Falling for the Pregnant Heiress Page 17

Enjoy four new stories from Harlequin Romance every month!

  Connect with us on Harlequin.com for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers, free online reads and much more!

  Other ways to keep in touch:

  Harlequin.com/newsletters

  Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks

  Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks

  HarlequinBlog.com

  Join Harlequin My Rewards and reward the book lover in you!

  Earn points for every Harlequin print and ebook you buy, wherever and whenever you shop.

  Turn your points into FREE BOOKS of your choice

  OR

  EXCLUSIVE GIFTS from your favorite authors or series.

  Click here to join for FREE

  Or visit us online to register at

  www.HarlequinMyRewards.com

  Harlequin My Rewards is a free program (no fees) without any commitments or obligations.

  One Night in Provence

  by Barbara Wallace

  CHAPTER ONE

  Early August

  Is the place as gorgeous as it looked in the brochure? Wait, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Tell me it’s horrible.

  SUNSHINE WARMED JENNA’S face as she read her friend’s text. Setting down her champagne, she quickly snapped a photo, knowing the camera phone could never do justice to the Provençal sea of gold and lavender. Her phone dinged in response almost immediately.

  I hate you.

  Jenna snorted. She shouldn’t laugh. Poor Shirley was back in Nantucket with shingles instead of sitting here in the sunshine with her.

  She quickly typed a response.

  Would it make you feel better if I told you everyone looks like a swimsuit model? I’m the pastiest person here.

  That wasn’t exactly true. There were definitely some gorgeous people floating around, but there were plenty of pale tourists like Jenna as well. What was a little white lie, though, if thinking her best friend felt out of place made Shirley feel a little better?

  I’m not going to have nearly as much fun without you with me.

  That was true. Shirley was her wing person, both at the nursing home where they worked and off duty. In fact, it was Shirley who’d heard about the Merchant charity auction and convinced Jenna to bid on this Provençal vacation. Without her, Jenna wouldn’t be sitting on the terrace of a centuries-old French castle drinking champagne for breakfast.

  Better double down on your efforts, then. Otherwise, Beatrice will come back to haunt you. She expected you to have as much fun as possible.

  I plan to!

  No way was she risking the posthumous wrath of her favorite patient.

  Unfortunately, I’ve lost my translator.

  Shirley was the one who could speak French. An ex-boyfriend had given her an immersion software course one Christmas with the promise of a French vacation.

  Besides, there’s only so much trouble a person can get into by themselves.

  A trio of bouncing dots on her screen indicated that Shirley was typing a reply.

  Go find a sexy Frenchman to help you. I can think of plenty of trouble you can get into with one of those.

  Jenna laughed out loud, causing the couple at the next table to look over. She waved her phone at them to show she wasn’t some random crazy person before replying.

  R U kidding? With my luck it’ll be some poser.

  You think everyone is a poser.

  With good reason. Nantucket attracted them like a magnet. Thirty K millionaires, she and Shirley liked to call them. Guys with rented boats and empty bank accounts who spent their summer weekends pretending they were part of the beautiful people with the hopes of scoring with as many women as possible.

  The South of France isn’t the White Whale Tavern.

  It’s probably worse. I’d rather be haunted by Beatrice, thank you.

  Shirley responded by sending a GIF of a dancing ghost.

  If you do find a Frenchman, let me know. If I’m going to be covered in sores, I need some kind of vicarious thrill.

  Don’t hold your breath.

  I never do.

  After a few more exchanges, Shirley signed off to go back to sleep, it being early morning in New England. Jenna signaled the server for a second glass of champagne. Because when in France...

  On the other side of the terrace railing, the landscape rolled out like a sea of purple, green and yellow. A picture postcard come to life, only better.

  Ten days in a French castle at the height of lavender season. That’s how Merchant Hotels had described the dream package Jenna bid on at the auction. The accompanying brochures made the trip sound magical. Now that she was here, she realized the pictures didn’t begin to do the magic justice.

  She raised her glass in honor of the woman who’d made the trip possible. “Thanks for the adventure, Beatrice. I’ll make the most of it.”

  Lifting the glass just a bit higher, she snapped a picture and sent the shot to Shirley. Then she switched seats so she could get a photograph of her drinking with the fields behind her. If she was going to rub salt in Shirley’s wounds, then she might as well rub a lot of salt.

  Unfortunately, she was the only millennial alive who couldn’t shoot a decent selfie. She either looked like she was squinting at the sky or like she had two extra chins. After four aborted attempts, she gave up and tossed the phone on the table.

