Kitabı oku: «Cinderella on His Doorstep / Accidentally Expecting!»

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Escape the winter chill for the sunny, beautiful Loire Valley and the drama and excitement of Naples!

CINDERELLA ON HIS DOORSTEP

by Rebecca Winters

Rebecca Winters has taken readers on many wonderful journeys, and this story, her hundredth book, is no exception. She’ll capture your imagination with the smells, sounds and flavours of France…and steal your heart with a romance to treasure!

ACCIDENTALLY EXPECTING!

by Lucy Gordon

Tear-jerking and touching—Lucy Gordon brings you a story that will stay with you long after you’ve turned the last page…On the shores of the Mediterranean, the majesty of Mount Vesuvius and dangerous, dashing Dante will make your senses erupt!

Cinderella on His Doorstep

by

Rebecca Winters
Accidentally Expecting!

by

Lucy Gordon

MILLS & BOON®

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Cinderella on His Doorstep

By

Rebecca Winters

Dear Reader

My wonderful editor Kimberley Young informed me that CINDERELLA ON HIS DOORSTEP was my one-hundredth novel for Harlequin Mills & Boon. I was presented with a gorgeous heart on a chain. It was an open heart, beautifully sculptured. As I drew it out of the box I realised those one hundred books had been a labour of love. They’ve taken me to faraway places where I could lose myself for a time.

In CINDERELLA ON HIS DOORSTEP, I immersed myself in the château country of France, where some of the most beautiful vineyards in the world can be found. Alex and Dana are two people both searching for something that has eluded them all their lives. When fate brings Dana to the doorstep of Alex’s dilapidated château, they both sense their lives are going to change. They long to put down roots as deep and lasting as the roots of his vineyard. Together, it’s more than possible their broken hearts will mend.

Enjoy their journey!

Rebecca Winters

Rebecca Winters, whose family of four children has now swelled to include five beautiful grandchildren, lives in Salt Lake City, Utah, in the land of the Rocky Mountains. With canyons and high Alpine meadows full of wildflowers, she never runs out of places to explore. They, plus her favourite vacation spots in Europe, often end up as backgrounds for her Mills & Boon® Romance novels because writing is her passion, along with her family and church.

Rebecca loves to hear from her readers. If you wish to e-mail her, please visit her website at www.cleanromances.com

To my son, Bill, whom I often call Guillaume, because he speaks French too and loved France and the vineyards as much as I did when we traveled there. I called upon him for some of the research for this book. Once again we had a marvelous time discussing one of France’s greatest contributions to the world.

Chapter One

Sanur, Bali—June 2

“MARTAN?”

Through the shower of a light rain Alex Martin heard his name being called from clear down the street. He paused in the front doorway with his suitcases. The houseboy whose now-deceased mother had been hired by the Forsten Project years earlier to help clean the employees’ houses, had attached himself to Alex. Without fail, he always called him by his last name, giving it a French pronunciation.

“Hey, Sapto—I didn’t think I was going to see you again.” He’d been waiting for the taxi that would drive him to the Sanur airport in Bali.

Before the accident that had killed William Martin, Alex’s Australian-born father, William would turn on Sapto. “Our last name is Martin! Mar-TIN!”

Sapto had stubbornly refused to comply. In recent months he’d lost his mother in a flood and knew Alex had lost his French mother to an aggressive infection several years back. He felt they had a bond. Alex had been rather touched by the boy’s sensitivity and never tried to correct him.

“Take me home with you.” His dark eyes begged him. “I’ve never been to France.”

Home? That was a strange thing for Sapto to say. Though Alex held dual citizenship and was bilingual, he’d never been to France, either. As for Sapto, he guessed the fifteen-year-old hadn’t ventured farther than twenty miles from Sanur in the whole of his life.

Alex’s family had moved wherever his father’s work as a mechanical engineer had taken him, first in Australia, then Africa and eventually Indonesia. With his parents gone, he didn’t consider anywhere home. After flying to Australia to bury his father next to his mother, he was aware of an emptiness that prevented him from feeling an emotional tie to any given spot.

“I wish I could, Sapto, but I don’t know what my future’s going to be from here on out.”

“But you said your French grandfather left you a house when he died! I could live there and clean it for you.”

Alex grimaced. “He didn’t leave it to me, Sapto.” The letter meant for his mother had come two years too late. It had finally caught up to Alex through the Forsten company where he worked.

The attorney who’d written it stated there was going to be a probate hearing for the Fleury property on June 5 in Angers, France. This was the last notice. If Genevieve Fleury, the only living member of the Fleury family didn’t appear for it, the property located in the Loire Valley would be turned over to the French government.

After making a phone call to the attorney and identifying himself, Alex was told the estate had been neglected for forty odd years and had dwindled into an old relic beyond salvaging. The back taxes owing were prohibitive.

Be that as it may, Alex had the impression the attorney was downplaying its value for a reason. A piece of ground was always worth something. In fact, the other man hadn’t been able to cover his shock when he’d learned it was Genevieve’s son on the phone.

Something wasn’t right.

At this point the one thing driving Alex was the need to visit the land of his mother’s roots and get to the bottom of this mystery before moving on. With no family ties, he was free to set up his own company in the States.

By now the taxi had arrived. Sapto put his bags in the trunk for him. “You will write me, yes?” His eyes glistened with tears.

“I promise to send you a postcard.” He slipped a cash bonus into the teen’s hand. “Thank you for all your help. I won’t forget. Take care.”

“Goodbye,” Sapto called back, running after the taxi until it rounded the corner.

Hollywood, California—August 2

“Lunch break! Meet back here at one o’clock. No excuses!”

With the strongly accented edict that had been awaited for over an hour, the actors and cameramen left the set in a stampede.

When Jan Lofgren’s thick brows met together, Dana knew her genius father was in one of his moods. Most of the time the Swedish-born director was so caught up in the story he wanted to bring to life, he lived in another realm and lost patience with human weaknesses and imperfections of any kind, especially hers.

As his only offspring, she’d been a big disappointment. He’d wanted a brilliant son. Instead he got a mediocre daughter, whose average brain and looks would never make her fortune. When she was a little girl her mother had cautioned her, “Your father loves you, honey, but don’t expect him to be like anyone else. With that ego of his, he’s a difficult man to love. You have to take him the way he is, or suffer.”

