“When my great-grandfather died, my grandfather became the head of the corporation. He’s still alive, but because of their old age and maladies, he and my grandmother keep to their own suite in the château with nurses and a health care giver taking care of them.
“My father, Étienne, the eldest child, was made the head, but unfortunately he’s been stricken with an aggressive form of arthritis and is in a wheelchair. My mother, Hélène-Claire, and a health care giver look after him. Because of his condition, he made me the head of the corporation a year ago.
“But my uncles Pierre and Lucien, and my aunts Mireille and Abeline, along with their spouses and children, have been upset about my ascension and have a great deal to say about every move I make.”
“Why is that?”
“As I told you earlier, everyone in the family wants to be in charge.”
“But that doesn’t make sense.”
“You’re right, so don’t even try.”
There had to be more to it than that. “It sounds like the Decorvet dynasty has been prolific,” she observed. “That is a lot of family. Do they all live close by?”
“For those not living in the château, they’re too close.”
“Which king was it who complained to his minister that he had no friends, and the minister said, ‘Of course not. You’re the king!’?”
“Where did you acquire such wisdom?” he murmured, but she heard him.
“Do you have siblings?”
“Two. My sister, Josette, is married to Paul. They have a three-year-old boy Maurice, and are expecting their second child. My brother, Jean-Marc, is still single and works in the exporting office for our corporation with Uncle Pierre. Everyone is involved in some way in the family business, thus the friction.”
Abby remembered his telling her about the relative that left for Switzerland because of the dark side of his family’s relationships. The one who’d found the supposed notebook with Byron’s writing. Friction was no doubt the polite description of what went on within the Decorvet inner circle.
“As I see it, your family can’t help but have difficult moments. It’s natural because they work in the same business.” She shook her head. “That would never work for my family.
“Tell me about yours.”
“I have aunts and uncles on both sides,” Abby informed him, “but they don’t work with my dad. He runs an insurance agency and my mom works for a hospital in medical records. My brother, Steve, just finished law school and my older sister, Nadine, is pregnant with her third child.
“I have four cousins and everyone is a free thinker. Thank goodness there aren’t any secrets to be kept under lock and key, like a secret recipe for the wine you produce. No one would be able to keep quiet.” Low laughter rumbled out of Raoul.
“What kind of wine do you make?”
“The only grape we grow is the pinot noir. Nothing but grand cru.”
“What does that mean?”
“That it’s superior quality. The earth here has an exceptional purity.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s made up of red-brown clay and large bits of limestone. The soil drains so well that the flavors are kept concentrated and powerful. It’s known that this area’s soil takes our crop to a new extreme of depth and concentration, producing a one-of-a-kind wine.”
Abby heard pride in his voice. “How much does your wine cost?”
“I’m afraid the bottles are priced at extravagant levels. Depending on weather conditions, we sell three hundred thousand bottles yearly from seven different terroirs.”
She finished her drink. “Is that a lot?”
“Not really.”
His answer proved she knew nothing about his work, but she was fascinated by everything she’d learned so far. “I’ve only been told a little about the chalessas grape variety that grows around Lac Léman.”
One dark brow lifted. “Then you know more than most tourists. And I’ve told you more than most people will ever know about my family, so we don’t have to talk about it again.”
She knew he meant it. Then his half smile appeared and her heart jumped.
They drove back to the motorway. Now that they were on French soil, the signs and architecture were different. When they reached Dijon, she exclaimed over the fabulous toits bourguignons. Raoul explained that their polychrome roofs were made of tiles glazed in green, yellow, black and terracotta. They’d been arranged in geometric patterns. Abby took pictures with her phone.
Before long Raoul gave her a tour as they followed the sign for Vosne-Romanée, teaching her about the area and its wonders with every kilometer. They drove past many lush terroirs of vineyards growing on the limestone slopes of the Côte d’Or escarpment.
“It’s evident Gauguin never traveled here, Raoul. He would have had a field day painting the landscape of Vosne-Romanée—the different terroirs, hedges, trees and gardens all arranged like a great patchwork in his unmistakable style. I have to tell you I’m entranced.”
“So am I by every word that comes out of your mouth.”
Like an underwater geyser, his comment sent steaming heat through her body. Abby could feel his magic getting to her. It frightened her that she was so susceptible to him. Too much longer in his company and she’d never want to leave. He’d had such a cataclysmic effect on her, how would she be able to bear it if it turned out his feelings for her blew hot, then cold because she could never take the place of his beloved wife?
Eventually they came to a tall ornate grillwork gate. At the top it said, Regnac-Capet Decorvet Domaine. But her attention was caught by the coat of arms beneath the words.
Her gaze flew to his. “Was this a royal property at one time?”
He took his time before he said, “My ancestor was a duke from the House of Burgundy.”
Bits and pieces of unassociated information flew at her while she started piecing them together. Talk about a patchwork. But this one added up to a canvas so extraordinary, she started trembling and couldn’t speak for a minute. Yesterday when he’d appeared like a Gallic prince out of one of her dreams, she’d known something in her world had changed.
