Chapter 4
Maybe that was why it had been so easy to recognise him as he came up the semicircular sweep of stone stairs.
Luc Moreau might be wearing sunglasses on this summer day in Provence, but Sophie could still feel that oh-so-familiar intensity of his gaze. It still felt as if he could see the things she preferred to keep hidden. As if he was the one person on earth who could see through a window into her soul.
And it was just as disconcerting now as it had always been. The warning bells were sounding as clearly as ever.
Other things hadn’t changed either.
He was just as tall, of course.
Just as dark.
Even darker, thanks to those black clothes and that bohemian-looking hat.
What was it, a fedora that was old enough to have lost the firmness of the brim?
He didn’t exactly have a beard – it looked more like he just hadn’t bothered shaving for long enough to be at the tipping point of deliberate facial hair.
He’d filled out in the last ten years, too, judging by the shape of the muscles underneath and below the sleeves of his close-fitting black tee shirt, but it wasn’t the lightning-fast mental catalogue of how Luc Moreau looked that had frozen Sophie to the spot outside the Chateau d’Orval.
Neither was it the fact that she was seeing someone she hadn’t seen for nearly ten years and had never wanted to see again.
No. It was joining the dots that had shocked her the most. Luc Moreau was the controversial and mysterious Phoenix and she would have to work with him today. All day.
She hadn’t recognised him from whatever internet sites she’d brushed past in the last year or two but she hadn’t been looking at the photographer, had she? Not when those dystopian wedding photo images that Le Phénix was famous for were so disturbing.
She wanted to turn and run.
No. She wanted this man to turn and simply vanish.
But neither of those things could happen.
Because Sophie was responsible for making this day a success.
It wasn’t just her business and income she was responsible for.
Over the years she had collected a team of people who depended on her.
Groups of hardworking locals, like the caterers and cleaners.
Friends, like Tilly and Florence and Francoise.
And Greg. How long would it be before he could start working again?
She had to hold things together so that she would be in a position to help him financially if that kind of support was needed.
It also couldn’t happen because Zara Beaumont knew who was now coming to do her photography today and it was adding a whole new level of excitement.
That threat had been real and if Sophie stood in the way of whatever rewards the combination of followers that Le Phénix and Zara could influence, her business would be ruined.
It might be ruined anyway but she wasn’t going to go down without a damn good fight.
‘Phoenix,’ Luc said as he reached the top of the stairs and was close enough for her to hear the quiet words. ‘It’s the only name I’ll answer to here.’
Sophie gave a single nod. That was fine by her.
Saying his name was like a portal into the past she had no desire to pass through.
That brief moment with the wedding dress had been more than enough of a warning.
She didn’t want to look at, let alone hear, or, worst of all, touch anything on the other side.
Oh, God… where had that thought come from?
Sophie knew where. It was a splinter from long-forgotten dreams that had been buried deeply under a mix of deep shame and guilt and the determination that they would be the best-kept secret ever.
That determination was still there. She wasn’t about to faire la bise and brush an air kiss or three to his cheeks.
A hug was out of the question. Even a polite handshake was not going to happen.
Sophie had never— would never touch this man in real life.
Eye contact was as close as she was going to get and even that would be minimal and well-guarded.
This was a totally unexpected collision of her past and present and it had to be the worst possible time and place for it to be happening.
The small tables had been covered with crisp white linen cloths and each had a vase of white flowers as a centrepiece.
Small clouds of white gypsophila were being tied with pieces of silk ribbon to where the thin, flexible strips of oak crossed in the back rests of the chairs.
Silver cutlery and crystal glasses were being brought out, catching the sunlight to add a sparkle that brought the whole scene to life.
It couldn’t be anything other than a wedding.
How ironic that this was where she was facing Luc Moreau for the first time since…
No. She couldn’t tap into any of that again today.
Not even for a heartbeat. Preferably not ever again.
With a flash of desperation, Sophie turned her head.
Tilly was on the other side of the terrace, checking a sample table layout.
