The Little French Guesthouse (7 page)

‘I know,’ Kate soothed. ‘You’ve told me a few times that things were getting a bit dull, but I never imagined Nathan would do something like that! He’s always been so... straight-laced.’

‘You were going to say boring,’ I muttered.

Kate and Nathan got along passably for my sake, but they didn’t have much in common. Kate was bright and bubbly and passionate about things like the environment and equality. Nathan was the epitome of conservative capitalism. Chalk and cheese.

‘I wasn’t. I only meant it seems out of character. Maybe he just needs some space. A trial separation.’

‘He didn’t say that,’ I pointed out.

‘Will you try to phone him? In a few days?’

I shook my head, then realised she couldn’t see me. ‘No. Absolutely not. It would look like I was begging. And since I don’t know how I feel about him, other than sodding livid, I don’t see the point.’

She sighed. ‘I wish I was there, Emmy. But...’

‘Don’t remind me! Ten days in the Maldives with Jamie. What time do you fly?’

‘Later this afternoon. Jamie’s collecting me around two.’

‘Okay, well, have a lovely time.’ I was going to cry again. ‘Thanks, Kate. I feel better.’

‘You don’t sound better.’

I straightened my spine. There was nothing more she could do for me for now. ‘I’ll see you when you get back?’

‘I’ll phone you as soon as I can. Promise.’

I powered off the phone and put it in the drawer, where I wouldn’t be tempted to check it for messages from Nathan.

Downstairs, there was no sign of Rupert – although he must have been up and about because the washing machine was taking off on a supersonic spin cycle.

The Hendersons were just leaving.

‘Where to today, then?’ I asked politely.

‘Le Château d’Ussé,’
Mrs Henderson announced. ‘It was the inspiration for
Sleeping Beauty
, you know.’

‘No, I didn’t know. Well, enjoy.’

She managed a small wave and off they went. Two people I would be less likely to associate with fairy tales, I couldn’t imagine.

I stuffed down a croissant while I waited for the washing machine to come in to land, dragged out the king-size sheets we’d stripped from the
gîtes
yesterday, and trudged outside to peg them out on the line at the bottom of the garden.

No sign of Ryan or his muscles. Shame. Still, it was a Sunday.

Mentally telling myself off for even thinking about him, I trooped back inside to shove another load of washing in, then scanned the bookcase in the hall. The worthy tomes I’d packed along with my good intentions held no appeal, so I plucked out a thriller and went outside. I wandered down the garden, skirting islands of bright pink azaleas and pale yellow roses until I found a wooden Adirondack chair under an arbour of sweetly-scented lilac. The warm sun slanted through the leaves and flowers, just the right temperature for soaking up some vitamin D without roasting, and it was the perfect hideaway for losing myself in the happy world of murder and mayhem in Rupert’s book. The plot tore along at quite a pace and I got so wrapped up in it that I jumped when my stomach gurgled loudly.

Taking heed, I headed back to the house. As I crossed the patio, someone called out.

‘Excuse me.’ A woman stood at the gate between the courtyard and the garden. ‘Hi, sorry to disturb you. I’m Jenny Brown. I’m in the
gîte
at the end over there. I didn’t get to meet you yesterday.’

Realising she must have arrived while I’d driven Madame Dupont home, I crossed to the gate and shook her hand. ‘It’s nice to meet you. I hope everything’s all right for you.’

‘Gorgeous. Just what we were hoping for. Harry’s been working too hard. We both have. I found this place on the Internet and it looked so scrumptious and I thought, gosh, that’s just what we need. A little R & R, a
château
or two. You know.’

‘Yes. I know.’ I plastered a smile on my face to hide the fact that my heart had plummeted to my feet. Her words were an echo of mine to Nathan – and look how that had turned out. I hoped Jenny and Harry would have a better time of it.

‘Feel free to come over if you need anything,’ I told her.

‘We will.’ She turned to go, then swung back round. ‘By the way, I’m sorry about your husband’s leg.’ She paused. ‘And I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you could do with updating the website a bit. You don’t look anything like your photograph.’ Her eyes widening, she quickly added, ‘Oh, I meant that in a good way. You look much younger in real life.’

