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As she rounded the last bend that led to La Petite, she slowed to a stop. The gateway was filled with vehicles, and a line of cars stretched further up the lane. A dozen figures stood in wait with cameras slung around their necks. Nicole felt a humming begin in her ears as her blood pressure instantly skyrocketed.
They had found her.
Thinking fast, she pulled off her light jacket and draped it over the stroller’s hood. They descended quickly, the crowd of men forming a circle around her as the cameras began to flash. She kept her head down, and the air seemed to stretch her lungs to breaking point as she tried to move forward. They seemed to gather more tightly around her. Apparently the addition of a child made absolutely no difference to the paparazzi’s definition of personal space.
A man stepped forward, blocking her way. ‘Come on—a quick photo of the young ’un, Miss Duvalle.’ He smile was shark-like, sharp-toothed and dangerous. ‘You’ve kept this hidden quite well, haven’t you?’
Nicole bit down hard on her bottom lip. Silence was the key here. Give them nothing and pray that they went away. The sudden jarring sound of a car horn was just what she needed as the black Jeep appeared in the lane behind her. The vehicle began pushing its way through the crowd, forcing the photographers to scatter. Taking advantage of the distraction, she moved as fast as she could, pushing hard through the throng.
It seemed like a lifetime before she crossed the gateway onto her own private property. They couldn’t enter without breaking the law, but she wasn’t so naive to think that she was somehow out of their reach.
She would never have privacy here again. The thought brought a choking sob to her throat.
She resisted the urge to look over her shoulder and focused on retrieving her keys from her handbag with trembling hands. Once she was finally inside, she slid the deadbolt into place and scooped Anna up into her arms. Her daughter’s warm cotton scent soothed her nerves, giving her a small moment of relief through the haze of blind panic. The sun shone through the windows, brightening the room and filling the space with light. Anna’s sparkling blue eyes smiled up at her, so peaceful and unknowing of the situation they were in.
She needed to find out what was going on. Now. She gently settled her daughter on a soft mat surrounded by toys, then quickly got to work. It wasn’t an easy task to fire up the ancient computer that had come with the farmhouse. One of her first resolutions upon moving to the French countryside from London had been to throw away her smartphone and stop checking the showbiz news. Still, she made sure to keep a phone charged for emergencies. One that only made and received calls—that was all she needed.
It seemed like hours before she could finally type a few keywords into the search engine on the dusty screen. She immediately wished she hadn’t bothered.
‘Billionaire Marchesi’s Secret Love Child Uncovered!’
Seeing the words in black and white filled her with ice-cold dread. She scanned through a few lines of the anonymous interview before turning away from the screen in disgust. Was her life always going to be sordid entertainment for the masses? She bit her lip hard as she dropped her head into her hands. She wouldn’t cry.
This wasn’t supposed to happen to her here. The tiny village of L’Annique had been her sanctuary for more than a year now. She had fallen in love with her kind neighbours and the quiet, almost humdrum atmosphere. Unlike in London, where her name was synonymous with scandal, here she had been free to raise her daughter in peace. And now this quiet village would be overtaken by the storm of her old life catching up with her.
Every penny from the sale of her London town house had been poured into her new beginning. Uprooting herself again would bankrupt her. And if she ran they would follow her—of that much she could be sure. She didn’t have the kind of power it took to protect her child from the media.
There was only one person she knew who did. But the man she was thinking of didn’t deal with idle tabloid gossip. Rigo Marchesi wouldn’t even think of trying to help her. She was surprised the media had even dared to cross him with the sheer power of his family name. Luckily for him he had a whole team of PR people to deal with this. Nicole would be left, alone once again, to pick up the pieces and deal with the aftermath.
She parted the curtains to peer out at the crowd, frowning at the sight of the men and their cameras being herded further down the street. Two police cars full of officers had arrived and they were quickly moving all the people and vehicles down the lane and out of view.
A second black Jeep had joined the first, this one with blacked-out windows. A handful of men in dark suits stepped out and began fanning across the premises and down each side of the laneway.
Nicole felt her breathing slow to a dangerous pace, and the air rushed in her ears as she watched the last man step out of the vehicle. He was tall, wearing a sleek suit and dark sunglasses. She bit her bottom lip hard as he finally turned to face her, removing the glasses from his face. A moment of utter stillness passed before she released her breath in one slow whoosh.
It wasn’t him.
For a moment there she had honestly thought… Well, it didn’t matter what she’d thought. Right now the tall, suited man was walking up to her front door.
Pushing her hair behind her ears and clearing her throat, she opened the door with the latch in place, so that she might survey the imposing stranger through a comfortable three-inch gap. Something about him was vaguely familiar.
‘Miss Duvalle?’ He had a hawklike gaze and spoke in her native English, albeit with a strong Italian accent. ‘My name is Alberto Santi. I work for Signor Marchesi.’
She felt cold humiliation prick at her memory. This was the man who did all the jobs that Rigo wouldn’t lower himself to do. He wore the same disapproving glare now as he had the night he’d guided her across a crowded room, away from his employer’s mocking laughter.
‘I am here to help you.’ He spoke calmly.
‘You have some nerve, showing up at my door.’ She shook her head, moving to close the gap, but found the door blocked by a polished leather shoe.
‘I have orders to bring you under the protection of the Marchesi Group.’
‘I don’t take orders from Rigo Marchesi.’ She crossed her arms in front of herself. She knew whom these orders were from. Knew the kind of ruthless power she was faced with here.
‘Perhaps I phrased that poorly.’ The man forced a smile to his thin lips. ‘I have been sent to offer you assistance. May I come in so that we can speak privately?’
Nicole thought on it for a moment. It wasn’t as if she had a whole lot of other options. Perhaps at least he could organise some sort of protection for them. She stood back, unclipping the latch and motioning for him to come inside.
He moved through the doorway and took in the surroundings of her simple home with quick, disapproving efficiency. He looked back down at her. ‘Miss Duvalle, my team has already contained the area, as you can see.’ He gestured to the men standing guard at the gateway to her property. ‘We would prefer it if you had no more contact with the media until we have a chance to resolve the matter privately.’
‘That’s kind of difficult, considering they are camped out on my doorstep.’
‘Which is why I am here. A meeting has been arranged in Paris to address this…situation. If you choose to cooperate you will be offered every assistance.’
The way he called it that—a ‘situation’—made it sound like such a nuisance. A minor fender-bender in the Marchesi fashion empire’s shipshape working schedule. These people had no appreciation of the fact that her entire life had been upended for the second time in less than two years.
‘I have no control over this situation, Mr Santi, as you can see. So I doubt that I can help anyone to resolve it. All I need is to