The truth was as hard to take today as it was then. Dana had been through a lot of grief since her mother’s death five years ago, but had learned to keep it to herself. Especially lately while he was having problems with his present girlfriend, Saskia Brusse, a Dutch model turned aspiring actress who had a bit part in this film. She wasn’t much older than Dana’s twenty-six years, the antithesis of Dana’s mother in every conceivable way.

Privately his love life pained and embarrassed Dana, but she would never have dared articulate her disapproval. The same couldn’t be said of her father who’d been outspoken about her disastrous relationship with Neal Robeson, a young actor looking for an in with the famous director, rather than with her. She’d thought she’d found love. Her mistake. It was a lesson in humiliation she would never forget.

Granted she’d made a gross error in getting involved with anyone in the film industry, but for her father to explode over that when he never seemed to notice anything else she did for him had caused a serious rift between them. It would never heal if left up to him, not when his anger was over the top. Once again she found herself making overtures to breach the gap.

“I brought you some coffee and sandwiches.”

Deep in thought he took the thermos from her and began drinking the hot liquid. After another long swallow he said, “I’ve decided to shoot the rest of this film on location. Then it will ripen into something worthy.”

Her father needed atmosphere, that ethereal ingredient the studio set couldn’t provide. He flicked her a speculative glance. “Everything’s in place except for the most important segment of the film in France. I’m not happy with any of our old options and want something different.”

Dana already knew that and was ready for him. Since her mother’s funeral, finding the right locations had become Dana’s main job besides being chief cook and general dogsbody to her irascible father. She had to concede he paid her well, but the sense that she was invisible to him inflicted a deep wound.

If he wasn’t directing one of his award-winning films, he had his nose in a biography. She was a voracious reader, too, and had inherited his love of firsthand accounts of World War II in the European theatre. Over the years they’d traipsed from the coast of England to the continent, pinpointing the exact locales to bring his creations to life.

“I’ve come across something on the Internet that sounds promising, but I’ll need to check it out first. Give me a couple of days.” If she could solve this problem for him, maybe he’d remember he had a daughter who yearned for a little attention from him. When she was his own flesh and blood, it hurt to be a mere cipher.

“That’s too long.”

“I can only get to Paris in so many hours, but once I’m there, I’ll make up for lost time. Expect to hear from me tomorrow evening.”

“What’s your final destination?”

“I’d rather not say.” She could hope that if she found what he was looking for, it would ease some of the tension between them, but she doubted it because her mother had been the only one who knew how to soothe him. Now that she was gone, no one seemed to exist for him, especially not his only child.

Around the next bend of the Layon river, Dana crossed a stone bridge where she saw the sign for Rablay-sur-Layon. So much greenery made her feel as if she’d driven into a Monet painting done at Giverny and had become a part of it. The string of Anjou region villages nestled against this tributary of the Loire gave off an aura of timeless enchantment.

How shocking it must have been for the French people to see soldiers and tanks silhouetted against gentle slopes of sunflowers as they gouged their way through this peaceful, fertile river valley. Dana cringed to imagine the desecration of a landscape dotted with renaissance chateaux and vineyards of incomparable beauty.

A loud hunger pain resounded in the rental car. Between her empty stomach and the long shadows cast by a setting sun, it occurred to her she ought to have eaten dinner at the last village she’d passed and waited till morning to reach her destination. However, she wasn’t her father’s daughter for nothing and tended to ignore sensible restrictions in order to gratify certain impulses for which she often paid a price.

No matter. She wanted to see how the light played against the Château de Belles Fleurs as it faded into darkness. One look and she’d be able to tell if this place had that unique ambience her father demanded.

Following the map she’d printed off, Dana made a right at the second turn from the bridge and passed through an open grillwork gate. From there she proceeded to the bifurcation where she took the right fork. Suddenly she came upon the estate, but unlike the carefully groomed grounds of any number of chateaux she’d glimpsed en route, this was so overgrown she was put in mind of a bois sauvage. Without directions she would never have known of its existence, let alone stumbled on to it by accident.

A little farther now and a tour of the chateau’s bastion with its pointed cone appeared as if it were playing hide-and-seek behind the heavy foliage. Clumps of plum-colored wild roses had run rampant throughout, merging with a tall hedge that had long since grown wild and lost its shape.

She pulled to a stop and got out of the car, compelled to explore this ungovernable wood filled with wild daisies hidden in clumps of brush. Once she’d penetrated deeper on foot, she peeked through the tree leaves, but was unable to glimpse more.

A lonely feeling stole through her. No one had lived here for years. The estate had an untouched quality. Secrets. She knew in her bones these intangible elements would appeal to her father. If she’d combed the entire Loire valley, she couldn’t have found a more perfect spot. He demanded perfection.

“Puis-je vous aider, madame?” came the sound of a deep male voice.

Startled out of her wits, Dana spun around. “Oh—” she cried at the sight of the bronzed, dark-haired man who looked to be in his midthirties. “I didn’t know anyone was here.” Her tourist French was of no help in this situation, but judging by his next remark, she needn’t have worried.

“Nor did I.” His English sounded as authentic as his French, but she couldn’t place the pronunciation. His tone came off borderline aggressive.

His hands were thrust in the back pockets of well-worn, thigh-molding jeans. With those long, powerful legs and cut physique visible beneath a soil-stained white T-shirt, she estimated he was six-three and spent most of his time in the sun.

“The place looks deserted. Are you the caretaker here?”

He flashed her a faintly mocking smile. “In a manner of speaking. Are you lost?” She had the impression he was impatient to get on with what he’d been doing before she’d trespassed unannounced. Twilight was deepening into night, obscuring the details of his striking features.

“No. I planned to come here in the morning, but my curiosity wouldn’t let me wait that long to get a sneak preview.”

His dark-fringed eyes studied her with toe-curling intensity. For once she wished she were a tall, lovely brunette like her mom instead of your average Swedish blonde with generic blue eyes, her legacy from the Lofgren gene pool.

