Chapter 40
Gen
If the unmistakable smell of France hit me as I walked through the terminal at Nice Airport, the scent that hits me as I descend, slowly and carefully and clutching Anton’s hand, from the helicopter, is pure crack. It’s French pines and fragrant flowers and seaweed.
It’s heaven.
This is heaven.
As Anton releases his grip on my hand and tucks it once more into the crook of his arm for the uneven, high-risk trip across the coarse, springy grass, a man makes his way across the lawn towards us.
He’s around Anton’s age, wearing khaki shorts, a pristine white polo shirt with a W monogrammed onto the chest, and a wide grin.
Another reminder that we’re at an outpost of the venerable Wolff empire.
‘Salut!’ he calls, and when he reaches us, he and Anton greet each other not with a handshake, as I expect, but with an animated bro-hug followed by a kiss on both cheeks and a torrent of affectionate French on both sides.
Okay then.
Simmer down, I tell my vagina. It’s just a bit of French. Of course he speaks French. And German. And Italian. You know this from your online stalking. It’s not a big deal.
‘This is my friend, Genevieve,’ Anton says in English. ‘Genevieve, this is Cédric, who runs things for me here.’
‘Welcome, Geneviève,’ Cédric says, taking my hand, his grin unwavering. He pronounces my name the French way—Gen-ev-i-eve—making the eve part a separate syllable and rendering it significantly more alluring.
‘Bonjour, Cédric.’ I shake his hand heartily. I’m not only grateful for the warm welcome but relieved to have this small clue that Anton runs an informal household here.
‘Vous avez passés un bon voyage? You ‘ad a good journey?’ he asks Anton as we walk together towards the house. The view from ground level is even more spectacular. From what I can see it’s a perfect square of white stucco that looks like it’s repainted every week.
Almost all the windows look to be French doors, with the upstairs rooms boasting balconies edged in slate-grey iron railings.
If I’m correct, the other side of the house must face onto the sea, but from some height.
In front of us is an imposing front door under an elegant portico above which stands the largest balcony, but before that lies the driveway, inlaid with smooth grey pebbles that look amazing but present a hell of a problem for my wedges. I eye it warily.
‘Very smooth, thanks,’ Anton replies. He cocks his bent arm at me. ‘Take it, Gen.’
I disregard the flash of heat that washes over my skin at the endearment and take his arm gladly. The scent of nature mingles with the scent of him as we walk towards the house.
We walk through the open front door. Holy fucking crap.
I am so screwed.
It’s stunning. Beyond stunning. It’s like a perfect, bijou luxury hotel.
Neutral but the furthest thing from bland.
The neutrals work perfectly, in fact, because this house has such incredible bones that it needs merely the lightest touch to showcase them.
The floor is polished limestone tiles, the walls are covered in mirrors and contemporary artwork, and in the centre of the hallway stands a round table with an artfully casual, and fucking enormous, arrangement of fresh flowers and greenery that’s heavy on the olive and eucalyptus branches and smells divine.
But what steals the show is the view. Because the hallway runs the entire length of the house, and the far side of the space is completely open to the sea. I see blue sky and bluer sea fringed with more glorious pines.
‘Oh wow,’ I say. ‘Anton, it’s incredible.’ I smile up at him, unable to help myself, and he returns the gesture with a warm, welcoming grin of his own. He’s undoubtedly king of this castle, but I have a feeling he’s a gracious ruler.
‘I have an idea.’ He gently extricates his arm from my grip. ‘Why don’t we take off our shoes and we can have a proper look around? The grass is very soft.’
I hum my appreciation, because clearly I need to lose these dangerous wedges far more than he needs to lose his loafers. It’s thoughtful of him. Before I know it, he’s squatting and looking up at me.
‘May I?’ he asks.
‘Sure, thanks,’ I say awkwardly. He undoes the tiny buckle on my strap before reaching for my hand so he can steady me as I step out of it and lower my foot a good five or six inches to the ground.
Then he does the same on the other side, the soft brush of his knuckles against my ankle sending a flutter of goosebumps over the skin.
‘Better?’ he asks as he stands, my wedges in hand. ‘Bloody hell, these weigh a tonne.’
‘Much better,’ I tell him. ‘And yes, they’d make excellent door stops. Or weapons.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ He places them carefully by the front door, toeing off his loafers and sliding them next to my shoes. ‘After you,’ he says, gesturing towards the glorious vista ahead of us.
I’m already moving around the central table, drawn by the siren song of the Med right there beyond the grounds. ‘Why the hell do you base yourself in London?’ I breathe as I take in the vivid greens and blues.
He chuckles softly behind me. ‘I ask myself that every fucking day.’
I get that. On the one hand, Anton is the ultimate alpha male, and that office where I so willingly submitted to him and his friends felt like the perfect reflection of his dominant, hungry personality.
But here, as we pad barefoot across cool, smooth stone to take in the wonders of his home, he already seems softer. Less frenetic.
I suspect I do, too.
We cross the threshold and exit onto a gorgeous terrace that wraps around the back of the house. On one side sits a long wooden table under a leafy pergola that hangs heavy with bougainvillea and ivy. On the other is a large cluster of smart outdoor furniture around a coffee table.
And in front of us?
Lawns.
Trees.
Steps down to what looks like a spectacular pool.
And the sea.
‘At least my kidnapper has good taste in hideouts,’ I remark as I shoot him some serious side-eye. Luckily for him, his hostage is thawing, and far more quickly than she’ll let on.
