Probably another of Pierre’s casual acquaintances come to judge her.
But then she noted the Durand logo on the side of the Jeep as the vehicle stopped and a man got out.
He was tall and muscular, wearing worn jeans, battered work boots and a grubby white T-shirt, his jaw covered in stubble.
She recognised him instantly, even though she’d never met him and never seen him in such casual attire—only in tuxedos and designer suits in snapped shots online and in tabloid magazines.
Maxim Durand, Pierre’s billionaire neighbour. And France’s most eligible playboy, according to Paris Match. Who else could look that ruthless and commanding—and annoyingly handsome—while dressed like a labourer? And who else would be arrogant enough to attend a funeral straight from the fields?
Anxiety skittered up her spine. What was Pierre’s business rival doing coming to his funeral? There had been no love lost between the two men, or certainly not by Pierre. Her employer had talked about Durand often, with utter contempt and surprising venom. She had loved Pierre—he was charming and paternalistic towards her—but his hatred of Durand had shown a side of her employer she had never quite understood. Pierre had been fixated on the other man. Every time they had a problem at the vineyard—a small fire, a spring flood, one of the field hands leaving—Pierre had blamed Durand, as if the other man was personally responsible for everything that had gone wrong over the years. Cara had tried not to encourage it. She’d thought Pierre was paranoid—yes, the Durand Corporation had bought up all the land surrounding the de la Mare estate, but Durand had never attempted to buy out Pierre—but now she wondered. Was it possible Pierre had been right? Had Durand simply been waiting for Pierre to die before making his move?
Durand slammed the door of the Jeep and marched across the dry earth to the graveside, his movements supremely confident. He certainly didn’t look as if he were in mourning. A strange liquid pull worked its way through her system.
A blush burned her neck as Durand dipped his head and she could feel his gaze, behind dark aviator sunglasses, assessing her in the retro fifties black dress she’d found at the market the previous day. The dress had been too tight, but with its wide skirt, fitted bodice and hourglass shape it had looked elegant. She never wore dresses, feeling more comfortable in what Pierre had laughingly called her ‘work uniform’ of shorts and T-shirts. But she’d wanted to look elegant today, for Pierre. And the dress had suited the occasion. Or so she’d thought until this moment. Durand’s perusal scorched her skin, insulting her and exciting her at one and the same time—and making her feel more exposed than elegant.
But he didn’t speak to her, his gaze leaving her burning face as he approached the graveside and said something to Marcel Caron, Pierre’s lawyer.
The priest finally stopped talking and handed her a trowel. She bent to scoop up a shovel of earth, far too aware now of her breasts straining against the tight bodice.
She sprinkled the chalky red earth on Pierre’s coffin.
‘Give Simone a kiss from me, Pierre,’ she whispered in English. Handing the trowel back to the priest, she said a silent goodbye to her friend.
Swallowing to hold back the emotion closing her throat, she turned from the graveside and walked past the graves of the de la Mare ancestors, heading down the hillside to La Maison de la Lune.
She’d decided not to arrange any kind of wake. Pierre had told her he didn’t want any fuss.
Pierre’s lawyer, Marcel, was due to come to the farmhouse after the service to give her a cheque for the money Pierre had promised her from his pension when they’d wed. She already had one of de la Mare’s best wines open and breathing—the way Pierre had taught her to do—on the kitchen counter ready for Marcel’s arrival.
She heard some hissed whispers in French as she headed past the other mourners, but no one approached her.
She needed to pack her rucksack and start thinking about where she was going to go next. She doubted there would be much time once the estate had been settled. And if Durand bought it he would want her off the land quickly. She wanted to be ready to go before she was pushed. And Durand’s presence here today—in his work clothes—suggested he wasn’t going to stand on ceremony.
Should she go to Paris? To London? To Madrid maybe? She’d never been to Spain before.
But as she tried to muster some enthusiasm for her new adventure all she felt was weary. And sad. And heartsick.
Sod it. She wasn’t going to pack tonight.
Tonight she wanted to remember her friend—a sad smile curved her lips—her husband. So once Marcel left she would sit out on the terrace, sip Pierre’s beautiful wine and enjoy the twilight magic of the vines she had come to love. The vines that had become a rare oasis of calm and security and safety amid the chaos of her nomadic life.
She could feel the laser-like intensity of Durand’s gaze behind his sunglasses as she made her way past him to the path out of the graveyard. A disturbing prickle of need ran riot over her skin and the hot, heavy weight settled low in her belly.
She struggled to rationalise the strange, unfamiliar sensations.
Durand was rich and forceful, a notorious womaniser, and exuded an animal magnetism it would be hard for any woman to ignore. And she had so little experience with men. As a foster child, she had learned to hide her light under a very big bushel. It was always better not to be noticed, then you might get to stay a bit longer. And as a teenager she’d been a tomboy, determined not to conform to the stereotype of an unwanted girl looking for love in all the wrong places. She was still a virgin, for goodness’ sake. Thanks to her rootless existence
