One Night in Provence Read online

  He patted her hand. “Wait and see, Mademoiselle Brown,” he replied. “I promise you will not be disappointed.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “IS ALL THIS for us?”

  Philippe swelled with satisfaction as he watched Jenna walk across the terrace. Her reaction was everything he’d hoped for and more. He watched as she circled the candlelit table with wide-eyed astonishment.

  “Would you prefer a table on the main terrace?” He had requested a private table on the northeast terrace overlooking the garden. The cloudless night was perfect for dining outside, the full moon and lanterns casting a silvery light over everything.

  “This is... I mean, I wasn’t expecting...” She paused her exploration to look up at him. “You shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble,” she said.

  “You said this was a fantasy vacation. I figured why not give you a fantastical dinner?”

  “Fantastical dinner?” she repeated.

  Even from a distance, Philippe could see the wariness in her eyes. Questioning his expectations. And why shouldn’t she? His intentions were fairly obvious. Also obvious was that Jenna Brown wasn’t a woman easily swept off her feet. But then, he’d suspected as much, which was why he’d gone to all this effort.

  Apparently his work wasn’t finished.

  “An experience that would make your late friend proud,” he replied. “And your texting friend jealous.”

  “Mission accomplished. On both points. This is...” She swung her arm around. “Wow.”

  “You approve. I’m glad.”

  He watched as she moved to the terrace rail, her skirt flowing around her knees. Most of his dates preferred to bare as much flesh as possible. Miles of it, actually, all toned and tanned to perfection. He never would have guessed how erotic—and arousing—pale modesty could be.

  “The garden looks beautiful from here,” she said. “You don’t get an appreciation of the layout when you’re on ground level.”

  He joined her. Normally, he would take advantage of the moment to encircle her waist from behind. Instead, he stood to her left, his hand resting on the railing a millimeter from hers. Below them, the garden spread out in perfect geometric symmetry. Concentric squares marked in the center by a giant fountain. The stone paths that bordered each square looked whiter than usual thanks to a series of strategically placed spotlights.

  “French gardens are designed to be enjoyed both up close and from a distance. So that when people look down from their upper stories, they will experience the garden’s beauty as a whole.”

  “Do you think your ancestors stood here once upon a time, or is this part of the newer construction?” she asked, leaning forward.

  “They might have.” He was fibbing slightly. The private terraces were part of the new construction, but the room leading to them was original, and she sounded too enchanted to disappoint.

  And her eyes... He took in her profile, admiring how the green sparkled in the moonlight. “The garden was designed to resemble the original as closely as possible.”

  “Really?” She turned, and Philippe sucked in his breath when confronted with the fullness of her wide-eyed wonder. The woman respected tradition. Bravo to her.

  “I provided the photographs,” he told her.

  “It’s gorgeous. This is the first time I’ve seen the fountain under lights. I wanted to explore last night, but I was too jet-lagged to do anything, including eat.”

  “Should I worry about you falling asleep during dinner?”

  “That depends,” she said.

  “On?”

  She grinned. “How entertaining you are during the meal.”

  Challenge accepted. “Do not worry. I can be very entertaining.” The muscles in his hand twitched as he fought the urge to mark a trail along her arm. Too forward, and he would scare her off.

  That didn’t mean he couldn’t let his eyes complete the innuendo. Her eyes responded in kind, the pupils growing wide. He watched as she swallowed away the rest of her physical response. Rather, she tried to. It remained in the depths of her gaze. The air between them pulsed. Once. Twice.

  Jenna broke the silence. “What is that scent?” she asked. “It’s not lavender.”

  “Jasmine,” he answered. “The aroma is stronger in the evenings. Do you see those white flowers?”

  Reluctantly, he raised his arm—taking it away from the warmth of her proximity—to point out the bushes lining one of the inner squares. “Our Grasse property has a large jasmine crop. We’ll harvest the blossoms in a few weeks and sell them to the perfumeries for use in their fragrances.”

  She nodded as though digesting a great truth. “Would it be sacrilegious if I said I like the scent more than lavender?” she asked him.

  “Only if you say the words loudly.” No surprise, given her headache earlier. Jasmine had a far lighter scent.

  Light scents would definitely suit her more, he decided. As surreptitiously as possible, he leaned to inhale the air near the crook of her neck. Notes of citrus caught his nostrils. Clean and crisp.

  “You don’t wear perfume,” he noted. A foreign concept in his world.

  “Got out of the habit, I’m afraid. Strong smells sometimes bother my patients, so I find it easier to avoid them altogether.”

  “Shame. I’m of the belief that a woman should always wear perfume. The right scent can transform a woman from ordinary to something mysterious and seductive that is indelible to the mind. Eye color, the curve of her cheek—those may fade from memory, but the smell of her perfume? That is something the brain never forgets.”

  “Says the man who makes his money selling flowers to perfume companies.”

  She had him there. “Perhaps I am a tad biased.”

  “Just a tad,” she said with a sideways glance.

