Can an unexpected affair...

...lead to a lifetime of happiness?

In this Destination Brides story, while on vacation in Provence, homebody Jenna Brown embarks on a no-strings affair with a handsome stranger. But there’s more to wealthy playboy Philippe D’Usay than meets the eye. Scarred by loss, Philippe’s committed to being alone. But after their Provençal adventure ends, and Jenna discovers she’s pregnant, they must decide if their short-term connection could become a life together forever!

BARBARA WALLACE can’t remember when she wasn’t dreaming up love stories in her head, so writing romances for Mills & Boon is a dream come true. Happily married to her own Prince Charming, she lives in New England, with a house full of empty-nest animals. Occasionally her son comes home as well! To stay up to date on Barbara’s news and releases sign up for her newsletter at barbarawallace.com.

Also by Barbara Wallace

Saved by the CEO

Christmas with Her Millionaire Boss

Their Christmas Miracle

In Love with the Boss miniseries

A Millionaire for Cinderella

Beauty & Her Billionaire Boss

Royal House of Corinthia miniseries

Christmas Baby for the Princess

Winter Wedding for the Prince

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

One Night in Provence

Barbara Wallace

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09139-8

ONE NIGHT IN PROVENCE

© 2019 Barbara Wallace

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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For Jenna, Shirley, and Donna (the real ones).

I couldn’t have gotten through this without you.

And, as always, for my hero, Pete. I love you.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE
Early August

Is the place as gorgeous as it looked in the brochure? Wait, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Tell me it’s horrible.

SUNSHINE WARMED JENNA’S face as she read her friend’s text. Setting down her champagne, she quickly snapped a photo, knowing the camera phone could never do justice to the Provençal sea of gold and lavender. Her phone dinged in response almost immediately.

I hate you.

Jenna snorted. She shouldn’t laugh. Poor Shirley was back in Nantucket with shingles instead of sitting here in the sunshine with her.

She quickly typed a response.

Would it make you feel better if I told you everyone looks like a swimsuit model? I’m the pastiest person here.

That wasn’t exactly true. There were definitely some gorgeous people floating around, but there were plenty of pale tourists like Jenna as well. What was a little white lie, though, if thinking her best friend felt out of place made Shirley feel a little better?

I’m not going to have nearly as much fun without you with me.

That was true. Shirley was her wing person, both at the nursing home where they worked and off duty. In fact, it was Shirley who’d heard about the Merchant charity auction and convinced Jenna to bid on this Provençal vacation. Without her, Jenna wouldn’t be sitting on the terrace of a centuries-old French castle drinking champagne for breakfast.

Better double down on your efforts, then. Otherwise, Beatrice will come back to haunt you. She expected you to have as much fun as possible.

I plan to!

No way was she risking the posthumous wrath of her favorite patient.

Unfortunately, I’ve lost my translator.

Shirley was the one who could speak French. An ex-boyfriend had given her an immersion software course one Christmas with the promise of a French vacation.

Besides, there’s only so much trouble a person can get into by themselves.

A trio of bouncing dots on her screen indicated that Shirley was typing a reply.

Go find a sexy Frenchman to help you. I can think of plenty of trouble you can get into with one of those.

Jenna laughed out loud, causing the couple at the next table to look over. She waved her phone at them to show she wasn’t some random crazy person before replying.

R U kidding? With my luck it’ll be some poser.

You think everyone is a poser.

With good reason. Nantucket attracted them like a magnet. Thirty K millionaires, she and Shirley liked to call them. Guys with rented boats and empty bank accounts who spent their summer weekends pretending they were part of the beautiful people with the hopes of scoring with as many women as possible.

The South of France isn’t the White Whale Tavern.

It’s probably worse. I’d rather be haunted by Beatrice, thank you.

Shirley responded by sending a GIF of a dancing ghost.

If you do find a Frenchman, let me know. If I’m going to be covered in sores, I need some kind of vicarious thrill.

Don’t hold your breath.

I never do.

After a few more exchanges, Shirley signed off to go back to sleep, it being early morning in New England. Jenna signaled the server for a second glass of champagne. Because when in France...

On the other side of the terrace railing, the landscape rolled out like a sea of purple, green and yellow. A picture postcard come to life, only better.

Ten days in a French castle at the height of lavender season. That’s how Merchant Hotels had described the dream package Jenna bid on at the auction. The accompanying brochures made the trip sound magical. Now that she was here, she realized the pictures didn’t begin to do the magic justice.

