The Vintner and the Vixen (Vintage Love Book 1) (10 page)

By the time she emerged a few minutes later wearing a short satin wrap, he had breakfast laid out on the round table that had sat in the corner since he’d moved into this room five years ago. It had probably been there for centuries. He couldn’t imagine either his mother or grandmother ever having breakfast ensuite after a night of pleasure. So it probably hadn’t been used in generations. There were a lot of things this house hadn’t seen in generations. Like laughter in the bedroom and a happy marriage. At least he could rectify one of those things.

He poured Maya a coffee and uncovered the platter with the omelet. “I ordered enough for two.”

“Yum, thanks. Amazing how hungry a person gets after a night of fun.”

“It’s also eleven o’clock. So your body is probably missing breakfast.”

“The only thing my body is missing is yours. But I’ll let you eat first.” She stole the toast he’d just buttered right out of his fingers, then looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time. “Your room is nice. How come it’s not as badly decorated as the rest of the house?”

He buttered another slice of toast and took a mouthful before she had a chance to steal that one as well. “I don’t think Clarisse ever set foot in here. The decor is left over from when my parents had the room.”

“Your wife never set foot in your bedroom? Not even for a booty call?” She stared at him wide-eyed, her breakfast forgotten.

“She wasn’t interested in sex. Thought it was too messy.”

“Oh-my-God-she-didn’t?” Maya said it like it was one word.

He’d never opened up to anyone about his marriage before. But Maya made him want to confess the whole frigid affair so he could put it behind him. “Once, when I was trying something new, hoping to get Clarisse interested, I looked up to find she was texting her friend about a lunch date.”

Maya whooped with laughter. Tears streamed down her face, and she banged her hand on the table, making the glasses and cutlery tinkle. He’d just told her his most embarrassing memory and she laughed. He picked up his fork and stabbed the omelet. When only an occasional snort came from the other side of the table, he raised his eyes to hers.

“Oh, Jacques, Clarisse must have been a robot. There is no way her reaction was due to your lack of skill in bed. When we kiss, I can’t even spell text. And when you go down on me, I can’t remember my own name. But if it’s any comfort, I don’t have a cell phone. So feel free to experiment on me anytime.”

The pressure in his chest released. Maya was about fun. He needed to let go of the past and learn to live in the moment. He had thirty days, and he was going to revel in every single second.

“Eat up, Maya. I’m feeling scientific.”

Chapter 11

Maya tried to keep her mind on what Charles was saying with little success. She couldn’t concentrate on the history of the de Launay family when her body wanted to be wrapped around the current heir. This had gone way beyond scratching an itch. It was now a full-blown addiction. Evidently, she’d found the drug that gave her a high: Jacques crack. Who knew?

Every few minutes she’d check behind her to see if he’d finished his conference call yet and was about to join them.

“He’s an amazing man. He’s just forgotten how to live. All he does is work,” Charles said.

“Sorry, who?” Well, she could feign ignorance. Charles was too astute, though, and laughed.

“My grandson. And you’re the perfect woman to bring him back to life.”

“Charles, this thing with Jacques and me—it’s just a bit of fun. Don’t get your hopes up for wedding bells and babies. I’m starting a new life, finally doing what I want for a change. I have absolutely no intention of settling down with any man,” she said. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Jacques stride towards them. Her heart raced and a shiver of anticipation flashed through her. This was not how it was supposed to be.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Maya. You are like your great-grandmother. She loved her independence, too. If you’ll excuse me, I’m not feeling well. I think I’ll lie down.” He turned on his heel and headed off towards his bedroom, his head bowed, his feet shuffling more than usual.

Jacques hurried over to her. “Everything all right?”

“I think I just broke your grandfather’s heart.”

Jacques stared at his retreating grandparent. “How’d you do that?”

“I told him we were just having fun. That we would never get together permanently.”

His gaze searched her face for a moment, his eyes unreadable. “Grand-Papa is worried about the end of the de Launay line. He’s been after me to remarry for over a year now. And he’s trying so hard to throw us together I can see how he’d think he’d finally succeeded.”

The giggle that should have accompanied his statement died in her throat. Who could imagine a girl from a trailer park with a history of drug-dealer boyfriends as the wife of a French nobleman?

“Well, I think we need to be a bit more careful so he doesn’t get his hopes up further.”

“As long as you don’t expect me not to touch you when he’s around. I don’t think I have the willpower to resist the lure of your creamy skin.” He trailed his fingers along her cheek and into her hair, drawing her face up to his as his lips descended.

“Say things like that and I might forget—” The rest of her sentence was swallowed in his kiss.

