Invitation to Provence (33 page)

She felt him behind her, felt his hand grasp her shoulder, but she pulled away from him, fumbling to put on her dark glasses so he wouldn’t see the tears that came anyhow. Jarré pulled her around, he looked at her, then took off the glasses and lifted the tears gently away with a big finger that smelled faintly of the garlic he’d chopped for the frittata special that morning.

“I’ve never met a woman like you,” he said in a very quiet voice, and Clare stared dumbly down at her espadrilles. Of course he hadn’t. “Women like her” didn’t show up too often in small villages in Provence.

“Clare, you’re not a poor young girl anymore. You don’t dance naked in bars now,” he said. “You did what you needed to do then to keep yourself alive. You’re a beautiful woman, a woman with spirit. You are who you are
now.”
A glimmer of hope dawned in her teary eyes as they met his.

“I love you, Clare,” he said, “but I’m a simple village café owner. I tend my vegetables and I cook for our local families and the tourists. It’s a simple life and it will always be this way. I cannot ask you to share that life with me.” He shrugged sadly. “I have nothing to offer a woman like you.”

Her heart plummeted. There, he’d said it again.
A woman
like her.
She pulled away from him. “Good-bye, Jarré,” she said, but he stopped her.

“I cannot change,” he said, his face just inches from hers. “This is my life, my
world.
Would you want to share that with me?”

She stared at him, eyes popping out of her head, hardly believing. “In a heartbeat,” she said, sliding her arms around his neck.

He probably didn’t understand what she’d said, but he understood the look in her eyes all right. And when he said, “So will you marry me then, my beautiful, darling Clare?” she said Yes.

J
AKE DID WHAT HE’D
rarely done before: delegated work to a colleague. It wasn’t that he didn’t care what happened to his clients, it was that his priorities had changed and with it, he knew, so would his lifestyle. He didn’t call Franny and tell her he was en route because he wanted to see the surprise in her large blue eyes when she saw him, wanted to hear her little gasp of pleasure, wanted to see that sunny-girl smile light up her face. He wanted every little honest, good part of Franny Marten so he could store them in his memory bank like an unwritten diary of their lives.

Before he left though, he went to Tiffany and bought an
engagement ring. He thought Franny was a true romantic, a “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” girl, and he chose an old-fashioned cushion-shaped diamond set in platinum. He planned to give it to her at the villa. He would take her into the garden late in the evening. The sea would be murmuring in the background, and the breeze would ruffle the trees and maybe the crickets would be quiet for once. He laughed, he was becoming a true romantic himself. He’d already ordered celebratory champagne sent to the villa and asked Janine to make sure it was chilled. He’d also arranged for an enormous bunch of Casablanca lilies to be delivered.

Now he was on his Gulfstream IV, somewhere over southern France. Johnny Lang, his pilot and friend for many years, always flew the plane when Jake was on board. There was also a steward and a chef. The plane was his own self-sustaining little vacuum hurtling through the skies back to France.

He checked his watch, then checked with the pilot to see exactly where they were. He sipped yet another cup of coffee and, unable to sleep, prowled restlessly, occasionally eyeing the blue Tiffany box tied with white ribbon sitting on the table. Just the sight of it made him smile. He hoped Criminal was looking after his girl. If not, he’d be in trouble.

B
ACK IN THE GUEST
house at the villa, Alain heard the car returning and the doors slam. The dog barked and their happy voices greeted Janine. He lay back on his bed, hands behind his head, a smile on his face. He had made his plans. In a few hours he would carry them out. All he had to do was wait.

.   .   .

C
RIMINAL’S FAVORITE SPOT
to take a nap was on the upstairs veranda, though being a street dog, he always kept an eye open to check what was going on while he enjoyed his evening snooze. Now, with a satisfied grunt, he stretched out, back legs flat, head resting on his outstretched front paws. Then, one eye closed, he dozed.

Downstairs, Franny picked up the phone, intending to call Clare and tell her what she was missing. She put the receiver to her ear, then held it away, puzzled. The line was dead. She shrugged. She would just have to call tomorrow.

She went upstairs to read Little Blue a bedtime story. Hearing them, Criminal ambled in and sprawled next to them, and in no time both he and Little Blue were asleep.

