One Night In Provence

“Happens to all families, eventually.” His frown sharpened momentarily, only to disappear just as quickly. Once again he was the charming flirt from the terrace. “So let us talk about more pleasant topics. Such as dinner. Would you care to join me this evening?”

So smooth. Such polish. Jenna had no doubt he would pull out all the stops and that dinner would be a romantic, seductive affair. Designed to melt her heart and inhibitions.

“There aren’t rules about fraternizing with guests?” she asked, pretty sure that he wouldn’t care if there were.

Sure enough. That amused smile from earlier returned to his face, and he shrugged. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

She met his gaze again. Dear Lord, but his eyes sucked you in. She’d bet he made every woman he met feel like the only woman in the world. Until the next woman crossed his path, that was.

“I appreciate the offer, but...” Shirley was going to kill her. “I think I’m going to stay in and order from room service tonight. Alone,” she added, for extra emphasis.

He took the rejection like a pro. “Another time, then. We can have what you Americans call a rain check.”

“Sure.” Like that would happen. “Thank you for the tour.”

“It was my pleasure.” She gasped as he caught her hand and raised it to his lips. “Au revoir, Jenna Brown,” he said, planting a soft kiss on her knuckles. “I look forward to our paths crossing again.”

“Au revoir,” Jenna replied. She stood on the stairs and watched as he strolled away in search of someone else to charm. The first, and likely the only, sexy Frenchman of the trip.

Oh well, she thought, rubbing her knuckles, easy come, easy go.

* * *

Philippe waited until the American disappeared around the corner before heading to the front desk. The petite brown-haired woman—girl, really—straightened with recognition. “Is there something I can do for you?” she asked. Philippe didn’t miss the eagerness sparkling in her eyes, or the way she flipped her hair over her shoulder when she spoke.

“Oui,” he replied. “I was wondering if you might do me a favor... The American, Mademoiselle Brown...”

“Whatever he asks, Nicole, the answer is no.”

Yves St. Dumond, the hotel manager, suddenly appeared in the office doorway. A large man with thickset features and silver hair, he placed a beefy hand on Nicole’s shoulder. “This hotel is not your personal playground, Philippe. If you want to pick up women, go someplace else.”

“I’m hurt.” Philippe pressed a hand to his chest. “Haven’t you known me long enough to know that if I wanted to seduce a guest, I wouldn’t need to bother your staff?” To prove a point, he winked at Nicole, who, on cue, blushed.

“Then what is it you need?”

A distraction. Something—or someone—to keep him from falling into a week-long dark hole.

“It’s August,” he replied.

Yves’s expression immediately softened. “Je suis désolé. I wasn’t thinking. I lost track of the date.”

“So did I. Almost.” In the end, the calendar reminded him, like it always did.

The consistency was almost humorous. Every year he vowed that this would be the year he broke the pattern, but apparently he was a glutton for punishment, because he insisted on returning for harvest every year. How could he not? Harvest remained a tradition in his family—even if he was a family of one. It was the least he could do for his family. His penance for being the last of the d’Usays.

He forced a smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll be out of your hair soon enough.” He just had to survive a few weeks. Come September, the yearning for whatever it was he yearned for would cease and he’d return to his apartment in Arles.

“In the meantime, why are you interested in Mademoiselle Brown? She’s certainly not your usual type.”

“No, she is not.” Philippe preferred shallow women who had expensive tastes and short attention spans. Women like him. Jenna Brown with her copper hair and shorts with tiny whales was as far from his type as he could imagine.

Perhaps that was why he’d noticed her the moment he stepped onto the hotel terrace. Sitting there, getting frustrated with her inability to take a self-portrait. He found that particular lack of skill extremely attractive.

Add what was obviously a sharp mind and dry wit... Yes, she was exactly the distraction he needed. “Nevertheless, I found her very stimulating and would enjoy spending more time with her.”

“Meaning you’ve already spent time with her. Why didn’t you simply ask her to dinner? Wait a moment...” Yves’s eyes widened. “Don’t tell me she turned you down.”

“I believe it is called a rain check,” Philippe replied.

Something else that stirred his interest. There had been obvious attraction in her green eyes, and yet she’d still said no. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman rebuffed his advances. What his looks didn’t accomplish, his name usually did.

And there was what might be the most attractive thing of all about Mademoiselle Brown: she had no clue as to who he was. Their interaction had been based solely on his charm and her interest in their conversation. He found it amazingly refreshing.

“Which brings me back to why I need Nicole’s assistance,” he said. “She’s going to help me cash in my rain check.”

A frisson of anticipation passed through him. He couldn’t wait to see Jenna Brown’s face when their paths crossed again.

CHAPTER TWO

JENNA HAD A HEADACHE. Too much sun and strong floral aroma had left a knot behind her eyes. She needed a glass of water and some pain relievers. Hopefully the word aspirin was the same in French?

Day two of her adventure wasn’t off to a very auspicious start.

