The Flower Girls (11 page)

Chapter 14

Jasmine had never said anything about a villa. Really, a home in the south of France was something she would have loved to show off about. Poppy brought it up as the hire car sped them up twisting roads. She’d sighed with pleasure at the view—red roofed houses—the vivid green of pine trees—the unique blue of the sea. It was spring, the mimosa still clung to some trees, not having been tossed and scattered by the Mistral. Hearing her sigh, Seth gave her a worried glance and asked if she was all right.

“It’s so beautiful here, it’s a wonder Jasmine didn’t want to stay forever.”

“I doubt she would have, but in any case she never came here.”

“Really?”

He was silent some while; in fact they turned into a driveway and pulled up in front of a cream-colored villa before he spoke.

“I don’t really know why. Timing I suppose. Jasmine always maintained she didn’t like France, she preferred Spain.”

“Yes, she
did
like Spain,” Poppy remembered. “She spoke Spanish too.”

“Yes she did and quite well as I recall. Well…” He turned in his seat. “This is it—as I said it’s not really fancy.”

“I think I have to beg to differ; your idea of not fancy definitely isn’t mine.”

But once inside she thought she knew what he meant. There was a kind of shabby charm about the interior, nothing really luxurious. The walls were desperately in need of a lick of paint, the kitchen was a galley kitchen, the dining room was huge but it also comprised a living area. There was a small comfortable room that let out onto the terrace. The floor tiling was good but the rugs were well worn, as was the furniture. She knew Jasmine would have hated it. It wasn’t stylish and was definitely last century.

In the dining-living area there was a huge wood burner. It was loaded with pinecones so that it would be easy to light were it to turn cool in the evening. Upstairs the three bedrooms were all doubles. The beds looked comfortable and clean and each bedroom had a balcony. Seth threw back the shutters and she could see the view was tremendous, right down to the sea. Although shabby, the villa was clean and tidy and he confirmed there was a lady from the village who looked after it.

“I did think of letting it but, I don’t know, I suppose I’m not ready for that yet. It would require a lot of work and I confess to liking it as it is. I used to come here in the summer holidays.”

“You did?”

“Why are you surprised?”

“I somehow thought you never saw your mother.”

“Goodness, sorry if you had that idea. She did leave my father but they were very sophisticated about it. My father could be…” He hesitated before using the word,
tiresome.
“I never blamed my mother, and I was away at school. It somehow didn’t surprise me when she left…but enough of this soul-baring, let’s find some coffee, or would you prefer tea?”

There wasn’t a swimming pool but a twenty-minute walk took them to a small beach.

There were a couple of restaurants but little else. Two huge rock formations at either end of the beach made it cove-like. No one could walk along from the beaches on the other side; the rocks were jagged, slippery and unfriendly. Only the hardiest of souls would make it.

* * * *

The moon was high in the sky and there were zillions of stars. Seth sat alone on the terrace drinking a brandy. He could hear the swish of the sea against the rocks. Unable to sleep, he’d left his room and come outside. The night air was cool but not chilly; he’d pulled on an old sweater and sports pants. All around him were the scents of the Cotes D’Azure. Wherever he went nowhere was as precious to him as this part of the world. He’d seen many places but here there was always a sense of perfection. Even Heaton Grange couldn’t match how he felt.

He’d been so happy here as a boy, wandering the hills, dreaming of the adventures of the Maqui, hearing the stories of their bravery and adventures from old men in the town. His mother was here too, kind and carefree, happy to have him with her. She had her lover here too—Philippe—but it didn’t matter. Philippe was laid back, he never interfered, and being born in the town, he’d introduced Seth to the old men who had tales to tell. It was this that fired him to become a journalist, but not just a journalist—a foreign correspondent. The tales of daring-do had been his inspiration.

Now many of those old resistance fighters were dead. One day he knew he’d have to write a non-fiction book about this place and all the things that had happened during the occupation. It would be for him a love song to them.

