“Awesome? Non, non. A name only. However, if you so desire, you may address me as Vicomté Beauchene, Noblesse d'épée.” Christophe gave her a teasing grin.
Kate’s tongue stumbled and fumbled over the words. “And what does that mean, exactly?”
“Nobility of the sword,” he explained. “This class swore oaths of fealty and engaged in military service for the King, in exchange of their titles. An honorary position alone, now, as you may have surmised.”
“Uh-huh. I did. Honorary or not, it impresses the heck out of me. Any more surprises you’ve been holding back?”
Another shrug. “As time goes on, my Kate, our outside layers peel away and more of our inner selves are revealed to another. This you find to be true, yes?”
Possibly. But she was nowhere ready to reveal any more of her inner selves—or her past—than she already had. Not yet, anyway.
“Anyway, as far as Chantal—she has that incredible musical talent. Her ability is stunning, Chris; I don’t wonder you want the absolute best for her.”
His hand had strayed aimlessly down along her jawline, to her chin, then her throat. Kate was almost holding her breath in the anticipation of more such sweet intimacies.
“I had hoped to take you with me to the city of Rouen, north of Paris,” he murmured in dreamy tones. “Another time, perhaps, when your time with us is not so limited. You would have enjoyed visiting our magnificent Cathédrale Notre-Dame de l'Assomption de Rouen. Truly an incredible work, with an incredible history.”
“I’m sure the photographs I’ve seen of the cathedral don’t do it justice. As I recall, considerable damage was inflicted during WWII bombing.”
“You are correct. And much other damage, throughout the centuries, due to man and nature. Wars, hurricanes, even lightning. Fortunately, all has been repaired and the building stands in good order.”
She reached up to lightly trace the line of his eyebrow and the enticing curve of his mouth. “It sounds wonderful, Chris.”
He smiled. “Were my little Chantal to have her way, Notre-Dame would be open for public use, and she herself would be playing in the cathedral for a crowd packed to the rafters. On five keyboards, no less, through eight thousand pipes. Imagine.”
“Everyone needs to dream, don’t they? Something to aspire for. I envy her such a goal.”
“Eh, bien, as to that—yes, a dream. I do not discourage, you understand. But one needs both feet on the ground, as well, do you not agree?”
A small shrug of indecision. “How could I even dare criticize what Chantal wants out of life? Her music is her passion. If she envisions herself taking over the great Notre-Dame organ—well, stranger things have happened, thanks to pure good luck. Or serendipity.”
“Or,” said Christophe huskily, turning toward her, “kismet itself.”
The kiss began with a gentle touch, teasing and testing, then deepened into rough demand. His right arm had encircled her shoulders, gripping her hard against any unwonted attempt to escape, leaving his left hand free to roam, to explore, to cup and curve and clasp.
She gave back as good as she got. When he finally released her, over a pounding of blood and a rasping of breath, Kate collapsed on the quilt with a whoosh.
Eventually recovered, to the point where her heartbeat had returned somewhat to normal and she was able to speak again, she sent him a look simmering with promise. “Wow, Vicomte. What was that all about?”
The fact that he was physically unable to respond as quickly seemed encouraging. After a little while, he aimed his lazy yet portentous smile in her direction. “A memento,” he suggested. “For you to remember during those cool, foggy days when you return home.”
“And to hold close to my heart,” she whispered back, “until you arrive for your visit in a few months.”
“That, too, mon cher,” Christophe promised staunchly, with another quick kiss. “That, too.”
* * *
Chapter Five
Reluctantly they gathered up and packed away the picnic things, folded the quilt, and strolled hand in hand back to the Peugeot where it had been parked.
“This—this interlude here, it’s been like a little piece of Heaven,” Kate commented with a touch of sadness, once she had settled into her seat and Christophe began to rejoin traffic on the way to Bordeaux. “I think coming to France, stepping away from all my business responsibilities and actually taking a vacation, has been one of the best times of my life.”
