A summer at the chateau

Leaving her cheating ex-boyfriend behind Rosie Fielding heads away from London to spend a blissful – and boy-free - summer basking in the Cote d’Azur sunshine. Surely the Mediterranean sea breeze will soften memories of the disastrous anniversary dinner-than-never-was?!

During a chance visit to a nearby perfumery Rosie meets the owner, Jean-Michel de Fleurenne, who’s distillery is in desperate need of her PR expertise. Everyone knows you should never mix business with pleasure…but in Provence the rules seem almost impossible to stick to…

Rosie has fallen instantly in love with the Provencąl landscape. The rich citrus aromas of the fruit trees, and scent of the wild lavender are blissfully intoxicating and have done wonders in banishing any and all memories of her ex and the tall, blonde Other Woman! However, they say French is the language of love – and thoughts of a certain, impossibly handsome, French Perfumier are becoming harder and harder to ignore…

Also by Kate Fitzroy

Dreams of Tuscany

Perfume of Provence

Kate Fitzroy

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2014

Copyright © Kate Fitzroy 2014

Kate Fitzroy asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2014 ISBN: 9781472095220

Version date: 2018-07-23

KATE FITZROY

has two lives. One in a flinty Victorian cottage in Newmarket, where she awakes early each morning to the clip clop of the strings of racehorses passing under the window. Kate’s other life is played out in a Napoleonic manor set in a sleepy village amongst the vineyards of the Loire Valley, France.

Her life has not always been so blissful. Widowed at the age of twenty-two, already with two children to love and protect, she fought her way up as hard and steep a path as any of her romantic heroines. Determined to turn adversity to advantage, Kate and her two children left England behind and drove off to the South of France. By teaching English and renovating ruined properties in France and then Italy, Kate more than survived.

Now happily married to a thoroughly English man and surrounded by a large, loving family, Kate enjoys every moment of every day… CARPE DIEM because TEMPUS FUGIT!

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Endpages

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

Rosie sighed as she flicked impatiently through the pages of a magazine. A half-hour delay to the departure of her flight to Nice had just been announced. The two precious days that she had snatched from the jaws of her over-demanding work were already shrinking into a bad idea. After fighting her way through Friday-afternoon traffic to get to the airport on time, she now had to sit and wait. Why hadn’t she just gone home and tried to relax?

Rosie blinked away tears as she imagined being back at her flat alone. Alone and miserable after her break-up with Luke. How could he? The words swam around in her head unanswered. She knew she had been working too hard lately to give enough time to their relationship. But, how could he? They had been together a year and last night had been the anniversary of their meeting. She had been looking forward to their planned dinner date. In her lunch hour she had decided to rush out and buy a new dress to surprise him. That was when she saw him with another woman. Rosie closed her eyes now, as she sat waiting in the departure lounge. In her mind’s eye, Technicolored in every detail, she saw Luke and the tall, beautiful blonde girl in a café. Not just sitting close, but wrapped in each other’s arms, Luke nuzzling the girl’s long neck and stroking her hair. Rosie shuddered and her eyes flashed open. Once again she was back in the airport. Waiting, hurting, but determined not to cry.

She shifted angrily in her seat, her foot tapping nervously. This is not happening, she thought to herself as a wave of stress welled up inside her.

“Probably only a short delay,” a quiet male voice said into her right ear.

“This is definitely not happening!” Rosie muttered to herself. The last thing she needed was some departure lounge lizard trying to pick her up when all she longed for was some quality time alone. If she wasn’t totally dismissive she knew she would find him sitting next to her on the plane…if and when they ever took off. She buried her head in the magazine but the lizard continued, his voice soft and low.

“Just waiting for the next slot, I should think.”

This was intolerable. She sighed again. It was the resigned sigh of a beautiful woman accustomed to rebuffing unwanted advances. She half turned towards the voice, shooting a disdainful glare as sharp as a dagger through the silky curtain of her hair.

“Doubtless!” She snapped the word out as rudely as one word could possibly sound and hastily returned to her magazine. The pages now blurred in front of her. He was divine, completely divine, perfect manhood in the flesh — well, in a dark grey T-shirt and black jeans — and, oh, the flesh…lightly tanned, olive and glistening smooth. He could have been a celeb that had walked straight out of her magazine. Rosie gulped; her heart pounded in her chest sending the blood rushing to her cheeks. Should she, could she try to reopen the conversation? Could she, should she resist the huge temptation of his smouldering dark eyes? Absolutely not! She closed the magazine smartly and threw it on the empty seat at her left. Slowly, very slowly, she turned to her right, bracing herself for a second look at the departure-lounge lizard who had suddenly become a frog-prince. And she hadn’t even kissed him — not yet!

“Do you fly to Nice often?” It was bad enough that her voice sounded like an adolescent boy’s but surely her melting brain could have come up with something…anything…a little less banal? The silly opening phrase echoed inside her head. It was worse than corny.

“Yes, quite often…and you?” He replied courteously, but she detected a spark of humour in the shine of his brown eyes — dark, dark brown with flecks of hazel and, oh, wow, how they crinkled in the corners…and such soot-dark lashes. Irresistible!

“Actually I’ve never been to Nice in my life. I just picked a last-minute flight for a weekend break.” Her voice had recovered its usual mid-scale timbre and she resisted the nervous desire to run her fingers through her long auburn hair…or his short jet-black hair.

“I’m sure you’ll love it — it’s a great seaside city and the weather is forecast to be perfect for June.” He smiled a toothpaste advertisement. “There’s no better month on the Côte d’Azur.”

The way he rolled that final ‘r’ gave him away. Although he spoke perfect English he must surely be French. Rosie smiled too and was just about to attempt an intelligent reply when the flight departure was announced. He stood up quickly.

“There, I thought it wouldn’t take them long to get us out of here. Well, it was a pleasure to meet you. I must make a quick phone call before we board. Excuse me. Enjoy your weekend!”

He strode away from the queue that was beginning to form at the desk and across to the large window overlooking the bleak stretches of tarmac. Rosie watched his dark silhouette as he pulled a phone from his pocket and began to talk animatedly, his free hand waving in the air. Yes, definitely French, decidedly desirable and bound to be married with two point four impeccable enfants and a silky spaniel. Doubtless he was telling the paragon wife about the delay and she would deftly turn down the coq au vin to simmer to perfection for his late arrival home. Their home? Certain to be a chic Niçois apartment…high-moulded ceilings, polished parquet floors, cut flowers in tall vases…

Rosie shook herself angrily. This just wouldn’t do. Her emotions were jangled and she was bouncing out of control. She took a deep breath and relaxed her shoulders. She was suffering typical rebound emotion and she was clever enough to know it. She stood up, smoothing her hair, and shrugging her jacket into place. She walked calmly to join the tail-end of the queue that was now moving slowly towards the glass doors. Finally she handed in her boarding card and, against all her baser but better instincts, walked towards the plane without a backward glance.

CHAPTER TWO

The hotel lobby was a relief after the hot, hectic drive from the airport. A cool, marble hall, uncrowded and quietly elegant with the glimpse of a jungly garden around a small pool. Rosie followed the porter to the lift and up to her room, which was a further pleasant surprise. She tipped the boy generously for carrying her bag and, as soon as he had left, she threw open the shutters and went out onto the small balcony.

She sat on one of a pair of wrought-iron chairs and regarded the empty one beside her. Suddenly a deep loneliness engulfed her. The peaceful solitude she had been yearning for dissolved into the silence, replaced by some vague fear of the future. Suddenly, she realised it wasn’t that she missed her current — no, ex — boyfriend, Luke. He would have splintered the sunny space, photographing her and everything that came into view. He was one of life’s huge enthusiasts. Rosie had only recently realised how exhausting it was to follow in his eager footsteps.

Her own leisure life had been totally submerged in his interests. At first, this had seemed so exciting. She had jumped into the relationship with two feet. Her wardrobe showed the evidence: new snow shoes, ski boots, flippers, roller-blades, tennis shoes, golf shoes and far too many impossible stilettos. Now, as she quickly unpacked her small bag she smiled fondly at her familiar old Gucci loafers. So here she was— escaping from the fallout. Once again the unanswered question throbbed in her head. How could he?

Only recently they had talked around the idea of marriage. It was true that Rosie’s work had been more demanding than ever in the last few months. Her career had catapulted from talented copywriter to most-wanted PR woman in the fashion world. The more successful she became, the more was asked of her. Big-name clients with even bigger egos demanded her personal attention. There were always deadlines to beat, glamorous venues to locate, presentations to organise, photo shoots, prestigious functions, press interviews…all of vital importance for a moment in time.

She loved the work and thrived on the pressure but it just didn’t fit a private life with Luke. He wanted all her attention too. So obviously he had found consolation in that elegant blonde. Once again Rosie felt the shock rush through her. The answer to the repeated question in her head was quite simply that he could and had. Rosie closed her eyes but the scene in the café played on. Should she have rushed into the café and confronted Luke? Maybe. In fact, she had just quickly turned away and run back to her office. She had made phone calls, batted emails and finished her work. Finally, she had made her way back to her flat, carrying the special dress she had bought for their anniversary dinner date. A slow cold determination had taken over her. She decided to keep their dinner date.

