Invitation to Provence (21 page)

Sliding from under the sheet, she walked to the window, pushed open the shutters, and looked out, astonished, on what she thought must be the very first morning God had ever made. Soft, cool, early-morning air stroked her cheek, bringing with it the scent of many flowers, and right outside the window a rare magnolia tree thrust a few perfect waxy cream blossoms to the sky. Below, a stone terrace led onto a parterre garden where tiny formal hedges of deep green box, no more than a foot high, enclosed miniature gardens of herbs and shrubs, their leaves still sparkling with last night’s rain. To the right, an avenue of chestnut trees towered over a grassy walkway, dotted here and there with little iron tables and chairs. Beyond that, a lake sparkled silver in the sunlight. She saw a narrow wooden bridge, red as nail polish, arched like something from
Madama Butterfly.
Peering through the magnolia, she could just make out that it led to a small island with a filigreed white wooden gazebo.

To her left was a great sweep of lawns and banks of wild white roses, with hills beyond covered in arrow-straight rows of vines in their full leafy glory, in a million shades of yellow and green, red and purple. The stone buildings of the Domaine Marten curved into a far hill, and farther and higher, sticking into the sky like something from a book of fairy tales, perched what she thought breathlessly looked like an ancient castle.

Their arrival in the storm at the dark, sinister château was forgotten.
This
was heaven on earth.
This
was Provence.
This
was the way she’d dreamed of it.

Turning back into the room, she saw a note pushed under
her door. She wondered warily if it was from Jake, but discovered it was from Haigh, informing her that the evening’s festivities would begin at six with cocktails for the family in the grand salon. The gala party itself would begin at seven. Dinner would be served on the terrace at eight. Cocktail dresses and black tie were the appropriate attire. And punctuality was expected.

Cocktail attire! The nearest she had to cocktail attire was the new yellow-and-blue flowered skirt and a tank top. Oh well, it would just have to do.

She glanced up and saw Little Blue, knees hunched under her chin, the woolly lamb clutched firmly to her chest, staring at her, big-eyed and uncertain.

“Hi.” Franny smiled and Little Blue gave her a cautious smile back.

“You hungry?” she asked, and the child nodded.

“Okay, so why don’t you and I take a shower and get dressed, then we’ll go and see if we can find some breakfast.”

The hall clock went through its wheezes and grindings, then slowly struck the hour. Franny counted along with it. Only six. Would anyone even be awake yet? No matter, she and Little Blue would explore the kitchen alone.

Ten minutes later, in jeans and T-shirt and with Little Blue in her blouse and school skirt and the awful hard shoes, they were downstairs exploring the vast black-and-white-tiled kitchen.

In the little courtyard outside, Haigh was drinking his morning cup of tea and reading the newspaper when he heard them opening doors and chattering softly. He was on
his feet in an instant.
Didn’t they understand that in houses like this tea and toast would be brought to their rooms promptly at seven? And that breakfast would be served on the terrace from eight on?
Come to think of it, with all the turmoil last night he’d forgotten to mention it. Damn, now they were invading his kitchen and he didn’t like it.

“Bonjour, mesdemoiselles,”
he said, frostily, tying on his apron. He was wearing his “morning” butler attire, which consisted of white shirt and black pants, and a haughty expression that melted just a touch under Franny’s beaming smile.

“Bonjour,
Haigh,” Franny called out. “I thought we were the only ones awake around here.”

“Not at all, miss,” he said, relenting just a little and speaking in English. “I’m always up early, but especially today because we have the gala party.”

“Ah, the gala party.”

Franny’s eyes sparkled but Haigh resisted her smile because that’s just the way he was. Damn it, he thought, she reminded him of Rafaella when she was young. “The entire village will be here, Miss Franny,” he said. “Madame has known them all her life. When she was a child she went to the local school with them and she worked in the fields with them, picking grapes. Many of them still work for her now at the winery.”

Franny tried to imagine last night’s chic
Vogue
vision out on the stony hills picking grapes under a hot sun, but somehow could not. “Must be fun, picking grapes,” she said.

“You’re likely to find out. Mr. Scott told me last night the harvest will be an early one. Any day now in fact.”

