Royally Seduced (10 page)

“This is called
la petite maison
—the little house.”

“Little? How many bedrooms?” Her shoes crunched on the pure white gravel as she approached the fountain.

He hopped out of the driver’s seat and looked up at the house. “Four, five if you consider the den has a sofa with a pullout bed.”

“Oh, only five bedrooms—a real hovel.” She twisted her camera strap. “Jack, this is too much. We can’t just show up, even if they are your good friends.”

He caught her shoulders and kissed her forehead. “Would it make you feel better if I called the farm manager and talked with him first?”

“Yes.” She smiled in relief. She had no desire to do firsthand research on what the local French police did to trespassers. Not exactly good blog material.

“Good.” He reached into the backseat and pulled out a water bottle. “Here, have a drink while I call Jean-Claude. I’m going to walk down toward the main house where the signal is better.”

Lily nodded and unscrewed the bottle. Jack flipped open his phone and gave her a reassuring smile as he walked down the driveway.

She turned to look up at the guesthouse—the “little house.” It would be wonderful to stay there, a luxurious hideaway of all the best of Provence.

Undoubtedly there was a beautiful garden in the back and killer views. But the best part would be spending time with Jack, to explore its four bedrooms with him. Five, if they considered the den, but Lily didn’t expect a sleeper couch mattress would be all that comfortable.

She sighed. Maybe she was getting in over her head. Anybody would be. A chance meeting two days ago with a sexy Frenchman, a trip to Provence, unexpected passion last night and the prospect of even more in idyllic settings would turn any red-blooded American woman’s head.

Lily would have to be careful to keep a good head on her shoulders. She was a writer in search of interesting stories, not a sappy tourist who, disillusioned with American men, had come to Europe in search of “true love.”

And was it possible to be disillusioned if you had few illusions in the first place?

10

J
ACK WAITED UNTIL
he was out of Lily’s hearing and called Jean-Claude, his estate manager. Jean-Claude was not merely an employee, but more like an uncle. He had taken Jack under his wing after Jack’s father died. Jack’s mother was a sweet lady—too sweet-natured to deal with the precocious, obnoxious boy he’d been. Fortunately for Jack, Jean-Claude and Madame Finch were not sweet-natured in the least.

“Allô?”

Jack couldn’t help but smile at the familiar sound of his old friend’s heavy Provençal accent. “Jean-Claude,
c’est moi
—Jacques.”

“Jacques? Where the hell are you?”

“Shhh. Meet me in down by the old oak tree near the fence line.”

“You’re here?” he bellowed.

“
Calme-toi, mon ami.
I will tell you everything as soon as you get here.”

Jean-Claude grunted and hung up. Ten minutes later the sturdy man was standing on his toes so he could shake his finger in Jack’s face. “And you are back in Provence after nearly dying in whatever jungle hellhole you ran off to, and you expect me to come running? We happen to be in the middle of the lavender harvest, in case you’ve forgotten. Lavender that I am harvesting for you,
M’sieu le Comte.
” He pursed his lips and then grabbed Jack for an emotional embrace. Jack got kissed on both cheeks and then once more for good measure.

Jack patted Jean-Claude’s back, accepting the traditional French greeting. His estate manager had probably received a hysterical phone call from Jack’s mother describing his admittedly nasty case of dysentery as a cross between the bubonic plague and Ebola hemorrhagic fever. “Eh,
mon vieux,
as you can see, I am here and healthy.”

“
Bien oui,
you are too skinny.” Jean-Claude released him, the corners of his sun-creased brown eyes crinkling as he gave him a hard stare.

Jack shrugged. “A few kilos, that’s all.”

“More like ten.” Jean-Claude sniffed. “And now that you are here, you will stay with us and Marthe-Louise will cook for you all your favorites.” Marthe-Louise was the family cook and also Jean-Claude’s wife.

“Actually I’m not staying at the big house.” He braced himself for the explosion, which erupted right on schedule.

“You come here sick and skinny and then you tell me you will go?” Jean-Claude gestured voluminously. “Go where? Go fall down in the lavender field and die? Eh, we could use goat shit for fertilizer—you do not need to volunteer!”

“Jean-Claude,
s’il te plaît,
” Jack soothed. “I called you because I can trust you.” He lowered his voice and looked around the empty courtyard like a bad dinner-theatre actor. “It involves a woman. A special woman.”

“Ah!” His old friend burst into laughter. All was forgiven if women and sex were involved. “Why didn’t you say so?” He dug his elbow in Jack’s side with less force than usual. “And this woman, where is she?”

“Waiting at the little house.”

“
La petite maison?
Why?”

Jack knew this next part would be the trickiest. “She doesn’t know I own all this. I don’t think she likes rich guys.”

