Praise for Barbara McMahon:

“Barbara McMahon takes a simple love story—

employer falls for employee—and turns it into

a tale filled with romance, heartache and love.

While the basis for this novel may be timeless, the

issues both Caitlin and Zack face are enough to give

this novel the feeling it has never been done before.

These two characters rock!”

—www.loveromancesandmore.webs.com

on Caitlin’s Cowboy

“A great story, The Tycoon Prince is fit for any woman (and perhaps a few men) who wish they’d kissed a few less frogs and had more princes sweep them off their feet!” —www.aromancereview.com

“A fresh spin on some tried-and-true plot elements

makes this story work beautifully—and its outspoken,

honest heroine is a delight.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Daredevil Tycoon

“Would you read me a story tonight?” little Alexandre asked Matt, slipping his hand into the man’s larger one.

It was startling. The child was without pretension. He said whatever came into his mind. Holding his hand, Matt was swept away with a feeling of protectiveness toward the boy.

How unfair life had been, losing his father when so young. Who would teach him how to be a man?

The sun had set only moments before. Twilight afforded plenty of light to see. The soft murmur of wavelets against the sand was soothing. Stars had not yet appeared but undoubtedly would before they reached the inn. With Alexandre between them, each holding one of his hands, Matt thought how like a family they must appear.

The thought came more and more frequently. He railed against it. He was on holiday. That was all. Looking over at Jeanne-Marie, he was struck by her air of serenity. Content with her life, happy with her child, she cast a spell over him. He wanted that serenity, that contentment.

About the Author

BARBARA MCMAHON was born and raised in the south USA, but settled in California after spending a year flying around the world for an international airline. After settling down to raise a family and work for a computer firm, she began writing when her children started school. Now, feeling fortunate in being able to realise a long-held dream of quitting her ‘day job’ and writing full time, she and her husband have moved to the Sierra Nevada mountains of California, where she finds her desire to write is stronger than ever. With the beauty of the mountains visible from her windows, and the pace of life slower than the hectic San Francisco Bay Area where they previously resided, she finds more time than ever to think up stories and characters and share them with others through writing.

Barbara loves to hear from readers. You can reach her at PO Box 977, Pioneer, CA 95666-0977, USA. Readers can also contact Barbara at her website: www.barbaramcmahon.com

From Daredevil to Devoted Daddy

Barbara McMahon

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

THE SOFT SIGHING of the sea as it kissed the shore should have soothed Jeanne-Marie Rousseau, but it did not. She stared at the expanse of the Mediterranean sparkling in front of her. The sun was high overhead in a cloudless sky. The sweep of beach at her doorstep was pristine white, dotted here and there with sun worshippers on colorful towels. To a stranger, it appeared a perfect relaxing retreat. Off the beaten track, St. Bartholomeus was an ideal spot for those seeking respite from the hectic frenetic pace of modern life. To live here year-round would be the dream of many.

To Jeanne-Marie, it was home. Sometimes joyful, but today it held a lingering hint of sadness.

Today was the third anniversary of her husband’s death. She still missed him with an ache that never seemed to ease. Intermingled with that was anger, however, at the careless way he’d treated life—risking his safety every time he went climbing. Now, not even thirty, she was a widow, a single mother and the owner of an inn in a locale that was thousands of miles from her family. She shook her head, trying to dispel her melancholy thoughts. She had much to be grateful for and her choice of residence was hers to make. She shouldn’t second-guess her decision over and over. But sometimes she just plain missed American food, family discussions and longtime friends she saw too infrequently.

Yet this small strip of land reminded her so much of Phillipe, she couldn’t bear to leave it. They’d spent several holidays together, enjoying the sea and exploring the small village. Or just sitting together on the wide veranda and watching the sunset, content to be together, never suspecting it wouldn’t last forever.

And for him there had been the added attraction of Les Calanques, the cliffs that offered daily climbing challenges to men and women from all over Europe.

Her son, Alexandre, was napping. She was alone with her memories and homesickness. She took a moment to sit on the veranda, remembering happier days. The worst of her grief had long passed. Now she could think about their life together, mourn his death and get on with the practicalities of living.

She would have returned to America after Phillipe’s death, but she wanted her son to know his grandparents. Alexandre was all Phillipe’s parents had of their only child, except for the photographs taken through the years. Her own parents came to visit annually. They spent lots of time via computers between their trips. And they had six other grandchildren. The Rousseaus only had Alexandre.

And it wasn’t as if she didn’t love France. It had been her lifelong desire when younger to attend school here and maybe even work for a while. She’d not planned on falling in love with a dashing Frenchman. But love had won out and she’d been living in France for more than a decade now. Those first years of marriage had been so marvelous.

What prompted a man to risk limb and life time and again just for thrills? she asked herself for the millionth time. Challenging himself, he’d so often called it. Scaling mountains with flimsy ropes and gadgets to minimize damage to the rock. As if a mountain would care.

Living with a loving family was enough for her. She’d never understood Phillipe’s passion, though he’d tried often enough to enlist her in it. Idly she remembered the trips around Europe, always with a mountain to climb as the destination. The few times she’d tried it, scared and inept, but wanting so much to be with him, she’d only caused him to become impatient and demanding. It had ended up being better for him to go on his own and leave her to her own devices.

She swung her gaze to the right—Les Calanques, the limestone cliffs that afforded daily challenges to those who liked free climbing. The spectacular scenery of the sea and coast viewed from the cliffs added to their attraction. Of all the places for her to end up—where rock climbers from around the world came. Or at least those who didn’t want to stay in Marseilles for the nightlife. It was quiet as a tomb in St. Bart most nights.

Phillipe had been a dedicated climber, not for him the wild parties that could impair performance the next day. Many shared his philosophy.

She was grateful for that, she thought, idly studying the play of light and shadows on the nearby cliff. Not every single mother had the means to earn a living and remain with her son full-time. And realistically she knew not everyone who went climbing fell to his death. It still remained a mystery to her why people dared life and limb to scale a cliff.

Well, there were other things in life she didn’t understand. Her moment of introspection was over. Now it was time to get ready for the influx of guests arriving in the next few hours. Seven new reservations would fill her small inn. Business boomed in the summer months, with rarely a single room vacant more than one night. She was frugal and thrifty and managed her money well. While not wealthy by any means, she and her son were definitely comfortable.