She raised her glass in honor of the woman who’d made the trip possible. “Thanks for the adventure, Beatrice. I’ll make the most of it.”

Lifting the glass just a bit higher, she snapped a picture and sent the shot to Shirley. Then she switched seats so she could get a photograph of her drinking with the fields behind her. If she was going to rub salt in Shirley’s wounds, then she might as well rub a lot of salt.

Unfortunately, she was the only millennial alive who couldn’t shoot a decent selfie. She either looked like she was squinting at the sky or like she had two extra chins. After four aborted attempts, she gave up and tossed the phone on the table.

A shadow crossed her table. “Excusez-moi de vous déranger,” said a deep voice, “but would you care for some assistance?”

Ho. Ly. Cow. Shirley would be choking on her champagne right now. Jenna nearly did. She was looking at quite possibly the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen. He stood at the ready in a double-breasted suit similar to what the other hotel managers wear wearing, looking like someone plucked him from a hotel brochure. In fact, Château de Beauchamp should put him in the brochure; they’d probably triple their reservation rate. Who knew jaws that chiseled existed in real life?

Granted, he was a tad on the lean side, but then who needed muscles when you could wear a suit with style and had eyes the color of the fields outside?

And...she was staring. As though she’d never seen a handsome man before.

Not this handsome, a voice whispered in her head.

He knew he was handsome, too. She could tell from the way he smiled, his teeth all white and perfect.

“Your camera,” he said in heavily-accented English. “I couldn’t help noticing your frustration. I would be glad to take your photograph, if you’d like. You are trying to take a photo in front of the lavender, are you not?”

From the way he focused all his attention on her, you would think there was nothing else he would rather do than help her with her vacation shots. Her stomach fluttered, and she had to remind herself this was France’s—or rather the Merchant Hotel chain’s—version of five-star service.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’m afraid I don’t have the selfie trick down yet.”

“That is a good thing, is it not? Means you’re busy looking at things other than yourself.”

Smooth, the way he threw in the compliment. “I’m trying to break that habit on this trip. My friend Shirley was unable to come, so I want to document everything so I can show her when I get home.”

“Well, you won’t find a better backdrop in all of Provence than this one right here,” he replied. “Why don’t you stand by the rail? The view is its most breathtaking up close.”

Jenna would call him biased, except that he might be right. She’d never seen so much color in one place. Maybe it was an effect brought on by the champagne, but everything seemed more vivid here. The lavender’s purple deeper, the sunflowers’ gold more brilliant. Even the mountains, with their shadows, looked like they were bathed in blue and green.

“You’re American,” her photographer noted. “Is this your first visit to Château de Beauchamp?”

“Yes, it is.” First time to the château. First time to France. First time outside the United States since spring break in college. “I couldn’t resist the idea of staying in a real-life castle. Especially one that’s a thousand years old. America wasn’t even a gleam in Columbus’s eye then.”

“I hate to disappoint you, but you’ve been shortchanged by a few hundred years.”

“What do you mean?”

He joined her at the railing. As he eased his way around the chair, Jenna noted the fluid grace with which he moved. Like water rounding a bend.

“This isn’t the original castle,” he told her.

“But the brochure said the Château de Beauchamp had stood watch over the valley since the eleventh century. Were they making that up?” If the hotel misled her, she was going to be really ticked off.

“A Château de Beauchamp has stood guard,” he replied. “Just not this one. The original fell into ruin sometime in the sixteenth century. If you look beyond that clump of trees to the right, you’ll see the remains of the tower.”

A gold signet ring on his pinkie finger glittered in the sun as he pointed. Squinting, Jenna made out the peaks of toppled stone.

“The d’Usay family built this as a replacement. They called it the Château Neuf.”

“So I’m staying in a five-hundred-year-old castle instead of a thousand-year-old one.”

“I trust you’re not too disappointed?”

“I’ll survive.”

“I hope so. It would be a shame if you were left unsatisfied.”

Damn, if the double entendre didn’t send a quiver through her. If it was a double entendre. The jet lag had thrown her instincts off.

“Have you taken the tour?” he asked.

“Not yet.” A castle tour was one of the suggested itinerary items listed in her information package, but Jenna had yet to book anything. She’d told Shirley it was because she wanted to be spontaneous, but really it was because she’d been too busy before departure. “I thought I’d take a day and soak in the atmosphere first.”

