The white-haired Frenchwoman’s eyes narrowed as she looked up at him. “Take good care of her, young man. Or you’ll have me to deal with.”
“I would not wish to tangle with you, madame.” It was not a jest. She reminded him of his Italian grandmother, who’d been fierce and almost diabolically clever. A woman not to be crossed.
“I have your word?”
He paused. He was careful with his word. It was no longer in his soul to give flimsy promises. “Yes.”
The older woman nodded, satisfied, then gave her grand-niece one last admonition. “Remember. Let him pay for everything.”
“Tatie!” Rosalie seemed scandalized and her cheeks blushed deeper than ever as she threw him a nervous glance.
Ah. So that was why she’d had a change of heart about letting him pay. Her aunt had convinced her.
Alex was glad. He wanted to pay. It made things easier. And money meant little to him. Just piles of gold in the bank reminding him of things of which he did not want to be reminded. He hefted Rosalie’s bag higher on his shoulder. “We should go.”
She nodded. Giving her great-aunt’s wrinkled cheek one last kiss, she followed him out of the restaurant. Holding her hand so she wouldn’t fall, he led her down the steep hill and through the dark, deserted village.
They exited the town gate. Rosalie stopped abruptly on the flat sandy beach between the ramparts and the causeway.
“What,” she breathed, “is that?”
“This?” He casually continued walking toward the red Lamborghini. He glanced back at her. “It’s our ride.”
“How did you get permission to park it here?” She looked at him accusingly. “There are rules.”
He shrugged. “I have friends.”
“I bet,” she muttered as he opened the passenger door. He supported her arm as she lowered herself heavily into the black leather seat. She glared up at him. “Does everyone do what you say, wherever you go?”
“Usually,” Alex said. He thought the lie sounded more modest than the actual truth, which was Yes.
Tucking her bag into the tiny trunk, Alex got into the driver’s seat and started the engine. The low purr built to a roar as he whirled the sleek red sports car back down the empty causeway. Silence fell as he drove onto the mainland, then away across the fields of Normandy.
“Why are we driving to Venice?” she asked finally, looking uncomfortable in the supple leather seat, as if she was afraid to touch anything in the expensive car. “It would be much faster to fly.”
“I don’t care for planes,” he said shortly, looking ahead at the empty road.
“I’m surprised you don’t have a private jet.”
He didn’t answer. He felt her gaze on him.
“You do, don’t you?” she said slowly. “You have a private jet.”
“I inherited it. I allow my employees to use it. Or to bring people to me in Venice.”
“Why don’t you like to fly?”
Focusing fiercely on the road, he said, “My father loved it. He thought himself quite a pilot, until he crashed his Cessna into the Alps, with my mother and brother aboard.”
She sucked in her breath. “Oh, no! Were they—all right?”
“No,” he said flatly.
“They died?” Rosalie choked out, “I’m so sorry.”
So much sympathy she had for people who hadn’t been good or kind. “We were never particularly close.”
“No wonder you’re nervous about flying.”