As they’d driven across the French countryside on Sylvain’s motorcycle, Allie had absorbed the beauty of the landscape with hungry eyes.
She loved it here.
The only problem was, they’d already been in France nearly a month. That was longer than they’d stayed any place since leaving Cimmeria. At any moment the call could come. Then the plane. Some new anonymous mansion would await them. And she and Rachel would be alone again.
Who knew when they’d come back here? When she’d ever see Sylvain again?
But so far the call hadn’t come, and Allie had begun to let herself dream that maybe they could stay. Maybe Nathaniel would never find them. Or perhaps he simply didn’t dare mess with Sylvain’s father. After all, Mr Cassel was a powerful leader of the French government and one of the country’s wealthiest men.
But on some level she’d always known this was just a fantasy. Nathaniel always found her.
Always.
The marble floor was cool beneath Allie’s bare feet. After the heat outside, the villa seemed as chilly as a refrigerator. Goosebumps rose on her arms and shoulders.
Above their heads, vaulted ceilings soared up twenty feet; at the top, fans circled steadily with a faint mechanical whirr.
‘I have to find Rachel,’ Allie said, turning towards the back of the house. But she’d only taken two steps when a trio of guards, clad in black T-shirts and shorts, burst into the room. Stopping in front of Sylvain, they spoke in rapid French as he listened attentively.
Allie, whose French was only so-so, waited impatiently for him to translate.
After a brief conversation the men ran off again. Sylvain turned to her, his brow furrowing.
‘Everything’s fine here,’ he said. ‘There was no attack on the house. Rachel is in her room. They’ve gone to get my parents.’
Allie breathed a relieved sigh. At least Rachel was OK. At least there was that.
But Sylvain didn’t look relieved. Worry still creased his forehead. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, searching his face for clues. ‘Has something else happened?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Something they said … I just have a bad feeling …’
He didn’t have to finish the sentence. Allie knew that feeling well.
‘They’re sending us away.’ Her tone was matter-of-fact even though her heart ached. ‘To the next safe house.’
At her side, his hand found hers. ‘I won’t let them.’
He sounded determined and, as Allie looked into his eyes, the colour of the French sky, she wished it was possible. But it wasn’t. Sylvain could handle a motorcycle like a pro but even he couldn’t tell Lucinda Meldrum what to do with her granddaughter.
Even he couldn’t keep her safe.
‘They’ll make us,’ she said simply. Then, because it was true, she added, ‘I’ll miss you.’
He looked at her longingly, as if there was something he wanted to say but he couldn’t find the words. His gaze brushed her lips like a kiss.
‘Allie …’ he began but, before he could finish the thought, another guard rushed in saying something Allie couldn’t understand.
Dropping her hand, Sylvain gave her a helpless, apologetic look. ‘My father. I have to go.’
‘It’s cool,’ she said. ‘We’ll talk later.’
But as he walked away she couldn’t suppress the melancholy thought: If there is a later.
After Sylvain left with the guards, Allie hurried up the staircase, which curled upwards gracefully in a swirl of delicate white wrought iron. She ran down the airy landing to a set of tall, double doors, which swung open at her touch.
The afternoon sun filtered through the long sheer curtains that covered the floor-to-ceiling windows, giving her bedroom a creamy, apricot glow. A wide, canopied bed, draped in pale linens, dominated the room, but Allie headed straight to the dresser.
Quickly, she pulled a short skirt and a tank top over her bikini. After sliding her feet into sandals, she stopped in front of a door that could easily be mistaken for a closet. She knocked on it lightly.
‘Come in.’ Rachel’s voice sounded muffled through the heavy wood.
Allie opened the door to the adjoining room, which looked a great deal like hers, only with pale yellow curtains instead of peach.
Rachel lay on her bed surrounded by stacks of books. Her glasses had slid halfway down her nose and she blinked at Allie over the top of them.
Allie hated to break the news. Rachel was so happy here. So safe.
But no one is ever really safe, she reminded herself.
Safe is an illusion. A lie we tell ourselves to make it easier to go about our very dangerous lives.
‘You better come downstairs,’ she said quietly. ‘Nathaniel found us.’
‘You have to go.’ Sylvain’s father sat on a stylish armchair upholstered in lush, white linen. Allie, Sylvain and Rachel perched across from him on a long, matching sofa. ‘This was a real attack. You could have been killed.’ He held his son’s gaze. ‘You and I both know Nathaniel would have killed you to get to Allie. He’ll never give up.’
Sylvain’s gaze didn’t flicker but, for Allie, Mr Cassel’s words were the equivalent of someone opening the cover of an endless, dark well and shoving her down. They echoed in her head.
He’ll never give up. Never give up …
‘Where do we go this time?’ Rachel’s tone was neutral but Allie could sense the weariness she was hiding. They were both tired of running.