Heaven Scent (18 page)

Standing outside the gorgeous, rococo-style building again, Ashton felt a flash of excitement. He’d been away in England and hadn’t seen the place for a while; he’d almost convinced himself it wasn’t as special as he’d first thought.

But it was. It was perfect. The location was ideal; it was close enough to busy Boulevard Haussmann to bring a stream of customers past it but it was also discreetly positioned in a pretty side road. This gave the building a ‘boutique’ feel, accessible but high end, which was exactly what a perfume shop should be, Ashton thought, gazing up at it. And he loved the shell motifs that sat above the window. They added a touch of playful humour which stopped the building from being too intimidating or formal.

Having asked for the keys, Ashton opened the door and walked inside, feeling as though he was entering Aladdin’s cave. Placing the keys and his phone on a nearby counter, he sucked his breath in. The building might be empty but in his mind’s eye he could see it taking shape and assuming an identity. He paused then refocused his attention on the building. Taking out a notepad, he started sketching his ideas in pencil, using rapid strokes and approximate measurements.

The fluid lines of the shopfront lent themselves to similar curves inside – elegant, undulating counters and softly rounded shelves that flowed around the side of the shop in one continuous curve. Ashton quickly pencilled in the small chandeliers he had originally envisaged, with muted, hidden bulbs around the wide window to highlight each beautiful Ducasse-Fleurie product. He didn’t want to get carried away with the interior so he focused on the structure. He checked the floor area of the flat above and then went back downstairs. He jumped when he realised someone was standing just inside the street door.

‘
Bonjour
,’ said a husky, teasing voice.

Turning round, Ashton came face to face with a glamorous woman in her forties. Instantly, he recognised her as the woman he’d seen eyeing up the building when he’d viewed it before. Today, her russet-coloured hair sat around her shoulders like a glorious, autumnal shower. She wore the same black trench coat, this time with ruby court shoes that had dagger-thin heels.

Ashton blinked at her, wondering what she was doing there. Women like her made him feel uneasy. ‘Hello. Can I help you?’

‘Mmmm, how
delicious
, you’re English,’ she murmured. She undid the belt of her trench coat and took it off in one smooth movement, placing it carefully on the cleanest surface she could find. Underneath she revealed a scarlet dress with an asymmetric neckline and a tight skirt that emphasised every curve. With her flowing hair, immaculate red lips and statuesque figure, she was like a Hollywood siren from a bygone era.

‘Let me introduce myself. My name is Marianne Peroux.’

Ever the gentleman, Ashton shook her hand, aware that she held his far longer than was necessary. ‘It’s very nice to meet you, madame. I’m Ashton Lyfield.’

‘Ashton. It is
so
nice to make your acquaintance.’ Letting go of his hand, she instead held his gaze with bewitching green eyes that seemed to mock and beguile him simultaneously.

What an attractive man, she thought to herself. He was like a shy but very fanciable prefect at one of those posh English boarding schools, someone most girls would want to ravish and lead astray.

Marianne smiled inwardly. She was going to enjoy this game. ‘What a wonderful building,’ she commented, her airy tone at odds with the determination etched on her face. ‘A truly magnificent specimen of its period, don’t you think? And so . . . utterly . . . perfect.’ She said the words in a deliberately sensual manner and strolled purposefully around the space, her sharp heels making snapping sounds on the dusty floor.

‘Perfect for what?’ Ashton felt compelled to ask.

‘Why, a perfume store, of course!’ Marianne let out a throaty laugh and put her hands on her hips. She gave him a keen glance. ‘I head up one of the biggest perfume houses in Paris,’ she informed him. ‘Armand.’ She threw the name out with the casual confidence of someone who knew they held all the aces.

Ashton felt his spirits plummet. Armand were one of the most commercial, well-known brands in France. Originally a luxurious, upmarket make-up line that catered to the exceptionally rich, Armand had branched out into fragrance ten years ago and their top-selling perfume, L’Ecarlate, meaning Scarlet, had been an instant bestseller. Bold, brash and unforgettable, the fragrance had benefited from a very provocative ad campaign featuring a famous French actress, her semi-naked pose now synonymous with the perfume. L’Escarate had made record sales for the first five years and thereafter Armand, as a brand, were unstoppable.

If Marianne – and Armand – were interested in this building, which they clearly were, Ashton knew he was going to have his work cut out securing the property for Leoni.

