The Flower Girls (20 page)

The door creaked open; looking up, she saw Seth step halfway into the room. He looked tanned and fit and casual. Wind-blown, his dark hair curling over his forehead. “I wasn’t certain if you’d gone.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye to people.” She smiled sadly.

“Do you need more time alone?”

Vigorously she shook her head. “Time on my own fills me with all kinds of unpleasant thoughts.” She briskly stood, raising a hand and pushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Was it all right… I don’t want to pry?”

“Pry away. It was fine. Stupid man.” She managed another rather weak smile. “What is it with these men? He has everything and yet he wants more.”

“I wouldn’t call being married to Caroline everything.”

“But he wanted to keep it together so it can’t be all that bad. Anyway, yet another little fly trapped in Jasmine’s web. She certainly gave a lot of people a motive for disliking her, but killing her…”

He finished saying what she couldn’t. “That was too much. No one deserves that.”

Crossing the room, she stood next to him, gazing up at him, meeting his gorgeous green eyes. She felt at once bold and in need of him and his closeness. The very scent of him drove into her senses.

“Hold me, Seth…hold me really tight.”

* * * *

They lay together. How had they worked their way up to his bedroom? Easy, passion helped heal the pain—it was a balm to the bruises left by Robert’s revelations.

It was wonderful too, being close to him, the feel of him, the scent of him, and the thrill of him deep inside her. She slid her tongue along his shoulder. He tasted a little of salt and she loved it.

“What was Jasmine doing?”

She had told him everything that Robert had said.

She told him how Jasmine had wanted her to come to England because she was afraid of him. That she needed her there but the reality was she
didn’t
. In a way, from what Robert had told her, Jasmine despised her sister.

After a while he said, “Your life was good. You had a job you loved, a nice apartment. Everything was going your way; nothing was going Jasmine’s way. Every move she made turned to disaster. Me, Robert…the football fellow and his drugs. And there you were, living a perfect life.”

“I couldn’t say it was perfect, but it was good. Yet nothing in my life would have made Jasmine happy. My work, my small apartment. No man in my life.”

“I suppose we’ll never really know. But Jasmine wasn’t afraid of me. If she had been she wouldn’t have gone gallivanting off at every opportunity. You do know that, don’t you? You do believe it?”

He stroked her cheek with his thumb.

“Of course I believe it. She played games with people, she told lies. The more I think about it the more I realize she must really have pissed someone off.”

“She did that to a lot of people. I think her murder was random. Wrong place, wrong time…but you’d think…”

“What would you think, Seth?”

“You’d think that the person who did that to Jasmine would carry on doing it. Or had done it before. That Jasmine wouldn’t have been murdered by someone so brutally who’d never done it, or would never do it again. I
do
know the police looked into that and came up empty-handed but it does make you think…”

She shivered. It might be that they would never know what happened to Jasmine. That her murder would never be solved. She would become a statistic. There would be no closure for anyone.

They lay together in silence. The late afternoon sun blazed in through the window. Her eyes closed and she slept, but not for very long. Waking with a start, she found she was alone.

Leaving the bed, she wrapped a sheet about her and tiptoed into the bathroom. There was a hint of steam so Seth had taken a shower. There was a fresh towel on the tallboy, she took it and went into the bathroom, stepping into the shower and closing the door.

The warm water cascaded over her body and reluctantly she washed away the scent of Seth Sanderson. When she had finished and turned off the tap, she leaned with her head against the tiles. Feelings of love overwhelmed her. Like a masochist she let the ache invade every part of her. Her throat burned with the intensity. She had been a fool to leave him.

“Poppy.” She heard him calling her. Hurriedly she wrapped the towel around her and stepped out of the shower. Seth was there, he had a tray and there were two glasses and a bottle of champagne.

“Blimey,” she exclaimed, pushing aside the melancholy. “Was I that good?”

He laughed, eased the top off the wine and poured a good measure in a glass. “Better than good,” he said. “Poppy…” He held out a glass, she tripped across the carpet and took it, he turned and poured some for himself. “A toast.”

