service from him. The two situations weren’t comparable.
Neither were the two men…
At her first sight of the striking owner, Dana was convinced she’d come upon the château of the sleeping prince, and that before the wine had put her in such a mellow mood. But their subsequent conversation soon jerked her out of that fantasy.
He was a tough, intelligent businessman of substance with an aura of authority she would imagine intimidated most men. Maybe even her own scary parent. That would be something to witness.
Disciplining herself not to eat the last few bites of custard, she left the dining room and went to her room. She could phone her father tonight with the good news. He’d be awake by now expecting her call, unless he’d spent the night with Saskia, which was a strong possibility.
All things considered, she decided to get in touch with him tomorrow after she’d met with Monsieur Martin again.
After getting ready for bed, she set her alarm for 7:00 a.m. She was afraid she’d sleep in otherwise, but to her surprise, Dana awoke before it went off because she was too excited for the day.
She took a shower and washed her hair. Her neck-length layered cut fell into place fast using her blow-dryer. Afterward she put on her favorite Italian blouse. It was a dark blue cotton jersey with a high neck and three-quarter sleeves, casual yet professional.
She teamed it with beige voile pants and Italian bone-colored sandals. Since she was only five foot five, she hoped the straight-leg style gave the illusion of another inch of height. Dana was built curvy like her mother. Being around Monsieur Martin, she could have wished for a few more inches from her father who stood six-one. Barring that, all she could do was keep a straight carriage.
With her bag packed, she headed for the dining room where rolls and coffee were being served. She grabbed a quick breakfast, then walked out to talk to a woman at the front desk Dana hadn’t seen yesterday. “Bonjour, madame.”
“Bonjour, madame. How can I help you?”
“I’m checking out.” After she’d handed her back the credit card, Dana said, “Last night I drank a wonderful white wine in the restaurant and would like to buy a bottle to take home with me.” Her father would love it. “Could you tell me the name of it?”
“Bien sur. We only stock one kind. It’s the Domaine Coteaux du Layon Percher made right here in the Anjou.”
“It’s one of the best wines I ever tasted.”
“In my opinion, Percher is better than the other brands from this area. Sadly the most celebrated of them was the Domaine Belles Fleurs, but it stopped being produced eighty years ago.”
Dana’s body quickened. The woman did say Belles Fleurs. “Do you know why?”
She leaned closer. “Bad family blood.” Dana had gathered as much already. There’d been a complete break between Monsieur Martin’s mother and her father, but he hadn’t mentioned anything else. “It’s an ugly business fighting over who had the rights to what.”
“I agree.”
“The present owner has only lived in the vicinity a month or so,” the woman confided. “The château has been deserted for many years.”
So Monsieur Martin had told her. “It’s very sad.”
“C’est la vie, madame,” she said with typical Gallic fatalism. “Would you like to buy a bottle of the Percher?”
“I—I’ve changed my mind,” her voice faltered. It would seem a betrayal.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No, merci.”
Dana turned away and left the hotel. She was in a much more subdued frame of mind as she drove the five or so kilometers to the bridge where the trees cast more shadows across the road. The morning light coming from the opposite side of a pale blue sky created a totally different atmosphere from the night before.
This time as she reached the fork in the road, Monsieur Martin was there to greet her. It sent her pulse racing without her permission. She pulled to a stop.
He walked toward her, dressed in white cargo pants and a burgundy colored crewneck, but it didn’t matter what he wore, she found him incredibly appealing. It wasn’t just the attractive arrangement of his hard-boned features, or midnight-brown eyes framed by dark brows.
The man had an air of brooding detachment that added to her fascination. Combined with his sophistication, she imagined most women meeting him would have fantasies about him.
Under the influence of the wine, Dana had already entertained a few of her own last night. However, because of her experience with Neal, plus the fact that she was clearheaded this morning, she was determined to conduct business without being distracted.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Martin.”
When he put his tanned hands on the door frame, the scent of the soap he’d used in the shower infiltrated below her radar. “My name’s Alex. You don’t mind if I call you Dana?” His voice sounded lower this morning, adding to his male sensuality.
“I’d prefer it.”
“Bien.” He walked around to the passenger side of her car and adjusted the seat to accommodate his long legs before climbing in. His proximity trapped the air in her lungs. “Take the left fork. It will wind around to the front of the château.”
Old leaves built up over time covered the winding driveway. It was flanked on both sides by trees whose unruly tops met overhead like a Gothic arch. Dana followed until it led to a clearing where she got her first look at the small eighteenth-century château built in the classic French style.
Beyond the far end stood an outbuilding made of the same limestone and built in the same design, half camouflaged by more overgrown shrubs and foliage. No doubt it housed the winepress and vats.
She shut off the engine and climbed out to feast her eyes. He followed at a slower pace.
The signs of age and neglect showed up in full force. There were boards covering the grouped stacks of broken windows. Several steps leading to the elegant entry were chipped or cracked. Repairs needed to be done to the high-sloped slate roof. It was difficult to tell where the weed-filled gardens filled with tiny yellow lilies ended and the woods encroached.
Dana took it all in, seeing it through her father’s eyes. She knew what the original script called for. This was so perfect she thought she must be dreaming.
“It’s like seeing a woman of the night on the following morning when her charms are no longer in evidence,” came his grating voice. Trust a man to come up with that analogy. “Not what you had in mind after all?”
Schooling herself not to react to his cynicism, she turned to her host, having sensed a certain tension emanating from him. “On the contrary. It will do better than you can imagine. Knowing how my father works, he’ll need three weeks here. How soon can you give the studio that much time?”
Chapter Two
