and...and the door was opening, possibly by the very man she had come here to meet. Despite the hammering of her heart, Alice took a deep, steadying breath and walked on. She even summoned a smile as if that would somehow make her more welcome.
Disappointment that the wrong person had opened the door was remarkably crushing and her smile died instantly. Who was this young man who’d been sent to greet her? An employee? Yes, that seemed most likely. A personal assistant maybe. Or a press secretary.
Someone who’d been given clear instructions to get rid of her as quickly as possible judging by the look on his face. The glare from those dark eyes, along with the fact that he was dressed from head to toe in black, made it all more sinister. A glance upwards and he then seemed to melt into the shadow of the house as he stepped back.
‘Come inside, please,’ he said. ‘There will be photographers in that helicopter and they have very sophisticated lenses.’
His English was perfect but his accent more than strong enough to reveal his nationality. He looked French, too. Following him across an ornate foyer and through a room with a parquet floor that was easily big enough to entertain a couple of hundred people in, Alice had plenty of time to notice those superbly tailored clothes and that smoothly combed hair that was long enough to have been drawn back into a small ponytail.
She could almost hear her grandmother clicking her tongue and muttering darkly about foreigners and their incomprehensible habits but a wayward thought sneaked in that if there was any casting going on for this real-life fairy-tale, this man might have blown any competition out of the water as far as the role of the handsome prince went.
A room like a conservatory could be seen leading from the end of this ridiculously large room. Behind glass doors was a forest of indoor plants and cane furniture and beyond that Alice could see the mirror-like surface of a swimming pool. She was led towards the other side of the house, however. Into a room that was overwhelming full of...stuff. Pictures and trophies and even a wide-screen television that had a movie playing silently.
And then she saw the enormous portrait in its elaborately gilded frame and her mouth went completely dry.
This was her father’s office. These were his trophies. He was probably the driver in that speeding car in the movie.
Wow... He was larger than life in every sense in here. Supremely successful, charismatic...incredibly wealthy. Would it matter to him that she wasn’t any of those things? Would he accept her for simply being his child? Love her even...?
The hope was so much stronger now. A happy ending was beckoning. She couldn’t wait to meet him. Okay, she was nervous and knew she might be shy to start with but this meant so much to her. Surely he would sense that and give them a chance to explore their connection?
Her guide shut the door behind them. He walked past Alice and then turned. For a long, long moment he simply stared at her. Then he gestured towards an overstuffed chair that was probably a priceless antique.
‘Take a seat.’
It was more like a command than an invitation and it ignited that rebellious streak that Alice thought she’d left behind with her schooldays. She stayed exactly where she was.
‘As you wish.’ The shrug was subtle. The way he shifted a large paperweight and perched one hip on the corner of the desk was less so. This was his space, the action suggested. Alice was the intruder.
Another piercing stare and then a blunt question. ‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Alice McMillan.’ It was the first time she had spoken in his presence and her voice came out more softly than she would have liked. A little hoarsely even. She cleared her throat. ‘And you are...?’
The faint quirk of an eyebrow revealed that his bad manners had only just occurred to him.
‘My name is Julien Dubois. Who I am doesn’t matter.’
Except it did, didn’t it? He was a gatekeeper of some kind and he might have the power to decide whether her quest had any chance of success.
‘Where are you from, Miss McMillan?’
‘Call me Alice, please. Nobody calls me Miss—even the children in my class.’
‘You are a teacher?’
‘Yes. Pre-school. A nursery.’
‘In England?’
‘Scotland. Edinburgh at the moment but I was brought up in a small village you won’t have heard of. Where it is doesn’t matter.’
Good grief...where was this urge to rebel coming from? The feeling that she’d done something wrong and had been summoned to the headmaster’s office perhaps? It was no excuse to be rude enough to fling his own dismissive words back at him in exactly the tone he’d used.
That eyebrow flickered again and he held her gaze as another silence fell. Despite feeling vaguely ashamed of herself, Alice didn’t want to admit defeat by looking away first. His eyes weren’t as dark as they’d appeared in the shadows of the entranceway, she realised. Much lighter than her own dark brown, they were more hazel. A sort of toffee colour. He had a striking face that would stand out in any crowd, with a strong nose and lips that looked capable of being as expressive as that eyebrow, but right now they were set in a grim line, surrounded by a jaw that looked like it could do with a shave.
‘And you claim that André Laurent is your father?’
The disparaging snap of his voice brought her drifting gaze sharply back to his eyes.
‘He is.’
‘And you have proof of this?’
‘Yes.’
‘Show me.’
Alice slipped the straps of her backpack from her shoulders. She sat on the edge of the uncomfortable chair to make it easier to open the side pocket and remove an envelope. From that, she extracted a photograph. It was faded now but the colour was still good enough to remind her of the bright flame shade of Jeannette McMillan’s hair and that smile that could light up a room. A wave of grief threatened to bring tears and she blinked hard, focusing instead on the man in the picture. She raised her gaze to stare at the oversized portrait again.
With a nod, she handed the photograph to Julien.
‘My mother,’ she said quietly. ‘I wouldn’t have known who she was with except that she kept these magazine clippings about him.’ She glanced down at the folded glossy pages still in the envelope. ‘Well hidden. I only found them recently after she...she died.’
If she was expecting any sympathy for her loss it was not forthcoming. Julien merely handed the photograph back.
‘This proves nothing other than that your mother was one of André’s groupies. It’s ancient history.’
‘I’m twenty-eight,’ Alice snapped. ‘Hardly ancient, thanks. And my mother was not a “groupie”. I imagine she was completely in love...’
‘Pfff...’ The sound was dismissive. And then Julien shook his head. ‘Why now?’ he demanded. ‘Why today?’
‘I...
