Preoccupied, Rachel twirled a loose lock of hair in her fingers while she considered Alain’s unexpected suggestion. He was giving her complete freedom to finish the chateau to her taste, trusting her judgment in the selection of tiles, flooring, color, drapes, appliances — everything. Unusual, since he was going to be the one living with her selections. But what a thrill that would be.
“Sure, I can do that.” She made her decision, intrigued with the prospect of finishing the chateau to reflect her own style and taste.
“Great.” And with that, Alain grabbed one of the rickety bentwood chairs, propped it against the far wall, and planted himself on it. He crossed his long legs at the ankles and leaned back comfortably in the chair, busying himself with his iPhone.
“Now — you want me to make the selections now?”
“Sure, why not?” he replied with raised brows as if surprised by her hesitation.
Rachel stared at Alain for a moment. He was serious about this, she decided. Shaking her head, she removed the scarf from her hair to put it aside along with her purse.
Well, why not?
She completed a slow circle, taking in the vast array of materials and brochures in front of her, her eyes focused in concentration. Working her way meticulously through the materials, she started selecting her top three choices in each category, starting with the flooring. Flooring first — the base of everything that follows.
Soon Rachel had lost herself in a fantasy world of make-believe, flirting with choices in color, textures and materials. The options were vast, as Alain had arranged samples ranging from stone, wood, and steel, natural and engineered, hand-made, custom, and mass-produced, local and imported.
Her fingers darted from sample to sample, her mind creating first one theme, then ditching it all, only to start again. She was sensitive to maintain the authenticity of the period in which the chateau was built, but determined to find warmth and comfort as well. She wanted the finished chateau to offer its owner a place to live in comfort — a home.
A home — Alain’s home.
This would be the home where Alain and his wife would live one day, she realized with alarm. She risked a quick glance in Alain’s direction. He sat, his body relaxed in the chair, dark hair tumbling over his face, concentrating on reading his messages. Pain stabbed at her heart, and for a moment, she toiled with the thought of telling him that she was not married anymore. Tell him that she was separated from Stuart when they met that evening in Monaco. The words formed in her mind: Alain, just in case you wanted to know, I’m not married anymore. But that sounded desperate and feeble, and Alain’s aloofness discouraged her. What if is she was wrong? What if he didn’t feel the same way about her and she was rejected — again. Courage drained from her, and she shut her mind to the thought, concentrating on the task of selecting materials.
Alain watched her surreptitiously from where he sat against the wall, using his phone to catch up on his email and the latest financials. An excited glow radiated from her while she worked feverishly to select the appropriate materials for the flooring, bathrooms, kitchen, and walls.
Every so often, she would stop, her face drawn in concentration, contemplating the options spread out on the table in front of her. At these moments, he would hold his breath in anticipation, waiting for the instant when she would pinch her lower lip between her thumb and index finger, squeezing the firm, sensuous flesh, rolling it deliciously so that he almost groaned aloud in agony and lust. Then she would turn with a firm shake of her head, mumbling to herself to search her neatly stacked piles of samples for one to replace the one she’d just discarded.
A light sweat formed on his brow, but it couldn’t be entirely attributed to the oppressive humidity of the day. He wiped his brow, inhaled deeply and closed his mind to the swirls of passion waking in his loins. He’d made his decision, and would stick to it.
“You hungry?” he asked, his voice clear and sudden in the big room.
Rachel looked up, somewhat confused at Alain’s question. Then, glancing at her watch, opened her mouth in surprise at how fast the morning had slipped by. A hollow feeling from her stomach reminded her of the scant yogurt and coffee she enjoyed for breakfast, a long time ago.
She nodded.
“Care to join me for lunch in Cassis then?”
She pushed the samples she was arranging to one side and considered Alain’s invitation. A quick lunch. She was hungry; he was hungry. In London, she wouldn’t think twice about dining with a client. “Why not,” she replied. “Give me a minute to freshen up.”
