The Vow

By Georgia Fallon

A young woman disillusioned by love. A powerful and ruthless man haunted by the past. Neither entirely what they seem to be.

Family and friends with their own agendas. Manipulation, deception and betrayal.

A vindictive journalist, a beautiful brothel-keeper and a formidable henchman. Bribery, blackmail and intimidation.

During a long hot summer their lives intertwine and many change forever. There are winners. There are losers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marble City Publishing
• Release date: Jan 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781908943606

Book preview

THE VOW

Georgia Fallon

––––––––

Copyright © 2013 Georgia Fallon

2013 e-Book Licensed by Marble City Publishing

Epub Edition

ISBN-10 1-908943-60-2

ISBN-13 978-1-908943-60-6

No reproduction without permission

All rights reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Contents

Dedication

PROLOGUE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EPILOGUE

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Dedication

For my dear friend Chris Hogan

1944 - 2010

With grateful thanks for her unfailing

support, advice and enthusiasm.

PROLOGUE

A cool breeze caught the filmy fabric of the curtains and they billowed gently. The Indian summer, so often forecast, so rarely seen, was coming to a close. She sat by the open French windows, chilled by the breeze but unwilling to move, unable to move. Waiting.

She looked out onto the garden still beautiful despite the lateness of the season. Tall feathery cosmos swaying in the light wind, nerines glowing pink and rosa rugosa in bloom yet again. She was waiting, waiting for the answer.

It wouldn’t be long now. She glanced at her watch; slim and gold, an expensive gift perhaps undeserved. Two minutes to go. Extraordinary that a question so important, so life changing, could be answered in such a short time.

The cat, long-legged and elegant, strolled through the doorway and stared up at her with his icy blue eyes. He spoke in his imperious oriental voice and slowly she leaned forward, scooping him up onto her lap. He immediately jumped back down and strutted off, his tail twitching in irritation. Why don’t you like me? she asked silently. Because you are false, came the unspoken answer.

Check the watch again; time up. Suddenly she didn’t want to know; couldn’t bear to face the future. She took a deep breath and forced herself to look at the seemingly innocuous plastic-coated stick lying on the low table next to her. She stared unseeing for a moment, unable to focus and then, finally, it registered.

The die was cast.

ONE

As she stood watching it the monitor clicked into life and her heart sank. A two-hour delay was really not what she needed. Not today of all days.

‘Putain de merde.’

She thought she’d said it under her breath, but from behind her came the response, ‘I couldn’t have put it better.’

The man she turned to face was tall, distinguished looking and hard to age, late forties early fifties she guessed.

A smile on his handsome face, he continued, ‘Provincial though it may be, this airport does boast an Executive Club lounge with a decent enough Champagne on offer. It’s really the only civilised place during a delay.’

She wasn’t sure what the Toulouse airport authorities would have made of being called provincial, but he had a point.

‘Would you care to join me?’ he asked.

‘Nice idea, but as I only have an economy ticket they’re not likely to let me in,’ she replied.

‘Oh I don’t anticipate a problem.’

Somehow this didn’t surprise her. Silk suit, Louis Vuitton briefcase, Italian loafers, he didn’t look like a man who was often refused.

She studied him for a moment, thought what the hell, and said with a grin, ‘Lead on.’

As they crossed the concourse he introduced himself as Marcus Delacroix and again she wasn’t surprised. Men like him were never called Harold Brownlow or Arthur Ramsbottom. Anyone who was anyone always seemed to have just the right name, and she wondered if being plain old Lucy Weston had held her back. Perhaps if she started calling herself something like Lucinda Lacroix success would come her way. Or perhaps, as her mother was so fond of pointing out, it was just her natural indolence and lack of direction that were getting in the way.

Arriving at the lounge Marcus was instantly recognised.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Delacroix, how nice to see you again. Apologies for the delay of your flight.’

They were ushered in. She felt the deep-pile carpet underfoot and glanced around at the leather sofas, muted lighting and fresh flower arrangements. She thought of the coffee bar she would have otherwise gone to with its grimy tables and overflowing ashtrays. Perhaps her luck was changing.

She was impressed at how quickly the bottle of Taittinger appeared. The waiter filled their glasses and set the bottle in the ice bucket.

Raising his glass Marcus said, ‘Santé! So what takes you to London, business or pleasure?’

‘Neither really.’ She sighed. ‘It’s rather a long story.’