Wearing the new little black dress from Joseph, she taxied to the Chelsea Harbour restaurant. She was carefully ten minutes late. He was waiting for her at the table, their table, looking moody. He stood up as she entered but didn’t seem to notice that she turned her head away from him as he gave her a brief kiss. He held the back of her chair for her, waiting impatiently for her to sit down. Then she looked him in the eye and told him it was over. Quietly and simply, the words fell from her lips easily. He looked startled and then confused. For a very brief moment she felt slightly sorry for him as he stood there, like an overgrown schoolboy, wondering what he had done wrong. So she told him she had seen him at lunch. His face changed from baffled to dark with guilt. Before he could reply she turned quickly on her heel and left the restaurant.

Breathing in the cool air on the riverside, she began to tremble. She quickly hailed a taxi waiting in a rank outside the harbour. She climbed in and sank back with relief as the driver made a tight turning circle. Just as he was drawing away she saw Luke emerge from the glass doors. He searched the area quickly and then spotted Rosie in the taxi and began to run after her. She shrank back from the window but not before she had seen he was waving a small, beautifully wrapped box. A box that looked very likely to hold a ring. The taxi gained speed but Rosie did not look back. She began to cry, long, dry sobs that felt as though they would never cease.

Now, sitting in the late-afternoon Niçois sun, she cried again. She cried for what might have been. But her tears ended quickly and left her feeling tired, sad and strangely relieved.

CHAPTER THREE

The next morning when Rosie awoke she sensed it was late. She focused sleepy eyes on the small face of her watch and was amazed to find she had slept soundly for more than ten hours. She crossed the dark room and slowly opened one of the shutters a few inches. Rubbing her eyes against the brightness of the day, she squinted into the distance.

It took her a moment to realise that she was looking at the sea — an impossibly blue horizontal strip behind the fronds of palm trees in the garden below. The Mediterranean. How could she have missed it yesterday? She must have been too tired to take anything in properly. Rosie sighed with pleasure, feeling her shoulders relax as she stood quietly enjoying the warmth of the sun on her skin. She reached out lazily and ran her fingers through the bright green leaves that reached up to the balcony rail. To her delight she realised the branch was laden with oranges. She gave a slow and careful inspection to the glowing fruits and then plucked the perfect one. Its tangy, citric aroma filled the air as she pushed her thumbnail into the thick skin. This was a good day to be alive — to be happy, alone or not — and a perfect day to wear loafers.

An hour later Rosie was swinging briskly along the Promenade des Anglais following the signs to the flower market. The hotel concierge had given her an excellent map of the city and some suggestions as to how to spend her first day in Nice. The sea sparkled before her in vibrant turquoise and navy-blue stripes. She glanced down at the beach restaurants and picked out one for lunch. Yes, definitely that one with the yellow umbrellas and cushioned sun-loungers spread out on a wooden deck that ran down to the gently lapping waves. She carried on towards the hillside that overhung the end of the bay and turned under a stone arch into the market place. She stopped in amazement. It was so much bigger than she had imagined. The air was full of voices, both French and Italian. Clasping her bag in front of her, she wended her way through the colourful market stalls towards a café in the shade. She was about to sit down at a table when, looking up to admire again the backdrop of the steep cliff that soared up into the deep blue sky, she caught sight of a splendid cascade of water tumbling down over the rocks.

“Absolutely fantastic!” Rosie had the dreadful feeling that she had said the words aloud. Just one day on her own and she was going mad already. She decided to give up on exploring the city and head straight for the haven of a yellow umbrella.

By four in the afternoon Rosie had finished her book. A book that she had been trying to find time to read over the last year. Stretched out on a comfortable sun-bed, served with drinks and pizza, a few lazy swims, daydreaming and dozing, she had contentedly drifted through the afternoon. A couple of attempts to chat had been made by local lads in black Armani swimwear and Rolex-or-not watches but she had remained polite, cool and made no eye contact. Why was it that most of her daydreaming had been about that guy at the airport? She didn’t even know his name and never would. Somehow his face kept reappearing as an imprint on the retinas of her eyes. He was reflected in her sunglasses, blurring the lines of her book — when she closed her eyes she could see the way he had looked at her — the way his eyelashes were spiky dark against his olive skin.

Rosie sighed with exasperation. This relaxation stuff was dangerous for one’s mental health. It must be that she just didn’t have anything else to think about. How could she be so ridiculous? Surely she couldn’t fall in love with a man she didn’t even know and who was certainly happily married anyway? She flicked up her towel and folded it neatly, ignoring the male eyes that followed her every movement…not that dismissing the crème de la crème of Nice’s male beach society made any sense either.

She returned to the coolness of the hotel. The friendly concierge gave her the room key and wished her, ‘Bonne soirée.’

Rosie muttered a polite, ‘Merci,’ in reply, thinking that her soirée was unlikely to be as bonne as he was imagining. He probably thought she would be out clubbing and generally painting the town rouge until late, late, late. Once in her room, however, she found she had seriously underestimated the efficiency of the concierge. Arranged on the bureau was a selection of brochures detailing restaurants and places to visit. On top was a list entitled, ‘Loisirs pour la femme qui voyage seule’. Rosie’s school French just about covered that. A list of leisure activities for the woman who travels alone. Was it that obvious? Smiling ruefully, she glanced without much interest at the brochures until one caught her eye.

‘Visitez la Parfumerie Beauroma à Eze’. She flicked through the description of the tour of the perfume distillery and mediaeval village perched above the Mediterranean. Why not? Well, probably because it closed at seven p.m.? She looked at her watch. Five p.m. already! She could do it if she hurried. Suddenly it seemed to be the most important thing to do. She threw off her beach clothes and dashed into the shower. It was so relaxing to be in a hurry and hopefully a bit of stress would hold off further bouts of going totally out of it.

Fifteen minutes later she walked briskly into the lobby and asked the concierge to call her a taxi immediately. She waved the brochure at him and thanked him. “Mademoiselle, relax — you ’ave plenty of time. The sun is not even down yet and Eze village is just up the coast. Remember, this is the South of France and you are on the holidays, yes?”

“Yes, you’re right!” Rosie smiled. “But I’m so good at rushing!”

“Rushing — what is this? I not know this word,” he replied, turning his lips down in disparagement and shaking his head.

“It’s like hurrying…” Rosie searched for a word from her school vocabulary without success. “Believe me, you really don’t want to know about it!”

She smiled at him brilliantly and ran out to the taxi that had drawn up outside. And the concierge was quite right — Eze village was just up the coast. The journey was as short as it was breathtaking and ‘up’ seemed definitely to be the key word. The taxi driver drove with alarming contempt bred from his obvious familiarity with the road that careered crazily out of Nice and in the general direction of the sky.

It was called the Moyenne Corniche, he informed her, turning completely around to face her in the back seat as he drove recklessly onward, one hand casually on the steering wheel. Whatever, thought Rosie, nodding quickly in agreement as she was swung from side to side as the car swerved round one hairpin bend after another. Moments later he turned round again and pointed up to the sky. Was he really trying to tell her that there was another road higher up called the Grande Corniche? She closed her eyes and rested her head back in a foolish pretence of sleep. She heard him sigh heavily and hoped he had given up on her feeble command of the French language.

The next moment her eyes blinked wide open as the sound of deafening music filled the car. He had turned to the radio for company but he had not quite given up on her. Turning around again, he smiled enthusiastically as he shouted, “Musique!” and thumped the steering wheel in time to the beat. Rosie smiled weakly back and nodded again in agreement, holding her breath as he turned once more and leant out of his window. He pointed down vigorously, shouting, “La mer…zee sea!”

Rosie made the mistake of looking and there, sure enough, was the sea…a mile or more below the car as they veered round the very edge of the steep hillside. Rosie firmly closed her eyes again as the sea and sky tilted madly around in her head. She tried to concentrate on which old James Bond film she felt she was taking part in…or had it been The Italian Job or that great film with Robert de Niro? Thus absorbed she realised with relief that the taxi was actually slowing down. Opening one eye cautiously, she saw they were entering the village of Eze.

Rosie’s head swam as she stepped from the taxi onto the smooth cobbles. Maybe that was why, when she turned to the entrance of the perfumery, she was so unprepared for the sight that met her eyes. For there he was…object of desire, subject of the day’s dreams…yes, the airport Prince Charming. He was standing by a dark blue limousine, one hand waving wildly in the air, the other holding the handle of the open door as he talked earnestly to two besuited men.

Rosie smiled and whispered, “Yes, yes, yes!” Fortunately he hadn’t seen or heard her. Rosie fought to recover her equilibrium although her knees were weak with excitement. This was the moment to employ all her social skills and arts of manipulation. Not the time to avoid eye contact. As she tried to think of a way to casually bump into him he turned towards her and looked straight into her eyes. Immediately he recognised her and raised a hand in a friendly wave. Just as immediately her best intentions to play it cool and calm completely deserted her. She found herself idiotically flapping her hand in reply as he turned back towards the car.