Chapter Eighteen
Alain maneuvered the low car down the rutted gravel lane toward the main road and headed south. The day’s unusual heat was sweltering, but the open top allowed the sea breeze to provide them with some welcome relief. Soon they were following the twisty road down toward the harbor town. Alain parked in front of a quaint restaurant in a quiet side road.
Rachel glanced up at the restaurant entrance, hidden under a lush growth of ancient jasmine that engulfed the small front yard. Alain ushered her toward the entrance with a light hand on her lower back. She flipped her hair back and tried to ignore the pleasant sensation of his touch.
They stepped from the searing humidity into the cool, welcoming interior of the restaurant. Rachel removed her sunglasses and took in the tasteful décor, elegantly laid tables, and soft, artistic lighting. Saliva pooled in her mouth at the delicious smells of grilled fish, roasted garlic, and freshly baked bread.
“Monsieur Léon, bienvenue.” The short, portly owner made his way over to them, his face beaming with pride. When Alain introduced Rachel, she noticed a familiarity between the two men that spoke of respect and friendship.
“Suivez-moi, si’l vous plait,” the owner requested and they followed him to a secluded table against the far wall.
“You come here often?” Rachel smiled at Alain after they were seated.
“I do — I bought the restaurant two years ago when the previous owner retired.” He nodded his head to the entrance. “Michelle was our catering manager at the chateau — weddings and functions. But he always had bigger dreams — ”
“So, you helped him out.” She completed the tale. Alain nodded, smiled at her, and dropped his gaze to study the menu in his hands. She shook her head, and concentrated on her menu.
Alain ordered sparkling water and a pale rosé wine from the famous Var region.
“Ready to order?” he asked as their waitress approached.
“Yes.” Looking up at the young waitress, Rachel ordered a fresh garden salad and the catch of the day.
“You’ll enjoy that,” Alain replied and ordered his meal.
“Santé.” He raised his glass to her. Rachel returned the gesture in kind, a warm smile on her lips. She took a sip of the ice-cold wine, savoring the tangy taste of peach on her palate, and sat back in her chair with an appreciative sigh.
Alain studied her with dark, shielded eyes. He sat, leaning lightly on his elbows, his wide shoulders framing his chest. Strong hands, sensually crisscrossed with healthy veins, twirled the glass of wine on the cotton tablecloth in front of him. The glass appeared fragile in the sun-browned, powerful hand.
“Eugene seems anxious to push ahead with the project,” she ventured, selecting neutral territory. Alain nodded once, but she couldn’t tell whether he nodded in agreement to her statement, or in appreciation of her safe topic of discussion. He exhaled, seemingly made a decision, and sat back, relaxed.
“He’s always been like that. Get him started on something, and he won’t rest until it is done.”
“Like when he rebuilt the estate after the fire?”
A quick shadow passed over Alain’s dark eyes, but he recovered with a warm smile. “Yes, I was only five, but I remember how he slaved to save us from bankruptcy. I don’t know any other m
an that could do that. ” His last words were softer, warmer.
“You’ve done well to expand the wealth of the Léon family,” Rachel suggested.
Alain’s dark eyes pierced her without any acknowledgement. Then he smiled, the warmth returning to his eyes. “True, but we might be bankrupt again after we’ve paid your bill,” he joked lightly, and the tense knot in her shoulders released as she relaxed. He had moved on from yesterday, choosing not to make anything of it. That was good, was it not? Now they could get on with the project, keeping it all professional — strictly business only.
Should I tell him? Indecision was driving her crazy.
Their salads arrived and Alain refilled their glasses. Over the chilled wine and the crisp, fresh salad, their conversation drifted to more interesting topics.
Alain’s charismatic persona kicked in and soon he had Rachel sharing stories of her times as a student, her career as a young, starry-eyed architect, and her trusted friend and business partner, Peter, back in London. Conversation came easy and unforced, but Rachel sensed that Alain was deliberately avoiding the sensitive topics of their relationship, or that disastrous evening in Monaco. Or their kiss of yesterday.
