knew that the water temperature would probably be warmer than any beach in Scotland in midsummer. No doubt it got horribly crowded here in the high season, though, given that it was such a popular playground for the rich and famous. Didn’t people like Madonna come here for holidays?
And Monaco was only a short drive down the coast. The place where her father had apparently become so famous and another Mecca for the kind of people that had always seemed like an alien race to Alice McMillan. She wasn’t just visiting another country right now—it felt like she was heading for a different planet.
The path seemed to end in a car park, which was momentarily confusing, but then Alice spotted the stairs tucked against the steep bank. There was a path that followed a railway line at the top of the stairs and moments later she saw a street with a sign that gave her a name she recognised. Pulling a now crumpled map from her back pocket, Alice kept walking and it was less than ten minutes later that she came to another road that clearly led down towards the coastline again. The view back over the bay to Villefranche was spectacular but there seemed to be a downside to living on this street. There was certainly no room for anyone to park. There were vans and trucks parked nose to tail, and further down the hill she could see a large group of people milling about.
As she got closer, she could see that a lot of them were holding cameras.
Paparazzi? Was Madonna taking a winter break, perhaps? In the same street her father lived in? It wouldn’t surprise her. When she’d found the street on the internet, it had looked like every house could be an exclusive resort—the dwellings massive, with huge gardens and swimming pools of Olympic size. The gates advertised just how prestigious this real estate was. Ornate black iron with gold gilding that were at least twice Alice’s height, decorated with security features like cameras and intercoms. There were even security guards standing in front of the most ornate she’d seen so far. This property was also the one attracting the attention of the media. There was more than one television crew set up amongst a bank of cameras.
Disconcertingly, as Alice skirted the back of the small crowd she discovered that this was the end of the road. There were no more houses. With her heart thumping, she checked the map again. Okay, she’d known her father was famous. But this famous...?
The voice so close to her ear made her jump. She crumpled the map in her hand but it was too late. The man had seen the red circle and her notes and he was asking her something in a tone that was unmistakeably extremely interested.
Alice didn’t bother to apologise this time. She shook her head and stepped back.
‘I don’t understand. I don’t speak any French. Not even a single word of it.’
The man only spoke louder. And faster. He even took hold of Alice’s arm and started pushing her towards the crowd.
Alice tried to pull her arm free. She had no idea what was going on but she knew she’d made a mistake now and the sooner she got away from here the better. The fairy-tale was taking an ominous twist and she needed to think about this. About taking a different approach to reach her goal, maybe.
This was frightening. Her unwelcome companion was now talking to someone else. About her. Her hand tightened around the ball of the map. This was nobody else’s business.
How awful would it be if the media discovered that André Laurent had an illegitimate child before he did?
‘It’s okay,’ the second man said. ‘You’re not in trouble. My friend is just wanting to know why you look for the house of Monsieur Laurent?’
‘I... I need to talk to him, that’s all. About something...important.’
‘Talk to him?’ The reporter, if that’s what he was, couldn’t have looked more astonished. ‘Mon Dieu... Don’t you know?’
‘Know what?’
But the two men were talking to each other again. In low voices, as if they didn’t want to be overheard. They were still attracting attention, though.
‘Come with me.’
‘No... I think it might be better if I come back another time...’
But Alice was being firmly ushered forward. Towards the gate and the uniformed guard. Another rapid conversation followed, with the second reporter providing translation.
‘He wants to know who you are.’
‘My name is Alice McMillan. I’m...’ Suddenly, this was terrifying. She was in a strange country and couldn’t understand a word of what was being said around her. Something was going on and there was a grim note in the atmosphere. How was it that she hadn’t noticed the presence of the police on the outskirts of this group? What if she found herself in trouble simply by having arrived in the wrong place at precisely the wrong time?
She seemed to have unwittingly walked into a nightmare situation and maybe the only way through it was to be honest.
She swallowed hard. And then she stood on tiptoe and spoke quietly enough that only the security guard could hear what she said.
‘André Laurent is my father.’
* * *
The phone would not stop ringing.
You would have thought that after this morning things would have settled, but there had been no sign of things calming down the last time he’d checked.
Without altering the stride of his pacing, Julien Dubois flicked a sideways glance at the floor-to-ceiling windows of the grand salon. Not that he could see more than a glimpse of the driveway between the trees edging such a private garden but he knew it led to the massive gates that locked the property away from the rest of the world. And he knew what was waiting on the other side of those gates.
What were the vultures outside the gate waiting for, exactly? A clip of a celebrity looking grief-stricken? Or better yet, not looking grief-stricken, which would give them permission to go digging into a background that was dripping with juicy topics.
How old was he when the mother died?
How long is it now since the tragic death of his sister?
What had caused such a family rift?
What reason could he have to hate a national icon like André Laurent so much?
Who are the people in the house with him?
What’s going on?
On the other side of a room big enough to easily host a ball was a corner of the house that had a view of not only the main garden and the pool complex but a glimpse of the private beach with the background of the bay and Villefranche beyond.
Of course the owner of this house would have chosen this jewel as his man cave. The rich red of the Persian carpets was as sombre as the dark glow of the enormous mahogany desk. An entire wall was a gallery of trophies and photographs with a gilt-framed monstrosity of the man himself behind a dense spray of champagne as he celebrated one of his early wins in the Monaco race.
Julien’s jaw tightened as he deliberately ignored the real reason he loathed the image but really...it was a shameful
