by Donna Ball
She observed, “You like Sinatra.”
“Actually,” he countered, relaxing, “I like Whitesnake.”
She chuckled. “And just when I thought you didn’t have a dark side.”
He met her eyes steadily and his eyes were smiling, but deep behind that crystal gaze was something as hard as steel. It both intrigued and frightened her a little, and she thought in that moment that she was meeting the real man for the first time. He said thoughtfully, “I think we, all of us, have shades of dark and light, don’t you? The challenge is not to let the one overcome the other.”
Sara said softly, curiously, “What is it that you regret, Ash?”
There was a flicker of something in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, to have let down his guard, however briefly—and then the façade was effortlessly back in place. He stood to retrieve the bottle of wine, and replied lightly, “For one thing, I regret having not spent more afternoons picnicking with beautiful women.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “In bikinis?”
He smiled as he poured more wine into her glass, his face very close. “Learn to take a compliment, love.”
That surprised her enough to make her blush, and the corners of his eyes deepened as he noticed it. He refilled his own glass.
“I think,” she said, “you’re avoiding my question.”
“Indeed.” He sipped his wine, watching her easily. “Which one might that be?”
“The one about agendas,” she said, trying to be stern. “In particular, yours for this property. And please don’t bother trying to deny it, because I know you have one.”
He tilted his head, considering, his gaze never wavering. “Well, you’d be right about that, of course. I suppose you want a straightforward answer.”
“If you can manage it.”
“Straightforward answers are not my strong suit,” he admitted.
“So I’ve noticed.”
“But for you, I’ll try. My agenda,” he told her, without further reservation, “is the same as it is for any other client: to negotiate the best possible outcome for you and your partner.”
She blinked, momentarily confused. Then she said, “My partner. You.”
“Correct.”
She sipped her wine. “Go on.”
His eyes, masked by the glint of sun off the water, were as blue as a still lake, but she could sense debate in his brief hesitance, and then decision. He said, “You recall I mentioned Daniel’s cousin Michele.”
“Your ex-wife,” she said, alert now.
He nodded. “She has an unreasoning obsession with this place. She is about to make you an offer, I think, for your share, which is much less than it’s worth. That would be bad for you, and very bad for me. So my agenda, as you put it, is to make certain that you don’t lose sight of reason and accept her offer in a moment of desperation just to be shed of the place.”
Sara watched him thoughtfully. “When all else fails, tell the truth,” she observed.
He dropped his eyes briefly to his glass, and his smile was wry. “Quite.” He placed his hand lightly on her shoulder—not the one nearest to him, but resting his arm across her back in a brief embrace as he gestured her toward the stone slab where he had unpacked the picnic. “Let’s have a bite before the wine goes to our heads, shall we? I think I saw white asparagus. And there’s some of that cheese you liked so much this morning.”
He had spread a red and black checked blanket over the stone and unwrapped a baguette and a round of cheese. There were purple grapes and covered bowls, and real china plates. It was all very L.L.Bean Does Europe, and it made Sara smile.
She said, a little wistfully, “You know, I really can’t afford to keep the place. I wish I could, but . . .”
He said, “No, you don’t, not really. You might be enchanted by the fairy tale now, but it would drive you into madness—and bankruptcy—before year’s end. Fortunately, there’s a better option.”
He was back into his lawyer mode, brisk and commanding, and as he spoke he dropped his hand from her shoulder. She was glad, because his touch suddenly felt less comforting than purposeful. She supplied, with just a touch of dryness, “The hotel deal?”
“Precisely.”
“Why do I think you already have a particular corporation in mind?”
He met her eyes steadily, without shame. “This is what I do for a living, Sara. I’ve put together a very attractive deal that will pay us both a handsome return with virtually no effort on our parts. All you need do is sign the papers.”
“Which you just happen to have in your briefcase.”
“Don’t be absurd. But I can have my office fax them within the hour.”
She started to laugh, softly. “You really are a force of nature, aren’t you?”