I frowned. My husband? My photograph? The fog cleared.

‘Oh, no, Jenny. The chap you met yesterday – Rupert – he’s not my husband. What I mean is, that isn’t me on the website. That’s his wife. She’s not here at the moment. I’m... helping out while she’s away. Rupert’s a friend.’

‘Oh. Right.’ Jenny’s sunny smile faltered. ‘I hope I didn’t offend you. I
thought
Rupert seemed an awful lot older than you. See you later.’ She waved and skipped back to her
gîte
across the way.

As I threw a sandwich together, I made a mental note to tackle Rupert about the website sometime. If Gloria wasn’t coming back, he could do with removing her hateful image from it. And I could do without being mistaken for Gloria again.

Peeved, I bit into a plum tomato. It promptly exploded juice and seeds all over my T-shirt – clean on today
and
white. Great.

I’d just put all the lunch items away when Rupert came into the kitchen to forage.

‘What do you want me to do with all that bedlinen when it’s dry?’ I asked him tetchily.

‘Just shove it in one of the unused rooms out of sight for now. I’ll get Madame Dupont to deal with it next time she comes in.’

This seemed rather
laissez-faire,
even for a Sunday, but if he couldn’t be bothered, I didn’t see why I should.

‘Besides, other things to worry about first,’ he said. ‘The Stewarts are due on Tuesday.’

‘Why is that a worry?’

‘Madame Dupont isn’t in today – church. Or tomorrow – sister’s. Could you do their room for me, love?’

I frowned. ‘Today? Why not tomorrow?’

‘Because tomorrow is market day,’ he stated, as though this was a perfectly obvious answer. When all he got from me was a bewildered expression, he explained, ‘I always go into Pierre-la-Fontaine on market day. I get my fresh and specialist food there.’

I blew out a frustrated breath. ‘Can’t we stick to the supermarket this week?’ I’d only just mastered that little hurdle. Driving to the outskirts of town and parking in a large supermarket car park was one thing. Negotiating my way into a proper French town on a busy market day was quite another. Besides... ‘Haven’t you heard of doing your grocery shop online?’

He had that stubborn look in his eye that I was coming to recognise all too well. ‘Of course. But I wouldn’t like it.’

‘Why not? Wouldn’t it be easier?’

He shook his head. ‘I like to see what’s fresh. What’s on offer. I don’t even write a list – I’ve only been doing that for your benefit. I wouldn’t dream of confining myself to the supermarket, anyway. I like to use the shops in town. Go to the market when it’s on. Bump into people I know and have a chat. I’m getting cabin fever, Emmy. I need to get out, get back to normal a bit. And it would do you good, too. Give you a break from this place.’

He gave me a pleading look, and I couldn’t help but laugh. He looked like one of those dogs with the wrinkled faces and huge eyes that you can’t say no to.

I sighed. ‘All right.’ The idea of getting out and about was beginning to appeal to me, too. Other than the first couple of days pottering about nearby villages and taking strolls along country lanes with Nathan, there had been a distinct lack of traditional holiday activity so far. ‘But only on the condition that you treat me to coffee afterwards.’

Rupert shook his head. ‘You’re getting so you’re anybody’s for a coffee, Emmy.’

‘I know. You’ve corrupted me with your big shiny machine.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘I wish!’ But to his gratification, I’d already blushed bright scarlet before the words were out of his mouth.

R
esigned to my afternoon fate
, I went up to what would be the Stewarts’ room, opened the windows to air it out, then glanced into the bathroom. It had been cleaned since the room was last occupied, but I wiped it over. Spotting that the complimentary toiletries were running low, I went to ask Rupert where he kept his supplies.

‘No bloody idea,’ he admitted. ‘Gloria always dealt with that girly stuff.’

I was going to say it was good to know there had been at least
some
useful task in Gloria’s remit, but he had such a defeated look on his face – whether at Gloria’s absence or his gap in knowledge with regard to toiletry stocks, I wasn’t sure – that I kept my remarks to myself.

