CHAPTER ONE

ONE MONTH LATER

Sophie sighed as she looked out of the window, listening to the man next to her talk about something or another. Since the...accident, her uncle Max Tarconi, the only remaining family she had, had come from France to take care of her, at least until she turned eighteen and went back to the States for college. Strangely, she wasn't all that upset that he was taking her back to France with him. She had always wanted to go there, and since she had gotten released from the hospital she hadn't had much of a life anyway. She had locked herself into her room and had refused any human contact for almost two weeks, and crying herself to sleep every night. She hadn't started school with everybody else either. Finally, after a particularly bad day on which she had refused to get out of bed, the housekeeper had forcibly extracted Sophie from her haven and made her sit outside. Then, a week later, she was informed she would be moving to France since her uncle couldn't leave his job. And now she was on a plane heading for Marseilles, tuning out her uncle's stories about what a wonderful place it was. Some turbulence jolted her from her thoughts.

"…before you start school. Would you like that?"

She turned her head and looked at him. "Sorry, what?"

He sighed. "Would you like to rest and get used to France for a month before you start school?"

"Oh…yes, that would be wonderful."

Tarconi leaned into the plush backing of his seat and smiled, satisfied that his niece had said more than three words at once to him. They hadn't really connected yet. "I would like to stop somewhere before we head to the hotel."

"Where are we going?" Sophie asked, now interested.

"I want to visit an old friend, actually. He is the son of my old partner."

Sophie nodded and resumed looking out of the oblong slab of glass until the plane landed.

After an hour of baggage claims and airport security procedures, uncle and niece emerged into the bright sunlight of southern France. Sophie took a moment to breathe and look at her surroundings before sitting in the car and driving with her uncle to the residence of his mysterious friend.

Forty-five minutes later, the old four-door pulled onto the gated the driveway of a Spanish-looking villa. She stepped out of the car and stretched her long legs, clad in dark jeans. Standing up, she caught her first glimpse of Frank Martin.

He came walking out of the door with his arms crossed and a friendly smirk on his handsome face. He was wearing a rich-colored dress shirt and black slacks, confidence practically radiating off of him. What caught her attention the most, however, were his eyes. They were the kind of eyes that caught you off guard. Light blue, friendly, but at the same time held a reserved self assurance. Next to those, she noticed his sculpted features. All in all, Frank Martin was the epitome of rugged handsomeness.

"Good to see you Frank," her uncle said.

"You too." They talked quietly for a minute until Frank turned his attention to Tarconi's niece. "Who's this?"

"Ah, this would be my niece Sophie. She will be living with me until college," Max said, looking at her with something resembling pride. "Sophie, Frank Martin, Frank, Sophie Jones." They shook hands, Sophie's many bracelets jingling, and she couldn't help but notice how strong his hand felt. "Now, what do you have to eat?" he asked, though not altogether jokingly.

Frank laughed, a full, rich sound. His visitors followed him into the kitchen. The three ate lunch in relative silence, only the occasional jumbled phrase coming out of her uncle's full mouth. For a French man, he didn't have a lot of restraint when it came to cuisine. Finally, the food was gone, and Frank and Max resumed talking after Frank had given Max and himself a glass of wine; Sophie got an Orangina, and somehow that irked her. Frank noticed her snatch up the can with something resembling annoyance, and merely raised an eyebrow. Sophie almost scowled. Didn't everyone, including kids, drink wine in this country?

After finishing the wine, Frank and Max walked out into the garage. Sophie knew that the excuse they had given her, that they were going to discuss 'old times' was a load of crap. Frank couldn't have been more that twenty, and a twenty year could not afford to live in such lavish surroundings unless they had inherited a family fortune or were involved in some illegal activity, and since she knew that his father was a police officer, the first option was ruled out.

And so Sophie sat, staring at her drink, and contemplating why she felt so annoyed at the fact that she didn't have Frank Martin figured out, and wondering what her life would be like from now on. Her thoughts led her to memories of her previous life, and the person she was before the accident. She was carefree and giggly, always around people and the center of attention. People were drawn to her not because she popular by being a bitch, but because she was truly and genuinely nice. Being raised in privileged surrounding and without a mother hadn't done anything to lessen her good attitude toward life or to turn her into a selfish brat. But that was all gone now, and she knew it was her fault; she was driving the car when the accident happened so it was her fault her father was dead. Her way of dealing with it was locking herself in her room and doing something she had never thought she would do.

