“The Chateau And The Vineyard?” Remy Asked.

“I’m willing to part with them.”

The wind howled. Amelia lifted her wine glass, and the pinot grigio slipped down her throat like cool silk.

“Then I see no reason why we can’t wrap up this negotiation tonight,” he said.

“I don’t think so,” she replied.

“My family wants this property,” he said. “Very much. The price has always been negotiable. You say you’ll sell. So what will it take to make you a happy seller?”

“You,” she said, staring at the flagstones like a shy schoolgirl instead of a wanton seductress. “For a month.”

MILLS & BOON

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Dear Reader,

When I began this book, I thought, wouldn’t it be fun to inherit a vineyard in Provence and meet a handsome French comte who wants both the vineyard and me? Amelia, my heroine, comes from a family of women who are taught from birth to marry well. She’s a rebel. The book begins with her breaking up with a longtime boyfriend who didn’t value her. Of course, it’s she who doesn’t really value herself. When her favorite aunt dies and leaves her a vineyard, she goes to France. Who should show up to claim it but an incredibly sexy man who has ancient rights to it himself.

After a night with him, he made her feel so desirable she wants him to teach her about love. She makes him an offer—if you make me your mistress for a month, I’ll sell you the vineyard.'

This novel is about self-doubt and fantasy and adventure. It’s about a woman who meets a man who’s wealthy but who’s lost his soul. Because of love and commitment both become much more than they ever imagined possible.

Enjoy.

Ann Major

Ann Major
Mistress for a Month

ANN MAJOR

lives in Texas with her husband of many years and is the mother of three grown children. She has a master’s degree from Texas A&M at Kingsville, Texas, and is a former English teacher. She is a founding board member of the Romance Writers of America and a frequent speaker at writers’ groups.

Ann loves to write; she considers her ability to do so a gift. Her hobbies include hiking in the mountains, sailing, ocean kayaking, traveling and playing the piano. But most of all she enjoys her family.

To my aunt, Patricia Carson Major, because she’s

so much fun and she adores all things French.

Unfortunately, she never married a French comte.

At least, not yet.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

One

North Shore

Oahu, Hawaii

Wild, zany Aunt Tate dead?

Amelia flipped her cell phone shut. Then her grip tightened on her steering wheel as she rounded a curve of green mountain, and the tall hotels of Waikiki vanished in her rearview mirror. Why couldn’t her mother ever just answer the phone?

Amy punched in her mother’s number once more, and again it rang and rang.

After Aunt Tate’s horrid French attorney had told her her aunt had died, Amy had stopped listening for a second or two. The next thing she’d caught was, “She left you everything.”

Everything should have included only Château Serene and the vineyard in Provence where Amy had once shared sparkling summers with Aunt Tate and her haughty comte, but her aunt had not quite finished the process of donating her extremely valuable Matisse to a French museum before her death. She’d left a letter to Amy in her will stating her intentions regarding the painting, but technically the Matisse was hers, as well.

“I’m afraid the property is in a pitiable state of neglect. Luckily for you the young comte is ready to make you a generous offer. Naturally he would like to buy the painting back, as well. Surely it belongs on the wall in the home of the family who’s owned it for nearly a century.”

“The comte’s family disliked my aunt. I’m not sure I want to sell to him!”

“But, mademoiselle, the château belonged to his family for nearly eight hundred years.”

“Well, apparently everything belongs to me now. Goodbye!”

She’d immediately called Nan, her best friend, who’d been in a sulk because she hadn’t gotten to go on a retreat on Molokai with her sister Liz and had asked her to cover for her at Vintage, her resale shop, during the sale today. Then she’d tried to call her mother to tell her about Tate and to ask her if she’d work at Vintage so that she could fly to France to check on the château and vineyard.

Imagining her customers lined up outside Vintage, Amy pressed the accelerator, speeding through the mountains and then along the rugged coastline where waves exploded against the rocks. The shop didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Life was short. She wanted Fletcher, her longtime boyfriend. She wanted his arms around her. That was why she was driving as fast as she could to his beach house on the North Shore.

Aunt Tate was gone. On a day like this there should be a rogue wave hurtling toward the Hawaiian Islands or an earthquake about to topple the hotels in Waikiki.

Despite the wind pounding the hood of her Toyota and streaming past her windows, the North Shore of Oahu with its lush, green mountains and wide, white beaches and ocean was beautiful.

Amy felt sad and restless and increasingly nostalgic about Aunt Tate as she kept redialing her mother. If only she could reach her.

I’ll never watch Aunt Tate put on one of her crazy getups again. I’ll never hear her throaty laugh as she bows extravagantly and jokes about being a countess.

The bright blue sky misted. Amy’s eyes burned.

No! She wasn’t crying!

She was driving too fast, and she never drove too fast. With a shaking hand she dialed her mother again, only this time she mashed her cell phone against her ear.

Sounding out of breath, her mother caught the phone on the eighth ring. “Hello!”

“Mom! Finally! The most awful thing has happened! I’ve been calling you and calling you. For hours.” The last was an exaggeration, but her mother deserved it.

“Do you need more money? Me to sign another mortgage paper on Vintage? Where are you, sweetie? You’re breaking up. Isn’t today your big day? How’s the sale going?”

“Mom, I’m not at Vintage. I’m on the North Shore.”

“Amelia, I thought we agreed you weren’t going to chase Fletcher any more!”

Do moms ever step out of the mom role? The last thing she needed was for her mom to start in on how irresponsible and indifferent Fletcher was. Why had she called her mom, of all people?

Because Carol, favorite daughter, her sister, had married well—an English lord, no less. Carol lived on an estate an hour out of London, and it was in the middle of the night over there. Because her best girl buddy, Liz, was in Molokai sitting cross-legged at a retreat. Because Fletcher’s phone was turned off as usual. Because Mom was Tate’s sister. Because she was her mom, for heaven’s sake. And if she had to go to France, who would take care of Vintage?

