Royally Seduced (13 page)

“George tells me you are in Provence now. Good for you. I never liked Paris that much anyway.”

He grinned. Translation: Stevie never liked his mother that much anyway, and had absolutely detested Nadine. “How else can I make sure your lavender will be ready for the
parfumerie?
”

“I know, and I’m absolutely thrilled you’re doing this. I want to sell the perfume and give all the proceeds to my charity—you know, the obnoxiously named Princess Stefania of Vinciguerra Foundation for Women and Children?”

“Why is that obnoxious?”

“Because, dummy, my grandmother set it up when I was too young to know any better and named it after me, as if I wanted to blow my own horn. On the other hand, that self-servingly-named foundation is going to pay for several new schools in poor countries and is rescuing girls from sex slavery in Western Europe as we speak. But don’t tell anyone about that last part, because I fund them under the table. Dangerous work, prying girls away from their pimps.”

Jack’s eyebrows shot up. “Am I to assume you’ve gone on these missions yourself?”

“Assume whatever you like,” she said airily. “I will categorically deny we’ve ever had this conversation if necessary.”

He shook his head. “Stevie, are you working for the CIA now?”

She laughed. “And if I did, would I tell you? Besides, I am a loyal subject of my brother and our principality.”

Which wasn’t much of an answer, but she had always been maddening in her own lovable way.

“Don’t work too hard on the lavender harvest. Jean-Claude can handle it,” she informed him.

“Stevie, I am not some ancient invalid. I have been quite active the past several days and have no ill effects.” He smiled at the memory of several of his activities.

“What have you been up to?” Her tone was suspicious.

“What?” She caught him off guard. Maybe she did work for the CIA.

“What kind of activities?” she repeated and then paused. “You have a woman there with you, don’t you?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he replied with some dignity.

“Mmm-hmm. What’s her name?”

“A gentleman never kisses and tells.” And he wasn’t going to talk about his sex life with Stevie.

“So you do have someone!” She sounded delighted. “Have Jean-Claude and Marthe-Louise met her yet?”

A reluctant laugh was dragged from him. “Stefania…”

“Uh-oh, you only call me that when you are trying to be stern and paternal. Tell me her name.”

“Lily.” It slipped out. But once he did, he couldn’t stop grinning. He’d been hugging the secret of his new relationship to his chest like a teenager with a photo of a movie star, and Stefania was the first of his friends to learn about Lily. Next thing he knew, he’d be skipping through the lavender fields, sniffing a sprig and mooning over Lily. At least the field workers would get a hearty laugh.

“Really? I was just guessing, you know. Is she French?”

“American. But we met in Paris.”

“An American in Paris.”
Stevie hummed a few bars of the Gershwin ballet. “Did you dance around the fountain with her?”

“I am no Gene Kelly.” Jack smirked. Thanks to ten years of dance class, Stevie was extremely knowledgeable about ballet. Good thing she couldn’t see him tap dancing around her inquisitive nature. “But we went to the Parc Buttes-Chaumont.”

“How dreamy,” she sighed. “You met, swept her off her feet and then whisked her off to your ancestral home in Provence. Jack, sweetie pie, you are becoming quite the romantic. You sound like those novels I love to read.”

“Enough, enough.” His cheeks were heating.

“Well, whoever Lily is, she can’t be any worse than Nadine. Ugh.”

“Stefania…” he said in warning.

She grinned. “Again with the stern authoritarian tone. But I also wanted to let you know Dieter and I have set our wedding date. We met with the bishop and chose a date next June because I want all the roses blooming for me. That’s only eleven months away! And I want to give you enough time to make my perfume, right?”

“Of course. We will press the oil right after harvest and then you and the perfumer can create a blend and choose a bottle and packaging.”

“Great, Jack.” She blew kisses into the phone. “Take care of yourself,” she reminded him. “No more parasitic infections for you. You and Frank are ushers at my wedding, so I want you to look good in your tux.”

“It would be an honor.”

“Maybe you can come see me in New York when you feel better?”

“Of course.” They said their goodbyes and Jack hung up, staring thoughtfully across the purple valley of his farm.

Traveling to New York in a few weeks? Lily lived in New Jersey, a quick train ride from Manhattan. But did she want him to come visit her? He blew out a sigh of frustration. He hated uncertainty. As the old American saying went, failure to plan meant planning to fail.