“You mean we can all help? We’ll do it together, sweetheart,” she promised Little Blue, who didn’t understand but who nodded anyway.

“And now, if you will permit me, Miss,” Haigh said, “I will arrange breakfast. It will be served on the terrace at the big table under the Chinese wisteria arbor. You can’t miss it.” He eyed Little Blue disapprovingly. “And this afternoon, Miss, I think it might be a good idea if you and I took a little trip into town and got that child some appropriate clothing.”

“Absolutely.” Franny beamed at him again, and Haigh felt his hard old heart melt just a little more.

As they walked along the sunny terrace to the wisteria arbor, just for a second Franny allowed herself to wonder where Jake was. She noticed Criminal wasn’t around and thought maybe Jake had taken him for a walk. Or maybe he’d gone off somewhere with the “prodigal son.” It had been the most almighty family row last night, though she still didn’t know what it was all about, only that Clare had said Alain was bad.

“He’s even worse than Marcus,” she’d whispered to Franny as they wound their way, jet-lagged, exhausted, and bewildered, up the dark stairs to their rooms. “This guy’s not merely bad, Franny, he’s
evil.”
And Franny believed that somehow Clare knew what she was talking about.

She asked herself why she was even thinking about Jake anyway. She didn’t want to get involved with another bad guy who thought she was just ready to get into bed with him. He had humiliated her once, but now she had her pride and her values straight. Never again. She had finally learned her lesson.

C
LARE ROLLED OVER IN
her big satin bed, checking the time on the pretty little mother-of-pearl clock. Its filigree gold hands pointed to ten. She’d slept late, but what the hell, she had good excuses—jet lag, the family feud that took place at dinner, that creepy son, Alain …
and
Scott Harris, emerging like an unwelcome glimpse from the hard, rough past she would prefer to forget.

She pushed back the covers, swung her long legs over the edge of the high bed and walked to the window. Like Franny, she flung it open, then pushed out the shutters and took deep breaths of air. It was as though she were drinking wine, clean, clear, delicious. Who knew oxygen could be so intoxicating? She smiled as she took in the gardens and the grapes growing on the chalky hills and the rocky landscape leading to the massive cliff on which perched a fairy-tale village. She thought Provence was going to be okay after all.

Ten minutes later, showered, dressed in white shorts and a cute blue T-shirt that said
WE LIED, SIZE MATTERS
in sparkling letters on the chest, she followed the aroma of coffee to the kitchen.

“Oh, hi, Haigh,” she said as he turned to look at her. “How’re things?”

“Things are progressing, Miss Clare, thank you.” He wondered
testily what was wrong with these American women, invading his kitchen like they belonged. Didn’t they know this was his territory?

Clare gave him a big smile, helped herself to coffee, then drifted back into the hall and out the open front doors onto the terrace. She perched on a stone lion, swinging her long legs and sipping coffee, which was all she ever needed in the morning to get her going. And this was
good
coffee. She wondered if Franny was up yet.
Of course
she was. Franny was an early riser, she’d always had to be, working those zillion jobs she’d held as a student, and now of course, because she performed surgery on the animals at 7
A.M.
Clare was a night person, which was the way it had always been, holding down the zillion jobs she’d had, though most were a little different from Franny’s.

The long stretch of driveway with its guardian cypress trees tempted her. She hopped off the lion, left her cup on the front steps, and wandered down the drive to see what was at the end of it. She’d reached the gates when she saw Jake coming toward her with his scruffy gray dog, as well as all the Pomeranians and Mimi and Louis.

“Hi.” She waved. “You look like the Pied Piper, only with dogs instead of rats.”

Jake laughed. “I hope that message on your T-shirt isn’t true,” he said, stopping to kiss her on both cheeks, French style.

“That shouldn’t worry you,” she said, and they grinned at each other. “Hey, I didn’t know you were a friend of Franny’s,” she added, inquisitive as always.

“I wish I knew her better,” he said, “but it’s kind of a problem.”

“So, what’s up?” Clare leaned against the flaking stone pillar by the gate, arms folded across her chest, while Jake explained what had happened, though he skipped the sex bit. But remembering Franny’s confession over lunch at Shutters Hotel, Clare guessed what had really happened.