Sipping his brandy, he allowed his mind to drift towards Poppy. This unpretentious woman who’d swept into his life unexpectedly. She was everything his late wife wasn’t, and perhaps that was why Jasmine never even mentioned she had a sister, or that she’d invited the sister to stay. Jasmine had, as far as he knew, never done anything without a reason. What was her reason for bringing Poppy from her happy life in Florida? There had to be some motive. He didn’t believe what she’d told Poppy, that she was unhappy. Jasmine was
never
unhappy; she just made everyone else unhappy. Jasmine did what Jasmine wanted to do and to hell with everyone else.

Still it was something to be grateful about. Poppy was, in spite of the awful thing that had happened, a light in the darkness his world had become.

He inhaled the scents of this special place—pine and yes, jasmine. In the moonlight he could see the hills opposite, the shape of a large chateau with its turrets—the home Philippe had said, of the sleeping beauty. Seth smiled. He felt an overwhelming feeling of being happy. Guilt made him want to chase it away but it wouldn’t be burst. Putting down his glass, he wandered back indoors, closing the French doors behind him.

“I can’t fight it,” he said out loud to no one. “I have to let the light in…”

* * * *

Poppy sighed. “It’s perfect,” she said. Judging by the conversations of the other guests in the restaurant, she realized they were mainly French. There were a few Germans but no English apart from her and Seth.

They sat out on the terrace enjoying a glass of wine after a simple fish dinner. The sun sank in a red-gold haze and later the moon came up. Its beams made a track in the ocean about twelve feet wide. It was like a moon road; it looked as if she could walk on it and go to the end of the world. Fanciful, but she told him anyway. He leaned over and squeezed her hand and her heart soared.

“You were right to come here,” she said, not pulling her hand away.

“I’m seldom wrong.” But his smile gave lie to the statement. They both knew he’d been terribly wrong at one time, but refrained from discussing it.

* * * *

The moonlight guided them on the track that wound its way into the foothills and the villa. The midnight-blue sky was filled with stars; they paused and gazed up, following the track of the Plough. The scent of pine filled the air, and beneath their feet pine needles crunched.

“I love it here,” she murmured.

“Me too. I did think about moving here permanently.”

“Really? You could—I mean as a writer you can live anywhere.”

“Yes I can but there are obligations. My family’s been in Yorkshire so long, I don’t know if I could bear to sell the house.”

Ties.

She’d never been tied down but she understood the feeling of connection to places and people. She had no sense of loyalty to any one place but she guessed Seth Sanderson, and all those generations before him, made loyalty ingrained.

They trudged on slowly. The villa was in darkness, Seth moved slowly and certainly, finding a switch to bring light into the house’s small hallway; there was an archway leading into the living room. Seth took hold of her hand and tugged her inside the room. He didn’t seek a light switch. Weak light dripped in from the hall.

“I have to do this.” He pulled her into his arms; she didn’t resist, parted her lips as if to say something but his lips captured hers before she could speak. His kiss was warm and hard and soft and tender, not forceful. She let herself yield, sliding her arms around his neck. Her back was against the wall, he could make her a prisoner but she was happy there enjoying the full force of his male body pressing against her. Her dress was of a thin, filmy material; she knew he would feel her breasts soft and round against his chest. His thumbs were against her throat, against the small hollow, his fingers supporting her neck in a gentle hold. When his mouth slid from hers her lips were tingling with pleasure.

His hands slid down to her shoulders. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he murmured. “You’re so damned kissable, Poppy.”

“I hope I didn’t disappoint?” She tried for lightness.

“You know you didn’t.”

Daringly she raised her hand, running her fingertip around his lips.

“Don’t you want to do it again?”

He growled softly, taking hold of her hand, clasping it to his chest and taking charge of her lips once more. She let her lips tremble apart, kissing him back now, allowing him, if he wanted it, access to her mouth. His response was urgent. His deep kiss sent a spiral of pleasure down to the very pit of her; she felt herself trembling awake, warmth invading her lower body, a faint trickle of moisture breaking out. As he slid from her mouth to her ear she whispered to him, “Touch me,” she implored. “Touch me, Seth.”