“You should, if only to appreciate the atmosphere in which you are soaking. Did you know, for example, that the wine cellar doubled as a meeting locale for les Compagnies du Soleil during the White Terror?”

“The white what?”

“When members of the region took revenge on those who supported the revolution. That would be our revolution, by the way,” he added. A dimple in his left cheek punctuated his cheeky grin.

“You mean they were rebelling against the rebellion?” she asked.

“We prefer to think of it as an attempt to preserve tradition. And perhaps their heads.”

“No, they definitely wouldn’t want to lose those.” She wondered how many women had lost their heads over this guy. She’d met men like him before. Players, albeit not as suave.

Or as handsome, the voice reminded her.

Men like him were the worst, because they tricked you. Most poseurs were so obvious you knew not to take them seriously. This kind of guy, however... This was the kind of guy who sucked you in with their smoothness, leading you to believe he were sincerely interested in more than sex. Next thing you knew, you were spending your life like a puppet, dancing a jig every time he jerked your string.

This guy looked like someone who pulled a lot of strings.

He leaned an elbow against the rail, allowing his eyes to lock with Jenna’s. “Speak for yourself, mademoiselle. Sometimes losing your head can be rather fun.”

“Not in my experience,” Jenna replied.

“Perhaps you haven’t had the right experience.”

If she were in Nantucket, this would be the point where she told him to take a hike. Instead, whether it was the jet lag, the champagne on an empty stomach or the heady French atmosphere, she found herself leaning into his gaze. The hue was far deeper and richer than she realized. More blue-violet than purple, making them even more unique. And captivating...

“How did they make out? The rebels against the rebellion. Did they keep their heads?” she asked him.

“You’ll have to take the tour to find out.” The dimple reappeared. “Unless you would like a more personal tour.”

Despite knowing better, the offer went straight to the base of her spine.

“French history just happens to be a personal passion of mine,” he told her. “Particularly the d’Usay family.”

Wait? Was he offering her an actual tour? “Won’t you get in trouble? With the hotel?” she added when he gave her a quizzical look. There was personalized service, and then there was personalized service. “I wouldn’t want to take you away from the other guests.”

An amused smile tugged the corner of his mouth. “I’m sure the other guests will survive.”

Jenna debated the offer, turning her phone end over end as she thought. What the heck—it was only a walk around the hotel, not a marriage proposal. Besides, unlike most guys on the make, this one was actually entertaining. If he got annoying, she could always beg off by blaming jet lag. “In that case, I would love a tour.”

“Wonderful. My name is Philippe, by the way.”

“Jenna Brown.”

“Enchanté, Jenna Brown.”

Amazing how an accent could turn the plainest of New England names exotic and sensual. Particularly when the words were accompanied by a sweep of admiring eyes. Again, she found herself throwing out Nantucket rules. Instead of being insulted, she felt goose bumps trail in its wake.

He motioned toward the door. “Shall we?”

Jenna scooped up her wine on the way past her table. Let the adventure begin.

* * *

“An auction, you say?”

“A fund-raising auction,” Jenna replied. “People bid on different experiences, each to be held at a Merchant hotel. One hundred percent of the profits went to build a clinic for recovering drug addicts on Cape Cod. Our area has a terrible opioid addiction issue.”

They were descending a spiral stone staircase, having discovered the door to the western tower was locked. Philippe might have been flirting when he offered a tour, but, to her surprise, he took his tour guide duties quite seriously. Jenna found herself treated to a master class in regional history and the colorful role the d’Usay family played in it.

At some point, the conversation had turned to her, though, and now she was explaining about the inheritance that brought her to France.

“Sounds like a very noble cause,” Philippe remarked.

“It is, although I have to confess that when my friend Shirley convinced me to go, helping the opioid crisis wasn’t my primary motive. I went looking for adventure.”

“Is that so?” He stopped midstep.

The spark in his eyes set the goose bumps skittering again. Tempted as she was to pretend otherwise—because why not pretend on vacation?—it was time to burst his bubble. In case he thought her a rich American on holiday. “The vacation,” she clarified. “I’m a nurse in a nursing home back in Massachusetts. One of my patients left me an inheritance with orders that I use the money to have an adventure.”

“Interesting terms for an inheritance.” If he was disappointed by her lack of wealth, the reaction didn’t show on his face. She’d studied closely to notice a change. His eyes remained intently focused on her.