Was that to be it? Was this the extent of her well-honed talents? She forced her feet to walk towards the entrance foyer of the perfumery. The air filled with a thousand scents as she advanced slowly up the steps, resisting, for the second time, a tremendous desire to turn around and somehow, anyhow, get this unknown man into her life. She heard a heavy car door slam and the sound of the engine purring away into the distance. It took only minutes but it seemed as though a vast cloud had covered the sky and Rosie felt as though she would walk up these steps for the rest of her life. Moving like an automaton, she purchased an entrance ticket and continued into the museum hall. She felt the dizziness return as the air choked her with its sweetness. Why hadn’t she made some effort to speak to him? How could she let him walk out of her world once more? She moved slowly between the displays of herbs and flowers, engulfed in a new loneliness so complete that it took her some while to realise that he was standing in front of her.

“May I escort you on a guided tour, mademoiselle?” He smiled down at her, stretching his arms wide in welcome. Rosie hadn’t realised how tall he was. Suppressing a ridiculous urge to rush into his arms and hug him, she managed to reply.

“Do you work here?” Her voice, at least, had not been too squeaky. He burst out laughing.

“Non, mademoiselle, although they are trying to buy me. Allow me to introduce myself — Jean-Michel de Fleurenne, à votre service!” He held out his hand, and as she took it into hers she felt a high-voltage shock of contact. His hand was long-fingered and smooth and he pressed her fingers firmly and for a moment longer than necessary. They walked slowly side by side down the long alley between the barrels of flower petals and copper vats.

“How are they trying to buy you?” she asked, secretly wishing she could buy him for herself.

“Oh, that’s a long, boring story. First you must see the distillery and the museum before they close.”

“First”, he had definitely said “first”…and what would be second? Rosie wondered, her vivid imagination running wildly ahead. Jean-Michel gave her an excellent tour of the perfumery. He was serious and then amusing, telling her so much about perfume- making that she realised he must be involved in the industry. She found it fascinating and listened attentively. It wasn’t too difficult. She could have listened to an entire dissertation just watching his curving lips open and close.

Eventually they arrived back at the entrance foyer just as the lights were being turned out. Rosie hesitated awkwardly, inwardly panicking that their time together was coming to an end. Jean-Michel stood at the top of the entrance steps for a moment and then clapped his hands together.

“C’est une belle soirée! If you have time we could walk down to the beach.”

“That would be lovely. I’m completely at a loose end.” Rosie replied, making no pretence that she even needed to think about it. So it was not to be a bonne soirée but a belle one. Her heart fluttered ridiculously.

“There’s a footpath but it’s quite steep and uneven.” Jean-Michel looked down at her shoes. The faithful loafers. “Great…you’re wearing sensible shoes! If you trust me then follow your tour guide this way, please!”

Rosie saw the small path to the side of the car park. Did she trust him? Somehow she knew she did…completely. Supposing he was a murderer? Was she really going mad, diving off into the unknown undergrowth with a tall, dark stranger? She followed slowly and then saw that, although it was a small path, it was obviously well used. Several couples and family groups were making their way downhill. It was not, anyway, a romantic walk. Jean-Michel seemed to know nearly everyone they passed, stopping to shake hands and exchange kisses and pleasantries as they scrambled on down the hillside. Coming to a small resting place, he turned to her for a moment, holding out his hand as she jumped the last stone. “You must excuse me! I couldn’t introduce you to all the people we passed because I didn’t know your name.”

“Rosie Fielding. I’m sorry — I should have introduced myself before. In my work it’s a cardinal sin not to push your name around.”

“But you are on holiday, Rosie…and what is your work?”

There was a small silence. She was still recovering from his velvety French pronunciation of her name. Rosie! She had never liked her name until then. She pulled herself together and began to reply. “Publicity. PR in the fashion world…” Her voice tailed away to nothing. Suddenly it seemed a futile way to spend one’s life. She looked at the vast panorama of sea and sky stretching to infinity.

“I enjoy it and I’m quite good at it,” she added, almost defensively, justifying her work more to herself than to Jean-Michel.

“I’m sure you’re very good at it. A PR princess. I don’t know much about your world but I can’t imagine anyone being able to resist you in any way.” Before she had time to absorb the compliment he carried on down the path. She followed slowly until they reached the beach.

“This is like a film set!” she said, her voice filled with wonder as she took in the small cove curving away into the gold of the setting sun.

“Now, don’t get any ideas of bringing a film crew here. Work is work but you are on holiday, right?” He looked down at her. There were those dark, spiky lashes that she had seen in her daydreams earlier that very day. Close enough to touch, to kiss, to lick. Rosie held her hands tightly behind her back in case she should be unable to resist reaching out and brushing his cheek with her hand. How his skin gleamed to bronze in the last rays of the day’s sun.

“Would you like a drink…a sundowner?” Jean-Michel asked. Had he said it once or twice? Rosie pulled herself back from the brink of somewhere she yearned to be.

“Yes, a drink would be great. Is there anywhere down here?”

“Oh, yes, there’s a bar called ‘Zara Zazou’ — it should be just opening up for the evening. Thank goodness you’re not wearing silly shoes. It’s just over there on the beach.”

Again it was obvious that Jean-Michel was well-known. First the barman kissed him on both cheeks and then a truly stunning girl rushed out from the kitchen and threw herself at him. “Jean-Michel, mon amour, pourquoi tu ne viens plus me trouver?”

Rosie knew that Frenchmen kissed each other but she could do without this voluptuous bombshell calling Jean-Michel ‘mon amour’. Her school French was more than adequate to get the gist of that. Jean-Michel turned to Rosie.

“This is Zara!” he said, gently extricating himself from her embrace. “Suffis, Zara, suffis, laisse moi tranquille. Put me down!”

Zara gave Jean-Michel a light cuff around the back of his head and called across to Rosie. “Don’t mind me, ma chère, I kiss all the beautiful boys — it makes my job more interesting! I live for my work! But this one — he is an old favourite of mine!” Her accent was superbly exaggerated. She slapped Jean-Michel lightly on both cheeks. “And that is for not visiting us for so long. I no love you no more — is finished, you unnerstand?”

She spun around and came over to the table where Rosie was sitting. She was even more beautiful in close-up. Beautiful and powerful. Dark olive skin and blonde hair, lustrous violet eyes under dark eyebrows and the reddest of red lips that pouted and exaggerated her words as she spoke. “Are you with ’im, ma chère? Be careful, he is a very good boy. He does nothing but the work, work, work. He is not the good fun. I was at school with ’im — always the same — workin’ and workin’. Such a good boy — pah!” She pulled a scornful face and threw her hands in the air in disgust as she swung her way over to the ancientjukebox. Leaning against it, with one hand on her impressive hip, she gave it a resounding kick with one pink-booted foot and it sprang into life. The plaintive electro-synthetic sound of ‘Rage in Eden’ filled the café with heady nostalgia.

“They’re playing our song, darleeng, you remember?” she drawled in fake American and returned to the kitchen, making a magnificent exit.

Jean-Michel came over to the table carrying two tall glasses of pink wine. “Phew! That’s my punishment over. I’m sorry about all that — she’s always larger than life!” He glanced at Rosie anxiously. Rosie burst into laughter.

“She’s great, simply fantastic.”

Jean-Michel laughed too, his dark eyes sparkling with vitality as he set the drinks on the table.

“Do you like Kir? It’s the only way to drink the cheap wine here.”

“Kir is perfect and so is this place.” Rosie had a really brilliant smile but this time she smiled as she had never smiled before.

“And so are you,” Jean-Michel said quietly as he looked at her over the rim of his glass. “Let’s drink to perfection.”

“To perfection!” said Rosie, sipping the cool, blackcurrant-flavoured wine and reflecting that this was what eye contact was really all about. And the evening was perfect — so perfect that Rosie felt she had floated into a dreamlike world. The only cloud looming on the entire horizon was her absolute certainty that he must be married. She kept pushing the doubt to the back of her mind, enjoying the moment and avoiding any questions about his private life. It wasn’t difficult. Jean-Michel was an excellent listener. She found herself telling him more about her work. Finally she drew to a halt.

“Now it’s really your turn,” she said. “You must tell me your long, boring story and why the perfume house are trying to buy you. Was it the buyers that you were seeing into the stretch limo?”

“You’re very observant. Was it that obvious I was trying to send them on their way?” Jean-Michel smiled but his eyes were serious. “If you really want to know then I have to insist we have dinner together — somewhere more comfortable.”

Rosie dreaded that he would make some crass comment about going back to his flat. Was his wife away perhaps?

“There’s a restaurant perched on the very edge of the village with a superb view. Can I tempt you?”

Rosie gave another of her wide smiles. “That sounds perfect. But how ever are we going to make our way back up that path in the dark?” she asked doubtfully.

“Mais non — you have sensible shoes but you’re not a goat. Did I mention on the way down that it was a goat-path?”

Rosie laughed. “No, but I’m not at all surprised.”

