One Night In Provence. Barbara Wallace

would call him biased, except that he might be right. She’d never seen so much color in one place. Maybe it was an effect brought on by the champagne, but everything seemed more vivid here. The lavender’s purple deeper, the sunflowers’ gold more brilliant. Even the mountains, with their shadows, looked like they were bathed in blue and green.

      “You’re American,” her photographer noted. “Is this your first visit to Château de Beauchamp?”

      “Yes, it is.” First time to the château. First time to France. First time outside the United States since spring break in college. “I couldn’t resist the idea of staying in a real-life castle. Especially one that’s a thousand years old. America wasn’t even a gleam in Columbus’s eye then.”

      “I hate to disappoint you, but you’ve been shortchanged by a few hundred years.”

      “What do you mean?”

      He joined her at the railing. As he eased his way around the chair, Jenna noted the fluid grace with which he moved. Like water rounding a bend.

      “This isn’t the original castle,” he told her.

      “But the brochure said the Château de Beauchamp had stood watch over the valley since the eleventh century. Were they making that up?” If the hotel misled her, she was going to be really ticked off.

      “A Château de Beauchamp has stood guard,” he replied. “Just not this one. The original fell into ruin sometime in the sixteenth century. If you look beyond that clump of trees to the right, you’ll see the remains of the tower.”

      A gold signet ring on his pinkie finger glittered in the sun as he pointed. Squinting, Jenna made out the peaks of toppled stone.

      “The d’Usay family built this as a replacement. They called it the Château Neuf.”

      “So I’m staying in a five-hundred-year-old castle instead of a thousand-year-old one.”

      “I trust you’re not too disappointed?”

      “I’ll survive.”

      “I hope so. It would be a shame if you were left unsatisfied.”

      Damn, if the double entendre didn’t send a quiver through her. If it was a double entendre. The jet lag had thrown her instincts off.

      “Have you taken the tour?” he asked.

      “Not yet.” A castle tour was one of the suggested itinerary items listed in her information package, but Jenna had yet to book anything. She’d told Shirley it was because she wanted to be spontaneous, but really it was because she’d been too busy before departure. “I thought I’d take a day and soak in the atmosphere first.”

      “You should, if only to appreciate the atmosphere in which you are soaking. Did you know, for example, that the wine cellar doubled as a meeting locale for les Compagnies du Soleil during the White Terror?”

      “The white what?”

      “When members of the region took revenge on those who supported the revolution. That would be our revolution, by the way,” he added. A dimple in his left cheek punctuated his cheeky grin.

      “You mean they were rebelling against the rebellion?” she asked.

      “We prefer to think of it as an attempt to preserve tradition. And perhaps their heads.”

      “No, they definitely wouldn’t want to lose those.” She wondered how many women had lost their heads over this guy. She’d met men like him before. Players, albeit not as suave.

      Or as handsome, the voice reminded her.

      Men like him were the worst, because they tricked you. Most poseurs were so obvious you knew not to take them seriously. This kind of guy, however... This was the kind of guy who sucked you in with their smoothness, leading you to believe he were sincerely interested in more than sex. Next thing you knew, you were spending your life like a puppet, dancing a jig every time he jerked your string.

      This guy looked like someone who pulled a lot of strings.

      He leaned an elbow against the rail, allowing his eyes to lock with Jenna’s. “Speak for yourself, mademoiselle. Sometimes losing your head can be rather fun.”

      “Not in my experience,” Jenna replied.

      “Perhaps you haven’t had the right experience.”

      If she were in Nantucket, this would be the point where she told him to take a hike. Instead, whether it was the jet lag, the champagne on an empty stomach or the heady French atmosphere, she found herself leaning into his gaze. The hue was far deeper and richer than she realized. More blue-violet than purple, making them even more unique. And captivating...

      “How did they make out? The rebels against the rebellion. Did they keep their heads?” she asked him.

      “You’ll have to take the tour to find out.” The dimple reappeared. “Unless you would like a more personal tour.”

      Despite knowing better, the offer went straight to the base of her spine.

      “French history just happens to be a personal passion of mine,” he told her. “Particularly the d’Usay family.”

      Wait? Was he offering her an actual tour? “Won’t you get in trouble? With the hotel?” she added when he gave her a quizzical look. There was personalized service, and then there was personalized service. “I wouldn’t want to take you away from the other guests.”

      An amused smile tugged the corner of his mouth. “I’m sure the other guests will survive.”

      Jenna debated the offer, turning her phone end over end as she thought. What the heck—it was only a walk around the hotel, not a marriage proposal. Besides, unlike most guys on the make, this one was actually entertaining. If he got annoying, she could always beg off by blaming jet lag. “In that case, I would love a tour.”

      “Wonderful. My name is Philippe, by the way.”

      “Jenna Brown.”

      “Enchanté, Jenna Brown.”

      Amazing how an accent could turn the plainest of New England names exotic and sensual. Particularly when the words were accompanied by a sweep of admiring eyes. Again, she found herself throwing out Nantucket rules. Instead of being insulted, she felt goose bumps trail in its wake.

      He motioned toward the door. “Shall we?”

      Jenna scooped up her wine on the way past her table. Let the adventure begin.

      * * *

      “An auction, you say?”

      “A fund-raising auction,” Jenna replied. “People bid on different experiences, each to be held at a Merchant hotel. One hundred percent of the profits went to build a clinic for recovering drug addicts on Cape Cod. Our area has a terrible opioid addiction issue.”

      They were descending a spiral stone staircase, having discovered the door to the western tower was locked. Philippe might have been flirting when he offered a tour, but, to her surprise, he took his tour guide duties quite seriously. Jenna found herself treated to a master class in regional history and the colorful role the d’Usay family played in it.

      At some point, the conversation had turned to her, though, and now she was explaining about the inheritance that brought her to France.

      “Sounds like a very noble cause,” Philippe remarked.

      “It is, although I have to confess that when my friend Shirley convinced me to go, helping the opioid crisis wasn’t my primary motive. I went looking for adventure.”

      “Is that so?” He stopped midstep.

      The spark in his eyes set the goose bumps skittering again. Tempted as she was to pretend otherwise—because why not pretend on vacation?—it was time to burst