Her Mediterranean Makeover. Claire Baxter

attractive. It would have been a lethal combination.

      He tilted his head. ‘Are you here alone?’

      ‘Yes.’ For an instant Leonie wondered whether that was a smart admission, but then she dismissed the thought. Stranger or not, he didn’t seem the least bit dangerous. And it wasn’t as if he knew where she was staying. Sitting in this crowded café with Jean-Claude behind the counter, there was no risk at all.

      As if he’d picked up on her hesitation, he said, ‘I did not mean to intrude.’

      ‘No, no, you’re not intruding.’ She hadn’t meant to give that impression.

      ‘I noticed that you preferred this newspaper last time.’ He held out the rolled-up publication that he’d been holding. ‘It is not as heavy-going as that one.’ Gesturing at the one on the table, he got to his feet. ‘Now, I will leave you to your reading.’

      ‘Oh, okay.’ Disappointed that their conversation was to be cut short, she said quickly, ‘I’m Leonie, by the way. Perhaps I’ll see you in here again?’

      He smiled then, and Leonie felt the unfamiliar zing of…of appreciation, not attraction. It was just that she hadn’t seen such a good-looking man for a very long time. If ever. And his smile should come with a warning. If she’d been someone else—someone younger, someone…well, whatever—it would have knocked her off her feet. But she was a wife and mother. Well, she had been a wife, and was still a mother. She was well past all that.

      Besides, she was sitting down.

      ‘I hope so. I come here often.’

      But he was still a stranger, and had she really just suggested meeting him again when she knew nothing about him? What was she doing?

      He held out his hand. ‘My name is Jacques Broussard. I am an old friend of the owner here,’ he said, nodding towards Jean-Claude. ‘Our families have known each other for years. If you want to check up on me, that is.’

      Leonie grimaced. ‘Did you just read my mind?’

      With a grin, he said, ‘Mind-reading is not one of my talents. But you seem like a sensible woman, and any sensible woman should take care when talking to strangers.’

      ‘Yes, well, I’m Leonie Winters. Pleased to meet you. And thank you for this.’ She tapped the newspaper he’d given her. ‘I was struggling with the other one.’

      He nodded. ‘That’s understandable, and you’re welcome.’

      After he’d gone, Leonie sat for a long moment. Jacques Broussard. What a name. Very…um, French. She could still feel his grasp on her hand as if he’d left an imprint. Glancing at her hand, she shook her head, dismissing the idea as ridiculous.

      The last time anyone had shaken her hand was at Shane’s funeral. Before she could stop them, memories of that day flooded her mind, forcing out every other thought. Many of his former employees had approached her to shake her hand, to pay their respects. Tears filled her throat as she relived the emotional outpouring of admiration from people who’d known her husband. Shane had inspired the high opinion of everybody who had had meaningful contact with him, mainly through his work ethic and his one-hundred-percent commitment to anything he undertook.

      He’d been committed to her. How lucky was she?

      Not only had she married her high-school sweetheart, but they’d remained in love throughout twenty years of marriage. Not many couples could say that nowadays.

      They’d been blessed by the arrival of two wonderful children who’d never caused them the anguish that she’d witnessed other families undergoing. Theirs had been a close and happy family unit.

      That was why she’d never had a holiday without her family, and they’d shared some amazing experiences, albeit close to home in case Shane should have been called back to work to deal with an emergency. He’d enjoyed spending time with his family, but had never lost sight of his responsibilities. He’d taken them seriously; he’d taken everything seriously, actually, even his health. So it was unfair that, despite all his care, he’d still fallen ill.

      She’d tried to make him well, and when it had become clear that he wouldn’t recover she’d done her best to make him happy, or, at the very least, comfortable. She’d tried hard, and he’d appreciated it. Never grumpy, never complaining, he’d thanked her every day for the sacrifices she was making.

      Huh. As if she’d cared about what she was missing out on. Nothing had been as important as spending every moment with Shane, nursing him herself rather than hand over the chores to a paid carer.

      What would Shane think of her now? She’d abandoned her children with the frivolous goal of learning another language. And what use would it be to her?

      Once she left Nice for home, she’d probably never visit France again. Why should she, having got it out of her system?

      What was she doing here? Just wasting time and money?

      Or was she looking for something? Her own life?

      The tears had gradually made their way from her throat to her eyes and one spilled over her lower lid onto the newspaper that Jacques had given her. She stared down at the absorbent paper as it made the teardrop look much worse than it was.

      Which was exactly what she was doing.

      She had to lighten up. It was three years since Shane had died and most of the time she was fine. It was only on odd occasions that memories set her off. She was incredibly lucky to be in the position she was in. How many women had the opportunity to do exactly what they’d always wanted to do?

      Wiping away the remaining tears before they could fall, she remembered something that Jacques had said.

       He’d noticed which newspaper she preferred last week.

      He’d been watching her, taking notes—not literally, she assumed, but still…She didn’t know whether to be flattered or concerned.

      Perhaps she should do as he’d suggested and check his references. But a glance at the smiling Jean-Claude had her shaking her head. That wasn’t necessary. Just the fact that he’d suggested it was enough to tell her he had nothing to hide and, besides, what were they talking about here? A chat, that was all. Not a date.

      So, he was observant. That wasn’t a bad thing. He probably noticed stuff about everyone who entered the café. It wouldn’t hurt her to be more aware of her surroundings. She’d been living in the very small world consisting of her immediate family for far too long.

      Chapter Two

      THE next day, when Leonie arrived back at the apartment at the end of her lessons, she didn’t wait for claustrophobia to hit, but immediately showered and changed her clothes before checking her reflection in the only mirror she had. A small one.

      All the local women were well turned out, even when dressed in casual clothes. In comparison, she felt dowdy in her shorts and T-shirt. Sam had tried to convince her to shop for a whole new wardrobe before coming away, but she’d made do with popping to the local chain store and grabbing some basic items. She’d never been one for fashion. There had always been more important things to think about, family things, and no one had ever cared what she wore. As long as she was tidy, she’d figured fashion didn’t matter.

      She looked at herself more critically than she ever had before. Maybe she should visit some of the local shops and see what she could come up with? It couldn’t hurt.

      At least she was lucky that she hadn’t gained much weight over the years, especially as she hadn’t been skinny to start with. She’d always been a bit hippy and busty. Actually, she had gained quite a few kilos earlier on, but had lost them during the first months of Shane’s illness. Seeing him suffer had turned her right off food, and she’d never really regained her former appetite. So, no, she wasn’t fat, but that didn’t mean her body was in great condition. Far from