“If you’re a Realtor for an American client, I’m afraid the property isn’t for sale.”

She frowned. “I’m here for a different reason. This is the Château de Belles Fleurs, isn’t it?”

He gave an almost imperceptible nod, drawing her attention to his head of overly long dark hair with just enough curl she wagered her balding father would kill for.

“I’m anxious to meet the present owner, Monsieur Alexandre Fleury Martin.”

After an odd silence he said, “You’re speaking to him.”

“Oh—I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

He folded his strong arms, making her acutely aware of his stunning male aura. “How do you know my name?”

“I came across a French link to your advertisement on the Internet.”

At her explanation his hard-muscled body seemed to tauten. “Unfortunately too many tourists have seen it and decided to include a drop-in visit on their ‘see-France-in-seven-days’ itinerary.”

Uh-oh—Her uninvited presence had touched a nerve. She lifted her oval chin a trifle. “Perhaps you should get a guard dog, or lock the outer gate with a sign that says, No Trespassing.”

“Believe me, I’m considering both.”

She bit her lip. “Look—this has started off all wrong and it’s my fault.” When he didn’t respond she said, “My name is Dana Lofgren. If you’re a movie buff, you may have seen The Belgian Connection, one of the films my father directed.”

He rubbed his chest without seeming to be conscious of it. “I didn’t know Jan Lofgren had a daughter.”

Most people didn’t except for those in the industry who worked with her father. Of course if Dana had been born with a face and body to die for…

She smiled, long since resigned to being forgettable. “Why would you? I help my father behind the scenes. The moment I saw your ad, I flew from Los Angeles to check out your estate. He’s working on the film right now, but isn’t happy with the French locations available.”

Dana heard him take a deep breath. “You should have e-mailed me you were coming so I could have met you in Angers. It’s too late to see anything tonight.”

“I didn’t expect to meet you until tomorrow,” she said, aware she’d angered him without meaning to. “Forgive me for scouting around without your permission. I wanted to get a feel for the place in the fading light.”

“And did you?” he fired. It was no idle question.

“Yes.”

The silly tremor in her voice must have conveyed her emotion over the find because he said, “We’ll talk about it over dinner. I haven’t had mine yet. Where are you staying tonight?”

Considering her major faux pas for intruding on his privacy, she was surprised there was going to be one. “I made a reservation at the Hermitage in Chanzeaux.”

“Good. That’s not far from here. I’ll change my clothes and follow you there in my car. Wait for me in yours and lock the doors.”

The enigmatic owner accompanied her to the rental car. As he opened the door for her, their arms brushed, sending a surprising curl of warmth through her body.

“I won’t be long.”

She watched his tall, well-honed physique disappear around the end of the hedge. Obviously there was a path, but she hadn’t noticed. There’d been too much to take in.

Now an unexpected human element had been added. It troubled her that she was still reacting to the contact. She thought she’d already learned her lesson about men.

Alex signaled the waiter. “Bring us your best house wine, s’il vous plait.”

“Oui, monsieur.”

When he’d come up with his idea to rent out the estate to film studios in order to make a lot of money fast, he hadn’t expected a Hollywood company featuring a legendary director like Jan Lofgren to take an interest this soon, if ever.

He’d only been advertising the château for six weeks. Not every film company wanted a place this run-down. To make it habitable, he’d had new tubs, showers, toilets and sinks installed in both the bathroom off the second floor vestibule and behind the kitchen.

Alex needed close access to the outside for himself and any workmen he hired, not to mention the film crews and actors. The ancient plumbing in both bathrooms had to be pulled out. He’d spent several days replacing corroded pipes with new ones that met modern code.

Since then, three different studios from Paris had already done some sequence shots along the river using the château in the background, but they were on limited budgets.

It would take several years of that kind of continual traffic to fatten his bank account to the amount he needed. By then the deadline for the taxes owing would have passed and he would forfeit the estate.

So far, at least fifty would-be investors ranging from locals to foreigners were dying to get their hands on it so they could turn it into a hotel. One of them included the attorney who’d sent out the letter, but Alex had no intention of letting his mother’s inheritance go if he could help it.

With the natural blonde beauty seated across from him, it was possible he could shorten the time span for that happening. There was hope yet. She hadn’t been turned off by what she’d seen or she wouldn’t be eating dinner with him now. Her father was a huge moneymaker for the producers. His films guaranteed a big budget. Alex was prepared to go out on a limb for her.

Dana Lofgren didn’t look older than twenty-two, twenty-three, yet age could be deceptive. She might be young, but being the director’s only child she’d grown up with him and knew him as no one else did or could. If she thought the estate had promise, her opinion would carry a lot of weight with him. Hopefully word of mouth would spread to other studios.

After spending all day every day clearing away tons of brush and debris built up around the château over four decades, her unexplained presence no matter how feminine or attractive, hadn’t helped his foul mood. That was before he realized she had a legitimate reason for looking around, even if she’d wandered in uninvited.

“How did you like your food?”

She lifted flame-blue eyes to him. With all that silky gold hair and a cupid mouth, she reminded him of a cherub, albeit a grown-up one radiating a sensuality of which she seemed totally unaware. “The chateaubriand was delicious.”

“That’s good. I’ve sampled all their entrées and can assure you the meals here will keep any film crew happy.”

His dinner companion wiped the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “I can believe it. One could put on a lot of weight staying here for any length of time. It’s a good thing I’m not a film star.”

An underweight actress might look good in front of the camera, but Alex preferred a woman who looked healthy, like this one whose cheeks glowed a soft pink in the candlelight.

“No ambition in that department?”

“None.”

He believed her. “What are you, when you’re not helping your father?”

The bleak expression in her eyes didn’t match her low chuckle. “That’s a good question.”

“Let me rephrase it. What is it you do in your spare time?”

The waiter brought their crème brûlée to the table. She waited until he’d poured them more wine before answering Alex. “Nothing of report. I read and play around with cooking. Otherwise my father forgets to eat.”

“You live with him?”

Instead of answering him, she sipped the wine experimentally. Mmm…it was so sweet. She took a bite of custard from the ramekin, then drank more. He could tell she loved it. “This could become addicting.”

