Chapter Eight #2
She felt her heart clench whenever she thought of what he’d had to endure in his youth, bereft of any kind of love.
Her own father had never been unkind to her and had always looked after her until Naomi had got her claws into him.
Her mother had been devoted to her. And she to her mother.
Their bond had been strong, close and so, so loving.
Lycos had never known that, from either parent.
Yet he had found the strength in himself to make a new life for himself. And so must she.
Whatever it was to be.
For a moment, dangerous and seductive, as she gazed at him, she felt a longing rise within her.
What if that new life were to be always with Lycos?
The thought hung there in her head, glowing and tempting. Like a golden apple she might reach out and take, and taste.
What if he wants me always to be with him? To make our lives together?
She could see it—as vivid and verdant as if it were real. She and Lycos, back at the mas, her home once again. Their home together…
I might never lose it. Never lose Lycos.
Emotion tightened around her heart. And a sense of longing rose in her.
She realised he was speaking again. ‘After our long drive shall we just stay local? I know a good little restaurant nearby. Small, but quiet, and the cuisine is superb.’
She smiled. ‘That sounds good.’
But then, everything about being with Lycos was good.
As he pulled out his phone to make the reservation, her eyes rested on him, her gaze softening.
Yes, being with Lycos was so very good.
If only it could last for ever…
The restaurant was just as Lycos remembered. They were shown to a table covered with a pristine linen tablecloth and set with silver cutlery and crystal glasses. Ornamented menus were bestowed upon them. As she opened hers, he heard Arielle give a low whistle.
‘Lycos, the prices are astronomical!’ she exclaimed, sounding perturbed.
‘And the cuisine well worth them,’ he assured her.
‘Yes, but even so—’
He silenced her with a lift of his hand. ‘Arielle, I told you. You are here in Paris as my guest. At my expense. For everything.’
He smiled encouragingly. For a moment he saw her hesitate then, as if giving in, she bent her head to study the menu. He was glad she wasn’t going to protest again. He wanted to indulge her. And he was glad to do so.
She is not like the women I am used to. She does not expect anything of me, which is exactly why I want to spoil her. Lavish on her the luxury I can so easily afford! I want to see her eyes glow when I give her things. I want to please her.
It warmed him to think that way. Warmed him just to think about her. Just to let his eyes rest on her.
He was not sure why. Oh, that she was so different from the women he’d become used to since he’d made his money, yes, that was one reason. And that he desired her so much. Every long, languorous night at the mas had shown him that. That was another reason.
But that was not all.
He let his gaze meet hers, saw hers soften as he did. Saw something in her beautiful blue eyes. Felt it reach out to him.
But how, and why, he did not know. He only knew that he wanted it to be so. Was content for it to be so.
A frown formed on his face, though he veiled it swiftly.
There was something he was not content with.
She was wearing the blue-sprigged dress again and the loop of blue beads, with no more make-up than the lightest of lip gloss and mascara.
Her hair was simply drawn back into a switch.
Even with the addition of the shawl he had bought her in Saint-Clément it was an underdressed look that would only do for the provinces.
Not for Paris. Not for the circles he moved in.
The frown turned to a glint. Well, that would change tomorrow. For tonight…
‘So, what on the menu tempts you?’ he prompted.
As for himself, he knew exactly what tempted him. The prospect of fine dining and the pleasures of the night to come.
And all their time in Paris ahead of them.
He would ensure that it was good. For them both.
‘Lycos, I couldn’t possibly accept!’ Arielle looked at Lycos with troubled eyes.
They were standing in front of one of France’s famous fashion houses in the exclusive Faubourg Saint-Honoré and Lycos wanted to go in and buy some clothes for her.
He looked at her straightly. ‘Arielle, at the mas, in the middle of rural Provence, casual was fine. Here in Paris, it’s different. To be chic is de rigeur!’
He said the last part lightly, humorously even, but for all that there was an implacable note in his voice. Arielle’s troubled expression did not change.
‘Well, not for me…’ she began. Lycos cut across her.