He smiled. ‘Well, apparently we have two hours.’

She sprawled casually across the sofa opposite him. Her jeans and leather boots were well worn but her bag was Fendi and the sweater, tied negligently around her shoulders, cashmere. She had an easy grace that he liked.

Setting down her glass she told him, ‘I’m not sure you’d be very interested, it’s an end of a love affair story. A year ago I came here to do some work with my father, met someone and stayed. I thought it would last forever, it didn’t. Voilà!’

Flippant words, but her smile was forced and she couldn’t meet his eyes. He looked at her thoughtfully and asked, ‘What are your plans now?’

‘To be honest I don’t have any. I only decided to leave this morning and was lucky to get a flight. I’ve rung my friend Amy in London and I’ll stay with her until I work out what comes next.’

Marcus leaned back in his chair and watched her as she spoke. Her hair was long, silky and almost black. She had a habit of winding a tress around and around her finger as she spoke. Not exactly pretty, she was certainly striking with flawless skin, high cheekbones and full sensuous lips. Although expertly made-up, the cosmetics could not completely hide the shadows under her large dark eyes, or the evidence of recent tears. She seemed wounded and fragile. The wave of compassion he felt was as fleeting as it was rare.

The waiter reappeared and poured more Champagne. Marcus asked another question. ‘What do you, as the French so quaintly put it, do in life? You mentioned working with your father.’

‘Dad’s a photographer. You may have heard of him. Kit Weston?’

He nodded. ‘Yes, I saw one of his exhibitions, three or four years ago I think. Life with the Navajo or something like that, it was most impressive.’

‘He’s very talented, has a way of approaching things which is very emotive. I used to work regularly as his assistant, but I’m actually a silversmith. I specialise in jewellery, a fusion of ultra-modern and Victorian styling using semi-precious stones like jet and marquisette.’

Her tone when speaking of her father and her work was noticeably more animated.

‘Are you good?’

The question made her smile. ‘Do you mean good or successful? There’s a big difference. I’m very good, but only moderately successful. It’s hard to find the right outlets. I used to have a workshop in Camden where I worked mainly on commissioned pieces which I enjoyed.’

He continued to ask her questions that she answered with unaffected frankness. She spoke more about the father she obviously adored, his work and many marriages. Her mother, the academic of the family, despaired at Lucy’s inability to stick at anything for long but their relationship was close. She told him of her almost life-long friendship with Amy, how she had missed her during her time away, and couldn’t wait to see her again. She made no further mention of the lover she was leaving behind.

Suddenly aware she was doing all the talking she enquired, ‘But what about you, Marcus? What do you do in life? I assume you’ve been in Toulouse on business?’

‘Yes, talks with a company I’m interested in acquiring. Early days yet.’

He offered nothing further so she tried again.

‘Who do you work for?’

‘The Delacroix Corporation.’

He didn’t enlarge.

‘And the Delacroix in the Delacroix Corporation would be...?’

‘Me, yes.’

This is like pulling teeth, she thought and trying for a lighter note asked, ‘Are you hugely rich and powerful?’

‘Enormously,’ he said with a laugh.

‘How lovely. And such modesty!’

He obviously wasn’t willing to talk about himself so she ventured just one more question before letting him steer the conversation to more general topics.

‘Are you married, Marcus?’

‘I was.’ His voice was even and his face expressionless.

As he told her about the classical concert he had been taken to the previous evening, she became aware of the looks he was drawing from a group of businesswomen sitting nearby. It wasn’t, Lucy decided, just his chiselled features and extraordinarily green eyes – coloured lenses, she wondered? – the man had a presence. A compelling mixture of authority and supreme self-confidence which avoided arrogance, but only just. He was tanned and fit looking; she imagined his weekends spent on the golf course or out sailing. He wore his thick but heavily grey streaked hair longer than she would have expected for a businessman. She thought fondly of her father who was about the same age and definitely going soft around the middle and thin on top.

The conversation moved on from the concert to music in general, books and cinema. The remaining Champagne was drunk and the time slipped away companionably.

When their flight was finally called she refused to let him upgrade her ticket so he announced his intention of joining her in Economy. Lucy laughed and asked when he had last travelled at the rear of a plane and, after due consideration, he replied that he didn’t think he ever had. She laughed all the more. It was a pleasing sound, light and infectious. Marcus found himself joining in.

At an hour and twenty minutes, the flight into Gatwick was mercifully brief for a tall man in a cramped space.

