Saint and the Templar Treasure Read Online Free PDF Page A

from a holiday to a movie. Simon had little doubt that Mimette Florian would be an enjoyable experience, and none whatsoever that she lived up to the word’s true definition of beautiful and attractive.
    The mental picture he had carried with him since their near miss on the road paled beside the original. Her plain dress of green cotton highlighted the grace of her figure without revealing it. She walked with the litheness of youth, but there was a confidence and authority about her that suggested a maturity beyond her years. Her hair curled as it touched her shoulders and framed a face that needed no cosmetics to enhance its appeal. But it was her eyes that held the Saint’s attention. They were at the same time the wide wondering eyes of a child and the dark secretive eyes of a worldly woman.
    The man Gaston looked old enough to be her grandfather, but the way in which he waited for her to speak and stood a respectful half a pace behind immediately stamped the relationship as one of employer and employee. Dressed in homespun breeches of old-fashioned cut, heavy workman’s boots, and a black unbuttoned waistcoat over his striped shirt, he was the perfect prototype of a vanishing tradition of life-long family retainer. Years of working in the open had burned his face to the colour and texture of worn leather, yet the lines that were the legacy of at least half a century of toil were offset by eyes that were as bright and clear as the sky.
    The girl asked Pascal: “What happened?”
    Her voice was as devoid of emotion as if she had been asking the time. The Saint gave her full marks for self-control.
    Pascal rapidly explained how the Saint had only been giving them a lift, and told her the story from the time they had spotted the smoke to how the Saint had rescued the truck. As he spoke of the two arsonists the old man’s eyes glittered and his lips framed words he was too well trained to utter in the presence of a lady. Mimette listened calmly, the only sign of her thoughts being the compression of her lips and a hardening of her eyes. When Pascal had finished she turned to the Saint.
    “We are in your debt, monsieur. You must let us repay you for your trouble.”
    She spoke as if she were addressing a tradesman who had performed a special favour, but her gaze held on the Saint’s face and she seemed a little disconcerted by what she saw there.
    Simon smiled and bowed with an air that was more mocking than obsequious and did more than any words could have done to take him out of the pigeonhole she had allotted to him.
    “My mother told me never to accept money from strange women,” he said solemnly. He spread out his hands so that the handkerchief wrapping was visible. “But I’d be grateful for a chance to clean up and put something on this.”
    “Why didn’t you tell me the gentleman was hurt, Pascal?” she said sternly.
    Before the youth could answer the Saint intervened, his face serious but his voice bantering.
    “I’ve always fancied myself as the strong silent type but it is just a little painful.”
    In fact it was not hurting too much, but he felt that the circumstances permitted a slight exaggeration. He had no intention of being patted on the head and sent on his way, when he had such a ready-made pretext for developing the acquaintance. And he had an idea that for all her attitude of stoical authority Mimette might prove a very sympathetic nurse.
    Gaston told her almost too helpfully: “If you want to take him to the chateau, mademoiselle, I and the others will take care of everything here. Although there is really almost nothing to be done.”
    The fire was too solidly established by then for amateur extinguishing. It would have to burn itself out until it exhausted the contents of the barn and failed to make an impression on the stone walls. Mimette saw the sense of the old man’s words and sighed.
    “Yes, I suppose you are right, Gaston,” she said, and there was more than a hint of