Summer Sins

Xavier had offered to take her to the mainland once, but she hadn’t wanted to go. Her reluctance was not only because she could see little appeal in the overdeveloped coastline, with its marinas stuffed with massive yachts, and its shoreline built up with hotels and high-rise apartments. There was another reason, too—and it was not just because she revelled in having Xavier to herself.

It was because here, on this tiny, secluded isle, she could keep the outside world at bay. Here, she was utterly with Xavier, thinking only of Xavier, being only with Xavier. Absorbing all her mind, her time.

Keeping her mind very far away from what was happening in America, and when she would hear again from Armand.

She did not want to think about that. Did not want that biting undercurrent of anxiety to well up when there was nothing she could do about it. All she could do was wait until Armand contacted her. Then she would know.

Until then, she had Xavier. And she must make the most, the very most of him. How short a time she had with him.

Anguish pierced at her, but she pushed it aside. She would not let it spoil this brief, precious time. This magical, wonderful time. All that she would have with him.

Now, reaching out one bare leg, she toed the market report that Xavier held in his hands. She grinned across at him.

‘Oh, chuck the boring old report, Xavier, and come beachcombing with me,’ she teased.

‘Beachcombing?’ he echoed, with a humorous frown at the colloquialism.

‘You know—wandering along the beach to see what you can find.’

‘But there is no beach, only rocks,’ he objected.

She made a face. ‘Oh, you French are so logical. Do come. The water may be freezing, but it’s absolutely beautiful and crystal-clear.’ She looked about her and took a deep breath. ‘I love the scent of the pines—it permeates everything.’

He gave a smile, putting down the report, glad to do so. ‘You have missed

the mimosa, which is a shame—its scent is quite exquisite. We’re missing the lavender, too—we saw the fields on the Île St Honorat, remember, where the monks grow it to make their liqueur.’ He cocked an eyebrow at her. ‘Would you like to visit Grasse while we are here? It is the centre of the perfume industry in France—and XeL has a parfumerie there which I could show you. And we really should go to St Paul de Vence, which is not too far from there. The Matisse chapel is nearby, and in the village itself is the celebrated Colombe d’Or Hotel, which has its very own art collection from the famous artists who stayed there. We should have lunch there.’ He made a rueful face. ‘I have shown you very little of the Cote d’Azur, hélas.’

He sounded regretful as he watched Lissa drop with her innate grace into the lounger beside him.

‘It hasn’t bothered me,’ she assured him. ‘I’m happy here at the villa. Blissfully so!’

It was true she could hardly recall ever knowing such happiness, as she had here in their private, secret world, with their private, secret happiness.

She sought to rationalise her reluctance to leave the island and the villa.

“I wish the whole Riviera were still like this—just pine trees and a rocky shoreline, with a few villas and maquis up in the hills, with deserted bays and headlands and beaches every few miles. It’s such a shame it’s been so spoilt.’ She caught herself as she finished, and it was her turn to put on a rueful expression. ‘I’m sorry—I should not be so critical.’

But he was not offended—far from it. ‘There are still some parts that are not concreted over,’ he said with a half smile. ‘Up in the hills, away from the coast in the Alpes Maritimes, where St Paul de Vence is, for example, is far less spoilt. Even on the coast there are some parts less ugly and less modern. Beaulieu, between Nice and Monte Carlo, still lives up to its name of “beautiful place” and just on the Italian border Menton could still be mistaken for the last century, or even the one before. My mother lives there with my stepfather—’

He broke off suddenly. Then, scarcely missing a beat, he resumed.

‘Antibes, too, is far less touristy—a working town—and on the Cap d’Antibes is the Musée de Napoleon. Did you know that he landed on the coast there when he escaped from Elba?’

Lissa was diverted, as Xavier had intended. It had been a slip of the tongue to mention his mother and stepfather.

‘Didn’t the King send an iron cage for him to be imprisoned in when he was captured?’ she said, groping in her memory.

Xavier laughed. ‘That was what Marshal Ney promised to do. He’d turned from Bonapartist to Bourbonist after the Restoration. He set off with an army to stop Napoleon in his tracks—iron cage and all. But instead he went over to him, and his army, too. Then Napoleon marched on Paris.’

‘To meet his Waterloo,’ Lissa finished. ‘Trounced by the English!’

Xavier shook his head and gave a laugh. ‘Ah, your Wellington only beat him thanks to the Prussians. Napoleon had won the battle already, but the Prussian army arrived in the nick of time to save Wellington’s neck. Don’t they teach you proper history in English schools?’

His eyes were dancing, and Lissa grinned. ‘We’re just taught that we won, that’s all,’ she said impishly. She tugged at his arm. ‘Anyway, you’re only trying to talk about history to get out of coming down to the beach with me. Come on, lazybones! We need some exercise before lunch.’

Xavier caught her fingers and started to nibble one.

‘I can think of excellent exercise—and we don’t even have to walk ten metres,’ he murmured, with a glint in his eyes.