“I’ll take that as a compliment—which I do know how to accept, thank you very much.” He gestured her to be seated on the stone bench, and, in a moment, she complied.
“I’d want to see the complete prospectus,” she said. “And have my own lawyer look over your contracts.”
“Of course.” He showed neither surprise nor pleasure at her decision, as naturally he would not. He was accustomed to having other people see things his way, and accepted the fact that she had done so as simply inevitable. “If you have a financial team, I’d suggest you bring them in as well. If not, I’ll be happy to recommend someone, either here or in the U.S.”
As he spoke, he placed grapes and cheese on a plate, along with chilled white asparagus and red peppers in an herb marinade, and a portion of some kind of tart with black olives and thinly sliced potatoes arranged in a swirling pattern on top. He handed her the plate and a roll of heavy silverware wrapped in a napkin.
She ate a grape and looked around the peaceful ruin, thinking about what he had said. How could she have imagined a year ago, or two, that today she would be sitting on the altar of her own medieval chapel, gazing at her own château in the distance? How many more surprises like that could there possibly be in her lifetime? How many more chances to reinvent herself, how many more impossible dreams? She felt a small ache of longing to think that this might be her last chance at adventure, and that she was letting it pass her by.
But what choice did she have? Besides, if nothing else, the past year’s impulses had proven she was not very good at adventure.
She said, “What will they do with the château? The hotel company, I mean.”
He broke off an end of the baguette and placed it on her plate, then, straddling the bench across from her, placed tart and asparagus and bread on his own plate. “Under the terms of the agreement, the acquiring company will own the actual building, and a ninety-nine-year lease on the ground on which it stands and all attached property. They’re required to bring in architects who specialize in this sort of thing, to stabilize the structure and do what’s necessary to keep the building from continuing to deteriorate. After that, I imagine they’ll seal it off until the renovations are complete.”
“How long will that take?”
He shrugged. “Years, most likely. As few as five, as many as twenty, depending upon their plans for expansion in the valley. But it makes no difference to us because we will be paid the same rate of return whether the property is in use or not, and of course their investment will continue to grow.”
“What about the land?”
“That will be up to them. I would imagine they’ll use part of it for the grounds—swimming pools, tennis courts, gardens, and parking—and sublet the remainder. Again, we share in the return.”
Sara frowned a little. She knew it was a good plan, and surely the most sensible thing to do, and that much the same was being done with castles all over Europe. But something in her recoiled at thinking of this beautiful old place being turned into a Holiday Inn.
Sensing her uncertainty, Ash reminded her, “It’s a lifetime income for you, Sara, and for your nephews beyond. Far beyond that, as soon as the place opens you’ll be able to come back here and
stay anytime you wish at no charge.”
“I suppose.” She shrugged a little and picked up her glass. “But I probably won’t.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m not much of a world traveler.”
Ash, in the process of cutting a slice of asparagus with his knife and fork, slowed. “What will you do, then, when you return to North Carolina?”
She plucked another grape, lost in thought. Dixie, the kids, North Carolina seemed a lifetime away. She could hardly even picture herself there anymore. “My brother-in-law, Jeff, had an idea about fixing up a little house on the beach for me.”
“Well, you’ll certainly be able to afford it now.”
She said, “It was the house that Daniel and I lived in right after we got married.”
He put down his fork, the asparagus untasted. “But what will you do?”
She looked at her wine, but didn’t taste it. “My sister has a bookstore. I used to help her out.”
He said absolutely nothing.
She felt defensive. “I liked it. It’s good work.”
He picked up his fork again.
“What?” she demanded irritably.
“Nothing,” he replied. “Not a thing.”
She scowled briefly, recognizing the cavalier reply she had given him earlier. “You disapprove.”
“Why ever should I disapprove?” he returned blandly. “A house on the water, a quaint little bookstore . . . it all sounds perfectly lovely. For an afternoon.”
