Vicki's Work of Heart Read Free

her last chance to succeed at something she dearly wants to do. I told her I could find her somewhere, easily. Unfortunately, she’s out of work and soon she’ll be homeless. If I don’t sort something out, and fast, I will have blown her dream right out of the water.’ Isabelle was giving him her most beseeching expression.
    ‘So, it’s you I’m getting out of a fix as much as your friend.’
    ‘God, yes. I practically talked her into it. If I fail her now I’ll feel guilty for ever.’
    Christophe knew when he was being played. ‘I doubt it,’ he smiled. ‘But I daresay you’ll make me feel guilty for ever, if I refuse.’
    Isabelle moved closer. ‘You’re a philanthropic man, Christophe. I’m just asking you to be charitable to another human being, instead of all those horses you lavish your funds and attention on.’
    ‘Hmmm…What if she’s a pain in the neck?’
    ‘Vicki? Never. She’s bright and funny and a very good cook. I know you have plenty of room in your house, you need hardly see her, except at meal times. Please say, yes.’
    Christophe could see some small advantage in the arrangement. ‘Is she pretty?’
    Isabelle’s eyebrows twitched. ‘Very. But don’t you mess with her, Christophe, or I’ll come down and chew your balls off.’
    He laughed. That was exactly the reaction he’d expected.
    ‘So, what do you say?’
    ‘I’ll only mess with her if she wants to be messed with, how’s that?’
    Isabelle’s mouth knotted into a pout. ‘Don’t mess with her. This is my dearest friend, we’re talking about. And one day, she will be godmother to my children. I don’t want to choose who I can invite to their christening, just because you behaved with un-gentlemanly conduct.’
    Christophe grinned. ‘Isabelle, I’m always a gentleman.’
    ‘Just say, yes. Please. You’re my last hope.’

CHAPTER 3
    I checked my watch against the impressive clock tower of Limoges station. Quarter past five. No sign of Christophe Dubois. Brilliant. I could do Waiting For Men. I’d had practice.
    Heaving a large bag onto my shoulder, and grabbing the suitcase trolley handle, I wandered back inside the station, where I began scanning every male face for evidence he might be looking for me – trying desperately not to appear as if I were up for trade. Not a single soul was holding a sign for Vicki Marchant. I took out my phone and re-read the email. It was there in black and white. He would pick me up outside the Bénédictins railway station at five o’clock. I turned, swapped my bag from one shoulder to the other and dragged the suitcase back outside.
    Despite being September, it was so humid my tee-shirt was clinging intimately to my nothing-to-brag-about curves. I shrugged off my jacket, draped it over the suitcase, and began wafting air inside my shirt. Across from the station, I could see a beautiful garden with a cool, shimmering fountain – so inviting – and it certainly beat the aspect facing tourists on arrival at Bristol Templemeads.
    I counted cars, I checked my watch, I chewed my lip.
    Ten minutes later, as rain began to fall, I leaned against one of the huge, stone pillars and pulled out my phone, again. I rang his home number. After two rings, the answer-phone cut in. He had the kind of mellow, French accent that could bring a coach-load of diehard, female celibates to their hairy knees and convert them in a heartbeat. Apparently I’d met him, once, when I was thirteen. I had a hazy recollection of a generic French school boy in a parade of new people I’d met on my first visit to France.
    As I peered out at the passing traffic, rain bounced off the ground, forcing me to retreat into the shelter of the entrance. Minutes ticked by. It was horribly familiar. Especially that sinking feeling, creeping through my stomach as I recalled the last time I’d sheltered from the rain, and waited. Where was Father Patrick now, with his bottle of Jameson’s? 
    Of course, I had to examine