A couple of days after being released from the hospital, she had hobbled into her father's room in tears, overcome with emotions. She had plopped down onto the huge bed and stared around the room, remembering past times and such. Then she spotted the bathroom door; it was open a crack. She remembered how she used to sneak into the oversize Jacuzzi when her dad was out of town and soak for hours. She had stumbled into the bathroom and regarded the marble tub with cold eyes. Then she had turned on the water; when it was filled, she had climbed in and submerged herself until she couldn't breathe. Unfortunately, the housekeeper had barged in before Sophie drowned. The portly middle-aged woman had been livid. For the next week, she subjected her charge to constant scrutiny. One night, Sophie walked to the bathroom again and had stolen an unused razor. That night was the first night she had cut herself; the pain had brought blessed relief from the constant guilt and grief. It felt as if from having something acute to concentrate on, she could dull the mental and emotional pain. However, the next morning she had been terrified of what would happen if she was found out, so she started wearing long-sleeved shirts more and more often, along with as many bracelets as could fit on her wrist.

To make matters worse, her friends would not give up trying to see her. Everyday they came; before driving home from the up scale prep school that Sophie had attended in the expensive cars that had been given to them by their rich parents. But Sophie was adamant that she be kept alone, so pretty soon, her former friends and classmates had stopped talking to her altogether. And then there was the scar. It was huge and glaring, on her upper leg. It was a constant reminder of the accident, which had been what caused it. Every time she changed, or limped instead of walked, her mind replayed the horrible last moments of her father's death.

Sophie took the last sip of her drink and rested her head in her hand. Then it occurred to her that she hadn't even bothered to look around the room. She threw the can away and started walking around the living room and turned in a full circle, taking in the sight of the room. The bookcase was what caught her eye, and she walked over to it. Reading the many titles, she came upon a very old leather-bound book. Taking it off the shelf, she realized what the title was. The Once and Future King; she grimaced. It had been her father's favorite book. Sighing deeply, Sophie made her way over to the couch and sat down, opening the aging book. After five minutes of reading, she returned the book to its rightful place. She was so immersed in browsing all of the titles that she didn't hear Frank approach.

Frank took his time to observe the young girl in front of him. Despite being only sixteen, she was already mature enough to be considered a woman, and her body helped that. She was medium height, slim but curvy, and endowed with long legs. Her skin was the tanned shade that most girls from California had, but it was now considerably paler since she had spent the last three weeks inside. Her eyes were a deep brown, and her chestnut brown hair hung below her shoulder-blades.

By the time he realized he was staring, she was reaching up to take another book. Amused with the fact that she was reading his father's most precious possessions, he waited to see which one she would choose. She reached up to retrieve a copy of Anna Karenina, making her bracelets slide further up her arm, exposing her wrists. Frank's mouth opened slightly at the sight of several angry red welts on the delicate skin of her wrists. He cleared his throat slightly and Sophie jumped, her hand flying to her throat. Frank stared at her, hard.

She stared back at him suspiciously. Then she realized that his eyes kept darting to her bracelets. Suddenly her hands felt clammy; he must have seen the cuts when she was getting the book. But that meant that he had been standing there for quite a while, and that made Sophie none too thrilled. She was even less thrilled at the prospect of Uncle Max finding out what she had been doing when she was locked up in her room.

"What?" she finally snapped, crossing her arms.

Frank looked at her sharply. He had just seen something that had completely surprised him, something that no one should have been doing, and she was yelling at him? He usually didn't hold any stock in the popular belief that Americans were forward, but this girl was proving to be just that.

"Why the bracelets?" he asked.

Sophie narrowed her eyes; he knew perfectly well why she wore her bracelets. Deciding not to dignify the query with a response, she brushed past him, but he grabbed her arm. She ripped it from him, but this time he took her right wrist in both of his hands and pushed the bracelets back. There were countless red marks there.

Seeing him staring at her skin like that, with pity and something resembling outrage, she began to get scared. "Why?" he muttered. Jerking her hand away, she practically ran from the room and out to Max Tarconi's car.

Frank didn't go after her, sensing that she needed some alone time. But he was worried. What had driven her to such an extreme? And he was at a loss. If he told Max what was going on, he would have to no doubt deal with the brunt of a teenaged girl's anger. If he kept it a secret, he would have to live with the knowledge that he had known that a girl was hurting herself and that he hadn't done anything about it. In the end, he decided that it wasn't his business, and that what would happen would also remain none of his business. Still, he felt a sense of dread for the American girl that he had just met.

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Max Tarconi walked out to his car. He saw Sophie huddled in the front seat with her arms around her and tears streaming down her cheeks. He had told Frank a hasty good-bye before running out to comfort his bereaved niece. Climbing into the car, he didn't know how to act. He had never done well with crying females, especially young ones. Still, he wrapped his arms around Sophie and to his relief she didn't pull away.

Sobbing onto the shoulder of the only family she had left, Sophie knew that she couldn't face people yet. She just wasn't ready to meet new people and start a new life when she was still not over the tragedy of the one she had lost.

"Don't make me go to school," she sobbed, her body shaking. "Please don't make me go to school."

"Sshhh," her uncle soothed. "You don't have to go anywhere if you don't want to."

Sophie stopped crying just as they reached Max's house.