He lifted his glass to her in a small salute, his eyes revealing nothing except the clear blue color of the water below them, and she struggled to hide her smile. “I think we’re very different people, Ash.”
“And I think we’re more alike than you care to admit,” he returned easily. “But either way, I predict you’ll soon grow bored in your tiny island bookstore.”
She hesitated, wanting to argue with him, but in the end simply said, lightly, “There are worse things.”
“Can’t think of any, myself.”
And then he hesitated, the casualness leaving his face, and his tone. He glanced briefly into the distance, and then looked back at her. He said quietly, “No one remains broken forever, Sara. You either heal, or you die. And you are not going to die.”
She wanted to say something, but she couldn’t. She felt her throat grow tight again, and she could not be certain whether it was from sorrow or gratitude. Ash gave her no time to dwell on it. He resumed his easy demeanor, and broke off a piece of bread.
“Have you ever been to Carcassonne? It’s only an hour’s drive. Talking of some marvelous examples of restored châteaux . . .”
She slowly relaxed as they finished their picnic, and he took her effortlessly from one harmless, entertaining topic of conversation to another. It had been a long time since she had been so comfortable with someone she didn’t know. Even with Daniel, there had always been that underlying sense of urgency, of purpose and intent, that was as exciting as it was exhausting. She had never really felt comfortable with Daniel. There was too much passion, too much that was larger-than-life, and simply being in his presence would leave a person breathless, more often than not. Ash, as insincere as he no doubt was, knew how to offer exactly what was needed, no more and no less, to make whomever he was conversing with feel at ease. It was a rare talent, almost a gift. And what made it even more impressive was that he actually seemed to enjoy the process as much as she did.
It was late afternoon when they packed up the picnic basket and made their way back down the knoll to the boat. The bottle of wine was empty, and Sara held on to the arm he offered along the slippery parts of the slope. She said, “I hope the chef hasn’t prepared another feast for tonight, because I don’t think I can eat another bite.”
He chuckled. “Sorry, the chef ’s banquet was for one night only. That very nice housekeeper—Madame Touron—tells me the remainders are all nicely put away in the fridge, though, if you get hungry later on. Careful, now. Don’t get your feet wet. I’ll go first.”
He placed the basket on the bottom of the boat and climbed inside, loosening the rope from the shrub around which he had looped it and then grasping her arms to swing her inside. She caught her foot against the rim of the boat and landed hard, causing the boat to rock violently. He scooped her against him, possibly to steady her, possibly to keep from falling himself, and when she looked up at him, half laughing, half gasping, his face was only inches from hers and she thought, This is classic.
She could see the pores of his skin and the soft, deep surprise in his eyes. She felt the heat of his thighs and his hands on her back and the warmth of his wine-scented breath across her lips, and she thought, distantly, that she must have had more to drink than she had realized because she did not pull away. His face moved, just fractionally, closer to hers and then he stopped, his eyes dark on hers, and he murmured, softly, almost to himself, “Now, that would be completely inappropriate, wouldn’t it?”
Sara swallowed hard and broke his gaze, flooded suddenly with guilt and confusion. For a moment—just that moment when she was captured in his eyes—she had forgotten about Daniel. She had forgotten her grief, her loss, her emptiness. She had felt almost normal, for just a moment. How could that have happened? She was a widow. How could he have made her forget that?
His hands slid to her waist, lightly steadying her, and then to her arms as he guided her to the plank seat. By the time he took his place in the bow and handed her an oar, his smile was easy and his demeanor relaxed, and she could almost believe the moment hadn’t occurred at all.
NINE
They parted in the entry hall of the castle, Ash to check his e-mail and Sara to retrieve the papers she had left on the terrace. After the warmth of the sun, the marble interior felt cool, and gooseflesh prickled on Sarah’s sun-rouged arms. She said, “Thank you for the afternoon, Ash—and for not turning on your phone again. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”
There was again that familiar crinkle at the corners of his eyes; she was surprised to realize how much she enjoyed making him smile. “Actually, I rather enjoyed it myself. It’s not often I get a holiday.”
