Was there a difference between the way a man held a woman’s hand and the way a father held his daughter’s hand? Was it even something any woman could sense? When Norbert took my hand, I didn’t feel anything other than that he wanted to lead me into the house. In fact, I didn’t think he held me firmly enough to keep my hand from slipping out of his unless I held his tighter.
I didn’t see any wedding ring on his finger, but of course, he could have a girlfriend, maybe even be engaged. Or maybe women weren’t his choice. What I didn’t want to do was start asking him personal questions and give him the impression that I was interested in him. Despite his good looks, I was still too much in a daze to think about anything romantic. Everything had happened so fast and continued to happen fast.
He took me around front so we could enter the villa by going up the stone steps, pausing at the front balcony, where we had an unobstructed view of the Mediterranean. There were two chaise longues and a table with six chairs. The table had an umbrella. Sprinkled across the vista were sailboats, motorboats, and that luxury liner we had seen in Nice moving slowly against the horizon. Now it looked still, more like a piece on a movie set. In fact, I had arrived so fast and it all looked so unreal I felt as if I really had wandered into a movie.
“There is a path that leads down to the shore,” Norbert said, “where there is a small dock and where Mrs. Brittany’s boat is usually kept, but it’s being serviced at the moment.”
“Beautiful view,” I said.
“Yes, one of the best in this area. Well, let me show you the house.”
We entered the villa. It was simply furnished with traditional French country antiques, and the tiled and wooden floors looked brand spanking new. Ian and Margery were carrying my luggage up the short, slightly winding stairway.
“Downstairs you have the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, an exercise room, and the downstairs bathroom,” Norbert catalogued as he led me about.
The living and dining rooms were bright and airy, and the kitchen looked updated, with beige granite counters. The exercise room had some weight equipment, a treadmill, a large ball like the one Lance had shown me how to use, and a stationary bike.
“The three bedrooms are upstairs. You’ll have the guest bedroom on the right. Mrs. Brittany’s room is in the middle, and there is a second guest bedroom on the left. All have en suite bathrooms.”
“It’s very nice,” I said, gazing at the paintings of French villages and countryside scattered on every available wall.
“Comfortable, cozy,” he said. “The pool is right out those sliding doors, where you will find a patio, chairs and chaise longues, and umbrellas. Mrs. Brittany wanted me to give you a day or so to settle in and then come around and take you perhaps up to Èze first. It’s a small village with cobblestone walks, shops, and restaurants. At the top is a garden, an
d the views are spectacular. We can have a nice lunch there.
“Next week, there is a concert at the Auditorium Rainier III in Monte Carlo. The Saint Petersburg Philharmonic will be performing. Mrs. Brittany says you shouldn’t miss it.”
“Merci,” I said. “Then I won’t.”
“Let me show you to your suite,” he said, and indicated that I should go first to the stairway.
Margery was putting away my things. Ian was hanging up my clothes. It was half the size of my suite at the estate but elegantly appointed, with patio doors that opened to a private balcony. The bed was king-size but without a canopy or posts.
“It’s very beautiful,” I said, and walked onto the patio. Norbert followed and stood just behind me as I looked out at the sea. “It will be easy to relax here,” I said, mostly to myself.
“I’m sure. You are from New York?”
“Yes,” I said, turning to him. “Were you born in France?”
“Yes, Normandy. My parents moved to Monte Carlo when I was just twelve. Since I resided in Monaco for more than ten years, I was able to apply for citizenship, but I wasn’t approved until I began to work for the royal family, so that is another reason I am grateful to my godmother.”
“Mrs. Brittany does have influence in many places,” I said.
“I don’t think she subscribes to the philosophy of ‘It doesn’t matter what you know but who you know,’ however,” he said. “She still wants to see people earn what they get.”
“As we say in the States, you have to make your bones with Mrs. Brittany.”
“?‘Make your bones,’?” he repeated, smiling. “I like that. Is there anything I can get for you, do for you, at the moment?” he asked.
“I think I’m pretty much set,” I said. “Merci.”
“You shouldn’t eat your first dinner alone here,” he said. “With your permission, I’ll return with someone to join you.”
“Absolument, s’il vous plaît,” I said. He was right. I didn’t want to be left alone so quickly.
“I’ll inform Margery,” he said. “She’s a very good cook. I’d advise you to get some rest. Jet lag can be sneaky.” He started to leave the room and paused. “You’re sure you’re up to company? We can wait until tomorrow night. It was a long journey for you.”
“I’m fine. I did sleep some on the plane. Besides, I don’t know what time it is, and I have a feeling I don’t want to know,” I said.