Forbidden Monsieur: Princes of Avce

by Victoria Pinder

  A hand pounded against the dashboard of the black Mercedes. Smoke billowed.

  Someone was inside the car. Without thinking, he covered his mouth with his hands and dodged the individual fires starting from the dried vines. He made it to the side of the car and tugged the door open.

  A small blonde woman coughed and tugged on her seatbelt like she was stuck. He pulled his sharp knife for the vines from his back pocket and cut the fabric, yanking her out.

  The rear of the vehicle was crumpled, the left taillight broken, and it was clear she’d been hit. Whoever was responsible for her appearance in his vineyard hadn’t stuck around.

  The woman swayed. Alexandre caught her—he had to get her away from the car.

  “This couldn’t have happened!” She screamed and began to cough. The blonde siren had legs that made him want to touch, and her short blue dress didn’t leave much to the imagination—she fainted, and he held her tighter.

  Henri and the other workmen brought hoses and buckets of water.

  His mother, Louise, waved a phone and motioned for himto join her.

  He picked up the slender woman and cradled her to his chest, carrying her to the porch. He hoped she had no injuries. She hadn’t spoken yet though she was breathing.

  His mother looked from him to the woman. “She was in an accident—her car was rear-ended.”

  “The authorities are on their way,” his mom said. “Bring her inside to rest.”

  “Good thinking.” He ignored his instinct to go and fight the fire, to save his crop, and carried the woman into his house.

  He pushed past the door with his hip and brought her to the couch. He settled her unconscious body on the red and blue quilt his mother had made.

  His mom waited at the front door with a look of concern. “I’ll look after her. Go.”

  “Thanks.” He rushed outside toward the sputtering flames and picked up a hose, wetting the ground near the vines. He slowly made his way toward the car.

  The last thing he needed was to lose all he had after glimpsing success.

  Sirens sounded in the air as police and firemen arrived. Within minutes the firemen doused the last embers of the fire, saving most of the vines except those closest to the black car.

  Alexandre wiped his brow with relief, coughing out smoke.

  The policeman, a moustached middle-aged Frenchman who drank wine at the local café in the village every night, asked, “What happened?”

  “A car accident. The driver was moving but weak and lost consciousness once I pulled her out. She’s in my house.”

  He nodded. “Do you need us to call Service d'Aide Médicale Urgente too?”

  “My mother already called them.” As usual, Maman knew exactly what to do in an emergency. He nodded, “Merci beaucoup.”

  Alex turned toward his laborers who had all pitched in, stomping embers or spraying water on the precious grapes. He Henri on the back as he said to everyone, “Thank you for your hard work just now. Tomorrow I will host a special dinner as thanks.”

  Erick, his foreman, said, “Go home, monsieur. These vines hold the lives of all of us.”

  “Tomorrow, Erick, we will drink last year’s stock and celebrate life,” Alexandre said.

  Now to find out who the woman was who’d almost destroyed his home. What had happened?

  Being outside, he assumed the blonde spoke to the authorities, but he wasn’t sure. Either way he’d missed whatever she told the police earlier, working to clear his vines. Once most of his staff left, Alexandre slowly walked back to his house. His mother stood at the door and said, “This girl is weak and tired, but I don’t think she broke anything.”

  “I hope you’re right, Maman.” In the distance, he heard emergency services sirens which meant the ambulance was close.

  “I was a war nurse,” she reminded him.

  “Oui. You’ve told me.” He winked at his mother and walked to the door again peering out for the Service d'Aide Médicale Urgente to arrive.

  In a few minutes, professionals would assess the woman for injuries. His mother had covered her with the quilt, and blonde hair wisped at her forehead. She had soot on her cheek and shadows beneath her closed eyes but despite the ravages, she remained a beauty. Perhaps she was beautiful, but another part of him wondered if she was trouble.

  There would be identification in her car—it felt wrong to go through her pocketbook—he could collect whatever personal things she had to give back to her. Her blue dress had felt like silk in his rough hands. “I’ll let them in and then go find out if she has anything of value in that car of hers before it’s towed.”

