Chapter 39
Gen
The punches keep on coming, and I keep rolling with them.
The others take their leave at the airport.
Apparently, Max will drop the rest of the team in Cannes before their driver continues inland with him to Mougins.
Anton and I, however, are taking a helicopter to his house, even though Antibes is en route to Cannes.
Sure, it’s rush hour, but I wouldn’t have minded sitting in traffic for a few minutes more.
It’s all utterly ridiculous.
But as Anton leads me through the private terminal at Nice Airport towards the heliport for what will presumably be a five-minute journey in the air at most, I can’t help the frisson of pleasure that ripples through me.
Because who am I kidding?
An impossibly tall, impossibly gorgeous man is accompanying me from his jet to his chopper which will, in turn, whisk us off to his presumably stunning villa in one of the most beautiful and exclusive enclaves in the Mediterranean.
He’s bent some rules to get me to himself, and, irritating as that may be in theory, in practice it’s actually pretty sexy. If I’m to be hijacked, then I can think of far worse people and far worse places to suffer.
I notice he’s not striding like he tends to do.
He’s walking more slowly than is surely natural for him so I can keep up as I click-clack over the gleaming white-tiled floor in my high wedges.
I thought they’d be a more practical choice than heels, but the thick base makes them so vertiginous that I feel off balance.
Anton halts a couple of steps ahead and smiles at me. His hands are in his pockets, and he keeps them there, sticking out the elbow nearest to me.
‘Take my arm,’ he says, and I glare, then sigh and acquiesce.
I tuck my hand into the crook of his arm, which he flattens back against his body, trapping my hand there between his bicep and his side.
The heat of him pumps through his linen shirt, and I feel even more light-headed than when I was trying to stay upright by myself.
A man in a smart pilot’s uniform passes us, swinging his carry-on bag, and shoots us a friendly nod. ‘Bonjour Madame, Monsieur,’ he chirps.
‘Bonjour,’ we echo in sync, and that frisson grows, because I know we must look like a couple.
A well-heeled couple on their way to their chic French retreat.
Fuck my life.
‘Please don’t tell me you’ll be flying this thing,’ I mutter as we emerge onto the sweltering tarmac where our helicopter awaits.
He looks down at me and grins. ‘Definitely not. Not my core competency.’
‘Thank fuck,’ I say. Not just because I’d fear for my life, but because such an act would be way too Christian Grey, and the assault on my competence kink would probably knock me out.
It’s a relief to let go of his arm and to take my seat in the chopper and don my headphones. It’s a four-seater, but we sit side-by-side, facing forward. We’re right at the very edge of the airport, beyond the runways and almost level with the sea.
The Cap d’Antibes, or simply Cap d’Antibes, as most people call it, is a peninsula south-west of Nice, and going as the crow flies will take us straight across the water.
Anton explains that if I sit on the left-hand side, I’ll look out to sea, and from the right I’ll see the coastline. He offers me the choice.
I take the right-hand seat.
‘Whereabouts is your house?’ I enquire through my headset as we rise up, my eyes trained on the view of the airport below us. ‘Millionaires’ Bay?’
There is a literal Baie de Milliardaires on the cape.
He laughs. ‘Not quite. Those houses are mainly Russian-owed. No, mine’s on this side, not far from La Garoupe. Do you know it?’
‘I do.’ La Garoupe is a charming beach featuring a low-key but fantastic beach club and restaurant.
I arch my back and stretch out my shoulders as I peer down, willing myself to relax.
If nothing else, this will be an idyllic place to base myself for a couple of days.
I need to move past the insane tension between Anton and me and allow myself to enjoy what should be a delightful mini-break in an idyllic spot.
The stretch of coastline between Nice and Antibes isn’t the most inspiring, but soon we’re approaching the more heavily wooded jut of the cape which is underpopulated and home to verdant stretches and fuck-off estates.
From my lofty vantage point the sparkling body of water laps gently against rocky outcrops while, further inland, my eye is drawn to white wedding-cake villas with bleached, pinky roof tiles and the immaculately landscaped and irrigated gardens of the super-rich.
As always, my favourite part is spotting the perfect little turquoise-coloured postage stamps of each property’s swimming pool.
We’re losing height already at a pace that the contents of my stomach can just about handle.
I’m not a massive fan of the safety profile of helicopters, but views like this are undoubtedly a privilege.
There’s a stretch of beach below, and I spy the iconic salmon pink render of H?tel Imperial Garoupe.
I risk a fleeting glance at Anton and find he’s watching me.
I smile tentatively, because this kind of intimacy with him, cocooned in this overpriced death trap with the noise of the blades intense despite the headphones, is odd, to say the least. Odd, but…
nice. And, once again, that sensation of being the sole object of Anton Wolff’s attention seeps through my veins and heats my bloodstream like the finest, smoothest single malt.
However pissed off I am that he tricked me into getting me to himself, I recognise what an honour it is that he’s allowing me into his inner sanctum.
There’s no denying that, and as the thrumming blades allow gravity to pull us lower and lower, the prospect of being at his home grows more real and more heady.
Excitement and nerves collide in my belly, and I put a hand on my stomach to calm myself.
And then we’re down.
Holy shit, we’re down. I’m Alice, or Dorothy, or someone.
Because we’ve landed squarely on the white H emblazoned into the lushest lawn, and as we came down the last few metres I was treated to views of spectacular grounds and canopies of local pines as well as an elegant, cypress-lined driveway and a Belle Epoque villa so elegant, so pristinely white, and such a perfect example of its type that it almost hurts my heart.
The pilot opens the door for Anton, who jumps out and comes round my side to help me down. I smile at him. I can’t help it—this place is stunning, and heady, and I can’t not be affected. I’ve just stepped foot on his property and already I don’t want to leave.