Lynne Graham's Brides of L'Amour Bundle

‘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.

‘Lunch,’ Christien explained with the utmost casualness as he pulled out a seat for her occupation. ‘I don’t know about you but I am very hungry. I usually eat at one.’

Tabby sank down and watched the waiter pour the wine. ‘I thought this house belonged to someone else and you were thinking of buying it.’

A broad shoulder lifted in a fluid shrug. ‘No, it’s already mine but I’ve never been here before,’ he admitted. ‘Property is an excellent investment and I buy most of it through advisors sight unseen.’

‘I can’t imagine owning a house and not being curious enough to come and see it,’ she admitted, reminded more than she liked of the vast material differences between them, something she had airily ignored and refused to consider important when she had first known him.

Over a sublime meal of endive salad followed by delicate lamb cutlets that melted in her mouth and a blackberry tart, Christien entertained her with stories of the rich history of the locality before moving on to describe the beautiful, tranquil water meadows of the Sologne as a nature lover’s paradise. It was a hot, sultry afternoon and the sky was a deep, intense blue. Far across the lush valley she could see the fanciful turrets of one of the many châteaux in the area. Only birdsong challenged the silence and it was idyllic.

‘You haven’t offered a single opinion on this place yet,’ Christien commented.

‘It’s fantastic…you’ve got to know that.’ Tabby nibbled at her lower lip, colour lighting her cheeks as she squirmed on the acknowledgement that her standards might well lie far below his. ‘But then, of course…I don’t know what you’re looking for.’

‘What pleases you, ma belle.’ Christien captured and held her startled upward glance. ‘That’s all I seek.’

Meeting those rich dark eyes framed by black spiky lashes, she could hardly breathe for the pure bolt of longing that shot through her and tightened her skin over her bones. Almost giddy with the force of her response to him, she took a second or two to register what he had just said.

‘What pleases…me?’ Tabby echoed, uncertain of his meaning.

In a graceful movement, Christien rose upright and stretched out a lean brown hand in invitation. ‘Let’s take another tour…’

He walked her slowly through the house again, but only on a superficial level was she appreciating the beautiful rooms and the stupendous outlook from every window. Her thoughts were in turmoil. Was he asking her to live with him here in this fabulous house? Why else would he care what pleased her in the property stakes? She sucked in a quivering breath in an effort to steady herself, but a wild burst of joy was thrilling through her.

‘You like it here…don’t you?’ he prompted.

‘Who wouldn’t?’ Tabby was so scared that she had picked him up wrong that she vented a discomfited laugh

‘It might be too quiet for some, but it strikes me as the perfect environment for an artist. Peaceful and inspiring,’ Christien murmured huskily.

It was little more than twenty-four hours since she had arrived in France. Could her eminently sensible and practical Christien be so impulsive? Could he have decided so quickly that he wanted to recapture what they had shared almost four years earlier? Did he, like

her, feel bitter at the events that had driven them apart? Was he as greedy as she was to make up for lost time?

Tabby focused on the bottle of champagne in the ice bucket sitting on an occasional table and belatedly took note of the reality that he had chosen to stage the dialogue in the main bedroom. Coincidence? She didn’t think so. She tried not to smile at how he planned even romantic gestures for she did not want to offend his pride. At seventeen she had once told him angrily that he had no romance in his soul at all and he had made extraordinary efforts to prove her wrong with surprise gifts and flowers and holding hands without anything more physical in mind. But she had always recognised the cold-blooded, purposeful planning it took for him to make an effort to do anything he saw as an essential waste of time.

‘This property is also very convenient to Paris where I spend most of my working week.’ As if to stress that leading declaration, Christien drew her back against his lean, muscular length.