“And this is why you plan to keep me company, as protection?” She felt oddly deflated and disappointed.
“Not at all, Kate.” He tilted his head toward her in a pose of near-intimacy and lifted one brow in what, she would learn, had become an endearing habit. “You did hear me mention pleasure, did you not? So. If you have finished, then would you like to take a few hours and wander along the Seine?”
After a moment to catch her breath, she assured him that would be delightful.
And so it began.
*
They had a week together. A week of lovely wine-scented June afternoons exploring the city’s traditional tourist haunts: all 906 feet to the upper platform of that splendid icon, the Eiffel Tower; particular sections of the Louvre Museum, housed in the Louvre Palace, just two of the more than 9.26 million annual visitors through its resplendent doors; the magnificent French Gothic architecture of Notre Dame Cathedral; the memorial to all who fought and died for France during the French Revolutionary and the Napoleonic Wars, the Arc de Triomphe de l'Étoile.
Then came the lighter-hearted, frivolous moments, from a moonlit cruise on the Seine to charming lunches at charming little cafés to a stroll through magnificent, meticulous gardens brimming over with blooms of blues and purples and reds and golds.
Such a glimmering, shimmering, enchanted time must, of necessity end, when the main participants were forced into coming back down to earth for a return to their usual routine.
It was Christophe who first broached the subject, during Sunday brunch at a bistro decorated in gleaming copper utensils and blue-checked tablecloths.
With deft movements, he had broken open a crusty brioche to share with her. “Much as I regret it, my dear Kate, I’m afraid this is my last day of playtime. Alas, business recalls me to Toulouse, and I must leave tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? Oh, Chris, I’m sorry to hear that. I’ve had such a marvelous time here, exploring this part of your world.”
Indeed, Kate was being slowly and occasionally recalled as well, via text messages to her cell phone and emails on her laptop. Nothing that couldn’t be handled on the home front so far, and Lisette and Barbara were doing a top-notch job of dealing with anything that had come up. Of course, it helped that Cachet had been organized so well into a smoothly running operation.
Christophe smiled, and his hand, as he moved the bread plate closer, brushed her own, leaving behind a slight tingle. “You are looking particularly lovely today. Or have I just become enamored of your predilection for retro fashion?”
“Surprisingly, a predilection I was unaware of,” she chuckled. “Until, in Boston, I stumbled upon a shop chock-full of Fifties garb, and I fell in love. Probably spent far too much, but it was fun trying something so different from what I was used to.”
He cocked a considering, admiring eyebrow in her direction. “The effect suits you, ma cher. Perhaps that era does, as well.”
Today’s choice was another flirty, swingy number of navy and white polka dots, sleeveless, with a demure high neckline and a belt that narrowed her waist to nothing. Strappy dark blue heels and earrings of lapis completed the ensemble.
While he had played attentive escort about town all during this past captivating week, Kate was beginning to wonder, occasionally, whether the Frenchman were even attracted to her in any way. Or if, perhaps, his interests lay in another direction entirely. He had made no overtures, offered no suggestive remarks, arranged no hoped-for assignation in her hotel room or late-night invitation to his own. She had not allowed herself to feel burgeoning emotion like this toward any male since her time with Mackenzie Cutter—and even that emotion had been ruled by gratitude, rather than passion.
Given her upbringing, and her profession, the fairy-dust platitudes of starry romance and love forever after had meant nothing to her. For too long, she had had only her own strength and clear-sighted common sense upon which to rely, and male companionship could not, would not, play a role in her future. Thus she was unable to trust the possibility of some magical, mystical happy ending with a soul mate who appeared out of the blue.
But was there such a thing as one’s soul mate?
Could Christophe Beauchene be hers?
And, if so, where exactly did she stand in this possible relationship?
“Actually,” Christophe said now, after a sip of excellent cabernet, “the business I must return to concerns yours, Mademoiselle Waring.” A hint of mischief sparked deep in his hazel eyes and spread into a quirk at each corner of his mouth. “As we had earlier discussed, I immediately filed your grandmother’s will and we are waiting for it to wend its way through probate.”