She wanted fresh flowers in each of the rooms when her guests arrived. And she’d replenish the flowers in the rooms of those who had already checked in a couple of days ago. All the rooms had already been cleaned and made up with fresh linens. Last-minute touches remained. She’d deal with bittersweet memories another time. She had guests to prepare for.

Two hours later Jeanne-Marie perched on the high stool behind the mahogany counter at the side of the lounge and looked across the open room. Comfortable sofas and chairs were grouped for conversations. Her son played happily in the sunny spot near one of the open French doors. His two small cars and toy truck gave him endless hours of entertainment. Later, after the last guest had checked in, she’d take him for a swim. The sun was lower in the sky now, flooding the front of the inn, making it just a bit too warm, but she had not yet lowered the outdoor curtains that shaded the wide veranda. She wanted the guests’ first impression of the inn to be the best and it looked beautiful when lit by the sun. Every speck of wood glowed with polish. The marble floor gleamed without a trace of the sand that was the bane of her existence. The comfy furnishings begged for travelers to sit and rest. The lounge chairs on the wide veranda in front beckoned with the view of the sea.

She heard a car and looked expectantly to the front. Only her solo male guest remained to check in. Once that was taken care of, she’d be fairly free for the rest of the day.

Glancing out of one of the floor-to-ceiling French doors that lined the front of the inn, she waited. Several were open for the afternoon breeze. She could hear the car door shut, the crush of footsteps on the gravel.

He stepped into view, but instead of coming directly into the inn, he turned on the veranda to survey the sea, then the cliffs that rose to the right.

The counter was set to one side, unobtrusive, not easily seen from the veranda—but offering her a perfect view of the man. He carried himself with an arrogant assurance that usually rubbed her the wrong way. Frenchmen thought highly of themselves. Though this man had reason to. He was a bit over six feet, with broad shoulders, long legs. His dark hair shone in the afternoon sunshine; cut short, it still couldn’t disguise the hint of curl. She’d bet he’d been adorable as a child—and all the fawning over him had probably gone straight to his head.

She checked her reservation information. No wife or child with him. Was he married? Or too busy being the superlative male to settle for any one woman? From her vantage point, she could admire as long as she wished. He wouldn’t see her.

The soft-sided suitcase he carried wasn’t large. He had booked the room for a week. As she watched him turn to study the cliffs along the sea’s edge, she knew with certainty he’d come to scale them. She could picture him on the cliffs—his fit and trim body easily meeting the demands of muscles and sinews as fingers lifted his body, toes found infinitesimal crevices to wedge in until he stretched out for another handhold.

She straightened the sign-in card, placing the pen across it, and waited. Despite her best intentions, she couldn’t look away. His shoulders were wide, his arms looked well defined. Upper body strength was a must for those who challenged the face of unforgiving stone. When he turned to step into the inn, she caught a glimpse of his firm lips and strong jaw. His dark eyes scanned the area and rested for a split second on her son. With a hint of a frown, he looked around and found her.

The assertive way he strode across the lounge held her attention. Confident, assured, here was a man used to dealing with life and coming out on top. His cleanshaven jaw was firm, hinting at stubborn determination. His dark eyes flashed appreciation when he saw her and she felt more conscious of being a woman than at any time in the past several years. She wished she had taken time to brush her hair and freshen her lipstick.

Foolishness, she chided herself as she watched him approach. A small skip of her heart surprised her. He was just a guest. No one special. Just amazingly handsome. Curiosity rose. She wondered what he did for a living—he could have been a film actor or male model—except he looked too unaware of his looks to trade on them.

“Bonjour,” he said.

“Monsieur Sommer?” she asked, refusing to let herself be captivated by the rugged masculinity, the deep voice or the slight air of distance that enveloped him. When he met her gaze, his dark eyes hid secrets, hinted at pain. That surprised her. Who was he? She wanted to know more.

“You have my reservation,” he said. His voice was melodious, deep and rich.

Looking down she couldn’t help imagining that voice in her ear at night, telling secrets or talking of love.

“Of course.” She slid the card forward for him to sign as every sense went on alert. She was not a woman to have fantasies. Where were those images coming from? She caught a whiff of his aftershave and it caused an involuntary reaction of longing. Too long alone, that’s all. Squelching her reactions, she kept her gaze on his hands as he boldly scrawled his name. They were strong, scarred here and there, which only made him more interesting. His attire suggested a businessman, his manner a wild and freely roaming adventurer. Curiosity rose another notch despite her best intention. She usually had little curiosity about her guests. But this man had her intrigued in spite of herself.

“Can you recommend a good place for dinner?” he asked, laying down the pen.

“Le Chat Noir,” Alexandre said, coming to stand near the man. “Hi, I’m Alexandre. I live here.”

Next to him, her son looked so small. He was already five and growing like crazy, but had a long way to go if he would ever be as tall as Matthieu Sommer.

He looked down at Alexandre, staring for a long moment before saying, “And is that a very good place?”

Her son smiled and nodded emphatically. “Whenever we go out for a treat we eat at Le Chat Noir. It’s Mama’s favorite.”

“Then it must be good. The women, they always know the best places,” Monsieur Sommer said gravely.

Alexandre beamed at his response.

Jeanne-Marie was pleased that the man had made the effort to take her son seriously. Alexandre was definitely in need of a male role model. She wished her brother Tom lived nearby. Or her father. Or her cousins. He had his grandfather, of course, but he was so much older and beginning to find a small boy taxing to be around for long.

Matthieu looked back at her. “So, your favorite?” he asked.

“Oui. It is excellent and affordable. You might wish to try Les Trois Filles en Pierre. It has a magnificent view of the three stone formations they call the maidens. I assume you’re here to climb.” She tried to keep her tone neutral, but knew a hint of curiosity crept in.

“I am. I hear the cliffs are challenging and the views incomparable.” He studied her for a moment, his head tilted slightly. “Any recommendations?”

She shrugged. “Don’t kill yourself.”

“My dad fell off a mountain.” Alexandre obviously wanted to chime in. Jeanne-Marie wished she hadn’t spoken. “He would have taught me to climb mountains. Do you know how?”

“It was a long time ago, Alexandre. I’m sure Monsieur Sommer will be extra careful. We don’t tell our guests our family situation,” she said gently.