  “So thoughtful, Alexandre.” He stepped outside and pointed the emergency service team to where his mother waited.

  The night air held a whiff of smoke, and the bright full moon began it’s ascent in the sky. His harvest had been saved.

  Perhaps he’d open a bottle for both him and mother to celebrate, and possibly the woman in his house if she stayed, and see how big the moon became this evening.

  His vineyard was all he had, and he’d make his heritage successful. No one would pity the American-born Travers for growing up far from his father and all of this. Now that he owned everything, inherited outright, he’d prove that though he was only half-French, it was the half that would turn Travers Vineyard into profits.

  The keys were still in the car and he popped the trunk only to find a tangled mess of bags, paints and brushes squished together.

  The car had been rear-ended badly, so it seemed the accident wasn’t her fault.

  He gathered her belongings before the tow truck arrived.

  With her stuff cradled in his arms like he’d carried her to the house, along with the broken-wheeled luggage, he made his way home. Emergency services had already completed their check, and the woman wasn’t with them so his mother must be right. She was fine.

  What a nightmare—but for tonight, he’d be hospitable.

  Chelsea smelled smoke and instantly sat straight up. A warm, thick quilt fell to the floor at her feet, and she realized she was on a couch with velvety cushions. She glanced out the window, into the dark night, and stared into green fields.

  A crash from behind, then her old car erupting in flame flashed across her mind. Her seatbelt hadn’t released and smoke had gone down her lungs, choking her. She swallowed, and her throat burned.

  For sure she thought that was the end of her life.

  Metal scraped against ceramic and she turned. A handsome, sexy man with dark eyes and curls in his short hair appeared like an avenging angel. Had she made him up?

  But then she turned and realized he was no answer to her prayer, but a real flesh and blood man. The same man who’d pulled her out of the inferno sat next to an older woman with gray hair in a bun on the back of her head, eating a meal. She took a deep breath and tossed the quilt aside. “Where am I?”

  The sexy hero of her dreams sipped his wine, put the glass down in front of him and mesmerized her with his deep brown eyes. “In my house, mademoiselle. I put your suitcase in one of the empty bedrooms. We didn’t want to move you until you were feeling better.”

  Right. Chelsea massaged her temples and closed her eyes. Who knew how late it was now. Sleep would be good, but in Paris, the Duc Astorre Manfredi intended to go to the opera and she had a ticket to sit next to him. How long had she been out?

  The smell of smoke on her skin meant she’d need to freshen up before she saw him. She let out a sigh, and hoped she wasn’t too far away. “I can’t stay here. I need to get to Paris.”

  The cute farmer wouldn’t have nearly enough money to save her. Too bad. He said, “Use my phone and call whoever you like to get you there then.”

  “I’ll call my parents later.” What could they do to help? She was supposed to be the one caring for them. She sat straight and folded the quilt she’d used, smoothing her hand over the soft squares of red and blue. “What happened to my car?”

  His soulful eyes got
under her skin, watching her. “It was totaled and is now impounded, probably to be junked.”

  Her skin buzzed. Her Mercedes had been her means to escape her family. If that was gone, she’d have to ask her sister for financial help, again. The thought left her numb. Her sister had paid for her college and every stitch of clothes she owned. Marrying the Duc meant becoming an adult with the means to care for herself.

  She had to save herself and get her dad out of his gambling debt—nobody had to know about this. Her friends had all teased about how old her car had been anyhow. She’d get over losing it. Perhaps it was for the best and the Duc would never be able to use her old car to make fun of her family’s lack of money. Once she’d folded the quilt, she put it next to her seat and then stood. “That was how I intended to get to Paris. I don’t know what I’ll do.”

  She caught the mister of the house gazing at her legs. Her heart sped up in response.

  The older woman tightened a white shawl around her shoulders. “My son can drive you if you need.”

  Being next to her son might make her wish for things she shouldn’t. Her life course was planned to the last dollar.

