The Last Summer of Being Single Page 5

  Warm sunlight slanted in, startlingly bright and welcoming, then blinding him with the brilliance of a summer sunrise as he pushed open the shutters.

  In an instant his old boyhood bedroom was transformed in that unique quality of light in the Languedoc that reflected back from the tall ivory-painted walls.

  The honey-coloured armoire, which had seemed so bizarre and antiquated the previous evening, now looked perfect set against the pastel colour scheme that had been chosen for the textiles in the room.

  He ran his forefinger along the faded floral stencils of leaves and pale pink flowers and wondered what gentle hand had worked the design with such care and detail.

  One thing was for sure.

  This furniture and this decor had certainly not been here eighteen years ago. Back then this house had been clean, comfortable, and a home. Now he felt as though he had just spent the night in some theatre set for a typical French country house.

  All the pictures were perfectly parallel to the floor and every square centimetre of exposed wood had been sanded and waxed to create one uniform sheen. Imperfections were clearly not allowed. But it was beautiful. Stylish and what you would expect to find in this part of France.

  For a hotel room.

  Pushing harder on the shutters, he leant forward onto the stone window sill and looked out across the garden at the back of the house. Some things had not changed.

  And his senses reeled at the sensory overload.

  The early morning sun shimmered hot above the terracotta roof tiles, distorting the cobalt blue of the sky with ripples and waves of colour. Any cloud had already been burnt away to leave a pristine expanse of unbroken clear sky.

  He breathed in the air, fragrant and clean. Somewhere in the distance dogs were barking and he could just about detect the rumble of traffic on the nearby road he had driven down the previous evening, but apart from that there was only birdsong.

  And the sound of a woman’s voice singing somewhere in the garden below.

  It was such a sweet sound that at first he thought it must be a radio station or recording, but as he listened the song was broken up by snatches of humming and a gentle sniff followed by a strange sequence of made-up words and tunes.

  The sound was so intriguing, bizarre and interesting that he could not help but smile just hearing it. It was somehow—joyous. As though the owner wanted to express out loud her love of life and living and music.

  And that spirit and energy was so contagious there should be a health warning!

  The vague headache that had been nagging him for days seemed to lift away as he listened and he could feel his shoulders unclench.

  Suddenly he didn’t want to stand inside and look out at the warmth and the sunshine. He wanted to experience it for himself. He wanted to immerse himself in this place he used to know so well for a few more moments before he headed back to the city and the luxury of a five-star hotel conference room.

  Getting dressed could wait. His normal urge to turn on his laptop and log onto his international Wi-Fi connection. Could wait. Well, for now anyway. He would be back on the road in an hour.

  It took only a few minutes for Seb to skip down the stone stairs, draw open the wide front door and stroll out barefoot onto the golden sandstone paving that curved around the side wall of the house to the part of the patio that was bathed in sunlight.

  Seb’s brain tried to assimilate the intensity of the colours he was looking at. And failed.

  Lavender bushes lined the paths and exploded in long swathes in huge clipped hedges, mixed with what looked like pale blue bellflowers and pink peonies in full bloom. Rambling roses covered the stone wall above glossy dark green leaves.

  Dominating the garden was the old pollarded plane tree that had been planted when the house was built. Large flat leaves provided perfect dappled shade over the patio area outside the kitchen door all summer.

  Birdsong filled the air. Mixed with the lapping of water on stones from the nearby river. Otherwise there was only the hum of bees on the flowers.

  It was so quiet it felt as though he were the only human being for miles.

  Perhaps he had imagined that musical voice and was still half dreaming after all?

  The warm breeze was fragrant with the scent of flowers and herbs. And something else—a scent that was unique to this special garden. Rich and sweet and spicy. Like cinnamon apples, only sweeter.

  One sniff of that scent and he was taken back to his life in this house. Dozens of white rose blossoms cascaded out of the urns and trailed in profusion up into a white-painted trellis on the wall of the house where the rose branches were intertwined with sweet white jasmine to create a heady aroma.

  Musk rose and jasmine. It was wonderful. Magical. His mother would have loved it.

  A bristle of discomfort shivered across his back.

  Helene Castellano was the only mother that he had ever known. The fact that she might not be his birth mother did not change the close bond that they had shared. He was so proud of her and everything she represented.

  Except that, as he looked around this garden, the thoughts and concerns he had pushed to the back of his mind since he had found out that his dad was not his father started to slip through gaps in the barriers he had put in place. Each fresh memory of his life in this house rose like a bubble to the surface, bringing with it fresh concerns.

  Seb sucked in a deep breath of the fragrant warm air.

  Despite his best intentions, he was still infuriated with his dad for refusing to discuss the matter of his parentage with him. And he simply did not understand why he did not want to tell him the truth. It was illogical. They were adults and it had all happened thirty years ago.

  He could at the very least have told him whether he had another father, or whether he had been adopted! He would not have judged his mother any differently if she had a previous relationship before marrying Luc Castellano six months before he was born. Everyone made mistakes in life. And she had been a wonderful mother to him.

