Thibaud had responded to Alex’s email in minutes. Of course he remembered Guy. They had spent summers together throughout their childhood and teen years. He remembered Alex, too, as that elusive Economics major with the shy smile and cute ass. He insisted that they stay with him and his lover, Henri, when in the area. They would be welcome for as long as they liked. Guy would remember place, the big house above the village.

Guy did indeed remember the place, it was a chateau that sat high among sloping vineyards, dominating the village tucked in the valley below. It had always been owned by one of the grand families, but so much had changed in the world, perhaps it had been sold. As children, they had been terrified to even step foot onto the manicured grounds and none had ever been closer than the woods that came near the back gardens. It had been a place of fantasy for them, wondering if a king and queen lived there. Now it was Thibaud and Henri.

Alex and Guy planned to spend their two-week vacation wandering about the South of France, following their fancy with a few specific stops of historical, architectural, and culinary significance. Still, Alex was eager to talk with Thibaud, since he had been implicated in the case. What would he add to their knowledge of what had happened? He had to be their first destination.

It was a pleasant drive from the airport in Nice, Guy taking the wheel. He was undaunted at the winding lanes, the erratic driving of everyone else on the road, even the occasional donkey or flock of geese on the road. They went further and further into the countryside.

“It is just the same as when I was a boy,” Guy explained as he turned off the secondary road onto a rural lane along a quiet river. Tall trees overhung the road on both sides, it was like driving in a tunnel. Dappled light reflected off the river glittered on the road ahead. They went up a rise and emerged into a village square, surrounded on three sides by buildings of the soft yellow stone used throughout Provence. The cliché fountain occupied the center of the square, two cafes were in friendly rivalry across the square. Old men played petanc and poured from a bottle of wine.

“Nothing changes here.” Guy was nostalgic. He parked the car and led to one of the cafes. The buxom proprietress came to the table with a bottle of red wine and baguette. She asked only ‘cassoulet?’ They greedily agreed. “This is Wednesday, so of course they will have the cassoulet. It has been this way since Charlemagne and maybe before.” Alex smiled at the growing French influence in Guy’s speech. He’s such an American, it’s easy to forget his close ties to this area.

When the proprietress brought out the steaming bowls, Guy caught her eye. “A question?”

“Oui.”

“The chateau above the village. Has it a new owner?” He translated for my benefit.

“Non.” Chatty bunch these French.

“Monsieur Henri?”

“Oui, he is the master.”

“Merci.”

“De rien.”

Guy smiled broadly. “So, Thibaud has caught a big fish. Henri is the head of the family that owns not only the Chateau, but most of the South of France. And you thought he wasn’t a serious person, just dedicated to flirtations and fun. He must have worked very hard for this score.”

“The Thibaud I remember spent class time disconcerting the professor – male or female – with silly questions and sensual looks on his handsome face. I don’t know how he passed the classes, though as an exchange student, maybe they gave him some slack.”

“When we were kids, he was always up to some mischief. Usually innocent pranks, but occasionally we would get hauled down to the prefect’s office. We would be lectured in the grandest terms on our responsibilities as the next generation of Frenchman to uphold the traditions that made France great. Thibaud would even appear to pay attention. Then he would mention his father the judge on the bench in Paris, and we would be escorted to the boulangerie for a treat. Élas.”

“Do you think it’s too early to go to his place?”

“It is after noon, he should be up by now.”

Guy drove up the winding road that led out of the village, through lush vineyards to a pair of iron gates set in a long stone wall. They stood open. Guy drew in his breath sharply as he drove through the gates, excited at entering what had been the forbidden territory of his youth. The long lane led strait to the impressive chateau that sat on a rise above the property. The same yellow stone was used, but there the similarity to the village houses ended. The chateau had a central court flanked by wings that seemed to disappear into the distance. Great arched windows marched down the length of the wings, punctuated by niches occupied by sculptures. Guy drove along the curved drive and stopped in front of the central courtyard.

There, in a sunny spot in the center sat Thibaud. He rose from his chair and paraded across the court toward us. “Bienvenue a chez nous” he announced. “Mes chers amis.” He embraced us and kissed them in Gallic style.

“You are here at last. I was just having a petit dejeuner, but now that you’re here, we’ll have some wine. He led us back to his table and rang a small silver bell. An elderly gentleman appeared and was instructed by Thibaud to bring more chairs and some rosé. “The day is already warm and the rosé will be cold. How wonderful to see you each again. So are we an ‘item’?” He asked with one raised brow.