Marianne paused at Ashton’s elbow. ‘I love your ideas for the space,’ she said, running a finger topped by a flame-red nail through his notebook of sketches. ‘You are an architect? I love these sexy, flowing lines and the way you plan to capture the light. It’s perfect.’ She puckered her mouth until it resembled a ripe cherry and regarded him. ‘Would you consider renovating the building for me? I would hire you in an instant and I will pay double your normal rates.’

Taken aback, Ashton smiled politely. He didn’t want to alienate her, not when she was clearly a rival buyer. ‘I’m flattered but I’m afraid that’s not possible. I plan to renovate this building for someone else once they’ve purchased it. It’s . . . it’s personal.’

‘Really?’ Marianne looked put out. She narrowed her green eyes at him, moving closer. ‘Who is it, this person you are so keen to do such a thing for?’

Ashton shook his head, giving her a genial smile. ‘I’m so sorry but it really wouldn’t be appropriate for me to tell you.’ His phone rang and he groped for it in his pocket, before remembering he’d left it on the cracked counter by the door.

Marianne scooped it up helpfully and glanced at the screen. Catching her breath, her mouth fell open in surprise. ‘Leoni Ducasse?’ she said incredulously. ‘It can’t be . . . You want this building for Ducasse-Fleurie, don’t you?’

Taking his phone from her, Ashton looked pained. He couldn’t very well deny it now. He wondered why Marianne had been so astonished to see Leoni’s name.

Marianne was pacing the store. ‘I cannot believe it . . . this is incredible! After all these years . . .’

‘What do you mean?’ Ashton asked finally, totally nonplussed.

Marianne let out a short laugh. ‘Well, let’s just say that I knew Guy Ducasse a long time ago.’ She nodded, her russet hair falling over one eye. ‘Oh yes, me and Guy, we knew each other before he met Elizabeth. How is she, by the way?’

‘She’s dead,’ Ashton said bluntly. He suspected Marianne didn’t really care much for Elizabeth’s welfare. ‘She died two years ago.’

‘Riding accident?’ Marianne guessed correctly. ‘I knew she’d come off that silly horse one day. Such a dangerous sport but some people have to get their thrills. So Guy is alone now. How very interesting.’ She turned her attention back to Ashton, gazing into his eyes. ‘You have the most arresting eyes, you know. We should go out to dinner and discuss this wonderful building.’

Ashton felt slightly panicked. Marianne would eat him for breakfast. ‘Oh, I really don’t think that’s—’

‘Let me make myself clear,’ Marianne interrupted, her voice taking on a sharp edge. She shrugged her arms into the sleeves of her black trench coat and did the belt up smartly. ‘I have no intention of letting this building go to someone else, least of all Guy Ducasse. So you can either join me or fight me. It’s your choice, Mr Lyfield.’

Ashton believed her. With all the confidence of an older woman in her prime, she leant against him deliberately, pressing her full breasts against his arm as a pungent waft of L’Ecarlate threatened to overwhelm him. He wanted to push her away but good manners prevented him.

‘Are you sure you won’t join me for dinner?’ she asked, running a hand boldly down his thigh. ‘I plan to go somewhere romantic that serves lobster and vintage champagne. Such things always put me in the mood.’

Ashton gulped. ‘You’re too kind,’ he said, knowing he sounded ridiculously British, ‘but I’m afraid I must decline. Loyalty to the Ducasse family and all that.’

Marianne was unabashed. ‘No matter,’ she said, fluttering a hand carelessly. ‘We will have countless opportunities in the future, I am sure of it.’ Turning on her heel, she left the building, leaving it feeling drab but, from Ashton’s perspective, safe again. He knew he needed to get the Ducasse family on board as soon as possible. Otherwise Armand, with forceful, terrifying Marianne at the helm, would steal this magnificent building out from under them.

 

‘Let’s go for coffee,’ Delphine announced, surprising Cat in the breakfast salon the following morning. ‘We should get to know one another.’

Feeling her heart sinking to join the croissant she’d just demolished, Cat put her cup of coffee down. She guessed Delphine meant they should go somewhere else for coffee rather than have one at the château, but she had no idea why. She also felt rather unnerved by Delphine’s suggestion. What did the old lady really want? Cat wasn’t naive enough to think the invitation was an innocent one and she wondered how she could wriggle out of it. After the heated altercation with Xavier, the last thing she wanted was another run-in with a member of the Ducasse family.

