I looked out over the achingly tranquil lake and woods. ‘It must be very peaceful.’
‘I’m a city person,’ he admitted with a wry smile. ‘The countryside is beautiful, bien sur. But I prefer the noise and bustle of central Paris. I keep an apartment near Montmartre and often stay overnight during the week. But Zena loves it out here. She enjoys the solitude.’
‘It doesn’t seem quite right for such a young child to enjoy solitude.’
‘True, but her condition means she can’t live as active a life as we would like. So I think she values her privacy, under the circumstances.’
‘Forgive me,’ I said awkwardly, ‘but I don’t know much about her condition. Damian deals with all the details of my gigs these days and he hasn’t really discussed it with me yet. I’m sorry, it’s been a long tour.’
He nodded slowly. ‘Zena has a disease known in English as Spinal Muscular Atrophy. She showed signs of it at about sixteen months. We couldn’t walk and could barely sit up. My wife and I thought she was a slow developer. We took her to a specialist for testing, and … ’ I saw the strain on his face. ‘Bien, a few months later, she was diagnosed with this appalling condition which means her health is extremely fragile, and she will probably never walk.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
He looked out of the car window as they swept past the leafy and peaceful-looking woods. ‘Hence the concert, which will help raise money for children with this condition.’
I felt terrible, remembering how I had argued with Damian about returning to Paris for this charity concert. He had been absolutely right; this was such a good cause, and I had almost turned it down out of fear of how it would feel to be back in France. Yet my problems with the press were insignificant compared to his daughter’s illness.
‘Monsieur Ressier, I’m honoured that you want me to headline the concert,’ I told him.
His head turned from his contemplation of the woods and he sought my eyes, his smile brief but friendly. ‘No, Sasha. I’m honoured that you even agreed to fly out to Paris again. I know how difficult that decision must have been.’
Did he?
Again, I felt that strange twisting sensation in my belly. The prickling awareness of some familiarity I could not place.
Deja-vu?
I looked away, unable to hold his gaze any longer. ‘It’s the least I can do.’
The limousine slowed as it came level with the wide-doored entrance, finally drawing to a halt opposite a broad terracotta-paved pathway edged with neatly-trimmed lavender bushes and standing roses, some of them already in flower. The house itself was magnificent, built along generous lines and with a Frenchman’s elegant taste. All the same, I spotted a satellite dish hidden discreetly behind creepers on the roof garden, and what looked like a newly-constructed helipad a few hundred feet away next to a perfectly manicured lawn.
A homely country retreat for a man with his head firmly in the modern age, I thought.
Ressier gestured me to climb out as the chauffeur opened the limousine door. ‘Please,’ he murmured, ‘après toi.’
As he followed me out of the car, the large glass door to the house opened and a young woman emerged, pushing a small, thin child in a wheelchair. The pair came to the edge of the stone pathway, where the gravel drive began, and stopped there.
The child held out her arms eagerly. ‘Papa!’
She was pale and fair-haired, not dark like her father, and her blue eyes were bright and intelligent. She seemed healthy and cheerful, and her voice was strong. But there was no mistaking the stoop of her body in the wheelchair, one shoulder lower than the other, as though her spine was slightly out of alignment.
‘Zena,’ he said huskily, and strode swiftly across the gravelled drive. He bent to kiss the child on the cheek, then spoke a few curt words in French to her companion, who nodded and glanced curiously towards me.
The girl’s nurse?
‘We will speak English for our guest’s benefit,’ he said, gesturing me to join him. ‘Please, Sasha, come and meet my daughter Zena. She has been waiting for this moment ever since I told her you had agreed to perform at the concert.’
I did not know much about Spinal Muscular Atrophy, but Ressier had said the child would probably never walk. My heart squeezed in pain. Then I felt the warmth of the girl’s angelic smile as she turned her head towards me, and was humbled by the child’s bravery.
‘Miss Sasha,’ the girl addressed me in excellent English, ‘I am very pleased to meet you. Welcome to my house. Please excuse me if I make mistakes, I have not spoken English for months.’
