One Night in Provence Read online

  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.

  “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.”

  “Meaning you’ve already spent time with her. Why didn’t you simply ask her to dinner? Wait a moment...” Yves’s eyes widened. “Don’t tell me she turned you down.”

  “I believe it is called a rain check,” Philippe replied.

  Something else that stirred his interest. There had been obvious attraction in her green eyes, and yet she’d still said no. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman rebuffed his advances. What his looks didn’t accomplish, his name usually did.

  And there was what might be the most attractive thing of all about Mademoiselle Brown: she had no clue as to who he was. Their interaction had been based solely on his charm and her interest in their conversation. He found it amazingly refreshing.

  “Which brings me back to why I need Nicole’s assistance,” he said. “She’s going to help me cash in my rain check.”

  A frisson of anticipation passed through him. He couldn’t wait to see Jenna Brown’s face when their paths crossed again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  JENNA HAD A HEADACHE. Too much sun and strong floral aroma had left a knot behind her eyes. She needed a glass of water and some pain relievers. Hopefully the word aspirin was the same in French?

  Day two of her adventure wasn’t off to a very auspicious start.

  She never did eat dinner. She’d fallen into a deep sleep shortly after she returned to her room and woke up before dawn starved and eager to start her adventure. Since Philippe had sounded so enthusiastic about the excursion to Château d’Usay, she took his advice and signed up. Part of her wondered if she’d see him at the front desk when she went downstairs, but the only person she saw was a sweet girl named Nicole who grinned every time Jenna gave her name. She wondered if Philippe had found a dinner companion after they parted ways? Immediately, she pictured a leggy French heiress and felt a prick of annoyance in her stomach. More because she was thinking about Philippe than because of the woman she imagined. It wasn’t like her to dwell on a random stranger. Philippe with his mesmerizing eyes should be no exception.

  She had to give him props, though. The tour was as interesting as he’d promised. They began in the greenhouse, where she and other visitors learned about the various varieties and uses for lavender. The d’Usays, they were told, grew lavande fine, or “true” lavender rather than the more popular lavandin.

  “The lavandin actually produces more oil per flower,” the guide told them. “The family has a separate property a few kilometers away, which provides the bulk of their harvest. Here at Château d’Usay, however, they continue to grow lavande fine as they always have.”

  The family certainly liked to maintain its tradition, didn’t it? Jenna crouched to take a picture of the spiny purple flower up close. The deep purple blossoms reminded her of Philippe’s eyes.

  After a visit to the fields, where they were given a lesson on Provençal climate and agriculture, as well as ample photo opportunities, their group made their way across a limestone pavilion to the château itself, the final stop before they visited the lavender store. It was in the fields that the knot had morphed into a full-blown headache. Making matters worse, today’s tour guide had a high-pitched voice that turned into a high pitched squeak whenever she feigned enthusiasm. She must have chirped the phrase, “In the world!” at least a dozen times, her voice piping upward each time.

  The group made their way up the front steps, where they found themselves in a large marble entranceway dominated by a large staircase. Several audible sighs could be heard as the temperature dropped several degrees.

  Their guide pointed to a portrait guarding the entrance. Simon and Antoinette d’Usay, captured many years after the painting in the castle. Although both had gray hair and were noticeably heavier, their eyes were still sharp and intimidating. “This is Simon and Antoinette d’Usay, who built the château after the First World War. It’s considered one of the finest examples of French Renaissance Revival architecture in the world. I’m sorry, sir, the staircase is off-limits.”

  She was talking to one of the older tourists, who had moved too close to the velvet rope blocking the stairs. “Those lead to the family’s private rooms.”

  “Does the Comte d’Usay still live here?” someone asked.

  “We do not use titles in France. They were eliminated with the revolution. To answer your question, however, Monsieur d’Usay lives most of the year in Arles. Although he does visit from time to time. Now, follow me through these doors. The next room we’ll see is the main salon, or as the family called it, le Salon des Fleurs.”

  Jenna hung in the back of the line as the guide led the group through the double doors. No way she was going to handle that voice for the entire tour without taking an aspirin. There had to be something for sale at the store. Surely, she wasn’t the only person to take the tour and suffer from lavender overload.

  Her sandals made a tiny squeaking noise on the tile as she turned around.

  “Running away, Mademoiselle Brown?” a familiar voice asked.

  Philippe? Her ears had to be playing tricks on her. Why would he be touring the mansion? When she looked to her left, however, there he was. Walking down the stairs in a pair of faded jeans and a white linen shirt that gaped ever so nicely. As opposed to her mouth, which simply gaped. What on earth?

  He grinned, the dimple in full bloom. “Didn’t I tell you our paths would cross again?”

  “Yes, but how did...?” Wait a second. Jenna rew
ound her thoughts. He was coming down the stairs. Where the family stayed.

  “No way,” she said. “You can’t be...”

  “Can’t be what?” Stepping off the bottom step, he sidestepped the velvet barrier to join her at the room’s center. “You aren’t wearing your little whales today,” he said.

  Took her a moment to realize he was referring to her shorts. After noting yesterday that none of the other women at the resort wore shorts, she’d ditched them in favor of a Lilly Pulitzer shift and platform sandals. The pink tropical print still marked her as an American tourist, but at least she was slightly more stylish.

  “No,” she replied.

  “You look lovely.”

  “Thank you. What were you doing upstairs?”

  “What do you think?”

  “You work here?” But even as she asked, she knew the answer. He was dressed too casually, and his eyes sparkled too brightly for an employee.

  “How could I possible work here and at the hotel?” he asked before leaning in and adding, “That is what you thought yesterday, is it not?”

  “You were wearing a hotel uniform.”

  “Was I?”

  Yes. The same dark suit as the concierge and desk manager. Granted, his was more finely tailored, and he hadn’t been wearing a name tag, but...

  She looked over her shoulder at the portrait on the wall, before looking back to Philippe. He bore the same regal carriage as Simon and Antoinette.

  “Philippe d’Usay, at your service.” He swept his arm wide and bowed. “Welcome to Château d’Usay.”

  Shoot. Her. Now. “Why didn’t you say anything? If I’d known, I would never have...”

  “Been such relaxed and enjoyable company?” he supplied. “Precisely why I didn’t correct your mistake. You have to understand, everyone in Avignon knows who I am. I found it refreshing to meet someone who did not.”

  How nice for him that she could be a novelty. She wasn’t sure what was worse—her mistaking him for an employee or his deception. “Must have been very entertaining, having to give me that tour.”