Shells crunched under Amy’s tires as she braked in front of Fletcher’s unpainted house. As always the house and neighborhood looked so shabby they creeped her out.

“Amelia! Tell me you didn’t drive out to Fletcher’s alone!”

Amy gritted her teeth.

“You could do so much better.”

“Mother, I’m grown.”

“Sometimes I wonder. Carol wouldn’t have wasted her precious time—”

“Don’t start on Carol, either!”

“This is all your father’s fault. He was a loser, but you were his favorite. And you couldn’t see through him. You feel comfortable with losers like him.”

“You married him.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Mother!”

“Not that I’m glad he left me or that’s he’s dead, God rest his soul.”

From her car Amy nervously scanned the broken-down cars and trucks in Fletcher’s front yard. Then she spotted Fletcher’s yellow longboard in the bed of his old blue pickup and felt a surge of relief.

Her mother sighed.

Amy had never liked the house he’d bought and rented out to surfers or the communal lifestyle that went with it, but real-estate prices were high on Oahu. She was hardly in a position to criticize. Here, people of ordinary means had to compromise. Since the value of her mother’s house had appreciated exponentially over the past two decades, Amy had had to move there to save on rent and to help her mom with the property taxes.

“Amelia, are you still there?”

Amy’s fingers traced the smooth leather of the steering wheel. “Mom, listen. This lawyer from France with a snotty accent and way too much attitude called me.”

“What did he want?”

“Aunt Tate died in her sleep last week.”

“I—I can’t believe this. I—I just talked to Tate. She said she’d been to all those parties in Paris.”

“Mom, they already had a memorial service. She’s been cremated and put in a niche or something at Château de Fournier.”

“What? And nobody called her only sister? They stuck her in Château de Fournier? She hated that place!”

“Apparently they just found Tate’s address book today.”

Her mother was silent, in shock, or more likely a sulk. Like a lot of sisters, she and Tate hadn’t always been the best of pals. Tate had done what the women in their family were supposed to do. She’d married up, way, way up, landing a French count the third time around. And she’d never let her family forget it. She’d sent newsy Christmas cards every year to brag about parties at châteaux after her glamorous stepson’s Formula One races, trips to Monaco and round-the-world cruises on friends’ yachts. Her step-children were all celebrities in their own fields. But the main headline grabber had been Remy de Fournier, the handsome, womanizing Grand Prix driver. Not that Tate had boasted much about him lately. Apparently he’d retired from the circuit rather suddenly last year.

After one of Tate’s bright cards or calls, her mother would sulk for days, blaming Amy’s deceased father for never having amounted to anything.

“You’re not going to believe this, Mom, but Aunt Tate left me everything. Château Serene, the vineyard, even the Matisse.”

“What? That painting alone is worth a fortune.”

“Aunt Tate intended to donate it to a museum.”

“You can’t afford to be so generous.”

“Mother! Your baby’s all grown-up. I’m afraid I need to go over there to settle Aunt Tate’s affairs, pack her personal belongings and inspect the property. I hate to impose, but could you possibly watch Vintage?”

“I suppose. If it fails, who’ll pay the mortgage? I’ll need a day, maybe two. After that, I’d be glad to. To tell you the truth, I’ve been a little bored lately.”

Which probably explained why her mother tried to run her life all the time.

“Mom, could you help Nan handle the sale today?” This question was met with silence. “Just for an hour or two? Please! Just to make sure Nan’s not overwhelmed.”

Her mother sighed.

Amy thanked her and hung up. Now all she needed was for Fletcher to hold her and make everything feel all right again.

When Amy opened her car door, the wind tore it from her grasp and whipped her long, brown hair back from her face. Her sandals sank deeply into the shell road, making each step so difficult she was almost happy to step into the high grass of Fletcher’s yard. With less annoyance than usual, she picked her way through scratchy weeds, beer cans, fluttering fast-food wrappers and plastic sacks. Usually she hated the flotsam and jetsam of Fletcher’s front lawn.

Lawn. If ever there was a euphemism.

Today she was too anxious to throw herself into his arms, inhale his salty male scent and cling to him forever, to obsess over her issues with his bachelor lifestyle.

He hadn’t known Aunt Tate personally, but he’d scribbled Amy a postcard or two when she’d spent those months in France. One-liners, yes, but for Fletcher, that was a lot.

When Amy reached the rickety wooden stairs that climbed the fifteen feet to his deck, she noticed four triangular bits of red cloth flapping from the railing. She picked them up, fingering the damp strings and then the triangles of what appeared to be the tops of two miniscule bikinis. When she heard music, she frowned. Was Fletcher having a party without her?

A singer cried, “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Then the sound of a steel-string guitar accompanied by the heavy thudding of drums.

Her throat tightened, and she flung the bits of fabric savagely into the grass. Avoiding the front door, which stood ajar, Amy put her hands on her hips and marched around to the back of the house by way of the deck. Rounding a corner too fast, she almost stumbled over a bloated male body. His beer gut moved up and down, so he had to be alive. But his shaggy hair was filthy, and his sunburned arms sported several tattoos. She didn’t recognize the spider tattoos, so maybe he wasn’t one of Fletcher’s regular roommates.

No sooner had she scooted around him when she saw six or seven more bodies sprawled on the deck, over the hoods of cars in the backyard and across the lawn furniture. A boom of deep male laughter accompanied by wild squeals in the Jacuzzi made her heart speed up.

Fletcher.

She turned slowly. Sunlight glinted in his tousled curls as he squirmed on the edge of the tub while balancing two topless blondes on his lap.

Amy dug her fingers into the railing so hard a splinter bit into her thumb.

When she cried his name, Fletcher bolted to his feet. He wasn’t wearing a suit. To his credit his handsome face turned red. “Aw, baby, you should’ve called.”