Alex admitted that Guy and he were, in fact, an ‘item’, having been together for two years.

“Splendid. My childhood friend has chosen well. I am a little disappointed, however, that I never got more acquainted with you, Alex.”

Alex agreed that he must have been about the only student at the college Thibaud hadn’t been intimate with.

“There were always some that did not hold my interest, at least not for more than one night.” Thibaud was incorrigible.

Guy and he caught up on local gossip in French. Guy promised to fill Alex in later. Alex was perfectly content to miss ninety percent of the conversation and enjoy the marvelous architecture of the house and the breathtaking view out over the valley. The very fine rosé was lovely, too.

A head peeked around a corner at the front of the courtyard. “Thibaud!”

Thibaud looked up. “Ah Claude, wait for me in the chamber.” The strapping Claude gingerly crossed the courtyard and went in a door on one side, looking back at Thibaud anxiously. Then to us, “If you will excuse me for a little while, I have to – how you say – settle things with the butcher’s delivery boy. Robert will see you to your room. We shall reconvene at, say, four for a swim? Robert will show you the way.”

Then from an upstairs window came a plea, “Thibaud.”

“And now, Claude awaits.”

Thibaud sauntered across to the same door Claude had used and disappeared.

“I’m guessing that’s the only butcher’s delivery boy that receives the ‘meat’” Guy smirked. We laughed and went toward the main entry to find Robert.

***

Guy and Alex had already dipped in the chateau’s swimming pool and were again drinking wine when a middle aged man appeared, still dressed as for business. He was indeed handsome and distinguished. “Bonjour. You must be Thibaud’s American friends. I am Henri, Thibaud’s worshipful slave. Welcome to our home.” His accent was elegant, his English perfect. He sat heavily on one of the chairs. “I’ve just returned from Paris where duty makes its demands. And where is Thibaud?”

We feigned ignorance.

“Then it must be the grocer’s boy or the butcher’s boy. Oh, yes, I know of his little friends. Entre nous, I am relieved. Thibaud is so demanding in the bedroom. I crave his attention, but it is easier on my ass if he has had some distraction earlier in the day. I thought after all these years his libido would abate. Élas, I have married a satyr. Of course, that is what attracted me in the first place.”

Thibaud and Claude emerged from a doorway. Thibaud was unabashed when he saw us observing him. He kissed and hugged Claude and sent him on his way with a pat on the ass.

“You see, it is the butcher’s boy today. If only he did not leave the sheets smelling of pate. Alors.

Thibaud crossed the space and plopped into a chair, feigning exhaustion.

“Was there enough for the butcher’s boy?” queried Henri.

“He said more than enough” smirked Thibaud.

“I meant in the household funds.”

“Barely enough for the generous tip I gave him.”

“You are too liberal with the locals, Thibaud. They will begin to expect it as their due.”

“Very well, next time I will penetrate him only half way.”

“Still too generous by half” rejoined Henri.

***

A stately woman crossed the terrace accompanied by a bevy of small dogs. She carried a parasol to stave off the sun and a scowl to stave off all mankind.

“A catamite convention?”

“Bonjour Maman. Alex, Guy, my mother” introduced Henri.

“As you wish. I have come to take my leave. I am going to Paris” she pronounced.

“But why, Maman? You’ve barely arrived a week ago.”

“In my day, when one of our station chose to ravish a servant or villager, we had the good taste to do it in the barn.”

“I’m sorry Maman. He did get a little vocal” defended Thibaud.

“Yes, yes he did. Though I was further surprised to hear it echoing from the other wing, as well. How you managed that,” she glowered at Thibaud “is beyond me.” Thibaud caught Alex and I exchanging an embarrassed glance and nodded approvingly. “Nonetheless, I am off. Don’t worry about me, Robert will escort me to the train where I trust a First Class cabin is still available for the nobility.”

We all rose as she turned to leave.

“I’m not sure when it came to pass, but I’m sure all this exposed chest hair and bulging undergarments does not constitute proper attire for polite company. Good day, gentlemen.”

Henri gave her hand a kiss. Thibaud escorted her across the terrace, giving her a chaste kiss on the cheek. She patted him gently on the cheek and was gone.

***

“She loves Thibaud more than me. Of course, I love Thibaud more than her, so perhaps it’s fair.”