Methodically, I went through every cupboard and drawer in every communal area. First, the kitchen units I hadn’t yet explored, then the inbuilt broom cupboard in the hall. No joy there. I glanced at the tall wooden desk unit by the front door where the phone and diary resided – not enough storage space, but I did a double take anyway. I’d admired its polished elegance every time I passed, but it was only now that I realised what it was – a restaurant antique, one of those counters where the
maître d’
would stand sentry with his reservations book and a haughty look. Fabulous.

Trooping upstairs, I had a quick root through the large
armoire
on the landing, but it only held bedlinen and towels. With all the obvious places covered, I went back downstairs for an unlikely foray into the guest lounge, a slightly formal affair with upright upholstered chairs and sofa, and an imposing sideboard in dark wood. I’d only poked my head in here a couple of times, but I’d rejected it as a place to linger – it was quite a contrast to the warm and welcoming atmosphere of the kitchen, and since the bedrooms were spacious enough to include a small armchair, I hadn’t felt the need to use it. Looking through the sideboard, I found napkins, tablecloths, candles, and finally came up trumps with two deep drawers stuffed full of individually-wrapped soaps, sachets of shampoo, and tiny bottles of bath oil. Why toiletries should be stored in a sideboard in the guest lounge, I couldn’t begin to guess.

I emptied them into two empty plastic storage boxes I found in the hall cupboard, left one there to be nearer the
gîtes
and took the other upstairs so it would be handier for the guest rooms.

That done, I set to doing what I should have already finished by now – vacuuming, dusting, polishing and making the bed in the Stewarts’ room. I took a leaf from Madame Dupont’s book and defiantly binned Gloria’s clichéd and dusty potpourri, then went down to the garden, cut fresh flowers, found a glass vase for them in the kitchen and placed it on the now shining antique dressing table. And on the basis that less was more, I relegated several hideous ornaments to the top shelf of the wardrobe while I was at it.

Finally, I admired my handiwork with a sense of pride. The room was as it should be: a clean, tastefully-decorated haven within the restful cocoon that was
La Cour des Roses
.

I was looking forward to resuming reading in the sunshine when I heard a knock at the door. Talk about never getting any peace!

Rupert’s accountant was on the doorstep. Again.

‘Hi. I – er.’ His gaze fixed on my chest, which ordinarily would have either flattered or annoyed me, depending on what mood I was in and who was doing the staring. This time, it did neither, since I realised it was only because of my sloppy eating habits. I’d forgotten to change, and the tomato pulp was now dried on like cement.

‘Sorry.’ I wafted at the carnage down my front. ‘Rogue tomato.’

He nodded. ‘Is Rupert in?’

I crossed my arms over my chest, partly in confrontation and partly to hide the salad spillage.

‘Yes, but I’m afraid he’s convalescing and can’t be disturbed. If it’s
that
urgent, perhaps I can make you another appointment?’

His brow furrowed. ‘No, I don’t think you understand...’

Bloody accountants. Didn’t he have any patience? ‘No, Mr...?’

‘Alain.’

‘Alain. I don’t think
you
understand. Rupert really isn’t well. Not only that, but...’ I stopped. It wasn’t my place to tell him about Rupert’s marital misfortunes. ‘Look, unless Rupert’s about to be clapped in irons for not paying his taxes, I
really
can’t see what’s so important that you need to come here on a
Sunday
...’

‘Friendship.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Friendship is what’s so important. Not taxes. I may be Rupert’s accountant, but I’m also his friend. I didn’t come to do his books – I came to see how he was. I heard there had been some... trouble.’

There was a tinge of annoyance in his voice, but his caramel gaze remained calm on mine, despite my rudeness. Those soft brown eyes were the kind you could lose yourself in if you weren’t careful, with their warmth and unexpected seductive quality.

Hmmph. I wasn’t inclined to associate any accountant with warmth
or
seduction, thank you very much.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise,’ I managed.

‘Don’t worry about it. It’s good to know someone’s looking out for Rupert’s interests – which is more than Gloria did. If he’s resting, I’ll come back another time. Could you tell him I was asking after him?’