“If Grand-Papa has gone to lie down, maybe we should do the same,” he whispered into her ear a few moments later.

Get out, get out now!
her voice of reason screamed. But her desire for independence had nothing on her lust for Jacques.

“As tempting as that sounds, I need to create. I’m going to get my sketchbook from the cottage and draw the rose your grandfather showed me the other day. It really is special. Such an amazing shade of pink, almost a blush really…” She was babbling but couldn’t help it. She needed to get away from Jacques’s magnetic personality and regain her composure.

She should never have opened that damn door last night. It was her very own Pandora’s box. Except instead of all the bad things flying out, she’d been shown what could have been if she’d made different choices in life.

If she hadn’t seen what she’d seen, if her life didn’t depend on remaining invisible, then she could seize the relationship dangled so tantalizingly before her and shake it for everything she wanted.

But Jacques didn’t release her. He seemed intent on taking advantage of every minute of their thirty-day ceasefire. “Can I tempt you with a visit to the lake? You can sketch there. I could use some fresh air.”

She sighed, her resistance dissolving like salt in boiling water. “If you want fresh air, can we take my bike?”

His inner struggle was clearly shown on his face. She knew he didn’t like to give up control. But if there was to be any sort of balance in their relationship, as short as it may be, she’d have to draw the line somewhere.

“Will you drive safely?”

“With you, of course. I’m not reckless, especially when someone else’s life is at stake.”

His eyes searched hers. “And when it’s only your own?”

“I have a lot to live for and I know what it feels like to watch someone you love die. I wouldn’t do that to the people I care about.”

“Then I’ll meet you in fifteen minutes at the cottage. That long enough for you to get ready?”

“Yup. Oh, and, Jacques, don’t forget the condoms.”

Passion blazed in his eyes, and he took the stairs two at a time. Maya hurried out through the sitting room door to grab her art supplies.

When she parked her bike by the lake, Jacques dismounted then pulled off his helmet. He’d held himself so stiffly for the whole trip, it was like riding with a giant statue behind her. Okay, a sexy statue. She’d driven slowly, to reassure him it was safe. That it meant more time with the power of the engine between her thighs and the even more powerful man at her backside was just a happy coincidence.

Of course, the downside to coming by motorbike was that she’d only been able to bring her small sketchpad and watercolor pencils. Jacques had brought a blanket to sit on, a Thermos, and two stainless steel mugs. At first he sat beside her, watching her draw. But when she finally put her sketchpad down and looked around, she noticed that he’d wandered off to examine the grapes on the closest vines.

As if sensing her gaze, he returned to stand beside her. “Done?”

“Yes. Sorry it took so long and that I completely ignored you. I should have warned you that when I’m in the zone, I wouldn’t notice if a helicopter were hovering meters above my head.”

“I don’t mind. I’m amazed at your talent. Is there anything you can’t do?”

“I’m no good at abstract art. Every time I try, it ends up looking like a person or a landscape.”

“Well, if I set out to draw a person or landscape, it would look abstract. I have no artistic talent at all.”

“Yes, but you have other talents.” She let her eyes linger on his lips and saw him swallow. “Before we indulge those, I’m going to cool off with a swim. You coming?” She didn’t wait for his reply to strip off her clothes and run into the water. The coldness was a shock against her hot skin, and she shrieked.

“You’re going to have half my workers here if you make so much noise,” Jacques said, his arms coming around her.

“It was colder than I expected.”

“Come back on shore and let me warm you up.” His seductive voice in her ear made her internal temperature rise.

“In a minute. I’m going to swim first.” They frolicked in the water for half an hour. When she eventually splashed to shore, her teeth were chattering so badly she couldn’t speak. Jacques emerged and joined her on the blanket. The sun, combined with his nearness, soon warmed her.

“You cheated, you’ve still got your underwear on.”

“There are eels in that water. I wasn’t going to risk losing something valuable,” he said.

“But now you’re going to have to ride back with wet boxers.”

“Not if I dry them off first.” He pulled them off, wrung them out, and hung them from one of the handles on her motorbike. Even cold, he was a magnificent specimen. He poured some chilled wine infused with fruit from the Thermos and handed her a cup. His gaze on her naked body heated her further.

He lay down next to her again, his hand caressing her skin from her hip to her breast and back down. “You’ve told me the story of the words on your neck. Do your other tattoos have meaning? This cupcake”—he traced the ink with his finger, sending quivers of desire through her— “seems anomalous with your personality. Now if it were a chocolate croissant, I’d understand.”

