Treasons of the Heart

by Charlotte Lamb

Genres: Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

LOVE

When Claudia and Ben first meet on the banks of the Seine, the attraction between them is powerful, instantaneous and mutual. For Claudia, life is looking up.


DANGER

But then Claudia's apartment is ransacked, and she herself threatened by a pair of sinister thugs. Fleeing in terror to her godfather's exquisite villa on the beautiful Cap d'Antibes, Claudia is followed there by Ben - and one of her attackers.


DEATH

Is Ben all he seems? Why is Claudia a target? As Claudia struggles to understand what is happening, she must also grapple with her own feelings. Because lover or deadly enemy, Ben has caught tight hold of her heart.

Release date: March 28, 2013

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 320

Sample

The moment she opened her front door Claudia Guyon knew a stranger had got into her apartment. She stiffened, turning icy cold.

It was midnight. There hadn’t been a soul in sight outside on the quay. The only sounds had been the familiar slap slap of the Seine between its banks, the rocking of moored boats, the whisper of spring leaves on the dappled plane trees, the muffled roar of traffic on the city boulevards.

Down by the river at this hour you could almost forget you were in the heart of Paris, except that the thick smell of petrol fumes drifted down from the roads and hung in the branches of the horse chestnut trees among the five-petalled leaves, their creamy, blotched flowers just coming out. Candles, French children called them. Les bougies, shining most brilliantly at night among the dark green leaves.

There had been a spate of burglaries in this arrondissement recently, but she hadn’t worried too much because she always took precautions. It was well-engrained habit to close the shutters and switch on the alarm before she left the apartment. In the three years she had lived alone here there had never been a burglary in her building; the security system was so good. But there was always a first time.

Maybe she should shut the door and ring the police? But would they come on such thin evidence? She was the sole occupant of this floor. If she screamed, nobody would hear her. In any case, if she was imagining things she would look ridiculous. Leaving the door open in case she had to get out again fast, she stepped out of her low-heel shoes and tiptoed, barefoot, into the corridor.

She leaned down to take a silver-headed walking stick from the umbrella stand by the front door. Her stomach screwed in tension, she gripped the heavy stick tightly and went to the open door of the sitting room.

She didn’t put on the electric light. Trying to breathe quietly she looked hurriedly around the room.

All the shutters were closed, but even so the light from the street lamps on the quay outside slid through the airholes in the aluminium, making it possible for her as her eyes adjusted to the darkness to see that there was nobody in the room.

That morning, as always, she had spent an hour on housework. This room had been spotless when she had finished; it still looked that way.

But her conviction that somebody was here – or had been not long ago – was stronger than ever.

She crept on to her bedroom. That was empty too, and just as immaculate.

It was easy to see at a glance that nothing had been taken or moved because she had furnished this room in a stark Japanese style – white curtains, white cotton rug on the varnished floorboards beside her low Japanese bed. There were no ornaments. Just an electronic radio/alarm clock on her bedside table, and a black Japanese lamp.

The built-in black wardrobe was still locked from outside; nobody could be in there.

The second bedroom was Hugh’s; his furniture was heavy, dark, nineteenth-century mahogany. He had a French boat bed, draped with a deep blue duvet, curtains of maroon velvet. The steel shutters over the windows were kept closed except when Claudia opened the windows for an hour each day to air the room.

Hugh hadn’t used it for months. He rarely came to Paris. No sign of intrusion there either.

The bathroom door was shut. Hadn’t she left it open? A nerve jumping in her throat, grasping the walking stick in her right hand, she turned the handle with her left, her fingers slippery with sweat. The handle slid from her grasp and the door swung open suddenly. She gasped, ready to run, but the mirror on the wall opposite reflected only what she would expect: the bathroom furnishings of the late seventies – aubergine bath, bidet, lavatory.

She looked at the kitchen last of all. It was tiny, no room for anyone to hide – not even a dwarf could have squeezed into the small refrigerator.

