‘Laughing. Asking him to dance.’
‘I liked him. He was kind to me.’ And so few people in her life had ever been kind to her.
‘My father is kind to everyone.’
‘And you disapprove of that quality?’
‘When it comes to glamorous women it’s a weakness, not a quality.’
‘If everyone was kinder to each other the world would be a better place.’
He gave a cynical laugh. ‘And we both know what form you’d want that kindness to take. As you already know, my father is a rich man. Not quite as rich as I am, but I’ve no doubt you were happy to consider him good enough for back-up.’
Appalled and fascinated by the thought of what might drive a woman to such desperation, Chantal studied him for a moment. Her response was cautious. ‘That’s what you think I’d do?’
‘Given that your last husband was seventy-five—yes.’
Seventy five? Chantal almost gasped aloud. Isabelle had married a man of seventy-five? She wondered briefly whether she should have told the truth about who she was. No. If he was shocked by Isabelle, how much more shocked would he be to learn the truth about her life?
‘I’m just warning you not to try any tricks, because I’ll be watching.’
‘Tricks? What tricks are you expecting?’
‘You’ve failed with me. Don’t even think about targeting my father. A man who has made two mistakes in marriage will not be allowed to make a third!’
‘Mistake?’ She blinked at him. ‘He told me that he was married to your mother for forty years. It didn’t sound like a mistake to me. He was totally in love.’ She watched as shock flared in his eyes.
‘You asked him about my mother?’
‘No! He—’ Thrown by his anger, she broke off, struggling to remember exactly how the conversation had evolved. ‘We were talking about love. He told me that she died. I—I’m very sorry.’
He didn’t respond, but she saw that his knuckles were white. ‘He never talks about my mother.’
‘Well, he talked to me. Maybe it was because I was a stranger. Or because we just seemed to click. I don’t know. I liked him—’ She gave a helpless shrug. ‘Why do you dissect every conversation? Who made you so cynical?’
‘Women like you. I know who you are, Isabelle.’
He had no idea who she was.
And she had no intention of telling him. Perhaps one day he’d find out, when he bumped into the real Isabelle on the party circuit. But by then she’d be long gone.
She sank back against her seat. He intimidated her, but at the same time he intrigued her, and suddenly she really wanted to understand what drove his deep-rooted cynicism. Something in his past, obviously. She, better than anyone, knew that even when you tried to move on the past had a way of winding itself around your ankles like seaweed—taking hold, dragging you back to the place you were trying to escape from.
‘So—’ she changed the subject to a topic less inflammatory ‘—what do you do with a whole island to yourself?’
‘It has been in my family for five generations. My ancestors grew olives and made wine. I rebuilt the villa five years ago. It is the one place where we can guarantee a level of privacy, away from media intrusion.’
‘Five generations?’ Chantal felt a flash of envy. What must it be like to have family you could trace back for generations? What was it like to be part of a group of people who cared about each other?
‘They led a simple life,’ he told her, stretching his legs out in front of him, ‘and that is what the island is for. So if you’re hoping for a glamorous holiday, then you’ll be disappointed. The only thing that glitters is the sea when the sun hits it. You can leave your silk and diamonds at home. We don’t dress for dinner. It’s basic. I prefer it that way.’
So did she.
Chantal relaxed slightly. The dress code had been one of her major concerns about this trip. Given the deficiencies of her wardrobe, the thought of ‘dressing for dinner’ had filled her with dismay. And as for leaving her silk or diamonds at home—not only did she not possess any silk and diamonds, she didn’t have a permanent home in which to leave them.
‘It sounds perfect.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. We both know you’re going to hate it. I think we’re about to discover just how “adaptable” you are, Isabelle.’