Holiday with the Best Man (8 page)

‘Let's go and look round a bit more,' she said.

And funny how comforting he found it when her hand curled round his as they walked round the site. She didn't push him to talk; she was just there, offering quiet support and kindness.

If he wanted to make this thing between them real, he'd have to tell her the truth. All of it. Including the stuff he didn't let himself think about. He didn't think she'd pity him, and she definitely wouldn't judge him. But he still wasn't ready to talk, and he wasn't sure if he ever would be. Maybe brushing up his dating skills was a bad idea. Or maybe he'd work out some way to move things forward between them without opening up that world of hurt.

* * *

On Monday morning, Grace picked up a text from Roland during her break.

Can you get Wednesday to Friday off this week?

Why?
she texted back.

Sweeping-off-feet stuff
was the response. Which told her nothing.

I'll see what I can do
, she said.

Possibly because it was still June, before the summer holiday season started in earnest, the office where she was working was happy for her to take the time off.

‘Excellent,' Roland said when she told him the news.

She coughed. ‘“Sweeping-off-feet stuff” is all very well, but if we're going away somewhere I need to know what to pack.'

‘A couple of nice dresses and something for walking about in,' he said.

‘Walking about—do you mean walking boots, waterproofs and insect repellent?' she asked.

‘Nope. Smart casual.'

‘So it's urban and not country, then?'

He sighed. ‘Grace, I can hardly sweep you off your feet if you know all the details.'

‘But if I don't know enough, I'll need three suitcases so I can be prepared for every eventuality,' she countered.

He smiled. ‘Minimal luggage would be better. OK. It's urban. I'm not planning to make you walk along most of Hadrian's Wall—though,' he added, ‘if you're up for that...'

Grace pushed away the thought that she'd go anywhere with him. Because this thing between them wasn't permanent. ‘Uh-huh,' she said, hoping that she sounded polite enough but not committing herself to anything. ‘Got it. Minimal luggage, a couple of smart dresses, and smart casual stuff with shoes I can walk in.' Quite what he had in mind, she had no idea.

‘And your passport,' he said.

‘My passport? Bu—'

He silenced her protest by the simple act of kissing her. ‘It's sweeping-off-feet stuff,' he reminded her gently. ‘And my bank balance can definitely take it, before you start protesting or feeling guilty. It's a place I'd like to show you, so please just give in...' He laughed. ‘I would say gracefully, but, given your name, doing something “Gracefully” means asserting your independence and being stroppy.'

She nodded, simply because that kiss had wiped out anything she'd intended to say. And he just smiled and kissed her again. ‘Sweeping you off your feet. That was the deal,' he said.

And how.

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘R
EMIND
ME
NEVER
to play poker with you,' Grace grumbled as they got on the Tube. ‘You have to be the most...' She shook her head, unable to think of the words.

‘Poker-faced?' Roland teased.

‘Annoying,' she retorted.

Roland just laughed. ‘If I told you where we were going, then I wouldn't be sweeping you off your feet. Trust me. It'll be worth it.'

Grace wasn't so sure—until he led her to a platform at Victoria station and she realised what was standing in front of them. An old-fashioned train, with the staff all lined up in front of it, wearing posh livery.

‘This is the London starting point of the Orient Express.' She caught her breath. He couldn't mean this—could he? ‘We're going on this? Now? Really?'

He looked utterly pleased with himself. ‘Yup. I was paying attention when we talked at the fireworks, you know.'

And how. This was something she'd dreamed about doing for years and years, and never thought she'd ever actually do. When she'd mentioned it to Howard, he'd clearly discussed it with his mother because he'd told her the next day that it was way too extravagant and there were much better, cheaper and more efficient ways of going to Paris than the Orient Express.

Not that she'd ever been to Paris. Since she'd been dating Howard, they'd always been too busy at work to take off more than a couple of days at a time, which they usually spent in a cottage somewhere in England—even though Paris was only two hours away from London on the Eurostar.

And now Roland was taking her on her dream trip. Although they weren't going all the way to Istanbul—because that particular journey was only scheduled for once a year, and even Roland couldn't change that—they were still taking a slow train to Paris, the City of Light. The most romantic place in Europe.

He was really sweeping her off her feet.

She realised that he was waiting for her to say something, but right now she was so overwhelmed that she couldn't think straight, let alone string a proper sentence together. ‘Roland, I don't know what to say.'

‘“Thank you, Roland, it's nice to tick something off my bucket list” would do,' he teased.

‘It is, and it's fabulous, and I'm stunned because I never expected you to do anything like this, but—'

As if he guessed she was about to protest about the cost, he cut off her words by kissing her.

‘Grace, I wouldn't have booked this if I couldn't afford it,' he said, ‘and I'm actually quite enjoying sweeping you off your feet. Do you have any idea how good it makes me feel, knowing that I'm able to make one of your dreams come true?'