“Not if you knew Beatrice. She was like Auntie Mame on steroids. Wore red lipstick and a silk kimono right up to the end.” She smiled at the memory. “The two of us would watch travel documentaries, and she would mock me for not having seen enough of the world. ‘If you’re not careful, you grow old and boring,’ she used to tell me.”

“That doesn’t sound very sweet.”

“It was all in good fun. I made the mistake of telling her I’d never been farther than Mexico on spring break. She insisted she was going to leave the nursing home and the two of us would take one last adventure together.”

Feeling a lump rising in her throat, she looked away so he wouldn’t see the moisture teasing her eyes. “Adding the stipulation to the inheritance was her way of making sure one of us did.”

“How fortunate for us you decided to have your adventure here.”

“My friend Shirley was supposed to come, too, but unfortunately she got sick at the last minute.”

“Well, if you find you need company...”

The practiced way the words came off his tongue said she wasn’t the first to hear them. Didn’t stop her insides from growing warm, however.

“It’s okay. I’m a pro at having fun on my own.”

Sidestepping the offer for the moment, she pointed to a giant portrait hanging on the wall across from the bottom step. “What can you tell me about this painting?”

The middle-aged couple in 1930s period clothing looked to be overseeing the tower traffic. There was something very striking about the portrait. The couple looked intimidating, but in a regal way. From their place on the wall, their eyes could judge everyone who went up and down the stairs.

“That is Antoinette and Simon d’Usay.” Philippe stopped and leaned against the stairway’s stone rail. “They were the last of the d’Usays to actually live in the castle. After World War I, they built Château d’Usay.”

“On the other side of the lavender fields.” Jenna had read about the smaller château, which was still three times as large as anything she’d seen, in the guidebook. Seeing it, and its rolling purple fields, was one of the trip highlights she’d most been looking forward to.

“You won’t be disappointed,” he replied when she told him. “Château d’Usay remains the largest producer of lavender in the region. Many of the top perfumes in the country rely on d’Usay blossoms for their scents.”

There was pride in his voice. She wondered if all the locals felt this way or if he had a particular affinity for the d’Usay family because of their rich history.

She thought of her own family and its history of codependency and bad decisions. There definitely weren’t residents of Somerville waxing proudly about the Brown family’s contribution to society.

“So much history attached to one family,” she mused. “In a way, it’s a shame they decided to sell the castle.”

“Buildings this age are very expensive to maintain,” he replied. “Mold, rot, water damage—they take their toll. Better to let a corporation keep the building in existence rather than let it crumble from neglect like other abandoned French relics.”

He had a point. Even if the castle weren’t centuries old, the size alone would make upkeep a fortune. Slowly, she made her way down the rest of the staircase until she stopped in front of the painting. The couple looked familiar. A byproduct of spending weeks studying hotel literature and web guides, she’d bet. “Does the family still live in the region?”

“If you call a single person a family. There is only one direct descendent left.”

“Really.” She’d expected him to say that half the valley was related to them or something. Glancing over, she noticed Philippe studying the painting with a frown.

“Life hasn’t been good to the d’Usays over the last decade,” he said. “Only two of Simon and Antoinette’s children lived to adulthood, and only one of them had children. A son, Marcel. He died in the late twentieth century.”

“How sad. For a family to survive a thousand years only to fade away.”

“Happens to all families, eventually.” His frown sharpened momentarily, only to disappear just as quickly. Once again he was the charming flirt from the terrace. “So let us talk about more pleasant topics. Such as dinner. Would you care to join me this evening?”

So smooth. Such polish. Jenna had no doubt he would pull out all the stops and that dinner would be a romantic, seductive affair. Designed to melt her heart and inhibitions.

“There aren’t rules about fraternizing with guests?” she asked, pretty sure that he wouldn’t care if there were.

Sure enough. That amused smile from earlier returned to his face, and he shrugged. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

She met his gaze again. Dear Lord, but his eyes sucked you in. She’d bet he made every woman he met feel like the only woman in the world. Until the next woman crossed his path, that was.

“I appreciate the offer, but...” Shirley was going to kill her. “I think I’m going to stay in and order from room service tonight. Alone,” she added, for extra emphasis.

He took the rejection like a pro. “Another time, then. We can have what you Americans call a rain check.”

“Sure.” Like that would happen. “Thank you for the tour.”

“It was my pleasure.” She gasped as he caught her hand and raised it to his lips. “Au revoir, Jenna Brown,” he said, planting a soft kiss on her knuckles. “I look forward to our paths crossing again.”

