in, but she had something important to confide. And she’d waited hours.

  Her mouth opened to tell him about the symbol she’d uncovered but she pointed to the computer instead.

  ‘What’s this?’

  He put the towel to his hair and rubbed vigorously. Drops of water flew onto his broad shoulders, sparkling like sapphires.

  ‘Security.’

  ‘For here?’

  He nodded.

  Olivia frowned at the screen. The street was deserted. Nothing moved outside.

  ‘Do we need it?’

  The rubbing stopped. His gaze fixed on the screen and didn’t move.

  ‘It’s late. You should be in bed.’

  Olivia grabbed his arm. ‘Does Gaston Poulin know we’re here?’

  He pulled it away, and pressed his hand against her back, pushing her towards the door.

  ‘Please. This is not your concern.’

  Olivia swung away from him, her anxiety returning like seasickness, churning her stomach and speckling her brow with sweat. He wouldn’t look at her.

  ‘How can it not be my concern? You’ve been gone all day. I’ve been worried sick.’

  ‘I had some matters to take care of.’

  ‘Like what?’

  His eyes darted to the computer screen and then back to her. ‘Nothing that affects you.’

  She stood in front of him, blocking his view of the computer. ‘For once in your life, just tell me what the hell’s going on!’

  He looked hard at her, his jaw tight and chiselled, his lips thin.

  ‘I cannot locate Gaston.’

  Olivia flopped on the bed and stared up at him. ‘Is that what you’ve been doing? Looking for Gaston?’

  At first he didn’t react, but then he crouched at her knees and took her hands, his gaze held steady on hers.

  ‘I made a promise to you, Olivia. I said I would keep you safe and that is what I’ll do. I failed once, but I will not fail again.’

  ‘Does Gaston know we’re in Rognes?’

  He stared at the computer, the light on his face flickering as it cycled through the angles. ‘It’s probable, which is why I must keep watch.’ He looked at her again. ‘The house is secure, as are Christiane and Edouard. They are not aware of it, but they have been under guard since Patrice’s death.’ His tone turned to flint. ‘They are family to me, I will not see them harmed.’

  ‘So there is a risk he’ll come here?’

  ‘Yes, a risk exists. It’s impossible to know what Patrice told him. Gaston may regard this as merely another Blancard safe house, or he may know it is something more. Either way, it’s me he wants. Not you, nor my godparents. Which is why it’s better I stay away.’ His smile held no warmth. ‘It’s hard for an enemy to hunt when he is the prey.’

  Olivia bit her lip, thinking. ‘But he would have seen me. At the chateau. He took a shot at me.’

  ‘Yes, but perhaps he does not know who you are, or how important you are to me.’

  She studied his face, looking for a sign that he meant ‘important’ in a personal sense, but she was left wanting. Her shoulders sagged. She pulled her hands from his and rubbed her face.

  Warm palms rested on the top of her thighs, his thumbs lightly caressing her bare skin. ‘Please, the threat is controlled. Get some sleep. I will watch over you.’

  She looked at the computer and then at Raimund and the shadows darkening his eyes. He would not sleep tonight, of that she was sure. Just as she
suspected he had not slept the previous night.

  ‘Yes. But the question remains, Raimund. Who will watch over you?’

  ‘I’ll be okay.’

  But Olivia didn’t believe him for a second.

  CHAPTER

  8

  Olivia pointed at the symbol. ‘Do you recognise it?’

  Raimund peered closer. He scrutinised it for a good while, then straightened, the crease between his brows deep.

  ‘I have never seen it before.’

  ‘Neither have I.’ She sighed. ‘I didn’t expect this.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s meaningless.’

  She regarded the symbol again. It was too unusual not to matter. ‘No. It means something.’

  She rubbed her tired eyes. Everything seemed to ache. The muscles in her shoulders and back were stiff and sore, and her fingers weren’t much better. She stared morosely at La Tasse. On the blotting paper, a scalpel lay ready for use. Today would be worse than yesterday. Scraping the sinter layer required precision and delicacy, neither attribute she felt she possessed.

  Raimund stroked a loose hair away from her face. She looked up at him, surprised.

