flick, and then leaned out of the window to shout back to her.
‘Don’t be afraid, chérie. The dog won’t bite you—although the owner might!’ And he drove off laughing.
‘Thank you for nothing,’ Marty muttered half under her breath. She pushed tentatively at the gate and it gave way, opening with a protesting squeal of hinges. She began to walk up the sloping sandy track, littered with pine needles and fir cones. Above her the trees seemed to close over her head, so that she appeared to be in a dim green tunnel. She stumbled slightly as her foot caught against a hidden obstacle, and paused to transfer her case to the other hand. The track had curved slightly and she could no longer see the road. A solitary house was right, she thought.
She was disturbed at the apparent change in the Uncle Jim she remembered. Yet his letter had seemed full of the old warmth and affection. Why then did he erect a high gate and warning notices at the entrance to his property? Was he afraid of thieves and vandals, or had age simply made him eccentric? The genial burly figure she remembered from childhood would have dismissed such precautions with contempt, she thought with a sigh.
She walked forward once again over the rutted path. It was very quiet in the forest. She supposed the beach must be quite close at hand, yet she could hear no sound of the sea. There was a faint whisper of a breeze in the branches above her head, and an incessant chirping of insects in the undergrowth, but as far as other human beings were concerned, she could have been alone in the world.
The track curved again, and suddenly the house was in front of her, standing in a large clearing on top of a rise, looking as inviting as it had done in the photograph. Marty paused and set the case down, wiping damp palms down the denim jeans which clung to her hips and thighs, and twitching the cheesecloth smock she wore with them into place. Her mouth felt dry and she passed her tongue nervously over her lips.
‘Oh, please be glad to see me,’ she whispered as she moved forward again up the rise towards the front door. ‘Oh, please . . .’
She never even heard the dog come. One moment she seemed quite alone, and the next the animal was in front of her, its front legs splayed menacingly, its lip curling back in an unmistakable snarl.
Without the slightest conviction in her voice Marty said, ‘Good dog. Good boy, lie down.’ She wondered if she ought to extend her hand in friendship, but decided against it. The dog might misunderstand, and she might need that hand again one day.
She took another step forward and froze as the dog snarled again, then lifted its voice in a full-throated bark that held a clear warning that she was to keep her distance.
Marty glanced round nervously. Why didn’t someone come? Uncle Jim, for preference, but even this Madame Guisard would do at a pinch. She tried calling out, ‘Is anyone there?’ first in English and then in French, but no one answered, and she felt a cold prickle of fear at the nape of her neck. Was the house deserted then except for this dog, only too aware of his role as guardian and protector? She had a feeling that any movement, even one of retreat, would be fatal. All she could do was stand there, and hope that the big animal would restrict himself to this threatening surveillance. At the same time, she was not sure how long she could go on standing there. Her legs were shaking under her suddenly, and she could feel the sun blazing down on her unprotected head, and the case weighing down almost unbearably on her arm.
She called out again, uncaring that there was now a note of panic in her voice—‘Please—someone . . .’—and heard almost unbelievingly the sound of an approach, an unmistakably masculine stride, and closed her eyes with a little sob of relief. Uncle Jim—it had to be.
When she opened them again, trees, sky and house swam a little under her gaze and a droplet of sweat ran down her face. She put up her free hand and wiped her eyes because she seeemd to be suffering from the strangest illusion. The image on the snapshot in her handbag had suddenly been reproduced all over again.
She looked at the newcomer, her lips slightly parted. Tall, and very dark, and even more deeply tanned than Jean-Paul, and making no secret of it either, for all he appeared to be wearing was a pair of closely fitting white denim jeans slung low on his lean hips. A thin face with high cheekbones, and an uncompromising beak of a nose. A harsh face, belied only slightly by the sensual curve of his lower lip.
Marty took a step forward encouraged by the fact that the dog was quiet now, crouched at his feet, with one restraining hand on his collar.
She said uncertainly, ‘Bernard?’
She could hardly believe it. This man was in his thirties. Had Uncle Jim been married all that time and never disclosed the fact? It seemed incredible.
She heard him give a slight intake of breath, so it seemed she had guessed right.
He said in English with only a trace of an accent, ‘Who are you, and what do you want here? Didn’t you read the notice?’
Dark eyes under heavy lids went over her in a kind of contemptuous dismissal that flicked Marty on the raw.
She said hotly, ‘I don’t call that much of a welcome.’
‘I don’t feel particularly welcoming. Be good enough to state your business and leave.’
Marty flung her head back and stared him straight in the eye. She said silkily, ‘You may not be expecting me, Bernard, but your father is. So please take me to him.’ She waited, but there was no response except a slight narrowing of the dark eyes, and a faint unpleasant smile curling his lips. ‘Did you hear me, Bernard?’ she asked eventually.
‘Oh, I heard you, mademoiselle. I am just asking myself what little game you’re playing. However, it seems you wanted to see me, so here I am.’
‘I want to see your father . . .’ she began, but he interrupted, his voice cold with suppressed anger.
‘Au contraire, mademoiselle, you said you wanted to see Bernard’s father. Well, I am Bernard’s father.’
She stared at him. ‘But you can’t be! I mean . . .’ She put her case down and took another step forward. ‘I think it’s you that are playing games, monsieur. What are you—some sort of bodyguard? It all fits in with the gate, and the notice and the dog. Has Uncle Jim suddenly become a millionaire?’
He stood very still, and she saw his brows draw together in a swift frown. ‘Whom did you say?’ he asked. ‘You spoke of an uncle?’
‘Yes,’ she said wearily, wishing that he would at least permit her to enter the house, and continue this futile conversation in the shade. She only wished that Uncle Jim would suddenly appear and put him in his place. ‘My uncle—James Langton. He owns this villa.’
The tension in the air between them was suddenly almost tangible.
‘You are mistaken, mademoiselle,’ he said bleakly. ‘I own this villa. Your—uncle, Monsieur Langton, sold it to me just over a year ago.’
MARTY stared at him, her heart beating so wildly that she had the oddest sensation that it might leap into her throat and choke her.
‘But that’s impossible!’ she managed at last.
‘Au