There was nobody in the flat at all. With a sigh of relief she closed the front door and bolted it, slid Hugh’s walking stick back into the brass umbrella stand, picked up her shoes and went back into the sitting room. After switching on the light she stared round it again: painted pine furniture, which she had stencilled with a few, carefully placed, purple birds among curling green tendrils, purple cotton. Taking a deep breath, she grimaced with distaste.

There might be nobody here now, but there was no doubt about it. Somebody had smoked in this room since she had left the flat that afternoon.

Claudia never smoked. She didn’t allow anyone else to smoke in her apartment, even at parties. She loathed the smell of cigarettes. Her mother, a chain-smoker, had died slowly of lung cancer.

The doctor had tried to persuade Madame Guyon to go into a hospice, but Claudia had begged her mother to stay at home for as long as possible, and had helped nurse her, although Hugh had hired a qualified nurse to oversee the medical side.

Her mother had been the only relative she had in the world. That long, slow death had been terrible for both of them. It had taken six, agonising months, and Claudia, then fifteen, could not forget watching her mother shrink until she was lighter than a child, all her ribs showing through the frail wall of her chest, fighting for breath as she tried to smile.

The smell of cigarette smoke had almost made Claudia throw up ever since, bringing back nightmare memories.

Because she had never smoked, she had an excellent sense of smell, which was essential in her job. That was why she was certain someone had smoked in here. Yet there was no sign of ash or cigarette ends.

What had someone been doing in here, if they had not come to steal? It didn’t make sense. Had he been disturbed? Had he only just broken in when she got back? Had he left in a hurry, empty handed?

How had he got in, anyway? There was no sign of a break-in; the door hadn’t been forced, the security alarms had been set, the shutters were all locked and barred as usual.

Hugh had a set of keys, of course. But Hugh did not smoke now, either, although he had, once. He had given up during those last months of Mama’s life.

Hugh had been her father’s best friend; they had once worked together on an American newspaper. After Papa had been killed in an African civil war he was covering, Hugh had given Mama and Claudia, his goddaughter, a home when the lease of their Paris apartment ran out soon afterwards.

Hugh was still a foreign correspondent for an English newspaper then; he had travelled a great deal and it had made sense for him to give Mama a job running his villa on the Cap d’Antibes. It meant he need not worry about the place when he was away for weeks. Even when he came back to France, he spent a lot of time in Paris.

He had given up his job on the newspaper when his first book was made into a film, but he still spent a lot of time in Paris, where he had many friends.

After her mother’s death, however, he had stayed at the villa all year round until Claudia had finished her training at the best cooking school in the south of France. It was Hugh who found her a job in Paris at one of the exclusive hotels close to the Place de la Concorde. Hugh had tried to persuade her to get a job in Cannes or Nice, but she wanted to be independent. He had done so much for her. She felt she should stand on her own two feet now, although her pride didn’t stop her accepting Hugh’s offer of this apartment at a very low rent.

Having no wife or children of his own, he treated her as his daughter, and she thought of him almost as a father, a very glamorous and exciting father. As a child she had worshipped him, kept a scrapbook of his newspaper articles as he flew around the world, risking his life in war-torn areas, dodging bullets and avoiding landmines in far-flung corners of the globe.

Since her mother’s death her love for Hugh had deepened; he was all the family she had. Neither of her parents had any relatives as far as she knew. Her grandparents were dead, her parents had been only children.

She knew Hugh better than anyone else in the world, and was certain that if he had been coming to town he would have let her know. He valued privacy for himself, he wouldn’t invade her space without warning.

The apartment block had been built in the seventeenth century. A seven-storeyed, narrow, terraced house on a Seine quayside. The developer had made major structural alterations to the interior, but had left the exterior alone. He had sold the resulting apartments for a huge profit. Hugh had bought the whole second floor, high up enough to have a marvellous view of the river without an exhausting climb. She loved living here, could spend an age staring out of the windows up and down river, especially at dawn when the filigree outlines of the famous Paris buildings in view seemed dreamlike. The Ile de la Cité, floating like a stone-walled boat on the grey water, leafy with trees in summer; the miraculuous buttresses of the medieval cathedral Notre Dame beyond that, with an echoing vista of other landmarks, bridges, towers, spires in the distance.

