Pale as parchment and feeling sick at that potential scenario, Tabby averted her gaze from him and crept out of bed. When she checked her watch, she grimaced for it was already almost nine. She had loads and loads of things to get done and very little time in which to accomplish them. Tomorrow she had to leave early to catch the ferry back to England again, she reminded herself doggedly. Lifting her overnight bag, she headed downstairs to freshen up and get dressed. She would call Alison from the public phone box she had noticed in the village and speak to Jake. She had to buy in wood and get the range going as well as stock up on basic groceries. In little more than a week’s time she would be bringing Jake back over to France with her and she needed to make the cottage as welcoming as possible for his benefit.
Ought she to leave a note for Christien explaining where she had gone and when she hoped to be back from her errands? Wouldn’t that make her seem a little clingy and desperate? She winced, feeling too vulnerable to lay herself open to the risk of rejection. It was better to do nothing at all. He knew where she was and he would have to go home for breakfast anyway as there was no food whatsoever in the kitchen. In any case, when she had made love with him the night before, she conceded painfully, she had demonstrated a remarkable ability to overlook the biggest stumbling block between them: the horrid accident in which his father had died. No matter how Christien felt, she was certain that his family would react to the news of his renewed involvement with her, not to mention the reality of her son’s parentage, with horrified disgust. Fifteen minutes later, Tabby drove off.
She was recalling how, at the accident enquiry, Solange had made an embarrassed attempt to excuse her relatives’ palpable hostility towards Tabby. ‘My niece, Christien’s mother, is under sedation today. Her suffering is terrible,’ the old lady had confided. ‘We all grieve for Henri, but in time the family will appreciate that many other people have also lost loved ones.’
When Christien wakened, he was surprised to find himself still at the cottage and even more surprised to find himself alone. He never, ever stayed the night with a woman. He could not initially credit that Tabby could have gone out and left him and he entered the sun lounge from which he had a clear view of the garden before he accepted that she was nowhere to be found.
The bright room was cluttered with all the paraphernalia of an artist and when he saw the miniature painting on display he stopped to study it in some amazement. He had never seen anything so tiny, perfect and detailed as that landscape. At least, not outside the giant elaborate doll’s house that his mother had made her lifetime hobby. If the miniature canvas was of Tabby’s creation, she was very talented, but he was convinced that she had to be wrecking her eyesight painting in such a minute scale and he knew he would waste no time in suggesting that she concentrate her skills on larger creations.
She must have gone out to buy something for his breakfast, Christien decided. He wandered back up to the bedroom and strode to the window when he heard a car. A silver Mercedes coupé had drawn up on the other side of the road. A slight frownline divided his level dark brows for Matilde Laroche owned a car very similar, although she had not driven herself anywhere since his father’s death. At the same time, he could not help but uneasily recall her hysterical overreaction the day before to the revelation that Tabby was taking possession of Solange’s property. His Ferrari was sitting parked out front. Really, really discreet, Christien, he mocked himself. Bon Dieu, it was madness to even let it cross his mind that his ladylike parent might be so off the wall that she would lurk outside the cottage like some weird kind of stalker! Even so, suddenly he was very keen to see the car registration, but by the time he reached the front door the Mercedes had driven off again.
Initially, Christien made the most of his time alone to make several calls on his mobile phone and arrange a trip to a property in the Loire Valley. It was picturesque and secluded and enjoyed spectacular views. Tabby was sure to leap at his offer because it would be certifiable insanity to do anything else. When another thirty minutes passed without her reappearance, he started to worry that
something might have happened to her. Suppose she had climbed into that clapped-out old van and forgotten that his countrymen drove on a different side of the road from the British? He paled. Jumping into his car, he headed for the village a couple of kilometres away. Tabby would have passed through it the day before and if she had gone out to buy food, it was the most obvious destination.
There on the steep and narrow single street he had the edifying sight of seeing Tabby, looking very appealing in a short, frilled denim skirt and a white T-shirt, standing chattering and laughing while a grinning tradesman loaded up her van with firewood and admired her lithe, shapely legs. Nowhere could Christien see any evidence that she might have gone shopping to provide him with a breakfast or even that she was anxious to hurry back to the cottage!
Tabby saw the Ferrari and froze in dismay. Christien was watching her from the lowered window, designer sunglasses obscuring his expression, handsome jawline at a determined angle. He swung out of the car, six feet three inches of lean, lithe, gorgeous masculinity. A surge of colour warming her complexion, her mouth running dry as she remembered the passion of the night hours, she watched him approach. ‘How did you know where I was?’ she asked breathlessly.
‘I didn’t. I’m on my way home to Duvernay,’ Christien murmured smooth as glass.
Tabby looked snubbed.
Against his own volition, Christien found himself smiling. ‘I’ll pick you up at twelve…OK?’
Warmth and animation leapt back into her expressive face. ‘Where are we going?’
‘I’d like that to be a surprise, chérie.’
When Tabby ought to have been cleaning the ancient kitchen range and scrubbing the terracotta floor tiles, she was washing her hair, daydreaming like a schoolgirl and dampening the single dress she had brought with her in the hope of getting the creases out of it.
Startlingly handsome in tailored cream chinos and a black shirt, Christien collected her and took her to an airfield where they boarded a small private plane.
‘You’re planning to fly us?’ Tabby exclaimed in dismay.
‘I’ve had my licence since I was a teenager…I do own an airline,’ Christien reminded her gently.
‘I don’t like flying and, if I have to fly, I’m probably happiest in a jumbo jet,’ Tabby confided with a grimace.
‘It’s a short flight, ma belle.’ Christien dealt her a wide, appreciative grin that made her heart skip a beat. ‘You have to be the only woman I’ve ever met who would dream of telling me that she hated flying.’
Undaunted by her nervous tension, he kept up a calm running commentary on the sights that she was too ennervated to take in during the flight. He flew with the same confidence with which he drove very fast cars. They landed at an airfield outside Blois where a chauffeur-driven limousine awaited them.
‘Curiosity is killing me,’ Tabby admitted. ‘Where are you taking me?’
‘Be patient,’ he urged, linking long, lean fingers lazily with hers.
Some ten minutes later, the limo turned up a steep lane bounded on either side by vineyards and finally came to a halt outside an elegant house built of mellow golden stone and ringed by shaded terraces ornamented with urns of beautiful flowers.
‘At least tell me who we’re visiting…’ Tabby hissed.
As Christien mounted the steps a charismatic smile slashed his lean, strong face. ‘We’re the only visitors.’
Recalling the astonishing pleasure of that beautiful mouth on hers, Tabby felt dizzy and it was an effort to think again. ‘Then…what are we doing here?’
Christien pushed the door wide on a spacious tiled hall. ‘I’d appreciate a feminine critique of this place.’
Assuming that the house was for sale, Tabby relaxed, flattered that he should want her opinion, but secretly amused that he should have chosen the inappropriate word, ‘critique’ for a property that even at first glance seemed to possess every possible advantage. It enjoyed immense privacy, a swimming pool and a hillside setting blessed with panoramic views of the wonderful wooded countryside. The interior was even more impressive. Fascinated, she strolled from room to room. It was an old house that had been renovated with superb style. Rich, warm colour, antique and contemporary furniture melded in a timeless joining. French windows led out to cool stone terraces and finally to one where she was surprised to find a uniformed waiter stationed in apparent readiness to serve them beside a table already set with exquisite china and gleaming crystal glasses.