‘I don’t wish to sit,’ Durand announced, ‘or eat. I wish to get this over with.’
The lawyer nodded and opened his briefcase, drawing out a laptop.
Cara sat opposite Marcel, determined to ignore Durand.
Clearly she wasn’t to be afforded any respect as Pierre’s widow. Or even as the host for this evening’s meeting. But she could agree on one thing with Durand.
She wanted this over with now too, as quickly as possible, so she could get this man and his disturbing effect on her out of her home. She had never felt this unsettled, this disorientated and yet oddly exhilarated in the presence of any man. And she didn’t like it. Why couldn’t she control her elemental response to Durand, especially given his apparent contempt for her?
Marcel took several painfully long minutes tapping on the keyboard of his laptop and retrieving documents from his briefcase while Durand continued to stand on the opposite side of the room, his presence like a shadow—crowding out all her memories of Pierre.
Cara downed a huge gulp of the fragrant Pinot Noir as she waited, not caring that she wasn’t fully appreciating the delicious notes of clove and smoke and white pepper in the exceptional vintage. Right now, all she wanted to do was forget about Durand and the strange sensations he aroused. And find out if Pierre had left her enough to stay solvent over the next month while looking for a new job.
‘To avoid too much legal language I shall summarise the main portion of the will,’ Marcel said, passing a copy of the document across the table to her and another towards Durand, who didn’t approach but left it on the table.
‘Monsieur de la Mare has left the property known as La Maison de la Lune and the surrounding vineyards of the de la Mare estate to his widow. Unfortunately, as the estate has considerable debts he understood she would have to sell part or all of the property. He was happy for her to do so, but has added a clause: Madame de la Mare must not sell any part of the estate to Maxim Durand, the Durand Corporation, any of its subsidiaries or any shell companies in which Maxim Durand or the Durand Corporation has an interest or she will forfeit this inheritance.’
‘C’est pas vrai!’ Durand shouted, startling Cara, who was still struggling to get to grips with the news.
The bubble of hope expanding in her chest at the prospect of owning La Maison burst at his furious reaction.
Why had Pierre done this? As much as she loved the vineyard, if Pierre had wanted the de la Mare legacy to continue the only answer was to sell the vines to Durand. For all his sharp business practices, the man was known as an excellent vintner. And no other reputable vintner would buy the land if it meant defying Durand.
A stream of French swear words followed as Durand stalked across the room. The leash on Durand’s temper was off now, if it had ever been on.
‘This is nonsense,’ he said, switching to English for her benefit. ‘He cannot prevent me from buying the vines; I have waited long enough for them. And anyway, who the hell is she?’ He glared at Cara. ‘She knows nothing of viniculture.’
Cara flinched—something about Durand’s fury and the anger in his eyes felt so personal.
This wasn’t about the vines. How could it be? Just as she had suspected at the graveyard, when Durand had appeared so unexpectedly. And when he’d turned up this evening at Pierre’s request. There was something between Durand and Pierre. Something that went way beyond the business of winemaking.
Oh, Pierre, is this why you insisted on marriage? Not to help me, but to defy Durand?
Her stomach turned over. Had Pierre used her? Surely he must have known his bequest would put her in the firing line of Durand’s wrath.
‘I don’t... I don’t understand,’ she said, feeling betrayed. Pierre knew enough about her childhood and adolescence to know how much she hated conflict. ‘Why would Pierre do this?’
‘I cannot tell you, Madame de la Mare,’ Marcel murmured, eyeing Durand with caution. ‘I advised against this course, but Pierre was insistent. He did not explain to me his motives but I believe it was important to him you be allowed to remain at La Maison de la Lune. And that you take ownership of the vines.’
‘She can’t have the vines,’ Durand announced, the cursing having stopped to be replaced by steely anger. ‘The vines are mine; they belong to me, not to some English salope who has been here only a few months.’
Cara shot out of her chair at the derisive comment. She clenched her fists, determined to face him down, not caring that he was bigger and angrier and a lot more intimidating than she was. Just because he was rich and powerful, and owned every acre of land surrounding the de la Mare estate for as far as the eye could see, didn’t mean he could insult her.
‘The vines are not yours, Mr Durand,’ she said with as much dignity as she could muster while her hands were shaking and her whole body was far too aware of his nearness. His strength. ‘And apparently they never will be,’ she said, ruthlessly quashing the ripple of guilt. And confusion.
She didn’t deserve this legacy.
She had been friends with Pierre, but she had only known him for a year; she wasn’t his family and they hadn’t been husband and wife. Not in any real sense of the word. She could see with complete clarity now, Pierre had used her as a pawn in his fight with Durand. How could he have had her best interests at heart if he had always intended to set her up against a man with Durand’s power and influence? By leaving her the vines and stopping her from selling to Durand he was setting her up to fail, setting up the vineyard to fail. However sick he had been, he had never been stupid.
Had Pierre hated Durand more than he had loved the vines? Perhaps.
One thing was certain, though—he had hated Durand more than he had cared for her. And that hurt, more than she wanted to admit.
‘What do you know about the de la Mare vines?’ Durand asked, his handsome face ripe with contempt. ‘About how to nurture and care for them? Or how to get the best out of them?’ His gaze raked over her figure, the heat in his eyes so contemptuous it burned. ‘You know nothing,’ he replied, answering his own question. ‘And yet you think you can take what is mine because you opened your legs for that bastard, comme une pute?’
Like a whore.
‘Monsieur Durand! There is no call for such language,’ the lawyer said.