“She just loves seeing you happy, dear Henri and I do my best to make you happy.”

“Seems to me you’re making yourself happy most of the time.”

“You were saying how you and Thibaud met,” Guy prompted in an attempt to redirect the discussion to safer territory.

Thibaud returned and sat on the arm of Henri’s chair, kissing him gently on the forehead. “Oh I love this story – it’s all about me.”

“I was in Miami. Yes, I went all the way to the States to meet a Frenchman. I was visiting representatives from South America in Miami, people who were always late – and that from a Frenchman. Nonetheless, my business was not concluded by the weekend, which in Miami begins on Thursday at noon and does not end until Monday evening over drinks. Such a life. It makes the French seem productive.

“In any case, I was stuck in Miami for the weekend. While the weather can be nice, when there is no hurricane, the food is execrable. Élas. What was I to do during those long hours? Well the weather was fine, hot but dry. I went to the beach. The hotel sent a young man to set up a beach chair and umbrella for me. He later brought drinks, but I am getting out of order.

“I was sitting quietly, enjoying the sun, sounds of the surf, and the very beautiful young men cruising along the beach. I was flattered by an occasional glance, which among that parade of pulchritude was flattery indeed.

“And then, there arose from the sea a vision. Botticelli’s Venus had nothing on this Miami penis. Ahem. From out of the sea came a thing of beauty. Blonde, tan, lean, and bulging. His bathing attire left nothing to the imagination. I beheld a thing of glory.

“I do not know what hand of the gods guided his steps, but he came straight – if you will forgive the term – toward me. Still dripping of the sea – though I admit I had begun to drip, too – he knelt before me. My heart was pounding.”

“See I told you it was a great story,” Thibaud beamed.

“Yes, my heart was pounding. This gift of sea leant forward and kissed me. He then flopped onto the beach at my side and said…”

“Hey Daddy. Buy me a drink?” Thibaud contributed his original dialog.

“Imagine my consternation to hear the accent of my mother tongue. And yet, how perfect. I had an Americanized Frenchman at my feet, beautiful and so very sexual. All the wildness of the New World packaged with, while not a very sophisticated pedigree judging from his voice, at least someone who understood civilization.”

“You flatter me, Henri.”

“I do, which would be obvious from your next utterance.”

“Wanna fuck?” Thibaud again spoke his part.

“What could I do but accept? He had already enraptured me with lust. When we emerged from the hotel room days later, he had captured my heart as well. It took him a little longer to declare his love. But once he had visited my townhouse in Paris and our little country villa here,” he gestured at the lavish setting “my love was returned. Of course he still feels free to share it with the rest of France and any passersby…”

“Henri, you knew all along I was a free spirit.”

“How droll, ‘free’ doesn’t come to mind when I think of you.”

“You know you own my heart.”

“That just leaves me to conjecture who is sharing your cock.”

“All this talk is making me horny.”

“Gentlemen, it has been a pleasure making your acquaintance. I think we will dine at eight, which will give my own true love a couple of hours to pound my ass into submission. If you will excuse us?”

Off they went, arm in arm, pausing every few steps to kiss. Thibaud had indeed won the grand prix of life. He was loved to distraction, generously cared for, and loved Henri. Guy’s hand had made its way into Alex’s.

“Kiss me lover, I think I need to retire as well. I’m feeling like Thibaud.”

“At least Henri won’t be the only one standing at dinner,” Alex joked.

***

“Should we dress for dinner?” asked Alex

“It’s summer in the South of France, how formal could it be? Besides, you look too yummy in linen and silk. Wear the blue shirt, it reflects your eyes,” responded Guy.

They were surprised by a gong sounding in the hall and the announcement of drinks on the terrace. They joined Thibaud and Henri on the terrace, finding them casually attired as well. The Frenchmen made a lovely couple.

Stopping with Thibaud and Henri was the best vacation Alex had ever taken. Polite chatter continued as they had wine before dinner. Henri led the way through French doors – you were expecting Dutch doors? - to the dining room. The long table was set for four, blessedly all at one end. No shouting required. The dinner was delicious and the wine from Henri’s own vineyard.

Over what was once cigars and brandy, they settled on just the brandy, Henri leaned forward and said, “Alex. Guy. As much as I am fascinated with Thibaud, I am not convinced that your seeking him out from acquaintance long ago explains why you are here. Of course, now that you’ve seen the style in which I am forced to keep Thibaud, I imagine it may be difficult to dislodge you, but I will rely upon your obligations at home to tear you away.” Henri was always arch.