“Au revoir,” Jenna replied. She stood on the stairs and watched as he strolled away in search of someone else to charm. The first, and likely the only, sexy Frenchman of the trip.

Oh well, she thought, rubbing her knuckles, easy come, easy go.

* * *

Philippe waited until the American disappeared around the corner before heading to the front desk. The petite brown-haired woman—girl, really—straightened with recognition. “Is there something I can do for you?” she asked. Philippe didn’t miss the eagerness sparkling in her eyes, or the way she flipped her hair over her shoulder when she spoke.

“Oui,” he replied. “I was wondering if you might do me a favor... The American, Mademoiselle Brown...”

“Whatever he asks, Nicole, the answer is no.”

Yves St. Dumond, the hotel manager, suddenly appeared in the office doorway. A large man with thickset features and silver hair, he placed a beefy hand on Nicole’s shoulder. “This hotel is not your personal playground, Philippe. If you want to pick up women, go someplace else.”

“I’m hurt.” Philippe pressed a hand to his chest. “Haven’t you known me long enough to know that if I wanted to seduce a guest, I wouldn’t need to bother your staff?” To prove a point, he winked at Nicole, who, on cue, blushed.

“Then what is it you need?”

A distraction. Something—or someone—to keep him from falling into a week-long dark hole.

“It’s August,” he replied.

Yves’s expression immediately softened. “Je suis désolé. I wasn’t thinking. I lost track of the date.”

“So did I. Almost.” In the end, the calendar reminded him, like it always did.

The consistency was almost humorous. Every year he vowed that this would be the year he broke the pattern, but apparently he was a glutton for punishment, because he insisted on returning for harvest every year. How could he not? Harvest remained a tradition in his family—even if he was a family of one. It was the least he could do for his family. His penance for being the last of the d’Usays.

He forced a smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll be out of your hair soon enough.” He just had to survive a few weeks. Come September, the yearning for whatever it was he yearned for would cease and he’d return to his apartment in Arles.

“In the meantime, why are you interested in Mademoiselle Brown? She’s certainly not your usual type.”

“No, she is not.” Philippe preferred shallow women who had expensive tastes and short attention spans. Women like him. Jenna Brown with her copper hair and shorts with tiny whales was as far from his type as he could imagine.

Perhaps that was why he’d noticed her the moment he stepped onto the hotel terrace. Sitting there, getting frustrated with her inability to take a self-portrait. He found that particular lack of skill extremely attractive.

Add what was obviously a sharp mind and dry wit... Yes, she was exactly the distraction he needed. “Nevertheless, I found her very stimulating and would enjoy spending more time with her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER TWO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No way,” she said. “You can’t be...”

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

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

“No,” she replied.

“You look lovely.”

“Thank you. What were you doing upstairs?”

“What do you think?”

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

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

“You were wearing a hotel uniform.”

“Was I?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It was.”

And what if she’d said yes to his dinner invitation? How long would he have carried on the masquerade? Through the meal? Later? “Well, bully for you.”

“Jenna, wait. I’m not explaining myself well. You think I was playing a game.”

“Weren’t you?” Her eyes traveled to where he’d caught her hand as she tried to turn away. The gold signet ring on his little finger gleamed against his tanned skin. Ten to one that was a d’Usay family crest engraved on it. She felt like such an idiot.

“Not the way you think. I did not intentionally mean to mislead you.”

Jenna raised a brow.

“All right, it was intentional, but it wasn’t malicious. I told you, everyone in the valley knows who I am. When I realized you didn’t recognize me, it was a chance for me to be simply Philippe, without all the baggage that comes with being a d’Usay.”

Sure, and Jenna had a Roman bridge she wanted to sell him. The man wasn’t even trying to look apologetic. His eyes twinkled with amusement.

“You don’t really expect me to believe that line, do you?” she asked.

The dimples appeared. “It was worth a shot.”

Of all the... She should be annoyed by the deception. She should be insulted. In fact, she should be a lot of things. Smiling was not one of them. But darn if she couldn’t help catching his good humor.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s not nice to lie?” she said.

“Would you have believed me if I told the truth?”

That he used to own the castle? No, she would have told him to get lost, because no one owned castles.

“I rest my case,” he said after she answered. “And then you and I would not have had the opportunity to spend time together. So in the end, my lie of omission was a good thing.”