“I had a boyfriend who called me ‘cupcake.’ It was like I was just a bit of dessert to him and I hated it, which only made him use it more. I got the tattoo to remind me to choose better in future.”

“Did it work?”

“Not really.” Because after him came Victor, then Etienne, and she’d barely escaped that relationship with her life.

“And the fox?”

“My vixen? She’s who I want to be—smart, resourceful, not afraid of the dark.”

“And how’s that working?”

“Not sure. On the one hand, I’m lying naked on the shore of a lake with a man I met only three weeks ago. On the other hand, I’m lying naked on the shore of a lake next to you. The jury’s still out on that one.”

“Let’s see if I can sway the vote,” he said, his lips on hers.

They made love like they had all the time in the world, like they were each committing the other’s body to memory. She was used to frenzied passion or playful sex, but this was deeper, more meaningful. And it scared her.

What tattoo should she get after Jacques exited her life? She had an uncomfortable suspicion that no ink would be required. He’d leave his mark indelibly on her heart.

She lay spent on top of him. His hand swept up and down her back as though he couldn’t get enough of touching her.

“I forgot when I agreed to this thirty-day affair that I have to go to Russia next week on business. Will you come with me?” he asked.

Tempting. Although the reality was that she needed to stay hidden. If she went with Jacques, there was bound to be photos or speculation about who she was. Not to mention that if her passport was flagged by the Canadian government, they’d find her in an instant. It was safer if she stayed here.

“I’d love to, but I can’t at the moment.”

She could sense his disappointment. He rolled to his side, but held her against him. His eyes were guarded when they met hers. “Do you think I don’t want to be seen with you?”

“Maybe it’s the other way around.” She tried for flippancy, but he wasn’t having it.

“Maya.”

“I just don’t want to go, okay? I’ll be bored out of my mind while you’re working. I’d rather stay here and concentrate on my art. That is the reason I came to France.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire
.

“Fine. But I don’t leave for a few days. So if you change your mind…”

How she wished she could. She’d always wanted to go to Russia and see the Hermitage. Maybe one day. When she wasn’t wanted by either a gangster, government, or a sexy billionaire. A shiver wracked her body.

As she tugged on her jeans, her hand rubbed against her vixen tattoo. Even foxes got to have fun sometime. She’d just be smart enough not to let her heart get involved.

Yeah, right.

***

She was surprised to hear voices she didn’t recognize in the sitting room where the family met before dinner. Were the de Launays having a dinner party? Should she go down to the kitchen and eat with the staff? She hesitated so long that Jacques caught sight of her through the open door.

“Maya, come in. Allow me to introduce you to Philippe Boudreau and his wife, Michelle. Philippe and Michelle, this is Maya, an artist from Canada who’s come to stay at the cottage for a year.” Jacques touched her arm briefly as he introduced her to the couple in their late fifties. The man was deeply tanned as though he spent his summer outside, his hair even lighter than Jacques’s. The woman had a firm handshake and a friendly smile. Her dark hair was liberally salted with gray. “Philippe is the head vintner at the winery. I was supposed to meet with him this morning, but I got preoccupied with something else, so we agreed to hold our discussions over dinner. I hope you don’t mind.”

Sheer willpower kept her blush at bay. Still, she had to clear her throat before replying. “Not at all. I was fascinated when you gave me a tour of the winery the other week. I’d love to learn more about the business.”

“If we let these two talk grapes, we won’t get a word in ourselves,” Michelle said with a laugh. “Tell me about your art, Maya. What is your specialty?”

“I’ve done mostly painting in oils and some sculpting with clay. But I want to work with wood while I’ve got the space.”

“I have no artistic talent myself, so I am envious of those who do. Tell me, when you see a piece of wood or clay, do you already imagine the finished product that waits inside?”

Jacques handed Maya a glass of wine then moved away to talk privately with Philippe. But as she and Michelle had a pleasant discussion about art and some of the famous pieces at the Louvre, she sensed Jacques’s eyes on her more often than not. Her skin warmed, and she wished she hadn’t worn the fitted dress with the high neck. If he wanted to pretend that she was just an artist in residence, he should keep his gaze under control.

Charles shuffled into the room, looking all of his ninety-five years. Maya’s chest ached to see him this frail. The echo of Gran-Gran’s last days reverberated through her. Her great-grandmother’s skin had been so gray, her hands so cold, that despite the number of blankets Maya piled on or how much she rubbed Gran-Gran’s hands, it hadn’t helped. An icy chill slid down Maya’s back. She couldn’t lose Charles now, too. Excusing herself from Michelle, she rushed over to him. Before she could help him to the sofa, one of the staff arrived to announce that dinner awaited them.