His hands slid down her back, cupping her hips, manipulating the soft material of her dress, a breeze tickled the backs of her knees.

“Darling,” he said, “let’s not hurtle into something; you have no idea how I want to…” He stopped speaking, resting his forehead against hers.

A sickening feeling came over her; she lay still in his arms, unsure of what to say.

He sighed, moving his hands to her waist, holding her there. “Poppy, say something…”

Words failed her; she slid her arms up and around him, pressing her softness against him.

His maleness, there against her, his desire obvious, gave her a sharp burst of pleasure.

She moved purposely against him, delighted in his soft moan.

“I think,” she said, inspired at last, “we really need to hurtle.”

* * * *

It was wonderful. He knew how to make her happy. She laid still, her hand on his chest feeling the thud of his heart. Her eyes closed, afraid to move, she stayed perfectly still listening to his breathing, uncertain as to whether he slept or not.

A thin strip of light invaded the room from behind the shutters. Dawn would be streaking across the sky. An urge to leave his side to open the shutters was overwhelming. She dampened it down. No need to let the reality of day break through. Best enjoy this moment of bliss for as long as possible.

“Poppy.” It was a whisper.

“Seth,” she whispered back. He chuckled softly, moving his arm slightly and turning deeper into her.

“I want to make us coffee but you smell delicious.” He moved his head, nuzzling the tiny hollow beneath her ear. “And you feel…” he ran his hand along her side, “like silk…and I’m just a weak defenseless male…”

“I think that should be my line.”

“There’s nothing weak about you, Poppy. You’re strong and honest and a million and one things…”

Her heart threatened to burst from her chest. Instead her arms sought his back, pulling against his flesh as if this would stem these feelings of complete abandonment. She pushed him onto his back and settled herself on the length of him, finding his feet and tangling hers with them. His eyes—those wondrous green eyes—were half-closed. He had long black lashes, perfectly arched brows. She gazed down at him, enjoying the hard feel of him against her softness. He reached up and folded a bunch of her honey-blonde hair in his fist.

“This feels so right, Poppy,” he said.

“I know, I want to feel guilty about it but I can’t… Does that make me bad?”

“No, it makes you five times as delicious.”

He brought her head down, their lips meeting and blending, his hands travelled her, cupping and gently squeezing, she moved against him, feeling him harden against her. She tried to hold onto a moan but it escaped despite her efforts. There was a desperate need now to have him inside her once more, for them to be one, joined in the greatest intimacy.

Taking the initiative, she almost laughed, she’d never been so bold, but now, now she had no reticence or hesitation. He gasped a little in surprise, his eyes widening as she rose up on him, her hands at his shoulders.

“Baby…” he said and then joined her with even wilder abandon.

* * * *

“What are we going to do?” he asked.

They were at a restaurant by the harbor at Saint Tropez. The crowds hadn’t started to arrive yet. The town was as beautiful just then as it had been when it had been barely known. Vivid sunlight chased shadows on the old buildings. The blue sea was on fire.

“About what?”

“You and me? You have plans, don’t you?”

A lie came to her lips, of course, that would make it easier for him to break away if he wanted to. But she didn’t want him to break away. She needed to make it difficult for him.

“I haven’t any plans. I gave everything up to support Jasmine.”

“You don’t want to go back to the States?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Are you mad?”

“Sorry?”

“Why would I want you to do that?” He reached out a hand and clasped hers tightly. “I want you to be with me but I’m not selfish enough to make you do something you don’t want to do.”

“I want to be with you.” There, she was open and honest. If he shut down and distanced himself from her then it would be too bad. She couldn’t be other than open with him just at this moment.

He smiled, blasting away her insecurities. “Then we can be… together, I mean.”

“But I have to work, be independent…it’s how I am, I can’t change.”

“No problem. Whatever you want, just so long as you come home to me.”

“Try and stop me!”

Chapter 15

It wasn’t ideal. But she had had some experience. It was a come-down from managing her office but nevertheless it was work. Being a hotel receptionist was hardly going to tax her.