What was his plan with Lily? He knew one thing, though—he didn’t want her to leave. Was that a plan? To keep her with him indefinitely. Or forever?

12

L
ILY LOOKED UP
from her computer screen and rolled her neck to loosen the kinks. She would much rather be smooching with Jack in the big bed upstairs, but she’d already neglected her blog for the past couple days to do just that.

Traffic was increasing. Sarah, although pretty much confined to her recliner at home, was doing a champion job of cross-posting her blog to various travel sites, sites aimed at young single women and foodie websites. Lily hadn’t intended to be so food-oriented, but her photos of the Provence markets and descriptions of Madame Roussel’s late-night hors d’oeuvres proved popular, according to her blog traffic stats.

Lily had mentioned “Pierre” a few times in her blog posts. Not the sex parts, obviously, because it wasn’t that kind of a blog. Sarah was already anxious about Lily traveling with Jack. She didn’t need to get all the lurid details. Lily might tell her at some later date, but only when Lily was safely back home.

At this point, Lily would take all the traffic she could get. She got up and walked around the desk. Jack had set her up in the guesthouse study, which was a far cry from her makeshift “office” at her breakfast bar at home.

A wall of books stood behind the desk, which was a rustic-looking wooden plank several inches thick varnished and fastened to four heavy square legs. It matched the exposed beams in the ceiling and was big enough to spread out several reference books on Provence—cook-books with mouth-watering recipes, coffee-table photo books of breath-taking photography and of course an assortment of memoirs and travelogues describing falling-down farmhouses, weed-choked olive groves and robust peasant neighbors.

But all Lily had to do was look out the floor-to-ceiling picture windows to see Provence for herself. The study was tucked into the corner of the house where she could see the lavender fields and upright, skinny evergreens, and nary a weed or crumbling building in sight. Jack’s friends certainly had pride in their property.

Pride and lots of money. She’d grown up around it and could smell it, like a new dollar bill fresh from the mint.

Lily’s email program dinged and she found a new message. Ooh, from Margo, an editor at
Fashionista Magazine.
But why would she want to email her? She wasn’t writing about clothes, and her own fashion style on this trip had consisted of either hiking outfits or being buck naked.

She clicked on the icon and read the screen, stunned. The editor was interested in her blog and wanted her to write an online column on traveling in France from the point of view of a hip, single woman. Lily rolled her eyes. She didn’t know how hip she was, but, hey, she could fake it.

She read on. Oh. They wanted her to write about Frenchmen in general, “Pierre” in particular. She’d never shown Jack’s face in any photos she’d posted, but perhaps the element of mystery had intrigued the editor, who had left her number with an invitation to call her for more details.

Ten minutes later after calling New York, Lily had agreed to posts every other day, which would be linked on the magazine site’s home page. And Margo had hinted there would be more work for her, maybe even feature articles in the print version of the magazine. Lily didn’t know exactly what her topics might be, since she wasn’t going to travel around Europe dating more men just so she could write about them. Professional dating was not to her liking.

She and Margo had agreed on some boundaries for her blogs. The editor, of course, was interested in as much juicy detail as Lily would offer, but Jack had a vested interest in not becoming the latest internet heartthrob.

She’d have to double-check with him about being a semifictional character in her blog—names and details changed to protect the innocent, as they said on TV.

Jack came into the study.
“Bonjour, chérie.”
He leaned over the desk and kissed her.

“Guess what, Jack?” She told him about her new writing job.

“I am not surprised at your success, Lily. Your sincere interest in my country comes through in your work.”

She took a deep breath. “The editor wants me to write about you, as well.”

“Me?” His eyebrows shot up. “But you have hardly mentioned me and you aren’t even using my real name.”

“She says American women are fascinated by Frenchmen and wants more detail about dating and romance in France. But I don’t want to put any of our own personal situation online,” she added hastily.

He rubbed his chin. “Dating and romance in France is much the same as anywhere else, but I’m sure you and I can think of something that editor might like. But again, I have to ask you not to post any photos that show my face.”

“I won’t,” she promised.

“What would you like to do this afternoon? Research French romance?”

Lily pressed her lips together and thought. The view out the window caught her eye again. “Get a tour of the manor house.”

