![]() He hadn’t had a clue.Ī kid who’d grown up on the mean streets of Marseille, who’d begun stealing cars at sixteen, taking down payroll trucks a few years later, a made man in La Brise de Mer, the toughest outfit in the South of France, at eighteen. A stone-cold criminal.Īnd he’d missed it. Peel off the veneer, the clothes, the makeup, the charm- “Word is that you are a resourceful man”-and she was a hood. Sylvie Bettencourt, buyer for the richest collectors in the world, class act. Her looks, her demeanor, her presentation. He didn’t mean by Vadim, though he would not forget anytime soon being tossed onto his back as if he were a Cub Scout. It was the fiasco in the restaurant that had done it. It was that he’d willed himself to forget. Somewhere along the line he’d lost sight of who he was. Simon caught sight of his eyes in the mirror. For that matter, what good is it holding on to the wheel like you’re strangling your worst enemy? What good is that going to do? He looked at his hands, knuckles white. Yeah, why? Simon shouted silently, eyeing the car behind him. Simon’s taste in music came from his father, a legacy he treasured. But mostly, the banging rock of the 1970s. seven? Eight? Had just come to London… Saturday mornings, music blaring from his father’s stereo. Memories of knocking around the country house in Royal Tunbridge Wells. No one needed to put up with this annoyance. ![]() Clients sent him cars from all over the globe. The fact was, Simon could run his business from anywhere. He’d liked the hill country outside Monterey, California, at least until Sylvie Bettencourt had gone and ruined it. Maybe it was time to pick up and head to sunnier climes. ![]() He needed thirty minutes just to get out of the City, cross Blackfriars Bridge, and make it onto the A3. Traffic to the shop was as bad as Simon could remember. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |