Sophie squinted. Was he? Handsome—in a way, she supposed. Those slim good looks weren’t really her thing. But who could quibble? The man was utterly self-confident, moving like one entitled, a pasha surrounded by a giggling harem. Photographers hovered, snapping his picture. He looked as though he owned the world.

“Oh! Soph, he’s heading this way!” Joanna squealed. And he was—he was walking straight at them. Sophie, in her modest pink dress, her brunette, undyed hair falling down onto her shoulders, wanted to cut and run. But that would have looked even more stupid than Jo flinging herself at him. She bit her lip, and hoped he would soon pass on.

He didn’t. Pierre had looked out over the crowds of blonde girls in tiny bathing suits, giggling and thrusting their curves forward, and seen her. And he had beckoned.

She could still remember the moment quite clearly, today.

“Look! He saw me. He wants me to come over,” Joanna said, in a fury of excitement. And then, clutching Sophie, she gasped, “Don’t move! Act natural. He’s coming over here. He’s coming over here! Say something. Start talking to me!”

“I’m getting cold,” said Sophie, who couldn’t think of anything else.

“Excusez-moi, Mesdemoiselles,” said Pierre Massot, stopping in front of them and bowing slightly. A girl on his arm giggled.

“We’re English,” Sophie said, bluntly.

“But of course you are,” he responded admiringly, “with skin like that.” He turned around and spoke to the crowd of blondes in French; his tones were charming but dismissive; they pouted, and dispersed.

Joanna smiled up at him triumphantly.

“Mademoiselle,” Pierre said to Sophie, “would you do me the honour of having dinner with me?”

“What about me?” Joanna cried.

Pierre looked at her, all blonde hair and tumbling legs. “If you wish to come along too, mademoiselle, I suppose it is all right,” he said.

Sophie blushed. Had she heard right?

Joanna scowled. “We’re busy. Come on, Sophie,” she said angrily, trying to drag her away.

But Sophie, for once, pulled her arm free. She didn’t know what made her—but there was something in this man’s stare, his eyes, that compelled her. That told her to seize this chance. Just once.

“I’ll see you later, Jo,” she said, and to Pierre, “I suppose I could—just this once.”

“You cow, Sophie Roberts!” Jo hissed. “Don’t bother coming back to the motel.”

Sophie quailed, but Pierre Massot, in his beautifully cut suit, turned his impassive eyes on her former friend.

“Mlle Roberts will not be coming back to your motel at all, Mademoiselle. I am looking after her now.” He offered Sophie his arm, and shyly, demurely, she took it.

“Shall we go?” he said. And escorted her off the beach.