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The French Connection
Tracy Kelleher


Croissants and cafe au lait, anyone?Shelley McCleery had hoped to sneak in a little sightseeing on her business trip to France, but hadn't anticipated international art thievery, fake drawings, an incredibly hot heir–or his crazy, yet caring family of Bourbon aristocrats who would like to adopt her, rather than negotiate with her!But Shelley's got a job to do and she's trying hard not to get entangled in the family's domestic dramas. Yet the harder she tries, the more she's charmed by their old-world ways. Will Shelley survive this trip with her mind, heart and career intact? Maybe not…and maybe she just wouldn't mind….Oooh, la la!







Dear Reader,

Some of my most vivid memories stem from living in southern France. The breathtaking scenery. The dramatic archeological sites and art. The fabulous food and wine. The frustration of explaining in French over the telephone why I really needed to have the window of my ground-floor apartment on a busy street in Marseilles fixed immediately! Then there was the washing machine that managed approximately four items per load and took two hours.

I knew when I was writing this Flipside story that I had to incorporate some of my experiences. And while I didn’t run across any mystery or stolen works of art on my adventures, I was lucky enough to enjoy the generous hospitality of the local residents. Talk about a special part of the world!

Hope you enjoy your trip to Provence,

Tracy Kelleher

P.S. I love to hear from my readers. Check out my Web site: www.tracykelleher.com (http://www.tracykelleher.com), or e-mail directly at tracyk@tracykelleher.com (mailto:tracyk@tracykelleher.com).




Shelley squared her shoulders and stood up a little straighter.


“I know it probably sounds ridiculous to someone like you, a Count, but the real reason I decided, no, I insisted on coming here was to prove that I could venture out of my airless office, that I could abandon my boring life of picking up dry cleaning for my ex-boyfriend and having my best friend lecture me on which fork to use and not complaining when the coffee guy gives me the wrong change in the morning. Because I want to confront the world head-on, even if it means risking failure.”

She was completely out of breath. Well, no one ever said confronting the world head-on was easy.

She waited for Edmond to say something. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he took her clenched hand in his. “I don’t think it sounds ridiculous.”

“You don’t?”

“No.” He shook his head, and for the first time in the conversation, Edmond smiled. A real smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I think it sounds…completely honest. And just like you, just like the Shelley that I find so…”




The French Connection

Tracy Kelleher





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




ABOUT THE AUTHOR


A former newspaper reporter and editor, Tracy Kelleher swears by the benefits of writing to a deadline, wearing Italian shoes and occasionally glancing at a treadmill. She lives in New Jersey with her husband, two sons and a dog named Jack.




Books by Tracy Kelleher


HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

908—EVERYBODY’S HERO

949—IT’S ALL ABOUT EVE…

994—THE TRUTH ABOUT HARRY


To my agent, Paige Wheeler—the start of a beautiful friendship.

And to Jean-Paul and Mimi—many thanks for introducing me to a magical part of the world.




Contents


Prologue (#u7c52f8a9-986f-5689-8d5c-730619d4d755)

Chapter 1 (#u9ad4ae0e-dddd-58df-8d7d-42a26b81893c)

Chapter 2 (#u315857bd-0b99-5945-b9f4-8f68f677f20e)

Chapter 3 (#u70102087-4369-5d30-9f08-3c56cabb6b8f)

Chapter 4 (#uf16c4812-d983-5c44-a70b-e57e854cc530)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)




Prologue


W. C. FIELDS GOT IT WRONG, Shelley McCleery thought. All things considered, she’d rather be anywhere but in Philadelphia.

And that old adage about April showers bringing May flowers? Someone should have told the City of Brotherly Love. It was May and it was pouring buckets, enough to leave six inches of standing water at every major intersection in Center City. Shelley had actually seen someone attach pontoons to his wheelchair.

And, p-le-ease, if one more perky TV weatherman said the rain was good for the farmers, she was personally going to shove his Doppler radar where the sun didn’t shine. “Come off it,” she’d informed the cashier at Starbucks earlier that morning. “The nearest agricultural region is southern New Jersey, and nobody—I mean, nobody—cares about Jersey.”

He’d nodded and given her the wrong change.

Now inside, things weren’t much better. The conference room of Dream Villas Enterprises may have been dry, but it was so stuffy, even the philodendron perched atop the filing cabinet—a plant propagated to withstand the abuse of countless bank lobbies and orthodontists’ offices—had packed it in more than three weeks ago.

Shelley could sympathize. It wasn’t easy sitting in a room where the most distinctive feature was a beige filing cabinet. It set the tone for the whole office decor: cheap and nasty. Cheap, she didn’t have a problem with. Given her pitiful salary and unpaid college loans, Shelley couldn’t afford that kind of problem. But ugly—that was a whole other matter. Call her a throwback, but she was firmly of the opinion that the world would be a much better place if everything were rendered in tempera, covered in gesso and lit with a soft medieval glow.

Yeah, call her a throwback. She sighed.

“What was that, Shelley, dear?”

Shelley looked up. Sitting at the head of the conference table was Lionel Toynbee. Reading glasses slipped down his pencil-thin nose.

Lionel, founder and owner of Dream Villas, was checking the proofs for the latest newsletter of his travel firm that specialized in renting luxury European estates—estates that featured top-of-the-line plumbing against the backdrop of fading Flemish tapestries, grand marble staircases and massive gated entrances, preferably emblazoned with crests for families like Romanov and Medici, or even those parvenus, the Windsors.

“Shelley?” Lionel repeated, turning her two-syllable name into three, so that it became “She-el-ley.” It was a habit that she found particularly annoying, second only to the measly salary Lionel paid her. “The piece on the Montfort chateau comes across very well.”

Bowled over by Lionel’s rare outburst of praise, Shelley almost fell off her chair. But then she quickly realized the reference wasn’t to her prose. It was about the seventeenth-century villa built on the ruins of a medieval convent on the outskirts of Aix-en-Provence in southern France.

“But take out that line about the cool, damp walls of the subterranean caves. They make the place seem old. I was just there recently, as I’m sure you recall, and the feeling was one of timeless grandeur, not moldy decay.” Lionel tsked. “In theory, customers say they like atmospheric old things like caves, but they don’t really want to know the details. Talk up the whirlpools in the bathrooms instead. More jet sprays, less caves.” He turned to the next page.

“Fewer caves,” Shelley corrected under her breath, the curse of having a mother who was a tenth-grade English teacher. She took her blue pen and deleted the line and was about to flip the page when her eyes rested on a quotation from Madame la Comtesse de Montfort herself. Shelley stared at the words: “To savor the snow-white blossoms of the almond trees that cover the hills in springtime is to tantalize the senses with a pleasure so exquisite, it marks the soul ever after.”

She saw the passage was missing a closing quotation mark and was about to make a notation when she stopped and reflected. Would she, Shelley wondered, ever be able to forget the world of missing punctuation marks and experience a pleasure so exquisite it would mark her soul ever after?

The fax machine in the conference room hummed into action. She looked up. Was it a sign from above?

The cover sheet had a handwritten message scrawled in large letters: “MONSIEUR TOYNBEE. URGENT. PERSONAL.”

“Looks like something for you, Lionel.” She passed it across the table.

Lionel moved his lips as he read silently, then slowly lowered the fax to the table. “My God. Françoise, the comtesse de Montfort, has died.” He removed the yellow Hermès silk ascot from around his neck and patted the moist sheen that had popped out on his baby-smooth forehead.

