French Escape. Barbara McMahon
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more. He certainly was not out to impress her or anyone else.
“Then why are you at my inn instead of a five-star place in another town?”
“I want what you’re offering—peace, quiet and an excellent vantage point to scale Les Calanques.” Not the nightlife Paul loved. That he and Marabelle had once loved.
The fact his innkeeper piqued his curiosity was a turn he had not expected. It had been twenty-four months, two weeks and four days since he’d found his interest captivated by anything.
Now that she knew who he was, how long before she changed her attitude toward him? He wished he’d kept his mouth shut! No one needed to know his own tragedy. Sympathy was wasted; it didn’t change anything.
“Alexandre, time for bed.” Jeanne-Marie calmly took her son’s hand when he ran over and began walking toward the inn, cutting obliquely across the sand to reach it sooner than walking along the water’s edge.
She didn’t say another word to him as he kept pace with them. Once in the inn, she went directly back to their private quarters with only a brief word of goodnight.
Matt stood in the lounge watching the closed door for several seconds after she firmly shut it. Of all the reactions he’d anticipated, that had not even been on the list.
“Do you need something, monsieur?” the teen behind the desk asked.
“Insight into women,” he said.
“Pardon?”
“Never mind.” Matt took the stairs two at a time, wondering what exactly had caused him to choose this inn. And why the innkeeper would spark an interest in an otherwise gray world.
JEANNE-MARIE rose early the next morning to prepare breakfast for her guests—starting with Matthieu Sommer, millionaire extraordinaire and daredevil climber. She knew enough about the wine business, and the Sommer name, to know the normal circles he traveled in were far removed from her family inn. If there was anything further to prove that she needed to keep her distance from this guest, learning that about him provided it.
She’d felt vaguely sad all evening, due to learning about his own wife and son’s deaths. How horrible to lose a wife, but even more devastating to lose his son. She didn’t know how she’d go on if something happened to Alexandre. Poor man. Truly all the money in the world couldn’t bring back a loved one.
The fresh warm croissants waited in a basket, and she pulled the pain de raisin from the oven, taking in the delicious cinnamony fragrance as she turned it out onto a cooling rack. Cooking soothed her and brought her joy. She was glad her guests liked her offerings.
“It smells as good as the bakery in here,” Matt said from the doorway.
She looked up and frowned. “If you sit at one of the tables in the dining area, I’ll bring your breakfast out in a moment.” She’d set the tables the night before to save one step in the morning. The two tables by the windows overlooked the garden. As he was first down, he’d have his choice of places in the dining area.
“This is fine.” He crossed the floor and sat at their small family table by the windows in the nook. She frowned at his presumption. This was family space. Still, it was early—maybe he didn’t want to sit alone in the dining room if she was working here. She could more easily make sure he had everything he needed.
Setting a basket of assorted warm breads and croissants on the table, she asked if he preferred coffee or hot chocolate, annoyed at her rationalization.
“Chocolate. Extra sugar and energy,” he said.
Jeanne-Marie brought an assortment of jams and jellies and placed them on the table. “I’ll have your drink ready in a moment.”
She returned to preparing more bread for her other guests, keeping an eye on the baguettes baking. Timing was not as easy with one guest eating well in advance of the others, but some of the breads would be just as good cold as hot, and she always had plenty left over to use for the box lunches.
She did her best to ignore her unwanted visitor. Normally she had the kitchen to herself. Alexandre didn’t waken until eight most mornings. She loved the quiet time preparing the breakfasts and enjoying her own cup of chocolate. Today she felt self-conscious with Matt’s dark eyes tracking her every move.
“The more I learn about you, the more I’m convinced you’re not making the most of your talent,” he said.
She flicked him a glance. “Like what?” she asked.
“Your meals are fantastic. You could make a fortune opening a restaurant.”
“I told you, I like my life the way it is. It’s not all about making money.”
“Money is always helpful.”
Stopping for a moment, she looked at him. “Money can buy things. If things are what you want. It can’t buy back a lost life.”
That was true. He’d give all his fortune for things to have turned out differently two years ago. Had he been driving, would his reflexes have been better than Marabelle’s? Could the accident have been avoided?
She couldn’t help flicking a glance his way from time to time. His eyes met hers each time. Didn’t he have someplace else to look? The view wasn’t as good as from the dining room window, but he could see the garden if he sat in another chair.
“So today you again risk life and limb,” she commented, wanting the topic to shift from her.
“Hardly. Merely a climb.” His eyes studied her speculatively.
Jeanne-Marie felt her heart skip a beat. Frowning, she turned slightly so looking up wouldn’t mean she’d instantly meet his gaze.
“If you climbed to the top yesterday, you saw the view. What drives you today? “
“Today I take on a different climb.”
She shrugged. “Same view from the top.”
“Have you ever seen it?”
She nodded. “Sure, many times. There’s an access road that winds along the top of Les Calanques. The scenery is spectacular. And that’s a much safer way to see it.”
“But not as challenging.”
“Perhaps men and women are wired differently. I have no desire to spend hours clinging to a sheer face of rock.”
“What do you like spending hours doing?” he asked.
She looked up, smiling shyly. “I love to bake. And so I indulge myself with homemade breads and rolls and sometimes a special dessert I can serve for special occasions like La Victoire de 1945 coming up.”
The buzzer sounded. The last of the breads was finished. She lined the bread baskets with fresh linen napkins and began dishing jellies and jams into individual serving bowls to place on each table. In twenty minutes, she’d begin brewing the coffee and make sure she had lots of chocolate ready for those who wished that.
Daring to find out more about her guest, she took her own mug of hot chocolate and leaned against the kitchen island looking at him as she sipped the fragrant beverage. “Do you have family who wonders why you climb?” she asked.
“Of course I have family. And a cousin who often goes with me. Not everyone dies who climbs.”
“I know that. Phillipe’s father actually taught him. It was an activity they enjoyed together. But he wasn’t on the K2 climb that proved fatal.”
“Lots of people climb for the sheer exhilaration, not just men. And most never have a more serious mishap than scraped knuckles or at worst a broken bone,” he said. He rose and carried his mug across the kitchen, ending up close