Captivated By The Brooding Billionaire. Rebecca Winters

right now.” The lake steamer had pulled up to its dock.

      She nodded. “It’s a magnificent château. I’ve been through it half a dozen times, but after seeing the dungeon where the Swiss patriot Bonivard was imprisoned, I’ve been haunted by Byron’s words.”

      “Can you quote any of it?”

      Her eyes lit up. “Would you believe I memorized all 392 lines in high school for a contest?”

      There was fire in her. He sat back against the side of the boat. “Did you win?”

      “Would it sound like bragging if I said yes?”

      She was getting to him in ways he would never have imagined. “I bet you could still recite it.”

      Abby shook her head. “That was too long ago.”

      He leaned forward. “I know I read it in my teens with my grandfather who loved Byron’s works, but I would be hopeless to recall it. Come on. Give me a taste of it. We’re right here where he was inspired. Enchant me.”

      She cocked her blond head. “Maybe some of the first part.”

      “I’m waiting.” Mon Dieu—he was far too attracted to her for only having known her such a short time. Whatever was happening to him had come like a bolt out of the blue and wasn’t about to go away.

      Once she started to recite, the emotion she conveyed filled him with a myriad of disquieting sensations.

      “My hair is grey, but not with years,

      Nor grew it white

      In a single night,

      As men’s have grown from sudden fears:

      My limbs are bowed, though not with toil,

      But rusted with a vile repose,

      For they have been a dungeon’s spoil,

      And mine has been the fate of those

      To whom the goodly earth and air

      Are bann’d, and barr’d—forbidden fare;

      But this was for my father’s faith

      I suffered chains and courted death;

      That father perish’d at the stake

      For tenets he would not forsake;

      And for the same his lineal race

      In darkness found a dwelling-place;

      We were seven—who now are one”

      The last two lines she’d recited brought back remembered pain. He could have rewritten them. ‘In darkness found a dwelling place. We were three—who now are one.’

      As he sat there staring at Abby, he suffered guilt for finding himself so intensely attracted to her. It seemed a betrayal to Angélique’s memory. It wasn’t this woman’s fault—nor her desirability nor the recitation that had reached his soul, reminding him of the tragedy. He felt Abby had gone to another place too.

      “Byron was a great poet,” Raoul said in a voice that sounded thick to his own ears. “Thank you for bringing his words to life for a few minutes so eloquently.”

      She shifted in place while she looked at the château in the distance. “It hurts to know how men have been persecuted. Byron had many problems, physical and otherwise. I believe his suffering came through in that poem.” Raoul felt she’d suffered too and wanted to know how.

      “There’s no doubt of it. No wonder you were chosen to help on the film.”

      She smiled. “I love what I do.”

      He stared hard at her. “Do you love it enough to come to France for a few days?”

      A stillness washed over her. “What did you say?”

      “I asked if you would like to spend some time with me at my home in Burgundy. You said your life needed a little stirring up. Your friends are welcome too.”

      His question seemed to have shaken her. It took her a long time before she said, “You’re only saying this because you think the news about Auguste has ruined everything for us.”

      “Not at all. You’re not the type of person to fall apart because of a change in plans. I’m quite sure your friends aren’t either. That isn’t the reason I’ve invited you.”

      He wanted to tell her about “Labyrinths of Lavaux” but wanted to approach her slowly. Maybe asking her to lunch would help her stay with him long enough to entertain the possibility that he was telling her the truth about his uncle’s find.

      She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

      “There’s something I’d like to show you because I know you would be one person who would appreciate it. If you’ll come to lunch with me, I’ll give you details.”

      He sensed she’d try to put him off again, but after this talk on the lake, he was driven by an idea that refused to let go of him.

      “If you say no after our lunch, then I’ll take you back to the château and that will be the end of it.”

      Without waiting for a response, he started the engine. “Louis will be happy to know this speedboat seems to be in fine working order, but I’ll open up the throttle to be certain.”

       CHAPTER THREE

      ABBY STARED AT this striking man wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. If he were featured on a billboard, the sight of him alone in whatever he wore would be worth millions for the advertisers. She found him more fantastic than any fantasy of her imagination.

      “You’re not a Realtor are you?”

      In a few minutes, he’d pulled into the slip and turned off the engine, but the blood was still pounding in her ears. “I’m afraid that’s an assumption you made.”

      “But you let me keep thinking it.”

      He slanted her one of those seductive glances he probably wasn’t even aware of. “Forgive me?”

      With a look like that, she could forgive him anything and probably a lot more. That’s what frightened her.

      “I don’t know,” she finally answered him. It depends on what you do when you’re not picking up strange females, at a lonely train station, no less,” she went on. “In the middle of the week. In a car that looks like the one De Gaulle rode in on Bastille Day after World War II.”

      His quick smile took her breath.

      She removed the life jacket and climbed out on her own beyond his reach. Abby felt his gaze on her and knew he was still waiting for her answer. To give in to her desire and accept his invitation would be heaven. But at what cost later on, when he no longer wanted her? After she’d sold her soul, she would never be the same again and would never be able to pick up the pieces.

      “Who are you?” she blurted in panic. “What are you?”

      “Would it help if I told you I’m a vintner?”

      “From Burgundy...” She hadn’t seen that coming, but she should have. Chalk it up to her being turned inside out by his male magnetism. “The clues were there. Not every Realtor knows the intimate goings-on during the pollination season at La Floraison.”

      “I left out one detail in my résumé. Auguste Decorvet was a distant relative of mine. The Decorvet family has many offshoots, none of them into the selling of real estate. Years ago, one of them came to Switzerland to buy a vineyard, and to get away from the dark internal fighting and struggles between family members who all wanted to be in charge.”

      She smiled. “I’m afraid that’s true of some dynastic-minded families.”