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      CHAPTER TWO

      THERE had been grey skies, a fine drizzle, the day Melly had arrived in France. The overnight ferry had been crowded and she had been glad to reach the relative freedom of the roads. The drive to the Hotel du Golf in Deauville had been without incident, and after unpacking she had wasted no time in gaining directions to the Military Cemetery from the desk clerk. First things first. Set up the alibi.

      It was only a five-minute drive from the hotel. A winding road, empty of traffic, then along a small unmarked track, tucked away behind some trees. Isolated. Forgotten? No, not forgotten. All the war graves had been carefully tended. The grass cut.

      Shrugging into her slicker, pulling the hood over her dark hair, she climbed from the car. A fitting day for visiting a grave, she thought, with the heavens crying, and guilt was her companion that day, because grandfather’s grave was only an excuse. Her father had drawn her a little map, which she had memorised, and, with that in mind, she walked straight to his grave.

      Huddling more warmly into her slicker, she gazed before her. Yet, even with her eyes on the grey stone cross, she saw only Charles. Or, said the French way, ‘Sharle’. With a small smile, she savoured the name on her tongue. Sharle. No, not here, now; that was a betrayal of them all.

      Focusing once more on the memorial stone, she conjured up an image of her grandfather. A face seen only in photographs. A black and white image of a young man that bore a striking resemblance to herself. Mid-brown curly hair, amber eyes with the same wistful expression. And he deserved far more of her attention than she was giving him. He had died for king and country, died so that future generations could be free, and here she was, over forty years later, giving him barely one tenth of her attention.

      Captain David Morland. Aged thirty-two. Liberator.

      June 6, 1944

      Simple, poignant—and said nothing. How had it really been? Had death come swiftly, on silent wings? Or had it been resisted? Had he known? Or been unaware? There was no one to tell her now. Above the simple inscription was a carving of his regimental badge and his number. Not much as a testament to thirty-two years of life. And yet it was more than some had. Looking round her, at the bleak little cemetery, she shivered and began to move slowly along the row. So young, so little of life had been lived, and she began to silently mouth the names, as though it was important that someone, somewhere, remembered them. Not as a mass, but as individuals.

      Most were from the First World War, only a few from the Second. Some were unknown. And in the corner, isolated, were the German war graves. No poignant little messages on these, no soft remembered phrase, just the name and date of death. Feeling depressed, she turned to go back through the little gate. Duty done. The reason for her trip to France. Liar. With a long sigh, she went back to the car.

      Where was Charles now? Still in Deauville? And did she really expect to see him? Yes; the answer had to be yes. Not only expected, but needed. Needed to cure herself of this ridiculous infatuation, because surely that must be what it was? All these years of loving him, wanting him, unable to have a relationship with any other man because it was not him. Yet she had tried. Lord knew, she had tried. Accepted invitations from other boys, men, but none of them had had his smile, his warmth, that underlying streak of ruthlessness that sometimes showed in his grey eyes. The strength that could never be disguised. So foolish, irrational—and shaming. Like a schoolgirl languishing after a pop star, an idol. A man who probably rarely gave her a thought, and, if he did, would have been astonished—no, incredulous—had he known of her obsession. Her fantasy.

      Putting the car in gear, she drove carefully along the bumpy track and down into the centre of town. People with obsessions always planned well in advance. She had carefully scrutinised the town map and therefore knew exactly where the harbour was. Knew, or at least had been told, that that was where Charles moored his yacht.

      Finding the marina without difficulty, she parked, and then quickly scanned the line of expensive toys as they bobbed gently, swayed, curtsied, as if in mockery. And there it was, exactly like the photograph she had seen in the magazine at home. The Wanderer. Elegant, racy, exciting—like the man who stood on deck. An unexpected bonus, and she felt the familiar warmth course through her as she stared at dark hair ruffled by the breeze; at strong, tanned arms that were raised as he fiddled with something on the mast; at jeans-clad legs, astride to keep his balance. Slim, elegant, exciting. Charles Revington.

      She stared at him for a long time, felt the jolt she always felt; felt her heart race, swell, and she wanted to do something incredibly juvenile, such as walk past him in the hope that he might see her.

      Wrenching her eyes away, she was disgusted by her stupidity. And it was stupid, and childish, and hopeless. Climbing from the car, she quickly locked it, and, resolutely turning her back, she began to walk along the wooden promenade that divided the long sandy beach from the bathing huts.

      ‘Hey! Melly! Hang on!’

      If you wanted something badly enough you would get it. Closing her eyes tight for a moment, she quickened her step, pretended she had not heard the urgent shout. Staring blindly at the wooden boards before her, she fought for composure. Fool. Stop, be casual. I can’t. The longing to see him and the need to escape were equally powerful. She should never have come. And yet, if it was he who chased after her, it would look, wouldn’t it, as though their meeting was accidental?

      The sound of footsteps behind her did not diminish, and it was almost a relief when her arm was caught and she was brought to a halt. Swinging round in feigned surprise, she stared up into the face of the man she had loved since she was a child.

      Laughing grey eyes looked back. A wide smile stretched the firm tanned skin of his face. ‘I would have felt the most awful fool if it hadn’t been you! What on earth is my innocent little friend doing in this den of iniquity?’ he asked with that engaging grin that had been haunting her for most of her twenty-five years.

      ‘Oh, this and that,’ she managed simply. Surprised, after all, at how easy it was, she smiled. Her heart might be racing, her pulse erratic, but, to her intense relief, she sounded ordinary, normal. ‘Hello, Charles.’

      ‘”Hello, Charles,”’ he mimicked lightly. ‘So casual, Melly? You don’t even sound surprised.’

      Cursing herself for not at least pretending, she fabricated. ‘Not surprised, no; more—disbelieving, I think. I certainly didn’t expect to see anyone I knew.’

      ‘No,’ he agreed gently, ‘that’s what’s so nice about travelling. One never knows who one will bump into.’ And, sounding as though he really meant it, he added, ‘It’s really good to see you.’ His eyes full of devilish laughter, he grasped her shoulders and kissed her smoothly on each cheek, then before she could register the feel of him, the warmth, he steered her towards the only nearby café that was open. In the summer, she guessed, the wide glass panels would be pushed back, and tables and chairs would be placed outside, but today, in early April, and with a cold east wind blowing, they were mostly all closed and shuttered.

      Hooking a chair out with his foot, he pushed her gently into the seat before taking the chair opposite. Summoning the waiter with an ease that she envied, he quirked an eyebrow in query. ‘Coffee?’

      ‘Please, white.’

      ‘Deux cafés-crème, s’il vous plaît.’

      ‘Grands? Petits?’ the waiter asked smoothly.