Rags To Riches: A Desire To Serve. Janice Maynard

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ

      “I said I’ll be in the adjoining suite.”

      The last of the delicious image fizzled as Grace watched her husband open a connecting door. The bedroom beyond wasn’t as large or as decadent as that of the Green Suite, but it did boast another four-poster and a marble fireplace big enough to roast an ox.

      “It’s almost noon Saint-Rémy time,” Blake said after a quick glance at his watch. “If you’re not too jet-lagged, we could reconvene in a half hour and walk into town for lunch.”

      “That works for me.”

      Calling herself an idiot for staring at the door long after it closed behind him, Grace extracted her toiletries from her tote bag and carried them into a bathroom fit for a queen. Or at least a royal mistress.

      * * *

      Maybe it was the glorious sun that sucked away her sense of awkwardness. Or the lazy, protracted lunch she and Blake shared at a dime-size table cornered next to a bubbling fountain. Or the two glasses of perfectly chilled rosé produced by a vineyard right outside Saint-Rémy.

      Then again, it might have been Blake’s obvious efforts to keep the conversation light and noncontroversial. He made no reference to the circumstances of their marriage or Grace’s adamant refusal to betray her cousin’s trust. As a consequence, she felt herself relaxing for the first time in longer than she could remember.

      The still-raw ache of her cousin’s death shifted to a corner of her heart. Jack Petrie, Oklahoma City, even Molly moved off center stage. Not completely, and certainly not for long. Yet these hours in the sun provided a hiatus from the worry she’d carted around for so many months. That was the only excuse she could come up with later for the stupidity that followed.

      It happened during the walk back to their hôtel. Blake indulged her with a stroll through the town’s pedestrian-only center, stopping repeatedly while she oooh’ed and aaaah’ed over shop windows displaying Provence’s wares. One window was filled with colorful baskets containing every imaginable spice and herb. Another specialized in soaps and scented oils. Hundreds of soaps and oils. Delighted, Grace went inside and sniffed at products made from apple pear, lemon, peony, vanilla, honey almond and, of course, lavender. A dazzling display of stoppered vials offered bath oils and lotions in a rainbow of hues.

      The clerk obviously knew her business. She sized up the diamonds circling Grace’s finger in a single glance. With a knowing look, she produced a cut-crystal vial from a shelf behind the counter.

      “Madame must try this. It is a special blend made only for our shop.”

      When she removed the stopper, an exquisitely delicate aroma drifted across the counter. Lavender and something else that Grace couldn’t quite identify.

      “The perfumers extract oil from the buds before they blossom. The fragrance is light, oui? So very light and yet, how do you say? So sensuelle.”

      She waved the stopper in the air to release more of its bouquet. Grace leaned forward, breathing deeply. She knew then that whatever else happened in this marriage, she would always associate the scent of lavender with sunshine and brilliant skies and the smile crinkling the skin at the corners of Blake’s eyes as he watched her sniffing the air.

      He didn’t remain an observer for long. Sensing a sale, the shopkeeper dipped the stopper again. “Here, monsieur, you must dab some on your wife’s wrist. The oil takes on a richer tone when applied to the skin.”

      With a good-natured nod, Blake took the stopper in one hand and reached for Grace’s wrist with the other. His hold was loose, easy. As light as it was, though, the touch sent a ripple of pleasure along her nerves. The ripple swelled to a tidal wave when he raised her arm to a mere inch or so from his nose.

      “She’s right,” he murmured. The blue in his eyes deepened as he caught Grace’s gaze. “The warmth of your skin deepens the scent.”

      Warmth? Ha! She’d passed mere warmth the moment his fingers circled her wrist. And if he kept looking at her like that, she suspected she would spontaneously combust in the next five seconds.

      Thankfully, the shop clerk claimed his attention. The distraction proved only temporary, however. Eager for a sale, the woman urged another test.

      “Dab a little dab behind your wife’s ear, monsieur. It is of all places the most seductive.”

      Grace’s internal alarm went off like a klaxon. Every scrap of common sense she possessed urged her to decline the second sample. The sun and the wine and this man’s touch were bringing her too close to the melting point. So she was damned if she knew why she just stood there and let Blake brush aside her hair.

      The crystal stopper was cool and damp against the skin just below her earlobe. An instant later, her husband’s breath seared that same patch of skin. Their only physical contact point was the hand caging back her hair. If the shock that went though her was any indication, however, they might have been locked together at chest and hip and thigh. Thoroughly shaken, Grace took a step back.

      The abrupt move brought Blake’s head up with a snap. He didn’t need to see the confusion on his wife’s face to know he’d crossed the line.

      The line he’d been stupid enough to draw! He was the one who’d assured her they would work things out. He’d spouted that inane drivel about giving their arrangement time.

      To hell with waiting. He ached to drag Grace out of the shop, hustle her back to The Elms and strip her down to the warm, perfumed flesh that was sending his senses into dangerous overload.

      “Monsieur?”

      The shop clerk’s voice cut through his red haze. Before Blake could bring the woman into focus, he had to exercise the iron will that allowed him to appear calm before judges and juries.

      She finally appeared, smiling and eager. “Do you wish to purchase a vial for your so-lovely wife?”

      God, yes!

      At his nod, she whipped out a sales slip. “Do you stay here in Saint-Rémy?”

      He knew his address would up the asking price by at least half but was beyond caring. “We’re at Hôtel des Elmes.”

      Her glance sharpened. “Ahhh. I recognize you now. You came to Saint-Rémy last year, oui? With… Er…” She broke off, then recovered after an infinitesimal pause. “With your so very charming mother.”

      Riiiight. Blake seriously doubted his twin had timed a visit to the villa to coincide with one of their mother’s protracted stays. Alex and Delilah were both obviously well-known in town, however, so he didn’t bother to correct the clerk’s misconception.

      “We’ll take a bottle of that scent.”

      Beaming, she rattled off the price for a three-ounce bottle. He was reaching for his money clip when Grace gave a strangled gasp.

      “Did you say two hundred euros?”

      “Oui, madame.”

      “Two hundred euros?”

      “Oui.”

      “That’s like…”

      Blake СКАЧАТЬ