The girls toppled into the Jacuzzi with a splash. Squealing, they grabbed at Fletcher’s bronzed legs.

Horrified, Amy began to back toward the front of his house.

“Baby!” Fletcher yanked a wet towel off the floor of the deck. Whipping it around his waist, he stomped toward her, leaving big, drippy footprints on the deck.

She ran, leaping over unconscious surfer bodies, plates of half-eaten pie and overturned beer bottles, her feet flying down the steps into the chaos of cars in his front yard. But he was faster. Springing down the stairs with the agility of an orangutan, he grabbed her arm.

“Baby, I know you think you’ve got a right to be mad, and you do, you do, but I can explain.”

His voice was slurred, and he reeked of beer. A smear of lipstick marred one prominent cheekbone.

She jerked free and stomped past the cars to her Toyota.

“Look, I know I should have invited you to the party!” he yelled. “But you hate my parties. You refused to move in with me. You never want to do anything fun anymore. Ever since you got the store, you act as old and boring as those old clothes you buy and sell. And when it comes to sex, forget it! You never want to try anything new.”

“Maybe because I’m tired after working all day.”

“Which you throw at me constantly.”

“Maybe because I want you to grow up.”

“Maybe I’m as grown-up as I’ll ever be. I have money. I bought this house. I run it. So what if I don’t have a real job?”

She looked at him, at the plastic sacks fluttering like ghosts in the over-long grass, at his unpainted house and then down at the beautiful beach. “Is this all you’ll ever want?”

“What’s wrong with this? My old man worked himself into an early grave. Luckily he left me enough so I can get by. I wake up to paradise every day.”

The blondes, wrapped in towels now, were standing on the deck watching Fletcher.

Would Fletcher’s girlfriends get younger every year?

Amy fumbled in her purse for her keys. When had everything changed? Grabbing her keys, she punched a button and got her door unlocked. Then she climbed in and slammed it. As she started the engine, she rolled down her window. He ambled over and smiled at her.

Oh, God, his eyes were so startlingly blue, so warm and friendly and sexy even now, but dammit, her mother was right. She couldn’t live with him.

But could she live without him?

“You know what, Fletcher? I’m tired of having to feel lucky to be dating the good-looking, popular guy that all the other girls want. I want to be wanted.”

“Baby—”

“You’re not the only one who needs to grow up.” She hit the accelerator so hard her tires slung bits of shell against his bare shins.

“Sorry!” she whispered when he let out a yelp. And she was. She was sorry for so many things. Sorry she’d disappointed her mother. Sorry about her dad…. Sorry about all sorts of dreams that hadn’t panned out.

A mile down the road, she began to shake so hard she didn’t feel she could drive without endangering innocent strangers, so she pulled over.

She had always loved Fletcher. To her, he was still as gorgeous as he’d been in high school. But this wasn’t high school.

She flipped her visor down and stared at herself in its mirror much too critically. Normally when she wasn’t comparing herself to naked teenagers with Barbie Doll hair and pole-dancer bodies, she didn’t feel that old.

Today she’d been too busy because of her sale to bother with her makeup and hair. The wind and humidity hadn’t helped. Her brown hair hung in strings. Grief hadn’t helped, either. Her hazel eyes were red, and her mascara was running.

Images from the past swept her. She’d gotten a crush on Fletcher in kindergarten. By the sixth grade, maybe because he’d failed a year, he’d been almost as tall and cute and golden as he was now. Back then he’d been reckless and daring and the most popular boy in school, while she, Nan and Liz had been bookworms. Only, one day he’d run up to them at recess and painted a mock tattoo of a heart on Amy’s left arm. Then he’d kissed her cheek and stolen her book.

Amy had felt like Cinderella at the ball with her prince. Her cheek was still burning when he’d returned her book three hours later and kissed her again. He’d teased her like that for a few more years. Then they’d become serious in high school. Or, at least, she had. She’d told herself she could wait.

She was still waiting.

But not anymore!

London

Three days later

Promise me you won’t sleep with her.

When a man is thirty-five and famous—make that infamous, especially with women—he is likely to resent such a command, especially from his mother. Even if she is a countess.

Without warning the slim young woman his mother wanted him to keep in his sights—for business reasons only—sprinted across the street.

Not wanting to alarm her, Remy waited a few seconds before loping after her.

He frowned. His mother had nothing to worry about. The wholesome Miss Weatherbee wasn’t his type.

Brown hair, thickly braided. Hazel eyes. Not ugly. But not beautiful. Nondescript really, except for…His gaze drifted to her swaying hips again. Then he remembered all the sexy lingerie he’d watched her buy and wished she weren’t forbidden because that made her infinitely more fascinating.

From birth, Remy de Fournier, or rather the Comte de Fournier, had had a taste for the forbidden. His mother and his older, brilliant sisters only had to tell him not to do a thing and he’d do it. As an adult he’d liked his cars fast and his women even faster—until the accident a year ago at the Circuit de Nevers at Magny-Cours had turned his life into a nightmare. Ever since, except for brief trips to Paris, he’d been living in self-imposed exile in London.

Yesterday the highest courts in France had decided not to charge him with manslaughter. As soon as he could make the arrangements he would be going home, which was the reason his mother had given for calling him. She wanted to set up a celebratory lunch in Paris with him and his first serious girlfriend, Céline, whom he hadn’t seen in years.

He should have felt relieved that he’d been exonerated, that his mother would even speak to him. Instead, last night he’d dreamed of the crash and of his steering wheel jamming. Again he’d felt that horrible rush of adrenaline as he’d fought the curve and the car and lost, hurtling into that wall at 160 mph before ricocheting into André’s car and then into Pierre-Louis’s.

With the memory of André’s terrified black eyes burning a hole in his soul, Remy had dressed and bolted out of his flat at four in the morning to buy coffee, returning to work on the family’s portfolio on his computer. Hours later he’d still been in a cold mood when his mother had called to discuss Céline and her lunch plans and to put him on to Mademoiselle Weatherbee, who was even now sashaying, her cute butt wiggling, glossy red shopping bags swinging against her thighs, toward her sister’s flat on Duke Street in St. James.