“Really.” She twirled a little. “To what may I ask?”

“To the girl I love.”

Chapter 25

It was November and still there was warmth in the sun.

No wonder,
Poppy mused,
the rich move to the Mediterranean when they can.

It was idyllic. The sea hadn’t cooled—only that morning she’d swam in those very blue, still waters. There was barely a ripple on the surface, and when a breeze came it was from the south and warm to her skin.

So much had happened. How long was it since she’d arrived from the States? Just as spring arrived in England, now it was almost winter. She looked down at her hand; a diamond glinted back up at her. They would marry after Easter. Marrying right away would have been preferable but it was Poppy who was just a little afraid of people disapproving. Seth didn’t give a damn. Still, he’d suggested they come here and stay and marry here. She saw nothing against the plan.

Seth was working on a new novel and because he’d said how much he loved writing in longhand, she was typing it for him. It was a labor of love. She loved him, she loved his work.

The small, shabby villa suited them both. There was a wonderful relaxed atmosphere. There were no ghosts here; there was nothing to be afraid of. The guilt that had originally haunted her had gone in the wake of what Robert Donnington had told her. There was no reason to be guilty about any part of her life or her relationship with her sister’s widower. Yes, she still felt sad—and now and again horrified—by what had happened to her sister, but anything else had been laid to rest. Whatever Jasmine had been up to in luring her to Yorkshire, it had nothing to do with either Jasmine’s fear, or her wish to escape an overbearing husband; it had all to do with bringing destruction to Poppy’s comfortable existence, of that Poppy was now certain.

Yet if Jasmine hadn’t done that, she and Seth would never be together. Had Jasmine been killed then she would have come for the tragedy and the funeral but that was all. There would have been no time to get to know the man she now loved.

Warm days, cooler evenings when the scent of pine came from the wood-burning stove, and it cast scarlet flickering light across the pale walls. Curled up on the sofa, her head on his shoulder watching some film on the television. Her schoolgirl French enabling her to make a modicum of sense and he filled in the rest.

He told her about
his
mother as well, the jolly times they had when he’d visited her over the holidays. The difference between his life here in France and the one he led in the beautiful but austere Yorkshire house. His father and he had managed to forge a reasonable relationship but they’d never been that close. His father was cold, a far better partner, he’d often thought, of Caroline than her sister, but there you go—love and marriage sometimes turns out badly. The first flush of love perhaps an imitation of the real thing.

“I can see why my father attracted her. He was intellectual, very good-looking; perhaps like some women, she thought she could change him, make him lighter, but it never happened. In the end she just gave up. I never resented her for it.”

“I think she must have been really nice. Lots of children turn against the parent who walks away. That you didn’t just proves that.”

“I suppose so.” He twisted a lock of her hair around his finger. “My mother was fun and warm and this home of hers reflects that.”

“It certainly does.” She closed her eyes and sighed softly. “I’ve been so lucky in my life…” She didn’t want to shiver but just for a moment it was as if someone had walked over her grave. She moved deeper into him, hugging him, knowing that he could, with a word or a mere kiss, chase the shadows away.

“Whatever you have you’ve earned, Poppy. You worked hard, you were sensible…”

“Boring,” she suggested.

“No, never that. You took yourself off to a foreign country and made a go of it. I would never consider that boring. Everything that comes to you, you deserve. Never let anyone tell you differently.”

“Thank you…” She raised her head. “I love you, Seth.”

He planted a kiss on the very tip of your nose. “That makes me lucky too.”

Chapter 26

Poppy awoke to the pitter-patter of rain on the window. Turning on her side, she saw that Seth had left the bed. His side was cold. Sliding from the bed, she went to the window and opened the shutters. It was a light rain shower, and judging by the thin clouds in the sky it was unlikely to last all day.

