It might have struck her as a little strange that Célia, who seemed to positively shrink at the prospect of interacting with billionaires and businesspeople, was happy to reveal her inner core of strength and persuasiveness with the other half of their intent. Célia seemed to know everything and anything about the international charities she drew to their company, and planned to entwine them with Ella’s contacts, which was why the Venn diagram symbol on their business cards worked so well.
But in the short time since she’d last seen Roman, all Ella had been able to do was get Ivan Mozorov vaguely interested in a potential meeting. And she hated that her husband’s apparent efficiency seemed to make her feel…inadequate. As if she was failing. Had already failed.
She’d gone to his club the night of the funeral to ensure her freedom and only succeeded in tying herself to Roman in the most fundamental of ways. And as much as she’d hoped for a different future for them both, the fact that she was being driven to see a house he had already bought, already planned for them to share, proved to her that once again Roman was doing things without her knowledge. That, no matter what he said, he hadn’t changed at all. And the fierce wave of uncertainty caused by that realisation made her feel awkward and a little panicky. And guilty. Most awfully guilty, because she hated herself for the fact that all she’d wanted was to be free and now she felt trapped by him.
Roman guided the car down a dirt track in between sprawling, undulating fields. On one side an industrious farmer was hard at work slicing down the wheat, leaving tracks behind him that reminded Ella oddly of Van Gogh’s paintings. On the other side dark green cloudlike trees gathered between brief glimpses of a small terracotta-coloured town in the distance sitting against the pale outline of the looming Pyrenees.
It was the sight of the mountains slashed against the horizon, as if painted in watercolours, that poked and prodded at her memory. Of before. Before she’d known the truth of him. And once again Ella felt the loss of that man. Her fiancé. The one she had trusted implicitly before he’d revealed himself to be false. The one who had drawn from her unconscious the very things that she had wanted most. A child, a husband, a family. She was then struck with the painful irony that she now, in fact, had those things.
But she had not wanted them this way. Not with this man and not under these circumstances.
Resentment roared within her, but was it really her husband that was directed towards or her own naivety? She honestly couldn’t say any more.
Ella was about to launch into another verbal attack when they rounded an old stone wall and slowed before a set of wrought-iron gates. Even Dorcas poked her head up from the back seat, as if knowing that something of great interest lay beyond. The gates slowly inched open, as if purposely teasing the car’s occupants before revealing the treasures that lay ahead.
The gravel driveway flicked up stones and crunched beneath the wheels of the car and she felt, with some not so small satisfaction, Roman flinch each time his precious paintwork came under attack. Then she caught sight of the sprawling converted farmhouse that sat at the top of the driveway.
And in the same way she had taken one look at the man to whom she was married and known that he would break her heart, she knew, knew, that this beautiful creamy-stoned estate was everything she’d ever wanted. Everything she’d once told Roman she wanted.
And for some inexplicable reason that made her want to cry.
Dorcas whined in the back seat of the car as if sensing the conclusion of their journey, scratching against the leather and causing Roman to wince again. Good dog, she mentally praised her as she blinked away the gathering tears pressing against her eyelids.
Ella looked up at the two-storey building stretching across and beyond the top of the driveway. Several outbuildings loomed in the distance, drawing her gaze beyond the estate, down a sloping bank of grass and across to the forest, where sunlight glinted against a copper dome she couldn’t quite fathom.
‘It is the gazebo down by the spring-fed lake that borders the property lines.’
The gentle tones of a French-accented female drew Ella’s gaze back to the property with a snap. Expecting to meet the stranger’s eyes, Ella frowned as she took in the immaculately dressed woman who apparently had directed her statement to the man who would naturally have known what his money had bought.
‘Dominique Delvaux,’ she said with a feline smile, directed at her husband. ‘I am the estate’s guardienne.’
Ella just about managed to restrain the growl she felt vibrating within her throat. Dorcas, apparently, had no such self-control as a low warning rumbled from the beast in spite of the look of disdain the beautiful Frenchwoman cast in the dog’s direction.
Ella looked down at her clothes, creased and crumpled and slightly damp from the journey, despite the powerful air-conditioning that had at first sent shivers across her skin. At the time, Ella had allowed herself that small lie, pretending her body’s reaction had nothing to do with the impossibly handsome man beside her.
A handsome man whose charms were apparently not wasted on the guardienne. Ella had dressed for comfort, where Ms Delvaux seemed to have dressed for a fashion show. And now, as she looked at the other woman, she felt the slightly tight press of the waistband of her linen trousers and wished that she had listened to Célia’s suggestion that she think about purchasing a new wardrobe for her slowly developing bump.
She followed her husband as the guardienne beckoned them into the building and the enticing cool interior of the hallway. A small table by the entrance held a jug of
