The image was of a vast, white-on-white room with marble flooring and a sweeping curve of a staircase that seemed to float down to ground-floor level to land between two roman columns that were standing sentry.
‘And this is the private beach.’
There were two levels of terracing at the bottom of a stone staircase. The top level had a bathing pavilion in the same cream stucco as the main house, grey-blue shutters on the windows and a covered outdoor area with deck chairs and a swing, their cushions in the same sea-water hues as the shutters. Down another staircase was a much narrower terrace that had been carved into the jagged black rocks of the coastline, clear turquoise water lapping beneath the steel ladders that were the access for swimming.
Sophie could feel the wave of Luc’s interest as he leaned forward. ‘This terrace,’ he said. ‘Could you arrange for those deck chairs and umbrellas to be cleared so the terrace is empty? This would be a fabulous location for some photos of the bride and groom. At sunset.’ He was still staring at the image. ‘I’d like to see how far out on the jetty I could get. Could I get access before the wedding?’
‘I can arrange that. When do you get back from London?’
‘Tomorrow. Late. I’ve got a restaurant shoot in Cannes the next day but I’ll be available from then until this wedding.’ He lifted his gaze from the image and the intensity in his eyes hit Sophie hard enough to make her feel completely off balance. How weird was that, when she was sitting down and perfectly safe?
‘You know what?’ Luc’s voice was soft, as though he only wanted Sophie to hear his words. ‘I can’t wait,’ he said. ‘This Romeo and Juliet wedding is going to be one that nobody will ever forget.’
12
The day of the Villa Céleste wedding had dawned with a cloudless blue sky and the waters of the Mediterranean as still as the proverbial millpond. It was still picture-perfect as Sophie left her pared-back team with the preparations in the house and kitchen and walked across the terrace where the ceremony was to take place, heading for the stairs that would take her down to the private beach.
She cast a glance over her shoulder and up, as if she would be able to see far enough past the enormous house to catch a glimpse of the patch of sky over thearrière-pays –the back country villages like Grasse, Vence and her own home of Saint Jeannet – that sat below the baous and the mountains beyond.
Keeping a close eye on weather forecasts was part and parcel of being a wedding planner and Sophie had taken particular notice of the alert Météo-France had issued forty-eight hours ago. It had been upgraded from a low-level yellow vigilance alert to an orange one late last night and the risk of strong thunderstorms was only predicted for inland areas and at a time when it would no longer be a threat to this event, but… there was something in the air that was giving Sophie the slightest prickle of embryonic goosebumps.
She rubbed at the skin of her bare arms as she passed Tilly, who was tying wide white satin ribbons around all the wrought-iron chairs that would be positioned to see the bride and groom exchanging their vows beneath an archway of white peony roses against the stunning backdrop of the endless sea and sky.
‘C’est génial, oui?’ Tilly called. ‘Parfait.’
Sophie smiled and nodded. Itwasperfect.
Perhaps it was the extra pressure of keeping this wedding so private that was making her nervous. Forbidden lovers, who were going to pledge their lives to each other in front of a very select few friends and family members and then slip away to start their married life in total seclusion on an island in the Seychelles that only catered for one guest group at a time. A private jet was already parked at Nice airport ready for their honeymoon departure.
It was late morning now. The sky was still completely cloudless, the temperature was thirty degrees Celsius and the tiny puffs of a sea breeze were nothing more than a caress – not even enough to lift a bride’s veil from the flagstones of this terrace. Sophie kept moving, hearing cicadas in the trees around her as she followed the staircase on to the beach terrace that housed the pavilion. Shading her eyes against the glare of the sun, she focussed on the sleek superyacht that had floated into view a short time ago.
Sophie had been briefed to watch for the vessel flying the maritime version of the Cayman Islands’ flag, a red ensign with a Union Jack in the corner, presumably for the privacy that this place of registration afforded. This had to be the Morozov family yacht. As far as Natalia’s father was aware, the vessel was being used by his daughter and her closest friends for nothing more than a girls’ weekend on the Côte d’Azur. A paparazzi-proof tender with a totally enclosed cabin was gliding swiftly through the smooth sea towards the beach.
‘Bonjour, Sophie.’
Good grief… she was really on edge today, wasn’t she? The sound of Luc’s voice startled her.
‘Bonjour, Luc. You’re nice and early.’
He was wearing his alter-ego uniform today. The sunglasses, the wide-brimmed black hat. The close-fitting jeans and a matching black tee shirt, the only ripples of which were caused by the definition of the muscles beneath the soft fabric.
If the sound of his voice had startled her, the impact of Le Phénix appearing beside her was enough to bring those goosebumps back, big enough to make her skin feel rough this time.
He wasn’t looking back at her. He had his digital camera in his hands and was watching the unfolding scene below on the viewfinder. This black camera fitted right in with his image, unlike the scuffed tan leather case, shaped to fit the antique camera inside it, that was hanging from his shoulder by a long, thin strap.
Charismatic… it was the only word that could capture everything about the appearance and presence of this man.
Andsexy. So, so sexy.
No wonder Raven Vale had been so instantly smitten but, if he was hunting for Luc in the hope of his interest being returned, Sophie knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was barking up the wrong tree. Luc Moreau was as straight as a die.
Not only with regard to his sexuality, either. From nowhere, a tiny voice in the back of her head was reminding Sophie that she’d once believed that Luc’s unwavering loyalty, honesty and trustworthiness were just as precisely defined. She pushed the errant thought back from where it had snuck free. He had proved otherwise. And yes, maybe it had been no more than a disastrous decision on his part and perhaps he was trying to make amends now, by doing something Tom would approve of, but that couldn’t turn the clock back.
Nothing could.
Inexplicably that thought didn’t rekindle even a fragment of the antipathy that Sophie had nurtured for so long. It simply generated a waft of sadness, like an echo of the sea breeze that was carrying a lilt of feminine laughter as Natalia and her friends were helped from the tender on to the jetty. A crewman from the yacht had an oversized umbrella ready to shelter the young women but there was no sign of other boats in the vicinity or the sound of an approaching aircraft. Even if local curiosity had been aroused by the visit of a prestigious pleasure boat and someone was using a marine tracker app to find out the name of the yacht and possibly its owner, the link would be long gone before anyone could investigate further.
The wedding ceremony on the terrace would be too far away from any boats or even helicopters to be able to identify the bride, and once they had been pronounced man and wife, the pressure would lift. The lovers would have achieved their dream. Death would be the only thing that could part them after this.
