Her heart was thumping wildly in her chest. And as he clasped her hand, all thoughts of his earlier disappearance, of their differences and her inadequacies, vanished completely.
Chapter Twenty-Two
‘I think you’re going to like Les Cyprès,’ said Dominic as he indicated left through a pair of stone gate posts and down a long drive lined with cypress trees.
‘You mean I’m going to love it more than Monte Carlo?’ replied Ros, remembering the way the Côte d’Azur sparkled in the sun, and the yachts bumped together in the harbour.
‘Even more than Monte Carlo,’ grinned Dominic as he glanced across at her.
‘Even more than that little B and B in Lyons with the world’s flakiest croissants and the courtyard that smelt of lavender?’
‘Even more than that,’ said Dom, pressing his foot on the accelerator so that they picked up speed, the breeze ruffling her hair.
‘I want to live here,’ declared Ros, feeling as if life had been sweetened by the sun and the smells of the Côte d’Azur.
‘We haven’t even got there yet.’
‘I don’t mean Les Cyprès.’ She sighed wistfully. ‘I mean the South of France.’
‘Speaks the socialist . . .’
She shifted in her seat and looked at him.
‘I’m not saying I want a mansion. I’d be happy with one of those little cottages we saw at the turn-off to Antibes. All I want is a bed, a table, a bowl for my peaches and a window that overlooks the Med. That’s got nothing to do with politics. It’s about appreciating nature.’
‘I hope that bed sleeps two,’ smiled Dominic, taking his hand off the gearstick and putting it on her stockinged knee.
‘Oh gosh,’ she gasped as Les Cyprès came into view.
‘I don’t want a mansion . . .’ he teased as he removed his hand.
‘Just look at it,’ she whispered, her mouth dropping open. ‘How many families live here?’
‘Just the Harbords. And they don’t even have kids.’
‘Do they want to adopt me?’ she asked, swooning at the low Latin-style finca, wild jasmine growing unchecked over its whitewashed walls.
They pulled to a stop at the front of the house and knocked on the door. A housekeeper answered, and Dominic went to get their cases out of the boot, leaving them in the hall.
They were led to the back of the house, down a short flight of stone steps to a kidney-shaped pool that stretched the width of the ornamental garden.
Ros could just make out that the woman standing in front of the pool wearing a bathing costume and wide sunhat was holding up a crystal decanter.
‘Drink?’ she called. ‘I’m making martinis. Or daiquiris, haven’t decided yet.’
‘Your call,’ replied Dom, turning to Ros.
‘Ooh, I think it’s the weather for something fruity, don’t you?’ she giggled.
Dominic made the introductions. Up close, Lady Victoria Harbord, his old friend, a woman whose name cropped up regularly in his conversation, was every bit as glamorous as the picture he had always painted of her.
‘Darling Ros, I can’t believe we haven’t met until now,’ she said, putting down her silver cocktail shaker.
‘You’re never in the damn country,’ quipped Dominic, taking off his driving gloves and putting them in the pocket of his cream linen jacket.
Victoria shrugged, and her chiffon kaftan fell off one tanned shoulder.
‘When the sun starts shining, I just want to be by the coast.’