“And has that taken place?”
“Ah.” A very Gallic shrug. “The courts, the judges, they have their own notion of speed, I’m afraid. What happens in time, happens in time.”
Slightly peeved, Kate took a stab at her fresh marinated asparagus stem with more force than necessary. “Not that I’m unhappy with staying here a while longer, Chris, because seeing so much of Paris here, with you, has been pure delight. But I do have my own business to run, back home. And, while my two assistants are first-class at handling whatever might come up, I do prefer a hands’-on policy. Surely you understand this.”
“I do indeed. However, while I apologize for the snail speed of our legal system, I cannot help feeling great pleasure that you must remain in France with us a while longer.”
“Well—yes. There is that…”
“In that vein, my dear Mademoiselle, I should like to invite you to travel to Toulouse with me.” His reach across the table did not serve, this time, merely to move dining accouterments here and there, but to pick up and clasp her hand in both of his. “The city is not only my home, but it offers many attractions for you to view. One of which should be, of course, the estate which has been bequeathed to you: The Château Broussard.”
Progress! Perhaps his reluctance to move forward lay in the fact that she was, in fact, his client, and a business-like arrangement must be stoutly maintained. For the present.
Kate smiled, the kind of warm, open smile that she did not often share. Too much vulnerability. “I would very much like to join you on that trip south,” she said softly.
“Good. There will be much to see. And do. And I promise to put myself entirely at your disposal.” He returned her smile with obvious enthusiasm.
In the past few weeks, Kate’s life had traveled at breakneck speed, along highways and byways she had never dreamed of taking. Being in the company of such a charming, intelligent, and caring man felt like absolute perfection.
Or was it?
*
The nearly 400 miles distance from Paris to Toulouse could be done, Christophe had informed her, in an easy two days of travel via his classic cobalt-blue1956 Peugeot, with the opportunity for side trips; or a much speedier one day route with the wind at their backs.
Kate, dressed for the day in a brilliant turquoise loose top, brown Bermudas that showed off her long well-toned legs, and coral and turquoise earrings to match her colorful espadrilles, let out an uncharacteristic giggle. “Can we do both?”
Smiling, he looked up from the bags being stowed ceremoniously in the car’s trunk. “Certainly we can. We need but to clone ourselves, yes?”
She liked this man. She was really beginning to like this man, and it showed. Why else this new lightness of spirit, this freshness of mood that encouraged gaiety almost to giddiness? Given her experience, she was rarely surprised by any action or thought by the male sex. Until now. Christophe was teaching her how to enjoy life again, after so many sterile years of locking herself away behind cloistered walls.
And it had taken only a spur-of-the-moment trip to France to set her free.
It would be a two-day trip, after all, he had decided, once they were settled inside onto the Peugeot’s luscious caramel-colored seats. A few excursions here and there would be in order, so that he might show her more of his native land at
the height of her summer beauty.
Early that morning, Kate had left email messages for her stalwart second-in-command back in San Francisco, probably still comfortably tucked in bed. With duty temporarily discharged, she felt as free-spirited and unfettered as some hot-air balloon, ready to float wherever the wind might take her.
Business? What business? For the moment, all of Cachet’s complexities lay in the capable hands of Lisette, and, for this brief interruption of routine, Kate was perfectly content in leaving them there.
“That sounds wonderful, Chris,” she approved. Since the convertible top had been put down, leaving both open to the benefits of sunshine and roadway breeze, she quickly fastened her hair with a large clip and slid opaque glasses down over her nose. “Where to first?”
From behind the padded steering wheel he flashed a grin her way. “South, my lady. An hour or so, to Orléans. “
A strategic city situated on a northern bend of the Loire, Orléans had, during the medieval era, become one of France’s three richest cities, in company with Rouen and Paris. Louis VI was consecrated here in the cathedral; Joan of Arc and her army were responsible for lifting the British Plantagenet siege during the Hundred Years’ War; German troops made the city their own while World War II raged, and heavy bombing by the Allies destroyed much of local architecture, including the Orléans Fleury-les-Aubrais railway station.
