The Inheritance

As such, he’d been hoping to ditch Helmut early tonight and then settle in for an evening of flirtation at Le Yaca’s famous poolside bar, trying his luck with the myriad stunning young women who flocked to St Tropez each summer, as long-legged and exotic as flamingos in their pink Cavalli minidresses and spiked Gucci heels. But Herr Schnetzler had put paid to that. With his booming German voice and his fat cigars and his bottle after bottle of expensive claret, he was clearly settling in for a long night.

‘I hope I’m not boring you?’

Didier looked up. Helmut was halfway through an interminable, boastful story about some deal he’d pulled off. Didier thought he’d stifled his yawn, but perhaps he hadn’t.

‘Not at all. I’m a little tired, that’s all. Not all of us have your stamina, Helmut.’

‘Ha!’ The old man laughed, gratified by the compliment. ‘Now, where was I?’

Didier let his client’s voice wash over him, throwing in the occasional ‘oh’ and ‘hmmm’, and wondering when he could politely excuse himself, when a woman he recognized walked into reception. Slim and willowy, wearing an old-fashioned sundress in some sort of Liberty print, and with her blonde hair clipped up, it took Didier a moment to place her. But then he remembered. It was Angela Cranley, his hostess at last night’s dinner.

He hadn’t paid Mrs Cranley much attention last night. They were sitting too far apart and she’d been rather quiet. Looking at her now, he realized that everything about her seemed to belong to a different, more elegant era – the Fifties, perhaps; or at least to belong in a different town. Amid all the attention-grabbing miniskirts and silicone breasts and flashy diamonds of St Tropez, Angela Cranley was as out of place as a librarian in a Bangkok brothel.

Didier saw that she was checking in, which was very odd in itself. Who stayed at the Yaca when they had a palatial yacht moored offshore? But to show up at a hotel at so late an hour and with no luggage bar a small overnight case … something was up.

She was heading towards the lifts, obviously in a hurry.

‘Excuse me.’ Didier interrupted Helmut mid-sentence. ‘I have to use the bathroom.’

By the time he reached the lift, the doors were about to close. Didier rushed forwards, leaping into the tiny space with seconds to spare.

‘Mrs Cranley!’

Angela looked up and smiled politely. ‘Monsieur Lemprière.’

‘Which floor?’

‘Oh, er … third. Thank you.’

Close up she was older than Didier had thought last night, with a faint fan of lines around her eyes, but she was still extremely beautiful. There was a sadness about her, too, that somehow pulled at him.

‘I apologize for following you.’

‘Were you following me?’ Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

‘Well, not following exactly,’ Didier corrected himself awkwardly. ‘I saw you checking in and I wondered if everything was all right.’

‘Everything’s fine, thank you,’ Angela lied. ‘I wouldn’t want to keep you from your guest.’

‘Oh, God, please keep me from him.’ Didier rolled his eyes. ‘He’s German and fat and so dull he brings tears to my eyes. Whereas you are absolutely stunning.’

Angela was so surprised, at first she wasn’t sure how to react. It was a very long time, a decade or more, since a man had flirted with her quite so directly. Especially such an attractive man, and one who knew she was Brett’s wife.

‘Well, er … thank you,’ she blushed.

The lift lurched upwards, stopping with a judder at the third floor. Angela hoped it was that that was making her stomach flip over, and not the attentions of Monsieur Lemprière. A smooth, handsome Frenchman like him probably uses the same line twenty times a night, she told herself firmly. I expect every woman he meets is ‘stunning’.

The doors opened and they both stepped out into the corridor. Angela’s room was immediately on the right. There was a moment of awkwardness as she stood outside with her key card and Didier hovered beside her. Surely he doesn’t expect me to invite him in?

‘Well, goodnight, Monsieur Lemprière’ she said at last, breaking the silence because one of them had to. ‘This is me.’

‘Have a drink with me,’ Didier blurted. ‘Downstairs, once you’ve settled in. And for God’s sake call me Didier.’

‘I appreciate the offer, Didier,’ said Angela. ‘But I honestly can’t. I’ve had a very long day.’ An image of Tricia, lithe and naked, sprawled out on her bed, popped unbidden into her mind. ‘I’m afraid I’m exhausted.’

Didier’s face fell. ‘Tomorrow, then?’

Angela hesitated. She’d told Brett she’d be back on the yacht by tomorrow. It was the last thing she wanted to do – she desperately needed space – but with Logan on board she had little choice.

Impulsively, Didier grabbed both her hands and clasped them to his chest. ‘I have to see you tomorrow. Please. Lunch, at least.’

‘I’m married,’ Angela heard herself saying. ‘You know I’m married.’

‘I also know you’re checking into a hotel at nine at night on your own,’ said Didier. ‘Besides, married people still have to eat lunch, don’t they?’

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