Alex looked at Guy, he returned the look. “I suppose it’s time. We won’t abuse your hospitality, not for more than a year or so.” Alex tried returning wit for wit, conscious that he was over his head with Henri. “We did come with a purpose, though spending time in your company is its own reward.” Henri was flattered.

“Thibaud. I imagine you remember the events of early December in your last year at college,” Guy reminded.

“Indeed I do. What horror. That dear little man died, my bosom friend Samir disappeared, and my favorite professor disappeared, too. But what brings that back. The police swarmed the campus for weeks and then nothing. I never heard another word about any of them.”

“It came up one day, some months ago when Alex and I were talking.”

“Yes, Guy came back from work one evening, complaining about how useless the testimony of the average citizen was and how I had no idea of the great burdens of his work.

“’I was interviewed by the FBI once.’ I told him.”

“’When?’ he inquired.

“That’s when I told him all about the strange events of that December and how I got called in and interrogated by two FBI agents. Despite Guy’s skepticism that I could have anything worthwhile to contribute, I saw something that turned out to be of significance, as we found out later.”

“Do tell, do tell.”

“Thibaud, you may remember me as being quite shy.”

“And I thought you didn’t like me.”

“No, you had caught my eye, but you terrified me. Smart, handsome and French. Way, way too much for me. But that’s why I saw what I did. I was struggling to admit that I was gay – to myself, much less the world.”

“Oh cher, I knew.”

“Anyway, I tried going to that gay bar across the river, to see if I could do the ‘gay thing.’ I was terrified and hid in the shadows. Who should walk in but Mr. Marcus and Cal Stephenson. Mr. Marcus was the college accounting teacher and worked in the business office and Cal Stephenson, everybody called him ‘Cal’, taught an economics course I was taking and was subbing for my advisor, “Alex explained. “Mr. Marcus was a nice older man, I would have thought sexless, but he walks in with Cal, the major heartthrob of the campus. That’s when other kids from the college spotted them and went to talk to them. Cal was cool with it, but Mr. Marcus looked pretty uncomfortable. I was terrified and retreated to the parking lot and sat in my car, wondering what to do next. They came out, Mr. Marcus and Cal. Cal had his arm around Mr. Marcus. They paused, Cal kissed Mr. Marcus. It was a poorly kept secret that Cal lived in Mr. Marcus’s house. It hit me then, that maybe I could talk with them about being gay.

“I followed them back to the campus and parked my car by my dorm. It took me less than ten minutes to walk over to the house. Their car was in the driveway, parked kind of askew. The house was dark, but I could see light through a gap in the curtains. It took me some minutes to work up the courage, but after a while I stepped onto the porch and was about to knock when I heard someone shout. I froze. I’m not proud of this, but I peeked through the gap in the curtains. There, by the light of a fire, I saw a cozy living room. A bottle of red wine was on its side on the coffee table, quickly spilling onto the rug. And on the couch, undoubtedly the cause of the spill was Cal with his pants around his ankles fucking Mr. Marcus. I mean they were going at it. Mr. Marcus was clawing at Cal’s back. I was turned on and horrified. I ran away to my dorm room, and after jerking off, cried myself to sleep. I was so lonely.”

“Whoa. So you confirmed the rumor. That’s what you told the FBI.” Thibaud was thoughtful. “That explains some of the questions they asked me. How did you know they talked to me?”

Guy stood up and paced the length of the room, very Perry Mason. “After hearing that Alex had given testimony in a case, I just had to see how good a witness he was. I called central filing and had case sent to my office.”

“Oh that’s right, you’re Mr. DA.”

“Assistant DA,” Guy corrected modestly. “What a case. The FBI did a lot of investigating, trying to make sense of the three big events. Here’s the basic layout. Samir doesn’t come back to the dorm one night. His roommate ignores it for a few days. Samir had a ‘special friend’ at a state school across the river. He often went there for days on end. But when Samir didn’t make it back for classes, his roommate got concerned and talked with the Provost. There was a special flag on Samir’s file indicating special handling, he being a diplomat’s son and somewhere on the ‘next to the throne’ list in his home country. The Provost called the embassy and the FBI went into action.