  However, he shook his head and put his spoon down. “Maman, she can take the bus. I’ll bring her to the station in the morning if that’s what she wants.”

  Now that was a huge douse of cold water poured on her head. Clearly the attraction was one-sided.

  His mother scolded him. “Be polite, Alexandre. I raised you to be a gentleman.”

  His eyes widened as he stared at his mother in protest. “Maman…”

  His mother pushed back from the table and stood. “I’m going to bed now. Please offer our guest the room for the night and some dinner.”

  The woman smiled at her as she made her way past the living area where Chelsea stood and then she stopped and hugged her. “I’m glad you’re all right and that accident didn’t injure you.”

  “Thank you.” Chelsea froze for a second. No one bothered to hug her these days. She hugged the lady back, then stepped aside as she entered a side room and closed the door.

  “Come, eat.”

  Chelsea walked over to the dinner table. Chicken sautéed in wine sauce and herbs she couldn’t identify tempted her from a platter in the center. Chelsea swallowed and hoped to start fresh with this man who could be her ticket to Paris because honestly her allowance was pretty thin at the moment and she might need to eat. She lowered her head. “Your mother is nice.”

  He shrugged his shoulders, then stood and found a glass for wine and placed it at the setting across from him. “And she thinks every woman she meets is equally as nice as her.”

  Right. Clearly, she’d upset this man. She pressed her fingers to her throat. “I don’t think that was meant as a compliment.”

  His cheeks flushed through his five o’clock shadow. He had light olive-toned skin and dark eyes. “Let me show you to a room and a bathroom so you can change.”

  She tugged the short hem of her dress down, realizing it just covered her butt. She’s worn this in case any of her friends were nearby when she arrived in Paris, probably around this hour. At the moment all she cared about was Alex, whose gaze burned. “You don’t like my dress?” she pouted.

  He crossed his arms as he followed her and pointed down the hall his mother had just gone. “So, you weren’t driving in a shirt that barely covers your backside?”

  Oh no. Heat rushed through her at his comment. She hadn’t blushed since she’d been a stupid teenager. So she decided to lie a little and say what would’ve probably happened if she made it to Paris as fact. “I’m supposed to be at a party tonight. There would no time to change.”

  He made a pfft sound but turned his head to meet her stare. “Well, I’m throwing a party tomorrow night as thanks to my employees for putting out that fire that almost killed you and my harvest.”

  Right. She was being a jerk thinking only about herself—the accident could have hurt somebody. She closed her eyes against the memory of the truck ramming her. He’d saved her, and she wasn’t being nice. “Headlights blinded me right before the truck rammed me and I went into a spin. I’m glad everything is okay.”

  He opened the door and revealed a white-framed bed with a pink and blue quilt on it and an adjoining bathroom. “The paramedics said you are fine, though if you wash the smoke off, you might feel better.”

  She promised to be nice to him from this second on. “Okay, but can you keep the food offer warm?” She stepped into the room. “I’ll be out fast.”

  “Not a problem.” He closed the door behind him and left.

  She opened her suitcase and grabbed her sparkly pink mini skirt and matching pink cotton shirt, then found her flats. The last time she’d worn this was a cocktail party, but it would be nice to be clean and have Mr. Soulful glance at her legs. Her heart pounded as she showered and changed.

  Before she left the bedroom, she found her phone she’d thrown in the side of the bag and pulled it out. It smelled of burned plastic and didn’t turn on.

  She checked herself in the mirror and realized she’d not correct his opinion of her with this skirt length. Old her wouldn’t care anyhow. And she shouldn’t now. She held her head high and walked back into the dining room. “My cell phone is dead. I think it half melted.”

  His eyes widened as he stared at her legs. She tugged her shirt down before it completely pulled up showing her midriff. Averting his gaze, he sipped his wine. “As I said, you can use my phone.”

  At least he hadn’t criticized her clothes. Without waiting for an invitation, she took the seat opposite him. “Later. My parents are probably in bed. First, I’ll figure out how to get to Paris after dinner. I’ll leave a message once I have a plan.”