  A shadow crossed her table. “Excusez-moi de vous déranger,” said a deep voice, “but would you care for some assistance?”

  Ho. Ly. Cow. Shirley would be choking on her champagne right now. Jenna nearly did. She was looking at quite possibly the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen. He stood at the ready in a double-breasted suit similar to what the other hotel managers wear wearing, looking like someone plucked him from a hotel brochure. In fact, Château de Beauchamp should put him in the brochure; they’d probably triple their reservation rate. Who knew jaws that chiseled existed in real life?

  Granted, he was a tad on the lean side, but then who needed muscles when you could wear a suit with style and had eyes the color of the fields outside?

  And...she was staring. As though she’d never seen a handsome man before.

  Not this handsome, a voice whispered in her head.

  He knew he was handsome, too. She could tell from the way he smiled, his teeth all white and perfect.

  “Your camera,” he said in heavily-accented English. “I couldn’t help noticing your frustration. I would be glad to take your photograph, if you’d like. You are trying to take a photo in front of the lavender, are you not?”

  From the way he focused all his attention on her, you would think there was nothing else he would rather do than help her with her vacation shots. Her stomach fluttered, and she had to remind herself this was France’s—or rather the Merchant Hotel chain’s—version of five-star service.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’m afraid I don’t have the selfie trick down yet.”

  “That is a good thing, is it not? Means you’re busy looking at things other than yourself.”

  Smooth, the way he threw in the compliment. “I’m trying to break that habit on this trip. My friend Shirley was unable to come, so I want to document everything so I can show her when I get home.”

  “Well, you won’t find a better backdrop in all of Provence than this one right here,” he replied. “Why don’t you stand by the rail? The view is its most breathtaking up close.”

  Jenna would call him biased, except that he might be right. She’d never seen so much color in one place. Maybe it was an effect brought on by the champagne, but everything seemed more vivid here. The lavender’s purple deeper, the sunflowers’ gold more brilliant. Even the mountains, with their shadows, looked like they were bathed in blue and green.

  “You’re American,” her photograph
er noted. “Is this your first visit to Château de Beauchamp?”

  “Yes, it is.” First time to the château. First time to France. First time outside the United States since spring break in college. “I couldn’t resist the idea of staying in a real-life castle. Especially one that’s a thousand years old. America wasn’t even a gleam in Columbus’s eye then.”

  “I hate to disappoint you, but you’ve been shortchanged by a few hundred years.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He joined her at the railing. As he eased his way around the chair, Jenna noted the fluid grace with which he moved. Like water rounding a bend.

  “This isn’t the original castle,” he told her.

  “But the brochure said the Château de Beauchamp had stood watch over the valley since the eleventh century. Were they making that up?” If the hotel misled her, she was going to be really ticked off.

  “A Château de Beauchamp has stood guard,” he replied. “Just not this one. The original fell into ruin sometime in the sixteenth century. If you look beyond that clump of trees to the right, you’ll see the remains of the tower.”

  A gold signet ring on his pinkie finger glittered in the sun as he pointed. Squinting, Jenna made out the peaks of toppled stone.

  “The d’Usay family built this as a replacement. They called it the Château Neuf.”

  “So I’m staying in a five-hundred-year-old castle instead of a thousand-year-old one.”

  “I trust you’re not too disappointed?”

  “I’ll survive.”

  “I hope so. It would be a shame if you were left unsatisfied.”

  Damn, if the double entendre didn’t send a quiver through her. If it was a double entendre. The jet lag had thrown her instincts off.

  “Have you taken the tour?” he asked.

  “Not yet.” A castle tour was one of the suggested itinerary items listed in her information package, but Jenna had yet to book anything. She’d told Shirley it was because she wanted to be spontaneous, but really it was because she’d been too busy before departure. “I thought I’d take a day and soak in the atmosphere first.”

  “You should, if only to appreciate the atmosphere in which you are soaking. Did you know, for example, that the wine cellar doubled as a meeting locale for les Compagnies du Soleil during the White Terror?”

  “The white what?”

  “When members of the region took revenge on those who supported the revolution. That would be our revolution, by the way,” he added. A dimple in his left cheek punctuated his cheeky grin.

  “You mean they were rebelling against the rebellion?” she asked.

  “We prefer to think of it as an attempt to preserve tradition. And perhaps their heads.”

  “No, they definitely wouldn’t want to lose those.” She wondered how many women had lost their heads over this guy. She’d met men like him before. Players, albeit not as suave.