Alex enjoyed watching her savor her meal. “If I seemed to get too personal just now, it’s because the widowed grandfather I never knew threw my mother out of the château when she was about your age. Both of them died without ever seeing each other again.”

Her ringless fingers tightened around the stem of her wineglass. “Since my mother died of cancer five years ago, my father and I have gone the rounds many times, but it hasn’t come to that yet.” She took another sip. “The fact is, whether we’re at home or on location, which is most of the time, he needs a keeper.”

Amused by her last comment he said, “It’s nice to hear of a father-daughter relationship that works. You’re both fortunate.”

A subtle change fell over her. “Your mother’s story is very tragic. If you don’t mind my asking, what caused such a terrible breach?”

Maybe it was his imagination but she sounded sincere in wanting to know.

“Gaston Fleury lost his only son in war, causing both my grandparents to wallow in grief. When my grandmother died, he gave up living, even though he had a daughter who would have done anything for him. The more she tried to love him, the colder he became.

“Obviously he’d experienced some kind of mental breakdown because he turned inward, unable to love anyone. He forgot his daughter existed and became a total recluse, letting everything go including his household staff. When my mother tried to work with him, he told her to get out. He didn’t need anyone.”

In the telling, his dinner companion’s eyes developed a fine sheen. What was going on inside her?

“Horrified by the change in him, she made the decision to marry my father, who’d come to France on vacation. They moved to Queensland, Australia, where he was born.”

“Is your father still there?”

“No. He died in a fatal car accident seven months ago.”

She stirred restlessly. “You’ve been through a lot of grief.”

“It’s life, as you’ve found out.”

“Yes,” she murmured.

“My father’s animosity toward my grandfather was so great, he didn’t tell me the whole story until after mother died of an infection two years ago. Gaston never wrote or sent for her, so she never went back for a visit, not even after I was born. The pain would have been too great. It explained her lifelong sadness.”

Earnest eyes searched his. “Growing up you must have wondered,” she whispered.

He nodded. “To make a long story short, in May a letter meant for Mother fell into my hands. The attorney for the abandoned Belles Fleurs estate had been trying to find her. When I spoke with him personally he told me my grandfather had died in a government institution and was buried in an unmarked grave.”

She shook her head. “That’s awful.”

“Agreed. If she didn’t fly to France for a probate hearing, the property would be turned over to the government for years of back taxes owing. It consisted of a neglected château and grounds. I discovered very quickly the whole estate is half buried in vegetation like one of those Mayan temples in Central America.”

The corners of her mouth lifted. “A perfect simile.”

“However, something inside me couldn’t let it go without a fight. That meant I needed to make money in a hurry. So I came up with the idea of renting out the property to film studios.”

She eyed him frankly. “That was a brilliant move on your part for which my father will be ecstatic. You’re a very resourceful man. I hope your ad continues to bring you all the business you need in order to hold on to it.”

Dana Lofgren was a refreshing change from most women of his acquaintance who came on to him without provocation. While they’d eaten a meal together, she’d listened to him without giving away much about herself.

Alex couldn’t tell if it was a defense mechanism or simply the way she’d been born, but the fact remained she’d come as a pleasant surprise on many levels. He found he didn’t want the evening to end, but sensed she was ready to say good-night.

When he’d finished his wine, he put some bills on the table. “After your long flight and the drive from Paris, you have to be exhausted. What time would you like to come to the château tomorrow?”

“Early, if that’s all right with you. Maybe 8:00 a.m.?”

An early bird. Alex liked doing business early. “Bon.” He pushed himself away from the table and stood up. “I’ll be waiting for you in the drive. Bonuit, mademoiselle.”

Monsieur Martin not only intrigued Dana, but he’d left her with a lot to think about. In fact, the tragedy he’d related had shaken her. His mother had become invisible to her own father, too. There were too many similarities to Dana’s life she didn’t want to contemplate.

She finished the last of her wine, upset with herself for letting Monsieur Martin’s male charisma prompt her to get more personal with him and prod him for details about his family. That was how she’d gotten into trouble with Neal. He’d pretended to be flattered by all her interest. She’d thought they were headed toward something permanent until she realized it was her father who’d brought him around in the first place—that, and his ambition.

Of course there was a big difference here. Neal had used her in the hope of acting in one of her father’s films. She on the other hand had flown to France because Monsieur Martin had advertised his property for a specific clientele. Dana wanted a service from him. The two situations weren’t comparable.

Neither were the two men…

At her first sight of the striking owner, Dana was convinced she’d come upon the château of the sleeping prince, and that before the wine had put her in such a mellow mood. But their subsequent conversation soon jerked her out of that fantasy.

He was a tough, intelligent businessman of substance with an aura of authority she would imagine intimidated most men. Maybe even her own scary parent. That would be something to witness.

Disciplining herself not to eat the last few bites of custard, she left the dining room and went to her room. She could phone her father tonight with the good news. He’d be awake by now expecting her call, unless he’d spent the night with Saskia, which was a strong possibility.

All things considered, she decided to get in touch with him tomorrow after she’d met with Monsieur Martin again.

After getting ready for bed, she set her alarm for 7:00 a.m. She was afraid she’d sleep in otherwise, but to her surprise, Dana awoke before it went off because she was too excited for the day.

She took a shower and washed her hair. Her neck-length layered cut fell into place fast using her blow-dryer. Afterward she put on her favorite Italian blouse. It was a dark blue cotton jersey with a high neck and three-quarter sleeves, casual yet professional.

She teamed it with beige voile pants and Italian bone-colored sandals. Since she was only five foot five, she hoped the straight-leg style gave the illusion of another inch of height. Dana was built curvy like her mother. Being around Monsieur Martin, she could have wished for a few more inches from her father who stood six-one. Barring that, all she could do was keep a straight carriage.

With her bag packed, she headed for the dining room where rolls and coffee were being served. She grabbed a quick breakfast, then walked out to talk to a woman at the front desk Dana hadn’t seen yesterday. “Bonjour, madame.”

“Bonjour, madame. How can I help you?”

“I’m checking out.” After she’d handed her back the credit card, Dana said, “Last night I drank a wonderful white wine in the restaurant and would like to buy a bottle to take home with me.” Her father would love it. “Could you tell me the name of it?”