It was something she knew she'd like to do for him, too. Except Roland hadn't really shared his dreams with her, so she had no idea what she could do to make him feel this same surge of delight. She took a deep breath. ‘OK. Brattish protesting about the cost all swept to one side. This is really fantastic and I'm utterly thrilled. I can't believe you've done something so amazing and lovely for me, but I'm really glad you have.' And she meant that, from the bottom of her heart. ‘Thank you so much. This is the best treat ever.'

‘I'm glad you're enjoying it.' He took her hand. ‘Let me escort you to our seat,
mademoiselle
.'

Roland had said that there was a French branch of his family, and given that his surname sounded French she could entirely believe it; but this was the first time she'd ever heard him speak the language. Admittedly, it was only one word, but it was amazing how much sexier he sounded in French.

And then she made the mistake of telling him that.

He grinned and launched into a rapid stream of French.

She coughed. ‘My French is limited to schoolgirl stuff, and that's pretty rusty. I understood maybe one word in ten out of that. Even if you said it all again at half the speed, I still wouldn't understand much more.'

‘Maybe,' he said, ‘I'll show you later instead.'

And, oh, the pictures that put in her head. Heat rushed through her and her face felt as if it had turned a vivid shade of beetroot.

He simply gave her the most wicked and sultry smile.

Not only was Grace feeling swept off her feet, she was in severe danger of losing her head as well. And, even though she was loving every second of this, part of her felt way out of her depth. So she'd just have to remind herself that she was sensible and this was two weeks of sheer fun—he didn't expect her to fit into this environment permanently.

When they got to their carriage, it was nothing like the trains she normally used outside London. There was plenty of space, and the plush, comfortable seats were placed opposite each other in pairs, with the small table in between covered by a white damask cloth.

‘I forgot to ask if you get travel sick,' Roland said, suddenly looking horrified. ‘Sorry. Would you prefer to face the direction we're travelling?'

‘I don't get sick, exactly,' she said, ‘but yes, please—if that's OK with you?'

‘Of course it is.'

But the luxury didn't stop at their seats. The waiter came to serve them their drinks—freshly squeezed orange juice for Roland, and a Bellini for Grace.

‘This is so decadent,' Grace said with delight, giving herself up to the pleasure of being pampered.

Brunch was even nicer—fresh fruit salad, followed by crumpets with smoked salmon, caviar and scrambled eggs, then pastries and coffee. And everything was slow and unhurried, as if they had all the time in the world. So very different from the usual rush of a working life in London.

At Folkestone, they were met by a band serenading them, and then took the bus through the Eurotunnel to Calais. At the station, they were met by another band playing; and on the platform where the vintage blue and gold train was waiting, the staff were lined up in their smart blue uniforms and peaked hats. The restaurant staff were clad in white jackets with gold braid, black trousers and white gloves.

‘I feel like a princess,' Grace whispered.

‘Good. That's the idea.' Roland squeezed her hand. ‘Now for the real thing,' he said with a smile. ‘The Orient Express over mainland Europe.'

One of the uniformed staff took them to their cabin; it was cosy yet beautifully presented, and Grace had never seen anything so luxurious in her life.

Again, the pace was slow and unhurried. If they'd taken the express train from St Pancras, they would've been in Paris already; but the slow journey through the French countryside was so much nicer, giving them time to look at their surroundings.

‘So tell me about the French side of your family,' she said. ‘Didn't you say they have vineyards?'

He nodded. ‘They're all in the Burgundy area. One branch of the family produces Chablis, and the other produces Côtes de Nuits.' He grinned. ‘They're horribly competitive—but luckily because one specialises in white wine and one specialises in red, they're not in competition with each other. But there's a kind of race every year about how many awards and glowing reviews they can get.'

‘But I bet they're the only ones allowed to be rude about each other, right?'

His eyes glittered with amusement. ‘Right.'

‘So do you see them very often?'

‘Not as often as I'd like,' he admitted. ‘It's very pretty in Dijon, with all the old narrow streets and houses built of honey-coloured stone. The whole area is lovely and the views from the chateaux are amazing. Actually, I really ought to go and visit them soon, because I've been getting pleading emails about difficult roofs and I did promise to go and have a look.'

‘Do all old buildings have problematic roofs?' she asked, remembering what he'd said about the roof in his family home.

‘It's not just that—there's damp, dry rot, death watch beetle, subsidence...' He spread his hands. ‘And if someone hasn't been careful enough to use the right materials when working on an old house—using modern plaster instead of lime, for example, or replacing a wooden floor with concrete—it can create more problems than it solves.' He smiled. ‘But I'm not going to drone on about restoration work.'

‘Or glass?' she teased.

‘There's one glass building I'm definitely taking you to see in Paris,' he said. ‘But don't ask me what. It's a surprise.'

