Page 7 of Dimistrios's Bought Mistress
‘But it isn’t your home, is it? It has never been.’ He looked at her consideringly. ‘On the other hand…’ he said, his manner still impassive and unconcerned, ‘…since all I’m going to do with it is sell it, because I’ve no use for it, I might be prepared to give you first refusal. If you can meet my price. Buy it back if you want. I’ve no objection.’
‘And I…’ she said tightly, ‘…have no money. All I have is the income from some money my father gave over to me when I turned eighteen, which allows me to live here frugally. But the capital isn’t nearly enough to buy themas.I told you, Naomi got everything when my father died.’
He let his eyes rest on her. ‘Parents let you down,’ he said. ‘Never rely on them.’ His voice had no expression. He gave a shrug and asked, ‘So, no money?’
‘Not nearly enough to buy back themas,’ she said.
‘What will you do when you leave here?’ he asked. As he did so, he wondered why he was asking. It was nothing to him.
‘Go back to England,’ she said.
‘To do what?’
It was her turn to shrug. ‘Get a job. Make a living. I don’t know.’
‘Well, before you leave, I’ll want a tour of the house and whatever grounds there are. I’ll want an inventory, too, of all the contents.’ He poured himself another coffee and demolished the last croissant.
‘Tell me, is there a pool? I haven’t seen one.’
‘It’s at the gable end, not visible from here or your bedroom,’ she answered. Her voice was hollow, as if she was doing her best to be disengaged.
‘Good,’ he nodded. ‘I could do with a swim later in the afternoon.’
He drained his coffee. ‘OK, let’s start the tour.’ He got to his feet. ‘You can clear away later.’
He watched her stand up. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t need to. It was all shown in her eyes—resentful, baleful, hostile.
And beautiful. Very, very beautiful…
He let his eyes rest on her. Her tee shirt did nothing for her except highlight the honeyed tan of her sun-kissed skin and herhair was now rigidly pulled back into some kind of tight knot on her head, but neither diminished her extraordinary beauty. A beauty she clearly did not flaunt and almost seemed oblivious to. She was completely different from the women he was used to. They were all chic, fashionable, immaculately groomed and keen to hang around wherever rich men gathered.
‘What do you want to see first? House or grounds?’ Her voice, interrupting his thoughts, was less hollow but still disengaged. As if feigning indifference. Or using it as protection… .
But he did not care to think about what was motivating her, only that the interruption was welcome to him. His thoughts about women, the kind of women he’d become used to, were out of place here. Here, the only perfume came from the profusion of scented flowers. Not from bottles that cost a hundred euros or more.
‘We’re outdoors. Let’s start here.’ He said looking towards her expectantly. This beautiful woman who so openly resented his presence here and the reason for it. But what did he care about her resentment, or anything else about her? What did he even care about her beauty? It had no relevance to him. His only interest was in his latest acquisition. Thismasin the middle of nowhere. He would inspect it, assess it and hand it over to the realtors to dispose of for the maximum profit.
‘As you can see…’ she started, unemotionally, this woman in whom he had no interest and who was only a source of currently useful information to him, ‘…the gardens are terraced. There are three levels leading down to the lavender fields. There’s a gate at the bottom, so you can access the fields.’
‘How many fields?’ he asked. ‘Do they come with themas?’
‘Just the two. Less than two hectares in all, but there is pasture land as well, and an olive grove and a citrus orchard. It’s all rented to a neighbour, but not for money. It’s done in return for keeping the trees pruned and so on. Payment is taken inproduce—olive oil, meat, milk and cheese, lemons and oranges. The lavender goes to a perfumery near Grasse. The land was once far more extensive, but my grandmother sold a lot to try and reduce the debt on the property.’
‘Why was there debt in the first place?’
‘Farming is always uncertain. My great-grandfather, he was of the war generation and times were even harder during the Occupation, tried to make money in other ventures. They failed, hence the debts.’
She started to walk along the paved terrace, towards the far end of the house.
‘This is where the pool is,’ she said. ‘My father had it installed.’
It wasn’t a large pool, but it looked inviting, glinting azure in the sun. Padded loungers were set out between the water and the gable end of the house. A pair of white ducks were swimming happily across the water. An exclamation broke from her. The tone of her voice, speaking French, entirely different now. Indignant but affectionate. The contrast between the coolness with which she addressed him and the warmth with which she addressed the ducks could not have been more marked.
‘Oh, Mathilde, Maurice! You know you should not swim here! You have your own pond! Shame on you!’
Lycos heard the clap of hands intended to shoo the ducks, who only quacked derisively in response and swam off defiantly in the opposite direction. A laugh broke from him, he couldn’t help it.
‘They know perfectly well they are not supposed to swim in the pool, but they just don’t listen!’ Arielle said indignantly, reverting to English. The animation in her voice was still audible.
