Solitaire. Sara Craven

      She took another step forward and froze as the dog snarled again, then lifted its voice in a full-throated bark that held a clear warning that she was to keep her distance.

      Marty glanced round nervously. Why didn’t someone come? Uncle Jim, for preference, but even this Madame Guisard would do at a pinch. She tried calling out, ‘Is anyone there?’ first in English and then in French, but no one answered, and she felt a cold prickle of fear at the nape of her neck. Was the house deserted then except for this dog, only too aware of his role as guardian and protector? She had a feeling that any movement, even one of retreat, would be fatal. All she could do was stand there, and hope that the big animal would restrict himself to this threatening surveillance. At the same time, she was not sure how long she could go on standing there. Her legs were shaking under her suddenly, and she could feel the sun blazing down on her unprotected head, and the case weighing down almost unbearably on her arm.

      She called out again, uncaring that there was now a note of panic in her voice—‘Please—someone . . .’—and heard almost unbelievingly the sound of an approach, an unmistakably masculine stride, and closed her eyes with a little sob of relief. Uncle Jim—it had to be.

      When she opened them again, trees, sky and house swam a little under her gaze and a droplet of sweat ran down her face. She put up her free hand and wiped her eyes because she seeemd to be suffering from the strangest illusion. The image on the snapshot in her handbag had suddenly been reproduced all over again.

      She looked at the newcomer, her lips slightly parted. Tall, and very dark, and even more deeply tanned than Jean-Paul, and making no secret of it either, for all he appeared to be wearing was a pair of closely fitting white denim jeans slung low on his lean hips. A thin face with high cheekbones, and an uncompromising beak of a nose. A harsh face, belied only slightly by the sensual curve of his lower lip.

      Marty took a step forward encouraged by the fact that the dog was quiet now, crouched at his feet, with one restraining hand on his collar.

      She said uncertainly, ‘Bernard?’

      She could hardly believe it. This man was in his thirties. Had Uncle Jim been married all that time and never disclosed the fact? It seemed incredible.

      She heard him give a slight intake of breath, so it seemed she had guessed right.

      He said in English with only a trace of an accent, ‘Who are you, and what do you want here? Didn’t you read the notice?’

      Dark eyes under heavy lids went over her in a kind of contemptuous dismissal that flicked Marty on the raw.

      She said hotly, ‘I don’t call that much of a welcome.’

      ‘I don’t feel particularly welcoming. Be good enough to state your business and leave.’

      Marty flung her head back and stared him straight in the eye. She said silkily, ‘You may not be expecting me, Bernard, but your father is. So please take me to him.’ She waited, but there was no response except a slight narrowing of the dark eyes, and a faint unpleasant smile curling his lips. ‘Did you hear me, Bernard?’ she asked eventually.

      ‘Oh, I heard you, mademoiselle. I am just asking myself what little game you’re playing. However, it seems you wanted to see me, so here I am.’

      ‘I want to see your father . . .’ she began, but he interrupted, his voice cold with suppressed anger.

      ‘Au contraire, mademoiselle, you said you wanted to see Bernard’s father. Well, I am Bernard’s father.’

      She stared at him. ‘But you can’t be! I mean . . .’ She put her case down and took another step forward. ‘I think it’s you that are playing games, monsieur. What are you—some sort of bodyguard? It all fits in with the gate, and the notice and the dog. Has Uncle Jim suddenly become a millionaire?’

      He stood very still, and she saw his brows draw together in a swift frown. ‘Whom did you say?’ he asked. ‘You spoke of an uncle?’

      ‘Yes,’ she said wearily, wishing that he would at least permit her to enter the house, and continue this futile conversation in the shade. She only wished that Uncle Jim would suddenly appear and put him in his place. ‘My uncle—James Langton. He owns this villa.’

      The tension in the air between them was suddenly almost tangible.

      ‘You are mistaken, mademoiselle,’ he said bleakly. ‘I own this villa. Your—uncle, Monsieur Langton, sold it to me just over a year ago.’

       CHAPTER TWO

      MARTY stared at him, her heart beating so wildly that she had the oddest sensation that it might leap into her throat and choke her.

      ‘But that’s impossible!’ she managed at last.

      ‘Au contraire, mademoiselle, it is not merely a possibility, but reality.’ He spoke almost wearily. ‘As I suspect you knew before you ever set out on your travels. Accept my felicitations on the depth of your research and commiserations that it has not had the desired effect.’

      ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said helplessly. ‘But if Uncle Jim really isn’t here, perhaps you can tell me where he has gone.’

      The firm mouth curled slightly as if in distaste. ‘You should have continued your research, ma petite, then you would have discovered the answer to that for yourself.’

      ‘Please stop talking in riddles,’ she begged wearily. ‘I don’t understand what’s going on. You say Uncle Jim sold you this villa a year ago, Did he go away, then?’

      The stranger paused, his dark eyes raking over her. ‘Not immediately, no. Is it important?’

      ‘Yes.’ Marty fumbled at the catch of her shoulder bag. ‘You see, I had a letter from him only three weeks ago asking me to come and live with him and . . .’

      He interrupted sharply, his frown deepening. ‘Three weeks? To turn your own words against you, mademoiselle, that is impossible.’

      ‘But I can show you the letter,’ she began.

      ‘I am sure you can.’ His look of contemptuous derision scourged her. ‘But I think it’s time I called a halt to this little game you’re playing. Your pretence is in the worst of bad taste under the circumstances. I suppose I can admire your determination to carry it through, but that is all I admire.’

      ‘I don’t want your admiration.’ In spite of her bewilderment, Marty felt her own temper begin to rise under the lash of the man’s words. How dared he treat her like this! she stormed inwardly. If she had trespassed on his property and his time then it was quite inadvertent. ‘In fact, I don’t want any part of you,’ she went on stonily, ignoring the look of frank scepticism he sent her. ‘If you’ll be good enough’—she stressed the words sarcastically—‘to tell me where Mr Langton has gone, then I’ll be on my way.’

      ‘Perhaps the truth will shame you into abandoning this ridiculous charade,’ he said harshly. ‘Jacques Langton is dead, mademoiselle, and has been so for the past four months. That is why I know you are a fraud, and that is why I am ordering you to leave—now.’

      ‘Dead!’ Marty repeated the word mechanically, her mind oblivious to everything else he had said. Then, as the full realisation finally dawned on her, she gave a little anguished cry. ‘Dead? Oh, Uncle Jim, no!’

      She gave a desperate look around her at the house, and the brooding pines and the tall inimical figure of the man confronting her, then the great golden disc of the sun came swooping down at her, and she gave a little moan and collapsed to the ground.

      The sun seemed to be all about her. She felt as if she was bathed in fire. There were even slow flames forcing themselves between her lips and trickling down her throat, and she began to struggle against them, pushing them away,