‘I don’t think they design these seats for people my height,’ he commented.

‘No, they design them for people with a lot less money. It’ll do you good to see how the other half has to travel.’

Her tone was gently teasing, and with a smile he shrugged self-deprecatingly. They had slipped into the easy ways of friends.

~

It was with considerable interest that the stewardess noted how Marcus Delacroix had forsaken his spacious seat in Business Class to slum it in Economy. She had encountered Delacroix on several occasions finding him unfailingly courteous, but definitely the kind of man who knew his own worth and with a healthy respect for his dignity. She wondered who the jean-clad young woman was and what she had that could tempt him into an action so out of character.

~

At Gatwick Marcus helped with her luggage and as they walked through customs into the arrivals hall he said, ‘My driver will be waiting out front, let me give you a lift.’

‘That would be great, if it’s not out of your way.’

It was considerably out of his way, but Marcus wanted to spend a little longer with her. There were still a couple of things he needed to know.

They made their way out into the early evening sunshine and looking around he said, ‘Good, there he is.’

Lucy glanced over at the big metallic black Mercedes. The driver’s door opened and she stared at the dark-suited man who got out. Taller even than his employer his skin gleamed like polished mahogany, face etched with tribal markings. To Lucy he looked more like a Masai warrior than a businessman’s chauffeur.

Walking forward, his sonorous voice greeted them. ‘Good evening, sir. Good evening, miss, let me take those for you.’

He lifted the two heavy cases from the trolley as if they were empty and stowed them in the boot along with his boss’s overnight bag. As they left the airport and joined the rush hour traffic, Lucy leaned back into the soft leather upholstery and decided she could get used to this style of travelling.

An hour and a half later they reached her destination in Finsbury and Marcus had all the information he needed.

~

Watching from the window it intrigued Amy to see her friend climb out of a chauffeur driven Mercedes. A good looking older man walked with her to the front door of the small terraced house and Amy tried hard to catch his words as they stood on the doorstep.

‘Have dinner with me Friday evening, Lucy. I may have a little proposition for you.’

Amy waited until he had turned back to the car, opened the door and the two girls fell into each other’s arms laughing and both talking at once.

Curled up in a big squashy armchair, a glass of wine in her hand, Lucy smiled at her best friend. Dear Amy, with her mischievous little pixie face framed by a halo of bouncy chestnut curls, Amy who knew her almost better than she knew herself and had never let her down in all these years. And how she needed the balm of that friendship now.

‘It’s so good to see you, Amy. I have missed you. Thanks for letting me descend on you like this, I didn’t quite know where else to go.’

‘I’ve missed you too, and you know you’re always welcome. It’ll be lovely to have your company, but I’m sorry it’s gone sour with Laurent. Do you want to talk about it?’

Lucy sighed. ‘Not really, not yet. Let’s just say that as usual I couldn’t go the distance.’

Amy topped up their glasses. ‘Well, tell me about your friend with the chauffeur driven Merc instead then.’

‘Not much to tell really. I had the luck to find a charming man to keep me company during a journey that could have been very depressing. He’s obviously a heavyweight in the business world. Does the name Marcus Delacroix mean anything to you?’

Amy pondered for a moment then shook her head. ‘Nope, but then big business isn’t really my thing.’

‘Anyway enough about me. Catch me up on what’s been happening with you. How’s it going at the hospital, how is Alex, have you set a date yet?’

~

The window was large, giving onto a cityscape so panoramic it could only be the domain of a man of consequence. He sat at a desk made from a huge slab of blonde wood supported by columns of glass. Its stark minimalism set the tone for the whole office, the same pale wood on the floor, concealed lighting, white walls dotted with unframed abstract canvases. The seating, other than his own, was hard and angular, not designed to make a visitor comfortable.

He tapped on the intercom. ‘Angela, please contact Mr Yates and ask him to do that which he does so well for us. The subject’s name is Lucy Olivia Weston, date of birth eighteenth of April 1978. Ask him to make it a priority.’

~

Lucy spent the next few days mooching around the house, doing chores for Amy and a lot of thinking. She thought mainly about Laurent. It had been around this time early last summer that they had met. Her father had won another prestigious award, this time for his photos of war torn Iraq, and commissions were flooding in. Happy to swop the disappointing English weather for a few days in sunny Gascony, she had accompanied him in his quest for images to illustrate a book on rural France.