  ‘I have faith in you, Olivia.’

  She gave him a half-smile. ‘I’m glad someone does.’

  Her hand went to her eyes again. The sandman must have tripped over and upended his bucket while she was sleeping. They itched with fatigue and the gritty residue of sleep. She gave them a hard rub and then slid off the stool. ‘Sorry, I’m just so tired.’

  ‘Then lie down if you need to.’ He indicated the sofa. ‘Patrice stayed here often. He said it was the only place he could sleep properly.’

  A thought struck her. ‘Did he live here? Upstairs with the Rosecs, I mean.’

  ‘No. He owned a mas near Puyricard. He was attempting to renovate it.’ Raimund’s mouth lifted at the memory. ‘Patrice was a scholar not a builder. The house was very run-down.’

  Olivia feigned a swoon. ‘Mmmm, Puyricard. Chocolates.’

  He laughed softly, pleasantly, like a man without a care. ‘You’ve discovered La Chocolaterie de Puyricard, I see.’

  ‘Did I ever.’

  ‘Which is your favourite?’

  She didn’t even have to think. Every time she passed the Puyricard retail shop in Aix-en-Provence, those little rounds of dark chocolate filled with vanilla cream ganache and topped with real gold leaf dragged her in through the door like a drug addict. Not only were they beautiful to look at, they melted on her tongue like liquid ecstasy.

  ‘Palet d’Or,’ she said, her mouth watering over the words.

  He smiled. ‘Of course. You are a woman of taste.’

  She gave him a look. ‘You like them, too?’

  ‘No. I prefer L’escargot Noir.’

  Laughter bubbled in her chest. Dark chocolate in the shape of a snail. How typical.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, giggling at him. ‘You are a man of,’ she rolled her eyes for emphasis, ‘French taste.’

  ‘You tease.’ The words were serious, but his mouth was twitching.

  She nodded, still laughing. ‘I tease.’

  It felt good to laugh, to have a moment’s respite from their worries. And he needed it. As he smiled at her, his face softened. The stress lines around his mouth seemed less deep and the shadows under his eyes faded just a fraction. His beautiful espresso eyes sparkled at her, the light spray of crow’s feet around them crinkling sexily. The urge to kiss him was staggering.

  She sobered and turned to look at La Tasse. This was what she had to concentrate on, not her ridiculous urges. The cup, the riddle, Durendal—those things were more important than her unreciprocated desire.

  ‘I’d better get to work.’

  His hand brushed her hair from her face again. She had left it loose, knowing the thick auburn mass would come in handy as a curtain she could hide behind.

  ‘Do not worry. Please.’ He held a lock in his fingers, caressing it, then draped it across her shoulder and let go. ‘I must leave.’

  She glanced at him, the fear returning. ‘When will you be back?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  They stared at one another. The quiet echoing with words no one spoke.

  ‘Be careful, Raimund.’

  ‘I will.’

  Then he bowed in that strange old-fashioned way and left her to her work.

  He arrived home at midnight. From the terrace, Olivia had watched car lights come up the street with her breath held. The car had passed below the parapet and then turned the corner, but it wasn’t the Clio. The Clio was white. This car was so dark it almost melted into the night. Her heart had sunk with the realisation, but then she heard footsteps and Raimund had appeared on the terrace, the sight of him filling her with joy.

  ‘You should not be still up,’ he said, sitting down next to her.

  ‘Why? Do you think I need more beauty sleep?’

  The birds had settled now, but the cicadas maintained their night-time chorus. The air was cooler than the night before. A soft, perfumed breeze drifted over Olivia’s skin and lifted her hair across her face. He reached across and brushed it out of the way.

  ‘You could never look anything other than perfect, Olivia,’ he said softly.

  His words sent her stomach curling. She’d spent all day berating herself for her stupid urges—urges he’d made clear he had no intention of satisfying, now or in the future—and with one sentence, with one tender gesture, he’d wiped all her resolve to keep a lid on them from her memory.

  She smiled to herself. That wasn’t true. Her resolve had crumbled the moment she saw him silhouetted in the doorway.