As the adrenaline of tension drained out of her, Claudia yawned, very tired now. It had been a hectic day. She had cooked a wedding reception lunch for fifty people, and then a buffet for three times that many during the evening dance which followed. It had really taxed her inventiveness. Coming up with two very different meals for so many people meant careful planning and hours of hard work in advance.

She turned off the lights and went to bed. She had another big job on tomorrow, she needed a good sleep. As she stripped, washed and put on a thin white cotton nightshirt to climb into bed, her eye fell on the metal gratings low down on the outer wall.

Perhaps someone in another flat had had a party tonight? The smell of smoke could have filtered down somehow through the grating, which were meant to help the ancient walls breathe.

Of course. That must be it. She fell asleep a few moments later.

It was hard to wake up again when her alarm went off at seven the next morning. Bleary-eyed she forced herself out of bed and staggered off to the kitchen. Before showering she put on the coffee, and drank a cup, black, strong, unsugared, in between dressing, but didn’t eat because she planned to grab a newly baked croissant at the market.

It was always cold in the food hall. The refrigeration kept the air chilly, especially first thing in the morning, even in spring. She put on jeans, a sunny, yellow lambswool sweater and comfortable flat shoes because she would be doing a lot of walking.

Her bronze hair was very short, naturally curly. In cooking you could not risk wearing your hair long. It got in the way in a kitchen, fell over your eyes, found its way into food. Very unhygienic.

Claudia preferred to wear her hair short anyway; it saved time, you just ran a comb through it now and then, no hassle.

At a quarter to eight she grabbed her wicker shopping basket. You couldn’t be late for the market or you might miss a bargain – rare, wild mushrooms from the woods at Versailles perhaps, home-made, crispy farm bread dotted with olives or sundried tomatoes, freshly caught baby squid, langoustines, Merguez sausage, or a mountain cheese flavoured with thyme, sage or oregano. She wandered the market like a child at Christmas, never knowing what she would find, wide-eyed and hopeful.

Her van was in a lock-up garage five minutes away. Dashing along the quay with her eyes on the soft-misted river she ran right into a photographer who stepped back into her path from setting up a tripod.

‘Merde!’ he grunted.

‘Look where you’re going!’

‘Désolé, didn’t hear you coming,’ he muttered.

She picked up a trace of an English accent which she recognised from listening to Hugh most of her life. Hugh had never quite lost his accent despite his almost perfect grasp of French. This man, too, spoke French fluently, and he certainly looked far more French than Hugh, but that accent was unmistakable.

The eyes watching her were black and had a smoulder like a banked-up fire. Temper! she thought. A typical Frenchman in a temper? How had he got that slight English accent?

‘Hallo!’ he said on a long breath.

‘Hallo to you,’ she replied, amused by the way he was staring at her.

Maybe he had lived in England for a long time? His hair was as black as his eyes, thick and wavy, long enough to reach almost to his shoulder. He had French skin, too, olive, but tanned gold. His high, winged cheekbones and wide mouth promised passion as well as temper.

When he smiled she distinctly felt her heartbeat quicken.

‘Could you help me out? I work for a London magazine.’

So she had been right! He did live in England.

‘I’m doing a photo session for an article and I want to get some shots of the river. But the Seine is old and grey and you’re young and beautiful. Will you stand here for a few seconds to give me a human focus?’

‘Do you always flatter people like that?’ she asked, laughing.

‘Only women.’ His sidelong glance had a teasing glint.

‘I think I guessed that! Look, sorry, love to, but I haven’t got time, I’m in a terrible hurry to get to the market.’

She wished she could hang around. When was the last time she had met a man this attractive?

‘Please,’ he coaxed softly. ‘It won’t take long, I promise.’ Then he smiled, and that smile changed his face as a shaft of sunlight alters a landscape.