Speaking of baby-smooth, Shelley had recently discovered a bill from a society dermatologist in the accounts payable folder of her desk drawer. But the evidence for BOTOX injections and dermabrasion was beside the point, especially in light of Lionel’s obvious distress—the ascot was, after all, silk. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I know you and Madame la Comtesse go back a long way.”

Lionel strummed his fingers on the fax. After a moment he looked up. “Wha-at? Oh, it’s not that. It’s the chateau. It’s aw-aw-ful! The family is threatening to take the property out of our catalogue before the start of high season.”




1


“YOU’LL NEVER GUESS WHAT happened today.” Shelley slid into the booth at the Down Home Diner and looked up. “Oh, Paul.” She pulled a wad of paper napkins out of the dispenser on the table. “If you’re not going to bother to wait to eat, could you at least not drip your cheesesteak all over the place?”

Paul Gufstavsen, the pride of St. Cloud, Minnesota, took the napkins and swallowed. “Listen, I’ve just come off a double shift at the hospital, so don’t complain. The important thing is I came.”

“From what I understand, you always were a bit premature.” The comment came from the horsey-looking woman who’d just arrived. She gave Paul an overly sweet smile that was anything but nice before turning her attention to Shelley. “Move over, girlfriend, I’m starving.”

Shelley scooted down while Abigail Braithwaite stashed her briefcase under the table and sidled the straight skirt of her St. John suit along the bench. Abigail had recently been made partner in a white-shoe law firm and was also an heir to a fortune based on little things—coal, steel and the building of the transcontinental railroad. So, naturally she could afford to wear St. John suits. Shelley’s couture, on the other hand, was exclusively T.J. Maxx.

Shelley waved off the waitress’s offer of menus and waggled her finger in Paul’s direction. “I’ll have what he’s eating but with Cheez Whiz and onions.”

Abigail nodded. “You can get me the same.” She held off until the waitress left before flaring her nostrils at Paul. “Only a heathen—or someone from the hinterland—would have a cheesesteak without Cheez Whiz and onions.”

Paul munched, undisturbed. “My midwestern heritage is a burden I proudly bear. Besides, I seriously doubt that cheesesteaks were a staple of your tony family, even if they do come from the area. Tell me again. Where exactly is the family estate located along the Main Line?” He turned a puzzled brow in her direction. “I seem to have forgotten.”

Abigail sat up straighter, if such a thing were possible. “Stop trying to act the innocent. It’s Haverford, as well you know, having visited more than once when you and Shelley were what I can only euphemistically call an item. Thank God she saw the error of her ways and told you to take your little stethoscope elsewhere.”

Shelley cleared her throat to restore order. “Abby, stop picking on Paul. Anyway, as you well know, our breakup was entirely amicable.” Translation: she no longer got sex, but she still picked up his dry cleaning.

Not that Shelley’s comments would in any way establish a permanent détente. To say that Abby, her best friend, did not get along with Paul was the understatement of the year. Even Abigail’s initial evaluation had been less than enthusiastic. “I can understand the appeal of his blond, Scandinavian good looks and his above-average intelligence, but beyond that—I mean, if he’s going to be a doctor, does he have to be an ear, nose and throat specialist?”

And when Shelley related these comments back to Paul—she had been in that stage of their relationship when she thought they should share all—he had responded, “I don’t know where she comes off criticizing me. Not when she talks about going to Brandeis instead of Bryn Mawr as her act of rebellion—a gesture undoubtedly lost on the vast majority of the population. Hell—” a rare example of Paul blaspheming and evidence of his rancor “—I don’t even get it.”

The relationship had only deteriorated over time. No matter. She needed their attention—divided or otherwise—now.

“If you two ever stopped to listen to yourselves, you’d realize you sound like something out of a bad Tennessee Williams play—without benefit of an intermission,” Shelley forged on. “And I really need you to focus on something else for a change—me.”

Abigail sniffed. Paul gazed at his food.

Shelley nodded. “Good. Thank you. It’s like this. I wanted to talk to you because I just found out today that the comtesse died.”

Paul looked up. “Which one was she? The condo on the Algarve or the villa in the Piedmont?”

“Paul, we’re talking about a woman who recently died. She was more than just a piece of property.”

He picked up his cheesesteak and took a healthy bite. “Shelley, I’m a doctor. I see death every day.”

Shelley seriously wondered if Paul witnessed death every day in an ear-nose-and-throat residency, but she didn’t press the point. It wasn’t worth it—much as their relationship hadn’t been, either.

Abigail patted her hand. “I’m sure it was very upsetting. A donation to a charity of the family’s choice is always appropriate.” She leaned back and smiled benevolently when the waitress brought their order—it was like the queen at the grand opening of a pensioners’ home in Bournemouth. Then she turned to Shelley. “So, which property was it anyway?”

Shelley started to mentally count to ten but quit at six. “The comtesse owned the chateau in Aix-en-Provence, north of Marseilles.”

Paul paused in thought. “A quaint abode. Eight bedrooms, five and a half baths, four with whirlpool baths. Vineyard. Swimming pool. Riding stables nearby.”

“As you can imagine, Lionel is totally distraught.” Shelley said.

“I bet. He makes a pretty penny off that property and he’s probably scared stiff that the family is going to pull the plug on the contract.”

“Was she also one of his, you know…?” Abigail nodded discreetly.

“Lovers?” Shelley supplied the word. “I’d say it’s a reasonable guess.”

Paul snorted. “Please, Lionel didn’t get his inventory by using the Yellow Pages. We all know that he’s slept with or attempted to sleep with half the aging aristocracy of continental Europe—his personal touch has been in places you don’t want to know.”

Abigail shivered and looked down at her untouched food.

Shelley pointed a finger at her chest. “Not that I’m defending the horny bastard, but you have to admit the one place he’s never put his mitts on is me.” Being a naturally modest person, she didn’t mention that while maybe not in the same league as Jennifer Lopez or Nicole Kidman in the looks department, she wasn’t exactly chopped liver either. Auburn shoulder-length hair combined with a firm, rounded derriere and well-toned legs gave her a definite Julia Roberts allure—Julia Roberts with an extra fifteen pounds.

Paul shook his head. “Shell, get real. It’s not like you have any property on the Riviera worth renting.”

What could she say? McCleerys weren’t Riviera types; not only did they freckle in direct sunlight, they lacked that essential je ne sais quoi—inherited wealth. “Okay, I get your point. But I’d still like to get back to my dilemma. You see, Lionel is intent on keeping the rental for the coming high season.”

“Simple.” Paul shrugged. “He goes over and wines and dines the comtesse’s daughter and weaves his usual magic.”

“That is just so irritating,” Shelley protested. “Why do you necessarily assume that some woman would agree to just about anything if she was showered with a little attention?”

Paul smiled smugly. “Ahh. I get it. There is no daughter, is there?”

Shelley conceded with a shrug. “Only a grandson.”

“How old?” Paul asked.

“From the limited information I’ve got, probably around thirty.”

“And Lionel’s not considering extending his sexual tastes to members of the male species?”

Shelley shook her head. “No, not even when it comes to the Montfort chateau.”

Abigail shifted in her chair. “So, what’s the plan?”

“Well, the plan is still for Dream Villas to pay a condolence call—in person, naturally,” Shelley said. “But Lionel’s not going. He feels it might not be a good idea for him to resurface at a family event. You see, he and the comtesse were an item before she became a widow.”