Now Jean-Claude was really laughing. “Pull the other leg, Jacques. What woman doesn’t like rich men? Or is she not very bright?”

Jack made a chopping gesture with his hand. “Enough.” Jean-Claude raised his bushy eyebrows. Jack hardly ever used his aristocratic mien. He continued, “We will be staying at the
petite maison
and I do not want her to know the extent of my holdings. She is an independent American girl and very much believes our French concept of
liberté, fraternité
and
egalité.
”

Jean-Claude gave a loud snort. He knew himself the equal of any man in France, but knew the class system had well survived the Revolution. “If you say so, milord.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “If you’re going to act the role of a peasant, at least give a little bow or avert your eyes as you talk to me. Now as you know, Princess Stefania will be setting her wedding date soon, and she needs lavender oil for a special perfume. She is planning to sell it for the benefit of her children’s charity. Do we have enough high-quality lavender to supply her needs?”

Jean-Claude drew himself up in affront, as if explaining their business to a particularly dim-witted farmhand. “
M’sieu le Comte,
all our fields are,
as always,
Haute-Provence Lavender, designated by the government as AOC, Controlled Destination of Origin. We
never
have low-quality lavender.” His lips curled at the very thought, and he spit on the dry ground.

“Very good.” He wrapped his arm around his friend’s shoulders. “Where would I be without you,
mon vieux?
”

Jean-Claude puffed out his lips. “Taking care of your own land and your own lavender.”

“I know, I know.” Jack raised his hands in surrender. “But I am still grateful. And Princess Stefania will be, too.”

“A wedding for her. I remember when she came for the summer when she was what, twelve? Thirteen?”

Jack nodded.

“Marthe-Louise taught her how to cook, how to garden, how to sew. My poor wife, she cried for weeks when Stefania left to go back to school.”

“I’m sure Stefania will want to invite both of you to her wedding.”

Jean-Claude shuffled his feet and looked at the ground. “Eh, why would she want two old Provençal peasants at her fancy wedding? Us rubbing elbows with all the aristos and royalty in Europe.”

“Marthe-Louise would chase you with her carving knife if you declined the invitation and you know it.”

“
Eh, bien,
you are right, Jacques.” He heaved a theatrical sigh. “If we are invited, I suppose I must buy Marthe-Louise a new dress.”

“Probably two or three,” Jack pointed out. “And a new suit for yourself.” He happened to know that Jean-Claude’s good suit was a relic from Jack’s parents’ own wedding, more than thirty years ago. The lapels were wide enough for Jean-Claude to hang glide off the mountains of the nearby Haute-Alpes.

The older man winced. “Well, for Stefania, I will do it.”

“Good man.” Jack clapped him on the back. “I am not sure how long Lily and I will be staying, but if Marthe-Louise wouldn’t mind cooking an occasional meal for us…”

“She is away in Nice with our daughter who had a baby but will be back in a couple days. And what did you say? This girl’s name is Lily?”

“Yes, why?” he asked, unsure why Jean-Claude was fighting a smile.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Jean-Claude wiggled his gnarled finger at Jack. “You be careful,
mon ami.
This girl is already part of your life.”

“What? Why do you say that?”

He lifted his hand in mock innocence. “Because of the de Brissard coat of arms, of course. A triple
fleur-de-lis
on a red background—three lily flowers.
C’est parfait
—it’s perfect!” He doubled over in laughter as Jack realized his friend was correct.

For the past thousand years, the family’s coat of arms had been golden lilies on a red shield. He’d grown up seeing them every day but had never thought much about them.

Now he had his own Golden Lily. But how could she be a part of his life? And did she even want to be?

L
ILY WANDERED AROUND
the courtyard, wondering what the fountain looked like with the water turned on. It made sense that it had been shut down if there was no one staying there. A working farm had priorities for water elsewhere, especially if they were irrigating vegetables or flower crops.

She sat on a bench in front of the house and wondered if the house’s blue shutters were decorative or functional. Probably both, considering what she’d read about the wild mistral winds that funneled south from the mountains.

Fruit trees lined the courtyard—always practical, those Provence farmers. Almond, apple, cherry and dark plum. Ooh, and a fig tree. You didn’t see those outdoors in Philly, and this was a big fig, its grayish trunk a mass of columns as if it were many tree trunks woven and grown together.

The still, warm air buzzed with the sound of cicadas. It was as if she had fallen back one century, even two, as she sat in the quiet courtyard.

And this was Jack’s country. No wonder he had looked ill at ease in noisy, gray Paris. He thrived on warmth. Warm sun, warm people and warm colors.

She was flowering as well in Provence, enjoying the beautiful scenery and kind people. But Jack was the biggest reason she was enjoying herself.

