Chapter 41
Anton
Jesus.
I stand under the spray in the wet room off my suite and let the torrent of water consume me.
I’m here, in my favourite place on earth.
I’ve shared this home with two of my three wives and all four of my kids.
I’ve entertained God knows how many dozens of friends and business associates over the decade or so I’ve been fortunate enough to own it.
I’ve eaten and drunk and partied and skinny dipped and fucked and wept and slept and held tense, silent vigils here.
This house has held me at my lowest lows. It’s been my monastery and my sanctuary, my very own Alchemy, and my children’s playground.
And it has never hummed with magic, with potential, like it has this past twenty minutes since I helped Genevieve off the helicopter and over my threshold.
Fuck me.
She’s handled this latest ambush far more graciously than I feared she might.
I was pretty fucking nervous, actually. Not that I’d ever show her that.
I was counting on La Perle du Cap, my beautiful villa, doing most of the heavy lifting for me, and my faith was vindicated.
She was clearly enchanted as soon as she laid eyes on it, but she had no idea how enchanting her enchantment was.
When she’s armed up and ready to fight, she’s the best, most intoxicating kind of challenge. But when she’s soft and delighted and lets that armour slip, she’s dangerous, because she’s irresistible.
I’m so tempted to wrap my hand around my cock and take the edge off, but I deny myself.
Because the edge is what makes me me.
It makes me hungry, and determined, and relentless.
Ergo, it makes me far more likely to get what I want.
And I know what I want.
Instead, I wash my hair and body thoroughly under the cool spray and dress in white shorts and a navy linen shirt. I leave the top couple of buttons undone and roll the sleeves up, pausing before opening the top drawer next to my bed and sliding a single foil-wrapped condom into my shorts pocket.
Some stupid fuckers would say this kind of behaviour is tempting fate.
I wholeheartedly disagree.
I’m manifesting. I’m putting my desire for this evening out into the universe, and that’s worked often enough for me in the past.
I rake a hand through my damp hair as I exit my suite and risk a glance at Genevieve’s double doors.
Still firmly closed.
I hope she enjoys her brief reprieve in her room, because, if I have my way, it’ll be the only time she spends in there.
I pad barefoot downstairs, revelling in the simple pleasure of being in my favourite of all my residences. Of cool stone underfoot and sea breezes wafting in. Of the scent of rosemary and garlic and thyme and lemon coming from the kitchen.
A quick detour in that very direction provides me with a verbose and noisy greeting from my chef, Jean-Jacques, a great hulk of a man who bestows a wet, delighted kiss on each of my cheeks, slaps me so hard on the back that he may have cracked a rib or two, and launches into a comprehensive description of the feast (his words) he’s preparing for tonight.
I’m enormously fond of Jean-Jacques and hold him responsible for all my culinary expertise.
When I holed up here after divorce number three, I spent days alone in the house with him and Céd, travelling up and down the coast and even inland to food markets, shopping for bounty that we’d take home and cook, approaching every step with reverence.
It was, quite simply, therapy.
Tonight, apparently, we’re having just-caught rouget (red mullet) with baked aubergine, potato gratin, and a green salad.
Jean-Jacques, however, is far more excited about the selection of canapés he’s prepared.
He’s arranged a colourfully resplendent selection of crudités on a wooden board with lashings of poichichade, a Provencal dip made of chickpeas which the locals seem intent on refusing to acknowledge as basically humous.
There’s caviar, and enormous langoustines arranged just so around an earthenware bowl of lemony, dill-seasoned crème fra?che, and croustades aplenty, loaded with green olive tapenade and black olive tapenade and sundried tomato tapenade… you get the picture.
When in Provence…
I extricate myself and wander outside. It’s still extremely warm, but the terrace is now in the shade, though the view from the west side will be spectacular as the sun sets in its blaze of glory over Juan Les Pins later this evening. The shadows of the cypresses are lengthening on the grass.
Céd is fiddling with his favourite thing in the house, my vintage brass bar cart. I almost feel bad that there are only two of us to serve tonight. The guy is a frustrated mixologist. He’d thrive at one of the great American Bars in London—the Savoy, perhaps. Or Duke’s.
He makes me a long G&T and I saunter down to the far side of the pool. This is my favourite time of day. This and early morning. I enjoy a swim and a sunbathe as much as the next person, but the midday heat can be punishing here in the summer. It’s pretty perfect at this time of year, though.
There’s something about this place that instantly takes my nervous system down a few notches. London and work feel far away. Irrelevant. All that matters is the breeze on my face, and the grass pushing between my bare toes, and muted sound of bon viveurs carrying, probably up from Keller Plage.
Then comes Céd’s voice, and the tinkle of a female laugh, and I spin around.
Here she is. She’s standing on the terrace, a vision in some brightly coloured sundress that strikes me as lighter and less formal than the things she usually wears.
Quite right.
I start towards her.