Wandering around a pretty bastide town her father had caught a glimpse of an enchanting walled garden, and Lucy’s French being the better of the two she had been dispatched to ask permission to photograph it. The elegant old building housed the offices of the town’s Notaires and the girl on reception had summoned Laurent knowing he spoke some English. He produced an enormous rusty old key that unlocked the gate which Kit was still craning his neck to see through when they joined him in the road. Introductions were made. Laurent knew Kit’s work and was happy to give them access to the garden.

While Kit explored, Lucy and the Frenchman sat on a stone bench in the sun and chatted in a mixture of their two languages. The attraction was immediate, powerful and mutual. By the time she and her father were due to leave France, Lucy didn’t know if it was love or obsession, just that she wanted to be with him every minute of every day. When Laurent asked her to stay she didn’t hesitate.

It was the beginning of a roller-coaster ride. For a while it had been wonderful, that time at the beginning of an affair when everything is shiny and new, when the rest of the world ceases to matter and being together is all that counts. French is a language made for love and she fell under its spell. Who could resist the softly whispered Je t’aime et je t’aimerai toujours, tu es la femme de ma vie? He would blow her kisses like only a Frenchman can, buy her red roses every week and make love with a slow hand.

She was happy, and more content than she had ever been. Her French improved rapidly, she made friends and settled into life in the small country town. Setting up a workshop in the small barn attached to Laurent’s house, she found outlets for her jewellery in the surrounding towns and, more excitingly, the smart boutiques of Toulouse.

At thirty-five there had been many women in Laurent’s life, several of whom she got to meet. Petite and chic each one, they were quick to tell her how hard Laurent was to keep, how as soon as the initial excitement began to fade his attention started to wander. She wasn’t concerned as this was a pretty accurate description of herself too. She was certain it was different for her this time so why not for him? In the end it just hadn’t been different enough, for either of them.

~

‘Mr Delacroix, I have the report you requested from Mr Yates.’

He sat back in his chair and read the report with interest and increasing satisfaction.

Lucy Olivia Weston: Born 18-4-78

Marital Status: Single

Father: Christopher (Kit) Weston, award-winning photographer. Married twice since Miss Weston’s mother.

Currently single but living with Sarah Thompson, researcher, in Barnes, London.

Mother: Amelia Bradshawe, solicitor, practices in Colchester. Lives with second husband, James Bradshawe, architect, in north Essex.

Siblings: None

Religion: Baptised C of E but not a churchgoer.

Financial: No mortgage. Above average personal debt.

Political Affiliations: None recorded.

Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual.

Drugs: No evidence of usage. Wine drinker, occasional social smoker.

Criminal Record: None.

Health: No known problems. Blood Donor (A+) last donation eighteen months ago tested negative for HIV.

Education: Colchester High School for Girls. Three A levels at grade A. Foundation Art course at Braintree College of F.E. Art Degree from Central St Martins College Of Art.

Teachers’ and Lecturers’ comments: Talented but lazy. Outgoing and good humoured. Has potential but lacks drive. So laid back as to be horizontal. Well liked by her peers and staff.

Employment: Very little formal employment. After college joined a workshop co-operative where she worked as a silversmith with moderate success. Worked regularly as assistant to her father. A company she did occasional design work for described her as having considerable talent but not being a team player.

Social: Large range of acquaintances, handful of close friends the closest being Amy Fardell, physiotherapist, currently living in Finsbury, London.

Recent: Spent the last year living with a French lawyer named Laurent Casteran in the department of the Gers, South West France. Has not been seen there since the beginning of the week. The relationship is known to be stormy.

He knew much of this already but the report confirmed his overall impression of her. Intelligent, artistic and easygoing, she lacked any real work ethic and was cruising through life spending more than she earned. She was shaping up as a good candidate.

~

‘Hi, Mum, how you doing?’

‘Lucy, darling! I’m fine, how about you? Enjoying the sunshine no doubt. It’s grey and miserable here today.’

‘I know. I’m in London with Amy.’

‘And Laurent?’

‘It’s over.’

‘Oh dear. I thought it was love this time.’

‘It was. It is. It’s complicated, Mum.’

‘I thought it might be. Oh Lucy, you are so your father’s daughter!’

‘Have you seen him lately?’

‘I spoke to him a couple of weeks ago, he was off on a shoot in Brazil. He’s split up with Sarah, or to be accurate she’s thrown him out.’

‘Poor old Dad, always in trouble.’