Matthieu Sommer inclined his head once, his gaze moving from her to her son and back again. She wondered what was going through his mind.

“I’ve given you room six. It’s a corner room with a view of Les Calanques.” She handed him a key and gestured to the wide stairs along the wall. “To the top and left,” she said.

“Merci.” He lifted his bag with no effort and soon was lost from sight.

Jeanne-Marie sighed a breath of relief. Meeting her disturbing new guest had caused dozens of emotions to clamor forth. She preferred families with small children to sexy single men who believed they could conquer the world. Especially when just looking at them affected her equilibrium. Too long alone, that’s all.

What caused the pain that lurked in his eyes? Why had he come to quiet St. Bart when she’d expect a man like him to choose a luxury place in Marseilles?

She studied the registration card for a long moment, as if his name and address could give her any insights. Sighing in defeat, she filed the card and tried to put her latest guest out of her mind.

Rene, the student who worked evenings, would arrive soon. She’d give him an update on their guests and then be free to take Alexandre for that swim. As she waited for Rene to arrive, her thoughts returned to Matthieu Sommer. He looked to be about thirty-five. Too old not to be married. Maybe his wife didn’t share his climbing enthusiasm. That Jeanne-Marie could understand. But when Phillipe had gone climbing, she usually went along and stayed in the village or town nearest the mountain to enjoy the local amenities and be near him when he wasn’t climbing. So, was the delectable Frenchman single or just vacationing solo?

Matt Sommer entered room six and glanced around as he tossed his bag on the bed. It was spacious, with high ceilings, windows that went to the floor and a view that didn’t quit. Fresh flowers brightened the dresser. He took note of the efforts the innkeeper had gone to, but she could have saved her time. A room was merely a place to sleep for him. When he could sleep, that was.

He crossed to the window and gazed at the cliffs he’d come to climb. A friend had recommended they challenge themselves with Les Calanques, but Paul had wanted to stay in Marseilles, and Matt knew that meant constant party time at night, not at all conducive to serious climbing in the morning. Man against nature, with unforgiving demands that allowed no room for error. He did it to escape. For a short while, his mind freed from the past, he’d pit his skill against the rocks. Brief respites from the unrelenting memories. He was prudent enough when climbing to know he wasn’t trying to get killed. But if something happened, so be it. It would be no more than he deserved.

He’d booked the room in this quiet village for a week and planned to do some free climbing with or without Paul. His friend was welcome to the nightlife in Marseilles. Spring was a quiet time at the vineyard. For the next week he was on his own. No one from his family knew where to find him. He’d instructed his PA to contact him only in the case of an emergency—a real emergency.

He studied the rocky crags for a long moment, then turned to survey the space he would inhabit for the next few days. Clean and fresh were the adjectives that sprang to mind. The bed was piled with pillows and a duvet with a pristine white cover. The sheers at the windows billowed slightly in the sea breeze. He could leave the windows open at night and hear the soft lapping of waves. The sun shone in, below the angle of the roof. It could get warm if closed up, but the proprietress obviously knew how to cater to her clientele. The room was charming with local artwork on the walls and two comfortable chairs near the side windows. He sank into one chair and regarded the bed for a moment. If he let himself, he could imagine what Marabelle would have thought of the room. But he wouldn’t give in. She was gone. Yet he knew she’d have found the place charming and been delighted to be staying by the sea.

Pushing himself up, he made quick work of putting his clothes away in the armoire against one wall. Time to explore the small town and maybe pick up some information on the best climbs. The small village nestled in one of the inlets of Les Calanques had appeared quaint enough as he’d driven through. Originally a fishing village, it had opened up to tourists some decades ago, yet still retained its roots. The main part of town flanked the marina and hugged the curving inlet.

The inn was older than he’d expected. How had the young widow become its owner, he wondered. She was pretty and friendly enough. A necessary attribute of an innkeeper, he was sure.

Madame Rousseau seemed far too young to be widowed. Not that there was a certain age that made it suitable. Her son was cute. Did she realize how lucky she was? He’d give anything if his son were still alive.

Matt’s own son had burned in the car crash that had killed both him and his mother. A car Marabelle had been driving when Matt should have been at the wheel. He fought the anguish. Nothing would ever ease the pain. The rest of his family had rallied around, but couldn’t get through to him much as they tried. No one understood. They offered platitudes, but no one had experienced the same kind of loss. The kind that ripped a heart into shreds and never relented.

The woman downstairs might understand. To a degree. How did she cope?

He wondered if the innkeeper’s family had offered the same platitudes when her husband had died. Had it helped? Or had she just wanted everyone to go away and leave her alone with her grief?

Not that he cared. So she was pretty. Marabelle had been beautiful. Love had come swiftly and ended in an instant.

He was here to try the kind of activities he’d once loved—and to forget, if only for a few hours at a time.

“Time to get ready for dinner,” Jeanne-Marie called to Alexandre later in the afternoon.

“I don’t want to,” he said, scuffing along at the water’s edge. His small footprints on the wet sand made her smile. One day he’d be taller than her and his footprint would be larger, too.

She joined him and ruffled his hair. “Too bad. We need to eat soon or you’ll be finishing dessert in your jammies.”

He laughed, clutching his cars close. “We can’t eat in our jammies. Can we eat at Le Chat Noir? I’m hungry for some of their food.”

“I had planned salad and soup for dinner.” Jeanne-Marie gathered their towels, slipping on the cover-up over her bathing suit for modesty’s sake. She didn’t bother with her shoes; they’d brush their feet off on the veranda and scoot to their quarters.

“Please, Mama. It’s a special day. The inn is full, I heard you say. And that’s always a good thing.”

It was her turn to laugh at his mimicking what she’d said to her friend Madeline. “Yes, it is a good thing. So perhaps we could celebrate with dinner out. But not until you wash that sand off your feet and change into dry clothes!” He didn’t even know it was the anniversary of his father’s death. She was glad in one way, but mourned how little Alexandre would ever remember about his father. Phillipe had loved him so.