“You’re a duke, aren’t you?”
CHAPTER FOUR
“THE OBSOLETE TITLE belongs to my grandfather.”
“But when he and your father die, you’ll inherit it.”
“It won’t mean a thing.”
“Except in your family’s mind, I’d wager.”
Good heavens. Raoul wasn’t just the head of a famous Burgundian family. He was a titled aristocrat, too removed from ordinary life for her to imagine being any part of it. And two years ago he’d lost his wife and child. It was only natural that he had a man’s appetites and needs and had found himself attracted to Abby on his trip. It didn’t mean anything.
But he wasn’t your typical male. A brief relationship was all that could come of their being together. She’d have tonight with him, but tomorrow she would leave and fly to Italy while she still had the strength to tear herself away.
He pressed a remote on his keys and the doors swung open. They passed through and continued along a drive lined with trees and velvety green lawns. But when he turned to the right, she gasped, not prepared for what awaited her.
Set among the foliage lay an enormous ochre-toned château. The sides with their turrets bookended a middle section where there was one of those geometric patterns of tiles on the roofs covering the three stories of mullioned glass windows.
This was the ancestral home of the Frenchman who’d climbed out of the old Renault at the train station yesterday? It was no longer a mystery why he hadn’t come for one pitiful stranded tourist in his Maserati. Unpeeling his many layers needed to happen in increments.
“I’ll give you the grand tour of the whole estate by car first, then I’ll feed you.”
He kept on driving. In the distance she saw a helicopter on a landing pad. The ancient and the modern, side by side.
They continued along a private road behind the château where there was a miniature structure built along the same lines as the château with a pond in front.
Beyond it were many outbuildings and vineyards in the distance where the estate employees processed and stored the wine. There had to be hundreds of workers to keep it all going. “This is like a town within a town that has grown from the Middle Ages. My parents’ home in San José was built twenty-five years ago. We thought it was old.”
“America is a young country.”
“Have you been there?”
“Several times.”
Of course he had.
He followed the road around, making a loop. “You see those vines to the south? They’re young, under twenty-five years old. We don’t include them in our premier cru bottling.”
“Why not?”
“Because it takes the vines that long to express the greatness of the terroir where they are planted. My grandfather taught me that the young vines remain young vines, however fine the grapes they produce. To quote him, ‘They’re like you gifted teenagers.’”
“Your grandfather sounds kind.” The warmth in his voice revealed his affection for him.
“I plan on your meeting him and my grandmother. Your sense of humor and your knowledge of Lord Byron will appeal to him.”
“Why does he love Byron’s writing so much?”
“My grandfather had a dog he named Vercingetorix in honor of the most notable Gallic warrior who fought against Caesar. After his dog died, he happened to come across Lord Byron’s, ‘Epitaph to a Dog,’ and he wept. That started his love for the poet. He read everything.”
Abby nodded. “Like ‘The Prisoner of Chillon,’ that’s another piece that touches your heart. Byron had been devoted to his dog, not caring it had rabies. He nursed it without worrying about infection.”
“My grandfather used to add his own words, ‘All the virtues of man without his vices.’”
At this point she was positive she would wake up at any moment to discover Raoul was not only bigger than life, he was a figment of her imagination. He drove them back toward the château, but he stopped in front of what he called the petit château by the pond.
“I’m sure you need to freshen up. Let’s go inside and I’ll show you to your apartment while you’re here. This is used when we have important guests who must stay overnight. The grand château is a relic, too museum-like and formal to enjoy. One day soon I’ll take you on a tour of it, but I guarantee you’ll much prefer staying here in privacy and modernized comfort.”
There wouldn’t be another day after tomorrow with him. She was leaving as soon as he let her take a look at the notebook, if there was such a thing. To stay any longer would be a mistake she would never recover from. Her mind could tell her she’d come with him to see if this work really was Byron’s. But her heart had a mind of its own where the man himself was concerned.
The apartment turned out to be a home within a home, lavish enough for a queen with every accoutrement imaginable, including a kitchen with anything she’d want to eat or drink. Raoul carried in her suitcase and set it down on the exquisite parquet flooring. They exchanged cell phone numbers.
“I’ll be back for you in an hour and we’ll go out for dinner.” He disappeared behind the French doors too fast for her to say goodbye.
The conversation with Ginger rang in her ears. What I don’t understand is why he feels he has to bribe you. A man as attractive as he is could get his way with a woman anytime without using subterfuge to entice her. He must want you to go with him very badly.
What was the truth? Did he want to be with Abby beyond logic or reason? That’s the way she felt about him, but she couldn’t honestly answer her own question. She didn’t want to answer it because if the truth didn’t match the man she thought he was, she knew it would devastate her to the point she’d never get over it.