Franny took a shower and she put on a thin cotton robe, then went to lean on the veranda rail, gazing up at the starry sky and the glitter of lights along the coast. The night was unexpectedly humid, and for once the crickets were quiet, but over the sea, fireworks exploded in a shimmering cascade of color, starry puffs of gold and blue and scarlet. She watched until the show was over, then climbed into bed and turned out her light. Tomorrow was their last day at the villa, then it was back “home” to the château. And to Jake.

J
AKE GOT THE PHONE
call from his contact in Nice before they began their descent. He was told that Alain Marten had been spotted at the casino in Monte Carlo, where he’d
come out a big winner, thirty thousand euros. That was what had brought him to their attention. His hair was blond again, but it was definitely him. He was driving a white Renault Laguna, but the contact did not know where he was living.

Jake’s heart jumped into his throat as he thought of Franny and Little Blue. Where else would Alain go but to the villa? He dialed the villa’s number, but the line was completely dead. The hair on his neck prickled. He knew he was looking at real trouble. He called his police contact in Cannes, told them who he was and what he knew about Alain, and that two people were in danger. Then he called a helicopter service and ordered a Sikorsky to be waiting for him on the tarmac. He would pilot it himself.

A
LAIN WAITED
on a stone bench in the garden until all the lights went out. He’d made sure to leave the guest house in perfect order. He’d even fixed the screen on the bedroom window where he’d broken in. He was sure there was no trace of his presence. In a plastic bag he had a piece of steak. He got up and walked quietly underneath the veranda, praying that the damned dog wouldn’t hear, then he flipped the piece of meat up and over the rail and stepped back into the shadows. He heard the dog’s claws scrabbling on the deck as he ran, heard him sniffing, heard his satisfied grunt as he took a first lick of the meat.

He took a seat at the long table where, as a boy, he’d eaten so many good meals surrounded by his mother’s friends. “Happy times,” she’d called them, but Alain had always known he was different. Sometimes he thought it was as
though he lived outside his own body, standing back and observing others, mocking them in his mind, ridding himself mercilessly of them one by one in his head until he was alone and master of all he surveyed. And that’s exactly what he intended to do now. He had to be very clever, make sure it looked like an accident, though nobody would suspect it was anything else. Except Jake of course. He’d know, and so would Rafaella, but by then he would be long gone and anyhow, as with Felix, they’d never be able to prove it.

He heard the dog begin to choke, then a thud as it slumped onto the wooden veranda over his head. He walked to the rear of the villa and let himself in the kitchen door, using the key that he’d had since he was a kid. He went directly to the old stove and blew out the pilot light. He opened the oven doors and turned on the gas. He turned on all the burners, wrinkling his nose at the smell, then he went back outside, locked the kitchen door behind him, climbed onto the stone bench, vaulted up to the rail, and swung himself onto the upper veranda.

His sneakered feet made no sound as he walked jauntily round to the front where Franny’s and Little Blue’s rooms were. He stopped and looked at the dog. It was lying on its side, jaws hanging open, eyes rolled back in its head. He gave it a nudge with his foot. It was dead.

He stood at the open door to Franny’s room. She slept like a child with her arms straight up over her head, at peace with the world. He closed the door, locked it, and took the key. Then he moved on to Little Blue’s room.

She was curled into a ball, her short black hair sticking out like a halo. He thought soon she would be joining the angels,
and he smiled. Then he locked her door too and pocketed the key.

He went downstairs, sniffing the fumes already creeping from the kitchen, then he walked quickly into the living room and lit the candles on the mantel. Before too long the fumes and the flames would meet and the Villa Marten and its guests would be no more.

He was out of the house and back on his Vespa heading for Antibes when he heard the clatter of a helicopter overhead and the wail of police sirens. He thought there was no way they could be looking for him yet, but always cautious, he cut off the main road and headed inland. He knew every minor road, every shortcut, every alley in this area.

T
HE SIRENS WOKE
Little Blue. For a minute she thought she was back in Shanghai and she sat up and looked around for Bao Chu, but of course Bao Chu wasn’t there. Nor was Criminal, who always slept nearby. And there was a funny smell.
She knew that smell from the gas burner in the apartment.