Christophe’s radio was playing softly in the background—some sweet classical piece that only added to the melancholy of the moment. Until she spoke, he had been humming along with the tune. Now he turned those magnificent hazel eyes upon her.
“I am delighted to hear that, chêri. For me, as well. Meeting you, sharing my days—and my evenings—with you…eh, bien…magnifique!”
The warmth of his smile filled her heart to overflowing. How could she leave this wonderful man behind when there was still so much they had to say, to explore, to experience? He was kind and considerate, elegant to the nth degree yet occasionally dashingly rumpled, circumspect when necessary and adorably indiscreet when not. And good-looking as a screen star, to boot. She wanted to bundle him up into one of her overstuffed cases and cart him back to California with her.
He must have been reading her mind. Or, perhaps, the expression of her poignant face.
“The time will pass quickly, my Kate,” he tenderly assured her. “You will be very busy taking care of your neglected business, and I—well, I will be busy with matters here, as well. The Christmas season will be upon us before you realize.”
“I’m sure you’re right. It’s just…”
Just that she longed for more of a commitment than merely the anticipated date of their December reunion. Was it possible the motivation for this upcoming visit was of less importance to him than to her? Was it possible he saw their being together as a friendly relationship only, some casual strangers-passing-in-the-night occurrence, without much significance? Was it even possible that she herself was simply one in a long string of reasonably attractive females who had served as companion to the handsome Frenchman? Surely there must have been others over the years?
She had never known such a sudden barrage of self-doubt. Oh, certainly during the havoc and flurry of creating a corporation, all on her own. But never personally, about the certainty of her charms. Especially not while being whistled at or propositioned while twined around a dance pole, or sharing a customer’s bed.
Mac, now—Mac would have given her a little shake and demanded, in his rough gravelly voice, that she buck up. Take the bull by the horns, Kitty, girl. Figure out what you want, and then go after it.
At the thought of Mac, and his never-failing support, she couldn’t hold back a smile, in spite of inner turmoil.
Adroitly Christophe maneuvered the car with his left hand, while his right stretched across to caress her cheek. “No doubts, if you please, Kate. Separation for a brief while is not always a bad thing, yes?”
Kate, lost in reverie, was gazing out her window as the sublime French countryside slipped past. Glimpses of the Garonne River’s twists and turns where it wandered serpentine through summer-green meadows. Vineyards full of grapevines ripe with promise, marching determinedly over this hill and that. Stone farmhouses set off into the distance, as the beehive center of activity. What appeared to be, surprisingly enough, a sizable castle, mounted in splendor on the crest of a tall hill as if to survey its surroundings with lordly benevolence.
Silently she reviewed her mental list of what had needed to be accomplished once she set foot on French soil.
Meet and confer with her grandmother’s solicitor regarding disposition of estate: Check.
That her grandmother’s solicitor had turned out to be not in the least what she expected was only frosting on the cake.
Read over and sign all documents concerning said estate: Check.
Her briefcase bulged with a weighty file h
olding those very documents. Originals. Photocopies. Impressive certificates, stamped and sealed.
Visit and inspect real estate holdings—i.e. Château Broussard—for future reference: Check.
The Château stood on its immaculate grounds in excellent condition, considering its age. Christophe would continue to oversee the overseers, René and Marie Augustin, for the near future, unless and until Kate made a decision as to any changes.
Anything else?
Yes. A very big something.
Her past.
She could not—simply would not—return home to the States with this huge unknown weighing her down. To clear her conscience, she needed to tell all. Confession is, so they say, good for the soul. And, without that confession, she and Christophe would have no future together, whatsoever.
And she had to know, for sure, how he would react.
“Chris,” she said quietly.
Turning his attention momentarily from traffic, he waggled his brows at her. “Kate.”
“Um. Um. How much—um—how much farther to the city?” Don’t chicken out now, Kitty, girl, she imagined Mac chastising her.
