He thought of how he’d stood on the beach, alone, peaceful for the first time in months, and how clumsily she had destroyed that moment. He wouldn’t forgive her for that.

From this high point on the hill overlooking Monte Carlo, Amos Falcon could see the bay but, unlike his son, he failed to notice the beauty of the sea. His attention was all for the buildings on the slope, tall, magnificent, speaking of money, though none spoke so loudly as his own house, a sprawling, three-storey edifice, bought because it dominated its surroundings.

It was money and the need to protect it that had first brought him to this tax haven years ago. He’d started life poor in a rundown mining town in the north of England, and got out fast. Working night and day, he’d built up a fortune of his own, helped by marrying a woman with wealth, and he’d left England for a more friendly tax regimen as soon as he could, determined that no government would be allowed to rob him of his gains.

‘Where the devil is he?’ he muttered crossly. ‘It’s not like Darius to be late. He knows I want him here before the others.’

Janine, his third wife, a well-preserved woman in her fifties with a kind face and a gentle manner, laid a hand on his arm.

‘He’s a busy man,’ she said. ‘His company is in trouble-’

‘Everyone’s company is in trouble,’ Amos growled. ‘He should be able to deal with it. I’ve taught him well.’

‘Perhaps you spent too much time teaching him,’ she suggested. ‘He’s your son, not just a business associate to be instructed.’

‘He’s no business associate of mine,’ Amos said. ‘I said I’d taught him well, but he never quite learned how to take the final, necessary step.’