He was the sexiest man she had ever seen; not merely good-looking and charming, but intensely male. She felt like Eve discovering Adam in the Garden of Eden.

She caught herself up. But what if it wasn’t Adam, just Lucifer. Didn’t they say that Lucifer was the most beautiful of the angels, the sons of the morning? An archangel, full of arrogance and ambition, challenging God Himself, and flung out of Heaven by Michael. She had been listening to Hugh most of her life; he had never quite lost his accent despite his almost perfect grasp of French. This man, too, spoke French. The faithful archangel: she had a strong feeling all that fitted this man.

But she couldn’t resist him. ‘Okay, but be quick. I really am in a hurry.’

‘Trust me,’ he said, stepping back to his camera.

Trust you? she thought. Every guy she had been out with had taught her not to trust. Twice she had thought she was in love, and twice she had been hurt. Wise women did not trust easily.

As he contemplated her through the lens, little needles of awareness pricked along her spine. This man made her feel intensely, dangerously conscious of being a woman.

‘Could you put one foot forward, as if you’re running?’

She obeyed, very self-conscious.

‘Relax. Enjoy it. Look, swing the arm holding the basket – oh, yes, that’s perfect. Look happy – no, don’t smile, just look radiant.’

‘How do I do that?’ She was amused, though, her face lighting up.

‘Wonderful. Hold that expression, don’t so much as breathe.’

He focused on her, clicked rapidly. ‘Could you half turn to look at the river? Great.’ He took some more pictures. ‘Now look up at the sky. Oh, yes.’

The sun broke through the mist and dazzled her eyes. It might be a fine day today, after all.

The photographer straightened. ‘That’s it. Thanks, you really made those pictures. What’s your name and address? I’ll send you some prints.’

‘Never mind,’ she said, grinning, and ran. As he was English he would be going back to London, so where was the point in hoping to see him again?

He shouted after her, but she didn’t stop or look round. She had to get to the market before the good stuff went. Early birds caught worms. Later ones just got squashed cabbage leaves.

When she got back to her flat an hour and a half later, he had gone as she expected. The quayside was full of men fishing.

One of them turned to look at her, then bent to take a mobile phone out of the hessian bag beside him. He was a thin, cold-eyed man with a mole just beneath his left eye which gave him a sinister look.

Now that it was too late she wished she had given the photographer her name and address. But what was the point? He probably wouldn’t have got in touch, he would forget about her. She would never see him again.

The post was always here by this time; she unlocked her mailbox down in the hall. Some invoices from suppliers, a few paid bills from clients, some enquiries – the usual mixture.

One of the letters was for Hugh; the envelope bore the logo of the Hôtel Crillon, she noticed.

No stamp on it – it must have been delivered by hand. She must remember to put a stamp on it and forward it to Hugh.

She walked up the stairs. Just before she turned the corner to take the last steps to her landing she heard a click which was oddly familiar, then the faint echo of feet hurrying. There was nobody else on the stairs though, so it must have been somebody from an upper floor.

As she shut her front door behind her it suddenly dawned on her that the click she had heard had been the sound of her own front door closing.

She stiffened. Somebody had been in here again. She could smell cigarette smoke. What the hell was going on? Was she going out of her mind, was all this just a hallucination?

She hurried into the kitchen, dumped her bags, then went through the rooms. As before, nothing seemed to have been touched.

She glanced in at Hugh’s bedroom and turned away, then stopped and swung back, a cold shiver running through her. There was a sprinkling of grey ash on the floor.

She leaned on the wall, staring at it. So she hadn’t been imagining things. Someone had been in the apartment.

The click she had heard must have been somebody hurriedly leaving. He hadn’t passed her, so he must have gone upstairs. Was it someone who lived here?

She thought of the other tenants, but couldn’t believe any of them were burglars. They were all too wealthy. To live here you had to have money. The only reason she could afford the apartment was because Hugh made it possible. She had nothing worth stealing, anyway.