“Ohh. So, if Dream Villas needs someone from the company to go…” Abigail raised one eyebrow. Shelley nodded.

Paul waved from his side of the table. “Hell-o? Am I missing something here?”

Shelley turned her head in his direction. “About that condolence call…”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I’ve just been promoted from newsletters.”

There was silence.

“Well?” Shelley looked around expectantly. “Any opinions? I realize this would be an entirely new direction for me to take. So I really, really want your input. In my own mind, I’d like to think I should try my hand at it. Expand my horizons. Push the envelope, so to speak.”

Paul looked horrified. “Why don’t you let someone else push their own envelope? Let them wine and dine the grandson and heir.”

Shelley pulled back. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous?”

He made a face. “Of course I’m not jealous. It’s just that you’ve never dealt face-to-face with clients. You’re used to being support staff, handling the paperwork and stuff like that.” Paul furrowed his brow sincerely. “I mean this with all the best intentions, of course.”

Shelley blinked. “God, Paul. You think I’m a total wuss, don’t you? No wonder our relationship didn’t work out. And here I thought it had something to do with the fact I never made your mother’s recipe for salt cod.”

“Forget the salt cod,” Abigail interrupted.

Shelley nodded. “Gladly.”

“And to get back to your question, despite what the Boy Wonder here says, I think you’re perfectly capable of being a front man—front woman, really. The thing of it is, you just haven’t given yourself many opportunities to shine in that venue. Not surprising when you consider that family of yours.” Abigail accompanied the last comment with a dismissive wave of her hand.

“Please, it’s not as if I were abused as a child. Many people have parents who get divorced,” Shelley said, downplaying.

“But how many people have a father who runs off to join the circus?”

“It’s a common enough fantasy.”

“For little boys, not for a thirty-five-year-old insurance salesman from Schenectady. Then there’s your mother.”

“Mom’s not so bad,” Shelley protested.

“We’re talking about a woman who communicates with daisies!”

“It’s bromeliads, a completely different family. They’re epiphytic tropical plants—pineapples, for example.”

That silenced Abby. But only for a moment. “I’ll take your word for it. Anyway, it just proves my point. Despite growing up amidst these familial peculiarities, you’ve definitely got the right instincts. Just look how you extricated yourself from an academic profession that would have left you buried in library stacks and instead made the switch to the business world.”

Paul snorted, aquiline nose and all. “Where she spends her time in a stuffy office on the phone with foreign repairmen.”

“Ah, but what she does with those repairmen,” Abigail said forcefully. “Do you realize Shelley’s the only woman I know who can get repairmen to do what she wants when she wants—and in several foreign languages? Darling, with that kind of talent, you could run most Fortune 500 companies.”

Shelley shrugged. “So I know how to say sump pump in French, German, Italian, Spanish and, if I stretch it, Portuguese. That’s not the issue. What’s really at stake is whether it’s wise for me to drop everything—and we are in the busiest time of year for finalizing arrangements—and rush off to try to retain the biggest contract that Dream Villas has under what are extremely delicate circumstances. Why, just last week when I met with my landlord, I was the one who offered to raise the rent by three percent when he told me Medicare no longer paid for his mother’s home health care. I mean, how do you think I am going to fare with a grieving French count?”

Paul shook his head. “You should have had me talk to your landlord. You always were too softhearted.”

“But thankfully not so softhearted that she made your mother’s salt-cod recipe,” Abigail argued in rebuttal. “Salt cod! It sounds like something the Pilgrims would have eaten!”

“Some of your relatives, no doubt,” Paul shot back.

“Enough!” Shelley threw up her hands. “I’ve really had it. I want to discuss something important to me and not have to negotiate between people who go at each other like the West Side Story’s Sharks and Jets.”

“Actually, I always secretly wanted to be Chita Rivera,” Abigail let drop offhandedly.

Shelley narrowed her eyes. “I mean it. This is not about you. It’s about me—rather I.”

“All right.” Abigail shrugged. “You want my opinion on you?” Shelley nodded. “I think that you’ll do a fine job. That said, you should feel free to call me at any time during contract talks to recommend tactics or counteroffers—or even things like what fork to use at a formal dinner party. You know these aristocrats—they’re big on elaborate table settings.”

Paul took a deep breath. “You want my opinion? Don’t go. If nothing else, I don’t like the idea of you out there all on your own.”

Shelley stared at the checkerboard tiles on the floor and thought. “All right, then.” She placed a determined hand on the table—first making sure that she wasn’t about to dip her fingers in mustard. “Abby, I appreciate your support. I really do. And I know you don’t mean to be holier-than-thou—you just come by it naturally, having spent too many of your formative years doing things such as pouring tea. But if I’m going to do this, I’m going to be the one to take charge of the teapot.” Shelley frowned. The image was a little weak. Never mind.

She turned to Paul. “And Paul, stop feeling you have to protect me from myself. I realize, as the son of a Lutheran minister you equate love with pastoral care. But you never loved me when we were going out and you don’t love me now that we aren’t. You just feel compelled to enlighten me. As surprising as this may seem, I managed to do quite fine for almost thirty years before we met and I have managed to function very smoothly since we broke up. In fact, as far as I can tell, you’re the one who needs help. Without me, you wouldn’t have a clean shirt to put on your back. Really. Do you even know where the dry cleaner is?”

She held up her hand when he started to say something. “Hear me out. I’ve had enough of being the responsible daughter and friend, seeking out a safe but unfulfilling job, falling in and out of almost-but-never-quite love. I’ve decided to turn over a new leaf. A new kick-ass side is about to emerge.” She paused, then smiled slyly. “And if the circumstances call for it, maybe even a wild, party-girl side.”

Abigail’s eyes grew wider. “Am I hearing what I think I’m hearing?”

“I’m sorry, what does that have to do with going to France?” Paul scrunched his brows in confusion.

Shelley leaned back against the banquette and crossed her arms over her chest. “Paul, you’re a bright, sensitive fellow. Okay, you’re not particularly sensitive, but you are bright. You figure it out.”




2


THE MAN WHO EMBODIED THE meaning of insensitivity—and the staying power of French cuffs—sat behind his desk early the next morning. No surprise.

“I prefer to maintain Europ-ee-an time,” Lionel had informed Shelley three years ago, when she had first started working for him and naively thought the job held the promise of glamour. “I find it cuts down on the jet lag on my trips to the Cah-ontinent,” he’d said.

Shelley always thought that for someone originally from Perth Amboy, New Jersey, Lionel certainly had transformed himself into a citizen of the world. In any case, fortified by a grande cafe latte and a new sense of resolve, Shelley watched Lionel tweak the knot in his ascot. The thought of losing one of their principal customers appeared to bring out his obsessive-compulsive tendencies.

“So-o, have you finalized your arrangements to France?” he asked. “It’s imperative that the company send a representative imme-e-diately. Just remember, the Remingtons will be out in the co-old if we do not secure the Montfort chateau.”

She positioned the tip of an index finger on the table in the same way she had seen Carly Fiorina, the CEO of Hewlett-Packard, do in a newspaper photograph and leaned slowly forward. The position really killed her knuckle, but she didn’t want to mar the effect. “I appreciate your concern, Lionel, and despite the rush, I can safely say I have things under control. First off, I was here until two in the morning making sure the office paperwork is ahead of schedule, and that means the arrangements for the rest of the properties won’t fall through the cracks.