“I’m not sure I’d use the word good,” Jenna replied. It was meant to be a grumble, but the corners of her mouth insisted on curving upward.

“But not entirely bad, either, no?”

Much as she hated to admit it, he was right. “No, not entirely bad.”

“Merci, ma chère.” He smiled down through his lashes, the purple a dash darker than before.

That’s when Jenna realized they were still holding hands. Lightly, but Philippe’s grip had enough firmness to cause a flutter of awareness. Warmth spread to her cheeks.

“Could I...?” She dropped her gaze down to their hands.

“But of course.” He released her, stuffing his hands into his back pockets. Her palm suddenly feeling naked, Jenna had to settle for running a hand over the back of her hair.

“Now, tell me,” he said. “What is it that has you running out of my house in the middle of your tour?”

Her headache. In her surprise, she’d nearly forgotten the reason she was sneaking away from the tour in the first place. “I wasn’t running,” she told him. “I was heading to the gift shop in search of water and aspirin. No offense, but your lavender gave me a headache.”

“None taken,” he replied. “The aroma can be overpowering if you are not used to it. But there’s no need to go all the way to the gift shop. Come with me.”

“Where are we going?” She glanced over her shoulder. Philippe was guiding her past the stairs to a corridor, the end of which was also blocked by a velvet rope.

“To the kitchen to get you a glass of water,” he said.

“But...my tour.”

“Will carry on without you,” he said. “I will make sure you meet up with them in time to return to the hotel.”

She glanced over her shoulder. The group must have moved to another room; she could no longer hear the guide’s chirp. “Aspirin and water. No more.”

“Absolutely, ma chère,” he replied. “You have my word.”

Said the man who’d already misled her once. Apparently Jenna had left her common sense in America, because she followed him anyway.

* * *

The kitchen was out of a French countryside fantasy. Big and airy, with an abundance of copper pots and pans. There was a battered butcher-block table and gleaming stainless steel appliances. The stove alone, Jenna decided, would eat up her entire kitchen back home.

The air smelled of fresh bread and lemons. A wonderful change from the floral notes she’d been breathing all morning. “Were you baking?” she asked.

“That would be the fougasse. My housekeeper, Henrietta, makes a point of baking it whenever I visit the house. Would you care for some?”

“Depends. What is it?”

“Only a slice of heaven wrapped in a golden crust,” he said with a laugh. “Sit down and I will get you your aspirin. Henrietta keeps a bottle in the cupboard.”

Jenna did as she was told, settling herself on the bench while Philippe opened and closed cabinet doors. A part of her still couldn’t quite believe he owned the château, despite his obvious comfort with the surroundings.

“Do you come here often?” she asked. The corniness of her question struck her, and she nearly rolled her eyes at her own lameness. “I meant the house. The guide mentioned that you don’t live here full-time.”

“She is correct. I have an apartment in Arles, near our executive offices.”

“I’m surprised.”

“Success! It was with the spices.” He held up a bottle of white tablets. Taking the bottle, Jenna saw the label read aspirine.

“Why are you surprised?” he asked.

“Considering how poetic you were about the countryside yesterday, I would have thought you’d spend as much time here as possible.”

“I also appreciate a fine Beaujolais, but I would get bored drinking it every evening. I much prefer the variety of the city. One can only sit around and listen to the drone of the bees for so long.”

He returned with a glass of ice water and an earthenware platter on which Jenna saw a flatbread sculpted to look like an ear of wheat. Sitting next to her, he immediately tore off a chunk and offered it to her. “I promise, you will not be disappointed.”

“And if I am?”

“Then you have no soul.”

Jenna tasted the bread. The warm crust broke away to reveal a soft inside that tasted of rosemary and orange.

“See? I told you,” he said, tearing off a piece for himself. “No one makes fougasse like Henrietta.”

For a few moments, they ate in silence. Whether it was the aspirin or the change in aromas or both, Jenna could feel her headache receding. Food helped, too, just as Philippe suggested. Every so often she stole a look sideways to watch him. He didn’t eat the bread; he experienced it. His eyes would close and a contented smile would curl his lips upward as he savored each bite. The sight was almost as pleasurable as tasting the bread.

A thought struck her. “Why were you certain we’d see each other again? When you were on the stairs, you said you knew we’d meet again.”

He was in mid-savor when she asked her question, so he pried open one eye. “What can I say? I believe in fate. And...” A hint of pink crept into his cheeks. “I may have asked the front desk to call me when you signed up for the hotel excursion.”

