Ruinous Designs (Ebook)

Prologue

IN THE DEAD of the night, Chateau Vauquelin stood cloaked in the shadows of the ancient forest that surrounded the country estate. The building’s beauty languished like an old gem amongst antique paste jewellery—forgotten, abandoned, and a little tired looking. Decades of neglect had dimmed its past glory.

Light coloured walls, stained from driving rain and dripping gutters, encased over eighty rooms. On the ground below, remnants of stonework, tiles and metal casements lay strewn across the terrace, a memorial to the roof turrets that once dominated the skyline.

Dense foliage grew freely in the formal gardens. A wrought iron arbour, which formed the entrance to the Italian sunken garden, was now broken and twisted, held together only by the thick stems of the wisteria it had supported for nearly a hundred years.

But on nights such as this, when the moonlight struck at a certain angle, the chateau lit up like a diamond. Darkness hid its flaws, and only the majestic elegance of the centuries gone by shone through. It was said, when the air was still, even the gentle ripple of the fountain could be heard.

An owl hooted and took flight. He left the protection of the tall cedar tree and swooped low over the roof of the chateau, the movement of his vast wing-span as silent as the night. Gliding smoothly through the cold winter’s air, he flew around the boarded up fountain and over the metal gates that barely hung onto their mountings, let alone the past.

Wings stretched forward, talons extended, he landed in a lilac tree beside a pair of tall glass doors on the west side of the chateau.

The nocturnal visitor blinked and stared at a narrow beam of light as it danced over the marble mantelpiece inside the chateau. A shadowy figure lifted a piece of paper, slightly torn and wrinkled, into the torchlight.

It showed a drawing of a fireplace, with handwritten annotations pointing to the location of a door catch hidden in the chimney breast above. Pushing the note into a pocket, the figure grasped the fireplace opening with one hand and reached up inside with the other.

Several moments passed before a panel in the wall less than a foot away cracked open. Driven by a greed greater than a fear of the unknown, the figure prised open the secret door and crept stealthily over the threshold. The glow from the flashlight revealed stone steps leading down to a dark oblivion just as the door swung shut behind them.

Chapter One

A TANTALISING GLIMMER of turquoise winked in the morning sun. Mentally cursing the thick coat and scarf that restricted her movements, Chantal stretched up as far as she could, not daring to let go of the ladder completely.

Almost there. The fine shards of paint rasped against the tips of her fingers. If only she could reach a little further to peel the layers of dull white paint away and find her first piece of concrete evidence as to what the room had once been like. Well, at least what it had been like sixty years ago. Going back five centuries would take a little more work.

“What the hell are you doing?”

The angry male voice startled her. She snatched her hand away and grasped the metal rung. The sudden movement caused the ladder to rock precariously. Her heart leapt into her throat. She touched the wall to steady the steps but only succeeded in tilting the ladder back the other way.

Putain. This was going to hurt. She pushed herself away from the metal rungs and hoped it wouldn’t fall on her. For a fraction of a second she felt as if she was floating down to the ground. At least if she died, it would be in splendour. She glimpsed a movement behind her, reflected in the large glass doors of the magnificent 16th-century chateau. Then the ground came up to meet her. Hard.

The parquet flooring forced the air out of her lungs so fast that the shock overrode the searing pain. She lay there for a moment, winded. Tentatively, Chantal moved her limbs and relaxed when she realised nothing was broken.

A man stood by her feet, a beanie hat pulled tight over his ears, reminding her she was no longer alone. Tension gripped her body again. From her position on the wooden floor, she saw only the guy’s face. His grey eyes perused her in the most insolent way. Finally, their gazes clashed.

She knew how she must look, sprawled across the floor, her coat burst open. It was then that she remembered her choice of jumper that morning and did a mental eye-roll. ‘Interior decorators do it all over the house’ was proudly emblazoned over her chest. A humorous gift from a friend. Not what she’d normally wear, but its thermal properties made the top the most practical garment for the job in today’s freezing temperatures.

“Seen enough?”

He grinned. He actually grinned. Unbelievable.

“Were you planning on showing me more?”

Already annoyed at falling off the ladder, her irritation upped a notch. She held out her hand. “The least you could do is help me up.”

His warm, strong grasp spiked a tingle of awareness up her arm. She pulled her hand back. “On second thoughts, I’ll get myself up.”

She stood carefully and adjusted her clothing. His stare sent a prickly heat down the back of her neck, but he could just wait while she sorted herself out. When she glanced up, the grin had gone. His mouth held a firm straight line, and his eyes glinted with a steely determination.

Battles with bossy men didn’t scare her. She’d been doing it all life with her older brother.

“So, sweetheart. What’re you doing here?”

Did she detect an East Coast accent? Not that she’d met a lot of Americans.

“I’m nobody’s sweetheart.”