“Definitely the most famous goat-path in France or maybe the whole world — and, as your personal tour guide, I must now tell you that it is known as the Chemin Nietszche because the great man was walking along it when inspired to write — zut, I can’t remember — something about what Zarathoustra said to someone or other… Anyway, it was extremely philosophical and also explains how Zara came to be called Zara. But I’m afraid I can’t recall the detail. Ah, well, perhaps I won’t make a tour guide when I lose my job in the perfume industry. Now for the next instalment we must bypass Nietzsche and borrow Zara’s Jeep… Excuse me, I’ll just go and tell her. If I don’t return immediately it will be because she has hugged me to death.”

Ten minutes later they were chugging up the steep road that wound its way up to the village. Rosie hung onto the roll bar as she looked down at the steep drop to the sea. This place was all vertical roads.

“How on earth will Zara get home?” she asked, although it was one of the minor questions that she had in the long list forming in her head.

“Oh, Zara will get a lift — she knows everyone here. The place will be buzzing until three or four in the morning. She was born here like me.”

Well, that crossed another question off her list. “How amazing to be born in such a spectacular place.”

“Yes, I suppose so. Apart from the Mediterranean at your feet, the ruined château and the white penitents’ chapel it’s just like any other ordinary old mediaeval village.” Jean-Michel laughed.

“Not forgetting the Chemin Nietzsche,” added Rosie. “And the perfumery and the pine trees on the beach and…”

“Do you want a job as a tour guide?” Jean-Michel asked, raising his dark eyebrows. “Anyway, you haven’t seen anything yet. This is ‘be glad of your sensible shoe time’ again.” He slung the Jeep into the square, turned off the engine and then slipped the car key behind the sun visor.

“Will it be OK to leave it like that?” Rosie asked in surprise.

“Goodness, yes. Everyone around knows Zara and not a soul would dare take it without her permission. You must have noticed she is one terrifying woman!” Jean-Michel laughed and then came round to open her door. Rosie couldn’t remember anyone ever doing that for her before. She supposed she should feel some sort of feminist rebellion but instead she felt enchanted.

“This time we climb, mademoiselle. May I take your hand as the cobbles are so uneven and the lights few and far between and…? Well, I can’t think of any more excuses.”

So hand in hand they made their way through a heavy stone arch and into the narrow winding streets of the village. Up and up, towards the starry sky. Finally they arrived at a small entrance with a wrought-iron hanging sign announcing ‘Château Eza’. Rosie was suddenly conscious of her casual appearance and, yes, the loafers.

Jean-Michel, still holding her hand, strode into the narrow foyer and, leaning across the desk, called out, “Pierre, où es toi?”

A young man hurried into sight, his face breaking into a smile of welcome when he saw Jean-Michel. They talked rapidly in French for a minute and then Jean-Michel turned to her. “Isn’t that lucky? They have a table for two on the terrace.”

“Perfect!” Rosie laughed. She hadn’t understood much of what had been said but she knew enough about booking the best locations to know that something had just been fixed. As they walked through the small restaurant and out onto the candlelit terrace Rosie felt all eyes were fixed on them. Jean-Michel seemed completely oblivious. Stopping to give close examination to the dessert trolley and shaking hands with several people, waiters and diners, he led the way through the tables. Rosie was not a shy person and she began to enjoy the attention, smiling to herself as the waiters hurried to lay a small table on the very edge of the terrace. She recognised and knew the value of being known and liked.

It wasn’t until they had finished the main course that Rosie reminded Jean-Michel of his promise to tell her about his work.

“Do I have to? Do I really have to? I’m having such a good time…but, yes, a promise is a promise. I shall try to tell the story as quickly as possible. Are you sitting comfortably?”

“Very comfortably!” Rosie sighed as she leaned back in her chair and looked across at the wide expanse of dark sea now divided by a silvery gold path to the moon.

“Well, it’s a long family saga…a bit like a French edition of The Archers! My family own quite a large area of greenhouses and lavender fields in the Provençal hills near Grasse. Our business is making perfume and has been since the time of Catherine de Medici. In fact, one of my ancestors reputedly scented her gloves…but that is another story and belongs to a tourist guide. I knew little of the business until last year when my parents were killed in a plane accident. It’s OK…” He hesitated as Rosie instinctively put her hand over his in sympathy. “I’m getting over it now but certainly it was a great shock. I had been educated in England and I was working in London when it happened — nothing to do with perfume. I’m a quantity surveyor.”

He smiled ruefully and looked out to sea. “Or rather I was a quantity surveyor in a big company in Hanover Square. To cut a long story short, I resigned and came back here to try to carry on the business. My grandmother is still alive and she knows a great deal about it all but somehow it’s just not working. Then a short time ago I was approached by the big boys here. They want to buy us out. My grandmother is set against it and I suppose I am too in my heart…but my head tells me differently. Today was yet another meeting and really they made me an offer I can’t refuse but…well, I did. Of course, I can always go back to them. Last time I turned them down they just offered me more money. We’ll see… The good thing is I don’t have to go and see Grandmère tomorrow and tell her she has to move. Now that really would be scary. She still lives in the old château — very much the head of the household. She rules with an iron hand in a perfumed silk glove. Everyone is scared stiff of her! Now can I have my profiteroles?” Jean-Michel looked down at the neglected mound of chocolate dessert.

Rosie smiled gently as she said, “My father always told me ‘when in doubt don’t’ — it’s always worked for me, so personally I think you did the right thing today. Why are they so keen to buy you out? Is it the land?”

“Partly — but it’s also our list of scents. We have one or two of the big names and a whole library of original perfumes just waiting to be bought by fashion houses. Any day one of them might call up with an idea, a ‘look’ or an image and we can offer three or four perfumes for them to choose from. My venerable grandmère is absolutely amazing at this. She is what is called ‘un nez’…a nose. I know it sounds funny in English!”

“No, no…I’ve heard about it — like wine tasters or something. So she creates a scent and then what?”

“Well, if the fashion house choose one from our collection, then bingo — the contract is drawn up and we have a new client. It is all totally top secret — from the actual recipe right down to customer confidentiality. Once it’s signed up it’s good business, especially if you get a big name and a perfume that is marketed well. Then there is the side of the company that markets essential oils, both importing exotic fragrances and extracting and distilling from jasmine, mimosa, roses, lavender and herbs, of course…being Provence. We have two centuries of experience and an excellent reputation that Beauroma, that’s the big boys here in Eze, is longing to get its hands on. I’m sure they would run it all very commercially and exploit the tourist attraction with coach trips up to the Disneyed château…tour guides…a job for me there!” Jean-Michel smiled apologetically. “Isn’t this where we came in? I’m really sorry to bore you with all this but I did try to warn you.”

“It’s not boring at all. It’s a fascinating business but I can see it must be a great worry.”

“It wouldn’t be so difficult if half my life wasn’t still in London,” replied Jean-Michel.

Suddenly he reached across the table and took her hand in his. Rosie felt her stomach somersault. This was it. He was going to tell her about his wife and kids. Of course, they were in London and that was why he had said he travelled frequently to and fro. Rosie’s heart thumped painfully as Jean-Michel leaned towards her, offering her a spoonful of the profiteroles from the pyramid piled in the silver dish between them. He watched her lips as she opened her mouth and tasted the explosion of dark rich chocolate and cream on her tongue. Rosie was melting inside. Never had she been so attracted to a man. The dark side of her didn’t want to know about his wife and kids. He began to talk again and Rosie had been so far away in her own fears that she missed his first words.

“…and so I must visit my grandmother tomorrow and tell her about the latest developments. Now, let’s return to enjoying this evening. Would you like a coffee here or would you prefer to get back to Nice and we could find a café on the promenade?”

“That would be perfect,” Rosie answered automatically.

“So much perfection in one evening is good for my soul!” said Jean- Michel softly.

They walked slowly back down the cobbled street to the village square, holding hands lightly. When they reached the car park, Jean-Michel directed Rosie to an old Peugeot estate that was parked near Zara’s Jeep. Once again he opened and held the door for her as she jumped in. Rosie sighed, settling back into the old leather seats with pleasure, thinking how easily she could get used to this.

The drive back along the coast was another scene from a film. Jean-Michel’s old Peugeot estate, redolent with floral scent, rolled slowly along a road that hugged the coast. Jean-Michel drove with one arm casually along the back of Rosie’s seat and the other elbow resting on the open window. The air was warm, the moon was full, the stars bright. Jean-Michel gently turned the car into a lay-by that hung over the sea edge. Rosie burned with excitement. This was it — now he must kiss her and hold her in his arms. Jean-Michel opened his door and came round to her side of the car.

“You must see the view of Nice from here — it’s really stunning. Your taxi probably took the Moyenne Corniche, high above the coast, but this little road is just as direct and ends up in the port. Look, you can see the boats in the harbour from here.”

“Yes!” she murmured, not thinking about what she was saying but every fibre of her body tingling in anticipation. “I’m sure you’re right — it was certainly high up above the sea. I felt quite giddy when I arrived in Eze!”

Not as giddy as I feel now, she thought to herself. They were standing so close she could feel the heat from his body on her bare arm. She obediently looked down at the large bay. It was certainly impressive. Large liners, private launches and a thousand lights reflected in the still dark water. She sighed as she felt him move behind her and, with his arms around her waist, pull her firmly towards him. The words fell from her lips.