Why was it that the longer he trailed that ample bottom, the more appealing it became?

Usually he chose leggy blond models or busty socialites and princesses, sophisticated women, who knew how to dress. Céline was his type. Mademoiselle Weatherbee with her wide, trusting doe eyes and thick brown braid was not. Deliver him from naive Americans with no sense of style.

Still, it was growing easier and easier to look at her. The worn faded blue stripes of her vintage cotton sundress made her look innocent even as it showed off her slim shoulders, narrow waist and, okay, hell, emphasized that pert and rather large ass of hers and its moves.

Nice moves. Very nice.

What would she feel like naked under him? Would she writhe? Or just lie there? Damn, if she were his, he’d make her writhe.

His bossy mother’s predawn call had annoyed the hell out of him, even more than usual.

“I’m too excited to sleep,” she said. “It’s all over the Internet. You’re a free man. And…Mademoiselle Weatherbee stayed at her sister’s flat on Duke Street in St. James last night! And will stay there tonight, as well! Since you live so close, I thought maybe you could…check on her.”

“I have back-to-back commitments before I can leave London.”

“So far, she’s refused all our offers to buy Château Serene, and she seems to want to follow her aunt’s wishes about donating the Matisse.”

“Isn’t she on her way to France?”

“Tomorrow…”

“Well, then, negotiate when she gets there.”

“She’s in London to do a little shopping for her store. I thought maybe you could meet her and work a little of your magic. But don’t take it too far. She probably doesn’t follow Grand Prix headlines, and with any luck, she won’t check the Internet and the London papers will ignore you.”

“I met her once, you know.”

“Years ago. If she doesn’t recognize you, don’t tell her who you are. No telling what Tate told her about us. Or you.”

“This town’s enormous. If I can’t call her or knock on her door and introduce myself, how the hell can I meet her without scaring her away? What would be the point?”

“Improvise. I’m going to fax you a recent photograph of her and her sister’s address.”

“You want me to stalk her, hit on her and entice her into some pub?”

“But be careful. The last thing we need is more nasty headlines.”

When she hung up, Remy crushed his paper coffee cup and pitched it into the trash. No sooner did it hit the can than he heard the fax in his bedroom. Amelia Weatherbee was not someone he’d ever wanted to see again.

Even her photograph brought painful memories. Holding it to the light, he noted the same youthful wistfulness shining in her eyes. Only now, there was a bit of a lost look in them, too, a sadness, a resignation.

He’d met her only that once. What was it—seventeen years ago? He’d been eighteen, she around thirteen. She’d eavesdropped on a private conversation, and he’d vowed to hate her forever for it even though she’d been kind. Especially because she’d been kind. Dammit! Who was she to pity him?

Funny how that same vulnerability in her eyes and sweet smile seemed enchanting and made him feel protective now.

He’d forced himself to dress and walk over to her flat, where he’d waited outside, reading the Times. When the varnished doors trimmed in polished brass had finally swung open and she’d stepped out into the sunshine, he’d shrunk behind his paper. Bravely armed against the gray sky with her yellow umbrella, she’d looked bright and fresh in her faded cotton dress and scuffed sandals.

He’d been trotting all over the city after Mademoiselle Weatherbee’s yellow umbrella and cute butt ever since. He’d watched her shop at Camden Market and Covent Garden, then Harvey Nicks and last of all Harrods Food Hall. But had she eaten? Hell, no! So he hadn’t eaten, either. Because of her, he was starving and grumpy as hell.

Americans. What sort of barbarian instinct made her skip lunch, a sacred institution to any man with even a drop of French blood?

During the lunch hour she’d gone into a nail shop, where she’d had a pedicure and had gotten tips put on her ragged nails. A decided improvement. Still, she’d skipped lunch.

At the Camden Market, he’d felt like a damn pervert when she’d fingered dozens of bright, silky bras and panties, holding them up to herself as she tried to decide. In the end, she’d surprised him by choosing his favorites—the skimpiest and sheerest of the batch.

Why couldn’t she be the practical-schoolteacher sort who wore sensible cotton panties and bras?

When she’d paid the cashier, she’d suddenly looked up, straight into his eyes. He’d been visualizing her in the red, see-through thong, and her embarrassed glance had set off a frisson of heat inside him. Not good. Fortunately she’d scowled at him and had quickly thrown the tangle of lingerie into a sack and slapped her credit card on top of the mess. After that, he’d kept out of sight.

But she was nearly back to her flat. He had to do something and fast. He’d wasted way too much time already.

She was on Jermyn Street, a mere half block from her building, and he was running out of options when a cab rounded the corner.

Yelling for the taxi, he’d sprinted toward it, deliberately bumping Amelia so hard she stumbled. Her bags tumbled onto the sidewalk, spilling lacy bras and thongs.

All apologies, he dove for the woman, not the silky stuff. He caught her, his long limbs locking around hers at an impossibly intimate angle.

When body parts brushed, she fought a quivery smile and blushed. He felt a heady buzz of his own.

“I’m sorry,” he said, letting go of her instantly.

Those soft hazel eyes with spiky black lashes stared straight into his, and she turned as red as she had when he’d caught her buying the transparent underwear. All of a sudden she seemed almost beautiful.

“You! I saw you before…”

A shock went through him.

Then she said, “At Camden.”

He acted surprised. “Yes, how very strange. Do you live around here, too?”

“No. I’m visiting my sister. She has a flat just…” As if remembering he was a stranger, she stopped and knelt to pick up her bags and the bright bits of sheer lace and silk.

Quickly he knelt and gathered up bras and panties, too, tossing them into her bags but holding on to their handles.

Eyeing his hands on her underwear, she backed away from him a little.

