The Perfect Catch: A Sports Romance (The Darcy Brothers)

by Alix Nichols

  My hands ball into fists as I remember the scene.

  What wouldn’t I give to unsee it! I was fourteen and Maman was my hero, a warrior for social justice, a saint. When Sorrel ran out, and she confessed that what I’d seen was the price she was paying to continue her work, I resolved to kill him. I spent countless sleepless nights plotting his murder to save Maman from his clutches.

  But the one time I actually had a chance at fifteen during a garden party at the French Embassy, I couldn’t do it.

  That’s why I’m so mad at my brothers.

  That is why I can’t forgive them.

  But… why didn’t Maman take Sebastian’s money when he offered it so she could be free of Sorrel? Was her pride stronger than her misery? Or was she less miserable than she led me to believe?

  I shake my head.

  This is all conjecture based on secondhand information from a woman who’s far from impartial. Diane loves Seb, and she goes out of her way to justify his actions. Quite successfully, in fact. Every time she writes, I end up questioning things I’ve always known to be true.

  I crumple her letter and toss it in the trash can. The next one she sends me will end up there unopened.

  Anger pulsing in my veins, I grab my backpack and head out. Sophie and I have a train to catch.

  We’re traveling to Burgundy.

  It’s my second trip there in the space of a week. I went to the Chateau d’Arcy last Saturday to talk with the housekeeper, Jacqueline Bruel. Since my twenty-seventh birthday two weeks ago, I’m the legal owner of the estate, which means Madame Bruel is in my employ.

  Not for long, though.

  When Jacqueline and I chatted last week, I asked her to make sure the staff clear the premises from two to six this afternoon so I could spend a few hours there on my own and decide what I want to do with it.

  I lied. My decision is made. It was made years ago. I’m taking Sophie to the estate today so she can give me an initial assessment and a ballpark price. Then I’ll entrust it to one of those specialized brokers she mentioned.

  And then I’ll sell it.

  When Sophie and I climb out of the cab and walk past the wrought iron gates, the air smells of roses and grass. Bumblebees and other summer bugs buzz over the neatly trimmed hedgerow.

  A soft breeze makes thousands of oak leaves rustle along the gravel driveway. An English-style park of vast lawns sprinkled with sprawling trees and colorful flowerbeds begins to our left and stretches behind the castle. A vineyard spreads outward from it, covering the soft slopes of the hills to our right.

  All of this is such a contrast to the smells, views, and sounds of Paris that it’s hard to believe we left the city less than three hours ago.

  Oscar would love it here.

  He’d chase butterflies and roll on the grass to his heart’s content, and there’d be no one to kick him out because it’s a no-poop zone.

  “Your friend Sebastian is smart to sell his chateau in the summer.” Sophie fills her lungs with air and looks around. “I’ve been here less than a minute and already I’m in love.”

  I give her a stiff smile, wondering if I’d named my imaginary friend “Sebastian” by coincidence.

  Hardly. I guess it was an unconscious attempt to give this charade a touch of truth.

  Sebastian, Raphael and I, and generations of d’Arcy boys and girls before us, spent many happy summers here. Raph and I always got in trouble, climbing trees we were too chicken to descend, chasing the housekeeper’s pet goose around the park and playing hide-and-seek where we weren’t allowed to.

  What a shame my easygoing middle brother sided with Seb when Maman needed him!

  Unlike his younger siblings, the always serious Sebastian spent most of his waking hours in the library, reading clever books. I’m sure it’s in the library that he first hatched his plan for world domination.

  “Again, why is your buddy selling this?” Sophie asks.

  “He needs money.”

  “And he’s stuck abroad, right?”

  “Right.” I turn away. “Where would you like to begin?”

  “What are my options?”

  “The park, the vineyard, or the house.”

  She points her chin to the stairs leading up to the ornate entrance. “Let’s see the castle first.”