“Only a few miles, ma belle. Are you so anxious then to reach your plane?”
“No. No, not that at all. But I was wondering if there might be a little café somewhere along the way where we could stop for a bit.”
Without warning, he smote himself across the temple with the palm of one hand. “Oh, Kate, I have been such a dunderhead!” he exclaimed, contrite. “Of course we shall stop. Please forgive me; I should have considered your needs earlier.”
Kate managed a weak smile. “Silly man. Soon will be soon enough.”
The restaurant, with its cheerful green and white awnings, offered, as did so many French restaurants, a whole outdoor walkway full of small round metal tables and matching chairs. While Christophe selected a private area near the plate glass window, and a garçon approached, Kate slipped inside to use the ladies’ room, freshen up, and comb her tumbled hair back into order.
“I see no real difference,” he commented with a smile, upon her return. “Beautiful as always. However, we might enjoy a glass of wine and some crème brulee while we are here, should you wish.”
“That would be lovely, Chris, thank you.”
A few minutes of small talk passed by, while they waited to be served: the day’s fine weather, the infinite variety of offerings at the Toulouse shops so recently visited, the depth of color and the intensity of fragrance emanating from a nearby rose bed. The timing seemed perfectly staged for privacy; too late for lunch, too early for dinner, with only a few scattered patrons taking advantage of the quiet.
“To a safe trip home,” Christophe said, touching his glass of Sauvignon Blanc against hers. “And to a very happy future.”
One sip, and then several more, of the nectar that tasted of pears, and Kate could feel a miniscule bit of tension easing away. The rest would remain with her until she had finished what must be said, tying her stomach into knots and stopping her breath.
“Delicious.” He was piling into his dessert with appreciation. “A taste, Kate? You will enjoy it, I assure you.”
“Yes. Soon. In a minute.” Nervously she crumpled up the linen napkin spread across her lap, then spread her fingers over his wrist. “Please, stop for a bit. I need to—I need to talk to you, and I—I would like you to listen to me…no questions, no interruptions. Just listen to me.”
Obligingly he put aside his fork and caught her gaze, straight on, completely at ease and patient as Job. “Of course, mon cher. I shall listen to anything you want to say.”
“Good. That’s good. It’s a story—my story…that you should know…”
She’d been born, Kate began hesitantly, in the Southwest. Phoenix, Arizona, to be exact, in a hospital which had sent her home with an untried, inexperienced new mother and a baby kit containing lotion, powder, diapers, and so on.
“I don’t think she liked me very much, my mother. At least, I have no fond memories of her. Just—a lot of yelling, and occasional slaps…and empty bottles on the floor.”
As promised, Christophe neither questioned nor interrupted. He only placed his hand over hers, in a warm, sympathetic gesture, and gently squeezed.
“It wasn’t until she abandoned me at a neighbor’s house that I realized she’d lied even about her name. Because the authorities tried tracking her, with no luck. Léonie Matisse. Sounds pretty fake, doesn’t it?”
From the neighbor’s house to the foster home program was a small step. But it lasted far too long, and involved far too many changes of residence, schools, and uncaring host families.
“One actually kept me for almost a year. The parents were—pleasant. A little distant. I hoped they might decide to accept me permanently, but—” Kate’s shrug, here in the present, minimized past hurts, “—suddenly the mother discovered she was pregnant. And a baby of their own meant more than adopting some unwanted kid they knew nothing about.”
More homes, some just neglectful, some outright abusive, followed. Until she finally managed to slip her tether and run away.
“Mrs. Wilcox, next door, loaned me enough cash for my escape. Looking back, now, I think she probably should have reported my disappearance to the authorities. But she didn’t. And I repaid her, every cent, once I found safety.”
The safety that lay with Mackenzie Cutter.