“However, reconstruction began immediately,” Christophe related now, “reproducing in identical fashion what had been damaged.”
“Not as large as Paris?”
“Oh, no, indeed. Average-sized, perhaps a quarter of a million or so population.”
Although the drive was of brief duration, and not at all tiring, Christophe insisted on stopping here and there, just enough “to take in the view,” he told her.
His manner, as the day progressed, grew less formal and more sprightly, as if he, too, were favorably affected by their vacation mode.
They paused on the banks of the scenic river, to stroll beneath Sessile oaks and sweet chestnuts in a waterside tract; they parked on the streets of Orléans to wander amongst the ornate and splendid buildings constructed centuries ago; they navigated around a charming vintage carousel that surely must melt the heart of any would-be Cinderella.
And through it all Christophe held her hand. Lightly, yet firmly, and not in an obligatory way but, Kate hoped, because he wanted to.
After a lunch that might have been considered, under other circumstances, romantic, they rejoined the abandoned Peugeot to take up their southern trek once again. Through the Massif Central, a heavily forested area criss-crossed by a multitude of rivers and lakes, into the historically most ancient of volcanic upland, across untamed rough and rugged terrain, past forbidding walled fortresses and mountain chapels, the sporty blue car flashed on.
By late afternoon at Limoges, home to the thriving porcelain industry that produced spectacular products of the same name, Christophe sought out a charming little hotel to spend the night. There, surrounded by cast iron balconies and multi-colored shutters, they enjoyed a leisurely dinner, along with distinctive wines of the region.
“Kate, my dear, you have the smile of a Cheshire cat. Something is amusing you, yes?”
Across the table, she had been idly moving her half-empty glass back and forth across the white linen cloth, even while gazing off dreamily into a distance that was colored now with pastel shades of rose and blue. “Oui,” she told him, almost glimmering with playfulness under the outdoor lights. “Non. S'il vous plait. Merci. Excusez-moi. Bonsoir. Comment allez-vous? Ça va bien.”
“Charming,” he murmured, smiling in turn. “You are well on your way to being a native.”
“Oh, Christophe, no wonder French is one of the Romance languages; the words flow so smoothly off one’s tongue. Like music.” She gave a sigh of complete and utter bliss. “To sightsee such fantastic scenery, to talk with such friendly people, to experience all that your country has to offer—I never dreamed I might one day be here, for any reason.”
“It is with a companion such as yourself that life becomes—that life becomes—ahem…” His voice had thickened a little, and he paused to clear his throat. “Life becomes much more interesting when two people so simpatico are able to spend time together. Each learning of the other, at their leisure.”
Music was playing softly in the background—what, she didn’t know, except that the notes sounded incredibly sweet and alluring. To add to the mood, conversation swirled intermittently around them, like the low hum of someone’s automobile motor ebbing and flowing; and candlelight flickered at every table. A young couple, accompanied by their giant Pyrenean Mountain Dog, wandered past the restaurant’s open front door.
“I think that’s—absolutely true,” she said, suddenly almost breathless.
Kate was finding herself falling more and more in love with every single surrounding. The blood of France seemed to be beating in her own veins, and the very warblers overhead called out to her with wonder.
Their second day took them, as a detour, through Cévennes National Park, and scenery that included Mont Lozére, the Aven Armand cave, and untold miles of woods, waterfalls, and wildlife. What they couldn’t drive, they walked, both having dressed much more comfortably and much less formally. Kate had, in fact, swathed her long, slim legs in a pair of form-fitting jeans and clamped a large droopy straw hat over her mussed-up hair. Seeing her thus, Christophe, entranced, had bestowed upon her several extravagant compliments and kissed her hand with fervor.