“I’ve also contacted everyone—clients, homeowners, workmen—that for the next week or so I can only be reached by e-mail. I’ve left a similar message on the company phone line,” she went on. “In addition, I’ve downloaded all the relevant phone and fax numbers as well as e-mail addresses to my personal laptop, which I will take with me. I’ve also made arrangements to lease a cell phone with international dialing capabilities, but I plan to give that number only to a few people—you being one of them, of course—for emergency purposes.”

Lionel nodded. “Yes, I’m glad you limited the number of people with the phone number. The ca-ah-alling fees on those phones are monstrous.”

What a cheapskate. Actually, Shelley had been anticipating his reaction and she had purposely highlighted her fiscal prudence regarding the phone so that she could go in for the real kill.

She stood up straighter, accentuating her 34Bs. She had chosen a tight, powder-blue cashmere cardigan with tiny pearl buttons. Ladylike but va-va-voom.

The corner of Lionel’s mouth jerked in a spasm. Her mild walk on the wild side seemed to have an immediate impact. Shelley waited for him to swallow.

“I also contacted the travel agent yesterday and I should have the arrangements finalized today.” She paused. “Unfortunately, given the short notice, it seems that tourist class to Paris with a transfer to Marseilles/Marignane Airport is sold out. Business class looks to be the only viable option.” True, there was a Moldavian charter flight, but it was flying out of Baltimore via Brussels and it lasted something like eleven hours. Totally unacceptable for a woman about to embark on a life-altering adventure.

Lionel blanched at the information before finally nodding. “If that’s the case, then by all means do whatever is necessary.”

But just when Shelley was ready to bask in her triumph, Lionel hit her with information that made her think eleven hours via Brussels might not be such a bad idea after all.

“I’m counting on you, Shelley. Dream Villas has never needed you as much as now. Because, you see—” he halted as if struggling to get the right words out “—it’s more than the Remingtons we’ll have to worry about if we don’t close the deal. It’s the government….” His voice trailed off.

Shelley blinked. “The government? What’s the government got to do with it?”

Lionel suddenly looked every one of his many mysterious years. “The Internal Revenue Service has threatened to close down Dream Villas unless I make substantial restitution for what they consider to be unpaid back taxes.”

“I don’t understand. I religiously submit the business’s revenue and expense forms to Bernie, our accountant.” A nice man, even if he did send the world’s worst Christmas cards—these atrocious paintings of Nativity scenes by, yes, his own brush, one step up from paintings on black velvet.

“But apparently you incorrectly submitted the information about all the workmen we’ve hired over the years.”

“Hold on there. I submitted those figures just as you instructed me to do—indicating that the workers were hired on a per-job basis and not as employees of the company.” Shelley took a deep breath, trying to keep panic at bay. She tasted stale air and remnants of Lionel’s Eau de Sauvage aftershave.

“Apparently the IRS no longer considers that a valid arrangement. Not only am I supposed to pay the taxes owed but there is a sizable penalty, as well.” Lionel looked at the tips of his tassel loafers. “You realize, of course, that your name appears on the correspondence to the accountant as well as on the checks.” He looked dolefully into her eyes. “I’m so sorry, my dear.”

“Considering the humongous size of the checks I’ve cut over the years—checks Bernie specifically had me make out to ‘Cash’ so that he could divide them among the appropriate agencies—you’d think he’d be able to keep up on changes in the law.” The tightness that gripped Shelley’s throat had nothing to do with the stratospheric pollen count. “Are you trying to tell me that I could be liable, as well?”

“I purposely didn’t say anything before because I didn’t want to worry you.” He reluctantly shook his head. “I was sure I could handle the situation myself.”

As if. The man didn’t even know how to use the fax machine, and she seriously doubted if sleeping with the IRS investigator—Lionel’s usual business ploy—would prove effective. “And somehow the Remingtons’ rental is tied in with all this mess?” she asked.

“It’s absolutely essential. The government has agreed not to assume control of the business if I can make a significant payment by next Tuesday. As the situation stands now, however, the chateau is unavailable for rent starting July first, which means we will have to return the Remingtons’ money. And without that, our cash on hand is just too low—meaning they could start to seize business and personal assets imme-e-diately.” He sniffed loudly.

“What about the money we’ll get from the Nosenbergers? They’re renting the place for two weeks at the beginning of June, and their contract is still valid before the leasing agreement runs out.”

Lionel shook his head. “It’s better than nothing but not nearly enough. June is shoulder-season rates, and their stay is wa-ay too short.”

Shelley swallowed pensively. “Next Tuesday, huh?” She rapped her fingers on the table. “Even with flying out tonight, that only gives me six days.” Less than a week to bail out the business, keep her job and pay off her student loans. And stop her belongings from becoming government property. Not that her valuables would bring much: a coral necklace she’d inherited from her grandmother, a small etching that she’d bought upon joining the ranks of the employed, a spotty collection of mostly used art-history books and her Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy dolls.

“So now you understand why you must not fail in your dealings with the Montforts, for your sake and for Dream Villas’,” Lionel implored dramatically.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She was beyond giving him support. As far as she was concerned, he was the one who had gotten them into this mess. She was of half a mind to follow in her father’s footsteps and run away to the circus.

Unfortunately, there was absolutely no way that she could imagine herself in tights and spangles. Oh, well, she had wanted to spread her wings and take new risks—all by herself.

Unfortunately, it seemed as if the risks were being thrust upon her instead.

Maybe wearing tight blue cashmere hadn’t been such a good choice after all.

THE FATE OF DREAM VILLAS and her own personal solvency resting heavily on her shoulders, Shelley slammed the door to her tiny Renault rental car and stared at the massive entryway of the Montfort chateau. For the first time in her life, Shelley had come across a situation where neither chocolate nor red wine provided a measure of comfort. Just as long as she could hold off the panic, she figured she had a chance—maybe.

She let her eyes drift above the heavy wooden doors to a carved stone tympanum. The ravages of time and intermittent Provençal rains had nearly obliterated the bas-relief, and she had to squint to make out what was left of it. At first glance, it looked like a lumpy pancake on a circular platter, but Shelley soon realized it actually depicted a squat-shaped animal surrounded by a raised medallion. A porcupine in full profile, to be exact.

“Just great,” Shelley muttered. “A family that prides itself on its prickliness.” Still, she had a job to do—and fast—even if it meant facing aristocrats who fashioned themselves after a spiny woodland creature. “I suppose it could have been worse. They could have chosen a skunk.”

She reached for the heavy iron ring that hung at eye level and knocked. And waited.

And waited some more.

Tapping the tip of her black slide shoes on the pebbly gravel, she looked around. Enormous terra-cotta urns overflowing with red geraniums, blue lobelia and something yellow and vaguely daisylike edged the circular drive. To the side, an allée of stately cypresses led to a fountain, which splashed amidst mounds of lady’s mantle. A low stone wall defined the garden’s perimeter, and beyond, almond trees covered with loose bunches of white flowers marched in neat rows across the rolling hills. It was A Year in Provence come to life, only without the workmen in desperate need of a shave and long-lasting deodorant.

Shelley glanced at her watch. It was several minutes past the appointment time that she’d arranged over the phone. She raised her hand to knock again when she heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel. An elderly woman walking briskly from around the back of the house came into view.

“Mademoiselle McCleery, by chance, is that you?” The woman’s English had a sibilant French accent with a distinct oddity. The r of McCleery trilled off her tongue, reminding Shelley of an extra—a most unlikely one—from Braveheart.