A light blush covered Rachel’s cheeks at the memory of their kiss, and for a moment she considered telling Alain about her divorce again. She frowned lightly, irritated at herself for struggling to find the right words. More challenging, however, was finding the right time during their conversation. Alain seemed determined on keeping the conversation platonic. She would sound so desperate, blurting out her marital status.
Maybe it didn’t matter to him anymore.
A flutter of disappointment shadowed her mind and Rachel rallied to flash a brave smile at Alain. Time she moved on, like Alain had.
Their main course arrived in a gastronomic aroma of steam. Rachel sampled the royal dorade and rolled her eyes to a close in silent appreciation of the delicious taste of grilled fresh fish, lemon, garlic, and caramelized fennel. The chef had deboned the delicate fish, and it was served with a small helping of wild rice and cooked vegetables.
Heaven, she thought, and noticed Alain’s gaze transfixed on her mouth. He cleared his throat and raised his glass. “To friendship — and the project,” he proposed.
“I’ll drink to that.” Rachel raised her glass in accord, but the nagging twitch between her shoulders had returned. Despite the attraction, Alain’s message was clear.
He dropped his gaze and focused on his meal. The flatware appeared delicate in his strong hands as he deftly worked his fork in the deep bowl of al dente seafood pasta. The strong rake of his wide shoulders filled the folds of his shirt, his masculine frame appearing almost ominous dressed in black. Below loosely rolled shirtsleeves, the bronze of his forearms danced and rippled in the soft light as he scooped cooked mussels from the shells.
Rachel’s eyes were fixed on the strong, long fingers, twirling the pasta on his fork and scooping the rich pasta sauce in one movement. For a brief moment, a sliver of pasta dangled deliciously between his sensual lips, and in that instant Rachel wanted to lean forward and suck if from his mouth, tempting him to bewitch her once again with the magic of his tongue. With a wild shiver, she realized that a relationship based on business only with this man would drive her insane.
“Your food good?” he asked, his eyes remaining on his plate, and Rachel shifted, embarrassed. She pushed her thoughts aside.
“D-delicious, thank you,” she mustered, clearing her throat.
Sometime later, after their meal, Rachel declined dessert and Alain ordered coffee. The kick of caffeine seemed to have a calming effect on the wild passions raging inside her, and Rachel relaxed, feeling more at ease.
At Alain’s suggestion, they went for a slow stroll through the small fishing harbor. A blustery wind had sprung up, chasing dark, threatening clouds up the steep cliffs overlooking the sleepy village. The harbor was filled with row upon row of brightly painted fishing boats, hiding from the threatening wind in the safety of the port. Rachel’s eyes drifted over the different shapes, sizes, and colors of the boats, each one kept in pristine condition by its doting captain.
“My father used to bring me here as a kid, early in the mornings.” Alain’s gaze drifted to the dock. “We would buy our fish fresh from the boats.”
They turned and walked back to Alain’s vehicle. That Alain had not once mentioned his mother in all the time she’d known him was not lost on Rachel.
Alain drove them back up the steep, twisting road out of Cassis. Rachel sat back in her seat, lifted her head so the wind took her hair and closed her eyes. The gusty wind tugged wildly at her loose dress and whipped her hair into a crazy flag of flying chestnut and gold. At the T-junction, Alain, momentarily distracted by the sensuous curve of Rachel’s breast revealed by the blustering wind, stalled the engine. Clear, boisterous laughter rang from Rachel while embarrassment flashed briefly on Alain’s cheeks.
“Can happen to the best of us,” he tried to reason weakly, but Rachel’s deliberate light snicker continued as she teased him.
“Fine, lady — you drive.” He jumped from the seat and bowed at the open door, inviting her to take up his position.
“No, no, I was just teasing,” Rachel backtracked, shaking her head in laughter.
“Well, for that you must pay,” Alain insisted mockingly, inclining his head to the vacated driver’s seat.
“You’re sure?” Rachel asked, both nervous and excited. At Alain’s insistent nod, she scuttled around the vehicle to take up a position behind the wheel. She turned the key and the powerful engine fired to settle into a deep burble.