‘Well nothing seems to change, that’s for sure.’

‘I wanted to ask you something. Do you know anything about a businessman called Marcus Delacroix?’

‘If you mean the Marcus Delacroix then we were at university together, well, at the same time anyway, I never really got to know him. I’ve followed his career with interest though. Very successful, heads up the Delacroix Corporation, mainly communications, magazines, newspapers, a mobile phone company that sort of thing. It’s a public company now but he owns a controlling interest. He’s a vocal supporter of the government and quite chummy with the Prime Minister. They say he’s brilliant and completely ruthless. He lost his wife a couple of years back, as I recall she was a good bit older than him. Why do you ask?’

‘I met him on the way back from France. I’m due to see him again at the end of the week and I’ve got a feeling he’s going to offer me a job.

‘Good Lord! Well I can’t imagine which of your dubious talents he thinks he has a use for, but if he makes you an offer you’d be a fool not to give it serious consideration.’

‘Oh well, we’ll see. I’ll come to see you and James soon. Love you, Mum.’

‘You too. Ciao.’

~

Friday evening the car arrived on the stroke of eight.

‘Good evening, Miss Weston. Mr Delacroix sends his apologies for not being here himself, but he has been slightly delayed. He will meet you at the restaurant.’

During the drive she discovered that like his boss the chauffeur was good at not actually answering questions. She did manage to learn that his name was Saule, she was left uncertain as to whether this was his Christian or surname, and he had worked for Marcus Delacroix ‘right from the beginning.’

Arriving at the restaurant, and noticing her look of uncertainty Saule told her, ‘You just go straight on in, Miss Weston. Mr Delacroix will be there, he never keeps anyone waiting.’

He was right. Marcus was standing at the bar chatting to the bartender. Spotting her in the doorway he came forward, smiling, to greet her. Kissing her on the cheek he told her, ‘You’re looking lovely this evening, Lucy.’

She thanked him; if nothing else, her time in France had taught her the art of graciously accepting a compliment. The maitre d’ who had been watching for the arrival of Marcus’s guest came to show them through to their table. Heads turned to watch the progress of the imposing man with the elegant young woman dressed in black velvet, her hair caught up in loose curls. Marcus paused at a table to shake hands with an acquaintance; the man looked at Lucy with interest. Marcus did not introduce her.

Seated at the table he asked, ‘Will it be Champagne again?’

‘Oh I think so, don’t you?’

They sipped their drinks and discussed the menu. He was amused at her enthusiasm for food; he had eaten with too many women who seemed content to push a lettuce leaf around their plate. During the entrée and main course they debated the merits of the world’s cuisines, voted for their favourite restaurants, his in Tokyo and hers Paris, and discussed their own efforts in the kitchen.

Over dessert Marcus asked how she had spent the last few days and if she had made any plans.

‘Well, I’m not really any further forward yet. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking but just find myself going round in circles. I can stay as long as I want at Amy’s which is great and I’ve been in touch with the workshop I was in before going to France, they have space for me but I’m not sure it’s what I want. I do hate treading the same path twice. Actually, after what you said on Monday I was rather hoping you might have something for me, Marcus.’

Coffee was served, he dropped a single sugar lump into his cup, and stirring it he looked thoughtful.

‘I do have a suggestion but not, I’d guess, quite what you may be expecting. Marry me, Lucy, and give me a son.’

TWO

Lucy woke to the sun streaming through the thin curtains and stretched like a sleepy cat. She heard Amy thunder up the stairs and then came the pounding on her door.

‘Luce wake up, quick, quick! You have just got to see the newspaper!’

Ten minutes later, teeth brushed, and wrapped in her towelling robe Lucy sat at the kitchen table staring in disbelief at the paper spread out in front of her. It was one of the better quality tabloids and there in the gossip column was a photo of her and Marcus Delacroix leaving the restaurant hand in hand.

Growing impatient, Amy read out the accompanying piece.

‘Spotted last night leaving a fashionable Mayfair eatery, business tycoon Marcus Delacroix and an unknown young raven-haired temptress who apparently flew in from France with him earlier this week. Not seen in the company of a woman since the death of his beloved wife Helena two years ago, Delacroix is certainly looking pleased with himself. A welcome distraction no doubt in a week that has seen the Delacroix Corporation’s takeover of NewsLine referred to the Monopolies Commission. Well, I have to hand it to you, Lucy, you don’t let the grass grow!’

