the gravel path into the thick grass. And briars. And nettles. And whatever other bio matter the local wildlife had left there since it was last cut.
It took a few seconds for Seb to gather his wits and raise both of his hands to fend off the attack from a very wet tongue and even wetter fur ball, but it was too late to block the pair of wet muddy front paws dancing and prancing with delight on the front of Seb’s couture south sea island cotton business shirt. He didn’t want to think about his suit trousers. Not yet. From this angle the monster looked like a younger version of the dog on the path. The dog equivalent to a hyperactive toddler high on additives and sugar.
The grin and tail wagging said it all.
This was dog language for: Look what I’ve found! Someone new to play with! This is funl Shall we see what tricks it can do?
Its older friend or relative decided that guarding the path was boring and took to hunting in the bushes.
Okay. Time to move.
Seb pushed himself up on one elbow and was immediately pounced on by the young hound, who had found a piece of stick for him to throw, his paws diving back and forward for attention.
Seb stared at it for a moment before chuckling out loud to himself.
This was turning out to be quite a day! Being knocked over by a playful puppy was nothing compared to a very long flight followed by two days of hard business negotiations and a short drive in a strange car on French roads he had last seen eighteen years earlier.
With a sigh he turned to the hopeful hound that was still prancing with his throwing stick and waved him away with one hand before speaking.
‘Not a chance, fella. Let me get back on my feet first.’
Only he never got the chance since the dog suddenly dropped the stick and took off at great speed back down the lane towards the main road, leaving Seb alone with the older dog, who was shuffling towards him for an ear rub.
‘Just you and me, mate? Where do you live? Um?’
‘Milou doesn’t speak English. And he lives with me, Mr Castellano.’
It was a woman’s voice. Her words were spoken in perfect English with the same type of accent he had heard many times from his British colleagues at the Castellano Tech headquarters back in Sydney. This particular bodiless voice was coming from the part of the lane he had just driven down so that its owner was hidden out of view behind his car.
Great! The first person he met in his old home village and he was flat on the back in the grass. And he had already been recognised. So much for wanting to keep a low profile!
He wondered how long she had been there watching him.
Seb sighed out loud and shook his head at just how ridiculous he must look at that moment. He had two choices. Start yelling about out-of-control hounds off the leash, which would hardly be fair considering that this was a private road in the middle of the countryside, or smile and move on.
By pushing himself up with one hand in a spot with the least number of stinging nettles, Seb managed to get himself to a sitting position without looking too much like an idiot, before paying more attention to the woman—who clearly knew who he was.
‘Hello! Are these your dogs? They’re quite a handful,’ he asked in English.
A pair of straw-coloured espadrille shoes on the ends of slim tanned female legs appeared in the space between the gravel and the bottom of his sports car, then walked slowly around the front so that they were standing directly in front of him.
The ankle within touching distance wore a thin ankle bracelet with tiny ceramic flowers—but the lace in this shoe was green while the lace in the other was stripy blue.
Suddenly more than a little curious about what the rest of the outfit might look like, Seb tried not to ogle as he lifted his gaze up at a yellow and white sundress with thin straps, which hung from tiny collarbones to fall above dark green cut-off Capri pants.
The last time he had seen an outfit like that was at a Christmas charity concert his company has sponsored at a local primary school in Sydney.
He was looking at Peter Pan. Or perhaps it was Tinker Bell?
Lifting his sunglasses with one hand, he risked looking into her face and a pair of shockingly pale blue eyes smiled down at him above a button nose and bow lips.
Her straight light brown hair was tied back from a smooth forehead with a broad green headband the same colour as her trousers.
He changed his opinion. Peter Pan was never this pretty, or petite. She was tiny! Tinker Bell.
And for a moment his voice did not seem to work as she took one more extra look at him without the slightest bit of concern, then turned to play with the dogs, who had clearly learnt not to jump up on the hand that fed them.
‘Hello, gang!’ she said in French. ‘How are you doing? Sorry that I’m so late! Have you missed me?’
Her knuckles rubbed each of the dogs in turn, and then she flung the stick down the road away from the car—’Go on. Meet you back at the house!’ Then stood back and smiled as they raced away.
Only then did this lovely apparition smile down at Seb and switch back into English.
‘Don’t worry. You can play with them later!’
Play. He had no intention of playing with them! Seb sighed out loud and shook his head. Her cheery tone was too infectious for him to be angry with her for the ridiculous position he was in.
‘Are they always so…welcoming to strangers?’
‘Oh, no. Only men. Especially men in suits. They just love men in suits.’
Her eyes locked onto his shoes then his trousers and she shook her head from side to side.
‘On the other hand you are never going to get the stains out of those trousers. Maybe that wasn’t the best choice of outfit for rolling about with the hounds!’
Choice! He hadn’t been given any choice at all!
‘Do you need some help with the car, Mr Castellano? We don’t have a garage but I’ve cleared a space in the barn for you to use during your stay. There is a mistral forecast.’
Staying? How did she know that? Maybe there was more to this girl.
‘What makes you think that my name is Castellano? Miss…’
‘Mrs Martinez. Ella Martinez.’
She cocked her head to one side for a moment and gave him a smile that created little dimples in each cheek as though she could read his mind as easily as a book.
‘Relax. I’m not a journalist, or a mind-reader. Just Nicole’s housekeeper. This means that I’ve been dusting your photographs on top of the grand piano every week for the past three years.’
She paused, then glanced sideways at the sleek red car blocking the lane. ‘My little boy loves the pictures with all of the pretty
