Luc Moreau parked his rented black transit van in the space an usher directed him towards.
He was in the right place, he noted. That pale purple vintage van with the lavender hedge across the lower half of its back doors and sunflower blooms scattered along the sides had some romantically curly, cursive signwriting to advertise the name of the business.
Marry Me in Provence.
For a long, long moment after he’d parked his vehicle he sat in the driver’s seat, his hands still on the steering wheel, simply staring into space.
What was hedoing?
Why hadn’t he just told Greg Glasson that he was busy and couldn’t possibly do a favour for someone he’d met by chance a few years ago when he’d dropped into The Photography & Video Show in Birmingham. The two men had bonded over a shared interest in vintage Leica cameras and, in particular, for the 1960s model M3 that Luc had slung over his shoulder in its original leather case.
They’d exchanged numbers. For someone who was such a loner, Luc had surprised himself by being the first to reach out, sharing a link to an article celebrating Leica cameras in advance of the approaching one-hundred-year anniversary of the iconic brand.
Maybe – even though he hadn’t shared any details – it was because Greg seemed to instinctively understand how life-changing it had been for a teenager, living in one of London’s more notorious council estates, to save enough to buy a very old camera from the pawn shop and discover a passion for photography.
Or perhaps it was because Greghadshared details of his life and the company he worked for and Luc was the one who understood that protective note in the older man’s tone when he talked about his boss.
Sophie Spencer.
Sophie…
Ouais…Judging by the fist-like squeeze in his chest right now,thiswas the real reason he’d agreed to help Greg out and fill in for him.
He should be avoiding that pull towards her like the plague but he’d done that for nearly ten years in the hope that it would finally fade and… it hadn’t.
Not that he’d realised quite how much it was still haunting him until this morning when Greg had told him that Sophie needed help.
At least he was so much stronger now. He’d been through the fires of hell and he’d survived. He’d risen from the flames like the triumphant mythological bird whose name he’d appropriated for his second chance at life. No one could crush him again.
Not even Sophie Spencer.
Especiallynot Sophie Spencer.
He could do the clichéd wedding photos that would be required today. The ones that dripped with a saccharine sweetness that was as fake as the promises the majority of people made on the day turned out to be.
He could do a good job.
But would Sophie be happy that he was here or did she hate him with the same amount of passion as she had the last time they’d been breathing the same air?
Luc was about to find out.
He took two cameras with him. The latest, top-of-the-range Nikon that he would use for the shots today and the ancient Leica in its leather case. His touchstone. Because he never went anywhere without it and he had the feeling he might need its magic today.
The black leather jacket he had on over his black tee shirt and black jeans was going to be far too hot to wear today but it felt like an extra layer of protection. So did his hat and the sunglasses that would hide any reaction he hadn’t anticipated being triggered by proximity to Sophie.
At least he had the advantage of being forewarned and therefore forearmed. Sophie would have no idea who Le Phénix truly was. So far, he’d managed to keep the two facets of his life completely separate.
So why did she seem to recognise him so instantly as he walked towards her a short time later?
Why had she gone as still and pale as an Italian marble statue?
And why did his name on her lips sound almost like a prayer?
‘Luc…?’
3
TWELVE YEARS AGO…
