Rags To Riches: A Desire To Serve. Janice Maynard
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an hour north of here.” A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “A nationwide transportation strike stranded Mother there during one of her antique-hunting trips about five years ago. She used the downtime to buy a crumbling villa and turn it into a vacation resort for top-performing DI employees and their families.”
Grace had to grin. That sounded just like her employer. Correction, her mother-in-law. Delilah Dalton possessed more energy and drive than any six people her age.
“The place was occupied most recently by DI’s top three welding teams and their families,” he added casually. “But Madame LeBlanc indicated we’ll have it to ourselves for the next two weeks.”
Not so casually, Grace’s heart thumped hard against her ribs. The combustible mix of lust and longing she’d had to battle last night had been bad enough. How the heck was she going to get through the next two weeks? Alone. With Blake. Under the hot Provencal sun and starry, starry nights.
Slowly she sank into her seat.
A little over an hour later Blake turned off the autoroute onto a two-lane road shaded by towering sycamores. Their branches met overhead to form a green tunnel that stretched for miles. The rocky pinnacles of the Alpilles thrust out of the earth to the left of the road. Sun-drenched vineyards and olive groves rolled out on the right, flashing through the sycamores’ white, scaly trunks like a DVD run in fast-forward.
As delightful as the approach to Saint-Rémy was, the town itself enchanted Grace even more. Eighteenth-century mansions that Blake called hôtels lined the busy street encircling the town proper. Dolphins spouted in a fountain marking one quadrant of the circle, stone goddesses poured water from urns at another. In the pedestrians-only heart of the town, Grace caught glimpses of narrow lanes crammed with shops and open-air restaurants that invited patrons to sit and sip a cappuccino.
Blake noticed her craning her neck to peer down the intriguing alleyways. “We’ll have lunch in town,” he promised.
“I’d like that.”
She studied her groom as he negotiated the busy street. He fit perfectly against this elegant eighteenth-century backdrop, Grace decided. The corporate executive had shed his suit and tie but not his sophistication. Sunlight glinted on the sleek watch banding his wrist and the light dusting of golden hair on his forearm. The aviator sunglasses and hand-tailored shirt left open at the neck to show the tanned column of his throat only added to the image.
“Madame LeBlanc will meet us at Hôtel des Elmes,” he added as he skillfully wove through pedestrians, tourists and traffic.
She took a stab at a translation. “The Elms?”
“The Elms,” he confirmed. “It used to be called the Hôtel Saint Jacques. Legend has it that the original owner claimed to have invented, or at least improved on, the scallop dish named in Saint James’s honor.”
Grace had to think for a moment. “Aha! Coquilles St. Jacques!”
“Right. You’ll be pleased to know the current chef at the hôtel has followed in his predecessors’ footsteps. Auguste’s scallops au gratin will make you think you hear heavenly choirs.”
The easy banter took them up to a pair of tall, wrought-iron gates left open in anticipation of their arrival. Once inside, Grace understood instantly the inspiration for the villa’s new designation. Majestic elms that must have been planted more than a century ago formed a graceful arch above a crushed-stone drive. The curving drive wound through landscaped grounds dotted with statuary and vine-shaded arbors, then ended in a circle dominated by a twenty-foot fountain featuring bronze steeds spouting arcs of silvery water.
And looming beyond the fountain was a masterpiece in mellowed gray stone. The Hôtel des Elmes consisted of a three-story central wing, with two-story wings on each side. Wisteria vines softened its elaborate stone facade, drooping showy purple blossoms from wrought-iron trellises. Grace breathed in the purple blossoms’ spicy vanilla scent as Blake braked to a stop.
The front door opened before he’d killed the engine. The woman who emerged fit Grace’s mental image of the quintessential older French female—slender, charming, impossibly chic in silky black slacks and a cool linen blouse.
“Bienvenue à Saint-Rémy, Monsieur Blake.”
“It’s good to be back,” he replied in English.
After the obligatory cheek kissing, he introduced Grace. She must have been getting used to being presented as his wife. She barely squirmed when Madame LeBlanc grasped both her hands and offered a profuse welcome.
“I am most happy to meet you.” Madame’s smile took a roguish tilt. “Delilah has long despaired of getting her so-handsome sons to the altar. One can only imagine how thrilled she must be that Alex and Blake have taken brides within a month of each other. Quelle romantique!”
“Yes, well…”
Blake’s arm slid around Grace’s waist. “Trés romantique.”
His casual comment fed the fantasy of a honeymoon couple. Madame LeBlanc sighed her approval and handed him a set of tagged keys.
“As you instructed, the staff will not report until tomorrow, but Auguste has prepared several dishes should you wish them. They need only to be reheated. And the upstairs maid has made up the bed in the Green Suite and left for the rest of the day. You will not be disturbed.”
“Merci.”
If the villa’s grounds and exquisite eighteenth-century exterior evoked visions of aristocrats in silks and powered wigs, the interior had obviously been retrofitted for twenty-first-century visitors. Grace spotted high-tech security cameras above the doors and an alarm panel just inside the entryway that looked as if it would take an MIT grad to program. The brass-accented elevator tucked discreetly behind a screen of potted palms was also a modern addition.
While Grace peeked around, Blake carried in their few bags and deposited them in the marbled foyer. “Would you like the ten-cent tour, or would you rather go upstairs and rest for a while first?”
“The tour, please! Unless…” Guilt tripped her. “I’m sorry. I zoned out on the plane, but you didn’t. You’re probably aching for bed.”
Something shifted in his face. A mere ripple of skin across muscle and bone. Grace didn’t have time to interpret the odd look before he masked it.
“I’m good.” He made an exaggerated bow and swept an arm toward the central hall. “This way, madame.”
Grace soon lost count of the downstairs rooms. There was the petite salon, the grand salon, the music room, the library, the card room, an exquisitely mirrored ballroom and several banquet and eating areas in addition to the kitchens and downstairs powder rooms. Each contained a mix of antiques and ultramodern conveniences cleverly integrated into an elegant yet inviting whole. Even the painted porcelain sinks in the powder rooms evoked an eighteenth-century feel, and the copper-and-spice-filled kitchen could accommodate cooks of all ages and eras.
The pool house with its marble columns and bougainvillea-draped pergola was a Greek fantasy come to life. The shimmering turquoise water in the pool made Grace itch to shed her clothes on the spot and dive in. But when they went back inside again and started for the stairs to the second floor, it was the painting of deep purple irises displayed in a lighted alcove that stopped her dead.
“Ooooh!” Grace was no art expert, but even she could recognize a Van Gogh when it smacked her between the eyes. “I have a poster of this same painting in my bedroom.”
Blake paused behind her. “That’s one of my mother’s favorites, too. She donated the original to the Smithsonian’s Museum of Modern Art but had this copy commissioned for the villa.”
He was only an inch or two from her shoulder. So close she felt his breath wash warm and soft against her ear. The