“Yes, I’m Shelley McCleery.” Shelley walked over and held out her hand and then realized she was holding flowers. “You’re very kind to receive me. These are for you and your family.” She handed over a bouquet of red and purple anemones de Caen.

“How thoughtful, and how delightful to have something colorful in the house. Unfortunately, we have been deluged with white lilies. One would think it was still Good Friday.” She paused. “But perhaps that is appropriate after all—Madame la Comtesse always did fancy herself God’s gift to creation.” Her voice contained an hauteur matched only by the artful upsweep of her silver-gray hair. Massive, yellowing opera-length pearls like something out of a portrait by Rembrandt rested atop her black silk shantung dress.

“I am Marie-Jeanne de Montfort. I am sorry I was not here to meet you immediately, but you see, it is only the clients who inhabit the chateau when they are here. We—that is, the family—live in the cottage behind the chateau. It saves on heating and staff costs.”

“Yes, of course.” Shelley nodded, trying her best to follow the accented and somewhat convoluted syntax. One thing was certain; she recognized the name Marie-Jeanne de Montfort. The former count, who’d predeceased his late wife by a good fifteen years, had two female cousins who also lived on the estate, and it was one of them who invariably attended to business.

Marie-Jeanne guided Shelley around the main house to the cottage, which was nestled between twin apricot trees. Its multipaned glass doors were open to the warmth of the midday sun and white curtains fluttered in the gentle breeze. It was picture-postcard perfect—and also, by the looks of it, easily large enough to accommodate a family of six. The Montforts may have come down in the world, but one family’s descent was another’s dream come true.

“Isabelle, Mademoiselle McCleery is here.” The Cuban heels of Marie-Jeanne’s black pumps tapped on the cool tile floors as they entered the kitchen, where another elderly woman was waiting. She was practically a double for Marie-Jeanne except that she was dressed in a black wool suit instead of a dress. Her sole piece of jewelry was a moonstone ring as large as the average quail egg, which years of etiquette and an excessively large knuckle kept poised on her tapered finger.

“This is my sister, Isabelle de Montfort, Mademoiselle McCleery,” Marie-Jeanne made the introductions.

“Please call me Shelley, Lady de Montfort,” Shelley insisted. “And let me say I was so sorry about your recent loss. My employer, Mr. Toynbee, especially wanted me to convey his sympathies regarding the comtesse.”

“Why am I not surprised at Monsieur Toynbee’s sympathies?” Isabelle pursed her lips.

Marie-Jeanne passed the flowers to her sister. “Isabelle and I continue to take solace in that fact that la comtesse was merely a relative by marriage.” She reached for a Sèvres vase and removed a cache of wooden spoons and a folded sheet of paper with typed names. Shelley recognized the list of repairmen that she regularly updated for each property owner.

Isabelle smelled the flowers. “Are they not lovely?” She placed them in the vase, filled it with water and set the arrangement in a place of honor on the table. “Though to give the late comtesse credit, you must admit, ma soeur, that she did have rather shapely calves.”

Marie-Jeanne wiped her hands on a dish towel that was embroidered with a row of bumblebees—there seemed no end to the prickliness of the Montforts. “It is true, Isabelle, and something clearly not lost on Bertrand.” She looked at Shelley. “Our cousin, the late count, was—how do you say?—a leg man. He once raised livestock, you see.”

Shelley nodded. “I see.” She didn’t at all. “Your English, both of your English, rather, is—” she searched for the appropriate word “—remarkable.”

The two women beamed.

“Mademoiselle Bruce would have been so delighted to hear that.” Marie-Jeanne patted her pearls.

“She was our governess when we were young,” Isabelle corrected. “She had a great fondness for shortbread.”

You could take the girl out of Scotland, Shelley realized, but you couldn’t take the Scottish burr out of her students.

The kitchen timer sounded and Isabelle opened the door to a giant oven and removed a large tart. “The, the, eh—” Isabelle turned to Marie-Jeanne. “Comment dit on ‘des mûres’ en anglais?”

Her sister thought a moment. “Raspberries, perhaps? I am not sure.” She rolled the r and pronounced the p.

Shelley looked more closely at the freshly baked pastry. “Blackberries,” she corrected. The last time she had had blackberries was when her family took a week’s camping trip to Vermont to savor the wonders of the Green Mountains and maple syrup. Unfortunately, her parents had not known that May was blackfly month. Her father had abandoned the rest of the family soon after, taking the insect repellent with him.

Isabelle placed the tart on a trivet and smiled. “Yes, blackberries, of course. I thought we would have tea later, if it is not too much trouble?”

“Not at all,” Shelley said. Food tended to relax people, and seeing as it was just tea, she didn’t think there would be an issue over the flatware. In any case, it was the perfect opportunity to start the negotiations. “And will the count be joining us?”

Marie-Jeanne smiled wistfully. “If only.”

Isabelle sighed. “That would be lovely, no?”

That would be lovely, yes, Shelley thought, seeing as he was the sole heir to the estate. “Perhaps you could call and invite him to come?”

Marie-Jeanne shook her head. “I am sure that he is much too busy.”

Isabelle nodded. “His work, it is very important.”

“And secretive.”

“It occupies him all hours of the day and night—forces him to travel constantly from his headquarters in Paris.”

“You make it sound like some kind of undercover operation.” Shelley was intrigued.

Marie-Jeanne coughed and covered her mouth.

Isabelle pursed her lips and looked to her sister.

“La pâte dentifrice,” Marie-Jeanne supplied.

Shelley blinked. “La pâte dentifrice? Toothpaste?” Isabelle nodded vigorously. “Yes, toothpaste. International sales.”

Well, whoop-de-do. The count might be concerned with the highly competitive world of tartar control, but she had the IRS breathing down her neck. Cavities would just have to take a back seat. “Yes, I can understand the pressing nature of his business, but at the risk of being rude, I really do need to speak with him as soon as possible. As I am sure you are well aware, the count plans to terminate the contract with Dream Villas.”

The two women looked at each other, then back at her, nodding nervously.

“Please understand, in no way do I mean to be disrespectful to the memory of the late comtesse, but I was very much hoping to use this opportunity to get the chance to dissuade the count of his decision.” Her muddled syntax was beginning to resemble the sisters’. Shelley hoped that was not a bad omen.

Marie-Jeanne waved off her apology. “It is impossible to be crass when referring to that woman. Françoise was no better than that Mary Astor character in The Maltese Falcon. How she treated poor Humphrey Bogart!” Marie-Jeanne’s distress was evident.

Shelley’s was verging on mild hysteria.

“You must forgive Marie-Jeanne her outburst. She is a true fan of Raymond Chandler,” Isabelle explained.

“Oh.” Shelley nodded, wondering if it would be considered rude if she asked for a double scotch on the rocks.

“My literary weakness aside, please continue,” Marie-Jeanne commanded. “We will dismiss further mention of that woman.”

The fact that no love was lost was becoming clearer and clearer. “Yes, well, let me explain. You see, I have always been a practical kind of person.”

“Something we have also greatly admired about you,” Isabelle noted politely. “The way you organized the electricians to come and put in those modern connections—circuit breakers, I believe they are called—was exceptional, truly magnifique.”

“Thank you, but that is really just part of my job.”

“Never underestimate efficiency,” Marie-Jeanne declared.

“Well, thank you again.” Maybe they could write a letter of recommendation for a new job if she was unsuccessful in convincing their nephew to come around? No, best not to be negative.