He kept his distance. “If you’d like to have a drink, there’s a pub across the street, or there’s a tea shop around the corner.”

A passerby, a man, gave Remy and the black bra dripping from his right hand a sharp look.

“I’m really awfully tired,” she said.

“All right.” He dropped the lacy underwear into the appropriate bag and then handed her her things.

Her face again burned an adorable shade of red when she looked up at him from beneath those inky lashes, which were as sexy as her butt.

“In that case, I guess it’s goodbye,” he said.

“You’re French.”

“Yes, and alone. Big city. I prefer Paris.” Deliberately he allowed his accent to thicken.

“Of course. I love Paris, too. I’ve been there many times. With my…”

She looked wistful. Was she thinking of Tate? Her quick, sad smile struck a chord inside him. She’d probably loved Tate very much, he thought. His father damn sure had. He himself knew what it was to chase ghosts.

“Are you here on business?”

“Of a sort,” he replied.

“I like your accent. It’s elegant, but not snotty. You know, sometimes French people are so—”

“I like yours, too,” he said before she could insult the French, who were his people, after all, which might cause him to defend them. “You’re American?”

She nodded. “I’m on my way to France on rather a sad errand.”

The light left her beautiful hazel eyes. “A favorite aunt died. I—I used to spend every summer at her château.”

Her château? Like hell. Still, Tate must have been wonderful fun for a young niece, who had no reason to be jealous of her just because the comte had adored her instead of his own son. For all her faults, his outrageous, American stepmother had made his father happy. His own pretentious mother had not.

And he damn sure had not.

Remy’s teeth clenched, but when Amelia continued to stare at him, a stillness descended on him. Her nondescript face with those spiky lashes and naive gaze wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t. But it was growing on him.

Why couldn’t he stop looking at her? Why did he feel so…so…

Aroused was the word he was trying to pluck from the ether.

Abruptly he looked away.

She sucked in a breath. “So, you’re French and I’m going to France,” she said lightly. “How’s that for a coincidence?”

“Yes.”

“We meet in the market. And now here again. Why?”

No way could he admit he’d stalked the hell out of her. “I can’t imagine.”

“Maybe it’s fate.”

Fate. Horrible concept. He could tell her a thing or two about fate. Fate had made him the despised bastard of the father he’d adored. Fate had hurled him into André at 160 miles an hour and then into Pierre-Louis.

She was still rattling on as Remy remembered the long months of Pierre-Louis’s hospitalization after the amputation. But at least he’d…

“I mean London is so huge,” she was saying. “What is the chance of that?” When her shining eyes locked with his again, she must have sensed his darkening mood. Spiky lashes batted. “Is something wrong?”

Her soft voice and sympathetic gaze caused a powerful current to pass through his body.

He shook his head.

“Good.” Amelia smiled at him beguilingly. “Then maybe…maybe…I mean, if your offer’s still open, I think I will have that cup of tea, after all, even if we did just meet.”

A cup of tea? As he stared into her hazel eyes he found himself imagining her naked on cream satin sheets. Why was that? She wasn’t his type. He felt off balance, and that wasn’t good.

He should run from this girl and leave the negotiating with her to his agent. He’d had the same cold feeling of premonition right before the crash.

This is it, he’d thought when his steering had jammed and his tires had begun to skid on pavement that had been slicker than glass.

Every time he looked at Amelia pure adrenaline charged through him.

This is it. And there’s no way out, screamed that little voice inside his mind.

Run.

Two

If only she could look at him without feeling all nervous and out of breath, but she couldn’t. So she fidgeted.

He was sleek and edgy and yet he seemed familiar, which was odd because he wasn’t the sort of man a woman with youthful hormones onboard would easily forget.

Curious, intrigued, attracted, Amy couldn’t help studying him when he wasn’t looking. His thickly lashed eyes were brown and flecked with gold. The brows above them were heavy and intimidating. He had the most enormous shoulders and lots of jet-black hair that he wore long enough so that a lock constantly tumbled across his brow.

He was too amazingly gorgeous to believe, and far too male and huge to be sitting across from her in such a ladylike tea shop. But here he was.

Amy bit her lips just to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.

Despite his powerful body, he looked so elegant in his long-sleeved, black silk shirt and beige silk slacks. So grown up and successful compared to Fletcher, who wore old bathing trunks and T-shirts.

“Have you ever been to Hawaii?” she asked, struggling to make the kind of small talk that beautiful, polished Carol would be so good at.

Lame. Did she only imagine that he looked bored?

“No. Why do you ask?” His deep, dark, richly accented voice made her shiver.

“Because I live there. Because lots of tourists come there and I thought…maybe I’d seen you. I mean, you seem so familiar.”

“Do I?” Did she only imagine a new hardness in his voice?

He cocked his head and stared at her so intensely she couldn’t quite catch her breath.

Continuing to gaze at her in that steady, assessing way, his big, tanned hand lifted his wafer-thin teacup to his sensual mouth. She was too conscious of his stern lips, of his chiseled cheekbones, of those amber sparks flashing in his eyes, of his long, tapered fingers caressing the side of the tiny cup.

A beat passed. His eyes scanned the other women in the tea shop before returning to her. She swallowed.

When he grinned, she blushed.

“I—I’m not usually this nervous,” she whispered.

“You don’t seem nervous.” His low tone was smooth. Everything about him was smooth.

When she touched her teacup to lift it, it rattled, sloshing tea. “Oh, God! See? My hand is shaking.”

“Did you skip lunch?”

“How did you…? Why, yes, yes I did! There were so many things to look at in the markets. Sometimes I forget to eat when I shop.”

“I skipped lunch, as well. Maybe we’ll both feel better if we have a scone. They’re very good here.”

“Do you come here often?”

“Never. Until now. With you.”

“Then how do you know they’re good?”

“Reputation. I have a friend who comes here.”