“Bien sur. We only stock one kind. It’s the Domaine Coteaux du Layon Percher made right here in the Anjou.”

“It’s one of the best wines I ever tasted.”

“In my opinion, Percher is better than the other brands from this area. Sadly the most celebrated of them was the Domaine Belles Fleurs, but it stopped being produced eighty years ago.”

Dana’s body quickened. The woman did say Belles Fleurs. “Do you know why?”

She leaned closer. “Bad family blood.” Dana had gathered as much already. There’d been a complete break between Monsieur Martin’s mother and her father, but he hadn’t mentioned anything else. “It’s an ugly business fighting over who had the rights to what.”

“I agree.”

“The present owner has only lived in the vicinity a month or so,” the woman confided. “The château has been deserted for many years.”

So Monsieur Martin had told her. “It’s very sad.”

“C’est la vie, madame,” she said with typical Gallic fatalism. “Would you like to buy a bottle of the Percher?”

“I—I’ve changed my mind,” her voice faltered. It would seem a betrayal.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No, merci.”

Dana turned away and left the hotel. She was in a much more subdued frame of mind as she drove the five or so kilometers to the bridge where the trees cast more shadows across the road. The morning light coming from the opposite side of a pale blue sky created a totally different atmosphere from the night before.

This time as she reached the fork in the road, Monsieur Martin was there to greet her. It sent her pulse racing without her permission. She pulled to a stop.

He walked toward her, dressed in white cargo pants and a burgundy colored crewneck, but it didn’t matter what he wore, she found him incredibly appealing. It wasn’t just the attractive arrangement of his hard-boned features, or midnight-brown eyes framed by dark brows.

The man had an air of brooding detachment that added to her fascination. Combined with his sophistication, she imagined most women meeting him would have fantasies about him.

Under the influence of the wine, Dana had already entertained a few of her own last night. However, because of her experience with Neal, plus the fact that she was clearheaded this morning, she was determined to conduct business without being distracted.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Martin.”

When he put his tanned hands on the door frame, the scent of the soap he’d used in the shower infiltrated below her radar. “My name’s Alex. You don’t mind if I call you Dana?” His voice sounded lower this morning, adding to his male sensuality.

“I’d prefer it.”

“Bien.” He walked around to the passenger side of her car and adjusted the seat to accommodate his long legs before climbing in. His proximity trapped the air in her lungs. “Take the left fork. It will wind around to the front of the château.”

Old leaves built up over time covered the winding driveway. It was flanked on both sides by trees whose unruly tops met overhead like a Gothic arch. Dana followed until it led to a clearing where she got her first look at the small eighteenth-century château built in the classic French style.

Beyond the far end stood an outbuilding made of the same limestone and built in the same design, half camouflaged by more overgrown shrubs and foliage. No doubt it housed the winepress and vats.

She shut off the engine and climbed out to feast her eyes. He followed at a slower pace.

The signs of age and neglect showed up in full force. There were boards covering the grouped stacks of broken windows. Several steps leading to the elegant entry were chipped or cracked. Repairs needed to be done to the high-sloped slate roof. It was difficult to tell where the weed-filled gardens filled with tiny yellow lilies ended and the woods encroached.

Dana took it all in, seeing it through her father’s eyes. She knew what the original script called for. This was so perfect she thought she must be dreaming.

“It’s like seeing a woman of the night on the following morning when her charms are no longer in evidence,” came his grating voice. Trust a man to come up with that analogy. “Not what you had in mind after all?”

Schooling herself not to react to his cynicism, she turned to her host, having sensed a certain tension emanating from him. “On the contrary. It will do better than you can imagine. Knowing how my father works, he’ll need three weeks here. How soon can you give the studio that much time?”

Chapter Two

FEW things had surprised Alex in life, but twice in the last eighteen hours Dana Lofgren had taken him unawares.

“I have nothing signed and sealed yet. Is the season of vital importance?”

Her nod caused her hair to gleam in the sun like fine gold mesh. “It has to be late summer. Right now if possible,” she said, looking all around, “but maybe that’s asking too much.”

“Don’t worry. It’s available. My next tentative booking so far is with a Paris studio that won’t be needing it until mid-September.”

“Good,” she murmured, almost as if she’d forgotten he was there.

“Are you ready to see the interior?”

“No.” She sounded far away. “I’ll leave that to my father. I’ve seen what’s important to him. The estate possesses that intangible atmosphere he’s striving for. I knew it as I drove in last night.

“Over the years of watching him work I’ve learned he doesn’t like too much information. If I were to paint pictures, he’d see them in his mind. They would interfere with his own creative process.” She suddenly turned and flashed him a quick smile. “His words, not mine.”

Alex couldn’t help smiling back. She had to be made of strong stuff to handle her father whose ego was probably bigger than his reputation. “Such trust in you implies a spiritual connection I think.”

“I would say it has more to do with our mutual love of history. When I leave, I’ll phone him and let him know what I’ve found. Before the day is out you’ll hear from two people.”

This fast she’d made her decision? Alex couldn’t remember meeting anyone like her before. Did she always function on impulse, or just where her father was concerned? “I’ll be waiting.”

“Sol Arnevitz handles the financial arrangements. Paul Soleri is in charge of everything and everyone else when we’re on location. Paul will go over the logistics and has the ability to smooth out any problem. You’ll like him.”

“As opposed to…”

She made a face. “Who else?”

Meaning her father of course. Dana Lofgren was a woman who didn’t take herself too seriously. Despite what he assumed was a ten-year age difference between them, he feared she was growing on him at a time when he couldn’t afford distractions.

“What more can I do for you this morning?”

“Not another thing.” But her blue eyes burned with questions she didn’t articulate, piquing his interest. “Thank you for dinner last night and your time this morning. It’s been a real pleasure, Alex. Expect to hear from Sol right away. Here’s his business card.” She handed it to him. “He’ll work out all the details with you.”

To his shock she got in her car before he could help her.

“Where are you going in such a hurry?” He wasn’t ready to let her go yet.