“But what about your wife?” She pulled quickly away from him and, turning, saw his handsome face filled with anguish.

“Wife?” Jean-Michel repeated the short single word and it hung in the air above them.

CHAPTER FOUR

“Yes, your wife in London…” Rosie was almost in tears as she felt the perfect evening crashing around her. Never had she felt such desire, never had all her emotions been so aroused and yet she felt like hitting him as she watched his face struggle with emotion.

Finally he spoke. “I don’t have a wife! Whatever made you think that I did?”

Rosie, reeling in shock, turned back to stare at the view, blurred now by the tears that had sprung to her eyes. She felt his arms move tentatively back around her waist as he gently kissed the back of her neck. She spoke again, her voice choked with a sob. “Jean-Michel, are you sure?”

This was so ridiculous that suddenly they were both laughing and kissing at the same time. Then he broke away from her and said, “What about you? You’re not married, are you?” He was smiling but his eyes were anxious.

“No, not at all!” She opened her eyes wide.

“Rosie, Rosie, you are so beautiful…si belle! Please don’t open your eyes any wider or I shall drown in them.” Jean-Michel began to kiss her ardently. His arms ran down her back as he pulled her hard against his body, engulfing her in himself. He was breathing faster, murmuring her name over and over. “Rosie, Rosie — I have found you at last.”

A great peace suddenly settled into her and she raised her arms, arching away from him as she gently cupped his face in her hands. “And I have found you, Jean-Michel. I knew it when I first saw you.” She ran her fingers through his strong dark hair and her mind flashed back to that moment at the airport when she had longed to do just that.

Somehow they drove on to Nice. He parked in a small street in the old town and there was no question between them that she was going to spend the night with him. He took her hand and led her into a dark, marble entrance hall and up endless flights of stairs to a small oak door on the top landing. He slid an enormous key into the lock and threw the door wide. “Welcome to my home!”

He went ahead of her, turning on light after light, illuminating the vast attic flat. Finally, he pressed one last switch and a large blind slowly rose revealing a panorama of the old town of Nice against the backdrop of the moonlit Mediterranean.

“It’s magical!” She gasped, running over to the balcony, and then he was behind her again, his arms encircling her, his head buried in her hair as he nibbled her neck. She turned to him and began to unbutton his shirt. Suddenly they were pulling at each other’s clothes, panting and gasping as finally their bare skin made contact. Jean-Michel dropped to his knees on the soft wool rug, pulling her on top of him. Rosie moaned with pleasure as his kisses covered her body. Her fingers dug into his back as desire flooded through her. Never had she felt such longing. Nothing in the world existed apart from him. She was empty without him.

He slipped his arm under her and carried her across to the large bed. The whole night stretched ahead of them. At dawn their love-making reached a new height of passion as, exhausted and still excited, they clung close to each other, unable to move apart. When sleep finally overcame them they fell into a light sleep, closely entwined.

The first rays of sunlight fell across the pillows and they awoke simultaneously and looked into each other’s eyes. Jean-Michel spoke first, his voice husky with sleep.

“Rosie, will you marry me as I’m sure that I’m not married and you’re not married at all?”

“Yes, Jean-Michel, yes, yes, yes, I will marry you!” Rosie hadn’t hesitated for a moment. They slept on as the sun moved across the room, picking out the story of their clothes strewn across the floor.

Rosie awoke from a dreamless sleep, finding herself still wrapped in Jean-Michel’s arms. She studied Jean-Michel’s face lying close to hers. She softly stroked his cheek, brushing the dark lashes with her fingertips. So he wasn’t a dream. Had he really proposed to her before they fell asleep?

Rosie’s eyes stretched wide in amazement as she suddenly remembered her acceptance. This was madness. Every fibre of her body made her feel it was right — not only right, but everything that she wanted. Yes, she wanted to marry Jean-Michel. But was her body making life decisions? What about her brain? Was she suffering some mad rebound sickness in the fallout of her relationship with Luke?

She slipped from the bed, pulling the thin counterpane around her as she went out onto the balcony. She realised she was looking at the market square and there, just in view, was the waterfall that had so amazed her yesterday. Could it really have been yesterday? The market traders were setting up their stalls; their voices rose up to her in the still morning air. She stretched, feeling the wonderful languor of her body in the cool air. Was this a holiday romance run wild? She looked back into the room and saw that Jean-Michel was sitting on the bed watching her. In that moment she knew that she would always love him and that her life was to be with him.

“Would you like that coffee now?” Jean-Michel called out to her. “I seem to remember promising you a coffee before our bodies took over last night.” He moved towards her, superbly at ease with his nakedness.

“Bonjour, ma belle Rosie!” He kissed her tenderly on the top of her head. “Are you wondering how it all happened?”

“Yes, I suppose I am in a way and yet it all seems so right,” she answered, looking him straight in the eye. If he should waver now then she wanted it all to be over quickly. If he showed the slightest regret or doubt…

“You do remember you promised to be my wife, don’t you?” he asked, raising his dark eyebrows quizzically although his eyes were very serious.

“Yes, I do!” she replied, equally solemn.

“Does that mean ‘yes’ you do remember, or ‘yes’ you still do want to say I do?” He was making light of the words but his look was more intent than ever. “Because if you have any doubts I want to know now. I can’t bear to—”

Rosie interrupted him, placing her finger on his lips.

“That’s exactly how I feel too. I have not the slightest doubt. I know I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I’ve heard about love at first sight and this must be it!”

“Thank you, merci, ma belle Rosie. That is so much what I wanted to hear you say in the bright light of morning. I awoke earlier whilst you were still asleep and had a dreadful fear that it was too good to be true. I know it sounds crazy but I was sure from the moment I saw you walking down that goat-path… So now we know what all the fuss is about…love at first sight…un coup de foudre!”

“Oh, I was way ahead of you — I fell in love with you at the airport!”

“Then why did you give me the cold shoulder? I had to pretend to make a phone call I was so put down…”

Rosie laughed. “And I thought you were phoning your wife… Just think — we’ve wasted a whole day of our lives.”

“And a night!” added Jean-Michel, putting his arms around her and hugging her to him. “By the way, where did you waste last night?”

Rosie put her hand to her mouth in dismay. “The concierge at the hotel — he’ll wonder where I am!”

“Surely not — people in hotels just come and go. Which hotel is it?”

“The Windsor. No, I’m sure he will be worried. He was so kind and he gave me the directions to Eze. Without him we would never have found each other.” She looked at Jean-Michel in concern.

“The Windsor, I know it well — it must have been Henri Amiel. Was he a big burly man with greying hair?”

“Yes, don’t tell me you know him!”

“Everyone in Nice knows Henri. He plays the clarinet. The hotel is famous for its jazz clientele — especially during the Cimiez festival. Henri is one of the world’s great movers and shakers. Now it is no surprise to me whatsoever that we found each other. I must send him a bottle of champagne. Bravo Henri! You know, Rosie, talking about champagne — wouldn’t it be better than coffee?”

He went into the kitchen that was divided from the main living area by a glass brick wall. She heard the fridge door open and close and then he was back by her side.

“Et voilà — coffee is served!” He came close to her and held the ice-cold bottle against her arm. Rosie squealed and ran to the bed with Jean-Michel in pursuit. He deftly turned the cork in the bottle and there was a soft pop as he caught the cork in the palm of his hand. The pale golden wine frothed up the neck of the bottle and Jean-Michel quickly filled the flute glasses and passed one to her.

“To perfection for ever!” They clinked glasses and began to sip the cold, yeasty champagne. He refilled her glass and then quite carefully poured some between her breasts. She drew her breath in sharply as the icy liquid dripped down her body. Then he bent forward and she felt his strong tongue licking her skin. She slowly poured the contents of her glass over his back, running her hand through the bubbles and down his spine. He gave a low laugh that was almost a moan and set the bottle and both glasses down on the floor with impatient hands. Their bodies came together wet and slippery, moving slowly in a new rhythm. Rosie arched her back in pure animal pleasure. The night’s love-making had taught them each other’s desires. Now they were one in a new and yet familiar form, fitting together like pieces of a puzzle.

Finally they lay side by side, sated and content. Rosie felt herself drifting towards sleep until Jean-Michel moved and turned towards her, brushing her hair gently from her face and kissing her forehead. He whispered into her ear.

“There is something I want you to do for me but I don’t dare ask you.”

Rosie stayed silent for a moment, wondering what more she could do that she hadn’t already done during the last night and this morning. She turned towards him and whispered back, “You must ask — we can have no secrets or hidden desires between us…ever.”

Their heads stayed close together as he whispered back, “Will you come and visit my grandmother with me today?”

Then he burst out laughing as she threw the pillows at him and then sat astride him, pinning his arms down as she kissed him.

“You are a rotten tease but, yes, of course, I’ll come and see your grandmother with you. I shall tell her what a bad and wicked boy her grandson really is!”

He sat up holding her on his lap and pulled her hands gently behind her back as he nuzzled his head between her breasts.