He blinked in surprise.

“That is, if your friends don’t mind,” she amended, not wanting to be a bad guest.

“Hmm.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Marthe-Louise would be delighted to show us around.”

“Great.” Lily shut down her computer and grabbed her camera. “Let’s go.”

D
ELIGHTED WAS AN
understatement—the plump woman in her fifties was ecstatic to see Jack. If she’d been any younger, Lily would have been jealous. “Jacques, oh,
mon petit
Jacques!” She spotted them at the kitchen door and wiped her hands on her apron before dragging Jack inside.

“Marthe-Louise is the housekeeper here,” he called, as the older woman plastered his cheeks in teary kisses.

“She certainly remembers you fondly.”

He grinned ruefully and said something soothing to Marthe-Louise, patting her shoulder. “Okay, Marthe-Louise, this is Lily. Lily, this is Marthe-Louise.”

“Lee-Lee!” Marthe-Louise released Jack and seized Lily, kissing her vigorously twice on each cheek. She unleashed a torrent of excited French. “Ah,
belle, belle, si belle!
”

“She says you are very beautiful.”

Lily blushed and Marthe-Louise cooed and pinched her reddening cheek before asking Jack a question.

He nodded and replied at length. The housekeeper gave him an exasperated look but finally nodded her head.

“Merci.”
Jack blew the older woman a kiss and she giggled. “She will give us a tour of the house but needs to straighten up a bit first.”

“Oh, okay.” The house looked immaculate, but there was probably a pile of mail here and a newspaper there that would take away from the manorial splendor.

The housekeeper darted out and returned in a couple minutes.

The house was impressive, with a huge salon and dining area for hosting large soirées, several sitting rooms, a giant library filled with books that Lily itched to read and a glass-enclosed conservatory, or
orangerie,
where they grew potted orange and lemon trees for fresh fruit during the winter.

It was a massive building, but with few personal touches and no family portraits. Probably those were upstairs in the living quarters, which weren’t part of the tour.

They returned to the kitchen, easily twice the size of the kitchen at the guesthouse.
“Ongree?”
Marthe-Louise asked.

“What?” Lily asked politely.

“You
ongree?
” she asked her.

“Oh, hungry.” Her stomach growled and they all laughed. “Yes, I am hungry.”

The housekeeper flew into action and quickly had a platter of crusty sliced bread with a variety of spreads in little ceramic pots.

Jack pointed to one pot and then the next. “Olive and dried figs for a sweet-and-salty mix, fresh tuna and olive, and chickpeas with cumin—a variation on hummus.”

“And pasta,” Marthe-Louise added. “Jack, he no tell
moi
he come. Bad, bad boy.” She retaliated by smacking his arm. “I cook now.”

Jack opened a cabinet and got out three wineglasses. He opened the under-counter wine refrigerator and pulled out a couple different bottles before settling on a white wine. He certainly was making himself at home in the manor house kitchen, and Lily glanced nervously at Marthe-Louise to make sure she didn’t think it was presumptuous.

Jack set the full glass next to the housekeeper’s elbow, and she thanked him, so it wasn’t a problem for her. Lily relaxed a bit, especially when he lifted his glass in a toast. “
A votre santé.
To your health.”

“And to yours.” He had lost the gaunt, pale look in his cheeks and this giant lunch would help fill out the rest of him.
“Bon appétit.”
He and Marthe-Louise smiled approvingly at her French.

Lily didn’t know if
gorged
was quite the right word to describe what she and Jack did to the little slices of breads and savory toppings, but once she took artsy, foodie photos of the Provence-made yellow ceramic dish with its black fig spread and the red ceramic dish with the creamy tan chickpea spread,
gorged
came close. Good thing tuna spread wiped off her phone, which she used to make notes for her next blog.

Marthe-Louise was pouring a green sauce into her top-of-the-line food processor to blend with several cloves of garlic and a couple egg yolks while a pasta pot bubbled on the stove. She stopped to shake a spoon at Jack and scold him.

“Okay, okay.” He laughed. “We should save some room for her spaghetti.”

Lily obediently put down her last crust of bread. She really needed to get some physical exercise in or else she would need to buy a second seat for her plane ride back to New York. Her plane ride scheduled four days from now. Well.