‘Of course for you! Why not?’
‘Because I don’t move in those circles,’ she said flatly.
‘Well I do,’ he rejoined. ‘And I would point out to you that, had your stepmother not got her claws into your father, you would too!’
She shook her head. ‘My father was nowhere near as rich as you are, Lycos.’
‘But wealthy enough to buy you expensive clothes,’ he retorted. ‘And now it’s me doing so.’
He made to guide her through the impressive double doors with their distinctive, world-famous initials stencilled on them. But still she held back. She felt his grip around her wrist tighten.
‘Arielle, here in Paris I socialise, OK? And you are with me, as my guest I told you, so I am covering all expenses! I’ll be socialising with you.
I’m looking forward to it. Believe me, I can’t wait to show you off.
Starting tonight. We’re dining out with Marc Derenz and his wife.
He’s my banker, remember, and I’m having my annual review with him at his bank tomorrow.
You’ll like his wife, by the way. She’s English. ’
He paused before continuing dryly, holding Arielle’s still-troubled gaze, ‘She’s also a former model and a total knock-out. She’ll be looking incredible tonight and I do not want you feeling underdressed in comparison.’
As before, there was humour in his voice but that implacable note remained.
For a moment longer she held back, deeply reluctant to do as Lycos so obviously wanted her to do—to accept him buying her clothes that she could not afford to buy for herself.
But nor could he, once.
She felt her resistance crumble. Lycos had not always been rich. He had come from wretched beginnings and had dreamt of escaping.
And now he has. And if it gives him pleasure to indulge me, to have the wealth now to do so, why should I refuse him?
It’s something I can give to him. To let him show me off as he wants to!
So where was the harm in it?
‘OK, I give in,’ she said. Humour was evident in her voice, and fondness too. She held that image in her head of the neglected, unloved, abused boy in the backstreets of Athens.
For Lycos she would do it. And set aside her qualms.
‘Marc, good to see you.’ Lycos gave a firm shake of the hand extended to him.
He would not call Marc Derenz a friend. He would call no man a friend.
That was not his way. But Marc was a man he could trust, indeed did trust, with the investment of a good deal of his money.
He was, he knew, a valued client of the prestigious Banc Derenz.
Marc himself moved in the first circles and was on social terms with all his clients. Including now, Lycos.
Greeting Marc’s wife, Lycos drew Arielle forward to introduce her. Tara Derenz might be a former model, and she certainly looked it in the bias-cut silver gown she was wearing, but Arielle was in no way outclassed. No way.
She looked, Lycos knew, stunning.
Superbe! Fantastique! Incroyable!
The French words formed in his head, the only ones to do justice to the vision at his side.
The Grecian-style, pale blue gown followed her lovely, curvy figure from breast to ankle.
Her lustrous hair was looped up, exposing the nape of her neck, enhancing the height of her cheekbones that were already contoured with skilful shading.
Shading that also deepened the colour of her eyes, as mascara lengthened her lashes.
Lipstick giving a wondrous sheen and lushness to her mouth.
He’d wondered, briefly, how Tara Derenz would take to a woman who could compete against her, but her smile was warm. So was Arielle’s.
‘Lycos mentioned you were English,’ Arielle said to Tara in English.
‘Scots originally,’ Tara replied. ‘Mackenzie. You sound English too. No French accent at all!’
‘My father,’ said Arielle. ‘But my mother was French.’
‘Arielle, what would you like to drink?’ Marc asked.
The four of them settled themselves down on the plush banquette in the very plush cocktail lounge of the extremely plush Viscari Paris where they were to dine. Lycos took satisfaction in knowing that Arielle looked perfect for the exclusive setting.
Champagne was mutually agreed on and, as Arielle took a sip of hers, she turned to Lycos with a smile.
‘Does it make wine taste better now, do you think, having had the experience of picking the grapes in the first place? Not champagne grapes, of course, but the principle is the same!’
‘Picking grapes?’ Marc queried, non-plussed.