Shelley forged on. “Speaking of efficiency, don’t you think it would benefit the family to keep renting out the chateau? That way you could maintain a regular income and have the satisfaction of knowing that the property would remain in the family and that you could still live on the grounds?” She stopped to gauge their reaction. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be too blunt, and of course someone could easily argue that my motives are not completely pure—after all, the suggestion to keep the contract with Dream Villas also benefits me.” If they only knew how much.

“You have nothing to be sorry about,” Isabelle assured her.

“In truth, we were reluctant to interfere in the decision regarding the estate and burden Edmond with our little problems. But we have been wondering where we will go if the chateau is to be sold,” Marie-Jeanne confided.

“Then for your sakes and mine, I must tell you that I am here in Aix-en-Provence only until the end of the week, Monday at the latest. Therefore, if I am to convince Monsieur le Comte to maintain a business connection, I must do it soon. Today even.” Shelley looked back and forth between the two sisters.

Marie-Jeanne fingered her pearls. Isabelle toyed with her ring. And Shelley wondered if the two old women, who seemed more attuned to a bygone era of black-and-white movies and governesses, were capable of strong-arming their high-flying businessman of a nephew, who appeared to be oblivious to his family’s needs. Perhaps this is what too much fluoride did to one’s thinking?

Marie-Jeanne squared her narrow shoulders and stood up even straighter than before, as much a testament to her moral fiber as to her upbringing. “Isabelle, perhaps you would be so kind as to take Shelley on a tour of the chateau while I place a call to Edmond?” Marie-Jeanne elongated the pronunciation of her name—Shell-ee—in a charming and very un-Lionel way. She started to leave but stopped. “If I may be so bold, may I inquire as to your relationship with Monsieur Toynbee?”

Shelley straightened her back—in horror and as a testament to her passing the President’s Fitness Test in middle school three years running. “He’s my employer, nothing more, I can assure you.” And possibly not my employer for much longer—though Shelley didn’t add that part.

Isabelle beamed at her sister. “You see, I said she was remarkable.” She turned to Shelley. “For you, it is the Botticelli and nothing less.”




3


ACTUALLY IT WAS MORE.

First came the chateau’s library, with hundreds of leather-bound volumes—a books-by-the-yard fantasy come true. Only these looked as if someone had used them for more than decoration.

Someone had.

“As a young boy, Edmond, the new count, spent many hours reading the works of Thucydides and Virgil—in the original Greek and Latin, of course,” Isabelle explained with a sweep of the hand.

“Was Mademoiselle Bruce his tutor, as well?” Shelley asked somewhat distractedly. She had just noticed what appeared to be a Gutenberg bible.

“Oh, no, Mademoiselle Bruce had already returned to her native Glasgow. Edmond mastered Greek on his own when he was recuperating from a fall from the oak tree behind the stables. He was pretending to be Rinaldo from Gerusalemme, off to fight the Saracens. You know the poem by Tasso, of course?”

Shelley shook her head. “I know of it, that’s all.” How many people could claim intimate knowledge of the epic Renaissance poem?

“Not to worry. Edmond can introduce it to you.” Isabelle smiled in that knowing way that immediately made Shelley suspicious. “Here, this way is to the Botticelli.” She pointed to the door on the opposite side of the room.

They glided along the marble floors into a large room with flaking, pale-green plaster walls. Fading Belgian tapestries depicting beheadings lined one wall, and atop a massive rococo sideboard sat a pair of matching Ming vases. Shelley bypassed those in favor of the art on the facing wall. There was a small panel painting of St. George, which to her trained eye appeared to be a Duccio. Next to it and practically hidden by heavy velvet curtains hung a delicately carved ivory. She turned to Isabelle. “Is it northern French? Fourteenth century perhaps?”

Isabelle squinted. “I had forgotten about that objet. It is so small, no?”

Small, yes, but definitely to die for. Roughly two inches by six inches, it depicted a pair of lions, male and female, cavorting in a forest under the watchful eye of exotic birds and small rodentlike creatures.

“But it’s so delightful, and a shame that it’s not better displayed.” Shelley loved the ivory—immediately. More than loved it. She lusted after it with greater intensity than she’d ever lusted for anything, Paul included. Which, come to think of it, probably said something about their sex life. True, he’s hung like a Clydesdale, but he has the finesse of one, too, Shelley had once confided to Abigail after too many Cosmopolitans.

“But surely you agree that the ivory cannot compare with our Botticelli?” Isabelle stepped next to what was clearly the family’s pride and joy.

Shelley approached the large framed drawing. It was a preliminary study for the painter’s famous Birth of Venus, in which the naked goddess of love rises from a scallop shell, her blond locks cascading over one shoulder. The thing of it was, the Italian Renaissance master had never been one of Shelley’s favorites—she always thought his women looked like Valley Girls without the benefit of blow-dryers. And now she was even more disappointed than usual upon viewing his work up close.

“I’ve never seen an original drawing of his,” she said, searching for a remark that would not offend her hostess. “And it’s amazing that you’ve managed to retain possession of these treasures after all these years.”

“Oh, they are not ours to possess really.” Isabelle looked genuinely shocked by Shelley’s comment. “We—the family, that is—think of ourselves more as caretakers of these things. It is our obligation to preserve them for the generations to come.”

Shelley nodded. She was beginning to understand how the aunts could live a life of genteel poverty and still be surrounded by priceless masterpieces.

The sound of a decisive tapping grew louder as footsteps approached. Shelley gladly turned her attention away from the art and the pressure of good manners.

“I managed to get Edmond on his mobile,” Marie-Jeanne announced. “He is rather busy right now, but he said he would be free for supper. You will stay and join us, no?”

“Of course she will stay. In the meantime, we can show her more of the chateau, the other rooms, especially Edmond’s room as a boy. And we can tell her more about Edmond.” Isabelle beamed and clapped her hands. The oversize moonstone ring nearly spun around.

Shelley was jet-lagged but she wasn’t brain-dead. She recognized a matchmaker caught in the thrill of the chase when she saw one. “I would be delighted to meet the count over supper. But until then I wouldn’t dare impose on your hospitality. I think it would be better to come back later when I am refreshed.” And when she didn’t have to listen to hours of stories about a card-carrying member of Mensa who was totally devoted to oral hygiene. A saga of mind over molars.

“If that is what you prefer, we would be happy to oblige,” Marie-Jeanne replied. “After all, we have much to discuss this evening, including the matter of the washing machine.”

“The washing machine?” Just when Shelley thought she had a grip on the old ladies, they hit her with another zinger.

Isabelle held up her hand in a rare display of authority. “The washing machine can wait. The girl is obviously tired. She needs to rest to be able to enjoy the meal.” A twinkle appeared in her eye. “I know—rather than have the tart for tea, I will serve the mûres to finish the supper. They are ripe and juicy, bursting with sensual pleasure.” She formed a circle with her thumb and forefinger and kissed her fingertips with her lips. Her eyes narrowed. Her carefully plucked eyebrows rose provocatively.

And somehow Shelley didn’t think Isabelle was reciting a lesson from Mademoiselle Bruce.

“DU CAFÉ?”

Shelley opened her eyes and blinked through the intense sunlight at the waiter. “Merci.”

He lowered the tiny cup of coffee to her table.

