“The rental car we were promised isn’t ready yet. Too many tourists were booked. Ginger is dealing with them now. It may be a while, so I phoned the château where we’ll be staying. Someone will come for you soon. I gave them a description of you. Just stay put. We can’t wait to see you!”
“Same here,” Abby said before hanging up.
Someone was coming to get her, but it could be a while. She reached for a quiche and savored every bite. In the distance, she took in the vision of gray stone walls and steep inclines covered by the famous Lavaux vineyards of the region. They were riddled with hiking trails, a sport the Swiss adored. So, did Abby. She loved the yellowish colors of the homes spotting the landscape.
How lucky she and the girls were to be the recipients of their boss’s largesse! Magda Collier, one of the most acclaimed female film directors in Hollywood had hired the three of them to do research for a movie being produced by a revered mogul friend of hers.
After the New Year, Magda had brought Abby and the girls together in Los Angeles for a week with some writers who were working on an important script. She wanted to create a historically authentic film that accentuated the positive aspects of the colorful life of Lord Byron, the famous British romantic poet and satirist.
They’d been thrilled about the project and had become friends.
Magda had assigned each of them a different area in Europe to do research, and Abby had been sent to Switzerland. Now, because of their “great work”—Magda’s words after they’d turned in their information—she’d delighted them with a reward. It turned out to be a vacation at a château and vineyard called the Clos de la Floraison on the shores of Lake Geneva. Nothing could have pleased them more.
Magda explained she had a permanent arrangement with the old owner of the vineyard. From time to time she used it for herself and guests to enjoy. They could stay there while they did all the touring they wanted around the region.
Since the three of them had to return to their teaching assignments for the upcoming fall semester, they planned to take advantage of this time together and sightsee to their hearts’ content.
As they had another month before going back to the US, Abby was also hoping to find evidence of a poem that Lord Byron had been rumored to write called Labyrinths, or some such title, while he’d been in Switzerland. But it was a work that had never seen the light of day and many experts dismissed it as sheer fiction. But Abby hadn’t given up on the possibility of finding out the truth, if it existed.
Recently a fragment of a memoir by Claire Clairmont, who’d traveled in Switzerland with Byron, had been found in a branch of New York public library. It had shed new light on Lord Byron and Shelley. What Abby would give to unearth a find equally sensational, but no amount of digging had been successful so far.
While Abby sat there beneath a sunny sky, wondering where else she and the girls might look while they were here for the month, she noticed a vintage black Renault drive up and park.
Out stepped a tall man, maybe early thirties, who stood fit and lean. With his overly long black wavy hair, he epitomized her idea of the quintessential drop-dead sensational male. She didn’t know such a person existed.
Only a Frenchman had that appeal, the kind she’d conjured in her mind and fantasized about from time to time growing up. He had an expression much like the one she’d seen on the French actor Charles Boyer who had played the lead in a famous old film classic The Garden of Allah.
Abby had been a teenager when she’d first watched it and had fallen in love with the actor. He played the part of a monk who ran away from a monastery in North Africa and fell in love with an Englishwoman. They went out in the desert together, but he carried a terrible secret.
At times his sadness combined with his male beauty was almost painful to watch. Abby had watched it over and over again. His performance had seemed so real that she always been haunted by him and had decided there was no Frenchman alive more captivating.
Until now.
Abby couldn’t take her eyes off the stranger, something that had never happened to her before, not with Nigel or the boyfriend she’d loved earlier in her life. There was a brooding aura about him that caught at her emotions though she fought not to be attracted.
Who was he? Where had such a man come from?
Abby felt as if he was burdened by a great weight. It was there in the way he carried himself. The lines radiating from his eyes and around his mouth spelled pain. His work clothes, a white shirt with the sleeves shoved up to the elbows and dark trousers, told her he’d stopped whatever he’d been doing to get in his car and drive here.
This was the magnificent someone who’d come for her?
His bronzed complexion, close to a teak color, overlay chiseled features. The man worked in the sun. Beneath black brows his midnight-black eyes met hers and roved over her with an intensity that sent a ripple of sensation through her. She trembled for no good reason, something she couldn’t prevent.
There was an unrehearsed sensuality about the way his hard mouth smiled almost derisively, as if he knew she’d shivered slightly and found it amusing. Even though he’d caught her staring, she refused to avert her eyes. Her pulse raced as he approached her.
“Mademoiselle Grant?”
Those two words, spoken in a deep seductive voice, curled their way through to her insides. She heard no trace of the singsong French spoken in this part of Switzerland. He was a Frenchman down to every atom of his hard-muscled body.
“Yes. You must be from La Floraison.”
He nodded. “I was told to look for a woman with golden hair.” His excellent, heavily accented English came as a shock.
“You have the advantage. They didn’t tell me your name.”
“Raoul Decorvet.”
“I thought Magda’s friend was a great deal older.”