With a yell of glee, he took off running toward the inn. Jeanne-Marie followed, keeping enough behind to let him win. They stomped on the veranda and brushed the worst of the sand from their feet. Alexandre scampered into the lounge and through to the back where their quarters were. She wished she could motivate him this way all the time. She nodded to the student staffing the front desk. Jeanne-Marie relished the few free hours each day Rene’s being here gave her.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“Quiet as ever,” Rene responded. He was a bit of a bookworm and always had some book in his hand. Yet he could handle requests with efficiency and expediency. Probably to keep time away from reading to a minimum.

“We’re going out for an early dinner,” she said.

He nodded, returning to his book.

By the time Alexandre had had a quick rinse and was into fresh clothes and she’d showered, it was after six. Most people in town didn’t eat this early, but she liked him in bed by eight, so an early dinner was their norm. Walking down the sidewalk to the heart of the village, the sea to their right, she relished the lingering warmth of the afternoon. It was only early May, but warm enough to swim or lie in the sun as the tourists did. Their little town would fill up before the end of the month. Then for the rest of the summer the town would be transformed from the sleepy fishing village to a fast and furious tourist spot as it expanded to its limit with visitors from all over.

When they reached Le Chat Noir, Jeanne-Marie reached for the door handle just as Alex yelled, “There’s one of our guests!”

Glancing up, she saw Matthieu Sommer almost upon them. She caught her breath again at the sight of him. He was definitely walking their way. Tentatively she smiled as she pulled on the door. He’d obviously taken Alexandre’s recommendation.

He reached around her, put out his hand to catch the door and gestured for them to enter ahead of him.

“I’m taking your advice and trying this place for dinner,” he said as they stepped into the restaurant.

After the sunshine, it took a minute for her eyes to become used to the dimmer illumination. She nodded while holding on to Alexandre’s hand. “I think you’ll enjoy it.”

“Are you going to eat with us?” her son piped up.

“No,” she said quickly. Then realizing how rude it sounded, she gave Monsieur Sommer a shaky smile. “I’m sure Monsieur Sommer would not be interested in sharing a table with a five-year-old.”

He inclined his head slightly. “I’m not the best company,” he said.

Jeanne-Marie nodded and turned to the maître d’ as he greeted her.

“Just you and Alexandre?” he asked.

“Oui.” She glanced at her guest. “Enjoy your dinner.” She was not disappointed he chose not to eat with her. She and her guests rarely mixed. And a businessman here to climb would not be interested in the chatter of a little boy. Still, she wished he’d overridden her comment and said he’d like to eat with her, with them. Though, she’d have been a nervous wreck before the first course.

She and Alexandre were seated at one of the best tables on the patio, the place almost empty. Only two other tables were occupied and far enough away that Jeanne-Marie couldn’t hear the occupants, who were talking quietly.

Opening the menu, she took a moment to study the items, already knowing what she and Alexandre always ordered, but looking anyway.

A moment later Matthieu Sommer was seated at a table nearby. Suddenly aware of his presence she tried to keep her eyes on the menu. Fortunately he’d been seated with his back toward her, so she wouldn’t have to look up and find him watching her. But she couldn’t help taking a glance his way now and then. What was it about him that intrigued her so much? He wasn’t particularly friendly. Keep your distance was more like the vibe he sent out. Granted, he was a handsome man, but arrogant. She didn’t know if she liked him or not, but he certainly had captured her interest.

“I want the chicken,” Alex said, kicking his feet against his chair.

“As always. And I’ll have the quiche.”

“As always,” he mimicked, grinning up at his mother.

Jeanne-Marie closed the menu and put it on the table. She glanced at Matthieu Sommer studying his menu. Wistfully she wished she’d asked him to join them. Not that he’d want to spend his meal with strangers. But during the meal she might have discovered more about him. And even realized they had nothing in common so this aberration of interest would fade.

Had he joined them she would probably have ended up as tongue-tied as a teenager facing a major crush. Yet, it must be lonely to eat alone. She debated asking him to join them now, but in the end decided to leave things as they were.

When their order had been taken, Alexandre brought out his small cars and began playing with them on the table. Jeanne-Marie was glad of the distraction. She had to stop staring at her newest guest. Once his order had been taken, he began to look at brochures he’d brought with him. She suspected they were the ones offered at the inn. One touted the shopping in the little fishing village, tourist places all. Another gave an overview of Les Calanques. And a third was one from a local sport shop that catered to climbers.

Alexandre looked up. “Will I be able to take my cars when I go to school in September?” he asked.

“Probably not. You’ll need to pay attention in class so you learn all you can.”

And she needed to pay attention to her son, and ignore the man sitting so enticingly close.

When their meal arrived, Jeanne-Marie devoted her attention to helping Alexandre with his food and eating her own. She couldn’t help notice when Matt’s dinner was served. And that he finished at the same time they did. The place was still scarcely occupied.

Matt couldn’t finish dinner fast enough. The food was excellent, he had to give it that. But he could hear the chatter behind him between the innkeeper and her child. Their laughter sparked memories of happier times—when he and his small family had shared meals together. Etienne would have been seven now. The pain that gripped his heart squeezed again. His adored son, now buried beside his mother in the family plot. He gazed ahead for a moment, trying to blank the memories. Marabelle had scolded their son if he played around too much when out in public. Now he wished they’d let the child do whatever he wanted. He’d lived too short a time.

Madame Rousseau’s son was just the age his had been when the drunk driver of the huge truck had plowed into their family sedan and instantly killed them both. He couldn’t help thinking his reflexes might have been faster than hers, to escape the crash. Or if he’d been in the car, he would have died with them, and not been left behind with all the pain.

He wanted to tell the innkeeper to cherish her son. But of course he never would. He kept the pain bottled up inside and to the outside world presented a facade belying the constant anguish he lived with. Time heals all wounds, he’d been told over and over. Everyone lied. This wound didn’t heal.

Only the challenges of climbing temporarily swept the memories away. Intense concentration was necessary to pit his strength against the walls of rock. And the energy expended ensured he slept most nights without nightmares.

He hoped he hadn’t made a mistake in staying at the inn. He hadn’t expected a young and pretty innkeeper— or a child.

As he ate he wondered about the widow behind him. Her husband had died from a climbing fall. Yet she ran a successful inn in the shadows of some spectacular day climbs. He was curious about her. His cousins would be delighted to learn that he could wonder about something and not be locked into the past. His uncle would see it as moving on. His aunt might even hold out stronger hopes.

