PROLOGUE
Belle
THE RIVIERA SUN blazed down as I stared into my best friend Remy Galanti’s grave, but the sunshine did nothing to thaw the chill which had seeped into my bones over a week ago—ever since Remy’s car had ploughed through the crash barrier at the Galanti test track in Nice and burst into flames. The horror of those moments played through my mind again, in agonising slow motion, but the tears wedged in my throat refused to fall.
I hadn’t cried—for Remy, for myself, for his older brother, Alexi—because I couldn’t. My body, like my mind, was numb.
The priest’s voice droned on in French as I glanced across the grave to where Alexi stood.
He wore a dark linen suit and was surrounded by the local dignitaries and a host of celebrities and VIPs who had come out in force to show their respect to Monaco’s—and motor racing’s—foremost family at the loss of their second son. But as always Alexi looked utterly alone, his head bent and his stance rigid. A muscle in his jaw clenched and his dark hair was dishevelled, as if he had run his fingers through it a thousand times since the day we’d both watched Remy die.
His eyes, though, like mine, were dry.
Did he feel numb, the way I did? Destroyed by the loss of someone who had meant so much to us both? Remy had been my best friend ever since I had come to live in the Galanti mansion on the Côte d’Azur as a ten-year-old, when my mother had taken the job as the new housekeeper after Remy and Alexi’s mother had run off to join one of her lovers.
I felt as if a part of my soul had been ripped out. But Alexi had lost a brother—the only person he had ever been close to after their mother’s disappearance. Surely he had to be in as much distress as me, if not more?
But he didn’t look numb as he glanced at the priest, his beautiful blue eyes sparking with impatience and contempt, he looked angry.
Not angry, furious.
Heat prickled over my skin, inappropriate but undeniable as the memories from a week ago played through my mind. The night before Remy’s death the night when I’d thought every one of my dreams had come true—the night I had gone to Alexi and made love to him for the first time. I remembered the scent of salt and sweat and chlorine, the giddy rush of emotion, the glorious sensation of spending a few minutes in Alexi’s strong arms and discovering what sex was all about.
Terrifyingly intimate but also fabulously exciting.
The brutal humiliation clutched at my heart as I stared at Alexi across the grave. He hadn’t spoken to me since that night. I had tried to see him but he’d always been busy. Guilt pinched my ribs to go with the inappropriate heat that he always inspired in me, even at Remy’s
funeral.
Remy had always been there for me and now I wanted to be there for Alexi. I knew that was what Remy would have wanted. But still I felt guilty because I knew it wasn’t just Remy’s wishes I wanted to fulfil. But then Remy’s final words to me replayed in my mind as the priest finished his graveside eulogy, the last of the words floating away on the gentle breeze scented with sea air and bougainvillea.
‘My brother needs you, bellissima. Alexi is lonely. He always has been. Just make me a promise, bellissima. Don’t let him push you away. Okay?’
The promise I had made to Remy rang in my head now as I watched Alexi pick up a fistful of dirt from the graveside and throw it onto the casket—his movements were stiff and lethargic, as if he had a weight on his shoulders he was struggling to bear. He looked so, so alone in that moment.
As the other mourners—many of whom had barely known Remy—lined up to drop dirt on the coffin, Alexi turned and walked towards the line of waiting limousines, ignoring the people offering their condolences.
Sending up a silent prayer for Remy as I glanced one last time at his coffin, I left the graveside and followed Alexi’s retreating figure to the road out of the clifftop graveyard. For the first time since Remy’s death the fog of shock and grief, the numbness, began to lift, the urgency allowing the adrenaline, the determination, to force the coldness out.
Breathless, I cried out as I saw him reach the lead car. ‘Alexi, wait, please. Can we talk?’
He paused and turned, but his stance remained rigid. And, as I looked into them, his eyes were like shards of ice.
‘Belle, what do you want?’ The impatience shocked me, but not as much as the strident tone.