‘Your English is better than my French, trust me,’ I said ruefully, and shook hands with the girl. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you too, Zena. What a lovely dress!’
‘Merci.’ Zena smiled, clearly proud of her yellow beaded dress. ‘I am wearing it specially for you.’
‘And it suits you perfectly, Zena.’ I looked about the sunlit grounds, breathing in the fresh country air. I could see why the little girl would prefer such a peaceful place to the noise and traffic pollution of Paris. ‘Wow, this is such a lovely place too. I’m so glad I came. I can’t wait to sing for you.’
Ressier came to my elbow, his deep voice stirring my senses inexplicably. ‘The concert marquee is situated on the back lawn. Would you like to see it?’
‘Thank you. Maybe later, after dinner?’ I looked away from him with difficulty, and turned back to Zena. ‘Perhaps you would like to show me round the house instead? It looks incredible!’
‘I would love to,’ Zena agreed, her English so good it was almost hard to believe she was French.
I shook my head in amazement. ‘Are you really only eight years old? Your English is so good!’
Ressier said, ‘Her grandmother was Canadian, so Zena learned to speak both languages from an early age. Sadly, my mother passed away late last year.’
‘I’m sorry.’
That explained why his own English was so good, I thought.
‘Sasha!’ Zena tugged at my sleeve, her small hand strong and insistent, then rolled her eyes upwards. ‘This is Mimi, my nurse. She is pleased to meet you too. But watch out, she is very jealous of you!’
I looked up at the other woman at once, a little startled. Jealous?
The young nurse was a slender, dark-eyed brunette, about five foot eight, dressed simply in blue denim jeans and a loose ivory top, kaftan-style. She was wearing sandals and no jewellery except a simple gold chain about her neck. No attempt to look vampish there, I thought, running an assessing look over her. But she did not appear to be wearing a bra under the kaftan top, and her make-up was immaculate, soft forest-green eye shadow coupled with an unsophisticated pink lipstick. It had been recently retouched too, judging by the glossy shine on her lips. In honour of Ressier’s return?
Mimi was looking embarrassed. ‘Non, non,’ she said at once, glancing from Sasha to Ressier and back. Her cheeks had flushed slightly. ‘It is not true, mademoiselle.’
‘It is completely true!’ Zena insisted, undeterred by her father’s frown. ‘I have heard her say it myself. Though I do not know why. Probably Mimi is jealous because you are a big star, and she is just a nurse.’
‘I think Mimi has a very important job,’ I said firmly. ‘Far more important than mine.’
Ressier put a hand to my elbow and steered me towards the house. ‘I agree with you that Mimi’s work is very important,’ he said, his tone diplomatic. ‘But I would not agree that it is more important than your work, Sasha. What you do lifts us out of ordinary existence for a few dazzling moments. We all need art in our lives. Art and music and stories.’
‘Especially music!’ Zena added mischievously from behind us.
From the outside, I had found the building a little cold, perhaps even intimidating. But the interior changed my mind. The hall was immense and breath-taking, an atrium below a tinted glass roof that drenched everything in softly filtered light. But it became visually soothing on
ce you had got used to the sheer scale of everything. Its marble-tiled floor met white-washed walls that curved smoothly round, hiding a flight of stairs that ended just opposite the main entrance. Sparsely furnished, the hall commanded beautiful views of the surrounding countryside through tall unshaded windows. The overall impression was one of great wealth, but also classical taste and judgement.
As she wheeled the girl inside, the nurse leant over Zena’s wheelchair. ‘Time for your treatment, petite.’
Zena looked disappointed. ‘But I haven’t had a chance to talk to Sasha properly yet. I want to sing her the song I wrote. And show her the house. Can’t we skip treatment for an hour or two?’
Mimi looked over her head at Ressier, and I caught the almost imperceptible signal that passed between them. A tiny frown and shake of her head, as though the nurse was warning him against indulging his daughter. Which seemed rather unfair, I thought, instantly on the girl’s side.