He had gone no farther—for the moment—and Kate found the pullback disappointing.
Dusk found them entering Toulouse, a beautiful city built of pinkish terra cotta bricks—for which it had been nicknamed la Ville Rose—on the banks of the River Garonne. Toulouse served not only as the hub of the European aerospace industry, but as home to Cité de l'espace, a theme park, Jardin des Plantes, a botanical garden, and Saint-Sernin Basilica, the largest Romanesque church in Europe and repository of what was considered the most splendiferous pipe organ in all of France.
“I have taken the liberty of booking a room for you at Hotel Poitier.” In the river-scented twilight air, Christophe glanced across the open interior toward her, bright and inquisitive as a goldfinch. “But dinner, first, perhaps, before I must part with you for the evening?”
With the Peugeot’s well-tuned engine throttled back to respectable city speed limits, Kate had tossed aside the straw hat and released her hair from its clip. Thick honey-colored tendrils wisped around her face as she returned his glance. “Are you asking me on a date, Monsieur?”
His hand slipped from the leather-rimmed steering wheel to settle boldly on her knee. “I am, Mademoiselle. Although it would seem our entire acquaintance, thus far, has been an unending date. Would you not agree?”
“I would, indeed.” And a marvelous entire acquaintance it has been. If only the two of us didn’t need to get back to business very soon…
“Tomorrow must be dedicated to dealing with what has been piled in my office, I’m afraid,” he told her, as if reading her thoughts. “That includes following up on the probate of your grandmother’s will.”
“The reason for my being here, after all.”
“Exactly. And then, perhaps—” he hesitated, then plunged on, “—perhaps, once your financial affairs are in order, I might convince you to spend a little more time with me?”
“I think—I think you might be able to do—just that…”
* * *
Chapter Three
Three weeks passed by in a delightful blur, moving the calendar into mid-July, midsummer.
Roaming the French countryside, hand in hand with a man who had determined to play her escort and guide as often as office duties released him, could quite possibly become her life’s vocation, Kate had decided. Still, she kept in daily contact with her San Francisco offices.
Wasn’t modern technology wonderful! With the touch of fingers to
keypad she could call, email, or text via her all-purpose cell phone. It existed to do her bidding world-wide, needing only to be recharged every night from its own particular port. Like an infant who required regular infusions of energy.
Both Barbara and Lisette had taken to gently urging her return. Since neither was aware of the attraction that held her in thrall at Toulouse, she blamed the delay on crowded court dockets and her own unfamiliarity with legal routine. Never mind that an able solicitor was quite happily representing her interests in every appearance before the bar.
Kate spoke of those increasing demands one evening over a late dinner.
During today’s excursion, they had crossed the Sixteenth Century Pont Neuf and gone exploring through local parks along the scenic river itself. Even during her traumatic childhood, Kate had not known such freedom, such blitheness of spirit, as now, when she convinced Christophe that it was indeed necessary to pick a fistful of those gorgeous wildflowers by the side of the road or follow the uneven flight of swallowtail butterflies through a meadow or track an elusive wild fox to its lair.
Not surprising, then, that she had returned earlier to the hotel room looking rather the worse for wear. Her fair skin had been pinkened by sunburn and decorated by a number of bramble scratches, top to bottom; and her hiking shorts wore mud and grass stains from an unceremonious tumble into one of the small streams.
Even rendered once more respectable with a cool bath and fresh clothing, her casual, almost tomboyish appearance provided sharp contrast to that elegant, runway-model beauty who had arrived nearly a month ago. More, she didn’t really care. It was as if all the pieces of her jumbled life had been coming together for just this moment, at this time, in this place, with this man.
“Freckles!” Christophe noticed now, leaning forward to peer at her more closely in the candlelight. “My dear Kate, a few freckles have actually smattered their way across your charming little nose.”
She flirtatiously tossed her head a little, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear in the way of all women in the company of an equally charming man. “I’m not surprised. No sunscreen today, Chris. Does that bother you?”
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