  “Sure,” I nod before clapping my hand to my forehead. “Almost forgot. We won’t have time to check it out, but you should know there’s a grotto with rock art just a short hike up that hill.”

  I point in the direction of the d’Arcy Grotto.

  “Is it part of the estate?” she asks.

  I nod.

  “Is the grotto any good?”

  “It has the oldest prehistoric rock paintings in France,” I say, a proud note creeping into my voice. “Ice Age about forty thousand years ago. I remember the magnificent mammoths and reindeer. Lions, too.”

  “Did you stay here as a kid?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How sad,” she says.

  “That I visited the estate as a child?”

  “No, silly. That your friend is selling his childhood home.”

  “It isn’t sad,” I say. “He doesn’t care for this place.”

  Really, he doesn’t.

  SIXTEEN

  SOPHIE

  “How old is this chateau?” I ask when we’ve reached the top of the stairs.

  Noah unlocks the beautifully carved entrance door. “More than four hundred years.”

  “Is it listed as a historical monument?”

  He nods.

  “It means the new owners won’t be able to make any big changes without a special permit,” I say.

  Noah gives me a worried look. “Why would they want to make big changes?”

  “Does the chateau have an indoor swimming pool and a spa?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Non-European buyers would likely want those things.”

  “Right.”

  I look around, taking in the vast foyer flooded with soft light, the marble flooring, the imposing chandeliers and fixtures, and the majestic staircase that leads to the second floor.

  “This way.” Noah motions to a drawing room on the other side of the foyer.

  The chipped marble under our feet changes to an intricately set art parquet. The floor creaks with every step we take, but it’s beautiful. Small honey-colored panels—probably oak—come together in large diagonal squares. I’ve seen this design before. I close my eyes, recalling what Véronique taught me about traditional French flooring styles.

  “Parquet de Versailles,” I announce with pride, pointing down. “That’s what this pattern is called.”

  Noah smiles. “Good to know.”

  “Don’t you go all smug on me, goalie.” I jerk my chin up. “You brought me here so you could hear my opinions on this property, did you not?”

  He drops his head to his chest. “Désolé. I did.”

  “I tried to look up this estate last night, but I couldn’t find a chateau called Thouars-Maurice.”

  “No?” He stares out the window.

  “Are you sure you got the name right?”

  “I’ll check with my buddy,” he says. “Maybe the official name is slightly different.”

  “I bet it is.”

  Peeling my gaze off Noah, I look around. “This room is… unbelievable.”

  He grins. “It’s called Salon Bleu.”

  I can see why. The walls are covered in faded blue murals depicting pretty shepherd girls frolicking with naughty shepherd boys in bucolic settings. I doubt Noah will be able to give me the age of these murals, but they must be at least a couple hundred years old.

  The only mural-free wall has tall French doors that open to an English-style park, some of which we saw from the front of the building.

  The view takes my breath away.

  Surveying generous lawns that meld into meadows to meet woodlands in the distance, I declare that this is the most beautiful sight I’
ve ever seen.

  Even the ocean sunsets back home can’t compare.

  “This view is gold,” I say to Noah. “Make sure nothing obstructs it when buyers come.”

  “Your word is my command.”

  “If I were you—or your friend—I’d put a big comfy armchair right here.” I point to the space between the fireplace and the French doors. “And an open book on top.”

  “Wouldn’t it look messy?”

  “It will look lived-in and help the prospective buyers imagine themselves in this salon.”

  “Very clever.”

  “Just a little realtor trick.”

  “Got any others up your sleeve?”

  I give him a cocky what-do-you-think look.

  He grins and pulls me to him. “I love it when you act naughty.”

  “This is nothing, babes,” I purr, emboldened by his compliment. “You haven’t seen me naughty yet.”

  Nobody has seen me naughty yet, to be exact, but there’s no need to mention that.

  Noah’s hand makes its way down my back and lingers on my backside. “Let me show you the great hall before we make it to the bedrooms.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  He couldn’t possibly be suggesting what I think he’s suggesting.