“What?” No wonder the girl at the desk kept smiling at her. She was in on the joke.

“I did not want to take a chance on missing your visit. Tours come and go all day long.”

“So you asked for advance information.”

“I prefer to think of it as arranging for fate to be on my side.”

Jenna narrowed her eyes. “You could have called my room and asked me.”

“But that would have spoiled the surprise. And you were surprised, no?”

“Hmm.” She continued to stare at him with narrowed eyes. Honest to God, she’d never heard of someone doing such a thing. Asking a clerk to tip him off. Certainly no one interested in her had ever gone to such lengths. “You’re incorrigible. You know that, right?”

“Oui.”

He leaned closer, the gap in his shirt treating her to a glimpse of the smooth skin beneath. “And you are flattered. I can see it in your eyes.”

Jenna was flattered—immensely—but she wasn’t about to let him know. “How do you know it’s not amusement at your arrogance?”

“Amusement doesn’t make a woman’s skin flush.”

Flashing a smug smile, he sat back in his chair. “I am sorry about your headache. That was not part of my plan. Is it better?”

“Getting there.”

“Good. I’m glad. I forget how pungent the smell of lavender can be. When we were children, my brother Felix and I complained incessantly about the aroma.” While speaking, he reached for her glass. The ice clinked as he lifted it high for a drink.

“You have a brother? Yesterday on the tour you said you were...” Jenna paused.

“The last of the line? I am. My brother died of cancer several years ago.”

He spoke with nonchalance, but Jenna caught a shadow in his eyes as he raised the glass to his lips for another drink.

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I. He was a good man.” He fell silent for a moment as a shadow darkened his features. Only for a moment, though. Jenna would have missed it altogether had she not been watching closely. “Let us talk about something more pleasant, shall we?”

He’d made a similar request yesterday. It was obvious he didn’t like dwelling on his family. “What would you like to talk about?” she asked.

“How about dinner? Clearly, since fate has reunited us, we are destined to enjoy a meal together.”

“You mean fate and a front desk clerk.”

“A technicality. I knew we were destined to share each other’s company as soon as I saw you on the terrace.”

He was smooth. Charming, too. Much as she hated to admit it, Jenna enjoyed his company. He kept her on her toes. Dinner could be fun, as long as she kept her wits about her.

“Well, a girl does have to eat,” she told him. “I might as well have some company.”

He grinned like he’d won the lottery. “Ma chère, a woman needs to do more than eat. You need to experience French cuisine. Tonight, I shall make sure you have an experience you’ll never forget.”

“We’ll see about that,” Jenna replied. “I don’t impress easily.”

“Is that so? In that case...” He leaned in again, the purple in his eyes taking on a dangerously mischievous glint that made Jenna’s insides flutter in spite of herself. “I look forward to meeting your challenge.”

* * *

You know I was kidding about having a fling, right? All I meant was don’t be your usual picky self.

I’m not having a fling; I’m having dinner.

Despite what Philippe d’Usay might think, her “French experience” was beginning and ending with dinner.

I don’t do flings, remember?

You don’t do anything.

That’s not true. I do plenty.

Since when?

Since...

Jenna paused before hitting the backspace button. So it had been a while. Big deal. She was taking a dating hiatus. All the sweet talk and pretend interest in commitment that ended after a few weeks? Who needed it. She was trying to break her family pattern, not contribute to it.

Excuse me for being selective.

She leaned back against the headboard. Shirley’s thoughts didn’t need a phone for her to hear them. Her friend had given her the tough-love speech a half dozen times over the past couple years. You’re too picky. You never give anyone a chance. You rule guys out before you ever get a chance to know them.

Maybe, Jenna thought, she was picky because she wanted more than a guy who claimed to want a relationship only to bail when he got bored. Of all people, Shirley should understand why.

Her phone buzzed. Shirley had replied.

This guy must be something if you are giving him the time of day.

He’s okay.

Actually, he was everything Jenna claimed to detest. A guy like Philippe wasn’t interested in depth. She wondered if he even knew what the word meant. And yet as bad an idea as the man was, he intrigued her in a way she hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

After their conversation in the kitchen, Philippe had walked her through his back garden to the gift shop.

“Until tonight,” he’d said, kissing her hand. Affected as all get-out, it still managed to set her entire arm aflame. The entire bus ride home, she found herself reliving the moment. If a kiss to the hand could set off her inner fireworks, she’d wondered, what would a real kiss do? Or...?