“Franny, Franny,” she yelled, running next door. “Wake up, wake up, something bad is happening.”

Franny heard the panic in her voice even before she smelled the gas and heard the sirens. She was out of bed, grasping Little Blue’s hand, rattling the doorknob, trying to get out onto the veranda.
She knew she’d left it open, so how could it be locked?
Fear licked in an icy crawl up her spine.
Unless someone was trying to kill them.

For a second she stood there, frozen with fear, then she grabbed a shoe and slammed it into the pane of glass nearest the lock. It cracked but didn’t break and, desperate, she slammed her fist through it, hearing Little Blue scream as blood spurted suddenly from her wrist. But she had the door open, and they were out on the veranda and tripping over Criminal. They stopped, stared … even Little Blue recognized death and she was screaming louder and louder and so was Frannie. And then all the world disappeared in one fiery orange explosion.

T
HE HELICOPTER FLUTTERED
above the empty parking lot near the beach and was just settling gently down when the explosion momentarily sucked out all the air, rocking it. Seconds later Jake was out and running.

It was the same nightmare all over again, the ex-plosion, him running, the shattered body of the woman he loved.

He ran until he came to what used to be the Villa Marten. Behind him he heard the wail of sirens, the squeal of tires, voices yelling. In front of him he saw an inferno. He ran toward it.

Voices screamed at him to get back. There was the rattle of fire hoses, firemen running with him, grabbing him, pulling him away. The upper veranda was gone, and flames
licked at the remains of the doors leading to the bedrooms where he knew Franny and Little Blue must have been sleeping. He dragged himself free and stumbled forward, calling their names. In front of him he saw a twisted heap of bodies, a jumble of bloodied legs and arms. He dropped to his knees beside them. The medics were right behind him. Franny lay on top of Little Blue, and he could hear the child moaning. He touched her hand gently and said, “It’s all right, Little Blue. It’s Jake, I’m here. You’ll be okay now, I promise.” But he still couldn’t look at Franny.
It was Amanda all over again.

“It’s natural gas … a leak. Better get everyone out of here until we clear it,” someone yelled, but Jake did not move. He watched as the medics got to work. “They’re alive,” one of them said, and Jake’s heart retrieved its rhythm. “If they’d been inside that house they’d be dead,” another said. “It blew them right off that veranda. The dog, too, only he wasn’t so lucky—if you can call this luck.”

Jake turned his head. He stared at the grizzled bloody mess that was his trusted friend and companion. He looked away again.

They had Franny in a neck splint. She was on her back now and they were working on her. Little Blue was on a gurney. She was unconscious, but her small hands twitched as though she were fighting someone, something.

He didn’t want to … he couldn’t bear to see it again, not again. He forced himself to look at Franny, and then his mind raced back in time.
He was looking at Amanda and she was lying on the side of the road, her face
bl
own away in the explosion. She was dead and their baby was dead.
He’d blocked this memory from his brain, but now it was happening
all over again, only this time it was Franny … Franny. Her lips were blue, blue as her eyes, he thought wonderingly, but her face was untouched. She looked peaceful, as though she were just asleep. They put an oxygen mask over her face and now they’d put her neck in a brace and there was so much blood. They had a tourniquet on her wrist, another on a leg. They wrapped her in shock foil, then eased her very carefully onto a gurney and headed for the ambulance.

Jake went and picked up his dog. He walked behind them carrying Criminal. They tried to shut him out of the ambulance but he turned on them so fiercely that, intimidated, they allowed him to accompany them, still holding the dog on his knees.

Half an hour later he was sitting in the hospital waiting room, staring at the clock on the wall as it ticked away the endlessly slow minutes. Minutes that might be the last for Little Blue and Franny. Every now and then some official came to tell him he really couldn’t keep the dog there, but he ignored them and eventually they went away.

An hour passed, then two. His pilot showed up with the staff from his plane. They’d heard from the helicopter company what had happened. They brought him coffee that he didn’t drink, offered words of sympathy he couldn’t respond to, said maybe they should take care of Criminal for him. Jake said nothing, he was still frozen in emotional time—reliving the hell of his first wife’s death and the torture of maybe losing his new love.