Amy imagined a woman as beautiful as Carol. His friend would be delicate—slim and golden and well-dressed, the type who wouldn’t be caught dead shopping at the Camden Market. His type.

Ignorant of her thoughts and comparison, her companion was slathering clotted cream and jam on his scone. When he finished, he handed the dripping morsel to her. Then he made one for himself. When she gobbled hers much too greedily, he signaled the waitress and ordered chilled finger sandwiches and crisps.

Licking jam and cream off the tips of her fingers, she willed herself to calm down. He was right; she was shaking because she was starving, not because he was gorgeous and sexy and maybe dangerous.

She was perfectly safe. They were in a sedate tea shop with a table and a tablecloth, pink-and-gold china teacups and saucers between them. They were surrounded by lots of other customers, too. So, there was absolutely nothing to be nervous about.

“So, you haven’t been to Hawaii,” she mused aloud, staring at his hard, too-handsome face with that lock of black hair tumbling over his brow. “Are you famous?”

He started.

She bit into a second scone, and the rich concoction seemed to melt on her tongue. “A movie star?” she pressed, sensing a strange, new tension in him as she licked at a sticky fingertip. “Is that why you look so familiar?”

“I’m an investor.” He was watching her lick her finger with such excessive interest, she stopped.

“You don’t look like an investor,” she said.

“What did you have me pegged for?”

“You have a look, an edge. You certainly don’t seem like the kind of man who goes to the office every day.”

Did she only imagine that his mouth tightened? He lowered his eyes and dabbed jam on his second scone. “Sorry to disappoint you. I have a very dull office and a very dull secretary in Paris.”

“So what do you invest in?”

“Lots of dull things—stocks, mutual funds, real estate. My family has interests all over Europe, in the States…Asia, too. Emerging markets, they call them. Believe me, I stay busy with my, er, dull career. I have to, or I’d go mad.” His voice sounded bleak. “And what do you do?”

“I just have a little shop. I sell old clothes that I buy at estate sales and markets.”

“And do you enjoy it?”

“Very much. But it would probably seem dull and boring to someone like you.”

“The question is—is it dull and boring to you?”

“No! Of course, not! I love what I do. I live to find some darling item at a bargain price, so that I can sell it to a customer with a limited budget. Every woman longs to be beautiful, you know.”

“Then I envy you.” Again she heard a weariness in his voice. Only this time she sensed the deeper pain that lay beneath it.

“And you don’t think I’m boring…because I sell old clothes?”

He laughed. “Don’t be absurd.”

“No, really, you must tell me.” She leaned forward, holding her cup in two hands for fear of spilling. “Since we’re strangers, we can speak freely. Was your first impression of me…Did you think I looked boring and old?”

He set his scone down. “Who the hell’s been telling you a stupid thing like that?”

“My boyfriend.” Why had she admitted that?

“Then dump him.”

“I sort of did, but I’ve always loved him. Or, at least, I thought I did. Maybe he’s just been in my life forever.”

“So you’re the loyal, committed type?”

“Well, anyway, I can’t stop thinking about him. All day I thought about him. And the things he said.”

His black brows shot together so alarmingly her hands, which still held her teacup, began to shake. “Stick with your decision.”

“But I’ve loved him since I was five, I think,” she whispered a bit defensively. “My mother disapproves of him, though.”

“No wonder you cling to him.”

“No, it’s not like that.” She smiled. “It’s just that I’m not sure I did the right thing to break up with him. I did it so fast, I mean. That’s not like me. I spent several years planning before I opened my store.”

“Maybe the decision had been coming on for a while.”

“But Fletcher—”

“Fletcher?” His handsome features hardened. “Well, you’re not boring or old. So, you want to know my first thoughts about you. I thought you were lovely. Fresh. Nice. Different. Too nice for me probably, but a woman I definitely would want to know better if I were a different sort of man—one capable of commitment. Sexy.” He bit off that last rather grumpily. “Sexy in a nice way. You’re the kind of woman a nice guy, who has a good job and wants to settle down, marries so he can have a houseful of kids to play soccer with on the weekends.”

His dark eyes with those sparking flecks said much more, and she grew hot with embarrassment.

“That’s sweet,” she said.

When his hand reached across the table for hers, she jumped.

“Responsive, too. That’s another first thought.”

She yanked her hand free and tucked it beneath her pink napkin.

“This Fletcher doesn’t deserve you. But let’s talk of something more pleasant. I can tell we’ll never agree on this subject, so why argue? Your love life is your choice. Not mine. I barely know you.”

He seemed out of sorts suddenly, defensive, almost jealous. But that wasn’t possible. A man like him, who was wealthy, refined and movie-star sexy couldn’t be jealous of her. Especially not when they’d just met.

“I’m sorry if I upset you.”

“So, you have a sister?” He was clearly determined to change the subject. “Here in London?

“Carol. Actually, she lives outside London. On a rather grand estate near Wolverton. She has a large house with a conservatory. And a lovely garden, too. That sounds so English, doesn’t it? But she and her husband—he’s a lord and a very important person, mind you—keep a flat here in St. James so they can stay in the city whenever they need to, which is usually four or five nights a week. She’s a barrister, and he’s high up in the government. They both work in the city.”

“So how much time do you have with them? What sights are you going to see while you’re here?”

“I’m flying to Marseilles tomorrow afternoon. But I hope to ride the Eye and walk across the Millennium Bridge. I’m sure those seem like dull and boring things to you.”

“Quit running yourself down. We’ll do it, then,” he said.

“We’ll?”

“If you’ll accept my invitation. Are you free for dinner and dancing tonight?”

“But we just met. I bet I’m not the sort of girl you usually ask out.”

“What the hell are you talking about now?”

“Just what I said. I’m not the sort of girl you usually hang out with.”

“No, you’re not. But maybe that’s why I like you so much. Why I find you so not boring and old, as you put it, that I want to clear my schedule, which is jam-packed I assure you, and spend as much time as I can with you before you leave.”

