Barbara Wallace - One Night In Provence

“How fortunate for us you decided to have your adventure here.”

“My friend Shirley was supposed to come, too, but unfortunately she got sick at the last minute.”

“Well, if you find you need company...”

The practiced way the words came off his tongue said she wasn’t the first to hear them. Didn’t stop her insides from growing warm, however.

“It’s okay. I’m a pro at having fun on my own.”

Sidestepping the offer for the moment, she pointed to a giant portrait hanging on the wall across from the bottom step. “What can you tell me about this painting?”

The middle-aged couple in 1930s period clothing looked to be overseeing the tower traffic. There was something very striking about the portrait. The couple looked intimidating, but in a regal way. From their place on the wall, their eyes could judge everyone who went up and down the stairs.

“That is Antoinette and Simon d’Usay.” Philippe stopped and leaned against the stairway’s stone rail. “They were the last of the d’Usays to actually live in the castle. After World War I, they built Château d’Usay.”

“On the other side of the lavender fields.” Jenna had read about the smaller château, which was still three times as large as anything she’d seen, in the guidebook. Seeing it, and its rolling purple fields, was one of the trip highlights she’d most been looking forward to.

“You won’t be disappointed,” he replied when she told him. “Château d’Usay remains the largest producer of lavender in the region. Many of the top perfumes in the country rely on d’Usay blossoms for their scents.”

There was pride in his voice. She wondered if all the locals felt this way or if he had a particular affinity for the d’Usay family because of their rich history.

She thought of her own family and its history of codependency and bad decisions. There definitely weren’t residents of Somerville waxing proudly about the Brown family’s contribution to society.

“So much history attached to one family,” she mused. “In a way, it’s a shame they decided to sell the castle.”

“Buildings this age are very expensive to maintain,” he replied. “Mold, rot, water damage—they take their toll. Better to let a corporation keep the building in existence rather than let it crumble from neglect like other abandoned French relics.”

He had a point. Even if the castle weren’t centuries old, the size alone would make upkeep a fortune. Slowly, she made her way down the rest of the staircase until she stopped in front of the painting. The couple looked familiar. A byproduct of spending weeks studying hotel literature and web guides, she’d bet. “Does the family still live in the region?”

“If you call a single person a family. There is only one direct descendent left.”

“Really.” She’d expected him to say that half the valley was related to them or something. Glancing over, she noticed Philippe studying the painting with a frown.

“Life hasn’t been good to the d’Usays over the last decade,” he said. “Only two of Simon and Antoinette’s children lived to adulthood, and only one of them had children. A son, Marcel. He died in the late twentieth century.”

“How sad. For a family to survive a thousand years only to fade away.”

“Happens to all families, eventually.” His frown sharpened momentarily, only to disappear just as quickly. Once again he was the charming flirt from the terrace. “So let us talk about more pleasant topics. Such as dinner. Would you care to join me this evening?”

So smooth. Such polish. Jenna had no doubt he would pull out all the stops and that dinner would be a romantic, seductive affair. Designed to melt her heart and inhibitions.

“There aren’t rules about fraternizing with guests?” she asked, pretty sure that he wouldn’t care if there were.

Sure enough. That amused smile from earlier returned to his face, and he shrugged. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

She met his gaze again. Dear Lord, but his eyes sucked you in. She’d bet he made every woman he met feel like the only woman in the world. Until the next woman crossed his path, that was.

“I appreciate the offer, but...” Shirley was going to kill her. “I think I’m going to stay in and order from room service tonight. Alone,” she added, for extra emphasis.

He took the rejection like a pro. “Another time, then. We can have what you Americans call a rain check.”

“Sure.” Like that would happen. “Thank you for the tour.”

“It was my pleasure.” She gasped as he caught her hand and raised it to his lips. “ Au revoir , Jenna Brown,” he said, planting a soft kiss on her knuckles. “I look forward to our paths crossing again.”

“Au revoir,” Jenna replied. She stood on the stairs and watched as he strolled away in search of someone else to charm. The first, and likely the only, sexy Frenchman of the trip.

Oh well , she thought, rubbing her knuckles, easy come, easy go.

* * *

Philippe waited until the American disappeared around the corner before heading to the front desk. The petite brown-haired woman—girl, really—straightened with recognition. “Is there something I can do for you?” she asked. Philippe didn’t miss the eagerness sparkling in her eyes, or the way she flipped her hair over her shoulder when she spoke.

“Oui,” he replied. “I was wondering if you might do me a favor... The American, Mademoiselle Brown...”

“Whatever he asks, Nicole, the answer is no.”

Yves St. Dumond, the hotel manager, suddenly appeared in the office doorway. A large man with thickset features and silver hair, he placed a beefy hand on Nicole’s shoulder. “This hotel is not your personal playground, Philippe. If you want to pick up women, go someplace else.”

“I’m hurt.” Philippe pressed a hand to his chest. “Haven’t you known me long enough to know that if I wanted to seduce a guest, I wouldn’t need to bother your staff?” To prove a point, he winked at Nicole, who, on cue, blushed.

“Then what is it you need?”

A distraction. Something—or someone—to keep him from falling into a week-long dark hole.

“It’s August,” he replied.

Yves’s expression immediately softened. “ Je suis désolé. I wasn’t thinking. I lost track of the date.”

“So did I. Almost.” In the end, the calendar reminded him, like it always did.

The consistency was almost humorous. Every year he vowed that this would be the year he broke the pattern, but apparently he was a glutton for punishment, because he insisted on returning for harvest every year. How could he not? Harvest remained a tradition in his family—even if he was a family of one. It was the least he could do for his family. His penance for being the last of the d’Usays.

He forced a smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll be out of your hair soon enough.” He just had to survive a few weeks. Come September, the yearning for whatever it was he yearned for would cease and he’d return to his apartment in Arles.

“In the meantime, why are you interested in Mademoiselle Brown? She’s certainly not your usual type.”

“No, she is not.” Philippe preferred shallow women who had expensive tastes and short attention spans. Women like him. Jenna Brown with her copper hair and shorts with tiny whales was as far from his type as he could imagine.

Perhaps that was why he’d noticed her the moment he stepped onto the hotel terrace. Sitting there, getting frustrated with her inability to take a self-portrait. He found that particular lack of skill extremely attractive.

Add what was obviously a sharp mind and dry wit... Yes, she was exactly the distraction he needed. “Nevertheless, I found her very stimulating and would enjoy spending more time with her.”