  Or could he?

  He takes my hand and leads me to another salon, bigger and grander than the one we just admired. There’s a small pedestal table planted in the middle of the ballroom. A bottle of red wine, a corkscrew and two stemmed glasses form an inviting group on top of it.

  Noah picks up the bottle whose label reads, Coteau de la lune. While he’s studying it, I spot a note, written in a neat schoolteacher’s hand.

  We hope you enjoy this twenty-year-old Pinot Noir—the chateau’s last vintage.

  Jacqueline, Greg, Deolinda, Fabrice

  I show the note to Noah. “Who are these people?”

  “The staff.”

  “Are they invisible?”

  He smirks. “They’ve taken the afternoon off so we can snoop around undisturbed.”

  How unusual.

  Noah opens the bottle and pours a little wine into one of the glasses. He sniffs it, takes a sip, and fills both glasses.

  “A la tienne,” he says, touching his glass to mine.

  I take a small sip. The wine is full-bodied and rich in subtle flavors I wish I could identify. One thing I’m sure of—the chateau had a damn good vintage twenty years back.

  “Do you know why they stopped making wine?”

  “Sebastian’s father died,” Noah says. “He’d been the vigneron of the family.”

  He sets his glass on the table. “Come on, let’s go. We have a dozen bedrooms to check out, not to mention the park and the vineyard.”

  As I follow him up the gorgeous but rickety staircase and down a long hallway, I notice how dilapidated the castle is behind its regal grandeur and refinement. It’s squeaky clean, but no amount of dusting and polishing can hide the mildew stains on crumbling walls or the huge cracks in the ceiling.

  “When was this castle last refurbished?” I ask Noah.

  “In the sixties.”

  He knows quite a bit about this place. Of course, his friend Sebastian probably gave him all the important details.

  Noah opens one of the doors and motions me into a spacious room. “This is the lord and lady’s chamber.”

  “The floors will need to be refinished here,” I say. “And the walls treated and replastered.”

  After that we check out a magnificent wood-paneled library and five or six smaller bedrooms with en suite bathrooms. Some of them have paintwork or fabrics on the walls, others boast ceiling beams and antique bathtubs. All are as delightful as they are run-down.

  In one of the rooms, he backs me to the wall and kisses me until I’m weak in the knees.

  “Tomorrow?” he asks, staring into my eyes.

  I know what he means without needing to ask. “Tomorrow.”

  He flashes me a big, sexy grin.

  I grin back, excited and scared in equal measure.

  “Want to look at the vines now?” he asks, drawing back. “Or continue exploring the remaining guest rooms, drawing rooms, wine cellars and the kitchens?”

  I glance at my watch. “Our train leaves in less than two hours. So, yeah, let’s see the vineyard.”

  We exit the castle and head toward the hillside, passing a small chapel, a fountain and an incredibly romantic orangerie on our way.

  “Would you happen to know the estate’s annual upkeep cost?” I ask.

  He shakes his head.

  “Can you ask your friend? I’ll need that info to determine the price.”

  “I’ll be sure to get you that info within a day or two,” he says, before adding, “It must cost a small fortune to keep an estate like that.”

  I nod. “Whoever buys this, had better have deep pockets. Or tap into the huge revenue potential of the estate.”

  “Paying guests?”

  “Yes, among other things,” I say. “If I were the owner, I’d immediately apply for permits to restore the chateau and convert one of the wings into a hotel.”

  “You think the historic monuments committee would allow it?”

  “If the request is vetted by a good architect and shows how the new income-generating activities will fund the preservation works and the return of the castle to its former grandeur, I’m sure they will.”

  He gives me a sidelong look. “Do you have other income-generating activities in mind?”

  “You bet!” I begin to unfold fingers on my left hand as I tick off ideas. “I’d rent out the great hall for receptions, and that huge central lawn for music festivals and events. I’d restart the winery. I’d set up a gift shop and hire a guide to do daily tours of the chateau—”

  “We—,” he cuts in, “I mean, Sebastian already allows guided tours of the grotto.”