She never did eat dinner. She’d fallen into a deep sleep shortly after she returned to her room and woke up before dawn starved and eager to start her adventure. Since Philippe had sounded so enthusiastic about the excursion to Château d’Usay, she took his advice and signed up. Part of her wondered if she’d see him at the front desk when she went downstairs, but the only person she saw was a sweet girl named Nicole who grinned every time Jenna gave her name. She wondered if Philippe had found a dinner companion after they parted ways? Immediately, she pictured a leggy French heiress and felt a prick of annoyance in her stomach. More because she was thinking about Philippe than because of the woman she imagined. It wasn’t like her to dwell on a random stranger. Philippe with his mesmerizing eyes should be no exception.

She had to give him props, though. The tour was as interesting as he’d promised. They began in the greenhouse, where she and other visitors learned about the various varieties and uses for lavender. The d’Usays, they were told, grew lavande fine, or “true” lavender rather than the more popular lavandin.

“The lavandin actually produces more oil per flower,” the guide told them. “The family has a separate property a few kilometers away, which provides the bulk of their harvest. Here at Château d’Usay, however, they continue to grow lavande fine as they always have.”

The family certainly liked to maintain its tradition, didn’t it? Jenna crouched to take a picture of the spiny purple flower up close. The deep purple blossoms reminded her of Philippe’s eyes.

After a visit to the fields, where they were given a lesson on Provençal climate and agriculture, as well as ample photo opportunities, their group made their way across a limestone pavilion to the château itself, the final stop before they visited the lavender store. It was in the fields that the knot had morphed into a full-blown headache. Making matters worse, today’s tour guide had a high-pitched voice that turned into a high pitched squeak whenever she feigned enthusiasm. She must have chirped the phrase, “In the world!” at least a dozen times, her voice piping upward each time.

The group made their way up the front steps, where they found themselves in a large marble entranceway dominated by a large staircase. Several audible sighs could be heard as the temperature dropped several degrees.

Their guide pointed to a portrait guarding the entrance. Simon and Antoinette d’Usay, captured many years after the painting in the castle. Although both had gray hair and were noticeably heavier, their eyes were still sharp and intimidating. “This is Simon and Antoinette d’Usay, who built the château after the First World War. It’s considered one of the finest examples of French Renaissance Revival architecture in the world. I’m sorry, sir, the staircase is off-limits.”

She was talking to one of the older tourists, who had moved too close to the velvet rope blocking the stairs. “Those lead to the family’s private rooms.”

“Does the Comte d’Usay still live here?” someone asked.

“We do not use titles in France. They were eliminated with the revolution. To answer your question, however, Monsieur d’Usay lives most of the year in Arles. Although he does visit from time to time. Now, follow me through these doors. The next room we’ll see is the main salon, or as the family called it, le Salon des Fleurs.”

Jenna hung in the back of the line as the guide led the group through the double doors. No way she was going to handle that voice for the entire tour without taking an aspirin. There had to be something for sale at the store. Surely, she wasn’t the only person to take the tour and suffer from lavender overload.

Her sandals made a tiny squeaking noise on the tile as she turned around.

“Running away, Mademoiselle Brown?” a familiar voice asked.

Philippe? Her ears had to be playing tricks on her. Why would he be touring the mansion? When she looked to her left, however, there he was. Walking down the stairs in a pair of faded jeans and a white linen shirt that gaped ever so nicely. As opposed to her mouth, which simply gaped. What on earth?

He grinned, the dimple in full bloom. “Didn’t I tell you our paths would cross again?”

“Yes, but how did...?” Wait a second. Jenna rewound her thoughts. He was coming down the stairs. Where the family stayed.

“No way,” she said. “You can’t be...”

“Can’t be what?” Stepping off the bottom step, he sidestepped the velvet barrier to join her at the room’s center. “You aren’t wearing your little whales today,” he said.

Took her a moment to realize he was referring to her shorts. After noting yesterday that none of the other women at the resort wore shorts, she’d ditched them in favor of a Lilly Pulitzer shift and platform sandals. The pink tropical print still marked her as an American tourist, but at least she was slightly more stylish.

“No,” she replied.

“You look lovely.”

“Thank you. What were you doing upstairs?”

“What do you think?”

“You work here?” But even as she asked, she knew the answer. He was dressed too casually, and his eyes sparkled too brightly for an employee.

“How could I possible work here and at the hotel?” he asked before leaning in and adding, “That is what you thought yesterday, is it not?”

“You were wearing a hotel uniform.”

“Was I?”

Yes. The same dark suit as the concierge and desk manager. Granted, his was more finely tailored, and he hadn’t been wearing a name tag, but...

She looked over her shoulder at the portrait on the wall, before looking back to Philippe. He bore the same regal carriage as Simon and Antoinette.

“Philippe d’Usay, at your service.” He swept his arm wide and bowed. “Welcome to Château d’Usay.”

Shoot. Her. Now. “Why didn’t you say anything? If I’d known, I would never have...”

“Been such relaxed and enjoyable company?” he supplied. “Precisely why I didn’t correct your mistake. You have to understand, everyone in Avignon knows who I am. I found it refreshing to meet someone who did not.”