  What if he had been adopted? Perhaps there was a family out there looking for him? He did not need one, but it was something to consider.

  Unless of course there was something about his real parents that his dad did not want him to know. Something that could be damaging to him, and possibly even his career? That was possible—but if anything it made his need to find out the truth even more pressing.

  Perhaps their hasty emigration to Australia had been because of his real father?

  He had so many questions and so few answers.

  Seb closed his eyes and fought to calm his racing mind.

  This was not what he was here for. That was in the past. He would persuade his dad to tell him when he got back to Sydney. Perhaps he could take some photos of the place before he left? Just to remind his dad of their happy family life in this house? It could be just the extra ammunition he needed to help change his mind.

  This was probably why Seb stepped out from under the shade of the patio onto the hot stone and pressed his bare toes onto the warmth beneath his feet.

  The heat seemed to radiate upwards like energy from the earth until it reached his head and he leant backwards to take in the maximum amount of the glorious warmth on his head and throat.

  The balmy breeze caressed his face, shoulders and exposed lower arms.

  With one breath he closed his eyes and wallowed in the moment.

  Serene. Tranquil. Warm. Heaven. He could stay like this for ever. Arms outstretched.

  He was instantly transported back to another time in this very garden and his life as a boy. Memories flooded into his head. Memories he had not even thought about for many years, memories buried deep down inside his private life, which the paparazzi would never know about or expose to the public world.

  Memories of gentle hands and kind adult voices saying how sorry they were, and how much they would miss her. His grandmother in black. Friends and neighbours, school pals.

  His mother had died
in her favourite month of the year. And that was more than sad. She would have enjoyed this garden.

  His reverie was broken by a snuffling noise coming from the direction of the kitchen to his right, followed by the unmistakeable sound of the same woman’s voice, humming along to an old show tune.

  Seb slowly opened his eyes, dropped his arms in alarm like a teenager caught with his hands in the cookie jar, and whipped around to check that nobody had seen him so exposed. His neck flared red with embarrassment at the thought that Ella Martinez and her son were probably both awake and sniggering at him through the bedroom curtains!

  He had already embarrassed himself enough talking to Dan about his dad without adding to the humiliation.

  Of course there had been no way of knowing that Dan’s father had passed away, but it was still an awkward moment and he felt for the boy and his mother. He knew what it was like to lose a parent and Dan was so young. That was tough.

  As it was he had barely spent more than an hour with Ella and Dan the previous evening before excusing himself to a couple of intense hours spent in the company of his laptop, a two-day backlog of emails and a delicious meal Ella had delivered to his room on a tray.

  This probably explained his grumbling stomach in need of breakfast.

  Time to find the source of the singing! And something quick to eat so that he could get packed and back to civilisation—and away from these unsettling memories.

  By following the sweet voice Seb strolled slowly around the patio, his bare feet finding an occasional piece of loose gravel, but it was worth it.

  Ella Martinez was standing just inside the kitchen door, whisking something in a large ceramic bowl. She was dancing and jiggling her head from side to side. A telltale pair of white headset wires trailed down to the pocket of her pink pyjamas.

  Her right arm was beating in tune with the song she was humming, which sounded as if it should be from a classical musical, but he could not place it.

  Her hips and shoulders twisted and turned and as he watched she lifted a wooden spoon and conducted a virtual orchestra on the other side of the kitchen window, so caught up in her world that he felt guilty at the very thought of intruding.

  The sunlight was on one side of Ella’s face, flashing the copper and gold highlights in her long brown hair that fell about her shoulders. She looked rapturous and as innocent as the day.

  It was a moment and a view he knew would stay with him. No photograph could have captured it. The smell of the flowers early in the morning, the tang of the pine trees, the sound of songbirds in the trees.

  And a pretty brunette dancing in a country kitchen.

  It was all combined into one magical moment in time.

  A familiar heat welled inside him, and despite his best intentions Seb wondered how a grown woman old enough to have a little boy like Dan could look so sexy and desirable in pyjamas with pink rabbits on them.

  She was so totally different from the kind of woman he normally was attracted to, but somehow, in this house and this garden, she was perfect.

  He envied her total sense of relaxed serenity and the calm lifestyle that came from living in a country farmhouse. Her day might be spent within the small world of this house and garden but he could think of worse places to live.

  It was not Sydney. It couldn’t be. His apartment was within walking distance of world-class restaurants and entertainment. But calm? No.

  One more reason for him to get back to his own world as soon as he could. No doubt about it. This place was seriously unsettling, even if he did enjoy the view.

  Ella was humming as she moved between a long pine kitchen table and the granite worktop of a very modern-looking professional-standard kitchen.

  Ella Martinez was not just pretty. She was unspoilt, unsophisticated and completely charming. And disarming. Part of him wanted to know more about the woman behind the façade of mother and housekeeper.

  Which unsettled him even more.

  Perhaps it was this house that was the cause of such thinking?

  And yet…the attraction was there.

  He should ask her if she had heard anything from Nicole. Keep it formal and fast.

  Then he remembered that he was in boxers and a T-shirt. Unshaven and in need of a shower. Perhaps not his best look. Time to make a discreet retreat back to his room to get changed.