Not that he foresaw much interaction between Madame Rousseau and him except as it concerned his stay.

Climbing was dangerous. He knew as well as the next man, a cliff, a mountain could turn rogue and the one scaling its face could end up injured or dead. Yet the challenge wouldn’t let go. To climb a sheer cliff, to scale a mountain too steep and rugged for the average trekker was a challenge not to be missed. The exaltation when conquering each one was a high he had once relished. Man against nature. Sometimes nature won. So far in his pursuits, he’d triumphed. Not that he took joy now; it was just something to do to take his mind off his loss.

He didn’t envy the pretty innkeeper. She’d have her hands full raising a son without a father. He knew Marabelle would have had lots of family to rally around if he had been the one to die. His family tried to help out, but he didn’t need them. It was easier dealing with everything on his own. It was his own private hell, and he wouldn’t be leaving it anytime soon.

Matt heard the commotion behind him as the bill was paid. A moment later the small boy startled him, coming to stand at his side. “Did you like dinner? Isn’t this a good place to eat?” he asked, smiling up at Matt. The boy’s sunny disposition penetrated his own dark thoughts.

He took in the earnest expression on the child’s face and nodded. “It is a very good place to eat.”

His reward was another sunny smile the child bestowed. “I like it lots,” he said.

“Come along, Alexandre,” his mother summoned him.

When Matt followed a few moments later, he spotted the mother and son on the beach. They had removed their shoes and obviously were going to walk back to the inn along the shore.

He hadn’t walked along any beach in a long time. He watched them until others exited the restaurant, laughing, reminding him he was standing in the middle of the sidewalk. Giving into impulse, he stepped onto the beach and headed to the packed sand near the water.

The little boy danced at the edge of the sea, running almost to the water, then dancing back when the small wavelets splashed on his feet. His laughter was carefree. How long had it been since he had felt that carefree? Matt wondered. Would he ever again?

CHAPTER TWO

THE NEXT MORNING Jeanne-Marie placed the coffee press in front of the older couple from Nantes. They were both engrossed in their daily newspaper and didn’t even glance up. Surveying the small dining area, she was pleased to see her guests enjoying the breakfast she provided. Three couples had requested the box lunch she also supplied to guests. Many liked to enjoy the water sports and didn’t want to have to change to eat lunch at one of the establishments in town.

Breakfast, however, was the only hot meal she provided.

Mentally checking off her list, she realized Matthieu Sommer had not yet come down. Or had he left before everyone else while she was in the kitchen preparing the meal? Glancing at her watch, she noted it was almost nine. Surely he would be up and about before now.

Checking to make sure no one needed anything, she slipped back into the kitchen to begin cleaning up. Alexandre sat at the small table at the nook she reserved for their meals. He was playing with his ever-present cars and totally engrossed in his own world. Jeanne-Marie sometimes wished she could go back to being the little girl who had had no thoughts of the future, but had been happy and content in her own safe family life. Her parents were professors at the university in Berkeley, California. She missed the activities of the college town.

She missed her family more and more, but never let them know that when they called. E-mails were easier; she could get the words just right before sending. Truly she was content in St. Bart for the most part. One day she and Alexandre would go to California for a long vacation, but so far it had seemed easier for her parents to come to France than for her to take a small child so far.

She loved France. As she had loved Phillipe. This inn had come to him when his grandfather died. It was a connection she didn’t want to sever. Sometimes she dreamed of what their life could have been had he not been killed. That was not to be, and those dreams had come less frequently.

Meantime, once her guests finished eating, she had dishes to clean and preparations for tomorrow’s breakfast to start. She baked her own rolls and breads. She liked to prepare a quiche every couple of days, and some of the more English-styled breakfasts for those who wanted them, experimenting with different soufflés and egg dishes.

As she washed the plates and cups sometime later, Jeanne-Marie’s thoughts centered on Matthieu Sommer again! She wondered what he’d done upon his return to the inn last night. He’d gone directly to his room. She did not have televisions or radios. She had a small bookcase of mysteries and romance novels, but couldn’t see Matthieu Sommer sitting still to read a book. There was a restless energy about him that demanded physical outlets, not quiet reading pursuits.

Had he left early for a climb? Or had something happened and he had become sick and was still in bed? Maybe she’d run up to check room six. Just in case.

She knew she was being foolish, but it wouldn’t hurt. If he had already left, he’d never know she had checked.

At ten o’clock, Jeanne-Marie went to the front desk to work on some of the accounts. Alexandre was content to play with his toys on the veranda, clearly visible through the open French doors. The day was beautiful, balmy breezes came from the sea, the sun had not yet reached its zenith, so the temperatures were still pleasant. She spotted the envelope immediately, and recognized the bold handwriting with her name clearly written across it. Had she seen it earlier, it would have stopped her concern. And the trip to peep into room six.

She took out the sheet of paper, suddenly feeling more alive and alert than before. She quickly read the brief missive. “Wanted a full day of climbing. In case I’m not back by dark, I’m starting on Le Casse-cou climb.”

She shook her head and refolded the paper. Just like him to start with the Daredevil climb. No easy warmups for him. At least he was smart enough to let someone know where to start looking for him if he didn’t return. She shivered, thrusting away all images of what could happen to a solo climber on the face of the cliffs. There would be others around. He might find a group of two or three to join with, each climbing at his or her own rate, yet within yelling distance in case anyone got into trouble.

She tried to imagine putting her life at risk for something as nonessential as climbing. Granted, she could understand challenging oneself, but her most daring adventures were diving in the shallows of the Mediterranean. Phillipe had loved scaling all different terrains, however. Never tiring, even on climbs he’d done before. So there had to be something to recommend it. That gene had eluded her.

As her guests came and went through the day, she couldn’t help growing on edge as the afternoon waned and dusk approached. Matthieu Sommer still had not returned. She prepared dinner for herself and her son. Telling Rene to let her know when Monsieur Sommer returned, Jeanne-Marie didn’t fully enjoy her dinner as worry began to rise. The minutes seemed to race by. Shouldn’t he have been back by now? What if he’d fallen? What would she do if the police showed up to inform her of his death and collect his things from his room? She almost groaned in remembered agony of when she’d been so notified.