Two small sugar cubes nestled on the saucer. She unfolded the paper covers—as intricate as origami figures—and plopped the lumps in the minuscule amount of coffee. Then she used the itty-bitty spoon to stir. It was like a child’s tea set, Shelley thought. And everyone around her was doing the exact same thing—in addition to smoking nonstop. Not to mention the women, who were uniformly wearing high-heeled sandals that miraculously did not hamper their ability to maneuver on cobblestones. Unhealthy but coordinated people, these French.

Shelley lifted her coffee cup. Against the protests of Marie-Jeanne and Isabelle, she had insisted on leaving, not to take a rest at her hotel but to drive to nearby Marseilles. More specifically, Chateau d’If.

Shelley couldn’t help it. She had seen the schlocky film version of The Count of Monte Cristo with Richard Chamberlain at an impressionable time in her life—one of her older sisters had just described in gory detail what it was like to get your period. And memories of the TV and movie star—god bless his wooden performance—had seen her through many a sleepless night. How could she not visit Chateau d’If?

The sixteenth-century castle, one-time prison, was perched on a rocky island at the entrance to Marseilles’s harbor, and it had inspired Alexandre Dumas’s tale of vengeance and betrayal, wrapped up in a happy ending. Ah, the happy ending.

Shelley took another sip, finishing her coffee, and let the sugary remnants from the bottom of the cup slide down her throat. She closed her eyes. The stress of her current situation might be far from gone, but now, surrounded by blue skies and white cliffs—and under the influence of a sleep-deprived caffeine/sugar buzz—she could almost contemplate achieving her own happy ending. Even if it meant the IRS slapping on the cuffs and locking her up in one of the cells here on the island. Well, at least the view was better than at Attica Prison, not to mention the gift shop.

“Be positive,” Shelley murmured to herself. “There is no reason why life can’t imitate art.” Though frankly, she could do without the vengeance and betrayal part.

She leaned back and could practically feel the freckles popping out on her nose. No matter. She eased off her shoes and let the little bones in her toes relax on the warm stones. And here in the land of little cups and little demitasse spoons and little toes, Shelley allowed herself to stop being practical and to stop doing things such as obsessively recalculating her checking account balance. No matter what she did, anyway, it always came out to three hundred fourteen dollars and sixty-two cents.

Instead she let the golden Mediterranean light wreak havoc with the elasticity of her epidermis. Like some silly sixties movie starring Sandra Dee as the American ingenue, she gave in to the romance of southern France and daydreamed foolish thoughts of happy endings and finding a hero with a big H. Only there was no way she was transforming herself into some perky Sandra Dee redux, thank you.

“Miss McCleery?”

She smiled wider. Conjuring up a deep male voice with a French accent was a particularly nice touch to her daydream. The sensual sound embossed her colorful images.

“Miss McCleery?”

The voice became more insistent.

Shelley wrinkled her nose. It wasn’t good when a daydream ran away with itself. She concentrated on retaining the mood. The heat. The languor. The big, oversize hero.

Then she felt a light squeeze to her upper arm through her sleeve. Her eyes flashed open.

This was definitely not part of her dream.

Or maybe it was. A big, oversize hero appeared before her, his darkened figure outlined against the radiant blue sky.

She rubbed her eyes. A man. No question about it. Definitely a man. A man in what appeared to be a white, open-neck shirt, its sleeves pressed by the light sea breeze against his muscled forearms. He wore black trousers cut to perfection over his narrow hips and long, powerful legs. And as he arched his broad shoulders back upon returning to his ramrod-straight posture, she immediately thought of Marie-Jeanne.

Well, actually, she thought of Marie-Jeanne for no more than a nanosecond—posture was only posture, and he was a man, after all. “Quel homme!” What a man! as the teenager had exclaimed in her seventh-grade French textbook.

“Miss McCleery?” He turned his head at an angle, and Shelley caught the sparkle of even, white teeth.

She shaded her eyes from the sun and stared. If ever there was an excuse to ogle, this was it. “Oui, yes.”

“You were interested in the count?”

She lifted her chin, and with a slight smile that spoke of feminine wiles that appeared to have blossomed in the warmth of the French air, she replied, “Yes, I’m interested in the count.”

He lowered his chin. And slowly arched one eyebrow. “Then here I am.”

Shelley almost laughed. “Edmond Dantès, the Count of Monte Cristo?”

The corner of his mouth tilted up. His teeth glistened again. “No, Edmond, the Count de Montfort.”




4


TO SAY HER MOUTH HUNG OPEN wide enough to accommodate a small family of yaks was being understated. If the itty-bitty round table that held her teeny-tiny coffee cup were not blocking a direct path to the ground, Shelley would have been scraping her back molars off the dusty white pebbles at that very moment.

She rose, stumbling slightly as she pushed back her folding chair. “Count de Montfort.” Her voice sounded reedy, thin.

“Please, don’t get up.” He lightly touched her forearm with his hand—a hand far larger and stronger than Shelley would have imagined for the leisurely life of a European noble. “May I join you?”

She stopped teetering only to become aware that she was barefoot. She motioned for him to sit, and he let go, leaving a warm imprint through the thin material of her suit jacket. Forcing herself not to touch it, Shelley lowered herself in her chair. She blindly fished around for her shoes and nervously watched as he pulled out a chair for himself.

What wasn’t to watch? His jet-black, slightly disheveled hair curled over the white collar of his shirt. His shirt collar was unbuttoned—no, the button was missing. Nothing else was, though. Dark stubble highlighted his angular jaw and sculpted his too-prominent cheekbones. And then there were his eyes.

“You have blue eyes.” She couldn’t help it. Now that he was no longer directly in the sun, the color of his cornflower-blue irises was clear. Shockingly clear. Sherwin-Williams couldn’t have manufactured a more startling color.

He raised his eyebrows, providing dramatic arches over the twin azure pools. “Yes, it’s rare, but it is a trait that runs in my family, particularly among the men—and not always the upstanding ones, I’m afraid.” His English was flawless, his subtle accent as melt-in-your-mouth smooth as a whole bag of M&M’s. And as for his self-deferential tone—gosh, it was beguiling in a way that could get a gal in a whole lot of trouble. He might just as well have had a sign hanging around his neck that read Danger. Proceed At Your Own Risk.

No doubt the vast majority of the female population—those with a heartbeat and a passing knowledge of birth control—would have proceeded without a care, let alone major medical insurance.

Shelley, on the other hand, silently repeated her paltry checking account balance over and over as a way to keep herself grounded.

Seemingly oblivious to Shelley’s discomfort, the count turned his head in the direction of the waiter and instantly got his attention. “Café.” He looked back at Shelley and pointed to her empty cup. “Another?” He smiled.

And at that moment Shelley forgot her bank balance, her ATM access number and the name of her bank. She shook her head no, not trusting herself to speak lest she blurt out something equally embarrassing along the lines of, “I want to have your first-born child and strip you naked—preferably in reverse order.”

So rather than risk mortifying herself even further, Shelley concentrated on putting her shoes back on. She located one, but the other seemed to have gone AWOL. She poked around discreetly.

The waiter scurried off and Edmond studied Shelley. “So, Dream Villas has decided to make the rather grand gesture of sending over a personal representative to pay condolences?” He peered around the edge of the table. “I believe that’s my foot and not your shoe that you’ve located.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Shelley immediately drew back her foot. “If you’ll just give me a second. My feet were swollen after the flight, so I took my shoes off to be more comfortable. But now one of the little suckers has decided to make a break for it—kind of appropriate here, don’t you think? Seeing as we’re sitting in front of a former jail. Jailbreak? Get it?” She stopped. “I’m rambling, I know.” And decided the best course of action was to lift up the tablecloth and bend down to find the errant flat.