Ressier smiled but shook his head. ‘No,’ he told Zena, not unkindly. ‘It’s getting late and I expect you haven’t had your supper yet either. Now, don’t make that face. You can see Sasha again tomorrow and sing to her then. She’s going to be here for several days, don’t worry.’
‘Okay then, see you tomorrow!’ Zena called merrily, waving her hand as Mimi wheeled her away down a white-washed corridor hung with tiny ornamental golden stars. ‘A demain!’
‘Yes, see you tomorrow,’ I promised, waving back cheerfully, my diamond bracelet slipping down my wrist.
I kept waving until the little girl was out of sight. ‘She’s lovely,’ I told Ressier in the awkward silence that followed his daughter’s departure.
He nodded sombrely. ‘She’s a jewel. I only wish …’ I looked at him, hearing the emotion in his voice, but he did not finish that thought. ‘Viens, let me show you through to the dining room,’ he said instead, turning away. ‘I’m sure Serge will have been alerted to our arrival.’
‘Serge?’
‘My chef.’
Of course, he would have his own chef, I thought drily, but merely nodded.
I followed him through the broad atrium, heels clicking on the white and gold marble floor. Above my head I could see plants suspended on wires from boxes cunningly concealed in crevices in the walls, the walls wound with creepers higher up until the roof, where the glowing sun shone through vast sheets of steel-edged glass.
‘This is amazing,’ I exclaimed, turning on my heel to get the full effect, then leaning back to gaze up at the high glass roof of the atrium. ‘Does that roof slide open?’
‘Yes, it’s frequently left open in high summer.’ Ressier came up behind me, his proximity close to alarming now that we were alone together. ‘At night, with all the lights dimmed in the house, you can sit down here with the roof wide open and look up at the stars.’
‘Sounds heavenly,’ I managed huskily.
‘Not bad for free entertainment.’
There were goose bumps on my arms, I realised. Why the hell was I so nervous of him?
‘Something else you can’t do in Paris, I would imagine.’
‘Light pollution does make it more difficult, perhaps,’ he agreed, coming to stand before me.
His hands were sunk deep in his trouser pockets as he looked upwards, and his face seemed relaxed. He was still being careful to keep the scarred side of his face away from me though. I got the impression that Ressier was on edge too, but could not work out why.
‘Trust me though, you can still see the stars in Paris,’ he told me softly. ‘It is the city of lovers, after all. Some things never change.’
A man in a dark suit and glasses appeared in a doorway to the far end of the atrium.
Was this the chef, I wondered?
Short but well-built, as though very muscular under his suit, he had dark hair razored close to his scalp and an olive complexion. His gaze flickered over me briefly as I looked back at him. Then the man coughed discreetly and Ressier turned his head.
‘Dupont.’ His tone was rather curt, as though he had not appreciated the interruption. ‘How is dinner coming along?’
‘Due on the hour exactly, Monsieur Ressier,’ the man – his butler? his personal assistant? – replied in strongly accented English, then nodded his head respectfully at me. ‘Welcome to La Retraite, madame. May I take your coat and bag?’
‘Mademoiselle, please,’ I insisted, smiling as I slipped out of the gold satin wrap I had brought against the possibility of cooler weather. ‘Thank you. I’ll keep my bag with me.’
‘Certainly, mademoiselle.’
Ressier looked at me, his gaze flickering over my outfit. Tight-fitting stretch-shorts worn with nearly-nude tights and a hot pink peplum-style top nipped in flatteringly at the waist. Hurriedly selecting these two pieces after my shower, I had been thinking chiefly of his eight-year-old daughter, the words ‘fun’ and ‘young’ uppermost in my mind. Now though I realised the hot pink peplum must be shrieking ‘superficial as hell’ at Ressier, and perhaps even what a Brummie on a Saturday night out might dub ‘well up for it’, both of which made me cringe inwardly.
‘This way,’ he said coolly.