“It didn’t take long for them to find a security breach in the student records on the college computer. It indicated the Marcus had accessed several student files from his home earlier in the month. While Marcus had permission to access the records with his job, he rarely looked beyond their payment history. And among the student records he accessed was Samir’s. The FBI alerted the Provost that there was an uncomfortable coincidence. The Provost insisted on accompanying them to see Marcus.

“They called Marcus’s office. He was not there. The Provost offered to take them to Marcus’s home. No one was there when they arrived. As they were getting back into the car, Marcus arrived on foot from the path from the campus. He recognized the Provost and greeted him. On seeing the FBI men, he became alarmed. He let them into the house where the FBI did a thorough search, impounding Marcus’s computer and modem used to access the college computer system, a set up used by many faculty and administrators. On searching the premises they observed that it had been excessively cleaned. On questioning Marcus, he told them that his friend who sometimes stayed there was somewhat compulsive about cleaning. Marcus joked that he was happy to stand by and let it happen. Where was the person mentioned? Marcus expressed surprise that the person, Cal Stephenson, was not there at this time. Had Marcus accessed student records on his computer? No he had not. He said he never felt safe accessing records away from his office. Had Marcus allowed anyone else to use his id and security codes? Marcus was emphatic that he had not. He then became thoughtful. There was one time, a month or so before, when Stephenson had asked him to log in so he could check some reports or papers of some kind on the main computer. Stephenson had explained he had forgotten his passwords that he kept written in his own office on campus, but hadn’t intended to go on campus for a few hours. Marcus had logged in using his own id and password. Marcus asked if this infraction warranted a visit by the FBI.

“The FBI agent explained that a student had likely been abducted and that his computer had accessed that student’s information. Marcus became distraught. He refused to believe that Stephenson could have used him to gain access to the student records. Further he refused to believe that Stephenson had anything to do with harming a student in any way. The FBI said they would need to investigate further and would require DNA samples. The house had been so thoroughly cleaned that it seemed unlikely to yield any for the missing Stephenson.

“Marcus blanched. The Provost asked him, begged him to help in any way. A student’s life was at stake. Marcus explained that he could provide a DNA sample, he and Stephenson had sexual relations earlier in the day and Marcus carried the sample in his body.

“Marcus was taken to the local hospital so the sample could be obtained.

“This is where the story gets sordid,” Guy cautioned.

“The FBI called in a proctologist to take the sample. The doctor recommended some mild anesthetic, more to calm down the overwrought Marcus than anything else. Marcus was taken to a room to be prepared and be given the sedative. Allowing some time for it to work, Marcus was brought into the examining room. While the doctor was taking the sample, Marcus had a seizure of some kind. He was dead on the spot. Everyone at the hospital denied the possibility of any error. An autopsy would later show a significant overdose of anesthetic was the cause of death. Hospital pharmacy records accounted for all medications. The drugs must have come from elsewhere.

“The sample taken from Marcus was even more sordid. An initial evaluation showed that the sample contained not the semen of one man, but of at least six and maybe as many as twelve men. This was totally inconsistent with what the FBI had learned about Marcus. It would indicate a gang rape of some kind which in itself was inconsistent with the state of Marcus’s anus.

“The FBI had put out an alert to the local and state police to locate Stephenson and Samir. Neither was to be found on the campus and had not been found in a wider search of the community. Some hours later Stephenson’s bicycle was found near the train station. Police in New York were also alerted, but no one matching either man’s description was found on arriving trains. The river and lake were searched, as well, with no results.

“The hospital staff did remark on a couple of strange occurrences, however. The nurse/anesthetist reported two people around the room where Marcus was prepped. She saw someone she took to be a doctor come out of the room shortly after she had applied the prescribed anesthesia. She heard the other person speaking to Marcus when she was assisting another patient in the same room, but could not see for a drawn privacy curtain. The nurse reported that a very deep man’s voice said, “I’m sorry Stu, I’m so sorry.” Marcus’s first name is Stuart. She heard someone she took to be Marcus reply, ‘Cal, Cal’.”

“Cal Stephenson had about the deepest voice I ever heard,” Thibaud confirmed.

“The FBI next started to interview members of the college community. I believe you, Alex, responded to the general call for information about Mr. Marcus. It was very brave of you to volunteer the information you had.”

“Not so brave as I had no choice,” explained Alex. “I went to the memorial service they had for Mr. Marcus. The FBI guys were in the balcony and tagged everyone who attended. I broke down before they asked anything. The weird thing is that the first people I came out to were the Provost and those FBI guys. I’m kind of creeped out all over again.”