  He stood, picked up the serving utensils and placed some of the chicken on her plate as he asked, “No boyfriend or fiancé to come rescue you?”

  Perhaps the pink outfit had done its magic. She smiled as she served herself some green beans. “No. I’m completely single.”

  He then offered her the mashed potatoes. “With that short skirt, you don’t leave much to the imagination.”

  There it was. She winced and probably should have listened to her gut instinct on her attire.

  Perhaps it wasn’t fair to want this man to notice her. Even if he had, she didn’t have time in her life for a fling, not now, not if she needed to marry the Duc. But once again, she ignored the voice in her head, shrugged her shoulders and let herself flirt. “It was the first thing I grabbed. I didn’t know I had to dress like this was Church for dinner.”

  He sat back, stared at her and then picked up the bottle of wine. “Never mind me. Would you like a glass of wine?”

  If she had even a little, she might lose what was left of her brain cells. She bit her bottom lip. “I don’t know if I should drink?”

  He shook his head and poured. “You crashed into my vineyard.”

  Vineyard. Wine. Ahh. She was passing the country part of France on her way north. She motioned for more. “That explains the green vines out the window.”

  “In the morning, you’ll get a better view.” He put the bottle down and picked up his full glass. “Wine is our life here. This cabernet blends well with chicken.”

  She stared into the red liquid. “This was made here?”

  “Yes,” he said. “With my own hands.”

  “I’d love to try some, thank you.” She held up her glass in a toast, but he stood. Where was he going? He needed to stay. She motioned him back. “Will you join me? Perhaps we can stop arguing and be nice while I eat?”

  He took his seat and held his wine with both hands as he leaned closer to her. “Fair enough. I normally don’t criticize people I just met.”

  Wow. His words sounded sincere. He gave the feeling of being safe. Her brain pinged a warning that men always lied to get what they wanted. Stefano and Matteo made it their missions in life to get women in their beds, so she shouldn’t think different about any man,
including this handsome angel. She picked up her glass and held it for him to clink. Once he did, she said, “Well that’s good to hear.”

  They both sipped their wine. “Something about you struck a chord,” he said. “Not many pretty women crash into my vineyard.”

  Aww. His compliment filled her with pleasure. She knew better than to be fooled but her cheeks bloomed with a smile. “Well to be fair, if more single women knew you were the owner, they might. You’re kind of cute, what’s your name?”

  “I was rude and never introduced myself or my mother.” He sat back in his seat. “Alexandre Travers.”

  Her gaze flew to his dark brown eyes. His curly brown hair, cut short. His strong jawline. She stared but couldn’t help it. Her entire body felt cold as she placed her hand over her heart. “Excuse me? What was that?”

  His brow furrowed, clearly confused by her reaction as he looked at her. “My name is Alexandre Travers.”

  Wow. In all the vineyards in all the world, she’d crashed here. This must be a joke or something. She tilted her head back and stared at the white ceiling of his country house that was minimum sixteenth century in design and stood the test of time. At least it looked well cared for and wasn’t a run-down shack. She laughed. “My sister would love this story.” Which couldn’t have the happy ending she’d predicted.

  He folded his hands. “Your sister?”

  True. He hadn’t heard her name drummed in his head for the past year as someone to meet and forget all about her parents’ woes. Cassidy had crazy notions that Chelsea needed to find true love as that was the only way to be happy.

  She stilled her laugh eventually and picked up her wine. After a long swallow she explained, “Oh, she runs this computer program where it finds the person’s true love, which is ridiculous, but people pay her top dollar for it.”

  His expression tightened. “I don’t understand.”

  She held out her hand to shake. Now she would be able to tell Cassidy that she’d met the man in question, though she still planned to marry the Duc—if he’d have her. She needed money more than she needed love, but she shook his warm, calloused hand. “Well Alexandre Travers, I’m Chelsea Bright. According to my sister, we’re meant to be… true love and all that jazz.”