“You don’t say.” A glimmer of amusement came back into his eyes. He pushed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and rocked back on his heels, waiting for her to answer.

She loosened her scarf, trying to keep her cool under his intense gaze. She had every right to be here, but somehow he made her feel guilty. “Research. And you?” She ran her fingers through her hair, shaking out the dust she’d collected from the floor.

“Research for what?”

An impatient sigh escaped her. What did it matter to him? “Colour.”

Perhaps he was security? Though she hadn’t been warned about any. She glanced at his clothing, vintage wash Hudson jeans, Belstaff jacket, and Caterpillar work boots. Not likely to be security. Probably a contractor. On a job as big as this, there were bound to be a few advisers that, like her, wanted to scout around before the demolition crew moved in.

“How’d you get in?”

Did he know how to have a normal conversation? A bonjour, and to ask if she was okay, wouldn’t have gone amiss. She fumbled in her right coat pocket and pulled out the heavy, elaborate piece of metal. “Key. And you?”

A slight feeling of unease came over her. Work hadn’t started on the chateau yet, and it hadn’t occurred to her to bring company. What if he wasn’t part of the renovation team?

“I didn’t need one. The door was open.” His voice was silky smooth, his accent softer, more cultured than before.

A cold sensation travelled down her spine. Had she remembered to tell Henrique where she was going when she left Paris this morning? She put her hand in the other pocket. Maybe she’d left her retractable knife in there. Her fingers felt nothing but lint.

He looked up at the wall to the patch of paint she’d been trying to reach. “What’d you find?”

“Quoi?” Her mind had been on saving herself from some deranged madman. His change in topic confused her.

“Colour. You said you were looking for colour. Since you were hanging off the top of a ladder risking your life, I presume you found something worth killing yourself for?”

Sarcasm aside, he sounded interested, which was weird. Most people thought her obsessive drive to understand a building’s interior and how it had transformed over the years pure folly, but in her experience it was the only way to bring a room back to life. Perhaps he was a regular mec after all.

“I don’t know. It was the first piece I’d found that appeared to go deep enough under the layers to be worth looking at when someone surprised me.” She bent down to pick up the ladder and repositioned it back against the wall.

“It’s just as well I came along. If you’d broken something, who knows how long you’d have lain there?”

Was he serious? “I wouldn’t have fallen off the ladder if you weren’t here.”

He cocked his head, as if to consider her statement. “If you still need to get up there, next time I suggest scaffolding.”

“It doesn’t matter. The decor is probably too modern for what I’m looking for. I need to take some cross sections back with me to go through the centuries.”

He scanned the room. It was devoid of anything except the ladder and her bag. “You don’t seem set up for heavy demolition work.”

“The cross sections are small samples from the wall. You don’t need lots of equipment. I just need to identify which walls are likely to be part of the original structure.” Even if she didn’t get the job, the opportunity to come inside Chateau Vauquelin and legitimately take samples for her collection was too much to resist. No way was he going to stop her.

A ringtone reverberated loudly, bouncing off the high ceiling. He pulled a phone out of the back pocket of his jeans and glanced at the screen before turning his back on her and answering the call.

“Hey.” The harder accent was back. “Yeah. I’m here now…”

His head tilted upwards. Chantal couldn’t tell if he was studying the ceiling or trying to concentrate on the caller. She pushed back the sleeve of her coat. Her wrist was starting to hurt. She hoped it was only bruised and not beginning to swell.

“…I don’t know, there’s an intruder.”

Chantal’s spine stiffened, and her head shot up. His voice sounded more intrigued than concerned.

“Nah. It’s nothing I can’t handle, just some babe with a thing for paint. I’ll see you later.” He hung up and turned around.

“I’m not an intruder. I’m the one with the key, remember?” She pulled her sleeve back down, irritation growing by the second at the babe remark.

“Doesn’t mean you’re not trespassing. So, who are you?” He folded his arms, emphasising his broad shoulders, and waited.

She shrugged. “I’m working on a speculative commission. A friend of mine is on the project and recommended me for the job. I want to get some hard evidence of how the chateau once looked before some corporation comes in and destroys a perfect piece of history by replacing it with some modern spa experience.”

“You got something against the spa experience?”

“I have a problem with someone taking something that could be magnificent and turning it into a bland, white plasterboard monstrosity. It doesn’t just lose its aesthetics, it loses its soul.”

“You’re the interior designer?”

She placed her hands on her hips, opening up her coat. He needn’t sound so incredulous. Why did everyone take one glance at her and presume that her petite stature affected her ability not just to do a job, but to do it well? The only person who never gave it a second thought was her boss. But then Henrique had known her all her life.

“The way you regarded me earlier, I thought you would have seen the shirt, or can’t you read? Oui. C’est moi.” She inclined her head. “And you are?”

“Alex Kirkwood.” He held out his hand.

Merde. He wasn’t a contractor. He was the owner.

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