French Escape: From Daredevil to Devoted Daddy / One Week with the French Tycoon / It Happened in Paris.... Barbara McMahon

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      “It smells as good as the bakery in here,” Matt said from the doorway.

      She looked up and frowned. “If you sit at one of the tables in the dining area, I’ll bring your breakfast out in a moment.” She’d set the tables the night before to save one step in the morning. The two tables by the windows overlooked the garden. As he was first down, he’d have his choice of places in the dining area.

      “This is fine.” He crossed the floor and sat at their small family table by the windows in the nook. She frowned at his presumption. This was family space. Still, it was early—maybe he didn’t want to sit alone in the dining room if she was working here. She could more easily make sure he had everything he needed.

      Setting a basket of assorted warm breads and croissants on the table, she asked if he preferred coffee or hot chocolate, annoyed at her rationalization.

      “Chocolate. Extra sugar and energy,” he said.

      Jeanne-Marie brought an assortment of jams and jellies and placed them on the table. “I’ll have your drink ready in a moment.”

      She returned to preparing more bread for her other guests, keeping an eye on the baguettes baking. Timing was not as easy with one guest eating well in advance of the others, but some of the breads would be just as good cold as hot, and she always had plenty left over to use for the box lunches.

      She did her best to ignore her unwanted visitor. Normally she had the kitchen to herself. Alexandre didn’t waken until eight most mornings. She loved the quiet time preparing the breakfasts and enjoying her own cup of chocolate. Today she felt self-conscious with Matt’s dark eyes tracking her every move.

      “The more I learn about you, the more I’m convinced you’re not making the most of your talent,” he said.

      She flicked him a glance. “Like what?” she asked.

      “Your meals are fantastic. You could make a fortune opening a restaurant.”

      “I told you, I like my life the way it is. It’s not all about making money.”

      “Money is always helpful.”

      Stopping for a moment, she looked at him. “Money can buy things. If things are what you want. It can’t buy back a lost life.”

      That was true. He’d give all his fortune for things to have turned out differently two years ago. Had he been driving, would his reflexes have been better than Marabelle’s? Could the accident have been avoided?

      She couldn’t help flicking a glance his way from time to time. His eyes met hers each time. Didn’t he have someplace else to look? The view wasn’t as good as from the dining room window, but he could see the garden if he sat in another chair.

      “So today you again risk life and limb,” she commented, wanting the topic to shift from her.

      “Hardly. Merely a climb.” His eyes studied her speculatively.

      Jeanne-Marie felt her heart skip a beat. Frowning, she turned slightly so looking up wouldn’t mean she’d instantly meet his gaze.

      “If you climbed to the top yesterday, you saw the view. What drives you today? “

      “Today I take on a different climb.”

      She shrugged. “Same view from the top.”

      “Have you ever seen it?”

      She nodded. “Sure, many times. There’s an access road that winds along the top of Les Calanques. The scenery is spectacular. And that’s a much safer way to see it.”

      “But not as challenging.”

      “Perhaps men and women are wired differently. I have no desire to spend hours clinging to a sheer face of rock.”

      “What do you like spending hours doing?” he asked.

      She looked up, smiling shyly. “I love to bake. And so I indulge myself with homemade breads and rolls and sometimes a special dessert I can serve for special occasions like La Victoire de 1945 coming up.”

      The buzzer sounded. The last of the breads was finished. She lined the bread baskets with fresh linen napkins and began dishing jellies and jams into individual serving bowls to place on each table. In twenty minutes, she’d begin brewing the coffee and make sure she had lots of chocolate ready for those who wished that.

      Daring to find out more about her guest, she took her own mug of hot chocolate and leaned against the kitchen island looking at him as she sipped the fragrant beverage. “Do you have family who wonders why you climb?” she asked.

      “Of course I have family. And a cousin who often goes with me. Not everyone dies who climbs.”

      “I know that. Phillipe’s father actually taught him. It was an activity they enjoyed together. But he wasn’t on the K2 climb that proved fatal.”

      “Lots of people climb for the sheer exhilaration, not just men. And most never have a more serious mishap than scraped knuckles or at worst a broken bone,” he said. He rose and carried his mug across the kitchen, ending up close enough to invade her space. For a moment she felt her breath catch and hold. She wanted to move away, but she was hemmed in and didn’t want to show how nervous he made her. She was almost thirty years old, far too old to feel this way.

      “I’d like the box lunch special,” he said, leaning almost close enough to kiss her.

      Kiss her? Where had that thought come from?

      For an instant the words didn’t register. Jeanne-Marie was mesmerized. She could smell his scent, fresh and clean like the forest after a rain. She saw the tiny lines radiating from the edge of his eyes, the smooth cheeks recently shaved. She could feel the leashed energy that was appealing and fascinating in the same instant. And still see that hurt in his eyes. Now she knew what caused it; she’d seen a similar pain in her own.

      Suddenly aware of the seconds that had ticked by she slid a step to the side, breaking eye contact. “Of course,” she said, turning to take one of the fresh baguettes from the rack. Her hands trembled slightly and her breathing still felt off. Every inch of her skin quivered with awareness. He still stood too close. He unnerved her. Made her aware of her own femininity as she hadn’t felt it in years.

      Quickly making a sandwich, she wrapped it. Then she assembled the cookies, apple and packaged juice, stashing them in one of her lunch boxes, with a picture of her inn and the sea wrapping around the edges. She turned and thrust it at him.

      “Don’t litter,” she warned. “The conservationists will know exactly where it came from if you do.”

      “Is that the reason for the picture?” he asked, studying the box a moment, then looking at her again.

      “Some people like to take the boxes home and use them for keepsakes—a reminder of their stay here. I had one couple buy a dozen empty boxes to take home to use when giving gifts to family.”

      “Good idea. I’ll see you later.” He turned and left without another word.

      Jeanne-Marie felt СКАЧАТЬ