“But I’m a good boy!” he insisted, looking up at her with a wicked smile. “I’m the golden boy of her life and she won’t believe a word you say against me. Anyway, she will be in a very good mood when she hears that I have held off from the takeover for a while longer. Will you really come with me today?”

“Yes, I’d love to if you don’t think I’ll be in the way whilst you speak about your business affairs.”

“Oh, that will only take minutes. Not that I wouldn’t rather we stayed here.” Jean-Michel looked wistfully at the rumpled bed. “I suppose I really do have to ring her and say we’ll be there for lunch.”

“Will that be all right — it won’t be too short notice for her?”

“Goodness, no — Grandmère will just relay the call to her cook. Believe me, Grandmère is never inconvenienced. Her life runs on the smoothest of tramlines. That’s why it will be so difficult for her to face a big move away from the château.”

“Château, cook — what is all this? It sounds very grand.”

“Yes, I suppose it does, but the truth is that it was very grand — once upon a time in the good old days — but now it is crumbling to an abrupt end. I shall go down in history as the de Fleurenne who sold out,” Jean-Michel said glumly, releasing her hands and standing up.

Rosie stood beside him and said, “You never know — something may just come along to improve matters. But if we are going to visit Grandmère I need to shower — get back to the Windsor hotel and find some respectable clothes.”

“No rush, it’s only nine — you go and shower and I’ll make some coffee…really coffee this time!” Jean-Michel smiled. “We must be able to drink coffee together if we’re going to be married!”

Rosie went into the shower room, which was as ultra-modern as the rest of the apartment: steel, slate and glass and a selection of essential oils in metal canisters. She looked at the large bath that was sunk into the centre of the slate-tiled floor. Perhaps next time? Rosie found herself grinning idiotically at the thought that there would be a whole future of next times here with Jean-Michel. She turned on the shower taps and stood under the blast of water that cascaded out of the wide shower head. She slowly massaged her body with the creamy scented soap that hung on a rope next to the taps. She was tender and aching all over from Jean-Michel’s fervent love-making and the weight of his body. She luxuriated in the sweet aching. The aroma of coffee filtered through to her above the fresh scent of the soap and she let the water pour over her for one more sensuous moment, and then wrapped her hair in a large towel and put on the robe hanging by the door.

Jean-Michel was sitting out on the balcony, a tray of coffee, croissants and orange juice on a table at his side.

“Hot croissants!” Rosie exclaimed. “How did you manage that?”

“I keep some in the freezer for moments such as this. Not that I have ever had a moment quite such as this before!” he added hastily. “Actually I have a cleaner who keeps an eye on the flat when I’m not here and she keeps the fridge and freezer topped up with essentials.”

“Like champagne and croissants!” Rosie laughed.

“And oranges — I love fresh orange juice. Here, try it.” He poured her a glass from a tall jug. “The market is so near that I can get everything I need in minutes. This flat is the best thing I ever did — apart from meeting you, of course. I bought it five years ago when it was just a derelict attic.”

“You’ve made a wonderful job of the conversion. I love it,” said Rosie, looking round at the interior. “And this balcony is wonderful… The view just takes my breath away.”

“I’m really glad you like it. Not everyone does…so many stairs to climb and the open-plan space. But it is my retreat. My books and music are here, my favourite paintings…and now you!” Jean-Michel pulled the towel from her head and ran his fingers through her wet hair. “I’ve never seen such beautiful hair. It’s the colour of a shiny new chestnut in the morning sunshine… Last night it was dark bronze. And your eyes are exactly the colour of the Mediterranean in winter…clear turquoise-green eyes… When you open them wide I drown in you.” He sighed heavily. “Don’t you think I should telephone my dear grandmother and tell her we can’t make it for lunch after all?”

“Definitely not.” Rosie laughed, washing down the last crumb of her croissant with the sweet orange juice. “I shall just finish my coffee and then I’m going back to the hotel to change. What time do we have to leave Nice?”

“Well, as soon as possible really.” Jean-Michel looked at his watch. “It depends…you wouldn’t consider going on the back of my motorbike, would you?”

Rosie opened her eyes wide. “Motorbike… er…I have ridden pillion once before. Well, why not? I shall just have to keep my arms tight round you!”

“Fantastic!” Jean-Michel’s face was alight with enthusiasm. “I’ve got a spare helmet and I’ll take it really slowly — it’s a great road!”

“Not another vertical road!” Rosie laughed. “OK, I’ll dash round to the Windsor and change straight away.”

“Just wait whilst I shower and I’ll take you round.”

“No, I know the way — I walked into the market yesterday. The walk along the prom will wake me up and it’s a wonderful day.”

“It certainly is.” Jean-Michel pulled her close and kissed her tenderly on the forehead. “It’s the best day of my life. I’ll miss you — what time shall I pick you up?”

“An hour from now? Say eleven o’clock?”

“Fine, I’ll see you in the lobby of the Windsor. No need to rush — you are supposed to be on holiday!”

“That’s exactly what the concierge said to me yesterday. But imagine, if I hadn’t dashed off to Eze I would have just missed you and been totally miserable for the rest of my life!”

They kissed again as if they were to be parted for ever and finally Rosie pulled away from Jean-Michel and ran out of the flat. The market square still had an early-morning atmosphere. The cafés were beginning to open their umbrellas; the stall-holders were lazily spreading out their goods and chatting to each other. On the north side the paving slabs were running with water as the fishmongers hosed down their white marble slabs, making way for the baskets of lobsters and shellfish waiting in the shade. Rosie made her way across to the stone archway towards the promenade. Once again her mind reeled at how quickly her life had changed since yesterday. Less than twenty-four hours since she had walked under this same arch, lonely and unsure of her future. She gave a wide smile to no one in particular and looked up to the sun.

“Bonjour, ma belle!” a voice called out from behind her.

And another added, “Ciao, bellissima…e in amore?”

She turned and blew a kiss into the air towards the two stall-holders that had called out to her. They replied with whistles of approval as she swung out of sight and along the promenade.

The concierge she now knew to be Henri was still on duty in the lobby. He greeted her with a friendly smile, his bushy eyebrows raised slightly in amusement.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Fielding! Il fait beau, n’est-ce-pas? Are you doing more of the rushin’ about?”

“Oh, yes, I’m still rushing around like mad…someone I think you know is picking me up at eleven. I must dash!”

“Is the dash like the rush?” he asked with a smile.

“Exactly, you’ve got it!”

“Then I think mademoiselle is very good at it, non?”

“Oui, Henri, very good indeed — à bientôt!”

She ran across to the lift and, by the look of bemusement on his face, she knew he was speculating just how she knew his name and exactly who would be collecting her at eleven. Well, people who didn’t rush or dash about had plenty of time for speculation.

CHAPTER FIVE

Rosie was back in the lobby at precisely eleven but Jean-Michel was already there waiting for her. He was talking to Henri, his hands waving wildly as Henri listened intently. As though sensing she was near, Jean-Michel broke off abruptly and turned towards her.

“Et voilà — elle arrive!” He kissed her on both cheeks and then once more on the first cheek again. Then he handed her a large leather holdall, saying, “I’ve brought you a helmet and some clothes to put on over your own. I’m afraid they’ll be rather big.”

Rosie peered into the bag and saw the studded cuff of a dark leather motorbike jacket. She wrinkled her nose.

“Do I have to?”

Both men answered as one.

“Oui!”

Rosie sighed. She had thought her white jeans and pink cotton sweater sufficient cover for the ride — it was such a hot day.

“OK — I’ll put this lot on top of what I’m wearing. Can you find room for my handbag on the bike?”

“No problem — it’ll fit in the box behind the seat. I’ll wait for you outside.”

“I won’t be a moment!”

Both men laughed as though sharing a joke and Henri said, “We are just saying how you are good at this rushing about… Now I understand this word so maybe I use it every day.”

“As long as you don’t start rushing around yourself, Henri. Remember this is the South of France.”

“You’re right, I don’t think it would be good for me…and by the way, before you rush off…” He drew nearer and said discreetly into her ear, “Congratulations, felicitations! Un vrai coup de foudre — this is surely the love at first sight, and somehow I know you are made for each other. For so long a time I have been hoping my good friend Jean-Mi would find true love.”

“Thank you, Henri.” Rosie became serious for a moment. “Thank you very much. That visit to Eze — well, it was all your idea and we have you to thank.”

“Maybe, but I think it is more the destiny…and all this rushin’ around ’ere and dashin’ about there, bien sûr.” He smiled. “But thanks to Jean-Michel, I shall be pleased to drink your health with my wife tonight.”

He winked and reached under the desk and showed her a bottle of champagne.

Back in the lift again Rosie regarded herself in the mirrored wall. “Felicitations!” she said to her reflection. “What a delicious word!”

As the sun soared towards its zenith they were high above the coast, winding slowly through the Sunday quiet of small villages and roaring between the silver-grey olive groves. Rosie soon became accustomed to the throb of the big bike and the warm air rushing past as she held Jean-Michel tightly encircled in her arms. She was just about to shout at him to try and find out how much further it was when Jean-Michel slowed down and turned to the left, between two rough-hewn pillars supporting an arch. Rosie could just make out the name ‘Château de Fleurenne’ chiselled into the worn corner stone. The tall gates of intricate, wrought ironwork had the air of being permanently open as they gently rusted into the red earth. Tall, leafy plane trees lined the sandy driveway. As the bike throbbed slowly forward through flickering shadow and sunlight she caught brief glimpses of the view between the pale-flecked tree trunks. Quick snapshots of a heavenly landscape under an azure sky.