Her phone buzzed.

Just okay?

Maybe a little more than okay.

If her friend could only see him.

In that case, you know what they say. What happens in France...

Ha-ha.

All I’m saying is keep an open mind. A little fun never hurt anyone. Remember, Beatrice wanted you to have an adventure.

Somehow she didn’t think Beatrice meant falling into bed with a sexy stranger.

Since when are you so invested in my sex life, anyway?

Since I’m home with shingles and no one wants to come near me. One of us ought to have a good time.

Jenna shook her head.

Sorry, babe. You’re simply going to have to use your imagination.

Killjoy.

Yep. I’ve got to go get ready. TTYL.

She exited the application before Shirley could respond with Do what I’d do or some other nonsensical words of encouragement.

Tossing the phone on the bed beside her, Jenna stared at the black silk dress currently hanging on the door of her armoire. It was a simple wrap dress, modest by most standards. It was also the only fancy item she’d packed, since she hadn’t actually planned on any dating or dining alone in super-fancy restaurants. Was it fancy enough for wherever Philippe intended to take her? He’d said he’d pick her up at eight, but he hadn’t said where they were going.

All of a sudden, Jenna felt nervous. She was being silly. What did she care whether her wardrobe was appropriate? Wasn’t as though any of the people in the restaurant would see her again. And it wasn’t as if she was trying to impress Philippe. Then again, she didn’t want to embarrass herself, either.

“Clothes, schmothes,” Beatrice had said once. “Like anyone cares.” At the time, she’d been insisting on wearing her silk robe—just her silk robe—to the dining room. “I’ll have you know I ate naked once when I was in Bali.”

Good old Beatrice, feisty and independent until the end. She didn’t care what people thought. Married thirty years to her partner in crime, she’d told Jenna. Until he wasn’t a partner anymore. Then she moved on. “No sense wasting your time on something that’s not working,” she’d said. What she would think of Philippe, Jenna could only imagine.

Never trust a man who’s prettier than you, she immediately thought in Beatrice’s raspy voice.

It was a good rule. Especially since Philippe was prettier than everyone.

* * *

Philippe entered the hotel early. Usually he didn’t pay attention to time, as the women he called on always kept him waiting. Instinct told him Jenna was the kind of woman who appreciated promptness. He chose not to think about the fact that he’d spent the last thirty minutes dressed and watching the clock.

He smoothed the front of his dinner jacket. Funny, but he was actually anxious about the evening going well. He’d spent the entire afternoon planning the perfect dinner, which was one afternoon more than he’d spent planning any of his previous dates. Why bother when a table at the hottest club or restaurant would suffice? Tonight, however, required more. Mademoiselle Brown had a cynical streak, meaning she wouldn’t be easily impressed. That required he put an effort into the evening.

Which was good. Planning kept him from brooding, and he despised brooding. There was nothing he could do about the tragedies life dealt him. He hated that he was forever dodging a shadow of sadness. It was far better to distract oneself with living.

Or a beautiful woman.

Simon and Antoinette greeted him on his way to the elevator. He stopped to say hello, as he always did when visiting. They greeted him with their usual haughty stares.

Did his ancestors approve of how he was running their empire? He’d like to think he was doing a good job, but he was also aware that he was never meant to be the one running D’Usay International. Felix was the one who’d been groomed to walk in their father’s footsteps, and they both left very large shoes. Philippe did the best he could, but there were times when he wondered if they would approve of the changes he’d made. The expansion. The move beyond French flowers. Were they staring down in disdain or relieved their empire would continue even when the company no longer had a d’Usay in charge?

He supposed he wouldn’t know until it was all over for him.

And there he went, thinking maudlin thoughts when he had a beautiful woman waiting upstairs.

Considering what Jenna had worn on their previous two meetings, he expected to see her wearing something bright and touristy. The woman who opened the door, however, was gloriously sophisticated. His eyes skimmed her length appreciatively. The black cocktail dress was classically elegant, modest but revealing in all the right places. Arousal curled through him. “Tu es belle.”

She smiled appreciatively. “I’m going to assume it was a compliment.”

“It was. I said you look beautiful.”

To her credit, she took the compliment in stride, without the faux modesty he’d come to expect from his dates. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you.” He held out his arm. “Shall we?”

“Where are we going?”

So suspicious. He would definitely need to work if he wanted tonight to end successfully. The challenge was exactly what he needed.

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

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