Page 2 of The Paris Trip

Two siblings with one stone.

No doubt he’d been drunk or hungover at the time.

Possibly both.

In his defence, that had been the year his studio in St Paul de Vence had burnt down, destroying half his canvases from the previous six months, and he’d not been in a good place. He’d begged Francis for a small loan to cover rent and other expenses, since his father had appointed his first-born head of the family business and controller of the family purse-strings. Francis had smiled and refused, gloating and enjoying his power. They’d argued, and Leo had left Paris before they could come to blows, asking Bernadette to lend him the cost of a train ticket back to the south of France.

As soon as he’d managed to sell some more paintings, he’d returned the money to his half-sister. But it had rankled, having to beg his own brother for money, and he still recalled the bitterness of that refusal.

If his father wasn’t so useless…

But brothers Sébastien and Henri Rémy had inherited the estate on his grandfather’s death, according to French law. His uncle Henri had agreed to continue looking after the vineyard in Bordeaux, where he’d been based for several decades, while his father Sébastien controlled the Parisian side of things, including a few high-yield properties and a café-bar.

But Sébastien had rapidly grown bored with playing the respectable executive, and had simply vanished, leaving his eldest son to run the business and maintain the château in Paris.

Francis had managed the business well.

But now he was gone, and their father had apparently nominated Leo in his place to oversee their finances.

He could refuse, of course. Walk away.

But he knew his father wouldn’t bother sobering up and coming to Paris to manage things for himself. No, he would simply run the estate into the ground and eventually be forced to sell the château and the vineyard in Bordeaux to cover his debts.

And what would his grandmother and poor frail Nonna do then?

No, they were all relying on him to pick up the reins where Francis had dropped them on his death. Because if he didn’t, the family would be ruined within a few short years.

Leo looked down into his dead brother’s face and wished he could apologise for having behaved so badly in his younger days. He’d changed so much since then. Perhaps not as much as his grandmother would have liked. But for years he had resented his father’s choice of Francis as the golden son, the one Sébastien Rémy could apparently rely on to manage the estate while he lived off the proceeds, far from home…

Indeed, Leo had tried to emulate his father for a time. To live as wildly as Sébastien did and never bother going home. But he was no longer an idiot where money was concerned, nor did he drink as heavily as he’d done in his late teens and early twenties, his life a sickening blur…

The undertakers had done a good job.

Francis wasn’t deathly pale, by any means. Almost in perfect health, one might think, if it wasn’t for his utter stillness. His injuries had been well-hidden too, though a few tell-tale bumps and indentations on his face, not quite concealed by heavy make-up, told their own story. He dreaded to think what horrors lay beneath the formal suit. Though at least the plane had not exploded on crash landing. And his body had been recovered whole. His doting grandmother had been spared that, at least.

‘I… I’m sorry, Francis,’ he muttered, feeling the hollowness of those words but unable to do anything about it. ‘I know we didn’t see eye-to-eye, but… I’m going to miss you, big brother.’

Guilt suffused him. Even now, speaking his last words to his older brother, he was unable to stop thinking about himself. About what his brother’s death would mean for the family. For himself, to be precise.

When he turned to leave, Liselle was waiting for him on the threshold, her large dark eyes shimmering with tears.

After more than five hours on the train from Nice, she looked wild and untamed, and yet still classically beautiful, with her long, flaming Titian hair that had caught his eye from the first moment he’d seen her in a night club in the South of France. She had sat for a portrait the next day, and they had become lovers soon after.

It had not lasted, not least because she was so much trouble. But Liselle was tenacious, he had to give her that, and was now his manager, though she still sat for him occasionally. He had no idea why she’d insisted on accompanying him to Paris for his brother’s funeral though, unless she was hoping their relationship could be revived now that he was vulnerable and grieving.

‘Oh, my poor darling,’ she cried, casting a quick, horrified look at Francis over his shoulder before shuddering dramatically. ‘I’m so, so sorry. You should have waited for me. I would have come with you to see him. But your grandmother kept asking me questions… I couldn’t get away.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘I’m here for you now. Whatever you want, just tell me. My poor Leo.’ Her hands cupped his face and she kissed him on the lips.

Automatically, his hands went to her waist and pulled her close. But he said nothing.

Did he love Liselle? He didn’t know. He didn’t think so. They had not been to bed together in over a year and he hadn’t missed that element of their relationship, too absorbed in his painting to care about much else.

Besides, he had never loved anyone, so how could he tell?

Right now though, she loved him, and perhaps that was enough. He would need all the allies he could gather around him in the difficult time to come. As she looked up into his face, her eyes adoring, he wished he had the strength to tell her to go home, to remind her that they were not lovers and she should move on, free herself to be with someone else.

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