After he left, she unpacked her suitcase. The task only took a few minutes. She showered and put on a café-au-lait-colored sundress with a short-sleeved white jacket. Once she’d brushed her hair and put on lipstick, she went back outside full of nervous energy while she waited for Raoul’s call and drank in her lush green surroundings.
With rose bushes in bloom and lily pads decorating the picturesque pond, she felt like she’d walked into a Monet painting. Her mind kept going over the things he’d told her about his family. He had responsibilities she couldn’t imagine. As she leaned over to smell one of the brilliant pink roses, she saw a figure.
Coming from the direction of the grand château she watched a man stride toward her dressed in a pullover and trousers. He had a certain look that reminded her of Raoul. They seemed close in age, but he wasn’t quite as tall.
“Eh, bien.” His dark brown eyes played over her with what she felt was an interest a little too familiar. “Puis-je vous aider?”
“Pardon me?” She pretended not to understand him. She understood that much French, but she didn’t want to get into a conversation with Raoul’s brother.
“Ah. Americaine. I thought my eyes were deceiving me when I stepped out of the château and saw a beautiful woman standing there. Where did you come from?” His French accent wasn’t as pronounced as Raoul’s. Because this must be Raoul’s brother, she needed to be careful what she said.
“I’m a tourist from California.”
He continued to appraise her with an undoubtedly practiced smile that would work on most women. Jean-Marc had his own brand of charm. “I spent time there when I was in the States. What part?”
“San José.”
“I’m afraid I only made it to the Napa Valley. May I know your name, mademoiselle?”
“Abby Grant.”
He put his hands on his hips. “You must be here with a buyer. I wasn’t aware we were expecting one this late in the day. If you’ll allow me, I’d be happy to show you around while you’re being kept waiting.”
The man didn’t waste time. He was a huge flirt. “That’s very nice of you, but I don’t even know your name.”
A shocked laugh burst out of him. “Jean-Marc Decorvet.”
“Ah.” She smiled. “When Raoul arrives in a minute, I’ll tell him I met his brother.”
In an instant, the mention of his sibling wiped the smile from his good-looking face. Judging by that unhappy reaction, Raoul hadn’t exaggerated about the dynamics in his family. “How do you know him?” It might have been a normal question, except that he sounded upset. Maybe that wasn’t the word, exactly. She didn’t understand.
“We met while I was on vacation.”
He acted stunned. “Where?”
It wasn’t his business, but she didn’t want to offend Raoul’s brother. “Switzerland.” As politely as possible she said, “It’s very nice to meet you. Maybe we’ll see each other again.”
On that note Abby continued to walk toward the vineyards in the distance. She felt his eyes on her back, but never turned around.
Please call me soon, Raoul.
* * *
After Raoul had left Abby, he’d driven by the main domaine office on the estate to check in with Félix. His dependable forty-year-old secretary hadn’t left for home yet. He looked pleased to see Raoul. “I’m glad you’re back.”
“I’m sure your wife is too.”
He smiled. “You were gone five days too long. When you’re away, it gets like a madhouse around here.”
“That’s why I leave everything in your capable hands. How did it go with Jules?”
“He assured me he took care of the spraying.”
“Bon.”
“Solange de la Croix Godard has come by every day expecting to see you back. She hopes you haven’t forgotten the Regional Wine Associat
ion Dinner tomorrow night.”
“No.”
But Raoul had never made plans to take her. She could hope, but that was a fiction she and her parents had dreamed up. Since his trip to St. Saphorin, he had other plans.
Meeting Abby had changed his world. Yesterday he’d experienced a coup de foudre. Raoul had never given any credence to two people falling in love at first sight, but there was no other explanation for what had happened to them. It surpassed any reservations he might have had thanks to his guilt about Angélique.
She’d felt it too, otherwise she wouldn’t have come with him even though she’d tried to fight it. He needed and wanted her in his life no matter what.
“Anything else, Félix?”
His secretary started to say something, then changed his mind. Raoul didn’t need to know the reason why. “What did my brother do now?”
“It’s what your uncle Pierre mentioned to me. I don’t know how important it is.”
“If that were true, you wouldn’t have that frustrated look on your face.”
“I understand Jean-Marc tried to handle a possible new client from Denmark while you were gone, but he quoted a lower price to seal the deal without checking with Pierre until it was too late.”
That sounded like Jean-Marc. His unhappy twenty-nine-year-old brother was only a year younger than Raoul, and had always resented the fact that Raoul would have first claim to the title once their grandfather and father passed away. Things had gotten worse since their father had chosen Raoul to take over the company a year ago—another nail in the coffin. Jean-Marc had always made everything into a competition—work, sports, women. The situation wasn’t going to improve anytime soon.
Raoul needed to talk to their autocratic father. If Jean-Marc were to be given total control over some aspect of the business, it might help him feel more important.
“Thanks for telling me. I’ll speak with Pierre. Anything else?”
“Yes. The funeral of André Laroche. I was informed it’s set for tomorrow at twelve at the church.”
Captivated by the Brooding Billionaire Page 5