‘There’s a pretty café in town,’ Delphine added, in case Cat didn’t understand what she meant. ‘We can talk there without being interrupted.’

Feeling a sense of impending doom settle on her shoulders, Cat got to her feet. ‘That sounds . . . lovely.’ She glanced at Delphine’s cane. ‘Er . . . shall I drive?’

Delphine gave her a sneering look. ‘No, thank you. I’m more than capable. Besides, we have drivers for such things.’ As she turned and headed for the door, Cat cursed herself for being so crass. A woman as independent as Delphine would obviously hate to be viewed as a cripple in any way, and of course the family had drivers! Why drive when you could pay someone to do it for you?

Cat followed Delphine out, forgetting to grab her handbag on the way. She felt at a slight disadvantage as she slid into the limo next to Delphine who placed her smart black crocodile bag between them like a fence. The short journey was completed in silence, apart from Delphine pointing out the occasional sight – an unlikely tourist guide, Cat mused – and they were soon settled in the window of a pretty café with coffees in front of them.

‘Tell me about your home life,’ Delphine asked pleasantly.

Warily, Cat eyed her, hoping she appeared open and friendly, even if she felt cagey on the inside. She wasn’t sure how far back Delphine wanted her to go so she presented her with a potted history. ‘I grew up in a lovely village near Cambridge,’ she provided. ‘I enjoyed school and I had a very happy childhood. My parents were wonderful and they enjoyed lots of different sports like sailing, cycling and skiing.’ As ever, mentioning skiing made her wince slightly. Cat pushed ahead. ‘They both worked in advertising. They were very creative, which I suppose, is where I get it from.’

‘Did they own their own company?’ Delphine asked. She wasn’t sure what she had hoped would come out of this chat but Cybille had suggested it and Delphine thought she should do it, just to see if anything new came to light. If it did, she could get Yves on the case to see what he could discover.

Cat nodded, wishing she’d tied her wayward hair back. Delphine’s look was so neat and precise, it made her feel positively dishevelled. ‘Hayes Advertising. Not very original, I know, but I always liked it because it was such a joint venture.’ Sitting back, she toyed with her cup, her expression unconsciously wistful. ‘My parents would often come home fired up after receiving a new brief and they would tell me about it, debating their ideas, arguing sometimes. They spent a good deal of time working in Paris together and we spent lots of summers over here when I was a child, which is why I can speak French. Not brilliantly, as you can tell, but I get by.’

‘Your French is very competent,’ Delphine allowed with some reluctance. ‘Your accent needs work but overall you have a good grasp of the grammar and construction.’

Coming from Delphine, Cat guessed that probably came under the banner of a compliment. ‘Anyway, my parents were great fun—’

‘Were?’ Delphine asked delicately. ‘They are no longer with us?’

Cat met her eyes. ‘That’s right. They both died in a skiing accident.’

Delphine nodded slowly. She could tell Cat was telling the truth and that, unlike Olivier, this wasn’t something invented for sympathy. Delphine berated herself for being so soft. Plenty of people had lost someone – look at what the Ducasse family had been through!

‘It changed my perspective on life,’ Cat went on. ‘Instead of feeling scared about doing things, I went down the “life is too short” route. I ski, I climb, I do reckless sports because I enjoy them. Sometimes I do stupid things and fall in love with people more quickly than I should.’ Delphine bristled across the table and Cat glanced away. ‘Not always the best thing to do. But I don’t want people to feel sorry for me; I’m not a victim.’

Straightening her back, Delphine realised Cat and Xavier had much in common. Whether or not Xavier knew it, he lived life with the same attitude as Cat. It was only when it came to love that he held back. Dismissing the thought, Delphine went through her list of questions, carefully watching Cat’s reactions. Cat answered each one immediately, not batting an eyelid at anything that was thrown at her, not even the more intimate questions about her past boyfriends (surprisingly few serious ones, if she was telling the truth) and openly discussing her life in London.

‘I’ve had a good life so far,’ Cat stated with a friendly smile. ‘I mean, obviously losing one’s parents isn’t ideal, especially when you’re a teenager, but that’s about it in terms of tragedies. Well, apart from Olivier,’ she added, realising too late how insensitive that sounded. ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so . . . It was a huge shock to me but Olivier’s death must have hit you all very hard.’