  It was the perfect night for dining outside. The trill of a piano floated in on the breeze to join the crickets in a summer duet. Philippe absorbed the sound as he took in Jenna’s profile. “What is it?” he asked when a smile broke across her features.

  “Nothing.” The pink that immediately filled her cheeks was adorable. “I was looking at the garden and it dawned on me that you’re a farmer. That’s harder to imagine than you working for the hotel.”

  “You can’t picture me digging in the dirt?”

  “In a word? No.”

  Philippe laughed. “Don’t worry. Neither can I. For the sake of everyone involved, I leave the actual agriculture to those with far greener thumbs. Otherwise we run the risk of destroying half the region.”

  “Surely you don’t have that black a thumb.”

  “Don’t be so sure. My brother, Felix, once made me swear that I would never interfere with that side of the business. He didn’t appreciate how I managed to kill a lemon tree he’d bought me.”

  Your apartment is where plants go to die was what he’d actually said. Nearly set off his vital monitor for laughing, too. His nurse scowled at them for being rambunctious.

  “I take it he...”

  “Had a green thumb?” he asked, to save her from stumbling over tense. “Very much so. He loved the farms, especially the lavender fields. He’d come out every summer to help with the harvests. He lived for this time of year.”

  “What about you? Do you live for this time of year as well?”

  Did he live for a season that reminded him of the family he lost? An honest answer would kill the moment. Now was not the time to think of life’s injustices. Not when there was champagne chilling and a beautiful woman to share it with. “Come,” he said, taking her hand. “Before the champagne grows flat.”

  The bottle sat in a silver ice bucket waiting to be poured. While they’d been talking, he’d heard the pop! as a waiter carefully uncorked the bottle and then disappeared. Philippe filled the glasses and handed one to Jenna. “To bucket lists and fantastical
memories,” he said before washing away his less fantastical ones.

  “I killed an air fern once.”

  He coughed as the last swallow caught in his throat. “Pardon?”

  “It’s a plant that only needs watering every couple weeks. Very low maintenance. I killed it. I also killed a terrarium. And I’m pretty sure I’m the reason my poinsettia bit the dust last Christmas as well. To this day I cringe when one of my patients offers me a plant. Might as well just give the thing a death sentence and be done with it.”

  Her effort to lighten the mood succeeded. The shadow retreated farther. “So you’re saying we’re both horticulturally challenged?”

  “I was going to say we’re plant angels of death, but your phrase sounds better.”

  Indeed. But hers made him smile. Doubly so, because he suspected she was being outrageous for his sake. “A second toast then,” he said. “To sparing nature from our deadly touch.”

  “To giving plants a fighting chance,” she replied.

  Philippe clinked his glass to hers and downed the contents. “So Jenna Brown saves lives and kills plants. What else does she do?”

  “Do?”

  “Tell me about yourself.” To his surprise he was genuinely interested in her answer. “Your family. Do they live in Nantucket as well?”

  “No. They’re in Boston.”

  There was tightness in her voice. He’d touched a nerve. “I’m sorry. It is an unpleasant subject.”

  “Yes and no,” she replied with a sigh. “My parents... Let’s just say they have a complicated relationship and leave it at that.”

  Very well. He knew when not to push. “And your job? You enjoy being a nurse in...?” Where was it she told him she worked? “A nursing home?”

  A switch flipped inside her. “Absolutely. I love my patients. Some of them are like family.”

  A family that eventually died on her. While her living family was estranged. Philippe didn’t understand. “It doesn’t bother you, spending all your time around death?” He marveled at her answer. How could anyone love watching people die?

  “Death is a part of life. I’m glad I can be there at the end to help them leave this world with dignity.”

  No, Philippe thought, death was a thief, taking good people before their time. “All the more reason to pack as much life as possible into our time on earth. Since death is inevitable.”

  “You sound very French.”

  “I’m only quoting you, and we are a fatalistic people.”

  “Is that what you are?”

  “Hardly,” he replied. “I’m much more of a hedonist.”

  “Pleasure above things?”

  “Why not? Good wine. Beautiful women.” He met her eyes as he said the last part, earning a small blush. “Life should be embraced with both hands, should it not?”

  “Beatrice used to say stuff like that.”

  “The woman who left you the money.”

  Her smile softened. “She would have liked you. I remember one night we were watching a documentary about some ancient Greek city known for excessive living...”

  “Sybaris,” he interrupted.

  She looked at him in surprise. “Yes, that’s the one.”

  “A lucky guess. I remember the lecture from university.”

  “You have a very good memory.”

  “It was a very interesting subject,” he said with a shrug.

  “Anyway, when the show ended, Beatrice looked at me and said, ‘Those Greeks had the right idea.’”

  “My kind of woman.”

  “She must have dozed off during the part where the city was destroyed.”

  “Yes, but at least they enjoyed themselves on the way out.” Reaching for the champagne, he filled both their glasses. “Vie amoureuse, as they say.”

  “She definitely would have liked you.”

  “Of course. I am a very likable person. You do not agree?” he asked at her enigmatic smile.

