One Night In Provence. Barbara Wallace

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СКАЧАТЬ he used to own the castle? No, she would have told him to get lost, because no one owned castles.

      “I rest my case,” he said after she answered. “And then you and I would not have had the opportunity to spend time together. So in the end, my lie of omission was a good thing.”

      “I’m not sure I’d use the word good,” Jenna replied. It was meant to be a grumble, but the corners of her mouth insisted on curving upward.

      “But not entirely bad, either, no?”

      Much as she hated to admit it, he was right. “No, not entirely bad.”

      “Merci, ma chère.” He smiled down through his lashes, the purple a dash darker than before.

      That’s when Jenna realized they were still holding hands. Lightly, but Philippe’s grip had enough firmness to cause a flutter of awareness. Warmth spread to her cheeks.

      “Could I...?” She dropped her gaze down to their hands.

      “But of course.” He released her, stuffing his hands into his back pockets. Her palm suddenly feeling naked, Jenna had to settle for running a hand over the back of her hair.

      “Now, tell me,” he said. “What is it that has you running out of my house in the middle of your tour?”

      Her headache. In her surprise, she’d nearly forgotten the reason she was sneaking away from the tour in the first place. “I wasn’t running,” she told him. “I was heading to the gift shop in search of water and aspirin. No offense, but your lavender gave me a headache.”

      “None taken,” he replied. “The aroma can be overpowering if you are not used to it. But there’s no need to go all the way to the gift shop. Come with me.”

      “Where are we going?” She glanced over her shoulder. Philippe was guiding her past the stairs to a corridor, the end of which was also blocked by a velvet rope.

      “To the kitchen to get you a glass of water,” he said.

      “But...my tour.”

      “Will carry on without you,” he said. “I will make sure you meet up with them in time to return to the hotel.”

      She glanced over her shoulder. The group must have moved to another room; she could no longer hear the guide’s chirp. “Aspirin and water. No more.”

      “Absolutely, ma chère,” he replied. “You have my word.”

      Said the man who’d already misled her once. Apparently Jenna had left her common sense in America, because she followed him anyway.

      * * *

      The kitchen was out of a French countryside fantasy. Big and airy, with an abundance of copper pots and pans. There was a battered butcher-block table and gleaming stainless steel appliances. The stove alone, Jenna decided, would eat up her entire kitchen back home.

      The air smelled of fresh bread and lemons. A wonderful change from the floral notes she’d been breathing all morning. “Were you baking?” she asked.

      “That would be the fougasse. My housekeeper, Henrietta, makes a point of baking it whenever I visit the house. Would you care for some?”

      “Depends. What is it?”

      “Only a slice of heaven wrapped in a golden crust,” he said with a laugh. “Sit down and I will get you your aspirin. Henrietta keeps a bottle in the cupboard.”

      Jenna did as she was told, settling herself on the bench while Philippe opened and closed cabinet doors. A part of her still couldn’t quite believe he owned the château, despite his obvious comfort with the surroundings.

      “Do you come here often?” she asked. The corniness of her question struck her, and she nearly rolled her eyes at her own lameness. “I meant the house. The guide mentioned that you don’t live here full-time.”

      “She is correct. I have an apartment in Arles, near our executive offices.”

      “I’m surprised.”

      “Success! It was with the spices.” He held up a bottle of white tablets. Taking the bottle, Jenna saw the label read aspirine.

      “Why are you surprised?” he asked.

      “Considering how poetic you were about the countryside yesterday, I would have thought you’d spend as much time here as possible.”

      “I also appreciate a fine Beaujolais, but I would get bored drinking it every evening. I much prefer the variety of the city. One can only sit around and listen to the drone of the bees for so long.”

      He returned with a glass of ice water and an earthenware platter on which Jenna saw a flatbread sculpted to look like an ear of wheat. Sitting next to her, he immediately tore off a chunk and offered it to her. “I promise, you will not be disappointed.”

      “And if I am?”

      “Then you have no soul.”

      Jenna tasted the bread. The warm crust broke away to reveal a soft inside that tasted of rosemary and orange.

      “See? I told you,” he said, tearing off a piece for himself. “No one makes fougasse like Henrietta.”

      For a few moments, they ate in silence. Whether it was the aspirin or the change in aromas or both, Jenna could feel her headache receding. Food helped, too, just as Philippe suggested. Every so often she stole a look sideways to watch him. He didn’t eat the bread; he experienced it. His eyes would close and a contented smile would curl his lips upward as he savored each bite. The sight was almost as pleasurable as tasting the bread.

      A thought struck her. “Why were you certain we’d see each other again? When you were on the stairs, you said you knew we’d meet again.”

      He was in mid-savor when she asked her question, so he pried open one eye. “What can I say? I believe in fate. And...” A hint of pink crept into his cheeks. “I may have asked the front desk to call me when you signed up for the hotel excursion.”

      “What?” No wonder the girl at the desk kept smiling at her. She was in on the joke.

      “I did not want to take a chance on missing your visit. Tours come and go all day long.”

      “So you asked for advance information.”

      “I prefer to think of it as arranging for fate to be on my side.”

      Jenna narrowed her eyes. “You could have called my room and asked me.”

      “But that would have spoiled the surprise. And you were surprised, no?”

      “Hmm.” She continued to stare at him with narrowed eyes. Honest to God, she’d never heard of someone doing such a thing. Asking a clerk to tip him off. Certainly no one interested in her had ever gone to such lengths. “You’re incorrigible. You know that, right?”

       “Oui.”

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