I had thought this would be a family-style dinner: me, Jean-Luc Ressier, and his daughter. That had been the sole reason I had accepted this invitation tonight.
But it seemed I was going to be eating alone with the French tycoon. Not at all a comforting prospect, given how inexplicably nervous I felt in his company. I wished, way too late, that I had put my foot down and insisted Damian accompany me out to the ranch. But I had been taken in by his casual confidence as he waved me goodbye at the door to his suite. He had seemed so sure that our host could be trusted, that Ressier was a good guy.
But if he was such a good guy, I thought drily, why were all my alarm bells not so much ringing as deafening me?
I followed him up a short flight of steps that were hidden behind one of the high curving white walls. It was a neat illusion. The steps opened out onto a broad mezzanine level with two corridors leading off it; Ressier led me through one of the corridors to what I presumed was the dining room.
I followed slowly, enjoying his taste in décor. The dining room was not the lavish affair I had expected though, not after the dramatic entrance hall below. But it was beautiful. A long marble-topped table dominated the narrow room; at each end of the table stood a high-backed, rosewood dining chair with a delicately carved back and gold cushioned seat. There was a branch of candles on the table, still unlit, and a stunning centrepiece of newly budded white roses. The place settings were both elegant and ultra-modern, a combination I found irresistible.
Halting on the threshold, I could not help my gasp of appreciation, and saw him smile round at me.
‘You approve?’
‘One hundred and ten percent, Jean-Luc. This is perfect.’
‘I’m glad you like it. I use the main dining room for larger social gatherings, but this is an excellent room for anything more intimate.’
So I had been right to suspect this was not the usual dining room. And something about the way he had hesitated before the word ‘intimate’ made me nervous again.
I tucked my hair behind my ear, then glanced back down the gloomy corridor towards the stairs. I wondered where his butler – or whoever he was – had gone. Ridiculous, really. We were not exactly alone. A man this wealthy, Ressier probably had a few dozen servants tucked away in a place this size.
‘Apart from the chef and his assistant, only Dupont and Mimi are on duty tonight,’ he said drily, as though reading my thoughts. ‘So we are unlikely to be disturbed.’
He did not invite me to sit though. Instead, he headed for the sliding glass doors that led onto the balcony.
‘Would you like to see the marquee?’
Curious, I stepped out onto the shady balcony after him, and sighed with pleasure at the cool evening air on my overheated skin. The place was really quite stunning, I realised. The grounds stretched flat for a few hu
ndred yards at the back, then sloped gently downhill from the top lawn in a series of generous terraced lawns until they reached woodland. Some of the lawns had paths running between flowerbeds and statuary. The statues were in stone and bronze, and a mixture of modern and traditional styles: some human figures, others abstract.
On the top lawn the marquee had been erected, a huge white tent that took up most of the grass area. As we stood together watching, several men in overalls went inside, carrying stacked chairs, while others came out, sidestepping them, empty-handed. In the west the sun was beginning to set, long shadows already consuming the lower lawns near the woods. But even down there I could see movement; a man in a cap and uniform, patrolling with what looked like a German Shepherd on a lead.
‘You have good security,’ I commented, not quite able to hide my surprise.
His tanned left hand, resting on the railing beside mine, suddenly clenched. I looked down at the abrupt movement, and saw him relax his fingers at once.
His fingers were long and lean, and he was wearing a gold band on his ring finger: his wedding ring? I had the impression his wife had died some years ago. But maybe he had been devoted to her.
‘I find it pays to be careful about security,’ Ressier said. ‘You never know who’s out there.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Something in his tone made me shiver, and I saw him glance at me sharply. I straightened at once and threw my shoulders back. So what if he had guards with huge dogs patrolling the grounds? It did not mean we were in danger. Just that he believed in being thorough about security. And I’d had enough of Damian being over-protective of me the past few years; I did not want this guy to start asking if I was okay too. That would have driven me mad, and then I might have screamed and tipped him off the balcony.
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