  They sat quietly in the chirrup-filled night. Olivia wanted to reach out to him, to take his hand and feel his warm skin against hers, but she was too afraid he’d move away and break the spell that wound between them. The fantasy that his gesture and words were honest instead of being yet another manipulation was too nice to abandon.

  It was late. They should both be sleeping and yet Raimund made no move towards the house. He sat, gazing into the night towards the hill and the ruins of the old village. Moonlight cast its warm white glow over his face, tinting his long lashes and highlighting the sharp planes of his nose, brow and cheekbones. He was more handsome than any man she had ever seen. A lunar-touched Adonis.

  Olivia didn’t want the moment to end.

  ‘Have you made further progress with La Tasse?’ he said eventually.

  She looked up at the stars and screwed up her nose. The day had been one of frustration.

  ‘I uncovered some more letters, but the scalpel didn’t make a dent on the rest. I called Thorsten Grosshans. He said he can see me tomorrow at eleven.’

  ‘He cannot tell you what you need to know over the phone?’

  ‘No. I need to show him the degree of calcification so he can work out which is the best way forward.’

  Immediately, his back stiffened. The hand closest to her gripped the stone wall, the knuckles glowing ghostly white. His expression turned wintery.

  ‘That is out of the question.’

  She knew this would be his answer. The cup was too precious to him to leave the security of the archive room, but she needed help. The unfruitful day had sapped her self-belief. This was out of her realm of expertise.

  ‘I can’t do this without help.’ She looked at him, willing him to understand. ‘It’s a miracle I’ve made it this far without harming the cup. This is all we have. If I damage the inscription, we’ll be left with nothing.’

  ‘You will not damage it.’

  Olivia rose from the parapet. All day she’d been under stress—from the restoration, from worry, from the weight of responsibility he’d placed on her. As the stubborn sinter layer had refused to budge, as her forays into the archives had yielded nothing of the symbol, her confidence in her ability to expose the riddle had eroded with each scrape of the scalpel.

  She didn’t have the expertise, and if Raimund wanted to
find Durendal, he would have to let her seek advice from someone who did.

  ‘I have to show him La Tasse, Raimund.’

  ‘Impossible!’

  He stood and began to march towards the door as if the conversation had ended and there was nothing more to discuss.

  She strode after him and grabbed his arm, yanking him to a halt just before the entrance. ‘It has to be possible. Please, Raimund. I need help. If I break the cup we lose everything. You lose everything.’

  The cicadas fell mute. The night listened, expectant.

  Olivia kept hold of his arm, afraid he would try to escape if she let go. She waited, studying his face, seeking a sign to tell her what he was thinking. His gaze drifted to the interior of the house, towards the fireplace and the mantelpiece where the Rosecs kept their photograph of Patrice.

  Seconds ticked by, then he used his free hand to rub the spot above his left eye he so favoured. His voice, when it came, was resigned.

  ‘He will recognise it.’

  ‘He won’t. Thorsten’s German. The legend of La Tasse won’t immediately spring to mind.’

  He remained riveted by the photo. ‘There is too much risk. If anyone discovers I have La Tasse, my plan will be ruined.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said gently, ‘but would that be such a terrible thing?’

  He pulled his arm from her grip. ‘I will not be stopped, Olivia. I will destroy Durendal. That’s my promise. You will do well to remember that.’

  ‘It’s not what Patrice would have wanted,’ she said, looking at the mantelpiece and then back to him.

  He stared at her, and she could feel the strain it took to keep from blasting her as he had done that morning in the archives. She had spoken about his brother, a man she had never met, and yet she knew she was right. Patrice had loved history. He would not want to see it destroyed.

  ‘This discussion is at an end,’ he said, his voice as glacial as his expression. ‘I suggest you retire. There is much to be done and your work requires a steady hand.’

  Then he stalked inside the house, leaving her shivering on the terrace.

  But not from cold.

  The morning had Christiane resurrecting her boggle-eyed chameleon routine. Raimund had nodded politely at Olivia when she joined the table but said nothing further, his features settling into granite stoicism. Though it wasn’t the arctic harshness of the night before, it had the same effect. Any intimacy they had shared was lost. Olivia was frozen out.