“A daughter’s work is never done. I have to be in Paris this afternoon, then I’ll fly back to L.A. Enjoy your solitude before everyone descends on you.”

The next thing he knew she’d turned around and had driven off, leaving him strangely bereft and more curious than ever about her association with a father who was bigger than life in her eyes. Alex saw the signs. Ten, twenty, even thirty years from now he had a hunch Jan Lofgren’s hold on her would still be powerful.

He stared blindly into space. Whether strongly present in Dana’s life, or deliberately absent as Gaston Fluery had been in his daughter’s life, both fathers wielded an enormous impact. The thought disturbed Alex in ways he’d rather not examine.

An hour later, after he’d changed clothes and had begun cutting down more overgrowth, his cell phone rang. It could be anyone, but in case it was Dana, he pulled it out of his pants pocket. The ID indicated a call from the States. He clicked on. “Alex Martin speaking.”

“Mr. Martin? This is Pyramid Pictures Film Studio calling from Hollywood, California. If it’s convenient Mr. Sol Arnevitz would like to set up a conference call with you and Mr. Paul Soleri before he goes to bed at eleven this evening. It’s 7:00 p.m. now. Mr. Lofgren heard from his daughter and is anxious to move on this.”

Alex was anxious, too, for several reasons. “Eight o’clock your time would work for me.”

“Very good. Expect their call then.”

After twenty more minutes loading the truck, Alex went back to the château and entered through a side door leading into the kitchen. He washed his hands, then poured himself a cup of coffee before carrying it to the ornate salon off the foyer, which he’d turned into a temporary bedroom-cum-office. He liked living with the few furnishings of his parents he’d had shipped.

The salon’s original furniture was still stored on the top floor. Once he’d made inroads on the outside of the château, he would concentrate on the house itself, that is if he made enough money in time. For now he’d supplied himself with the necessities for living here: electricity, cable and Internet, running water hot and cold, a new water heater, a stove, a fridge, washer and dryer and a new bed with a king-size mattress and box springs.

He snagged the swivel chair with his foot and sat down at his desk. No sooner had he booted up his computer than his call came through. Once the other two men introduced themselves, they made short work of the negotiations. The company would be on location from August 8 through 31. Sol quoted a ballpark figure, but left it open because other expenses always accrued.

Alex didn’t know if Dana had anything to do with the actual amount, but it was a far greater sum than he’d hoped for. Sol sent him a fax, making the contract official before he rang off.

Paul stayed on the line with him for another twenty minutes. They discussed logistics for the cameramen and staff. Alex e-mailed him a list of hotels, car rental agencies and other businesses in and around Angers such as Chanzeaux.

“Chanzeaux?” the other man said. “Dana mentioned she stayed at a hotel there last night. I believe it was the Hermitage. According to her it’s the perfect place for her father.”

It pleased Alex she’d given her seal of approval. “The food’s exceptionally good there. Mr. Lofgren should be very comfortable.”

“Since we’re behind schedule as it is, we all want that,” he admitted with a dry laugh that spoke volumes about Dana’s father. “The crew will arrive day after tomorrow. Everyone else the day after. I look forward to meeting you, Alex.”

“The feeling’s mutual.”

After clicking off, he headed outside again. Dana would be back in a few days, this time with her father. Over the years Alex had been involved in various relationships with women, but he’d never found himself thinking ahead to the next meeting with this kind of anticipation. He had no answer as to why this phenomenon was suddenly happening now.

During the taxi ride to the house, Dana phoned Sol whose secretary told him the contract with Mr. Martin had been signed. Relieved on that score she called Paul, wanting to touch base with him before she saw her father.

“Hey, Dana—Are you back already?”

“Yes, but only long enough to pack before I leave again. Sol says everything’s ready to go.”

“That’s right. I’ve got us booked at three hotels fairly close together. Just so you know, the Hermitage didn’t have any vacancies, but with a little monetary incentive I managed to arrange adjoining rooms for you and your father for the month.”

She smiled. “You’re indispensable, Paul.”

“Tell your father that.”

“I don’t need to.” Except that nobody told Jan Lofgren anything. Little did Paul know that even though he’d arranged a hotel room somewhere else for Saskia, she’d probably end up staying with Dana’s father. “Listen, Paul—I’m almost at the house so I’ve got to go. Talk to you later.”

“Ciao, Dana.”

After she hung up, her mind focused on her own sleeping arrangements. Since the film studio had the run of the estate until the end of August, Dana decided she would stay in the deserted château away from everyone. When else in her life would she get a chance like this? She’d buy a sleeping bag. It would be a lark to camp out inside.

Her dad wouldn’t need her except to do the odd job for him and bring him lunch. Once he settled in for work each day, he hated having to leave with the others to go eat. Maybe he used it as an excuse to be alone with his own thoughts for an hour. Who knew?

What mattered was that she’d have most of her time free to explore the countryside and only come back at dark to go to sleep. Her thoughts wandered to Alex. She wondered where he was staying. The concierge at the Hermitage indicated he lived in the vicinity. Considering the taxes he owed, she imagined he’d found a one-star hotel in order to keep his expenses down. It made her happy that the film company would be giving him a financial boost. He—

“Miss?”

Dana blinked. “Oh—yes! I’m sorry.” They’d reached her family’s modern rancho-styled home in Hollywood Hills without her being aware he’d stopped the taxi. She paid him and got out.

Just in case her father had brought Saskia home, she rang the doorbell several times before letting herself in. After ascertaining she was alone, Dana took off her shoes and padded into the kitchen to sort through the mail and fix some lunch.

The clock in the hall chimed once, reminding her France was nine hours ahead of California time. She doubted Alex would be in bed yet. Was he out with a beautiful woman tonight? And what if he was?

For a man she’d barely met, Dana couldn’t believe how he’d gotten under her skin so fast. It was that unexpected invitation to dinner with him. He didn’t have to take the time, but the fact that he did made him different from the other men she’d known. She found him not only remarkable, but disturbingly attractive.

While she finished the last of her peanut butter and jelly sandwich, she reached for her mother’s favorite French cookbook from the shelf. It wasn’t a cookbook exactly. It was a very delightful true story about an American family living in France in 1937. Quite by accident they met a French woman who came to cook for them.