‘No asking. I promise,' she said.

‘One thing I was wondering about you, though,' he said. ‘Why do you worry about the cost of things so much?'

She grimaced. ‘This stays with you? You're not going to say a word to Bella?'

‘It stays with me,' he promised.

‘I guess it stems from when I was little,' she said. ‘My father wasn't just unreliable about time—he wasn't very good with money, either. I can remember the bailiffs coming round when I was about three, and it was pretty scary. I remember my mum crying her heart out when she thought I was asleep. I don't ever want to be in that situation again.' She shrugged. ‘Which is why I'm always very careful with money. I'm being sensible.'

‘I wasn't accusing you of being a Scrooge,' he said swiftly. ‘But don't you ever feel you've missed out, sometimes?'

‘No.' But her denial was too swift, and she could see in his expression that he thought so, too. And, yes, she knew she'd missed out on things in the past because she'd been too sensible and too careful. Just as she would've missed out on this trip today if she hadn't for once thrown caution to the wind and agreed to his suggestion of helping each other out. ‘Can we change the subject?' she asked, feeling antsy and cross with herself because she was ruining the mood.

‘Sure.'

‘Tell me about Paris,' she said. ‘The first time you went there and what you really loved.'

‘That's easy,' he said. ‘My parents took all three of us, on the way down to Bordeaux. I must've been about five. It was Christmas, and we went to the Galeries Lafayette. The Christmas tree there was the tallest one I've ever seen in my life—before or since—and it was covered in lights and shiny red apples. And we went to a café for hot chocolate that had a cinnamon stick in it—something I'd never really seen in England—and we all had a slice of chocolate cake from the
bûche de Noël
. And my mum bought poinsettias.' He smiled. ‘Philly of course loved the fact they're called
étoile de Noël
because the leaves are star-shaped and red, gold and green are the colours of Christmas in France. She always does them up the French way in her shop at Christmas.'

Grace relaxed again as Roland chatted easily with her about Paris and Christmas and how his family mixed both French and English traditions.

‘It's nice to include both bits of your heritage, though—the English and the French.'

‘Yes, it is,' he agreed.

They dressed up for an early dinner in the dining car—Grace was really glad she'd bought a new cocktail dress during her lunch break the previous day—and every course was sumptuous and exquisitely presented, from the lobster to the tournedos Rossini, the platter of French cheeses, and then a cone of coconut sorbet with a delicate slice of fresh pineapple that had been caramelised.

‘This is beyond what I dreamed it would be like on the Orient Express,' she said to Roland when their coffee arrived. ‘Thank you so much.'

‘Je t'en prie,'
he said.

‘Um—I don't remember what that means.'

‘You're welcome,' he said. ‘And we haven't reached Paris yet. I hope you'll like what I've planned.'

‘If it's even one per cent as fabulous as this,' she said, ‘I'll love it.'

Roland had arranged for a plush car to meet them at the station and take them to the centre of the city. Grace drank in their surroundings in total silence as they drove through the centre of Paris, not wanting to break the spell; she'd had no idea just how pretty the city was. The wide boulevards, the pretty buildings, the light and airy feel of the place.

The outside of their hotel was beautiful, a five-storey white building with long narrow windows and wrought iron balconies—just what she'd imagined a Parisian hotel to look like. Inside, it was even better: the lobby was all white walls with gilt-framed pictures, red and white marble chequered flooring and wrought iron chandeliers. At the end was a marble staircase with a wrought iron and gilded balustrade. She'd never seen anything so glittering and gorgeous.

When the concierge took them up to their floor, her pulse speeded up. So this was it. Sharing a room with Roland.

As if he'd guessed her sudden nervousness, he said, ‘We have a suite. There are two bedrooms and two bathrooms. I'm not taking anything for granted.'

So he wasn't expecting her to sleep with him. ‘Thank you,' she said.

But, even though they hadn't known each other for very long and they weren't in a permanent relationship—and weren't planning to be in one, either—Grace knew that if he asked her to make love with him while they were in Paris, her answer would be yes. How could she resist him in the most romantic city in the world?

Her bedroom was gorgeous, with a pale blue carpet, cream walls, and tall windows that opened onto a balcony with an amazing view of the Eiffel Tower. Her bed was wide, with plenty of deep, fluffy pillows; and the bathroom was all cream marble and gilding. When she came back into the living room between the bedrooms, she noticed that there were comfortable chairs and sofas upholstered in old gold, and there was a vase of fresh flowers on the coffee table.

‘This is amazing, Roland,' she said.

He smiled. ‘Yes, it's pretty good.'

Had he stayed here before? Did this bring back memories of his late wife? But she didn't want to hurt him by asking.

He didn't seem to notice her awkwardness, because he said, ‘And now we have an evening in Paris.'