Page 12 of Dimistrios's Bought Mistress
She frowned. ‘What skill?’
‘I told you already. The same way I acquired this place. I gamble, Arielle. That’s my skill.’ He met her frowning gaze.
‘So you are a professional gambler? Is that it, you make a living out of gambling?
He shook his head. That was easy to answer too.
‘No, I make a living out of investing the money I make out of gambling. Gambling provided me with capital, lump sums, that I then could invest in whatever it is in the world that makes money. Once you have money, Arielle, it’s easy enough to make more. Millionaires and billionaires don’t have to work hard to stay rich. The markets do it for them. Providing they stay sensible, they’ll make more money. Or, rather, they themselves won’t. Their fund managers will make it for them and cream off a percentage from their clients to make their money while they’re at it.’
‘But you do still gamble? You just won theMas Delfineoff my stepbrother by gambling.’
He could hear the bitterness that the place she loved had changed hands in a game of cards in her voice, but he ignored it.
‘To keep my hand in,’ he said. ‘To pay, if you like, homage to the skill that made me rich. We should not, Arielle, neglect our roots.’ His voice was dry and self-mocking, yet cautionary. He would never, must never, forget his roots. His origins. Or he might become like the other rich idiots out there who took their wealth for granted.
He wanted to change the subject away from himself. He was not used to talking about himself—he never did. He was no one’s business but his own.
‘So,’ he said his voice changing as he helped himself to another sweet tomato. ‘What’s your skill, Arielle? Besides looking after this place and attempting to shoo ducks off the swimming pool?’ He let humour lighten his voice, as his eyes went to her questioningly. ‘With luck it might be a skill you could use to make enough money to buy this place back.’
She gave a rueful half-smile. ‘My skill isn’t one that yields much likelihood of riches,’ she told him.
‘What is it?’ Lycos asked.
‘Music. I studied it. Went to music college. But there is a huge number of good musicians out there and only a few make a living. Even fewer make a good living and almost none become virtuosos or stars! My mother always encouraged me though and my father was happy enough to pay for my studies. He gave me the piano in the parlour, so I have that to thank him for. Then…’ Arielle hesitated as a shadow moved over her face, ‘…after I’d graduated my mother became ill, so I came here to look after her. I stayed with her until she died. Then I stayed on, while I mourned her and then… Well, my father remarried four months later.’
She continued, ‘And because I loathed Naomi, and because she wanted only my obliteration and non-existence, I stayed here until my father died within a year of marrying Naomi and… Well, you know the rest. So, here I am. Until…’ she said withresignation, or maybe even acceptance he thought, ‘…you throw me out.’
She’d cleared her plate too and she got to her feet, packing away the dishes back on the tray. Lycos did not help her. He only watched her deft, quick movements. Thoughts were moving inside his head and he was not sure what to make of them. The heat of the day was palpable, even there shaded below the awning. All around, cicadas sang their constant chorus, while birdsong interrupted as if an occasional vocalist. The air was somnolent with fragrance from the honeysuckle winding over a nearby pergola and the lavender lining the stone walls. The heat radiated up from the stone paving of the terrace.
Arielle disappeared indoors with her laden tray. Lycos stretched out his legs, lounged back in his chair and let his gaze rest on the gardens beyond the terrace. His mood was strange. This whole place was strange. Alien to his life.
His life was nothing like this place. This time yesterday he’d been doing a tough workout in the gym at his hotel on the Côte d’Azur, knowing he was heading for the casino that evening to, as he had just told Arielle, keep his hand in. And at that moment, he should be checked into his hotel in Paris, where he should be meeting Marc Derenz ofBanc Derenzfor dinner at one of the city’s Michelin-starred restaurants. The next morning in his formal review being shown spreadsheets, graphs and forecasts, making decisions, moving money and investments around. Checking out an appropriate realtor to discuss the best price he could get for this latest acquisition. This remote, old-fashioned Provençalmasin the middle of nowhere, with its hens and a pair of over-indulged ducks, and its very own version of Cinderella with a wicked stepmother and decidedly ugly and brutish stepsibling…
And shall I be her Prince Charming?
Charming her into his bed…?
He felt the question take shape in his head. Wondering, considering, how to answer it. He wasn’t yet sure. But there was no rush, after all, to answer it. He wasn’t going anywhere for now. And that, he realised as he flexed his outstretched legs, recrossed his ankles and lounged back in his seat, felt strangely good…
Chapter Four
Arielle finished thewashing up and wondered what to do next. Her mind was still blank. A strange air of dissociation seemed to be possessing her. A kind of preternatural calm. Maybe it was some kind of aftershock. She stared blankly out of the kitchen window recalling her juddering reaction earlier when she’d been totally overwhelmed. She had very nearly gone into a complete breakdown, shaking and convulsing like that, terrifyingly out of control…
But he stopped it—pulled me back.
His blunt words came back to her—that her home had never been hers in the first place. Protest rose in her throat, then subsided. Bleakness filled her.
I have to face the truth. ThatMas Delphinewas never mine. So it was never mine to lose.
Pulling that self-protective sense of dissociation around her as best she could, she went out onto the terrace. There was no sign of the man. She could not see him anywhere in the gardens, nor by the pool when she walked past it. Yet his monstrous car was still there, parked in the shade of the old chestnut tree by the pond. Suddenly she could feel the oppressive heat and an immense sense of weariness overcoming her. Exhaustion of mind, body and spirit from the catastrophe that had broken over her like a pitiless tsunami that morning. She felt herself sink down onto one of the padded loungers, shaded by the house. She leant back on it shutting her eyes. She would rest. Just for a moment…
Lycos lifted his head from his pillow, for a second not knowing where he was. Then recall flooded through him. He was at themashe’d won from the boorish Gerald Maitland. He’d diverted off the road to Paris to take a look at it. He rose to his feet, feeling refreshed. He’d gone up to the bedroom as the effect of driving all night had caught up with him and had flaked out on the counterpane. He glanced at his watch. He must have slept for a good couple of hours and the light had changed in the dusky room. Crossing to the window he looked out over the garden and the view beyond. He’d made the decision to stay the night. But why?
There was nothing to keep him here. He’d seen the place, got the measure of it, knew what to instruct whatever realtor he engaged to sell it for him. So, there was no point in staying longer. He might as well return to his normal life.
And yet…
His gaze rested on the scene beyond. It really was lovely and very peaceful. Nothing was moving, other than a few hens who’d wandered into the garden and were pecking about in the vegetation, and the chorus of cicadas was soothing. The scent of honeysuckle and lavender wafted up to him, fragrant in the warm air. He flexed his shoulders. A swim would be good. If the ducks had no objection.