Everything you ever wanted to know about France was in it, including French phrases. It was full of recipes and little drawings, so much better than a Michelin guide. Both Dana and her mom had read it many times, marveling over a slice of history captured in the account. Dana would pack this with her.

In the act of opening the cover, warm memories of her mother assailed her. A lump stayed lodged in her throat all the way to the bedroom where she flung herself on the bed to thumb through it. Chanzeaux looked just like the adorable villages in the book with their open-air markets selling the most amazing items. She rolled over on her back, wondering about Alex. Having lived on the other side of the world, did he find France as charming as she did?

There were many questions she’d like to ask him, but she’d already probed too much. Anything more she learned he would have to volunteer when they happened to see each other. He could be slightly forbidding. It would be wise to stay out of his way. That went for her father, too, except to feed him.

Oh, yes, and remind him to go to the local hospital for his weekly blood test. No one would believe what a baby he was, which reminded her she’d better check the medicine cabinet and make sure he had enough blood thinner medication to be gone two months. After they left France, they’d finish up the filming in Germany where Dana had already checked out the locations ahead of time.

With a sigh she got up from the bed needing to do a dozen things, but a strong compulsion led her to the den first. Ever since she’d heard that the Fleury family had once produced wine, she wanted to learn what she could about it. The wine she’d had with Alex had left the taste of nectarines on her lips. As she’d told him that night, it could become addicting.

She typed in Anjou wine, France. Dozens of Web sites popped up. She clicked on the first one.

The Anjou is one of the subregions of the Loire Valley producing a variety of dry to sweet dessert wines. The two main regions for Chenin Blanc are found in Touraine and along the Layon river where the soil is rich in limestone and tuffeau. Long after you’ve tasted this wine, it will give up a stone-fruit flavor on the palate. The Dutch merchants in the sixteen hundreds traded for this wine.

That far back?

Fascinated by the information, Dana researched a little more.

Coteaux du Layon near the river is an area in Anjou where the vines are protected by the hills. It’s best known for its sweet wines, some of the recipes going back fifteen centuries. By the late seventeen hundreds, several wine producers became dominant in the region including the Domaine du Rochefort, Domaine du Château Belles Fleurs and Domaine Percher.

There it was, part of Alex’s family history. Dana’s father would find the information riveting, as well, but for the meantime she’d keep it to herself. The owner was a private person. It would be best if she waited until he brought it up in the conversation, if he ever did.

A few minutes later she’d gone back to her room to do her packing. She had it down to a science, fitting everything into one suitcase. As she was about to leave and do some errands, her father came home and poked his head in the door. “There you are.”

She looked up at him. “Hi.”

“You just got back. How come you’re packing again so soon?”

Dana had anticipated his question. “I’m going to fly to Paris with the camera guys in the morning.”

“Why?”

“Because Saskia will be a lot happier if she has you to herself when you fly out the day after tomorrow.”

“Saskia doesn’t run my life,” he declared.

No one ran his life. Dana certainly didn’t figure in it except to fetch for him, but the actress didn’t like her. “I know that, but it doesn’t hurt to keep the troops happy, does it?” She flashed him a smile, hoping to ease the tension, maybe provoke a smile, but all she provoked was a frown.

“You really think you found the right place?” he asked morosely.

The film was on his mind, nothing or no one else. Until he saw the estate, he’d be impossible to live with. Good luck to Saskia. “If I haven’t, Paul will switch us back to Plan B outside Paris without problem.”

After staring into space for another minute he said, “Have you seen my reading glasses?”

“They’re on the kitchen counter, next to the script. Have you eaten?”

“I don’t remember.”

“I’ll fix you some eggs and toast.”

“That’s a good girl,” he muttered, before leaving her alone.

He only said that if he needed something from her. Because he was a narcissist, it was all she would get. She knew that, yet because their natures were exact opposites, a part of her would always want more. Still, when she thought of Alex’s mother being cut off by her father, Dana realized her relationship with her father hadn’t degenerated to that extent. Not yet…

Alex was in his bedroom when the phone rang again. He’d just hung up from talking with another Realtor who hadn’t heard the estate wasn’t for sale and never had been. They never stopped hounding him. With each call he’d hoped it might be Dana.

“Monsieur Martin ici.”

“Bonjour, Alex.”

His lips twitched. Her accent needed help, but with a grown-up rosebud mouth like hers, no Frenchman would care. “Bonjour, Dana. How are things in Hollywood?”

“I wouldn’t know. How are things in that jungle of yours?”

Laughter burst out of him. “Prickly.”

“My condolences.”

“Where are you exactly?”

“In front of the château.”

He felt a burst of adrenaline kick in.

“I was hoping you would let me in, but considering your plight, I’ll be happy to come back after you and your machete have emerged.”

The chuckles kept on coming. “I’m closer than you think. Don’t go away.” He hung up and strode swiftly through the foyer.

As soon as he opened the front door of the chateau, she got out of the car. Today she was dressed in jeans and a white short-sleeved top. If the pale blue vest she wore over it was meant to hide the lovely mold of her body, it failed.

Though she gave the appearance of being calm and collected, he noticed a pulse throbbing too fast at her throat. He knew in his gut she was glad to see him.

“When did you fly into Paris?”

“At six-thirty this morning with the camera guys. When their rooms are ready, they’ll crash until tomorrow, then probably show up around eight in the morning to start checking things out.”

“What about your father?”

“Everyone else will arrive at different times tomorrow.”

“I see. He didn’t mind you coming on ahead?”

“Most of the time we do our own thing.” She gave him a direct glance as if daring him to contradict her.

Alex had asked enough questions for now. It was almost noon. “Let’s get you inside. In case you’d like to freshen up, there’s a bathroom on the second floor at the head of the stairs.”

“Thank you.”

Dana followed him up the steps into the foyer dominated by the central stonework staircase. With no furniture, paintings, tapestries or rugs visible, the château was a mere skeleton, but she seemed mesmerized.

Taking advantage of her silence he said, “The place was denuded years ago. Everything is stored on the third level where the servants used to live.”