“Make a right turn here,” Alain instructed. “There is something I want to show you … ”
With a confident but explorative push on the gas pedal, Rachel pulled away, following Alain’s directions up the steep, curving Route des Cretes toward the east of Cassis. With each twist and turn, Rachel’s sense of the vehicle’s power, grip, and balance grew, and so did her confidence. Soon the engine growled and they roared up the steep mountain, Rachel’s high-pitched whoop echoing from the cliffs as she propelled them to the apex with controlled ease.
“Impressive. Another hidden talent,” Alain nodded his appreciation at her when she parked the vehicle at the summit.
A deep, rolling thunder interrupted them, and Alain jumped from the car, running to the lookout point. His feet planted wide and firm, he stood tall and strong on the crest as the wild winds buffeted his clothes. His black hair a pirate’s flag flying in the wind.
“Come!” he called to her against the ear-splitting crash of thunder as the electric storm unleashed its power over Cassis far below him.
Rachel scrambled toward Alain, a protective arm raised against the strong, blustery wind. She came to a halt next to him and inhaled sharply at the spectacular view. Almost a thousand feet below them, the sea had been whipped into a frenzy of angry waves, capped with wild white caps. Narrow shafts of golden-gray sunlight shone down valiantly onto Cassis in a brave battle against the dark, rolling clouds crashing into the mountains above the fishing village.
Rachel jolted in fright when a thunderous crash announced the arrival of the electric storm. Lightning sparked blue-white and crackled dangerously as it released its awesome power, raking the granite face of the patient mountain.
She watched with bated breath as fear and awe washed over her. She shivered, but it was not from cold, for the oppressive humidity still clung to her body.
“Hold on, it’s a long drop down,” Alain cautioned, and extended his hand. Strong, supple fingers entwined with hers. Her hand was small in the power of his grip. She froze, amazed at the warm comfort washing over her. Hand in hand, wordless, legs planted firmly against the strong wind, they watched the spectacle at their feet, the raw power of nature released in all its might.
Thunder exploded and lightning executed its deadly dance against the cliffs. Strangely, despite the imminent danger, she felt safe with her hand in Alain’s tight grip. It was a feeling she had missed so dearly. And now she would miss it even more. She winched sharply at the splat of a warm, fat raindrop against her face.
“Come,” Alain shouted against the wind, and they ran back to raise the hood on the convertible just as the first drops plopped in the dust at their feet.
• • •
Amazingly, the air was dry and warm when Alain parked the car at the chateau a while later. They sat in silence for a moment, unwilling to part at the realization that, going forward, things would be different between them.
“Thanks for lunch, Alain,” she whispered, “and for a great day.”
Alain turned to face her in the confines of the vehicle, a smile lingering on his lips. He lifted his gaze to indicate the chateau. “Thanks for what you’re doing here, Rachel.”
The compliment took her by surprise, and with some apprehension, she searched his eyes for confirmation. His steady gaze met hers and she found the truth — he was truly pleased with the project.
A happy client — mission accomplished, she thought with a cynical smile. She looked up at the tall walls of the chateau, trying to ignore the dull sadness growing in her chest, and made a quick decision. She had to tell him now.
Turning to face Alain, she started, “About my marriage … ”
Alain recoiled and interrupted abruptly. “Rachel, stop. I invited you for lunch to apologize for yesterday — and Monaco. It should never have happened. Let’s work to finish the project. D’accord ?”
She cringed at Alain’s harsh words. She dropped her gaze, and hiding her feelings, replied bravely, “Sounds fair.”
Humiliation rushed her. A sudden need to be alone gripped her, and she nodded goodbye, opened her door, and hurried toward her own vehicle. She just had to get away. Away from the burning feeling in her chest while warm tears threatened. Away from the pain — pain caused by the realization that Alain was lost to her. Salty tears welled in her eyes, and she swallowed hard to prevent them from spilling onto her cheeks. No tears to show her sadness. He would not see her cry, and she swallowed hard at the painful lump in her throat.
Heart to Heart Page 52