Lycos turned to him. ‘Arielle and I got roped into helping with the grape harvest while staying in Provence.’
Marc’s expression was a study. ‘Quite a novelty for you,’ he said.
‘And an enjoyable one,’ Lycos said, taking an appreciative mouthful of the superb Viscari house champagne, a unique blend only available at Viscari hotels.
‘It was very…’ he sought for the right word, ‘…collaborative. I think we pitched in pretty well, didn’t we, Arielle?
OK, I didn’t do nearly as well as the practised harvesters, but I wasn’t too pathetic! ’
‘You were very good,’ Arielle praised him.
‘What part of Provence?’ Tara Derenz asked with interest. ‘Marc is lucky enough to have inherited an original art-deco villa on Cap Saint-Pierre, the last unspoilt cap on the C?te d’Azur. But inland is far less spoilt.’
‘Quite near Saint-Clément,’ Lycos answered. He wanted to change the subject. He did not want to bring up Arielle’s lost mas. Nor consider why he did not wish to.
‘Cap Saint-Pierre,’ he mused. ‘I must say I’ve never been there. I tend to stick to Monaco, Nice and Cannes when I’m at the coast. And, of course, the casinos.’
He made no secret of how he’d acquired his wealth, nor his reputation. Not that that meant anything to Marc Derenz. He had other acquaintances in Paris to whom it signified more. He would meet up with them while he was here, but tonight was for the Derenzes.
‘We stick to the cap,’ Tara said decisively. ‘I’m not a fan of cities. Oh, Paris is gorgeous, in its own way. I’ll allow that. But when we married we made Versailles our base. Though Marc keeps a pied-à-terre handy over the bank.’
‘Versailles sounds, well, palatial!’ Arielle smiled.
‘It is. And the palace grounds are ideal for pushchairs!’ responded Tara.
Lycos heard Arielle enquire after the occupants of the pushchairs and was glad to realise she and Marc’s wife seemed to be hitting it off.
They went on chatting. An easy conversation switching in and out of French and English.
He turned to Marc to ask him something about the current French political scene.
Menus were bestowed upon them. Choices made, champagne consumed, they made their way into the Viscari’sMichelin-starred restaurant to take their table.
The evening was going well and Lycos was glad.
His eyes were still feasting on Arielle. How fantastic she looked. En grande tenue indeed. Effortlessly holding her own in these luxury surroundings. She was relaxed and he was glad for that too.
He realised he was also relaxed. And enjoying himself. The Derenzes might be an established married couple, but he and Arielle were—
Were what?
He paused inwardly a moment, searching for the bon mot.
At ease with each other. That’s what we are.
It was a strange thought and he wondered why it should be so. He was not unused to female company after all.
But never before have I spent so much time, continuous time, with one single female. Those weeks at the mas, just being together. Living together.
At ease together.
Even as he thought it, memories flashed. ‘Ease’ had not been there between them at first—the very opposite.
The first time he’d set eyes on her, in that faded dressing gown, in the courtyard of Mas Delfine.
Staring at me as if I were the demon king arriving to dispossess her. Come to take her home from her.
He shook the accusation away. Not only was it not true, it had been her father who was to blame, not him, for her loss. But now he was not taking from Arielle. He was giving.
His eyes rested on her again, warm and appreciative.
How stunning she looked in the gown he’d bought her.
That was only one of their purchases today and more would follow.
He would buy jewellery for her too and lavish his lifestyle on her.
Just as he was doing this evening and would do throughout their stay in Paris.
I want to please her, to indulge her, because she is worth it to me. She’s valuable. She’s…
Another word formed in his head.
Precious.
It hung there a moment, like a pearl, and something moved within him.
Something he did not recognise, but which kept his gaze on her arrested.
Then Marc made some remark, requiring his response and the moment was gone.
But as Arielle turned her head to him, her beautiful eyes smiling and meeting his for a moment, he heard the echo of that word again.
Precious.
And that strange, elusive, unrecognised emotion that came with it echoed too.