One Night In Provence. Barbara Wallace

The same dark suit as the concierge and desk manager. Granted, his was more finely tailored, and he hadn’t been wearing a name tag, but...

      She looked over her shoulder at the portrait on the wall, before looking back to Philippe. He bore the same regal carriage as Simon and Antoinette.

      “Philippe d’Usay, at your service.” He swept his arm wide and bowed. “Welcome to Château d’Usay.”

      Shoot. Her. Now. “Why didn’t you say anything? If I’d known, I would never have...”

      “Been such relaxed and enjoyable company?” he supplied. “Precisely why I didn’t correct your mistake. You have to understand, everyone in Avignon knows who I am. I found it refreshing to meet someone who did not.”

      How nice for him that she could be a novelty. She wasn’t sure what was worse—her mistaking him for an employee or his deception. “Must have been very entertaining, having to give me that tour.”

      “It was.”

      And what if she’d said yes to his dinner invitation? How long would he have carried on the masquerade? Through the meal? Later? “Well, bully for you.”

      “Jenna, wait. I’m not explaining myself well. You think I was playing a game.”

      “Weren’t you?” Her eyes traveled to where he’d caught her hand as she tried to turn away. The gold signet ring on his little finger gleamed against his tanned skin. Ten to one that was a d’Usay family crest engraved on it. She felt like such an idiot.

      “Not the way you think. I did not intentionally mean to mislead you.”

      Jenna raised a brow.

      “All right, it was intentional, but it wasn’t malicious. I told you, everyone in the valley knows who I am. When I realized you didn’t recognize me, it was a chance for me to be simply Philippe, without all the baggage that comes with being a d’Usay.”

      Sure, and Jenna had a Roman bridge she wanted to sell him. The man wasn’t even trying to look apologetic. His eyes twinkled with amusement.

      “You don’t really expect me to believe that line, do you?” she asked.

      The dimples appeared. “It was worth a shot.”

      Of all the... She should be annoyed by the deception. She should be insulted. In fact, she should be a lot of things. Smiling was not one of them. But darn if she couldn’t help catching his good humor.

      “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s not nice to lie?” she said.

      “Would you have believed me if I told the truth?”

      That he used to own the castle? No, she would have told him to get lost, because no one owned castles.

      “I rest my case,” he said after she answered. “And then you and I would not have had the opportunity to spend time together. So in the end, my lie of omission was a good thing.”

      “I’m not sure I’d use the word good,” Jenna replied. It was meant to be a grumble, but the corners of her mouth insisted on curving upward.

      “But not entirely bad, either, no?”

      Much as she hated to admit it, he was right. “No, not entirely bad.”

      “Merci, ma chère.” He smiled down through his lashes, the purple a dash darker than before.

      That’s when Jenna realized they were still holding hands. Lightly, but Philippe’s grip had enough firmness to cause a flutter of awareness. Warmth spread to her cheeks.

      “Could I...?” She dropped her gaze down to their hands.

      “But of course.” He released her, stuffing his hands into his back pockets. Her palm suddenly feeling naked, Jenna had to settle for running a hand over the back of her hair.

      “Now, tell me,” he said. “What is it that has you running out of my house in the middle of your tour?”

      Her headache. In her surprise, she’d nearly forgotten the reason she was sneaking away from the tour in the first place. “I wasn’t running,” she told him. “I was heading to the gift shop in search of water and aspirin. No offense, but your lavender gave me a headache.”

      “None taken,” he replied. “The aroma can be overpowering if you are not used to it. But there’s no need to go all the way to the gift shop. Come with me.”

      “Where are we going?” She glanced over her shoulder. Philippe was guiding her past the stairs to a corridor, the end of which was also blocked by a velvet rope.

      “To the kitchen to get you a glass of water,” he said.

      “But...my tour.”

      “Will carry on without you,” he said. “I will make sure you meet up with them in time to return to the hotel.”

      She glanced over her shoulder. The group must have moved to another room; she could no longer hear the guide’s chirp. “Aspirin and water. No more.”

      “Absolutely, ma chère,” he replied. “You have my word.”

      Said the man who’d already misled her once. Apparently Jenna had left her common sense in America, because she followed him anyway.

      * * *

      The kitchen was out of a French countryside fantasy. Big and airy, with an abundance of copper pots and pans. There was a battered butcher-block table and gleaming stainless steel appliances. The stove alone, Jenna decided, would eat up her entire kitchen back home.

      The air smelled of fresh bread and lemons. A wonderful change from the floral notes she’d been breathing all morning. “Were you baking?” she asked.

      “That would be the fougasse. My housekeeper, Henrietta, makes a point of baking it whenever I visit the house. Would you care for some?”

      “Depends. What is it?”

      “Only a slice of heaven wrapped in a golden crust,” he said with a laugh. “Sit down and I will get you your aspirin. Henrietta keeps a bottle in the cupboard.”

      Jenna did as she was told, settling herself on the bench while Philippe opened and closed cabinet doors. A part of her still couldn’t quite believe he owned the château, despite his obvious comfort with the surroundings.

      “Do you come here often?” she asked. The corniness of her question struck her, and she nearly rolled her eyes at her own lameness. “I meant the house. The guide mentioned that you don’t live here full-time.”

      “She is correct. I have an apartment in Arles, near our executive offices.”

      “I’m surprised.”

      “Success! It was with the spices.” He held up a bottle of white tablets. Taking the bottle, Jenna saw the label read aspirine.

      “Why are you surprised?” he asked.

      “Considering how poetic you were about the countryside yesterday, I would have thought you’d spend as much time here as possible.”

      “I also appreciate a fine Beaujolais, but I would get bored drinking it every evening. I much prefer the variety of the city. One can only sit around and listen to the drone of the bees for so long.”

      He returned with a glass of ice water and an earthenware platter on which Jenna saw a flatbread sculpted to look like an ear of wheat. Sitting next to her, he immediately tore off a chunk and offered it to her. “I promise, you will not be disappointed.”

      “And if I am?”

      “Then you have no soul.”

      Jenna tasted the bread. The warm crust broke away to reveal a soft inside that tasted of rosemary and orange.

      “See? I told you,” he said, tearing off a piece