He found himself locked in the gaze of dark eyes shining in candlelight. “We have.” He lifted his wine to wash over a mouthful of lasagne. “I’ve been thinking, Dominique, about the pouch that Marc Fraysse carried on the belt around his waist.”
“Ah.” Dominique sat back with a slightly sad smile and lifted her glass to her lips. “Subtle, or not so subtle, change of subject.”
“No.” He returned her smile. “Just something that’s been on my mind since I got here.”
“Oh? Why?”
“Tasha.”
Dominique frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Your superiors used the missing pouch to posit the idea that the motive for Fraysse’s murder could have been robbery, right?”
“Yes.”
“But someone out running is hardly likely to be carrying valuables. Even if his killer had been trying to rob Marc, one look in the pouch would have told him there was nothing of value in it. I mean, if he’d wanted the phone he would just have taken it.”
“I suppose he would.”
“So why did he take the pouch?”
Dominique turned it over in her mind for a moment. “To make it look like a robbery?”
“Exactly.”
“Maybe the killer just took the bag and didn’t look in it till he got clear of the crime scene.”
“In which case he would probably just take the phone and throw the bag away. He certainly wouldn’t want to be caught with it.”
“So where’s this leading?”
“You told me you searched the area.”
“Yes. Officers from the police scientifique. They didn’t find anything.”
“What was Tasha trained to sniff for?”
Dominique shrugged. “I don’t know. Anything they gave her the scent of, I guess.”
“So if we gave her something of Marc Fraysse’s to smell and let her loose up by the buron, the chances are she would pick up anything around there that still carried his scent?”
“After seven years? That’s pretty unlikely, isn’t it?”
“Any tracks, of course, would have been washed away at the time. But scent can cling to objects for years. Anything up there belonging to Fraysse might still carry his smell on it.”
Dominique nodded in doubtful agreement. “Might be worth a try, I suppose.” She finished her wine and he refilled her glass. “I remember inheriting an aunt’s scarf when I was a child, and it had the scent of her on it for years afterwards. No matter how often I wore it.”
“So we’ll take Tasha up first thing tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
“And don’t forget to take her ball. That’s the game, remember?” He finished his lasagne and mopped the plate clean with some moist, yeasty bread. “That was delicious. My mother would have hated you.”
Dessert was fresh mango slices and vanilla ice-cream. Afterwards, they adjourned to the sitting room, sitting together on the settee by the light of dying embers in an open hearth. There, under the watchful gaze of Tasha, they drank coffee and Armagnac. Dominique sat side on, one leg tucked in beneath her, the other folded up under her chin, arms wrapped around her shin, and she watched him as he talked about the training which had led him to become an expert on serious serial crime analysis, specialising in blood pattern interpretation at major crime scenes.
He laughed. “Great topic of conversation to round off a romantic evening. Blood spatter and hair analysis.”
She shook her head. “What on earth made you give it all up.”
He shrugged and said simply, “Love.”
“She must have been very special.”
“She was.”
“Do you still miss her?”
“There’s not a day goes by that I don’t think about her. And I see her in our daughter every time I look at Sophie.”
“Would you ever think of having a serious relationship with someone else?”
“I did. With Charlotte. At least, it was serious for me. But not for her, as it turned out. She valued her independence too much.”
“Independent can sometimes just be another word for lonely.”
Enzo turned his head to look at her. She looked lovely in the dying glow of the fire. Tight jeans, a man’s white shirt out over her hips, long sleeves rolled up to the elbows, bare feet. “Are you lonely, Dominique?”
She hesitated for a long moment. “Very.”
He reached out and touched her cheek with his fingertips, and she unfolded herself to move across the settee, taking his head in her hands. Their faces were very close. He felt her breath on his skin. Their lips touched, without any sense that either had initiated it. A soft, sweet kiss full of tenderness. She drew back a little. “You can stay if you want.”
He felt butterflies in conflict in his stomach, and a deep desire burgeoning in his loins. “I want.”
Chapter Twenty-five
The wind had dropped, and there was an odd, chill stillness in the air as he drove up from Thiers to Saint- Pierre at first light. He wanted to be back, and in his room, before anyone became aware that he had spent the night elsewhere. He also had another reason for being back before breakfast.
He parked beneath the naked branches of the plane trees and walked, ankle-deep, through fallen leaves around to the front door. There was still a warm, fuzzy glow somewhere deep inside him. The taste of Dominique lingered on his lips, as did the sense of her wrapped in his arms, as she had been all night, head resting on his shoulder, purring gently.
Enzo himself had slept very little, but he didn’t feel tired. The comfort of intimacy had made him more relaxed than he had been in a very long time. He had savored it through all the dark hours of the night, dozing intermittently, vaguely erotic dreams washing over him, to be lost from grasp or memory on surfacing once more to consciousness. In some ways he had not wanted to sleep, as if in doing so he might have missed it all; the feel of her skin on his; the closeness and warmth of another human being.
Anne Crozes was behind the reception desk as he came through the revolving door into the lobby, bringing the cold air of the early morning with him. He glanced at her, and saw a faintly inquiring look cross her face, as if she was wondering what he might be doing out at this time. But she wasn’t going to ask, and he wasn’t about to offer any explanation. He nodded and turned immediately toward the staircase, following it up to the first landing.
Back in his suite, he showered quickly and got dressed, all the time keeping half an eye on the clock. For the past few mornings, Elisabeth had gone down to breakfast at eight sharp. He did not want to miss her descent to the dining room today.
By 7:55 he was standing with his back to the wall next to the door of his room, listening. There were a couple of false alarms; another guest heading down for breakfast; a maid delivering a breakfast tray to a room further along the hall. Each time he heard a movement, he opened the door a crack to see who it was.
Finally, a little later than on previous mornings, he heard a door opening along the hall, and brisk footsteps softened by the deep pile of the runner. He eased his door open just after they passed, and saw Elisabeth heading for the staircase.
He allowed her several minutes to get herself ensconced in the dining room before slipping out into the