She was thrilled and yet startled, too. She was in a foreign city, and she didn’t know anything about him. Except that he was sexy, and she wasn’t sure that was exactly the best recommendation.

“I’ll have to check with my sister. She went to Edinburgh on business, but she’s going to try to get back tonight in time to have me come for dinner. I came over here in such a rush, and she had a calendar full of engagements and business commitments.”

“I understand.” He pulled out a little black notebook and tore out a page. Then he scribbled two numbers. “This one’s my mobile. The other rings at the flat. Call me if you’re free.” Then he shrugged in that wonderful Gallic way he had as he handed it to her.

His deep voice was as heated as his gaze, causing her to shiver even before he placed the note in her hand. Instantly she curled her fingers around the scrap of paper. When his fingers lingered warmly over hers for long seconds, her own hand froze.

Soon the heat of his long fingers wrapping hers proved too unnerving. She couldn’t think or talk or breathe. Not with her pulse knocking a hundred beats a minute.

“Why do you seem so familiar?” she blurted, pulling her hand away so she could put his note in her purse. She gasped for a breath. “I—I just know I’ve seen you before.”

“I don’t think so.”

With a scowl, he picked up the bill. Then before she knew what he was about, he lifted her hand and brought it to his lips, turning it over slowly. His mouth against her palm and wrist sent her pulse leaping even faster than before. Then heat swept her body.

“I don’t need to call you later. I’ll go with you…dancing…everything…tonight,” she said in a rush.

“What about Carol?”

“Carol?” Her mind was blank.

“Your sister.” He smiled much too knowingly.

“Right.” She gasped. “Right. Of course. Carol. I’ve got to wait until Carol calls. I forgot all about her.”

He laughed. “You’re wonderful in your own special way. I envy that nice guy with the job who’s going to get you. Lucky man.”

When he got up, he helped her out of her chair. After he paid the bill, he escorted her out of the shop and said he hoped he’d see her soon. On the sidewalk he lifted her hand to his mouth and said goodbye before walking rapidly toward Piccadilly.

Amelia looked at the little scrap of paper with his phone numbers on it. He hadn’t written his name down, nor had he introduced himself properly. He hadn’t asked her for her name, either.

Why?

He had impeccable manners.

Was he famous?

Why did he seem so familiar?

France’s Highest Court Upholds Dismissal of Manslaughter Charges against Comte Remy de Fournier!

Her mouth agape, riveted by the news headlines, lurid photographs and articles in the newspaper she was holding, Amelia sat perfectly still on Carol’s “bloody-expensive” sofa.

Remy de Fournier. No wonder he’d seemed so edgy. No wonder he hadn’t told her who he was.

He’d killed his best friend, André Laffite, because he’d driven on bad tires on a wet day to win. Since the wreck, he’d slept with every beautiful woman with a title on the continent, heartlessly jilting them, not caring if he broke their hearts as long as they pleasured him.

So, they hadn’t met quite by accident.

She took a deep breath against the hurt that threatened to overwhelm her. He wasn’t attracted to her. He’d been feeling her out, figuring out a strategy to get the valuable properties he coveted.

Beneath the blaring headline were pictures of the crash that had ended the life of his best friend. Apparently Remy had been determined to win at any cost. More photographs of the wreck were splashed across a back page. There were numerous shots of Remy and the beautiful women he’d dated and jilted. One of the women had even made a suicide attempt after her affair with him. Not that the woman herself blamed Remy. No, she said he’d helped her through a difficult time. There was an awful picture of him smashing his fist into a reporter’s jaw.

When she finished reading the articles and looking at the pictures, Amy felt sick. She reexamined them, anyway. When she was done, she shot to her feet and began to pace with the newspaper clutched to her heart. If half the accusations were true, she should despise him. Wadding the paper up, she threw the pages at the wall and then flung herself back down on Carol’s sofa.

Bastard. Liar. Jerk.

A memory came back to her. Remy had been eighteen, and she’d been in the garden when the comte had hurled brutal, damning insults at him. Never would she forget the torment in Remy’s eyes when he’d stormed out of the château and straight into her.

“What the hell were you doing?” he’d thundered. “Spying?”

“But I wasn’t.”

“Damn little eavesdropper! Get out of my way!”

“No. I—I wasn’t. I swear.”

“Liar.”

“No. I—I’m sorry about what he said. Maybe he didn’t mean it.”

“Spare me your fake kindness. He meant it, all right. I hope I never have the bad fortune to meet you or your aunt again.” He slammed past her and out the gate and she hadn’t seen him for seventeen years. Till today.

And now? Outwardly he was much changed from the tall, awkward, angry boy who’d been so rude to her.

Fool. He’d been deliberately charming because he wanted the vineyard and the painting.

Still, he’d gone out of his way to make her like him. Even now when she should be furious because he’d deceived her so he could use her or so his agents could trick her, she wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.

He is loathsome. So much worse than Fletcher.

But that woman who’d tried to kill herself had defended him.

Why did the bad boys of the world always appeal to her? Why couldn’t she fall for some nice, paunchy accountant going bald, someone like Carol’s Steve, an upright, type-A achiever? Or even just the normal guy Remy had described: the nice guy with a job who wants to settle down and marry so he can have a houseful of kids to play soccer with on the weekend.

If a hard-partying surfer was the frying pan, Remy, the womanizing, ex–Formula One driver, who’d watched her buy transparent panties and had made her pulse race, was definitely the fire.

She was lying on the couch in a state of utter depression as she tried without success to conjure up a dull ideal mate when the phone rang.

“Hey!” Carol said too brightly, sounding like her overly self-confident self. “I’m at the house. If you took the train from Euston, you’d be here in an hour and I could have dinner ready. The kids and Steve are very keen about seeing you.”