He watched her eyes travel from the walls’ decorative Italianate paneling to the inlaid wood floors. “There’s a chandelier packed away that should hang over the staircase. Without it the château is dark at night. I told Paul that if night interiors are called for, he’ll need to plan for extra lighting. Your father—”

“My father’s very superstitious,” she broke in on a different tack. “He gets that from his Swedish ancestry. When he stands where I’m standing, he’ll be frightened at first.”

“Frightened?”

“Yes.” She turned to him. “It’s always frightening for a figment of your imagination to come to life, don’t you think? At first he won’t know if it’s a good or bad omen.”

When her father saw the château, he would be speechless. His excitement wouldn’t be obvious to the casual observer, but she’d see his eyes flicker and feel his positive energy radiate. For a while it would insulate him from his usual irritations. Even Saskia wouldn’t grate on his nerves as much, at least not at first. But that was his problem. Dana had done her part.

“Would you mind being more explicit?” Everything she said intrigued Alex. Besides her shape and coloring that appealed strongly to his senses, she had an inquiring mind. It engendered an excitement inside him that was building in momentum.

“My father gave his favorite screen writer some ideas and they collaborated on the script for this wartime film. Your château and grounds could have been made for it. For some time I’ve had the feeling this is the most important project he’s ever taken on.”

He folded his arms. “Can you tell me about it, or is it a secret?”

“A secret? No.” After a pause. “The film is filled with the kind of angst my father is best known for.” He heard her breathe in deeply. “Does that explanation help?”

“About the setting, yes, but I’m curious about the story itself.”

She gave a gentle shrug of her shoulders. “That’s for my father to decide. I don’t think he knows it all yet.” As far as Alex was concerned, she was being evasive for a reason. “Dad’s had a mind block lately. It’s made him more irritable than usual. It will take settling into it here for those creative juices to flow again. But to give you a specific answer to your question, his films always leave the audience asking more questions.”

That was the truth, but she was holding back from him and that made him more curious than ever. Evidently she knew better than to give too much away. Was that because her father wouldn’t like it? “Why do you think he came up with this particular story?”

“How does any author come up with an idea? They see something, hear something that arouses their interest and a kernel of an idea starts to form.”

She angled her head toward him. “Part of it could be the guilt he personally feels for his country’s compliance with the enemy in the first days of World War II. Another part might be that deep down he still misses mother and wishes he’d had a son instead of ‘moi.’”

She’d said it with a smile, but Alex felt the words like a blow to the gut. He’d heard emptiness, sadness in that last remark. It made him want to comfort her. “Still, I have my uses. Thanks to you, I found this for him.” She spread her hands, as if encompassing the entire château. “Heaven sent.”

Alex swallowed hard. “For me, too.”

“I’m happy if it helps you. I bet your mother is, too.”

She kept surprising him. “You believe in heaven, Dana?”

“Yes. Don’t you?”

“After this discussion, I want to.”

A faint blush filled her cheeks. “I’m afraid I’ve rattled on too long and have kept you from your work. Please go ahead and do whatever you were doing. If it’s all right, I’ll just wander around here for a little while before I take a nap. I picked up a sleeping bag in Angers and brought it with me.”

Why would she do that? “If you’re that exhausted, I’ll call the Hermitage and tell them to get your room ready now.”

“No doubt they’d make concessions for you, but I’m not staying there, so it’s not necessary. Thank you anyway.”

Alex rubbed the back of his neck in an unconscious gesture. “Paul told me he would arrange rooms there for you and your father.”

“He already has, but while I’m in France I intend to be on my own most of the time. After everyone goes home at the end of the day’s shoot, I plan to stay right here where I can have the whole château to myself.”

An angry laugh escaped his throat. “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

She flashed him an ingenuous smile. “Don’t worry about me. I don’t frighten easily and love being alone.”

His eyes narrowed. Dana had seemed such an innocent she’d almost fooled him. “I’m afraid you don’t understand,” he ground out. “My ad didn’t indicate the château could be used for anything but the filming.”

A long silence ensued while she digested what he’d said. “I assumed that since the company had rented the estate for the filming, it wouldn’t matter if I found myself a little spot in the château to sleep at night.” Her supple body stiffened. “My mistake, Alex. I’m glad you cleared it up before any harm was done.”

“Dana—”

She’d almost reached the front door before turning around. “Yes?”

He started toward her. “Where are you going?”

“To find me a place to stay.”

“Wouldn’t you be better off with your father?” he asked quietly.

“You want your pound of flesh, don’t you.” Her cheeks filled with angry color. “First of all, if I were seventeen I’d agree with you, but I’m going to be twenty-seven next week, slightly too long in the tooth to still be daddy’s little girl.”

His estimation of her age had been way off.

“Secondly, my father isn’t in his dotage yet. In fact, his latest love interest is one of the actresses in the film and will be sleeping with him, which makes three a crowd. When you see Saskia, you’ll understand a lot of things.” She smiled. “If my dad ever found out your impression of him, he’d have a coronary.”

Alex hadn’t seen that one coming. It knocked him sideways.

“Thirdly, while I’m in this glorious region of France, I’d like to pretend I’m an independent woman who needs to spread her own wings for a change. It must have given you an uncomfortable moment thinking I’d made you my target. Again, I apologize.”

He’d anticipated her flight and moved in time to prevent her from opening the door. Their hips brushed against each other in the process, increasing his awareness of her womanly attributes. The tension between them was palpable. She slowly backed away from him.

The last thing he’d wanted was to make an enemy of her, but that’s what he’d done. One word to her father and he could kiss this deal goodbye. The hell of it was, he couldn’t afford to lose this film studio’s business, not when he needed the money so badly. A large portion of his life’s savings combined with the modest inheritance from his father were all invested in this venture.

“Dana—it never occurred to me you might want to stay in the château.”

She refused to look at him. “You’re not a dreamer.”

“You’d be surprised, but that’s not the point.” Trying to gauge what her reaction would be he said, “I live here.”

Her gaze flew to his. By the stunned look in those blue depths, he knew instinctively his revelation had come as a surprise.

“The concierge at the Hermitage intimated you lived somewhere in the vicinity. To me that ruled out the château…” Her voice trailed.