  Too late. Just as he turned Milou snuffled his way across the patio from the direction of the barn and the woods, saw him, stopped dead, ears up, then hurled itself in Seb’s direction, tail wagging. And started barking furiously.

  Seb groaned and the dog jumped up onto his scanty clothing trying to make purchase on thin cloth not designed for dog claws but this time he managed to stay on his feet by sitting on the edge of the patio table. Oh, no, not again. And ouch.

  Instantly he heard a low whistle and looked up as Ella strolled out of the kitchen, her wooden spatula dripping in one hand. Milou leapt towards his food bowl, leaving Seb to try and salvage his dignity and modesty with a bright, ‘Good morning, Mrs Martinez.’

  Exposed.

  Ella wondered how long he had been watching her.

  A flush of the heat of embarrassment flared at Ella’s neck under the hairline and she shook it off. It was done now.

  And it might have been worse. Some days she only wore the T-shirt! Nicole usually brought a female friend to stay or a gentleman guest who made himself scarce in the most discreet way.

  And Sebastien Castellano was going to be here for a few days!

  With a bit of luck his early-morning wander around the garden was the exception rather than the rule.

  She loved her music and this short time before Dan woke was so precious, she claimed it for herself. For an hour or so each morning she could indulge in her passion for her music without waking Dan by playing the piano in the salon or singing too loudly.

  Ella swallowed down her embarrassment, lifted her chin and smiled politely as though she were greeting a garden-party guest and waved at him as graciously as she could with her wooden spoon, especially considering that they were both in their nightwear.

  ‘Good morning to you. And it’s Ella, remember?’ she replied. ‘I hope that you slept well. It’s a lovely morning.’

  The smell of warm earth, the garden flowers and a salty citrus tang of man sweat and whatever body spray he used hit her hard, then hit her again as she moved closer to shake his hand. Except one of her hands was holding a mixing bowl and the other was sticky with splashes of batter from the wooden spoon.

  His dark eyes under darker eyebrows flickered with something close to amusement as she changed her mind and simply gestured with her spoon instead.

  Even in shorts that revealed long powerful legs and a taut waist, Sebastien was every inch the sophisticated city millionaire businessman. And he was tall. At least a foot taller than she was. But there was also a presence about Seb. A gravitas that screamed loud and clear that this was a man who was used to giving orders and seeing them through.

  The main effect it had on her was to make her gabble to fill the silence between them.

  ‘And if you don’t like Ella some of my friends call me Cindy. You know—Cinderella. Like the fairy story. But I’ll answer to either Ella or Cindy. You choose.’

  She looked into his slightly stunned face and wondered if her Beatrix Potter T-shirt and pink pyjama bottoms were too much for that time in the morning. And she wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

  And she had messy unbrushed bed hair.

  Oh, no. Not exactly the best look. The village was used to her creative dress sense. From the look on her employer’s stepson’s face, Seb was clearly not.

  ‘Ella,’ he said, sounding out the letters, ‘is perfect. But only if you call me Seb.’

  She opened her mouth to suggest Bastien or Sebby or Bast, and changed her mind. If this man wanted to be called Seb she could live with it.

  Seb was staring into her face so intently that she wondered if the pancake ba
tter had splashed on her cheek or there was a pillow feather sticking out of her hair.

  ‘Thank you. Seb. Was the room okay? I am sorry if I woke you with my crazy singing this morning. I’ll try and remember to be quiet in the future.’

  ‘The room was fine. And you are free to sing any time you like. This is Nicole’s house and your home. Speaking of which, have you heard from Nicole?’

  Ella felt the tension in the air lift to match the sudden stiffness in his shoulders. And his dark eyebrows grew even more hooded.

  ‘Not yet, but I haven’t fired up my computer yet this morning. I’m just about to get dressed then make some breakfast, Seb. Would you like to join us in, say, twenty minutes and I can check my mail? Then I need to bring you up to date about the birthday party.’

  She paused and sucked in a breath. ‘Things are going to be a little interesting around here today.’

  The first thing Seb heard when he walked down the corridor to the kitchen was a series of big sighs followed by groans. Perhaps that was what Ella had meant by ‘interesting’.

  The shower had been hot. His suit trousers and business shirt were relatively uncreased and as he tied the laces in his shiny black shoes his uniform was complete and his brain more or less back to the state he was used to.

  In control and focused on the task in hand.

  His ten minutes of madness in the sun were over. He had things to do and people to see and a full agenda of work to get through—depending on when Nicole was expected back from holiday.

  Perhaps Nicole could meet them at the airport?

  What was really annoying him was that he didn’t have the information he needed at his fingertips. Yes, of course Nicole would make contact with her housekeeper as first point of call, but he found it surprisingly frustrating to be kept out of the loop.

  He checked his watch. Twenty minutes. Precisely. Ella should have logged on by now and picked up any emails.

  So he was not quite prepared for the sight of Dan sitting at the kitchen table with his chin in his hands, his face only inches from the screen of the oldest TV Seb had ever seen in his life.