One Night In Provence. Barbara Wallace

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СКАЧАТЬ “but would you care for some assistance?”

      Ho. Ly. Cow. Shirley would be choking on her champagne right now. Jenna nearly did. She was looking at quite possibly the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen. He stood at the ready in a double-breasted suit similar to what the other hotel managers wear wearing, looking like someone plucked him from a hotel brochure. In fact, Château de Beauchamp should put him in the brochure; they’d probably triple their reservation rate. Who knew jaws that chiseled existed in real life?

      Granted, he was a tad on the lean side, but then who needed muscles when you could wear a suit with style and had eyes the color of the fields outside?

      And...she was staring. As though she’d never seen a handsome man before.

      Not this handsome, a voice whispered in her head.

      He knew he was handsome, too. She could tell from the way he smiled, his teeth all white and perfect.

      “Your camera,” he said in heavily-accented English. “I couldn’t help noticing your frustration. I would be glad to take your photograph, if you’d like. You are trying to take a photo in front of the lavender, are you not?”

      From the way he focused all his attention on her, you would think there was nothing else he would rather do than help her with her vacation shots. Her stomach fluttered, and she had to remind herself this was France’s—or rather the Merchant Hotel chain’s—version of five-star service.

      “Thank you,” she said. “I’m afraid I don’t have the selfie trick down yet.”

      “That is a good thing, is it not? Means you’re busy looking at things other than yourself.”

      Smooth, the way he threw in the compliment. “I’m trying to break that habit on this trip. My friend Shirley was unable to come, so I want to document everything so I can show her when I get home.”

      “Well, you won’t find a better backdrop in all of Provence than this one right here,” he replied. “Why don’t you stand by the rail? The view is its most breathtaking up close.”

      Jenna would call him biased, except that he might be right. She’d never seen so much color in one place. Maybe it was an effect brought on by the champagne, but everything seemed more vivid here. The lavender’s purple deeper, the sunflowers’ gold more brilliant. Even the mountains, with their shadows, looked like they were bathed in blue and green.

      “You’re American,” her photographer noted. “Is this your first visit to Château de Beauchamp?”

      “Yes, it is.” First time to the château. First time to France. First time outside the United States since spring break in college. “I couldn’t resist the idea of staying in a real-life castle. Especially one that’s a thousand years old. America wasn’t even a gleam in Columbus’s eye then.”

      “I hate to disappoint you, but you’ve been shortchanged by a few hundred years.”

      “What do you mean?”

      He joined her at the railing. As he eased his way around the chair, Jenna noted the fluid grace with which he moved. Like water rounding a bend.

      “This isn’t the original castle,” he told her.

      “But the brochure said the Château de Beauchamp had stood watch over the valley since the eleventh century. Were they making that up?” If the hotel misled her, she was going to be really ticked off.

      “A Château de Beauchamp has stood guard,” he replied. “Just not this one. The original fell into ruin sometime in the sixteenth century. If you look beyond that clump of trees to the right, you’ll see the remains of the tower.”

      A gold signet ring on his pinkie finger glittered in the sun as he pointed. Squinting, Jenna made out the peaks of toppled stone.

      “The d’Usay family built this as a replacement. They called it the Château Neuf.”

      “So I’m staying in a five-hundred-year-old castle instead of a thousand-year-old one.”

      “I trust you’re not too disappointed?”

      “I’ll survive.”

      “I hope so. It would be a shame if you were left unsatisfied.”

      Damn, if the double entendre didn’t send a quiver through her. If it was a double entendre. The jet lag had thrown her instincts off.

      “Have you taken the tour?” he asked.

      “Not yet.” A castle tour was one of the suggested itinerary items listed in her information package, but Jenna had yet to book anything. She’d told Shirley it was because she wanted to be spontaneous, but really it was because she’d been too busy before departure. “I thought I’d take a day and soak in the atmosphere first.”

      “You should, if only to appreciate the atmosphere in which you are soaking. Did you know, for example, that the wine cellar doubled as a meeting locale for les Compagnies du Soleil during the White Terror?”

      “The white what?”

      “When members of the region took revenge on those who supported the revolution. That would be our revolution, by the way,” he added. A dimple in his left cheek punctuated his cheeky grin.

      “You mean they were rebelling against the rebellion?” she asked.

      “We prefer to think of it as an attempt to preserve tradition. And perhaps their heads.”

      “No, they definitely wouldn’t want to lose those.” She wondered how many women had lost their heads over this guy. She’d met men like him before. Players, albeit not as suave.

      Or as handsome, the voice reminded her.

      Men like him were the worst, because they tricked you. Most poseurs were so obvious you knew not to take them seriously. This kind of guy, however... This was the kind of guy who sucked you in with their smoothness, leading you to believe he were sincerely interested in more than sex. Next thing you knew, you were spending your life like a puppet, dancing a jig every time he jerked your string.

      This guy looked like someone who pulled a lot of strings.

      He leaned an elbow against the rail, allowing his eyes to lock with Jenna’s. “Speak for yourself, mademoiselle. Sometimes losing your head can be rather fun.”

      “Not in my experience,” Jenna replied.

      “Perhaps you haven’t had the right experience.”

      If she were in Nantucket, this would be the point where she told him to take a hike. Instead, whether it was the jet lag, the champagne on an empty stomach or the heady French atmosphere, she found herself leaning into his gaze. The hue was far deeper and richer than she realized. More blue-violet than purple, making them even more unique. And captivating...

      “How did they make out? The rebels against the rebellion. Did they keep their heads?” she asked him.

      “You’ll have to take the tour to find out.” The dimple reappeared. “Unless you would СКАЧАТЬ