Looking around Hugh’s room she saw that a drawer in the Edwardian bureau was slightly out of line with the others. Claudia pulled it open. The contents, mostly letters, had been disturbed. Whoever had been in here had looked through them, then thrust them back in a hurry.

Her return must have surprised him at his work. But how had he known she was coming back before she even got up to this floor?

Obviously somebody must have been watching outside; must have given a warning. But who?

There had been those men fishing on the quayside. One of them had turned to look at her, then bent to get a mobile phone out of his bag.

She ran to the window to look down at the quay. There were still fishermen down there, but the thin man with the mole beside his eye had gone.

Had he given a warning to the man in her apartment that she was coming back? But how would he have known she lived here? She had never seen him before.

A shiver ran down her back. Had he been watching her? She had heard of apartments being targeted by gangs who find out when a tenant is likely to be out for a long time, come with a removal van, and take everything worth taking, at their leisure. She had nothing worth taking, but other apartments here were full of antiques and jewellery.

What if these men were planning to rob others in this building?

She rushed to the phone and rang the police, was put through to the emergency number.

Her voice breathless, she told the woman operator what had happened.

‘Was anything taken?’

‘No, but I know somebody has been here because there was ash on the floor.’

A pause, then the operator politely asked her, ‘Ash on the floor? What sort of ash?’

‘Cigarette ash. And I don’t smoke, don’t you see? I don’t allow anyone else to smoke in my apartment, either.’

‘Do you live there alone, M’mselle?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you have a boyfriend?’

Claudia crisply said, ‘No.’

‘But you do have friends who smoke?’

‘Not in my apartment.’

‘Had the front door been forced?’

‘No.’

‘The windows?’

‘Locked and shuttered. There’s no sign of damage anywhere. I have no idea how they got in, but I know somebody has been here. I thought maybe a gang were planning to rob all the apartments. Some of the other tenants are very rich.’

‘Have any of them noticed ash on the floor?’

Claudia went red. The woman was laughing at her.

‘Are you going to send someone?’ she asked angrily.

‘I’ll log this call, M’mselle. You will get a visit from the police, but we are rather busy today. Now, will you please ring off? This line is for serious emergency calls only.’

Claudia hung up with a crash.

Her mind seething, she went to the kitchen, put on coffee, unpacked her bags with shaky hands. Stupid woman. She’d be sorry if other apartments here were burgled because she had refused to listen to a warning.

When she had calmed down later, she reluctantly admitted that she could see why the police operator hadn’t taken her seriously. Nothing had been stolen. There were no signs of a forced entry, indeed they had gone to great lengths to leave no evidence of their presence here.

These were no ordinary burglars.

Hugh! she suddenly thought. Why hadn’t that occurred to her before? He was rich, famous – he was still the owner of this apartment. What if the burglars thought he lived here? He had always been secretive, a taciturn man, never talkative, never answering questions, never volunteering anything about his past.

The press were always curious about that. Why did an Englishman live in France and never go home to England, even on a fleeting visit? Why did he refuse to talk about his family? He had never told her anything about them, she had no idea if he even had living relatives.

If the burglars had been in this apartment for some reason connected with Hugh, what had they been looking for? And would they be back if they hadn’t found it?

She went back to the phone to ring Hugh, but nobody answered. Normally if he was going out, he left the answering machine on, but not today. She would have to try again later. She had a lot to do, she had to start work.

She was cooking dinner tonight for Rex Valery, one of France’s favourite actors, and a dozen guests, in his ultra chic apartment in a futuristic block in the shadow of the Tour Montparnasse, which could be seen from almost any part of Paris, like a giant brown cigar looming over the city.

She enjoyed cooking for Rex. He was mad about food, yet he was very thin because he ate a mere morsel of each course. Most of his guests were the same, dieting eternally, but Rex mischievously encouraged her to offer rich food at his parties; a form of self-inflicted masochism for him and torment for his friends. Rex had a corkscrew personality; both kind and spiteful, sympathetic yet childishly c. . .