Chapter 3
She would have recognised him a mile away.
But Tilly was holding up her iPad, along with other VIP transfer services, private drivers and tour operators, for Angus McLeod’s benefit because, while he might have seen her profile picture on A Promise in Provence’s website, she could be quite sure he hadn’t been sighing over her photograph.
She spotted him even before he emerged from behind the sliding glass doors and her heart skipped a beat and then accelerated.
This was it. She was about to meet a man who was too good to be true.
A real-life Prince Charming. He was striding towards her, right now, his eyes narrowed, scanning the crowd of people waiting for passengers from the incoming flight from the UK – a tall man in casual but smart trousers and a navy blazer, carving a path through the jostle of other travellers emerging into the arrivals hall who were pushing trolleys, carrying children or dragging suitcases that rattled over the tiled floor.
Mr McLeod wasn’t encumbered by a trolley or children and his only luggage was a slightly battered-looking leather holdall hanging from a shoulder strap.
And he seemed to be walking alone. Tilly could hear a shriek of delight and happy laughter from a group nearby who had just spotted the loved one they had come to meet.
A baby was crying on her other side. An announcement was being made over the loudspeaker system but it was, suddenly, all just a background buzz of sound.
Why was Angus McLeod walking alone?
Where was Moira?
It certainly looked as if something untoward had happened. Her client’s face was set in lines of such grim determination it could only be described as a scowl.
Tilly’s smile faded as her heart sank. This wasn’t anything like how she’d imagined this ‘meet and greet’ would go, but he had spotted his name on the screen of the iPad she was holding and was making a beeline for her and he looked…
…angry?
‘Mademoiselle Pascoe?’
‘Please, call me Tilly.’ She managed to find a smile but it felt unnaturally tight. ‘You’re Mr McLeod?’
He didn’t bother responding to the rhetorical question.
‘Come with me,’ he commanded. ‘We need to talk.’
It was only a matter of navigating a short distance through the crowd to reach one of the bars on the ground floor of Terminal One. Angus’s gaze raked the area, landed on the curved couches beneath umbrella-shaped indoor trees and gave a staccato nod.
‘There,’ he said. He shrugged off the shoulder strap and planted his bag at the end of the couch, at the base of a small round table. ‘Sit,’ he ordered Tilly.
Tilly blinked in disbelief. She was fully intending to stay standing but her knees didn’t get the urgent memo and she found herself sinking – doing exactly what she’d been told to do.
Not letting her back make contact with the couch cushion felt like an invisible and therefore pathetic attempt to retain dignity.
‘I’ll get you a drink,’ Angus said. ‘What would you like?’
‘Ah…’ Tilly was still trying to process the fact that she’d complied with a command to sit – like a small child, or a dog, who was known for misbehaving. ‘…coffee?’
He still hadn’t said hello, let alone smiled at her. Tilly couldn’t help sounding tentative but it didn’t justify the flash of something like impatience – or maybe it was just bad temper – that she felt radiating from him.
‘I’m driving,’ she added defensively.
‘Of course.’ But Angus had already turned away so she couldn’t see if there was any hint of apology on his face.
So much for Prince Charming, she thought.
She might have to revise her opinion of Mr Angus McLeod in short order.
She shouldn’t be surprised. It was beginning to feel like the story of her life, after all.
Maybe the intensity in his gaze in that photograph was more like interrogation than interest. And that attention to detail in organising anything was the red flag of a controlling man that Sophie had picked up on so easily. Had Moira, perhaps, dodged a bullet and run for the hills?
She pulled out her phone and fired off a text message to Sophie.
O.M.G. You’ll never guess what’s just happened!!!
* * *
Angus came back with a number on a stick that he put on the table.
He took off his blazer, folding it to drape over his bag and then sat down opposite her, swiftly unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt to roll them halfway up his forearms. Then, as if finally ready to do business, he fixed his gaze on Tilly.
With that look.
Oh là là… She’d dreamed of this man looking at her exactly like this.
To feel the way she imagined Moira would have felt under his gaze – as if she was the only person that mattered in the universe in that moment.
She hadn’t expected it to feel threatening rather than inviting, though.
The spear of sensation in her gut was nothing like sexual attraction.
