research and commiserations that it has not had the desired effect.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said helplessly. ‘But if Uncle Jim really isn’t here, perhaps you can tell me where he has gone.’
The firm mouth curled slightly as if in distaste. ‘You should have continued your research, ma petite, then you would have discovered the answer to that for yourself.’
‘Please stop talking in riddles,’ she begged wearily. ‘I don’t understand what’s going on. You say Uncle Jim sold you this villa a year ago, Did he go away, then?’
The stranger paused, his dark eyes raking over her. ‘Not immediately, no. Is it important?’
‘Yes.’ Marty fumbled at the catch of her shoulder bag. ‘You see, I had a letter from him only three weeks ago asking me to come and live with him and . . .’
He interrupted sharply, his frown deepening. ‘Three weeks? To turn your own words against you, mademoiselle, that is impossible.’
‘But I can show you the letter,’ she began.
‘I am sure you can.’ His look of contemptuous derision scourged her. ‘But I think it’s time I called a halt to this little game you’re playing. Your pretence is in the worst of bad taste under the circumstances. I suppose I can admire your determination to carry it through, but that is all I admire.’
‘I don’t want your admiration.’ In spite of her bewilderment, Marty felt her own temper begin to rise under the lash of the man’s words. How dared he treat her like this! she stormed inwardly. If she had trespassed on his property and his time then it was quite inadvertent. ‘In fact, I don’t want any part of you,’ she went on stonily, ignoring the look of frank scepticism he sent her. ‘If you’ll be good enough’—she stressed the words sarcastically—‘to tell me where Mr Langton has gone, then I’ll be on my way.’
‘Perhaps the truth will shame you into abandoning this ridiculous charade,’ he said harshly. ‘Jacques Langton is dead, mademoiselle, and has been so for the past four months. That is why I know you are a fraud, and that is why I am ordering you to leave—now.’
‘Dead!’ Marty repeated the word mechanically, her mind oblivious to everything else he had said. Then, as the full realisation finally dawned on her, she gave a little anguished cry. ‘Dead? Oh, Uncle Jim, no!’
She gave a desperate look around her at the house, and the brooding pines and the tall inimical figure of the man confronting her, then the great golden disc of the sun came swooping down at her, and she gave a little moan and collapsed to the ground.
The sun seemed to be all about her. She felt as if she was bathed in fire. There were even slow flames forcing themselves between her lips and trickling down her throat, and she began to struggle against them, pushing them away, and pressing her hands to her mouth.
‘Don’t be a little fool.’ She recognised the voice at once, and sat up with a gasp. ‘It’s only cognac. You fainted—remember?’
She was lying on a sofa inside the villa, in a long room full of light. The walls and carpeting were some pale subtle shade between cream and mushroom, and one wall was glass from floor to ceiling giving access to a paved patio. The only real colour in the room came from the abstract paintings hanging on the wall above the empty fireplace, and above the sofa where she was lying, which appeared to be the work of the same artist.
One half of her brain seemed to register these details quite coldly while the other cried out in protest as she did indeed remember only too well what had passed between them. She felt nauseated, and she knew too that she was going to cry, feeling her face begin to crumple like a child’s.
But I can’t, she thought agonisedly, I can’t cry in front of him, even as the first sobs tore harshly at her chest. The tears were slow and scalding at first, grief and shock mingling with loneliness and disappointment as the full extent of her loss came home to her. It was something she was unable to control even though it was a degradation to expose her emotions in front of this man.
At last she sat motionless, her face buried on her arm against the cool leather of the sofa, then with a long quivering sigh she dragged herself upright on to her feet.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said remotely. ‘I—I’ll go now.’
He had been standing with his back to her, staring out of the window and she supposed she should be grateful to him for that.
‘Wait.’ He swung round at the sound of her voice. ‘Either you’re a better actress than I gave you credit for, or I have done you an injustice. Which is it? Tell me the truth.’
‘I don’t have to tell you anything.’ She bent and picked up her bag which was lying on the floor at her feet. ‘What have you done with my case?’
He walked over to her and took her chin in his hand. She wanted to snatch herself away from him, but made herself stand very still and endure his touch.
‘The tears were real,’ he said half to himself. ‘And an actress surely would have learned to cry prettily and not allow her eyes to become swollen and her nose red.’
‘Thank you,’ she said ironically. ‘Now may I go, please?’
‘In a moment. You came here in your own good time. You will depart in mine.’ He released her and walked over to the door. ‘Albertine!’
A thin woman appeared so promptly that she might have been hovering on the threshold waiting for the summons.
He said in French, ‘Take Mademoiselle to the bathroom, and see that she has all that she needs. She has had a great shock.’
The woman nodded, her dark eyes avid with curiosity as they rested on Marty. She tutted briskly and placed a hand on her arm, urging her towards the door.
‘I don’t want to use your bathroom,’ Marty said tightly. ‘I don’t want any help from you. I just want to get away from here.’
He gave her a cool look. ‘You need to wash your face before you do anything, mademoiselle.’
Rebellion welled up in her, but she caught sight of the housekeeper obviously relishing every minute of this passage at arms between her employer and his unexpected guest, and bit back the angry words trembling on her lips.
She accompanied the woman out of the room and into a large hall, its floor coolly tiled. A shallow flight of stairs led up to the first floor, and the woman guided Marty up these and along the gallery above to the bathroom.
Left alone in the bathroom once she had been supplied with a fresh bar of exquisitely scented soap and a small rather harsh-feeling linen towel, Marty stared around at her surroundings. At any other time, she would have been bound to appreciate the exquisite tiling of the walls and floor in shades of beige and rust and amber, as well as the magnificent appointments, including a luxurious shower cubicle, but now it was as much as she could do to run some water in the marble basin and splash it over her face and wrists. Although she hated to admit it, the touch of the water was refreshing, and by the time the woman who she realised must be the Madame Guisard that Jean-Paul had mentioned had returned, the more obvious marks of grief had vanished, although she still looked pale and red-eyed.
As they returned downstairs,