I gave him the first genuine smile he’d had from me. ‘Of course. I’d ask you to come in and wait, but I’ve no idea how long that would be.’

He shook his head. ‘I’ll go. Thank you.’ He pointed to my T-shirt. ‘Good luck with that stain.’ He winked and was down the steps before I could reply.

Back upstairs to change the wretched T-shirt, I put it in the bathroom sink to soak, in the vain hope that Madame Dupont might know some ancient French trick for rescuing it. That done, I dragged more laundry out of the machine and hung it out, brought the dry linen inside to dump it in a spare guest room as instructed, and finally –
finally
– went back outside to the patio to read.

I was musing as to why the heroine was so quick to sleep with the hero when he was such a misogynistic pig when I heard footsteps coming across the gravel and looked up. Adonis, aka Ryan, leaned against the garden gate, his jeans anchored on his slim hips, a tight-fitting T-shirt clinging to firm abs, his bare arms tanned and muscled and lightly covered in blonde hair.

I think I may have inadvertently licked my lips.

‘Ryan, hi!’ I called, too brightly, desperately trying to cover my wicked thoughts with a casual greeting. Indeed, since I’d barely come to terms with being abandoned, it occurred to me that I shouldn’t be having wicked thoughts at all. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I promised Rupert I’d do extra to make up for last week, remember?’

Either I’d forgotten, or I’d blocked our encounter yesterday from my mind in the spirit of self-preservation. But there he was – and here I was, once more unsuitably attired, this time in a pair of baggy linen trousers that hid my widening hips but probably made me look the size of a bus, and a T-shirt that must have shrunk in the wash and now clung unflatteringly to my stomach. Self-conscious, I crossed my arms in front to spare him the sight.

‘Oh, right. Didn’t think you’d come on a Sunday.’

‘Makes no difference to me. I’m not a churchgoer.’ There was a hint of devilment in his voice. I swallowed hard as he waved a pair of secateurs at me. ‘I can come back another time if it’ll disturb you.’

‘No, go ahead. It won’t bother me. I’m going to fetch a cold drink. Can I get you one?’

‘Sure. Thanks.’ He strolled off, snipping at bushes and trees as he went.

I fixed iced juice and took it outside. When Ryan saw me, he stopped what he was doing and came over, taking a seat on the edge of the lounger next to mine. Since he’d only started five minutes ago, I didn’t think this was very productive of him, but it wasn’t my place to say.

‘So, Emmy, how’s it going?’ he asked. ‘I gather yesterday was a whirlwind of activity.’

‘You... How... What?’ I asked intelligently.

Ryan laughed, his teeth white and even in his tanned face. ‘Madame Dupont cleans for my parents over at their summer place. She bumped into my mother this morning at the
boulangerie
. Mum speaks excellent French.’

‘Oh, I see.’ A blush rose. ‘Isn’t anything private around here?’ I bleated.

‘Don’t worry, Emmy. Rupert’s not stupid. He knows what an old gossip Madame Dupont is – he won’t have told her any more than she needs to know.’ As I sighed with relief, he added, ‘Doesn’t stop her adding her own embellishments, though.’

I watched as he took a long gulp of his juice and swiped the drips from his extremely kissable mouth.

‘Do you live with your parents?’ I asked in an attempt to change the subject, then immediately regretted the question. I hadn’t meant to insinuate he was a stay-at-home mummy’s boy, but thankfully he didn’t seem to take offence.

‘Yes and no. They spend about three months a year out here, on and off. I come out for the gardening season, March through to October, so I often have the place to myself. When they’re out here, I move into the barn.’

‘The barn?’ An image of Ryan sprawled out naked in the hay, barely covered by an old blanket, popped unbidden into my mind.

‘Well, it’s not a barn any more. They’ve been converting it. Eventually, it’ll be a couple of
gîtes
. Right now, it’s only an open space with a kitchenette and shower room, but it’s coming along.’

‘You’re helping with it?’

‘They get workmen in for the technical stuff, otherwise I do what I can when the gardening allows or when it rains.’

