‘I know how it sounds. Accidents happen, people died, but there was always a logical reason behind them. A boating tragedy, someone swimming in strange waters, even a car crash on a wet road. Nothing to do with an ancient curse. I always thought that. Now though…after last night…’
Now he was afraid, he couldn’t deny it. Now he had something to lose, someone to lose. If it was just himself, he might risk it. But not Georges. He could never risk Georges.
Ari nodded slowly, her empathy etched on her features. She understood. He had that much. She might not forgive him for going behind her back, but still, the reason was comprehensible to her. ‘You could have asked first. Rather than just throwing money at the problem.’
‘It’s an occupational hazard,’ he admitted. ‘I apologise. I meant to speak to you first. The sequencing of things just went badly wrong.’
‘Sequencing,’ she murmured, clearly finding that less impressive. ‘Well, at least you’ve paid for me to have an extended holiday, I suppose. I might still leave. Take myself off somewhere else…’
‘And you could. But I don’t think you will.’
‘Won’t I?’ She finished her tea and put the mug down on the table loudly. A challenge.
‘You like a mystery.’
She snorted and pushed herself up to stand over him. ‘Well, we’ll see. I’m going to get changed and then you can take me out to lunch.’
‘It’s too late for lunch. Most restaurants will be closing until this evening now. You’re in rural Brittany. Unless we go to one of the tourist restaurants, we aren’t going to find much decent until seven now. Unless you know someone.’
She cast him another arch look. They were becoming familiar. And strangely addictive. Each one gave him a thrill of delight. ‘I guess that means you do. All right, Mr Millionaire. Throw some money at that instead.’
The restaurant he chose was in the heart of Tréboul overlooking the pleasure port and Île Tristan across the mouth of the Pouldavid estuary and Port Rhu. Two out of three of the main ports of Douarnenez wasn’t bad value when it came to the view, Rafael thought. He didn’t count the commercial port. No one wanted to look at that.
Part restaurant, part café, part gallery, he had attended an exhibition here not so long ago and bought several paintings to donate to local galleries. Anonymously, of course. Not that anonymous actually meant much around here. They knew who he was. When he phoned to arrange this, he casually dropped his name and the poor girl almost dropped the phone.
A private lunch was hastily arranged and Rafael smiled to himself as Ari took in the chic surroundings and agreed that it was lovely. He ordered an entrecôte and she chose seabass. As they waited, she tore at one of the pieces of soft, fluffy baguette.
She seemed particularly taken with one of the paintings of the island. Perhaps he should buy it for her. Would that be too much? Probably. He was treading a fine line with her. Money didn’t seem to be a lure, which surprised him, a pleasant surprise. She teased him about it certainly, but the ability to spend large amounts of it to get his way did not impress her. Quite the opposite, he feared. She found it vulgar and having seen more than enough of that behaviour all his life, he had to agree.
She was still wary of what he had done, his motivations. He understood that. He had made an unholy mess of this. He was lucky she was still willing to talk to him.
Pity, he suspected.
And lurking between them were all the unanswered questions of what they had both seen last night, the ghost of Simon Poullain, or Ankou, the curse of Dahut and Ys. All those questions they couldn’t bring themselves to approach head on. Not yet.
‘What’s it called? The island?’ Ari asked.
‘Île Tristan,’ he replied. ‘It is the resting place of Tristan and Iseult. Somewhere over there, two trees grow entwined over the lovers’ grave. And in the fifteen hundreds, the pirate Guy Éder de la Fontenelle had his stronghold there.’
‘Another place of legend.’
‘It even has connections with Ys. Douarnenez means the land of the island. Some say that’s all that remains of the great city.’
‘Not Jason,’ she replied.
No, not Jason. Not her late fiancé either, but Rafael had more sense than to bring that up right now.
‘Was the pirate another one of your ancestors?’ she asked, valiantly changing the subject for him.
He laughed. ‘No. Although my ancestors were involved in his eventual capture. They say he killed 1,500 people in one day. La Fontenelle, they called him. The Bretons had a less poetic name for him – Ar Bleiz. It means the Wolf.’
‘Scary,’ she teased. ‘Your own big bad wolf.’
Their food arrived. Thanking the waitress, Rafael poured glasses of water for them both. He didn’t drink during the day by habit. He preferred to keep a clear head. Now more than ever.
She tasted the fish and he watched her as she did, her eyes closing with pleasure, her lips drawing up to a smile. She gave a little sound of delight and it was all he wanted to hear. She hid nothing, Ari Walker. She was like fresh air in his life. He hadn’t realised how much he needed that.
‘Good?’ he asked.