“I can’t say I blame her for being angry—and for not trusting you,” she said when he’d finished. “You don’t exactly come off as Mr. Honorable, though I understand your asking her out and all. I mean, there’s something about Franny that’s irresistible to men, even though she doesn’t know it.”

“That’s what I like about her,” Jake said, and she nodded.

“Yup, that’s our Franny. So. Where do you stand now on this issue?”

He gave her a puzzled glance. He hadn’t asked himself that question. “Beats me.” He shrugged.

“Beats you, huh?” Clare unfolded her arms and drew herself to her full five-ten. “Then let me warn you, Mr. Bronson, if you are
not
serious about Franny, you stay away from her. She’s too good to be messed around again and I won’t stand for it.” She poked a hard finger into his chest. “Get it?”

Jake got it.

“See you later. Take care now,” Clare said, and she strode off down the leafy lane bordered with cow parsley and tall grasses and chalky white rocks that led to the village of Marten-de-Provence.

L
AURENT
JARRÉ WAS SETTING
up his terrace tables when he saw the long-legged woman in the white shorts heading his way. He arranged the last of the place settings on the rosecolored
cloths, positioned the glass salt and pepper shakers, straightened up and adjusted his low-slung apron as she came closer.

“Hi,” Clare called, leaping up the couple of stone steps, and he was forced to notice how prettily her breasts bounced under her T-shirt.

“Bonjour, madame,”
he said politely.

“Bonjour
to you,” she said, taking off her sunglasses and smiling into his eyes. “You got any croissants? They didn’t feed me at the château and I’m starving.”

It took a few seconds for Jarré’s brain to filter that into French.
“Pardon, madame, mais nous n’avons pas de croissants.”

Clare sank into a chair, chin in her hand, pouting prettily.
“Quel dommage,”
she said in such a terrible accent that Jarré laughed. “So laugh at me, at least I tried.” She shrugged.

Jarré understood and he laughed with her. “All I can offer is a fresh baguette,” he said, looking apologetic.

She slammed an enthusiastic fist on the pink table. “I’ll take it. And the biggest cup of coffee you’ve got.”

“Bien, un grand café,”
he said, his Provençal accent making
bien
sound like
bieng.

“I’m Clare Marks, a friend of the Marten family,” she said. She wasn’t sure he understood, but she liked him, she liked his black eyes and his black hair, his solidity. She patted the seat next to her. “Why not join me? I could do to learn some French.”

Jarré stared at her. Already under her spell, he sat down.
“Eh bien,”
he said, beaming, “we will begin our lesson. I am Jarré.”

“Glad to meet you,” Clare said, smiling. She was beginning to enjoy Provence.

J
AKE HAD NOT SLEPT,
but he was used to that. There came a point when you were over the fatigue boundary and into second, then third wind, when the body just kept on moving and the mind ticked even faster. Thank god his bluff to Alain had worked. Of course he could have tried to make a run for it, but France was a small country and not an easy place to disappear in, especially when you were on the wanted list. He’d banked on the fact that Alain would seize the opportunity to get out of the country and not face prosecution, and he’d been right.

The plane was fueled and the crew ready and waiting, as was Oscar, the biggest and toughest bodyguard out of Marseille, ready for any trouble Alain might give him.

Oscar had called from the plane to say they were en route to Ho Chi Minh City, and that the “prisoner” was angry because they wouldn’t give him alcohol or food and was threatening all kinds of trouble, but not to worry, he had it under control. Jake doubted Alain would ever risk returning to France.

Early this morning he’d taken a long walk, trying to figure out what he could say to Franny to try redeem himself, and now he wondered hopefully if Clare might put in a good word for him. He also wondered if Franny was up yet, what
she was doing, what she thought of him? He guessed he knew the answer to that one. Franny had made it only too clear last night that she’d put him in the same cheat-and-liar category as Marcus Marks.

He thought of how she’d looked last night, sitting demurely at the dinner table in her prim white shirt and flowered skirt. He remembered the swing of her sleek blond curtain of hair as she turned away from him, as well as the wariness in her eyes. He knew she was right—she didn’t know who he was or what he was, she only knew he’d made up a story about Criminal, and that they’d ended up in bed together.