  “Good,” I say. “But clearly not enough.”

  We walk in silence for a few more minutes. The colors and shapes of this amazing estate regale my eyes. This place deserves so much more love than it’s currently getting. Delicate floral scents fill the hazy midafternoon air, which become more pungent when we reach the vines.

  “How many hectares?” I ask.

  “Err…”

  “I’ll need that info, too.”

  He smiles. “Oui, M’dame.”

  We stare at the rows of trellised plants.

  “Are the castle’s cellars big?” I ask.

  “Very.”

  “And the equipment, do you think it’s still there?”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “That’s an additional source of income!” I grin, bubbling with enthusiasm. “The new owner could start a sort of cooperative winery. Small growers with no facilities of their own could rent space and equipment in the chateau’s cellars. Even amateurs could pay to get their bespoke wines. That’s how it’s done in the US, especially in California.”

  Noah says nothing.

  He’s crouching among the vines, stroking their trunks and running his fingers along the shoots. Reverently, he caresses the leaves and gently cups a bulging, vibrant bunch of ripe grapes, as if weighing it in his hand. When he snaps off a juicy red grape and tosses it into his mouth, his lids drop and an expression of rapture appears on his face as he savors it.

  He opens his eyes and surveys the plot, mumbling, “I didn’t realize someone still tended these vines…”

  “When were they planted?”

  “Decades ago, by Sebastian’s grandfather.”

  “Well, maybe your buddy Sebastian feels it’s his duty to keep these vines alive.”

  Noah turns to me. “Maybe.”

  “Do you know if this vineyard is rated grand cru?”

  “It is.”

  “Wow. Good for Sebastian—it adds huge value.” I blow out a sigh. “I think he’s mad to sell this.”

  “He needs—” Noah begins.

  “Money,” I finis
h for him. “I know, I know… But if I owned this estate, there’d be only one way it would change hands.” I pause for effect. “Over my dead body.”

  He gives me a funny look. “How far would you go to get your hands on a property like this?”

  “Far.”

  “Would you marry its current or future owner, even if you’d never met him and didn’t have any feelings for him?”

  “Feelings shmeelings.” I say what I always say when Mom or Sue become too sentimental. “All they do is cloud your judgment and lead to disappointments down the road.”

  “Does that mean you’d marry him?”

  Does it?

  Oh, who cares—I’m just making a point.

  “Duh,” I say, rolling my eyes. “In a wink.”

  SEVENTEEN

  NOAH

  “This is Hamlet and me age twenty-one.” Juliet points at an old, photo in the big album on Sophie’s lap. “This picture was taken in Beirut a few months after our wedding.”

  The women sit next to each other on the couch, looking at Juliet’s family pictures. Hamlet and I lounge in roomy armchairs on either end of the coffee table.

  Oscar and Cannelle have fallen asleep at our feet—Cannelle balled up on top of her favorite cushion and not making a sound like the gently bred lady she is. Oscar is lying on his back, hind legs wide open, and snoring happily. Being himself.

  We’re sipping post-dinner coffee from tiny cups. It was brewed Oriental-style which, according to Juliet, is “the only sensible way to drink coffee.” While we’re at it, we also wolf down a large number of small honey-soaked baklava.

  The coffee was home-roasted, ground, and brewed by Hamlet. His lovely wife baked the baklavas. The Derzians know I’m not a big fan of desserts. I know that leaving their house without eating at least one baklava is simply not an option.

  I crane my neck to look at the photo. Hamlet wears flared pants and a red shirt open down to his stomach to reveal a hairy chest. His hair is big and his mustache reminds me of Tom Selleck. Juliet is dressed in a ridiculously short skirt and platform shoes. Her long hair is parted in the middle. She wears a braided headband around her forehead.