Jean-Michel steered the bike carefully between the potholes and bumps and then drew to a complete standstill and turned off the engine. The heat and silence enfolded them and Rosie drew in a breath of delight at the sight of the château spread out before them, basking in the sunlight that had faded it for centuries. Pale pink-washed walls and chalky grey shutters, bleached terracotta roof tiles and…there was someone on the terrace at the top of the crumbling stone steps. Standing tall and imperious, metallic grey hair pulled into a chignon, a pale grey dress, one hand raised to her eyes and the other holding a walking cane — there could be little doubt that this was Grandmère.

Jean-Michel pulled off his helmet and helped Rosie to unbuckle hers. Her hair spilled loose and he ran his hand lightly over it.

“Come and meet Grandmère!”

Rosie got off the motorbike, her legs feeling distinctly wobbly. She unclipped the large leather jacket that Jean-Michel had insisted she wear over her sweater. The lower half of her body was clad in the equally enormous pair of matching trousers and, emerging out of the bottom, looking ridiculously small, were the famous loafers. “Well, my appearance should certainly impress Grandmère anyway!” said Rosie, mostly to herself, as she followed Jean-Michel up the steps.

“Bonjour, Grandmère!” said Jean-Michel, kissing the tall, elegant woman three times.

“J’ai le grand plaisir de te présenter, Rosie Fielding — ma fiancée! Rosie, je te présente, Madame de Fleurenne — ma grandmère.”

The two women shook hands politely. Rosie had the absurd feeling that she should bob a curtsey, an idea made even more ridiculous when she thought of how she must look in the huge motorbike leathers.

“Enchantée.” Madame de Fleurenne smiled courteously and then turned back to Jean-Michel, continuing in fluent English, “Really, Jean-Michel, you are quite extraordinary! First you telephone to say that you are bringing your future wife to meet me and then you bring her all the way from Nice -— in this heat — on the back of your monstrous bike.” She turned with a sweet smile to Rosie.

“My dear girl, you must be exhausted. Come inside and recover from such a ridiculous journey. Really, Jean-Michel is quite impossible.”

She placed a cool hand under Rosie’s chin and then kissed her lightly on both cheeks. Her smile changed from sweet to impish as she inhaled, her nostrils quivering.

“Hmm, Jean-Michel’s favourite soap — verveine — and is that an overtone of your own perfume?” She sniffed the air like a bloodhound, her long Roman nose held high. “Yes, definitely 24, Faubourg by Hermès! An interesting choice for one so young.”

Rosie stood still on the spot, dumbfounded, her eyes wide. Before she could say anything, Grandmère was continuing.

“You must forgive me, my dear, terrible manners, of course, and only a party trick. I meet so few new people these days, especially with a fine taste in perfume. Now, you will want to freshen up, yes? Then you must tell me all about this sudden news. Jean-Michel is a wicked boy to telephone on a quiet Sunday to tell me he is bringing his fiancée to meet me — just comme ça!” She waved a delicate, beringed hand in the air and moved slowly through the front door ahead of them.

Rosie glanced at Jean-Michel and whispered, “I don’t need to tell her that you are a bad boy — she knows it already.”

As she moved ahead of Jean-Michel he slipped his hand down the back of the loose waistband of the leather trousers and lightly pinched her bottom. Rosie suppressed a yelp and a dreadful desire to burst into helpless giggles. But Madame de Fleurenne was speaking again.

“Jean-Michel, do go and find Celine — she is probably in the kitchen. She will show Mademoiselle Rosie to the guest rooms.”

“No need to disturb Celine, Grandmère, I’ll take Rosie upstairs and—”

Madame de Fleurenne interrupted. “Jean-Michel, please do as I ask.”

“Oh, and, Jean-Michel, could you fetch my bag from the back of the bike?” added Rosie in as arrogant a voice as she could manage without bursting into laughter.

Jean-Michel sighed and raised his hands in the air. The two women looked at each other in satisfaction.

“You speak wonderful English, madame,” said Rosie. “I wish my French was as good.”

“I lived in London for two years when my husband was alive. We both adored London — and nowadays it is essential to speak English, or maybe I should say American! Who needs to speak French any more?”

“But it’s the most beautiful language,” said Rosie, adding, “And your château…it’s simply incredible!”

“I may agree with you about the French language but my poor old château… It was beautiful once upon a time like a fairy tale but now…now it is sadly neglected.”

“But I don’t think that deflects from its beauty.” Rosie spoke sincerely as she looked round the cool, lofty hall.

“Thank you, my dear, you are too kind. I adore it, of course, but it is like me — an ageing relic.”

“But like you, madame, it also has perfect bone structure.”

Madame raised a hand and laid her fingers on her high cheekbone. “Someone said that to me once before — an age ago. I was so young that I really didn’t understand. I’m not sure I do now — but thank you anyway. Tell me, do you have this perfect bone structure?” She laughed, her dark eyes sparkling with humour.

“Probably not!” Rosie said, smiling. “But now I can see where Jean-Michel gets his dark brown eyes from too.”

“Do you think so? My goodness, I’ve never thought about that either! I shall have to take a good look at him if he ever returns to us.”

They both laughed and at that moment Jean-Michel came back into the hall carrying Rosie’s bag. As he drew near Madame de Fleurenne rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Let me take a good look at you, Jean-Michel!”

She peered into his eyes and then turned to Rosie.

“I do believe you’re right!” They both laughed again and Jean-Michel turned from one to the other.

“Is this some sort of ‘female bonding togetherness’ joke or can I be included?”

“Yes and no!” The two women spoke as one and this made them laugh even more.

“Well, I’m pleased you two seem to be getting on so well!” Jean-Michel raised his hands in the air again — half laughing now. “Here comes Celine — and here is your bag, Rosie. Have I carried out both your commands successfully, mesdames?” he added with an exaggerated flourish and a low bow.

Madame de Fleurenne smiled sweetly and took Jean-Michel by the arm.

“Mais oui, you can be a good boy if only you try… Now perhaps you would accompany me to the terrace, if you don’t think it will be too frightfully hot. We can sit in the shade and await your beautiful fiancée to join us.”

Celine moved forward and almost snatched the bag from Jean-Michel, then, turning her back on Rosie, she muttered over her shoulder, “Suivez-moi!”

Rosie raised her eyebrows at Jean-Michel and then flashed a wide smile to show she was happy to ignore the rudeness. She followed Celine up the staircase, smiling to herself. It was easy to imagine that Celine’s attitude was down to jealousy. Jean-Michel obviously held a special place in her heart and now this foreigner had come along and stolen it. Rosie regarded the firmly set shoulders and rigid neck muscles of the small woman in front of her — there was an almost visible violent green aura. Yes, well, she didn’t have the language skills to win her over — not yet. Rosie had already been planning a crash course in French the minute she hit London.

She drew in her breath sharply as her mind raced ahead — could it really be possible that she would be back at her desk tomorrow afternoon? It seemed a world away from the peace of this elegant old mansion, languishing in the hot Provençal sunshine. Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted as Celine flung open a door at the end of the long corridor and held it open for Rosie. Celine dropped the bag down on a chair and spoke so rapidly in French that Rosie didn’t understand a word. She decided to smile anyway, guessing that Celine had asked if she could find her own way back. “Merci bien, Celine — thank you. I’ll find my own way back!”

“Very well, mademoiselle.” The reply came back in heavily accented English.

“You speak English!” said Rosie in surprise.

“And why not, mademoiselle?” Celine answered coldly and left the room, closing the door a little too firmly.

Yes, well, she had asked for that. Not a good start but she had no time to worry about it now. She needed to apply herself to a quick Cinderella act without the aid of a godmother’s fairy wand. Rosie peeled off the enormous leather trousers, leaving them in a pile on the floor. She picked up her bag, a Prada bowling bag that she relied on for hand luggage, and tipped the entire contents into the middle of the small, high double bed. Her make-up bag, a large hairbrush, a small jewellery case, a camera, a battery pack, a wallet, a pale turquoise pleated silk Issey Miyake dress and a pair of Jimmy Choo sandals of exactly the same colour — a successful impulse buy in the January sales. Yes, this was definitely the moment to abandon the loafers.

Rosie quickly shook out the dress and draped it over the end of the wroughtiron bed. She looked round the shadowy room and saw a door on the far side. She opened it and, voilà — the bathroom. An immense bathroom, in fact, of flaking gilt and pink marble. There was a small fizz of electricity in the switch as she turned on the crystal chandelier high above her head. It gave out an uncertain dark glow for a brief moment, flickered and then went out. The room was so dim that Rosie could hardly see her reflection in the dark glass of the antique mirror that hung above the mantelpiece. She turned on the taps and waited whilst some rusty water spluttered and then ran clear and cold. She splashed her face and neck and washed her hands with the luxurious soap. The scent was as elusive as it was heavenly. This family certainly knew about perfume even if the plumbing and wiring was last century.

