CHAPTER ONE
CARA EVANS STOOD at the graveside, listening to the priest drone on in French, and stared at the miles of vines owned by the neighbouring Durand Corporation covering the adjacent hillside like a patchwork.
She didn’t understand all the words in the eulogy; her French wasn’t fluent. But still she felt sad, and stunned, at the loss of her employer, Pierre de la Mare, the owner of the small vineyard on which they stood.
Not just her employer, her husband, she corrected herself.
Although it felt ridiculous to call Pierre that. He had been old enough to be her grandfather, she’d only been married to him for three days...and now she was his widow.
‘Marry me, Cara. Take pity on an old man who does not wish to die alone.’
She could feel the eyes of the tiny group of Pierre’s friends and associates who had arrived for the burial staring at her as she watched the sun dip towards the crest of the hill.
And could hear what they were thinking.
Gold-digger. Opportunist. Whore.
But she refused to feel guilty about accepting Pierre’s proposal. Pierre had told her the vineyard would have to be sold. All she stood to gain from their brief marriage was a small legacy from his will to cover the wages he had been unable to pay her for months.
Towards the end she’d been more like a carer than a housekeeper. She’d bathed Pierre, fed him, helped him dress, wheeled him into the fields he loved each morning so he could watch the vines ripen and had endless conversations each evening about everything from Simone Signoret—his favourite French movie star—to the latest news of Maxim Durand, the billionaire vintner who owned all the land surrounding Pierre’s much smaller vineyard. And who Pierre said had been trying to put him out of business for years.
She had never just been Pierre’s employee. She’d been his companion and eventually his friend. Theirs had never been a sexual relationship, although she’d be damned if she’d humiliate Pierre by letting anyone know that. They’d struck a deal: if she married him he would be able to pay her the wages he owed her after his death, and she needed that money to help her settle somewhere new.
The pang of loss and anxiety tightened around her chest. She would miss Pierre but, more than that, she would miss La Maison de la Lune because the house had become her home.
She’d been living at the ramshackle old farmhouse for eleven months, scrubbing the stone floors until they gleamed, dusting the worn furniture, learning how to work the te
mperamental washing machine, planting a vegetable patch to save money on their food bill.
She’d never stayed anywhere this long, never felt so settled and secure, and it hurt more than it ever had before to know she would be forced to move on soon.
She sighed. She ought to be used to it by now. So why did it feel harder this time? Was it just because she was getting older? She’d turned twenty-one two weeks ago. One thing was for sure, La Maison de la Lune held a special place in heart.
She squinted into the setting sun as a large black SUV appeared on the far ridge. A cloud of dust rose in its wake as it bounced over the rutted track towards the family cemetery on the edge of the de la Mare property.
Probably another of Pierre’s casual acquaintances come to judge her.
But then she noted the Durand logo on the side of the Jeep as the vehicle stopped and a man got out.