She had climbers all the time staying in the inn. She’d not worried about any of them beyond the normal concern. This was getting ridiculous. He was fine! And it was nothing to her if he weren’t.

“The kid at the front desk said you wanted to see me when I returned,” Matt said from the doorway to the kitchen.

Jeanne-Marie looked up and caught her breath. He looked hot, tired and a wee bit sunburned. The climbing clothes he wore were dirty and scuffed. He had a small cut on one cheek that had bled and scabbed over. His hair was gray with dust. His dark eyes held her gaze, intense and focused.

She felt her heart skip a beat, then race. Her worry had been for naught.

“I, uh, just wanted to make sure I knew when you returned. So I didn’t call Search and Rescue,” she said lamely.

“Hi,” Alexandre said with his sunny smile. “You need a bath. Then do you want to walk on the beach with me?” His hopeful tone almost broke Jeanne-Marie’s heart. It wasn’t often he asked anything of their guests. She wished she had found a male friend who would provide a strong role model for her son. He saw his grandfather too infrequently.

“No, honey, Monsieur Sommer’s tired and probably needs to eat supper.”

“I am hungry,” he confirmed.

She nodded. “Did you have anything to eat today?” Climbing took a lot out of a body; surely he knew enough to eat for fuel.

“Got breakfast at the bakery and they made up some sandwiches, which I ate perched on a small ledge with a view that encompassed half the Med. I’m thirsty more than hungry.”

She jumped up and went to get him a glass of water, relieved he was safe, annoyed she had even noticed.

She handed him the glass and his fingers brushed against hers, sending a jolt of awareness to her very core. She backed off, wanting him out of her kitchen, out of her inn. He awoke feelings and interests best left dormant. She normally didn’t mingle much with her guests. He had already trespassed by coming into the kitchen. Rene could have let her know.

“You can eat dinner here. Mama’s a good cook,” the five-year-old said.

Matt raised an eyebrow in Jeanne-Marie’s direction, a silent question.

She wanted to tell him her inn provided two meals a day, and no one ate in the privacy of her own quarters. But looking at the angelic expression on her little boy weakened her resolve. He asked for so little, was content with life as they knew it. How could she refuse?

“Never mind, I’ll get something in town,” Matt said, placing the glass on the counter.

“If you want to freshen up first, I’ll warm up what we’re having. It’s a stew that’s been simmering all day. I can have a plate for you in twenty minutes.” There was plenty—she had planned on it serving her and Alexandre for two days. A plan easily changed for her son’s sake.

“Deal. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.” He left without another word.

Jeanne-Marie let out her held breath with a whoosh. Turning, she went to the stove. The heat had been turned off the stew, so she quickly began warming it. She had fresh bread she’d made that morning. A salad and apple crumble would be a nutritious meal for a man who had expended untold energy pushing his body to the limit scaling a sheer cliff.

And while he ate, she’d let him know it was a onetime meal. She didn’t provide dinner. She didn’t want him in her space. He’d be gone in a few days, nothing permanent about guests who came and went.

Mostly she felt flustered. Personal customer service was important in running an inn, especially if she wanted repeat customers, but that did not include sharing meals in her private domain. And especially with someone who without effort seemed to turn her upside down.

She and Alexandre had finished their meal by the time Matt returned. His hair was still damp; the cut on his cheek had been taped with a butterfly bandage. Obviously he was used to minor scrapes and had come prepared. His cheeks were slightly sunburned. But the rest of him looked amazingly robust and healthy. Jeanne-Marie was not one to have fantasies about strangers who came to the inn. This aberration had to end!

“I can serve you on the veranda overlooking the sea,” she suggested, jumping up and trying to get him out of her private space.

He glanced at their empty plates on the small table. “Since you’re finished, that’ll be fine with me.”

“I can sit with you to keep you company,” Alexandre volunteered, clutching two cars against his chest.

Carrying out the plate and utensils, she hoped other guests wouldn’t ask for similar service. She worked hard enough without adding an extra meal for all guests into the mix.

She placed his dish on one of the glass tables that dotted the veranda. The sunscreens had been lowered earlier to keep the heat from the lounge. She pressed the switch to raise one to offer a better view, but kept the one directly in front of his table down to shelter it from the last rays of the sun.

“I’ll get you something to drink,” she said, hurrying back to the kitchen. Normally she kept Alexandre away from the guests when they were eating, but the few moments it took her to get the water wouldn’t hurt.

She brought out a pitcher of water and a tall glass. She remembered how Phillipe gulped water as if he were dying of thirst when he returned from climbing.

“Do you need anything else?” she asked.

“No, this looks perfect,” he said when she set the pitcher on the table. “I appreciate the water.”

“I remember.” She sat gingerly on a nearby chair, looking at the sea glowing golden as the sun descended. It would be dusk and then dark before long. Alexandre would go to bed and she’d be alone with her thoughts.

She debated returning to the kitchen. Maybe in a moment. Would it be rude to leave? Did he want privacy or should she act as a hostess?

“You spent a long day on the cliffs,” she said.

“I got an early start, then prowled around a bit on the top. The view is stupendous. No wonder it’s highly recommended.” The words fit, but his tone lacked the enthusiasm she usually heard from climbers.

When he did not elaborate, she said, “The cliffs are so popular the government’s concerned about pollution and eco damage. There’s talk about closing them down, or limiting the number of people who have access.” She glanced at him as he ate. He seemed to enjoy the food. Good. She was an excellent cook. But since her husband’s death, she rarely entertained. At first she couldn’t face having anyone over. She’d wanted to grieve in private. The first few months after his death, she’d kept busy by closing their flat in Marseilles and moving here and learning the guest services trade.

“I saw some trash and debris while I was climbing. And there was a pile of trash at the top,” he said. “People can be thoughtless and careless. Those are the ones to keep out.”

She nodded. “Yet how to do that? Ask if someone is thoughtless before permitting them to climb? Who would admit to it?”

He shrugged. “It’d be a shame to close access because of the acts of a few.”

“If you eat all your dinner, there’s apple crumble for dessert, with ice cream,” Alexandre said, leaning against the table and watching as Matt ate. He’d scarcely taken his gaze off the man.

“This is a very good dinner,” he told the boy.

“I helped make the bread,” he said proudly. “Mama lets me punch it.”

“You did an excellent job.”

Alexandre smiled again and stared at Matt with open admiration.