He grins. ‘Glad you approve. Take a look down here.’
I pick my way across the terrace and down shallow stone steps to the pool level. We’re high enough to have an incredible view of the sea, despite the line of trees that shields us from properties further down the hill.
The pool is bloody spectacular: a turquoise oblong with curved ends and a fan of shallow steps at one end.
It’s surrounded by sleek white paving and bookended with a seriously bling-looking summer kitchen and bar to the left and another gorgeous covered area to the right that looks like the perfect spot for a post-swim doze.
If Slim Aarons were still around, he’d undoubtedly approve.
The dozen or so beds that line the near side of the pool area are, unsurprisingly, gorgeous too. They’re a mix of heavyweight teak loungers with white mattresses, cushions and bolsters, all bearing the obligatory swirly W and a couple of huge white canopied daybeds.
My feelings for this guy may be a complicated, fucked-up mess, but I’m not one to withhold praise when it’s due.
He stands beside me, barefoot and hands in his pockets.
His head is tilted back and his eyes half-closed as he immerses himself in his surroundings.
If I’m thrilled to be here, I simply can’t imagine how heady it must feel to call this home.
‘It’s absolutely stunning,’ I tell him softly, and he shades his eyes with his hand, looking down at me and smiling.
‘Glad you like it,’ he says. ‘I hope you make yourself at home while you’re here.’
And then some.
‘You can take care of the recce tomorrow, correct?’ I say airily, waving a hand in the direction of the loungers. ‘Because I’m not going anywhere.’
He chuckles, pleased. ‘As you like it. I’ll tell Max you got food poisoning.’
‘Do you have a boat?’ I ask, admiring the white yachts and sleek speedboats dotting the blue water in the distance.
‘I do. It’s round the other side of the cape, at Port Gallice.’
‘Is it a gin palace?’
‘Some less polite people might call it that,’ he says. ‘If you change your mind and decide to stay for the weekend, you can try it out for yourself.’
I start. There’s something about the tone of his voice when he says it that gives me goosebumps. It’s less challenging and more… hopeful. Tentative.
He must notice my reaction, because he continues quickly. ‘But let’s get you settled in before I start giving you the hard sell, shall we?’
‘Sounds good,’ I say.
I have a horrible feeling it wouldn’t be a hard sell at all, I think.
‘It’s just you and me tonight,’ he says with a sidelong glance at me as we turn towards the house. ‘I hope that’s okay. It seemed a shame to haul ourselves out again, having just arrived.’
I follow him reluctantly. I could stay out here forever, but I could also use a shower, and I definitely need a hat and shades if I’m to spend any more time in the sun.
‘I agree. That’s fine,’ I tell him. We’ve been here five minutes, and already this place is working its magic on me.
It’s clear this entire situation is a massive set-up, but now that I’m here, I find I couldn’t care less.
I’m already in its thrall, and I already like the version of himself Anton is when he’s here.
I hope I like the version of myself this place makes me, too.
‘I’ll give you a full tour later,’ he says, ‘but let me show you to your room first. Then drinks on the terrace in, say, an hour?’
He leads me up a magnificent central staircase to a first-floor landing, gesturing to the right, which is the front of the house. ‘My room’s down there,’ he says, and yours is right at the other end.’
He winks at me.
He knows exactly what’s going through my head.
Keep me away from the Big Bad Wolff.
My room, if you could call it that, is spectacular. It’s an enormous space with a huge white bed dressed in traditional white Provencal linen on one side and an elegant cluster of sofa and armchairs on the other.
There’s an open fireplace with a sculptural limestone mantle, a fuck-off chandelier hanging from the centre of the ceiling, and French doors which are open onto a small balcony, their white voile curtains blowing softly in the welcome breeze.
If I have my bearings correct, I’m right above the house’s main entrance.
My suitcase and vanity bag already sit on their own ottoman at the end of the bed.
Anton launches into full-on butler mode.
‘This is your balcony,’ he says. ‘It overlooks the front of the house, where we came in. There are external shutters, obviously. Cédric will close them for you tonight and he’ll turn on the air con, too.
The control is here if you want it sooner.
That’s the bathroom through there.’ He gestures.
‘If you’d like anything unpacked or pressed, hit zero on the phone there. There’s a wardrobe here…’
He opens the door of the antique armoire that stands against one wall and peers inside before stepping back, seemingly satisfied.
‘If you have any problems at all, call Céd. Or me. Otherwise…’ He clears his throat, and I realise he’s nervous.
‘Otherwise I’ll see you for sundowners at seven.
Casual. No need to dress up on my account. ’
I hold back a smile. ‘Got it. And it’s all absolutely perfect, thanks.’
‘The shower is brand new. The other one was a bit—anyway, it should all be sorted now. But again, do shout if you have problems, or there’s a hammam in the basement you’re welcome to use.’
I shake my head. ‘I’m sure it’ll all be great. Honestly.’
‘Okay, then. See you.’ He gives me a brusque nod, takes one more look around the room, and backs out, closing the double doors.
When he’s gone, I exhale deeply as I circle the room where I stand, taking in the high ceilings and the air and the light and the luxury. Wowzers. This is a head fuck of epic proportions. I’ve landed in paradise, with the most attractive, confusing, and frankly terrifying man I’ve ever met.
His home is delightful.
He’s being delightful.
And I am in so far over my head I may never, ever extricate myself from this.