PHILIPPE WAS RESTLESS, unable to concentrate on his reading. He looked up and noticed the colors reflected in the silver inkstand on his desk. He rose, opened the doors to the balcony, and stepped out. A cool breeze gusted, tugging at his thick, dark hair.
The night sky above the wide valley was suffused with a pale, eerie glow. In some places it shimmered like a transparent veil, in others it rippled like silk. Pulses of green and violet shot across the heavens, waxing and waning, dancing to music that no human ear could hear.
Philippe mistrusted their siren call. Despite their beauty there was a hint of menace in those subtly shifting hues. Something was disturbing the barrier surrounding Beaumont Foret.
A moment later Philippe saw something even more unsettling—lights where no lights should be, not at this time of night. When darkness fell across the mountains, only fools and drunkards left the safety of their homes.
The lights grew brighter, flickering like fireflies through the evergreen forest that spilled down in the distance. They vanished briefly but appeared again, lower down. Philippe cursed beneath his breath. It had been a long, long time since anyone from the outside world had ventured so close to the invisible boundaries of Beaumont Foret.
He drew in a deep breath and went completely still, willing his senses to find the interloper, hurling them across the wide river valley like lightning bolts.
The grass of the lawn and the rich soil beneath, the garden flowers with their complex emanations. Ripe fruits of the earth and the fields of lavender ready to harvest. Then the damp and mossy stones that edged the river, the icy clarity of the water, the hardwoods that gave way to pungent evergreen needles.
He ignored the squeak and skitter of nocturnal creatures, the whispering breeze and bolder gusts of cold air from the surrounding peaks, and focused on the purr of a finely tuned engine.
He detected notes of honey and ripening fruit—and beneath them, the warm scent of woman. Memories rose to haunt him.
A moonlight terrace . . . the air redolent of lavender and mown grass . . . the soft stirring of a breeze, promising rain by morning . . .
It was early summer, and he was young and foolish and very much in love. Perhaps as much with the idea of being in love as with the woman he courted so ardently.
He smiled when he heard light footfalls behind him, the glide of her satin slippers across the stone-flagged terrace. He took in a deep breath, inhaling the heady bouquet of her perfume, and turned, reaching out for her . . .
Cold seared his skin. The vision vanished instantly. It was not warm flesh beneath his hand but the chilled limestone coping of the balcony.
Philippe blinked and shook his head. It had been years since he’d felt such a rush of emotion. Such eager anticipation and burning hunger.
But that was long ago. Another lifetime.
His mouth curled in a bitter smile. What a fool’s paradise I lived in then, thinking I would be different, that I could change everything by wishing it so.
He took a deep breath. He must not think of what was lost and gone. He must think of the future that was approaching with the speed of a freight train—and the present, which held its own dangers.
The lights on the mountain moved down along the old track from Haute Beaumont, then halted abruptly. Philippe cursed beneath his breath. He knew exactly where the woman was: the sharply descending part of the track, where the old path had been purposely obliterated.
“Turn back,” he murmured. “Now, before it is too late.”
But the vehicle moved down from the valley’s rim with the inevitability of fate. He watched the lights jerking along toward the rocky ledge and certain disaster.
They stopped at last, and he let himself believe that his worries were for nothing. She had seen there was no road continuing down.
The lights jerked into motion, bounced lower and stopped again. The woman’s scent came stronger now, underscored by the spiky tang of fear.
She is afraid, he thought. And with good reason. She is realizing that there is no turning back.