“Did you climb a mountain today?” he asked.

“A cliff, not a mountain,” Matt replied.

“My dad climbed mountains. I will, too, when I get big. I’ll go to the top and see everything!”

“The views from the top are incomparable,” Matt agreed.

“Can I go climbing with you? Can we go to a mountain?”

“No. Don’t be pestering our guest,” Jeanne-Marie said sharply. She didn’t like talk about Alexandre’s climbing. Too often his grand-père encouraged him by telling him all about climbs he’d done with Phillipe. She didn’t think she’d ever like the thought, but realized Alexandre would be his own person when he grew up. If he took up the same hobby as his father, she hoped he wouldn’t come to the same end. It scared her just thinking about it.

“He’s not pestering me. Actually, I had already taken my son on a couple of easy rock climbs by the time he was Alexandre’s age.”

“I could go. I’m big now. I’m five.” He looked at Matt with a mixture of admiration and entreaty.

Jeanne-Marie felt her heart drop. He had a son. All the more reason to remember he was merely a guest and she the hostess of the inn. And to stay away.

Jeanne-Marie didn’t like that look on Alexandre’s face. He’d better not get a hero fixation on this guest. Matt was only here another six days. Once before, a year or so ago, Alexandre had latched onto a guest who had been staying at the inn with his wife and daughter and who had kindly included her son in some of their activities. Alexandre had moped around for weeks after their departure, not truly understanding why they didn’t come back.

“Alexandre, do you want to help me dish up the dessert?” she asked, standing quickly, anxious to put some distance between her son and guest. He wasn’t exactly Mr. Congeniality. She didn’t want Alexandre to pester him until he snapped something out that would hurt her son’s feelings. Though if he had a son, he was probably used to little boys.

“Sure. We waited for you,” he said, placing his cars on the table and running into the house.

Jeanne-Marie hoped Matt wouldn’t think she had deliberately waited to be included when he ate the dessert. He was obviously married and with a child. Where was his family? Had they stayed home since he wanted serious climbing, beyond the level of a child? Had they made other plans, separate vacations? She couldn’t imagine it, but some couples liked that.

Matt watched as Jeanne-Marie followed her son at a more sedate pace—but not by much. He thought of her that way, seeing her name on the brochure for the inn. He had trouble picturing her as Madame Rousseau.

She certainly hadn’t had to feed him; he knew the inn didn’t offer dinners. Maybe tomorrow he’d make a later start and sample both the breakfast and box lunch she offered.

Taking another deep drink of water, he watched the brush of the Mediterranean against the white sandy beach. He couldn’t believe he’d mentioned his son so casually. The world hadn’t ended. The searing pain had not sliced. Instead a kind of peace descended. His son had been so proud climbing the small hills they’d scrambled up together. He could remember his boasting to his mother.

He finished the simple meal and leaned back in his chair. For the first time in ages he felt almost content. He was pleasantly tired from the climb and replete with the excellent stew. And he had liked speaking of Etienne. He never wanted himself or anyone to forget his boy.

His cell phone rang. He glanced at the number and flipped it open to respond.

“Hey, man,” his friend Paul said.

“What’s up?” Matt responded. He knew—Paul was partying already. He could hear the background noise of a club.

“Having a great time. You should come over. It wouldn’t be that long a drive, would it? I’ve got some hot babes lined up. We can party until dawn.”

Over the last year Paul had tried to set him up with several women. His friend felt enough time had passed for Matt to get back into the dating scene. Never having married himself, Paul really didn’t understand. There was no magical time to stop grieving. No magical moment when a man said forget the past, marry again. Matt couldn’t see himself deliberately putting his heart and emotions at risk. Once shattered, he wasn’t willing to take the risk of getting involved again. The fear of another marriage ending suddenly and horribly couldn’t be ignored. He’d had his shot at happiness. Now it was time to come to terms with the hand life had dealt.

“Party until dawn and then go climbing?” Matt asked. A sure formula for disaster.

“We could sleep in a little, then hit the cliffs. I got in a climb today. Beat my own record for going up and back,” Paul said.

Even in climbing Paul couldn’t lose his competitiveness.

“Did you like the view?” Matt asked.

“What view? Water below me, rock in my face. Hey, I could show you that climb tomorrow, race you to the top.”

Jeanne-Marie and her son stepped out onto the veranda, three bowls on a tray. Alexandre proudly carried spoons.

Another time Matt might have skipped dessert, but he was tempted by the novelty of eating with her and her son. Now it also provided a good excuse to end the call.

“You have a drink for me, Paul. I’ll skip tonight but be in touch. We’ll meet up later in the week and scale something together.”

“Ah, man, you’ll be missing some kind of fun.”

“My loss,” Matt said, not believing a word. He flipped the phone closed as Jeanne-Marie placed one of the bowls in front of him. Alexandre solemnly handed him a spoon, then scampered around to sit in the chair across from him. Jeanne-Marie placed a bowl with a smaller serving in front of Alexandre. Jeanne-Marie sat to Matt’s right, throwing him an uncertain look as if not sure of her welcome.

He was momentarily taken aback. Giving in with poor grace, he accepted they would sit with him until each had finished their dessert.

The apple crumble was warm and cinnamony, the rich vanilla ice cream a delicious addition. The dessert almost melted in his mouth.

“This is delicious.” Even his own cook rarely had a dessert as tasty as this.

“Thank you.”

“You should offer dinner to your guests. They’d enjoy your cooking.” He had enjoyed it. And the fact he didn’t have to leave the inn.

She smiled shyly and shook her head. “I have everything going the way I like. There’s such a thing as too much, you know.”

“Such as?”

“Trading my afternoons with Alexandre to cook for as many as fifteen people day in, day out would be too much. I try to be creative with my breakfasts, though. You’d know if you try them.”

“I plan to sample one in the morning. If I can still get an early start.”

“I can provide breakfast as early as six-thirty if I know ahead of time. Sometimes people go diving or out on one of the cruise ships and need an equally early start. I also fix the box lunches for them to take.”

“Six-thirty it is.”

Matt savored the dessert. He watched Alexandre scrape every bit of it from his bowl and lick his spoon as if hoping more would appear. It reminded him of Etienne. He almost smiled, then felt a pang at his loss. Was that a trait of all little boys? Etienne would have loved this dessert.