She went back into the bedroom and across to the heavily shuttered windows where thin shafts of sunlight splintered the gloom. She wrestled with the metal handle, trying to open them, but they were sealed firm with the paint and rust of ages. Not worth breaking a fingernail over. She tipped out the contents of her make-up bag. Thank goodness she had packed her old magnifying mirror. She looked at it fondly, seeing for a moment her childhood reflected in its glass. It had been her father’s shaving mirror — the one he had always packed in his case whenever he went away. And he had certainly done that often enough throughout her childhood… Maybe that was why the marriage had fallen apart. When he had finally gone, never to return, he had left the mirror behind.

She sighed, feeling a pang of sadness as she remembered her father’s wide smile, so like her own. But Cinderella had no time to behave like Alice through the looking glass. Rosie smiled determinedly at herself in the mirror and, kneeling under the window in a beam of sunshine, she began to carefully apply the lightest of make-up. She angled the mirror from side to side until she was satisfied that the look was totally natural. Jewellery — she needed just something. She unzipped her jewellery case and selected a favourite pair of pale jade earrings that she had bought in India. Finally she scooped everything except her camera back into the bowling bag and carefully closed it. She stepped into the silk dress and sandals and stood for a moment quite still. Yes, she decided, now Cinderella shall go to the ball.

She left the room and made her way back down the long corridor towards the stairs. This time she took more notice of the paintings and furniture. The de Fleurenne family was hardly impoverished. The heavy planked floor was covered in long runners of beautiful oriental design, worn but still glowing with silky colour. The wide staircase, divided in two by a curved landing, swept down to the hall under the gaze of several family portraits. Rosie could feel the ancestral eyes following her. She hoped they approved of her transformation. In her heart she knew she looked good. Her freshly washed hair was shiny with health and a quick spray of shine. Her skin glowed with yesterday’s sun and Estée Lauder. The dress was always a perfect travelling companion, a sheath of silk that caressed her body and swished around her bare knees as she descended the marble stairs, her sandals clicking expensively. Most of all, she walked clad in the magic radiance of love. How could such a young woman suspect that she walked towards anything other than happiness?

CHAPTER SIX

Jean-Michel jumped to his feet and came to meet her as she walked out onto the terrace. Her transformation was not wasted on him.

“Rosie…stunning! You look as though you have walked off a magazine page.”

“Funnily enough, that’s what I thought about you when I first saw you!” Rosie replied.

“You’re joking…” Jean-Michel looked down at his white T-shirt and brushed some dry red earth from his jeans. She realised he was quite disconcerted. It was unusual to find such a good-looking man unaware of or embarrassed by his own charisma. It made him even more attractive to her and she watched him with a throb of desire and some amusement as he quickly changed the subject.

“Actually I thought you’d be much longer than you were. I don’t know if I shall ever get used to how good you are at rushing around.”

His eyes met hers for a long moment and she read the subdued passion burning in him too. He continued huskily, “Anyway, I went for a quick walk through the fields. We’re coming up to harvest time. I told you it was like The Archers up here. Come and sit down in the shade — the midday heat is building up now.”

He took her hand and squeezed it and then drew it to his lips. Her eyes smiled into his before she answered.

“The warmth feels wonderful on my skin but I mustn’t burn. I’m so pale and I swam and lazed a while on the beach yesterday so that’s my quota for a while.”

“That was before your life went haywire — before you met me — when you actually had a life of your own.”

He smiled but looked at her anxiously.

“I hope you don’t mind spending a day up here?”

“Mind! How could I possibly mind? It’s like being invited to lunch in heaven — just look out there!”

They walked to the edge of the terrace and surveyed the wide panorama spread in front of them. Field after field of lavender stretched away to a horizon of hazy blue hills. The sun burnt down on the shimmering mauve flowers and silver green leaves. She breathed the scented air deeply and stood very still for a moment, holding Jean-Michel’s hand lightly in her own. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, as though to share the moment, and then they turned together and walked the length of the stone-flagged terrace to where Grandmère sat, cool and elegant, under the shade of a fig tree. Beside her was a small wrought-iron table laid with a cream lace cloth, a dish of shiny olives, three crystal glasses and an ice bucket with a tall bottle of wine.

“Sit down, both of you, where I can see you. I must say you look very well together. Rosie, you look absolutely wonderful. Quite a metamorphosis from the waif in leathers! Jean-Michel has told me all about you — or rather all that he feels for you, as surely he can know very little about you in such a short time.”

“You must think we’re very impetuous,” said Rosie cautiously.

“Yes, I think that is what I like best about the story. Just because I am ancient you mustn’t assume that I am a prude. I find that the older one gets, the more shock-proof one becomes. I don’t think I have ever told Jean-Michel that I married his grandpère just three weeks after we met. Un vrai coup de foudre! Indeed…we eloped! Our parents would never have given consent. It was quite the Romeo and Juliet affair of the time — with a happier ending, I’m pleased to say. We were perfectly devoted to each other. Sadly he died ten years ago and I have to live on without him. But why some marriages work and some don’t is a complete mystery to me.”

“I’m afraid my own parents divorced when I was thirteen so I don’t have a family with a good track record.”

Rosie looked out across the fields as though she could find the answer to why her parents’ love had not endured in the pattern of the landscape. How could she ever understand why her father had walked away from her and her mother? But the quiet voice of Grandmère interrupted her sad reverie.

“Then you mustn’t dwell on it. There is nothing to say that we have to be like our parents — successful or otherwise. I am a great believer in being responsible for one’s own actions.”

Rosie looked at Madame de Fleurenne with gratitude and a certain amount of surprise. Before she had time to think of how to reply Madame de Fleurenne continued.

“And talking of being a great believer — do you have any religious beliefs?”

Rosie drew in her breath sharply. Jean-Michel’s grandmother was a skilful interviewer. Rosie had handled plenty of tough presentations in the course of her work and she realised she was now facing a subtle and clever woman. Well, she thought quickly, better cut to the chase and attack the Catholic versus non-Catholic issue straight away.

“None at all.” She looked Madame de Fleurenne straight in the eye. “But I have strong moral beliefs that I rigorously uphold.”

Madame de Fleurenne clapped her hands and threw her head back in laughter.

“Brava, bravissima! You are truly a girl after my own heart. Except that you have found out whilst you are very young what it took me most of my life to come to terms with. As you can imagine, I was born into the Catholic faith but I just couldn’t accept the doctrines that I was educated, or indeed indoctrinated, to believe. Only last year, when my only son and daughter-in-law were tragically killed, I thought about becoming a Buddhist. Yes, I went all the way to India and stayed three months in a remote village. Can you believe it? What a silly old woman I was. I’m sure the peace and meditation helped me, but one day I suddenly thought that I really didn’t understand what on earth it was all about. Anyway, I had drunk quite enough yak milk to last me several lifetimes, so I flew home — first class! I haven’t been anywhere since and I don’t think I will… Well, I hope not to anyway.”

Her lively face clouded over briefly but she continued.

“You are right, my dear, strong ethics are enough for people like you and me. Jean-Michel, you are very, very fortunate to have found this remarkable girl. No wonder you proposed to her immediately! Now, all this philosophic discourse has made me extremely thirsty.”

Jean-Michel looked at both women in delight and amazement. Then, filling the glasses with pale rosé wine, he stood, outlined against the backdrop of the flower fields, and raised his glass.

“To the two most beautiful and remarkable women in this wonderful world. A votre santé!”

The conversation over lunch was light-hearted. Grandmère amused them both with stories of her wild youth on the Côte d’Azur. Rosie described something of her public relations work in the crazy fashion scene of London. Jean-Michel talked of his childhood in Eze and, eventually, as coffee was served, he brought the conversation round to business.

“I’m sorry to discuss business whilst we are still at the lunch table, Grandmère, but it won’t take long.”

Rosie stood up quickly.

“Please, I know this is private. I’m very happy to go for a walk around the estate.” She waited hesitantly.

Madame de Fleurenne reached out and laid a cool, dry hand on Rosie’s arm. “Please stay, my dear. Jean-Michel has the most atrocious table manners. He knows I detest talking business at meal times but I am sure he is anxious to get you back on that wicked black bike and to his ridiculous old loft in Nice. Why don’t we take coffee out onto the terrace? You are very welcome to listen to anything he has to say. You are to be one of the family and you should know how impoverished we are. Unless it is too boring — running out of money is certainly very tedious indeed. I should quite understand if you would prefer to take in some good clean air.”

“Not at all!” Rosie answered hastily. “If you’re sure I’m not intruding on your privacy?”

“On the contrary, maybe you can help me persuade Jean-Michel that there must be some way we can hang onto all this beautiful decadence!”

She waved her graceful hand around her head and smiled wistfully.

Rosie sat silent whilst Jean-Michel gave a full account of his meeting with the Beauroma executives in Eze. When he finally said that he had once again turned down the generous takeover offer, Madame de Fleurenne sat back in her chair with a smile of satisfaction.

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