  “Oh, I agree.” He watched while she traced the rim of her glass. “You’re extremely likable.”

  “And you find that a problem.” A statement, not a question. He’d begun to notice a pattern with his American. Whenever she began to relax and enjoy herself, the wariness would rear its head to cool the enjoyment off. Such as now. Instead of laughing at his silly joke, she responded seriously.

  “You do not trust me.” Again, he presented the words as fact.

  “You’re a millionaire,” she countered. “Where I come from, millionaires don’t usually take women like me out to dinner.”

  “They don’t believe in dating beautiful women?”

  “They don’t pull out all the stops unless they have an agenda.”

  Before he could reply, they were interrupted by a service. “Pissaladière,” the man announced before lifting the cover to reveal an onion tart, crust browned to perfection.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, “but I took the liberty of selecting the menu. Various Provençal dishes I think you would enjoy.”

  “Case in point,” she replied.

  “If your point is that I am trying to impress you, then I plead guilty as charged.”

  “Impress me with the goal of coming back to my room.”

  “Again guilty.” Did she expect him to deny human nature? Most women he knew would be swept off their feet by a moonlight dinner. Half of them would be in his arms before the tart arrived. With her, his efforts brought suspicion, despite his openness. It was almost as if she were afraid to enjoy herself.

  He would need to rethink his approach.

  “You always have the power to say no,” he reminded her.

  “So long as we both realize that.” She smiled as she replied, but her eyes were serious.

  “Ma chère, I never go anywhere I’m not invited. Although I hope you will save your rejection until after the tart.”

  He placed a slice on her plate and waited while she took a bite. When her eyes closed, he knew he’d scored his first point. No one could resist well-done French cuisine.

  “Amazing,” she replied.

  “And that is only the beginning. By the time tonight is over, you’ll have discovered that most things in Provence are amazing. And irresistible.”

  * * *

  Philippe was right about the food. By the time dessert rolled around—melon pastry drizzled with lavender honey—Jenna was in love with French cooking. That included the French champagne. Philippe insisted on keeping both their glasses full at all times.

  She wasn’t stupid; she knew what he was doing. But everything tasted so amazing. With every bite—and sip—her guard slipped a little more. Before she knew it, she had literally kicked off her shoes and was enjoying herself.

  They kept their dinner conversation light. He talked of Paris and local attractions. She told stories about Beatrice and some of her more colorful patients. By mutual agreement, they both avoided probing personal questions. Jenna would have liked to ask more about his brother. It was in those rare moments of personal revelation that she thought there might be more to him than mere charm. Asking questions, however, only opened the door to him asking more questions about her family. A topic best left unmentioned. Since nothing killed an evening faster than dysfunctional drama.

  Sometimes there was something to be said for staying superficial.

  The rattle of ice broke her thoughts. Philippe was pouring the last of the champagne into her glass. “Whoa there, cowboy. I don’t think I should have any more.” Her inhibitions had slipped enough.

  “If you’re certain.”

  “What, no insistence?”

  “Not from me. I prefer my invitations be delivered with a clear head.”

  Spoken with the confidence of a man who had never wanted for an invitation. She shifted in her seat. “Thank you for dinner. It wa
s delicious.”

  “You speak as if the evening is over.”

  Maybe because now was a good time for it to end. “It’s getting late,” she said.

  “Nonsense, the night is young. I thought we might walk off dinner in the garden.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then I will walk you to your door. I have no expectations, Jenna.”

  Bull. He had expectations; he was just telling her the final decision was up to her. Still, maybe it was the champagne getting to her, but a moonlight stroll amid the jasmine did sound lovely.

  “You’ll have to give me a moment to put on my shoes,” she told him. “I kicked them off around the second course.”

  Before she could blink, he was on his knees with her discarded heels in his hand. “Allow me.”

  Gently cupping her heel, he guided her foot into her shoe. “We wouldn’t want the crushed gravel hurting your feet,” he said as he slipped the heel strap in place. His fingertips lingered a moment on the back of her ankle before he switched his attention to her other foot. This time, his fingers brushed upward ever so slightly. The sensation traveled the length of her leg. He gazed upward, and even through lowered lashes, Jenna could see the heat in his eyes.

  “Now you are ready to walk.”

  * * *

  They walked slowly and separately along the gravel paths. The air smelled sweeter in the garden. It was warmer, too. In fact, now that they were on the ground, everything seemed more. The moonlight. The soft ripple of the fountain. Jenna swore could even feel the brush of the air on her skin every time Philippe’s arm moved. Without lifting a finger, he somehow managed to feel impossible close.

  Then again, he had lifted a finger when they were on the terrace. If she concentrated, she could still feel his hands on the back of her ankle.

  Philippe pointed to a line of bushes closest to the fountain. “There’s your jasmine,” he said. While the petals on other flowers in the garden had folded closed for the night, the jasmine’s tiny white blossoms were open wide. “They bloom at night,” Philippe told her. “There’s a horticultural reason for it, but I won’t bore you. Better to simply enjoy them as they are.”