After a quick shower she pulled on jeans and a loose sweatshirt, padded down stairs. The villa was silent. As she went from room to room calling Seth her voice just echoed back to her. There was a pot of coffee in the kitchen—touching it she felt it luke-warm. She switched it on then traveled speedily across the room to the front door. The car had gone.

Ah, he
has to have gone to town. It’s Wednesday, is that market day?

The market came on Saturday and one day in the week but she thought that Tuesday. Yes, definitely Tuesday.

Back in the kitchen she poured some of the heated coffee into a beaker and sat at the kitchen table. Odd, Seth always left her a note but there was nothing on the notice board. Still, perhaps he’d just dashed into town for something they were out of. Yawning, she stretched contentedly. Last night had been somehow special, their love-making reaching new heights, not that it was ever less than perfect. Smiling, she tucked her hair behind her ears and tried not to purr like a contented cat.

* * * *

Noon came—the rain trailed off and a weak sun peaked in the sky. There was a dreamy white mist around the chateau on the far-off hill. Becoming a little worried she went and lifted the telephone receiver, and found the phone was working. Searching for her mobile, she checked that, but there were no messages.

A trickle of fear began.

Has Seth had an accident? Why isn’t he here? Why hasn’t he phoned?

She tried to stem the panic that was building. It wasn’t like him. He was the most reliable person she’d ever met. If he were going anywhere he always phoned her, he never left her alone without leaving a note. Had some emergency pulled him away and driven everything, even
her
, from his mind? Was that possible?

As the afternoon wore on she wondered about taking a bicycle from the garage and cycling into town. But suppose he came back in the meantime? Yet if he’d gone to town there was only one road back here. That’s what she’d do, anything could have happened.

Poppy had just wheeled the bike from the garage when she heard a car pull up. She breathed a deep sigh of relief, pushed the bike back against the wall and dashed outside.

There was a car on the drive. It wasn’t Seth. It was two policemen.

Her heart plummeting, she pelted down the driveway. “Has something happened?”

The two policemen exchanged a glance and she realized she’d asked the question in English. Trying to stay calm, to bring forth the same question in French, she stared at them for a moment.

“Madam,” one of them said. “Is Monsieur Sanderson at home?” He spoke in English far superior to her French.

“No, I thought—I don’t know where he is—I thought you’d come to tell me something.”

The policeman’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, he is not at home?”

“I mean just that, he had to have gone out, early this morning. I haven’t seen him today; what’s going on?”

“We need to come inside.”

“Of course.”

Poppy led the way, anxiously turning around every now and again as if to check if they were behind her, but trying to gauge their mood. They however were giving nothing away. Their faces were expressionless.

Poppy led them into the sitting room. She hadn’t opened the shutters. Instead of doing so she switched on two lamps before turning to face them.

“You last saw—”

She interrupted. “Seth, Mr. Sanderson, last night. I woke up about eight-thirty but he’d gone…I haven’t seen him. He usually leaves me a note, but…” She shrugged. “There’s nothing.”

“You are?”

“Poppy Lord.”

The men exchanged glances. They didn’t say “ah” but she sensed they might have done.

“Please tell me what this is all about. I’m worried sick.”

“Yes,” the one with the good English said. “I am afraid we have an arrest warrant for Mr. Sanderson.”

“What? But for what?”

“A European arrest warrant. He is wanted back in England.”

“He is? But I don’t understand.”

“I am sorry, Madam, but Mr. Sanderson is wanted for a very serious crime.

* * * *

She didn’t believe it. Not after all this time. It couldn’t be true. She’d tried his mobile but it was dead. Something terrible had happened. It was one enormous mistake.

Trembling now, she dialed the house in Yorkshire. The phone there seemed to be ringing a long time and there was no one to answer. She was just about to put the receiver down when a voice she recognized as being Mrs. Carrington’s answered.

“Mrs. Carrington, it’s Poppy. Something terrible has happened, have you heard from Mr. Sanderson?”

“No.” The one word was sharp.

“The police have been here. They have this arrest warrant. I know it can’t be true.”

There was a long silence.