Twenty miles east, near the hilltop village of Le Castellet, in the nearby appellation of the world-famous Bandol wine region, the magnificent estate of the renowned Chateau Léon overlooked the fertile valley below. The estate had been established in 1785 by the marauding count Maximilian Léon. For seven generations the Léon family estate had produced some of the world’s most awarding Mourvedre wines.
Alain Léon, the latest in the Léon line of men, sat at his walnut Louis XV desk, absent-mindedly tapping the burgundy-colored envelope in his sun-browned hand against his chin. His dark, almost black eyes darted over the complicated set of figures flickering on the computer screen in front of him. The small scar on his upper lip, barely noticeable in the fading light, contributed to a devil-may-care element, an almost buccaneer air, that lingered about him.
The rich, wood-paneled walls were decorated with only two oil paintings, illuminated with dim, twin antique wall lights. The paintings were small but exquisite — one a Provence landscape by Cezanne and the other a self-portrait by Rodin.
The tapping of the envelope stopped mid-air, and his eyes narrowed under the straight line of his dark brows. Figures changed on the screen, seemingly in chaotic patterns, and his sharp brain made the complex calculations. With a wicked smile playing on his lips, Alain waited for the exact moment before he hit the enter key and then sat back with an appreciative sigh.
Almost seven thousand miles away, in the luxurious executive meeting room of a Hong Kong five-star hotel, an excited junior executive quietly left his desk and hurried over to whisper in his diminutive boss’s left ear. A slow smile broke over the Chinese businessman’s face, his wide-set teeth glistening dully in his mouth. His successful bid on the international wine auction made him wriggle with pleasure and he giggled, almost girlish.
Back in Provence, Alain stood from his chair and, and like a majestic lion, stretched his lengthy, athletic frame with a soft groan of pleasure. Broad, muscular shoulders accentuated his narrow hips and hard, flat stomach. He turned and punched a pre-programmed number on his desk telephone.
“It’s done.” His voice was low and clear. “Can you arrange for shipping tomorrow?”
Alain killed the connection, and like the Chinese businessman in Hong Kong, a slow smile spread over his face. Unlike the Chinese businessman, Alain had reason to be happy. He had just netted close to half a million dollars in a single transaction on the wine he’d sold at the international auction.
With a deft flip of the silver letter opener, he opened the burgundy-colored envelope and studied the heavily embossed invitation. He was faced with choosing between two options.
On the one hand was an invitation to attend the weekend festivities planned around the glamorous Monaco Formula One Grand Prix at the luxurious Hôtel de Paris. The invitation held promises of a thrilling weekend that opened with the exclusive sponsors’ event on Saturday, where attendees could meet the drivers. On Sunday, the spectacle of the race could be enjoyed from the hotel’s garden terrace. Finally, the famous gala dinner on Sunday evening brought the festivities to a close.
“Black tie, formal wear, and all that jazz … ” he muttered to himself, but then reluctantly acquiesced to the reality that his attendance was required in light of his business relationships with the sponsors and hotel groups present at the event.
His other, more enjoyable option would be to spend the weekend in the relaxed company of his closest friends, watching the Formula One Grand Prix from his luxurious yacht moored in the Monaco marina.
“Much more fun … ” he muttered again.
Alain pondered his options, not liking what he was facing. So he made a decision. “Both. I’ll do both.” And with that he buzzed his trusty assistant.
“Genevieve, please RSVP to the Hôtel de Paris that I will attend the Monaco weekend. And then, can you arrange to have Vintage moved to her berth in Monaco before Friday?”
Alain killed the connection and nodded his head. “That’s better,” he said and strode from the office in his long, relaxed gate.