Why had Pierre requested his presence? This made no sense. The will was just a formality, a chance for Pierre to pay her the wages he owed her, wasn’t it?
Had Durand already bought the estate? Was that possible? Would she have to leave tonight? Or first thing in the morning? She’d thought she would have more time, a few days at least.
And why couldn’t she control the liquid pull tugging at the deepest reaches of her body? This was worse than seeing him from several yards away at the graveyard. Up close and personal, Maxim Durand was a force of nature, who seemed to have a control of her senses she could neither rationalise or deny.
She didn’t want to invite him into her home. Her sanctuary.
But as Marcel and Durand stood on the doorstep she knew she didn’t have a choice. The realisation made her feel like she had so many times as a child, being told she was going to be uprooted again and moved to a new family.
Powerless.
‘I... I see,’ she said, although she really didn’t see. ‘Please come in,’ she murmured, but her arm shook as she held the door open.
Durand’s shoes echoed on the farmhouse’s stone flooring as he walked past her, the scent of expensive sandalwood soap tinged with the distinctive salty scent of the man filling her senses.
She shifted away from him, feeling like Red Riding Hood being stalked by the wolf.
Without waiting for another invitation or any directions, Durand strode down the corridor towards the visitors’ salon at the back of the house where she had laid out a light meal for her and Marcel.
The shiver of distress, and unexplained heat, was joined by a spike of anger.
Durand didn’t own her home yet.
Given his height, he had to duck his head to get under the door lintel before entering the large airy room now suffused with the golden glow of full dusk. That he did it instinctively and seemed to know exactly where she would have laid out the wine and food she had prepared only rattled Cara more.
How did Durand know the house so well? Had he been here before? Pierre had certainly never mentioned that he had met his nemesis in all the conversations they’d had about his business rival.
Pierre had been obsessed with the man, but she’d always assumed that was simply because the Durand Corporation had been encroaching on the shrinking de la Mare estate for so long.
But now she wondered. Was Pierre’s dislike of this man, his enmity towards him, more personal? It was just one more reason to be wary.
Durand stood in the large room, somehow managing to make it look small, with his back to the butcher’s block table where she had arranged an array of cheeses, a fresh baguette and a platter of fruit. He stared out at the de la Mare vineyard, his legs wide and his arms crossed, making the seams of his shirt stretch over his shoulder blades. The rolled-up sleeves revealed the bulge of deeply tanned biceps. The sun had set half an hour ago, but there was enough light to see the gnarled roots of the ancient vines that were the de la Mare legacy.
Durand’s stance looked nonchalant, dominant, as if he were already surveying his own property, but tension vibrated through him too, almost as if he were a tiger waiting to pounce.
She covered an instinctive shudder by hastily lifting the carafe of wine she’d left breathing on the sideboard.
‘Pierre asked that I serve the Montramere Premier Cru tonight,’ she said, taking an additional glass from the sideboard.
But as she began to pour the wine Durand’s gruff voice intervened, the husky purr stroking her skin despite the brittle tone.
‘Don’t bother pouring me a glass. I prefer not to mix business with pleasure.’
If she’d been in any doubt the enmity between Pierre and Durand wasn’t personal, she wasn’t in doubt any more.
‘Very well, Monsieur Durand,’ she managed, pouring a glass for herself and Marcel. She lifted the wine to her lips, attempting to appear calm and unruffled by Durand’s surly presence. ‘To Pierre,’ she added. ‘And the de la Mare vines.’
Durand’s features remained schooled into a blank expression. But she noticed a muscle jump in his jaw when he dipped his head in acknowledgement then murmured, ‘Aux vignes, mais pas à l’homme.’
Perhaps he thought she didn’t understand him, but she got the gist of what he had said.
To t
he vines, but not the man.
‘To Pierre,’ the lawyer said, raising his glass without acknowledging Durand’s inflammatory comment. Either Marcel was trying to defuse the tension or he was deaf.
After sipping the excellent vintage, the lawyer sighed with appreciation. ‘Magnifique.’ He indicated the chairs at the table. ‘Let us sit,’ he said before taking a seat, ‘and enjoy the refreshments Madame de la Mare has provided while I outline the terms of Monsieur de la Mare’s will.’