Lily leaned her head back against the thick plastered wall and closed her eyes. Yep, she could get to like this too much. She must have dozed off because the next thing she realized, Jack slid next to her on the bench and kissed her awake.

“Hello, Sleeping Beauty.”

“I’m no beauty.”

He laughed and then grew serious when she lifted an eyebrow at him. “And you think you are not?”

She shrugged, uncomfortable at this serious turn of conversation. “I’m not particularly blonde, particularly tall or particularly, um, well-built.”

“You have hair like honey.” He cupped her jaw and lifted several strands. “It shines golden-brown in the sun. You are the right height to fit against me. And if you were any more shapely, I would be an even bigger gibbering idiot when you are near me.”

“You don’t seem like an idiot now.”

“I hide it well.” He brushed her hair to the side and kissed her cheek. “All I want to do is stare at you—and try not to drool down my chin.”

She gave a startled laugh at the image of sophisticated, urbane Jack with drool down his chin because of her.

“And you are even more beautiful when you laugh.”

“Really?”

“Really. Now come see the house. I talked with Jean-Claude and he was happy to let us stay here.”

“If you’re sure.”

“Positive.” He selected a key from his ring and unlocked the front door. “Come see. I think you will like it.”

Jack pushed open the door and ushered her in. She stood there enjoying the sunny, two-story entryway while he carried in their bags. “
Voilà,
the foyer.” It was a wide, modern-size space with a sweeping staircase going up into the second floor, but the bones of the house were definitely not modern. The exposed walls were old limestone like the outside, and the ceiling was white plaster with dark timbered crossbeams that were obviously not only decorative but still structural.

“How old is this place?” It looked even older than Mrs. Wyndham’s house, and Ben Franklin had actually dined there with a Wyndham ancestor.

“It was an ancient farmhouse that
Oncle
Pierre renovated, adding all the modern comforts, of course. This main level used to be the stable, and the heat of the animals would rise to the rather meager living quarters upstairs. It is of course several times larger than it used to be.”

“
Oncle
Pierre?”

“Yes, he was the younger brother of the family. Wanted his privacy.” Jack shrugged matter-of-factly. “His mistress was not only a very famous actress, but a married one, no less. They needed much privacy for their rendezvous.”

Lily pursed her lips and Jack laughed. “Do not worry about that lady’s husband,
chérie.
He had a boyfriend of his own. Everyone was very civilized, and I believe they used to exchange Christmas presents.”

“Hmmph.”

“Ah.” He carried their luggage up the front staircase, framed by an elegant wrought iron railing decorated with bronze medallions of bundles of lavender.

“What do you mean, ‘ah’?” Lily narrowed her eyes at his back.

He pushed open the door to a wide, airy bedroom. It had a large bed with four dark wooden posts rising to a canopy frame. Gauzy white fabric draped artfully from one side to the next. “You are worried that I am very civilized, that I have a wife or mistress—or both, and they are all very French and unconcerned about my doings. Is that right?”

“Madame Finch said you didn’t,” she muttered.

“Madame Finch?” His eyebrows shot up. “When did you ask her about my sex life?”

“I called her after you kissed me in the car. She says you are single.”

“And did she ask why you wanted to know?”

“I told her you’d just stuck your tongue in my mouth and I needed to decide whether or not to have sex with you.”

He made a small choking sound.

“Because I really, really wanted to have sex with you, but I wouldn’t if you were involved with someone else. She gave me the all-clear and said to have my wicked way with you.”

“That does sound like something she would say,” he replied dryly.

She couldn’t keep up the joke any longer and giggled. “Oh, Jacky, don’t be silly. I asked her about the being single part. We were very civilized, as you say.”

He set down their backpacks on the wide wooden planks of the floor. “I can tell you I have no wife, no fiancée and no mistress. I am normally a very orderly, very civilized man, but I have found over the past day that that veneer of civilization is paper-thin and peeling off me as we speak.” He yanked off his T-shirt and tossed it away. He unlaced his boots and kicked them and his socks free. “And I like it very much when you call me ‘Jacky.’ Maybe you can call me that when I am pounding inside you.”

Lily’s jaw dropped as Jack dropped his shorts and briefs and stood entirely naked in front of her. “You don’t look civilized at all.”

“Good. Now take off those clothes before I rip them off you.” His eyes glittered, and she knew he meant it.

He looked primitive and aroused, his cock jutting up into his belly, huge and dark with blood, a drop of silvery moisture slicking his tip. His heavy sac rested on a nest of dark brown hair and a vein pulsed along the side of his shaft. An answering throbbing started between her thighs. She had never seen him totally naked in the daylight, and he was impressively built. A little thin, but still muscled, his shoulders broad and tapering into a narrow waist and strong thighs.

He pulled a foil packet out of his backpack and covered himself. No pretending with this man. He knew she wanted him, and he wanted her, too.