Alexandre looked up at Matt, dropping his spoon in the bowl with a clatter. “Can you go for a walk with me now? And can you take me to climb a mountain?”

“Monsieur Sommer is too tired to go walking with us,” Jeanne-Marie said quickly. “And there are no mountains nearby.”

Truth was he would relish an early night, but the look of disappointment on the boy’s face and the quick way she’d tried to shut him out perversely caused him to agree to the walk. He wasn’t sure why he wanted to spend more time with them, but the less she wanted him around, the more he wanted to stay. There was nothing in his room but memories he’d just as soon forget.

“I’m not eighty. A good meal and I’m ready to go. A short walk sounds like just the thing before bed,” he said, holding her gaze for a moment in challenge.

“It becomes rocky the closer to Les Calanques we go,” she said, glancing at the cliffs, now growing dark and mysterious as the last of the daylight faded.

What was it about her that made him want to spend time with her? Normally he stayed away from people. Was it the novelty of someone not tiptoeing around him that had him interested? Or her quiet appeal that he found intriguing? She didn’t flirt, didn’t try to sound witty and entertaining. Didn’t avoid subjects for fear of his reaction. Of course, she didn’t know about his wife and child. That might change matters.

Jeanne-Marie cleared their bowls and spoke to Rene before returning to the veranda. Matt listened to Alexandre talking about his day playing with his race cars and how he helped make the bread and that he still had to take naps, which he didn’t need anymore because he wasn’t a baby and would be starting kindergarten in the fall. And about how his dad had climbed very high mountains and he wanted to as well.

Matt nodded at Alexandre’s earnest conversation and remembered Etienne had been like that. He remembered his son going on and on like this boy did. And he remembered his following Matt around the vineyard, questioning everything. He had had a million questions. God, Matt wished he’d been able to answer them all.

“A short walk,” Jeanne-Marie said when she returned onto the veranda.

When Matt stood, Alexandre slipped his small hand in his larger one. He was startled by the feeling of protectiveness that surged toward this small boy. He missed his son. He’d had him until his fifth year. Not nearly long enough. Etienne should have grown up, married, lived a full life.

Instead he was gone.

But for a few moments, Matt would suspend the past and just be with a small boy. And remember the happier days with his own son.

The walk along the beach would have been in silence except for the constant babble from Alexandre. He seemed capable of chattering away forever without comment from either adult. Not that Matt had anything to say. The sea on one side, the last of the establishments on the other and the cliffs ahead. It didn’t call for much comment.

Jeanne-Marie looked at him, her expression bemused. “You’re doing well with this. I guess it comes from being around your own son. He can talk your ear off.”

“He’s young, still learning so much. Life is easier at that age.” Oddly he was enjoying the walk. It was amazing what a five-year-old had to talk about. The poignant loss of his son was overshadowed by the delight this child had in his surroundings.

“Did you grow up here?” he asked when Alexandre pulled away to run ahead to a piece of driftwood.

She shook her head. It was harder to see her as the light waned. Soon they’d have to be guided by the lights spilling out from the scattered buildings along the beach.

“I was born and raised in California. My parents are both professors at the university in Berkeley. We lived not too far from the campus. I met Phillipe when I came to France as an exchange student in my junior year. I stayed and graduated from La Sorbonne. When we married, we lived in Marseilles. That’s where he was from. His parents still live there.”

“So you chose this inn rather than return to America?”

“Phillipe’s grandfather left it to him. We had a manager running it when he was alive. But we spent a lot of time here when he wasn’t working. After his death, I thought this would keep me closer somehow. Plus it gives me the opportunity to make a living and still be able to spend most of the day with my son. And keep him near enough to see his grandparents. Alexandre’s all they have left of their only child.”

“It’s a charming village. But quiet.”

“True. It suits us at this stage in our lives.”

He wished he could see her expression. “What do you do in the evenings?”

“Read. Work on the accounts if I don’t get a chance during the day. I have a computer and keep in touch with my family and friends. And I have Alexandre.”

“He can’t be much of a conversationalist, though you wouldn’t know it by his chatter tonight. It’s captivating, actually.”

She smiled, barely visible in the dim light. “He can be funny and wise at the same time—and all without knowing it. I’m content with my life. Why would I change it?”

“To find another husband. It can’t be easy to be a single parent.”

“I had one. I don’t expect a second.”

“Men aren’t rationed, one per woman.”

She shrugged. “How many wives have you had?” she asked.

He paused a second before replying, “One.”

“Ah, the contented married man,” she said.

“A drunk driver killed her and our son. Two years ago now.”

“I’m sorry. How horrible.” Jeanne-Marie was stunned. She couldn’t imagine losing both Phillipe and Alexandre. Sympathetically she reached out to touch his arm. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

They walked in silence for a moment, then hoping she wasn’t making things worse, she asked, “Where do you live?”

“Family enterprise in the Vallée de la Loire.”

“Castles and vineyards,” she murmured. “Do you have a castle?” she asked whimsically.

He paused a moment. She wished the light was better so she could see his expression.

“My family has one,” he finally said.

“You’re kidding! How astonishing. Are those old castles as hard to heat as they look?”

Matt was surprised by her question. Most of the time if the castle came into discussion—which he tried to avoid—the first question was how large was it and when could the person see it. “The rooms we don’t use are closed off, and those in use comprise the size of a normal house, so it’s not as hard to heat as you might suspect.”

“Sorry, it’s none of my business, but every time I’ve seen one, I’ve wondered how in the world it’s heated. We don’t have such a problem in winter here with the warmer climate.”

“Are you a king?” Alexandre asked.

“No. The castle has been in the family for many generations. But I work for a living like anyone else,” Matt said.

“At the family enterprise?” she asked.

“Vineyards and a winery.” There. Now see what the woman did with that knowledge.

“Mon Dieu, vin de Sommer—I’ve heard about your wines. They’re excellent.” She stopped abruptly and looked at him. He stopped and looked at her. The stars did not shed much illumination, so he couldn’t see her expression well.

“Are you telling me the truth?” she asked, trying to see him clearly.

“I don’t lie,” he said calmly. What, did she think he was trying to puff himself up? To what end? He was here for escape, nothing 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.

CHAPTER THREE

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.

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