She was adjusting the position of a fork or spoon, perhaps, but she looked up sharply, as if she had sensed the glance.
Sophie tried to send a telepathic message to her friend.
I need you. Like… now!
‘How are you, Sophie?’ Luc asked.
‘I’m fine.’ Her tone was clipped. Icy, even. ‘You?’
He simply dipped his head. A silent agreement. Or possibly a refusal to answer a personal question. That was also fine by her. She wouldn’t ask another.
‘I hear you run Marry Me in Provence?’
‘I do.’ The appropriateness of her response, given the surroundings, was not lost on Luc. He gave a soft snort. ‘Makes sense, I suppose.’
Sophie stiffened. ‘Why?’
He wasn’t looking at her now. He was gazing up at the chateau. ‘Oh, I don’t know…’ His voice dropped to a level that suggested he didn’t intend his next words to be heard. ‘Unfinished business?’
Thank heavens Tilly arrived by her side before Sophie had time to wonder whether that was a reference to something other than the obvious fact that she’d never been able to attend her own wedding.
Surely he couldn’t be hinting at what had been buried in the same instant that it had surfaced?
Something that was still as unlikely to be acknowledged as it would be for them to voluntarily touch each other.
‘Bonjour,’ Tilly said, with a smile. She had a talent for not appearing star-struck by any celebrity she met. ‘I am Mathilde. Sophie’s assistant.’
‘Enchanté.’
‘Could you take Phoenix up to meet Zara, please, Tilly?’ Sophie deliberately used a tone that would alert Tilly to the significance of her request. ‘I have a rather urgent phone call I need to make.’
It was true, Sophie reminded herself. She needed to ring the hospital in Nice and find out how Greg was doing.
Never mind that she desperately needed a little time to herself to try and find a solid footing for a day that had just been disrupted by a rather large bomb being detonated, leaving shards of her past to float slowly down around her like tiny feathers.
‘Of course. Come with me, Monsieur Phénix.’
But Luc didn’t move. ‘I’d like some time,’ he said. ‘To scan for backdrops. May I walk for a while? Is there a limit to my access?’
Tilly’s glance at Sophie was a little uncertain. Did she have the authority to allow access to parts of the venue they hadn’t used in the past?
‘Take him to meet Madame Fournier,’ Sophie said to Tilly. ‘She’s the head housekeeper for the chateau,’ she told Luc. ‘I’ll call her to let her know you’re on your way and that we would appreciate permission for access to any areas that are not prohibited for personal or safety reasons.’
‘I’ll give you my phone number,’ she heard Tilly say to Luc as she led him towards the tall doors. ‘You can call me as soon as you’re ready to meet our bride, Zara. You may know of her? She’s an influencer…’
Tilly’s voice faded. Sophie rang the housekeeper and then rang the biggest public hospital in Nice.
‘Gregory Glasson,’ she told the person she was put through to in the cardiology department. ‘Je suis sa fille.’
It was a lie but she wouldn’t be able to get any information about his condition if they didn’t believe she was close family, and having an accent would help, even if it was English, not Scottish.
She’d felt like his daughter for long enough to make it seem convincing, as well.
Especially in recent years following the loss of her real dad – the man who’d devoted himself to raising her alone after he’d lost the love of his life when their daughter was only a child – but Greg had been a father figure from the time they first began working together, when she lacked experience or adequate funding or a place to call home.
When she’d lacked the ability to see any joy in the future or what direction she should be going in.
When all she’d had was the vision of being able to give other people something she would never be able to have herself.
Yes… perhaps Luc hadn’t been so far off the mark to suggest that her whole life was built around unfinished business.
The unfinished business that had derailed her old life and redefined her as a person.
The business that would have been finished if it hadn’t been for Luc Moreau.
* * *
Luc hadn’t been lying when he said he needed to scan what was available in the way of backdrops for photos but the need for some time to himself was far more urgent.
He hadn’t felt the roll of emotions like this for years and he certainly couldn’t deal with them the way he had the last time he’d been anywhere near Sophie Spencer, back in the wake of Tom’s death.
By running away.