  Or as handsome, the voice reminded her.

  Men like him were the worst, because they tricked you. Most poseurs were so obvious you knew not to take them seriously. This kind of guy, however... This was the kind of guy who sucked you in with their smoothness, leading you to believe he were sincerely interested in more than sex. Next thing you knew, you were spending your life like a puppet, dancing a jig every time he jerked your string.

  This guy looked like someone who pulled a lot of strings.

  He leaned an elbow against the rail, allowing his eyes to lock with Jenna’s. “Speak for yourself, mademoiselle. Sometimes losing your head can be rather fun.”

  “Not in my experience,” Jenna replied.

  “Perhaps you haven’t had the right experience.”

  If she were in Nantucket, this would be the point where she told him to take a hike. Instead, whether it was the jet lag, the champagne on an empty stomach or the heady French atmosphere, she found herself leaning into his gaze. The hue was far deeper and richer than she realized. More blue-violet than purple, making them even more unique. And captivating...

  “How did they make out? The rebels against the rebellion. Did they keep their heads?” she asked him.

  “You’ll have to take the tour to find out.” The dimple reappeared. “Unless you would like a more personal tour.”

  Despite knowing better, the offer went straight to the base of her spine.

  “French history just happens to be a personal passion of mine,” he told her. “Particularly the d’Usay family.”

  Wait? Was he offering her an actual tour? “Won’t you get in trouble? With the hotel?” she added when he gave her a quizzical look. There was personalized service, and then there was personalized service. “I wouldn’t want to take you away from the other guests.”

  An amused smile tugged the corner of his mouth. “I’m sure the other guests will survive.”

  Jenna debated the offer, turning her phone end over end as she thought. What the heck—it was only a walk around the hotel, not a marriage proposal. Besides, unlike most guys on the make, this one was actually entertaining. If he got annoying, she could always beg off by blaming jet lag. “In that case, I would love a tour.”

  “Wonderful. My name is Philippe, by the way.”

  “Jenna Brown.”

  “Enchanté, Jenna Brown.”

  Amazing how an accent could turn the plainest of New England names exotic and sensual. Particularly when the words were accompanied by a sweep of admiring eyes. Again, she found herself throwing out Nantucket rules. Instead of being insulted, she felt goose bumps trail in its wake.

  He motioned toward the door. “Shall we?”

  Jenna scooped up her wine on the way past her table. Let the adventure begin.

  * * *

  “An auction, you say?”

  “A fund-raising auction,” Jenna replied. “People bid on different experiences, each to be held at a Merchant hotel. One hundred percent of the profits went to build a clinic for recovering drug addicts on Cape Cod. Our area has a terrible opioid addiction issue.”

  They were descending a spiral stone staircase, having discovered the door to the western tower was locked. Philippe might have been flirting when he offered a tour, but, to her surprise, he took his tour guide duties quite seriously. Jenna found herself treated to a master class in regional history and the colorful role the d’Usay family played in it.

  At some point, the conversation had turned to her, though, and now she was explaining about the inheritance that brought her to France.

  “Sounds like a very noble cause,” Philippe remarked.

  “It is, although I have to confess that when my friend Shirley convinced me to go, helping the opioid crisis wasn’t my primary motive. I went looking for adventure.”

  “Is that so?” He stopped midstep.

  The spark in his eyes set the goose bumps skittering again. Tempted as she was to pretend otherwise—because why not pretend on vacation?—it was time to burst his bubble. In case he thought her a rich American on holiday. “The vacation,” she clarified. “I’m a nurse in a nursing home back in Massachusetts. One of my patients left me an inheritance with orders that I use the money to have an adventure.”

  “Interesting terms for an inheritance.” If he was disappointed by her lack of wealth, the reaction didn’t show on his face. She’d studied closely to notice a change. His eyes remained intently focused on her.

  “Not if you knew Beatrice. She was like Auntie Mame on steroids. Wore red lipstick and a silk kimono right up to the end.” She smiled at the memory. “The two of us would watch travel documentaries, and she would mock me for not having seen enough of the world. ‘If you’re not careful, you grow old and boring,’ she used to tell me.”

  “That doesn’t sound very sweet.”

  “It was all in good fun. I made the mistake of telling her I’d never been farther than Mexico on
spring break. She insisted she was going to leave the nursing home and the two of us would take one last adventure together.”

  Feeling a lump rising in her throat, she looked away so he wouldn’t see the moisture teasing her eyes. “Adding the stipulation to the inheritance was her way of making sure one of us did.”

  “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.