‘Amy, you don’t know the half of it!’

~

In a converted Essex barn near the Suffolk border, Amelia Bradshawe and her husband sat companionably at the breakfast table. The French windows were open on to the garden, the birds singing and the coffee perking. With no offices or meetings to rush off to, they enjoyed these relaxed weekend breakfasts together. They discussed the events of the past week and made plans for the coming day as they browsed through the newspapers.

James was suggesting a visit to Beth Chato’s gardens in Elmstead Market when his wife suddenly interrupted him with, ‘Goodness me, I don’t believe it! I am convinced that girl has not inherited a single gene from me, she is Kit in stockings. God help us!’

James surveyed the page she passed over and congratulated himself, not for the first time, on having no offspring.

~

Kit Weston was sprawled across the bed trying to balance a cup of tea, a slice of toast and the morning’s paper.

‘Is it my imagination or does that look a lot like Lucy?’ he asked.

Sarah struggled out from under the duvet, cast an eye over the photo, yawned and replied, ‘It is Lucy, no doubt about it. Way to go, Luce!’

With that, she slithered back under the covers. Kit had only been back from Brazil thirty-six hours and had spent all that time persuading the long-suffering Sarah to take him back. He smiled at the mop of blonde curls which were all that was now visible of her. After two years together Sarah was looking for a commitment. When it had not been forthcoming she had told him not to bother coming back after the Brazil trip.

He would marry her of course, he adored her, but he just wasn’t good at committing. He thought of his three ex-wives Amelia, Catherine and Ellen, ACE as they were collectively known. He had loved them all, still did, that was the problem of course, he just loved women.

But what of Lucy? When he had spoken to her three weeks ago she was in France with Laurent and had sounded perfectly happy. Kit liked Laurent. He had enjoyed watching his daughter and the good-looking Frenchman fall in love the previous summer. Now she was swanning around town with a seriously rich man the same age as her own father.

He would ring Amelia to find out what was going on with his only child but meanwhile there was still a lot of making up to do. He threw the newspaper aside and dived under the duvet.

~

Marcus was enjoying the drive in the early morning sun. The weather was set fair for the weekend, he was leaving the city behind and driving himself, something he didn’t get to do during the week. The Aston Martin accelerated smoothly as he joined the motorway. He relished the power of the car as he relished power in every aspect of his life.

His destination was a small village in Sussex on the outskirts of which stood the house he escaped to as often as possible. He and Helena had bought Graylings ten years ago as a bolthole from the increasing pressures of business. She had overseen its complete refurbishment and he still felt her presence there especially in the garden she had created with such pleasure. The thought of Helena filled him, as ever, with an overwhelming sense of loss.

He tuned the radio to Classic FM and turned his thoughts to the last week. The referral of the NewsLine deal to the Monopolies Commission was no surprise as they always took an interest when a national paper changed hands, circulation figures of his most recently acquired magazine were showing a healthy improvement, but the staffing difficulties at TalkTime were still causing concern. His trip to Toulouse had been most satisfactory with an unexpected bonus in the shape of Lucy Weston.

Last night had gone well, he thought. He liked this young woman more and more. Her reaction to his proposal, he laughed to himself at the term, had been interesting and rather what he had been hoping for. She had been surprised obviously, but having established that he was serious there had been no immediate refusal. She had listened carefully to what he had to say, asked some very pertinent questions, and then told him she would think about it. All very promising.

The big car ate up the miles and it was only just after ten when he turned into the tree-lined drive which led up to the house. He came to a halt alongside the red Porsche Boxster already parked on the gravel expanse to the front. Pausing to admire the roses and honeysuckle that threatened to engulf the front porch he let himself in. The house was filled with the sound of a Mozart violin concerto. He dropped his overnight bag on the flagstone floor of the hall and made his way through to the kitchen.

Fresh flowers stood in a vase on the big scrubbed pine table and a newspaper lay open next to them. He had just enough time to take in the photograph before a voice behind him said, ‘An explanation is due, don’t you think?’

~

There were another two hours to kill before her standby duty was finished. With a bit of luck the airline wouldn’t call and she’d be able to pop over to see her sister and the kids for the afternoon. She took the mug of tea, cordless phone and newspaper into the garden and sat in the sun.

She smiled when, turning the page, she saw the photo of Marcus Delacroix and the girl from the plane; it would mean a little cash bonus coming her way. Given the size of this