She said, “I know it was hard for you to get away from your work, and I appreciate your coming here in person. But now that everything’s settled, I’m going to try to get a flight back tomorrow. And you can get back to your life.”
He looked surprised. “I thought you planned to stay the weekend.”
“I did . . .” She shrugged, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “But there’s no reason to, is there? I mean, everything can be handled by mail from now on out, can’t it?”
“I suppose, if that’s what you prefer.” And then he said, “But I wish you’d stay.”
He seemed as surprised to have said that as she was to hear it, and, almost as though to cover, he made a small grimace. “The truth is, I’m in France by way of avoiding one of my mother’s dreadful house parties, and if you leave, I shall have no more excuses.”
She laughed. “How bad can your mother’s party be?”
“My dear,” he said sincerely, “you simply cannot imagine. I beg of you, don’t make me return to England this weekend. Stay a little longer.”
She considered this for a moment, trying not to show her amusement as she studied him. “Maybe,” she agreed. “On one condition.”
He winced. “Why do I think this has something to do with my mobile?”
She lifted one shoulder negligently. “I’m sure your mother won’t mind at all if you check your messages every thirty seconds.”
His eyes narrowed marginally. “Lord preserve me from clever women. You sounded remarkably like my secretary just then.”
She chuckled. “Now, that’s a compliment I can take. Do we have a deal?”
He thought for a moment. “Mobile telephone hours are from ten p.m. until ten a.m. Otherwise the bloody thing remains locked in my desk.”
“Fair enough,” she agreed. “You�
�re not going to go into withdrawal, are you?”
He grinned and playfully tapped her nose with his forefinger. “We shall see, my dear, we shall see. I hope I don’t live to regret this.”
And Sara thought, but did not say, Me, too.
Over the next few days Sara got to know a part of Ash that she never would have imagined existed before. “When I first met him,” Sara told Dixie when she called two days before her flight home, “I had a hard time picturing him as Daniel’s best friend. He was nice enough, but you know Daniel—he never had a feeling he didn’t express, or an impulse he didn’t act on . . . Ash was so well rehearsed, so well thought out. He made it look easy, of course, but I have to say he seems a lot more real this way. And a lot easier to be around.”
They walked down to the village on market day, and Ash bought her a baseball cap to protect her face from the sun, because he could not find a sun hat. They filled cotton bags with fresh produce and cheese and slim baguettes, and brown farm eggs that were practically still warm from the hen. They laughed when they discovered neither one of them knew how to cook well enough to turn the bounty into an actual meal, and dined instead on cheese and fruit and wine and watched the sunset from the terrace.
Ash’s Armani gave way to jeans and short-sleeved cotton shirts that buttoned midway up the chest, and, for their day trip to Carcassonne and a hike through the hills, Bermuda shorts and hiking shoes. He had the whitest legs Sara had ever seen, and when she had teased him about it he devised a deadpan thirty-minute lecture on the dangers of sun overexposure to peoples of, as he put it, “extreme Northern descent,” that had her holding her sides with laughter before he was finished.
“He drove a Fiat,” she told Dixie about the trip to Carcassonne, “with the top down. I didn’t even know he could drive. But I guess he rented the Fiat in Paris and drove it down here. I never even knew it was here.”
They had hiked in the morning and paused at the top of a steep trail overlooking the ancient city to catch their breaths. He had put his arm around her shoulders for no reason at all, and she had leaned against him companionably. She did not tell Dixie about that. They visited a marvelous château that was open to the public and she snapped photographs like a tourist while Ash pretended not to know her. They had a two-hour lunch at an outdoor café, then strolled the streets, sampling the local wines and visiting the boutiques. Whenever Ash found a wine he liked, he ordered a case. Whenever Sara commented favorably on a wine she tasted, he ordered a case for her. She tried to warn Dixie about all the wine that would shortly be arriving on her doorstep.