It was more like nervousness. Fear, even.
‘So…’ The word was like a tennis ball being thrown into the air by someone getting ready to serve. ‘As you’ve probably noticed, Moira has not travelled with me.’
A statement pointing out something blindingly obvious didn’t seem to need a response but Angus was still staring at her, clearly expecting one.
‘Will she be joining you later?’ She held his gaze for a heartbeat, which took a surprising amount of courage.
‘No.’
Only one syllable but the finality in its tone said everything that needed to be said. The relationship that was supposed to end in married bliss no longer existed. Tilly couldn’t help remembering the impression of Angus she had relayed to Sophie.
Failure is not an option…
Oops. No wonder he was looking rather less than happy with life right now.
‘I, on the other hand,’ Angus announced, ‘have decided to come anyway.’
‘I noticed that too,’ Tilly said, her tone level. She pressed her lips together so she didn’t smile as she delivered what she hoped was a subtle reprimand for not giving her intelligence or observational skills the benefit of any doubt.
It wasn’t missed. She could tell by the way his expression froze for an instant and then his eyes narrowed a fraction more.
He opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by the arrival of a waitress with a tray.
She put a small cup of espresso in front of Tilly and a chunky glass that had amber liquid over ice cubes in front of Angus.
A Scotch on the rocks? A little clichéd but undeniably appropriate.
And… sexy…
Mince! Tilly disguised her mild, inward curse by dropping the sugar cube on her saucer into the black coffee and watching herself stir it.
Slowly. She did not want to find anything about Angus McLeod sexy any longer and that included hearing the rattle of ice as he took a mouthful of his drink and the way he released his breath as he leaned back on the cushion of the couch that Tilly still hadn’t made contact with.
As if he’d had a very long and difficult day.
She risked a glance at him.
He was looking at her again. This time, she managed to control her reaction. She didn’t even stop stirring her coffee. There was no reason to let a client intimidate her. She was safely in a public place and she could simply walk away if necessary.
‘I’ve never been to the South of France,’ Angus said, breaking the silence a beat before it became too awkward. ‘And, with the amount of time and money already invested in planning the perfect holiday to see the best that Provence has to offer, I decided not to waste it.’
‘D’accord,’ Tilly murmured. ‘Okay,’ she added. English, she reminded herself. She didn’t want to make this situation any more awkward by creating a language barrier.
Angus was lifting his glass again but paused before taking a sip. ‘I’m Scottish,’ he said. ‘It’s in our DNA not to throw money away.’
Tilly dropped her gaze as she finally stopped stirring her coffee.
Moving deliberately as she tried to buy enough time to understand what was going on here, she laid the small spoon down on the saucer without making a sound.
Then she looked at him over the rim of her cup as she picked it up to take a sip.
‘So you wish to go on your holiday? Alone?’
‘Not exactly.’ It looked as if Angus was drawing in a deep breath, through his nose. ‘I want you to come with me.’
* * *
He could see the shock hit her by the way the coffee sloshed in her cup before she hastily put it down. And the way her eyes had widened so dramatically.
Big, brown eyes like melted chocolate. They reminded Angus of an adored dog he had grown up with – a flat-coated retriever called Robbie, who’d been like a sibling for a lonely, motherless child.
Och, aye… Mathilde Pascoe was disconcertingly attractive.
He’d seen a photograph of her on her website but that had been only two-dimensional.
In real life, with the skirt of that pretty pale blue dress that swirled around her legs when she was walking, she reminded Angus of a ballerina.
Tall and lithe, with pale skin and almost elfin features and that long silky braid of hair, even darker than her eyes, that fell over one shoulder.
There was something about her manner, as well, that he hadn’t picked up on in their correspondence.
An air of wariness, perhaps? Vulnerability, even?
Or was that impression only there because of his unexpected – and quite possibly unwelcome – invitation?
He wasn’t going to try and analyse what was going on in this woman’s head.
Or get derailed by feeling sorry for her.
He was the one who needed sympathy, but he wasn’t about to admit how hard it had been to walk off that plane and face this holiday in order to exorcise a ghost or two.
It might end up being a total disaster if he couldn’t, at least, modify its purpose to be unrecognisable.