How nice for him that she could be a novelty. She wasn’t sure what was worse—her mistaking him for an employee or his deception. “Must have been very entertaining, having to give me that tour.”

“It was.”

And what if she’d said yes to his dinner invitation? How long would he have carried on the masquerade? Through the meal? Later? “Well, bully for you.”

“Jenna, wait. I’m not explaining myself well. You think I was playing a game.”

“Weren’t you?” Her eyes traveled to where he’d caught her hand as she tried to turn away. The gold signet ring on his little finger gleamed against his tanned skin. Ten to one that was a d’Usay family crest engraved on it. She felt like such an idiot.

“Not the way you think. I did not intentionally mean to mislead you.”

Jenna raised a brow.

“All right, it was intentional, but it wasn’t malicious. I told you, everyone in the valley knows who I am. When I realized you didn’t recognize me, it was a chance for me to be simply Philippe, without all the baggage that comes with being a d’Usay.”

Sure, and Jenna had a Roman bridge she wanted to sell him. The man wasn’t even trying to look apologetic. His eyes twinkled with amusement.

“You don’t really expect me to believe that line, do you?” she asked.

The dimples appeared. “It was worth a shot.”

Of all the... She should be annoyed by the deception. She should be insulted. In fact, she should be a lot of things. Smiling was not one of them. But darn if she couldn’t help catching his good humor.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s not nice to lie?” she said.

“Would you have believed me if I told the truth?”

That 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.”

He leaned closer, the gap in his shirt treating her to a glimpse of the smooth skin beneath. “And you are flattered. I can see it in your eyes.”

Jenna was flattered—immensely—but she wasn’t about to let him know. “How do you know it’s not amusement at your arrogance?”

“Amusement doesn’t make a woman’s skin flush.”

Flashing a smug smile, he sat back in his chair. “I am sorry about your headache. That was not part of my plan. Is it better?”

“Getting there.”

“Good. I’m glad. I forget how pungent the smell of lavender can be. When we were children, my brother Felix and I complained incessantly about the aroma.” While speaking, he reached for her glass. The ice clinked as he lifted it high for a drink.

“You have a brother? Yesterday on the tour you said you were...” Jenna paused.

“The last of the line? I am. My brother died of cancer several years ago.”

He spoke with nonchalance, but Jenna caught a shadow in his eyes as he raised the glass to his lips for another drink.

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I. He was a good man.” He fell silent for a moment as a shadow darkened his features. Only for a moment, though. Jenna would have missed it altogether had she not been watching closely. “Let us talk about something more pleasant, shall we?”

He’d made a similar request yesterday. It was obvious he didn’t like dwelling on his family. “What would you like to talk about?” she asked.

“How about dinner? Clearly, since fate has reunited us, we are destined to enjoy a meal together.”

“You mean fate and a front desk clerk.”

“A technicality. I knew we were destined to share each other’s company as soon as I saw you on the terrace.”

He was smooth. Charming, too. Much as she hated to admit it, Jenna enjoyed his company. He kept her on her toes. Dinner could be fun, as long as she kept her wits about her.

“Well, a girl does have to eat,” she told him. “I might as well have some company.”

He grinned like he’d won the lottery. “Ma chère, a woman needs to do more than eat. You need to experience French cuisine. Tonight, I shall make sure you have an experience you’ll never forget.”

“We’ll see about that,” Jenna replied. “I don’t impress easily.”

“Is that so? In that case...” He leaned in again, the purple in his eyes taking on a dangerously mischievous glint that made Jenna’s insides flutter in spite of herself. “I look forward to meeting your challenge.”

* * *

You know I was kidding about having a fling, right? All I meant was don’t be your usual picky self.

I’m not having a fling; I’m having dinner.

Despite what Philippe d’Usay might think, her “French experience” was beginning and ending with dinner.

I don’t do flings, remember?

You don’t do anything.

That’s not true. I do plenty.

Since when?

Since...

Jenna paused before hitting the backspace button. So it had been a while. Big deal. She was taking a dating hiatus. All the sweet talk and pretend interest in commitment that ended after a few weeks? Who needed it. She was trying to break her family pattern, not contribute to it.

Excuse me for being selective.

She leaned back against the headboard. Shirley’s thoughts didn’t need a phone for her to hear them. Her friend had given her the tough-love speech a half dozen times over the past couple years. You’re too picky. You never give anyone a chance. You rule guys out before you ever get a chance to know them.

Maybe, Jenna thought, she was picky because she wanted more than a guy who claimed to want a relationship only to bail when he got bored. Of all people, Shirley should understand why.

Her phone buzzed. Shirley had replied.

This guy must be something if you are giving him the time of day.

He’s okay.

Actually, he was everything Jenna claimed to detest. A guy like Philippe wasn’t interested in depth. She wondered if he even knew what the word meant. And yet as bad an idea as the man was, he intrigued her in a way she hadn’t felt in a long, long time.