The very last person in London she felt like seeing was her perfect, superior, drop-dead gorgeous, big sister.

“I don’t feel too well,” she heard herself say.

“What’s wrong?”

“Something I ate, probably. Or jet lag. I’ll have to catch you on my way home.”

“I’m so sorry you don’t feel well. I worked so hard all day just so we could all be together tonight. Do you need a doctor? Should I come to London?”

Guilt swamped Amy. She felt like dirt. Here she was lying, and Carol sounded so concerned and caring. “I’m sure after a quiet night here, I’ll be just fine.”

“Well, then, if you’re sure…I really am tired after the trip. Maybe I’ll just pop by and check on you first thing in the morning on my way to the firm. Maybe bring you a croissant or something.”

They talked a little while longer, making tentative plans to see each other in the morning before they hung up.

I can’t believe I did that! I’ve let him ruin my visit with Carol! My mood! Everything!

She stared across the room at the wadded-up newspaper.

All those women, women as beautiful and poised and perfect as Carol. They must’ve liked him, too.

He’d said he liked her because she was different.

Quit thinking about him!

Usually, Amelia wasn’t one for hard liquor, but this was an emergency. She went to the kitchen, telling herself she was after a bottle of sparkling water or a soda, but the bottle of scotch lived in the same cabinet with the sodas, and it spoke to her. She grabbed a glass and poured a shot over some chunklets of ice. Swirling the glass, she returned to the living room, where she settled herself on the couch once more. For a long time, she just sat there, glumly sipping Carol’s scotch as she glared at the wadded-up newspaper and the half of Remy’s face she could see.

Then she stood. Crossing the room, she picked up the newspaper again. This time a photograph she’d barely noticed caught her attention. His stony face bleached of arrogance and any conceit, Remy was walking through the pits carrying André’s helmet under his arm. All she saw in his hard features was shock and grief.

Who was he really? He’d been so nice to her today. He’d been attentive to her needs, and he’d gone out of his way to make her feel special and beautiful. Was he that sensitive, caring person or the man she’d just read about?

He’d had lots and lots of women. He couldn’t have had all those women if he wasn’t a really good lover. He was French. Frenchmen had a worldwide reputation for being good lovers. She knew it was crazy, but she began to envy those glamorous women whose hearts he’d broken.

Fletcher had accused her of being old and boring. More than anything she wanted to be exciting.

Remy de Fournier had asked her to go dancing tonight. Maybe he was totally awful like the papers made him out to be.

Or maybe he was just the man she needed to show her how to be a more exciting and confident woman. He’d made her feel interesting and beautiful today.

Maybe it was time she learned a new set of life skills. What sort of things could he teach her if she spent an entire night with him?

Her mother was always saying she could be and have so much more if she refused to settle. Maybe it was time to live a little dangerously.

Slowly Amy dug into her pocket and felt for the scrap of paper with Remy’s phone numbers on it. For a long moment she studied the flowing black letters. Then with shaking fingers she began dialing his mobile, but after letting it ring once, she hung up, and would have chewed her nails except she couldn’t because she had on those new tips.

Damn!

She was still staring at her fake pink fingernails in utter frustration when the phone rang.

Expecting Carol, she picked it up.

“Did someone from this number call me?” Remy’s deep, dark voice spoke with such tender concern she almost forgot he was the terrible person she’d read about and not the sweet man she’d met by chance and had liked so much this afternoon.

He sounded so nice.

“Me!” she squeaked, forgetting the terrible bit. “That would be me! The girl you bumped—”

He laughed as if he were thrilled, too. “I know who you are.” Somehow the way he said that made her feel very special, like she was the only woman in the world who mattered to him. Which was ridiculous. He was a womanizer.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t call,” he said, again sounding so sincerely worried and humble she could almost feel her heart shatter. He was that good.

Or that bad.

Either way, this could be a win-win.

Hang up on him.

She plunged in recklessly. “I—I’m free tonight. Carol…” Amy glanced across the room at a silver-framed photograph of her blond sister and Steve and silently crossed herself. “We…we won’t be getting together, after all. She…has a headache.”

“Nothing too serious, I hope.”

“No.”

“Excellent. I can be there as soon as you can be ready.”

“But I don’t have anything to wear.”

“I don’t really object to that,” he teased. “I could bring dinner over, and we could stay in. You could wear…nothing. I wouldn’t mind. I swear.”

She laughed. “You are terrible.”

“So I’ve been told.” He laughed. “What do you want, chérie?”

If she wanted lessons in love from an expert, she should say, “You.” She should say, “Yes! Yes!”

“Fortnam and Masons is only two blocks away. If I could just pop over there…”

“I particularly liked your dress this afternoon.”

“I’ll call you when I’m ready.”

“I can’t wait to see you,” he said in a dark, eager tone that sent a chill through her.

“Me, too,” she responded in a voice that was probably too low for him to hear.

When he hung up, she licked her lips with the tip of her tongue and drew a slow, deep breath. Just talking to him made her feel sexy and daring.

She exhaled a long, shaky breath. And then another. Oh, my God. She was so excited she’d held her breath almost the entire phone call.

Deep down she knew that if she were smart and practical, she would return to Honolulu and regroup. No way should she fly to France to negotiate with his agents or his family about the vineyard or even think about the Matisse until she had her head on straight. If she were smart and practical she would tell him she knew who he was and ask him to leave her alone.

But despite everything she’d read about him, or maybe because of it, she wanted to go out with Remy. Which was crazy.

He’d tricked her!

But he’d been charming, devastatingly charming. And he had not pressed his advantage, she told herself.

Not yet, anyway.

Her mind warred with itself, but soon the hunger for adventure with a dangerous, incredibly attractive man won out over good sense and logic.

He was a comte. Despite his many faults, that would cut a lot of ice chunklets with her shallow mother and brilliant sister. Definitely, he was a win-win.

Now all she had to do was to find a sexy red dress!

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