Keys to the Castle (13 page)

Before she could answer he put down his glass and reached again for his phone. He glanced at the screen, and pocketed it again.

Sara looked deliberately at the pocket where he had placed the phone. “It's just that I couldn't help but notice, over the years, that people who can't stand to be disconnected from the outside world, even for a minute, are usually afraid of losing something . . . Control, maybe? Their own sense of self-importance?”

For just the briefest moment he seemed startled, and then he laughed softly. “You're right, of course. I've been rude again and I apologize.” He took out his phone and turned it off, then returned it to his pocket. “There. I'm disconnected. And I confess, I do feel quite a bit less important. I hope that won't make a difference between us.”

That made her laugh a little, unexpectedly. “I can see why Daniel liked you,” she said, and then she was unaccountably embarrassed for having said it, and she quickly turned her attention to her wine, and took a sip.

He regarded her thoughtfully, the corners of his eyes gently upturned, and observed, “And I can see why he fell in love with you. You have an oddly engaging manner about you, don't you? And you say exactly what you mean. I can't imagine you let him get away with much.”

Sara shrugged, but kept her gaze on her glass. “Well, no. I didn't. I spent too many years selling lies to waste any more time on them. Life is too short.”

And then, before the memories could become too painful, she looked at him again, abruptly changing the subject. “What's your agenda, Ash?”

“Mine?” He spoke easily, without breaking his contemplation of the view. “Oh, I don't know. I think I'd like to buy a place in Portugal some day, or maybe the Côte d'Azur. I'd spend the winters lying in the sun, reading the classics. Perhaps I'd cultivate orchids.”

Until the orchids, she had half thought he was serious. A corner of her lips turned down dryly. “Somehow I can't picture that.”

“No? Did I forget to mention the housekeeper . . . twenty years old, drop-dead gorgeous, and whose standard working uniform is a bikini?”

That almost made her smile. “And they say the British have no sense of humor.”

“Libelous villains.” He leaned back against the wall, sipping his wine, looking completely relaxed for perhaps the first time since she had met him. “Actually, twenty-year-olds bore me. That's one of the advantages of having reached a certain point in life, isn't it? Not being forced to listen to the prattle of children. Perhaps I'll get a dog instead. A nice spaniel, I think, or a collie dog. Do you like collies, Sara?”

“You're better off with the housekeeper in the bikini. At least she can feed herself while you're off jet-setting around the globe.”

“True enough,” he allowed lazily. “I've always wanted to learn to sail. I might get a boat. Or I might do nothing at all but sit here and enjoy this lovely view with you.”

Sara shook her head slowly. “No, you won't. For an afternoon maybe. But for longer than that? The only thing you really enjoy in life is your work.”

“I'm stung.” His features remained unchanged, pleasant and relaxed, though his eyes reflected a slight annoyance. “What, may I ask, is wrong with that?”

“Nothing. Not a thing.”

“Ah,” he said, and he lifted his glass to her in a small, mocking salute. “You're going to tell me about there being more to life than the workday.”

“Isn't there?”

He appeared to consider that for a moment. “I think that worrying about those things is another pursuit that I, blessedly, left behind with my youth. Now it's enough to simply enjoy being who I am.”

Sara regarded him thoughtfully. “You really do enjoy yourself, don't you?”

“It's not so difficult to do at this stage, now is it? All those dreadful struggles we had when we were younger—the ambitions, the deadlines, the goal-setting, the conflicts, the building, the learning, the failures and humiliations from which we thought we'd never recover . . . they're all behind us now. We've mastered the game by now, or near abouts. All there is to do is play it with gusto.”

“Most of our opportunities are behind us, too,” Sara pointed out, even though she didn't mean to.

“Nonsense,” he replied crisply. “And you are the perfect example. I'll wager you never imagined when you were at the height of your career toiling away for Martin and Indlebright that, at this point in life, you'd own a castle in France. What more in the way of opportunity could you ask?”

She thought about that for a moment. “Well . . . I'll never be a ballerina.”

“Now, that,” he replied earnestly, “is indeed a tragic loss.”

A corner of her lips turned down skeptically. “Do you really mean to tell me you wouldn't change anything if you could?”

A shadow passed over his face that was in such stark contrast to his customary demeanor that Sara was immediately alert. He said, looking into his glass, “Well, now. I don't suppose there's a man alive who doesn't have regrets.” His smile seemed tight, and he didn't quite meet her eyes. “But, as the song says, ‘then again, too few to mention.' ”

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.”