‘You really are a jack of all trades, aren’t you?’

Ryan looked me so straight in the eye that I squirmed in my seat. ‘I’m good with my hands.’

Oh, Ryan, I bet you are.
As I stared at his broad hands and long fingers with their soil-ingrained tips and work calluses, I realised I could have said the words aloud.
Get a grip, Emmy. He’s just a baby!

‘How old are you?’ I blurted before I could stop myself, immediately giving myself a mental kicking for not stopping my thoughts from becoming audible speech.

‘Twenty-four. Why do you ask?’

He knew damned well why, but we were playing some sort of cat-and-mouse game, and I had no intention of being the mouse.

‘Just wondered. You seem to have a lot of skills for your age.’ Great. Now I sounded like my mother.

‘I’m a quick learner.’ He hoisted himself up from the chair. ‘I’d better get on. Thanks for the drink.’

He handed me his glass and as I reached out to take it, his fingers brushed mine. Raising an eyebrow, he headed down the garden before I could stop gawping.

I closed my eyes in despair. For heaven’s sake, why couldn’t a woman whose boyfriend had deserted her for a middle-aged nymphomaniac be left in peace to wallow in self-pity? Why did there have to be gardeners like Greek gods popping up out of the shrubbery?

I spent the next couple of hours alternating between the excitement of my book and the excitement of glancing surreptitiously across at Ryan, allowing myself the luxury of observing the way the muscles in his arms bunched and tightened while he worked; how his jeans stretched across his thighs as he crouched; the slide of his waistband as he bent.

Oh, I knew I was in a vulnerable emotional state and should be wary of such lascivious thoughts. Plus, he was seven years younger than me. I had no intention of making any moves on him or anything. But since I’d been starved of sexual fantasy for a while now, I figured I was at least allowed to look. After all, when you’re on a diet, there’s nothing to stop you drooling through the bakery window – as long as you don’t go inside to sample the éclairs.

Ryan gathered up his tools and headed back my way.

‘Finished?’ I asked, trying not to stare at the sweat trickling down through the hairs on his chest.

‘For today.’

‘Would you like another drink?’

‘Please.’

I fixed iced grenadine for us both and brought it out. He downed his in five seconds.

‘Thanks. Thirsty work. What are you doing tonight?’

‘Hmm?’ His question took me by surprise.

‘No meals to cook for the guests?’

‘No, but...’

‘How about eating with me?’

‘Well...’ I couldn’t think straight. Was he being neighbourly, or was he asking me out on a date?

‘You and Rupert must be spending way too much time together,’ he went on. ‘Surely you could do with an hour or two away?’

I wondered what Rupert would say about me dining out with his gardener. ‘I don’t know if he’ll cope on his own. I mean, he’s still...’

‘He’ll be fine. He can scramble himself some eggs or whatever it is that invalids eat. I’ll pick you up at seven.’

My mind desperately sought a way out, but by the time it had got a grip and begun to process any coherent thoughts whatsoever, Ryan had already waved, closed the gate and started his engine.

What had I let myself in for now? No good could come of this, whatever Ryan’s motives. If his intentions were honourable and he was simply being kind, then I appreciated the sentiment but didn’t relish being an object of pity. On the other hand, if his intentions were
dis
honourable, then I was in real trouble, because either he was sadder than I thought and there must be something wrong with him – why couldn’t he find a nice girl nearer his own age? – or he was a heartless gigolo, happy to take advantage of a vulnerable woman without caring about the consequences.

T
wo hours later
, my book abandoned, I was still stewing it over. I wanted to duck out and cancel, but that would involve phoning Ryan, which would involve asking Rupert for his number. Besides, I had no excuse to give. If Ryan was only being nice, I might hurt his feelings, and there had already been enough hurt feelings around here to last a lifetime.

I reconciled myself to my fate. The best that could happen? I might enjoy a pleasant evening with a nice young man, possibly struggling to restrain myself from drooling if he looked as good fully clothed as he did half-naked and sweaty. And the worst? Well, I was a big girl now and quite capable of rejecting the advances of a misguided youth.