1
‘Ohhh…’
The sigh that escaped Mathilde Pascoe’s lips was one of soul-deep yearning.
Flavoured with a lick of defeat because this was something she strove to avoid completely when it was work related. It was inappropriate and professionally unacceptable to feel like this, but that didn’t make it any easier to dismiss, especially when it had a sting in its tail that felt disturbingly like despair.
The power of the promise her phone was able to deliver, however, with no more than the first bars of her all-time favourite ringtone, was pure magic. No wonder Edith Pilaf’s ‘La Vie en Rose’ was considered one of the most romantic songs ever written.
Tilly was tempted to let it continue a little longer – to get to her feet, even, and do a slow twirl as she closed her eyes and held her phone to her heart – but that was Sophie’s face on the screen requesting a video call and it felt like far too long since she’d spoken to her old boss and best friend.
‘Cou cou, Sophie.Ça va?’
‘I’m good, thank you, Tilly. No, make that great – apart from a lack of sleep. Maddie’s finally getting her first tooth. Luc’s giving her a bath to distract her at the moment, which is also giving me a chance to call you. Win-win!’
‘Take me up to see her?’
‘In a minute. I’m breathing in a moment to myself which I want to spend just with you.’
‘I can’t believe Madeleine is nearly a year old already. Where has that time gone?’
‘I know, right? We’ve both been too busy to notice the clock.’
That was so true. Time had been passing in a blur ever since Sophie had made the decision to wind down the destination wedding business she’d set up in the South of France and let Tilly downsize it into a new venture – curating bespoke and intimate proposal events, supported by an established network of connections for people and places, boutique hotels and romantic restaurants. A Promise in Provence was on its way to finding its feet at last, but that didn’t mean Tilly could afford the time to slow down. Quite the opposite. Sophie wasn’t the only one who was feeling the effects of a lack of sleep these days.
‘At least I remembered in time that tomorrow’s the big day.’ Sophie sounded relieved. ‘You’ve got your Scottish couple arriving, yes?’
A single word was lingering as Sophie finished speaking. The Scottishcouple. The soon to be an engaged-to-be-marriedcouple, thanks to her own best efforts over the last month to construct the most romantic holiday that could be experienced anywhere in the world, culminating in a proposal that no woman could say no to.
Tilly’s gaze slid sideways for a heartbeat to the image still filling her laptop screen. What woman in her right mind would say no tothatman, with or without the lavishly romantic trimmings she had lined up, like fairy lights, vintage champagneand candles, rose petals and hopefully the moonlit waters of the Mediterranean on a balmy summer night?
‘Yes,’ she confirmed, a beat too late but infused with what she intended to be excitement. ‘And he’s definitely the most important client I’ve had since I started this business – almost a whole week of romance instead of just a couple of days. It’s costing him a fortune. I think he might be the most famous person I’ve had so far, too.’
‘Famous? I thought you said he was some kind of consultant?’
‘He is. A risk consultant.’
‘What’s that when it’s at home?’
‘They’re experts who can advise global companies or banks or individuals when the consequences and costs of not dealing with a risk effectively are too high.’
Sophie laughed. ‘When did your English get so good? I’m not sureIeven understand that.’
Tilly made a face. ‘I might have read it in an article that describes the job as being a “quiet fixer” and this consultant in particular as being “precise, laser-focussed and difficult to reach”, which apparently only adds to his appeal to those who seek discretion. It’s in theFinancial Times.’
Sophie’s jaw had visibly dropped. ‘Is there a reason why you’re reading theFinancial Times? InEnglish?’
‘Yes.’ Tilly bit her lip. ‘That’s the only result that came up when I googled my client. It’s no wonder he’s hard to reach when he doesn’t even have a personal website.’ Tilly turned her phone so that Sophie could see the computer screen. ‘That’sAngus McLeod,’ she said.
There was a tiny silence on Sophie’s end and then a small, appreciative hum of sound. ‘Oh… my… He looks like Pierce Brosnan in his James Bond days. What’s that French expression for “drop dead gorgeous”?’
‘Il est à tomber.’ Tilly didn’t need to stare at a photograph she’d memorised the moment she first saw it but she did anyway, just for a second or two, and she couldn’t quite suppress another sigh.
The sheer presence of the man made the image seem three-dimensional, and the intensity of that gaze made it feel as if he was looking directly atherand not at the lens of a camera. He probably looked at his intended fiancée just like that. So intently. With the quiet certainty that she loved him as much as he loved her.
Moira was a lucky,luckywoman…
The way he was leaning with one elbow on a desk, his chin resting on the heel of a hand that was curled into a soft fist. His expression, other than those steely blue eyes, was absolutely relaxed. He wasn’t smiling but his lips were not pressed into a tight line, either. He looked, if anything, as if having his photograph taken was tolerable but only if it didn’t take too long. He gave the impression of a man who was well aware of his surroundings and totally in control of his situation. The formal pinstriped suit jacket was a suggestion of authority. Power. The unbuttoned shirt collar and no tie said that this was someone who made his own rules.