“I realize that, by today’s standards, he might be considered a predator. Yet, he gave me help when I needed it. He provided shelter; he fed and clothed me; he saw to my education. I’d been a lost and lonely child, desperately seeking acceptance—love!—from anyone who might offer it. So, when I was old enough…” Another shrug, this time of regret and resignation. “Yes, you can probably guess what happened next.”
Kate sighed.
With a tightening of his lips, and a narrowing of his eyes, Christophe shifted position to move slightly closer but did not release his clasp. She gave him a grateful look, shivered a little, and went on in a softer, slower tone to describe her protector’s sudden death and her descent into a bleaker, blacker life.
“I took the stage name of Rosabelle. Like mother, like daughter, you’re probably thinking. You’d be correct. At the time, it was all I could do. The path I chose, I mean.”
A waiter passed by, paused to discreetly sweep away their meal’s leavings, and disappeared.
From overhead, a cluster of pigeons swooped down, cooing, to scavenge for crumbs along the curb. As the afternoon lengthened, and shadows waxed while sunlight waned, several diners made their way around the empty tables to the bright and cheery interior.
“I became an exotic dancer, Chris. Among other things even—less—reputable…” The words slipped out, unwillingly, even as a tear slipped past her lashes to ooze down one cheek. “You—you can probably guess just—what—that might entail…”
She provided few details, leaving most of that part to his own imagination. Instead, she mentioned how long “other things” had lasted, the dear and close friendships she had formed with others in “the life,” the studying she had done during her spare time and the educational goals she had set, the excitement and satisfaction of finally achieving her dream when the initial Cachet spa had opened.
By the time she finally finished speaking, the wine bottle had been emptied, and the single tear had merged into a small flood.
Christophe scooted his chair next to hers and wrapped his arm tightly around her shoulders. “Hush, my sweet little one,” he soothed. “Hush.” Gently, with one hand, he eased her head sideways to rest against the hollow of his throat. And then just let her cry.
Occasionally even the strongest woman must, like it or not, give in to some overwhelming emotion. Once her muffled sobs had died away, once she had calmed the tide and returned somewhat to stability, Kate found herself marveling at the moment. She couldn’t remember the last time she had really let loose and wept. Too independent, too stoic and sedate, for what s
he considered weakness.
Except that it wasn’t. This moment was release.
“There. An improvement, yes? I sometimes feel the need for tears myself.” He had retrieved his napkin to mop lightly at her face.
Helplessly, she gurgled out a little spurt of laughter. “You? I can’t imagine you ever needing to cry, Chris. You’re just so—so perfect.”
He joined her with an infectious chuckle of his own. “Perfect? Oh, non, non, mon cher. Far from perfect. You merely need ask Chantal her opinion of her very imperfect papa. Ma belle.” He slipped one finger under her chin, so that he could more easily meet the wet blue eyes only inches away. “I am honored and gratified by your confidence in me. Thank you.”
“I was afraid you would be—disgusted.”
“No, chérie. Never that.”
She peered cautiously up at him. “You do understand what I’m saying, Chris, don’t you? That I—that for some time I was—”
“A prostituée.” His smile. His very charming, quite reassuring smile. “Oui, Kate. I understand.”
“You don’t seem—turned off. I was afraid you might not want to see me again, that you—you might—feel—”
“Might feel what? More than I already do?” His palm curved tenderly along the line of her jaw, with his thumb smoothing over the line of her trembling lips. “Impossible, dear Kate. My heart is too full of love for you right now to hold any more.”
This being France, no one passing by or seating themselves at a nearby table showed the slightest surprise that a couple might be courting in the shadowed recess of a restaurant wall. And both Christophe and Kate were too absorbed in each other to care, anyway. Their embrace, their overwhelming need for closeness, their lingering and lengthy kisses, continued for some time, to the pleasure and delight of both.
At long last he released her only enough to pull tight to his chest. “Mon amour,” he whispered. “Were it possible, at this late date, I would be mightily tempted to run away with you, immediately, to the nearest accommodating hotel. However, the clock is ticking, and we must get you to the airport post haste.”
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