And maybe stay there. Until the next millennium at the very least.

After a long moment, the count leaned down. “I was starting to wonder if I should send for a rescue party.”

Shelley looked up and saw his bemused grin peeking from under the edge of the cloth. She straightened up—and proceeded to hit the back of her head on the underside of the table. Overhead, the cups rattled.

She pulled back and came to an upright position, rubbing the back of her head but stopping as soon as she saw him reemerge from below.

“Your shoe?”

“My shoe?” She saw her slide in his hand and remembered what she had been doing in the first place. “Oh, right, my shoe. Thank you.” As she leaned to retrieve it, a lock of her perennially unruly hair loosened from the barrette, which was meant to hold the thick mass of curls in an efficient twist, and it tumbled forward.

And that was enough.

That singular, insouciant flounce of dark red hair had Edmond suddenly reevaluating his first opinion of Shelley McCleery as a bland if somewhat clumsy American. Not that he had a negative image of Americans in general, mind you. Far from it.

Some of Edmond’s fondest memories dated back to his time as a seventeen-year-old exchange student in Grantham, New Jersey, where he had enjoyed those quintessentially New World contributions to civilization—lacrosse, The Simpsons and Philly cheesesteaks. Ah, what bliss! Not only that, CDs were cheap by European standards, and female classmates were seemingly all above average in terms of brain-power and the length of their well-proportioned legs.

It must have been all that lacrosse.

Even more miraculous, a French accent allowed an otherwise shy bookworm, one who constantly fretted that he had yet to experience a growth spurt, to get more than the proverbial foot in the door.

Ah, what bliss!

Until the end of June, that is. That was when he’d gotten word that his grandfather had died on the eighteenth green of St. Andrew’s Royal and Ancient. Since he had yet to putt in—with the distinct possibility of making a birdie—Edmond knew Grand-père must have felt cheated.

Edmond had felt cheated, as well. Gone was the possibility of lifeguarding at the Jersey shore that summer. Back he came to study for the baccalauréat, prep for the entrance exam to one of the elite grandes écoles and ultimately a career in government. Such was the decree by Grand-père’s widow, the last of his many couturier-clad and nipped-and-tucked wives. “It was your grandfather’s last wish,” Françoise had declared melodramatically over her third glass of sherry and just before she’d patted his bum when he’d been leaving the study. “He wanted you to preserve the family’s long tradition of service to the country.”

Frankly, Edmond figured his grandfather’s last wish would have been that he’d go two under par for a full round of golf. Edmond also didn’t cotton to being goosed by his stepgrandmother, whose face was so tight she could barely blink.

But in his own way Edmond did feel an obligation to the family legacy, a legacy—mind you, that included as many scoundrels and ne’er-do-wells as diplomats and statesmen. Given this latitude, he figured he was perfectly justified in fulfilling his calling in his own particular way—no excuses necessary, thank you.

Yet as Edmond held on to Shelley McCleery’s slim Italian shoe—very fine quality, he noticed—he was struck by how much he really didn’t want to think about his calling. Not when the shoe belonged to a slender, finely shaped foot which in turn was attached to a well-turned ankle—that being as much of her leg as he could glimpse beneath the table and below the hem of her trousers. And having never given much thought to having a shoe, foot or, for that matter, ankle fetish, the arousing images going through his mind were…well, really quite arousing.

He shifted in his chair.

“I’ll take my shoe then,” she prompted, holding out her hand. “It’s one of my favorites, not to mention that I got it for a great price at Nordstrom’s in Woodbridge, New Jersey, which, if you’re ever in the States, I highly recommend checking out—not that you need to worry about that kind of thing.”

Edmond raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You’d be surprised.”

“In any case, ever since I discovered that my ability to hop on one foot for a prolonged distance was not up to Olympic standards, roughly about the same time I realized I would never be a prima ballerina, rock star or winner of the Pillsbury Bake-Off contest—I was still holding out for secretary of state, mind you—I became quite fond of wearing shoes on both feet.”

Edmond hesitated before speaking and looked once more beyond the severe pantsuit and the prim hairstyle to the winking green eyes—rather startling emerald-green, he realized—and saw there was something quite unique about Shelley McCleery beyond the fact that she had mentioned New Jersey, the sybaritic utopia of his adolescence.

“My shoe?” A note of impatience tinged her question.

He coughed. “Of course. Allow me.” And on the hard pebbles of the café’s courtyard and in the ominous shadow of one of southern France’s most imposing prisons, he knelt down on one knee and extended Shelley’s shoe toward her.

She looked furtively around, relieved to find that the proprietor, who was leaning against the sun-drenched stucco wall of his establishment, was totally intent on deciphering the daily racing form.

“I feel quite silly, you know,” she said and reluctantly raised her naked foot.

“You think you feel silly? Imagine how I feel?”

“Then why do it?”

He gave her a lopsided smile, and she noticed the button on the cuff of his sleeve was about ready to fall off.

“Why do it?” he repeated her question as he thought. “Because this may be my one and only chance to play Prince Charming.” He reached for her foot with his free hand and, as he held the back of her ankle, slid on her shoe.

His head was bent, and she couldn’t see his face, only his wavy black hair falling this way and that. It really was too long and desperately needed to be cut, or barring that, combed. She could think of any number of women ready to take on the task. “Actually, in your case it’s Count Charming,” she joked.

But then stopped.

Because his fingers were caressing the sensitive skin at the back of her heel. Should she say something, extricate her foot in some way? Did she really want to?

A noisy seagull chose that moment to swoop over and land on the ground in front of the café. It walked in its stiff-legged gait and poked among the stray sugar wrappers and baguette crumbs that had blown to the ground. From its purposeful stride, it was clear the bird was familiar with this exercise. It stopped a few feet from the table and stared at Shelley with its black, button-shaped eyes.

And just like that the moment was broken. Edmond let go of Shelley’s foot and settled himself back in his chair.

She tucked her legs under the table.

He coughed into his hand.

She became entranced by the sea.

“Another coffee?” he asked.

She brought her gaze back to him. “No. No, thank you. I think I need to moderate my mix of uppers and downers if I’m going to stay awake this evening.” She rubbed her finger on the Teflon-coated tablecloth, with its flower-print pattern. “Not to change the subject too abruptly, but I wanted to tell you how sad I was to hear of the death of your grandmother, Madame la Comtesse.”

“That’s very kind.” A note of formality descended over the conversation. “In point of fact, she wasn’t my actual grandmother since she was my grandfather’s third wife. My real grandmother, along with my parents, died while strolling along the Promenade des Anglais in Nice many years ago when I was quite young. A Milanese banker, distraught at his mistress leaving him for the center-forward of the Forza Napoli soccer team, lost control of his Lamborghini, which jumped the sidewalk and struck them.”

“How—” melodramatic seemed too insensitive “—tragic.” There were worse things after all than having a father run off to the circus.

“Yes, well, they had just finished having aperitifs at the Hôtel Negresco, so I think they were feeling no pain.” The way he worked his jaw belied the flippancy of his remark.

“At least you had your grandfather.” Who later also died on him, Shelley realized. The layers of tragedy were beginning to rival Les Misérables.

Edmond signaled to the waiter and pointed one finger toward his empty cup. The man reluctantly put down his racing form and went inside to make another espresso. “Yes, I was very lucky. And then there were my aunts, of course.”




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