Marthe-Louise drained the spaghetti and poured in the rich green sauce, letting it sit.

Lily elbowed Jack. “Those are raw egg yolks. Haven’t you had enough digestive problems?”

He whispered back, “Those are from her very own chickens and the heat of the pasta cooks them. No bad eggs allowed. Except for me, of course.”

She giggled. Jack was about as far from a bad egg as you could find in a man. “You’re a good egg.” She rested her hand on his knee and aimed a kiss for his cheek.

He turned his head and her kiss landed on his mouth. He deepened the kiss and Lily opened her lips under him. He tasted spicy and warm, and she promptly forgot they weren’t alone until he broke the kiss and smiled at her.

“Ah, l’amour, c’est grand!”
Marthe-Louise was smiling too, and Lily blushed at the housekeeper’s mention of love. The older woman gave Jack a doting glance as she dished green pasta. “Eat, eat. Then go sleep.”

“How about it? Do you feel like an afternoon nap?” Jack murmured.

“Do we have to sleep?” she replied, and he laughed again, a hearty, baritone sound.

“Not unless you want to.” He twirled a forkful of noodles and popped it into her mouth.

“Oh, yum.” The garlic and basil mixed with the creamy egg yolks slid perfectly over the firm spaghetti.

Jack took a bite and hummed in pleasure, calling compliments to Marthe-Louise, who modestly waved a spoon at him.

They nibbled away at the pasta until Lily really did feel tired. “Jack, about that nap…”

He pushed away his bowl as well and glanced at the old ceramic clock on the countertop. “It is siesta time, and I have had enough carbohydrates to knock me unconscious.”

“Let’s be unconscious together.” Lily hopped off the stool and wavered slightly. Jack steadied her.

“
Au revoir,
Marthe-Louise.” He kissed her three times and pinched her cheek. She put one arm around him and scolded him affectionately, waggling her finger in his face. He protested tolerantly, gesturing nearly as much as she did. “She says to stop by anytime and she will cook us anything we want. She won’t be happy until I am round and portly like her husband, Jean-Claude. He has never been sick a day in his life thanks to her cooking.”

The housekeeper nodded emphatically, pushing a platter of pastries and a second bottle of wine into their hands.

“An afternoon snack?” Lily asked.

“For later. I may burst at any minute.” He blew Marthe-Louise a kiss, leading Lily out of the kitchen to the gravel driveway leading to their guesthouse.

“She certainly takes good care of you. She knew you were sick?”

“Yes, but really, she’s usually like that anyway. Eat, eat, eat. It’s a good thing the men around here have physical jobs to burn off all the good cooking. And me, who practically has a doctor’s prescription to do nothing but gain weight? A dream come true.”

He was, but not necessarily in the culinary arena. Marthe-Louise obviously loved Jack like a son. She’d seen her own mother make sure Mrs. Wyndham was well-fed and living in clean surroundings, but her mother had never evinced this degree of maternal affection toward a guest of the family—she’d saved all that for Lily. She blurted, “I should call my mother.”

“Of course,” he said easily. “Feel free to use the phone at the guesthouse.” He shifted the wine bottle under his opposite arm and offered her his elbow. The gravel crunched under their feet as they strolled uphill. The air was hot and still, the buzz of the cicadas crescendoing with the rising afternoon temperature.

“I have an international plan on my cellphone.” It would be almost cheaper to fly home to talk with her mother in person if they spent much time on the phone.

“Unnecessary,” he said promptly. “Marthe-Louise would have my head if I let you do that.”

“Hmmph.” She’d leave some money on the counter to pay for her bill.

Jack showed her how to dial internationally and kissed her forehead. She stared dreamily after him and then snapped to attention as her mother’s voice came on the line.

“Hello?”

“Mother? It’s Lily.”

“Lily. Are you well?” Her mother sounded pleased to hear from her.

“Yes, I’m fine. How are you?” For someone who attempted to make a living with her words, she was certainly falling short.

“Very good. I read your blog about how you’re in Provence now.”

Lily winced. She should have called her mother about her change in plans, but she’d sent her an email and was too used to doing things on her own. “Yes, and it’s beautiful here. I’m in the middle of the lavender harvest and got some great photos that I’ll post later as soon as I get the blog post written.”