“Which brings us to you, Thibaud,” Guy redirected.

“Have you read the transcript of my interview with the FBI?”

“Yes, though I imagine you would tell it better.”

“Are you investigating this case? Is this an official inquiry?” Henri was alarmed.

“No. But I admit after I heard Alex’s story and read the case, I am curious. It’s an unsolved case. Neither Samir nor Cal Stephenson has been heard of since. The embassy and State Department applied major pressure and no effort was spared, but to-date, nothing.”

“It is an intriguing situation. In today’s world it seems impossible for such a thing to happen, and yet it clearly has. Someone who appears to be a nice man is murdered by his lover who has used him in a plot to kidnap and probably murder a person of a royal family. None of this seems to have been in the press.” Henri pondered.

“It’s still listed as two missing persons cases and one accidental death. That these events are linked is obvious. That the FBI hasn’t been able to track down one or both of the missing persons seems strange.”

“You think it’s more involved than the convoluted plot you describe?”

“Don’t you?”

“Well Thibaud, what can you tell us?” Henri asked.

“I don’t know how relevant my story is. But here goes. Cal Stephenson approached me in the locker room at the college gym. I certainly had noticed him about the campus, he was a big, handsome man. I first saw him more as a rival, but he seemed to steer clear of the students, romantically. And word got out that he was doing Mr. Marcus. Good for Mr. Marcus, he was scoring the campus stud.”

“You say he approached you?” Guy questioned.

“Yes, I was in the locker room after some game or other. Cal leaned against a locker near me as I sat on a bench. He ‘accidentally’ let the towel he was wearing drop to the floor. He was a good looking man, from head to toe, and head to balls, for that matter. He said he had planned a trip to Vermont that weekend and that his ‘date’ had backed out. Would I be interested? It didn’t take a moment to decide. At the very least I’d get off campus for a few days and get some decent food. And there was a very distinct possibility I’d be having a really good time with a hunk of a man.

“On the drive up, Cal told me that he was definitely attracted to me, but had talked to me since I was older than the rest of the students. He was serious about faculty-student relationships, but thought that my age - and probably that I didn’t have parents in the country – made our being together alright. He told me outright about his relationship with Mr. Marcus. He called him ‘Stu’. Hell, we were in Mr. Marcus’s car. He also told me that sometimes he liked to ‘catch’ and that wasn’t Stu’s thing. So he spotted my substantial queue and thought he’d see if I was interested.

“We checked into the hotel and we got down to business. Riding that ass was a life changing experience. He could do pushups with me on top humping his butt. Damn that was a tight ass. He could flex every muscle on his body, even deep in his ass.”

“Ahem,” Henri intruded on Thibaud’s revery.

“But all those muscles don’t make up for being loved, and a chateau, and a place in Paris… Anyway, Cal and I hooked up for a couple of weekends. I never thought anymore about it except that it was a good time and someone else was paying.” Here Henri raised an eyebrow. “Heh, heh, I guess that’s my modus operandi. He was always respectful and caring to me. It doesn’t make any sense that he would kill Mr. Marcus and do who knows what to Samir.”

Alex spoke. “Something you said, just now, it makes some sense. Do you think Cal could have been looking for ‘dating material’ when he used Mr. Marcus’s id to use the computer? He could find out age, country and stuff that way, then check his candidates out in the gym and get what he was needing.” Guy looked at Alex with new respect.

“But what about the hospital? It looks like Cal was the last to see him except the examining doctor.” Thibaud’s interest had caught.

“There was that other unidentified ‘doctor’. Anesthesia takes a while to kick in. Maybe she gave Mr. Marcus the extra hit.” Guy shared.

“But where is Cal Stephenson? For that matter where is Samir? There ought to have at least been a body. So far nothing. I guess we’re at the same dead end. Thanks Thibaud. I’m sorry to have dragged you into this for nothing.”

“Au contraire, I’ve been reliving some of the best sex of my life and these are thoughts I intend to take straight to the bedroom. Henri, you look like you need to go to bed…”

***

They spent two more days luxuriating with Thibaud and Henri, but thought it better to remove themselves from further temptation – theirs and Thibaud’s – and continue their tour of Provence. While they discussed the case over and over, they made no further progress. They did, however, sample of the delights of France and of each other.